MOMENT OF DANGER
Genevieve went up to her room, head drifting in a cloud of bliss. She had no idea what had just happened, except that it had happened, and that it was wonderful.
“Adair Hume,” she said aloud, liking the way the words, foreign, sounded in her voice. Just saying his name made her heart skip, she realized. She giggled, sounding more free and light-hearted than she ever had, even as a child.
“Adair Hume. Lord Adair.”
She blushed. She drew the drape over the window, shutting out the blue enchantment of the night sky. Then she reached for her hair, loosening the pins that held some of the curls from her face. She was weary, though the clock said it was only ten.
She summoned her maid, who helped her out of the dress and into her nightgown. She was quiet and Camma seemed to sense her mood, for she was unusually silent and headed out as soon as the task was accomplished, leaving her alone.
The coverlet was warm, and someone had placed a closed pan of coals at the bottom of the bed, to heat it. Genevieve stretched, feeling sweetly relaxed.
“What is the matter with me?”
She giggled, rolling onto her side. She wished she could discuss this with someone. A confidante of some kind would have been a great help. As it was, she could only trust her own counsel on the matter.
I am falling in love with Adair Hume.
She knew it was ridiculous to admit to such a thing. However, was it not more ridiculous to hide from the truth of that? She sighed.
“Papa would be displeased.”
Worse than the thought of anger was the thought of upsetting him. Her father had already known so much sorrow; he so rarely smiled. She couldn't possibly return home with the news that she wished to wed someone – some almost-barbarian fellow – from the Highlands.
He wouldn't agree to it – not unless she pressed him. And, she knew, if she did so, she would never see him again. She would leave France forever and live with Adair in his remote mountain home.
Not that it would be a hardship to be with him, of course, she reasoned. Just that it would be impossible to think of leaving Papa all alone.
Thoughts of her father made her feel restless. She hadn't completed her task yet – there was still the problem of the shadowy figure. She still had no idea who it really was.
It could still be Adair, you know. Fine words don't have to mean anything.
The voice of suspicion spoke in her mind, insidious and unpleasant. She turned over onto her other side, impatient with it. Once the governing voice of her life, she had little time for suspicion nowadays. There was, she was beginning to realize, another way of seeing the world.
“Francine is right.”
She moved further down under the covers, letting the sweet warmth from the coal-pan warm her toes, and feeling herself drift into a haze of sweet sleep.
Her mind visited the moments with Adair in the garden, on the terrace, on the stairwell. She smiled, recalling every expression she could recall, each inflection of his voice, the quality of his touch.
“Genevieve, you are behaving like a lovesick girl.”
She grinned, chiding herself, and knowing it was true. Then again, she had never been a lovesick girl when she was the age to be one. She had always been solemn, sensible, watchful. Taking care of her silent, withdrawn father. She had never felt this wild joy.
Was it not time to feel it, just this once?
The sweet thought lit up her heart and she snuggled under the warm covers, letting her thoughts slowly wander and drift into sleep.
* * *
“Cousin?” Francine's voice broke into her happy reverie next morning. Genevieve blinked, looking up swiftly from her porridge plate.
“Yes?” she asked.
“We were planning to go into the village for more embroidery thread,” Francine said. “Would you like to come with us?”
“I...” Genevieve paused, frowning. Adair hadn't yet come down to breakfast, and she wanted to see him today; to spend time with him. Also, she had decided as she dressed that morning, she needed to spend more time on the task her father had set her. She needed to find, once and for all, the identity of the spy, unmask him, and gather intelligence for the troops.
“We won't press you, Genevieve,” Arabella said gently. “It was just a thought, since you seem to so enjoy your tapestry-work...”
“I do,” Genevieve nodded. “It was a kind thought. But I meant to write to my papa today. And perhaps to ride later,” she ended, thinking quickly of another reason to spend the day at the manor house.
“Of course,” Francine nodded. “Well, Arabella and I will go into town and we'll see if there are any skeins you might fancy. Yellow, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said, distractedly. “I'd like a nice yellow, for the daffodils. And perhaps lilac, do you think?”
“Well, then,” Arabella nodded. “That's settled. We'll see what we can do. Now, as a design for the drawing room, I was thinking perhaps something with a pattern of acanthus leaves...”
