Secrets of the Highwayman (4 page)

She was afraid of him. She was trying to hide
it, but it was easy enough to recognize. The fine sheen on her skin, the darkening of her eyes, the quickened breathing. It was either fear or lust, and although he’d like to believe she desired him that much on first sight, Nathaniel was more inclined toward fear.

He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. He needed to win her confidence and her trust. It wasn’t something he’d ever had to worry about before, but then he’d never been in this situation before, either.

If he hadn’t needed her so desperately, he’d have shrugged his shoulders and walked away. But he
did
need her. She had to agree to help him, that was the first command the queen had given him, after she woke him and explained what needed to be done.

“When the mortal woman comes to you, you must gain her trust. She must agree to help you. Use your charm and powers of persuasion, but only after she agrees can you proceed on to the next step.”

“Simple,” he said and smiled. “Women find me irresistible, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps this time it won’t be as simple as you believe.”

He only laughed, expecting to sail safely through any storms the queen might whip up in front of him.

“Show her your enemy…what he’s capable of. Let her see, but you must not interfere with the past. If you try and change the outcome of what has already happened, I will return you to the between-worlds. Do you understand me, my Raven?”

He made an impatient gesture. “I understand what you’re saying but I don’t know why it must be so. Let me at him now, Your Majesty. Let me—”

“No! That would do more damage than good. First you must understand what it is you are facing, and to understand you must have the help of the mortal woman. Gain her support. You will need her.”

While he was distracted, Melanie had stepped farther away, clearly uncomfortable with being this close to him. Nathaniel reminded himself that despite her ugly clothing—strange coarse trousers and a tight overshirt with odd words on it and shoes like half loaves—she was probably the future equivalent of a gentlewoman. He must treat her with respect and care.

With deliberate patience, Nathaniel held out his hand.

Melanie glared at his fingers as if they were snakes.

“Come, I want to show you something, Miss Jones.”

“Show me what? And back off.”

Well, not a gentlewoman, perhaps, after all. He eyed
her doubtfully, wondering again how to proceed. With her short fair hair and slanting blue eyes she looked half-elf. The thought amused him, and he covered his mouth to hide the smile, then pretended to smooth his expertly arranged neckcloth.

“Show me what?” she repeated impatiently.

“I want you to see my family. I want you to see what my enemy has done to them.”

“I don’t—”

“Understand? No, but you will. I need your help.”

“You need my help?” she repeated slowly, her eyes slanting even more as she looked up at him.

“You’ve come all this way, Miss Jones,” he said engagingly. “You may as well look. You can’t go home until you do.”

That caught her attention. “I can go home afterward?” she asked him carefully.

“Of course.”

He could see her wavering. He cast her clothing another glance, puzzling over the writing emblazed across her bosom:
I fought a bull and won.
She would look rather beautiful in the fashions of the day, the flimsy dresses designed to uncover more than they covered. She had the same appealing gamine qualities as Lady Caroline Lamb, but without the histrionics, and without Byron.

She’d caught him staring at her shoes.

“I suppose jogging isn’t big in this century,” she said, giving him one of her direct looks. Then, with a shrug, she took hold of his hand. Her fingers felt cold, and they trembled in his until she stilled them, giving
him another glare, as if daring him to mention her momentary weakness.

He smiled. She wasn’t as tough as she pretended.

“What?” she demanded, and attempted to snatch her fingers back.

He held on. “I don’t think you understand what is happening to us. We don’t have a choice in the matter, Miss Jones.”

“It’s Melanie. And who says I don’t have a choice?” she added sharply.

And
she was a shrew. Nathaniel gave an inner sigh. She probably believed women should vote. Maybe she was even a man-hater, an adherent of Sappho, the poet from the Isle of Lesbos? How could he win over such a woman?

“What?” She met his look.

But he shook his head. There was nothing for it. He’d just have to go ahead and try his best.

