His eyes flickered, as if he knew it was useless to press. “How did he die?”
“Unexpectedly.” Her eyes stung at the memory. She’d long ago stopped mourning David’s death, but she would always grieve for how his life was cut short. “From fever.”
She turned her head away and closed her eyes, unwilling to let him see any tell-tale tears. Guilt still ate at her that she hadn’t been at his side when he’d passed away. She’d been ill and in her own bed, with Vincent standing watch at his sickbed. At the time, she’d believed that she’d come down with the same sickness, only to realize later that her illness had portended a miracle. She’d been with child.
“I’m sorry.”
She opened her eyes and saw genuine concern in his. “Thank you.”
His expression softened, so did his voice as he asked quietly, “You were cheated out of your inheritance?”
“Yes.” All she’d been able to keep were a few jewels she’d taken with her when she’d fled. The same jewels she’d been forced to sell one by one over the years in order to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. “But my inheritance doesn’t matter. I don’t care if I never receive a penny of that. What matters is that my son gains what is rightfully his and the life he deserves.”
He frowned. “As a gentleman, your husband should have had a will in place, and you should have had a dower. How could anyone have stolen your inheritance?”
“When a powerful man wants to steal from a young widow with no other male relatives,” she said quietly, “who would dare stop him?”
He grimaced at the brutal truth of that. “And your son’s?”
“Ethan wasn’t born yet. No one knew I was with child.”
“You can’t keep a thing like that hidden.”
She held his gaze as she whispered, “You can if you flee.”
His dark blue eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that?”
“Why are you fleeing?”
“Because I’ll be killed if I don’t.”
When she answered that with a silent arch of her brow, grim understanding hardened his face. For a long while, he said nothing, and she knew from his silence that he understood why she was so desperate for help.
“How long ago?” he pressed gently.
“A lifetime.” Literally. Because the only way to protect her unborn baby had been to let Susan Montague die and Grace Alden rise from the ashes. “Ten years.”
Disbelief flashed across his face. “You’ve waited that long? Why try to claim it now, after all these years?”
“Because my hand has been forced.” And because she’d been too afraid to pursue it before. Always before, she’d claimed she was simply waiting for the right moment, using her lack of money and power as an excuse. But now, with the possibility of Vincent siring a legitimate heir and all her evidence of proving Ethan’s paternity circumstantial at best, she had no choice but to swallow her fear and act. “It has to be now.”
He slowly shook his head. At least he had the decency not to laugh at her. “After that long, with a babe no one knew existed, no one will believe you.”
“They will if you make them. There’s precedent, if someone like you holds them accountable.”
He searched her face and puzzled in a low murmur, “But I don’t even know who you are.” A mystified expression softened his features. “Sweet Lucifer, how could I not remember a woman like you, even from behind a mask?”
“Because I wasn’t the same woman then.” Her chest knotted with the irony of that. And from something hotter, a dim yet thrilling awareness of her femininity that she hadn’t experienced in a decade, that had her asserting breathlessly, “And because you weren’t looking.”
He admitted in a husky rasp that melted all the muscles in her belly, “I’m certainly looking now.”
He couldn’t have meant that the way it sounded, not a rake like him for a disfigured widow like her. Yet an undeniable longing to be kissed twined heatedly through her. Confused by the attraction sparking between them, she asked, “Why?”
He curled an amused smile at her question. “Because you’re beautiful.”
As if to confirm that, his gaze languidly drifted over her face, taking in her chin and jaw, moving over each brow in turn before returning to her mouth…before sweeping sideways to her cheek. And the jagged scar that marred her there.
From a self-consciousness built over a decade of stares and pitying looks, Grace turned her face away, to press her cheek into the mattress and close her eyes. To see the same look of pity from Ross—she couldn’t have borne it!
He affectionately nuzzled her face with his, his beard scratching softly against her cheek and sending a soft warmth down into her breasts. “Don’t,” his lips murmured against her cheek as he gently nudged her face back toward his. “Don’t hide from me.”
“I can’t help it,” she whispered.
“Neither can I.” He slid his mouth along her jaw and caressed her lips beneath his.
She gave a trembling gasp at the contact, which was surprisingly tender, almost delicate, and so very assuring. As if he were afraid of frightening her, yet couldn’t deny himself this taste of her. His concern tugged at her heart, and she relaxed with a sigh, her body softening beneath his.
He brushed his mouth back and forth over hers. His sensuous lips teased hers with a skilled gentleness that shook her to her core, yet one that declared a single purpose—to take as much pleasure as he gave.
When the tip of his tongue dared to sweep over her lips, she sighed at the bittersweet ache of it. So long without enjoying a man’s kiss, so long without the wonderful pressure of strong arms holding her close…She didn’t stop to let herself think of the danger she might be putting herself into, how little she could trust him—all she could do at that moment was let long-dead sensations inside her blossom back to life, and drink him in.
“Ross,” she murmured and opened her mouth, inviting him inside.
