Seductive Wager

by Leigh Greenwood

  “Leigh Greenwood continues to be a shining star of the genre!”

  —The Literary Times

  SWEET ANTICIPATION

  Kate put on her nightgown and sat down to brush her hair, but she had completed no more than half a dozen strokes when Brett entered the cabin quietly. She heard a click as he turned the key in the lock and her heart nearly stopped beating. Now there was no hope of escape. You’re a fool, she told herself. There never was.

  Brett came to stand behind her; without a word he took the brush from her hands and began to stroke her hair expertly. He’s probably brushed more hair than half the ladies’ maids in London, Kate thought. There’s no telling what this man has done.

  Kate started to tie up her hair, but Brett pulled it loose again. “I don’t want it in a knot. I want to be able to run my fingers through it,” he said softly.

  For one moment, she thought wildly of throwing herself on the captain’s mercy or leaping into the sea, but she couldn’t even get out of the cabin. She trembled inside. She could think of nothing to do, so she got up and walked over to the narrow bed. “Which side do you prefer?” she asked in what she hoped was a calm voice.

  “It doesn’t matter tonight,” he said with a smile that promised pleasures she could not even imagine …or resist….

  Other books by Leigh Greenwood:

  THE RELUCTANT BRIDE

  THE INDEPENDENT BRIDE

  COLORADO BRIDE

  REBEL ENCHANTRESS

  SCARLET SUNSET, SILVER NIGHTS

  THE CAPTAIN’S CARESS

  ARIZONA EMBRACE

  SWEET TEMPTATION

  WICKED WYOMING NIGHTS

  WYOMING WILDFIRE

  The Cowboys series:

  JAKE

  WARD

  BUCK

  DREW

  SEAN

  CHET

  MATT

  PETE

  LUKE

  THE MAVERICKS

  A TEXAN’S HONOR

  TEXAS TENDER

  TEXAS LOVING The Seven Brides series:

  ROSE

  FERN

  IRIS

  LAUREL

  DAISY

  VIOLET

  LILY

  The Night Riders series:

  TEXAS HOMECOMING

  TEXAS BRIDE

  BORN TO LOVE

  Seductive

  Wager

  Leigh Greenwood

  Copyright © 1990, 2011 Leigh Greenwood

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  ENGLAND

  Ryehill Castle, Hampshire

  March, 1830

  The large room lay shrouded in shadows except for two points of feeble light coming from near-guttered candles, their pale glow casting into relief the motionless figures seated at opposite ends of a massive oaken table strewn with scraps of paper and empty glasses. Black with age and use, the table so dominated the room it threatened to reduce its inhabitants to mere trappings.

  “I’m ruined,” Martin Vareyan declared with a sharp eruption of contained breath that fell into the silence of the room like drops of water into a hot fire. “You’ve won everything.” He stared with a fixed gaze at his antagonist, his blazing eyes a window to the turbulence raging within him; he longed to spring up and close his hands around Brett Westbrook’s throat, to crush the beautifully tied cravat until those masterful eyes were filled with fear, a sensation Brett had never experienced.

  “You shouldn’t have raised the stakes when the cards were against you,” Brett said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Shut up, dammit!” Martin shouted, unable to contain a spurting flame of wild anger. “I don’t need anybody to tell me how to play cards.”

  “I suppose your game tonight is proof?” Brett questioned, bald contempt in his nearly black eyes.

  Martin choked back an intemperate reply as his rapt gaze focused on a single scrap of paper, larger than all the rest, whereon was listed his house, his lands, his money, his entire inheritance! Now it belonged to Brett Westbrook. There was no question but that he had to get it back. What taxed his mind was how.

  Martin looked around at the other players, desperately seeking a way out, but they had come to the end of their luck long ago and were scattered about the room like pieces of discarded clothing. Edward Hunglesby slept upright in his chair without sound or motion; Peter Feathers, too drunk to know he was near suffocation, lay with his head hanging over the arm of his chair; Barnaby Rudge, sprawled half on and half off the sofa where he lay, snored with huge, gusty sobs that rasped Martin’s badly frayed nerves. A small water spaniel lying on a grimy rug underneath her owner’s chair shifted position then was quiet once more.

  Martin’s hooded gaze returned to his opponent for a long moment. Unmoved by the scrutiny, Brett leaned back in his chair and returned Martin’s stare with unflinching sang-froid; he had lost interest in this interminable game long ago, but his sable eyes were watchful and his mind alert.

  Martin swallowed convulsively several times, causing the muscles around his mouth to tighten. “No,” his hissed reply came at last. “Not tonight.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Brett returned in icy affirmation. His own temper had flared dangerously; he was a proud man who rarely suffered even his best friends to speak to him as Martin had just done. “What you needed was better cards and more luck. You were completely out of both.”

  “I suppose you’ll be willing to wait longer than the usual fortnight?” Martin temporized, trying to gain time, trying to think. “There’s a good deal more than can be done in two weeks.” He reached for the brandy, poured the remaining drops into his glass, and drained them off in a single gulp. He then looked around for more, but there was nothing left save empty bottles; he would have to summon Ned. His legs threatened to buckle under him as he rose to his feet, but by concentrating with savage intensity, he forced them to bear him across the room. Even three-parts drunk, his pride wouldn’t allow him to stagger in front of Brett.

