Miss Antiqua's Adventure (11 page)

“Here you are, cousin. Drink this down,” he commanded.

“What is it?” She took a cautious sniff. Was it drugged? Raising her gaze from the glass, she met Vincent’s glance squarely. “I do not think I should care for this, thank you, sir.”

“Drink it. Or I shall pour it down your throat.”

She remained defiant but a moment more, knowing from his soft tone that it was no use. If it were drugged, she would at least be safe from the distressing temptation to snuggle against him and smother him with kisses. Throwing her head back, she downed the contents on a gulp. Her wracking cough brought a smile to Vincent’s lips.

“Good girl,” he said. “Now Fawkes has learned a thing or two about broken bones in his time. If you feel ready, he shall examine your ankle.”

“P-perfectly r-ready,” she coughed.

Her injured member was stretched out on the sofa. Fawkes’s giant paws completely engulfed the puffed and bruised ankle, but were surprisingly gentle as he pressed here and there. Once, he turned her foot, knocking a gasp from her. She made no other sound throughout, but kept her lips squeezed into a tight line. When at last he laid her foot back down upon the brocade, Antiqua was drained of color. Sweeping his intent gaze over her pale face, Vincent forced another small dose of brandy into her hand. This time she drank it without argumentation.

“Well?” Vincent inquired of his valet.

“Nothing’s broken, though ’tis torn up a fair amount. No permanent damage done, but I reckon she’ll not be using that foot for some while.” Fawkes turned an admiring grin on Antiqua. “You’re a prime gun, Miss, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

“I myself would have thought ‘incorrigible brat’ more apt,” Vincent put.

The gaze which turned to meet his spoke clearly of Antiqua’s umbrage at this uncomplimentary description. But her resentment faded as she perceived the warmth in the blue eyes resting upon her. Though she thought she should fight against it, she felt absurdly joyful to discover the last vestige of icy indifference quite gone from his manner.

“Such restraint, Brown-eyes,” he approved in an amused tone. He stood idly watching as Fawkes carefully wrapped the linen bandage about her swollen ankle, then came forward the instant the task was completed. “Bid everyone good night, cousin. Since you rose so very early—and expended so much exertion during the course of the day—I’m certain you will agree it’s time for you to retire.”

Making no demur as he lifted her into his arms, Antiqua gave in to the inevitable effect of the brandy and sank her head sleepily against his shoulder. The faint scent of starch wafted from his cravat. Beneath her ear, she could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart. She allowed herself to luxuriate in the contentment of his hold all the way up the staircase to her room.

There, however, she raised her head. “I’m truly sorry, sir,” she murmured, “to have vexed you with my tears. I can’t imagine what came over me, for I do not indulge in such fits as a general rule.”

Vincent stopped dead, giving her a startled look. Then he threw back his dark head and laughed. “Oh, my dear,” he said when he could. “You do not think to apologize for having led me a merry chase over half the Kentish countryside, for having called me names I’ve dueled over, for driving me mad with worry! You apologize merely for the tears you shed.”

Laughter still sparkled in his eyes as he gently set her upon the feather bed. He sat on the edge beside her, then reached out and smoothed her dark brown hair against the white of her pillows. He let his fingers wander lightly over the smooth skin of her cheek. The laughter faded from his gaze, and the deep blue visibly darkened as he caressed her.

He leaned forward until his lips were a hairbreadth away from hers. “Good night, my abominable Brown-eyes,” he whispered, sending his warm breath over her skin. Then he straightened and was gone.

Antiqua fell asleep with the taste of his breath still upon hers to dream of the kiss he had nearly given her.

It seemed at first as if her heart were fiercely pounding at the mere memory of his touch, his kiss. Then she realized with a start that someone was knocking on her door. Sitting up, she called out and did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Lucy entered with another young serving maid, bearing a cauldron of hot water between them.

Antiqua was bathed, dried, dressed and fed before she was allowed a moment alone with her maid. The instant the other girl departed, Antiqua twirled on the seat of a balloon-backed chair to demand Lucy relate everything that had occurred the previous evening.

