She couldn’t open a safe. Did Faulkner intend to send someone else to do that work?
Why hadn’t Faulkner asked Jardine to do it? He seemed proficient in any number of nefarious activities—breaking and entering her bedchamber, most commonly. Had he already searched here? Was she wasting her time?
Nothing. She moved into Radleigh’s bedchamber, swiftly checking the walls there. Radleigh must attend to all his correspondence in the library, for there wasn’t even an escritoire in this room. Just an ornate canopied bed surmounted with snarling gryphons, a rather elegant Adam fireplace with two wing chairs on either side of it, and a Chippendale table by the window.
Another door presumably led to his dressing room.
From that room, she heard noises. She froze, then slowly, silently backed out of the room. She turned and hurried to her own chamber, fishing the key out of her pocket as she went.
She inserted the key into the lock, but the tumblers didn’t seem to want to move. Panicked, she darted a glance up the corridor. No one. She tried the handle, and the door opened easily.
Strange. Had she omitted to lock the door, after all? Or . . .
She hesitated on the threshold, her heart beating hard. Bustling footsteps sounded down the corridor, coming toward her. With a quick huff, she blew out her candle. Having retired with a headache, she couldn’t afford to be caught outside her room. She had no time to consider but made the choice, whisking herself into her chamber, closing the door softly behind her.
A hand clapped over her mouth from behind and an arm stole around her waist. She was clamped to some man’s body, her head forced back against his shoulder.
Fear spiked inside her, rushed through her body, drummed in her ears. She tried to bite the hand that covered her mouth, struggled in a frenzy to get free, kicked backward, but her slippered heel made no impression on the man.
Her captor spun her around, pushed her against the wall. Her cry was cut off by his mouth, hard, demanding, plundering hers.
Jardine. She knew his kiss, his scent.
Fear turned instantly to hunger, anger, longing, as his lips dragged from her mouth, his sharp teeth bit her ear, her throat.
“Yes, yes,” she whispered.
His body pressed against her, flattened her between him and the wall. She wore only her night rail, a flimsy defense. The loose wrapper she’d thrown on for respectability lay discarded on the floor somewhere, ripped off in their struggle.
She felt the hardness of him—his chest, his hands, his length pressed against her.
“Yes,” she said again, kneading his back with her hands, undulating her hips against him, tempting him, hoping beyond reason that this meant something, that this was real.
He still hadn’t spoken a word. She let her hands wander lower, gasped when he captured them and swiftly pinned them to the wall above her head. With his other hand, he pulled down the gathered bodice of her night rail, exposing her.
The fabric caught beneath her breasts, lifting them as if to offer them up to his pleasure. Jardine bent his dark head and took full advantage of the offer, suckling her strongly, licking, kneading one nipple while he pinched and rolled the other between his long fingers.
With a pleasured sigh, Louisa laid her head against the wall and succumbed.
After that leisurely foray, he made his way back to her mouth by degrees, trailing kisses and nips along the small mounds of her breasts, the hollow of her throat, behind her ear.
His tongue traced her lips and she opened to him. He kissed her deeply, released her so that he could explore.
His hands roamed her body, setting off fireworks across her skin. Against her lips, he panted. “Ah, God, Louisa. You make me insane.”
She clung to him, and her loins throbbed, cried out for him. “Love me, Jardine.”
Panting, he set his forehead against hers.
Their harsh breathing mingled. He kissed her, closed his arms around her, and held her tightly.
Tenderness, agonizing and poignant, swept over her.
“Take me to bed, Jardine,” she whispered. Let’s forget everything but us.
“Dammit, I can’t.” His arms fell to his side. He pulled and tweaked her bodice so that it covered her once more and bent to pick up her wrapper.
Suddenly cold at his unequivocal rejection, she took the wrapper and held it tightly around her. She made as if to move away, but he trapped her again with his body. “Don’t move.” The words were a breath in her ear. “He might be watching.”
“What? Who?”
“Hush.” He rested a finger against her lips, tilted his head to listen.
His lips brushed her ear as he all but breathed the words. “Radleigh has a peephole in that wall. He’s been watching you.”
Louisa was dazed, uncomprehending. It took moments for his words to sink in.
Radleigh had seen her in the supposed privacy of her bedchamber? She gave a ragged gasp, buried her face in Jardine’s coat.
“Louisa?”
Horror held her speechless. She’d been naked in this room. He’d seen her undress. Embarrassment crawled over her skin.
“Louisa? Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”
Mutely, she nodded, squeezing her eyes shut against angry, humiliated tears.
“He is not there now, but I can’t take chances. This is a blind spot, right here, where we stand.”
She just nodded again. How many times had she revealed herself to that lecherous swine’s avid gaze?
Jardine rubbed his hands up and down her arms, as if to warm her, and she realized she was shivering.
“This has gone far enough, Louisa. You must leave here, you understand? Get dressed. Meet me in the orangery in twenty minutes. We’ll work out a plan.”
He waited for her to give another wordless nod. Then he slipped from the room like a shadow.
Louisa hugged herself tightly and slowly slid down the wall to huddle on the floor.
