The soup was hearty, flavored with dried herbs culled from the stillroom. There was no fresh meat in the house, to her regret, but she’d added thick chunks of chopped bacon, which lent a smoky richness to the meal.
Jardine surveyed her with a gleam in his eye as she set a place for him at the small table in the parlor. Did it amuse him to have her play housekeeper for him?
She dipped her own gaze to hide how much she longed for such domestic normalcy. Then she reminded herself that even if he accepted her and brought her into his life, she would not be cooking for him like this.
“Delicious.” Jardine eyed her in surprise. “How did you learn to cook like that?”
“I taught myself.”
“Life in the country was that dull?”
She made herself speak calmly. “I did it out of necessity, if you must know. Our father left us without a penny to bless ourselves with and a mountain of household debt. I had to let all but two of our staff go simply to survive.”
His black brows drew together. “You told me you wanted for nothing.”
“That’s right, I did.” But you never came to see for yourself, did you?
“Did Max know about this?”
She snorted. “Of course not. And I had the Devil of a time keeping him ignorant. He worked himself to the bone to send us what money he had. He’d sacrificed everything so that Alistair could stay at Cambridge. I wasn’t about to add to his burdens. I managed.”
Jardine slammed his fist on the table. “He should have done something.” He pushed away from the table a little and pointed his finger at her. “And you should have used the money I sent.”
She remained silent a moment, while she tried to bring her feelings under control. “How could I have explained my sudden affluence to my mother?” But that wasn’t the real reason she hadn’t spent that money. She’d been so furious and full of pride, she’d disdained to take it. “I have not complained, so I don’t see why you are making such a fuss.”
“Bloody hell, Louisa. You’re a marchioness, for God’s sake! And you tell me you were reduced to making your own dinner!”
“I shot my own dinner many a time,” she said, with a perverse desire to twist the knife. She shrugged. “My mother was prostrate with vapors nine days out of ten; we kept no company; I’d read every book the house contained, including my father’s hunting annuals. I’m cow-handed at embroidery and equally bad at the pianoforte. What else was there for me to do?”
He almost started up. She hoped he would shake her. Then he sat back in his chair, one long, tapered index finger circling his wine glass. “You are no longer in such straits, now that your brother is the Duke of Lyle.”
“True.” She sipped her own wine. It was rough and robust, and perhaps it wasn’t wise to drink such strong liquor on an empty stomach. It made her reckless.
She took another long sip.
Changing the subject, she said, “You will go after Smith, of course.”
He returned to his soup. “No. I’m going to get you out of the country, while there’s still time.”
She blinked at him. “Out of the country? Are you mad? Where would I go?”
He waved a hand. “Calais. Dieppe. It depends. We’ll make for the coast and then we’ll see whether we can book a passage. In any case, there’ll be smugglers who’ll take us.”
She’d rather eat dirt than scuttle off to France, but she let it pass for the moment. She needed to marshal her defenses. She needed a plan.
“What will happen to Smith?”
“My hope is that he’ll try to snatch his brother and get himself killed in the process.” He didn’t meet her eye.
“You’ll go back for him, won’t you? Once I’m safely out of the way.”
“I must.”
“You think he will still wish to harm you after you’ve given him his brother back?”
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
“I think perhaps his thirst for revenge will be assuaged. He might even be grateful to you.”
Jardine rested his spoon in his empty bowl. “I did my level best to get his brother hanged, Louisa. Once he’s free, I shall go after him and Smith again. Smith knows that.”
“But—”
“I’m not taking any more chances. Not where your safety is concerned.”
Twenty-four
WITHOUT a word, Louisa rose from the table to collect their bowls.
As she reached for Jardine’s his fingers gripped her wrist. “Leave it.”
“I was just going to—”
“Leave it, I said. You’re not a damned footman.”
She took a pointed look around her. “Well, I don’t see anyone else here to do it, do you?”
She tried to pull herself free from his grip. He snatched the bowl she held and hurled it across the room. It shattered in the empty fireplace.
Louisa let out a breath in an outraged hiss. She didn’t know why she was so furious. It wasn’t because of the bowl or the mess he’d made.
A sudden, ungovernable rage rushed up inside her. She picked up his wine glass and dashed its contents over him. In awe-filled horror, she watched the ruby liquid arc out of the glass and drench his face.
He recoiled, swearing viciously, but he didn’t loose his grip on her wrist. His clasp tightened as he dashed the liquid from his eyes.
Panting, she watched wine drip down his pale skin like blood from a wound, bemused at her behavior.
There was a taut, fulminating silence. Then his mouth crashed down on hers. She gave a muffled gasp, but whether it was a protest or a cry of satisfaction, she didn’t know and he didn’t pay attention.
He tasted of the wine and a hint of the rosemary she’d used to flavor the soup. His firm lips crushed hers as his tongue dominated her mouth.
A sweep of his hand sent the tablecloth and everything upon it sliding off the table with a clatter and crash. Her bottom pressed against the table edge as he slowly bent her back over his arm.
Jardine feasted on her mouth with a greater appetite than he’d shown over their meal, and his hands were everywhere, ripping at her clothes, as if desperate to feel her.
