The resemblance was uncanny, and there were no differences that could not be ascribed to time or faulty memory. He had the wild thought that this might be Margot herself. Though she had been reported dead, perhaps a mistake had been made; news was often mangled as it traveled. If Margot had been living on the Continent all these years, she might no longer have the air of an Englishwoman.
Yet the countess's behavior implied that they were strangers. If she was Margot, she must surely recognize him, for he looked much the same. If so, he couldn't believe that she wouldn't acknowledge him, if only with a curse.
Instead, she stood with a faint, amused smile during Rafe's lengthy inspection. The silence had gone on too long, and as the supplicant, it was up to him to make the next move.
He fell back on The Duke, who was never at a loss for words. With a deep bow, he said, "My apologies, Countess. I was told that you were the most beautiful spy in Europe, but even so, the description did you less than justice."
She gave a rich, intimate laugh. Margot's laugh. "You speak very prettily, your grace. I have heard of you also."
"Nothing to my discredit, I hope." Rafe decided that it was time to use his vaunted charm. Stepping toward the countess, he smiled and said, "You know why I am here, and it is a serious business. Let us not stand on formality. I would prefer that you use my given name."
"Which is?"
If she was Margot and this was an act, she was performing it superbly well. His smile showing signs of strain, he lifted her hand and kissed it. "Rafael Whitbourne. My friends usually call me Rafe."
She snatched her hand back as if he had bitten it. "Surely a rake should not have been named for an archangel."
At her words, Rafe's doubt vanished. "My God, it is you, Margot," he said in a wondering voice. "You are the only one who ever dared mention my lack of similarity to archangels. It was a good quip; I've used it myself many times. But how the devil did you come to be here?"
She gave a languid flutter of her fan. "Who is this Margot, your grace? Some vapid little English girl who resembles me?"
Her denial triggered a surge of the greatest anger Rafe had known in years. He could think of only one sure way to determine the identity of the woman in front of him. With a swift movement, he closed the distance between them, drew her hard against him, and kissed her mocking mouth.
It was Margot; he knew it in his bones. Not only because of the way her body curved into his, or the familiar softness of her lips, but because of a unique, elusive essence that was unmistakably hers.
Even without that recognition he would have known, because he had never met another woman whose touch produced such a blaze of desire. As passion burned through him, he forgot why he was in Paris, forgot the reason for this embrace, forgot everything but the miracle in his arms.
Petals in the Storm
Fallen Angels Series
Book Three
by
Mary Jo Putney
~
To purchase
Petals in the Storm
from your favorite eBook Retailer,
visit Mary Jo Putney's eBook Discovery Author Page
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Page forward and continue your journey
with an excerpt from
Angel Rogue
Fallen Angels Series
Book Four
Excerpt from
Angel Rogue
Fallen Angels Series
Book Four
by
Mary Jo Putney
Maxie enjoyed the coolness of the forest road after the heat of the midday sun. The farmer who had given her a wagon ride in the morning had done well to recommend this route. She had been avoiding the main highways in favor of quieter roads where a lone boy would attract little attention. This track was so quiet that she hadn't seen a person or dwelling for hours.
The only drawback was that she had run out of food the day before and her stomach was complaining. From what the farmer had said, she wouldn't find a place to procure food until late in the day. In America she could have lived off the land, but England's ferocious game and property laws made her wary of doing the same here. Though if she got hungry enough, that would change.
The sound of hoofbeats and wheels made Maxie stop and cock her head. A heavy vehicle was coming along the track behind her, and she would rather not meet anyone in such a remote spot.
She scrambled up the bank into the underbrush, then swung away from the track into the forest. Skirting tollgates in order to save money had given her plenty of practice at such detours. In three days of travel, she had experienced no difficulties at all. Indeed, except for rides with two taciturn farmers, she had not so much as spoken with another person.
Harness jangled and hooves clumped as a wagon rumbled by. She was about to return to the track when a bird trilled a liquid hu-eet, hu-eet.
She paused, a smile spreading across her face. Discovering new creatures and plants was one of the pleasures of traveling. This birdsong sounded like one of Britain's famous nightingales. She thought she had heard one the month before, but her cousins had been unable to confirm it. The only birds they recognized were roasted and served in sauce.
Silently she made her way through the underbrush. Her search was rewarded by a brief glimpse of brown feathers in a thicket ahead. She pressed forward through the shrubbery, her gaze on the leafy canopy above.
Her carelessness caught up with her when she tripped over an unexpected obstacle. Swearing, she tried to regain her footing, but the weight of her pack wrecked her balance.
She crashed with humiliating clumsiness, falling sideways so that her shoulder struck first. In the next instant, she realized that instead of hitting the cool forest floor, she was sprawled full-length on a warmer, more yielding object.
Warm, yielding, and clothed.
As she gasped for breath, she realized that she was lying on top of a man. Apparently he had been dozing, but he awoke with a start, his hands reflexively jerking upward, skimming her body before locking on her upper arms.
