Perilous Risk

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  Feeling arose in her heretofore pleasure-numbed flesh. Incredibly, she was coming to life again. A wail of hunger, of need, forced its way up her throat. She arched her hips, trying to meet his downward thrusts.

  He reached around her body and touched her nub. Rubbed it in a circular motion. Kept thrusting in those long, slow strokes. Her inner muscles drew tight, so tight, then everything inside her exploded, squeezing and squeezing.

  He bucked his hips against her and shouted.

  Moments later he untied her and lay beside her, stroking her wrists, her arms. Then, after he had smoothed oil into her still stinging buttocks, he gathered her into his arms and stared at her with a look that was equal measures elation, joy and just a touch of lingering bewilderment.

  She remembered those feelings well. He would become more comfortable with this as time went on. Practice made perfect, didn’t it? And he had a more than willing partner for that practice.

  She sighed, feeling close to him, feeling safe, feeling cherished. She closed her eyes and sleep drifted over her.

  * * * *

  “Rebecca, he’s not here, you’ve no need to pretend.” Jonathon Lloyd’s brilliant blue eyes fixed Rebecca with a penetrating stare. His thin lips compressed. Dressed in dark blue, wearing a tall black hat and exuding disapproval, he was a most forbidding silhouette against the grey sky.

  She suppressed a sigh. Earlier, Stephen had taken the pony and trap to the village so he could post some letters and purchase sundry items. She’d felt somewhat tired from the night before and had chosen to stay home. After a nap, she’d grown restless and had gone to take a walk along the shore. But instead, she had found herself waiting at the edge of the drive, watching with incredulity as the Earl of Ruel’s carriage came to a stop.

  It had been close to a fortnight since the afternoon when she and Stephen had played their game in the cellar. Uncle Frederick had worked hard to convince Stephen to delay his brief trip to London. Stephen had relented, saying that he would delay for the sake of his health only because he didn’t want to worry his new wife unduly.

  In that time, Anne Lloyd had written, thanking Rebecca for the advice on the herbal teas and the programme of care that Rebecca had recommended for both herself and the heir. Little Jonny had not caught the scarlet fever and was currently thriving, eating much like a little piglet and finally putting on weight.

  The lady reported that she had recovered fully from her illness and felt more energetic and enlivened than she had since before becoming pregnant with Jonny. And she added, with several ink smudges surrounding her script—showing that she had perhaps penned the words a bit shyly at first—that her lord was also most pleased.

  And then she had repeated ‘most pleased’ in bolder script that was underscored several times.

  The little confidence from the reticent lady, like that shared between the closest of friends, had warmed Rebecca in a most surprising way. She realized she felt something akin to affection for the young noblewoman.

  But Rebecca had not been able to bring herself to write back and give any particulars about her marriage or life with Lord Drake. Yet, of course by now both Lord and Lady Ruel would have read the announcement of their marriage in the London papers. Still refusing to quaver under Jon’s scowl, she straightened her spine. “I am not pretending. I am very happy to be Lord Drake’s wife.”

  Jon’s mouth twisted sceptically. “Your Father told me everything—”

  “Wait!” The word exploded from her and yet she could hardly catch her breath to speak. “Father dared contact you about me?”

  Jon frowned. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “It is a private family matter.”

  “He is deeply worried about you.”

  “It is a private matter. None of your concern.” She drew her pelisse closer to her neck and glanced about. Oh, she did not wish to be spied, speaking with a strange, obviously wealthy man. All she needed was some salacious talk attached to her as a new wife. “Come, let us walk on the shoreline.”

  He scowled, his customary fierce features growing ever more so. But he followed her around to the path behind the house and apace down to the sea. . “What your father had to say disturbed me.”

  She stopped and whirled to face him and clutched her wrap to her collarbone. “So, you left Parliament, your wife and children to come and play the stern guardian with me?”

  “My wife was alarmed by what your father told us.”

