Arms of a Stranger (10 page)

Dressed as Renard, Lucien climbed the tree outside Anne’s bedchamber. His mask, shirt, boots, and trousers blended with the shadows. It was just after midnight, the sky a velvet expanse of muted black, the stars and moon obscured by low-lying clouds. A rumble of thunder echoed distantly. The air was thick with moisture and the verdant scent of wet earth.

He’d watched till he saw her light go out, then waited to make sure she was asleep before climbing through her bedroom window. He didn’t want to scare her, and he didn’t want the household alerted by her surprised outcry, either. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to seeing him, or what he wanted to do once he got inside … but he was about to find out.

As he easily, quietly climbed each limb, his anticipation sharpened. He’d been imagining such a risky venture for weeks. Every encounter with Anne had intensified his desire to see her, and for her to see him again … as Renard. She liked Renard. She and Renard believed in the same things. As Delacroix, he was always at a disadvantage. They had nearly shared a kiss at the cemetery, but she’d been fighting her attraction to him all along. Then today at the market, he could see that her defenses were up again. She’d watched him and Micaela scornfully, throwing him a challenge with those magnificent blue eyes of hers.

Tonight he was meeting that challenge his own way. Of course, he had no business pursuing the girl, but—damn it!—he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was dangerous for both of them, but no woman had ever felt so right in his arms. He was willing to take risks to hold her again.

He swung over to the window ledge, balanced, then gently eased up the half-opened window, pushed aside the curtains, and let himself down. He was inside. He stood very still. He could see nothing in the dark room and had no idea where Anne’s bed was located.

Deprived of sight, he found his other senses were sharper. Anne’s scent was in the room. Light, sweet, floral. He listened for the soft sounds of her breathing and was disturbed when, after a couple of minutes, he still heard nothing. Then he realized he was the only person in the room …

… Till the door opened and Anne entered, holding a lamp in one hand and a goblet of milk in the other. Lucien was frozen to the spot, waiting for the inevitable scream and the lamp or the milk, or both, to fall to the floor with a loud clatter. But she didn’t scream, and she didn’t drop anything.

In the instant she saw his dark silhouette against the pale curtains, her eyes widened and her hands trembled, making the flame dance and the milk slosh and spill. She hesitated only a second, then closed the door softly behind her and advanced.

Lucien swallowed hard. Brave girl, he thought. Brave and foolish.

She looked like an angel. Her golden hair waved over her shoulders. The lamplight gave her face a soft, ethereal glow and reflected in her eyes like shining stars. A pale, flowing nightdress molded to her exquisite shape as she took one deliberate step after another … toward him.

Lucien lifted a warning hand and stepped back. “Anne … don’t come any closer.”

She stopped abruptly. “Why?”

“Turn out the lamp.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you come? I’m
glad
you came, but—”

“Snuff the light, then we’ll talk.”

She looked doubtful.

He grinned. “Don’t worry … I’ll find you in the dark.”

Was that a blush that rose to her cheeks, or just a trick of shadows and lamplight? She gave him one last look, then padded to a nearby dresser, set down the lamp and the milk, and turned out the light.

Darkness, a few steps, and he had her in his arms.

His mouth claimed hers with an urgency that was born of weeks of yearning. Why had he ever wondered what he’d do once he got inside her room? Holding her and kissing her were as inevitable and natural as the sun rising in the morning and setting at night.

Her lips were as pliant and fresh as a tender rosebud, the nectar just as sweet. She melted against him, all her lush curves molding against his taut muscles, inciting him to heights of passion he’d never dreamed existed. Her small, curious hands wended their way up his back and around his neck, the fingers playing at the edge of the scarf that hid his hair. His hands circled her waist and pulled her closer, closer … It was wonderful, it was magical, and it was dangerous.

He pulled back. Both of them were breathing fast and shallow. “Now do you know why I came?” he asked. “I had to hold you again.”

“I never dreamed…” she murmured. She gave a soft laugh. “Well, actually I’ve dreamed of nothing else since that night on the
Belvedere.”

