Sebastian stared down into the sunken garden with eyes gone as dark as the night. “I’m here, love. What is it?”
Tricia’s skirt swept the flagstones as she pranced to him. Her hand curled around his forearm. “Can you come in, dear? The guests are growing bored.”
“Of course.” His lips brushed her temple, but his gaze passed beyond her to Prudence. “Anything for you.”
They walked back to the door, then paused there, bathed in a golden pool of light. Sebastian leaned forward with deliberate grace and planted a tender kiss on Tricia’s lips. Prudence’s hands tightened on the balustrade. As they started into the ballroom, Tricia looked back, acknowledging her niece’s presence on the terrace for the first time. Prudence wondered if it was triumph or suspicion sparkling in her aunt’s eyes.
She tucked the pistol in her sash and trailed after them, knowing she could ill afford to burst into sobs as she longed to do. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her mouth felt bruised and swollen. She prayed the signs of Sebastian’s passionate lovemaking were not as obvious to others as they felt to her.
She slipped through the crowd and out of the ballroom, her head pounding in earnest. The carved gilt doors closed behind her, dulling the music to a low pulse.
The steady throb in her skull sharpened to piercing pain as Jamie popped out from a curtained alcove, wielding his arrow like a demonic cherub. “Congratulations, girl. Well done indeed. I’d say ye got his attention.”
She kept walking. “I certainly did. He despises me.”
Jamie’s face fell, then he brightened. “Don’t take it to heart, lass. Me mum and da hated each other fer years. And look how dandy I turned out.” She continued on toward the stairs, and he called after her, “There’s a man outside in a fancy coach askin’ after the daughter of Livingston Walker. Might that be ye?”
Prudence stopped. Her shoulders slumped. Not now, she thought. Not tonight. Her pride was in tatters. She couldn’t bear to discuss silver compounds and saltpeter with some rabid inventor. At the moment, she didn’t care if they all blew themselves up, the mysterious French viscount along with them.
She turned back to Jamie and straightened her shoulders. “Tell him I’m not here. Tell him I emigrated to Pomerania. Tell him I died.”
Jamie scratched his head with the arrow. “Ye want me to make him go away?”
“Yes, Jamie,” she said with weary patience. “As far away as possible.”
She missed his gleeful grin as he notched the arrow in his bow and bounded out the door.
Prudence pulled off the mask as she climbed the stairs. She rubbed the scrap of silk against her cheek, hearing again Sebastian’s husky whisper of warning.
Don’t start the music, Prudence, unless you’re willing to dance.
The music from the ballroom floated up the steps, the haunting melody of a song begun too late. As Prudence crumpled the silk in her fist, her delicate features hardened into a mask of their own.
Sebastian stood in the darkness at the library window, listening to the muted spray of gravel as the last of the revelers’ coaches departed Lindentree. His nostrils twitched as he drank in the rich, fallow aroma of the meadow beyond the window. Like an animal scenting freedom, he longed to step through the open window, to escape the man he had been, the man he would become. But there was no escaping the man he was; Brendan Kerr’s blood coursed through his veins like poison. He closed his eyes against the mocking wink of the fireflies, feeling again the frantic tattoo of Prudence’s fists against his chest.
He had only meant to teach her a lesson, to show her he was no affable Arlo Tugbert to dally with. What would be the harm of a stolen kiss? What cost a few lazy caresses? But the cost had been higher than he had anticipated.
His eyes flew open. He dug his fingers into the window casement, remembering the warmth of her silly, wistful smile, the loving caress of her hands against his throat. The painful honesty of her love had unleashed a wild tide of desire in him, a spiraling agony of want that bordered on madness.
He had frightened her. When he had looked at her and found her pupils dilated with fear, her hands shoving him away, he had felt himself receding, curling into that quiet, still place where he had once gone to escape his father’s shattering bellow, and the repeated thud of fists against his mother’s flesh.
