“That is the best plan. I haven’t a lot of china left.” Miss Victorine limped toward her bedroom as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Amy stood. She shook the creases out of her skirt, and checked her bodice to make sure that the neckline remained high enough to hide all glimpse of cleavage from Northcliff.
Of course she wasn’t indecent. This was one of Miss Victorine’s old gowns, but even the most discreet bodice could gape and somehow show more than she intended. Picking up her shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders and secured it at her waist. Over the last two days she’d developed these habits, for while she and Northcliff had exchanged no more of those improper conversations, and Northcliff had taken care to keep his licentious opinions to himself, she still felt…uncomfortable in his presence. Something about him made her…cautious.
Restless.
Sleepless.
Breathless.
He no longer spoke of his desire, but some stirring female intuition suspected he experienced it, and reluctantly she acknowledged that she felt odd, too. Uncomfortable. Sort of like she had indigestion. She frequently found herself glancing at him out of the corners of her eyes, and just as frequently found his gaze on her. When he spoke to her, the tone of his voice made her want to squirm and smirk like some flirtatious schoolgirl. It was all very awkward, and she hated feeling awkward. She hated feeling anything—toward him.
The first time she’d seen him, she’d wanted nothing more than to capture him, get the ransom, and depart with Miss Victorine. She hadn’t thought about him at all except as a lousy, miserable creature and a means to an end.
Now it seemed she could do nothing except think of him.
She certainly couldn’t get rid of him.
And when she did, she feared she would never forget him.
Life had been so simple before she met Jermyn Edmondson, the marquess of Northcliff.
Last time she had received a ransom refusal, she had descended into the cellar with trepidation.
This time she descended in defiance. Northcliff sat propped up on two pillows, pretending to read a book, but she knew, she felt his attention on her. She stopped at the other end of the long table and shook her finger at him. “Lord Northcliff! What kind of vexious nephew have you been that your uncle doesn’t care whether you live or die?”
Northcliff looked up at her. She couldn’t read what he was thinking in his expression or in his eyes. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm. “Jermyn,” he said.
“What?” What was he talking about?
“My name is Jermyn.” He put the book down on the edge of the table. “And I have a great desire to have you call me by my name.”
She hadn’t expected that response, and the unexpected made her uneasy. He knew today was the day they would hear back from Mr. Edmondson. He should be demanding news of his release. Instead he wanted to chat?
She inched closer to him, staring and wondering if the long stretch of inactivity had taken its toll on his wits. “My lord, your name is of no interest to me.”
“Really? That’s odd, Lady Disdain, because your name is of great interest to me.” He lounged against the blankets, his mahogany hair an attractive mess. “Might I know it?”
“You know my name.” What was this new interest he showed in identifying her?
Had he somehow stumbled onto the secret of her past?
But no. That was impossible. He’d been hidden here for six days. He had no way to discover anything.
She glanced toward the stairs.
Unless Miss Victorine had spoken. But Miss Victorine had sworn she would be discreet, and Amy trusted her.
“Your real surname, please.” He spoke crisply, a man who expected to be obeyed.
“No.” Heavens, no.
“What do you fear?”
What did she fear? She feared returning to Beaumontagne to a life of stultifying propriety and a mismatched marriage. She feared an assassin’s bullet. She feared having to leave Miss Victorine for her safety.
In an odd way, she feared Jermyn and his influence on her, because he made her want different things than she had ever wanted before. “My lord, I fear nothing.” She smiled to cover the lie. “I have news about your release. May I continue?”
“Do.” He waved a negligent hand. “Pray, do.” He was chained to the bed in the basement of a cottage on the isle of Summerwind. His clothing was in shambles. His jaw, a jaunty, determined edifice, sported a scruffy beard. Yet he managed to exude a kind of noble command that overcame his crude surroundings and his ignoble situation. How did he do it?
And why was she impressed?
“Your uncle again has refused to pay the ransom.”
“How could you have imagined that a silly girl like you could successfully blackmail the marquess of Edmondson or his agent?”
At his condescending tone, her hostility leaped to life. “My scheme is sound, it’s you and your uncle who’re twisted. And what do you mean, calling me a silly girl?”
“You are a silly girl. You don’t understand the forces you’ve unleashed.” He smiled with such confidence, she itched to slap his face. “Move a little closer and I’ll show you.”
Trust him to direct this quarrel toward the physical awareness that vibrated between them. “What a cad you are. You distrust women.”
“Why would I distrust women?” He sneered like a man bred for sneering. “Perhaps because they kidnap and imprison me?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I did that. I am not a typical well-bred English female, so to use me as an example is to avoid the question—and that makes the answer obvious. You don’t like women.”
“A man who uses females for companionship is a man who exposes himself to anguish.”
“Anguish?” She didn’t know what to make of his cool comment.
“Men and women are different. Women are careless, bright, and beautiful creatures created to break a man’s heart. In a man’s world, the sky is blue and a vow is eternal. In a woman’s world—” He shook his head, and his sneer became a grimace, pained and directed—at himself. “I’ve never had a peek at a woman’s world, so I don’t know the color of the sky. But I do know that for a female, no vow is eternal.”
