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“I meant, ma belle, were you willing to share your sweet company with whoever might have lived here before?”
“You mean ghosts?” She stared at him, searching his face to decide if he was teasing or trying to frighten her, and couldn’t decide either way. She’d never met a man whose thoughts were harder to read. “You’re asking if I’m afraid of ghosts?”
He shrugged, all the answer he’d give. He’d said too much already. But the ruined house still made him uneasy, the way any place destroyed by fire always did.
How many times had Maman taken him to see the empty shell of his father’s house, the tall chimneys and pillars now snaked with vines, the charred walls crumbling and the windows blind as unseeing eyes? She had meant the visits to inspire him, to show him how grandly his father—and she, too, briefly—had lived. Twenty years, and still she could recite the contents of every room like a litany, the paintings and silver and gilded furniture with satin coverings. She said his father had been a grand gentilhomme, a Parisian by birth, a man of the world with the fortune to support his elegant tastes. Even the ruin of his house showed that.
But what Michel remembered most were the unearthly shrieks of the birds and monkeys within the empty walls, echoing like so many restless spirits, and the way Maman had wept so bitterly at what she’d lost.
“Well, if you hope to scare me away with tales of ghosts and goblins, you’re wrong,” declared Jerusa soundly. She felt she’d won a great concession from him when he’d decided to come here, and she wasn’t about to give it up simply because he wanted to frighten her. To prove her point she walked around him, pulling the mare behind her as she marched up toward the ruin. “You’ve no good reason to believe that anyone died here, let alone that the house is haunted. Besides, what ghost would dare show his face on a morning like this?”
What ghosts, indeed, wondered Michel, painfully aware of the irony of what she said. But how much could she truly know? Had Gabriel Sparhawk bragged to her and the rest of the family of how he’d burned his father’s great house to the ground?
“Here’s the well, just as I said, and there’s even a bucket, too,” announced Jerusa as she looped the horse’s reins around the well’s post. “Though the house may be abandoned, I’ll wager we’re not the only travelers who’ve stopped here.”
She shoved the cover back from the well, dropped the bucket inside and listened until she heard it hit the water with a distant, muffled splash. Next, to Michel’s surprise, she threw her weight against the long sweep, as expertly as any farm wife, until she’d slowly raised the dripping bucket to the surface. With both hands she caught it and set it on the ground for the thirsty mare.
Satisfied, she wiped her palms on the back of her skirt as she watched the mare drink before she glanced back at the Frenchman. “You didn’t think I could do that, did you?” she said smugly.
“I didn’t think you wished to, no,” he said gruffly.
“No, you didn’t think I could, even if I’d wished to.” She lifted her chin, her face lit with a triumphant grin and her hands on her hips. “You think I’m too much a lady to do such a thing. But I’m not nearly as helpless as you want to believe, and you’ll see, I’ll find the old kitchen garden, too. Whatever’s left growing there is bound to be an improvement over your infernal old cheese and stale bread.”
Before he could answer, she had disappeared around the side of the house, and he could hear her feet crashing through the brush as she began to run.
“Damned foolish woman,” muttered Michel as he swiftly tied his own horse and hurried after her. Here he’d been dawdling with his thoughts in the past, and all the while she’d been planning to skip away from him again. Not that she’d get far. He’d seen how her legs had nearly buckled under her when she’d first climbed from the horse.
But on the other side of the house he found no trace of her beyond the ragged path she’d cut through the weeds, and when he pushed open the gate to the garden, the rusty hinges groaned in protest. An ancient scarecrow, the straw stuffing gone from its head and its clothes in tatters, beckoned limply to him. In the damp morning air, the charred timbers still smelled of smoke, and once again he fought back his own uneasiness. Why the devil had he agreed to come here, anyway?
“Michel!” Her voice was faint in the distance, edged with excitement, or was it fear? “Oh, Michel, come quickly!”
Morbleu, what had she stumbled into now? As he ran along the path she’d taken, his fears raced faster, first to coarse, leering countrymen like the Faulks, then to rootless sailors without ships, thieving peddlers, vagabonds and rogues, all eager to do her harm, to hurt her, to steal some of her loveliness with their filthy hands. Was this, then, how he kept her safe?
