To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  Twitching up the silk, Kate drew a knife from the small sheath strapped to her leg. With a few swift slices, she shortened her gown to midcalf length. “Satisfied?” she asked, shoving the scraps beneath the evergreen branches.

  “I would have preferred another foot or two,” he answered dryly. “Do you always walk around armed to the teeth?”

  “A lady never knows when she might have to defend herself.”

  “Well, let us hope tonight is not one of those times. One dead body is enough to account for.”

  Kate flinched, but thankfully he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you mind if I take the blade for now?”

  To her own surprise, Kate handed it over without argument. “Why would Tappan lie about having to leave for Vienna this morning? If he’s engaged in an illicit affair with Lady Duxbury, it would be far easier to conduct it at Cluyne Close.”

  Marco didn’t answer.

  Questions, questions. Kate felt a little light-headed, confusion suddenly swirling her senses, thick as an ocean fog. It didn’t help that her nose was just inches from his upturned collar and every ragged breath was filling her lungs with his thoroughly masculine musk. The heat rising from his whipcord muscles only intensified the effect. She felt him flex his shoulders, and an animal awareness thrummed through her. All pretenses were stripped away by the subtle move—the indolent rake hardened to a lithe, lean predator, his sleek strength coiled and ready to spring at the jugular.

  Her throat constricted as she swallowed a tiny sound.

  He turned slightly, the needled shadows giving a menacing cast to his expression. And yet she knew she had nothing to fear from him.

  “Wait here for my signal.” With catlike quickness, Marco crossed the lawn in a low crouch. Creeping close to the leaded windows, he angled a peek over the sill.

  Kate strained to see through the half-drawn draperies, but could make out only a vague blur of muddled shapes. From this perspective, the house looked even more forbidding. The weight of the gloom hung heavy in the air, and as the chill from the damp earth crept along her exposed ankles, she realized that she was glad not to be alone in the dark, deserted grounds.

  A flash of steel cut off her mordant thoughts. Before Marco could wave the knife again, she raced across the grass and dropped to the ground beside him.

  Pressing a finger to his lips, he cocked an ear to listen. Kate heard voices, but the window was shut, muffling the words.

  Damn, she mouthed.

  Switching the knife to his other hand, Marco inched up the wall and carefully pushed the point between the wooden casement and the iron-framed glass. A deft flick eased it open a crack.

  “… I don’t like complications, Lord Tappan.” The voice was raspy and heavily accented. Russian? German? Hungarian? Kate couldn’t tell. “Murder was not part of our original negotiations.”

  “Oh, come, every diplomat knows it’s often necessary to improvise,” replied the baron.

  Kate heard the clink of crystal and a splash of liquid.

  “You are quite the cold-blooded bastard,” said the stranger.

  “As are you,” countered Tappan, sounding unruffled. “Otherwise you would not have had any interest in the deal that I proposed to you.”

  A harsh laugh rattled the glass. “Touché.”

  Fisting her hands, Kate tried to squeeze away the icy prickling in her palms. The thought of Von Seilig lying lifeless in the morgue made her want to smash the panes into a thousand slivered shards.

  Marco touched a boot to her knee and shook his head in warning. She blinked at him, feeling tears give way to righteous anger.

  “But just out of curiosity, why was it necessary to kill the colonel?” continued the stranger. “Prussia’s objection to my country’s proposal would have been moot, once I used your little secret to eliminate the real opposition.”

  “He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” explained Tappan. “He came back to the conservatory in order to fix the broken door latch. Being the thorough Prussian that he was, he decided to make an inspection before locking up. I was well hidden, but he spotted the evidence of my digging. Given that his hobby was botany, I feared that he would realize what plant was missing and immediately report it to the duke.”

  “It was clever of you to kill him with the granddaughter’s knife,” murmured the stranger. “How did you manage to have it with you?”

  “I didn’t,” said Tappan smugly. “While Von Seilig was bending down to examine the soil, I crept up behind him and hit him with my hammer—just enough to stun him but not crack his skull. Pressure on the carotid artery finished the job without leaving any marks of a struggle.”

  A wave of nausea washed over Kate as she listened to his dispassionate account of the crime. He might have been describing what he had for breakfast or his valet’s newest recipe for boot polish.

  “Here is where the clever part comes into play,” continued Tappan. “I had noticed Miss Woodbridge’s knife in an herb basket beneath one of the potting benches. She must have forgotten it earlier in the day. Now, I make it my business to learn about the background of people who may be useful to me, and knowing I was going to be staying with the duke, I did some research on Miss Woodbridge and uncovered some very curious stories concerning the girl’s family. And so I realized it was a perfect way to deflect suspicion from the plant.”

  Tappan paused, and Kate heard the scrape of a flint against steel. A moment later a plume of cigar smoke wafted out into the night. “Sticking the blade into Von Seilig’s ribs was an easy matter. As was covering up the gap in the soil by rearranging the surrounding specimens and sweeping up the telltale dirt. As an added measure to cast suspicion on Miss Woodbridge, I passed the stories on to Lady Duxbury—and she told her brother.”

  “What role does Lady Duxbury have in this?” asked the stranger. “My spies tell me that she is your lover.”