As Arabella and Francine discussed subsequent embroidery projects, Genevieve let her eyes drift their focus and found herself thinking once again of the night before.
She was recalling the sweetness of that kiss, her body's wanting, when the floor creaked and she looked up at the door.
Black eyes held hers. Sweet longing ached in every line of the thin-lipped smile below.
Her body caught fire at the mere sight of him. She swallowed hard, aware that the only vacant seat in the room was across from her. She looked at her plate. “Good morning,” she said.
“It is, a lovely morning,” Adair replied.
His voice was low and sweet and she felt as if the words reached out, a touch. She swallowed, reaching for her spoon.
“You're feeling brave,” Richard commented, indicating the bowl of porridge on the table before her.
She grinned. “I suppose I am.” She had chosen to try porridge without really thinking about it. As it was, she caught Adair's approving eye on her and looked into the mass in the bowl.
“It's nice with salt,” he said, passing her the salt-cellar.
She took it and their fingers met, making a rush of feeling flow up from her tummy to her brain. “Thanks.”
She reached for her spoon, sampling the porridge. Thick and rich, the salt and butter complimented a taste that was unlike anything she had sampled before. Oats, rich and delicious, she swallowed, smiling. “This is good.”
Adair gave her a delighted grin. “I'm so pleased you think so,” he said softly.
She flushed. What would it be like, she wondered, if he was in her land, sampling her country's fare? She would surely feel that proud, were he to approve it. “Thanks,” she said.
His eyes on hers were soft and she held his gaze, and then dropped her own, sure everyone must notice the new softness between them.
I don't really mind what they think.
She finished her porridge in silence, aware of the man opposite her, feeling his closeness and his every gesture tingle on her skin, like it was raw.
He pushed back his chair, smiling. “I think,” he said, “I will go riding soon.”
Genevieve knew that, like the remark the previous evening, it was an invitation to join him. She felt her cheeks lift in a smile, even as she looked down demurely. She could feel eyes on her, watching her. She guessed one of the watchers was MacCleary.
“I considered a ride today, too,” she made herself say. It sounded as if she read lines in a play, and she grinned, unable to hide her amusement at her hollow acting.
“I hope you will find time to do so soon,” he pressed.
She grinned again, more broadly. Then she frowned. “I think I have some duties to attend to first,” she supplied. She had to send the letter off before that afternoon, if she wished it to reach the coast in time to be sure of finding passage. Ships were infrequent now, the crossing dangerous in winter. She wanted to be sure one letter, at least, would reach her father before the spring.
“Well, then,” he shrugged, eyes sparkling. “I suppose you could find time to ride after luncheon?”
“I suppose I could,” she agreed, blushing scarlet.
“That's good. It looks like a fine day.”
“I think it will be,” she agreed. She found it hard to conceal the joy in her voice.
Beside her, she felt Francine looking from her to Adair. She knew she was noticing their closeness, and she found she didn't mind. Francine was, of everyone besides her other cousin, least likely to find fault.
The guests slowly drifted from the table, one after the other heading to some business of their own. Arabella stood, glancing to where Adair sat, reluctant to leave.
“I'll go to the stables at ten of the clock,” he announced, talking to Richard, across the table from him. Genevieve knew that the words were all for her. She caught his eye, grinning. He nodded, fractionally.
She walked quickly into the hallway, doing her best to conceal her enormous smile.
Outside, the day was cloudy, but it had not yet rained, she noticed, looking sideways through the long windows as she went briskly up the steps. It was a fine day for a ride.
“I'll go to the stables at ten of the clock,” she promised herself. That would give her just over an hour to write to her father.
She reached her bedchamber, drew out the chair behind the writing desk and sat down, ready to gather her thoughts.
Dear Papa, she wrote. I trust you are well. I hope Du Prise is taking good care of you and that he has cooked your favorite pie at least once. She smiled, the fondness for her father tightening around her heart like a fist. She could see it all so clearly – his office in the top floor of the chateau, the drawing room where they always took meals together, the small parlor where he sat, on cold days, knees covered with a woolen rug, watching the fire.
She picked up her quill again and added more lines. I am in good health, and my cousins care for me most attentively. I have learned many new customs and tried many new things, and keep myself busy with tapestry, reading and riding.
