12 SLEEPLESS IN DAGENHAM—BREAKFAST IS DELIVERED—NEWS—HOUSEWORK INTERRUPTED—THE ONLY WAY LEFT IS UP—DÉJÀ VU—ALEX REGRETS HIS CHOICES—CHARLOTTE KNOWS WHERE SHE STANDS—THIEVES DO NOT STOP—HANGING BY A THREAD Charlotte had to declare after all there was no enjoyment like lovemaking! How much sooner one tired of anything than of sex. When she had a husband of her own, she should be miserable if he did not have an excellent skill in the bedroom. Captain O’Riley had quite altered her expectations on that account. They repeated variations of the activity several times throughout the evening and night, since after all there had been a great deal of tension between them that needed clearing. They were only being efficient, dealing with it all at once. Granted, Charlotte now felt so tension-free she was unsure she could actually walk, but mobility seemed a small sacrifice to make for such pleasure. Somewhere in the midst of this, Alex had organized dinner to be brought to the room, and they’d eaten while still tucked up on the floor between the beds, wrapped in sheets and with an eiderdown beneath them for added comfort. The food had been bland, and they’d argued pleasantly over that while twining their feet and ankles together and agreeing at least that the wine was nice. For a while they’d slept, only for Charlotte to wake to find Alex already roused, his tongue drawing her out of vague dreams, his hands disturbing her peace in the most criminally delightful manner. The man possessed remarkable stamina, which was fine with Charlotte as she seemed to have a remarkable tolerance for it. She even discarded the chemise (in other words, folded it neatly and set it aside) since allowing him to see what his hands had already comprehensively explored was only rational, despite how her body trembled at the choice. But he did not look. He drew the sheet around them, holding her close until she eased within his arms, nakedness forgotten. It proved he was altogether too clever at this whole business, and had Charlotte not been reaping the benefits of it, she would have found a way to bring him down a size or two. Instead, she insulted him as often as she could, and he retaliated by making her cry out with some new and fascinating delight. Finally, the morning upon them, they agreed it was necessary to rise and go on to Clacton-on-Sea. Charlotte consulted leaves from the evening’s leftover tea and prophesized a good day for flying. The amulet really needed be removed from Lady Armitage’s insane clutches (and Tom Eames rescued, time permitting). This agreement was promptly followed by a disagreement about how to locate Alex’s missing house, which they enjoyed while dressing in their now-dried clothes. They became so heated in their opinions, they were on the verge of throwing each other to the floor and undoing all their good work with buttons and tuckings-in, when a knock sounded on the door. Alex drew his gun instantly. He waved for Charlotte to get out of sight, rolled his eyes with exasperation when she ignored him, and then carefully opened the door. “Good morning, sir,” Bixby said, standing in the corridor in a suit and bowler hat, a silver tray of folded newspapers set on his hand. “Miss,” he added, nodding past Alex’s shoulder to Charlotte. She blushed and hurriedly pulled on her coat as if that could hide all her sins. While it had occurred to her that people might learn of what she’d done, which would be bad, she had not appreciated until this moment that they might imagine what she’d done, which was exceedingly worse. And although Bixby’s expression was inscrutable, this offered little comfort. Charlotte was only too aware of the interesting thoughts that could take place behind a blank countenance. Alex, on the other hand, seemed entirely nonchalant about what his butler might be thinking. He holstered his gun and opened the door wider. “Newspapers, really?” he said tetchily. “Why didn’t you bring breakfast?” Bixby laid the tray on a sideboard then returned to the corridor. Seconds later he returned, pushing a food-laden trolley ahead of him into the room. “Hmph,” Alex said. “Thank you,” Charlotte added, smiling at the butler. He nodded brusquely, as if she had said something offensive but he was too well-trained to comment. They ate breakfast at a small table beside the window while Bixby stood nearby to attention, his eyes politely unfocused. Charlotte dared not offer him food. She did glance at him occasionally, however, still fretting about what he might be thinking. (Considering the state of the beds, it was actually not too hard to imagine what he was thinking about: sheet thread counts and the best laundry detergents.) He had explained that he’d landed safely after the collision with Miss Fairweather’s house, and having seen Charlotte and Alex descending gently under the power of the incantation, had felt unworried enough to spend the evening washing dishes and sweeping floors—or in other, more accurate words, drinking brandy and reading a George Eliot novel. Dawn had routed him to Rothbury House, where he made inquiries with the butler, Hooper, and exchanged packets of information according to secret household service protocol. Hooper informed him as to the whereabouts of a gentleman and oddly dressed lady. “I swear,” Alex said over a cup of hot black coffee, “you butlers rule the world behind our backs.” Charlotte laughed a little at this. Bixby stared ahead expressionlessly. After a small meal comprising only toast and eggs, baked beans, buttered muffins, fried tomatoes, and kippers, Alex took up the newspapers while Charlotte set about making the beds. She had got as far as gathering the sheets from the floor when Alex’s sudden curse word stopped her. “What’s wrong?” When Alex did not reply, so intent was he on reading the front-page article, Bixby supplied an explanation. “I suspect the captain has just learned that Miss Charlotte Pettifer of Mayfair has been kidnapped by the dread pirate Rotten O’Riley.” Charlotte stared at the butler. “Kidnapped? I? Outrageous!” She folded a sheet in half and flapped it so briskly it made a loud cracking sound. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alex flinch. “Next they will be describing me as—” “ ‘An innocent damsel of unimpeachable reputation,’ ” Alex read aloud from the newspaper. “Confound it!” Charlotte exclaimed. “How am I supposed to blackmail or swindle anyone from here on? They will just laugh at me!” “Nice picture of you, though,” Alex said. “Huh.” Charlotte folded the sheet again—at least if you understand fold as meaning bashed together in a fervent motion that created its own tiny cyclone—and the whole thing slid into disarray. Bixby, stepping over, quietly took one edge and moved back, separating the corners at his end. Charlotte copied him. “I wonder how they got the information,” Alex mused, drinking coffee as he read. “It was probably my cousin Eugenia,” Charlotte said, stepping toward Bixby so their sheet edges met. He took the whole thing, made a few quick maneuvers, and handed her back an immaculate rectangle of linen along with a brief, rare smile that seemed to communicate reassurance, kindness, and an admonishment to hereafter leave sheet folding to the professionals. The smile disappeared as soon as Charlotte gave her own in return. “You think your cousin would betray you to such a degree?” Alex was remarkably astonished for a man who had spent his life amongst pirates. “Oh yes,” Charlotte said as she set down the sheet. Snatching a pillow, she started yanking the cover from it. “Eugenia has always hated me for having been prophesized as Beryl Black’s true heir before she could be. Besides, she pours the milk into the bowl before the cereal. And calls me Char. There’s no end to her villainy.” She plumped the pillow so hard Bixby winced. “Maybe you should try to calm down,” Alex suggested. “I am calm.” The pillow exploded in a cloud of goose feathers. Alex and Bixby exchanged a wordless glance. Bixby was just stepping forward to take what remained of the pillow from her grasp when a knock came upon the door. Before Charlotte even saw them move, both pirate and butler had guns in hands. Without a word, Bixby hurried over to stand by the door while Alex pressed against the wall so as to peer carefully out the window. They glanced at each other again; Alex made some hand gestures. “Who is it?” he called out. “Only the housekeeper,” answered a high-pitched voice. “I have fresh towels for you.” Alex cursed under his breath. Holstering the gun, he pulled on his coat, slung his sword belt over one shoulder, then took Charlotte by the arm and tugged her toward the window. “I hope you were right about being able to climb down a building.” Charlotte frowned. “It’s just the housekeeper bringing towels.” “Immediately after breakfast, in an English pub?” Alex snorted with bleak humor. “But—” Charlotte protested. “There are policemen on the other side of that door,” Alex whispered fiercely. “The innkeeper must have seen the newspaper and tipped them off.” “Then we must tidy the room before we leave,” Charlotte said, trying to pull out of his grip. “Imagine what they will think!” “I’d rather imagine it than have them tell me while taking me to prison.” He threw an intense look at Bixby, who nodded in response. Apparently they had been in this situation often enough to need no words. Alex stepped onto a chair as if it were a stair, and then onto the breakfast table, his boots smashing plates and tea cups. Charlotte would have gasped in horror were she not distracted by being hauled bodily up to join him. She carefully nudged a teapot aside as Alex unlatched the window and flung it open. He took her hand and looked her coolly in the eye, and her stomach flipped with what felt awkwardly like lust and trepidation. “Bixby will divert them,” he said, “then bring the house round. But we have to go now.” Together, they looked out the window. Twenty feet below lay a paved courtyard that glinted like bared teeth in the morning light. Alex shrugged casually. “We can jump that.” Charlotte stared at him in incredulous horror. “Coo-ee,” came the voice through the door. Its falsetto rang out cheerfully, but the knock that followed was hard and brisk, and even Charlotte recognized it as the sound of a man whose sense of authority was exceeded only by his impatience. Her heart leaped. “I have an idea. Hold my hand.” Without questioning, Alex did as she asked, and she gripped him tightly. “Aereo,” she said. Her blood swooped as the incantation lifted them gently into the cool, fresh sunlight. She allowed them to rise, holding on tight to Alex’s hand and trying not to look down, until she felt certain within herself. Then she said, “Descendeo.” They started to plunge toward the ground. “Lente!” she called out hastily. “Descendeo lente.” Their bodies jolted as the rate of descent abruptly slowed. Alex grinned at her. “I’ve got to say, you really know how to get a man up.” “It’s fairly simple witchcraft,” Charlotte replied pedantically, and he laughed. “If you ever change, Charlotte Pettifer, I will hunt you down and kill you.” She frowned through windswept strands of hair. “I cannot decide if that is a threat or a compliment.” “It’s a joke, darling.” “Ah.” Her tone seemed to express that she considered joking equivalent to a cup of green tea—distasteful and to be politely ignored if at all possible. “Are you ready?” He bounced his eyebrows in reply. They somersaulted, and their booted feet hit the pavement in unison. Still holding