After such a teasing, lighthearted evening he could not mean to follow through. He'd chuckled when he’d seen her take the seat he'd bound her to that morning. So many of his mannerisms were those of a gentleman. He had given the appearance of serious intent at the time, but perhaps that had been for effect.
Convinced that he had not meant to do more than gain her cooperation, she sat in the hearth chair and turned the board around so the white pieces were in front of her. "I choose white.”
He grinned at her not-so-subtle attempt to control the play by making the first move. "As you wish.”
It didn’t surprise her that he played well and with precision. What did surprise her was his approval when she made strong counter moves. When he made the inevitable move to checkmate he said, "You play an excellent defensive game, Miss Dorsey. You would be wise, though, to adapt some offensive moves. Permit me to demonstrate.”
He walked her through the game as they had played it, but offered strategies that controlled an opponent's choices. Julia enjoyed the lesson, quickly understanding the slight change in approach he exhibited. They began a new game, and she made moves she would have overlooked before in defense of her pieces, but now saw the advantage of occasionally sacrificing a pawn or bishop to gain an advantage one or two moves later. In the end, she surprised them both by declaring, "Check-mate!"
"Very well played, Miss Dorsey. Perhaps we can enjoy another match tomorrow night.” He stood and returned the game pieces and board to the drawer, then rolled the table to the side of his chair again. "But it has been a particularly long day.”
The ease of the past two hours evaporated in an instant. Julia strove to remain calm, but her lungs didn't seem to be able to function normally. Her trepidation flooded back. What if he truly meant to force her to share the bed? Had his behavior over the last hours been calculated to make her more receptive to his scandalous threat? She concentrated on taking even breaths as she rose and moved stiffly to the wooden chair again.
Before she could take the seat, however, he blocked her by the simple expedient of stepping between her and the chair. "I fear, Miss Dorsey, that you have forgotten our earlier discussion. I assure you once more, that I have no designs on your virtue, but neither can I permit you to sit in a wooden chair all night.”
"If that is the case,” Julia grasped at the explanation he offered, “The hearth chair is more comfortable and would suffice.”
"It will not.” He led her to the bed and handed her the cotton night-rail he'd included in his earlier offerings. "You will rest better in proper night clothes.” He stepped behind her and, to her consternation, untied her dress and stays again. Though he did not linger in his work, his knuckles brushed against her skin and sent quivers of intimacy racing along her nerves. No man had ever touched her bare back before. His determined and efficient actions left her speechless with indignation and alarm.
As soon as he finished and let her go, she rounded on him, searching for words scathing enough to express her refusal to be treated so dismissively.
Before she could, he said, "I suggest you change your clothes while I prepare a territorial boundary that may appease your sensibilities somewhat.” With that, he walked to the wardrobe, where he pulled out the lower drawer and removed another quilt. He turned his back on her and began forming the quilt into a long, bulky roll. "If you do not change your clothes,” he added over his shoulder, "I shall complete the job for you.”
Julia trembled, frustrated and furious. She matched his determination, but not his physical strength. She wanted to lash out at him but knew it would not change matters, nor did she doubt he would strip her with the same matter-of-fact efficiency he had shown in loosening her clothes in the first place. Deciding to bow to dignity over further humiliation, she pulled the nightgown over her head and quickly undressed using the voluminous cotton as a privacy curtain.
When her head emerged from the neck opening and her outer clothing landed on the floor about her feet, she saw he had set the rolled quilt down the center of the bed. She also saw the laughter that lit his eyes when he faced her. "Excellent. You show practicality as well as good sense.”
"You give me no choice.”
Blessedly, he ignored her by sitting on the far side of the bed to remove his boots while she unrolled her stockings and removed her shoes. When she finished, though, she felt as if her exposed toes brought blatant attention to her nakedness beneath the single layer of cloth. She had not felt so vulnerable since leaving France as a child. She was such a coward.
She picked her clothes up from the floor to set them across the contested chair and knew she could not put off the moment of defeat any longer. Best get it over with. She walked determinedly to the bed, but before she pulled back the covers he handed her a hairbrush. "You might wish to braid your hair for the night.”
She suddenly realized how disheveled her hair must be. She had been so distracted by the events into which she and Alice had been thrown that such matters had not crossed her mind. The hastily formed chignon from the night before had slipped low and several strands had escaped and been tucked behind her ears throughout the evening. Yet it seemed a final intimacy to let down her hair in front of this man who had humiliated her modesty.
Be practical and sensible. If she did not brush and braid her hair, it would be a hopeless snarl by morning. Her modesty might have been crushed, but she still retained her dignity. She turned away and pulled the remaining pins from her hair. Working as quickly as possible, she efficiently formed a single thick braid before turning back. He held out a length of ribbon. She gritted her teeth in frustration as she bound the ribbon around the end of the braid.
She sat on the edge of the bed, but before she could lie down, he stepped to her side and looped the leather ties around her wrists once more. "Again, I am sorry I must take these measures, Miss Dorsey, but I cannot take chances you are not who you seem.” He pulled the bonds tight enough that she could not wriggle her hands free, but with enough ease that they did not chafe.
