Prince of Swords

by Anne Stuart

  Nicodemus glared up at her. “I’ll have to kill her, I s’pose,” he said grudgingly. “I don’t hold with killing females, but if it’s a choice between her and me...”

  “If anyone kills her, I’ll do the honors,” Alistair drawled. “She’d probably prefer that. In the meantime, we have an appointment in London.”

  “I’d prefer that you didn’t discuss me as if I weren’t even here,” Jessamine said.

  “Lass, I wish to God you weren’t here,” Nicodemus said. “And you aren’t going to have any say in what happens to you. You’re a nasty complication, that’s what you are.”

  “And you’re a nasty little man,” she replied.

  “Not as bad as his lordship here,” the man called Nicodemus said cheerfully enough. “And not near as bad as your bosom buddy Clegg.”

  “Everything set in the carriage, Nic?” Alistair had already moved away, opening the door and peering in.

  “You can count on me, yer worship. You wants I should hit the lass over the head and tie her to a tree? It would make things a mort easier.”

  “No,” he said. “I want her with me.”

  He was a good ten feet away, holding on to the door of the carriage. Nicodemus was even farther away, and with those bandy legs he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. Jessamine waited a moment longer, until Alistair leaned into the darkened interior of the carriage, and then she took off, picking up her heavy skirts and running toward the woods in mindless panic, sensible of nothing but her need to escape, and fast, from these two conscienceless villains.

  She heard the explosion behind her, accompanied by a harsh whizzing noise. The quiet thunk, the spit of bark from the tree not two feet away from her path, convinced her immediately of the unbelievable, and her shock was so great, she tripped over her skirts, sprawling onto the forest floor.

  He took his time reaching her, obviously unconcerned with the possibility that she might decide to run again. He towered over her, and she simply lay there in a tangle, glaring up at him. “You shot at me,” she said faintly. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could have killed me!”

  “Yes,” he said again in a thoroughly pleasant voice. “And I’m not in the mood for target practice. You have three choices. You can get up and run again, and this time I won’t deliberately miss. You can lie where you are, and I’ll let Nicodemus put a bullet in that addled brain of yours. Or you can get on your feet, walk back to the carriage, and climb inside without any further fuss.”

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t see his expression in the darkness, but she had little doubt it was completely cold and ruthless. “I don’t suppose I have a fourth choice,” she asked in a remarkably docile tone of voice. “You could leave me here, and I could walk back to the manor, and I could promise not to say a word to anyone....”

  “No,” he said. “Make up your mind.”

  She felt oddly shaken, though she wasn’t about to let him see it as she scrambled to her feet without his assistance, brushing the twigs and loose dirt from her dress. Her dress had a wide rip under one arm, and her knee hurt, but apart from that she was still in one piece.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said resignedly.

  “A wise child after all,” he murmured. He still held a gun, a small, lethal-looking pistol, and it was pointed directly at her midsection. “Come along, then. We have a great deal to accomplish tonight.”

  The carriage was inky black as Jessamine climbed up into it. Her hope that Glenshiel would drive it was immediately dashed when he climbed up after her, pulling the door shut, closing them in together. He was sitting opposite her, she could tell that much, and when the carriage started with a jerk, she allowed herself the luxury of a horrified shudder.

  What Nicodemus lacked in skill as a driver he more than made up for in enthusiasm. The carriage bounded forward at a furious pace, and it was all Jessamine could do to cling to the leather seats to keep from sliding onto the floor.

  Alistair seemed to have no such problem with his balance. She could hear him moving around across from her, hear his muffled murmur of gratification. A moment later she was struck in the face with an armful of soft cloth.

  “Nicodemus came through again,” he said. “He knows my needs very well, including a change of clothing in case something should go wrong. Tonight that something is you, my pet.”

  “Sorry to be disobliging,” she said in a sulky voice. “What is this?”

  “Your working clothes. I can’t have you trailing me over housetops wearing full skirts and panniers. Strip.”

  She clutched the clothes more tightly against her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a bit late for that,” he drawled. “Take off your clothes, Miss Maitland.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. How dare you suggest—”

  “The carriage is pitch black. Your modesty is perfectly safe, but I’m not in the mood to argue further. We’re already running late, and I’m going to have to rethink my plans for the night. Take off your clothes and put on the ones I gave you. Or I’ll do it for you.”

  She had no doubt whatsoever that he would do just that. “Very well,” she said in a darkly hostile voice, reaching behind her to unfasten the row of tiny silver hooks.

  It was hard going. She was used to Fleur assisting her—her mother’s cut-down dress was designed to be put on and taken off with the help of a maid. But she wasn’t about to ask Glenshiel to put his hands on her, not for a moment. Her fingers, still numb with cold, fumbled, and finally she tore at it, and the sound of the material giving way was shockingly loud despite the thunder of the horses as they hurtled toward London.

  She paused, waiting for him to say something, but there was absolute silence from the blackness on the other side of the carriage, and she consoled herself with the knowledge that if she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t possibly see her.

