Stupid! Sentimental nonsense! He snatched off the knit cap and threw it onto the window seat.
He went to the mirror and with a grimace peeled off the mustache. The pain made his eyes water but banished sentimentality. He dipped a cloth in water and then in the saucer of salt Adam had laid ready and cleaned the black off his teeth. He was starting to look like himself again. Soap and water took off the rouge.
He was throwing off his unsavory garments when Adam came in with a flask of brandy. “Sam says ye’ve a meetin‘ fixed fer tomorrow, then?”
“Aye. I’ll be taking Sam and one other to watch my back. Although I don’t think the bastard will try anything tomorrow; he needs me too much. He’s desperate as a starving rat, for all he tried to hide it.” He poured cognac into a glass and drained it, then refilled the glass.
“Left a bad taste in yer mouth, did ‘e?”
“Foul as a cesspit. I need to know who he is.”
“Reckon George at the Anchor’ll know?”
“I doubt it. The man’s desperate and a villain but not, I think, stupid.” Anthony paused, his eyes narrowing. “Dangerous yes, stupid no,” he mused. “He’d not broadcast his identity across the island. I’d lay odds he’s something to do with the castle. There was something of the courtier about him.” Anthony’s lip curled.
“Then ye’ll run into him,” Adam said matter-of-factly, picking up the discarded clothing, “when you go off to play courtier yerself.”
“Even more inducement to show myself in the king’s presence chamber at tomorrow’s little soiree,” Anthony declared. “Leave me now, Adam. I’m in a vile humor.”
Adam made no reply, but left immediately.
Anthony sat on the window seat and looked out at the sliver of moon on the narrow black water of the chine. Damn the woman!
Chapter Seven
“It’s so neat,” Phoebe said with undisguised admiration, looking up from her minute inspection of Anthony’s handiwork. “Just three stitches and the wound’s closed to the thinnest line. You’ll have a scar, but only a faint one. I wonder what thread he used. Did he say?” Her herbalist’s curiosity was aroused.
“No, and I didn’t ask either.” Olivia rolled away from Phoebe, turning onto her back. She lay with her arm over her eyes, struggling to control the surge of emotion as memory, rich, lushly sensual, flooded every pore and cell of her body.
Phoebe regarded her with a worried frown. “You said you didn’t want to see him again.”
“I don’t. It was a magic interlude, Phoebe. It was only supposed to last until I had to come home. The spell is broken.”
“Somehow I don’t think so,” Phoebe observed dryly.
Olivia sat up, her dark eyes burning. “I’m confused, Phoebe. I don’t know how or why it happened, but I do know that it will never happen again. C-could we not talk about it anymore?”
The slam of the front door, violent and hasty, reverberated through the house. Olivia said, “My father.”
“Yes.” Phoebe was already halfway to the bedchamber door.
“I need time, Phoebe,” Olivia said urgently. “Don’t let him come up. Tell him… tell him I’m getting dressed and I’ll c-come down to him.”
“I’ll get him to see the children first.” Phoebe hurried out. She ran down the stairs, lifting her skirts clear of her feet. Cato’s imperative voice seemed to fill the house.
“Cato… my lord.” Phoebe tripped on the last step in her haste and tumbled into her husband’s waiting arms. He’d anticipated a misstep the moment he’d seen the speed of her arrival.
“Olivia is safe and well,” she said when she could regain her breath.
“So Giles tells me.” He gestured to the burly figure of the sergeant standing behind him. “I’ll go to her at once. Is she abovestairs?”
“She’s getting dressed to come down to you. I believe she’s bathing; you can’t see her immediately,” Phoebe prevaricated. “She really is all right, Cato,” she said when he looked dismayed.
“I suppose I must wait, then,” he said. Some of the worry was smoothed from his face as he looked at his wife. He tilted her face and kissed her mouth.
“And you, my ragged robin. Are you well?” he asked, drawing back from her but still holding her face.
“All the better for seeing you, sir,” she responded, her eyes aglow. “And Charles is grown so big since you left, you won’t recognize him.”
“I’ve been gone but two weeks,” Cato protested.
“Oh, but he eats so much!”
Cato’s mind returned to what was uppermost. “Do you think Olivia will be well enough to accompany me on a visit to these Barkers? Giles has discovered their whereabouts.”
“If she doesn’t ride,” Phoebe said, thinking of the wound in Olivia’s thigh. “I expect it would be all right.”
Cato frowned. “It seems strange to me that Olivia could not remember where they lived.”
“A blow to the head can cause much confusion,” Phoebe said. “When she remembered who she was, I don’t believe anything else mattered, except to get home. She could only think of one thing at a time. It’s quite common with such injuries.”
Cato considered this, noticing absently that Phoebe’s hair was springing loose from its pins as usual and the lace collar of her gown was tucked into the neck. He straightened the collar without conscious thought. “Has she been seen by the physician?”
Phoebe put her chin up. “I believe I have all the necessary skills, sir. Or do you not think so?”
“I wouldn’t dare to dispute it,” he said, throwing up his hands in laughing disclaimer.
“Will you not see the children now? While Olivia is dressing?”
“Is the baby awake?”
“If he isn’t now, he soon will be. I’ll fetch them straightway.”
Cato, smiling, watched her hasten back up the stairs. Babies were still mysteries to him. He was beginning to feel comfortable with Nicholas, who at fourteen months walked quite steadily and had a few words, but the baby, Charles, Cato’s fifth child, who had been born soon after their move to the island, still alarmed him with his fragility. The mothers of his other children had never attempted to interest him in the daily progress of their infant offspring. Phoebe, however, was a very different character, unique in her way of viewing the world. She had made it clear from the first that he was to be a deeply involved parent whether he liked it or not. Cato found that on the whole he liked it.
“We’ll be goin‘ to the Barkers, then, shall us, m’lord?”
“In a short while, Giles. When I’ve talked with Lady Olivia. There’s no hurry, I believe.” Cato raised an eyebrow.
“No… no, sir.” Giles sounded disconsolate. He couldn’t abide wasting time.
“Have you dined, my lord?” Bisset had been hovering at the rear of the hall and now moved forward.
“No, we have ridden since dawn. But just bring me bread and cheese in my study… and ale, if you please.” The butler bowed and Cato went into his sanctum. A small pile of sealed documents sat on his desk, awaiting his return. He picked them up and ran his eye over them. The writing on most he recognized. A missive from Cromwell, another from Governor Hammond, another from the governor of Yarmouth Castle. The last, however, was addressed in a hand he didn’t know. He turned it over. The wax seal bore the imprint of a coat of arms that was also unfamiliar. He reached for his paper knife just as the door opened.
“Here we are, my lord.” Phoebe came in carrying on her hip a fat rosy baby sucking a dimpled fist. A toddler in short coats held her free hand. Little Earl Grafton regarded his father solemnly for a moment as if deciding his next move, then dropped his mother’s hand and advanced with a gleeful little chuckle, reaching up his arms.
Cato lifted him and swung him through the air. The child shrieked with delight and presented his cheek for his father’s kiss.
“Charles was wide-awake and, like his brother, is in great good humor.” Phoebe nuzzled the top of the baby’s head. “Greet your papa, little one.”