  “He told Lady Ruel!” Mortification swept over her.

  “She insisted that I come and find out the truth for myself.”

  “Well, you’ve come here for nothing. I am quite happy to be Baron Drake’s wife.”

  “Come, Rebecca, as I have said, you’ve no need to hide the truth. Your father told me how Drake intimidated you into this farce of a marriage. How he continues to intimidate you and how he ordered your father from his house and forbade him to ever see you again.”

  She was so stunned she couldn’t gather her wits to speak. Imagine! Father had some gall to go telling tales to her former lover. The screech of a gull cut the silence, making her startle.

  Jon crossed his arms over his chest and began to tap the fingers of one hand on his arm.

  Under his continued foreboding stare, she lifted her chin and refused to cow. “That’s not how it happened.”

  “Well, then tell me what happened.”

  “You know how my father is.”

  “You’re evading me.”

  “I am. Why? Because the events of the past few weeks are none of your affair. I wrote to your wife. I told her of my marriage to Stephen. You need know nothing more.”

  Jon sighed. “Lady Ruel and I have discussed this. We will give you every aid and all of our protection. We can finance a trip to America where you can obtain a legal divorce. You can relocate completely if you want. I have contacts there, I can find Edwin a position—”

  “Oh, so now, because I had the audacity to be your lover, years ago—” Her voice shook with her rising anger. “N-now I must go away, disappear because I am inconvenient to you.”

  “It is not like that.”

  “Then please, tell me how it is, for it certainly seems that way to me.”

  “I think you need to be far away from Drake’s influence.”

  “His influence? Am I still a witless girl who is easy prey to the seduction of any man?”

  “Rebecca, I know you. I know your drives. A man like Stephen Drake—”

  “This is most improper talk between us. I am another man’s wife now.”

  “You can obtain a divorce.”

  “So, because you do not like my choice of husband, I must live the rest of my life in disgrace as a divorced woman?”

  “In America, they see these things somewhat differently. Do you remember Mr Bramson?”

  Oh, yes, Mr Bramson and his wicked green eyes. They had fascinated her endlessly. Despite her vexation, her cheeks heated. “What has Mr Bramson to do with any of this?”

  “Every time I correspond with him, he asks about you. How are you doing? Are you wed yet?”

  She held up a hand. “Jon, please, don’t.”

  “He is not so ill-favoured, is he?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “He is only forty, unwed and wealthy.”

  “Jon, please stop.”

  He frowned. “I am trying to help.”

  Anger and frustration welled in her so strongly, she had to ball her fists and grit her teeth to keep from screaming. Damn you, Father. Damn you!

  “You’re shaking. Are you cold?” he asked, concern contorting his expression.

  “I am not cold.” She rounded on him. “I am bloody angry!”

  His eyes widened and he stepped back. “Aren’t we still friends?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why are you fighting me?”

  She took a deep breath and tried to modulate her tone. “Because I don’t want a divorce. Lord Drake did not
intimidate me into marriage.”

  He offered her one of his most charming grins. “Now Rebecca, please—”

  “No!”

  His grin vanished. “Now see here—”

  “No, no, no, do not ‘Rebecca, please’ me. I am a grown woman and despite my drives, I am able to make my own decisions and I am not so prey to temptation that I would simply offer myself in wedlock to any man who—”

  Burning pain exploded in her chest. She fell backwards.

  Jon shouted her name.

  She struggled to open her eyes. Jon stood over her, his face white, his eyes huge. She had never seen such surprise on his face. Pain lashed her. Bloody hell! It hurt just to move her chest to breathe. Weakness, oh damn, such weakness. She had to close her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Staring at Rebecca’s ashen face as she lay unconscious upon the bed, Stephen warred against the impulse to go back to the parlour and strangle the Earl of Ruel. It wouldn’t be wise. He didn’t have all the facts yet and Ruel had been the sole witness to the shooting.

