“I’m sure something can be arranged with Count Beventini.” Ernst thought well of the young captain of Antonella’s palace guard.
“No, no, darling,” the principessa said, spurning the offer with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Perhaps later when all this messiness is resolved. The boys are with their tutors on a walking tour of Switzerland and won’t be back until fall. They’re in no danger, nor am I. Leave Jacopo to his little mistress for the summer. He deserves a holiday.”
Sofia absorbed the conversation with disbelief, the prince and principessa talking of life-and-death issues with no more concern than they would discuss the latest court gossip. Bloody hell—what miserable wind of fate had landed her in this labyrinthine web? She simply had to find some way out.
As if she were doomed to failure, the door suddenly opened and Jamie walked in. He’d changed into riding clothes—his coat conspicuously well cut, his linen immaculate, his boots polished to a turn—which didn’t bode well for her prospects of flight. His luggage was here. They must be leaving soon. Think, think, I have to think!
Jamie masked his surprise on seeing Ernst. The servant sent to fetch the prince had returned empty-handed. “You’re back, I see,” he mildly said. “How was dinner at Devonshire House?”
Taking his cue, Ernst replied, “Boring. Politics, politics, nothing but talk of politics over dinner. And yours?”
“Champion and I discussed polo. You remember him.”
“Yes, of course. Ferguson informed me of Antonella’s early arrival,” Ernst offered, his underlying message conveyed with a bland smile. “It was a perfect excuse to take my leave. “
“I don’t blame you. Politics can be dull fare. Does anyone besides me need something stronger to drink?” He glanced at Sofia.
“No thank you. I don’t have your hard head.”
Ernst laughed. “No one does. You need Scot’s blood.”
“Fortunately, I’m equipped,” Jamie drawled, moving toward the liquor table. So Ernst had Ferguson on the lookout for Antonella. Not his usual style. Alarming in fact. The prince had never before concerned himself with the arrival of a lover—rather the opposite. Damnation. Was Ernst’s interest in the principessa going to prejudice their plans?
A clairvoyant observation as it turned out.
Jamie had no more than relaxed in his chair with his drink than Ernst reached out to take the principessa’s hand. Turning to Jamie, he restlessly cleared his throat before speaking. “Antonella and I were thinking we might sail for Madeira. Her cruiser could be in Portsmouth in a few days. I need not remind you that it’s armored and carries twelve guns and a crew of a hundred. Also, as you know, her estate in the hills is guarded and secure. A safe enough venue, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very safe. Take Miss Eastleigh with you, and the men and I will go to Vienna.” Perfect. Deliverance.
Sofia sat bolt upright. “You’re not taking me out of Britain!”
“Madeira is lovely, my dear.” Ernst smiled at his daughter. “There’s even a modicum of society for entertainment.”
“I won’t go! I won’t!” Realizing she was sounding childish, Sofia took a calming breath. “I’m sorry,” Sofia said in a more temperate tone, although the color was still high in her face. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m a Londoner born and bred, my friends are all here, my occupation is here, my dealers and clients. I don’t want to go to some strange country,” she firmly added. “I could even hide in the city if necessary until this Von Welden is restrained. I know any number of cloistered haunts where no one can find me.”
“What a resourceful daughter you have, Ernst. She’s really quite charming. But my dear,” Antonella went on, turning to Sofia, “you don’t understand a man like Von Welden. He’s a monster who’ll stop at nothing to gain his own ends. And for a duchy like Dalmia—really . . . I shudder to think of what lengths he might go. Please, my dear, do come with us.”
Jamie recognized the phrase Come with us clearly signaled that Ernst and the principessa’s plans were fixed. Or Ernst, in his current extraordinary infatuation, didn’t choose to oppose Antonella’s wishes.
Which put him back at square one.
Playing bodyguard to Ernst’s uncooperative daughter. Not completely insensible to the prince’s dilemma, Sofia suddenly recognized a way to accommodate Ernst and herself as well. “What if I were to present my case to the police or Scotland Yard? That way I’d be protected and could stay in London until this Von Welden is dealt with.”
