by Candace Camp
Priscilla hurtled down the stairs and around the newel post into the dark hall. The shadow she had seen earlier whipped around at the sound of her approach, but before it could turn completely, she raised her poker and flung herself at him, bringing the poker down hard on the man’s back.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE AIR WENT OUT OF THE MAN with an audible whoomp, and he crashed to the floor, but as he did so, he reached out and grabbed the end of her poker, yanking it from her grasp. Priscilla staggered and fell on top of him. They rolled across the floor, wrestling and struggling. Priscilla’s hands grasped something that felt like a wool blanket; she could see almost nothing, for her face was pressed against the man as she struggled. She kicked out and was rewarded with a grunt when her foot connected with hard bone. The man’s grasp slackened, and she was able to pull away a little, turning and scrabbling to get up.
But then his arms went around her from behind. His hand slid across her chest, and he went still. His hand returned and cupped her breast. Priscilla drew in a sharp gasp.
“Damnation!” The voice and accent were familiar.
Priscilla turned and found herself looking into the face of John Wolfe, only inches from hers.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh!” he retorted sarcastically. “What the devil are you doing here? And why, in God’s name, did you try to break my back?”
“I didn’t! I was trying to protect you.” Priscilla sat up, pulling away from him. “I heard a noise downstairs, so I picked up the poker and came down. I thought those men had returned and were trying to get you.”
“They had and they were,” he replied in a disgruntled tone, and rolled to his feet, his hand going instinctively to his back, where the poker had landed a solid hit. “Damn! You have a swing like a longshoreman.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was going to turn the tables on them. But after all this clatter, they are probably halfway to London by now.” He bent down and picked up the poker. “I think this is a more effective weapon than mine.” He gestured toward the kitchen knife stuck in his belt.
He moved quietly but swiftly through the hall to the kitchen door. Priscilla followed right on his heels. He shot her an exasperated glance but said nothing. Pushing open the door carefully, he peered inside. It was somewhat lighter here, for moonlight shimmered through the windows. He moved farther in, poker at the ready, eyes scanning the dark shadows lurking in the corners and beside the stove.
When he reached the table, Priscilla took the lamp that sat there and lit it, casting the room into its pale yellow glow and revealing its emptiness. There was no sign of a human being anywhere. The back door stood open. Wolfe sighed and went to close it. Just to be safe, he checked the small pantry and the side room, where his cot lay. Neither revealed a person hiding.
“Damn.” He turned and scowled at Priscilla. “Why the devil did you have to come down just then? I would have had them.”
“Or they would have had you,” Priscilla retorted tartly. “There are two of them, and obviously they managed to subdue you once before.”
His scowl deepened. “That was only because I wasn’t expecting any danger. This time I was ready for it.”
“Yes, and still woozy from a fever and a blow on the head. I could hardly leave you down here alone to be abducted again—or worse.”
“Well, whacking me with a poker certainly helped me out.”
“I didn’t know it was you,” Priscilla replied frostily. “I couldn’t very well say, ‘Excuse me, are you a villain or our patient? I wouldn’t want to hit the wrong fellow.’ And all I could see in the dark was a big shape.”
She looked at him. He had wrapped himself in a blanket. Only his front was visible. He wore the shirt he had had on earlier, but he had left it unbuttoned to sleep in, and it hung open, exposing a wide expanse of muscled flesh. Mr. Wolfe, Priscilla thought, was all too comfortable in a state of near nakedness.
At that moment Priscilla recalled the fact that she herself was clad in nothing but her nightgown. She had not stopped to pull on a dressing gown before she hurried to Wolfe’s rescue. Her nightgown was high-neck and long-sleeve, a simple, unadorned cotton gown with little allure. However, it was far thinner and more conforming to her shape than the usual petticoats and dresses she wore. He could, she was sure, see the swell of her breasts beneath the gown; there was even a possibility that he could see the darker circles of her nipples. Her nipples tightened at the thought, surprising her. Right on the heels of that thought came the realization that she was standing between him and the lamp on the table, which meant that the light would shine right through her nightgown, exposing the shape of her body to Mr. Wolfe’s gaze.
