The Sandalwood Princess

“I’m not surprised,” she said calmly, though the very matter-of-factness of his explanation made her heart ache. “I’d guessed you were a little devil. Still, that is a monstrous cruel way to discipline a little boy, no matter how wicked.”

“What would you have done?” He moved closer, and in the unsteady light she discerned a familiar, intent gaze. “I know you’d have tried to understand me, because you try to understand everybody, from the great god Shiva to Jane, the scullery maid. Still, you’d have to do something. What, then?”

Too easy to answer. She knew she would have covered that troubled, angry little boy’s face with kisses, cossetted him, spoiled him, loved him with all her heart.

“I should not have tried to make a scholar of you,” she said carefully. “If you were a very restless child, you’d have been happier boxing, fencing, riding. There’s discipline in sports, for both mind and body. Also, vigourous physical activity would have tired you too much for mischief. Your papa tried to make you what you were not. Children should be permitted to be what they are.”

“You think my mischief was the common sort,” he said. “It wasn’t. In addition to the usual boyish pranks, I was insolent, told lies constantly, and stole.”

She ought to be shocked. She wasn’t. The moment she’d opened the closet door and seen his face, she’d understood. “Because you were angry and unhappy.”

He was still studying her face. “You are bound to find a kind excuse, Miss Cavencourt Can’t you believe a human being might be born bad?”

“I can believe that, but not of you. Surely that must be obvious,” she added hastily. “If I’d thought you intended any ill, I should have left you in the closet, or to Padji’s tender mercies. I know everyone thinks me too forgiving, Mr. Brentick. All the same, I do not always turn the other cheek. Martyrdom is not in my style.”

“No,” he said softly. “I realise you’re not a saint.”

His tone made her face heat. Belatedly she became aware of her bedtime attire. Despite a flannel nightdress and a robe of serviceable wool, she felt undressed and unsafe. He seemed too near, and also too much undressed. His neckcloth was gone, and his shirt had fallen open to reveal a triangle of flesh that gleamed bronze in the candlelight. She wanted to move to him, touch him. She wanted to hold him, and be held. She shivered.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” he said. He began to pull off his coat.

“No!” She quickly retreated. “I don’t need it. I’m going back to bed. You can take the candles. I know my way blindfolded.” She moved to the door. “Good night, Mr. Brentick,” she said. Then she fled.

Philip could have spent the night merely writhing in mortification, but Miss Cavencourt’s knowledge of his weakness seemed the least of his troubles as he climbed into bed.

He sat back, robbing his throbbing temples, wondering how she’d managed to make everything so deuced complicated.

Delirious, she’d said. He felt delirious now. He could not believe he’d admitted the truth, so much truth. He could have simply pretended not to understand what she was talking about. If pressed, he need only deny.

Yet he’d found himself trapped once again, entangled in undeserved kindness and compassion. She’d rescued him herself to spare his pride, and had not left until she’d made him well again. She’d lifted him out of the chilling darkness into sanity. With her own surprisingly strong hands she’d even wrestled the pain from his frozen body.

Gratitude had weakened him and made him incautious. Stunned and grateful, he’d found himself unable to deny, scarcely able to manufacture a fraction of a lie.

That wasn’t the worst, though. She’d not only explained and absolved him, but dressed him in shining armour. Of course Mr. Brentick hadn’t been spying on her. He’d bravely come to battle intruders, had accidentally overheard, and then sacrificed his own peace of mind to spare hers.

“Oh, Amanda,” he muttered. “How could you believe that? Was there ever such a trusting little fool?” He’d wanted to shake her, had tried to do so verbally. Yet even the truth about his character only elicited more of her unendurable understanding. “Angry and unhappy,’’ she’d said. Fool, he’d answered silently. Bella was right. Miss Cavencourt would make excuses for the Devil himself.

Perhaps she was not entirely credulous, though, Philip thought, as he sank back upon his pillow. She hadn’t altogether spared his feelings, had she, for all her compassion? She’d told him plain enough she knew not only what he’d suffered in the closet, but why, and where the terror came from. Gently though she’d worded the admission, Philip had perceived her warning as well. For now, she sympathised. Should he lose her sympathy, however, she’d not hesitate to use his weakness against him. Or rather, she’d let Padji use it. She was not naive in every way. She knew the Indian’s character and his uses. Hadn’t she used him before?

