She refused to answer. She pushed at him and started to hobble away.
“You idiot!” He grabbed her in mid-limp and picked her up. “How could you be so bleeding clumsy? I told you not to let the horse—”
“Stop shouting at me and put me down! I don’t want your help.”
Their loud voices had spooked her horse; every time he got near enough to put her up, it skittered sideways, ears back. When he finally stopped swearing, the animal quieted. He stood beside it, Cass in his arms, their irate faces inches apart.
“Take your hands off me, Riordan. You make my skin crawl.”
He smiled evilly. “That’s good, Cass, because you’ll need the practice. Pretty soon Wade’s going to put his soft white hands all over you, and then your skin will really crawl.”
“I’d a thousand times rather he touched me than you!”
“Really? Let’s see.”
She pushed backward as far as she could, but he had her against her horse; her head touched the saddle and went no farther. He kissed her thoroughly, expertly, using all the skills he’d acquired over a lifetime of kissing women. Her anger was her shield, but if he’d kept it up half a second longer, it would have crumbled. She knew it. When he drew away, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, turned her head, and spat on the ground.
Riordan’s face went as still as a stone carving and Cass felt a flutter of fear. For a moment his anger consumed him, and he was glad; the bright flames burned hotter than the sick, dangerous disappointment he felt inside. “Which ankle?” he ground out.
“Right.” His eyes were blazing blue pools of enmity; for an insane moment she imagined him throwing her to the ground and stamping on her hurt foot.
“Can you ride?” She nodded. He sensed her fear with satisfaction—then shame, realizing that on some level he’d wanted to frighten her if he couldn’t seduce her.
Cass gathered her courage. “I don’t want you to touch me again, do you understand? Ever. If you do, I’m through helping you and Quinn.” Her neck and shoulders were trembling from the effort to hold herself upright without hanging onto him.
He wanted to tell her that was fine with him, that was perfect. His lips curled in a sneer. “I’ll touch you any damn time I want, Cass. Do you know why?” His eyes moved over her insultingly. “Because that’s what you’re being paid for.”
The blood drained from her face. Her body was like a tight sack of sticks and stones in his arms, not flesh and blood. He felt a wave of contrition, knowing full well he was only taunting her because she’d committed the unforgivable sin of rejecting him.
Speechless, tears only a blink away, Cass let him seat her on her horse, left foot in the stirrup, right knee cocked around the pommel. She felt nothing now but numbness and fatigue. In a flat voice he asked if she was in pain, and she said no. He mounted his stallion and they began to walk, slowly and sedately, out of the park. Neither spoke, both thinking what it would be like if he never touched her again.
Cassandra watched the fog-shrouded street lamps drift past the window with diminishing frequency as the carriage rolled eastward, until they were driving in almost total darkness. Wade’s arm pressed against hers with an intimacy she didn’t welcome, and she had to will her body to relax, not tense away from him.
The evening had gone well. They’d dined at his club, then strolled in Oxford Street for an hour before he’d hailed a hackney to take her home. She’d done a convincing job, she knew, of conveying to him her antipathy to the English and her bitterness over her father’s execution. She’d also managed to persuade him that she found him irresistibly attractive and that she despised Philip Riordan—the double lie that had always seemed to Cass the most incredible of all the lies she would have to tell him. But to her relief, the notion that she would endure the intimate company of a wealthy gentleman for whom she felt nothing but contempt hadn’t seemed peculiar to Wade at all; in fact, he’d taken it as a matter of course. She’d feared he would offer, then and there, to become her new protector, and she hadn’t known how she would respond if he did. What excuse could she make after sounding so eager to give up Riordan? That he was richer? But he had not offered, so she was safe for now. Her relief was enormous.
“Cassandra,” he murmured, breaking the short silence. “What are you thinking about?”
She understood now what Riordan meant about the man’s slow, languid movements; they’d begun to get on her nerves. Sometimes his voice was so honeyed and unhurried, she wanted to shake him. “I was thinking of my father,” she improvised, making her tone wistful. “And how much I miss him.”
