“My father married my mother under mistaken impressions. He thought she had a lot of money, would gain him entry into the ton. Oh, she had the bloodlines, ancient ones, and Chattam Lane Hall was impressive—if one didn’t look too closely. Mother was frail, a country lass. When she fell ill, Father grew distant. Drank a lot. Often, he would go away for long spells. She died when I was eleven. This spring, I presume he decided I might be of use on the marriage mart. My reputation shall be in tatters once word of the kidnapping becomes on dit. I shall have no value. So your ploy of using me to get something from him shan’t gain you anything.”
She looked down at the blanket, her finger tracing the lines of the tartan. Desdein’s heart tightened at the sight. Ashlyn seemed so lost, so alone. Legs weak, he leaned his shoulder against the door for support.
“If...if...” The long lashes lifted over fearful eyes. “I...I ask a boon. I know you owe me naught, and possibly resent me since I cannot aid your quest...if...when you kill me...” She stopped and went back to tracing the lines of the plaide. Finally on a heave of her chest, she continued. “Will you care for Cyril? If you will not do that, please...kill him when you kill me.”
Desdein wasn’t sure what to make of this strange woman. “You are going to sit there and let me kill you? Are you a coward?”
She tilted her chin up at the insult, swallowing hard. “I am no coward, Sir, but adept at facing facts. I have no weapon to fight you. You are stronger than I, faster, so I cannot outrun you. If you want me dead, there will be little I can do to stop you. I merely wish to make sure Cyril shan’t suffer. I would not like my last thought to be of him cold...hungry.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, tired, in need of a few hours sleep, but this gentle soul’s acceptance of her death troubled him. She was no coward. She’d fought him with amazing strength when she struggled to get the cat. She wasn’t stupid, but there was a childlike innocence within her the ton hadn’t spoiled yet. So why this acceptance of death?
“Why would,” he stopped stroking the cat and lifted her chin with his crooked index finger, “a lovely young woman such as yourself accept death? I saw spirit in you tonight. You fought to keep this worthless feline with you. I have no doubt if I said I was going to shoot him right now, you would likely claw my eyes out. Why fight for this bag of bones, but not for yourself?”
She shrugged, tried to smile but failed. “I am tired. My life has been such a struggle. Making do. No one there to care. Still, I was happy with Cyril. Then my father decided I could be turned into the proper lady a rich titled husband could want. Several nights a week his friends come. They drink and play cards until the wee hours of the morning. I sit with a gun in my lap, fearful of falling asleep. Several made crude suggestions so I knew what they would do if given the chance. Should you send me back, what would my life be like? Father will have no use for me. His friends will view me as prey. I am soiled goods now, even if you do not ravish me...Desdein de Fournier.”
“Desdein Deshaunt,” he corrected, dropping his hand. “De Fournier was grand-mère’s name. I lived with her in France after...my parents died.”
Ashlyn observed the violet eyes, enchanted by their power, as he put down Cyril and untied the mask. She’d never seen the Mad Marquis up this close. “You are beautiful.”
There was a slightly mocking glint to his eyes, as a crooked half-smile curved the well-formed lips. Ashlyn blinked, trying to fight the spell. Despite, she couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to be kissed by those lips. Silly wish, perhaps spurred by the Blue Moon.
“Beautiful? Women are beautiful. Men merely handsome.”
She shook her head. “You are beautiful.” She nearly jerked when she caught herself leaning into him, almost tasting that kiss.
The Mad Marquis would never want to kiss her. She turned away to hide the pain that surely showed upon her face. She was so tired of being alone, tired of living with disappointment and fear.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I am weary. Not much rest last night. May Cyril and I sleep before you kill us?”
“Oh, for Godsake, sleep. We shall talk about me committing murder on you two later.”
Ashlyn cuddled Cyril to her stomach and huddled under the blanket, shaking. She was scared, despite what she’d told him. No one accepted death, but she was limited in what she could do in life. Women didn’t have choices. A woman of her station, the best she could hope for was a good marriage. She had no control of her small inheritance, no money, no place to go. Now, the chance of an offer for a decent man was moot.
