by Dare, Tessa
He nodded his understanding.
Good, good. Let it be so.
He couldn’t go anywhere in this condition. And she would save him the unpleasant task of doing it himself.
He clasped his angel’s hand tight as the men carried him into another room. He found himself settled on a long, upholstered bench close to a fire. The sudden flare of warmth made him shiver harder.
He knew he ought to be planning. His mind should never be idle in such a situation. At the very least, he should be scanning the room for potential weapons and his fastest route of escape.
But he was too cold. Too gripped by pain. Too lost in the blue of her eyes. Too enslaved by the tenderness of her fingertips. This hour of his life must be lived in small increments. One tiny action after another.
His heart gave a soft thump in his chest.
His lungs drew a painful breath.
He gripped her pale, soft hand as if it were his only hold on consciousness. Perhaps it was. Enough pride remained to him that he did not want to faint in front of a pretty girl.
A blanket draped his body. Heavy. Warm. Hands turned him onto to his side. Somewhere beneath the upholstery, an unyielding spar of wood dug against his ribs.
Something sharp gouged his scalp. He winced and swore.
The flame-haired woman spoke words in English as she unstoppered a small glass vial. His heart rate quickened. He suspected he would not enjoy the contents of that vial.
He was right.
She turned his head. Liquid fire poured over his raw, open wound, and pain ripped through his pounding skull. The edges of his vision went black.
They meant to torture him, perhaps. But he would not break.
“Corentin Morvan eo ma anv,” he growled, beginning the standard litany. My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand. I know nothing. Nothing. I swear on the Virgin this is true. Pain wrenched the words from his throat and pushed them through the sieve of his clenched teeth.
When he’d mastered his breath, he looked up at his angel in green silk. Worry drew fine lines across her brow. Her blue eyes were wells of concern.
But still she touched him, so softly. So gently.
A true mercy, after all he’d done.
A needle tugged through his scalp. This time, he took no note of the pain. There would be time enough later for the pain. He concentrated on her sweet caress instead.
Leaning close, she whispered something in his ear. He could not respond, but he could enjoy the orange blossom fragrance of her hair. There was lace edging her dress. He counted its scallops and points, treasuring each one.
God, how he longed to touch her. She was so close, so lovely. It had been so long. He wanted to reach out and skim his chilled, callused fingertip over that lacy border and the creamy perfection of her collarbone.
A dozen armed soldiers hovered about, ready to gut him in moments, should he dare. Even so, the idea tempted. One stolen caress might have been worth his life.
But there were other lives at stake. Lives more important and worthy than the life of Corentin Morvan, a humble farmhand. So he closed his eyes and pushed temptation away.
When the stitching was finished, the flame-haired woman put away her vials and implements. She spoke with the officer. Plans were being made. Men were being dispatched.
The girl in emerald silk nodded as someone handed her a pair of gloves. Fine gloves of soft leather, lined with fur. Gloves meant for wearing in the cold.
Which meant she was leaving. They would part him from his angel.
No.
Mustering what remained of his strength, he threw an arm about her waist and flung his head in her lap. She startled and froze, but she did not recoil. Cool silk teased against his cheek, and beneath it he felt the warmth of her skin.
“Only her,” he muttered in Breton. “No one but her. She alone understands. You cannot take her from me.”
And then he made a true ass of himself.
He fainted dead away.
“He’s collapsed,” Susanna said. “From the pain, most likely.”
Violet gulped, staring at the man so indecently sprawled face-down in her lap. She could view the stitches Susanna had used to mend his injury. They were neat work, but the wound was ugly. A ragged, red gash carved through his dark brown hair.
Lord Rycliff moved toward her. “I’ll get him off you.”
“It’s all right.” Violet laid a tentative touch across the man’s broad shoulders. “He’s wounded and confused. It’s only natural that he’d cling to the one person who understands him a little.”
“Whether you understand him or not…” Rycliff shook his head. “I don’t trust him.”