  Sick dread twisted through his guts. Christ. What the devil had happened? Had Addison or someone attached to the Home Office decided to exact revenge for a job poorly done?

  No, Charles Addison was incapable of such an emotional reaction. And in the end, they had no true cause for unhappiness with Stephen. They would be able to tarnish Barnet’s reputation with the personal letters and diaries he had left behind.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Frederick’s proclamation cut into Stephen’s thoughts.

  “Tell me,” Stephen demanded.

  “They missed her heart. If it had not glanced off a rib, she would now be lying in state, not in recovery. As it is, she has a badly broken rib and a nasty wound, but if there’s no infection, she should make a complete recovery.” The older man’s voice shook and his eyes were becoming glassy. Stephen reached for her hand. God, it was cold. She had to recover. She had to. He was the one who was dying, not her. He had prepared so carefully to provide for her. She had to live on and enjoy her wealth, her freedom.

  But for Stephen to be the one to live on, alone? He had lived without her before. He could not do it again.

  If she died, he would gladly welcome his own death.

  * * * *

  Stephen awoke with a start. With his heart pounding, he glanced at the bed. Rebecca was still ashen-faced but the gentle rise and fall of her chest sent relief through him.

  Bang, bang, bang…

  The sound carried distantly on the wind.

  He frowned. What devil was that?

  He lifted her hand to his lips then lowered it and arose from the chair and went into the parlour. Frederick was still sleeping on the settee. The Earl of Ruel had offered to stay in case his help was needed but Stephen had declined and told him that in fact he ought to return to Mayfair.

  The distant banging sounded again.

  He frowned again and went to retrieve his greatcoat and walked out into the growing storm. Cold rain lashed his face. In the limited visibility, he squinted and surveyed the yard.

  The stable door was open.

  Strange. He clearly remembered closing it. He trod over sodden earth and went to close it. Lamplight made the bare wood glow in tones of amber and soft yellow. With his every alarm raised, he slowly walked inside.

  A lamp sat on top of an overturned barrel.

  He glanced around at the stalls, seeing Vic and Ned, their glossy brown coats glistening in the light. They didn’t seem particularly disturbed. But they were wakeful, lifting their heads, pricking their ears and nickering as he approached.

  He went to the first stall and stroked Vic’s mane. He glanced over his shoulder. The doorway remained empty. There was no one else in the stable.

  The door might have blown open of its own accord. Had Frederick come out to tend his horse because of the storm and left that lamp there? Yes, he must have.

  Stephen checked Vic and Ned’s blankets and then checked on Frederick’s horses.

  Footfalls sounded. Soft. Not a man’s boots. A woman?

  He turned.

  Pale grey eyes glimmered in the light. A tall, statuesque woman stood in the doorway. She lowered the hood of her pelisse and bright red lights shone in windswept curls that were half-falling from their pins.

  “Maria,” he said, not quite believing his eyes.

  She walked further into the stable. A smile brightened her expression. “Good evening, Stephen, I see that you’re surprised that I am here.”

  “Yes, of course. I expected you to be well on your way to gracing some fat merchant’s divan by now.”

  “I escaped my captors in Wapping. I don’t like to lose.”

  “My mistake to have underestimated you.”

  She reached into her pelisse and as she raised her hand, metal glinted.

  A pistol.

  “What are you about there?” he asked.

  “Not me. The Earl of Ruel shall take the blame. You see, he couldn’t bear to lose his dear, long-time mistress. The only woman who would indulge his perverse tastes. Rather than lose her forever, he killed her and then you.”

  “Rebecca’s not dead.”

  “Oh, no? Surely, she’s close to death. I shot her square in the heart.”

  “No, you missed.”

  “She was trysting with Ruel. How does that make you feel as her”—Maria curled her lip—“husband?”

  “I am her husband, not her keeper.”

