Runaway Lady

Acting as Mistress Brewster’s servant, he took two rooms at the Coach and Horses. He’d expected to guard her from the other side of her closed door, but she disconcerted him by suggesting they eat supper together in her room. Taking a meal with a woman was an unfamiliar situation for Harry in any circumstances. Doing so when they were alone and within a few feet of a bed filled him with more tension than if he were navigating rocks and undertows to cross a dangerous river. He was amazed she didn’t seem to be conscious of anything unusual. There were times since he’d arrived back in England when he felt almost as disorientated as he had when he’d first gone to the Levant and had to learn a completely new set of social customs.

They sat opposite each other at a small table. Harry’s eyes were drawn constantly to Saskia’s face and her uncovered hair. She had long blonde curls touched with hints of warm colour which reminded him of apricots or the first glow of sunrise. He’d been entranced by those shining curls from the moment she’d first put back her hood in his presence. He’d caught his breath and had to restrain himself from reaching out to see if they were as soft as they looked. He still wanted to touch her hair. If he’d been an invisible spirit in the room, he would have been content to simply sit and watch her. A pretty, shimmering angel in the candlelight. But he wasn’t invisible, and he was determined not to stare at her like a moonstruck idiot. He’d mastered the art of appearing outwardly self-assured many years ago, so he deliberately adopted a relaxed, untroubled air as he ate his supper.

He’d assumed Saskia meant to take him to task for giving orders to the coachman without her permission, but instead she began asking him questions.

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-four.’ For the first time in his life Harry was almost uncomfortable revealing his age. Ever since he’d returned to England, he’d been acutely aware he’d fallen behind his contemporaries in certain crucial aspects of life. On his first day in London he’d been startled and discomfited to see an apprentice more than a decade his junior flirting confidently with the pretty girl behind the counter of a linen draper’s. Judging by the girl’s twinkling response, she’d enjoyed the apprentice’s attentions. But when Harry asked politely for some handkerchiefs her eyes had widened. He was convinced he’d seen alarm in her expression as she hastened to serve him. He knew very well that women had good reason to be afraid of some men. Sometimes, though less frequently than in the past, he still had nightmares about the damage a violent man could do to a woman. He’d had no idea how to assure the draper’s girl that, despite his sun-darkened skin and the sword by his side, he wasn’t a threat to her safety, so he’d thanked her gruffly and hurried away.

Richard’s wife had been nervous in his presence too. Harry knew there were several possible reasons for that, including the natural anxiety any woman might have to make a good impression on her husband’s older brother—especially when that brother was also the head of her husband’s family. Besides, after so many years apart, Harry and Richard had not yet regained the easy friendship of their youth and it was understandable that Mary would take her cues from her husband. But Mary had led a very sheltered life both before and after her marriage, and Harry had not been able to lose the conviction that she found being in his presence as foreign and unnerving as he found being in hers. Despite his best efforts, they had never managed more than the most stilted conversations. Harry had been acutely aware of Richard’s growing bewilderment and unhappiness at their lack of ease with each other. Just before Harry had left Bedfordshire, Richard had even burst out, “I am afraid you don’t like my wife.”

The accusation had dumbfounded Harry and left him uncertain how to respond. He had no idea how to compliment any man on his choice of wife, much less his brother. He’d assured Richard that he liked his wife very well, but it had been an awkward parting for the brothers.

With his recent experiences with his sister-in-law fresh in his mind, Harry was very relieved that he didn’t seem to make his new employer anxious. In fact, she was focusing a distinctly inquisitorial gaze on him.

‘Tell me some of the things you’ve done in the past,’ she demanded. ‘Why don’t you carry an English sword?’

‘Because I learned most of what I know from a Janissary.’

She looked surprised. ‘Did you spend a long time in the Levant?’

‘Since I was nineteen.’

‘When did you come back to England?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘Did you not come back at all in the meantime?’ she exclaimed.