“I don’t understand.” She did understand that they’d moved beyond the easy quarrel into something more. Something anguished. Something personal.
He leaned toward her. “When you were a child, did your mother tell you she loved you?”
“My mother died at my birth.”
“Fortunate you.” He relaxed back against the pillows.
Shocked, she said, “My lord, that is cruel.”
“No, trust me, it’s the truth. You don’t realize how lucky you are, and that probably explains why you’re so intelligent, daring, interesting—so different from the usual run of female.”
“I’m not flattered.”
“You should be. You may be wild and outspoken, but I know when you speak, no matter how much I hate it, you’ll speak the truth. I watch you with Miss Victorine, and I know that when you give your loyalty, your loyalty is undying.”
“I suppose.” She inched away.
He sounded half mad, speaking feverishly and watching her with eyes that glowed golden with intensity.
“Do you know my mother used to take me on her knee and tell me that she loved me? She put me to bed every night with a story, and woke me every morning with a kiss. She made sure I was happy, protected, carefree.”
“She sounds lovely.” Although his tone told her a different story.
“She was. The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. The one woman my father ever loved. Some people called her a foreigner—she was Italian, from an impoverished family, a mad choice my father made on his grand tour, but she charmed everyone with her auburn hair and brown eyes and vibrant laugh. She was so kind, such a loving mother, so much in love with my father. All the other women wore subdued colors, but not my mother. She wore reds, beautiful rich hues that would have made a
ny other woman look washed out and pale. She gave the most wonderful parties, and at one of them I heard some of the noble ladies gossiping. They said she rode a gelding too big and fast for her, that she flaunted herself. They said the way she dressed indicated a light mind and an immoral disposition. I was seven. I didn’t understand what they meant, but I knew I didn’t like their tone, so I ran into the drawing room and attacked them. I kicked one old besom right in the shin.” Northcliff’s intensity arched through space toward Amy like light made visible. “When I told my father what had happened, he laughed and kissed me on the top of the head.”
“Good for you.” She liked the idea of the childish Jermyn and his fevered defense of his mother.
“It was the last time I ever heard him laugh,” Northcliff said flatly. “The last time he showed me anything but formal affection.”
Somehow during this conversation the two of them had edged into something more than the razor-sharp repartee that had marked their moments together. Or had the change happened more slowly, over six days of enforced intimacy, over evenings spent in a ill-lit cellar reading, beading, talking?
What was it Miss Victorine had said about Lady Northcliff? We lost her when Jermyn was seven.
Yet faced with a hard-eyed lord, Amy suspected Miss Victorine had avoided awkward explanation and a painful memory. “My lord, what happened to your mother?”
“When I was seven years old, she ran away with our foreign agent.”
“What?” Amy shook her head in bewilderment. “But you said she was kind and a loving mother and in love with your father.”
“It would appear my childish affection misled me.”
“I don’t believe that. You couldn’t have been so wrong.”
“No? Yet she is gone.” Northcliff’s bored tone hid his pain, but he couldn’t conceal the bleakness in his eyes. “In all my life I’ve never heard another word from her.”
“I don’t believe you!” She couldn’t stand such an ending to the fairy tale of the beautiful, kind, devoted mother.
“My parents fought that day. I had never heard them raise their voices, but they did then. I couldn’t understand them—I was outside the door—but Father was very angry, cold, and cutting, and Mama was passionate, fiery, arguing as if her very existence depended upon winning…the next thing I knew, she had taken her horse and ridden the road to the harbor.” Northcliff recited the tale softly, not really understanding what had prompted him to reveal himself to Amy. Not that she wouldn’t have heard the story if she remained here long enough—he was surprised she hadn’t heard it yet—but to no one had he ever revealed his feelings. What was it about this girl that made him rattle on? “Our ship was there. Mama was seen speaking to our foreign agent. He boarded, taking her with him. They told the captain she would be disembarking before they sailed. But she never came home. She left me. She left my father. She never came home.”
“I don’t believe it,” Amy repeated. “How could a woman who loved her son and her husband leave without a backward glance?”
“I’ve wondered that a thousand times. I have only two possible answers. She didn’t really love us.” He watched Lady Disdain closely as he offered his second theory. “Or else all women are flighty and disloyal.”
Amy didn’t even stop to think. “That’s stupid. Both of your theories are stupid.”
“What do you mean, stupid?”
Amy stood within the reach of his arms, daring him to grab her, to shake her, to offer her violence. And he was ready to do just that. In the six days since he’d been taken, he had walked to the end of his chain countless times. He had beaded two inches of lace. For the sake of Miss Victorine, he had had civilized conversation with this she-devil. He had even done the exercises the doctor recommended—lifting his injured leg in the air, turning his foot in circles, pressing it to his chest.
The damned leg felt better, but Jermyn was frantic. He hadn’t seen the sun in a week. Every day he had been given hot water to shave and sponge off, but he hadn’t had a change of linen. He had given up on wearing his cravat, and he knew his friends would be horrified by his rumpled appearance.
