Arms of a Stranger (18 page)

She watched him ride away, then turned reluctantly to the gate that led into Aunt Katherine’s well-kept, inviting backyard. She’d spent many happy, reclusive hours there. Today she was entering it a changed person. She’d never be happy again until she was reunited with her love. She hoped that didn’t mean she was condemned to a lifetime of unhappiness.

But while she was left in doubt about his feelings for her, she had no doubts about her feelings for him. She loved him, and she’d spend every waking hour worrying about him. The appearance of those bounty hunters last night suggested that Renard’s operation was hardly impenetrable. Someone was leaking information.
Who was the snitch?
she wondered.

Suddenly extremely exhausted, Anne wended her slow way up the red brick walkway to the back entrance of her aunt’s house. Glancing up at the windows she knew belonged to Uncle Reggie’s bedchamber, she thanked Providence that he wasn’t an early riser.

Reggie hadn’t slept a wink all night. He’d risen early, far earlier than his usual hour, dressed, and wandered outside to sit on a marble bench under one of Katherine’s banana trees. He was bedeviled by the most ludicrous thoughts, romantic thoughts, the sort of thoughts he’d never expected to take root in a head as hardened as his was to such fanciful notions. And worse still, Katherine Grimms—the cane-swinging, liberated female with a voice like fingernails on a schoolchild’s slate board, and with the bearing of a navy admiral commandeering a fleet of battleships—was the center of all these tender feelings.

In spite of himself, Reggie smiled. Last night, when she had swooned, he’d had the English starch scared out of him. He realized that he would be devastated if something happened to Katherine, and his nurtured dislike for her had disappeared like morning mist in the path of the climbing sun. He admitted it; he liked Katherine Grimms very much. Very much indeed. Now, what was he going to do about it?

Reggie brooded. He looked for answers in the Eden-like paradise of Katherine’s yard. It was not yet seven o’clock in the morning and mid-November, but the air was warm and sweet with the scent of a hundred flowers and fruit trees. The chirps and whistles of birds echoed in the tall trees that were scattered harum-scarum over the three or four acres that made up the Grimms estate. Now he better understood why Anne liked sitting out here on Sundays.

Anne? Had he conjured her up? No, because if he had, she’d not be dressed like a man, nor would she have a bandage tied around her head and a stricken look on her face at the sight of him. She had just walked around the edge of a profusion of bushes, apparently from the back of the yard. He sat in a copse of sorts, surrounded by trees and vegetation, not easily seen from any direction. Finding him there well before his usual hour of rising had obviously given his niece a shock.

“Uncle Reggie?”

He braced himself. What mischief had she gotten herself into this time? “The very same, Anne. Whom did you expect?”

“N-no one,” she stuttered. “But least of all you.”

“Come closer, Anne,” he said softly. “How have you hurt yourself, child? It can’t be a mortal wound,” he added grimly. “I see you’re still walking.”

He expected her to take him to task for calling her “child,” but she didn’t. And, indeed, she was no child. Watching her cross the few feet that separated them, he was struck anew with how womanly she really was, despite her masculine apparel. He was trying not to overreact to her odd appearance and behavior, or assume the worst possible explanation for her wandering in the yard at seven o’clock in the morning. But the closer she got, the more clearly he could see that she was extremely upset about something. His protective instincts reared up.

He scooted along the bench, making room for her to sit beside him. As she sat down, he took her hand in his. “Good God, Anne, what’s happened to you?”

Anne lifted her downcast eyes and looked earnestly at him. He speculated that she might be deciding how much to tell him. Her eyes were very clear and blue. Again he was arrested with the notion that she’d suddenly grown into a woman, seemingly overnight. She sighed heavily. “I was thinking of lying, but I’ve decided to tell the truth. I did something very foolish last night. I went to see Renard.”

Reggie could not immediately respond. He knew she was smitten with the outlaw, but he’d taken it for granted that she had far too much common sense to actually seek out Renard’s dangerous company. He cleared his throat, but his voice still had a telltale rasp in it when he said with deceptive calm, “I must have misunderstood you. You can’t have gone alone to that outlaw’s lair.”

