His brother snorted.
“If there is any blame to be placed,” Papa said, “it belongs squarely on your aunt for telling you about the matter in the first place. But she was so determined to make sure you married well—”
He broke off with a scowl, as if realizing to whom he was speaking. “Anyway, what’s done is done. No point in fretting over it now.”
Perhaps not, but it was because of her that they were on this hard journey. And it was hard. They took turns watching out the window for signs of Milosh while the others attempted to sleep. By morning they were a day’s journey from York, and while they broke their fast in an inn near a Romany camp, Tristan asked around about Milosh.
That set the pattern for the day. They would stop briefly to eat, and Tristan would head off to the nearest camp. Only once did he break the pattern. He returned more swiftly than in previous stops and ran into her coming out of the retiring room. Before she even knew what was happening, he’d whisked her back into it and swept her into his arms for a long, impassioned kiss, their first since being discovered together.
When they broke apart, he murmured, “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better.” She cupped his face in her hands. “But it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”
“I’m much better now, princess.” He grinned, his gaze raking her with a familiar heat that had her blushing.
Then they heard her father’s voice down the hall, speaking to the innkeeper, and their moment together was over. With a wink, Tristan slipped from the room. He must have evaded Papa, for when she emerged there was no sign of him, and her father and his brother were already returning to the carriage.
They reached York midafternoon. The last place they’d stopped, they’d missed Milosh by only a half an hour, so they hoped to catch up to him in York. While Tristan headed out to search encampments near the city, they had an early dinner.
This time when Tristan joined them, right before they finished eating, it was clear that the past two days had begun to take their toll. His skin had a grayish cast, and his eyes lacked their usual sparkle.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said as he took a seat at their table. “York is too big to cover quickly. Some of the Romany are in encampments, but most took houses in different parts of the city. We’d need days to find them all. I did locate an area the Corrie family was known to frequent, but he wasn’t there and the Romany who were there said they hadn’t seen him this winter. Either he hasn’t arrived yet, or he found somewhere else in the city to change horses.”
“Beyond here, he may have trouble doing that,” Papa pointed out. “The towns along the road from the city aren’t friendly to Gypsies, so he would have to keep his own horse and rest it more often. He’ll have to slow down.”
“Then we’re better off getting outside of York,” Tristan said. “There’s only the one road leading to the coast and Rathmoor Park. Once we’re on it, we’re sure to catch up to him. Your team will outstrip his horse easily. And if we reach the estate ahead of him, we can waylay him before he gets to Hucker.”
Unfortunately, they hadn’t gone far out of York when it began to snow. Before long the flakes were falling thick and fast, cloaking the rutted road and everything beyond it in white.
“We’d better take refuge, at least until the snow stops,” Dom said. “Milosh won’t be able to continue on horseback easily, either, so it’s not as if we’ll lose time.”
“He may actually be behind us, too,” Papa pointed out. “Depends on when he reached York and where he went. So halting might be a good idea. We’re only a few miles from Winborough now. We can stay there until morning.”
“We could all use a good night’s sleep,” Zoe said, with a furtive glance at Tristan. Truly, he looked as if someone had trampled him beneath a plow.
“I don’t like it,” Tristan said. “What if Milosh isn’t behind us? What if he presses on? If he reaches Hucker and George gets wind of it . . .”
“I’m the one with the most to lose,” Zoe said softly, “and I think we should stop.” When his gaze shot to her and he looked as if he might argue again, she added, “For Papa’s sake. He can’t keep going like this. And neither can I.”
She knew Tristan would never halt for his own sake, but perhaps he’d do it for someone else’s.
After glancing at her father, who looked quite the worse for wear, Tristan sighed. “Fine. But only until the snow stops.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Dom said, “while the rest of you sleep, I’ll keep watch on the main road in case Milosh passes by.”
“I should be the one to do that,” Tristan said.