As she talked, the maid deftly arranged Antiqua’s hair into a becoming series of ringlets beside her face. “There’s little to tell, Miss. ’Twere nothin’ and no one on that road I took. All that walkin’ for nothin’,” she grumbled in disgust. “Why, there’s a blister the size of a crown-piece on my foot!”

Antiqua gave Lucy’s hand a sympathetic pat. “How did you come to meet Vincent?”

“I was awalkin’ along, frettin’ myself sick over you, Miss, when I heard the thunderous rush of horses behind me. Well, I liked to faint when I turned and saw him bearing down on me, lookin’ for all the world like the devil ridin’ out o’ hell.”

“Vincent?” As Lucy nodded an affirmation, Antiqua twisted to face her. “Why didn’t you run from him?”

Lucy pushed her mistress firmly around and applied her brush with renewed vigor. “Now be reasonable, Miss Antiqua, do! He swooped down on me afore I could so much as breathe. I’d half thought to tell him as how I’d got lost and didn’t know where you could be, but as soon as I clapped eyes on his face, that notion flew clear out of my head. He was in a right rage, with his lips so tightly set, they’d fair turned white! ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he raps out to me, and I ups and tells him without so much as a murmur.” Her hairdressing finished, Lucy wagged the brush at Antiqua. “And so would have you, Miss, and that’s a fact!”

Antiqua spun around again and prodded, “So?”

“So he ordered Fawkes to take me up on his horse and the two of us rode off to collect his chaise. I gave Mr. Vincent the general lay o’ where I’d left you and when we arrived on the road past Pleasance some three or so hours later, he was awaitin’ us, with some of the grimness gone from his face. And, o’ course, you know the rest.”

“You mean to say he found me and waited alone with me?”

“Yes, Miss. He’d been so fortunate as to find your hat and then your shoe and was awatchin’ over you from the edge of the field as you slept, like.”

A thoughtful frown turned down the corners of Antiqua’s mouth. At the end of several minutes, she said on a peevish note, “But I don’t understand it! Why would he shoot at me, then do nothing at all when given the most perfect opportunity?”

“Shoot at you!” Lucy scoffed. “Why, Miss, he never did any such thing!”

“But who else would have the least reason to do so? I tell you, Lucy, it
must
have been Vincent! We know he murdered Thomas Allen for the sake of what now lies in that muff,” she said, pointing to the fur lying on a nearby chair. “And he must have tried to murder me for the same reason.”

“Now that, Miss Antiqua, is just what I can’t believe. If you’d but have seen the look in his eye when I told him you was alyin’ in that field!”

“Oh, but Lucy, don’t you see,” Antiqua broke in. “A spy must be very practiced in the art of deceit!”

Lucy’s mouth was mulishly set. “You may believe as however you’re wishful to, Miss, but spy or no spy, that man never fired those shots and so I’ll be bound.”

Antiqua gave up the argument. She seemed little more capable of convincing Lucy to mislike Jack Vincent than of convincing her own heart to do so. Still, it was an argument that was to plague her for many a day to come.

Chapter 10

Frustration figured largely in Antiqua’s emotions for the next several hours. Having conceived the notion of cleverly taxing Vincent with his movements of the previous day, she greeted with disappointment the knowledge that only she and Lucy were to occupy the chaise while the gentlemen rode beside the coach.

For five full hours she had nothing but her thoughts to occupy her. As these tended to center on the complexity of Jack Vincent, her restless discontent deepened. She found it increasingly unbearable to think of him as her enemy. It was even more unbearable to consider why she felt this way, so she focused instead on his high-handed manner in carrying her off. He had no right to use her so abominably and so she determined to tell him at the first opportunity. But as Vincent put in no appearance during either of the first two stops to change post-horses, she sank deep into a stew of frustration which grew with each turn of the carriage wheels.

Just when Antiqua knew to a precise number how many times Lucy would snore in a given hour, they rolled into another small innyard. It was now well into the afternoon and her tedium had expanded into a mood of extreme ill-humor. Her ankle had been aching painfully for the last hour and she felt perfectly ready to scream from the stifling monotony within the chaise. Thus, when the door was jerked open, Antiqua met Fawkes’s kind inquiry if Miss would be wishful to partake of a bite of luncheon with a snapped consent.