“I didn’t go to his lair,” she asserted, lifting her chin a fraction. “I’m not a complete dolt.” She got an odd look about her then, which Reggie was terribly afraid meant that though she’d not set out to go to his lair at the beginning, she’d certainly ended up there. “Jeffrey had been given a tip about Renard’s next escape plan. I got enough information out of him to establish the approximate time the escape would take place. I stationed myself outside Jeffrey’s boardinghouse and waited till he came out, then secretly followed him to the rendezvous point.”

“What happened at the rendezvous point? Did Renard show up?”

“Yes.” She ducked her head, her eyes fixed on her hands, the long, slim fingers splayed over her knees. “Do you think you would be willing to wait for further explanations, Uncle Reggie? You can read all about it in the
Picayune
. Jeffrey saw it all. There will be plenty of details.” She made a trembling smile. “Just insert my name in the part played by the ‘young man.’”

“How can you ask me to wait, Anne? You’ve been injured, and I don’t even know how and by whom! Who bandaged you? Did anyone—” He blushed with embarrassment and bottled fury. “Did anyone take advantage of you?” He thought he’d burst a blood vessel when Anne blushed a most revealing, gloriously female shade of rose. “If that outlaw laid a finger on you—!”

Anne’s head reared up. Tears shone in her eyes. Her voice was thick with emotion as she said, “Renard didn’t hurt me, Uncle Reggie. He saved my life.” She touched the bandage. “There was gunplay. This wound was caused by a bullet that grazed my forehead. Renard protected me. If not for him, I might be dead.” By now Anne was shaking. “Don’t ever,
ever
think Renard hurt me, Uncle Reggie,” she ended on a fierce note. “He’d never do that. Never.”

Reggie was too stunned to think at all, much less speculate on Renard’s motives concerning his niece. Every detail of the story faded into insignificance when compared to the fact that his own sweet Anne had nearly been killed.

He stared at her for a startled, horrified moment, at her wide blue eyes shadowed with a new maturity, at her slim shoulders shaking with a delayed reaction to the horrors and hard-learned lessons of the night before. Then he pulled her against his chest, tucked her head under his chin, and stroked her hair with a gentle hand.

“There, there, my girl,” he soothed. “I shan’t ask you another thing … for now. And I won’t blame anyone for anything till I know more about the situation. Just calm down and lean against your old uncle till you feel better.”

He felt her relax against him. She clung to him like the child she used to be, till eventually her convulsive shivering stopped and a soft sigh escaped her lips.

“I’m so tired, Uncle Reggie,” she said. “I think I want to go inside and go to bed now.”

“Yes, my girl,” he answered firmly. “To bed you’ll go, and that’s where you’ll stay till I say otherwise.”

Anne managed a weak laugh. She squeezed his neck affectionately. “I’ll let you bully me now, but soon I’ll have recovered my old vim and vigor and be wanting my way again.”

Reggie heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Yes, Anne, I know. I expected no less.” Then he stood up and escorted his troublesome niece into the house.

L
ucien stepped out of his carriage and onto the banquette in front of Katherine Grimms’s stately mansion. He held in one hand a potpourri bouquet of flowers, the multicolored blossoms and leafy stems so tall and profuse they tickled his chin. He was dressed in a dark green jacket and black trousers. His brocade vest was the palest of yellows, closely imitating in color the fresh rose attached to his lapel, the bud still damp with morning dew. He was correctly and elegantly attired for a morning call, but this was no ordinary visit.

“Take the horses around the block, George,
s’il vous plaît,”
Lucien advised the driver with a flick of his wrist. “I shan’t be long.” George nodded and drove off.

Lucien surveyed the front of the house, his eye straying to Anne’s bedchamber window. The shutters were closed against the heat and brightness of the late morning sun. He imagined her lying on the bed, resting, he hoped, and being tenderly cared for by her aunt and uncle. His heart ached at the bittersweet memory of last night. He could never regret the magic hours they’d spent together making love, but he’d had no right to take her virginity when he could give no promises in return.