And, for the first time, she’d actually used his Christian name….
“Michel, here!”
He’d never heard that note in her voice before. With a pistol primed and cocked in each hand, he ducked instinctively behind the shelter of a twisted elm tree. Carefully he inched around it, knowing that surprise would be his best weapon.
But mon Dieu, he hadn’t counted on being the one who was surprised, and certainly not like this.
There were no lewd farmers with muskets, no rummy sailors, no tinkers or vagabonds. Instead there was only Jerusa, washed in the rosy light of the rising sun, kneeling in the mud with her skirts looped up over her petticoats and picking wild strawberries as fast as she could. Her cheeks were flushed and her braid had come unraveled to spill little dark ringlets around her face, and her expression was a mixture of concentration and delight.
“Jerusa, ma chère,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Just what the hell are you doing?”
Jerusa sat back on her heels and grinned mischievously, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. She wasn’t quite sure why she suddenly felt so giddy in the face of his drawn pistols; was it the irresistible joy of an early morning in June, or the strawberries, or simply that she hadn’t slept more than four hours at a time since they’d left Newport?
“I’m picking strawberries,” she announced, “as you can see perfectly well with the eyes the good Lord gave you. And what, pray, are you doing with those guns?”
From ill humor alone Michel briefly considered firing them over her head, but instead merely uncocked them and shoved them back into his belt.
Her grin widened, and she tossed a berry high into the air, meaning to catch it in her mouth the way Josh did. But because she kept her eyes on Michel, not on the berry, her catch became more of a grab, and instead of landing the berry neatly in her open mouth, she managed to crush it with her fingers against her lips. She gulped and giggled as the red juice dripped from her mouth and between her white fingers.
“They’re very good, and vastly better than your moldy old cheese,” she managed to say, still laughing. “Very sweet.”
He was willing to wager his soul no berry could be as sweet as her lips would be to kiss. Her skirts gathered up to hold the berries in her lap gave him a tantalizing glimpse of her legs, clear to her garters, and even in mud-splattered white thread stockings, her calves and ankles were shapely enough to make him want to ease her skirts higher, above the smooth skin of her bare thighs until he might—
Morbleu, had she any idea of what she was doing to him? If he’d any sense at all he’d take her by the arm and drag her back to the house and the horses and they’d ride until they reached Seabrook. Until he’d be too exhausted to even consider what his body was now begging him to do.
Hell, they’d be shoveling dirt onto his coffin and he’d still want her.
“Now it’s your turn to catch, Mr. Géricault,” ordered Jerusa, “and pray you do better than I.”
She wasn’t surprised that the Frenchman caught the berry in his hand, not his mouth, for she couldn’t imagine him willingly doing anything that might make him look foolish. He never would. Men as dangerous as this one didn’t take risks like that. He didn’t even laugh. For that matter, she hadn’t laughed with him, either, at least not until just now. Why should she, considering what he’d done—no, what he was still doing—to her life.
But sitting here in a strawberry patch with the warm sunshine to ease her fears, Michel Géricault suddenly seemed less of a monster and more of a man. Only a man, she thought with new determination, and she’d yet to meet a man she couldn’t dazzle if she set her mind to it. Could he really be any different? Perhaps if she could beguile him into trusting her, he’d let down his guard long enough for her to escape.
She tossed another berry to him, and again he caught it, but this time as he bit into the fruit he smiled, a lazy, knowing smile, white teeth against his dark new beard, a smile that was more disconcerting than all his threats and guns combined. He would never be as handsome as Tom, but when he smiled, his face lost much of its hard edge and his eyes warmed, the blue reminding her more of a summer sky than winter.
With sudden shyness she ducked her chin, but still watched him from beneath the shadow of her lashes. He was the one who was supposed to be dazzled, not her. But for him to smile like that, maybe even he had felt the magic of this June morning.
“You know, Mr. Géricault,” she began, “I could keep casting berries at you one by one all day. It’s rather like feeding a goose.”