Her cheeks flamed high with color, and she moved quickly to the side. She stole a glance at Wolfe to see whether he had noticed, and found his gaze focused on her breasts. She blushed even more furiously, yet, amazingly enough, there was a strange tingling warmth deep in her abdomen.
She turned away, desperately searching for something to divert their attention. “Uh, where did they come in? How did they enter the house?”
He straightened, tearing his eyes away from her. “I thought the noise came from that direction.” He pointed.
“Papa’s study? Oh, no, I hope they didn’t hurt any of his work! Papa would be so distressed.”
She picked up the lamp and started out of the kitchen. Wolfe caught up with her, grabbing her arm. “Wait! Do you always go charging off like this?”
“Actually, this sort of thing rarely happens to me.”
“Well, one of them might be there still. Let me go first.”
She stepped back with exaggerated obedience, waving him through the kitchen door ahead of her. He grimaced and walked past her into the hall and over to the door of her father’s study. The door stood ajar, and he pushed it all the way open, revealing the darkened room, moonlight streaming through the windows. Priscilla, leaning around him, drew in a sharp gasp. One of the windows was pushed up, and it was clear that a pane of it had been broken.
“Oh, no,” she murmured, holding the lamp up to illuminate the room.
Wolfe took the lamp from her hand and moved into the study, shining the light around to reveal every nook and cranny. Books lay everywhere—beside the chair, on the desk, on a side table and in the seat of another chair. Some were neatly stacked, others lay open, and others seemed haphazardly strewn about. Papers filled every other available spot. A tray of tea dishes sat precariously atop a bookcase. A circular rack for pipes sat upon the desk, but it held only one pipe. Four others were scattered around the room, as well as a few ashtrays, boxes of matches, and a pouch or two of tobacco.
Priscilla looked around and heaved a sigh of relief. “At least they didn’t disturb anything.”
John looked at her, quirking an eyebrow. “How can you tell?”
“It always looks like this. Papa says it is part of his creativity. I think it’s laziness, myself. Mrs. Smithson and her daughter refuse to even come in here. Every so often, he will let me dust.”
She went to the window, noting a pile of books before it. “I think those were knocked to the floor when they climbed in the window. Papa’s more of a stacker. He claims to have some sort of obscure order to the way he sets the books.”
She pulled the window shut and relatched it, then leaned closer to examine the broken pane. “Doesn’t do much good to close it, I suppose, with this pane gone. I wonder how long it will take the glazier to come repair it.” She stood silently, gazing at the window.
“I can tack a board across it to hold it for now, if you’ll find me the nails and hammer.”
“What?” Priscilla turned to look at him, as though surprised out of a reverie. “Oh, yes, of course. That will at least keep out the weather. It’s rather frightening, isn’t it, when you see how easily the safety of one’s home can be breached?”
“Yes.” He crossed the room to her and took her by the arms. “But you needn’t be scared. I w
as watching out for them tonight, and I will continue to do so until I catch them. I won’t let them harm you or your family.”
“You cannot stay awake all night long,” Priscilla pointed out reasonably.
“I will if I have to. I can sleep during the day. I don’t think they would come then. I know you must think I’m incompetent, after the way they caught me off guard before, but I promise you, I don’t usually make mistakes like that.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked curiously. “You don’t remember who you are.”
“I don’t know how I know,” he admitted, “but I am certain of it. I won’t let you come to harm.”
