The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Francis darted an anxious glance around her. The dining room of the Horse and Hounds was filled with rough-looking men who had crowded in with her to take refuge from the storm. She cupped a hand over her ring, screening it from view. Her survival depended on delivering it to Bath tomorrow.

  Her skin prickled. The man leaning beside her at the counter of the tap seemed to be looking at her hand. He had a bold, well-proportioned face with a strong chin. A tight silk vest clung to his massive chest. His fair hair was clipped short and he was a full head taller than the other men in the room. If she was not mistaken, he had been eyeing the Panchamaabhuta. Francis gave him a reproving look, and their eyes met and held. A spark flashed between them. Francis felt a tingling sensation travel down to her belly. She found it difficult to look away from the curious, light green eyes that gleamed in his dark face. His buckskins were still slightly damp, and he carried an earthy scent of animal skin and sandalwood. Francis realized that her hands were trembling. Under the influence of his brazen stare, her skin prickled first hot, then cold. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to will the disturbing sensations away.

  “Well, then.” The innkeeper appeared at her elbow. “You look as if you took a right beating in the storm.”

  Francis shrugged, scattering droplets of water across the counter. The traveller beside her chuckled, and she supposed she looked a fright. Her soaked hair clung to her forehead and little rivulets of water were trickling down her neck.

  The innkeeper waved to a table in the corner of the room that was being cleared. “Can I get you a proper seat? Nothing like a meat pie and a hot tureen of soup to warm you!”

  Francis’ stomach churned at his words. She looked longingly at her fellow traveller, who was attacking a plate of country ham. His jade eyes glinted with enjoyment as he chewed and swallowed. Francis swallowed too. Her last hot meal had been two days ago. She felt a little faint at the sight of those translucent slices of ham, slathered with mustard.

  “Just hot coffee with cream, please.” Skipping meals had become a habit with her. Francis had lost at least a stone since her husband’s death. She had stopped eating out of grief, and then it had become a necessity. The angles of her wrists now jutted out from her slender hands. Her bosom, which once had been very fine, now seemed to be the only plump part of her. Robert had loved her bosom. It warmed Francis to recall his sigh of contentment when he buried his face between her breasts. She absently ran her fingers over her soft flesh, remembering.

  A chuckle sounded in her ears. Francis looked up, startled. Her neighbour’s stare, like a pinprick, had invaded her reverie. The tanned rogue winked, ogling her bosom. She flushed and moved her hand away from her breast, realizing he must have thought her unconscious gesture was a sexual invitation. She looked around the throng of gentlemen, uncomfortably aware that she was the only woman present in the public room. Her stagecoach had broken a wheel in a muddy rut and Francis and her fellow passengers had walked an hour through the rain to take refuge in the Horse and Hounds. The coach would not leave until early in the morning. The price of the inn’s modest room would eat up most of what was left of her meagre resources.

  Francis slumped against the counter, feeling a heaviness settle in her limbs. Her breathing turned shallow, and her vision blurred. The voices of the men at the tap dimmed in her ears and she curled into the shell of her own thoughts, blotting out her surroundings. This journey to Bath was just one stop along an endless journey that moved her body from one place to another, while her mind remained rooted in Brussels. Robert had fallen on the battlefield of Waterloo two years before, bayoneted by a French soldier. Francis dwelled in Brussels still, repeating her husband’s parting words in her mind until they had become a daily prayer. The bitter loss at Waterloo had left her with an eerie feeling of detachment towards the scenes that played themselves out around her. Perhaps that was why she had been unable to hold on to any kind of steady employment. She had hired herself out as a governess for the children of one of the colonels in her husband’s regiment, but he had let her go after less than six months. Try as she might, Francis could not like the Burroughs’ pampered girls, who threw tantrums every time she tried to enforce some discipline on them. She had watched their squalling with a cold feeling as if she saw them through a pane of glass. It was as if she were merely marking time, waiting to follow Robert to the other side.