Her wants weren’t many—a safe, warm place for Cyril and her to live. In the odd moment, she secretly wished for a man to care about her. One to make her feel safe, even loved.
His weight shifted on the bed, causing her to jerk. Peeking over her shoulder, she saw he slid behind her. With a quick flick of the blanket, he scooted his body against hers. Her heart jumped, slamming with strong thuds against her ribs.
“What...what are you doing?”
He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “You, I and that pathetic excuse for a cat are napping until dawn.”
Ashlyn had never slept with anyone but Cyril. “With me?”
Desdein raised up on his elbow and glared. “Oh, that’s not proper, eh? Since I am going to ravish you and kill you, and other such horrendous things, what does it matter if we both close our eyes until light?” Yawning he laid back. “It is much easier to murder when there is light to see by.”
Ashlyn feared he laughed at her, but then the Mad Marquis had, more than once, looked down that aristocratic nose as if she’d crawled out from under a rock.
“I never said you would ravish me.” She swallowed the tightness in her throat.
“I know the Marquis de Fournier deems me unworthy enough to polish your jackboots.”
His brow furrowed in perplexity. “Since I am weary, mayhap this makes no sense to me. Only, it sounds like you are disappointed because you assume I shan’t ravish you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she huffed.
He chuckled. “You believe I will kill you—and that cat. Such deeds are in keeping with your expectations of me, yet you have no fear I would ravish you?”
Her chin quivered. She felt it. Tilting it up, she shrugged indifference, though she felt anything but that inside. His aloof dismissal of her as not worthy of the ton’s acceptance had hurt. Somehow, in that setting his disdain had been hard enough to swallow. However, this very approachable version of Desdein de Fournier—Deshaunt—left the rejection all the more piercing.
“I would never presume such self-value to think the Marquis de Fournier would ever lower himself to ravish one he obviously finds distaste with. So, yes, you might kill me, but no, I would expect only your disdain at the idea of anything else.”
He shifted so quickly it startled her. One moment he was quiet behind her, the next he was over her, pinning her to the bed with his hard body. Shocked, she started to ask what he was doing, when his mouth closed over hers. Then she knew! The Mad Marquis was kissing her!
So many things came at her all at once. His taste, the warmth of his lips. The heaviness of his body pressing down on hers. His heat seared through her, warming her to the tips of her toes. She tried to breathe, but that only filled her mind with hints of male sweat, leather and the soap he’d used, leaving her dizzy.
He lifted his head, watching her face. “You have never been kissed?”
Ashlyn faintly shook her head.
A strangled cry came from against her side. “Oh, Cyril. You crush him!”
He moved his leg so the cat could crawl out from under the blanket. “So sorry, Cyril.”
***
The cat staggered a few steps, then crumpled. Desdein leaned toward the feline, checking to see if he breathed. He said, in his most droll fashion, “I think he’s dead. If he croaked, I am chucking him out. I shall share my bed with a live cat, but I draw the line at sharing it with a dead one.
”
She sat up and cradled the limp creature to her breasts. Nice breasts, too, he noted; he rather envied the ruddy beast. “He just wore himself out. Poor dear tires easily days.”
He carefully lifted the tail, so limp he really questioned her assessment of Cyril’s ability to breathe. “Poor thing is about to stick his spoon in the wall.” Desdein was sorry he mentioned the stupid cat dying, for she clutched him all the tighter.
Rubbing her cheek to the furry head, she sneaked a tearful glance at him. “There is no need to be cruel. I know I shan’t have him for much longer.”
Desdein sighed, feeling like a knave. “How long has Cyril been your friend?”
“I was eight when I found him. It was deep winter and I kept hearing a kitten crying. At first it sounded like it came from within the wall. Then I figured out he was under the house. I went out and found him, hiding in a break in the foundation. Hungry, thirsty and scared to death. There were no other kittens about, no mum kitty, so I don’t know where he came from. You might say he was my Christmas present. Never had one before.”
“You were not allowed a cat before?”
