The Ideal Bride c-12 Read online

  The Swedish ambassador and his family had been delighted with their day; they were effusive in their thanks and good wishes, promising to meet in town later in the year.

  They parted; Michael again scanned the clearing. “No more foreigners, nor any of the diplomatic crowd.”

  It had to be close to five o’clock, the accepted end of the day. Caro sighed happily, delighted that all had gone so well—on multiple counts. “I should go and help pack up the Ladies’ Association stall.” She glanced at Michael. “You can come and help.”

  He raised his brows at her, but followed her without complaint.

  Muriel appeared as they reached the stall. She frowned at them. “There you are—I’ve been looking for you for some time.”

  Caro opened her eyes wide.

  Michael shrugged. “We’ve been circulating—farewelling the foreign delegations and so on.”

  Muriel somewhat grudgingly conceded, “They all came, as far as I could tell.”

  “Indeed, and they enjoyed themselves hugely.” Caro was too happy to take umbrage; she was perfectly prepared to spread the joy. “They all sent their compliments.” She smiled at the other ladies folding unsold wares into baskets.

  “And what’s more,” Mrs. Humphreys said, “they weren’t above buying things. Those two young Swedish misses were buying up presents for their friends back home. Just think! Our embroideries on Swedish dressers.”

  A general discussion of the benefits of Caro’s novel idea ensued; she helped stack tray covers and doilies, agreeing that if she was in residence at Bramshaw when next year’s fete rolled around, she would consider hosting some similar dual event.

  Standing a little behind Caro, Michael kept an eye on the clearing in general while scanning the thinning crowd. Eventually he spotted Edward and beckoned him over.

  Stepping away from the ladies, he lowered his voice. “Earlier, someone shot an arrow at Caro.”

  His appreciation of the younger man’s talents deepened when Edward only blinked, then returned, equally sotto voce, “Not an accident from the contest… ?” Reading the truth in his face, Edward sobered. “No—of course not.” He blinked again. “Could it have been Ferdinand?”

  “Not personally. I doubt he’d have the skill and regardless, he’d be more likely to hire someone to do the job. The arrow came from the direction of the butts, but had to have been fired from within the forest.”

  Edward nodded, his gaze on Caro. “This is starting to look very strange.”

  “Indeed. And there’s more. I’ll come around tomorrow morning and we can discuss the whole, and decide what we need to do.”

  Edward met his gaze. “Does she know?”

  “Yes. But we’ll need to keep a close watch over her.” Michael looked at Caro. “Starting from now, and your journey home.”

  He couldn’t drive Caro home; it would have looked too odd, what with Geoffrey, Edward, and Elizabeth all there, along with a host of Bramshaw staff—and the entrance to the drive was only across the village street. He did, however, keep a surreptitious watch from atop his gig, before, satisfied she was halfway down the drive, surrounded by numerous others, and no problem had occurred, he headed home.

  On the one hand, he was thoroughly satisfied; on the other, anything but.

  Next morning, he rode to Bramshaw House as soon as he’d breakfasted. Edward, seeing him striding up the lawn, left Elizabeth to practice the piano alone and came to meet him; together they went into the parlor.

  “Caro’s slept in,” Edward informed him. A slight frown played across his face. “She must have been worn out by the fete—perhaps the heat.”

  Michael suppressed his smirk and sat. “Probably. Regardless, that gives us time to revisit the facts before she joins us.”

  Edward sat on the chaise and leaned forward, all attention. Michael settled in the armchair and recited the facts known to him, much as he had with Caro the previous day.

  When, gowned for the summer day in a fluttery gown of pale apple-green muslin, Caro drifted downstairs after breakfasting—very late—in her room, she wasn’t at all surprised to hear Michael’s deep voice rum-bling from the parlor.

  Smiling, still serenely, dreamily content, she headed that way, noting that Elizabeth was flexing her fingers in the drawing room.

  Pausing on the parlor’s threshold, she saw Michael and Edward, both frowning at their thoughts; they saw her, and stood. She glided in, smiling easily at Edward, then rather more privately at Michael.