He caressed her back. “I’m so glad you dream of me,
cher
, as I dream of you. But coming here, it is insanity,
n’est-ce pas?
I can just see the headlines now:
Renard Caught at Last
…
in Woman’s Bedchamber!
Hardly heroic.”

Her hands came around from the back of his head to trail lingeringly over his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. A thrill ran down his spine. He heard her sigh, sweet and low. “You will always be a hero to me, Renard. But, tell me, do you make a habit of visiting women in this manner?”

Lucien laughed, hoping he sounded convincingly devil-may-care. He didn’t want her to know that she was the only woman he’d ever climbed through a window to visit. There had never been anyone important enough to him to risk capture. And, truth to tell, any lady’s bedchamber he’d ever wanted to visit before had been easily accessible through the normal means of entry. He’d been welcomed with open arms. Too bad Anne’s arms were the only ones he wanted now.

“Where does your abigail sleep,
cher?”

“In the next room, through a connecting door.”

“Christ! Then I’d better go. You showed admirable restraint, but she might scream if she sees me.”

“In this dark room I can hardly see the nose in front of my face,” she reasoned, “and neither could Sarah if she woke up. Besides, she is a heavy sleeper.”

“Still, I don’t want to take any more risks than necessary, for both our sakes.”

“But you just got here,” she complained, a petulant note in her voice. He could imagine her pouting, and it made him want to kiss her again. His pulse quickened.

“I have to go before I
can’t
go. Don’t you understand,
cher?”

“Then one more kiss,” she suggested breathlessly.

“Your kisses make me dizzy. They make me forget everything but you and how I want to make love to you.”

He felt her tremble. “One more kiss, Renard,” she taunted, holding her lips close to his. “I dare you.”

He laughed. “You aren’t a bit shy, eh?”

“Not with you.”

They kissed again. Lucien felt every inch of him spring to life as she opened herself to him with sweet, virginal abandon. He caressed her back, kneading the firm flesh, reaching lower and lower till his hands cupped her rounded buttocks. He pulled her hard against him, against the heated swell of his manhood. She gasped, and her head fell back. God, how he wanted her! And maybe she wanted him just as much…

There was a shuffling sound and a moan from behind a nearby wall. Lucien’s head reared up. “Is that your abigail?”

Anne’s voice was muffled, dazed. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“I have to go.” He put her at arm’s length, steadied her, then let go.

“Renard! When will I see you again?”

There was a hesitation. “I don’t know.” He moved toward the window.

“What if I want to send you a message?”

“It’s best you don’t know how to find me.” He pushed the curtains aside.

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not safe,
cher
. Good-bye.”

“Not good-bye, Renard,” she said stubbornly. “Till we meet again.”

He knew she couldn’t see him, but he smiled. She was a frisky filly, all right.
“Oui, ma petite
. Till we meet again.” Then he climbed out the window and down the tree. After his quick descent, he looked up. She was leaning out the window, her hair cascading down like that of a princess in a fairy tale. She threw him a kiss, which he caught and held against his heart. Then he turned and hurried away, hidden by the shadows of a dark night.

Anne paced the floor of her bedchamber. She’d attended church that morning with Reggie and Katherine like the dutiful little Anglican girl she was, but now that services were over, she was wild to do something a dutiful little Anglican girl would never do in a millennium.

Last night’s dreamlike tryst with Renard had served only to underscore her feelings of confinement and frustration. She had lain awake hours after he left, reliving his kisses and caresses, her nerves still vibrant with longing. She wondered why he had actually come to her bedchamber. It seemed too wonderful and incredible to believe he’d risk capture just to kiss her! But he remembered her from the
Belvedere
, which meant that their encounter on the mist-shrouded deck that night so many weeks ago had meant something to him, too. Maybe not as much as it did to her, but
something
.

Oh, how she longed to see him again! To talk to him. To discover who he was behind the mask. She hoped that he was as curious about her as she was about him, that she was not just some sort of romantic conquest. She had to admit that it was a possibility that Renard dallied with many women, climbing in through their bedroom windows to steal a kiss and sometimes something more, but she wanted to believe she was special.