That was all the personal news she would put in the letter, at least for now. She put her head to one side, considering.
I have also learned some other things about the local surroundings, she wrote. There are vast cliffs to the east of the house, affording a good view over the surrounding terrain, including the major paths from north to south. I have ridden part of the way myself, and have reason to believe it will take a morning's ride to reach it.
There. That was all she'd found out thus far about the territory. Now for the other matter. She paused, laying the quill aside, thinking.
I have reason to believe that other eyes than mine are gathering information. There. She couldn't very well write it more clearly than that. Not without making it obvious to anyone who intercepted her letter. I have yet to identify their owner, she thought before continuing. Have a care when considering this place for any uses, for I believe there may be information about it circulating elsewhere.
She read the last line through again, concerned that it was far too obvious in its meaning: Don't use my cousins' home for any strategic operations. Someone is already keeping an eye on it.
She decided she couldn't convey the message anymore obliquely and have it still clearly understood, so she left it as it was. She considered the closing paragraph, wanting to hide the message in a setting of ordinary talk.
I find the air here most invigorating, and can recommend a trip to this land. It is certain to bestow its reviving powers on all its visitors, she wrote. Though the weather is a little desolate, I find it refreshing. I think I have not felt so truly alive in many years.
She frowned, reading the last sentence. What would her father think? It sounded almost unappreciative of her beautiful home in France, she reckoned, and his care for her. She considered crossing it out, though it was profoundly true, making it impossible to deny. She amended it instead.
I think I have not felt so truly alive in many years, save when I am in your much-missed company.
It was not entirely true, though by no means false: she did love her father's company and missed it sorely. She reached for the sand, set in a little box on the desk to scatter over notes, for drying them, and carefully sprinkled a pinch across the ink, blowing it off.
She folded the letter, but didn't seal it yet. She glanced at the clock. It was twenty-five minutes to ten.
“That took longer than I thought,” she mused, surprised. She slid the letter under the sheaf of blank parchments and set aside her pen, deciding that she could always add to it when she came back. She might have more information, gathered on the ride, to add about the lay of the land.
She went to the door and stuck out her head, summoning Camma. She appeared a minute or two later, face flushed.
“Milady!” she said, fanning herself with one hand, as if she'd been running hard and overheated herself. “What can I do for ye?”
“My riding-dress, please,” Genevieve said softly. “And my boots. I'm going out for a ride.”
“Very good, milady.”
By two minutes to ten she was already at the stables. She reached them, walking briskly round the side, worried lest she had come too late.
“Mr. McLain?” she called in through the door. “Are you here? Can you saddle...oh.”
She turned as a step sounded on the cobbles behind her, a soft footfall in a boot that was not a hobnailed workman's shoe.
She found herself looking into the fine-boned, intense face of Adair.
“Good morning, milady,” he said, grinning shyly. “Well-met.”
She curtseyed, heart pounding fiercely in her chest. “Good morning,” she said. “I am pleased to have arrived on time.”
“You were early,” he teased, eyes sparking. She pulled a face.
“It is no crime to be early,” she responded, making herself look away and into the stables, eyes searching for someone to help them saddle up.
“Mayhap – though for the impatient waiter, it can cause its own torments,” he said, grinning.
“Impatient waiter?” she frowned. “McLain? Are you here?” she added, turning to the open door of the stables. “We need to saddle two...”
“I already had them saddled,” Adair grinned.
Genevieve stared at him. He blushed.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, astonished, as McLain appeared around the side of the barn, leading two horses, tacked up, with him.
“Just ten minutes or so,” he said lightly. “Impatiently waiting...”
Genevieve laughed aloud. “You are a dear,” she said, without really thinking.
His face softened and he looked away, throat working. “Thanks,” he said. “So are you.”
McLain, Genevieve noticed, had beaten a hasty retreat into the stables, pretending blissful unawareness. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or be grateful. She felt both. She grinned up at Adair, feeling her heart soar.
So he had come down early to prepare for the ride. He wanted to see her so much that he was waiting impatiently.
Heart singing, Genevieve took the reins of the smaller, more compact of the two horses, and led her to the mounting block. She stepped up into the side-saddle, glad for the hours of riding-practice that made it so effortless a motion.
