My Wicked Fantasy Read online

  Scattered about the room were several mahogany display cases. The first one contained a withered pouch made of leather. Mary Kate frowned at it, trailed her fingers over the hinge in the wood, but didn’t lift the glass lid of the case. The second and the third were no more generous with their information, containing a baby’s intricate knit cap and an illuminated manuscript that looked old and just as delicate. The fourth, however, contained a large jewel nestled on a blue velvet pillow. It was difficult to ascertain whether the gem was as brilliantly blue as it appeared, or if it simply mimicked the color of its background.

  Mary Kate opened the lid of the case and picked up the jewel, holding it at eye level in front of the light streaming in through one window. She had heard of such things, diamonds and sapphires and such, worn by the king. Never had she thought to see such a gem, let alone hold it between two fingers like a child’s marble. It glittered playfully, as if it drank in the light and then gave it back reluctantly. Aloft, it seemed simply pure, as the coldest of winter icicles are sometimes tinged blue.

  She wiped it clean with the hem of her skirt and laid it back in its nest, a jewel of an egg.

  Any other woman, Archer thought, watching her, would bedevil him to learn of its nearly priceless value, or wish it made into a bauble for her adornment. He suspected, however, that Mary Kate would never mention that she had seen it, never covet it.

  From the gallery high above the room, he continued to watch her, intrigued by what fascinated her. She seemed less impressed by the leaded crystal bowl than the way its facets split light into iridescent bands of color. Twice he thought she would look up and see him; both times she traced the fragile band of light instead, entranced as a child spying her first rainbow.

  He heard her laugh, and the sound of it, low and throaty, rendered him oddly lonely. He braced one shoulder against the wall, folded his arms, and continued to watch her.

  Mary Kate. Even her name did not match her. It was too solemn a name, too proper a name for her. She needed a name as outrageous as that cloud of orange hair, that creamy skin more often than not colored pink. She should have a name that bespoke her sortie into wickedness, the urge he’d seen in her eyes to go further, to dare more, to step outside herself. How odd that such a trait seemed muted beneath her appeal of innocence.

  She was no more innocent than he was saintly.

  This morning she had been terror-filled one moment, desperate, as frightened as a mother seeking a lost child. The next, a wanton, testing his restraint. He wanted to warn her that it was not safe to play such games with him. He’d been too long alone, too long without a mate, a companion, a lover.

  She had been clad in a wrapper Alice had left behind, a garment sewn for a shorter woman of smaller stature, not one with flamboyant curves, whose chin could rest upon his shoulder. Her scent was sultry, something flesh-warmed, a hint of spice.

  Did she know how much he had not wanted to heed the voice of warning, the whispers of restraint? Instead, he had allowed himself an instant of pushing against her, as if her softness had been created simply for this moment, and the pliancy of her flesh a pillow existing solely for his comfort. Their bodies touched at several places, bare toes, knees, hands. It was improvident, foolish, but simply, at the last, not enough. Archer wanted to back her against the door until it slammed against the wall. The immediacy of his need had shocked him; the violence of it should have alerted all those restraints put in place by social conditioning.

  It had not been the time for lust, nor the place for it. Certainly not the woman. All a series of thoughts that echoed through his brain but were stopped by a wall of lust from reaching his loins. The heel of his hand had forced her jaw up, her mouth to raise to his. He had wanted to inhale her, first, absorb the breath she exhaled, be the air she required. Possession. A curious word to mark so primitive a feeling.

  Instead, a breath had halted him. A quick inrush of air, a soft exhalation, a sound no louder than that of a feather dropping to the floor, and yet he heard it. Recognized, too, the excitement of it.

  A woman of doubtful virtue.

  Alice sent her.

  The reminder had had the effect of slicing his skin open. The sharp pain of it, the searing aftertaste had rendered him not as angry as he’d hoped. Instead, he’d felt only tired, fatigued, as if all the sleepless nights he’d spent in the last year had finally made themselves felt.

  A strange woman to want desperately. Or maybe not, he countered his own thoughts, watching her skirts furl around her ankles.

  There was something about the child in her, a hope not easily doused, a spirit not easily conquered. With that freshness of attitude, she had handed him an impossibility and expected him to accept it. He could not, but he could, and did, appreciate the character that had crafted such a story. He wished, in a thoroughly implausible way, to be like a child with her, to supplant all the many duties he’d assumed over the years, the titles and occupations of a thoroughly adult man, and toss them aside for an hour, maybe more. He would play as a child with a companion, both of them draped in youth and joy as he had never been, even when young.

  It was, however, a nicety of thought that would never find fruition in actuality. She was not a child, nor was she innocent. She was a stranger with a secret purpose; he did not doubt that it meant softening Alice’s return to his life in some way despite Mary Kate’s protestations of ignorance.

  “Do you do this often? Study your guests with such purposeful intent?”

  The words jolted him. He looked down at her, she stared up at him, frozen in that moment by sunlight. She smiled. It was charmingly done, without malice or ill-will and did not chastise him for this morning’s actions. He could not help but return it, lured into truce by her openness.

  “Who would not stand and stare at a woman playing with rainbows?”