  His eyes met hers; she felt the heat in his gaze. Calmly, she sat on the chaise, waited until they’d resat. “What are you discussing?”

  Michael replied, “The relative likelihood of Fedinand’s being after something for himself, or having been sent after something for someone else.”

  She met his gaze. “I have to own to great difficulty in believing that what Ferdinand’s after could have anything to do with him personally. He knew Camden, that’s true, but diplomatically Ferdinand’s a nonentity.” She looked at Edward. “Don’t you agree?”

  Edward nodded. “I would assume with his background he’ll eventually step up to some post, but at present…” He looked at Michael. “I can only see him as a lackey.”

  “Very well,” Michael said. “If he’s a lackey, who is he acting for?”

  Caro exchanged a glance with Edward, then pulled a face. “I really couldn’t see him acting for anyone but his family, not in such a way—trying to seduce me, asking after Camden’s papers, arranging to have the Hall burgled, searching here.” She met Michael’s gaze. “No matter what else Ferdinand is, he is a member of an old aristocratic family, and Portuguese family honor is in some ways more stiff-rumped than English. He wouldn’t risk the honor of his house in such a way.”

  “Not unless it was the honor of his house that he was seeking to protect.” Michael nodded. “That’s what I thought. So what do you know of Ferdinand’s family?”

  “The count and countess—his uncle and aunt—are the only ones I’ve met in Lisbon.” Edward looked at Caro. “The duke and duchess are representatives of some description in Norway, I think.”

  She nodded. “I’ve met a few minor members who hold lesser posts, but the count and countess are the two currently in favor at court. They’re close to the king…” She paused, then added, “Thinking back, they’ve been steadily advancing their position over the last decade, certainly since I first went to Lisbon. They were only minor functionaries then.”

  “So it could be something that would damage their standing?” Michael asked.

  Edward nodded. “That seems most likely.”

  Caro, however, remained sunk in thought. When she continued to stare blankly at the floor, Michael prompted, “Caro?”

  She looked up, blinked. “I was just thinking… the count and countess’s standing might be at risk, but I would have heard something from someone…” She met Michael’s gaze. “Even from the count or countess themselves.”

  “Not if it was something horrendously damaging,” Edward pointed out.

  “True. However, it’s just occurred to me that the count and countess are not the head of the family—and that position means a lot.”

  “The duke and duchess?” Michael asked.

  She nodded. “Ferdinand certainly gave me that impression, and the countess, too. I’d never met the duke and duchess before, not until this last Season in town, and that only briefly, but”—she looked at Edward, then at Michael—“I should have met them, sometime, at some function in Lisbon. But I didn’t, I’m quite sure of that.”

  Edward blinked owlishly. “I can’t even recall them being mentioned.”

  “Nor can I,” Caro said. “Yet if they’re the head of a house, and that house is close to the throne… well, something’s wrong. Could it be they’ve been quietly banished?”

  A pregnant silence fell as they all considered the prospect, all wordlessly accepted it as a possibility.

  Michael glanced at Caro, then Edward. “W
hich begs the question, if so, for what—and could that ‘what’ be in some way connected with Ferdinand’s obsession with Camden’s papers?”

  “The latter isn’t hard to imagine,” Edward said.

  “Indeed not,” Caro agreed. “Camden was in touch with virtually everyone. However, Camden would have placed anything pertaining to any sensitive subject in the official files, and they’re with either the Foreign Office or the new ambassador.”

  “But Ferdinand wouldn’t know that,” Michael said.

  “Possibly not. So that, potentially, explains his searching.”

  Edward frowned. “It doesn’t, however, throw any light on why he might be trying to harm you.”

  She blinked. “You didn’t seriously think… ?” Her gaze swept to Michael, then returned to Edward. “Even if these recent incidents are attempts to harm me, I can’t see how they could have any diplomatic connection. Especially not with Ferdinand’s family secret—that, whatever it is, most likely predates my time as Camden’s wife.”