  Something brushed her leg, sending a jolt through her. Francis gave a little gasp and jerked her head up. The tanned stranger flashed her a wicked grin, and she realized he had momentarily pressed his muscular thigh against her leg. She glared at him, but then found it difficult to withdraw her gaze. Those brilliant green eyes ensnared her. There was fire in their translucent depths and she stood, as if hypnotized. A surge of energy crackled between them and Francis swayed on her feet, clutching the counter for support. The spell broken, she turned her eyes to his plate of ham, now half empty and furrowed with mustard.

  The gentle pressure of fingers on her hand made her jump. He held a fork out to her. “The name’s Jared White.” He nodded at his plate. “I have more than enough food here for two. Go on, help yourself.”

  Francis looked from the pink slices of ham, drowning in grease, back to Mr White. The gnawing pain in her stomach almost tempted her to accept his offer. But she mistrusted the rakish gleam in his eyes. Perhaps offering to share his meal was a ploy so he could take advantage of her.

  “No, thank you.”

  Mr White frowned, but the innkeeper reappeared, saving Francis from further embarrassment. The innkeeper was a stout man with a balding pate who looked to be respectable, in spite of the shabby state of his hostelry. “Your room is ready, Mrs Taylor. If you’d like to go up and get dry, I’ll bring the coffee up to you.”

  Francis smiled with real gratitude. The kindly man seemed to understand how vulnerable she felt in this public room, surrounded by strangers.

  She turned to follow the innkeeper, but Mr White touched her arm. “You are sure you won’t join me? At least take your coffee here.”

  “No, thank you.” Francis’ arm was not entirely steady when she pulled it away.

  “Then I wish you pleasant dreams.” Something about the sly way Mr White murmured those words put Francis to the blush. She could feel his intent gaze on her as she jostled her way out of the crowded room.

  The innkeeper wheezed as he led Francis up the stairs towards a small room at the end of the hall. Inside was a timbered chamber with a low roof that looked as if it had not been dusted for a long time. Cobwebs encrusted the mirror and windows. Two narrow iron beds, a washstand and a wicker chair were the only furniture. The window fronted a wood-planked balcony that seemed to extend along the backside of the inn. Francis gave a little moan of delight at the sight of the crackling fire in the grate. She ran to the hearth and stretched out her hands.

  “I’ve given you as many blankets as I could spare.”

  Francis hardly heard the innkeeper, for she had closed her eyes to soak in the blessed warmth. He must have gone, for a few moments later, she heard a knock at the door, and the portly man handed her a tot of hot coffee.

  “I am indebted to you,” Francis said, curling her fingers around the hot metal cup.

  He gave her a harried look. “I have to be getting back. A new group’s just come in. I don’t know where I will lodge them all!” Throwing up his hands, he rushed from the room.

  Francis drank the coffee down in a few scalding gulps. She stripped off her dripping wet clothes and draped them over the mantelpiece to dry. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. Her bright blue eyes looked unnaturally large in her pointed face, and the golden curls of her braid were tangled into a bird’s nest. Her firm mouth drooped with fatigue. Wrapping herself in a woollen blanket, Francis sank into the wicker chair that stood next to the fire. For the first time in almost a day, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. Perhaps she would be all right after all.

  She looked down at t
he Panchamaabhuta gleaming in the light of the flames. The refraction of the light created a star-shaped pattern in the ruby’s crimson depths. It was a man’s ring, and it looked enormous on Francis’ slender finger. Her husband’s good-luck charm had seen her home from Brussels. It was the only thing of value that Robert had left her, and now perhaps it would give her a new start. Francis took up her reticule and dug around inside it. Shivering, she extracted the announcement she had cut out of The Times. “Seeking the Pancha-Maabjoota. Will buy it at any price.” A description of the star ruby from Madagascar and its gold setting followed. Francis examined the gem on her finger. Robert had called his ring by that name, and a jeweller had assured her that it was a genuine star ruby. Even its golden setting matched the description in the paper. Francis frowned at the announcement. Who knew how many Indian rubies were to be found in England? But the gentleman in the advertisement, one Mr Davis, had said the ring had once belonged to his family and had been lost at Oxford. Francis thought Robert had said he had won it in college at a game of faro. Her intuition told her that her good-luck charm was the one. According to Hindu superstitions, the Panchamaabhuta could be counted on to protect its wearer from harm. Francis was determined to believe that her talisman had drawn Mr Davis to her when she had exhausted every other avenue of support.

