Adaira opened her eyes. Brayan hunkered over her, lines of worry etching his broad face. Sliding his hands around her, he lifted her to a sitting position. She trembled as reason returned.
“Addy, be ye all right?”
She nodded and offered a tremulous smile. “I am now. Thank you.”
Nausea still thrummed in her stomach. Terror yet choked her throat. The cottage was stifling. She wiped her damp forehead on her sleeve. What she wouldn’t give for a drink of water to wash the foul taste from her mouth.
Marquardt lay unconscious, face-down on the dirt floor. His once snowy white collar sported a large scarlet stain.
“Oh, my God!” Adaira gasped, crawling to him.
She untied his neckcloth with shaky fingers. Pressing the fabric to the gash at the base of his skull, she glared at Brayan. “What did you hit him with?”
“Yonder rock.” He pointed to a fist-sized stone near
Marquardt’s dark head. Brayan hunched his shoulders and clenched his hands reminding Adaira of a bad-tempered bull. His voice lowered to a fierce snarl.
“The bastart was attacking ye!” Brayan gave Marquardt’s leg a vicious kick. “He deserved it.”
Never taking her attention off his enraged face, she canted her head toward Marquardt. “He’s already hurt. How are we supposed to get him to the keep if you injure him worse?”
Brayan lifted his booted foot to kick Marquardt again.
“Don’t, Brayan!” She frowned. “He might need a surgeon as it is.”
Not that there was one to be found nearby.
“I can dispose of him fer ye.”
Adaira jerked her head up, her mouth gaping in disbelief. She searched Brayan’s face.
Was he serious?
A peculiar glint entered his eyes. Something hard, cold, and disturbing shimmered in their depths. Something she’d never seen in him before. Something she didn’t think him capable of possessing.
Aye. He was absolutely serious.
The knowledge sent a vile jolt to her center. “Are you off your head?”
She lifted the cloth, bending to peer at Marquardt’s wound. How badly was he hurt? She knew how to treat horses, but little about doctoring humans.
Ewan’s cousin, Gregor, possessed that talent. Adaira couldn’t very well ask him to take a gander at Marquardt’s head. There’d be the devil to pay if her family caught wind of her scheme before Ewan returned. He’d do anything to protect Yvette. He would understand.
Adaira examined the cut. The laceration was barely an inch long. The bleeding had almost stopped. A good-sized knot had already begun to form. Marquardt would have a headache nasty enough to match his foul temper when he awoke.
His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. He appeared pale under the light stubble covering his jaw. A vivid crimson streak marred his face where her crop had lashed him.
That she regretted. She’d seen the damage a whip could inflict on human flesh.
Craiglocky’s blacksmith, Niall, bore the scars from a lashing as a youth. She winced every time she saw the four puckered stripes across his burly back. What kind of a barbarian did something so malicious to another human? Especially a child?
Even a man as evil as Marquardt didn’t deserve such treatment.
Casting Brayan a quick sidelong glance, she pressed the bloodied cravat to Marquardt’s wound again. “Abducting him to keep Yvette safe is sinful enough, but you’re talking murder. I’ll be praying for forgiveness for weeks as it is.”
Ducking his head, Brayan offered a sheepish half-smile. “Och, I was but teasing ye, lass.”
The remorse lacing his voice didn’t convince her.
Marquardt stirred. Groaning, he lifted his head and half-opened his eyes. His chestnut hair fell back, revealing a three- inch scar near his hairline. Full of pained confusion, his gaze held hers for one brief moment before he sank into oblivion once more. Her conscience twinged as a surge of pity engulfed her.
Stop it. He doesn’t deserve your compassion.
He’s a traitor, a defiler of women, and a suspected murderer. Each was a heinous crime. In her mind, all were wholly unforgivable and deserving of an eternity in hell.
Adaira inhaled deeply. God was his judge, not her. She levered to her feet. Still slightly lightheaded, she swayed and stumbled a couple of steps.
Brayan was at her side in an instant. He gently took her arm in his huge hand and steadied her. “Are ye sure ye be fine?”
He brushed her cheek with his thumb. It smelt of fish. He smiled. “Ye had a wee smudge of dirt on your cheek.”
His gentleness and the concern in his voice touched her. How he could switch from murderous fiend to considerate friend so quickly was astonishing—and a bit disconcerting.
“Aye, I am.” Her gaze swept Marquardt. “We’d best get him to the keep while he’s still unconscious.”
Brayan nodded. “Do ye want me to tie his hands?”
He reached for the length of rope he’d crammed in his vest pocket earlier.
Eyeing Marquardt, she gave one sharp nod. She bent to retrieve her riding crop. “Aye, it’s a good idea, for his safety as well as ours. He’ll probably be furious when he awakens.”
