Strangers At Dawn Part 2

Max opened his bleary eyes and looked out the window. There wasn't much to see at this time of night. The only light came from lanterns that were hanging outside every other building. It seemed that the good citizens of Reading were snug in their beds, and in his condition, that's exactly where he wanted to be.

There was no way he was going to a bawdy house tonight, or any night in the foreseeable future. In any event, his mistress would be waiting for him at the Black Swan, and Deirdre had a temper. If he didn't turn up, there would be h.e.l.l to pay. He might even lose her, and that would be a pity, because Deirdre was definitely his kind of woman. Ripe and always ready for the plucking, with a wild mane of wavy dark hair and eyes as black as sin. Sinful eyes, sinful hands, and a sinfully ripe mouth. The thought made Max attempt a grin in spite of his sore jaw.

"A toast to Max," John Mitford cried out, and a chorus of masculine voices bellowed their approval. John's voice turned maudlin. "To a gallant sport; to the best friend a man ever had; to a champion fighter, even though he lost tonight; to the finest Corinthian of them all!"

"To Max," the highly inebriated voices bellowed, "the finest Corinthian of them all," and the open bottles of brandy were pa.s.sed around yet again.

Corinthian. At twenty-one, he'd taken pride in his members.h.i.+p in that select group. All his friends had been Corinthians. They considered themselves gentlemen athletes, jockeys, pugilists, sportsmen.

But that was years ago. These days, they shook off their cares and responsibilities once a year, donned the fas.h.i.+onable garments they'd sported as youngsters, and tried to convince themselves they were still Corinthians. That's why he'd accepted Jack Cleaver's challenge tonight. More fool he.

His friends were as aware as he that things were changing. They were drifting apart as their interests diversified. And they simply did not have the time to keep up with each other. In an effort to stem the tide, they'd hit upon the idea of spending part of every July in Brighton. "The Bachelors' Last Stand," they called it. They'd been firm friends since their undergraduate days at Oxford and nothing, they vowed, would ever come between them.

Oxford. Those were the days, those golden, halcyon days of their youth.

"I wish to propose a toast," Max said, and was appalled at the crack in his voice. Maybe he'd had too much to drink as well.

"Lud, save us," drawled Ash Meynell, the dandy of the group. He gazed at Max through his quizzing gla.s.s. "I think the man is still alive."

This remark set everyone off, and they began to harangue Max for his dismal performance against Mighty Jack. Max took it in good part. In fact, these friends were so comfortable with each other that trading insults had become an art with them.

"To Oxford," he said, raising his brandy bottle.

"Oxford," they chorused, then guzzled down great, healthy swigs from the bottles that were pa.s.sed around.

From the floor of the coach, a voice said musingly, "Refresh my memory. Did any of us ever graduate from that august establishment?"

A chorus of no's answered the question.

"Were we supposed to?" asked Ash, training his quizzing gla.s.s on the body on the floor.

Tony Palmer hoisted himself into a sitting position. "I was," he said. "Don't ask me why. My father didn't graduate either, but he expected better from his son. There was an awful scene when I was sent down."

This brought on a series of reminiscences about their years at Oxford, then led, in a convoluted way, to a round of toasts to the king, fox hunting, actresses and opera dancers in general, and finally, and more soberly, to "absent friends."

Three of them were now, sadly, married and obliged to accommodate their wives' wishes instead of their friends' wishes. There could be no bachelor parties in Brighton for married men. It was a great joke among them that the only thing married men were good for was gout, and no one wanted to contract gout before his time, if ever.

Max caught sight of the landmark he'd been looking for, the old church of Saint Laurence, and he roared, "Driver, stop the coach."

His friends were so stupefied by this sudden turn of events that Max had clambered out of the coach before they had come to themselves. When they protested, he held up his hand to silence them.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the carnal delights of Madame Capet's establishment are not for me. You may have noticed that during our bout, Jack Cleaver practically unmanned me. Frankly, I'm still in agony, and if I attempt the acrobatics you so graphically described, I may never rise from my bed again."

"What he means," said John, "is he can't get it up."

When the laughter had died away, Max said, "I can't argue with that. I'll meet up with you in Brighton, then."

