The Wolf's Promise

Angelica patted her lips with her napkin and stood up decisively. She wouldn’t obtain any answers dawdling over her breakfast.

The door to the library was properly closed this time, but she turned the handle without hesitation. It was a larger room than she had anticipated, and she paused on the threshold, taken aback by its size and bright airiness. There were windows on two sides, and broad, clear beams of morning sunlight streamed in to illuminate the books and furnishings. A cheerful fire burned in the grate—but what caught her eye and completely arrested her attention was a picture over the chimney breast.

‘That’s not real!’ she exclaimed, forgetful of everything else in her surprise.

Benoît had been sitting at a large desk, but he stood up at her entrance.

‘I hate to contradict you,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I’m afraid it is.’

‘But those colours…’ Angelica stared at the picture. She guessed it portrayed a scene from somewhere in the Caribbean; she had seen many engravings of similar scenes. What had transfixed her were the colours. She couldn’t imagine that the sky or the sea could ever be such vivid, vibrant hues.

‘I was there when the artist painted it,’ said Benoît, watching her fascinated, disbelieving expression. ‘I can assure you that it’s a faithful record of what he saw.’

Angelica went to stand beneath the picture, half raising her hand towards it. She still found it hard to credit that such lucid, brilliant colours could be real.

‘Have you never left England, my lady?’ Benoît asked quietly, coming to stand beside her.

She shook her head mutely, unable to take her eyes off the painting. After the dark gloom of an English winter, and the bleak, anxious journey she had made the previous day, the vibrant colours seemed to sing within her, satisfying a hunger she hadn’t even known she had had.

‘The quality of the light is quite different,’ said Benoît, ‘even in the Mediterranean. And the Caribbean is a whole new world. How long was Harry at sea before he was captured?’

‘A year,’ said Angelica distantly. ‘He was so eager to go. He was in a frigate on the way back from the West Indies when…’

‘Then when you see him again, you must ask him to verify the truth of my picture,’ said Benoît lightly.

Angelica turned slowly, still dazzled by what she had just seen and lifted her eyes to his face. With the splendour of the Caribbean sun behind her, she suddenly realised his tanned skin could owe nothing to a dark English winter. She had been so sure he was a smuggler that she had missed some obvious clues. When she had first laid eyes on him she’d even thought he looked more like a pirate than a smuggler, but then she’d dismissed the idea.

‘If you’re not a smuggler, what are you?’ she blurted out, sounding completely disorientated.

He grinned, and she saw a flash of strong, white teeth against his dark skin. There was a glinting light in his eyes which was almost a challenge.

‘I told you, my lady. I’m a respectable businessman.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly.

He laughed aloud, an unexpectedly full-bodied sound which only served to strengthen the image of piracy in her mind. She had a confused image of him standing on a quarterdeck, a cutlass in his hand, as his crew boarded a helpless merchantman.

‘You’re the second person to call me a liar this morning!’ he remarked. ‘Now Sir William knows I’m so lacking in the honourable qualities of a gentleman that I’m unlikely to call him to book for his words—but what about you, my lady? I can’t call you out, but I could turn you out. Oh, no, you’re leaving anyway so that threat lacks force. How would you suggest I obtain satisfaction?’

A familiar, slow smile played on his lips, and the challenging gleam in his dark eyes was very evident now. He was standing relaxed, yet poised, and there was no mistaking the provocative way in which his gaze lingered on her eyes, her hair and her rosy lips.

She gazed back at him, her blue eyes wide and questioning, her lips parted slightly in surprise. She had tried to convince herself that she had misinterpreted what had happened earlier; but the fiery spark of intimacy she had sensed between them in the dining room was even stronger now—and this time there was no maid to interrupt them.

Despite her attempt to remain cool and detached, Angelica’s heart beat out an uncontrollable rhythm of excitement. Men had flirted with her before, but never like this—if Benoît was flirting. He had not uttered a single elegant compliment. But she could feel the virile power of his personality, even across the few feet of empty space which separated them. It half-frightened her, but it also made her blood sing.

