Scandalous. Part 12

"It isn't difficult to understand. I simply refuse to accept your decision. I intend to help you."

"Why are you so stubborn?" He glared at her.

She glared back. "Why are you?"

He ground his teeth noisily, and Priscilla thought for a moment that he might explode into shouting. But he contented himself with bringing his fist down with a loud thud on the table and saying, "d.a.m.n! It's a wonder no one has ever strangled you before now. All right; come with me."

If the truth be known, he really wasn't as furious with her as he made out to be, as he knew he should be. He enjoyed her company; he liked to hear her laugh, to hear her quick, intelligent comments, to look over at her as they walked along. It had been fun having her with him today, and even though he knew he was probably a scoundrel to let her endanger herself this way, he actually looked forward to having her accompany him.

"I don't suppose that it would stop you, even if I said you could not come," he said wryly.

Priscilla smiled. "That's true."

She could see Mrs. Smithson, over at the stove, shaking her head despairingly as she stirred one of the pots. Priscilla knew quite well what she was thinking-and would say, given the first opportunity: "Why are you so terrible independent-acting? You'll never get yourself a husband that way, Miss Priscilla."

Her retort, always, was that she neither needed nor wanted a husband. But she found herself looking now at the man sitting at the table with her and wondering if that was still true. What if the husband was a man like John Wolfe? What if there was an aura of mystery and danger that clung to him? What if there was a wonderful zest to arguing with him-and the man didn't hold a grudge forever because you'd won? What if his kisses stirred her as John's did, and his merest touch made her tremble?

She was shocked at the course her thoughts were taking. She was not interested in marrying John Wolfe. There was no reason to change her vow not to marry just because this man had a charm and looks that other men had not. It was ridiculous even to be thinking about the subject. She was certain that he would not have any interest in marrying her, either. What he was interested in was an altogether different thing. Of course, she realized, if she was to be honest with herself, she was interested in that other thing, also. It was desire that drew her to John, not love or a yearning for marriage. Why, she barely knew the man. All it could be was pure animalistic pa.s.sion. She was a freethinking woman, and she was willing to admit that women felt desire, too, without necessarily feeling any love or willingness to marry. It was a position she had argued many times. However, she had never really thought about such a thing happening to her.

She gave him a quick sideways glance, her heart speeding up inside her chest. His eyes met hers, and something changed subtly in his face. Priscilla looked away. She had the awful feeling that he knew what she was thinking. She sneaked another peek at him. He was still watching her, his eyes warm and searching. It was difficult this time to look away. She was certain now that his mind was on the same track as hers.

It was a relief to hear the visitors' voices in the hall as they left the drawing room. Priscilla jumped to her feet. "I-I should say goodbye to the vicar."

John rose more slowly, following her as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the front door. The older men turned to Priscilla with a smile, taking her hand as they said their farewells. The vicar patted her shoulder in an avuncular way. They nodded at John and said polite things about meeting him. Then they were gone, and Miss Pennybaker, giving them a final wave and smile, closed the door.

"Well!" Florian said, releasing a big sigh of relief. "Thank G.o.d that's over."

Priscilla and Miss Pennybaker looked at him in surprise. "I thought you liked the vicar's visits," Priscilla said mildly.

"I do. Nothing wrong with Whiting, except a liking for dreadfully sentimental poetry. But why did Hightower have to bring that army fellow?"

"General Hazelton?" Miss Pennybaker stared at him. "Why, he seemed like a fine man to me."

"What was wrong with the general, Father?" Priscilla asked, linking her arm through his and starting back with him toward the drawing room.

"Don't like military men, never have."

"But you approved of Gid getting a commission in the army."

He waved that idea aside. "Couldn't stop him. Nothing else to do there. The boy was dead set on it. I hope he will come to his senses one of these days. But that man chose to be military all his life."

"I see," Priscilla agreed gravely. "That would make a difference."

"He is not a scientist," Florian went on.

"He was quite intelligent, though," Miss Pennybaker protested mildly. "He sounded most knowledgeable regarding the habits of insects. You remember, when Dr. Hightower was discussing his b.u.t.terfly collection."

"Yes," Florian agreed, although it seemed to Priscilla that he did so with some reluctance. "I suppose that is what Hightower sees in him. I personally was never that fond of insects."

"He was quite attentive to you, Miss P.," Priscilla pointed out, then smiled at the way her former governess fell into rosy blushes at her words.

Florian cast a look of irritation at Miss Pennybaker. "Made a cake of himself, is what."