How could he have lost control to the point of involving Anne in his life when he had no guarantee of a favorable outcome for his own destiny? And what was he doing now, standing in the hated guise of Dandy Delacroix in front of Anne’s home?

As each day passed, Lucien’s contempt for the part he must play in society had grown by leaps and bounds. Being considered only as a pleasure-seeking wastrel with no ambition beyond his own comfort and gratification was wearing thin. It had proven to be an effective screen against any connection to Renard, but he was looking forward to a time when deception would no longer be necessary.

But what then? Even if things ended the way he planned for Renard, he still wasn’t sure what his next step should be, or where his ambitions would ultimately lead him. He wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. Without the mask, without the facade of lazy debauchery, who the hell was he? He should have considered all these complexities before allowing Anne to give herself to him so completely. He thought grimly that perhaps he wasn’t so different from Dandy Delacroix, after all. Anne deserved better.

But he couldn’t brood in front of her house all day. He should do what he had come to do and leave. Ostensibly he’d come to inquire about her state of mind and physical well-being after her harrowing experience in the alley. After he’d received Reggie’s grateful note early yesterday evening, it would not be considered odd or inappropriate for him to pay such a visit. But, of course, that was not the real reason he’d come.

It hardly seemed possible, now, that the alley incident had occurred just yesterday. So much had happened since then. So much had changed both for himself and for Anne.

Sweet Anne … It had been torture leaving her that morning. He’d longed to watch the sun rise and fill the room with light—to see her in the afterglow of their lovemaking. But he had not come to her aunt’s house hoping to see her. That would be foolish. On the contrary, Lucien felt very confident that Reginald Weston was keeping his niece in her bedchamber and denying her visitors—possibly for punitive reasons, and assuredly because she was not yet fit to be seen with that gash on her forehead.

Lucien’s sole purpose in this visit was to find out for himself how she had fared after Armande left her at the back gate early that morning. He had a method in mind to secure this information, and it did not involve talking to Anne, or even her uncle.

Setting his hat at a rakish angle over his right brow, Lucien slowly made his way to Anne’s front door. He was admitted into the vestibule by a doubtful-looking butler and kept waiting in the eclectic parlor some fifteen minutes. Normally he would have been intrigued by Katherine’s collection of artifacts, but as the minutes dragged by he became worried.

Certainly if Anne hadn’t been able to sneak into her room that morning and attribute the graze on her temple to a tumble against her dressing table, there would be a bit of a commotion in the house. Reggie would demand the truth, and Anne would be hard-pressed not to tell it. He knew her, and she was too damned honest for her own good.

What if she was sick? Lucien felt a surge of dread and doubt. Parts of last night had been grueling, traumatic. Not their lovemaking, surely, but how could he have possibly thought that making love to her could make things
better?
He was about to stand up and pace the floor when Reggie walked quickly into the room.

“Mr. Delacroix! How nice to see you! Sorry to keep you waiting so dreadfully long, but I was … er … unavoidably detained.”

Lucien stood up and offered the older man Dandy Delacroix’s usual lazy handclasp. Handshaking was an American custom, and Reggie seemed to view it suspiciously still, but he shook hands nonetheless. Lucien noticed that Reggie’s palm was clammy, his overall manner harried and distracted. However, he seemed to be trying very hard to be pleasant and hospitable, probably because he was genuinely grateful to Lucien for saving Anne from the threatening advances of that drunk yesterday.

“I don’t wish to inconvenience you, Monsieur Weston,” he began, “but your note was so kindly written … perhaps it was too kind. I really did little to deserve your gratitude.”

Reggie motioned for Lucien to be seated, then sat down himself in an opposite chair. “It could not possibly have been too kind a note, Mr. Delacroix,” Reggie assured him. “You rendered Anne an invaluable service for which I shall always be indebted to you.”