His words warmed her. She looked up into his eyes. The green was muted in the dim light, but the determination in them was clear. He was the sort of man one believed. She was reminded again of one of her heroes. In his eyes there was the light that she imagined in theirs, a look of steel and courage and more…an excitement at the thought of facing danger, a sparkle of humor and fun. Did such a man really exist outside the pages of a novel? She thought of her father, her brothers, even her friend Alec. No matter how much she loved them, she would never have thought of putting her absolute trust in them, of believing that they would keep her safe. Yet with this man, she could not help but believe that he would do as he said, that he would keep all harm from her and her family.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “I feel much better.”
His eyebrows rose lazily, and he smiled. “What? No witty ripostes? No questions? No reminders of my less-than-stellar past?”
“Am I really that much of a skeptic?” She smiled back at him. His smile did something funny to her insides, made her feel warm and fizzy and strangely giggly.
“No. Merely a trifle prickly.” He raised his hand and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “Personally, I find I like my women with thorns. As with roses, it makes them all the more desirable.”
He gazed down into her eyes, and Priscilla could do nothing but stare back. She did not think she could have moved if their housebreakers suddenly reappeared in the window. His mouth softened. His hands, still on her arms, seared through her nightgown, igniting her skin. He lowered his head toward her, and Priscilla knew he was going to kiss her. She let out a breathy little sigh of pleasure.
Then his mouth was on hers, and it was as warm and firm as she remembered it. But this was not the hard, bruising kiss that he had given her in his delirium, the passionate claiming of a woman who belonged to him. This was softer and more tender, a seeking rather than a demand. She found it just as delightful.
She responded to him, her lips gently pressing into his. Her hands came up and curled into his shirt, holding on to him, for the world suddenly seemed to be unstable. His arms went around her, pressing her body into his, and his kiss deepened. She felt the hot tremor of his breath against her cheek, the tightening of his body, and his reactions sparked her own desire.
Finally he raised his head and looked down at her. His face was flushed and his eyes were glittering. “This is madness.”
Priscilla nodded, not taking her eyes off him. Her whole body was thrumming with new sensations. It was crazy, she agreed; they hardly knew each other. Heavens, he didn’t even know himself. They seemed to spend most of their time arguing. But none of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was the way she felt.
He let out a low groan and bent to kiss her again. This time his mouth was more urgent on hers, moving her lips apart, and his tongue swept inside. It was startling, but arousing. Priscilla began to tremble; heat was building within her. She had never felt this way, indeed had known nothing even remotely resembling it. Her abdomen seemed to turn into hot wax; her legs were weak, her heart was racing. And she wanted more of it, wanted it to go on and on….
She wrapped her arms around his neck, stretching up on tiptoe as she pressed her lips eagerly into his. Her own tongue tentatively touched his, and she was rewarded by the deep moan that escaped him. With the artless seduction of innocence, she stoked his passion, her tongue teasing and stroking, twining with his and slipping into his mouth to explore. His arms were like steel around her, grinding her body into his. Since she wore nothing but her nightgown, she could feel every inch of his muscled body, every curve and dip, even the persistent, throbbing hardness moving against her abdomen.
His hand moved down her back and curved over her buttocks. She jerked a little, startled, and heat blossomed deep within her. She melted into him, amazed at how good it felt to have his hand on her, to be stroked and caressed. Was this what marriage was like? Or was it only sin that was so delicious? She could not suppress a shaky little moan as his fingers dug into the fleshy mound of her buttocks.
He groaned at the sound, and his other hand went to her bottom, also, lifting her up and into him, pressing her hard against the throbbing proof of his desire. “Priscilla…” Her name was a sigh as he released her lips and began to trail his mouth down the soft skin of her throat.
“Priscilla…” For a moment, the hissing of her name blended in Priscilla’s bemused mind with the low, soft moan that had just come from John Wolfe’s throat. Then it came again, frantic and sharp and quite clearly in a woman’s voice, “Priscilla! Where are you?”
Both of them stiffened at the sound, then broke apart guiltily and whirled around to face the door.
“Priscilla!” The name was repeated, and then an apparition appeared in the doorway. It was ghostly pale, with an enormous head, and Priscilla started before she realized who it was.