Let me go, Prudence had pleaded. Sebastian shook his head to rid it of the haunting echo.
His father had not let his mother go. He had not let her go when she shoved him away, not when she begged, and not when she screamed. It was only when she stepped up to the window of Dunkirk’s tower, her body thick with their second child, that Brendan Kerr had been forced to let her go. He had tried to hold on, had hurled himself across the tower, grabbing frantically for her skirts. But the child in her belly had given her courage. She’d spread her arms and stepped into the sun, disappearing forever into the heathered abyss below Dunkirk.
Sebastian could still see the peace on her face in that moment, as the sun slanted across her golden hair. He had hugged his knees in the corner of the tower, tears coursing down his cheeks, and hated his mother for flying to freedom and leaving him behind.
Sebastian groaned and ruffled his hair. He could ill afford to probe old wounds. He had more pressing concerns, such as why D’Artan had returned early from London.
He couldn’t believe the crafty old man had dared come to Lindentree. Now that he had learned of Sebastian’s plan to marry, they both knew their next rendezvous would be their last. D’Artan might sulk for a while, but Sebastian prayed his appointment to the House would absorb most of the blow. D’Artan would have his own pension, his own entrance into London society. He wouldn’t need his grandson anymore—not for money and not for secrets. He could work on liberating France and blowing up England all by himself.
Sebastian hoped their parting could be an amicable one. He suspected D’Artan was fond of him in his own stilted way.
Sebastian’s only concern now was Prudence. His jaw tightened as he remembered the predatory look on his grandfather’s face when he had seen her. The old man knew she was the girl in the crofter’s hut. Sebastian reminded himself that, in two days’ time, he would be powerful enough to protect her. As the penniless niece of a scatterbrained countess, she was vulnerable to D’Artan’s machinations. But when he was master of Lindentree, he would ensure a disappearance or untimely accident involving his niece would not go unnoticed by the King.
Sighing, Sebastian latched the window. The knowledge that he would be able to protect Prudence did not give him the peace he sought. He climbed the stairs with a heavy tread. Since he had come to Lindentree his sleep had been mercifully free of nightmares, but he feared tonight might be different. Pausing outside Prudence’s chamber, he touched the burnished oak door, as if he might somehow reach through the cool wood to the gentle warmth of her embrace.
Would he ever trust himself not to push open her door, lay his mouth across hers to muffle her protests, and bury himself in her tender, young body? His hand clenched into a fist and he hastened down the darkened corridor.
As he rounded the corner into the blessed privacy of the west wing, he saw that his door was cracked open. The soft glow from a single candle fluttered in the corridor. He cursed under his breath, in no mood to fend off Tricia’s cloying advances.
He pushed open the door, and his jaw dropped at the sight before him. It was not Tricia, but Prudence who sat in his chair.
She hefted the crystal decanter braced between her legs. “Good evening, Mr. Dreadful. Would you care for a spot of brandy?”
Fifteen
Sebastian could not have looked any more shocked had she blown a cloud of cigar smoke in his face, Prudence mused. Under other circumstances, she might have found it comical. As he continued to stare at her, she gripped the decanter. The crystal cut against the tender pads of her fingers. Sebastian started to close the door, then propped it open, then pushed it shut. He circled her as if she were a w
ild beast, deserving of his utmost caution.
Prudence bowed her head. She had brushed the sausage curls out of her hair, and it lay like a heavy cloak across her shoulders.
He pointed at the half-empty decanter. “Did you drink all of that?”
She gave an apologetic shrug. “I accidentally kicked it when I heard you coming. I’m afraid Old Fish will be displeased.”
He glanced at the darkening circle beside her chair with obvious relief. She lifted the decanter to her lips to take a nervous sip, but he plucked it from her hands.
“Must you be fortified with brandy to converse with me?”
“I didn’t come here to converse with you.”
He made an odd noise, as if his throat had suddenly gone dry.
She pointed to the garments folded neatly on his satin wood bureau. “I came to return your plaid.”