“I only did what any man would do,” Lucien disclaimed modestly. “You must know how little I enjoy discussing my dubious merits—”

Reggie sat up straighter, making a stiff nod, a manly acknowledgment. “Indeed, sir, I understand completely. No gentleman likes his praises sung too loudly or too long. Never fear, the subject is closed. I feel the same about such matters myself. Understand completely—only doing your duty.”

Lucien smiled his approval. “I simply came to see how Mademoiselle Weston fares today. She’s not too overcome by yesterday’s ordeal?”

Reggie frowned and looked at the floor, tapping his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. Suddenly he looked up at Lucien. “I hope you won’t take this question amiss, Mr. Delacroix, but I
must
ask it. You
are
keeping everything that happened in that alley in the strictest confidence? You know how people talk, even when the party is completely innocent of wrongdoing…” His voice trailed off. He appeared distressed, as if he knew he’d been insulting but couldn’t help himself.

Truly, thought Lucien, this man cares deeply for Anne and considers her welfare and reputation above everything else. If only
he’d
been as honorable and considerate last night! “Mum’s the word, Monsieur Weston,” he assured him. Then, earnestly, “I’d never do anything to hurt Mademoiselle Weston—if I could possibly help it.”

The two men’s eyes locked for an moment. There was a puzzled curiosity in Reggie’s light blue eyes that seemed to grow clearer instant by instant—like the dawning of understanding. Lucien looked away, panicked. Could Reggie tell? Could Reggie see in his eyes how he felt about Anne? Perhaps he’d been
too
earnest. Perhaps he’d been too—

“Are the flowers for her, then?”

Lucien turned his gaze back to Reggie. There was a reserved pucker about the older man’s mouth, a shuttered look around the eyes. But the expression as a whole was not unkind. Lucien gathered his scattered composure. Here was Renard, for Christ’s sake, the so-called daring outlaw, falling to pieces in a perfectly safe drawing room in the company of a perfectly civilized gentleman! His concern for Anne, his consuming desire for her, could be a potent weapon in the hands of an enemy.

“
Oui
, the flowers are for Mademoiselle. I thought they might brighten her room”—he made a vague gesture with his free hand—“brighten her day, perhaps. Delicate females depend on such pretty things to amuse them,
n’est-ce-pas?
To coddle and wheedle them through life’s difficulties.”

Reggie nodded. Their eyes met again in complete understanding. They both knew Anne was no ordinary “delicate” female who expected to be amused and coddled out of difficulties, but neither said so. Reggie stood up and pulled the bell rope to summon a servant. “I’ll have them put in a vase and sent to her room. She’ll be delighted, I’m sure. So kind of you…”

He sat down again, his gaze fixed on his flower-burdened guest with a new intensity. Under such keen scrutiny, Lucien was tempted to squirm. “You do understand that I’m not allowing her visitors just yet?”

“Perfectly.” A chambermaid came in and, after receiving Reggie’s instructions, took the flowers and left the room. “But I had hoped to see Madame Grimms today. Is she in?”

This request seemed to surprise Reggie as much as, or maybe more than, anything else Lucien had said so far. It was obvious Reggie was curious about Lucien’s possible business with Katherine—suspicious, even—and very protective of his womenfolk.

Ah … A light went on somewhere in the dim, overtaxed recesses of Lucien’s brain. He had supposed for some time that Reggie and Katherine did not get along. Perhaps it had just been a rather prickly mating dance. There was no denying now that he detected protectiveness in Reggie’s manner toward Katherine. And protectiveness came of love…

“Mrs. Grimms is sitting with Anne,” Reggie said hesitantly. “But if you’d like me to fetch her, I would be happy to take her place at Anne’s bedside.”

Lucien frowned. “I thought you said Mademoiselle Weston was doing well?”

“We’re not exactly nursing her,” Reggie assured him wryly. “While she’s relatively quiet, we’re using the opportunity to take her to task, to set down new rules, you see.”