Seventeen
BY the time Louisa arrived in the orangery—rather more than twenty minutes later, Jardine noted—she was clearly furious.
“Hanging is too good for him,” she hissed as she stalked through the door. “I’ll cut off his privates and feed them to the dogs.”
Jardine exhaled the breath he seemed to have been holding since he’d seen that peephole.
“Bravo, Louisa.” He took her hand and guided her down a long row of orange trees. The air was redolent of citrus, sharp and sweet. “I thought you were going to turn maudlin back there.”
“Well, it was a shock,” she admitted. “But how dare he spy on me like that?”
“You were here to spy on him,” said Jardine mildly.
“That is beside the point. He is doing the wrong thing. I am acting for altruistic reasons.”
God, how he’d missed her! “He will see you without your clothes on every day once you’re wed, you know. It’s part of the contract.”
“Is it?” she answered dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.” Her gaze ran over him with bold speculation that heated his blood and sent it due south.
“Jardine, you know very well that betrothal was a sham.”
He had guessed, of course, but to hear her say it made his insides turn over with relief. “A risky one. The entire venture was most ill-conceived. How on earth did you come to be working for Faulkner?”
She shrugged. “He made me take an oath of secrecy when there was all that fuss over Kate’s diary. I did a few small favors for him. And then he asked me to get one of his operatives an invitation to this house party.”
Jardine frowned. Her story certainly tallied with Faulkner’s. “Faulkner said the operative disappeared before she even reached Radleigh’s house. Who was it?”
Louisa shrugged. “She called herself Harriet Burton. Whether that was her real name, I have no idea.”
Jardine frowned. He didn’t know her, but that meant nothing. Faulkner had plenty of agents on the payroll and commonly, they weren’t acqua
inted. It was safer that way.
“So it was never your brief to get hold of this list yourself.”
“No, of course not. Why should they trust me with an important mission?” She gave a huff of exasperation. “And they were right. I’ve made no progress whatsoever.”
She told him all she knew and he let her, seeing that it was a relief to unburden herself. She wasn’t cut out for this game, she was too softhearted, but he couldn’t help but admire her resourcefulness as her story unfolded.
Her courage, her utter, foolish courage in hunting for that safe tonight. “There’s no need to keep searching. I’ve made Radleigh an offer he can’t refuse. I hope to have that list in my hands by tomorrow morning.”
She tensed, and he guessed how chagrined she must be that her efforts had come to naught. “I can help you.”
He took her hand. “You were very brave, darling. But now it’s time to go.”
“Don’t patronize me, Jardine!” She snatched her hand away. “How will you get him to sell the list to you? He must have other offers.”
“Yes, but you see there’s something I can give him that no one else can. Or that’s what I’ve led him to believe.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“What our friend Radleigh desires more than anything is an entrée into our world. Thus, his betrothal to you. He is already wealthy beyond most men’s comprehension. He doesn’t need more money, and what would he do with the foreign honors those other nations wish to bestow? But a peerage . . .” He shrugged. “I’ll have that paper in my hands by lunchtime.”
He jabbed a finger at her. “So, there is no need for you to continue this dangerous charade. Make your excuses and leave as soon as breakfast is over.”
Her chin came up. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll see this through to the end.”
Did the woman never learn? “What is there for you to do save get yourself into trouble? Good God, what more evidence do you need of Radleigh’s character than that damned peephole?”
He turned to face her, gripped her shoulders, and shook her. “He will do worse than merely look at you, Louisa. You know that!”
“What can he do in the middle of a house party?”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know how far Radleigh was prepared to go to achieve his aims. The one saving grace was that he wanted Louisa as his wife. That should keep her alive, but . . .
“Promise me you won’t let him touch you.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Jardine—”
“You will not be alone with him. You will say he can have nothing without the ring on your finger. Is that clear?”
“You don’t think I want him to touch me, do you?” She shuddered.
“Are you afraid of him?”
She turned her head at that, pierced him with those cool blue eyes. “Jardine, why did you send me away?”
And thus, she caught him unprepared. Unwilling to continue that cruel pretense, but with no logical reason to give her the truth.
Nothing had changed. He still hunted in the darkness for Smith, the ruthless villain who would balk at nothing, not even torturing an innocent woman, to wreak revenge on Jardine.
In a strained voice, he said, “I told you why. I’ve tired of you. I’m thinking of looking about me for a real wife.”
She didn’t even flinch. Steadily, she gazed into his eyes as if she could read all his secrets. “I don’t believe you.”
She enunciated the words clearly, crisply, as if he was a foreigner with very little English, or a half-wit.
He stared at her, and there was a new strength, a new vitality to her that he hadn’t noticed until now. She’d always been a determined woman, with that fire beneath the ice that had caught him from the first.
Now, those qualities seemed to have intensified, found focus and purpose. The revelation made him half crazed with the desire to put his mouth on her, to take her and stoke that blaze until it raged beyond her control.
When had she become so dangerous?
“I’m not going to go meekly this time, Jardine. I’m going to fight for you. I’m going to fight with you.”