‘No.’ The brothers had gone to the Levant together, but the Turkish climate had not suited Richard’s constitution. After Harry had nursed his younger brother through three dangerous fevers within a year of their arrival in the Ottoman Empire he’d insisted Richard return to London. Harry himself had stayed to build his fortune, but he’d missed his brother very badly during the first year of their separation. Later, when Harry had accumulated enough wealth and trading contacts to return home, the situation in England—and his future—had irrevocably changed. He’d wanted to see Richard, but he’d had no desire to confront the man whose title and estates he would one day inherit. He’d assuaged his restlessness by moving more frequently within the Ottoman Empire than most European merchants. He’d gone from his original home in Aleppo to Istanbul and ended in Smyrna before finally returning to London.

‘Why didn’t you come back before?’ Saskia’s gaze was fixed on his face.

‘I was content where I was.’

‘Then why did you come back now? Did you stop being content?’

That was too close to the truth for comfort. Harry returned fire with fire. ‘What’s your urgent business in Portsmouth?’

‘None of your—’ She broke off and sat back. ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’

‘We will? Let’s discuss it now.’

‘No. We will discuss it tomorrow if you perform your duties successfully in the meantime,’ she said firmly. ‘I have known several men who returned from the Levant. They were factors. Were you a factor?’

‘Do I look like a factor?’ She’d guessed correctly and he was curious to hear her response.

‘I imagine you might,’ she said, surprising him. ‘I was told European merchants often adopt Turkish dress in the streets to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Did you wear a turban? Is that why your hair is shorter than fashionable?’

‘Franks,’ Harry corrected her. ‘To the people of the Ottoman Empire, all Europeans are Franks. Tell me the names of your acquaintances. No doubt I know them.’ The English, Dutch, Venetians and other Europeans all had their own quarters within each trading city, but Harry had always kept himself well informed about his fellow—and rival—factors.

‘I don’t recall at this moment.’ She evaded his question with barely a flicker of hesitation. ‘You didn’t tell me whether you wore a turban.’

‘Often.’ Harry had no idea why she was interested. ‘In Smyrna it was usual for Franks to wear European hats, but by the time I moved there I was used to the turban. I’m damned if I’ll ever wear a wig.’

Saskia smiled at his forthright statement, but her gaze didn’t waver as she continued her interrogation. ‘Did you return to England because you’d made your fortune—or because you’d ruined yourself and your principal?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ Harry grinned, enjoying their verbal battle. ‘Bad bargains, bad luck, misreading the markets—every ship brought another letter from my principal reprimanding me for my poor decisions…’

Saskia gave a soft laugh. ‘Yet he still continued to make use of your services. Either he is an indifferent businessman or your decisions were not as poor as you claim.’

It was the first time Harry had ever heard her laugh. When he saw the amusement sparkling in her eyes, he realised just how strained she was usually. For a few heartbeats, lost in her reminiscent amusement, she was completely relaxed, almost carefree—and utterly captivating.

Harry forgot his mission. Forgot why he’d insisted they spend the night at Kingston. Forgot everything except the pleasure of watching Saskia’s transitory happiness. Unfortunately, his body wasn’t content with just looking. From the moment Saskia had lowered her mask he’d felt the stirring of desire. For a while he’d managed to suppress his awareness of how she affected him, but now his physical reaction to her intensified until it was almost painful. His body was making demands he could neither ignore nor satisfy.

Frustration with himself and the situation eroded his temper. Saskia, blithely oblivious of his edgy, unsettled state, was the cause of his difficulties—and she became the focus of his irritation.

‘How will you explain this to your lord?’ he demanded.

‘Explain what?’ Saskia looked up at him, a half-smile still lingering on her lips, confusion in her eyes.

Harry stared at her. Either she was a very good actress or she didn’t seem to find anything odd about being alone in the bedchamber with him. ‘If you don’t know, I must have been away from England longer than I realised,’ he said.

‘I hoped we won’t have to leave England.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘It would be better to finish it here.’

‘Finish what?’ Harry’s hunting instincts went on full alert at her unwary comment.

He saw her snatch a quick little breath, and the expression in her eyes suddenly became guarded, but she replied calmly, ‘Getting safely to my lord, of course.’

Her besotted, devoted lord, she’d called him earlier. Harry gritted his teeth and buttered a piece of bread to give himself time to overcome an unwelcome surge of jealousy towards a man whose existence he still doubted. He had no intention of becoming as besotted as her probably mythical lover.

