“You have my word our… liaison will remain secret.” Sarcasm sharpened his voice as he continued. “Rejoice in your freedom, Miss Forsythe. This week you’re at liberty.”
“I’m not at liberty to become a libertine.”
His lips quirked at her quick response. “Actually you are.”
Sidonie Forsythe was totally unawakened—good God, how had no man seen what he had?—but she was in essence a sensual creature. He was adept enough at pleasing a woman, however grotesque his face. His deepest instincts insisted she’d relish the act once she’d conquered her qualms.
She surveyed him with unconcealed contempt. “You’d force me into your bed, knowing the only reason I’m there is to save my sister physical harm?”
“I told you—my taste doesn’t run to martyrs.”
Her gaze remained stony. “I’ll never come to you willingly.”
When he caught her hand, the jolt of heat threatened to blast his control to ashes. He drew her down beside him on the window seat. “I’d like the chance to convince you otherwise, bella.”
When had her willingness become so important? Sometime since he’d kissed her and caught a hint of how sweet she’d be in his arms when she finally gave herself up.
She tried and failed to pull away. “Only a swaggering coxcomb would hope to change my mind in a mere week. I won’t change my mind in a hundred years.”
He fought another smile. Did she feel the vivid energy flickering between them? He couldn’t believe he burned alone, for all she denied him with words. “You make the challenge so delicious.”
“I’m not… flirting with you, Mr. Merrick. I’m pointing out you waste your time with this absurd scheme.”
“In which case, you’ll return to your sister none the worse,” he said calmly, efficiently stripping her glove away. He ached to touch her skin.
The cynicism in her expression made her look older than her twenty-four years. “You don’t for one moment expect to lose, do you?”
He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss to her soft palm. Her scent filled his head, intoxicating him like the finest wine. “I rely upon my fatal charm.”
She tugged at her hand. Her cheeks were pink with outrage and what unfounded optimism read as grudging pleasure. “It would almost be worth staying to take you down a few pegs.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Reluctantly he released her. Touching her turned thought to chaos and he needed all his wits to gain his way. “You forget your sister’s stake in our bargain.”
Shock tautened her features. She had forgotten Roberta. “So you still compel me.”
He shrugged. “Only to remain at Castle Craven as my guest. Anything further is your choice.”
Straightening, she regarded him with the same chilly disdain she’d displayed last night. Would she say yes? It astounded him how eager he was for her to stay. He’d be in the devil’s own thrall before the week was done. God knew how he’d keep his hands to himself until she agreed to become his lover. As surely she must.
Still his gut tightened with agonizing suspense as he awaited her assent.
She sucked in a shaky breath but spoke with impressive firmness for a chaste woman conceding herself to a scoundrel. “Let us be clear then, Mr. Merrick.”
With a mocking gesture, he bent his head. “By all means, Miss Forsythe.”
Her voice turned flat as she strove for control. In her lap the ungloved hand tightened around the gloved one in silent protest at what he compelled from her. “In return for my presence in Castle Craven over the next seven days, or rather six days as I’ve already spent a night under your roof, you will surrender Roberta’s vowels. Her debt will be fully acquitted.”
“Your companionship, bella. Make no mistake—I want you in my bed and I’ll take every opportunity to get you there. No locking yourself away in the highest tower.”
“I won’t cheat.”
“And you won’t cheat in other ways. You won’t lock yourself away in your mind, either.”
She flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. When I tell you of my intentions, you’ll listen. When I touch you—and believe me, tesoro, I’ll touch you over and over again, in ways you haven’t imagined a man can touch you—you won’t fight the pleasure.”
She cast him a disgruntled glance under her lashes. “You certainly don’t lack confidence, Mr. Merrick. Do I have a choice about staying?”
His smile turned sly. And triumphant. He’d prevailed. Of course he had. In this particular game, he’d always held the winning hand. He refused to acknowledge the shaming relief coiling in his belly. “Does Roberta have any jewelry William doesn’t know about?”