“You will be damnably in the way.” I can’t think, much less fight, with a permanent cock-stand in my trousers.
A queer little smile lit her features, as if she read his thoughts. “No, darling. I’m going to help you. You’ll see.”
She reached up and hooked an arm around his neck, pulling him down to her. She brushed her lips over his, once, twice, then slid her tongue along the seam of his mouth in the most lascivious, unladylike gesture imaginable.
His breathing came heavy and hot. He wanted to take her there, under the stars, ravish her until she begged for mercy—and considering her ferocity, that might take a good long while.
But the risk was too great.
He put her away from him, gently. “Be careful.” It seemed an inadequate thing to say. But he’d stand guard over her until he’d done the deal, then he’d kidnap her, take her away from this place bound and gagged if necessary.
He stroked the soft, flawless skin of her cheek and felt a shiver of longing ripple through his body. “Good night.”
A twig cracked. They both spun around in the direction of the sound.
But Jardine’s keen eyes detected only darkness. “Go now,” he said. “We can’t be seen together.”
And for once, she obeyed him. Moved swiftly away from him and back toward the orangery.
LOUISA had barely gained the stairs when a male voice accosted her.
“Lady Louisa.” The hushed tones of Saunders, Radleigh’s secretary, reached her.
She jumped, turned, and tried to appear natural. Her mind worked furiously, searching for an excuse for being here in the early hours of the morning.
But the secretary was apparently too agitated to demand an explanation. “Oh, thank goodness, it is you!”
“Whatever is the matter, Mr. Saunders?” Louisa whispered.
He wrung his hands a little, as if reluctant to proceed. “It is . . . I fear there has been an accident.”
Her heart gave a hard pound. Jardine? But she’d only just left him. She shouldn’t have left him. Oh God!
“A female. In the Indian temple.”
Relief gushed through her, quickly followed by shame. How awful to be glad it was some unknown woman who had been hurt and not Jardine!
Saunders hadn’t mentioned her by name. “Not one of the guests? Do you not know her?”
The secretary shook his head. Despite the cool night, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “In such circumstances, I believe a woman prefers a lady to, er, minister . . .”
“Calm down, Mr. Saunders. How is the lady hurt?”
“I could not tell the details. She will not let me examine her. I have a medicine chest with me, if you would be so good . . .”
“Of course.”
She followed Saunders. Who could this unknown female be?
She wasn’t dressed for the terrain. They kept to the pathways, rather than taking the more circuitous way through the woods, but her feet began to protest as stones and tree roots played havoc through her thin slippers.
Saunders didn’t speak another word as they moved through the night, guided by the strong light of his lantern. He seemed such a gentle man, this woman must either be ridiculously coy or in a very bad state to refuse his help.
By the time they reached the temple, Louisa was panting a little. She stopped in the doorway to catch her breath, her hand resting lightly on the door frame. Saunders swung his lantern in a circle.
Louisa gave a cry and crossed the hard floor, swiftly going to her knees. The battered, bruised face of Harriet Burton stared up at her.
There was no recognition in Harriet’s silvery eyes. She shrank back as Louisa reached out a hand to touch her.
“Oh no!” What had he done to her? Logic told her she couldn’t be certain, but in her bones, she knew this was Radleigh’s work.<
br />
Panic threatened to rise in Louisa’s throat, but she ruthlessly thrust it away. She needed to keep a clear head to help Harriet.
Why was Harriet here? Had she been taken that night at the inn? Had she been in Radleigh’s power for all that time?
Ah, dear God, what had he done to turn the fearless, flippant Harriet Burton into this cowering, bloody mess?
Louisa put out her hand very slowly, murmuring soft assurances. She touched Harriet’s hand, which was gloveless, its fingernails torn. That featherlight touch made Harriet’s ragged breathing hitch, her eyes flare in panic.
But she allowed it. “Yes, my dear, that’s right. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”
She didn’t know how true that was. She didn’t know where Radleigh might be, or whether he would be back, or why he’d let Harriet go. Had she managed to escape?
Faulkner was in the village, staying at the inn. If Louisa could deliver Harriet to him, she’d be safe.
She couldn’t afford to wait for a doctor, if one could be persuaded to come at this hour. She needed to get Harriet away from the estate and under Faulkner’s protection.
Louisa turned her head a little to address Saunders. “I think she needs a doctor. Do you have some kind of transport? We must take her to the village without delay.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll arrange it.” Saunders left her with the lantern and hurried away.
She waited until she judged him out of earshot. “Harriet!” she whispered. “Harriet, don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.”
The blue eyes were glazed with horror. A large purple contusion swelled around her left eye. Her lips were mashed and bloody, as if someone had stomped on them. Or, as if she’d bitten through them in an effort to withstand excruciating pain.
God only knew what injuries hid beneath that cloak. Had he broken bones? Louisa needed to persuade Harriet to let her touch her. She took Harriet’s hand, laid it gently on her own, palm to palm.
“I’m here to help you, Harriet. Will you let me help?”
Louisa waited, and then set Harriet’s hand down gently. With light, slow movements, she peeled away the man’s cloak that, presumably, Saunders had covered Harriet with.
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