Sebastian turned his back on her, gulping a swig of brandy before setting the decanter on the mantel.
He addressed the andirons. “Did it ever occur to you what might happen should Tricia find you here?”
“She won’t.”
He swung around, gazing suspiciously at her. “How can you be sure?”
She blinked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “Tricia is in the habit of lacing her nightly toddy with laudanum. I took the liberty of adding a few extra drops.”
He threw back his head with a pained shout of laughter. “You’d make a fine lady bandit.”
“Better than you. I wouldn’t go getting shot and falling off my horse all the time. You should give serious consideration to another livelihood.”
“I have. The husband of a wealthy countess.”
She looked down and smoothed her night rail over her knees.
He sighed. “You sit there like the most innocent of angels and tell me you’ve poisoned your aunt. I’m afraid I can’t help you hide the body. Murder isn’t my forte.”
She gave him a wounded look. “Nor is it mine. You know I’d never hurt Tricia.” She glanced away, unable to meet his gaze. “Not deliberately anyway.”
He knelt in front of her, covering her hands with his. She clamped her knees together to keep them from trembling.
“Prudence, I want you to listen very carefully. I am not a nice man. I am a reprehensible criminal and a duplicitous scoundrel. I would sell my proverbial grandmother for a chance at a woman with a title. My uncharacteristic bursts of morality and self-control where you are concerned are liable to lapse at any moment with grave and lurid consequences.” He chucked her chin upward, favoring her with one of his most beautiful smiles. “Are you listening?”
She managed a weak nod and an answering smile.
“Very well.” He rose and flung open the door. It crashed into the opposite wall. “Then get the bloody hell out of my bedchamber!”
Prudence jumped a foot in the air. She stood, painfully aware of his gaze raking over her as she glided toward the door. She wore no wrapper. The soft flax of her night rail brushed like fairy wings against her skin. The modest garment shielded her from throat to wrist to ankle, but was helpless to stem the teasing invasion of candlelight and shadow.
She reached around Sebastian and closed the door.
The top of her head brushed his chin. She heard his quick, indrawn breath.
He strode away from her, loosening his cravat. His laughter was strained. “For a smart girl, you make some very odd choices. You come to an isolated corner of the house. You drug the only person within screaming distance. Did it ever occur to you that even if you choose to go, I might keep you here?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He spun on his heel, jerking off his coat. “Then you’re a fool. I wouldn’t be the first lecherous male relation to take advantage of a female dependent, not even among your high-handed gentry.”
She bent to pick up his cravat, and tenderly folded it. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“I’m not sure. But you’d best leave before I succeed.”
With a show of nonchalance, she resumed her position in the chair. Sebastian tore open the ties of his shirt. Like a lover’s seeking caress, the flickering candlelight found the gold scattered over the smooth muscles of his chest. Her mouth went dry, and she pushed her spectacles up on her nose.
He stared helplessly at her, as if he hoped she might have vanished. Dragging a hand through his hair, he freed the leonine mass from the satin queue. His expression was so wild, she half expected him to lapse into an unintelligible burr or leap upon her with a Highland battle cry. The latter might be a relief. At least she would know where she stood with him.
“All I’m trying to say, lass,” he said, his soft tone raising gooseflesh on her arms, “is that you don’t really know me.”
She met his gaze evenly. When she spoke, her voice was so dispassionate she might have been cataloguing a chemical formula rather than a life. “You fled the Highlands at the age of thirteen before Killian MacKay could boot you out of your father’s castle. The first thing you stole was a wheel of cheese because you were hungry.”
He sank down on the edge of the bed.
She continued. “You weren’t a much better bandit at that time than you are now. You were caught and thrown into jail to await your hanging. A relation of your mother’s found you, had you released, and took you to France. He picked off the lice and gave you your first real bath and a brief, but thorough, education.” She paused. “How am I doing?”
