Rogue's Charade Read online

  “Simon?” she said, tentatively.

  She was greeted by silence. “What?” he said finally, his voice thick.

  “Do you think we can trust Mr. Porter?”

  The quilt rustled. “Go to sleep, princess, and don’t worry about it.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Well enough to know he wouldn’t betray a fellow actor.”

  “But he’s not an actor anymore.”

  “Princess, sometimes you talk too much.”

  “Do I? Funny, no one’s ever said that to me before.”

  “Huh.” The quilt rustled again. “Go to sleep, Blythe. Tomorrow’s likely to be as tiring as today.”

  “All right.” She turned on her side, facing him, though in the darkness she couldn’t see him. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  In the darkness Simon let out a long breath, stirring reluctant pity within her. He must be exhausted. The day had been long and hard, and he was injured. And she couldn’t sleep. “Simon?”

  “God,” he groaned. “Now what?”

  “Is your leg paining you?”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Go to sleep, Blythe.”

  “Would you be more comfortable in the bed? I don’t mean sharing it,” she said hastily, horrified at herself for what she’d suggested. “I’d take the floor.”

  “Will it shut you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, very well.” More rustling sounds, followed by a groan. A moment later he fell onto the mattress next to her, arms outflung and heavy across her body. “There. Is that better, princess?”

  “No! How am I to climb out, you—you oaf!” she exclaimed, pushing ineffectually at his shoulder. “Get off me, you’re heavy.”

  “Not a complaint I’ve often had from women.”

  “Ooh!” Blythe worked her arm free and sat up. She was trapped, between him and the wall. To leave the bed she would have to climb over him. The thought was frightening in its appeal. “Why I ever suggested this—”

  “Yes, why did you, princess? Surely it’s not because you desire”—his voice lowered—“my body?”

  In spite of herself, Blythe choked back a laugh. Though she’d never seen a melodrama, he sounded much as she imagined a stage villain would. “Oaf. I asked you from the kindness of my heart, but if you persist in teasing me I shall push you out.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He settled himself just a little distance from her, and she could suddenly breathe again. “I won’t touch you, princess,” he said, gruffly. “You’ve my word on that.”

  “Oh, your word.”

  “Yes.” He yawned. “This is more comfortable than the floor.”

  “Or the ground.”

  Simon chuckled. “You’re a trouper, Blythe,” he said, and as fast as that his breathing evened out.

  “Simon?” she whispered. Her only answer was a snore. Well, what had she expected? she wondered, composing herself to sleep. After all, she certainly wouldn’t want him in her bed under normal circumstances. ‘Twas only because he was hurt, and tired. No more. And what, she wondered as sleep overtook her at last, was a trouper?

  She fell into a sweet dream, one she’d had from time to time since childhood. She was standing outside a cottage, its features blurry, and beside her was a man, equally indistinct. All she knew was that his arm was about her waist, and he loved her. Before them frolicked children, a whole litter of them, her sons and daughters. A family. Joy filled her. What more could she want? She belonged at last, with children to care for and a good, stable man by her side, a man who wouldn’t leave. A man who loved her.

  A man who was getting bold, as his hand slid from her waist to her breast, claiming it possessively. Goodness, this had never been part of her dream before! She should wake herself up. But what a sweet part it was, as his fingers toyed with her nipple, sending a shaft of pleasure through her. She turned in her husband’s arms, and, just like that, he disappeared, something else that had never happened before. Yet she wasn’t alone. Blythe blinked several times, disoriented to find herself in darkness when she’d stood in a sun-lit clearing; confused as to why she was lying down; and wondering, as if she were dreaming all this, why she still felt a man’s solid hand on her breast.

  With a start, she jerked fully awake, aware and conscious of where she was, and who was beside her. “Simon!” She pulled back, but his other arm held her fast against his broad, warm chest. “Oh, let me go,” she gasped, pushing against him, and at that moment he let out a sound that was half-groan, half-snore. Blythe went still. The dratted man was asleep.

