A Lady’s Secret (5 page)

“You want to see me unmanned, Sister?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Terrifying woman. I see Powick returning. Pray for good news.”

She turned to look out. “Even if these people wonder, they won’t do anything.”

“Better not to raise alarm. We’ll be brother and sister.”

“But we don’t look at all alike.”

“Half brother and sister, then. Your mother was Italian. Your father, also my father, was English. See my devotion to truth?”

“After a fashion,” Petra said dryly. “Why, then, are we in a desperate hurry?”

Yes, why?
Robin thought at her turned head.

“I could be more inventive, but let’s say we’re racing to your dear mother’s deathbed. We’re a staunch Catholic family. You discovered a vocation to the holy life and entered a convent—I like the way this ties together—entered a convent in your mother’s hometown of Milan.”

She frowned as if on principle, but said, “I suppose that makes sense.”

“It is pure brilliance.”

“It is not a matter for pride to be a brilliant liar.”

“Consider it theatrical invention, then. I shall write a play about our adventures and call it…
The Rake and the Nun
.”

Perhaps she growled, but Powick was approaching the coach, hunched against the rain.

“We are both Bonchurch?” she asked quickly.

“We share the same father, so yes. Your mother’s name?”

“Amalia.” It came out so automatically that it was probably the truth. “And your name? Hurry. Immaculata is not convincing for an English lady.”

“Not even with an Italian mother?”

“The English father would object.”

She hesitated, so when she said, “Maria,” he asked, “Truth?”

“Are we still playing that silly game?”

“Yes.”

“My name is still Maria.” But the tilt of her chin suggested a half-truth at best.

He let it pass and turned to let down his window to hear Powick’s report.

“They’ll give us shelter, sir, but there’s only women there right now, so they won’t let us in the house.”

“Women? I should have gone to talk to them.”

“More than likely, sir,” Powick said, dripping. “The best I could obtain was a barn of sorts out the back.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. Can the coach get back there, or do we walk?”

“There’s a cart track, but it’s rough.”

“We’d better try it. But first, what did you tell them?”

“Just that we’re English. sir. Couldn’t help that, me with my mangled French.”

“Damnation, I really should have gone myself. Listen, Sister Immaculata is my half sister, Maria. My mother died and my father remarried an Italian woman.” He saw rather than heard Powick’s sigh. “We’ve no choice. They’re going to wonder about a nun with four men. Tell Fontaine.”

“Very well, but you’d better hope they don’t want to gossip, or they’ll get a dog’s dinner of details.”

“Impudent rascal,” Robin said, shutting the window.

“But right.”

“He generally is. I apologize for our lodgings, Sister.”

“I suspect I’m more accustomed to Spartan living than you, sir.”

“Then I look forward to your assistance in the night.”

As she sighed and turned away, his conscience tweaked a little. But only a little. The coming night could be very, very interesting.

But then the coach lurched down at least a foot. “Plague take it! Pray fervently, Sister, for the axle.”

“If God heard my prayers,” she said bleakly, “I wouldn’t be here at all.”

P
etra regretted those revealing words as soon as they escaped, but how could God let things get to this dire state?

When she’d joined Mr. Bonchurch, she’d expected an ordinary man and thus someone who would be easy to handle. He was anything but. She’d also expected to race ahead of Varzi, but here she was, stuck for the night in the middle of nowhere. Tomorrow, Varzi would catch up with ease—especially if the coach broke. It was groaning and squealing as it navigated the rough track.

At every turn—every turn!—God’s hand seemed raised against her. Was her flight so wicked? Did He want her to be Ludovico’s whore?

“Powick’s right,” he said. “We should settle a few more details. How old are you?”

She could see no reason to lie. “Twenty-one. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

She frowned. “Truth?”

“You think me older or younger?”

“Older.”

“A year as head of a family can turn a man gray.”

“Your father died? I’m sorry,” Petra said, thinking of the pain of her mother’s recent death.

“So am I,” he said, but then the coach bounced down jarringly, and he winced. “Only think, we have to get out again tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we should have gone on,” Petra said.

“We’d have been stuck within a league.”

He was looking at her in a way that made her twitch. “What?” Disconcertingly, it again came out in Italian.
“Che?”

“Maria is your second name, isn’t it?”

The coach seemed to have achieved level ground and was turning around the back of a walled yard. Rain still drummed on the roof, however, and the dim light made everything grim.

“How did you guess?” she asked.

“It’s not right for you. So?”

Again, the truth didn’t seem worth a struggle.

“Maria is my second name. My first is Petra. Petronilla, in fact. No more convincing than Immaculata for an Englishwoman.”