He was her hero. He represented all that was free and exciting, while her own life seemed as restrictive as a prisoner’s. Anne sank down on the edge of her bed, looking wistfully toward the window through which Renard had come and gone. She had to get out. If she didn’t get out for a couple of hours, she’d scream.

The logical destination was Congo Square to watch the dancers. Reggie had made it clear he wouldn’t take her, and Aunt Katherine, for some unfathomable reason, had seemed disinclined to oppose his authority in this matter; she wouldn’t go without Reggie. That left Anne with no recourse but deception. It rankled her, at the advanced age of three-and-twenty, to have to sneak away to a harmless afternoon’s recreation!

After lunch, Reggie and Katherine retired to their separate chambers to read and nap. Anne had complied with this American custom of resting on Sundays, generally spending the afternoon outside in the garden lounging and reading under a leafy tree. But today the idea of staying close to home was as appetizing as eating worms. She was in no mood to be biddable or docile. She was feeling rebellious.

Anne looked at the cabinet clock that stood against the wall. An hour had passed since her guardians had gone to their rooms, and she figured that both of them ought to have fallen asleep by now. She was already dressed to go out, neat and proper in a maroon silk walking dress, sturdy half-boots, and a black velvet bonnet with a starched, netted veil that, when pulled down, would lend her a little anonymity.

In her small beaded reticule she had money for a hired coach; a clean, scented, neatly pressed handkerchief; and a bottle of smelling salts. No lady ever left her premises without these essentials. Now she must slip out the front door without the servants observing her. Because Sunday was as relaxed and casual for the servants as it was for the owners of the house, Anne didn’t think that slipping away unobserved would be too difficult a task.

And it wasn’t. In less than five minutes Anne was a block away from her aunt’s house and waving down a cab. In no time at all she was being let out at Congo Square. Anne paid her fare and generously tipped the driver. He responded with a friendly leer and a wink. Anne felt a little unnerved, but she supposed that one of the disadvantages of going about town unescorted was that people, including cheeky cabdrivers, might think her rather fast. This infuriating fact only made her more determined to do exactly as she pleased.

For at least three blocks she’d heard the chant-like singing of the dancers, the drumbeating, and the hand clapping. Now, as she stood just outside the square, the rhythm of the music seemed to thrum through her blood. And the sight of what must have been nearly five hundred black dancers, male and female adults of a wide range of ages, was overwhelming.

Enclosed in a fenced area surrounded by ancient sycamore trees, the dancers writhed with movement. Anne wished that Jeffrey were with her to explain the different dances. Then she realized that he actually could be there, hidden somewhere in the crowd that pressed against the fence to watch. She glanced around, hoping to pick him out from the dozens of other suited gentlemen.

When an elegant-looking Creole couple passed by and stared at her, Anne realized she must look rather conspicuous, gaping from a distance like a child standing at the entrance to a circus tent but afraid to go in. She lowered her netted veil and moved into the crowd, eventually working her way to the very front when several people vacated a large area. Anne turned her full attention to the dancers.

They were barefoot and dressed in what looked like hand-me-down finery from their white owners. But despite their faded, ill-fitting clothing, the dancers had a dignity about them that Anne admired. They seemed oblivious to the people watching them, caught up in the mood of the music, the rhythm of the drums, the mesmerizing resonance of the singing. Many of them appeared to be going through the motions with their eyes half-closed, almost trancelike in their concentration.

One dance ended and another began. Before, they had been doing little more than stamping their feet and swaying, but now the men and women paired off. The singing and the beating of the drums merged into a frenetic rhythm that seemed to urge Anne’s heartbeat to keep time. She felt flushed, energized, excited. Beneath her skirt, her toes tapped in tune with the beating of the drums.

Now, instead of wishing Jeffrey were there to explain the dances to her, she wished Renard were there to share the excitement with her. But she couldn’t imagine him in such a normal situation, in the bright light of day, and outfitted in ordinary clothes. He was her
dark
, dangerous hero of the night.