  She pulled the dress off her shoulders, shoving it away from her. The chill in the carriage prickled at her arms and chest above her chemise, but she knew it would be useless to complain. She pushed the dress onto the floor, reaching behind to unfasten the hoop skirt and petticoats. It was a tedious process. The tapes were knotting, her fingers were clumsy, and despite the utter darkness of the carriage, she felt exposed and indecent. When she was finally wearing nothing but her chemise and corset she was shivering, and her hands shook as she tried to ascertain what was what in the pile of clothing he’d flung at her.

  “The corset as well.” His sepulchral voice came out of the darkness, and she quickly clapped the clothing against her partially exposed chest. “I will not!”

  “You can’t climb over rooftops in a corset any more than you can in full skirts. Untie it.”

  She bit her lip, wondering if he was relying on his hearing to assure him she was complying, wondering if she could fake it. Instinct told her it would be a waste of time.

  “I can’t,” she said sullenly.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s knotted. I didn’t have time to fix it this morning, and I was counting on Fleur to assist me....”

  “Turn around.”

  “Don’t you touch me!”

  He muttered a weary curse under his breath. “Turn around, Jessamine, and I will endeavor to touch nothing more than your recalcitrant corset stays.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Haven’t you yet discovered that your wants have very little interest to me? I want you out of that corset and into the clothes Nicodemus brought, and I suggest you put all possible haste into the matter. The longer you sit around in your chemise the more I might find ways to entertain myself during this trip. Turn around.” His voice was cold and smooth as ice.

  Jessamine turned.

  His hands found her corset with unerring dexterity, his fingertips touching nothing but the heavy linen and whalebone garment that encased her backbone. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her bare shoulder, and that tiny patch of heat was doing odd
things to her stomach. He suddenly yanked at the corset, and it came apart just as the carriage hit a bump, sending her back against him in a tangle of arms and legs and loose clothing.

  She scrambled away from him with little less than desperation, huddling in the far corner of the carriage as he retreated to his own corner. His hands had brushed the side of her neck, the tops of her breasts, and everywhere they’d glanced her skin heated and burned.

  She yanked the ruined corset off, dropped it on the carriage floor, and began to investigate the clothes he’d tossed at her. It didn’t take her long to have her worst fears confirmed.

  “These are men’s clothes,” she said.

  “Of course. They’re mine. But you’ve already proven that you’re not averse to wearing my clothes. I’ve yet to see the return of the shirt you pilfered when you ran from my bed.”

  “Don’t put it that way!” she protested.

  “You don’t like being called a pilferer? You’ll be guilty of much worse before the night is out.”

  “I didn’t run from your bed. You make it sound as if we were lovers.”

  He said nothing, but even in the inky darkness she could imagine the look of amusement on his face. She pulled the shirt around her, grateful for its warmth, and began fastening the tiny buttons.

  The breeches almost stopped her cold. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t wear such a thing...

  “Are you finished?” he drawled.

  She yanked them on, falling against the side of the carriage as she tried to keep her balance and pull the blasted things over her hips. Her chemise was too long, and she tucked it inside the loose breeches.

  “They’re too big,” she said in a sour voice. “They’ll fall off.”

  “Tempting thought,” he murmured.

  No help from that quarter, she thought sourly, giving in to temptation and sticking her tongue out at him. She sat back against the cushions in her strange apparel, folding her arms across her chest and glaring in his unseen direction, prepared to endure.

  Nicodemus was right, he was out of his bleedin’ mind, Alistair thought lazily, stretching his legs out in the crowded interior of the carriage, bracing himself against the rocking motion. There were countless times that evening when he could have changed the course of events. When he first realized someone had the temerity to follow him. When he’d lain in wait and realized that the person who had come after him was no thief-taker or any other professional.

  And when he’d knocked her to the ground, felt the delicious warmth of her beneath him, he still had the choice. He could have clipped her on the jaw, rendering her unconscious, before she realized who he was. By the time she came to, alone in the woods, she’d have no idea what hit her. Even if she’d suspected who and what she was following, she’d have no proof.

  But he’d touched her, felt her, smelled her, and his wild nature had taken over. His decision was immediate and absolute. He’d never been a careful man, and now he was ready to risk everything.

  He didn’t regret it for a moment. He intended to compromise the so-very-curious Miss Jessamine Maitland, to do so quite thoroughly. He would take her a-thieving with him, across the rooftops of London, so that no one would believe her if she tried to put the blame on him and protested her own innocence.

  He would take her to bed then. He had no doubt he could strip away any lingering doubts she had. He knew her curiosity, her needs, her desires far better than she did. He knew what she wanted, and that knowledge would have horrified her.

  And he knew how to give it to her. He would take her places she was afraid to go, with her body, with her soul. He would take her through the darkness into the brilliant light of release, and she would never be a threat again.

  By the time he brought her back to Blaine Manor she’d be ruined, unless her younger sister managed to cover for her. The hue and cry would be raised, and when she returned, bedraggled, whatever excuse, be it the truth or something utterly fanciful, would never be believed. He would wander from his sickroom, looking pale and properly horrified at Miss Maitland’s fall from grace. If she accused him he would faintly deny it, if she said nothing he would shake his head in solemn dismay.