  “Simon,” she whispered again, and again got no response. His arm lay heavy about her waist; his hand still fondled her, sending shafts of sweet sensation through her, and still he snored. Drat the man, he wouldn’t wake up. She would have to extricate herself from this predicament as best she could.

  Carefully she reached up and encircled his wrist with her fingers, easing his hand from her breast. He groaned again, and, before she could move, rolled over, so that she was on her back, with him, large and heavy, half-atop her. She gasped as his knee bent and his thigh pressed between hers, his body hair rough against her skin and sending prickles and shivers through her. And something was prodding her in the stomach, something hard and stiff. Whatever was he poking her with—oh! She went absolutely still, knowing she should move; held there by curiosity, and something more. So that was what a man felt like. She’d wondered. Oh, it wouldn’t do, their lying together like this, and she should move, but—not yet. Simon still slept, unaware of her except as a woman in his bed, while longing filled her. A product of her dream, of course, in which she loved and was loved. She could never feel anything for this man. Even if he weren’t a criminal, he was a strolling player, a traveling man. Never would he stay in one place, establishing the family, and life, she so desperately wanted.

  “Simon,” she said, louder this time, pushing hard on his shoulder, and he grunted. “You oaf, get off me.”

  “Uh,” he grunted again, and went still, with a tension in his muscles that told her he was awake. After a moment, he raised his head. “Ah, my sweet princess.”

  She punched his shoulder. “Get off me. I’m not your sweet anything.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said, and, bending his head, captured her lips.

  She struggled. Of course. She was a virgin and wished to stay that way, thank you. Oh, but it was sweet, being kissed as she’d never imagined, even in her dreams, his lips firm and warm and wet. Treacherous weakness stole through her limbs, making her struggles feeble, less frantic. “Stop it,” she gasped, when his mouth left hers to—yes, he was actually nibbling at her ear, and though she didn’t know why, she knew it couldn’t go on. “You have to stop.”

  “Not yet,” he muttered, and brought his mouth to hers again, hot, wet, and very, very persuasive. Against the sensation of his firm, masculine lips moving against hers, Blythe was suddenly lost. Closing her eyes, to the room and to propriety, she gave herself up to his kiss.

  Chapter Seven

  Abruptly Simon pulled back. “What are you doing?” he grated.

  “What am I doing?” Blythe shot up in the bed, cold reality brutally replacing the hot sensations of a moment before. “I didn’t start this.”

  “You invited me into your bed—”

  “You conceited oaf!”

  “Hell.” He sat up, and in the dimness all she could see was his back, broad in his white shirt. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman?”

  “That’s not my fault,” she retorted, stung by the accusation in his voice.

  “No, but, by God, it’s your fault I’m in this bed—what the devil are you doing here, anyway?”

  “What am I—” Her mouth dropped open, and her fingers involuntarily loosened on the covers she held to her breast. “As I recall, I didn’t have much choice.”

  Silence lay heavy in the r
oom. “No, you didn’t, did you,” he said, finally, and turned his head. “I’m sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to get you in such a coil, truly.”

  “Then why did you take me?”

  “I would have grabbed anyone who came along. It happened to be you.”

  For some reason, that hurt. “And tonight?” she asked, throat dry.

  “Hell.” He glanced at her. “Tonight was,” he began, and broke off at the sound of a soft scratching at the door. “What the devil is that?”

  Blythe went still beside him, muscles tense, tight. Danger. “Don’t answer.”

  The scratching came again. “I have to,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed and tucking his shirt into his breeches.

  “Simon, if it’s someone looking for you—”

  “Why, princess. Do you really care so?”

  “No. I do not wish to be caught like this, with you.”

  “Of course not.” The mattress dipped as he knelt on it, placing a swift, hard kiss on her lips. “Stay there,” he said, and slipped across to the door. There he stood for a moment, head tilted, listening. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me,” a voice said in reply. “Ben, the stableboy. I got somethin’ important to tell you.”