‘Will we need to leave England to do that?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s in Plym—Portsmouth.’

Plymouth! She’d nearly said Plymouth! Portsmouth was in Hampshire, but Plymouth was in Devon, on the other side of the River Tamar from Cornwall. Saskia van Buren had come to London from Cornwall. If that was their true destination, it seemed more likely than ever that she was indeed Saskia. Even though Harry was exerting all his self-discipline to control the fiercely conflicting instincts and emotions raging within him, he felt a burst of satisfaction at unravelling her lies a little more.

‘If your lord is in Portsmouth, why may we have to leave England?’ he said, as if he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue.

She frowned. ‘Please don’t ask any more questions. We are going to Portsmouth, and it is your job to protect me.’

‘And once we reach Portsmouth, your lord—the one who is opposed to marriage—will take over the task of protecting you?’ Despite himself, Harry couldn’t hide the scepticism in his voice.

Saskia glared at him. ‘You insult me when you speak of him so disparagingly,’ she said.

Harry felt a stab of guilt at her charge. She’d been lying to him from the first, she might well be plotting against England and she seemed to be completely oblivious that she was directly responsible for his having the most painfully pleasurable, disturbing and frustrating meal of his life. Those learned men who claimed the mere sight of a woman’s uncovered hair could rouse a man to undisciplined lust obviously knew what they were talking about. He really shouldn’t care whether he offended her—but he did.

‘I did not insult you,’ he said brusquely. ‘From what you said earlier, it sounds as if you think you may need to leave England. Is that true?’

She hesitated. For several long moments they stared at each other across the width of the table. Harry was unwillingly fascinated by the swiftly changing emotions in her expression. She was trying to decide if she could trust him. The silence lengthened and the tension between them increased until he could almost hear it snapping in the air.

She looked away abruptly and drew in a quick breath. ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘But if we need to leave you would not have to come with us—though you will be well rewarded if you do.’

‘We,’ she’d said. A deep instinct told Harry she’d spoken the truth. She really was on her way to join someone else. Had the widow taken a lover within months of her husband’s death? A core of ice formed within him at the possibility.

‘You would pay me to protect your lover as well as you?’ he said, his voice hardening.

‘You are a presumptuous, impertinent fellow!’ Saskia’s temper erupted without warning. ‘Eat your supper and mind your manners. We will leave at dawn.’

Her angry reaction—almost as if she’d been trying to hide her avoidance of the question by a burst of irritation—rekindled Harry’s doubts about the existence of a lover. And his disgust with himself for caring.

‘You are aware that in June it is light by four o’clock?’ he said.

‘Of course.’ The lady rubbed her elbow, almost as if she’d banged it against something, though Harry hadn’t noticed her doing any such thing. ‘At least I can sleep in a bed tonight,’ she muttered.

Harry’s eyes widened. If she hadn’t been sleeping in a bed, where had she been sleeping? And what had she been doing in her unorthodox resting place to hurt her arm?

Saskia wasn’t consciously aware she was rubbing her elbow, she was thinking about her journey to London from Cornwall. It had been a long and hazardous journey for an unaccompanied woman, even with the protection of the male clothing she’d worn. The summer weather had made it possible for her to sleep on the ground several nights rather than risk staying alone at an inn, but she hadn’t felt either comfortable or safe. The last night had been the worst. She’d been so tired she’d fallen heavily asleep in a small copse of trees, only to be woken by what, in her overtaxed state, had seemed to be the appalling cacophony of the dawn chorus. After her first moment of panic and confusion she’d felt as if every bird in England had taken roost above her head and was now bugling its lungs out within a few feet of her. As she’d flailed about, struggling to sit up, she’d cracked her elbow against a tree.

She was glad that tonight she could sleep safely in a proper bed—but she didn’t realise she’d spoken aloud until she saw Harry’s startled gaze flicker from her to the bed and back again.

Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to the significance of their surroundings. She almost groaned as she suddenly understood what Harry had meant about the need to make awkward explanations to her lord. How could she have been so stupidly unaware of something so obvious? Especially when she was pretending to be the mistress of a devoted lover. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at revealing herself to be so unworldly.

