Scandalous. Part 11

"I don't know. I don't recognize it. But it makes sense. They might have figured that burying it was the best way of hiding it." He stroked a hand across the side of the large bag. "It's good-quality."

He set it upright and reached for the clasp. It had a lock that had once required a key, but now it dangled uselessly, obviously broken.

"John, look!" Priscilla was peering into the hole left by the bag. "There's something else in here." She reached down and pulled up a shoe.

"My G.o.d." John forgot the bag and its clasp for the moment and grabbed the shoe. He brushed the clinging dirt away from its soft leather surface and held it beside his foot. It was the same size. He raised his eyes, and he and Priscilla gazed at each other for a long, silent moment.

He pulled off the shoe Lady Chalcomb had lent him and slipped on the one Priscilla had found. It fit perfectly.

"It must be mine," he said in a faintly awed voice. "It fits my foot as if it were made for it."

Priscilla dug into the hole again, pulling out the other shoe and a tied bundle of clothes. She tore at the knot, and the bundle separated, a wallet falling from it and bouncing on the ground. John pounced on it eagerly.

"Empty," he said in disgust.

Priscilla shook out the clothes, holding the various garments up one by one. There was a white s.h.i.+rt and trousers and a jacket. Even though they were muddied and crumpled now, the clothes were made of excellent materials and were extremely well cut. A silk handkerchief was still tucked into the pocket of the jacket. Priscilla pulled it out. In one corner was an elegant embroidered monogram.

She smoothed her thumb across the thread. A, she read. "There's an A initialed on your handkerchief."

He reached across and took the handkerchief in his hand, studying it thoughtfully. "A. Well, that's something, I guess. If these things are indeed mine, then my last name should begin with an A." He gave her a rueful smile. "Leaves quite a bit open, doesn't it? What do you suppose I am, Adams? Aherne? Abernathy?"

"Abercrombie," Priscilla suggested. "Alden. Anderson. Aiken. Abbot."

"Allen. Lord, the list is endless. I wish one of them rang a bell." He pulled the sides of the bag apart and peered into it. "More clothes." He pulled out a small leather case and opened it. "A shaving kit." He pulled out brush, razor and mug, examining each in turn. "Nothing. Not even another monogram."

With a sigh, he closed the shaving kit and returned it to the bag. "It is obvious they took off with anything of value that was in there-and anything that might identify me."

"Do you suppose they meant to take what could identify you? Or were they just after the money and valuables?"

"I have no idea. Why would anyone want to hide my ident.i.ty? And they could hardly count on my not being able to remember who I was."

"Yes, but if you had not escaped, you would not be able to tell anyone who you were, even if you did remember."

"And why did they go to the trouble of burying my bag? Why not just toss it aside somewhere after they'd stripped it?"

"Perhaps they were afraid someone might see it and wonder about it, might even begin hunting around to see to whom the bag belonged."

He shrugged. "I suppose so. d.a.m.n! It's so frustrating not being able to remember anything. I feel completely useless."

"Not at all!" Priscilla protested stoutly. "You are not useless. You found your way back here, didn't you? And discovered this bag?"

"Which doesn't lead us anywhere."

"It might. You can't know for sure. Maybe when you dress in these clothes, you will start remembering. You haven't gone through every single thing in that bag. There might be something in one of the pockets of some garment that will tell us who you are. We know more than we did-we know that your name begins with an A. And at least you have clothes and shoes that fit now."

He smiled faintly. "That's true. That will be a major improvement, believe me. I have grown quite tired of hearing threads rip every time I move. You are, as always, correct." He took her hand, lifting it toward his mouth as if to kiss it, but he stopped at the sight of her narrow fingers, liberally covered with moist earth, the fingernails broken and grimy. He chuckled. "My dear lady, I can see that you have made a supreme sacrifice in our pursuit." He made a show of twisting her hand this way and that until he found a clean spot on the back of it to press his lips against.

Despite the joking way he did it, Priscilla found that the touch of his lips upon her bare skin sent s.h.i.+vers through her. She could tell from the way his eyes darkened that the kiss had not left him unaffected, either. He held her hand for a moment longer as he looked at her. Their fingers twined together. Priscilla remembered the way he had taken her hand earlier as they walked, and how right and natural it had seemed to be hand in hand with him. She remembered their kisses the other night in her father's study.