“Marvelous,” he said flatly. “Do go on.”
“You returned to Scotland a few years later, both older and wiser, and began your remarkable stint as the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick, spreading terror and mayhem along the Scottish border, plotting and dreaming of the day when you could return to the Highlands and avenge yourself on the dastardly MacKay.”
“Careful. You’re lapsing into melodrama.”
“Sorry. It’s a weakness of mine.”
“I’ve noticed. Along with charging rashly into situations you’re unprepared for.”
Prudence felt her composure slipping. “After the ball tonight, I felt I had nothing to lose.”
He slipped off the bed with catlike grace. She resisted the urge to turn as he circled her chair.
His elegant fingers cupped her chin from behind, and he tilted her head back. “You, my dear, have everything to lose.” His lips brushed hers in a brief, dry caress.
She shivered as he released her. Her scalp tingled and she realized with wonder that he was brushing her hair. He drew the bristles upward, lifting and separating the silky strands into a crackling cloud.
She inclined her head shyly, daring to luxuriate in the delicious sensation as he swept the brush along her hair. A decadent joy coursed through her at the innocent pleasure of being tended to. When she was a child, her papa had spent hours patiently working the tangles from her unruly hair. The same feeling of security touched her now, but it was tempered with the dangerous knowledge that between herself and this man, security was only a fragile illusion. Sebastian caught her hair at its crown and drew the brush back in a long, lingering stroke. A tiny moan of satisfaction escaped her throat, and she closed her eyes.
His silken burr caressed her, tempting her to drop all defenses. “So you know who I am. Shall I tell you who you are?”
She laughed nervously without opening her eyes. “No mystery there. I’ve no bandits or mysterious French relations lurking in the wings. I’m only Prudence Walker, spinster niece and poor relation of Tricia de Peyrelongue.”
He lifted the brush, exposing her delicate ear to the soothing heat of his breath. “You came to live with Tricia after your father died. She clucked sadly over what a plain, little thing you were and said you had too many brains to ever make a decent match.”
Prudence flinched. She would have pulled away, but his hand replaced the brush. She was caught by his possession of her hair.
His voice poured over her, soft but merciless. “In the years that followed, s
he paraded past you a steady stream of leering younger sons, pompous parsons, and elderly squires. With each dreaded foray into the parlor to meet your suitors, you became smarter”—he twisted his hand in her hair, binding it tightly away from her face—“and plainer.”
Tears pricked her eyes. How could he be so cruel? He freed her hair, and it fell around her face and shoulders. She was thankful for its sheltering weight as burning humiliation tinted her cheeks.
But Sebastian was ruthless. He walked around the chair and squatted in front of her. “What did Tricia tell you? Did she tell you your nose was too thin, your teeth too prominent?”
Prudence bit her lower lip and turned her face away from his avid scrutiny.
He cupped her cheeks in his palms and forced her head back. His thumbs curved around to trace the dark wings of her brows. “Did she murmur her sympathy over your heavy brows, your pale skin?”
“Stop it!” She could not bear for him to see her cry, and lifted her hands to break his grip.
He captured both of her wrists in one of his hands and took off her spectacles. She cringed away from him, blinking back tears.
“Aren’t you weary of hiding, Prudence? Behind these spectacles? Behind books? Behind Tricia? Hasn’t it been lonely all these years?”
She struggled to pull out of his grasp, helpless to stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks. “I wasn’t lonely. I had a happy life before you came along.”
“A happy life? Buried behind books. Living other people’s lives because you had no life of your own. A happy life? Without one breath of excitement to stir it?”
“Is that why you think I came here tonight? For excitement?” She finally broke his grip and bolted from the chair. She stood with her back to him, clinging to the bedpost for support.
He slowly straightened. “Why did you come here, Prudence?”
“Because I thought you cared for me.” She added softly, almost as an afterthought, “I would have left you alone. You didn’t have to remind me I was ugly.”
Heather and Velvet Page 16
