Lady Midnight (48 page)

His steps turned toward her; he just wanted to find out what in blazes she was doing. Perhaps she could tell him the secret of this windblown place.

As he drew near to her, he saw, with a sense of fated inevitability, that it was the Valkyrie from London. A narrow-brimmed straw bonnet shielded her face, but there was no mistaking that fall of hair, curling, sun-streaked brown hair, and the slim, lithe figure swathed in pale blue muslin, not even a shawl against the wind. She held a small trowel and dug about in the loamy earth, occasionally holding up some sprig of vegetation to examine it minutely. He saw that she wore no cloak because it was spread out on the ground, collecting yet more bits of stems and leaves.

For just a moment, he forgot about the jewel in his hand until its edges bit into his skin, and he tucked it into his greatcoat's pocket.

"Well, Brunhilde," he called. "We meet again."

She shot straight up, like a slender arrow, weeds dangling from her hand. Her mouth was agape, her bright green eyes blazing as she stared at him.

She was not elegant, as he preferred ladies to be. Dirt streaked her skirt; mud caked her boots. Her hair was tangled. There was even a stripe of dust across one cheekbone, marring already freckled skin. There was none of the mystery that was a lady's finest allure, no hint of flirtatious smiles, no silk or perfume. She glared at him with obvious dislike, not even an attempt at polite prevarication.

She was young, of course. Perhaps she would grow into delicious femininity, to half smiles and soft laughter, to the sheen of satin and flash of diamonds. But Julian doubted it. More likely she would end up on a battlefield somewhere, wielding spears and flaming arrows. Indeed, even now she clutched at her trowel in such a way that he feared for his extremities.

He should just turn and walk away, leave the child to her digging in the dirt. But she distracted him for a moment, made him forget Katerina and her damnable stubbornness.

"You,"
she said, her voice thick with disgust. As if he were a mere worm she found under her trowel. Or less than a worm, for she seemed to be a person who would have a strange fondness for bugs. That should have made him furious, added new layers to his temper. Yet he found it only made him want to laugh.

And he had not wanted to laugh in a very, very long time.

She took a step toward him, edging around her plant-laden cloak. "Why have you come here?"

Julian shook his head. "Such ill manners, Brunhilde! Perhaps I came here for my health, to imbibe the fresh air."

Her full lips, a pretty pale pink shade, pursed like a disapproving spinster's. "Your health? In Yorkshire? Most invalids choose Bath or Margate. No. You came here following Mrs. Brown."

Julian did not answer. He merely watched her.

"It will do you no good," she continued. "She is marrying my brother. The first banns will be called Sunday."

So, the Valkyrie
was
the squire's sister, just as Nicholas Hollingsworth had said. How could Katerina choose such a wild country family over all he, Julian, offered? It must be some sort of Yorkshire witchcraft. Would Brunhilde turn him into a toad if he lingered here too long?

No. She would have already done it by now.

"Banns are not a wedding," he answered softly. And when he had his way, there would never be wedding bells ringing for Kate and her squire. Never.

Bright pink spread across her cheeks, staining the bronzed color of her skin and absorbing the freckles. "She does not love you! You only make her cry. My brother makes her happy. You should go away, find some London lady to torment. I am sure they would like it exceedingly, since they seem to think torment is
romantic.
The silly cows."

Julian felt again that bizarre urge to laugh. What would this girl possibly find "romantic"? A bouquet of weeds? A basket of dirt? Surely she would shun poetry, jewels, subtle flirtations. She would see through blatant flattery in a trice.

Ah, if only she were older. Or he were younger, the idealistic young man he had been when he first entered Oxford, intent on finding a new, beautiful life away from his parents' ugliness. Before he found his dream in Katerina—and lost it again. He had the oddest notion that if he had met this fierce, unladylike Valkyrie at another time, she could have been the making of him.

Yet it was too late now. He was already far beyond ruin.

He took another step in her direction, and another. The mud caught at his boots, ruining the high polish of the fine Hessians, but he did not notice. He was too interested in watching her expressive face. Her eyes widened, as if she longed to move away, to run. She stood her ground, like a true warrior.

"What is your name?" he asked gently.

Her lips twitched. "Lady Christina Lindley. And yours is Sir Julian Kirkwood."

"It is. What do
you
think romantic, Lady Christina? What would win
your
heart?"

She tilted her head back, staring directly into his eyes. She
was
scared of him—he could see it behind the clear sea green of her eyes. But she refused to show it, standing perfectly still. "If someone sent me a newly discovered specimen of plant, something never seen before. That would be romantic. Chasing me across the country would not be."

Julian clasped her trowelless hand in his, staring down at it balanced across his palm. It was as unfeminine as the rest of her, with long fingers marked by scrapes and calluses, dirt trapped beneath the nails. It trembled at his touch, but again she did not draw away. The weed she held between two fingers dropped to the ground.

"What if I sent you a new plant?" he murmured. "Something with amazing healing properties, from China perhaps, or India. Would you soften toward me then, Brunhilde? Would you look on me with kindness?"

He bent his head to kiss her wrist. She smelled faintly of lavender and the clean, rainy scent of the earth. Her pulse trembled beneath his lips. And Julian felt something warm and deep, unexpected, stir in his soul. Something magical.

The spell was quickly broken. Lady Christina snatched her hand away from his grasp and used it to soundly box his ears. "How dare you!" she shouted. "You are a dreadful man, a rake who will pursue anything in skirts. You claim to love Mrs. Brown, you say that you would follow her anywhere, yet here you are kissing a stranger in a field. If you sent me the most amazing plant ever discovered, even one with the elixir of eternal life in its leaves, I would not cross the street to spit on you. Now, for the last time, go away!"