I’m not sure I do either, Violet thought. But she wasn’t prepared to abandon him. Not until she learned more.
“Do you mind him being in here, Papa?” Susanna asked her father. They’d all migrated to the library of Sir Lewis Finch. It had been the nearest room to the great hall with a fire in the hearth.
“Not at all, not at all,” Sir Lewis answered. “You know I collect curiosities of all sorts. But we might send in some footmen with a tarpaulin.” He cocked his head and surveyed the growing puddle beneath the dripping man.
“And dry clothing,” Susanna added. “He ought to fit something of Bram’s.”
Just then, Rufus Bright and Aaron Dawes entered the room, breathing hard with exertion. When the stranger had disrupted the ball, Lord Rycliff had dispatched some militiamen to assess the situation in the cove.
“Did you see anything?” Rycliff asked.
“No ships,” Rufus answered, huffing for breath. “And all’s clear at the castle.”
“But when we took the path down to the cove, we found the remnants of a small boat,” Dawes added. “Wrecked and washed ashore.”
“This is bollocks.” To the side of the room, Finn Bright spoke up. “Can’t believe you lot went down to the cove without me.”
“Of course we did,” his twin said, unapologetic. “We had to run.”
Finn didn’t argue. He just punched the floor with his crutch.
Violet hurt for the youth. Everyone did. Finn was fifteen years old, full of energy and cleverness. And since an accident a few months ago, the lad was missing a foot. For the most part, Finn masked his frustration with a brave face and his characteristic good humor. But the fact that he had an able-bodied twin in Rufus—an exact copy of himself who could still run, march, climb, and dance with ease—had to make it more difficult.
“A boat, you say?” Susanna peered at the man in Violet’s lap, dabbing his scraped temple with a moistened cloth. “Perhaps he’s a fisherman who drifted off course and met with an accident.”
Rycliff was clearly skeptical. “A fisherman from Brittany, blown all the way off course to Sussex and washed up in our cove.” He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Susanna said. “But I’ll admit, it seems rather unlikely.”
“He’s a smuggler, I’ll warrant.” This declaration came from Finn. “Separated from his mates when the Excise come calling. My father consorted with enough of the rogues. I should know.”
“A smuggler. Now that I’d believe,” Rycliff said. “Good thinking, Finn.”
“Glad I’m still good for something.” Finn crutched his way over from the corner. He gave the intruder an assessing look. “Take care with him, my lady. You’d wake tomorrow to find him gone, and all Summerfield’s silver with him.”
Rycliff said, “I’ll send for a magistrate in the morning. But in the meantime, we can’t rule out other possibilities.”
“What other possibilities?” Violet asked.
“He’s from France,” Rycliff explained, as if it should be obvious. “He could be a soldier or a spy, scouting possible invasion sites.” He lowered his voice. “He could be listening to us right now.”
Was he listening? Violet looked down at the man in her lap, wondering if he truly were insensible. To test, she gave his earlobe a
surreptitious pinch.
No reaction.
Well, that was reassuring.
Or was it suspicious?
Violet couldn’t honestly say. She’d never pinched an unconscious man’s earlobe, and she had no idea what reaction to expect. Neither did she know the expected reaction of a man who was merely pretending to be unconscious. And if he were any good at pretending, he would do the exact opposite of the expected reaction. Whatever that was.
Lord, she was a ninny. An earlobe-pinching ninny. So much for her deductive powers on that score.
“Bram, you’re overreacting.” Susanna shook her head. “Napoleon’s certainly not invading here, if even one rowboat cannot land without splintering on our rocks.”
“Nevertheless, we must be prepared.” Lord Rycliff turned to Rufus Bright and Aaron Dawes. “The two of you will escort the ladies back to the rooming house. Then you’ll patrol the village the rest of the night.”
Once the two left, Rycliff addressed the remaining militiamen. “The rest of us will march to the castle. There’s a reason the Normans set the heap up on those cliffs. They’re the best place to be in case of attack.”
“I’m going with you,” Finn said.
