A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  She took a step forward, her hand outstretched. “Gareth?”

  A slight flush rose in his cheeks at the sound of his name and Serena launched herself at him. “You’re real!” The words were muffled against his hard, muscular, wonderful-smelling, beloved-feeling chest.

  His arms closed around her tighter than the metal rings on a barrel.

  She felt the pressure of his lips on the top of her head. “Serena.”

  She looked up at the sound of her Christian name on his lips and he claimed her mouth, his kisses fierce, his hold so tight it hurt.

  Hands came between them, as if to tear them apart. “That’s enough,” a voice commanded, while another set of hands pulled her away, or at least tried to.

  “Christ! They’re as tight as two sides of a bloody clam,” another said, causing chuckles all around.

  Cold metal rested against her temple and Gareth’s arms released her. “All right, all right. Bloody touchin’ that is. Now, about the rest o’ the money.”

  Before Gareth could answer there were three rapid knocks, a pause, and then another.

  The one holding the gun lowered his arm. “It’s about bloody time. Open the door, Kedge.”

  Things became something of a blur at that point.

  Gareth gave her a shove that launched her all the way back toward the cot while yelling, “Go!” as if she had any choice. He swung his right elbow and a resounding clack filled the small room, followed by an agonized roar as the man fell backward, staggering out of the room into one of the other men. Gareth slammed the door shut and slid the heavy chair in front of it just as a pistol shot rang out and splinters of wooden plank door showered the room.

  Gareth’s body landed on her and he dragged her down to the floor, covering her like a human shield while a second shot filled the air, this one sounding farther away.

  “Stay still,” he ordered, when she tried to push up and see.

  It occurred to her he rather enjoyed giving orders, but she decided this might be a wise one to obey.

  “It will be safe shortly,” he told her, easing his weight on to one elbow so he didn’t crush her. Which was too bad, actually, as she’d quite enjoyed being crushed. Although she supposed her current condition was an affront to a man as fastidious about cleanliness as he was.

  “Who are they?”

  “Excisemen, constables, and one Bow Street Runner named Steele.”

  ***

  Serena had to have two baths before she could wash all the dirt and smell away.

  Just as Gareth had predicted, the fracas ended quickly and fatally for two of the smugglers. Serena could not say she was sorry to see that her would-be-rapist was among the two who had been shot. His father was still alive, but rather the worse for wear.

  He had winked at Serena as the men dragged him off. “Sorry, lass.”

  Gareth’s carriage was waiting at the top of a torturous climb, which she made on the back of a sturdy little pony. Her prison had been a smuggler’s shack half-dug into the cliffside, not even a mile away from town.

  Gareth himself had stayed at the bottom of the cliff when she left. “I need to stay and give details to the constable,” he’d told her, no longer holding her now that she was wrapped in a cloak—one of her own—and wearing shoes, also her own. “Will you be all right for the ride back to the hotel? Timkins and Butler will be with you, and two of the excisemen.”

  Serena smiled. “It is less than a mile, I will be fine. Right now, I’m more afraid of my own smell than smugglers.”

  He’d not even cracked a smile at her weak attempt at humor, instead nodding in his abrupt way and turning back to the men who were waiting for him, as if that brief moment of tenderness in each other’s arms had never happened.

  That had been hours ago, and still he’d not come to see her—even though she’d heard him enter the adjoining room half an hour earlier.

  She’d left her hair loose, hoping some of the heavy masses of curls would dry. Gareth had brought a nightgown and dressing gown, as well as an outfit suitable for a carriage ride. She’d sent the clothes she’d been wearing for the past week off with one of the maids, telling her to burn it. But dresses being worth what they were—even stinking, ragged, patched ones—she expected some happy maid to be sporting her best traveling dress on the streets of Dover tomorrow. And she would be welcome to it.

  She paced restlessly without her sketchbook to occupy her or her small, cheap watch to tell her the time, as the thieves had relieved her of both.

  Finally, when she could stand it no longer, she strode to the single door she knew separated them and flung it open.

  He was bare-chested, lying on his bed, reading a book, the room blazing with light.

  He lowered the book and gave her one of his Gareth Lockheart looks, the haughty-unreadable combination he did so well.

  “You were reading?”

  He arched his brows at her. “As you see.”

  “Were you just going to leave me stewing?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, the movement more than a little distracting. “I assumed you would be sleeping.”

  She just shook her head, too angry to do anything else. How could he read at such a time? They might have died! They might be—

  He held a hand toward her. “Come here.”

  She thrilled at his tone, which her body recognized instantly, but she shook her head. “Do you always give orders?”

  He appeared to consider her question, which any other man would have known was rhetorical. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  Serena’s lips twitched to smile at his very Gareth Lockheart response, but she stopped herself in time, maintaining a scowl. With great difficulty.

  And then she saw something on his face—a look she’d never seen before. It was a smile. A glorious, slow-growing, honest-to-goodness, teeth-exposing smile.

  Serena stared.

