Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)
“You don’t look English through and through, and you don’t sound it either,” Jonathan told her.
She frowned. “How do I sound?”
“Like a French spy,” he answered.
She bristled at that, and Mustafa reacted immediately, tightening his grip around Jonathan’s shoulder. “I’m not French,” she told him. “Or a spy. I despise Bonaparte and the whole French navy.”
“I believe the lady doth protest too much,” Jonathan quoted. “For you speak the language like a native.”
“As do a great many other Englishwomen,” she retorted. “And men. And if I speak French like a native, it’s because I’ve had a great deal of practice. My English may sound faulty to you, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m English just the same.”
Strangely enough, Jonathan believed her. There was something very real and very convincing about her declaration that she was English. If she was lying, she was an expert at it. She didn’t seem to be trying so hard to convince him that she was English as she was herself. And Jonathan thought that if he accused her of being French one more time, she just might break into “God Save the King.” So the question he had to ask was what an English girl was doing with a Saracen bodyguard at a cottage in Kent? Especially a cottage that should have been empty. Jonathan opened his mouth to ask her, but Mustafa stopped him with a torrent of unintelligible words directed at the young woman.
“What did he say?” Jonathan demanded a translation as soon as the giant Saracen finished speaking.
“He wants to know what you’re doing here and why you broke in.”
“I didn’t break in,” Jonathan told her. “I used my key.” He slowly opened his hand, and the iron key he hadn’t had time to pocket fell to the stone floor with a clatter.
The young woman set the lamp on the floor as she knelt to retrieve the key. And when she lifted the lamp once again, Jonathan could have sworn he saw the sparkle of a precious gem in the indention of her navel.
His mouth went dry as she moved closer, opening her palm so Mustafa could see the key and the tiny brass plum attached to it.
She listened intently while Mustafa spoke, then turned to Jonathan.
“Does he still intend to kill me?” he asked.
“That depends,” she replied coyly. “Have you committed a crime for which you deserve killing?”
Jonathan smiled at her directness. “Not tonight.”
“How do you feel about losing a hand?” she asked.
“I’m against it,” Jonathan answered honestly. “As I’m opposed to violence against my person in any form.”
“Then answer truthfully,” she directed. “He may not speak English, but Mustafa is an expert at discerning lies. He can detect them in any language, and he believes you’re a thief or an assassin who came by this key dishonestly. And in Mustafa’s world, the punishment for thievery is the forfeiture of a hand.”
“Dare I ask the punishment for would-be assassins?”
“Beheading,” she answered.
“I’m neither a thief nor an assassin,” Jonathan answered. At the moment. Although Jonathan silently acknowledged that his work with the Free Fellows League might require him to become both at any time. He looked the young woman in the eyes and discovered that her eyes were an extraordinary shade of blue. “I’m a traveler on my way home from the Cinque Ports.”
“And you live here? In Plum Cottage?”
Jonathan started to shake his head, then thought better of it. “No. I live in London.”
She swung the key from her fingertip. “Then why do you have a key to this house?”
“So I would have a warm, dry place to sleep should I desire to spend the night rather than continue my journey.” He frowned at her.
“How did you come by it?” she demanded.
“The man who owns the cottage gave it to my friend, who gave it to me.”
“And the name of the man who owns this cottage is?”
“Lord Davies,” Jonathan answered. “Carter, first Baron Davies. And my friend is Lord Grantham. He’s married to Lord Davies’s daughter, Gillian, and is obviously unaware that you and your—whatever he is—are staying here, or he wouldn’t have given me the key.” He faced the young woman. “Now, if you’ll be kind enough to ask Mustafa to release me, I’ll forgo the pleasure of sleeping in Plum Cottage and join my horse in the stable.”