Her grey eyes reflected sorrow. They held his with a power that seemed to reach into him, affect him, change him. With such love and tenderness, she rubbed her cheek against the cat. “No...never had a Christmas present before.”
Desdien’s head snapped back, shocked by her statement. “Why ever not?”
She swallowed, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Mother was sick, bedridden for most of my childhood. Some days she barely knew what day it was. Father was often in his cups or off in London gambling for weeks at a time. Christmas came and went. More important things to spend money upon. Food, medicines for Mother.”
So Cyril had been her friend for eighteen years. A pressure welled in his throat and the muscles tightened as he considered Ashlyn’s friend’s days were few. Who would be her companion then? “Let me fetch him something to eat. He is likely hungry.”
“I would appreciate it. It gets harder and harder to keep his weight up.”
He bit back commenting on Cyril’s numbered days and scooted off the bed, wishing he’d never kidnapped Ashlyn Findlater.
Wishing he’d done it years ago instead.
***
Ashlyn curled on her side, staring into the flames, as she stroked the cat. After a meal of milk, oatmeal—and whisky—he was quite content. The oatmeal had been Ashlyn’s suggestion since he needed to keep from getting any more decrepit than he already was.
As Desdein stood mixing it to a good consistency, he chuckled to himself. The Mad Marquis making gruel for a cat. The ton would have a hearty laugh if they ever learned about that. Then he noticed the bottle of Highland Whisky. Maybe the silly beast had aches and pains from being old, so he slipped a wee dram into it and didn’t mention it to Ashlyn. She seemed surprised Cyril cleaned his plate. The moggie rested on the bed, enjoying the pets, and actually looked content, eyes bright.
From across the room, Desdein sat in the chair, watching her, wishing she’d run those strong hands over his body. Heat crawled over his skin and licked at the base of his brain, then spiraled downward to his groin with a pulsing hunger he found hard to dismiss. In order to ignore the rising compulsion to stalk over and cover her, taking her with smooth and sure strokes, he sought distraction in provoking her.
“Have you a last wish?” His teeth gnashed at his foolish prodding for her eyes widened in alarm. He wasn’t really a cruel bastard, but it gnawed at his mind this woman was dispirited. His intuition said she wouldn’t accept death as peacefully as she presumed. There was a banked fire in this lady, just waiting for the embers to be stirred. “No, I am not plotting to murder you—just now. I merely thought to get the preliminaries out of the way.”
She glared at him. “You are different without the affectations of the Mad Marquis, yet you find it hard to drop the mask, do you not?”
Putting his hands on his hips, he slowly stood. “Meaning precisely, little mouse?”
She frowned at the sobriquet, but let it pass. “You belittle people, make them feel small, worthless.”
“The ton must have its amusements.” He gave a mock bow as if a performer. He sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her. How could she make him feel shallow, empty with so few words? “I was never cruel to you.”
She glanced at the cat, then buried her face against his neck.
Had he hurt her? Too often, he felt the many masks he wore beginning to take over, to where it was harder to recall who Desdein Deshaunt was. He reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “Was I?”
A tear glittered in her eyes. “You kissed me.”
“And that is cruel?” His thumb stroked the corner of her mouth, watching her lip quiver. “Such sadness in those eyes. Why would you think a kiss was my way of hurting you?”
“Why did you kiss me?”
“It seemed logical at that moment. That still doesn’t explain why you assumed I meant it as cruelty.”
“Had you kissed me because you wanted to, it would have been nice. But you only kissed me to prove a point.”
“Nice?” Desdein growled the word. “You arrogant little mouse.”
“Mouse!”
He pointed a finger at her. “See you even squeak like one.”
“I am not a mouse!”
“The mouse insists she is no mouse. Shall we find out just what you are?” The spurs had set in his mind. There was no pulling back.
He leaned to her, his mouth closing over hers, slowly teaching her the way to kiss. She was quickly swept up in the building sensations. He felt her release the cat, then grasp his upper arms as if she needed to hold on to steady herself.