The wound in her cheek throbbed in protest. It might even have been bleeding, but she wanted this so badly—his dark, unfettered passion, his physicality—that she didn’t care.
His mouth left hers to travel lower, and the sensations he orchestrated in her body with his hands and lips and tongue soon overwhelmed the sharp beat of pain.
He picked her up and deposited her on the table, his hand rucking up her skirts until he found the hot, moist place between her legs. He touched her there, his fingers swift and urgent, pressing, rubbing, bringing her quickly to a peak.
As she began to climax, he freed his member from his trousers and thrust into her, sinking his teeth into the sensitive side of her neck. He kept that wolfish hold on her while he stroked, and her climax erupted again, coursing like a hot, pulsing current through her body.
She gripped the hair at his nape, threw her head back, and cried out.
“Oh God. Louisa.” He gave an agonized groan as he emptied himself into her.
He laid his forehead against her neck as he shuddered, and his warm breath flowed over her skin.
Tenderness swept over her, and in its wake flowed aching regret. For all the years they’d wasted, for the black chasm of loneliness that yawned before her. France, for God’s sake!
Despite her frustration and anger, she let her hand drift upward to stroke his silky black hair.
And knew that this heated coupling had solved nothing at all.
JARDINE trailed his hand slowly down Louisa’s side and let it rest on her warm, lithe flank. She lay in his arms in a proper bed this time. They’d made love as if the world was ending. In every way that mattered, it was.
Could he ever get enough of her? Despite the pressing need to send her away, he couldn’t resist stealing as much time with her as possible before the daylight faded.<
br />
He thought of Smith and another operation that would proceed tonight. He’d no doubt Smith would act quickly, decisively, to free his brother from his prison. He wouldn’t want to take the chance that Jardine might alert the guard or have Elias moved.
Jardine’s inability to stop it gnawed at him, but he couldn’t be in two places at once. Ives hadn’t turned up, nor had Faulkner. In any case, Jardine didn’t trust anyone else to guard Louisa while he was off foiling Smith’s rescue.
Desperate as he was to get his hands on Smith, Louisa’s safety must come first. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
“I’m not going to France, Jardine.” Those fiery blue eyes blazed into his.
The hand that had been stroking along her flank stilled. She only made it harder by protesting, didn’t she know that? But she would go, whether she wanted to or not.
She seemed to read his thoughts. “And if you force me to go, I’ll find a way to come back.”
He let his thick black eyelashes come down to shutter his eyes and concentrated on her body. He said nothing, simply resumed his caresses, giving the languid movements all his attention.
“We need to finish Smith, once and for all,” Louisa persisted. “You’ll never have a better chance than now to do it. By the time you pack me off to France, he’ll have gone to ground and taken his disgusting brother with him.”
Anger shook him at the thought. But he’d made his peace with that, hadn’t he? He’d risked Louisa’s safety on that last roll of the dice and she’d narrowly escaped torture and death. It was time to cut his losses.
He might never have her, but she would be safe. There’d be some comfort in knowing she was alive and well.
He slid his hand up to cup her shoulder. “I can’t pursue him tonight. I can’t leave you here, without protection, where he might find you before I find him. I can’t take the risk.”
He touched her hair, where it tangled around her ear, close to the slash on her face. It was a featherlight touch, painfully careful of her wound. His hand trembled.
A harsh breath that sounded shamefully close to a sob escaped him. “Your face . . .”
She gripped his wrist. The blue eyes hurled lightning bolts. “Don’t you dare pity me, Jardine.”
That fierce warrior woman leaped in her eyes. “I have felt more alive in the past few days than I have in eight years and I’ve no intention of losing you now. Go after Smith. I’ll come with you. I promise I’ll stay out of your way. Give me a shotgun and I’ll hide somewhere nearby. At the least, I can even the numbers.”
No. He couldn’t possibly allow it.
In a rasping voice, he said, “Louisa, I have lost everyone who was ever close to me.” She blinked at the change of subject, but he went on. “My parents were loving and gentle and kind. They died of typhus fever while I was away at school.”
“It must have been dreadful for you.”
“They were my world,” he said simply. “I had no siblings, or at least none that survived infancy. It was just the three of us. And suddenly, there was only me. I was brought up by schools and servants, and then as a young man I ran wild. I was good at finding trouble and even better at getting out of it. Faulkner discovered me, trained me, and I thought I’d found direction. For a while, it was exciting and I believed passionately in what I did. But that life isolated me even more than before.”
He looked into her eyes. “And then I met you. It was as if I’d been adrift all those years, rudderless, sailing through an endless night. You, Louisa. You were the sun on the horizon, lighting the way home.” He gripped her dear, determined chin. “I cannot lose you. If I lose you, then I am lost, too.”
“There are more ways than one to lose someone.” She said it quietly, but he detected the tremor in her voice. “If you send me away now, it must be over between us, Jardine. When this threat is past, there’ll be another, and another. There’ll be more excuses for you to avoid risking your heart.”
The accusation stunned him. “You think I’m a coward?”
