Kate Moore (10 page)

9

T
HE SUN WAS
already low in the sky behind them. At the next village they would stop for the night. Still that last look as she had turned from him two nights before unsettled Drew. By day she rode ahead of him as they made their way from
quinta
to
quinta
, village to village, and he rarely saw her face. Yet in his mind’s eye he could plainly see the glossy curls falling over her forehead, the lashes lowered against her flushed cheeks, the luminous shoulder, and the slim, bare arm extended to offer him a pillow. It was a look that every ambitious young woman in London could counterfeit, but in Meg, he knew, the sweet confusion was real.

The fiction of calling her his wife had been a mistake. It had encouraged a developing intimacy of mind between them even as they argued. Then he had held her hand as they listened to the
senhor’s
fairy tale of a passion that had outlasted marriage, children, even death. When she had offered her bedding, he had been tempted almost beyond bearing. Recalled to himself, to the bitterness of the circumstances that had incited him to steal Haddon’s papers, he had wisely stayed away from her for two days.

But their untrustworthy companions grew more suspicious and more ready to act against them with each passing day. He feared nothing for himself; but could he go on risking Meg’s safety? Had he not already given Wellington time to complete his plans for the spring campaign? Still he was sure that now he could break the chain that led to the Viper once and for all. Three days more was all he needed.

Margaret looked around the village they now approached. It was no more than a few dozen buildings in a hollow, but there was a church and a
tasca
where they reined in. Their arrival drew the curious and the enterprising alike, and more than one in the crowd offered to prepare them a meal and rent them lodging for the night. After lengthy negotiations carried on by Esau, they accepted the offer of the man who owned the
tasca
. Two doors beyond this establishment was a tall, narrow, whitewashed building with a heavy door set in stone posts and lintel. At the entrance, Esau passed before them, leading their donkey.

This was a new low in their accommodations, and Margaret did her best to conceal her surprise. When the donkey balked at the steep stone steps, Esau cursed the tired animal in terms that needed no translation and began wielding the crop he carried. With one of his quick, unexpected moves, Drew intervened, deflecting Esau’s arm so that the crop fanned the air harmlessly. The big man blinked as if he were not quite sure how Drew had managed it. And Margaret held her breath, for in that sudden compassionate act, the dandy disguise fell away. Then Drew put a languid hand to the donkey’s mane, calming the frightened animal. With a cheerful command and a firm slap on the animal’s rump, he sent the beast into the house. He flashed a grin at Margaret and made a graceful bow, inviting her to enter.

Sure that he meant to enjoy her discomfiture, Margaret marshaled her dignity and her courage and followed the donkey inside. The room with its stone walls and dirt floor clearly served many purposes. There were casks of wine, a cooking area with a tiled hearth, ropes of vegetables and bunches of herbs, and a trough for the donkey. So many smells were mixed in the warm, stale air that it was hard for Margaret to identify any one of them. Across the room a stairway led to the upper stories. As they climbed, Margaret tried to prepare herself for whatever discomforts she would have to face in such quarters. It was her first chance to prove that she meant what she had said at Senhor Fregata’s, that she would gladly endure any hardship rather than deceive a decent man again.

Still she was unprepared for the room they entered. It was so small that when their two valises were dropped in one corner there was scarcely room to move about. A patch between the door and window could be crossed in two strides. The only furniture in the room was a narrow bed and under the window a rough table with a pitcher and a basin.

She took a deep, steadying breath and removed her hat and gloves. Laying them carefully at the foot of the bed, she asked for water. While she waited for the water, she hung the jacket of her habit on one of the pegs along the wall, and when the water arrived she began to wash the day’s dust from her face as if she were perfectly at home. As long as she kept busy and did not look at him directly, he would not guess her unease.

But he, too, removed his jacket and cravat and then stretched out on the bed, completely filling it or seeming to, so that when she finished her little tasks she felt distinctly awkward. At least his eyes were closed. Perhaps he slept, and she could sit upon the edge of the bed without disturbing him. She knelt and opened her valise, taking from it the book that had enabled her to endure so much awkwardness already. Cautiously she sat against the edge of the bed and attempted to slide onto it without disturbing him, but the bed sagged alarmingly under her and he opened his eyes.

