A Lady’s Secret (9 page)

P
etra was awoken by a cock’s crow.

Where was she?

What was this hard uncomfortable bed…?

She shot upright.

Who was she sleeping with?

She was in Cock Robin’s chaise. With Cock Robin. The wretched, wretched rake! She quickly felt her clothes, but everything seemed to be in order—except for her cap.

Her alarmed hands ran over her exposed hair.

How dare he!

She was tempted to scratch him again, but then she made herself calm. In fact, this was good. He’d discovered what she’d promised—short hair—so now he should believe her story. And it did seem that he considered a nun inviolable.

Where was her cap?

She felt around the bed and found it disconcertingly clenched in his right hand. She stared at that, disabled by a tangle of emotions. She tugged at it, and after a moment he let it go. She put it on, tucking away hair, tucking away perilous reactions at the same time. He was a rake, but he was also mischievous. He’d probably taken off her cap simply in hope of an angry reaction when there were more important things to think about.

She looked across him, out at the Goulart farmyard. How ordinary it looked in daylight. There really were chickens pecking in the mud, and a cock lording it over them. This wasn’t a farm, however; it was a brothel, and the whores had tried to murder them.

She looked back down at Robin, thinking how close it had been. If he’d eaten the soup, if she’d faced the women alone…

He was sleeping on his back, one arm curled over his head, a tapestry covering him from the waist down. Above he wore only his loose shirt. The top two buttons of his placket were open, exposing his neck and a bit of chest. The morning light was still misty, but in a way that made him even more beautiful, more classical. A sleeping Adonis.

She eyed that inch of chest. Four buttons were still fastened. Tit for tat. Smiling, she stealthily undid one, then the next. He didn’t stir, so soon all six were open and she could widen the cloth to expose more smoothly muscled chest. He was a lot stronger than he looked. When she saw inflamed scratches, however, she winced and her finger hovered, wanting to soothe.

They were justly deserved—the stupid, lust-crazed rake—but she sighed to have damaged perfection.

He was a lust-crazed rake, however. She remembered how he’d reacted to her trying to wake him. But then, he probably had women crawling into his bed all the time, pursuing him for his beauty and charm. Was it his fault if he obliged? What young man could resist such temptation?

Petra drew back her hand sharply. The point of temptation was that it was hard to resist, but good people did, and she absolutely must. In fact, she must leave this sinful nest.

Where were her sandals? She remembered crawling into the coach, but nothing after that. She went on her stomach to peer over the end of the makeshift bed and came eye to eye with a peevish-looking dog. Did dogs get headaches?

“Yip?” Coquette said, rather pitifully.

Petra gathered up the dog, struck again by how small and fragile she was beneath her luxuriant coat.

“There, there, little one, it’s all right now. The bad people are tied up and we’ll soon be away from here. Your master did quite well. Once I’d woken him up and fought him off, that is. He’s a wicked wretch, isn’t he?”

Coquette remained discreetly silent, but she wriggled free to first sniff at Robin, then go to the door. Of course, she needed to go out.

Petra saw her sandals on the floor and how muddy they were. She picked them up, intending to carry them outside. However, Robin was blocking her way to the door she’d used to enter, and the other door was so close to the wall that it would be a tight squeeze.

She reached over and opened the door for Coquette, wondering if the tiny dog could manage the steps. She did. Petra frowned at the man in her way, but couldn’t help noticing the fine line of his jaw and the promise of his parted lips. If she were his wife, waking beside him, she could lean down…

She twitched herself straight.

Veil. Where was her veil? She’d felt nothing like this since putting on a nun’s habit, and the last time she had felt like this, it had led to disaster.

She found the veil over her belt, horribly creased. She flapped it out, folded it, and pinned it on, feeling to be sure it was straight.

“There’s a stray tendril on your forehead.”

Petra froze, then glared down at his smiling, lazy eyes.

“You! How dare you take off my cap? It’s sacrilege.”

“It is no kind of sacrilege to reveal such beauty, Petra.”

“And to sleep with me. You
slept
with me.”

“It’s the only bed around.”

Petra opened and shut her mouth a few times.