  He lifted his hand again. “I was just teasing. Will you please come join me in my somewhat lumpy but clean bed?”

  She dropped her jaw and gave him a look that was only half mocking amazement. “Gareth Lockheart knows how to tease?”

  He nodded. “He does.”

  “And Gareth Lockheart can say please?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And Gareth Lockheart has teeth. I know, because I saw them for the first time when he smiled.”

  “Yes, you are correct on all counts. But right now Gareth Lockheart is wondering why we are talking about him in the third person. Come here, please.”

  She went to him. How could she not?

  As he lifted the bedding for her to join him she noticed the fine sheeting. “Is this your bedding?” She stood beside the bed.

  “Chalmers always brings it for me when we travel. I found he had packed a set and the maid seemed happy enough to put them on.

  Serena could imagine the girl had been thrilled—along with imagining herself in between them.

  “I noticed my bed had none.”

  “I’d hoped your bed would be superfluous.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Serena, my arm is about to fall off.”

  She climbed in beside him and he gathered her up, his body long, hard, delicious smelling, and naked.

  “Mmmm,” he nosed around in her hair. “You smell much better than you did earlier.”

  She laughed into the smooth column of his throat. “I have to admit I wondered how you managed to touch me.”

  His arms tightened. “I would have done the same had you been in that wretched hole twice as long.”

  Her throat tightened. “Oh? What about three times as long?”

  He hesitated before saying, “Hmmm. Perhaps not.”

  She laughed, the tears spilling out before she could stop them.

  He held her away and looked down at her, his handsome face suddenly reminding her of knights and their armor. His impassive expression
was like a face plate on a war helmet. And tonight the plate had slid aside a little, allowing her a glimpse of an expression she’d never seen on his face before—tenderness mixed with confusion.

  Serena did not think she could tell him the truth about why she was here. It would kill any chance of more looks like the one he was giving her.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m happy.”

  He cocked his head. “I know I am a monumental dolt when it comes to reading other people, but aren’t tears a sign of sadness?”

  “Not for me,” she said, following the words with a big sniff.

  He made her cry harder by kissing away her tears. Oh, she could not bear it.

  “Why are you being so nice to me? Why?” she demanded, thrusting him rudely away.

  He leaned back and propped his head up with his hand, the action causing fascinating movements all up and down his naked torso.

  “Why?” he repeated, mulling over her question in his serious, thoughtful way. “I cannot be certain, but I have come to believe the distracting emotions I’ve been experiencing lately might very well be that mythical thing called love.” He capped off this very Gareth declaration with a second smile in one evening, this one self-mocking.

  “Love?” It was all she could manage, and even that came out strangled and squashed, as though it had been run through a mangle before leaving her mouth.

  He nodded. “Yes. I think Gareth Lockheart loves you.”

  ***

  Gareth was genuinely alarmed: Emma Woodhouse had not burst into tears when Knightly declared his love for her. This crying, unlike her earlier crying, came in the body-wracking sobs of a young child—or a person mourning something terrible, like a death. Gareth could do nothing or say nothing that seemed to help. So, he held her, his chin on her head while she burrowed into him and cried until his chest was wet. Finally, the sobs turned to little gulps, and then rather aggressive sniffing. When he thought it might have ended, he gently put her away from him to look for clues as to her next mood.

  “Oh, don’t,” she said, burrowing back in before he could see much other than a red tipped nose. “I’m so mortified.”

  At least that was what he thought she said, although it sounded more like, “I’b zo bortivied.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Will you tell be what habbened.”

  Gareth deciphered this and assumed she meant this evening’s events rather than his emotional metamorphosis and embarrassing declaration.

  “Yes, of course. Your captors sent me a note indicating I might wish to ransom you.”

  She shifted at this information, but still did not show her face. “Did they say why?”

  Gareth smiled to himself at the question. “No.” He waited for more, but she was silent. “But I suspect it had something to do with your cousin.”

  That got her attention. She twisted, until he could see her face. She looked beautiful, even with puffy eyes and a red nose. The expression in her eyes was one he did not like to see: fear. So, he did what he could to alleviate it.

  “I recalled your cousin had recently come from Dover but was on his way to London. I wondered if he had changed his mind and come back here. If so, perhaps you had come to render him some assistance.”

  Her body stiffened, but still she did not speak.

  “I employ a Runner whose judgment I trust implicitly—Mr. Steele, whom you met briefly this evening. I sent him a message to find Bardot. I knew Steele would find him if anyone could. It turned out he was still in London.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the rest of what I have to say may not please you. Do you wish to hear it?”

  She nodded, terror replacing fear in her eyes.

  “Mr. Steele learned certain things in pursuit of Mr. Bardot, none of them particularly good. When he had a chance to speak to him in person—he found him gambling in a dangerous part of town—he spoke to him at some length, and great depth. One of the subjects he discussed was his association with you.”

  Serena closed her eyes.

  “Serena.”