“Absolutely not,” Zoe said. “Dom knows Milosh, too, and he can certainly recognize a lone Romany rider. You’re exhausted. You need sleep more than the rest of us. I daresay you haven’t slept an hour altogether in the past two days.”
“But—”
“If you don’t let Dom do it, I swear I’ll borrow one of Papa’s pistols and shoot you. At least then you’d get some rest.”
“Zoe Marie Keane!” Papa put in. “I can’t believe you would even think—”
“She’s merely paying tit for tat, sir,” Tristan drawled, “since I threatened to shoot her the first time we met.”
“Thrice, as I recall,” Zoe said primly. “Don’t make me do the same.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Very well.” His gaze fell tenderly upon her. “Dom can watch the road, and I’ll sleep. Happy now, princess?”
“Delirious.” She smoothed her skirts. “I’m always happy to get my way.”
Dom gave a bark of laughter. “Be careful, old chap. That one will lead you a merry dance.”
Tristan’s eyes gleamed at her. “Fortunately, I like nothing better than a merry dance.”
23
WINBOROUGH WASN’T WHAT Tristan had expected. He’d thought it would be much like Rathmoor Park, with a grand manor house and a few outbuildings and several tenant farms on the outskirts. He hadn’t expected to ride for what felt like miles past farm after farm, then a full dairy, a deer park, and a tannery before they even reached the drive.
Around them, the extensive gardens with their snowy gazebos and follies, their expertly shaped hedges and elegantly carved paths, looked like a fairyland that had sprung from out of the English earth, especially with the moon shining full upon them.
In the midst of the circular drive ahead, a massive fountain stood like a sentinel guarding a mystical portal. And the house that loomed through the haze of snow was easily three times the size of Rathmoor Park.
When they’d stopped for dinner in York, the earl had sent an outrider ahead to alert the household staff of their impending arrival. So the windows were lit and huge torches cast an eerie glow upon the massive edifice of yorkstone and glass, with gilded finials and crenellated towers.
In a flash, Tristan understood why Zoe had been so determined to preserve it. She hadn’t lied about the hundreds of people dependent on the estate. This was what she’d been fighting for—this sprawling network of farms . . . these beautiful gardens . . . this stately mansion. No wonder she’d been reluctant to let it fall to Keane, who knew nothing about managing a large estate.
Tristan’s heart began to pound. He was only marginally more capable of handling something this significant. The thought that she expected him to aid her in preserving it for their children and their children’s children struck him dumb with terror.
He felt her gaze on him, and her father’s. They were waiting for him to say something, but what could he possibly say that would be adequate?
“Nice place you have here,” he quipped. “A bit small for my tastes, but I suppose I could get used to it.”
To his relief, his lordship laughed. “It does get a bit crowded,” Lord Olivier said, “but we manage.”
Tristan glanced at the man, carefully avoiding Zoe’s gaze. “I can see how it would be difficult when you have only, what, fifty rooms to choos
e from? Seventy-five?”
“A hundred and three,” Zoe said in a small voice.
He looked at her at last, his heart sinking to see the anxiousness on her face. For once, he must refrain from cowering behind a wall of wit. This was her whole world. And the damned fool woman meant to share it with him, God help her. So the least he could do was be honest.
“It’s a lovely estate, sweetheart,” he said. “Exactly right for a princess like you. And obviously very well managed.”
She blinked. “Do you really think so? Papa and I work very hard at it.”
“It shows.”
Her smile blazed so bright that it tightened a fist about his heart. “Oh, but you simply must see it in full light in the autumn,” she exclaimed, “when the fields are heavy with grain, the sheep are fat and saucy, and the leaves are turning. It’s glorious.”
The thickness in his throat grew painful. “I’m sure it is.” Glorious . . . and too rich for his blood.
He scowled. Damn it, he had as much right to be here as any man. She’d chosen him, and he would make sure she didn’t regret it.
He still wasn’t sure why she’d chosen him, though. She hadn’t mentioned love; was it just because he’d compromised her?