Jamie frowned. “Von Welden speaks for the emperor,” he explained. “He would see that your story was discounted. You’d be portrayed as an hysterical, irrational woman.”
“Prince Ernst could validate my story.”
“What story? Von Welden would deny everything. There’s no proof he had Rupert murdered,” Jamie patiently refuted. “There never is when others do his killing. And Queen Victoria’s government isn’t going to antagonize an important official of a friendly monarchy without conclusive evidence. I’m sorry. The system can be corrupt, justice for sale, et cetera, but the police won’t help,” Jamie flatly said. “And you’ll be out in the open with a target on your back.”
“Bear in mind that Von Welden had Rupert killed, my dear,” Ernst noted. “This isn’t a police matter, nor a judicial one, nor even remotely concerned with ethics. I wish you’d reconsider and sail with us. But if not,” he said after a glance at Sofia’s closed expression, “Jamie will see that no harm comes to you. You’ll be in good hands. None better. Now if you’ll excuse us,” he added, a lifetime of self-indulgence exempting him from conventional courtesies, “Antonella has had a long journey.”
As the door closed on the couple, Sofia murmured, “Once a libertine, always a libertine. I’d say we’re on our own.”
“I’d say you’re right.” The prince was seriously aristocratic and seriously rich; such men did as they pleased.
“It annoys you, too.”
He shrugged. “I’m not paid to be annoyed.”
“He must pay you very well.”
“It’s not about money. I have more than enough.” He drained his glass and set it aside.
“Don’t tell me you’re bound by duty or loyalty—allegiance . . . all those antiquated virtues no longer of any account.”
“Then you wouldn’t understand,” he said.
Uncurling from her lounging pose, she sat upright and looked at him with an unflinching gaze. “Try me. Make some sense out of this ungodly horror.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then apparently coming to some decision, he spoke in a brief, detached way. “My family has served as guardsmen to the Battenbergs for almost a hundred fifty years. Loyalty and allegiance are core principles in our business.”
“Your family must have emigrated after the defeat of the clans in ’45?”
“At the time, the whole world was awash with Scottish mercenaries. It was that or the hangman.” His voice was flat, the twice-told tale played out long ago.
“Yet you’re still there, even after the restoration of Scottish lands and titles.”
“I have an estate in Dalmia, men-at-arms, people who depend on me.”
“Ernst who depends on you.”
“It’s not just that.” His voice dropped in volume. “Rupert shouldn’t have died.”
“And you’re Ernst’s avenging angel.”
“You’re mistaken. It’s a question of justice. Von Welden’s doesn’t deserve to live,” Jamie said, brusque and curt.
“So you’re doing the world a favor.”
His smile was chill. “Something like that.”
“What if he kills you first?”
“He won’t.”
A quiet certainty echoed in his words, the utter implacability of his conviction sending a small shiver down Sofia’s spine. “But in the meantime I must go to Scotland.”
He employed his comfortable voice. “I would naturally appreciate your cooperation.”
&nb
sp; “Or failing that, you’ll use other means.”
He didn’t immediately reply, and when he did, he spoke so softly she had to strain to hear him. “Accept it or not, Miss Eastleigh, without my protection, your life is forfeit.”
The blood drained from her face.
Finally, he thought.
She started shaking.
CHAPTER 13
HE HESITATED BRIEFLY, his charitable instincts tempered by his susceptibility to the lovely Miss Eastleigh. But she was pale and trembling, obviously stricken with fear, and common civility required he come to her aid. Rising from his chair, he reached her in two strides, sank down on one knee, and not trusting himself to touch her, said in carefully controlled accents, “You’re safe. No one will hurt you. I promise.”
She was shivering, her hands clenched in her lap; sweat had broken out on her brow. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered, as though he’d not spoken or she’d not heard. “I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do!” With the words your life is forfeit ringing in her ears, she had finally grasped the enormity of her situation, and even terror was too tame a word for her unbridled fear. She looked up, her eyes bright with tears, a suffocating panic demoralizing her spirit. “Please hold me,” she said, feeling desperately alone. “Hold me tight.”