Sliding the cover securely over the rapier, she pointed the crop at Marquardt.
“You better search him for a weapon. I’m certain I felt a knife inside his coat. He’s a traitor. He’ll slit our throats, given the chance.”
Roark forced his eyes open the merest bit. Shadows, barely visible in the gloom, wavered on the rough ceiling. He shivered and reached to pull his coat closed. He was lying on his back, a light blanket draped atop him.
Where the hell am I?
He licked dry lips. His mouth tasted of dirt.
Surveying the small, dimly lit chamber, he spotted a torch flickering in a crude bracket on the stone wall across from his chamber. His gaze whipped past the bars barricading the cell door, then shot to them again.
Bars? Cell?
Enraged, he bolted upright. Waves of pain cracked against the base of his skull. Groaning, he pressed a hand to his head and encountered a walnut-sized knot crusted with dried blood. Ignoring the insistent pounding in his head, he clambered to his feet. The dampness of the floor seeped through his stockings.
Dammit. Miss Ferguson had taken his boots, which meant she’d found the knife hidden inside the left one. He slipped a hand inside his coat. No knife there either. Roark bolted to the door. He gave it an angry shake.
Locked.
Bloody hell. He was imprisoned. From the dankness and cold permeating the air around him, he’d wager he was in a dungeon.
No, not a dungeon. Craiglocky’s dungeon. Though, how Miss Ferguson managed to get him here was an enigma. She was much too petite to lift him onto a horse or drag him here herself.
Someone had helped her then. That explained his throbbing head. Semi-conscious, he vaguely recalled a male voice in the cottage. Some bugger had landed him a fierce blow.
But why? What was she about? She’d sent him on the rabbit trail to the keep. She’d lied about the horses at the livery. And she’d imprisoned him in this cell, after muttering some drivel about spies and abducting Yvette.
Yvette was the whole bloody reason he was here unannounced. She’d spent a small fortune in the past few weeks. The expenditures aroused his curiosity, one of the reasons prompting his visit.
The other was of greater concern; on dit of a scandal and a possible betrothal. Not that marriage to McTavish, wouldn’t be a brilliant match. The man was laird of this castle, the prosperous village, and the surrounding area. He bore the English title, Viscount Sethwick as well.
No, Roark’s unease arose from the vulgar whispers that had reached his ears. If Yvette had been compromised, he
’d be obligated to call Sethwick out. He didn’t relish the notion. The man’s reputation with a blade was well-known.
Family honor mandated it, nonetheless.
His honor demanded it.
Between his despot of a father, his coquette of a wife, and his blackguard of a brother, Roark’s and his family’s reputations were unalterably stained.
He would tolerate no further smears against either.
Glaring at the bars imprisoning him, he scowled. No one knew he was here besides that addled chit and her abettor.
He stomped back to the pallet, angrily kicking aside the neat pile of blankets stacked near the makeshift bed. Lowering himself to the straw tick, he leaned against the stone wall. He took care not to disturb the bump on his head.
A rat scurrying along the corridor paused as if surprised to see him sitting there. It sniffed the air with its pointy nose, twitching its scraggly whiskers before scampering on its way.
No doubt to inform its hundreds of relatives.
Roark closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths. He told himself over and over, the walls are not closing in. The pounding in his head subsided to a subtle thrum. The straw tick rustled as he stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles.
The last thing he remembered was trying to control the frenzied virago wriggling beneath him. She’d come at him with the whip, and he’d lost his sense of reason. He’d been taken aback at his immediate arousal when her soft curves pressed intimately against him. Especially given the circumstances. He wasn’t in the habit of ravishing reluctant misses.
Her hysteria had been unnerving in its intensity. Then she’d clawed at his face. He touched his jaw, tracing the large welt raised there. Inching his fingers downward, he tentatively touched the scratches along his neck.
Never in his six and twenty years had Roark felt such a desire to paddle a backside until it was rosy. That would teach her a lesson.
No. He fisted his hands until the nails cut into his palms.
He’d never hit a woman. Never.
Not even his late wife. If a woman ever deserved a firm hand on her posterior, Delia had. She’d died within minutes of confessing the stillborn boy lying beside her, both of them ghastly pale against the sheets, wasn’t Roark’s.
There’d been no opportunity for retribution or emotion other than devastation. Over the course of the past two years, he’d resolutely transformed the desolation into bitter cynicism and rigid control.
The pitiful infant had been a by-blow of one of Delia’s many indiscretions. She claimed she didn’t know who the father was. Roark assumed she lied in that regard. She’d known he’d call the rake out. He was quite sure he knew who the infant’s sire had been. The Marquis of Hedonford.
A womanizing, gambling, debauched, opium addict.
After the funeral, standing beside the two mounds of fresh earth, Roark vowed he would never again be enticed by a lovely face or luscious body.