He seemed to hesitate. “I knew him.” At her look, he added hurriedly, “Only slightly. He was a good man, Cassandra. You have nothing to feel ashamed of, you know.”
“Oh, Colin, I know that.”
“As a matter of fact,” he went on after a moment, “I was one of the small number of people who supported him after he was arrested.”
“Publicly?” she couldn’t resist asking.
“No, no. That was impossible. Try to understand, my dear, these are dangerous times; to admit that one favors a revolution in Britain could be disastrous.”
“And do you?” When he didn’t answer, she finished the question. “Favor a revolution in Britain?” She held her breath. The carriage came to a stop in front of her house, but neither of them moved.
“Do you?” he countered.
She too seemed to hesitate. “With all my heart!” she exclaimed finally, as if unable to control herself. “I wish my father had succeeded, Colin! How I should love to see this monarchy toppled, and men like Philip Riordan brought down with it. And then forced to struggle for their very existence like everyone else!”
She was afraid that she had sounded too dramatic, but her intensity had called up an answering glitter in Wade’s reddish-brown eyes. He seized her hand and opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it. He kissed her fingers fervently instead. “I think you and I will do well together, Cassandra Merlin,” he whispered fiercely. Then he opened the carriage door and jumped down.
In the dim glow cast by the lamp near her front door, he asked when they would see each other again.
“I’m not sure,” she answered slowly. “I want to see you, Colin, but I must be cautious.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“It’s not that I’m afraid of him. I can see anyone I want. He doesn’t own me.…” But she let a silent “yet” sound between them. She knew it was wrong; she was supposed to be encouraging him, not using Riordan as a shield. But something about Wade frightened her and she couldn’t help it. She wanted to go slowly.
“If you really mean that, then come out with me tomorrow night.”
Her heart sank; she forced a smile. “Yes, all right. I will.” Instead of smiling back or looking pleased, he stared at her with an odd, unreadable expression. Now he’s going to kiss me, she thought, bracing herself. Relax, or he’ll know.
Then something happened that she’d never foreseen. He made a clumsy grab for her shoulders and kissed her hard, without preliminaries. Her head struck the brick wall behind her with a thud and she gave a little muffled cry. Instead of releasing her, he only pressed harder. She tried to make her lips soften, but he was mashing his mouth against her so hurtfully it was impossible. He didn’t use his tongue, but his teeth clashed against hers repeatedly, until she thought she could taste her own blood. When he pulled back to look at her, she didn’t have time to disguise her distress at his rough treatment. “This is how I like it, Cassandra,” he told her in a curiously detached voice. “Like this.”
He kissed her again in the same manner, but this time he reached both hands around and began to knead her buttocks with cruel, biting fingers, squeezing and pinching until she almost cried out from the pain. She endured it without moving, her mind a dark blur of shame and confusion.
Finally, he drew away. He put his hands around her neck and flexed his fingers
lightly. “You like it that way, too. Don’t you, Cassandra?”
She nodded mutely, shuddering.
His thin lips, red from mauling her, widened in a pleased smile. When he reached behind her she almost leapt away, but he was only opening the door. “Good night, my dear. I’ll count the hours until tomorrow.” He guided her inside solicitously and pulled the door closed in her white, stricken face.
Inside, Cass rested her back against the door in pitch darkness and listened to the carriage drive away. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t, I can’t,” she whispered, fumbling for her handkerchief. All at once three violent knocks exploded in her ears, and she came away from the door as if she’d been knifed in the back. Her hand went to her throat and her breath caught painfully. Oh God, don’t let it be him, please, please. Three more knocks, like a clenched fist smashing against the wood. She dashed at her eyes and put her hand on the knob. “Who is it?” Her voice sounded ludicrously casual.
“Open the door, damn it!”
Riordan! She threw open the door and would have flung herself against him in relief, but his face, and then his words, stopped her cold.
“You couldn’t wait, could you, Cass? I told you not to see him without telling me first, but you couldn’t stand it.”