That possibility had nagged him ever since they’d been found together, especially because they’d had no more than a few minutes alone. He didn’t want her to take him by default. Which was ludicrous. He ought to rejoice that an heiress wished to marry him. That he’d soon have a home, a place in the world.
Yet he couldn’t, until he knew why. As he’d told Keane, he wanted to be the only rogue in her life. But he didn’t want only to be the rogue in her life.
Having reached the entrance, they were greeted by a veritable regiment of servants. The male ones, especially, looked more like soldiers in livery than like actual servants. They behaved as if they were reporting to their commanding officer, and Lord Olivier certainly spoke to them in such a fashion.
Zoe leaned over to Tristan. “Papa hired most of our male staff from among the men who served under him during the war. He said it was a crime how soldiers were treated once they were no longer of any use.”
“It is,” Tristan agreed. But he’d never met an earl who cared.
And when Lord Olivier smoothly introduced him as Zoe’s fiancé, Tristan was forced to revise his opinion of his lordship even further. Especially when the servants accepted the pronouncement without a murmur, and Tristan was instantly accorded a respect he wasn’t used to from the servants of anyone but Max and Lisette.
Dom came inside only long enough to drink some brandy to warm him. Then, at his lordship’s insistence, he headed back out in the earl’s curricle, which could afford him some protection from the weather while he waited by the road.
Within moments, Tristan was shown to an elegantly appointed bedchamber with a roaring fire. A bath was swiftly provided, and he was more than happy to soak off the grime of the road. The warm water soon lulled him to sleep in the copper tub.
He awoke to the feel of cold water lapping against his chin. Shivering, he left the tub and dried off, then dressed in the spare set of clothes he’d packed for the trip. He wanted to be ready at a moment’s notice to deal with whatever arose.
A glance at the clock showed that they’d barely been at Winborough an hour. Since his little nap would hardly make up for the past two sleepless nights, he ought to sleep.
But how could he, with what was hanging over his head? What if they’d missed Milosh? What if the man was even now demanding answers of Hucker and jeopardizing Zoe’s future? Milosh might have the good sense to be discreet . . . or he might not.
Unable to keep still, he headed downstairs. Out of habit, he’d memorized the layout of the parts of the mansion he’d been through, and having done so stood him in good stead now. Within a few minutes he’d made his way to the impressive entrance hall.
There wasn’t even a footman around at this hour, nearly 1:00 A.M. He paused to assess his choices. Should he ride out to relieve Dom at his post? No point in them both losing sleep. But that would mean summoning a footman to call for a horse. Perhaps he should just head out to the stables, explain the situation, and gain a mount.
As he hesitated, he heard a curse from down the hall that sounded decidedly feminine. Curious, he followed the faint sounds of someone moving about until he happened upon an open door and a light showing through it.
He entered the room and instantly took in what appeared to be a very feminine drawing room, much like one Lisette had at the Lyons town house. There was a sewing table in one corner, a semicircle of richly upholstered chairs across from a long sofa, and—
Well, well, wasn’t that a fetching sight. In the corner partially blocked from sight by the open door, Zoe, dressed only in her night rail and wrapper, stood atop a chair. She’d dragged it up to a massive eight-foot-tall japanned piece of furniture that looked like a bureau with a cabinet on top.
The bureau stuck out a few inches farther than the cabinet, so Zoe had one knee on the bureau, one foot on the chair, and the upper doors of the cabinet open as she stretched up, apparently trying to reach a box in one of the larger pigeonholes on top.
Careful not to disturb her, Tristan closed the drawing room door and locked it, then simply stood there enjoying the sight of her with her hair tumbling to her waist and every curve of her lush buttocks molded in fine linen as she strained for the box.
Suppressing a chuckle, he came as near as he dared and said, “Need help with that, princess?”
With a little squeal, she whirled and teetered atop the chair. Laughing, he caught her by the waist to steady her.