  When the fire had dimmed to a dull glow, Francis climbed, shivering, into bed. But she was too cold to sleep. She lay in the darkness, wondering what she would do if the announcement in The Times turned out to be a prank. One trouble after another had followed since Robert’s death. Without him, Francis felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the centre of her life, leaving it as dark and oppressive as her unlit room. In the adventurous years she had spent following the drum, accompanying a ragtag army of men through Spain and France, Francis hadn’t minded lodging in flea-infested quarters and living on scraps. But then she had had Robert at her side. Without him, the dark English winter pressed in on her until she longed for her own release.

  “Please come for me,” she whispered into the darkness, running her fingers along the square-cut ruby.

  Francis dreamed she was trying to cross a frozen lake. She strained to move her legs, but they had frozen into blocks of ice. Her body was getting colder and colder. Soon the falling blizzard would cover her entirely. “Help!” she shouted, but the words came out in a pathetic whisper.

  There was a slight sound, and she felt warm breath on her face. Suddenly, she could move her limbs. She reached up and felt the silken texture of fine hair beneath her fingers. The teasing currents of his breath tickled her face. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  He didn’t move. She looked up, surprised, but the fire had almost died out, making it difficult for her to see Robert’s face. “I need you,” she said, her voice throaty with longing.

  He bent towards her, and she could hear his breathing quicken. When their lips met, she let out a moan of surprise. His mouth was warm, his lips surprisingly soft. She opened her mouth to him. The kiss was tender. The velvet tip of his tongue brushed hers. He traced her lips, and then plunged his tongue into her mouth. The intensity of his heated kisses sent a jolt straight to her core. Francis gasped and reached for him, pulling him down on top of her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, devouring her. She panted beneath him, lost in sensation. His heavy body pressed her down into the mattress, his weight solid and arousing. Francis massaged his firm buttocks, and he groaned. When he thrust against her, she felt a hard ridge press into her stomach. His mouth tasted deliciously of brandy. Arching up, Francis bit into his neck. He tasted of curry and sandalwood. Francis shivered, confused. His smell reminded her of something. She tried to speak, but his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking her through the thin muslin of her nightgown. Francis cried out in pleasure, sinking her nails into his back. “Oh, yes, please!” she cried, thrashing underneath this delicious assault.

  A door slammed, somewhere down the hall, bringing Francis fully awake. She stiffened, realizing with the suddenness of a lightning bolt that the man in her bed was not her husband. “Who? What . . . what are you doing?” she cried.

  The man jumped up from the bed and darted to the window. She heard a rasping sound, and realized that the intruder was escaping.

  “Stop!” Francis jumped out of bed, her mind reeling. The window closed with a rattle, and then she heard a slamming sound farther off. She dived for the candle and ran to light it in the dying embers of the fire. The flickering taper revealed the bare fingers of her right hand. The Panchamaabhuta was gone.

  Francis wailed, a low, keening note that seemed to rise up from the depths of her being. The deep, guttural lament went on and on. Iron bands squeezed her lungs. It wasn’t just her hope that had gone; the ring was all she had left of Robert. The finality of her loss struck Francis with full force. “No, no, no, no!” She pounded her fists against the mantelpiece. “Oh, God, Robert, Robert.” She crumpled over, racked with sobs. After some time, the blackness receded. Her stomach growled, forcing her back to the present. If she didn’t get the Panchamaabhuta back, she would starve.

  She lifted her head, thinking. What did she know about the man who had stolen her jewel? He had the same smell of buckskin and spices as the stranger from the public room. Mr White had been eyeing her ring, hadn’t he? Francis remembered his teasing look when he had wished her pleasant dreams. Suddenly the words took on a sinister meaning.

  Francis ground her teeth. Whoever he was, the thief had leaned over her bed because he was trying to steal her ruby. She was the one who had, inadvertently, offered him another prize. She remembered the intruder’s searing touch, and shivered. It had felt so right, being held in his arms, but he had only been taking advantage of her. She touched her swollen lips, remembering the hungry way Mr White had stared at her mouth when they stood together at the tap. He had pressed his thigh against her leg beneath the counter. It must have been him. The blackguard had misused her and robbed her into the bargain.