  Michael’s steady, rather stern regard didn’t waver. After a moment, he said, quietly but firmly, “That’s because you don’t know, never knew, or can’t remember—for whatever reason are not aware of knowing— whatever it is these people think you know.”

  After an instant, Edward nodded decisively. “Yes—that could be it. In lieu of retrieving whatever it is from Camden’s papers, someone— presumably the duke if our theorizing is correct—has decided you might know his secret, and must therefore be silenced.” He paused as if turning his words over in his mind, then nodded again. “That makes sense.”

  “Not to me,” she declared, equally decisively.

  “Caro—” Michael said.

  “No!” She held up a hand. “Just hear me out.” She paused, listening to the distant music. “And we’ll have to be quick because Elizabeth’s almost at the end of that study, and she’ll be along as soon as she’s finished.” She looked at Michael. “So don’t argue.”

  He set his lips.

  “You’ve decided these three incidents have been attempts to harm me—but have they? Couldn’t they just as easily have been accidents? Only the first and third actually involved me—it’s pure conjecture that the second was targeted at me. The men attacked Miss Trice, not me. If they’d been sent to kidnap me, why did they seize her?”

  Michael bit his tongue; furnished with a sketchy description, in the deceptive twilight making such a mistake would be easy. He exchanged a long glance with Edward.

  “As for the third incident,” Caro rattled on, “an arrow shot from the forest too close to the edge of a crowd. Doing such a thing and successfully hitting a particular person—the archer would need to be a better marksman than Robin Hood. It was pure luck I happened to be there at that moment, that’s all. The arrow had nothing to do with me specifically.”

  He and Edward kept silent. This was one argument Caro wasn’t going to let them win; there was no point pursuing it even though they were convinced they were right. They’d simply watch her anyway.

  “And even you and Hardacre thought the first incident with the pellets was just boys being stupid.” Caro spread her hands. “So we have two likely accidents, and one attack. And while I grant the attack on Miss Trice wasn’t an accident, there’s no evidence it was me those men were after. Indeed, there’s no reason to think that anyone wishes me, specifically me, ill.”

  She concluded on a definite note. She glanced at them, first one, then the other. They met her gaze and said nothing.

  Caro frowned. She opened her lips—then had to swallow her “Well, what do you think?” as Elizabeth entered.

  Michael rose; he and Elizabeth shook hands.

  Bright-eyed, Elizabeth looked around. “Have you been discussing the fete—or business?”

  “Both,” Caro replied, and rose, too. She didn’t want Michael and Edward worrying Elizabeth with speculations. “But we’ve exhausted both topics, and now Edward is free. I’m going for a stroll in the gardens.”

  Michael reached across and appropriated her hand. “An excellent idea. After all those hours amid the crowds, you’re no doubt longing for silence and solitude.” He drew her hand through his arm. “Come, I’ll walk with you.”

  He turned to the door. She narrowed her eyes at him; he’d taken the words out of her mouth and turned them to his own advantage.

  “Very well,” she assented as he guided her through the doorway. “But”—she lowered her voice—“I’m not going anywhere near the summerhouse.”

  The way he smiled in response, his expression shadowed in the dimmer corrider, did nothing for her equanimity.

  But as they strolled across the lawns, then along the walks lushly bordered by beds burgeoning with the summer’s verdant growth, the peace of their surroundings closed in, cocooning them from the world, and her serenity returned, bringing with it a degree of ease, of acceptance.

  She glanced at him; he was looking about them. “I really can’t believe anyone is seeking to harm me.”

  He looked down at her. “I know.” He studied her eyes, then said, “However, Edward and I do.”

  She grimaced and looked ahead.

  After a moment, he lowered his arm, took her hand in his, and said, his voice even, but low, “We both care for you, Caro—consider… if we were ultimately proved right, but hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t done what we could have and you were hurt, or killed…”

  She frowned; they walked on.

  “We’ll keep watch over you—you won’t even be aware of it.”