She grabbed for his shoulder with one hand while she swatted his arm with the other. “You scared the tar out of me, Tristan Bonnaud!”
“Sorry,” he said, utterly unrepentant. “I was too mesmerized by your exceedingly fine arse to think straight.”
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Worried about me, princess?” He loved that she worried about him. Surely that meant she wanted him for more than just a bedfellow.
“Someone has to. You won’t worry about yourself.”
Her breasts were right before him, and he seized one in his mouth, tonguing the nipple through the linen.
With a heartfelt sigh, she dug her fingers into his shoulders. “We shouldn’t. You need to sleep . . .”
“Can’t,” he muttered.
“Me neither.” She buried her hands in his hair as he slid her night rail and wrapper slowly up her legs. “I . . . I . . . what are you doing?”
Taking his bride-to-be once again. Finding out how deeply her feelings ran. Assuring himself that she still wanted him, that two days in a carriage with him hadn’t given her second thoughts.
“I’m getting a good look at you.” Yes. That too.
Her calves gleamed golden in the firelight, rousing his cock.
“But . . . but someone might come in.”
“Unlikely. I locked the door.”
Her breath quickened as he slid the hem of her garments up past her knees, then her lovely thighs.
“It was locked last time . . .”
“Yes, but your father is undoubtedly passed out in his bedchamber tonight. And he expects us to be the same.”
At last he unveiled her pretty little triangle of reddish-brown curls, and his mouth went dry. “No drawers. Aren’t you the naughty girl?”
“There’s nothing wrong with not wearing drawers to bed,” she said primly.
“I wholeheartedly agree.” He shoved the bunched-up night rail and wrapper into her hand. “Hold this.”
A tiny frown formed between her eyebrows, though she did his bidding. “Why?”
He spread her curls open to expose the tender folds he yearned to taste. “Because, sweetheart, I want to make a meal of you.” He crouched to lick her delicate flesh.
“Oh! You want . . . to . . . to . . .”
“Yes.” He laved her
with his tongue, relishing the musky woman smell of her. And the way she shivered beneath his strokes.
“Tristan, you really shouldn’t . . .”
“Hush, sweetheart. Let me do what I do best.”
“That’s not . . .” she began.
But he was already sucking her swollen bud the way he knew most women enjoyed it. The way he hoped she would enjoy it.
“Ohhhh . . .” She clutched his head, anchoring him to her mons. “My darling . . . Tristan . . .”
The word darling reverberated in his brain. She’d never called him that. It sounded wonderful.
Desperate for her now, he set about making her desperate for him. He did have one advantage. She desired him. And he damned well meant to make the most of it.
He teased her with his tongue, reveling in her gasps, drinking in her scent, enjoying the way she began to shimmy and quiver beneath his intimate caresses. He loved the taste of her arousal; it drove him mad. He didn’t know how much longer he could—
She came, crying out her pleasure so sweetly that his cock hardened to iron. As her knees buckled, he swept her off the chair and onto the bureau’s projecting surface. Hastily opening his trousers and drawers, he parted her legs and leaned in, then hesitated there, giving her a chance to refuse him.
When she threw her arms about his neck, it was all the invitation he needed. Seconds later, he buried his aching cock inside her. Though she uttered a little cry of surprise, she tucked her feet behind his thighs to fit herself better to him.
He nearly came right then. She felt so good, so hot and welcoming. With any other woman, he would have pumped swift and hard until he spent himself. But he didn’t want that with Zoe, especially now. Last time they’d been together, she’d felt pain; this time he wanted her to have only pleasure.
“Tristan . . .” she breathed against his ear as he began to move inside her. “I missed you.”
“In your bed, you mean,” he ground out to hide his disappointment.
Despite the raging need of his cock, he kept his strokes slow and easy. He dragged the neck of her night rail down so he could fondle her breast, making her squirm.
How the Scoundrel Seduces Page 25