“It’s scandalous.”

“We spent hours together in this carriage yesterday,” he pointed out.

“It was a seat then. It’s a bed now.”

“It’s merely a carriage somewhat overstocked with boxes and packages.”

“It’s a bed. We shared a bed. What if anyone should hear about this?”

“Who, Petronilla
mia
?”

“Anyone. Your men will talk—”

“They won’t talk about anything I don’t want them to talk about.” The calm certainty of that silenced her, but only for a moment.

“What about the whores, then?”

“Don’t be foolish.”

She made a fist and raised it, but instantly he gripped her wrist.

“No more claws.”

She tried to twist free. “I made a fist, if you’ll notice. Let me go.”

“Stop struggling.”

“Let me go!”

“Why?” he asked, grinning in a way that drove her insane in all the wrong ways. And he saw it, knew it. She swung her other fist. He caught it, curling up effortlessly, smiling, focused on her lips—

Someone knocked on the outside of the chaise, freezing them in place.

“Monsieur? Pardon me, I beg of you, monsieur, but what are you doing to the blessed sister?”

It was the postilion, and at some point the cunning rake had closed the door. There could be no doubt about what he’d intended, and now they were caught.

Robin cocked a brow at her, not relaxing his grip an inch.

Petra mouthed curses at him, but called, “I’m safe, sir. We’re preparing to leave the chaise and the space is somewhat limited.”

“You shouldn’t be in there with a man, Sister,” the postilion persisted.

“I’m with my brother, sir. For protection during this dangerous night. Thank you for your concern.”

“Yes, thank you,” Robin said, eyes shining. Clearly he found the whole exchange hilarious. “Go and check the road, my man. If it’s firm enough, we’ll leave soon.”

Silence probably meant the man obeyed.

“He should be helping to watch the women,” she hissed.

“Powick is up to the task, and Fontaine should be awake by now.”

“You…” But the wretched rake was smiling into Petra’s eyes and her shameless body wouldn’t fight. She waited to see what he would do next. Admit it. She waited in hope that he would kiss her again. The smile in his eyes deepened—then he kissed the fisted knuckles of her right hand and let her go. “You’d better go out, or he’ll be back.”

Damn you, damn you, damn you.

“You first,” she said, rubbing her hands as if he’d hurt her.

He lay back down, hands behind his head. “No, no, ladies first. I insist.”

“Mr. Bonchurch, I am
not
going to give you the pleasure of crawling over you.”

“I’d think you’d need to piss soon.”

“Make way or I’ll piss on you.”

Petra wondered if she was going to have to do it, whether she could do it, but then he laughed and curled up in that same effortless way. Her mind marked it. Marked the catlike strength of him. Her strong and agile ally—but her opponent, as well.

He swung to sit on the boxes facing out. “Powick,” he called, “find me some clean stockings and pass up my boots, if you please.”

Petra glared at his back, but despite the loose cut of his shirt, every long line of him was clear. She felt starved.
You are,
she told herself.
When you have some decent food in you, you’ll be yourself again. You’ll remember men are nothing but trouble, especially the young gorgeous ones. Women fall for them so easily, they have no concept of fidelity.

Clean stockings were passed up and then clean boots, but by the valet, not the groom. The slender man looked gray but resolute. “I did my best to remove the mud, sir.”

“Fontaine, you fool, I’m only going to get them muddy again.” Robin’s tone was fond, however, and he added, “Thank you. I’m devilish glad you’re well enough to fuss. How are you?”

“I will survive, sir. If you’ll pass out your coat, I will attempt to restore that, too.”

When Robin twisted to pick up his jacket, Petra saw his wry expression. As he turned back and handed it down she had to appreciate his concern about his servant. His valet seemed to have been badly affected by the drugs, but he’d be better for routine.

She leaned forward to say, “I, too, am glad you’re recovered, sir.” Fontaine only sniffed before walking away.

“I warned you,” Robin said, rolling on a stocking. He had remarkably elegant feet, even dirty. “When in doubt, blame the woman.”

Petra looked away from his foot. “He’s right. This is all my fault.”

“You are an associate of Madame Goulart, after all?”