hands, they leaped a low border of box shrubs and ran across the lawn toward an elm grove. From the inn came a shrill whistle as a policeman, leaning out the open window, sighted them. Most impudently, they failed to stop or to return to the inn so as to be arrested. “Will Bixby be all right?” Charlotte asked. The unenchanted words sounded odd, shallow, her voice crackling. “Sure,” Alex said. “Who blames the butler for anything?” Skipping over a fallen branch, they entered the grove. Their pace slowed, and Alex tugged Charlotte’s hand, pulling her toward him and kissing her. She clutched at his shoulders in an attempt to maintain her balance, and they stumbled back until she was pressed against a tree. It quivered slightly as if offended. “There should be a law against men like you,” she gasped between kisses. “There is,” he said, biting her earlobe. “Someone should lock you in a room and only let you out on Sundays.” “You just described my childhood.” She thrust fingers into his hair, tilting his head back so she could kiss his throat. “Who can I hire to have you beaten to a pulp?” “And you just described mine,” he said. “I thought we released this tension?” “These are mere reverberations, Captain,” she explained. “We will stop now.” “Absolutely. Stopping at once.” And he pressed his lips against hers with a kiss so deep she thought she’d drown in it, there amongst the trees. But a whistle squawked again in the distance, making little bursts of noise as if someone was blowing it while jogging, and they pulled back, looking at each other with rather blurred eyes. “If they’re chasing us now,” Alex said, “Bixby should be free to go get the house.” They ran on through the grove, motivated by calls of “Stop, thief!” “You know, I resent being called a thief when I haven’t yet been able to steal anything,” Alex grumbled. Past the trees, they came to a field, and as they ran across it they looked over their shoulders to see the stone cottage rising beyond the inn’s rooftop. But the policemen were coming faster, whistles shrieking. Alex evaluated the situation with calm, professional speed, then pointed to a tumbledown wall. They ran to it and, ducking behind, sat with their backs against the mossy stone, catching their breath. Alex smiled at Charlotte. “Are you having fun?” She frowned. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He laughed. But as he continued to regard her, his eyes darkened. His smile faded. Finally he shook his head. “Damn, you’re beautiful. And what—nineteen?” “Twenty-one,” she said warily. He shook his head again. “I haven’t been thinking straight. What happened last night—it was wrong—I’m sorry.” She flushed, taken aback by this unexpected statement. “I beg your pardon. If you found it so unpleasant, sir, you might have said at the time.” “No.” He reached out to touch her face, but she leaned away. “No, I mean it was—extremely nice. My God, it was incredible. But you’re an unmarried woman, and I’ve corrupted you. When your future husband realizes you’re not a virgin, what will you tell him?” “To angle slightly to the left, and rub with his thumb.” He laughed, despite himself. “Cecilia Bassingthwaite is younger than I am,” she said in a dangerous tone. “Cecilia’s a pirate,” he replied, and avoided being maimed only because her escape from several policemen in hot pursuit was dependent on his able-bodied presence. “I’m a witch,” she retorted. He frowned. “Don’t remind me.” “I’m also an adult woman who is capable of making her own decisions about what she wants to do in the company of a man. Your house just flew past.” Glancing up, he saw the house move away over the field. “Shit.” He stretched up to look over the wall. “How many?” Charlotte asked. He sat down again. “Four. I’m flattered.” “They’re coming for me, not you.” “Braggart.” The house began to circle back. Alex stood, pulling Charlotte up with him. In one swift, casual movement, he drew his gun, turned, and shot. A startled noise leaped from Charlotte’s throat even as a policeman’s helmet leaped from the head of its occupant. The policeman flung himself to the ground, yelping as he cowered. “Please tell me you didn’t miss your target,” Charlotte said rather shakily. “I didn’t miss my target,” Alex replied, tugging her into a run. “I may be a scoundrel, but I’m not a murderer.” They hurried across the field. Alex’s cottage swooped near and a rope ladder dropped from one window. He caught it. “Take hold and don’t let go,” he ordered Charlotte. “I can incantate—” “In front of the police? Take the bloody ladder.” She grasped hold of the swaying rope and clambered up onto its second rung. Immediately Alex moved behind her, standing on the lowest rung with his body protectively against hers as he clutched the rope above her hands. The house lifted, causing the ladder to swing wildly. “Keep holding on,” Alex said in Charlotte’s ear. “Stop right there!” shouted a policeman and blew his whistle furiously. Charlotte sighed. Men simply couldn’t help themselves, telling a woman what to do. As if she was stupid enough to either let go or stop and be caught! Really, Miss Plim was right: if males weren’t necessary for procreation and opening tightly lidded jars, womankind could get along quite nicely without them. Mind you, considering what Alex had done with his tongue last night, perhaps it was worth admitting his value for that alone. As the ladder swerved from side to side, Charlotte clung to it so tightly her hands burned. But she was unafraid, knowing the pirate would not let her fall. And if he did, she always had her own magic to catch her. They swooped over a cluster of pine trees and flew east toward the sea, leaving behind four breathless policemen, an unpaid innkeeper, and a highly shocked chambermaid.
Chapter 15