“Look around you. Everywhere you look you’ll see women who love their husbands and their children so fiercely they’ll do anything to protect their family. To condemn all women because of one lady’s behavior is stupid.” Amy didn’t mince her words, didn’t bother to use a conciliatory tone.
“So you’re saying my mother didn’t really love us.” Which he knew, but he didn’t like having her rub his face in it.
He had been kept like an animal for a stupid scheme of revenge. And he was sick to death of being stuck here with little to do but occasionally when frustration got the better of good sense, pound on his manacle.
Amy frowned fiercely at him, obviously unconvinced. “Did your mother say anything the last time she saw you?”
“Say anything? What do you mean, say anything?” Why had he started this conversation with Amy? Why would she understand? She had proved her tactlessness again and again. “Of course she said something.”
“Did she hold you against her, give you advice for the future, tell you that she loved you but she had to go?”
He knew exactly what his mother had said. After she was gone, he’d repeated her remarks over and over again, trying to squeeze some indication of warmth and loss from her words. “The last thing she said to me was, ‘Darling boy, behave for Miss Geralyn until I get back.’” He mocked himself, his mother, and Amy. “Miss Geralyn was my nursemaid.”
Amy stared at him blankly. “That’s not the way a woman acts, especially not a woman who loves her son and is leaving him for the last time.”
“Nevertheless, she did leave me.”
“I’m telling you, your tale doesn’t make sense. You were just a lad. You don’t know all the details. And one thing is clear, my lord. If you’re going to blame anyone for your current problems, you shouldn’t blame your mother or me or any other female.” The color rode high in her cheeks. Her green eyes sparkled with frustration.
“I shouldn’t blame you? You abducted me!”
“Yes, but I would have released you by now. Please, my lord, blame your uncle, who won’t pay your ransom. I’ve heard nothing but ill of him—and you—and it appears it’s all true.” Her bosom heaved under the influence of her aggravation. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about the rot in your character and that of your uncle than bemoaning my treachery.”
Damn her. In her sentiments he heard the echo of days long gone.
At the same time, he observed the faint, erotic jiggle of her breasts with a need that brought his cock swelling against the buttons of his trousers. An opinionated, cheeky female in dreadful clothing gave him the cockstand of a lifetime while she, apparently innocent of any feeling for him, made aspersions about his worth. The situation could no longer be borne. “Where is Miss Victorine?”
“She’s taking her nap.”
“Good. Good.” He placed his feet on the floor. Slowly he stood, rising to his full height closely against her, allowing her to feel his heat. His ire.
Her eyes widened.
He lunged.
She leaped away.
Too late. He caught her around the waist. Triumph roared through him.
The chain snapped to its full length. The manacle grabbed at his ankle. He fell. Twisted. Landed atop her on the cot. Beneath him, her breath whooshed out.
They were sideways—she had one foot on the floor, one on the bed, and he glimpsed a long expanse of stockinged calf and bare thigh. He had both feet on the floor and enough energy igniting in him to start a blaze.
For the first time in six days—no, six months, maybe six years—he was completely and vibrantly alive. He tussled with her, lifting her completely onto the mattress, using his weight to control her kicking feet and his elbow to block the strong punch to his head with her right fist. When he had her where he wanted her, with her head on the pillow and that softly curved bo
dy beneath him, he cradled her head in his hands. And kissed her.
Damn it, it was what he had wanted to do for six days. Hold her beneath him, master her struggles, and kiss her.
He pressed his lips to hers.
She bit at him, a hard nip that broke the skin and brought the taste of blood to his mouth.
Lifting his head, he smiled.
A full-bodied, vengeful smile that made her eyes widen, then narrow. “Let go, you—” She swung hard enough and with enough precision to slip under his guard and give a glancing blow to his cheek.
His head snapped sideways.
She shook her hand, flexed her fingers. “Damn it to hell, that hurt!”
She spoke like a lady, but swore like a sailor.
Who was she?
She wouldn’t say. Yet before this affair ended, he would know.
He shifted them, bringing her whole body completely onto the cot, making sure his weight still trapped her.
She fought against him, of course. As much rage as he felt in being confined, she felt in being mastered. A drop of blood from his lip splashed onto her face. She jerked her head aside as if she could avoid the results of her actions.
“It’s far too late for that,” he told her.
And by God, she appeared to comprehend what he meant.
But she didn’t believe him, and she wasn’t resigned. She brought her claws into play, slashing at his face with vicious swipes that aimed right for his eyes.
He caught her hands. Stopped smiling. Stared down into her savage gaze and said, “You’re exactly the woman I prayed I would never find—alive, unafraid, determined…untamable.” He kissed her again, a hard pressure on her lips. “More trouble than I could ever imagine.”
Chapter 11
“Damn you.” Damn him! Amy should have been afraid that this caged beast, this being who at the same time bled and smiled, would rape her. Hurt her.
She wasn’t afraid.
She comprehended Northcliff’s rage.
All her life, she had felt rage like it, rage at the fate that had made her a princess in the first place, rage at the war that ripped her from her family and thrust her into the world, rage at Clarice for so long refusing to recognize that their royal life could never be recovered.
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