Dear God, he thought. It was an impossible situation. He should refuse her. Directly or perhaps more kindly, indirectly. “There’s no need for alarm, Miss Eastleigh. You’re protected. My men and I won’t fail you.”
Her tears spilled over and a glistening trail of wetness ran down on her cheeks. “What if you can’t protect me?” she said with a small gulping sob, wide-eyed and shuddering. “Antonella said that man was a monster. What if his thugs come and kill me in my sleep or torture me or—”
“They can’t. I’ll be with you—always.” A promise he wouldn’t have made if she wasn’t becoming unstrung. “You’re completely safe. Look at me. Look,” he said sharply enough that she obeyed, although her blank, wild stare was worrying. “My troopers will be close at hand as well.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “No one can come near you without our leave.”
Drawing in an unsteady breath, she tried to return his smile but managed only a quivering twitch of her lips. “Forgive me. How trying this must be for you.” He was a professional soldier, and she was being unnecessarily hysterical. “I shall strive to be more courageous. I promise—oh dear.” She caught her breath as a fearsome image filled her brain, and swallowing hard, she whispered, “I’m sorry, but the image of—a brutish man with a knife . . . standing over me”—she paused, steeling herself against the ghastly specter—“keeps reoccurring. It’s my overactive imagination I know, but—” She gasped. The hideous, sunken eyes, the ghoulish face was drawing near. “Hold me,” she whimpered, lifting her hands in an imploring gesture. “Even just for a minute—please.”
She was the picture of woe with tears streaming down her face, her breath coming in little hiccuping sobs, her arms outstretched. A forlorn, frightened little waif in illfitting clothes—a far too beautiful waif. “I don’t know if I can be responsible,” he gently said, understanding that he had to be disciplined for them both.
“You don’t—have . . . to be.”
“Yes I do.”
“I won’t ask—for more. I promise.”
He held her tearful gaze for a moment, then smiled. “Easy for you to say.”
She laughed midsniffle, a small, silvery trill.
And he hoped the worst was over. Maybe he could oblige her and hold her for a few moments. The frightened waif was certainly easier to deal with than the reckless daredevil who’d climbed out the window at Groveland House or the headstrong coquette who’d threatened to seduce him. The lady was audacious like her father. Or had been until cold reality had tipped the scales.
So—a circumspect embrace seemed in order. He’d render Miss Eastleigh the consolation she needed—in a friendly yet impersonal way—and once she was reasonably calm again, they could proceed to the carriages waiting outside. His men were ready, his plans already afoot, and if all went well, they would be far from London by morning.
Like most intentions, it didn’t fall out exactly as planned. After lifting her from her chair, he gingerly set her on his lap, held her at a respectful distance, one arm at her back, his fingers slack at her waist, his other hand in limbo for a moment before bypassing her thighs to come to rest on his knee. Dipping his head slightly to meet her gaze, he smiled faintly. “Better now?”
The vivid green of his eyes was muted in the lamplight, but the sympathy in his voice was clear. “Much better, thank you. You’re very kind.” And with a soft exhalation, she relaxed against Jamie’s hard, muscled body, surrendering to the sheltering warmth of his superior strength.
Curling the fingers of her left hand around the soft brown wool of his lapel, she rested her head on his chest with another sigh of misty-eyed relief. Any of Sofia’s friends would have been startled; she was neither fragile nor clinging. In fact, she abhorred such females. But nothing was what it once was. In a world gone mad, Jamie Blackwood had become her bulwark against fear, her security, her island of calm.
Far from calm, Jamie was struggling hard to steady his nerves. Although there was little he could do to still the thudding of his heart or arrest his rising erection with Miss Eastleigh resting voluptuous and docile in his arms. Every libidinous impulse in his body was urging him on, every sensory receptor was responding instinctively to a familiar stimulus: a female in intimate contact.