  She didn’t answer him, simply smiled that secretive smile that women have used since the beginning of time to entrance and warn at the same time.

  “I would have thought you would seek the freshness of a stroll upon the garden paths,” he added.

  “It looks like rain.”

  He ignored that lie. The sky was a cloudless blue. “Or a tour, perhaps of the more public rooms of Sanderhurst.”

  “Is it a special place, this?”

  All the time he’d been talking, he had walked the gallery, to the set of steps along the west wall. He descended those with easy grace; he’d often hid here as a child, when his mother had called and he’d not wished to answer, or his father had beckoned and he had been too afraid to be found.

  Finally he was standing next to her, close enough to inhale her scent had she been able to afford any. He could not imagine her handkerchiefs reeking of attar of roses, or oil of lilac. Perhaps something mixed with sandalwood, a touch of the Orient, a hint of mystery. Not unlike the woman.

  “Have I trespassed?” She looked around her; one hand lifted in the air and then was quickly pressed against her skirt.

  “It is a family place, and most miss it. I am surprised you found it so easily.” He stepped closer. “It was my favorite place as a child. I was forever lurking in its shadows and playing pirate on the gallery. I cannot tell you how many imaginary miscreants I forced to walk the plank.” He looked up at the railing, a small smile wreathing his lips. “Are your hands better?” He extended his hand palm up, and she laid them both upon it. He inspected them carefully. No, other than a scratch or two, there was nothing to indicate they had bled so copiously.

  “You are a surprising man, Archer St. John.”

  “In what way, Mary Kate Bennett?” His smile echoed her own, slightly teasing, infinitely gentle. That he could feel such did not startle him; that he could expose it so easily did.

  “You have the fiercest scowl, yet you are blessed with the most gentle touch.”

  He dropped her hands and turned away. Did she never watch her words?

  “Did you have no brothers or sisters with whom to play, that you wo
uld pretend to be a solitary pirate?”

  He turned and smiled at her, and for all his words, it was not a sad smile. “I was the heir, and had no spare, if you will. My mother told me that she had done her duty to the St. John empire and my father was not welcome in her bed. Of course, she confessed such welcome relief only when I had attained my majority. But as a child, I still hoped for a sister or a brother and rubbed my magic rock and hoped and hoped.”

  She remained silent, secrets misting in her eyes, but even the look was veiled from him as she turned away. She took a few steps to the display case holding the Pemberton diamond, but then surprised him as she ignored it for the baby’s cap.

  “It is said to have belonged to Henry the Eighth,” he said easily. “An ancestor was present at his birth and was rumored to have procured many a young maiden for the young Harry.” He came and stood beside her again, not crowding her, but not allowing her to remain far from his side. “In turn, he was quite generous to the St. John family.”

  “And you hold his cap in high esteem.” There was that smile again on her lips. He wondered what thought prompted it. “And the pouch? Does that hold a history, too?”

  “The first St. John’s purse, still rife with the scent of sandalwood. It seemed a fitting thing to honor both the source of our income and our ancestor.”

  She turned and walked toward another case. He smiled, but did not join her. “You have not asked about the diamond.”

  “Since you have not believed most of my utterances, St. John, I doubt you would hold much credence in my answer.”

  “I will suspend my disbelief for the moment.”

  “I have no love for jewels, or anything so valuable that I must be afraid of losing it.”

  He opened the display case and fingered the stone she’d earlier held up to the light. “This was the stone I wished upon,” he said softly, his voice not that of a man, but of a child, enraptured by the thought of magic. “At least until my father caught me touching it one day.”

  He said nothing more.

  “What did he do?”

  He returned the stone to its case, then glanced at her. “Beat me so hard I could not stand for a week. I was not, you see, a favorite of his. But then, I was his only child. I can only wonder what he would have done had he another upon which to practice.” The look he slanted her was filled with sardonic humor. “Even my mother could not tolerate him, and she shows an affinity for most people.”

  “And so you’ve been taught there is a price to pay for everything.”

  “How astute of you to realize that. A fellow student, are you, Mary Kate? What or who has taught you so well?”

  “You tell me of your childhood, in exchange for a secret of mine, then?” Her smile chastised him at the same time it teased. “Very well. I am the only girl among ten children. You used to wish for a sibling; I wanted simply to be noticed among the ones I had.”

  “And yet you claim no kin, or had you forgotten that little bit of whimsy?”

  There was a look on her face, one closed and shuttered through which he could not see a peek of light. It was as if all her secrets were carefully tucked in and properly buttoned up, hidden.

  “You will not tell me, will you? Your aim is to keep me wondering about you, while you cloak yourself in an aura of mystery.”

  “To what purpose? To elongate my imprisonment here? To appear as an object of pathos? Or to separate you from your money? I could never hope to be as conniving as you wish me to be.” She shook her head, as if to chastise him for the error of his thoughts. “My family left me, St. John. That is all. There is no more of the story but that.”

  “And yet you’ve a brother.”

  “Who does not want me in his life.” The words were said softly. She lifted her lashes to find him studying her.