Her lips tightened. “You really are a bastard.”
“Make no mistake.” This once, his cheerful self-abnegation rang hollow. She deserved better than this arrangement and they both knew it. He stretched his legs out with an appearance of insouciant superiority.
She gave a sharp nod, still with that hard light in her eyes. “You have an agreement, sir. I look forward to leaving here in a week with both pride and virtue intact.”
“And I look forward to nights of untold rapture in your arms, my dear Miss Forsythe.” His smile broadened as victory rang around him like a fanfare of trumpets. “May the best man win.”
She subjected him to a glare of fulminating dislike, although the color lingering in her cheeks from his kiss spoiled the effect. “Make that the best woman, Mr. Merrick.”
Chapter Four
What had she done?
Sidonie remained as trapped as she’d been since Roberta had flung herself upon her mercy two days ago. She should have known her attempt to leave after only one night would fail. While Merrick cajoled her into staying, she’d desperately struggled to avoid her fate. But the threat to her sister remained paramount. Last time William lost his temper, he’d broken Roberta’s arm and two ribs. If he learned his wife betrayed him with his worst enemy, he’d kill her.
At least Sidonie had wrenched a small portion of control back, but she didn’t underestimate how difficult Merrick would make it to maintain her virtue. She already found him compelling and he’d hardly exerted himself yet to suborn her. Even now, when she’d pledged her word to cooperate, her mind scurried hither and yon to find an escape. But there was nothing. Only her hollow claim that she’d cleave to her chastity, however he tempted her.
Believe me, tesoro, I’ll touch you over and over again, in ways you haven’t even imagined a man can touch you.
She hid a shiver as she recalled those low words, promising pleasures beyond her wildest dreams. A shiver of fear. Also a shiver of unwilling interest.
“Shall we shake on the deal?” He stood and extended one elegant hand in her direction.
Sidonie fought the urge to tell him he’d touched her quite enough. “Why not?”
As his hand curled firm around hers, heat tingled on her skin. Heat that had surged to flame when he kissed her palm.
As he lowered her hand, his knowing expression bolstered resistance. Privately she might admit he drew her on levels she’d never known. To his face, she meant to continue her defiance. And hope against hope a sharp tongue and prickly attitude saved her. Six days of discomfiting, unceasing awareness of her captor loomed ahead. More to the point, six nights.
She met Merrick’s silvery gaze and acknowledged with a sinking feeling in her stomach that six days could be a lifetime. Only seconds into their bargain and already she recognized the dangers of allowing him to touch her when and how he liked. The memory of his fingers trailing over her naked skin blinded her to her surroundings. She shifted uncomfortably against the window seat.
He’d made no secret of his sinful plans. At least he’d been honest with her. A grim voice at the back of her mind reminded her she hadn’t been honest with him. Not completely. Not about a discovery that would change his life forever. Her eyes faltered away from his as though he might read her guilty se
crets in her face.
“Have you had breakfast?”
She frowned and rose, even if it meant standing far too close to him. Perching on the window seat left her feeling disagreeably like a sitting duck. “Mr. Merrick, the way to my heart isn’t through my stomach.”
He arched his black eyebrows. “My sights are set on parts of you other than your heart, Miss Forsythe.”
“Oh.” She wished desperately he wouldn’t keep stealing her capacity for speech. For pity’s sake, what was wrong with her? He couldn’t undermine twenty-four years of rectitude with a mere kiss on the hand.
His thumb rubbed casually over the back of her hand. Except nothing he did was casual. “Given what we’ll become to each other, surely we can dispense with formalities. My name is Jonas.”
“I suspect it’s to my advantage to preserve formalities.”
“And I’m convinced of the outcome whatever we call each other, bella.”
“Oh, very well,” she said irritably. She straightened and withdrew her hand, surprised he let her go. “You may call me Sidonie.”
Why not let her go? He had her exactly where he wanted. Within pouncing reach. “Excellent. The idea of whispering ‘Miss Forsythe’ into your ear as I slide inside you is just too arousing.”