She had spent the whole of her life comparing other men to her father—and none of them had ever measured up to him. She didn’t know whether Benoît was a smuggler, though he was certainly involved in some shady business; he might even be a French spy—but dealing with him could never be boring.

She turned slightly away from him, resting her fingers gently on a large globe. She’d finally recovered her self-possession, and it was time he learnt that she couldn’t be overawed by a quick tongue and a bold look. She was the Earl of Ellewood’s daughter—not a giggling chambermaid.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said lightly. ‘I believe, in an affair of honour, it is the gentleman who receives the challenge who has the choice of weapons, is it not?’

‘Are you suggesting you have already challenged me, my lady?’ Benoît raised one quizzical black eyebrow. ‘I thought it was the other way around.’

‘Is it?’ She paused, her hand poised delicately just above the globe, a faint smile on her lips. ‘In that case, I will choose no weapons and thus you will have no opportunity to show me your mettle.’

‘A very feminine solution to the problem,’ he retorted. ‘It ensures that you can accuse me of any dark deed you wish, secure in the knowledge that if I dispute your interpretation, you will refuse to pick up my gage.’

‘If you were a gentleman…’

‘But we have already established that I am not.’

‘…you would not contradict a lady’s opinion,’ Angelica concluded serenely.

‘But think how insulted you would feel if I were foolish enough to imply that you are incapable of understanding complex ideas,’ he retaliated. ‘I’ve made that mistake once already, my lady.’

‘So you have.’

With a quick flick of her wrist, Angelica set the globe spinning. Oceans and continents flashed beneath her hand, merging into each other as the world revolved.

She had a giddy feeling that she had set much more in motion this morning than she fully realised. She didn’t know how to stop it and she didn’t know if she wanted to do so. She hadn’t realised just how frustrated she had become with the enclosed life she’d led for the past eighteen months.

Benoît reached past her and stilled the globe with a deft touch.

‘I’ve always had an ambition to circumnavigate the world, but perhaps not at quite such a breakneck speed,’ he observed dryly.

‘You mean you haven’t already done so!’ Angelica exclaimed in mock amazement, seizing gratefully on the change of topic.

‘Not yet. As I believe I’ve mentioned several times, I’ve been earning a living. But one day I fully intend to sail in the wake of Vasco de Gama.’ Benoît turned the globe slowly beneath his hands, lightly tracing his planned course over the surface of the polished wood.

Angelica glanced at his face. For a few moments his features were in repose, neither challenging nor concealing anything. His eyes rested on the world as if he thought it was a wondrous place—and life an endless adventure.

She looked at the picture on the chimney breast and wondered, a little wistfully, if she would ever have the opportunity to see the colours of that glowing world with her own eyes. Harry had, and she knew her father had, but it had never occurred to the Earl to tell her about them—and now he was blind.

Benoît reached over and picked up a letter from the desk. He offered it to her.

‘This is for your father,’ he prompted her, when she didn’t immediately take it.

‘What does it say?’ she asked, receiving it rather reluctantly and noticing that it was already sealed.

‘My lady!’ Benoît exclaimed. ‘Do you make a habit of enquiring into other people’s private correspondence?’

‘Papa will ask me to read it to him, I might as well know what it says now,’ Angelica replied, a dull note in her voice.

Some of the brightness seemed to have gone out of the day. Ahead of her lay only a weary journey back to London, an unpleasant interview with her father explaining what she’d done—and then a long wait to find out if Harry really would be be rescued.

‘That’s his privilege,’ Benoît agreed, unperturbed. ‘He sent me a letter and I have replied directly to him. That’s my privilege. It might also make him feel less humiliated by the situation if he has the opportunity to break my seal himself.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Angelica replied almost inaudibly. She doubted if her father would appreciate Benoît’s tact. He loathed his dependence too much to be consoled by such courteous gestures.