She knew why she hadn’t considered the implications of being alone with a man in a bedchamber. For more than four years of her marriage she had taught herself to think of her bed as a place only for sleep. Pieter had regained far more strength after the accident than any of them had initially expected. He’d even designed his own wheeled-chair that he could manoeuvre on flat surfaces—but making love was one aspect of their married life they’d never recovered. Saskia had learned not to torment herself with thoughts of what they’d lost. It was shocking—disorientating—to realise that her potential future in this regard had changed. She was a widow, not the wife of an intelligent, but physically incapacitated husband.

She stared at Harry. She’d known from her first glance at him that he was a virile, energetic man, but somehow she had distanced herself from that knowledge, seeing in his strength only a means to protect her and save Benjamin. Now she looked at him again—with the eyes of a woman whose vows of fidelity had died with her husband.

She saw the play of candlelight on the lean sinews of his forearms as he laid his knife down and picked up the tankard of ale. Simple, mundane actions—but suddenly she was very aware that she was looking at a man’s strong hands. A man whose whole body was just as strong and deft. His self-assurance, lean, handsome features and piercing gaze commanded attention, but she’d rarely met a man with less vanity about his masculine appeal. An edge of danger always lurked beneath his apparently nonchalant exterior. But though he must know that element of his character was attractive to women, she’d never seen him take advantage of it the way another might. He was intelligent, slightly exotic, physically compelling—and without doubt the most dangerously attractive man Saskia had ever met.

Her thoughts and emotions scrambled. In that moment, as long-suppressed parts of herself flexed back into uncertain life, it was as if Pieter died again—because another man was stirring her feminine interest. As she gazed at Harry, tears filled her eyes.

He froze, his expression suddenly as blank as the mask she’d hidden behind at the coffee-house. He stood abruptly. ‘We’ll leave at dawn,’ he said harshly.

‘Wh-what? Where are you going?’ Saskia managed to find her voice just as he reached the door. ‘You haven’t finished your supper.’

‘You hired me to protect you—not to sit watching me eat like a lamb supping with a lion.’

Saskia gaped at his retreating back. It took her a few moments to grasp his meaning. ‘I am not a lamb!’ she exclaimed indignantly. But it was too late. The door had already closed behind him.

She’d had tears in her eyes! She must have realised he was lusting after her like a rutting stag and the knowledge had frightened her. Harry slammed his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. He would have to control his unruly passions better in future. If she was a spy she must be prevented from causing harm to England. But even a spy should not be subjected to fear of abuse at a man’s hands. Never at his hands. More than two decades ago, filled with disgust and powerless fury, he had made that promise to himself. He would never physically mistreat a woman. But now he was back in England he must take care not to distress them in other ways.

Richard wouldn’t have made such a gauche error. He’d always been at ease in the company of others. Though Richard didn’t possess Harry’s physical toughness, he had a shrewd grasp of business that had helped him advance his career, tempered by a charm of manner that had won him many friends. Harry was confident his younger brother had never made a woman cry, even by mistake.

Harry forced his clenched fists to relax, reminding himself that Saskia had repeatedly lied to him. He must not lose sight of the fact that even if she wasn’t a Dutch agent, she was undoubtedly hatching some as yet undisclosed plan.

He didn’t like leaving her alone at the inn, but they’d left London so precipitously he had little choice if he wanted to get a message to Lord Swiftbourne. It was Harry’s good luck that the regular route from London to Portsmouth went through Kingston. Swiftbourne’s grandson and heir had married a lady who owned a house in Kingston. Harry had never met Jakob Balston, but he hoped Balston would be at home and that he’d either be able to take or send a message to Swiftbourne. He stopped to ask for directions. A few minutes later he arrived at the house and was relieved to discover his luck had held.