  Martin gave the bell rope a sharp jerk. “That ought to raise the old miscreant from his slumbers,” he announced morosely, but Brett ignored his remark and Martin was forced to turn on Barnaby Rudge to vent his fury. “Lawyers take forever to do a thing and then make a mystery about it. Don’t know why I invited the bloodsucker,” he growled, giving Barnaby such a vicious kick he awoke, cursing and bellowing, with a startled howl.

  “Who in the bloody hell kicked me?”

  “I did,” Martin snarled. “You’ve been snoring all night.”

  “That’s no reason to kick a man in his sleep,” Barnaby groaned, still only half awake. “If you wanted me to stop, all you had to do was ask.”

  “Ask!” Martin snorted indignantly. “I might as well talk to this bitch spaniel,” he stormed, pointing to the dog still slumbering under his chair. “I never heard such a filthy racket. I don’t know how you can sleep through it.” He stomped back to his chair, forgetting to conceal the drunken lurch in his
stride, and sank down, cold rage threatening to destroy the last remnants of his restraint.

  He was losing control of the situation, and now Brett was smiling at him. Damn the supercilious bastard! He would be revenged on him if it took every cent he possessed, but first he had to think of some way to win back his fortune. If only his head didn’t feel like solid wood.

  “Gawd!” Peter Feathers groaned piteously as he raised his head and opened his bloodshot eyes. “How much brandy did I drink?” Putting his fingers to his temples, he shut his eyes with a grimace. “Never had such a head in my life. Your wine merchant must be cheating you, old man. Couldn’t be so burnt in the socket otherwise.”

  “Bloody hell,” Martin cursed. “Now well have the whole room up.”

  Feathers attempted to sit up, but that was beyond him, and he slumped forward on the table. He was very drunk, but he didn’t care; he had lost a great deal of money, but he didn’t care about that, either. All he could think of now was how to get more brandy. “The hair of the dog that bites you,” he muttered obscurely. He picked up the bottle Martin had just emptied, peered at it closely, then rolled it from side to side.

  “It’s empty,” he said in the voice of one making a surprising discovery. “Must get more. Tell your man to bustle about, Martin. Can’t have your guests going thirsty.”

  “You ought to have your head shoved under a pump,” Brett snapped, glowering coldly at Peter. He wasn’t in the habit of consorting with green boys, and he resented having to put up with a stripling who should have been in bed hours ago.

  It was a badly mismatched party. There was only one guest for whom Brett felt any liking, and that one had just opened his eyes. Edward Hunglesby didn’t move at first but allowed his gaze, clear and unclouded by sleep or alcoholic fumes, to slowly inventory the room and its occupants. Then, with a quintessential sigh of world-weariness, he sat up.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I don’t take myself off to bed rather than loll about in the middle of your game,” he said, directing his remarks to no one in particular. “Actually, I don’t know myself. My cards didn’t offer me sufficient reason. And as I remember it, if I must remember it,” he said, staring accusingly at Feathers’s vacuous face, “the conversation didn’t, either. Considering the service in this ill-run establishment has rendered my stay as close to a sojourn in purgatory as I ever hope to experience, I’m surprised I haven’t removed to the nearest inn, no matter how bucolic its proprietor.” These remarks caused Martin to swell with fury, but Edward felt so much better for having rid himself of some of his spleen, he actually smiled at his host.

  “Might I be allowed to ring for water?” he inquired with bland innocence. “I doubt this beverage has ever graced your table, either in a glass or a cleaning pail,” he said, eyeing the wine stains with disgust, “but when I drink bad brandy, I get a noble headache, and the only thing that seems to help is water.” He leaned back, closed his eyes to underline the exquisite nature of his agony, and prepared to wait for Martin to summon his servant.

  “I know how you feel,” Feathers informed him, full of sympathy for a fellow sufferer but aghast at such a notion. “I feel pretty grim myself, but you can’t mean to actually drink water. I promise you won’t like it. Have some more brandy. Or maybe you ought to try some beer.”

  Edward sat up very straight, opened his eyes, and fixed Feathers with a deadly gaze. “I do not know why you should think you know better than I what will best suit my constitution,” he said in a voice that had abashed more than one seasoned aristocrat, “but I can assure you that you do not!” Feathers blinked at the reproof. “I should feel much more hopeful of your being safely restored to the bosom of your family if you would forego the brandy decanter as well.”

  Making a heroic recovery, Peter smiled brightly at Edward. There’s no call for you to fall into a worry about me.”

  “I wasn’t aware that I had,” Edward replied, appalled at the thought of so uncharacteristic an action.