Unfortunately, his normal response was inappropriate, although curbing his quickening lust was a Herculean task. Standing stud as he did for beautiful, importuning women the world over, the relative arguments apropos duty versus lust, conscience versus morality or the lack thereof had never been in dispute. And now they were—in spades.
Damn it—the lady was too close, too desirable, too available.
And abstinence had never been his strong suit.
He glanced at the clock, knowing there were limits to his self-control, knowing he must end this well-intentioned embrace—quickly.
But just as he was about to make some tactful excuse and rise, Sofia impetuously reached up, knotted her fingers in his hair, pulled his head down, and kissed her savior and protector—passionately, feverishly, with a complete lack of gentility. With the magnanimity of someone freed from fear.
No novice to female overtures, Jamie’s body instantly responded to Sofia’s brazen act, his erection swelling, surging higher, the rigid length pressing hard against her bottom in seconds flat.
How gratifying, Sofia pleasantly reflected, and no novice either, her uncommon fair-maiden-rescued-from-harm persona gave way to the more authentic, nonconformist female who lived by her own rules. Her kiss deepened, took on new urgency, shifted from ardent thankfulness to tantalizing provocation. Freeing her fingers from the tangle of his heavy hair, she moved her hands to hold his face lightly captive while she devoured his mouth in a wild, wet frenzy.
Such bruising kisses presaged well for her passions in bed, Jamie thought. When he shouldn’t think anything of the kind, when he should force Miss Eastleigh to stop, toss her off his lap, and concentrate on leaving London.
But her flagrant assault undermined his devotion to duty or perhaps his contrariness, and he yielded to her beguiling play out of courtesy, possibly, or habit or idle pleasure. Kisses were harmless enough sport, he told himself.
Until what he perceived as innocent play abruptly ended moments later.
She shoved her tongue deep into his mouth, wanting more, willfully and explicitly goading him to respond.
He did.
He sucked in a breath, her forceful, probing tongue triggering every randy nerve and impulse. Violent, hot-spur lust savaged his self-control, his pleasant detachment underwent a perfidious transition, and rampaging passion rode roughshod over reason. He jerked his mouth away, the price too dear, the danger too great. For a heartbeat. Then, rejecting p
iety even as his inner voice screamed No-o-o! he picked Sofia up roughly by the waist, swung her around, and as her half-spread thighs settled on his legs, he flexed his hips and jammed his cock upward into the soft cushion of her sex.
He shut his eyes, restless, shaken, knowing what he should do and what he shouldn’t.
Meanwhile, she was thinking, How unspeakably lovely!
The exemplary soldier had feelings after all.
While Jamie debated chair or sofa, and more crudely, timing—Sofia came up on her knees and settled more comfortably on his lap. Locking her hands around his neck, she leaned in close, her breasts crushed against his chest, her mouth brushing his. “It feels as though you really like me.”
His reply was a soft grunt—whether affirmation or repudiation was unclear. But what was perfectly clear was his steely grip on her waist and his insurgent cock that was immune to conjecture, wielding authority, motivating him to kiss her again. For a long, heated interval, ignoring all but delirious sensation, the unorthodox couple fueled their respective libidos with kisses that were no longer kisses, but a prurient, gluttonous prelude to something more.
Until Sofia made the mistake of declaring with neither tact nor delicacy, “I need more. Hurry! Now, now, now!”
Jamie’s spine went rigid.
Whether it was her imperative tone, the bracing air of morality suddenly cooling his brow, or her blunt command, he irritably said, “Fuck this,” and rising with startling swiftness, set her on her feet.
“Damn you,” Sofia exclaimed, her body strumming with sharp-set desire, her passions trembling on the brink, her frantic cravings left unsated, damn it—for no good reason. “You can’t say you don’t want it,” she snapped, flushed and shaking.
“I sure as hell can,” he snapped back.
She softly swore, tried to bring her twitching nerves under control, and shutting her eyes briefly, thought about revenge.
He didn’t dare touch her, his own go-for-broke urges not yet completely leashed.
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