"Priscilla..." He leaned forward, at the same time pulling her gently toward him. Their lips met and clung. They did not touch anywhere except their joined hands and mouths, but that contact alone was dizzying. It was as if their pa.s.sion were so strong that they dared not press their bodies together. Their fingers gripped each other; their breath mingled hotly. Priscilla was aware of an ache deep in her abdomen, a pulsing, heated yearning that she had never felt before, a feeling so unaccustomed and stunning that it scared her.

John himself scared her-the sensations he could arouse in her, the power he could exercise over her when he chose, the way she melted at his touch. It made her feel weak, not in control of herself-and yet it was the most delightful thing she had ever experienced. When he kissed her, she wanted it to go on and on; she wanted more. She trembled, afraid, yet dizzy with excitement, eager and unknowing.

He pulled back first, drawing a long breath. "We cannot do this, not here."

Priscilla shook her head, agreeing with him, but she had to fight to keep her arms from going around his neck.

"G.o.d, I want you!" His voice throbbed with tamped-down desire. "But it is not safe. Who knows whether those two might be around?"

Priscilla nodded, struggling to control her thudding heart and rapidly pumping lungs. His hand came up and curved around her cheek; his thumb softly traced her lips. Priscilla's eyelids fluttered closed, and she drew a breath of such eager, innocent pa.s.sion that it shook his control. He wanted nothing more than to pull her back to him, to kiss and caress her until those breathy little pants and hungry moans were tumbling from her lips.

He wished very much that they were somewhere else, somewhere safe and secure, where he could take his time, could kiss and caress and tease. He wanted to peel her clothes from her and gaze upon the creamy flesh beneath. He wanted to see her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to touch them, to learn the exact tint of her nipples, to turn them into hard, pebbled points. Just thinking about it made him hot and hard. But he also knew that he would be a fool to expose her to the dangerous possibility that his attackers might return to this place and find them. Worse than a fool.

With a sigh, he forced himself to stand up, pulling her with him. "We have to go." His voice was hoa.r.s.e and short from the effort it took to restrain his pa.s.sions.

They started back through the woods, with Priscilla, more familiar with the area, leading the way. John, walking along behind her, found his eyes drawn more to the movement of her hips beneath her dress than to their surroundings. He drew his eyes away from her time and again, forcing himself to be more alert to who or what might be in the woods around them, but his mind stubbornly returned to the thought of what she would look like naked. It was a difficult journey home.

Things did not improve much when they got there, for they walked in to find Priscilla's father and Miss Pennybaker taking tea with three men. Priscilla groaned under her breath when she saw them in the drawing room.

"Priscilla!" Miss Pennybaker cried, jumping to her feet. Her thin face was flushed and smiling. "Look who has come to tea."

"h.e.l.lo, Reverend. Dr. Hightower." Priscilla greeted her father's two cronies, older men who regularly visited her father to discuss learned matters. But today there was a gray-haired gentleman with them, a large man with an upright carriage and piercing gray eyes whom Priscilla did not know.

"And this is General Hazelton," Miss Pennybaker went on enthusiastically. "He is a friend of the doctor's."

The general rose, as did the other men.

"I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Hamilton. I have been hearing wonderful things about you," the general said, turning to look at Miss Pennybaker, who blushed and glanced down modestly. "Miss Pennybaker has been telling me how accomplished you are. I am sure that is no small praise, for Miss Pennybaker is a woman of rare intelligence and taste."

Priscilla's eyes widened at that statement, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. Miss P. was a kind and well-meaning woman, and Priscilla was quite fond of her. But she would never have thought of describing the older woman's taste and intelligence in such glowing terms.

"Stop, please," Miss Pennybaker said coyly, letting loose a girlish giggle. "You will turn my head."

Miss Pennybaker and General Hazelton smiled at each other for a long moment, while everyone else looked on in varying degrees of amazement. Then the general turned back to Priscilla. Automatically Priscilla held out her hand to him, forgetting that she had not been able to wipe off all the grime and that her fingernails were still black with dirt. Seeing her hand as she held it out, however, she let out a little yelp at the sight of it and s.n.a.t.c.hed it back, clasping it with her other hand behind her back.

"I'm sorry. I am afraid I'm not in fit shape to receive company right now. I was...ah, mm...working in the, ah, garden, you see. I must wash up."

She backed away hastily, and the general, giving her an odd glance, turned toward John, extending his hand to him and saying, "Terence Hazelton, Her Majesty's army, retired."

"John Wolfe," John answered, holding out his own hand, which was in much the same condition as Priscilla's. "I was helping Miss Hamilton."