“This is Christmas Eve in the year 1813, and at Ravenswood we are celebrating our traditional Yuletide Ball,” said Nathaniel. “The British army have been fighting the Peninsular War for five years, trying to preserve Portugal’s independence against the invading French forces, who have already overtaken Spain. We are worried that, if France invades and subjugates Portugal, then it is only a short step across the Channel to our own shores. So we fight.

“Last year, things looked grim. Napoleon Bonaparte controlled a large swath of Europe—Italy, Germany, Spain among them. But he was greedy, he wanted more, he wanted Russia. The Russian weather defeated
him, his troops dropping dead on the long retreat back to Paris. Consequently he has been weakened, overstretched. This year things are looking brighter. Wellington has the French on the run. Just last month he crossed the frontier into France. We believe that very soon Napoleon will be captured, and the war will finally be over. It is time for us to celebrate.”

“Christmas Eve, 1813,” she said, with an edge of hysteria. “Right.”

“At Ravenswood the Yuletide Ball is a long-held tradition. This year the son of the house”—he gave her a little introductory bow—“is back from the war, alive, although recovering from injuries. But with the good news comes the bad. Mr. Raven Senior fell from his horse in the park not long since, and died of a broken neck, plunging the household into mourning. Despite that, it was decided to go forward with the Yuletide Ball.”

Melanie cocked her head, and he could see her listening to the laughter and music upstairs, thinking that Ravenswood didn’t sound much like a house in mourning.

“Major Pengorren is here, too. He was my commanding officer in the army, and has been a pillar of strength in my family’s time of need.”

“Pengorren? As in Miss Pengorren? Then—”

She didn’t finish because Sophie, in a pale blue dress, her dark hair elaborately styled on top of her head, came out of the ballroom and down the stairs. Nathaniel found himself looking at his sister through a stranger’s eyes, seeing how young she still was although she’d
deliberately dressed to appear older. The neckline of the high-waisted dress showed off a surprising amount of bosom, and he wondered how his mother could allow it. But, then, his mother was occupied elsewhere these days.

“Nathaniel,” Sophie said, and smiled her sweet smile.

He felt a painful stab in his heart, seeing her like this after so long. Although she could not know he had been dead for nearly two hundred years, that he had only returned for the purpose of showing an invisible stranger his family, he felt the moment weigh heavily upon him.

“Sophie, my dear sister.” He set aside his confused feelings, gathered up his wits. “You’re blooming tonight, a rose in the dead of winter.”

She giggled, pleased with the compliment, and all of a sudden she was his little sister again, following him about with her constant chatter and gazing up at him adoringly.

“You look very handsome yourself, sir,” she teased, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Although Mama will say you smell of the stable. Why haven’t you changed into your evening wear, brother? Or at least your uniform. A man looks very dashing in a uniform.” He wanted to capture her, hold her, warn her…But he wasn’t allowed to, and she was already moving away, her eyes shining.

“Speaking of uniforms, the major has promised me a dance, which makes me very special for, as you know, he never dances. Oh, and Sir Arthur Tregilly has drunk
too much claret and is ogling the ladies’ ankles, and Miss Trewin is asking where you’ve got to for the fourth, no, the
fifth
time.”

“I can’t help breaking hearts.”

Sophie giggled again, but perhaps not quite so innocently as before. “I know you can’t, Nathaniel.”

He hesitated. He was breaking the queen’s rules, but he couldn’t help it. He had to speak. “Is everything all right with you, Soph? You would tell me, if it wasn’t? I’m always here.”

Except he wasn’t, not when she needed him.

Sophie looked at him strangely, and then she shook her head. “Silly,” she said, and continued on her way, probably to pass some message from his mother on to the cook.

Well, so much for brotherly concern. Nothing was going as planned.

Melanie had pressed herself back against the wall so as not to touch Sophie, and was looking dazed. He took her hand in his again, and this time she didn’t argue.

“Come on,” he said with quiet desperation, “let’s get this over with, and then you can go home.”