His body burned, fire slithered under his skin, spread down his spine and slammed into his groin with a power he’d never felt. Gently he placed his hand on her waist urging her closer. Her taste sped through his system and hit his brain with the effect of fine whisky, making him dizzy with the need to take her. That fine edge of losing control rose within his mind, so he forced himself to pull back. Nearly his undoing, she leaned into him, following.
The side of his mouth tugged up into a smile. “Eager little mouse.” He slowly ran his thumb over her lower lip as his eyes studied Ashlyn. “Now that you have had your kiss, I shall stop being cruel to you and you can go to sleep. I fear it’s going to be a long night.”
“Will you lie down with Cyril and me again?” came the soft question, as she slid down under the blanket. “You were so warm. It felt...nice.”
“I forbid you to ever use the word nice again.” He tried to sound threatening, but feared it wasn’t reflected in his face or tone.
She shifted, covering both her and the cat with the blanket, then peeked out. “If I say nice again what will do you? You are already going to murder me, so that does limit your threats.”
“I could beat you.”
She took a couple of breaths, the grey eyes stripping his soul. “You could. You are very strong. Only, I do not think you would ever raise a hand to a woman in anger. Why I think you won’t kill Cyril or me.”
He frowned, wondering what else she saw within his black heart. Uncomfortable with her directness, he snapped, “Go to sleep, little mouse, before I think of other means of torture for you. Your constant prattle gives me a megrim.”
“To torture something is to be cruel, is it not?” A glint flashed in those eyes, showing a mischievous spirit that had been missing before. “Will you kiss me again?”
“Methinks you are too interested in kisses for a virginal miss.” He leaned forward, but pulled back when he realized he’d placed his hand on upon her hip. Glancing toward it, he noticed the roundness, wondering how it would feel to have his palm on her warm flesh instead of the rough tartan blanket.
She propped her head upon her hand. “I asked, but you never answered. Why did you kiss me?”
Cyril’s head popped from under the blanket
, evidently requiring a great effort, for he promptly rolled over in a drunken faint.
“Is he strangling?”
“He’s purring.”
“It sounds like he’s gasping for air. I think I should shoot him. Put him out of his misery.”
“Stop threatening to shoot Cyril. You do that just to tweak me. You play at being perverse, Desdein Deshaunt. You wear the mask of a highwayman, but methinks it’s not for gaining of coin or jewels. And the Mad Marquis is yet another of your pantomimes. Who kissed me? The Devil in Spurs, the Mad Marquis or Desdein Deshaunt?”
“Very well, I shan’t murder you—or that pathetic creature you call a cat.” He swatted her hip, causing her to yelp. “That does not mean I cannot beat you. Go to sleep, Ashlyn Findlater, or...” He nearly flinched. Why had he added the or on the end?
“Threatening me, Desdein?”
She smiled. The bloody wench smiled! One of those virginal come-hither smiles that sent a man’s blood to boiling, asking things from him she shouldn’t. He’d never spent time chasing virgins, they were so bloody boring, but he had a feeling Ashlyn would never bore him.
Like a crack of lightning, Desdein knew this was the woman he could spend his life with. She could give him fine, strong sons, maybe a daughter with her eyes. They could be happy together. Desdein saw tomorrow, and all the tomorrows thereafter in those grey eyes.
He also knew it was naught but mist under a Blue Moon. He wasn’t sure if he truly believed in fate. Deep inside he knew one thing—come morn, Jeremy would be free and on that ship or by damn, he’d die trying. Might die in any case. Nothing mattered but his brother’s safety. He’d promised Mother on her deathbed that he’d always take care of his Jeremy. Comprehending this, he had nothing to offer this gentle lass, no dreams of maybes, if onlys or castles in the air to conjure.
His heart had a strange pressure, like a cramp seized it and it couldn’t beat properly.
Now he faced a new problem with Ashlyn. He’d ruined her reputation. No gentleman would want a wife who’d been carried off by the Devil in Spurs. Poor lass would be sent to the country, once more to live a solitary life, soon not even to have even Cyril. No man would look at her and see the fine intelligence, the quality breeding, the pure soul. A heart aching for love.
Blue Moon Enchantment (Once In A Blue Moon Series) Page 22