"I see." The general's steely gaze went from one of them to the other; he was obviously forming his own opinion about the situation. Priscilla was furious to feel herself blus.h.i.+ng, just as if she had done something wrong. Which she hadn't, she reminded herself. They had done nothing but kiss, and surely that was not a sin.

"Mr. Wolfe is a member of the family," Miss Pennybaker went on, to fill the awkward moment.

"Really?" Dr. Hightower turned toward Priscilla's father in surprise.

"Not immediate family," Florian corrected quickly. "A distant cousin from the United States."

"Ah," the vicar commented, understanding dawning on his face. Being from America explained all sorts of peculiar behavior, in his estimation. "I see."

"The United States, eh?" the general commented, beginning to smile. "I visited there once."

"Indeed?"

"Baltimore," he explained further. "Are you familiar with it?"

"No, I am afraid I don't live there," John returned quickly.

"Where are you from, then?" the doctor asked curiously. "I have been trying to place the accent. I'm usually good at that sort of thing, you see. Definitely American, but I think not from the South."

"No. I am not Southern." John strove to think of someplace he could remember anything about.

"I thought not." Dr. Hightower looked pleased with himself. "Let me think.... No, don't tell me, I'll get it in a minute. No swallowing your Rs, so that lets Boston out." He closed his eyes in thought. "My guess would be New York or its environs."

"Quite right." John smiled, desperately hoping that the man would not start asking questions about the city. He couldn't think of anything he knew about the place.

The doctor beamed. "Told you I could guess it. Of course, I'm much better with British dialects. I can pinpoint a British speaker to within ten miles of where he was born."

"Remarkable," John responded lamely. "If you will excuse me, I must change."

"Of course, of course." The vicar smiled at him benignly. "We don't mean to interfere with you young people."

John left quickly for his room off the kitchen, and Priscilla seized the opportunity to start for the stairs. However, the vicar's fond voice caught her before she could get out of the room. "A finely setup young man, Priscilla," he commented cheerfully.

Priscilla turned back to him, pressing her lips together in irritation. Her father's friends were both kind and intelligent men, always trying to help people. But they had for some reason taken it upon themselves to be Priscilla's private cupids, and over the years they had tried to matchmake for her with a number of young men. They were not picky; any man of approximately the right age and with a decent family and sufficient intelligence was quickly maneuvered into meeting Priscilla. Priscilla had tried scores of times to get them to stop their well-meaning but misguided efforts, but she had finally given up and simply saw the young men that they proffered, then kindly, but firmly, sent them on their way.

"Yes, Reverend, he is. He is also related to me."

"Distantly, my dear, distantly. It means his family is good, which is something one can never be sure of with Americans, you know."

Priscilla sighed. "I suspect it was probably a more scandalous branch of the family that emigrated to the United States. Besides, I think it is a poor decision to marry within one's family, even when it's legal. I mean, look at the Hapsburgs."

"My dear, I wasn't suggesting that you marry the young man," the vicar protested. "I was merely saying that he is probably an agreeable companion for you. Of course, if something more were to develop...I wouldn't think you would need to worry about weak minds and Hapsburg chins. After all, that royal family intermarried far more often and more closely."

"True," the doctor agreed. "How many generations ago did his family emigrate?" When Priscilla merely gazed at him blankly, he turned toward her father. "Florian?"

"What? Heavens, it must have been a hundred years ago or so. I am not really sure of the relation. I think my grandfather was cousin to his great-grandfather, or something of that sort."

"You mean you haven't discussed his genealogy?" the general asked, looking disapproving. "How do you know he is really your relative? He could be taking advantage of your hospitality, you know. There's a sort of rascally look about his eyes, if you ask me."

"Well, no one did," Florian responded, looking disgruntled. "I didn't outline his family tree with him. Americans are not in the habit of that sort of thing. Not a bad way to be. A man's brains and abilities are more important than his family, don't you think?"

The general snorted and asked if he was a d.a.m.ned egalitarian, and the vicar jumped in to soothe the suddenly troubled waters of the conversation. Priscilla seized the opportunity to slip out of the room unnoticed and run up the stairs. Quickly she scrubbed the dirt off her hands and changed into a clean dress, then brushed out her hair and pinned it back into its usual tidy roll. She paused for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. She had never been a woman who spent much time in front of mirrors, having always felt that there were more interesting things to do. She knew that she was not bad-looking, was even considered pretty by many men. Her figure was good, and her complexion was a creamy white. Her features were regular, and her gray eyes were large and dark-lashed. But her attractiveness, or lack of it, had never been her major concern. She had known that she was too smart and outspoken for most men, too poor for many others, and not breathtakingly beautiful enough to overcome such disadvantages. Suitors, she had found, were usually more trouble than they were worth in the long run.