She flushed at the graphic picture he painted. “You can’t say things like that.”
He smiled with an annoying edge of triumph and stepped nearer, towering above her. “So early in the game, and you cry forfeit, Sidonie.”
Temper came to her rescue. He might treat her ruin as an unimportant trifle, but she wasn’t nearly so easy with what occurred. “I suppose I’ll become accustomed to your vulgarity.”
His laugh curled around her resistance like ivy clinging to a crumbling stone tower. “I’m sure you will, at that.”
He strode toward the door and opened it with a flourish. “Shall we proceed to the dining room?” He surveyed her with unreadable eyes. “Then perhaps you and I can share a ride.”
She blushed furiously. “Mr. Merrick—”
His smile turned wicked. “Now who’s being vulgar? I need to check the property after the storm. I thought you might like some fresh air.”
She marched past into the hallway. Six days. Then she’d be free, never to see the wanton and irritating Jonas Merrick again.
Those six days promised torments to shame the devil.
When Sidonie rushed into the stableyard, Jonas was talking to a small, wizened man who held the reins of two high-bred horses, a cream Arab mare and a large bay gelding. Without interrupting his discussion, her nemesis sent her a faint smile. She’d taken longer changing than arranged but he betrayed no impatience. Yet again, she contemplated the contrast between the Merrick cousins. William loathed the smallest inconvenience and lashed out if anyone delayed or obstructed him.
The last lonely years, mainly spent running Barstowe Hall, hadn’t prepared her to defend herself from a dangerous roué. She supposed she must have had girlish dreams once of a fascinating man focusing his attention on her. She couldn’t remember them. Once she was old enough to understand the dynamic of the marital bond, her dreams had become more prosaic: an independent, useful life where decisions were hers and no man treated her as his property.
The groom dipped his head to acknowledge her and disappeared into the stables. Merrick studied her with a glint in his eye. Part sexual interest, part approval, part something she couldn’t altogether interpret. It was as though he asked a question and she said yes without knowing what she agreed to.
She shook off the disturbing sensation and lifted her chin. Her hands tightened on the elegant little crop.
“I see you found the riding habit,” he said neutrally.
“I see you’re prepared for all eventualities when ladies visit,” she responded with a tart edge. When she’d seen the stylish black habit laid across her bed—his bed, she supposed—she’d cringed. She told herself his liaisons were none of her business, but that niggle of resentment persisted.
A deepening of the faint lines around his eyes indicated amusement. “I’ve never brought a mistress here, if that worries you.”
“I’m not your mistress,” she snapped, annoyed that he immediately attributed her ill temper to jealousy.
“Yet.” He subjected her to a thorough inspection. “It fits.”
“It’s too tight. Mrs. Bevan had to shift the buttons. That’s why I’m late.”
“You’re more… generously endowed than your sister.”
She stared into his face and stupidly wondered whether he preferred a more slender woman. Compared to Roberta’s willowy proportions, she was a Valkyrie. “Roberta doesn’t ride,” she said, telling herself she didn’t care what this miscreant made of her appearance.
More hollow bravado. She was becoming quite expert in the art.
“I don’t know your sister well enough to be familiar with her amusements—apart from chasing the next hand of cards.”
“You judge her harshly.” She bit back the impulse to tell Merrick that her sister hadn’t always been the brittle, supercilious creature he knew. When they were children, Roberta’s affection had been Sidonie’s only refuge against their mother’s indifference and their father’s contempt.
He shrugged. “She was a means to an end.”
Sidonie’s lips tightened. “That puts me in my place.”
He skimmed the back of his gloved hand under her chin. “You’re in a different category altogether, bella.”
The caress—if such fleeting contact justified the name—lasted a mere second but she felt it to her toes. This absurd physical awareness heightened rather than ebbed with familiarity. “Yes, I’ve agreed not to fight you,” she said with a bitter edge.
“The day’s too fine to quarrel,” he said lightly. “Let me help you into the saddle. Kismet grows restless.”