“Yes, but he—”
“It must’ve been hard for you all these weeks without a man. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have been glad to be of service, and I wouldn’t have charged a thing.”
She gasped. “What are you—”
“But don’t go to him again without telling me, do you understand? No matter how hard it gets for you. Because the man’s a killer, Cass, and you could get hurt.”
She stopped trying to talk and stood still, waiting for him to finish.
“Or is that what you like about him, his killer instinct? That’s fine with me, I don’t give a damn, but I need you to stay healthy until this is over. After that you can do whatever you bloody please.” He put his face close to hers and snarled. “But if you go with him again without telling me, I’ll make you sorry.”
She could hardly breathe. “You son of a—” she got out before he took her arm and forced her backward.
“Go inside and lock the door. Don’t see Wade again until we talk.” He pulled the door closed in her face, and she heard his fast, angry footsteps on the cobblestones. Too furious to weep, she pulled her foot back and kicked the door as hard as she could.
A chilly mist curled around Riordan’s legs as he strode along. He turned up his collar and wrapped his arms around his middle, shivering. He wondered how he could feel cold when inside he was burning up. He’d come here tonight to apologize. He’d been feeling ashamed for days. He’d treated Cass badly and he’d wanted to put things right between them. Now he just wanted to murder her.
Jealous. He was jealous. It wasn’t a completely new experience; he’d felt it a few times before with women. But he’d never felt jealousy like this before, never been burned up by it, as if in white-hot flames that left nothing but anger and ugly, spiteful words. He knew what Cass Merlin was; he’d always known it. Then why, when she merely fulfilled his sordid expectations, did he want to strangle her?
No, that wasn’t quite it. What he wanted to do with Cass was seduce her. Take off her clothes, slowly, riding in a closed carriage. Or in his bed, quickly and desperately, both of them naked in seconds. Or slyly, secretly, in her aunt’s sitting room, listening to her nervous, muffled moans as he undid the buttons.…
He stared up at the invisible sky. He’d thought at first that he wanted to avoid her because she was too much like too many other women he’d known, but there was more to it. It wasn’t only that she embodied everything he’d rejected, called on all the carnal, unregenerate impulses he’d foresworn. It was that, but in combination with some other quality she possessed, one he didn’t care to think about or give a name to, that made her so dangerous. She was a threat to his ambitions, as insane as that sounded. He wanted to make a difference in the world, use the undeserved power he’d been handed and leave things better than the way he’d found them. He wanted to marry Claudia. He wanted to work hard, earn the respect and admiration of his peers, and prove to them and to himself that he wasn’t like his father or anyone else in his whole blighted family. His instincts told him the woman he’d just seen in Wade’s arms could ruin all that and turn the useful, orderly life he wanted upside down.
He walked on, feeling strong and resolute. Crossing a dark intersection, he was struck by a brilliant mental image of Cass naked, lying across his lap, smiling with drowsy pleasure while he caressed her. He shut his eyes but only saw the picture more clearly. Saw himself stroking her between her legs, watching her face.…
He walked faster, whistling to distract himself. The next image was even more seductive, and more horrifying. He saw himself and Cass in his library, sitting in separate chairs before a crackling fire, reading aloud to each other from the books on their laps. She had a blanket over her knees, and he was resting his slippered feet on a little stool.
He slammed his open palm against a lamp post and kicked it with his boot. He muttered a string of foul oaths and walked on. He had a long way to go.
VI
“MISS MERLIN, it’s always a pleasure to see you. Won’t you come in? I’ll take your shawl if you like.”
“Thank you, John.” Cass smiled at John Walker and handed him her wrap. He seemed to function as Riordan’s housekeeper as well as his secretary, she’d noticed in the weeks she had been coming here. “Would you tell Mr. Riordan I’m here, please?”
Walker cleared his throat a little uncomfortably and his fair complexion pinkened. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, but he isn’t here.”
“No? But he sent a note saying he wanted to see me.” A rude, cryptic note, the tone of which had annoyed her out of all proportion.