“I see.” Lucien heaved an inward sigh of relief. Anne could use some hard-nosed chaperoning for a while. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the little baggage so much. In the next few days he’d be busy enough keeping himself alive, much less Anne.

“I’ll go and get her.”

His thoughts full of Anne, Lucien frowned again. “Get Anne?”

Damn! He’d slipped up and used her Christian name, and irrationally supposed Reggie was bringing Anne downstairs when Reggie had already told him that she wasn’t receiving visitors. Neither mistake was lost on Reggie. “Of course not Mademoiselle Weston,” he quickly corrected himself, smiling gamely, brilliantly. “You said she was not receiving visitors, and rightly so. A slip of the tongue,
n’est-ce pas?
Silly me … of course you meant Madame Grimms.”

Reggie returned the smile with meticulous politeness and bowed himself out, saying, “Of course. As you say … a slip of the tongue. Sit down, Mr. Delacroix. I’ll have Theresa bring in a tea tray.”

“Merci
. But that’s not necessary—”

“Katherine likes tea this time of day. No trouble at all.”

Lucien watched Reggie back out the door, cursing himself for being such an ass. He walked distractedly to the window, pushed aside the heavy drape, and looked out, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but his own ineptitude. How was it that he could keep his wits about him when dealing with the dangers of a criminal’s life, yet hadn’t been able to hold on to them at all in this situation, simply because Anne was just a few rooms away?

God … just a few rooms away. Upstairs, in that bedchamber, in that bed … Dark, warm, vivid images of last night flashed through his mind. The feel of her was like nothing he’d ever imagined.

“Lucien?”

Lucien pivoted around at the familiar use of his name, at the welcome voice of his friend. Katherine stood just inside the door. He relaxed, his usual facade not needed now. “Is it safe to talk?”

She reached behind her and closed the door. “It is now.”

Lucien made a doubtful face. “Reggie has instructed Theresa to bring tea.”

“We’ll have sufficient warning. The door squeaks. I won’t allow Theresa to oil it.”

Lucien grinned. “You frequently hold clandestine conversations in this room?”

Katherine shrugged, dismissing his teasing with a serious look. “Never before with you. Why are you here, Lucien? It must be very serious for you to take this chance. It couldn’t wait till next Saturday, when you could send word through Madame Tussad?”

Lucien sighed and sat heavily in the chair Reggie had recently vacated. “I had a good excuse to come. Reggie sent me a note, thanking me for saving Anne from the certainty of being … er … compromised.”

Katherine sat down in the opposite chair. “You mean raped, don’t you?”

Lucien winced. “Probably. The foolish girl. She’s just like you, Katherine. Too intrepid for her own good.”

Katherine raised her brows. “Is that why you like her so well?”

Lucien tried to avoid a direct answer. “I’ve always admired courage and resourcefulness in a woman.”

“Don’t hedge. I asked you if you liked her.”

“Of course I like her, but
—”

“But perhaps not as well as she likes you?”

“I don’t know how much she likes me.”

“Then you’re a fool, Lucien. She likes you well enough to sleep with you. And knowing my niece, that means she’s in love.”

Lucien liked Katherine’s straightforwardness, but just now it embarrassed him and definitely inconvenienced him. He didn’t want to be taken to task over something he knew he was guilty of. He had no defense.

“Did Anne tell you everything?”

“Everything. Except, of course, that you’d bedded her. I figured that out for myself. And now you’ve confirmed it with that guilty look. Where was Armande all that time?”

“Escorting the slaves out of town. He returned to the cabin at daybreak.”

“Anne gave the impression that Armande was there the whole time. The assumption, the hope that Anne was never alone with Renard is the only thing keeping Reginald from falling to pieces.”

“How much does he know?”

“Only the broad details. He won’t press Anne, but he’s a highly intelligent man and very intuitive. He’s figuring things out as he goes, I’ll wager. Anne actually confided in him first, you know. He was sitting in the garden this morning when she dragged in dressed like a man and looking a bit worse for wear.”