As if to demonstrate, she tossed one more berry to him and clapped her hands when he caught this one, too. Yet she noticed how his eyes narrowed a fraction with a predator’s watchful interest, and she realized how much he mistrusted even her playfulness.
Only a man, she reminded herself fiercely. He was only a man….
She forced herself to smile as brilliantly as she could. “But I do think, Mr. Géricault, we’d both find it a good deal more agreeable if I give you half of what I’ve picked all in a lot. Then we could sit on the wall and eat them in a halfway civilized manner at the very least.”
What, he wondered cynically, was sprinkled on those berries to make her change her tune so abruptly? Oh, he liked it—he liked it just fine—but she was woefully mistaken if she thought he’d turn her loose for a few smiles and fluttered lashes. She might have been the reigning belle of her provincial little Yankee town, but beside the Frenchwomen he’d known, who’d raised flirtation to an art, she was only one more green, country virgin.
He held out his hand to her and helped her to her feet, enjoying her surprise at his gallantry. Her hand was so small in his, fine boned and fragile, exactly the kind of well-bred hand she would have, and he held it a fraction longer than he should, just long enough to disconcert her into tugging it away.
“As you wish, Miss Sparhawk,” he said, trying not to stare at the way the berries had stained her mouth such a vivid, seductive red. “Not that a stone wall will be much warmer than the ground.”
“Fine words, those, after you’ve made me sleep on the ground!” She perched on the wall, carefully keeping her skirt bunched to hold the berries.
“There was musty straw one night, too, as I recall.” He sat beside her, close enough that her skirts ruffled against his thigh, and close enough, too, that her eyes widened uneasily. But she didn’t move away, and to his amusement he wondered which one of them had won that particular point. “Yet I’ll agree, ma belle, that the accommodations haven’t exactly been fit for a lady.”
Only a man, thought Jerusa as she struggled to keep her composure. Only a man, even if he insists in practically sitting in my lap!
Swiftly she reached up to pluck his hat from his head and began to scoop his share of the strawberries into the crown. “Then I suppose I must be thankful it’s summer, not December or January, else my bed would be a snowbank.”
“Ah, but consider, ma belle, that June in New England must be equal to December in most other places.” He took his hat from her with a slight nod of thanks, as if he’d always used it as a serving bowl. That one, he thought wryly, he’d concede to her. “In Martinique a day like this would make the ladies run for their shawls and huddle next to a fire.”
Her green eyes lit with genuine interest. “Is that where your home is? Martinique?”
“It has been,” he said, purposefully noncommittal and already regretting that he’d volunteered as much as he had. “I’ve traveled many places, ma chérie, and seen many things.”
“Men can do that, can’t they?” Slowly she began to pull the leaves of the hull from the berry in her hands. Unlike every other man she’d known, this one didn’t talk incessantly about himself. Could he really have that much to hide? “And have you a wife to keep your home in Martinique, Mr. Géricault?”
The idea alone struck Michel as so ridiculous that he didn’t bother denying it. “You’re an inquisitive little soul, Jerusa Sparhawk.”
“Well, and why not? You already know everything there is to know about me.”
“Ah, but that’s much of my trade, ma chérie,” he said lightly. He could tell her that much, for she’d never understand. “Soldier-man, sailor-man, beggar-man, thief—I’ve tried them all, and more besides. Now I trade in secrets. For kings or governors, rich men or merely desperate ones.”
“You’re a mercenary?”
“I do the things that others haven’t the courage to do. For a price, of course.”
Again he flashed that lazy smile that made her wonder if he’d invented it all to tease her. It could be true; she’d certainly heard worse nonsense from men, and at least he didn’t seem to be bragging.
She turned the hulled berry over and over in her fingers, her interest in eating it gone. “What,” she asked softly, “was the price for kidnapping me?”
“My price?” he repeated, thinking of his mother’s pale, tortured face against the rumpled linens of her bed. “My price for taking you, ma chère, was beyond all the gold in your precious Newport.”
For a moment, just for a moment, she had truly thought he would tell her why, and disappointment turned her voice bitter. “All the gold in Newport won’t restore my good name, either, not after I’ve spent so much time alone with you.”