‘Harry Ward!’ Balston greeted him. ‘Your brother is a friend of mine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘And I you.’ Harry shook hands. He’d been aware of Balston’s existence for years, but knew Swiftbourne’s grandson had only arrived in England from Sweden the previous summer. Balston was a couple of inches taller than Harry’s six feet, broad and solidly muscled, with pale blond hair. Harry immediately thought of Saskia’s hair. He preferred the warm, reddish glow of Saskia’s blonde curls. His fingers still ached to touch them, whereas he felt no urge to touch Balston’s hair.

‘I apologise for calling so late,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to meet you at any time,’ Balston replied. ‘I’ve just returned from Sussex. My wife is still there, admiring the Kilverdales’ new daughter, but I had business to attend to here.’

‘The Duke is another of Swiftbourne’s grandsons,’ Harry remembered. He’d not met any of Swiftbourne’s family while he was under the Earl’s guardianship, partly because of the divisions caused by the Civil War, but mostly because he and Richard had left for Aleppo within weeks of becoming Swiftbourne’s wards.

Jakob smiled. ‘Since your father’s sister was married to Swiftbourne’s oldest son, you can claim cousinship with us,’ he said.

‘A very distant connection,’ said Harry.

‘But a connection nevertheless. So sit down and tell me how I may serve you.’

Harry briefly summarised his meeting with Swiftbourne and then the outcome of his interview with Saskia at the coffee-house. ‘She insisted on leaving London immediately, so I had no opportunity to take or send a message to Swiftbourne,’ he concluded.

‘Is she a spy?’

‘No.’ Harry paused to consider his immediate, instinctive denial. ‘I don’t believe she has told me the truth,’ he said, oddly reluctant to discuss Saskia with Balston. ‘But I have no doubt her fear is genuine.’

‘You have no idea what the lady is afraid of?’

‘No, but I will find out.’ Harry stood up, anxious to return to the Coach and Horses and Saskia. ‘I will be in your debt if you ensure Swiftbourne knows what has happened so far.’

‘I’ll go into London tomorrow. To be honest I’m glad of the errand.’ Balston smiled a little wryly. ‘I find I miss my wife when we are apart. Visiting Swiftbourne will fill the time until my own business is concluded and I can fetch her back from Sussex.’

Sunday morning, 16 June 1667

‘You are an arrogant, presumptuous fool! How dare you suggest I would let anyone eat me up without a bleat of protest—least of all you.’ Saskia kept her voice down, but she made no effort to hide her indignation.

‘Bleat of protest?’ Harry repeated. They were breakfasting together downstairs at the Coach and Horses. Or rather, Harry was making a good breakfast of cold turkey pie while Saskia nibbled on some bread and butter, most of which she fully intended to save for later. Just because she could get up with the birds didn’t mean she had to eat her first meal of the day with them.

They were the only customers in the room and Saskia glanced around to make sure none of the inn servants were close enough to overhear her. ‘I am not a little lamb,’ she stated unequivocally.

Harry had been munching his turkey pie in what Saskia considered to be a rather grumpy silence. She decided he must dislike getting up early as much as she did. At her announcement he looked up, good humour suddenly—and in Saskia’s view inappropriately—softening his expression.

‘Ah, I see. Are you claiming that you are a lioness disguised in lamb’s clothing?’ he enquired. ‘Or would you prefer a gentler comparison? A doe, perhaps? Graceful and fleet of foot—’

‘I am not any kind of animal,’ said Saskia. ‘In future, do not use such metaphors for me.’ She could foresee that when she finally told him their true destination was three times further than he currently anticipated, his comparisons might be considerably less flattering. ‘We are not living in Aesop’s fables.’

Harry grinned. ‘But how interesting it would be to discuss with a hawk what she sees as she soars in the sky. Or ask a whale what hides in the depth of the ocean.’

Saskia blinked at his unexpectedly poetic response. ‘I had not anticipated such whimsy from you, sir.’

‘Whimsy? If you are walking over barren, rocky ground, isn’t it natural to look up at the hawk and wonder what it would be like to fly so fast to your goal? They use doves to carry messages between Skanderoon and Aleppo. I would rather be a hawk than a dove.’

‘I…’ Saskia stopped. As a child she’d had such thoughts when she went down to the Cornish coast or walked on Dartmoor in neighbouring Devon, but it was a long time since she’d allowed anything but the most practical ambitions into her mind.