Priscilla turned a speculative gaze upon her father. He sounded, well, almost jealous. She had long felt that her governess held an unrequited love for Florian, but he hardly seemed to notice her, except as someone who was willing to copy down his notes. Could it be that the general's fulsome compliments had awakened him to some feelings for Miss P.?

"Too lavish with his compliments, eh?" John asked, barely suppressing a quiver of amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. Priscilla glanced over at him and saw that his eyes were dancing. He grinned at her, and Priscilla could not help but return it. "I hate it when a fellow is like that."

"Absolutely," Florian replied, looking pleased at their guest's understanding. "Never can trust a man when he's too flowery."

Priscilla chuckled. "And why is that, Papa? Because he gets all the ladies?"

Florian shot her a sour look. "It shows a lack of regard for the truth."

"Even when the compliments are true? I am sure he was speaking no falsehood when he complimented Miss P." She smiled at the older woman.

"Now, Priscilla, you don't know that," Miss Pennybaker told her modestly. "I am sure he was merely being polite." But Miss Pennybaker could not hide the pleased sparkle in her eye, or the glow that illuminated her face.

Priscilla pulled at her father's arm, slowing him down so that Miss Pennybaker and John walked on ahead of them. Going up on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, "Looks like General Hazelton has stolen a march on you, Papa. You had better get started, or you will lose her altogether. You know, there's something very attractive about a man in uniform."

Florian gaped at her. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"It is obvious to me that you need help. Or else the general's going to sweep Miss P. away, right out from under your nose."

"Don't be absurd," Florian told her gruffly.

"Now, Papa..."

"I am going to my study. I have a great deal of work left to do. Their visit ruined the whole afternoon." He pulled away and stalked off down the hall to his study.

Miss Pennybaker and John turned and watched him. Miss Pennybaker asked puzzledly, "Now, what is the matter with Mr. Hamilton? You know, he did not seem himself today."

A smile curved Priscilla's mouth. "Perhaps he was not, Miss P. And that just might be a good thing."

She smiled and turned away, leaving Miss Pennybaker staring after her in confusion.

CHAPTER NINE.

PRISCILLA AND JOHN KEPT UP A LIGHT CHATTER as they walked into the village two days later, trying to look as if they were doing nothing more than taking a stroll. After a few minutes of polite nothings, Priscilla was running out of things to say. Finally, she inquired mundanely how he had slept the night before.

"Well," he replied with a wry smile. "But none too long. I started reading one of your books."

"What?" Priscilla turned her head sharply. Her heart sped up. How had he found out about her books?

He gave her an odd look. "I said, I read a book last night. I picked it up in your library. I presumed it belonged to you, since it wasn't scholarly."

"Oh." Priscilla relaxed in relief. "I see. Yes, it probably did belong to me. What was it? How did it disturb your night?"

"It was an adventure story. The Lost City of Lankoon. Written by a man named Pruett, I believe. Quite an exciting yarn."

"Really? You liked it?" Priscilla smiled. Elliot Pruett was her pen name. He really had read one of her books, although, thank goodness, he obviously had no idea that she had written it.

He nodded. "Had trouble putting it down. That's why I didn't go to sleep till late." He did not mention that thoughts of their kisses the day before had kept him up, too; it was those thoughts that had driven him into the library, searching for something to take his mind off the erotic visions in his mind's eye.

"That's wonderful!" Priscilla beamed. "I mean, not wonderful that you didn't get enough sleep, but I am glad that you enjoyed the book."

"Got a bit wrong about Singapore, but-" he shrugged "-that doesn't matter. It didn't interfere with the story."

"What was wrong?" Priscilla bristled.

"Nothing much." He gave her a slightly puzzled look. "Misplaced the Market a little, that's all."

Priscilla started to protest the slight on her book. She had, after all, gotten all her information about Singapore from a very informative travel book written by the wife of a British sea captain. Then she realized how foolish she would sound to him. On the heels of that came another realization.

She came to a dead halt, staring at John. "Wait."

He turned and looked at her questioningly.

"Don't you see it? How did you know that the book was wrong?"

"Because I-" He came to a lame halt. "I don't know. I just knew. I-I can picture the city. The Market. Do you think I have been there?"

"How else would you know?" Priscilla's voice rose in excitement.

"You're right. I had not thought about it. How else could I be so certain?" They looked at each other for a long moment. "Well," he said finally, "then I am an American-with nice clothes-who is in England and who has once visited Singapore."

"A world traveler, obviously."