  It was cruel of him to destroy her reputation, but he had no choice. It was her fragile plans or his life, and the choice was obvious. He’d come too far along the odd path he’d chosen to turn back, and if Jessamine Maitland had to be sacrificed, so be it. At least he’d make her enjoy it.

  He’d almost forgotten why he’d ever started it all. A whim, a moment of greed, a cool anger toward his brother’s friends, a boredom with the life presented him, all combined to make him ripe for trouble. He’d jumped into it heartily, and never regretted it, even when there was no escape. He wasn’t about to start wasting his time with worthless regrets now, was he?

  He stared at Jessamine in the darkness, his cat’s eyes perfectly attuned as they had been all evening. Her skin was creamy and pale, and it had taken all his resolve not to push the chemise from her shoulders and find the soft warmth of her breasts with his tongue.

  His blood was running high for the danger to come, for the woman who sat opposite him, dressed in his black silk clothes, clinging to the seat of the small carriage as they hurtled through the dark of night.

  The risks were enormous. The cost astronomical. And he didn’t care. Her legs were long and slender in the black breeches, her hair a wild tangle around her angry face, her breasts a soft swell against the silk shirt.

  He would take jewels tonight, and he would take her. And the very real danger was not that he’d be caught.

  But that she would mean more to him than the jewels.

  Sixteen

  Robert Brennan was a light sleeper. This had saved his life on more than one occasion, and would doubtless do so again. He heard the surreptitious footsteps, the soft rustle of clothing, and he was immediately alert. He sat up in the narrow cot that the Blaines had allotted him. Clegg and Samuel were down the hallway, and the noise of snoring was so loud, it could have been caused by an army.

  Whoever it was paused outside his door, and Brennan reached down for the pistol he always kept by his side. That too had saved his life numerous times. He’d never used it to kill a fellow thief-taker, but tonight might be the night.

  It was closer to morning than night. The light mist had stopped, and outside the air was clear and frosty. Brennan leaned against the wall, waiting, his gun ready as the door began to open.

  She was silhouetted in candlelight, and he let the gun drop with a muffled groan of despair. There was a limit to how much temptation he could resist, and he was fast approaching it.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded in a snarl he’d never used with a woman before.

  Fleur stood there staring at him, transfixed. Probably never seen a man without a shirt before, he thought sourly. She was pale, though as he expected her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

  “My sister has disappeared,” she said in a raw whisper. “It’s the middle of the night and she hasn’t returned to our room. Her cloak is missing as well, and I’m afraid something terrible has happened. She would never have left me alone, with no word, if it had been up to her. She thinks I can’t take care of myself.” She managed a travesty of a wry smile. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I was actually looking for Mr. Clegg. Jessamine has helped him on occasion...”

  She was starting to retreat, but Brennan was already surging out of bed, unmindful of the fact that he wore only knee-length drawers. He caught her arm and pushed the door shut behind her, closing her in with him, only the candlelight illuminating the small, closetlike space. “You keep away from him,” he said fiercely. “Josiah Clegg is a dangerous man, and he means you nothing but harm.”

  “Whereas you want nothing more than my happiness?” she said, the wryness strengthening.

  “Aye, lass.”

  The words fell between them gently, and he could have cursed himself. He was fighting it, Lord, he was fighting
it, but fate was conspiring against him. It was a battle he would lose sooner or later, but the stakes, Fleur Maitland’s well-being, were too high to risk.

  He released her abruptly. She was so small, and he was so big, the discrepancy in their sizes magnified by the tiny room, and he felt huge, overwhelming, protective. He stepped away from her, though there wasn’t far to go, and reached for his discarded clothes. “Let me put something on, and you can tell me about your sister,” he said in a more neutral voice. “You can trust me to find her far more than you can trust the likes of Josiah Clegg. Why don’t you sit?”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth he could have kicked himself. The only place to sit in the tiny room was his narrow, rumpled bed. He didn’t want her there. He wanted her there more than life itself.

  She was wearing her nightgown, a long white lacy thing with layers of fine trim. The shawl she’d pulled around it provided warmth but not much covering, and her hair was loose down her back. In all, she looked like she’d look if she were sharing his bed. Except that she’d be naked.

  She sat down gingerly, keeping her shawl pulled tightly around her, her eyes averted as he pulled on his breeches. “I haven’t seen her since early evening,” she said in a muffled voice. “It’s completely unlike her—I’m afraid some harm might have befallen her.”

  “Did she say where she was going? What her plans for the evening were?” Brennan asked, pulling his shirt on.

  She blushed. Even in the dim candlelight he could see the color staining her face. “We didn’t have much conversation.”

  “Were you fighting?”

  “I was... distressed. She was attempting to comfort me.”

  It wasn’t guilt he felt twisting inside him, he told himself. Just simple pain that he’d had to hurt her.

  “All right,” he said briskly. “Even so, that would suggest she’d be even less likely to take off. She’d be concerned about you, wouldn’t she?”