  “Why do I have the feeling you’ve taken on a quest?” he asked softly. “You will not rest until you’ve been spurned by all your kin, is that it?”

  “Is wanting a family such a horrible thing?”

  “I’d gladly give you part of mine. I doubt they’d want you, though, as you are without sustenance to support them. They’re a greedy bunch, the St. Johns.” A smile brushed his lips and then was gone, leaving only a shadow of humor, nothing more.

  “Then why is this house so silent? You could house half of London here.”

  “I like my quiet, madam, and my life at Sanderhurst.” He strode to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, as if to acquaint himself with a new view, one not seen before. “You are its first intrusion.”

  “Am I? Or was Alice?”

  He turned and stared at her as if he could not quite believe what she had said. “By God, I was right, you are too cheeky for servitude. How many times were you sacked?”

  “Never. The men kept me around to paw me if they could, their wives discovered I worked too hard to dismiss.”

  “And did you give them as much grief as you give me, a starched reprimand and intrusive questions?” He fisted the edge of the curtains, turning away from the sight of her dappled by sunlight.

  “You would not believe me if I admitted to being quiet and demure, would you?”

  His laughter was easily coaxed from him by such an outrageous statement. He walked back to where she stood, alight in a beam of sunlight. “I think that it would be a great pity to dampen your spirit,” he said softly. “It’s best to try to avoid servitude if that’s what it did to you. Is that why you married, or was it for love?”

  “If I tell you, will you answer my question? You have not, you know.” Her smile joined his. It seemed to Archer that they were doing a little too much of that for a proper prisoner and jailer. But she was not a proper prisoner, Mary Kate Bennett of the servant class, and he was acting far too absorbed for a jailer.

  “About Alice? Do you not know everything there is to know? Or has she not whispered into your ear that she was miserable here, that she chose not to be a chatelaine as much as guest?”

  She moved beside him, stared down into the case housing the priceless diamond. The glitter in her eyes was no less brilliant.

  “How could you not be happy in this place? It is like a magical castle.”

  “Alas, as far as Alice’s thoughts, it was peopled not with a prince, but a troll.” Her quick look of compassion seemed too poignant to tolerate. He moved back to the window.

  “Some people thought I was a fool to marry a man so much my senior,” she said. “But he was kind to me at a time I needed kindness.”

  “And so you believed yourself in love.”

  “No.” She looked over at him. He wondered how eyes could be so deep they mimicked the great oceans. “I did not believe myself in love. But I found that I could respect him.”

  “But you never came to love him? Not even for his prosperity and his generosity?”

  “How did you know he was prosperous?”

  “It is a story of mankind, Mary Kate. The old ones marry the young ones, tempting not with brawn but with bills. And was your aged husband kind and generous?”

  A look crossed her face, made shallow the depths of her eyes. Why did he feel as if he could see the edge of her soul captured there? It seemed less manipulative than sad at that moment.

  “He was as kind as he knew how to be.” Her look changed, became almost accusatory. “But I do not regret my marriage, or wanting to be better than I was born. Is it so terrible to want more out of life than emptying chamber pots all day?”

  “Or being pinched by farmers?” He smiled and she seemed bemused by his refusal to be coaxed into argument.

  “They never managed more than once,” she said, an unholy look of mirth crossing her features.

  It was an unsettling notion for Archer to realize he was no better than the besotted cherubs plastered upon the ceiling, eternally enfolded in joy and captured by enchantment.

  When she left the room, he didn’t bother following her. He’d given her the freedom of Sanderhurst for more than one reason, less compa
ssion about her imprisonment than a test of her intentions. He’d wanted to see if Mary Kate would try to leave. What would she attempt to take as a prize? Both questions had been answered in the way she’d replaced the blue diamond in its case. And even more so, Archer, by the warmth you feel for her?

  Don’t be an idiot, man. She’s a luscious morsel, that’s true. And perhaps she does have a winsome sense of humor. And coaxes you into divulging your soul, you daft loon. Strange, he should feel more invaded by her gentle questions, if not his surprising responses. She was insidious. No, too damn charming, Archer.

  Still, he went to her room and looked about, certain there was something to prove her false. Instead, there were few personal effects, nothing in her reticule but a balled up handkerchief, and two farthings.

  On the table beside her bed was a thin, leather-bound book he’d sent to her, gathered up among the others. She’d not scolded him for his daring, he thought as he opened Elegies, but had responded with a gracious note of thanks. Her penmanship was copperplate, correct and flowing in its perfect implementation. He had found himself first entranced by the execution of her e’s, the furling of her capitals. Then the only emotion he’d felt was anger that he had allowed himself to fall victim to a woman’s simple allure. The book fell open to a much-read page. License my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below. So his guest was a wanton at heart, he thought as he replaced the book as he’d found it.

  In the armoire was a small carpetbag, nearly threadbare on the bottom, containing a chemise with yellowing lace, a silver-backed brush that looked to be old, and a pair of stockings carefully folded. On the shelf sat her bonnet, and hanging from the hooks were her nightgown, the wrapper, blue cloak, and two dresses as identically ugly as the one Mary Kate currently wore.