Her senses filled to overflowing when his tongue slipped between her lips, to sweep along her smooth inner lip, carrying with it the earthy flavor of tea and the heady taste of man. So long, so unbearably long…When his tongue swirled around hers, teasing it out so he could close his lips around it and gently suck, the pull wound through her like a silk ribbon slowly unspooling, to pile between her legs with a shiver of need.
It was need. That was the only explanation for why she let him kiss her like this, why she encouraged it with tiny nibbles of her own against his lips and soft mewlings that told how much she enjoyed it. Right then, with her breath coming in shallow little pants and her body arching beneath his, she needed him to kiss her. So much that she whimpered for it.
He loosened his hold on her wrists to slide his hands up, bringing palms against palms and lacing his fingers through hers. Then he began to thrust his tongue repeatedly between her lips in a possessive and relentless kiss, as if trying to discover her secrets by turning her traitorous body against her, until she was willing to bare all.
God help her, he was doing just that. He sent her spinning, and her soft mewlings turned into a moan of desire.
When she finally tore her mouth away to gasp for air, he gave her no quarter. He released her left hand only to cup her face against his large palm, to hold her still while he placed soft kisses along her rough scar.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, her hand going to his shoulder. But instead of shoving him away, she clung to him. Her fingers curled into his bare flesh, and the warmth of smooth, soft skin covering hard muscle tingled under her fingertips. “Don’t kiss me…there,” she panted out, trembling, as she tried to make him stop. To make him leave that hideous mark alone—
“But you’re beautiful.” He nuzzled his lips against her cheek. “Even here.”
When he kissed her lips again, tears stung her eyes. She wanted to believe him but couldn’t. He didn’t remember what she’d been like before, when she’d been so full of beauty and life that men had complimented her by
calling her flawless. A flawless diamond shining so brightly…But she knew. Every morning when she looked into the mirror, she was reminded of all that had been stolen from her, leaving nothing but ugliness in its place.
“I’m not beautiful.” She twisted her mouth away from his. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I would never lie to a woman about that.”
“Just other things?” she countered peevishly.
But she couldn’t stop a hot shiver when he grinned at her in reply. Such a tantalizingly rakish smile that her heartbeat leapt into a frenzied tattoo so fierce she was certain he could feel it, especially when he strummed his thumb over her bottom lip. Certainly when he caressed his hand down her neck, to that spot where her pulse pounded wildly in the little hollow at the base of her throat. And undoubtedly when he trailed lower still, his fingertips fluttering lightly over the swells of her breasts.
She wore layers upon layers, including the still damp slicker, all of which clung to her skin and grew a damp heat between their two bodies. But she might as well have been utterly bare for the way the intensity of his light touch electrified her.
“You are beautiful. You might be keeping secrets, but you can’t hide that, no matter how hard you try.” He traced his fingers along her neckline. “I’d be very happy to prove it to you.”
A strangled sound of desire tore from the back of her throat when his hand slipped beneath her bodice and stays, cupping her fullness against his palm. Warm flesh heated her bare skin, cold from the rain. His fingers teased at her nipple, and the already aching bud tightened even more as he rolled it between his fingers.
He leaned over to claim her mouth again beneath his. Soft sucks at her bottom lip, featherlight caresses over her nipple, the weight of his body pressing deliciously down onto hers— She spun weightless beneath his hard body, ready to float away.
Crash! The sound of splintering wood broke through the silent cottage, followed by the groan of twisting metal.
Ross’s hand covered her mouth. “Shh,” he whispered. “Someone’s breaking in.”
With an arch of his brow for her to keep silent, he rolled away and snatched up the little knife.
“Stay here. If they come after you,” he warned, placing the blade into her shaking hand, “you’ll have to use this. Understand?”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach as she realized that he intended to confront the intruder, and without a weapon.
She grabbed for his hand. “Your pistol! When you were asleep, I hid it in the dresser, beneath my undergarments.”
He crooked a half grin, but his eyes remained serious. “Lucky pistol.”
Then he shook off her hand and headed toward the doorway without it.
“Let me come with you!” The fear flaring inside her pushed her to fight. But more glass shattered, and she flinched, biting back a soft cry.
“Stay here, and do not come out until I tell you.”
He cautiously slipped into the main room. Grace held her breath as shouts of anger and surprise rang out, followed by more crashes and dull thuds—
She couldn’t bear it a second longer and raced to the dresser, yanked open the drawer and shoved her hand down into a stack of chemises to find the pistol. She ran out into the main room, with the knife gripped tightly in one hand and the pistol in the other, its hammer cocked and ready to fire.
Then she stopped, stunned.
Ross held a young man of no more than fifteen pinned against the wall by his throat. His jaw was set hard and his teeth bared as he leaned threateningly over the lad.
“Do not ever come around here again, do you understand me?” Ross growled menacingly.
The young man nodded, his hands clawing at Ross’s forearm as he dangled against the wall, the toes of his shoes barely touching the floorboards. A gurgling sound came from his throat.
Ross glanced over his shoulder and saw Grace and the weapons she wielded as boldly as last night’s poker. For a fleeting beat, admiration flickered in his eyes.
“She has a pistol,” Ross warned the lad. “And she’s a good shot.”
