When A Rogue Loves A Woman Page 5

  “No!”

  “Ma petite mademoiselle?”

  “Certainly not. What is your obsession with other languages?”

  He shrugged. “Most women find it charming.”

  “Not me.”

  “Little one it is then.” He glanced around the kitchen and found the pitcher of lemonade he had discovered in the larder whilst looking for a drink. “Did you come here for food? Or drink?”

  Patience huffed. There was no arguing with him. “Both ideally. I found myself quite hungry after dinner. The travelling must have whetted my appetite.”

  Nate tried not to consider any appetites that were being whetted at present. He poured a lemonade and set down the platter of cheese he had found on the table. They both sat, taking a chair next to one another. If Nate thought hard about it, he’d find he liked the quiet companionship that had settled over them but he really did not wish to be thinking of something dull like companionship for the moment.

  “Can you cook?” she asked, taking a chunk of cheese and taking a bit from it.

  “Do I look like I can?”

  “No.”

  “And you?”

  “Not really. I baked a few cakes with the cook when I was younger but I think my father complained about the smell.”

  He scowled. “The smell of cakes?”

  Patience gave a little laugh. “Yes, cakes of all things. I think he was not happy unless he could smell gunpowder or oil all the time.”

  “I imagine it’s a hard adjustment no longer living the military life.”

  She nodded. “Oh yes. I was too young to remember of course but my brother Harry says he missed the army sorely.”

  “I had pictured the same for myself once, but of course,” he motioned to his glasses, “these do not much help.”

  “I cannot imagine you enjoying the discipline of the army.”

  “Well, it was not so much the discipline I wanted but the adventure. There’s much to be said for one to have a goal in mind, so the military seemed perfect. You are forever being given a new goal.”

  “Yes, that always appealed to me too.”

  He peered at her. “You envy your father and brothers for going off to war?”

  “Why would I not? They are afforded the ultimate opportunity to protect their country. What can I do? Stay at home and raise morale? I think we have enough finer ladies than I to do such things.”

  “You forget the main risk of war, which is, well, dying. I do not think your family would be too happy about that.”

  “My family live and breathe the military. With the exception of my mother. She tends to do her own thing and ignore it all when she can. I think sometimes it’s too much for her to deal with—all her sons off fighting battles and such. But my father and his father and even my uncles have done nothing but serve.”

  “And here you are, unable to follow in their footsteps.”

  “I am not so foolish to romanticize war, Nathaniel.” She took a long sip of lemonade and he found himself distracted by the arch of her neck while she drank. “But it always makes me wish I was doing something.”

  “Now you are.”

  “Yes, as are you. But I still do not need your help, regardless of what you say.”

  Nathaniel gave a dramatic sigh. “And here I thought we were finally coming to an understanding.”

  She peered at him with an odd sort of smile. “I do not think we will ever understand each other, Nathaniel.”

  “Nate,” he corrected.

  “Nate,” she said, albeit with a little uncertainty. “You are a wealthy second son with all the advantages the world can offer you. I am a supposedly gently bred woman whose only goal in life is to find a husband. You can imagine how many offers I have had so far.”

  He did not protest. Patience would have a reasonable dowry but she had no connections and the mere fact she wore men’s clothes would put off a potential husband in an instant.

  “Not that I ever want any, anyway. I would rather die alone than marry.”

  “Come now, we are not all so terrible.”

  She lifted her chin. “I have yet to meet a man who can convince me otherwise.”

  Nate wondered if he should consider that a challenge but he strongly suspected he was not the man to do so. He could tell her that he was not simply sitting around and twiddling his thumbs while men died at war but firstly, it was too risky to tell anyone else about their smuggling antics, and secondly, he could not quite decide if such information would raise him up in her eyes or lower him, considering her probably rule-bound military background. Better to remain quiet and let her think whatever she wanted of him. In the meantime, he would try to keep his attention from her breasts and those strong legs and focus on the mission at hand.

  He glanced at her cleavage.

  He would. Definitely.

  Chapter Eight

  “You shall wear a hole in the carpet.”

  Patience glowered at Nate. It was well enough for him—he was used to sitting around with nothing to occupy him. Not her, though. If she was not out riding or shooting or going to town, she was cleaning the house or helping Mama organize her paints. She had never spent so long with so little to do.

  “She should have arrived by now. She must know.”

  “Madame Pauline may well be delayed.”

  She shook her head vigorously and peered out of the window of the drawing room. People came and went below them, like little figurines darting between the buildings of the town. But there was no sign of this French woman.

  “We cannot sit around forever. What if she never arrives? What if she’s heard that Mr. and Mrs. Smith are gone? If she is a smart woman, she shall know we are not them.”

  “If she is a smart woman.”

  “You think she is not?”

  He lowered the paper he was holding. “I certainly would not choose to get involved with Napoleon were I a beautiful, married lady.”

  Patience fixed him with a glare. “You assume she had a choice. Perhaps the smart decision was to be involved with him.”