Rycliff put a hand to the lad’s shoulder. “Not so fast. You’re staying here.”
“Staying here?” Finn’s voice was edged with frustration. “I’m a militia volunteer. You can’t just leave me behind, my lord.”
“I’m assigning you to Summerfield. Fosbury will stay too. Next to Dawes, he’s biggest, and a tavern-keeper’s handy with unconscious men. This is an important duty, Finn. The two of you must guard the captive and—”
“The captive?” Susanna laughed a little. “You make this all sound so melodramatic. Don’t you mean the patient?”
Her husband gave her a dark look.
Susanna threw up her hands. “Far be it from me to ruin your excitement.”
“As I was saying, Finn. You’re to guard the captive and protect Miss Winterbottom.”
“Protect me?” Violet asked. “I’m to stay too?”
Lord Rycliff turned to her. “I must ask it of you. Chances are, he’ll wake. We’ll need someone here who can talk to him. Try to ascertain who he is, where he came from.”
“But how am I to—”
“Be creative.” He cast a glance at the man slumped across her lap. “He likes you. Use that.”
“Use that?” she asked. “What can you mean?”
“Surely you’re not suggesting Violet employ some sort of feminine wiles to earn his trust,” Susanna said.
Rycliff shrugged. A clear admission that yes, that was exactly his suggestion.
Everyone in the room turned to Violet. And stared. She could easily imagine the thoughts running through their minds. Could Violet Winterbottom possibly possess a single feminine wile to employ?
Even if she did possess wiles, she wouldn’t know how to use them. Her best stab at interrogation technique involved earlobe pinching, and look at how that had turned out.
“I’ll sit up with you, Violet,” Susanna said.
“No, you won’t,” Rycliff told his wife. “This day’s been too much exertion already, what with the ball and this excitement. You need to rest.”
“But Bram…”
“But nothing. I’m not risking your health, much less…” The look on his face was stern but loving, and the protective touch he laid to his wife’s belly made his argument perfectly clear. Susanna needed to rest because…
“She’s with child,” Violet whispered to herself.
As the couple shared a tender, knowing look, Violet swelled with happiness for her friend. She felt a touch of envy too. Susanna and Lord Rycliff had, in her observation, the ideal marriage. They understood one another, completely and implicitly. They disagreed and argued openly, demanded a great deal of each other and themselves, and they loved one another through it all. They were partners. Not just in love, but in life.
Violet’s chances of finding that deep affinity looked slimmer than onionskin. There was only one man she’d ever dreamed could know her so well, and respect her as his equal. But she’d been so wrong about him. And ever since The Disappointment, she hadn’t—
The man in her lap stirred, mumbling and latching one arm about her waist.
Violet froze, stunned immobile by the wash of long-forgotten sensations. The sensation of being touched. Of being needed.
Don’t be made a fool again.
“Well, Violet?” Susanna looked at her expectantly.
She shook herself. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Will you feel safe with him?” Susanna indicated the sleeping man in her lap.
Beware, her heart pounded. Beware, beware.
She nodded. “I have Finn and Mr. Fosbury to sit up with me. And the whole house of servants, should we need them.”
And that was how Miss Violet Winterbottom, habitual wallflower, found herself in Sir Lewis Finch’s Egyptian-themed library, keeping vigil with a hobbled youth, a tavern keeper, and an unconscious man who just might be a spy.
A pair of footmen entered, bringing fresh blankets and dry garments. While they tended to the unconscious man, Violet busied herself studying the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Sir Lewis Finch was a celebrated inventor of weaponry and a noted collector of antiquities. His library held all sorts of treasures.
In the end, she selected an illustrated compendium, Birds of England—for she reasoned that she wouldn’t be able to actually read. If she was to sit beside the mysterious, handsome intruder all night, her concentration was bound to be compromised.
Hopefully, it would be the only thing compromised.
By the time the footmen left, the great house had gone quiet. Finn paced back and forth before the window, half-patrolling, half-pouting. Fosbury deposited himself in an armchair near the fire and set about paring his fingernails.
