Claire Thornton - Runaway Lady

‘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— Ports mouth.’

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.