“Stranger ones have been known. Is there a Saint Petronilla?”

“A holy virgin martyr of the early church, possibly a daughter of Saint Peter himself.”

“A bride of Christ with a saintly lineage. How can anything possibly go amiss? Except,” he added, “that God does not listen to your prayers.”

Petra looked away. “A foolish statement because of the interminable rain.”

The coach swayed to a stop then, at a tilt that meant Petra had to use every bone and muscle not to slide on top of him. Every scrap of willpower, as well, because part of her wanted to. Part of her wanted to surrender to strong arms and kisses, to allow someone else to make all the decisions. To have someone take care of her. This man wasn’t interested in protecting her, however, except in the sense of making her his mistress. And now she had a perilous night to survive.

“May I know your family name?” he asked.

Again, Petra hesitated. He was wearing away at her, but it couldn’t matter. He wouldn’t suddenly realize that she was il conte di Baldino’s shamed sister, or turn her over to Varzi. If Varzi caught her, all her secrets would be exploded.

She turned back. “Averio.”

“Petronilla Maria d’Averio?” He said it as if he was relishing it, and for some reason she liked hearing it roll off his tongue.

But she corrected him. “Petra d’Averio. The Maria I do not use, and the Petronilla was only to give me a saint’s name. My father insisted. Petra was my mother’s mother’s name. It’s common in German lands, but not in Italy. And your first name, sir?”

“Robin.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “The small bird with the red breast?”

“Cheerful and friendly.” She must have made a sound, because he said, “Have I not stood your friend? And I am willing to be more so.”

“You’re tiresome.”

“I’m wounded, Sparrow.”

“I know that allusion.
‘Who did kill Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow….’
I mean you no harm, sir, whereas you are wearing at me like water on stone.”

“Devilish slow, water on stone,” he said, good humor undented.

More like sun on ice, which was often not slow at all.

“You must stop this. You must treat me like a sister, because anything else and even French peasants will recognize the truth.”

He sobered at that. “Alas, you’re right. Brother and sister it is, then—at least for this night.”

Thank heavens. On those terms, she might survive. The carriage made a sharp left turn into the walled farmyard and then the gates were closed with a thump. The noise made her jump with fear. Nonsense. The wall and gates were for safety, and with her tucked in here, Varzi could pass by and never guess she might be near.

Two women ran past her window, splashing through mud, eager to be back in the house. A house of women. Nothing to fear. And it was kind of them to come out in the wet to let them in. They ran in past a sturdy, middle-aged woman who was standing in the open farmhouse door, pointing and yelling instructions. The coach moved slowly forward, and then sudden quiet told Petra they’d reached shelter.

“Thank you, God,” she said.

“Amen, though after so long, quiet feels almost eerie. Here, take Coquette and don’t let her follow me. The last thing we need is her covered in mud.”

He passed over the dog, opened his door, and climbed down. After inspecting their shelter, he turned to offer a hand. “It’s merely an overhang, but the ground’s dry.”

Dog tucked in her arm, Petra left the coach.

The farmhouse door was shut again, so this was their haven for the night. As he’d said, the “barn” was merely a rough roof supported by three wooden poles in front and two sides of the wall in the back. Rain poured off the edge of the roof into a pungent, muddy lake between them and the farmhouse.

“Not the accommodation I hoped to offer you tonight,” he said.

“Then probably safer for me.”

The dog was wriggling so she passed her over, but he put her down. “She’s fastidious, so I doubt she’ll go out into that sort of mud.” Coquette shook herself and began to roam.

Petra shook, too, but because of damp night air. “I need my cloak. And so do you.”

“You’re worried about my health,” he declared.

“How delightful.”

She smiled sweetly. “Simply playing the part of loving sister.”

“Loving! We make progress, indeed we do.”

“Only toward survival,” she said, marching to the coach to find her luggage. He reached past her to open the boot for her, brushing against her arm. Petra ignored the play and unlocked her trunk to take out her gray woolen cloak. She allowed him a clear look at the innocent contents before closing it again.

He didn’t seem disturbed, and took the cloak to put it around her shoulders. That was nothing to make her shiver, but it had been so long since any man had performed such a simple courtesy.

Ludo.

A winter garden, glittering with frost.

A fur-lined, velvet cloak.

A searing kiss…

“What is it?” he asked.

“Just cold,” she said, stepping away, fastening the clasp at her throat. That memory had been an excellent reminder of what happened when a woman allowed a man to play such games. “Can we make a fire, do you think? There’s a woodpile over there.”