Strange how closely she echoed his mother’s wish, to ruin Jerusa Sparhawk’s honor as her father had done to Maman, rob her of the same hopes and dreams. All that remained was to bring the girl to Martinique for his mother to see her shame for herself.
It had all come to pass so easily; too easily, really, for him to feel any sort of satisfaction. That, he supposed, would come when he met with her father and brothers. What more could he want from her?
“So what will Carberry say, ma fille,” he said slowly, watching her reaction even as he wondered at his own, “when he learns of how we traveled together, ate together, slept together?”
Jerusa’s face grew hot with humiliation at how much he was suggesting. “We—I’ve allowed you no liberties.”
“I haven’t taken any, either, ma belle, no matter how many opportunities you’ve offered to me.”
Automatically she opened her mouth to protest, then stopped, speechless, and he knew from her eyes the exact, horrified instant she remembered how he’d first drugged her into unconsciousness, how he’d cut her clothing away, how she’d wept away her sorrow in his embrace. Any more opportunities like that and he’d qualify for sainthood.
“Your Tom would find you in exactly the same honorable state as he left you last. He would, at least, if he decides to welcome you back.”
“Of course he will, once I talk to him.” Jerusa’s chin rose bravely. “Besides, Father will make him marry me.”
“How wonderfully romantic.” And how much like the Sparhawks, he thought cynically.
“But I love Tom!” she cried in anguish. “Nothing you can say or do can change that! I love him!”
Despite her brave words, Michel saw the hopelessness in the tears that made her eyes too bright. She had loved Carberry and now she’d lost him, but with the pride of her breaking heart she wouldn’t let him go.
“I never said you didn’t, chérie.” Gently he reached out to brush her cheek with the back of his hand, and he felt her quiver beneath his touch. “But do you love this selfish man enough not to care if he doesn’t love you in return? Enough that you’ll be content as another of his ornaments, one more pretty toy among his snuffboxes?”
His face was too close to hers, each word a feather-light breath against her skin. Other men in her past had sat beside her and she’d thought nothing of it. Other men had dared to touch her cheek, and she’d laughed and struck their hands away. But with Michel she was trembling, her heart pounding in her breast. The blue of his eyes was like a pool that drew her in deeper and deeper until she knew she was foundering, far over her head.
He turned his hand to cradle her face against his palm, his fingers carrying the masculine leather scent of his gloves and the horse’s reins.
“Tell me, ma chérie,” he whispered, his voice as soft as black velvet. “Do you love him enough that you’d settle for ashes when you could reach for the fire?”
And then his lips found hers, the way she’d at once desired and feared they would, and without further thought, her eyes fluttered shut. He kissed her lightly at first, his mouth barely grazing against hers as he let her grow accustomed to him. Gradually he increased the pressure and the pleasure with it, and she thought again of the bottomless pool, deep enough to swallow her up forever. And God help her, she didn’t care. His lips were warm and sure on hers, the sensations heightened by the roughness of his beard on her skin, and, with a tiny gasp of surrender, her own lips parted for him, searching for more.
But instead she found nothing, the warmth and pleasure gone with his kiss. Confused, she opened her eyes. Though his fingers still held her face as gently as if he feared she’d break, his expression was distant, his eyes shuttered against emotion, the same lips that had kissed hers now set in a grim, impassive line.
“You have your answer now, Jerusa, don’t you?” he said, shoving his hair back from his brow before he settled his hat. “Pick more berries if you wish. I’ll be with the horses.”
He turned and left her then, before he saw the bewilderment in her lovely eyes and before he was tempted to kiss her again.
One kiss was enough for them both. She had her answer, and he, God help him, had his.
Chapter Eight
Jerusa was dreaming.
She had to be, for she was ten years old again, and it was winter, and she was waiting on the back step to their house in Newport, hopping up and down to keep warm in the snow while Josh tried to hold the fuse straight on the little red Chinese firecrackers. It was past midnight, long past their bedtime, but because the new year was only minutes old and their parents and the other grown-ups were too busy drinking toasts and firing off empty muskets to notice, she and Josh had crept outside to set off the last of the firecrackers their older brother Jon had brought from London for Christmas.
