by Stacy Reid
Then he lowered his rapier and walked out of the man’s home. Once outside, he lifted his face to the sky and breathed deeply.
The retort of a pistol shot came from inside, and then screams rode the air. Without going back inside, he knew what the duke had done. No regret soured Nicolas’s gut. If Arianna’s father had been a man of equal standing, he would have challenged the duke and the others to a duel of honor and would have taken their lives.
One more has been taken down. No satisfaction flowered through Nicolas, either, just a deep sense of knowing that a measure of justice had been served.
The dragon wings spread wide, a rose of coronet upon its head…how merciless this dragon was, tempting me with chances of escape only to catch me again when I tasted freedom.
“The Dragon is dead, Arianna,” he said, the slight wind ripping his words into the air. A whimsical part of him wished the wind took the news to her so her haunting would stop.
He suddenly felt unbearably weary, as if something heavy sat on his shoulders. Nicolas wished he would go home to something different than an empty town house, and a bottle of whiskey. He was eight and twenty but felt as if he had lived much longer. He walked away from the commotion and started down the cobbled street.
Two footmen raced past him, no doubt to call a physician. The duke possibly lived, then, and Nicolas found himself hoping that he had not really died. That was the hardest part about his vengeance. He had made these men his cohorts. Though he had become a libertine to do it, there were days he laughed and caroused with them, and when he left their presence after a night of either gambling, playing cards, or leaving replete from a bordello, his heart would feel heavy.
He had dined at these men’s homes, met their families. He had seen that there was more to them than the monstrous deed they committed at age nineteen or eighteen, but it was still not in his heart to let them off. Justice had to be served.
And there were days he bled because of it, but upon his honor he would not falter. Not even when he went for the wolf.
But I need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were there.
Upon reaching his town house, a young man hovered, Ronald Jenkins formerly of Bow Street, looking a mite anxious. He was but one of a three-man team Nicolas had set to discreetly shadow Lady Maryann.
“What is it?” Nicolas demanded, his gut instantly knotting.
“The lady ye have us watching out for, a carriage almost ran her over your lordship. This afternoon on High Holborn. I did not see it, but Harry said someone pushed her into the path of the carriage, and that the two seemed to be working together. The driver waited until she was out in the street to speed up his horses. Harry tried to follow the carriage but lost ’em.”
The shock and fear that tore through Nicolas rendered him silent. Did I do this by dancing with you, by being too obvious with my attraction? A deadly calm settled over Nicolas. “Was she hurt?”
“No, just badly shaken up.”
“Have you kept watch?”
“Harry was sitting on her house, and he reported that the family is headed to a ball. He followed the carriage to a Countess Lauriston’s home.” Report completed, Jenkins melted away, drawing his hat lower over his forehead, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat.
Nicolas did not enter his home, but turned around, and made his way to Lady Lauriston’s abode. Lady Maryann would not be a lady overset by nerves or such nonsense, and that she would attend a ball suggested she was unruffled.
Nicolas still needed to determine for himself she was well. After the raw, provoking dreams he’d been having of her, he would ensure he did not go off alone with her. A quick chat on the terrace or out in the gardens would do, then he would watch and see that she returned to the safety of the ballroom.
Do not go, something in him urged. Ensure you are never alone with her, even for a damn minute, it warned. But Nicolas could not fight the compulsion to go to her, and deep inside it shook him to know he did not want to examine the reasons why.
Chapter Fifteen
Somehow Maryann knew Nicolas would come to her tonight.
She sat in her bed, her back leaned against the large headboard, her feet folded beneath her. The room was well lit, with a gas lamp and a roaring fire in the hearth. The book she had tried to distract herself with had been placed by the small desk to her left. And she waited.
More than an hour had passed since she had ceased pretending to read, and by the chime of the long grandfather clock in the hallway, it was just about nine in the evening. After supper she had pled a headache and retired to her room, while the earl and countess departed an hour past to attend a ball. Crispin had headed off to his club, and the rest of the household slept.
She stiffened as a shadow passed by her window. Heart pounding, Maryann eased from the bed, and leaned against the bedpost. The window groaned but did not budge. Though she had anticipated his presence, Maryann would not leave her windows open. She had latched them firmly closed since he stopped visiting her after that first week.
Curious to see how he would bypass the latch when it was inside her room, she waited. Maryann could not tell if he was really there, or if it was her fanciful yearnings. She climbed onto the bed and lay on her side, her hand pillowed beneath her cheek as she watched the windows. A yawn startled her, and she admitted the agitation of the day and the mild headache after had exhausted her more than she’d anticipated. The ticking of the clock on her mantel revealed the slow passage of time. Her lashes fluttered closed, and she slipped away in a dreamless sleep.
I am no longer alone.
That was the first thought to enter Maryann’s mind as the unknown disturbance roused her to full awareness.