“Miss Pennybaker!” She squeaked out.
The governess’s bony frame was swathed in a voluminous gray dressing gown over her nightgown, and her graying hair was caught up in an old-fashioned mobcap that ballooned out around her head like an enormous mushroom. In one shaky hand she held a candle, and in the other a black flatiron.
“Christ!” John snapped. “I’ve never seen such a household for weapons!”
“Priscilla! Are you all right?” Miss Pennybaker’s gaze went to John and centered on the naked swath of skin between his shirt’s edges. “I heard a dreadful commotion down here.”
“Yes, I’m fine, Miss Pennybaker,” Priscilla assured her, hurrying forward. “Do put down the flatiron. There’s really no danger. John—Mr. Wolfe—and I chased the intruders away.”
The older woman gasped and paled, swaying on her feet. “In-intruders? Then someone was here?”
“Yes.” Priscilla reached her and deftly took the flatiron from her with one hand while she grasped the woman’s elbow with the other and held her steady. “But now they are gone. It is perfectly safe.”
“Oh, my.” Miss Pennybaker lifted her hand, now freed from the flatiron, to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “I knew it! I heard all that noise, and I was certain that they had come back.”
“Yes, yes, but it’s fine now,” Priscilla said soothingly, leading Miss Pennybaker to the nearest chair, into which she sank with a moan.
“I went to your room as soon as I heard, but you were gone! I didn’t know what to think! I realized, of course, that something dreadful must have happened to you.”
“Of course,” John agreed dryly, and plopped down with a sigh into another chair.
Miss Pennybaker shot him a look of disdain. “I suspected that he must have come in and taken you away.”
“No. Now, Miss P., really, Mr. Wolfe would not harm me.”
“Why do you keep calling him that?” Miss Pennybaker asked, confused. “I thought he didn’t have a name.”
“Well, he doesn’t. At least, he cannot remember it. But it is terribly awkward, don’t you think, to be unable to call him anything? So I made up the name. I think it rather suits him, don’t you?”
They both turned to look at him, and he grimaced.
“I suppose.” Miss Pennybaker did not look as if she liked having to admit anything about their visitor.
Priscilla suppressed a sigh. She was used to Miss Pennybaker’s odd ways, but s
he could not understand why the woman was so set against their visitor. Normally she would have expected Miss Pennybaker to consider his stormy and mysterious entrance the most romantic of things. Her old governess compulsively read everything she could get her hands on, but her real favorites were the gothics that Priscilla herself loved. It was she who had first put Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights into Priscilla’s hands, and there was nothing she loved like a dark and brooding hero.
Of course, Priscilla had to admit that their visitor was not really dark. Nor did he seem at all brooding, merely frustrated, but he was certainly mysterious and quite handsome. And nothing could have been more dramatic than the way he arrived, with two men chasing him and no knowledge of who he was. Why, Priscilla had been thinking ever since of exactly how to work the incident into one of her own books.
At that moment there was the sound of footsteps outside in the hall. They all swung around to face the door. Light bobbed in the hall, and a moment later Florian Hamilton stepped into the study. He, too, carried a candle and wore his dressing gown, as though he had been disturbed from his sleep, though his robe hung open, one side of the sash trailing along beside him on the floor. His hair stuck out wildly in spikes all over his head, and it was easy to see why, for he was even now plunging his hand into it as he walked along, muttering to himself, frowning in concentration. He walked with his head down, and he did not even seem to notice the people occupying the room until his daughter spoke his name.
He jumped and looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of so many people in his study. “I say! Priscilla? Miss Pennybaker? And, uh, you.”
“John Wolfe.”
“Yes, precisely. I couldn’t remember what we were calling you. I have enough trouble remembering real names, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Priscilla agreed.
Miss Pennybaker uttered a mortified groan, her face blushing furiously, and turned away from Mr. Hamilton, gathering the sides of her robe together, though little enough could be seen of her gown between them.