  Nate huffed. “Regardless of whether she is a smart woman or not, we can do little else but wait.”

  “In the meantime, she might be fleeing to London.”

  He shook his head. “We know she knows no one else. Where would she go? She is likely penniless and utterly alone. From those letters, it was clear she wished to see her cousin.” He grinned as she began pacing again and thrust the paper at her. “Here, read this. You cannot pace and read at the same time.”

  “I’m in no mood for reading,” she snapped.

  He shrugged and tucked himself back behind his paper.

  With a huff, Patience stomped out of the room. Let him sit and read, and be dull. She was not willing to do the same. After two days of sitting around and waiting, she was ready to tear down the walls. Especially when it meant being confined in a house with Nathaniel Kingsley. There was something about that man that made her want to simultaneously swipe that smug smirk off his face and then sit there and stare into his eyes all day and try to understand what made him tick.

  Which was ridiculous. In spite of their conversation on the first night, she knew there was nothing spectacularly deep about him. Yes, he spoke of his brother and his desire to carve his own path, but honestly the man was doing that anyway. And he was mostly carving it through all the eligible ladies in Cornwall.

  No, there were no secrets to be revealed about Nate. He was what he seemed—an arrogant, flirtatious, shameless rogue. She would learn nothing more from being in his presence.

  Patience strode through the house and down the steps to the kitchen where Joyce had disappeared later that day. The acrid scent of something burning made her wrinkle her nose. As she entered the kitchen, she winced. A layer of smoke hung high up in the ceiling and the stench grew worse.

  Joyce spun upon hearing her footsteps. Strands of dark hair stuck out at all angles from underneath a white cap and sweat beaded her brow. There were streaks of orange and black on her apron and a few smudges of black on her face. The evidence of this disaster was scattered across the kitchen in the form of copper pans on the stove, some revealing singed remains of what was perhaps once food, while flour was dusted across the table.

  “You caught me,” Joyce said, swiping her hands on her apron.

  Patience scooped up some of the pots and placed them into the sink before grabbing a cloth, wetting it and wringing it out. She began wiping down the table.

  “I can’t cook,” Patience said, “but I can clean.”

  Joyce grabbed a cloth to help with the table. “It’s seems to be one of those days. Everything has gone wrong.”

  “Mistakes happen,” Patience said softly, noting the real distress in Joyce’s face.

  “I cannot recall ever burning anything before. I do not know what’s wrong with me.”

  Patience rinsed out the cloth and gave the table another wipe until all the debris was gone and the surface gleamed. She started work on one of the pots and grimaced at the charred remnants of food that was now glued to the bottom of it.

  “If you show me, I can help if you would like. I could do with something to keep me occupied.”

  Joyce smiled. “Some help would be wonderful. I’m the same, I cannot stay still for long.”

  “Unlike Nate. He seems to have no problem sitting around.”

  “Lord Nathaniel does not strike me as a man who lazes around.”

  “He is doing a fine job of it up there.” Patience thrust a finger toward the ceiling.

  “You do not think much of him do you.”

  Patience frowned. That made her sound so condescending. Really Nate had done little to offend her if one ignored the rather lewd comments. His main fault was having agreed to help her brother and as much as she wanted to do this alone, she could not blame a man for wishing to help a friend.

  “I do not know him that well,” Patience explained. “We have lived in the same village all our lives but we’ve never had occasion to get to know one another.”

  “Well, now is your chance.”

  Patience blew a strand of hair from her face and scrubbed furiously at the pot. Flakes of burned food coated her hands in a satisfying way as she defeated the grime. Get to know him? She wished Joyce had not popped that idea back into her head. Had she not already dismissed trying to understand the depths of Nathaniel Kingsley?

  “Do you think we are doing the right thing? Sitting and waiting for Pauline?” she asked after Joyce had finished putting away the clean utensils.

  Joyce laughed. “I’m not the person to ask.”

  “You likely have more experience than I do in these matters if you keep house for government officials and suchlike.”

  “I try to stay out of the way. I’m happier cooking than I am getting involved in governmental affairs. As long as I can keep everyone well-fed, I am happy.”

  Patience envied the woman in many ways. To be so content with one’s lot in life would be pleasant indeed.

  “I cannot stay sitting around for much longer,” Patience declared as she dried a pot and put it away. “We should be out finding her!”

  “They are not your orders.”

  “Our orders are to get the information she has. No one said we had to pose as these cousins, merely that it was the simplest way. Well, frankly, I think it’s daft.”

  Joyce tilted her head. “What do you intend to do?”

  “A beautiful French woman will surely draw attention. Someone will know something of her.”

  “If you ask questions, you could draw unwarranted attention her way.”

  “I can be subtle,” Patience insisted.

  Joyce lifted a shoulder. “It is not my place to tell you what to do, my dear.”

  Patience grinned. “You will not stop me?”

  “Stop you from what?” Joyce batted her lashes at her.