"That's what you said last year," drawled Ash, "but you did not show. Do you know what I think, Max? I think you're becoming a prime candidate for gout. My mother tells me it happens to all Corinthians sooner or later."

This provoked a howl of protests When there was a momentary silence, Max said, "Ash, you should know me better than that. I'm too careful to come down with gout. I'll make it to Brighton, though I can't spare more than a few days. My business is taking me to Exeter for the next month or two, and I can't get away for longer than that."

"What business?" a slurred voice demanded.

"Didn't you know? Max has made an offer for the Exeter Chronicle," replied another. "He's on his way there now."

This brought to mind a bawdy drinking song on Exeter's accomplished equestrians, and before the coach moved off, five l.u.s.ty voices were braying the lewd rendition at the top of their lungs.

Max winced as he turned in the direction of the High Street where the Black Swan was situated, and he delayed for a moment to take stock of his injuries. He ached all over, his nose throbbed, and his jaw felt as though it had been hit by a brick. The important question was, however- could he still perform? It was one thing to put his friends off, and quite another to put Deirdre off. She might fly into one of her famous rages if he were so boorish as to plead a headache or that he was feeling under the weather.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! He hadn't invited her to accompany him to Exeter, knowing she would only get in the way. But her doddering old husband, Sir William Honeyman, had gone off to his estate in Kent, and Deirdre had surprised him by turning up at the Black Swan. She'd known by the look on his face that he wasn't pleased to see her, and when he'd gone off to meet his friends, there had been a ferocious argument. If he put her off now, there would be a scene, and he wasn't in the mood for scenes.

Put her off? He was beginning to sound like an octogenarian. Of course he wasn't going to put her off. A man would have to have two feet in the grave if Deirdre couldn't revive him. He would perform if he died in the attempt.

At least he would die with a smile on his face.

The Black Swan was in darkness except for the lantern hanging at the front porch. Max made his way through the arch that led to the courtyard. There were more lanterns lit here. He didn't expect to meet anyone at two o'clock of the morning, nor did he. Reading was a country town, early to bed and early to rise. All the inns locked their doors shortly after sunset. But he'd taken that into consideration before he'd gone off with his friends.

In one corner of the courtyard was a deformed old apple tree, and obscured by its leafy branches was the window of his chamber. He'd left the window open so that he could return without rousing the whole house. There was no need for a bachelor to be so discreet, but every need in Deirdre's case. Though she and Sir William had an understanding, and went their separate ways, they kept up appearances. Not to do so could easily jeopardize Deirdre's position in society. That was the way of their world. Appearances were far more important than reality, especially for a woman.

There was a light at the window. So Deirdre had waited up for him after all. Sighing in resignation, he gritted his teeth and reached for the gnarled branch just above his head.

The book on her lap fell with a soft thud to the carpeted floor, shocking her into wakefulness. Sara curled her hands around the armrests of her chair and made to rise. When she saw the book on the floor and realized that that was what had awakened her, sanity returned and she inhaled a slow, calming breath. There was nothing to fear here. She was in her bedchamber in the Black Swan, on the first stop of their journey to Bath, and she'd fallen asleep while reading Cecilia. No one knew where she was. No one.

Reaching down with one hand, she picked up the leather-bound volume and set it on the table beside her chair. She'd read f.a.n.n.y Burney's novel so often, she could just about recite it by heart. It had done the trick, though. It had cleared her mind of all her troubles and given her a few hours' respite. But now that she was awake, she was wide awake, and wished that she'd read the cursed book in bed.

Thunder sounded off in the distance. There would be a storm before morning. She stretched to ease her cramped muscles, then lifted the weight of her unbound hair from her neck in an effort to cool herself. In spite of the window she'd opened earlier, it was hot and airless in that small room, so hot that even her flimsy nightgown seemed too heavy against her skin. She undid the tiny pearl b.u.t.tons from throat to waist and pulled back the edges of the bodice to expose her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was still too hot, and she picked up the carafe of water on the table by her chair. It was empty. Sighing, she set it down again.

The candle on the mantel was well down and beginning to sputter. She rose, reached for it, then hesitated. There wasn't much chance that she would get back to sleep now. Maybe she should light another candle and-and do what? Torture her mind with visions of her loathsome brother-in-law as she'd last seen him? Debate endlessly whether William was alive or dead? Speculate on what he would do to her if he ever caught up to her?