Beside her, Adair's brows rose with admiration and she flushed. He looked away, leading his own horse to the mounting block and getting into the saddle with, she noticed, a decided flourish.
He's showing off, she realized, grinning. The thought made her throat tight with happiness.
They rode together in silence toward the gates.
“I was thinking,” Adair began as they reached the gate that led from the manor grounds into the woods.
“Yes?” Genevieve said, her heart thudding. He looked earnest and, she realized, it was one of the few times he'd initiated conversation.
“I was thinking that, maybe someday, I should visit France.” He said it casually, but the implications were huge. She stared at him, astonished.
“Visit France.”
“Well, it's a country of much interest,” he said, coloring. He knew that she knew precisely why he was interested, it seemed, for he was clearly very shy.
“Interest?” Genevieve asked. Where there would have been suspicion there was only a slight prickle of it, soon forgotten. “You mean, personal interest?”
“Very personal,” he said. He had gone as red as a berry, and Genevieve found herself trying not to smile, though happiness was shining through her and out of her.
“If you should decide to visit,” she said, picking up the lightness of their earlier words, “then I think provision could be made for you. A coach, say, to fetch you from Calais to Malpons, and I am sure accommodation could be provided...” She trailed off, cheeks glowing pink with amazement.
This was one possibility she hadn't considered! If he visited her, then her father would meet him. He couldn't disapprove her choice! Not if he met Adair. And he was, after all, the son of a baron. She was the daughter of a count, it was true, but the match was not too unequal, not by any means.
I think Father could almost be prevailed upon to give my hand in marriage to a landed squire, if he thought I was truly in love.
She felt her heart soar in bliss. Who she married was not that crucial, after all: her children would be heirs only second to Uncle Thibault, and his sons. There was no reason for her to make an especially grand match.
This could actually, truly, come to pass.
She beamed at Adair, whose eyes held hers, and she saw her joy reflected there. She swallowed hard. They rode along the track, side by side.
“Adair..?” she said after the silence had stretched a long time between them.
“Yes?” he asked. His eyes held hers and it could have been just the two of them in the green woodlands, and the entire world empty besides it.
“I will go back to France in February. As soon as the shipping opens for the spring.”
“Oh.” His face fell and Genevieve winced, not wanting to cause any sort of pain.
“I mention that because it gives you time to plan a passage,” she said. “March would be a fine time to go.”
“Yes,” he said, and hope rekindled in his eyes. She felt it wash over her, deliciously.
“I think I could prevail on my father to have quarters made up for a guest in March,” she said slowly. “It is rare we have many houseguests at the chateau, and those we have will certainly leave in February. I think you would be welcome.”
She saw his face break into a delighted smile, too big to conceal. She felt her heart warm with it.
They rode on in silence, under the trees. At length, they followed a path they hadn't taken before, coming to a stream. They stopped there.
“Shall we dismount?” Adair asked, voice tight. She nodded.
She had been increasingly aware of his physical presence all morning, the warmth of his knee, or his calf, almost touching her. She rode close to him, side-saddle, her legs beside his. She slipped to the ground neatly, and he followed. Instantly, she found herself in his arms.
“Genevieve,” he murmured, as he leaned back and then pressed kisses to her brow, her nose, her cheek. “My dearest Genevieve.”
Her heart was catching fire under his touch, soaring on the bright wings of her love. She wrapped her arms around him and held him to her, and felt him enfold her in his embrace, drawing her closer still. They stood like that, bodies touching, the whole world narrowed down to the feeling of their sweet weight, pressing each other close.
At length he bent down and gently touched his lips to her scalp, breathing in the scent of her hair. She sighed and snuggled closer, arms around his muscled waist.
His hands flowed down her hair, stroking it where it had tumbled loose from its pins, hanging down her back. She sighed and pressed her body close to his, looking up to face him.
They kissed with a scalding urgency. Here in the woodlands, with no risk of anyone coming upon them, it was another sort of beauty. Her body tingled with delicious excitement as she pressed against him, and he kissed her with slow exploration, taking their time.
A bird sang in the branches overhead. A twig cracked. One of their horses stamped a hoof. The noises wound their way drowsily through Genevieve's mind, seeming to come from another world in which she had no part.
After a long while, their lips parted. She stroked his cheek, and they kissed again.