The two of them were chest to chest and eye to eye. Startled alertness showed in the vividly blue depths, followed an instant later by amusement. For a long moment they stayed pressed together, strangers as close as lovers.
The fellow's mouth curved into a smile. "I apologize for getting in your way."
"Sorry," Maxie said gruffly. She broke away, giving thanks that her hat was still in place, shadowing her face. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
She scrambled to her feet, ready to vanish into the forest. Then, like Lot's wife, she made the mistake of looking back.
Her first impressions of the man had been fragmentary. Compelling eyes, fair coloring, a well-shaped, mobile mouth. It wasn't until she stepped away that she realized he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. His longish hair shimmered with every blond shade from gilt to dark gold, and the bone structure of his face would make angels weep with envy.
A fairy ring in the center of the circle gave her the wild thought that she had stumbled over Oberon, legendary King of Faerie. No, he was too young, and surely a fairy would not be wearing such mundane clothing.
The blond man sat up and leaned back against the tree trunk. "Females have thrown themselves into my arms a time or two before, but not usually quite so hard," he said, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling humorously. "However, I'm sure we can work something out if you make a polite request."
Maxie tensed. Lowering her naturally low voice still further, she said brusquely, "You haven't woken up yet. My name is Jack, and I'm not a female, much less one interested in hurling myself into your arms."
He raised his brows. "You can pass as a lad at a distance, but you landed with considerable force, and I was awake enough to know what hit me." A sapient gaze surveyed her from head to toe. "A word of advice—if you want to be convincing,
make sure your coat and vest stay in place, or else find looser trousers. I've never seen a boy shaped quite like you."
Maxie colored and tugged her rucked coat downward. She was on the verge of bolting when he raised a disarming hand.
"No need to run off. I'm a harmless fellow. Remember, you assaulted me, not vice versa." He reached toward a lumpy bag that lay a few feet away. "It's time for a midday meal, and I have far more food than one person needs. Care to join me?"
She really should put some distance between herself and this too-handsome fellow. But he was friendly and unmenacing, and some conversation would be pleasant.
Her decision was made when he pulled out one of the odd-shaped meat pies called Cornish pasties. A fresh, delectable scent wafted toward her.
Her stomach would never forgive her if she refused. "If you are sure you have enough, I would be pleased to join you." She lowered her knapsack to the ground, then settled on crossed legs beyond pouncing distance, in case young Apollo proved more dangerous than he appeared.
The blond man handed over the pasty. Then he rummaged in his bag again, producing another pasty, cold roast chicken, several rolls, and a small jug. Uncorking the jug, he set it midway between them. "We'll have to share the ale."
"I do not drink ale." She did, however, eat pasties. It was an effort not to wolf hers down. The crumbly crust and well-flavored shreds of beef and vegetables were delicious.
He chewed and swallowed a bite of his own pasty before saying pensively, "In most circles, it is considered rude to eat with one's hat on."
Maxie was reluctant to expose herself to the other's gaze, but she could not ignore the appeal to manners. The acceptance of hospitality imposed obligations. Raising her hand, she removed the shapeless hat, keeping a wary eye on her companion.
For a moment he stared, face tightening. She had seen such reactions before, and her hand shifted so that she could reach her knife quickly if necessary.
Luckily, he refrained from foolish or vulgar comments. After swallowing hard, he asked, "Care for some chicken?"
Maxie relaxed and accepted a drumstick. "Yes, please."
He took a piece for himself. "How do you come to be trespassing in the Marquess of Wolverton's forest?"
"I was walking along a track when I heard someone coming. I decided that being unobserved was the better part of wisdom, then got distracted by a nightingale. What is your excuse—poaching?"
He gave her a wounded look. "Do I look like a poacher?"
"No. Or at least, not a successful one." She finished the chicken leg and daintily licked her fingers. "On the other hand, you don't look like the Marquess of Whatever, either."
"Would you believe me if I said that I was he?"
"No." She cast a disrespectful eye over his garments, which were well tailored but far from new.
"A young woman of excellent judgment," he said with approval. "As it happens, you are right. I am not the Marquess of Wolverton any more than you are British."
"What makes you say that?" she asked, thinking her host was altogether too perceptive.
"Accents are something of a specialty of mine. Yours is almost that of the English gentry, but not quite." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "My guess is that you are American, probably from New England."
He was good. "A reasonable guess," she said noncommittally.
"Is your name still Jack?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You certainly ask a lot of questions."
"Asking is the easiest method I know for satisfying curiosity," he said with perfect logic. "And it often works."
"An irrefutable point." She hesitated a moment longer, but could see no reason not to tell him. "I'm usually called Maxie, but my name is actually Maxima."
"You looked more like a Minima to me," he said promptly, examining her scant inches.
She laughed. "You're not precisely Hercules yourself."
"Yes, but I'm not named Hercules, so I'm not trying to deceive anyone."