  “Ha! I doubt that’s really the way you feel. I never guessed that you were in love with someone. You seem too cold for it. But never mind, your surprising marriage to that pallid, common creature has handed me the best scenario for my revenge on Jonathon Lloyd. For that I thank you.”

  “How are you going to place the blame on Ruel?”

  “It is self-evident. He was visiting her and then you and her are murdered? Self-evident guilt.”

  “Ruel is powerful and his wife possesses incredible wealth. He will have access to the best solicitors who will advise him on how to fight the accusations. He will also be tried by his peers, in the House of Lords. They will have sympathy for him as one of their own. They will want to keep the door closed to their sheltered world and push any hint of guilt under the carpet.” Stephen paused, studying her closely. “That bit about Ruel being a sodomite, that would have never stuck either.”

  “The devil you say.”

  “There are only two men whom you could have linked with him in this way. Mr David Kean and Lord Penn. Lord Penn has powerful relations who would never want his name attached to such salacious nonsense. Those names alone would have protected Ruel from your ill-conceived machinations.”

  The door hinges made a squeaky sound as the wind gusted. She cut her eyes to the side, showing her nervousness at the sound. Then she put a hand to her temple. “Stop it Stephen!”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop trying to twist things around.” She cut her eyes at the continued squeaking, her expression showing her growing agitation. However, she quickly regained control over herself and straightened the arm holding the gun. “You are too quick with your tongue. You’re a swindler.”

  “A swindler?” He chuckled.

  “You swindled me! You let me think you were besotted with me. You were using me to make connections in Society.”

  “What? I swindled a lady of ill-repute to make my connections in Society?”

  She frowned. “Then it is true?”

  “What’s true?”

  “That you’re a spy. Cherry thought you were. She said you interrogated her like a spy would have. But she wouldn’t say about what.”

  Indeed. Cherry wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know he’d seduced her just to seek answers about another woman’s sexual tastes.

  “I did ask Cherry a fair amount of questions.” He’d been too obvious about it, too. He’d lost his balance, just as he lost his balance about everything concerning Rebecca.

  “I
have to know, are you a spy? Did you kill Barnet?”

  “You’re a bad strategist, Maria.”

  “Not this time.” She clasped both hands about the pistol. “Move away from the horses. I don’t like to waste.”

  Slam!

  The door to the barn swung closed.

  Maria jumped and on a shrill cry, whirled to look behind her. The pistol fired and hit the door.

  Stephen lunged forward and grasped her about the waist. She screamed. He grasped her arm and gave it a savage twist. “Drop the pistol.”

  She gasped, her body shaking. “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Now, Maria. If I apply any further pressure, your bone will snap. I don’t want to do that to a woman. So, please drop the pistol.”

  She threw a glance over her shoulder, her face mottled red with pain, her jaw appearing locked. “You think I am a fool? You can’t allow me to live. I know too much.”

  “Yes, you do. But I am going to send you to the East, as I had planned before.”

  Tears were streaking down her cheeks. It left him completely cold.

  “I’ll escape again!”

  “You’re going to be chained this time.”

  “You’re a barbarian!”

  “And you’re a murderess. Don’t you think it’s time you gave in to justice?”

  Her arm finally weakened and the pistol dropped to the stable floor.

  He eased his grip. Without releasing her waist, he bent and picked up the pistol. Then he pulled her with him over to his saddlebags. He retrieved some coarse rope. As he attempted to tie her wrists, she tried to fight. He tightened his grip. “You must behave. If you do, I’ll make sure you’re well cared for and arrive safe and in one piece at the slave markets.”

  “I’d rather hang!”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate. It doesn’t happen to be convenient for me that you stand trial.” Nor was it convenient for the crown but he didn’t mention that part.

  She kept fighting him. He merely held her in a determined grip and deflected her efforts until she weakened and lay passive. She was a noblewoman and spoilt and soft from easy living. It didn’t take long. Then he tied her hands and feet.