  Much he knew; she’d know every instant, would feel his gaze on her… would that be bad?

  She inwardly frowned, thankful when he said no more but gave her time to wrestle with what for her was a novel situation. No one before had “watched over her” for the reasons he’d given. Camden had been protective, but only because she’d been one of his most treasured possessions, and she used the word “possessions” advisedly, that was what she’d been to him.

  Edward was attached to her; they shared a common bond through their years with Camden and their respect for him and his memory. Edward and she were friends as well as associates; she wasn’t surprised he was concerned for her safety.

  But Michael… his quiet tone veiled yet, she suspected quite deliberately, didn’t conceal a wealth of deeper emotions, and a need—a reason—to watch over her, to guard and protect her, which stemmed from a different source. It was a form of possessiveness, true, but one that arose not from an appreciation for and a need of her skills, her talents, but from an appreciation for and need of her, herself, the woman she was.

  “Yes. All right.” Her agreement was on her lips before she’d thought further, already distracted by a wish—a strong urge and desire—to learn more about his need of her, to understand the true nature of what drove him to protect her. Halting, she faced him. Looked into his eyes. “Will you spend the day with me?”

  He blinked, briefly searched her eyes as if to confirm the invitation, then reached for her. “Gladly.” He bent his head. “There isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.”

  They were in a secluded walk, fully screened by thick bushes. She stepped into his arms, twined hers about his neck, and met his lips. Parting hers, she ardently welcomed him in, artfully teased.

  Tempted, flagrantly taunted.

  She knew what she wanted; so did he.

  Within minutes, the reality was apparent; desire hummed through their veins, thrummed beneath their skins. Their mouths greedily, hungrily melded, sharing heat, fire, stoking their conflagration, reveling in it.

  She pressed closer, arched against him; he shuddered and drew her closer still, molded her to him.

  He broke from the kiss, laid a tracery of fiery kisses from temple to ear, ducked beneath to continue the line down the arched length of her throat. “The summerhouse is too risky.” His words were a trifle rushed, fractionally breathless. Infinitely persuasive. “Come back to the Manor with me. The staff might b
e shocked, but they’ll be discreet. They won’t talk… not about us.”

  From his point of view, the matter was irrelevant; he intended to marry her, soon. More important and urgent was their mutual need for privacy.

  Caro lifted weighted lids and looked at him. Moistened her lips, cleared her throat. “There’s somewhere I know where we can go.”

  He forced his mind to think, but couldn’t imagine where…

  She saw; the smile that curved her lips was essentially, fundamentally feminine. “Trust me.” Her eyes lit, almost mischievous. Drawing back from his embrace, she took his hand. “Come with me.”

  It took him an instant to recognize the sultry invitation, his own seductive phrase given back to him, its potency multiplied a thousand times by the look in her eyes, by the spritelike way she turned and led him further along the path.

  At no point did it occur to him to refuse.

  She was a wood nymph leading him, a mere mortal, astray. He told her so and she laughed, the silvery sound drifting on the breeze— reminding him anew of his pledge to draw that magical sound from her more often.

  Hand in hand, they descended through the gardens, eventually leaving the tended areas through a narrow gate in a hedge. Beyond lay a medley of meadow and wood, largely undisturbed by man. The path led underneath trees, then across open clearings where grasses encroached, reducing it at times to little more than a track.

  Caro’s feet seemed to follow it instinctively; she neither looked for landmarks nor searched for the path but strolled on, glancing at the birds flitting through the trees, occasionally lifting her face to the sun.

  In the middle of one clearing, he halted, drew her back to him. Into his arms. The house was some distance behind them; he bent his head and kissed her, long, deep, letting his real yearning have full sway—a yearning he was learning, day by day, possessed a greater depth and breadth than he’d imagined it ever could.

  Finally raising his head, he watched her face, watched her lids flutter, then rise, revealing the silvery sheen of her eyes. He smiled. “Where are you taking me?” Lifting her hand, he brushed a kiss across her fingertips. “Where is your bower of unearthly bliss?”