It was a morning for kisses, and she had no idea how long they spent there in the shaded alcove of the trees. At length, letting out a long, slow sigh, Adair looked down at her.
“I think it's getting late, my sweetling.”
She smiled at the term of endearment, letting it settle on her soul. She stroked his hair again. “You are right, cherie,” she said fondly. He smiled down at her in fond bemusement.
“It means my dear,” she whispered, stroking his hair. He smiled and leaned in and they kissed again.
Later, they mounted up and rode a little way along the stream, then changed their route to take them up toward the cliffs. It felt as if something weighty had been settled between them – a decision reached, plans fresh-made.
“You think Arabella will plan some entertainment for this evening?” he asked, voice carefree in a way she'd never heard it. Her heart rejoiced to hear it so, even as she marveled at its happening.
“I think that it's unlikely,” she countered. “I understand she had plans to go into town today.”
“Oh,” he nodded. “Well, we can always go for a walk.”
“Yes,” she said, color flooding her face. “We may.”
His eyes held hers and she knew he planned to meet in the garden, and kiss, as they had before. She smiled and looked down, her whole body on fire with sweet wonderment.
They rode back to the house.
It still had not rained by the time they reached the place, though the ground on the paths was still wet, so they avoided going faster than a trot. As they reached the gate and rode in, Genevieve looked around, pleased.
“We made it back without a showering,” she said, inclining her head at the gray sky, low on the horizon, still promising rain.
“We did, which is a blessing,” he nodded.
“Another blessing,” Genevieve added. He nodded, grinning.
“Another one.”
It is true, she thought, sliding down out of the saddle and handing her reins to the groom, I have been blessed.
She waited for Adair to dismount and, together, they walked back to the house. They made it just as the church tower in the distance chimed midday.
“Well, that's lucky,” Adair grinned. “Just in time to wash and get ready for luncheon.”
“Yes,” Genevieve agreed, reaching up playfully to where there was a streak of dirt on his forehead, from an encounter with a low branch. “You need to wash up,” she teased. “Look at the sight of you.”
He roared with laughter and reached out, gently stroking her hair. “And you don't,” he demurred. “You look so lovely, thus, your hair all loose about your shoulders.”
Genevieve's heart soared, even though she made herself grimace at him in response. “Am I so disheveled-looking?”
“You look beautiful,” he demurred. “Now, shall we go in?”
He bowed, standing aside for her, and Genevieve shot him a teasing look, but nonetheless walked ahead up stairs.
In her own bedchamber, she hurried to call Camma to help her dress. She came in, looking unusually distraught. Genevieve didn't ask what the matter was, though she was tempted to. She found her thoughts were drifting, difficult to muster.
“Thank you,” she said absently, when her maid had helped her out of her riding things and back into the pale-pink day dress. “I'll just spend a few moments here, and then go down to luncheon.”
“Very good, milady.”
When Camma had retired, Genevieve went briskly to her desk. She would just add one more line to the letter, something about her joy to see him in February, and then seal it and have it sent off. It would still make it to the coast on time, if she just handed it over today.
“Where is the letter?” she asked, frowning. As she moved the parchment, her heart started to thump in distress.
She was sure that was where she'd concealed it. Just there, under the pile! Folded in half, to make sure nobody came across it accidentally. She set the papers down on the bedside table, frowning. It was there! She knew it was.
“Maybe I left it in the blotter?” she asked herself, moving it, though she knew it wouldn't be in there – she'd wanted to dry it more thoroughly, so she'd used sand. She remembered doing it. She closed the blotter. Opened the desk.
Inside, the spare quills and parchment looked up at her, just as she had left them. No letter was inside.
Heart starting to thump with alarm, Genevieve looked around the room, fighting mounting anguish. It had been in here, she knew it! And now it was gone.
“Camma?” she called nervously. She had to speak to Camma. Had someone been in here, without her knowledge? Who would do that?
“Camma?”
There was no answer. Genevieve looked around the room, a hand of tension gripping at her throat. She sat down on the bed, dazed.
Someone had been in her room. She was almost sure of it. Someone had gone through her things, found the letter, and taken it.
That meant they knew who she was, and why she was here. This meant she was in grave danger.
I need to tell someone – and fast.