They were standing outside the room where
the guests were dancing. Melanie had always imagined dancing in the nineteenth century to be elegant and restrained, but there was little restraint here. Couples galloped around the room whooping and laughing, and the air was strong with the smells of alcohol, scent, and sweat.

It brought home to her that these were real people, not cardboard cutouts in a television drama.

A short while ago she had stood in this room, staring out of the windows at St. Anne’s Hill, and there had been nothing but empty, dusty silence. Now the windows were framed by bunches of green ivy and mistletoe with white berries, and dozens of candles were reflected in the glass. She wanted to cover her eyes with her hands and hide, like a child.

The guests could see Nathaniel, just as his sister had seen him, and he bowed his way elegantly through the crowd gathered around the space that had been cleared
for the dancers. Melanie eyed him curiously, taking in his dark blue jacket, white waistcoat, and tight beige trousers. Several women, who—in Melanie’s opinion—should have known better, giggled and fluttered their lashes, saying things like, “Oh, Mr. Raven, you are looking much better, I was so sorry to hear of your injuries,” and, “Oh, Mr. Raven, I hope you will call upon us soon, I do so want to hear all about your adventures in Spain,” and, “Oh, Mr. Raven, Major Pengorren has been telling us how brave you were.”

“Mr. Raven, Mr. Raven, Mr. Raven,” Melanie muttered, as she trailed in his wake, growing increasingly irritated. No one looked at her; no one saw her. She was like a shadow. She didn’t realize she was dragging her feet until a sharp tug on her hand brought her up hard against his back.

“Oomph!” her breath huffed out.

Despite his lean elegance, he was all hard muscle.

“Do you mind?” she hissed, pulling away, and becoming entangled in a some swaths of ribbons by the windows.

He frowned at her and laid one long finger carefully against her lips. “You must listen,” he told her, staring intently into her eyes. His voice deep and smooth, like warm, melted chocolate.

Melanie didn’t trust him or the way he drew that finger away, turning it into a caress.

But there wasn’t time to take him up on it.

The dancers had stopped dancing. Everyone was looking toward the dais, where a man and a woman
stood at the front of the small orchestra. The man was tall and fair and very handsome. Melanie blinked. More than just handsome—he was the handsomest man she had ever seen—and instinctively she understood that
this
was the man the curly-haired servant girl had been speaking of earlier.

It was strange, but the longer Melanie stared at him, the more his presence affected her. Almost as if she were being dazzled by the sight of him—dazzled in a way that was unnerving and definitely unwelcome.

She shivered. “Who is
that
?”

“Major Hew Pengorren,” Nathaniel Raven spoke quietly at her side. He didn’t need to ask whom she meant.

Her client’s ancestor, the progenitor of the Pengorren line, and Nathaniel’s commanding officer. The blond god was wearing a red uniform jacket and white trousers, with a dress sword strapped to his side. Irresistibly, her eyes were drawn back to his face, the golden beauty of it. She felt a little light-headed, starstruck in a way she’d never felt before, not even in her teenage years, when she and Suzie had gone to rock concerts and screamed themselves hoarse.

“It was bliss,” Suzie used to say, eyes closed, lying on her bed with a silly grin on her face.

This wasn’t bliss. This wasn’t a nice feeling at all. There was something horrible and squirmy about Major Pengorren.

With a supreme effort, she reached up and rubbed her eyes, and almost immediately the feeling was gone. If she couldn’t
see
him, then she was okay.

Again Nathaniel’s voice murmured in her ear, and she tried to pay attention, glad of the distraction. “Pengorren tells everyone I am a hero and plays down his own actions, but everyone knows it is he who is the real hero. He’s a gallant and brave officer, and he is at Ravenswood because I invited him. Miss Jones, he is my friend.”

There was emotion in his voice, but what was it? Something out of place. Something that jarred in the context of the words he had spoken. She didn’t have time to figure it out, because Major Pengorren began to speak, and Melanie made the mistake of looking at him.