To her shock, he then knelt and looped a second set of bonds around her ankles. When his hands brushed the bare skin of her calves, embarrassment bloomed hot and sent a bright flush from her ankles to her burning cheeks. When he finished, he abruptly stood, bent and lifted her further onto the bed so that she lay between its edge in front and the rolled quilt behind. He adjusted the hem of the gown so she was decently covered, then pulled the blankets over her, tucking her in as though she were a child.
He'd said nothing after his apology, but his mouth had a grim twist to it by the time he tucked the blankets around her. She almost believed he regretted his actions, but as she lay trussed and under the covers in the bed, she dismissed the thought. She would not look to see what Mr. Sheffield did but closed her eyes tightly and willed herself not to care.
She scrunched them tighter when she felt the bed sag behind her moments after he blew out the candle. The blankets shifted, but the sheeting pulled tighter as he lay down.
TRISTAN ROLLED AWAY from the woman whose alluring voice, intriguing eyes, and elusive female scent had tormented him for hours. When he'd knelt to tie the restraints around her slender ankles he'd felt the tremors that belied the artificial calm she tried to portray. It had taken all his restraint to confine his touch to those ankles and not explore the extent of her response to his touch. The flush that bloomed while he worked nearly undid his resolve but, no matter his personal inclinations, it was his duty to take all possible precautions. He found it ironic that it was his sense of honor that made him behave in such an ungentlemanly manner.
The evening had revealed a woman of warmth, humor and intelligence whom he wished was as free of treachery as she claimed to be. Her outrage and denial he discounted as the role of offended innocence. However, he doubted anyone could fake the subtle nuances of innocence that she'd displayed so consistently since he'd prevented her from reclaiming Alice on the road. Which made the coming night all the more torture.
/> If he absolutely believed she worked with criminals he would not feel so despicable about forcing her to share his room and bed. Certainly, if there was an actress of Miss Dorsey's age who still led a pure life he'd never met or heard of one. An experienced woman of the world knew how to show dismay and indignation at his order, but he'd noted those moments when she thought herself unobserved in which little gestures gave away bravado-buried fears.
He hoped Ravencliffe's response arrived soon so that this farce could be resolved. If her story proved true, he could assign her a room—and bed—of her own. Or, better yet, he could take her and Alice to London and place them under Ravencliffe's protection. Remote and unnoticed as his property was, he worried that his correspondence with Ravencliffe might alert Alice’s abductors to her location. He preferred to investigate his original assignment relieved of concern for Alice’s safety, and without the disturbing proximity of the woman sharing his bed.
He lay on the top sheet to put another layer of distance between himself and Miss Dorsey, but he feared it made little difference to either of them. Even with the rolled quilt between them, he could feel the woman's rigid posture.
"You may relax and sleep, now.” His amusement when he spoke didn’t hide the gruffness his of awareness. "I have lain atop the sheet and am reasonably clothed in shirt and trousers,
She drew in a sharp breath.
He chuckled. “I prefer my bed sport to be voluntary and unfettered.”
She made an outraged hiss.
Still, he knew she lay in the dark, stiff and alert. It was not until he'd forced his breathing to even out so she thought he slept, that she finally dozed. It was far longer before he did.
Dawn was little more than a promise when Tristan came awake with the sense that something had disturbed him. Another carry-over from his childhood was that he did not wake gradually but in a single moment. That instinct, too, had saved him from disaster more times than he'd ever bothered to count.
The sound came again. A muffled whimper escaped shortened breaths.
He rolled over and saw Julia Dorsey huddled into a trembling ball. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder and she cried out in terror, struggling even more against bindings that restricted her attempts to break away. Jerking away from him nearly sent her over the edge of the bed to the floor. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back, half covering her with his body in an attempt to hold her still.
"Miss Dorsey—Julia—wake up! His weight on her sent her into a greater kicking frenzy and she let out a scream that made him clap his hand over her mouth before she woke Alice.
"Julia! Hush! All is well. You are dreaming.”
All sound suddenly ceased beneath his hand when her eyes opened and she focused on Tristan's repeated assurances. Her heart beat frantically beneath his where he anchored her to the mattress and her breath rasped in his ear. Tears glistened in her eyes and, when she blinked, they made a damp track along her temple to disappear into her hair. Something deep, dark and raw wavered in that moment before consciousness fully surfaced and buried her vulnerability behind a protective shield.
Her shift into wakefulness refocused his attention to the warm softness he held down. A faint scent of cedar and jasmine floated up from the gown making him all the more aware of the tempting softness of her breasts. He clutched an exceedingly slender waist.
The tension in her muscles altered from frenzied defense to frozen affront. "You said you would not accost me, Mr. Sheffield.”
Her caustic words assured him she was awake and no longer in danger of falling over the edge. His body assured him it was morning and a desirable woman lay beneath him. He rolled away and out of his side of the bed before his body's reaction sent her into panic again.
"You were in danger of casting yourself from the bed and injuring yourself. It was necessary.”
Behind him, she let out a jagged breath.