His neighbor, Helene Winthrop, a voluptuous widow, possessed a healthy sexual appetite and was eager to accommodate him when he’d the need for physical release. Or for that matter when she’d an itch she wanted scratching. Full breasted, pleasingly plump, she was all feminine suppleness and not the least bit shy about her carnal cravings. He’d enjoyed many an amorous late night visit from Mrs. Winthrop via Cadbury’s discreet back passages.
Theirs was an ideal arrangement. In her early thirties, and widowed for four years, she was perfectly content to remain unwed. Neither expected anything from the other except what an hour’s company might provide. They had a perfect understanding.
Helene knew and accepted, thanks to his sire’s perverse need for control, even after the old squeeze crab long lay dead in his cold grave, that Roark was obligated to marry well again. He must produce an heir by his second and thirtieth birthday. Or his brother, Edgar, would inherit everything but the entailed title.
By God, Roark’s next marriage would be an advantageous business arrangement with a biddable, mousy wife. He’d have the surgeon examine her and verify her purity before the vows were exchanged. Mayhap, he’d keep her confined at Cadbury Park.
He’d not be cuckolded again.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he released a pent-up breath. Hell and the devil. He’d sworn he’d never again be subjected to the humiliation of the haute ton whispering behind his back as yet another scandal besmirched the earldom. Or, for that matter, ever succumb to a woman’s wiles or trickery again.
He’d been successful until now. But Adaira Ferguson was unlike any woman he knew.
She was no lady, to be sure. Then again, Delia had been sorely lacking in that arena. Oh, his wife had been society’s model of decorum and propriety. At least she’d played the part to perfection. But Delia’s string of infidelities portrayed her true moral character.
He’d been an addlepate to trust her beautiful face and immaculate manners. The moment his back was turned, she hitched her skirts and spread her thighs for every handsome rake who came sniffing around.
“Adaira Ferguson, you bloody she-devil. When I get my hands on you . . .”
“You’ll what?”
She stepped into the torch’s muted light and gave him a withering glare.
He stared pointedly at her slim hips. “I’ll give you the thrashing you deserve.”
Miss Ferguson laughed, a light, musical sound echoing against the rocky confines before fading into the vault’s passageways. It grated along his nerves. Not the laugh itself, but that he’d noticed its melodic quality.
No, that it beguiled him. Enticed him.
She raised her hand and jingled the large ring strung with dangling keys. “Thrashing? Not likely. I possess the only keys to your cell.”
She stood staring at him like a cat with a cornered mouse.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Roark raised a hand to his pounding head. Sweat beaded his brow. He hated being confined. Opening his eyes, he stifled the growl of frustration rising to his lips.
Her expression shifted subtly. She pulled a vial from her vest pocket. She smiled, a graceful tilt of her full, rosy mouth and set the bottle on the floor outside his cell. “I brought you some laudanum for your head.”
He blinked rapidly several times.
Confound it, he was acting like the young misses who batted their moon-eyes at him. Egads, she was exquisite in the subtle lighting. How could he have thought she was a boy? What would she look like naked, candlelight caressing her ivory skin?
Good God, where did that come from?
In one fluid motion, he shoved to his feet. She retreated a few steps. Wise wench. He had considered reaching between the battered bars and grabbing her.
“You do know,”—his gaze roved the tidy cell, noting the fat, black spider weaving a web in the corner above the cell’s door before returning to her—“you could go to prison for a very long time for abducting and imprisoning a peer of the realm.”
“Ah, but then you’re not a peer, are you?” She smiled again, her row of neat white teeth shining bright in the shadowy corridor. “In fact, I do believe I’ve done the Crown a tremendous favor. I’ve apprehended a known spy.”
Roark’s gaze captured hers. Her eyes appeared black in the meager light, except for those unusual jewel-like gold specks reflecting in her irises. He fisted his hands, the only outward manifestation of his fury.
“That’s twice you’ve accused me of being a traitor. If you were a man, I’d call you out for it.”
She raised a perfectly arched brow and grinned. “Swords or pistols?”
Roark raked his gaze over her, shaking his head in disapproval. “Don’t tell me you’re trained in weaponry?”
“Of course.” She struck a fencing pose. “En garde.”
He closed his eyes
in a long blink. “Was there ever a more unladylike woman of refined breeding?”
Miss Ferguson dared to inch a bit closer. Bold as brass, she pointed at him and chuckled. “You did it again. Spoke your thoughts aloud. My, but that must be aggravating.”
She leaned in a fraction, seeming to assess him with her keen eyes. Her subtle fragrance wafted past his nostrils. Something with lilies? He resisted the urge to inhale deeply.
“Can you keep secrets at all, or does everything gush from your lips like milk from a teat?”
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 5