She was transported into yet another private parlor. She decided that all inns were depressingly alike, with nothing whatsoever to recommend one from another. Lucy set Antiqua’s injured foot upon an elaborately worked stool and left her to indulge in her sulks alone. She first pictured herself meeting Vincent with a lofty disdain, then thought perhaps she would do better to show him how truly civilized she was by greeting him with condescending graciousness. This resolve faded after five minutes, by the end of which time she was seething over Vincent’s despicable display of bad manners. Her ill-temper was exacerbated when, after ten minutes, only a servant appeared to cover the table with Vincent’s own linens and dishes, seemingly unaware of the scowls directed toward him as he did so.

When Vincent at last entered the small and sparsely furnished apartment, he was met by a stormy face and a roomful of haughty silence. He apparently did not notice this frosty reception, for he moved easily to take his seat at the table opposite the irate lady. With a wave, he directed the poker-faced footman to begin serving.

The fact that his casual riding breeches became him extremely only fueled Antiqua’s simmering hostility. Though the beige doeskin advertised the strength of his muscular legs, she told herself that the mirrored gleam of his high-top boots was conclusive confirmation that he was nothing but a fop. The chocolate brown riding jacket was cut so very well as to be thought by most a credit to Weston’s tailoring, but to her affronted view this was only another black mark against the gentleman. She clasped her hands in the lap of her pleated rose percale gown and refused to be affected by his handsome appearance.

While being served, Vincent said little beyond desiring to know if Miss Greybill would like another roll or some butter perhaps, to which he received only the tersest of responses. Upon the last of the silent meal being cleared from the table, he sent for a final mug of ale. Before the servant could depart on this errand, Antiqua raised her gaze from contemplation of the lace tablecloth to icily beg the man to bring her a glass of wine as well.

Hesitating, the footman looked to his employer, vexing the young lady to no little degree. A smile hovered on Vincent’s lips as he countered with, “Ratafia.”

“What I desire,” Antiqua said, opening hostilities, “is a glass of sherry.”

“Ratafia,” Vincent repeated, and waved the servant away.

“You have no right to countermand my wishes,” she snapped upon the closing of the door.

“I believe, my dear, that paying the shot gives me some right in the ordering,” he returned in a tranquil tone.

He was as patently amused as Antiqua was annoyed. Perceiving this, she subsided into an insulted silence. It was of short duration, however, for within moments she was leaning toward him, having decided to change tactics.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Have you not heard,” he drawled in reply, “about curiosity and the—”

“I am not a cat!” she said with real exasperation. “And I have a
right
to know where I am being taken. Why, you are no better than an abductor and if you do not tell me now, I shall tell the landlord here that you are forcing me to go with you against my will. He shall send for the parish constable,
then
you shall be sorry!”

“I thought—forgive me, perhaps I did not understand—that I did not abduct you, but that you asked to come with me.”

“Yes, but that was only to Dover,” she conceded. “Now you are coercing me, taking me only heaven knows where. And
that
is against the law.”

“Then by all means, Brown-eyes, send for the landlord,” Vincent said, unperturbed.

The footman re-entered just then and Antiqua imperiously ordered him to please inform the innkeeper he was desired at once. She did not take her gaze from Vincent’s cool face; she saw him nod slightly as the ale and ratafia were placed before them. She smiled with triumph and sipped at her cherry flavored cordial.

An instant later a tap preceded the bustling entrance of an elderly besmocked gentleman who wore a worried frown that further creased his generously wrinkled brow.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said to Vincent. “Was there something wrong with the luncheon? I told my wife as how she ought not have cooked the beef overlong, but—”

“
I
sent for you,” Antiqua cut in impatiently. “I want you to send for the local magistrate or the parish constable, if you please. At once!”

The landlord’s bewildered gaze moved from the impassive blue eyes of the gentleman to the angry brown of the lady. He well knew the ways of the quality to be strange, but he had never met with a request such as this. “Well, I don’t know as how—”

“This man is
abducting
me!” she accused with heat.

Her dramatic announcement was received with doubtful dismay. The innkeeper’s gaze swung from the miss to the man and back again. He cleared his throat nervously, “Well, now, miss—”