“We’d better ask. We don’t want to be accused of theft.”

He took out a dark, heavy cloak and swung it on, instantly becoming more ominous, especially when he raised the hood. She recognized a riding cloak of supple leather, which would shrug off rain, but the forbidding effect persisted even when he smiled at her and said, “Perhaps these ladies will not be so immune to my beautiful eyes.”

She couldn’t stay out here all night with him. She couldn’t.

“Perhaps they could win me a bed inside,” she said.

“After all, I’m a harmless female.”

“To other women, perhaps.”

He set off, but yipping halted him. Coquette was frantic at being abandoned. With a sigh he picked her up and put her in his pocket. Then he strode out into the rain in a lordly manner. But his booted feet sank into slippery mud, so instead of a masterful march, the hooded, dark warrior slogged his way across the yard.

Petra smothered a giggle, but she prayed the women would agree with a request to let her sleep inside.

He arrived at the door and knocked. The door opened a crack, then a little wider. He talked to the woman, and then set off back to the barn. Once he was under shelter, he pushed off his hood and stood dripping. “Triumph for
mes beaux yeux
. For a price they’ll provide some food and drink, some spare coverlets, and the use of their woodpile.”

“And me?” Petra asked.

“So anxious to flee me. It seems a rough place, but if you want to sleep in there you have Madame Goulart’s agreement.”

Petra hurried to her trunk to take out her bag containing necessities and a spare shift for tomorrow. She turned eagerly toward the house, but then realized a problem. She was wearing sandals. She’d have to cross in bare feet. She bent to unfasten them, but her tormenting escort said, “May I have the honor of carrying you?”

He was straight-faced, but she heard laughter in his voice.

Petra was torn, but being in his arms won over wading through farmyard mud.

“Thank you,” she said, and tried not to stiffen as he lifted her into his arms.

Ludovico carrying her, sweeping her into his arms simply to show off his strength. She protesting but loving it—loving the intimacy, the closeness, feeling fragile in his strong arms….

“Pull my cloak over yours as much as you can. It’s waterproof.”

She started out of memories of folly and did her best, though the wet leather had a slimy texture and wasn’t easy to manage.

He stepped out into the rain. “My sincere apologies for any shortcomings.”

“As a porter, sir, you excel.”

“Reserve your applause until I get you to the door without dropping you. This mud is slime.”

As if on cue his foot slid sideways. Instinctively Petra clutched tighter, then instantly realized her mistake and let go, trying to lean the other way to correct the tilt. That almost tipped them over, and a stupid screech escaped her as she braced to slam down into foul mud.

He staggered two steps in one direction, then another back and stilled, precariously balanced. They looked at one another, and perhaps he, like she, was holding his breath.

But his eyes were bright and then he grinned. “We must dance again sometime,” he said, and moved forward with extreme caution.

Inside Petra, folly sighed,
Oh yes.

He was struggling with the mud, but not with her weight. Of course, carrying ladies would be a required talent for a rake. Doubtless they trained in it. And in kissing. Kissing ladies. Fondling ladies—loose ladies draped in silk. Ladies with rouged cheeks and reddened lips, drenched in perfume of musk and roses…

But the coarse wool of her habit must rasp against his hands, and her smells were all her own and there were too many of them. At least he wasn’t fresh himself beneath the damp wool and tangy leather. Surprisingly, the medley of smells was not unpleasant, and could even be sweeter than memory of Ludo’s expensive perfumes….

What if her venture turned out even better than she dreamed? Might she one day attend a ball in England, and there meet Robin Bonchurch, gentleman, both of them smelling sweetly in silken finery? Dancing, stepping lightly to lovely music, eyes locked, teasing, flirting. He flirted as easily as he breathed.

He wasn’t breathing easily now, as he staggered the final steps, but he grinned triumphantly as he set her down beneath the small porch.

Fresh from her dreams, she gave him a full smile. “Thank you, my hero!”

He stared, and it was as if new lightning sizzled through the air.

A grunt made Petra aware that the door had opened again and the farmer’s wife was staring at them. Petra quickly turned the smile on the woman. “God bless you for your charity, madame.”

The woman wasn’t charmed. “Come in, then.” Her accent was so heavy Petra had difficulty understanding, and she was dirty and missing a number of teeth.

Petra was suddenly reluctant. “I’m sorry you’ll have to sleep in the barn, Robin. Perhaps—”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“You’ll be so uncomfortable.” Petra turned to the woman. “Could my brother—”

“No men.” The woman grabbed Petra’s arm and hauled her inside, slamming the door in Robin Bonchurch’s face.