Again the bedazzlement swept over her, but now that she was aware of it, she was able to hold back a little, observe her feelings more coolly and scientifically. She glanced at the faces of the crowd and realized they were feeling just as spellbound as she. Pengorren was having that effect on everybody in the room.

“Friends!” he boomed, his voice deep and hearty and sincere, like a politician on election day. “Tonight is the most marvelous night of my life, and I wish to share it with you all. Felicity and I…” And he turned fondly to the woman at his side. She was in her late forties, slight, with a face that was pretty but tired—the shadows under her eyes matched her high-waisted black dress. She also wore a besotted smile.

“
Dearest
Felicity and I are to be wed!”

There was a hush, as if the audience didn’t quite know how to respond, and then everyone hurried to cover the gaff with extraloud congratulations and applause.

Melanie leaned toward Nathaniel, and whispered, “Isn’t she a bit old? She must have at least fifteen years
on him. A man like that could have anyone, couldn’t he?”

Nathaniel leaned back toward her, and the warmth of his breath against her ear made her want to shiver. “You’re talking about my mother, Miss Jones.”

“Your mother?”

“Felicity Raven is my mother.”

“Oh…you said your father was…?”

“Dead. A tragic riding accident eight weeks ago.”

That explained the black dress then. But eight weeks…it was surely too soon to fall in love with another man? Although the look on Felicity’s face seemed to suggest that this was exactly what she had done.

There was a rustle of clothing, a murmur of voices, and the crowd gave way as Sophie, Nathaniel’s sister, rushed into the room, pushing her way toward the dais. Melanie recognized the dark head upon the long, elegant neck, and the pale blue dress made of a cloth so thin it was a wonder she didn’t freeze to death.

“You are marrying
her
?” Sophie’s voice was shrill, and she was looking at the major. She turned to her mother. “What does this mean?”

Felicity’s face had blanched. “Sophie,” she said, helplessly, with a beseeching glance at her handsome companion. “I know your father hasn’t been gone for very long—”

“Eight weeks!”

“—But the major has been so very good to us, and he is Nathaniel’s dear friend,
our
dear friend…”

Sophie burst into noisy tears.

Melanie could hear the whispers, the shuffling, as
the guests bobbed and strained to see what was going on. There was an air of shock, but also a feeling of unwholesome anticipation.

Pengorren was patting Felicity’s arm and at the same time murmuring compassionately into Sophie’s ear. Her sobs quietened and she nodded. Relieved, Felicity sighed and drew her daughter into her embrace.

“I miss your father, too,” she said, her eyes sparkling with tears, “but life must go on.”

It sounded like a line someone had fed her, but Melanie was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. And Sophie was obviously upset…Just then Sophie peeped over Felicity’s shoulder at the major, and Melanie saw the expression on her face. No grief there, none at all, just pure, undiluted lust. Sophie wanted Pengorren for herself. That was the real reason she was crying.

And Pengorren knew it.

Even as he made the right noises and pulled the right faces, there was an answering gleam in his eyes as he looked at Sophie. Melanie’s heart gave a sickening jolt. He was enjoying himself, playing the two women off against each other. It was a turn-on for him.

“What an egomaniac,” Melanie said in disgust.

Nathaniel gave a startled crack of laughter.

The major looked up.

The dais was high enough so that he could see over the heads of the guests to the back of the room, where Melanie stood. As his gaze swept past her, she stepped back, instinctively, pressing herself against the window. His eyes narrowed. His brow wrinkled. Slowly, his gaze slid back toward her.

Cold fear trickled through her. “I thought you said I was invisible?” she hissed.

“You are,” Nathaniel said slowly, thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Melanie didn’t want to take her own eyes off Pengorren, in case…well, just in case. She moved a step closer to Nathaniel.

“Nathaniel!” Pengorren was beckoning him. “What are you doing over there? Come and congratulate your mother and me!”