“Yes, I know. I had it delivered myself,” he said apologetically. “But then he was called out—some trouble with a constituent—and I’m not quite sure when he’ll return.”
“I see.” She weighed her alternatives. “In that case, I believe I’ll go home.”
He cleared his throat again. “Actually, he…wondered if you’d be good enough to wait. In the library. He gave me a book he said you were to—that is, if you wanted to, a book you might like to read.”
Cass cocked a skeptical brow. She could well imagine what Riordan’s actual words to his secretary had been, and congratulated the young man on the tactfulness of his interpretation. She decided she would stay so that he wouldn’t incur his employer’s unreasonable irritation, but for no other reason. “Very well, John, lead on.”
The secretary sent her a grateful look and preceded her down the hall to the library, ushering her inside with a polite hand on her elbow. She smiled at him again. She liked John Walker. Sometimes she suspected he had a tiny crush on her.
She went directly to the windowseat, as was her habit. He brought her, not a book, but a collection of printed pages bound together at the edges with string. The tiny print and the length of the document made her quail, but she took it on her lap, plumped a pillow at the small of her back, and prepared to give it her best try.
“May I bring you something? Some tea, or a glass of sherry?”
“Not sherry—then I should fall asleep even faster,” she laughed. “Nothing right now, John, thanks.”
“Are you sure? If you’ll pardon me for saying so, you’re not—that is, I’ve seen you looking better. Are you quite well?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you very much.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then made a polite bow and left the room.
Cass put her head back against the window and closed her eyes. No, she wasn’t quite well, but she thought the rice powder she’d rubbed into the purple circles under her eyes had disguised the fact. There was nothing really wrong; it was only that her life was in such turmoil. She never knew what sort of mood Riordan would be in when they met, publ
icly or privately. Usually he was vile, but sometimes he surprised her by being extraordinarily gentle, almost as if he didn’t despise her after all. And like a child, or a puppy, she would invariably drop her guard and respond warmly to him on those occasions, only to regret it the next time he was vile again.
As for Wade, she met him as infrequently as she could without raising his suspicions—or Mr. Quinn’s ire. He’d never hurt her again the way he had that first night, but her fear that he would kept her constantly on edge. She’d been too angry at first, then too ashamed, to mention the incident to Riordan, but she’d made a secret vow that if Wade tried to touch her like that again, she would not allow it, even if it meant aborting her role in the plot against him.
Her decadent new life had caused her to reverse day and night; she was seldom in bed before dawn, and usually slept until afternoon—or more precisely, lay there until afternoon, fretting and brooding, trying to understand what she’d gotten herself into and wondering how much longer she could endure it. When she did sleep, she had bad dreams. She’d lost her appetite. And today was her birthday and no one cared.
Other than that, she thought dryly, everything was perfectly fine.
Now what did Riordan want her to read? she wondered on a tired sigh, settling herself more comfortably. Talking about books was almost the only way they communicated anymore without quarreling—a circumstance she would not have thought possible a month ago. She, Cass Merlin, a reader! She shook her head in weary wonder and read the title page. Reflections on the Revolution in France, by Edmund Burke. Burke, Burke. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She smoothed the pages on her lap and started to read.
Two hours later Riordan walked into the library and went straight to his desk. He rummaged through the piles of papers and letters littering the top, looking for a speech he wanted to show his friend Spencer. A sound drew his attention to the windowseat.
Cass. He hadn’t thought she’d wait for him this long; he felt a ridiculous lightness in his chest at the sight of her. She was asleep, still sitting up but slumped sideways, one shoulder pressed against the wall in an uncomfortable-looking position. He went closer, quietly, and stood before her with his hands in his pockets. She was breathing softly through parted lips; the white of her eyelids looked naked and unguarded. She mumbled something and he went very still, hardly breathing, hoping she wouldn’t wake. A long, silky strand of black hair had fallen from the loose knot on top of her head; moving closer, he took it between his fingers and massaged the cool sleekness, remembering.
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