But today she found herself lingering in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. Was her dress too plain? There was no decoration on it at all, not even a ribbon or ruffle. Was her coiffure too severe? It would flatter her more if her chestnut hair were fuller around her face. She wore it this way only because it took more time to do anything else to it.

Her hands went to her hair, starting to pull out the pins and start all over again, but she stopped herself. This was ridiculous. So what if she did not look as attractive as she might in front of John Wolfe? After all, there was no reason she should. She was not trying to get him to fall in love with her. It did not matter that he had kissed her pa.s.sionately; he had no serious intentions toward her, no real feeling. He was obviously a very pa.s.sionate man. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of his lips on hers, his arms around her. Anyway, she reminded herself, he had kissed her that way with her looking no better than she did now. She couldn't keep a little smile from curving her lips.

Then she shook herself sternly and started toward her door. She wanted to see if John had found anything after a further search of the traveling bag. She was not going to waste time primping.

Downstairs, she found him sitting at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea in front of him, as well as a plate of tea cakes. He was talking with Mrs. Smithson while she bustled about, was.h.i.+ng dishes and stirring various things in pots on the stove.

He stood up when Priscilla came quietly into the kitchen. She had managed to slip down the stairs and along the hall without being noticed by any of the people in the drawing room. Thank G.o.d the general had a loud voice.

She stopped, staring at John in his new clothes. If he had looked good before in Lord Chalcomb's old-fas.h.i.+oned, ill-fitting garments, he looked doubly handsome now. The soft white s.h.i.+rt and brown trousers were perfectly fitted to his tall, wide-shouldered frame; there was none of the comical aspect that her brother's too-small garments or Lord Chalcomb's hopelessly out-of-date ones had given to him. He looked powerful and imposing.

For a moment Priscilla was tongue-tied, struck by his handsomeness. Then she cleared her throat and said, "I can see that the case was yours. Those clothes were obviously tailored just for you."

He nodded. "Yes. Not that it does us much good. I practically took that bag apart, and I could find nothing that even hinted at who I am. The only thing the thieves left behind were a pair of cuff links, but they were plain, not even an initial on them. I may be dressed more comfortably, but I still know nothing about myself."

"That's not true," Priscilla said stoutly, crossing the kitchen to sit down at the table with him. "We know one thing-you must be a man of some substance. Those clothes are personally tailored and made of expensive materials. You must be well-to-do to dress like that."

"A well-off American," he said, encapsulating his knowledge about himself. "I could be thousands of people."

"A well-off American traveling through this part of England," Priscilla reminded him. "There must be some reason for your being here. Someone who is expecting you farther down the road. They will begin to search, surely, when you do not show up."

"That is provided that I really am expected by someone." He frowned. "I think my best chance is to find those men."

"The ones who kidnapped you?" Priscilla's voice vaulted upward. "But why? We've spent all this time trying to avoid them."

"I had no desire to be bushwhacked by them," he corrected her. "I want to meet them again, but on my terms. I want to be the one on the offensive. I shall have the element of surprise, not they."

"But there are two of them! Even if you do surprise them, you are still likely to get hurt."

"I will separate them if I can. Besides, I am almost back to full strength now. If I am prepared for them, they will not be able to take me down again."

"Just what do you suggest doing?"

"Going to town. I shall walk around and ask questions. See if I can catch sight of one of them. Or if anyone else has seen them."

"What good will it do you if you do find them?"

He smiled thinly. "I will persuade them to tell me who hired them. Once we find that out, I shall have a much better idea of who I am."

Priscilla scowled. His words made sense, but she did not like the idea of his exposing himself to danger that way. He might think, with his masculine pride, that he could take care of any number of men, but Priscilla was not so sanguine. These were wicked men, and they might have other cronies.

"You're right," she said finally. "That is our best option. We shall go to town."

"We?" he repeated. "I think not. I am going alone."

Priscilla sighed. He was the most stubborn man. "And how are you going to know where to go or who to ask in a strange town? Why, you don't even know how to get there."

He grimaced, crossing his arms across his chest and looking stubborn. "I am hunting for two rogues, Priscilla. I can hardly take a lady along with me."

"You need help, and I should think it would not matter if it came from a woman or a man."

"I refuse to expose you to danger. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"