“You must hold it steady, Josh, or I’ll never be able to light it,” she complained. In the streets others were setting off firecrackers, too, some loud enough to drown out the pealing of the First Day bells.
“You just hush, Rusa,” ordered Josh, “and mind the striker, or we’ll never be able to light it because you never made a blessed spark!”
But even as he spoke, the spark found the fuse, a bright flash along the tallowed cord, and Jerusa shrieked with excitement as Josh tossed the firecracker onto the paving stones. For an endless moment it lay rolling gently back and forth, and then with a mighty, deafening crash and a great burst of light, it exploded. “Wake up, Jerusa!” called Michel.
“Wake up now!”
She pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders and rolled away from him, her eyes still tightly shut. She wanted to stay with Josh and the snow and the firecrackers. There was another flash, and another firecracker exploded even more loudly than the first, and Jerusa smiled sleepily. Josh had sworn he’d only that one left from Christmas, the greedy little—
“Morbleu, woman, can you sleep through anything?” Michel grabbed the blanket from her shoulder and ripped it away. “You claim you’re so blessed good with horses. I could sure as hell use your help now!”
“And I thought you could blessed well do everything yourself,” grumbled Jerusa to herself as she sat upright, for he was already gone. They had decided to sleep in the empty barn, and she brushed at the bits of straw that clung to her skirt. “It can’t possibly be time to leave yet, and I—”
But she broke off abruptly at the brilliant flash of lightning at the open end of the shed, followed by the immediate crack of thunder. Joshua’s firecrackers, she thought, and then she heard the squeal of the frightened horses and the loud thumps and cracks as they panicked in their stalls. Dear Almighty, the horses!
Swiftly she pulled on her shoes and ran to the back of the barn to join Michel. He stood in the stall beside his horse, Buck, to hold him by the halter, stroking the gelding’s shoulder and murmuring in French to calm him. But in the next stall Abigail was skittishly dancing from side to side, tossing her head and trembling with anxiety.
Hurriedly plaiting her own long hair so it wouldn’t startle the horses, Jerusa glanced outside the barn’s open doorway. Though there was no rain yet, the sky was nearly dark as night, the racing clouds a flat gray-green and the wind blowing hard enough to whip the trees like grass. No wonder the horses were terrified.
“Be careful, ma chérie,” warned Michel softly without turning toward her. “That mare’s so on tenterhooks now that she’d strike at her own shadow.”
“Then that will make a pair of us,” she murmured, grateful for his concern. She’d need it. At Crescent Hill the grooms were the ones who stayed with the horses during storms, not her, but she’d overheard enough stories of the damage a frightened horse could do to be wary herself.
Slowly she inched into the stall toward Abigail. “Pretty girl,” she crooned softly. “I know you’re scared, but there’s not a thing out there that can hurt you. It’s just wind and thunder, a whole lot of noise and show that doesn’t amount to anything worth your notice.”
The mare’s ears pricked forward at Jerusa’s familiar voice.
“That’s it, girl,” she coaxed. “You know me, I’m only Rusa, and you know I wouldn’t tell you a word that’s false, would I? Pretty, pretty girl.”
With infinite care she reached for the halter, stroking the horse’s forehead as she hooked her fingers beneath the leather straps. She was surprised to see that Michel had already saddled the horse. Though the storm made it difficult to gauge the time, she wouldn’t have guessed they’d be set to leave so soon.
“There you are, Abigail. Easy as you please, pretty girl. Rusa didn’t tell tales, did she?”
From the gelding’s stall she heard Michel chuckle. “Ah, Buck, my fine fellow, perhaps you know. When will Rusa stop telling tales to me?”
“When will I stop telling tales?” she said, keeping to the same crooning tone she’d been using for the mare’s sake. There was another brief flash of lightning, another fainter rumble of thunder, and though the horse trembled and whinnied uneasily, Jerusa still held firm. Perhaps the storm would miss them, after all. “Easy, pretty girl, easy. I never started telling tales, unlike certain Frenchmen, who can’t begin to tell the truth.”