“If you wish to share my bed, Meg, you have only to ask,” he said. It was the first time he had teased her in days; and even as her cheeks burned, she felt glad that his earlier coldness with her had vanished. She slid off the bed.

“You know I don’t wish to share your bed in the way you are suggesting,” she replied, looking about for someplace to sit.

“And what do you know of the way I am suggesting, Meg?” he asked. It was one of those times when she detected a change in his voice, a change that made her aware of the exact distance between them. To stand close to him at such moments was a little like standing too close to a hot fire. Even without the jacket of her habit, she felt warm in the cool evening air. She clutched the book in her hands and thought about what she must do.

“I’ll sit upon the floor,” she said, and suited her action to her words, crossing her feet and dropping down easily, tailor-fashion. He said nothing. She opened the book across her lap. For some minutes, she sat waiting for a poem, any poem, to catch and hold her interest, but not even the most familiar verse quite made sense to her. Then her gaze was drawn to a black speck on her sleeve. She reached to brush it off, but it jumped. Another speck followed. She looked at the floor; there were dozens of the jumping specks.
Fleas!
She struggled to her feet, sending the book in her lap tumbling, and shook her skirts and brushed at her sleeves. An exclamation of disgust escaped her lips in spite of her best intentions.

Instantly Drew was at her side, urging her to stand still and helping to pluck the tiny creatures from her. One glimpse of his face told her he had known about the fleas.

“Oh,” she said, pushing him away. “You knew.”

“Some men will do anything to bring a beautiful woman to bed,” he teased, and his teasing restored her composure. He reached to help her again, and she did not resist.

“I know you don’t mean that. It is just one of the things you say to embarrass me.”

“And does it embarrass you?” He reached down to retrieve her book and she could not see his face.

“A little,” she replied, “but for the most part it distracts me; it makes me forget for a minute the danger and discomfort. That’s why you do it, isn’t it?” He had straightened and was holding the book out to her, but he did not answer. His eyes were night-blue in the dusk, and there was that expression in them that she had come to recognize but not understand. Before she could quite fix it in her mind, the interesting expression disappeared. She took the book from him.

“Quick,” he said, “onto the bed before you attract a new batch of hungry creatures.” He put his hands to her waist and swung her up on the bed. “This calls for John Donne, I think.”

“John Donne?” she asked. “Oh, you mean ‘The Flea.’” The recollection of that particular poem indeed brought fire to her cheeks.

“Would you prefer Burns’ ‘To a Louse’? No doubt there are lice here as well,” he said. He was bending over her, his eyes alight with amusement.

She shuddered, but as she looked up again into the eyes teasing her, her mind suddenly rebelled. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and in the silence between them she heard the sounds of the village below their window.

“You are wise not to,” he replied, straightening. “After all, I have more experience telling lies.”

“But your lies are not what I thought they were. I do not know why a good man should pretend to be a bad one, but that is what you do. You cannot be the thief and traitor you say you are.”

He did not answer but turned away from her so that he looked out the window. “Seeing is believing, Meg. You said so yourself. You saw me take the papers; you witnessed my meeting with Croisset; you see me consort with French agents.”

In spite of his level tone she felt she had thrown him off his guard. “Yes, seeing is believing, and this is what I see: I see you laugh; I see your kindness to me, to Senhor Fregata; I do not see—”

A knock on the door interrupted her. It was one of the village boys, announcing in a mixture of English and Portuguese that their
jantar
, the dinner they had spoken for at the tavern, was ready.

“Come, Meg,” Drew invited her, reaching for his jacket, “you have an appetite, I am sure.”

She did not argue. Her mind was too full of her new idea of him. It was an idea that occupied her thoughts throughout their meal.