“Of course not. But if you’d not encountered me, you wouldn’t have left Abbeville.”

“I chose to stop here.”

“The storm gave us no choice.”

He twisted to look at her, blue eyes serious.

“There’s always choice, Petra
mia
. Remember that.”

“I am
not
your Petra, and there is no choice when it comes to sin. Or duty. My duty was to stay with Lady Sodworth.”

“I can’t imagine why. Did she cherish you?”

“No.”

“Did she even pay you?”

“No, but—”

He turned away again. “If you’re intent on a deep examination of your conscience, I’ll leave you to it. But make it fast, because we’re leaving as soon as possible.”

He tugged on a second boot and then jumped down and walked out into the muddy farmyard. In just breeches and rumpled shirt he managed to look lordly. Glaring after him, Petra knew that he’d walk into a royal court dressed in satin and lace in exactly the same graceful, casual way. She desperately wanted to see his confidence exploded, but that could only rebound on her. Their fates were entangled for now.

She spotted his crumpled waistcoat among the tapestry cover and pulled it free to straighten it. When she realized she was stroking it, she put it aside and dropped her sandals out of the chaise. Then she climbed down the steps barefoot. Her feet were dirty, anyway. She inspected the sandals and used the skirt of her habit to clean off as much mud as possible. All in all, she was in a disgusting state. When would she have an opportunity to bathe and change?

She checked on the women, but they were still secure, huddled under quilts, apparently asleep. What were they going to do with them?

She squeezed behind the coach to relieve herself, struggling to protect her skirt. She could do nothing about the sounds and felt as if she’d sunk to new depths.
And all due to your folly and impetuousness, Petra. When will you learn?

When she was neat again she walked back into the open, realizing that it was a surprisingly lovely morning. Surprising, she supposed, because after the night it seemed this place should never be bright.

The sky beyond the walls glowed pink and pearl, and the wall itself was softened by tufts of wildflowers. There was even a small kitchen garden. She saw a sage bush and grimaced. She thought she also saw henbane and hemlock.

The chickens were small but busy. There were probably eggs somewhere, but she’d eat nothing else here.

The cock stalked majestically despite his size, beady eye on the invaders. Coquette went over, curious and friendly. He threw back his head and crowed a challenge.

Petra snatched up the dog. “There are altogether too many cocks in this barnyard, and some are dangerous.”

Where was Cock Robin? She saw him helping his groom to open the sagging gates. “Are we leaving already?” she called.

“Not quite. There’s a small field out here, so we’ll let the horses graze.”

True enough. Beyond the lane, a small, fenced field held a few goats. Everything else nearby seemed to be under crops. There had to be other farms nearby, then, because the Goulart women wouldn’t be responsible for those.

She looked back at the bound, huddled women. What if the cunning Mère Goulart claimed that Robin and his men had attacked her? Even if the people around here knew her business—and who but local men would be her customers?—they might believe her. When traveling with Lady Sodworth, she’d learned that the French regarded the English as old enemies and vile heretics. Then, her presence as a nun had helped, but here in such scandalous company it might only make things worse. Would the story they’d concocted earlier satisfy a magistrate?

At best, they could end up stuck in this area for hours or even days, snarled in legal complications. At worst, they could be thrown into prison. Either way, she’d be trapped if Varzi truly was in pursuit. She shivered, but it really was in part because of the damp morning air. She put the dog down and went looking for her cloak. She found it, but it was damp and thick with mud around the hem. She spread it over a wheel to dry and wrapped her arms around herself.

“May I warm you?”

She turned sharply, but found Robin was merely offering a golden brown velvet jacket braided in black and gold. It was always dangerous to accept gifts, but Petra didn’t resist when he helped her into it, the silk lining sliding over the coarse cloth of her habit. It held his smell, both him and a trace of court perfume. She could picture him in this fine garment and matching breeches, embroidered waistcoat, and red-heeled shoes, strolling into a court like Versailles, jewels on fingers, delicate lace at his throat.

She looked at him to cover illusion with reality, but it remained vivid, and her movement brushed the silky edge of the collar against her cheek.