When he grabbed her around the waist, she waited for his hands to linger, to stray, but he merely tossed her into the sidesaddle with breathtaking ease. The beautiful horse sidled then settled at a reassuring word from Jonas. He had a way with females, Sidonie thought with another spike of resentment. Strange to remember Roberta describing him as so hideously ugly that he gave her nightmares. She tried to imagine what Merrick would look like without scars, but they seemed as much part of him as that sensually knowing mouth.
He stepped close enough to catch Kismet’s bridle. “Still now while I adjust your stirrups.”
He brushed her black skirts aside. She waited in quivering expectation for him to touch her legs but his hands were sure as they tightened the leathers. Something about the sheer competence of those strong gloved hands made her stomach jump. From Kismet’s back, she had a fine view of his wild gypsy hair. It was pitch black and untidy and another indication that he insisted on the world taking him on his terms.
He shifted away and glanced up. “Are you cold?”
How she wished she could hide her reactions. “No.”
She waited for some comment about her trembling, but he merely turned to collect his beaver hat from the bench behind him. Smoothly he rose into the bay’s saddle and her heart slammed with admiration at his effortless strength.
Believe me, tesoro, I’ll touch you over and over again, in ways you haven’t even imagined a man can touch you.
She smothered the memory of Merrick’s daunting promise and frantically sought some neutral topic of conversation as they trotted away from the castle. Difficult when every time she looked at him, she remembered him kissing her, touching her skin.
“Why do you tease me in Italian? I would have thought you’d speak—” Then she recalled that the world accounted his mother little better than a whore. The subject of Consuela Alvarez was likely off limits.
He arched a satirical eyebrow as if guessing her quandary. “You imagine I speak fluent Spanish?”
“Don’t you?”
“My mother died when I was two. I don’t remember her.”
“Oh.” She
paused. “I’m sorry.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. They crossed a wide green field, the cliffs to their left. The waves crashed upon the rocks below. Gulls on the wind cried like lost souls. Behind her, the bulk of Castle Craven squatted dark on the horizon. Even in sunshine, it looked a dour place.
The silence extended, became increasingly awkward. The horses’ hooves landed dully on the thick grass. She was casting around wildly for something to talk about—the weather seemed too banal but a remark about the bright day hovered on her lips—before he finally spoke. “After I failed to make a success of Eton, my father took me to Venice to live.”
Something in his tone indicated a complicated story behind the laconic accounting. There was so much she didn’t understand, so much she wanted to know. Her feverish curiosity disturbed her. Merrick was a stranger. It would be easier if he remained so.
He went on when she didn’t respond. “We rarely returned to England.”
She could imagine why. She was too young to remember the original scandal of Lord Hillbrook and his imposter viscountess, but vicious gossip had persisted over the years. So much of the story remained mysterious, like how Jonas had earned the marks on his face. Sidonie was familiar with the basic facts. It was common knowledge that all his life Jonas’s father, Anthony Merrick, protested the validity of his marriage. After his death, the Hillbrook title fell to William, Jonas’s cousin. William, who married Roberta Forsythe for her dowry soon after inheriting.
Anthony Merrick had achieved posthumous revenge of a sort. He’d been one of the richest men in England and aside from Barstowe Hall in Wiltshire and Merrick House in London, none of that fortune was entailed. Upon Anthony’s death nine years ago, Jonas Merrick had inherited vast wealth. William Merrick was left with two tumbledown houses, deliberately neglected by his uncle, and no funds to support the dignity of the Hillbrook title.
Since then, Jonas’s fortune had grown exponentially. He was clever, determined, innovative, and ruthless. His wealth ensured grudging social acceptance, despite his illegitimacy. William careered from one financial disaster to another, until now he verged on bankruptcy. With every failure, his loathing for Jonas built to mania. So many times, Sidonie had heard William curse his cousin. His attacks upon Roberta became especially vicious after Jonas had bested William in some way. A reminder, if she’d needed one, of what was at stake here at Castle Craven.
Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed Page 4