  Simon glanced back at Blythe, and then opened the door. The figure that flitted in, holding a guttering candle, was small and thin and tousle-headed, and familiar. Blythe relaxed. Not a threat, though at the look Ben gave her she was glad she had not taken off her shift. “What is it?”

  “You Mr. Simon?”

  “Who told you who I am, boy?”

  “Mrs. Porter.” Ben stood squarely, though his eyes didn’t quite meet Simon’s. “You got to get out of here, you and the lady.”

  Simon again looked back at Blythe. Danger. She couldn’t move. “Why?”

  “There’s someone here after yer. Mr. Porter’s goin’ to bring him up, but Mrs. Porter, she sent me first.”

  “The devil!” Simon exclaimed. “Blythe, best you stay here—”

  “To be captured? Oh, no.” Abruptly her paralysis vanished. She flew off the bed, hastily pulling on her clothes. “I’m coming with you.”

  “The hell you are—”

  “There’s no time!” Ben hissed, tugging at Simon’s arm. “If I’m seen here I’ll be in a deal of trouble. Yer gotta come, sir. Now.”

  “The devil,” Simon said again, frowning as Blythe reached his side. They fell silent as Ben blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness. The door creaked as Simon opened it and peered out onto the landing. “No one there.”

  “Yet. They’re comin’ up the front,” Ben said, and at that moment the sounds of footfalls, distant but clear, reached them. More than one man was coming after them.

  “Then we’ll go down the back. I won’t forget this, Ben.”

  “Jest yer go now, so’s I don’t get in no trouble.”

  “Hide,” Blythe advised, as Simon pulled at her arm, leading her back down the staircase she’d climbed earlier.

  With no candle to guide them, they felt their way along the rough plaster and board walls, stepping carefully onto treads worn hollow by years of use. Another landing, and another, and the inn remained quiet, dark, no one stirring at their passing. Blythe was just beginning to breathe a little more normally, thinking that perhaps they might make it, when from above there came a sudden pounding. “Woodley!” a voice hissed, sounding so close that she jumped, catching at Simon’s arm. It was only as he grabbed her to him that she realized they were still alone on the stairs.

  “Woodley,” the voice came again, louder this time, and she recognized it as that of the innkeeper. By some echo, noise from above traveled down the stairwell to them. Which meant that any noise they made might well travel upward.

  “Very quietly, now,” Simon said, his breath tickling her neck. So he knew their danger, too. Slowly they continued down, one careful step at a time, placing their feet just so and hoping no creaking board would betray them. Around the curve there was a faint glow. The kitchen fireplace, Blythe realized. They were almost there.

  Far above a door crashed open, and feet pounded on the bare wooden floor. “They’re gone!” a different voice cried.

  No time for subterfuge now, or quiet, as feet hammered on the stairs behind them. Their absence had been discovered, and if they didn’t hurry, their presence soon would be, also. “Fly!” Simon gasped, and pulled at her arm.

  Into the kitchen, cavernous in the dim light from the fire’s embers. A curse from Simon as he stumbled, tripping on a dog sleeping on the hearth; the dog at once set up a howling protest at being awakened. The sounds above grew louder, more urgent, and Simon tugged at her hand, pulling her to the door. They had to run, they had to flee—

  “This way!” a woman hissed from the shadows, thrusting out a hand, and Blythe gave a little shriek. “Be quiet, they’ll hear you. Here.” Dark emptiness yawned up before her and she paused, only to be pushed forward by firm, determined hands. Before she quite knew what was happening she was swallowed up by the darkness of what was apparently a storage bin, Simon beside her, and a door was quietly shut behind them.

  “What,” she began, dazed.

  “Hush.” Simon caught her against him, so close that she could feel the tension in every muscle of his body. “Be quiet.”

  “They’ll catch us—”

  “Be quiet!” This as the sound of pounding feet grew louder, closer, accompanied by shouts and curses.

