Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no
copyright infringement intended.
Summary: M and L in early 17th century
London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at
Romance writing?
Rating: R.
A/N: We're getting there. Damn plot and motivation.
I'm going to do away with them in the next chapter, I promise.
Title: Loveless in
London
Chapter 3: Maid to Order
She was going to kill him; slowly twist that little starched collar until he choked on one final inane comment.
"And get that surly look of your face wench. Lady Margo won't be as tolerant of your churlishness as me."
Thud! Max kneaded the bread dough as if it had committed some horrendous crime against her. What a moron Normal was; it was I, not me and murderous, not surly.
Thud! She pounded viciously as the head servant trotted off to make some other maid's life a misery. It had been two weeks; two mind numbingly boring, back-breakingly arduous weeks of slaving away in the Cale house. She should have been off with the loot ages ago.
Thud! If she had just resisted that analogy between Normal and the hindquarters of a wild boar, she wouldn't have been relegated to the status of downstairs maid. She could have been merrily emptying chamber pots and jewelry boxes on the upper floor and have made a sizeable contribution to her "woman of independent means" fund.
Thud! Instead she was working for a pittance and waiting for an opportunity to avoid eagle-eyed, omnipresent Normal. She couldn't even sneak upstairs at night with the damn wolfhound lolloping around, ready to raise the roof at the first sign of suspicious thief-like behavior from unsanctioned second floor visitors.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Then there was Lord Jonas who, she suspected, would be only too glad to invite her upstairs, if his wife ever let the randy old bastard out of her sight. She ceased pounding long enough to gag at the thought of being a guest, however briefly, in Jonas's boudoir. Still, that was no longer a disgusting possibility. The senior Cales were leaving today to visit even more senior Cales in the charming town of Something-on-Some-River-or-Other.
Also holding her in mid-pound was the image of Lady--major-pain-in-the-behind--Margo's jewelry boxes. She had spied them on the first, and totally disastrous, morning of her career in the Cale residence. If only she had overcome her foibles and brained the sweet and innocent chambermaid with that handy chamber pot, she could have tucked a small fortune in precious stones into her petticoats and got the hell out of there. At times like this, she wondered why she didn't just forget her plan, cut her losses, and hit the road again. THUD!
"I think you've killed it."
A boyish grin crinkled the classic features of Logan Cale as he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl at the other end of the enormous oak table. But that grin was the only boyish thing about him. Max stood still and assessed the major obstacle to her, previously, foolproof strategy. Masculinity positively radiated from every pore of his powerful body; a body that was always out of range of her conniving clutches.
What was it with this man? He seemed totally immune to the maidly eye-fluttering, curtseying, and fawning that the egos of your average nobleman positively feasted on. Even stage two of her usual modus operandi had no effect, except to make their brief encounters even briefer and more infrequent. All her best moves—the modest hand across her cleavage as she bent down to fill his port glass after dinner; her graceful sashay down the length of the fencing salle when she brought a pitcher of water for the sweaty combatants; a flash of ankle as she modestly hitched up her skirts when she passed him in the rain-drenched courtyard—were for naught. He would politely acknowledged her presence and promptly busy himself with more urgent matters.
Her hands fisted on the bread dough. She had charmed the pants off better men than he. Just the promise of an intimate encounter was enough to lure more powerful and wealthy men than Logan Cale to clandestine, nighttime appointments with Max Gueverra and a convenient blunt object. Not that she ever inflicted any serious damage--except to their pocket books--or let them inflict themselves on her. She could handle this man minus his pants with her eyes closed. Her eyes closed.
"Maxine."
"What?" Abruptly, she dropped the dough, or most of it at least, and took a step back.
"Are you ill? Your face is flushed and your eyes are glassy. Perhaps you should sit for a while."
"No, no. I'm fine," as long as he kept himself and his pants right where he was. No, no, that wasn't the plan; but then neither was the rush of blood to her face at the thought of a being alone with a semi naked Logan. She averted her eyes from his intense stare, praying his many talents didn't include mind reading.
He was striding toward her now, his eyes filled with concern. She backed up some more as a new wave of heat washed her already burning cheeks. "I'm fine really. I…I'm just…" babbling like a complete idiot. Pull yourself together woman. He's just a mark--a handsome, charming, gentlemanly mark—and you're the one calling the shots. She pulled herself up to her full height, eyes level with his chest.
"You seem nervous, ill at ease. As you have since you arrived here. My uncle hasn't …hasn't done anything to make you feel that way, has he?"