She whirled around, caught up her cloak and all the gathered plants in her arms, and marched away from him. She did not even glance back, and soon was lost entirely to his sight, leaving only the faint hint of lavender hanging in the air.

Julian gently touched his fingertips to his stinging cheek. Brunhilde certainly had a wicked right hook. She would be perfectly at home at Gentleman Jackson's. For an instant, his thoughts were clouded by a black haze of fury. No woman had ever
hit
him before. Not even Katerina. He wanted to run after Lady Christina, catch her in his arms, and shake her until some of her ridiculous nettles fell away!

But then—then he laughed. For truly, no woman had ever hit him before. No woman had ever dared, yet this scrap of girlhood boxed his ears and berated him as if he were a naughty schoolboy sent down to the headmaster's office.

This Lady Christina obviously cared about her family, about Katerina—her "Mrs. Brown." And Katerina had warned him, in a flame of spitting fury, to leave her family alone. Obviously, that meant the squire, the squire's brat daughter—and the squire's sister?

Julian rubbed again at his aching cheek, staring toward the direction Lady Christina ran off in, as an idea slowly took shape in his mind.

Desperate times, after all, called for desperate measures. This Lady Christina would fit perfectly into his plans. It was as if she were sent to him for just that purpose. She would bring his princess back to him, whether she will or nill.

Chapter 26

Kate stared out of the drawing room window into the black night beyond. The darkness was thicker than any she had ever seen, unbroken by any hint of starlight or moonglow. The clouds had descended in earnest before dinner, lowering in thick banks to enclose their world.

Never had she been so grateful for the coziness of her family's own hearth. She turned away from the blackness, back toward the cheerful blaze laid in the marble grate. Michael and Christina sat beside it with the tea tray set before them, talking together quietly while Amelia played her new piece of music, Handel's Air in B-flat, at the pianoforte. It was a beautiful scene, one that could not help but make Kate smile, despite the weariness and strain of the long day behind her. Despite Julian and his hidden weapons.
This
was what was important, what mattered. This was what she had to protect.

Christina glanced up and saw her smiling. She smiled in return, rising from her chair and coming to join Kate beside the window. Christina wore one of her newer gowns tonight, a pale green sprigged muslin, and her hair was neatly brushed and confined in a green ribbon. The green suited her, yet her eyes seemed shadowed by the same weariness that lay heavy on Kate's own heart, and Christina appeared uncommonly serious this evening. Perhaps it was merely the haste of their removal from London, their mad dash across the country to reach home.

Or perhaps it was something more.

"It's going to rain again tonight," Christina said quietly, staring out the window. "I'm glad I collected the specimens I needed this afternoon. Surely it will be too wet tomorrow."

Kate smiled at her, smoothing back an errant curl into her green ribbon. "Too wet for
you,
Christina? Perhaps we should build an ark, then."

Christina laughed at the weak jest, but her eyes were still serious. "Mrs. Brown," she said, "I saw someone when I was out collecting my plants."

Kate froze. "Someone?"

"Yes. I had met him in London, too. Sir Julian Kirkwood. I never would have expected to see him
here!"

"Oh, Christina." Kate closed her eyes against the fresh rush of pain. She had warned him to leave her family alone! Julian was a fearsome foe, but she would not have thought him the sort to torment young girls. She had underestimated him yet again. She thought of that hidden pistol, and of Julian encountering Christina alone in a meadow, and she shivered. "I am sorry he bothered you. It won't happen again, I promise."

Christina still stared out the window, a small frown puckering her brow. "He didn't—bother me. Not exactly."

"What do you mean, Christina? What did he do?" Kate asked frantically. By God, if he had
hurt
her...

Christina shrugged, but she would not look directly at Kate. "He just talked to me, really. He is a very strange man."

Strange, indeed.
It was far more than that. "Listen,
cara.
Perhaps it would be better if you didn't go out alone for a while. Just until after he is gone from here."

Kate expected arguments, protests. Much to her surprise, Christina just nodded. "You are right. I have a lot to work on here, anyway. I am very behind on my experiments."

"Yes. And don't forget—the Prices are coming to tea tomorrow. Perhaps young Mr. Price would be interested in hearing about all you learned at the Royal Botanic Society lecture and the British Museum?"

A ghost of a smile touched Christina's lips.

"What are you whispering of so secretly, my dears?" Michael said lightly, breaking into their tense, quiet exchange. He laid aside the agricultural report he was reading and came to join them by the window. He put his arms around both of them, and Kate leaned her head against his shoulder. She wanted to melt there, to sigh aloud with happiness. "Perhaps you are talking of wedding plans."

Christina laughed. It was not her usual loud, free chuckle, but it was light enough. "Oh, Michael. You know I am absolutely hopeless at such things. If it was up to me, Mrs. Brown would wear her new pink satin, I would pick a bouquet from the garden, and we would all walk to church for quick vows before a wedding breakfast at the Tudor Arms. Fast and painless."

Kate smiled. Somehow, hearing Christina speak of wedding plans made that happy day seem all the closer, all the more real. And it made Julian Kirkwood recede into the pale background, where he belonged. "It won't be very different from that, I think. I doubt I will wear the pink gown—it is too grand. A new white muslin might be in order, and a bonnet with a veil. We can have the wedding breakfast here. But it
will
be very quiet, nothing fancy at all. A bouquet from the garden sounds just the thing."