He’s here.
A faint stirring of pleasure or perhaps anticipation curled through Maryann, and suddenly, the beat of her heart was felt in every part of her body.
The gas lamp had been turned off, and the fireplace burned low in the grate. A silvery beam of moonlight spilled into the room, filtering through the lace curtains. She snapped her gaze to the windows, which remained closed. But she could feel his presence in her room. “How did you get inside?” she whispered without seeing him. That she could feel the power of his gaze upon her was enough.
The bed dipped ever so slightly, and with a gasp, she lurched upright and turned in the direction she felt the movement. She did not expect him to be sitting on her bed. That felt remarkably intimate and perilous. The marquess’s powerful form was seated on the bottom of her bed, his shoulders resting against the bedpost.
A shadow of a smile crossed his lips and his eyes gleamed with something wicked and predatory. A knowledge passed between them that she wore his mark. That very spot ached and throbbed as if reacting to his closeness.
“I locked the windows,” she said, flushing at the husky way she sounded.
He stared at her mouth for a long moment. “Very good.”
“Yet you are still here,” she pointed out. “How did you come in?”
“Through the front door.”
Maryann’s mouth parted in a soundless gasp of shock. “Surely it is not that easy to enter someone’s abode and unnoticed, too!” She frowned. “You were unnoticed, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” Now his voice was threaded with subtle amusement. “You do not seem alarmed that I am here. Expected me, did you?”
“I…” A hair tickled along her cheek. She reached up and froze. Once again he had unpinned her hair.
Beneath his unflinching regard, a ripple of awareness went through her, and that inward alarm warned her of the peril to her virtue being so intimately enclosed with him in her bedchamber.
Yet she would not run or act like a silly ninny. If he wanted to kiss her, she would allow herself to enjoy all of his wicked advances. It was madness to even think it…yet the idea persisted. A seething cauldron of restlessness
roiled through Maryann, and the shred of caution she had used to guide her life since her come out collapsed in its entirety. She actually felt frightened of what she might do, of what she might allow, without any care or worry for the consequences.
He’ll not leave here until I have taken a bit of what I want.
Nicolas was staring at the spill of Maryann’s hair over her shoulders and down to her waist.
“Your hair is beautiful. Your russet highlights remind me of the leaves in autumn.”
The musing several weeks ago if she should cut it into a fashionable style vanished. Not while he looked at it so. “Why did you come?” she asked huskily.
“You were not at Lady Lauriston’s ball. Not finding you there, I came here. Did something happen?” His eyes held a distinct menace.
Yes. But she could not own to it. She suspected it was not wise to tempt him beyond the limits of his forbearance after recalling his vow to kill Viscount Talbot. Maryann could not have a death on her conscience. “I had no inclination for watching others dance tonight,” she said with a wry smile of her lips.
“Is that all?”
His regard felt peculiarly provocative.
“A carriage almost ran you over today.”
There was a curious lump in her throat that made speaking almost near to impossible. “How do you come to know of it?”
He was silent for a moment, leaving his expression strangely harsh. “I have a few men discreetly following you. One of them reported to me all that happened.”
The breath went from her. “You have men following me?”
“Yes.”
“I am duly alarmed and perhaps a second away from screaming. Have you gone mad?” She wasn’t sure if she should be outraged, appalled, or charmed.
“I am in full possession of my faculties.”
“You will have those men stop following me this instant.”
“No.”
“I—”
He caught her jaw in his hand, the grip gentle but unyielding. “You protest in vain.”
“I am not yours to protect,” she whispered, wanting to strip away his layers and understand why he would guard her in such a manner.
He faltered into astounding stillness, peering down at her enigmatically. Then he released her chin but did not move. Maryann touched the corner of his mouth with her finger. “What do I mean to you?” she asked with remarkable equanimity.
“Always so bold,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Yes, and you should be prepared to acquaint yourself with it.”
“That suggests long-standing friendship.”
“Is that why you are in my chamber, yet again—friendship?”
“There is an irresistible pull to you I simply cannot deny, even though I try to ignore it. I confess you interest me extraordinarily.”
Maryann was suddenly breathless. Their faces were so close together, she couldn’t help admiring the sheer beauty of his face. “Was it our shocking interlude that precipitated this interest?”
“No,” he said softly.
“You say little when you are not playing the charming rake.”
“My thoughts are constantly occupied by you.” His voice grew softer still. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
She was so thrilled by that admission, she almost hugged him. “A very disagreeable experience for you, I am sure.”
“You cannot be important to me.”
Her heart trembled until it ached inside her chest. She shifted closer to him, aware of his pleasing scent. “Why not?”
“Your brother might be my enemy.”
That she had not expected. Her lips parted, but no words came forth. “Crispin?” she finally gasped.
“The very one.”