  “I’ll be in fine shape as soon as this head goes off a bit,” Peter continued. “Never considered anything like water, though. I’m surprised you keep the stuff about, Martin.”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Martin growled before turning to Edward with an ugly glare. “Ned’ll be here with some more brandy any minute now. You can tell him about your water then. If anybody wants anything different, speak up. I don’t keep a bunch of fancy servants to eat their heads off and fall over themselves with nothing to do,” he announced belligerently. “And I get what I want, when I want it, just the same.” The last remark was directed at Edward, but that gentleman had once more closed his eyes. It was beneath his dignity to bandy words with Martin.

  “Take a damper,” Peter intervened, dead to the heated emotions that swirled about him. “No sense in getting excited over something as silly as water.” Smothering a huge yawn, he stood up to stretch his long, lithe body; his eyes fell on Martin’s cards, and his interest was caught immediately. “What a rotten hand. You were getting some pretty good cards before I fell asleep.”

  Noticing neither Martin’s clenched teeth nor his hard eyes, Feathers leaned over to glance at Brett’s hand. “Scalped him again, did you?” he announced merrily. “Damn, you do have all the luck.”

  “You’re not playing, so sit down and be quiet,” Brett commanded with barely contained annoyance.

  “No need to get upset,” Peter said, as oblivious to the red glow in Martin’s eyes as he was impervious to insult. “Damned fool thing for Martin to do, betting on a hand like that, but it’s his money and he can do anything he likes with it.”

  Martin started up with murder in his eyes, but Edward forestalled him. “Unless my ears deceive me,” he said, cocking his head in the direction of the door, “that is the deathlike tread of the faithful Ned.” Martin sank back into his chair, his eyes still burning dangerously.

  “I have suffered much from you,” Edward said to Feathers with stinging contempt, “but the fatuous mumblings of a hairless stripling I will not endure with this vile brandy hammering in my head.”

  Feathers’s easy temper remained unimpaired for the simple reason he could not believe such a reprimand was meant for him.

  “What took you so long?” Martin demanded as an aging retainer entered the room. “I was hoping you were dead.”

  “I will be if I keep running up and down these halls,” his grizzled servant replied as he pushed the empty bottles aside and sat the brandy and glasses down in front of Martin. “The corridors to hell can’t be any colder than this old castle.” He dodged Martin’s halfhearted attempt to cuff him. “Would your honors be wanting anything else tonight?”

  “Mr. Hunglesby wants some water. And you needn’t stare at me like that,” Martin snapped in surly response to Ned’s gawking disbelief. “I’m not going to drink any.”

  “My desperation is undoubtedly a testament to the quality of your brandy,” Edward purred. The quiet voice coming so unexpectedly from behind him caused Ned to spin around too quickly, and he stumbled over Martin’s spaniel. She responded with a yelp and a snap at his ankle; Ned turned on her with curse and an upraised hand.

  “Touch that dog, and it’ll be your blood that’s spilt,” Martin warned.

  “That old bitch is gonna take a chunk out of me one of these days,” Ned protested.

  “She won’t get much for her pains.”

  “Loath as I am to interrupt this exchange of pleasantries, I must entreat you to fetch my water with all possible dispatch,” Edward murmured in dulcet tones. “This vile potion has so battered my sensibilities, each minute seems destined to be my last.” Ned’s incredulous look brought a thin smile to Edward’s lips. “You need not worry. I am not a lunatic, nor will you be required to summon aid to subdue me.”

  “It may take a little while,” Ned mumbled peevishly. “We don’t keep water inside at night.”

  “Then have done with your complaining and be gone,” Martin ordered.

  N
ed had almost reached the door when Martin called after him, his voice a little edgy and over loud. “Tell my sister I want her to come down as soon as she can get dressed.”

  Ned whirled around, too surprised to remember his rheumatism. “But she’s sound asleep,” he stammered. “She’s been in bed for hours.”

  “Then wake her,” Martin snarled. “I want her down in fifteen minutes, or I’ll come up and get her myself.”

  Ned had never been one to endanger his own hide for anybody else, but he made one last attempt to protect his mistress. “You know she won’t come down, not when you’re having company.”

  “Get her down here inside of fifteen minutes, or I’ll sic the dog on you,” Martin threatened.

  Martin knew Kate had refused to leave her bedchamber the moment Ned stuck his head in the door without entering the room.

  “Miss Kate says she’s not coming down in her robes or any other kind of dress,” he disclosed hurriedly. “She says you’re to send for your tavern trollops if you want female company.” Ned snapped the door shut just before an empty brandy bottle smashed against it, scattering dangerous shards of broken glass over the flagstone floor.

  Martin could see the corners of Brett’s mouth quiver, and his anger exploded like a volcano. This hated man had humiliated him at cards and stripped him of his possessions; now he was actually laughing at him. It was more than Martin’s fevered brain could bear, and he rose to his feet in an almost blinding red haze of fury.

  “You goddamn worthless son of a bitch!” he bellowed after his servant as he ran unsteadily toward the door. But Ned’s tottering form had already disappeared through the archway at the back of the great hall. “I’ll break every bone in your maggot-infested body if my sister’s not down in five minutes,” Martin shouted after the hollow echo of Ned’s retreating footsteps; then he stomped back into the room, snatched the brandy bottle from Feathers’s hands, raised it to his lips, threw back his head, and drank deeply from its contents.