"My father was named Maximus and I was called after him. No one thought to wonder if I would grow up to fit the name until it was too late." She finished eating her roll. "If your name isn't Hercules, what is it?"
"It isn't a lot of things." He took a swig of ale as he weighed what to say. He was obviously a wayfaring rogue who had had so many names and identities that he didn't remember himself what he had been christened.
Eventually he said, "Lately I've been using Lord Robert Andreville."
Startled, she asked, "Are you really a nobleman?" Despite his old clothing, he did have an air about him. Then she frowned. "You're hoaxing me, aren't you? My father explained titles to me once. A real peer does not use Lord with his Christian name. I reckon that Lord Robert is a pretend title that you invented to impress people."
"And here I thought I could fool someone from the colonies." An impish light showed in his eyes. "You're quite right, I'm a commoner, not the least bit noble. My friends call me Robin."
Whatever his name, the man had a marvelously expressive face. Perhaps he was an actor rather than a swindler. Of course, he could be both, but still Maxie found herself smiling back. "In that case, you should give something to your namesake for luck." She gestured at the bright-eyed English robin that had landed in the middle of the fairy ring and been hopping closer and closer as they ate. Smaller and more lively than the American robin, it did rather resemble her companion.
"A good idea." He tossed a fragment to the bird, which grabbed the morsel and flew away. "One should always offer to the gods of luck." Delving into his pouch again, he asked, "Care for some shortbread?"
"That would be very nice." She accepted a wedge, trying not to look too greedy.
He had a marvelously engaging smile, with the charm of a man who could sell you a dozen things you didn't need. Maxie and her father had met many likable wastrels on their travels, and the self-proclaimed Lord Robert was another of that breed. Actually, Max could have been considered one as well. Perhaps that was why his daughter had a weakness for beguiling rogues.
She ate the butter-rich shortbread with pleasure, thinking that this was the best meal she'd had in a very long time. After finishing, she went to the stream to wash her hands and drink some of the cool water.
Robin watched his improbable guest thoughtfully. Though she had done her best to disguise herself with shapeless clothing, his palms remembered the shapes of concealed curves. When she returned, he asked, "Do you live near here?"
"No, I'm on my way to London." She picked up her hat and knapsack. "Thank you for sharing your meal."
"London!" he said, startled. "Good God, do you seriously intend to walk that whole way alone?"
"It's only about two hundred miles. I'll be there within a fortnight. Good day to you." She settled the hat back on her head, tugging it down so that it shadowed her clear brown eyes.
He bit back the impulse to tell her not to put the hat on, that it was a crime to obscure that exquisite face. When she had first crashed down on him, he had thought her a mischievous young tomboy in a brother's clothing. Then she had doffed her absurd hat, and he had briefly forgotten how to speak or breathe.
Maxima—Maxie—had the exotic beauty sometimes found in those of mixed race. While her delicate features were almost English, the smooth dark complexion, glossy black hair, and subtle modeling of the bones were definitely not.
It was a face one would not forget.
Yet beauty was the least of it. What drew him like a magnet was a quality of focused directness as strong and true as a blade, a still strength that showed in every word and gesture she made. Seeing her had triggered a flood of long-suppressed emotions, and they battered inside him like ice breaking up in the spring rains. The effect was far from comfortable.
In the midst of tumult, one fact was blazingly clear: He must not let this extraordinary creature walk out of his life.
Angel Rogue
Fallen Angels Series
Book Four
by
Mary Jo Putney
~
To purchase
Angel Rogue
from your favorite eBook Retailer,
visit Mary Jo Putney's eBook Discovery Author Page
www.ebookdiscovery.com/MaryJoPutney
~
Discover more with
eBookDiscovery.com
Page forward and continue your journey
with an excerpt from
Shattered Rainbows
Fallen Angels Series
Book Five
Shattered Rainbows
Fallen Angels Series
Book Five
by
Mary Jo Putney
Chapter 1
Salamanca, Spain
June 1812
The white-haired surgeon wiped his forehead wearily, leaving a smear of blood, as he studied the man on the crude operating table. "You certainly made a mess of yourself, Captain," the surgeon said with a distinct Scottish burr. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to block a charge of grapeshot with your chest?"
"'Fraid not," Lord Michael Kenyon said in a strained whisper. "At Oxford, they teach the classics rather than practical matters. Maybe I should have gone to the new military college."
"It will be a real challenge to see if I can pick all the bits out," the surgeon said with macabre cheer. "Have some brandy. Then I'll get to work."
An orderly held a bottle to Michael's lips. He forced himself to consume as much of the fiery liquid as possible. A pity there wasn't enough time or brandy to get seriously drunk.
When Michael finished drinking, the surgeon slashed away the remnants of his patient's jacket and shirt. "You were amazingly lucky, Captain. If the French gunners had loaded the powder right, there wouldn't be enough pieces of you left to identify."