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I lured you here, and to certain death if you had not had the foresight to know that—”

  He took her chin in a gentle, but firm, grip and tilted it. “Please, look at me.”

  She did. “I am so very, very sorry, Gareth. I have been terribly foolish.”

  “No, you have been scared, and at the whim of a very unscrupulous man.” He frowned. “I’m afraid Mr. Steele left Bardot rather the worse for wear, but he got me the information I desperately needed—both to rescue you, and to accept my feelings for you.”

  She pushed herself up onto the pillow, lifting her chest to his face in the process. Like most of her clothing, her nightgown had been washed and worn until it was thin; he could see her nipples, their delicate points against the fabric, just inches from his face.

  “Gareth? Gareth?”

  He looked up and encountered the woman who owned the nipples that were bewitching him. “Hmm?”

  “I asked to know what he told you.”

  “What who told me?”

  She sighed, looked down at her chest, and then pulled the covers up.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “In a moment. First, can we finish this discussion?”

  Gareth would have preferred otherwise, but he could see she might be a stickler on this point.

  “Bardot told Steele how he’d found the letter from Lombard when he ransacked the chateau where you’d cared for him until he died. Bardot kept the letter, thinking the part about the child not being Lombard’s might prove useful. After the War—when things had become too uncomfortable for him to remain in France—he came to England, recalled Lombard’s letter, and sought you out. He’s been blackmailing you ever since.”

  He realized she was still waiting and his eyes narrowed. “What else are you expecting me to say?”

  She shook her head, but even Gareth could spot the telltale signs of her lie. He sat up, suddenly less than happy, although he could not say why.

  “Is there something you have not told me?”

  She flinched at the sharpness in his voice.

  He began to push back the covers, but her hand stayed him. “Please, don’t go.”

  “Are you his lover?”

  “What? No!”

  Gareth found the look of revulsion on her face more convincing than her answer. But still, there was something he needed to know.

  “Then why were you kissing him?”

  She shook her head, her brow deep with wrinkles. “Kissing him? I never kissed him.”

  “That night—the night he stayed at Rushton. I saw him leave your room. You called him back and then—”

  She laughed, but when she saw his expression, she shook her head vigorously. “No, no, no. I’m not laughing at you; I’m laughing at what you think you saw. I’d called him back to warn him not to roam your house and steal anything because I would be watching. And that is when he kissed me.” She made a moue of distaste. “I had to wash my mouth out a dozen times after.”

  Gareth fell back against the pillow, weak with relief.

  She leaned over him, her hair a frilly curtain around them. “Is that why you were such a beast to me before you left?”

  He felt his face heat.

  She punched him in the arm. Hard.

  He winced and rubbed his arm. “That hurt.”

  “You deserve that. If you’d been there when I woke up I would have used a mallet on you.”

  “I apologize.”

  She grunted.

  “But you were telling me about Bardot.”

  “Do you recall what you said before?”

  Gareth recalled everything he said, he always did.

  “Yes,” he said, hesitant. Should he ask for clarification? Or should—

  “Did you mean it?”

  “About apologizing?”

&
nbsp; She hit him again.

  “Ow!” He grabbed her wrists and rolled on top of her. “Perhaps I need to bind you.”

  The look of pure lust that flashed across her face at his words made his entire body hot. “I think perhaps I need to bind you,” she said, leaning toward him and kissing his throat.

  “I will have to consider that.” He would have to give it a lot of consideration. “But quit trying to distract me. And hitting me. Tell me what thing you mean.”

  Her gaze flickered. “You know—about love.”

  “Oh. That.” After her reaction he had hoped she might have forgotten.

  “I’m sorry I cried. It was just that I felt ashamed.”

  Gareth’s head began to get that heavy, stuffed feeling it did when he found himself confounded by obscure social conventions. “Serena—”

  “I love you, Gareth. I love you until I hurt with it.”

  It was his turn to gulp. Several times before he could speak. But he was still confused. “Then why are you ashamed?”

  She sighed and he rolled off her, taking her with him. “Tell me, Serena. You will always need to speak plainly and be direct with me. I am not good at guessing what you are thinking or why.”

  “I know. I’m not trying to be obscure on purpose. It is just—” She threw up her hands. “Bardot is Oliver’s father.”

  Gareth felt like she’d just hit him again, but hard this time. “But you said—”

  “I know what I said—he wasn’t my lover.” She rolled onto her back and shoved her hands through her river of hair, pulling so hard it made Gareth wince. “I don’t know how to explain war to somebody who hasn’t lived it.”

  He could have told her he knew a little about war, and someday he might. But not tonight. Tonight he waited, giving her time.

  She heaved an enormous sigh. “Bardot led a band of criminals and they terrorized our small village. He came to the old chateau, found me, and raped me. Again and again for five months.”

  The word rape echoed in his head, over and over. Gareth’s brain seized, the blood in his veins so hot it might have been boiling.

  She shook his shoulder. “Gareth? Gareth?”

  He saw her, but it was as if she stood at the end of a long, narrow tunnel. A red tunnel.