He recognized the sound. The demons of night always managed to tear away a bit of soul when they succumbed to daylight. The terrors of childhood never quite left one, though the cause was often long forgotten. Were her nightmares residue from the uprising in France or did they have another cause?
Desperate to get away from the disturbing woman, he grabbed his boots but did not stop to put them on until he reached the kitchen. The brisk morning chill didn’t reduce the heat racing through him from that brief and disorientating awakening. Holding Miss Julia Dorsey down with his body had solidified his mental image of the woman he'd deemed angularly thin. Petite, fragile – his lips twisted. Not fragile in spirit – delicate of form. In short, exactly the form to go with large green eyes and a sultry voice that had haunted him since Portsmouth.
He used the servant's privy outside, then kindled a fire in the stove and put the kettle on before mounting the stairs again. Before re-entering the room, he smoothed his wrinkled shirt, adjusted his trousers and clamped a rein on his heightened response to the woman who had disturbed his sleep in more ways than one.
CHAPTER 11
Disoriented by the nightmare she never quite remembered for all its impact on her sleep, she’d struggled, unable to escape her restraints, and sharp panic had burned though her every nerve ending. Mindless in her terror, she'd fought to be free, the echoes of her sister's screamed warning more real and terrible than ever before. Distant as the memories were, they tangled with the overwhelming need to fight her way out from under a man’s broad chest and get free of his restraining arms.
She’d opened her eyes when Mr. Sheffield’s voice pulled her from the grip of her nightmare and been mortified to know he’d witnessed her cowardly fears. The blue gaze that met hers had been filled with pity as though he could see into her soul. For an instant she’d felt a kinship, then embarrassment had flooded her consciousness, and she’d dragged her dignity into place and reminded him to keep his distance.
When he finally escorted her from the room into the hall, she skirted him carefully. Her nerves still jumped and the throbbing headache that followed disturbed nights had her holding the banister tightly as she the descended the stairs. Neither of them spoke of the morning incident, but she doubted that situation would continue long. He studied her too closely to leave his questions unanswered.
Alice joined them in the kitchen, and she set out bowls while Julia prepared tea and porridge. She chattered throughout the meal, telling Mr. Sheffield about the kittens at Julia's cottage and the embroidered sampler she had begun there.
When Alice told him how cook made a batch of sweet biscuits just for her, Julia realized with a jolt that her small staff would wonder at her disappearance. Yet she could do nothing to remedy the situation. She was a prisoner in an unknown location with no way to escape. Nor could she leave Alice behind even if she found a way to do so.
Mr. Sheffield responded to Alice’s prattle, but Julia knew it was a matter of time before he asked her to explain to him what she couldn’t explain to herself.
When they finished eating, Alice asked, “May we go to the river you said was nearby?"
"We shall go as soon as I have filled the fish larder with water,” he told her. The small stone walled holding pool near the kitchen door would require several buckets to fill, but would also allow him to keep fish fresh for several days. "Hopefully we’ll catch a fish or two for our supper. There is a bucket at the bottom of the cellar stair. Will you fetch it while I clear it of leaves?”
She disappeared down the stairs, and he remarked, "I had almost forgotten the way little girls talk without pause. Now that my sisters are older, they do occasionally lapse into silence.”
Julia smiled, but her eyes stung with a sudden memory. "I remember my brother once clapped his hands over his ears and asked Papa to make me stop.”
Her memories of life in France were like vignettes. A whiff of lavender always enveloped her with the warmth of her mother's hugs. Cloves reminded her of the slightly rough texture of her father's jaw when he nuzzled her neck to make her laugh. She rem
embered few specifics before that terrible day when the shouting crowds destroyed her family, but the emotions—the love, and trust, and joy—of that time sometimes eased and sometimes sharply magnified her sense of loss.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Tristan deposited three perch into the larder before cleaning three more for their supper. Alice had soon lost interest in holding the fishing pole and turned it over to Tristan while she explored the riverbank and Miss Dorsey showed her how to weave a daisy chain.
"My Papa once brought home a fish as big as me,” Alice told Tristan as they feasted on pan-seared fish. "He said that there are even larger fish in the sea – some as large as boats.” She looked from Tristan to Miss Dorsey, "Though I think mostly he was teasing. He likes to tease Mama and me.” She stopped, looked down, and fell silent, using her fork to shift a piece of potato around on her plate.
A flash of sympathy squeezed Tristan’s heart but he had no words that could change what had happened.
"I was just a bit younger than you when I sailed to England and saw fish larger than Mr. Sheffield.” Miss Dorsey commented before the silence lingered too long. Her words made Alice look up again, and curiosity replaced the misery in her expression. “They were quite unlike any fish I've ever seen in a river.”
Alice speared the piece of potato and took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then asked, "What did it look like?"
"There were three of them, all a dark gray color, with long narrow snouts,” she mused. "I remember Beatrice and I were quite worried when we first saw them because they were so big, but the men of the ship said they brought good luck to mariners.” She smiled at Alice. "We soon realized they followed the ship in a most playful manner, leaping from the water as though dancing a frolic.”
Tristan turned his gaze sharply to her face. Beatrice? Miss Dorsey had told him only she survived the slaughter, so who was Beatrice?
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