Very well. The game had grown a shade more complicated and dangerous. He’d need to revise his plans.

Unless someone persuaded Miss Cavencourt to end her self-imposed exile, the Laughing Princess would remain in the York bank indefinitely. She must be got to leave, and take the statue with her.

Her ever-so-kind and understanding knight, Brentick, would never venture upon the tender subject of London Seasons again. Knowing the sordid truth, he’d respect her wishes to remain hidden in this remote place.

Yes, she’d tied his hands in that. Frustrating it was, for he could have persuaded her easily enough in a matter of weeks. Now he must manipulate others to do the job for him.

Cool and calculating once more, Philip clasped his hands behind his head, and prepared to spend the remaining night contemplating the tools currently at his disposal.

Chapter Sixteen

November swept away on icy winds and December whirled in amid a snowstorm that transformed the harsh, grey landscape to shimmering white.

The snow brought Amanda mixed relief and disappointment. She and Mr. Brentick had taken long walks through the moors nearly every day of the last month. She knew the exercise did her good, for when she returned to her manuscript, she always felt fresh and clearheaded.

On the other hand, to spend so much time privately with him boded ill for her peace of mind. Away from the house, he relaxed, and their conversations were those of friends, rather than mistress and servant. This was what she preferred, usually; she’d always disliked the barriers rank created. Nevertheless, she found herself wishing, in this one case, for the safety of such barriers. Feelings warmer than mere friendship had again surged to the surface. As the days passed, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain a levelheaded detachment. The snow would bring a few days respite, time in which she might talk herself round to common sense.

On the afternoon following the storm, therefore, Amanda beheld with surprised dismay her butler’s entrance into the library. He wore a woolen overcoat, and carried in his arms a heap of clothing. Also boots, she saw with foreboding. Her boots.

“I am not setting foot out of doors,” she said resolutely, “until June.”

Half an hour later, she was trudging up the path that led to the moors. Mr. Brentick followed, dragging a sled.

When they reached the top, one large, vivid anxiety immediately swamped all Amanda’s other worries. She looked at the sled, then down at the incline before them. This side of the hill seemed to have grown exceedingly steep since their last walk. She turned her panicked gaze up to him, while her heart churned with terror.

“Haven’t you ever gone sledding before?” he asked.

She shook her head and darted another glance at the endless, nearly perpendicular drop.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Miss Cavencourt.”

“I’ll watch,” she offered.

“You’ll freeze, standing here.”

Mr. Brentick positioned the sled, then, very firmly, herself upon it. When he took up his place behind her, fear compounded with a flood of other sensations. Two people could share a sled in only

one way, apparently, and that placed her between his legs, her back against his chest. Her heart crashed crazily at her ribs, and every muscle in her body petrified into hard knots.

As the sled began to move, a scream rose in her throat, but caught there. She could no more scream than she could breathe. Then the world went whipping past in a flash of white and dark, while the wind blasted her face, making her eyes stream.

Terrified, she leaned back into the hard security of his chest, her mittened hands frozen to the sides of the sled. It was awful. It was... wonderful, she discovered in the very next instant.

This was rapture – to fly down the hillside, the cold beating at her, while the warm, strong, reassuring body held her safe and secure. Her scream broke free, but it broke into a cry of joy and breathless laughter.

She heard his shout of laughter mingle with hers, and she felt as though he surrounded her with happiness. He seemed to vibrate with her in the wild joy of wind and speed, as they plunged headlong into the dale’s depths.

They reached the bottom an instant or a lifetime later, and the sled glided gently to a stop. Amanda was still laughing. Her body tingled yet with the sheer joy and excitement of the ride. She gloried in the warmth of her quickened blood, and relished the delicious stinging in her cheeks.

As their merriment subsided, she felt his chin drop to the top of her muffler-wrapped head. His arms tightened about her. Unthinkingly, she let go of the sled to relax against him while she caught her breath.

She felt him tense. Turning her head, she saw the laughter ebb from cobalt-blue eyes and a darker emotion take its place.