They were not alone, but tucked away from the other patrons of the tavern, who stared curiously but did not approach. Her thief was at his most supercilious, rejecting wines and scorning the plain but delicious-smelling dishes put before them. Across from them Esau ate and drank with his usual indifferent steadiness, and Margaret suspected that he was the recipient of the dishes turned away from their table. She never saw Jacob take a bite, for each time she looked at him, he was watching Drew. When they rose to leave, Jacob intercepted them and begged to have a word with “your worship.” The false subservience of his sleek looks and voice sent a shiver of fear down her spine, and she clung to Drew’s arm.

“Your excellence,” Jacob began. He continued in a mixture of English and Portuguese, speaking in the terms but not the tone of deference. At his words, conversation among the patrons of the tavern died, and Margaret felt their stares at her back. She forced herself to concentrate on what Jacob was saying, something about rising early.

“There is no hurry, I think,” replied Drew in the languid dandy manner he used before the brothers. He brushed an imaginary speck from the sleeve of his jacket, and Margaret had the oddest feeling she had seen some dandy do just that in London.

Jacob’s reply was not perfectly comprehensible to her, but she caught the words for mountains and dawn and the name Vila Real. Their route, their destination, the time of their departure were being announced publicly. Only Drew’s grip on her elbow kept her from turning to the villagers behind them. Which of them would carry the message ahead to the Viper, she wondered.

Even as he checked her impulse to turn, Drew was contradicting Jacob. “No, not to Vila Real. This mountain travel grows tedious. I have a mind to return to the river. Tomorrow we will sample the wines of Amarante.” He stepped forward, pulling Margaret with him, but Jacob stood intractably in their path. Margaret had no trouble understanding his next words.

“With all respect, your excellence, the wines of Vila Real are superior.” The implied threat in Jacob’s voice roused Esau.

“What is this, brother?” he called. Margaret turned toward him. His great slack bulk was sprawled in a chair, a woman in his lap facing him, her skirts bunched up about her hips, her legs hanging down on either side of the chair. He stood, allowing the woman to slide down his legs, and came forward still clasping the woman in his rough embrace. “We do as his excellence says, brother. We go to Amarante. Good wines, good trout, good women,” he insisted, squeezing the woman at his side and leering at Margaret.

Jacob’s expression hardened at his brother’s interference, but he said nothing.

“To Amarante, then.” said Drew quietly, “at dawn.” Jacob bowed slightly and withdrew. As if he were unaware of having aroused the suspicions of an enemy, Drew turned to the proprietor of the tavern and inquired something about the location of the necessary. He accepted a lantern from their host, and he and Margaret set off in the darkness, the conversation in the little
tasca
whispering to life behind them.

Margaret’s thoughts stumbled over one another more than her feet stumbled over the dark path behind the tavern. Drew pointed the way to the rude outdoor facility, and they separated. Margaret hardly noticed the humble structure.

Her thief meant to turn away from the mountains where they could most easily meet the Viper. Just at the hour she had conceived a new notion of his goodness, he defied their French-sympathizing escort. She felt almost giddy with hope. She must be right about her thief after all. He could not mean to give the papers to the French. But if Jacob also suspected as much—Jacob, who had been ready to kill them for the papers two days before—then surely their danger was greater now than ever.

That thought hurried her through the necessary actions of the next few minutes and sent her rushing back through the darkness and unexpectedly into Drew’s arms.

“Meg, this is something new,” he teased, steadying her against him.

“We must not stand here, alone,” she whispered back, somewhat breathless with her fear for him, but he did not seem to hear.

Indeed, the suddenness of Meg’s stumbling into his arms wrought in Drew one of those changes he experienced more and more often in her company. Caught unguarded against her nearness, he forgot for a moment his intention of returning her to London innocent and heart-whole. He thought only of the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest and the fragrance of her hair. The breathlessness with which she spoke must be a result of her running, but it reminded him of the breathlessness of passion, and he found his own breathing affected.

She was whispering, but the words were an indistinct murmur against his chest. He loosened his hold on her and reached up a hand to cup her cheek. He pushed his fingers into the silky curls at the side of her face, lifting the hair away from one ear so that he might place a kiss there. But just as his lips touched her skin, she spun out of his arms and dashed for a grove of trees at the edge of the field.