They began to walk again, quiet and thoughtful. After a few moments Priscilla said, "Perhaps you are a merchant who deals in goods from the Orient."

"Or a sea captain."

"Or simply someone of wealth who likes to travel."

"Perhaps I am an adventurer, like Mr. Pruett's Captain Monroe, who goes around the world rescuing orphans and saving young ladies while recovering vast treasures."

Priscilla chuckled. "Now why didn't I think of that? I am sure it must be so."

John a.s.sumed a wounded air. "Do you think I don't fit the mold?"

"Indeed, since I have never met a man like Captain Monroe, I am not sure what the 'mold' is."

"I would say 'uncommonly brave, unusually handsome and n.o.ble to a fault' would do."

"A perfect picture of you," Priscilla agreed with mock gravity. She hesitated briefly, then said, "You know, I think you spoke an Oriental name when you were in your fever."

He looked at her keenly. "What else did I say?"

Priscilla could not keep a blush from touching her cheeks. She was not about to tell him of the way he had fondled her-or the way she had shamelessly responded to it. "I-I'm not sure. It was garbled."

Something like relief flashed across his face. Priscilla wondered if he, too, had some memory of their kiss. Had he wondered whether it had been real or just a delirium-induced dream?

They walked along, neither of them speaking, until they came to the first straggling outskirts of the village of Elverton. Their first stop was the vicarage, a small gray stone house beside an old church built of the same material. The vicar's wife, a small, white-haired, tidy woman, greeted Priscilla with a smile and a quick glance of curiosity toward John.

"My dear, my dear, come in. I am so happy to see you." She took Priscilla's shoulders in her hand and leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek, then turned toward John. "And you must be Priscilla's cousin from America. Cyril told me all about meeting you the other day. Shame on you, Pris, for not telling me about him."

"I, ah... It must have slipped my mind," Priscilla replied lamely.

Mrs. Whiting gave her an admonis.h.i.+ng look.

"Actually," John stuck in quickly, "you must not blame Cousin Priscilla. It was my fault. I was not presentable to meet anyone. I had nothing to wear, save the clothes on my back. The bags I was carrying were stolen."

Priscilla glanced at him, startled. She had not expected him to reveal the truth to the vicar's wife. She was rea.s.sured, however, by his next words.

"Ruffians, you see, waylaid me on the road here and stole my possessions. I had to wait until my trunk arrived by train."

Mrs. Whiting was quick with her sympathy, Priscilla's transgression forgotten at the prospect of more exciting gossip. "You poor thing," she said, leading them into the drawing room and ringing for tea. "You must tell me all about it. What happened?"

"They jumped on me from behind and struck me on the head. Took me completely by surprise. By the time I came to, I was alone, my bags gone, and I had a large lump on the back of my head."

The vicar's wife tsk-tsked and opined that the world was coming to a sad state when a man was not even safe traveling the roads.

"I regret losing my bags," John went on sadly. "You see, they held pictures of my parents. I was bringing them to show my British cousins. They were of great sentimental value to me."

Mrs. Whiting drew in a quick breath. "How awful for you!"

"I wish I could find the men. I don't know where they went. Perhaps they came here to Elverton."

Mrs. Whiting looked thoughtful. "I haven't heard of any strangers in the area. Of course, men of that sort would not likely be ones I would see or hear about." She stopped, a look of realization dawning on her face, and turned to look at Priscilla accusingly. "So that was why you were here asking me all those questions about the most recent gossip! Honestly, Pris, why didn't you just tell me what you wanted?"

"I, well, I was afraid it would get out that-that Cousin John was here, and I, well, we didn't want anyone to pay calls. You see, he had no clothes fit for company, and-"

"What nonsense! As if I would tell anyone."

Mrs. Whiting looked indignant. Priscilla, knowing how eagerly the woman chatted to everyone about everything she heard, had to press her lips together to hide a smile.

"I am sure Cousin Priscilla thought no such thing," John a.s.sured the older woman smoothly. "She was quite worried, you see, about my safety. She feared the men might return to finish me off, to keep me from telling the authorities about them."

"Then you saw their faces!" Mrs. Whiting exclaimed. "That will make it much easier to locate them. What did they look like?"

"I am afraid I did not get the best look at them, actually. It was at night." He described both the short and the tall man.

Mrs. Whiting listened intently, but shook her head. "No...I have not seen them or heard anything about them, unfortunately. But I shall ask around for you. People do tend to tell me things, you know. Though, naturally, I would never tell anyone's secrets." She cast a wounded glance at Priscilla again.