She knew what he would do. He would kill her, of course. Then Anne would come into their father's money, and William would finally get his greedy paws on it. That's all he had ever wanted-money.

She would never let him hurt any member of her family again.

A harebrained scheme, Bea called this trip to Bath. In her saner moments, she agreed. But desperate straits called for desperate measures, and she was desperate. She'd wracked her brains endlessly for a better way, and there wasn't one. Once she was married and the marriage settlement was signed, William would no longer be a threat.

This was nonsense. She knew William was dead. She knew. Didn't she?

If only there was someone she could confide in ... but there was no one. And some secrets simply could not be shared.

She smoothed her fingers over her brow. Her brain was befuddled by so much thinking. And really, there was nothing to think about. She'd made her decision. Let it go, she told herself sternly. Put all your troubles out of mind and go to bed.

She went on tiptoe, positioned her hand behind the sputtering candle and blew it out, and in the very act of blowing it out, from the corner of her eye, she caught the reflection in the mirror above the mantel of a man climbing over the windowsill.

In that blinding moment of darkness, her throat closed in panic. He'd found her! William had found her!

"William?" she whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

There was no response.

Trembling violently, heart thudding against her ribs, she edged herself round to face the intruder. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It wasn't pitch black. The light from the lanterns in the courtyard cast flickering shadows, but there was nothing to be seen, no man at the window now. But her hearing had never been more acute, and she could hear someone breathing. She sucked in a breath when his voice broke the silence.

"I had no idea," he said, "that there were red highlights in your hair. But I suppose ladies can change their appearance to suit themselves. Give me a moment. I feel as though I've just climbed the Matterhorn."

It wasn't William's voice! The thought brought a measure of calm. Not William, then, but one of his friends, someone who obviously knew her by sight. She supposed William had sent him as a forerunner of what was to come, when the real terror would begin. Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate that, in spite of all her stratagems, he could still get to her.

She was deathly afraid, but her fear was tempered by anger. She could imagine the lies William had told his friend about her: that she was a s.l.u.t; that she was any man's for the taking. Well, this was one man who was going to find out that William had lied.

She had to be calm; she had to think what to do. If she screamed, he would be on her in a flash. Bea was in the room across the hall, but it would take an earthquake to waken Bea. Some of the other guests might hear her, but if they came to her rescue, she had no doubt that her a.s.sailant would plead they'd interrupted a lovers' tiff, and turn them away. And who would believe Sara Carstairs when her true ident.i.ty became known? With the realization that there was no one to help her but herself, her mind became crystal clear. She couldn't make a dash for the door because she didn't know where he was. There was no pistol or knife concealed among her things, and if there had been she wouldn't have used them. A woman who had stood trial for murder would have a hard time explaining away a corpse in her bedchamber.

Other things gradually came to her. He smelled of strong spirits. If he had been drinking, that could work in her favor. The poker was on the hearth beside her feet, and as she well knew, a poker could be a lethal weapon.

Not the poker, she thought with a shudder. She couldn't bear to take a swing at him with the poker, except as a last resort. The water carafe, then. It was only a few steps away, on the table beside her chair. Then, when she'd disabled him, she would lock him in this room and hide in Bea's room.

If only it could be that simple.

She began to inch her way to the table, and was shocked into immobility when he spoke again. "I apologize for being so late," he said. "I didn't expect you to wait up for me. I thought I'd find you in bed."

Though his voice was pleasant, his words chilled her. He seemed to think that William had set this up with her and that she would welcome him with open arms. The sooner she disabused him of that notion the better.

"I want you to leave. Now." She stopped when she heard the quaver in her voice, cleared her throat then went on. "If you lay a hand on me, I'll scratch your eyes out."

Silence. She had the distinct impression that he was weighing her up in much the same way as she was weighing him. Maybe he thought she had a gun. Maybe that's why he was holding off. And maybe she'd better do something before it was too late.

He said, "This isn't like you. You don't even sound like yourself. I must have had more to drink than I thought."

When his shadow suddenly loomed up in front of her, she moved like lightning. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the water carafe and backed away from him.

"Don't come any closer," she cried out.