"N-n-n-n-o." Damn, now she was stammering. She prided herself on her quick thinking and composure in the most trying of circumstances. However, concern and chivalry from a wealthy man was not a circumstance she had had to deal with before.
"If he has, you can tell me and I will deal with it. You have nothing to fear in this household."
Except you. His hands were on her shoulders as his eyes searched hers for the truth. The truth. The truth was she was acting like a girl with a silly infatuation. She had had those before, had even enjoyed a couple of romps with young lads who made her laugh, murmured pleasant words in her ear as they tumbled together in the sheets, and pledged their undying love as she eventually said her goodbyes. Sweet and uncomplicated boys whom she hoped found nice girls to marry and build their lives with.
It was an infatuation; easily passed up if she put her mind to it. She tried to ignore the touch of his hand on her elbow, a touch that warmed her more than the roaring fire burning in the hearth of the stone-floored kitchen. He guided her to one of the rough chairs pulled up to the table. His breathing was rapid. "If he has hurt you I'll…he has no right to take advantage of a serving girl."
A serving girl? That's what she was--all she was--to a man of his rank. She pulled her arm away, as rage at her own stupidity and weakness brought a fresh rush of blood to her face. "I can take care of myself, thank you sir." He winced as she spat out the last word, and a twinge of satisfaction bolstered the hardness growing in her chest.
"I meant no disrespect. I…I wanted to make sure that…that…"
She allowed herself the trace of a smile at his distress. "I have no need of a man to protect me." Setting her hands firmly on her hips, she met his bemused eyes. "If I am to be taken advantage of the decision will be entirely mine, milord."
He laughed, threw back his head and laughed with delight. Even through the anger, presently rendering her speechless, she couldn't miss the genuine pleasure in his face. Well she'd wipe that grin off his face, boyish or not. The slap was going to be hard and an action of hers that he would finally have to sit up and take notice of or, if she landed the blow just right, lay down and take notice of.
"OOOOOoohhhh!" She shrieked in frustration, as her doughy hands clung stubbornly to her skirt and in surprise as he reached under her arms and scooped her up, swirling her around, his laughter singing in her ears.
"Maxine, you are a woman the like of whom I never dreamed I would meet in this antiquated land. A woman with spirit and a mind free of the stifling rules of English society."
"And you sir, are a typical, self-absorbed, ignorant male."
"Typical? You condemn my entire gender?"
"Not without just cause. Now put me down at once. I have work to do and I take my professional duties very seriously." She gathered up any remaining shreds of dignity as he released her and purposely began rubbing the dough off her hands. She had to think. Damn him, he befuddled her like no other man she had met. Irritating and disconcerting as he was, she had to rely on him for access to the bedrooms. That or do the stupid guard dog in and she refused to raise a hand to an innocent animal.
"Every man is not as you describe."
"Perhaps, just every nobleman then. You are all too spoiled to look beyond your privileged little lives."
"Allow me to prove you wrong."
Ah, there was order in the universe and the proverbial fly always walked right into the spider's web. She stood squarely in front of him, her stance a challenge. "Break some of the rules of your world; the rules all those weak women you speak of are so fond of accepting." He raised a questioning eyebrow and she responded with a smile, a satisfied smile. "You are a man of noble birth. I am a maid. You give orders. I obey. You make decisions. I make bread."
"You want to make the decisions for a change."
Max nodded and wondered how he would react to her decision to invite herself to his room tonight. She really hoped his social convictions outweighed his ingrained sense of chivalry. Trust her to pick the only nobleman in London worthy of the name. Still he couldn't say no to her now. Just to be sure, she would have his word to respect her wish.
"Then decide what you would like for dinner tonight and I will cook it for you. Science isn't the only thing I studied in Paris."
"What?" That wasn't the plan. A decent nobleman, and a bloody cook. Could her luck get any worse? "You…you can't. Cook would have a fit."
"Then we'll get rid of her." He paced, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Max hoped he would trip on the uneven flagstones and knock some chauvinistic sense into that messed up mind. Damn the French—men cooking—what other weirdness had this young Englishman been exposed to.
"Ah-ha."
She doubted this was a good sign.
"I'll get Shakespeare to invite her to the play tonight."
Max looked doubtful.
"The play and an evening at the tavern." He looked very pleased with his suggestion.
"Cook and all the servants."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't want them to think you're playing favorites. It could be awkward for me later."
"I suppose we will have the house to ourselves then."
And I will have you to myself. Logan Cale was about to experience a lesson in equality, the likes of which he had never dreamed.