Violet took the chair nearest the sleeping stranger and placed her book on a reading stand. But instead of looking at it, she stared at him. His face had been wiped clean of grime and blood. At last, she could take a good, long look at the man and put her absurd suspicions to rest.
The linen shirt the footmen had given him draped crisply over his shoulders. The collar gaped, revealing his upper chest. She couldn’t help but look. He was tanned and muscled there, as she supposed all farmhands must be. Violet had touched a man’s bare chest, once. But that had been a lean, aristocratic torso—not nearly so rugged and…firm.
Pity about the nose, Sally had opined earlier.
Pity indeed. The man’s nose had clearly been broken, at least once. It had a rugged line to it, almost like a lightning bolt. A significant portion of his left temple and cheek were abraded and red.
Violet could not say that the scrapes and broken nose made him less handsome—and even if they did make him a fraction less handsome, they made him ten times more virile and attractive. What was it about a visible, flesh-and-bone record of violence that made a man so alluring? She couldn’t explain it, but she felt it.
Oh, she felt it.
She swallowed hard. No man had stirred her interest for quite some time. In fact, there was only one man who’d ever made her feel like this—and that man was half a world away.
Or was he?
Violet’s pulse drummed. She dragged her gaze over every strand of his thick, dark hair and every facet of his exquisitely cut cheekbones. She recalled the warm, spice-brown hue of his eyes and the instant affinity she’d felt when they’d locked gazes in the ballroom.
If she looked beyond the injuries and dark scruff of his unshaven jaw, imagined him dressed in finely tailored wool rather than coarse homespun… Dear Lord, the resemblance would be uncanny.
It’s him, her heart whispered.
But what did her heart know? It was a stupid thing, easily fooled.
Violet shook herself. She was imagining things, that was all. Yes, the two men shared dark hair, brown eyes, and fine cheekbones. But the similarities
ended there. The differences were legion. One was Breton; the other, English. One was muscled and built for labor; the other, aristocratic and lean. One was sprawled unconscious on this divan, and the other was gallivanting about the West Indies, sparing nary a thought for her.
This man was not The Disappointment.
He was a mystery. And Violet had one night to solve him.
She cocked her head. Was that a scar, just under his jaw? Blade-thin and straight. As if someone had pressed a knife to his throat.
With a glance toward Finn and Fosbury, she moved her chair closer to the divan. Then she leaned in, angling her head for a better look.
“Where did you come from?” she whispered, mostly to herself. “What are you wanting here?”
One hand shot out, catching her by the hair. Violet gasped at the sharp yank on a thousand nerve endings.
His eyes flew open, clear and intense. She read his answer in them.
You. I’m wanting you.
Chapter Three
They flew at him in moments, the two guards. Shouting, tugging. Almost before he understood what was happening.
He was horizontal. He was half-dressed. Her sweet face hovered above him, and he had one hand firmly tangled in the golden silk of her hair. If not for the pair of red-coated dullards raging at him, this could have been just another dream.
Let her go, they gestured.
Let her go, he told himself.
And yet, somehow he couldn’t. His fingers wouldn’t obey. They were heeding instinct, not reason. And his body’s every instinct was to hold her fast and tight.
“Tranquillez-vous,” she pleaded. “Calmez-vous.”
Be still? Be calm? God above, he could not be calm. Not with her voice flowing over him like raw honey, her orange-blossom scent everywhere. His heart raced beneath the borrowed shirt he’d been given. Some few feet lower, his cock stirred under the woolen blanket.
Well. Good to know the thing hadn’t frozen off.
God’s truth, man. You are an undeserving beast.
Let her go.
At last, his fingers went slack in her hair.
In a heartbeat, she’d jumped back. Then the two redcoats jumped on him. They dealt him a few blows—nothing he didn’t deserve. When they wrestled him to the floor, he made only feeble resistance. If he fought them, he would have to leave them dead, and he didn’t want to do that.