He disregarded her warning. "Look-"

She brought the gla.s.s carafe down with all her might, but it shattered uselessly against the bedpost, and in the next instant, her a.s.sailant caught her in a flying tackle and carried her across the bed.

Sara stifled a whimper. Her legs were splayed wide and the press of his weight crushed her into the feather mattress; her wrists were held in an iron grip above her head, and the metal b.u.t.tons on his coat bit into the soft flesh of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She flinched when his head descended.

His voice was husky. "You seem different tonight. I can't explain it." He laughed softly. "I think I may have underestimated your appeal. Ah, Deirdre, don't fight me."

When his mouth took hers, she braced herself for violence, but he was gentle, and that amazed her. And as that brandy-flavored kiss lingered and the thought of Deirdre circled in her mind, it came to her that she'd taken a wrong turn. She'd been thinking of William when the stranger climbed in through her window, and her imagination had done the rest.

She went limp with relief and tried, weakly, to push him off. When that didn't work, she offered a pa.s.sive resistance, neither partic.i.p.ating in his embrace nor fighting it.

He went very still, then his head lifted. His features were indistinct, but she saw sculpted bones and the flash of white teeth as he smiled. "You're not Deirdre," he said.

"No."

"I think I knew it from the first. I climbed in the wrong window, didn't I?"

It was madness, but she found herself returning his smile. Her mind had already worked everything out. He wasn't William's emissary; he wasn't a thief; he wasn't going to rape her. He'd simply entered the wrong room, the room where he'd expected to find Deirdre, and instead he'd found her.

She should be ranting and raving at him for all the needless terror he'd put her through. She should be demanding that he get off her and leave her room at once. But the release of all the tension she'd been bottling inside her for weeks past left a curious void in its wake. She was far more inclined to weep into his shoulder than push him away.

"It seems we both made a mistake," she said.

There was a smile in his voice. "I'm not so sure that coming to your room was a mistake. Deirdre can be a virago when she's in a temper. She wouldn't have missed with that bottle you tried to brain me with. I think that's when I realized you weren't Deirdre."

"Is Deirdre your wife?"

"No, thank G.o.d!"

Once again she found herself returning his smile.

She liked him, she really liked him. He hadn't threatened her or lost his temper when she'd attacked him. He was a powerful male animal, but he seemed as tame as a lamb. She hoped Deirdre knew how lucky she was. Such men were few and far between.

But they were becoming too cozy, too intimate. Or maybe it was the flickering darkness that held her in thrall.

Now that she wasn't afraid of him, she was taking his impression through her senses, and all her senses were humming. But maybe, if she could see him clearly, she wouldn't like him at all.

It was time to put a stop to this. She pushed against his shoulders with both hands and he complied at once. He relieved her of his weight, but he made no move to get off the bed.

She rose on her elbows and said, as graciously as she could manage, "Let's forget this every happened, shall we? It was an honest mistake, and no one need ever know about it."

"Except us."

"Yes."

She could feel it again, the weighing and a.s.sessing of every breath she took, every word she uttered, and she said quickly, "I think you'd better go."

There was the oddest silence, then he said softly, "I don't want to leave, and I don't think it's what you want either."

A s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed over her, then another. She tried to muster a retort and failed miserably. He was right. She didn't want him to leave. But that was insane. He was a stranger. A few minutes ago she'd been terrified of him. Then what had brought about this change in her?

She didn't want to lie to him, so she asked a question instead. "What makes you think I don't want you to leave?"

"Nothing. Everything. Put it down to intuition, but I sense ... "

"What do you sense?"

He stroked her face with the pads of his fingers, a fleeting gesture that-she really must be insane-she wished he would prolong. "I sense," he said gently, "that the lady is in need of a friend."

Unexpected tears stung her eyes. She rarely cried, and especially not in front of anyone. She was too levelheaded.

The last time she'd cried was after her father's funeral, and that was in the privacy of her own room.

This man really did possess an uncanny insight into how her mind worked. Even those who were close to her thought she was completely self-sufficient. She tried to be. No. She had to be.

She swallowed before she spoke, but her voice held a betraying quiver all the same. "That's a strange thing to say when you don't even know me."

He edged closer and she inhaled the heady flavor of brandy. "Do I seem like a stranger to you? Truthfully, mind."