  “Oh, Mr. Porter,” a woman said on the other side of the door, voice trembling. “Did you see them? I fear I couldn’t stop them.”

  “Where did they go?” Porter demanded.

  “Out there. Oh, Mr. Porter, I never had such a scare as when that man came out at me! How could you take him in, and he a murderer?”

  “Out the back?” Porter interrupted.

  “Yes, the dog’s after them,” she said, and indeed, in the distance they could hear a dog barking. Blythe turned a questioning face up to Simon, as if he could see her, and felt his arm tighten about her waist.

  “I’ll have something to say to you about this, woman,” Porter growled. “They’re out back someplace. Can’t be far.”

  “They had best not be,” another voice said, and Blythe froze. She had heard that voice only once before, but she would never forget it. It was the man who had faced them across the stream that morning, and vowed their capture.

  “Would I lead you wrong, sir? Come, follow me and we will catch them,” Porter said. The din grew louder as the pursuers—how many Blythe could only guess—trooped through the kitchen, and then faded. And then it was only a distant sound. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the cries and complaints of the lodgers above.

  The door abruptly opened. “Quickly, before they return,” Mrs. Porter said. “They’re following Yorick, but that won’t last long.”

  “Yorick?” Blythe said, blinking a little at the light.

  “The dog. Where is he leading them?” Simon asked, smiling a little, as if nothing untoward had occurred. Only his muscles, still tight and hard, betrayed the strain he must be feeling.

  “After a fish I dragged out earlier.” Mrs. Porter’s sturdy, competent hands pushed them toward the door. “Come, now, there’s no time to waste.”

  “You knew this would happen?”

  “I thought it might. I know my husband.”

  “I shouldn’t have trusted him. Why are you doing this?”

  “Never mind that—oh, if you must know, I knew your mother. Now, go!” she hissed, and pushed them out the door.

  “Mr. Porter betrayed you?” Blythe said, dazed by the speed of the recent events.

  “So it seems.” His voice was grim as he led her by the hand into the woods behind the inn. “What of you? This is a perfect chance for you.”

  “If you let me go.”

  “I didn’t force you to come with me.”

  “Not this time, no.”

  He held back a tree branch so that it
wouldn’t hit her in the face. “And why is that, I wonder? You could be well rid of me by now.”

  “I don’t know why! What are we doing here?”

  “Hiding,” he said, shortly. “They’ll be back.”

  “But they’ll look for us—”

  “Not here. They’ll think us well away by now.” He glanced at her, his face shadowed. “There’s a fallen tree over there. You might as well sit on it, be comfortable.”

  “Thank you so much,” Blythe said icily, but she sank down onto the log with distinct relief, taking the chance to straighten her bodice and pull on her mobcap. So much had happened in the past hours that her head was spinning. “When we get out of here—”

  “Hush.” He held up his hand. “Do you hear that?”

  Blythe frowned. Faint in the distance she could hear the sound of voices. “What is it?”

  “I think they’re returning.” He stood perfectly still as the sounds of a dog barking and of men’s voices came closer. Not a very long search, Blythe thought, clasping her arms around her knees to still her shivers. Or did their pursuers know they’d not got far?

  “This dog of yours is worthless.” The voice was icy, aristocratic. In spite of herself Blythe leaned forward, trying to peer through the leaves at the speaker. Why was he following them? What had they ever done to him that he pursued them so relentlessly? “To lose the scent like that.”

  “Yorick’s not a hunting dog,” Porter snapped. “It isn’t his fault they got away.”

  “Is it not? Well, then.” The voice was silky. Dangerous. “It must be yours, then.”

  “Someone warned them.”

  “Oh? Have you a traitor in your house?”

  “If I do, I’ll soon find out. Yorick!” He gave a sharp whistle. “Back here, now.”

  Yorick barked, much too close. Blythe realized with horror that the dog was at the edge of the woods. He must smell them, and in a moment, he would come in among the trees, exposing them.