  Francis’ gaze flew to the window. He had escaped that way, and then she had heard a muffled thud. Her chamber was located in the back corner of the inn, and there was nothing but wood beams to her right. The sound had seemed to come from the chamber to her other side. Perhaps the thief had deliberately taken a room next to hers. There was only one way to find out.

  Stumbling in her haste, Francis pulled a thick woollen shawl over her nightgown and slipped on her kid half-boots. She strode to the window and pushed it upwards with a grating sound. Stealthily, she lowered herself on to the balcony on the other side. A board creaked beneath her feet. The wooden planks of the balcony seemed to connect all the rooms along the back of the inn. Moving on tiptoe, Francis crept slowly towards the next room. The window of the chamber was bare of curtains. She stood back, in the shadow of the wall, where she thought she could look through the pane of glass without being seen.

  Standing up on tiptoe, Francis craned her neck. The room was glowing with candlelight and a crackling fire. A tall man with clipped blond hair stood barefoot on the rug. Francis drew her breath in on a hiss. There was no mistaking his powerful build – Mr White had dwarfed the other men in the public room. She flattened herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. She was suddenly aware of how exposed she was, alone on the dark balcony with only a pane of glass separating her from a man who could very well be a dangerous criminal. He stood with his back turned. At first, she thought he was hugging himself. Then he lifted his arms, and pulled the white linen shirt over his head. The broad expanse of his bare back, rippling with muscles, was revealed. Francis bit her lip. Mr White was very well made. His golden-toned body tapered from powerful shoulders to a trim waist, and his tight buckskins were moulded to his firm buttocks. He bent forwards, tugging at his waistband, and Francis realized that he was unfastening his trousers. Embarrassed, she was about to retreat, when she saw a glint of red on his right hand. Was it the Panchamaabhuta?

  Francis squinted, but his hands were on his trousers, makin
g it difficult to see. Mr White was inching his buckskins down, revealing a tempting expanse of smooth golden skin. Francis held her breath when the round globes of his buttocks came into view. She felt a tingling sensation in her belly, and she pressed her cheek against the glass, trying to cool her heated face. Mr White had powerful thighs, furred over lightly with golden brown hair. His long, muscular legs revealed his prowess in sporting pursuits. When he turned towards her, she saw his pendulous sex swinging between his legs, cushioned in a nest of dark curls. Francis swallowed convulsively. Heavens, but he was a beautiful man. She felt little prickles along her skin as she looked at the broad expanse of his naked chest. He scratched his mat of golden-brown hair luxuriously, and Francis’ teeth clicked together. She had seen the glint of red on his right hand. She couldn’t mistake the golden setting of the ring. It was the Panchamaabhuta. Francis gave a fierce snort, and the sound seemed to catch his ears. Mr White looked up towards the window.

  Francis ducked down, huddling in the shadows. She waited in fear for some time, scolding herself for her carelessness. A vault of darkness and silence enclosed her. When the tumult of her beating heart slowed, she straightened up and looked through the window again. Mr White had walked over to his bed. The light in the room dimmed, as if the candles had been blown out, one after the other.

  Francis chewed her lip, twisting the ends of her shawl in her hands. Her fingers clenched around a tassel, and she tugged at it so hard that it broke off. The gloating look on Mr White’s face had incited her beyond bearing. Robert had left her the ring as his parting gift. She would rather die than let his precious keepsake end in the hands of a cutpurse.

  Francis waited, crouching in the shadows, until she thought she heard the sound of snoring. Her joints were stiff when she stood upright again. Moving out of the shadows, she peered into the darkened room. The fire was still blazing in the grate, and she saw Mr White lying, with his eyes closed, in his bed. She trembled at the thought of what she would have to do. She was going to break into the room of a strange gentleman, risking her reputation, even her safety, to steal back her jewel. But Mr White had left her no choice. Francis dug her nails into her palms. She wasn’t going to let the Panchamaabhuta go without a fight.