There was an air of watchfulness about him, and in the gaze that stared at her lurked something dangerous. Her stomach flipped alarmingly. “I have never heard anything so silly! My brother is the best of men!”
“To others he might be a villain.”
That word caught against the discomfort of her thought. “You said might. How certain are you?”
“About thirty percent of surety,” he murmured.
“You are odd,” she said, feeling an unexpected spurt of humor. “To deny oneself pleasure because of such an improbable possibility.”
She gasped when he suddenly reached for her and dragged her onto his lap. The feel of the firm power of his thigh under her buttocks had her blushing, and with a hated sense of shyness she folded her hands beneath her bosom. Oh God, I am sitting on him!
“An improbable possibility?” he asked.
She was intensely mindful of his hand, strong and warm, on her lower back. “Of course. My brother is the best of gentlemen. It is not possible for him to do anything that might make him the enemy of anyone.”
“If he did, your brother would have been a lad of seventeen.”
“You do know how to hold a grudge,” she cried, thumping his shoulder lightly, before quickly folding back her arms. I am still sitting on his thigh! Are we not going to mention that at all?
“You make light of a matter of which you are ignorant.”
“Then enlighten me.”
He grunted but remained silent.
Maryann peered at him from beneath her lashes. “Are you worried I will want to skewer you for my brother?”
“Should I come for him and you know it, you will stand between us like an avenging angel with your rapier—or a shovel.”
“I agree,” she said softly, pushing a few curls behind her ears.
“Your brother might indeed be the man I am looking for.”
Her heart lurched uncomfortably. “He cannot be, I am certain of it,” she whispered, suddenly realizing that if the marquess was her brother’s enemy, Crispin’s life was in danger.
“Ah, I see the understanding in your eyes finally. Should you decide to avenge your brother against me when I am finished with him, that would be a travesty. Imagine us enemies—a truly frightening prospect, especially as I believe you might win.”
The look in his eyes was a frightening thing to behold—it hinted at a cunning and a strength of restrained power.
“I am astonished you think I might win against you.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth and she could feel his want. The need to taste his kiss…to feel the press of his lips against hers, the yearning to feel desired rose up inside like a great hunger…or thirst. Her throat felt parched and need quivered through her.
I’ve never been kissed, she wanted to say, but the words were trapped in her aching throat.
“You have powers that you do not yet understand how to wield. And I must make every allowance for your sweet fierceness.”
At her silence, he arched a brow. “Got your tongue, did I?”
“I admit I was stuck on sweet fierceness, wondering at the possibility of it. Are you saying that you find my manners and oddities sweet? I really must know of which you speak, my charming personality or the place between my thighs that you tasted with your tongue?”
He jerked, the motion dropping her on her arse upon the soft carpet.
Nicolas quickly stood. “Hell!”
Sprawled on the carpet, Maryann looked up at him, and the hilarity of the moment struck her. She laughed, scrambling to stand, taking the hand he held out to her for him to pull her up. Still chuckling, she peered up at him only to falter, her breath shortening. The raw hunger in his eyes was almost intimidating. A precise urging stirred low in her stomach, more potent than anything she’d ever felt. “Nicolas?” she asked tremulously.
“There is a distinct possibility your accident today was deliberate,” he said a bit hoarsely.
“What?” That was the last thing she’d expect him to say given how he was staring at her. “No,
that is not a sensible assumption to make. It was an accident. Going out was an impulse. Surely something like that would be methodically planned.”
“If someone is determined and powerful enough, it could be done.”
“Upon my word, you are entirely serious.”
“That accident was possibly a test to see how important you are to me, if at all.”
A frightening sensation dropped in her belly. What sort of man would have made such violent enemies? “What…who are your enemies?”
“A few. But there is someone on the board I am not familiar with, and that has me unsettled, for I cannot keep him in my sights.”
What was he talking about? What board? She felt a moment of pure bewilderment, and she sharply shook her head and thought about the man she knew before her. Not the rake but the dangerous, calculating lurker she often spied. He made a comparison to a chess game and possibly thought in terms of its strategies.
It struck her forcibly how much she did not know about him. “Why do you have enemies?”
“They took something from me.”
“What?”
“Something precious.”
The soft, regretful way he said it made her throat ache with unexpected sorrow. “A lady?” She was not sure why she asked; there might be other things this man considered to be precious: land, wealth, jewelry.
His lashes swept down for a second before he pinned her with that penetrating stare of his. “Yes.”
Oh! “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“I am still deeply sorry for your loss. Are you trying to…to take back what they stole?”
He took a few steps away from her, the shadows from the curtain casting him in darkness. She realized it was such a deliberate move on his part, to conceal his expression.
“Do not hide from me,” she whispered. “Please, Nicolas.”
He stepped into the path of the moonlight. The icy shrewdness of his look made her pulse trip in alarm.
“If they prick us, do we not bleed? If they wrong us, do we not revenge?”