  Resisting the desire to give the woman a big peck on the cheek, Patience rinsed off her filthy hands. “I shall help with dinner but once it gets dark, I intend to go out. You can tell Nate I am in my room with a headache.”

  “You will not be taking him with you?”

  “I don’t need a man getting in my way.”

  Joyce shook her head and smiled. “They do have their uses, you know.”

  “Not that man,” Patience declared. “He is entirely useless.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dinner had been a less ambitious affair of stew followed by custard in the end. It was hardly French cuisine but at least Patience’s stomach was not rumbling and, if she was honest, after seeing the disaster in the kitchen, she had little appetite for something cooked.

  She paused once she had slipped past the house and around the corner to tuck her hair into a floppy, slightly worn cap. It had belonged to her brother years ago, but given her size, it still fit her. The bindings around her breasts made breathing difficult but it was necessary. As Nate had so rudely and inappropriately pointed out, she was rather well endowed. If she was to remain inconspicuous, it was far easier to be an urchin boy than a woman in breeches. Thankfully the jacket she wore covered what the bindings could not quite disguise. She chuckled to herself. There was only so far one could crush one’s breasts.

  She made her way down the street toward the first inn she could find. Though she had visited Falmouth before, she could not claim to know her way around, so she forced herself to remember every turn she took so she could find her way back to the house with ease.

  A chill wrapped about her, eating under the thin, battered jacket. A lamplighter worked ahead, climbing his ladder and lighting the way for her. There were still people on the streets but most of the well-to-do were at home, safely tucked in warm homes. A few bundles of fabric huddled into corners turned out to be homeless people with nowhere else to go. Patience shuddered, grateful she had a house to return to.

  The amber glow seeping from clouded windows invited her in. The pub was crowded, mostly with men. A few women of loose morals clung to the necks of relatively well-dressed gentleman. A hoppy aroma imbued the air.

  No one paid her any attention. She sucked in a breath and inched her way past some men playing an intense game of cards. Scattered goods were being gambled away including pocket watches, a ring, and even a set of teeth. Patience wrinkled her nose and made her way to the busiest part of the room.

  Pressed up against the wall, she observed the scene before her. She had been to many travelling inns but never a pub like this. Now that she had the chance to stop and think about it, she was not quite that sure how she was to find out about this woman. None of the men looked at all approachable and most were deep into their cups. Perhaps if she simply waited and listened, she might find something out, though the din of laughter and masculine gossip that echoed through the building made it quite hard to distinguish anything of importance.

  She waited until her feet and back began to ache, and a few people glanced her way before moving on. Patience continued this routine—visiting an inn, waiting around, hoping to spy someone who might look French or hoping for some tidbit of information. At the fourth pub, her efforts finally paid off. A lady of the night complained about someone with a French accent but the words were muffled by a loud bellow of laughter.

  Swinging a glance at the women, Patience debated how to approach them and find out more. She need not have worried. A dark-haired woman approached, her dress low on her breasts and large amounts of makeup on. Patience stiffened.

  “You look lonely,” the woman said, her voice a low, husky tone.

  “I-I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You have no drink or company. I’ve seen you looking my way.”

  Patience shook her head at the woman. Her dress was a deep purple and frayed around the arms. A simple comb held her hair back while curls spiraled haphazardly around her face. There was no doubting what she was, even if she had not spoken to Patience.

  “I’m Rose,” she said. “If you’re looking for your first experience, I can give it to you. Many of the men here will tell you I am the best.” She grinned. “And I’m cheap.”

  She shook her head again. “No, I don’t need…that is…I am not here for my first experience.” She paused and took a breath. “I was actually looking for a French woman.”

  Rose scowled and pursed her lips. “Why the devil would you want a French woman? Are English women not good enough for you? Aren’t you a patriot?”

  Patience had to bite back a laugh. If bedding English whores was the only thing that made one a patriot, she knew many people who were not.

  “I have coin,” she offered, “if you can tell me of any French women.”

  The woman’s scowl softened. “You really fancy yourself a French bit of quim, eh?”

  Certain she was pale as a ghost at the unsavory language, Patience dug out three shillings from her jacket pocket and handed it to her. “What do you know?”

  Rose stuffed the coins into her cleavage. Patience tried not to think about how many other coins she might have there and how on earth she kept them safe. Surely when she undressed, coins would scatter everywhere? These were life problems that she had never had to consider before, for certain.

  “Well, there are no French women here to be sure.”

  “That’s all you know?”

  The woman smiled and leaned in. “You shall cost me business tonight, boy. If it looks like I can’t even sway a virgin lad into bed, what does that say about me?”

  “How about we step outside and you can wait sometime before returning? Then everyone shall think I took up your offer.”

  She tapped a gloved finger to her lips, then nodded. Taking Patience’s hand, she led her out through the front door and onto the street. The sides of the building were shadowed so they stopped there.

  “How old are you?” Rose asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Your hands are small,” she said. “You’re a bit young for a Frenchie I think. You really would be better off with an English woman.”

  “Rose, can you tell me about any French women locally?”