“Yes, I think you are. You don’t want to see me hurt, I know that. But I’ve lived with that same fear for you. I’ve lived for eight years with the knowledge that I might hear news of your death at any moment, or worse, that I might never hear at all. What do you think that has been like? I’ve been a prisoner to your fear, like a princess in a tower. You’ve made me alone, just as you are.”
She sat up, hugging her knees. “That’s no way to live, Jardine. I’m not going to live like that anymore.”
A drum of desperation beat in his brain. She’d leave him. She’d find someone else. After all she’d been through. After all he’d done in her name.
He gritted his teeth. “All right, I’ll go. You stay here with the shotgun. I’ll tell the old woman to look out for you.”
She shook her head. “I’m coming with you.”
JARDINE’S eyes snapped. Flatly, he said, “The hell you are.”
Louisa made what was possibly the most momentous decision of her life, next to marrying him. “If you go without me, Jardine, I won’t be here when you get back.”
She lifted her chin, her heart beating hard in her chest. She was afraid. The memory of their recent incarceration, of Radleigh’s blade slicing into her flesh, was all too vivid in her mind. With iron will, she repressed a shudder, gripped her hands together so they wouldn’t tremble.
He tilted his head, considering, and she swiftly forestalled him. “If you are thinking how you might tie me up and put me in a cupboard until you get back—”
“The thought crossed my mind,” he muttered.
“—Then think what will happen if Smith has sent another of his cutthroats after me. Or if you do not come back . . .”
The place behind her eyes stung and grew hot. She would not cry. She despised women who used tears to get what they wanted.
His features were so taut with anger, she thought the pale mask of his face might crack. “You will be safer here than in the cross fire.”
But she wouldn’t back down now. She’d leave him no choice. “If you go without me, I shall return to London and go to work for Faulkner. If I’m going to live my life in fear, without you, then I’ll turn it to good account. I won’t die waiting for you, Jardine.”
Hours might have ticked past as they stared at each other. He was white to the lips, his eyes fiery and dark as hot coals.
Finally, he launched from the bed and reached for his shirt. “If you’re coming with me, you’ll damned well do as I say.”
THE ride was a long one, and by the time they arrived at their destination, her mare was almost blown. Silently, Jardine dismounted, then reached up for her.
The warmth of his hands spanning her waist was a small comfort. She wished she could stop shaking. She would go through with this. She must.
Jardine checked the shotgun he’d brought and handed it to her. Then he motioned her to the edge of the stand of trees.
Below them, in a dell overrun with shrubs and weeds, stood a small stone cottage. The house had bars on the windows and a sturdy-looking door. An odd place to hold a dangerous criminal.
Two guards played cards at a crude wooden table under the eave, tankards at their elbows and rifles propped against the benches on which they sat. A large lantern swung gently from a beam overhead, casting its glow over the two men.
Jardine hissed in disgust. “Ripe for the picking,” he muttered. He glanced back at Louisa. “Stay here and cover me. If anyone approaches you, shoot them on sight.”
Ducking low, he made his way through the thicket, and she realized he meant to circle the house, rather than approach it directly.
Louisa lost sight of him almost immediately. She turned her gaze to the clearing around the cottage, her heart beating in her throat.
What she needed to do was give herself as much cover as possible and present the smallest target she could to anyone firing back at her. A prone position would be best.
She managed to fi
nd a suitable spot that had the added advantage of a large boulder behind which she could retreat in case of return fire. She sat on the grass with her back to the boulder, to wait.
The day waned and the sun hung low in the sky. How long would Smith wait to make his move? Until nightfall? With the summer twilight, that was likely to mean an extended vigil.
She didn’t know how many men Smith could command. Three of his rough henchmen were already accounted for. Radleigh was still on the loose, though.
She shivered and clutched her shotgun tighter.
Suddenly, there was a loud crack. Louisa twisted and peered around her concealing rock, to see one of the card-players jerk and fall backward, toppling his chair. The other player leaped up, grabbed his shotgun, and ducked out of the lantern light. She could see his outline as he dived for cover behind the table.
The shots came from the other side of the house, about three o’clock to where Louisa now waited. She didn’t return fire immediately, however. She waited until a dark-headed figure she recognized as Jardine slipped from the undergrowth.
Louisa didn’t know exactly where her target lay, but she knew the general direction. She sighted, fired, bit off a grunt of pain at the hard kick of the butt against her shoulder. She reloaded and fired again.
Jardine had made it to the house.
There was no answering shot. Perhaps whoever was out there was too surprised by the unseen opposition.
She listened, but all was still.
Then a crunch of boot on fallen leaves sounded behind her. She swung around, shotgun at the ready.
And there, in her sights, stood Radleigh.
JARDINE heard a shot and a startled cry behind him as the second guard fell.
What had happened to Louisa? The cross fire from her hiding place on the ridge had ceased. Was she having trouble reloading? He hoped to God that’s all it was. A string of oaths ripped from his lips.
The front of the house was entirely exposed. Jardine flattened himself on the ground to present and slithered to wrest the rifle from the fallen guard. It was loaded. That was something.
Sweetest Little Sin Page 23