“Congratulations,” Nathaniel said under his breath, but he didn’t move.

Someone must have instructed the orchestra to begin playing again, for they struck up a slightly desperate jig, and the guests resumed their dancing. Major Pengorren was still staring in Melanie’s direction; but Felicity was urging him to join in, and a moment later he climbed down from the dais, and the crowd surged in.

Nathaniel reached for her hand and his fingers were a lot more comforting than she’d admit. “Come with me,” he said, but it was more like a command than a request.

Outside the room, the landing and the stairs were empty, and the entrance hall below was deserted. Everyone was in the ballroom where the action was, as Nathaniel led the way down. Melanie felt dazed, as if she’d been drinking. The floor tipped and shimmied beneath her feet, and she clung to the only thing that seemed solid and real: Nathaniel Raven.

The notion was so ironic that she actually giggled.

The Raven gave her his charming smile. Nothing appeared to bother him, apart from…

The humor drained out of her.

“How did Major Pengorren know I was there? He did know, didn’t he?”

Nathaniel looked up at her—they were near the bottom of the staircase, and she’d stopped a couple of steps above him. “I have no idea,” he admitted.

“He was so good-looking and yet…”

“And yet,” Nathaniel agreed, and that strange undercurrent was in his voice again.

“Why did you bring me here to see that? Why did you make me listen?”

“So that you could know my enemy.” He wasn’t smiling now.

“Pengorren?
Why
do I need to know him, Nathaniel? What is it to do with me?”

His eyes were more gold than hazel, and there was something very compelling about them. About him.

He leaned closer, further impressing his presence upon her. It was quite amazing, really—whereas Major Pengorren had made her feel cold and squirmy, Nathaniel Raven made her hot and squirmy. Although both, she told herself primly, were equally unwelcome.

“This is my last Yuletide Ball at Ravenswood. Soon it will be my turn to be laid in the ground, although the manner of my death means I won’t be allowed to join my family in the Raven crypt. My grave will lie outside the church boundary.”

“That’s all very sad, but I—”

“I have been given a chance to change history. To save myself and my family. To save Ravenswood.”

“That’s not possible!”

“It is. But to make it happen I have to find a way to
defeat Major Pengorren,” he went on. “You saw what he’s like. Such evil can’t be allowed to triumph.”

Melanie blinked. What he was saying was so bizarre she wanted to reject it out of hand, but she couldn’t. She’d seen for herself. That was why, she realized, she’d been forced to come, so that she had no choice but to believe.

“You must help me. The queen says you’re the only one who can.”

But Melanie knew her limitations. She was a solicitor. She made lists. She didn’t battle evil.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gently but firmly. “It’s out of the question.”

What did he have to do to convince her? Nathaniel had never felt so frustrated with a woman. There was only one thing for it. The “better man” speech. It had always worked in the past. He assumed his most sincere face.

“Are you all right?” she said unhelpfully. “You look like you have a stomachache.”

“Melanie, I need your help to succeed. Perhaps I’m not worthy of that help, yet, but I am trying. I want you to teach me to be a better man. Must I beg?” he finished, letting his voice drop into a heart-wrenching whisper.

Ah, he had her now! She was gazing up at him with her big blue eyes, no doubt dreaming of turning him into her tame pussycat. He should have remembered before that women liked to believe they alone had the power to change men. And the more badly behaved the man, the more the challenge, and the better they liked it.

Melanie took a breath and let it out slowly. “If you
want to be a better man, then I suggest you go and join the Red Cross, or Amnesty International, or the Lost Dogs’ Home. Don’t ask me to do it; believe me, we’d both end up in tears.”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. He’d been too optimistic. Melanie Jones was not like other women, so none of the usual tactics would work on her. What in God’s name was he meant to do?

“We
have
to work together,” he cried in frustration. “We have no choice.”

“No,” she said baldly. And then, jabbing her finger into his chest, “Under no circumstances whatsoever.”

She spun around and walked away.