Grace pointed the gun at the young man and echoed, “A damnably good shot.”
Despite the twitch of Ross’s lips in stifled amusement, the young man’s face paled. Ross yanked him away from the wall and shoved him toward the door.
“Leave,” he ordered as the scrawny lad staggered back and tripped, then scrambled across the floor to flee from the cottage.
Ross slammed the door closed after him.
Grace sank against the bedroom doorframe, her arm falling to her side and the pistol dropping to the floor with a quiet clatter. All of her shook violently with equal parts fear and relief.
He crossed to her and cupped her face between his hands, his eyes narrowing as they swept over her. “Are you all right?”
She gave a jerking nod. “Fine.”
He grimaced, recognizing that for the lie it was, yet softly stroked her cheek. That did more to reassure her than all the fists and weapons of moments earlier.
Until she saw the blood on his arm.
“You’ve torn your stitches,” she whispered, reaching a shaking hand toward him.
“It’s nothing,” he dismissed quietly, shifting his arm just out of her reach. He gently chastised, “I told you to stay put.”
“But you didn’t take your pistol with you.”
“Because that pistol went into the Channel with me. The charge is useless.” He bent down and picked it up, then frowned as he cautiously eased down the still-cocked hammer. “But let’s not take any chances.”
Her mouth fell open. If that pistol didn’t work, then last night when he’d forced his way into her cottage by gunpoint—
She snapped her mouth shut and scowled furiously. “Why you lying, conniving devil of a—a Carlisle!”
“You can yell at me later.” He pointed at the shards of broken window on the floor and the shutter hanging half-twisted from the casement where the young man had pried it open to break in. “We need to leave.”
A chill slithered down her spine. “But he’s so young! He can’t be one of the men who are after you.”
“He’s not. Just opportunistic. Most likely he was walking by, thought the cottage was empty because of the storm, and decided to commit a quick robbery.” His expression turned grim. “But he saw my face.”
“Why should that matter, if he’s not chasing you?”
“It matters.” His eyes narrowed on her, once more sizing her up. At that look, the prickling suspicion at her knees grew into full-out apprehension. “If you’re serious about helping me, we have to leave. Now.”
“I’m very serious.” Once again she felt a ribbon of connection winding between them, pulling her toward him.
“Then pack your things.” He nodded toward her bedroom. “We’re late for London.”
Chapter 8
Keeping his face down and his collar high, Ross placed his hand on the small of Grace’s back as he followed her into the apothecary shop on the village’s High Street. If the British ambassador had already gotten word to London and England had declared him a traitor, then notices for his arrest would soon be plastered all along the coast. But the storm surely bought him a few days’ reprieve in the manhunt, and he prayed it would be enough to travel to London before word of what he’d done saturated the countryside. Before anyone else recognized him.
The bell on the door jingled softly as Grace shut it behind them.
“Alice?” She set down the little travel bag, the one she’d refused to pack until he’d agreed to let her bandage his arm. Tugging off her gloves and slipping them into the pocket of her coat, she moved past him to glance up the stairwell and called out, “Where are you?”
He gently took her elbow. “Is this necessary? The fewer people who see me, the better.” For everyone.
“Alice can be trusted.” She gazed grimly at him. “Besides, we need her.”
“Grace?” A woman entered from the backroom,
wiping her hands on her apron as she circled the counter. “I didn’t expect you—” She saw Ross and froze, then forced a smile. “And with company.”
“Alice Walters, this is Christopher Thomas.” She didn’t stumble at all over his false name as she made quick introductions. “An old acquaintance from my London days.”
The woman’s smile vanished. She didn’t even bother at a pretense of welcome as her eyes narrowed. With her gaze fixed on him as if she didn’t trust him not to turn into a viper right then, she muttered to Grace, “Do I need to fetch my gun?”
Grace laughed, a genuine and soft sound that lilted through the room. Musical. And lovely. A man could certainly grow used to that sound.
“No.” She smiled at Ross as she placed a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm. “But perhaps you should keep a butcher knife at the ready, just in case.” Her eyes shined as she finished the introductions. “And this is Mrs. Walters, our local apothecary and the dearest woman in the world.” She gave her a brief hug. “Where’s Ethan?”
“Upstairs.” Alice eyed Ross warily. “Do you think it’s wise to have him here with the boy?”
“It’s all right.” Although the look she cast him was just as uncertain as her friend’s. “He’s going to help us.”
Alice didn’t bother trying to hide her disbelief as she raked a deliberate glance over him. “Where did he come from, poppin’ up out of the blue here?”
“It was a miracle,” Grace replied with teasing mockery. “You know, the kind of angel Vicar Brennan is always preaching about on Sundays.” As she stepped past him toward the stairs, she slide him a sideways glance and murmured, “Or perhaps one of the devils.”
Ross saw the amused glint in her eyes. She was sharp, all right. Perhaps too much for her own good.
“Ethan, come down please,” she called up the stairs. She turned back to Alice and clasped both of her hands. “I’m traveling to London with Mr. Thomas. Will you look after Ethan for me until I return?”
How the Earl Entices Page 7