  If the announcement was meant to shake Tappan’s composure, it did not succeed. The baron merely laughed. “Correct. I made her my lover several weeks ago, figuring it would prove useful during the house party. It wasn’t hard to arrange. The slut will sleep with any man who unbuttons his trousers.” Tappan slowly expelled a mouthful of air with an audible whoosh, clearly savoring the taste of the pungent smoke and his own cunning.

  “As for her role,” he went on, “she proved useful in gathering gossip and keeping an eye on the guests when I was searching the guest rooms for any embarrassing papers that I could use to extort hush money from the foreigners, nothing more. She likes playing games with people and finds it amusing to earn a bit of extra blunt from it. She has no idea that I have anything to do with Von Seilig’s murder.”

  “You are sure?” The stranger did not sound happy. “You promised that no one would know of our deal. It’s imperative that my involvement can never be traced to what is going to happen in Vienna.”

  “Trust me, your secret is safe,” replied Tappan.

  There was a long silence. “You have finished extracting the substance from the plant?”

  “Yes,” said Tappan. “And as I said, it’s the perfect poison for what you have in mind. I’ve had a special leather carrying case made for the vial. The glass is wrapped in a square of chamois and—”

  A thunderous barking from the front lawn interrupted his words.

  “What is that?” demanded the stranger. Footsteps crossed the parquet and the window swung open. Kate got just a quick glimpse of the face before he withdrew his head back into the room.

  “Nothing,” assured Tappan, his voice sounding uncomfortably close. “I took the precaution of having several men patrol the grounds. But just to make sure all is in order, I shall go outside and check.”

  “Diavolo.” Marco let out a low hiss as the dog barked again.

  “Look.” Kate pointed to the stable pathway, where a man with a gun was struggling to control a huge mastiff.

  Grabbing her hand, Marco yanked her to her feet. “This way,�
� he whispered. “And hurry.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Marco darted through an opening in the privet hedge. Hugging close to the leafy shadow, he turned away from the main house and hurried their steps for the knot of Norfolk pines at the far end of the lawns.

  “Cluyne Close is in the opposite direction,” rasped Kate.

  “So is an armed guard and a vicious dog,” he replied. “And the others may be anywhere. We can’t risk getting caught, and not just to save our own skins.”

  “Where—”

  “Trust me.”

  She didn’t protest, but picked up her pace, following with sure-footed grace as he veered around a massive stone urn and broke into a run.

  Marco ventured a quick glance back at her. No weeping, no sign of a swoon—Kate Woodbridge flew into the face of peril without betraying a blink of fear. His hand tightened, the feel of her slim fingers against his callused palm sending a stab of remorse through him. He shouldn’t have allowed her to come. Once again, his own devil-may-care disregard for danger was coming back to haunt him.

  Ghosts. Demons. Would he ever outrun his past?

  Legs churning up the last steep rise of the path, he rounded the screen of trees. Pale and serene in the dappling of moonlight, a row of marble columns stood like silent sentinels, guarding the half-hidden door.

  “What’s that?” asked Kate as they skidded to a halt in front of the windowless building.

  “Our sanctuary,” said Marco a bit breathlessly. “At least, I pray it is.” Thrusting the knife blade into the iron keyhole, he set to jiggling the tumblers. “Any sign of pursuit?”

  Hiking up her skirts even higher, Kate wrapped her legs around one of the fluted columns and shimmied up its length. “They are checking the side terrace,” she called softly. “Mastiffs aren’t known for their nose. With any luck, they won’t track us here.”

  “Better safe than sorry.” Marco dug deeper and heard the last catch open with a satisfying click. “Come inside—and be quick about it.”

  She swung out and caught hold of the iron lantern ring hanging from the portico.

  “Were you a circus acrobat in your past life?” he asked, watching her drop lightly down to the ground beside him.

  “A ship’s monkey,” she replied. “I’ve been climbing masts and rigging since I was a small child.”

  “Well, no need for further gymnastics. Right now we are going to hole up in here.” Marco pulled the door shut behind him and twisted the latch to reset the lock. “And stay quiet as church mice until we are sure they are gone. Make yourself comfortable. We may be a while.”

  Kate’s eyes widened as they adjusted to dim light. “My God.”

  “Only if you worship Eros,” replied Marco.

  “Or Dionysus.” She slowly circled a larger-than-life statue of an aroused satyr guzzling from a wineskin. “This is…”

  “Sinful? Shocking?” he suggested.

  “A number of adjectives come to mind,” she said cryptically. “You have been here before?”

  “Tappan gave me a tour when we came to fetch the botany books for you and Lady Fenimore. His grandfather bought the collection from a Turkish pasha and built this place as a personal pleasure retreat. Apparently the old fellow was considered the paragon of propriety by the ton, but occasionally indulged in his own private fantasies.”

  “So, hiding scandalous secrets seems to run in the family.” Pausing before a naked woman entwined with a writhing serpent, Kate ran her knuckles along the smooth marble.

  It might have been the play of light and shadow but it seemed that her hand was shaking.

  Marco moved up behind her and took hold of her arms. Beneath the whisper-soft fabric, her skin was as cold as stone.

  “You’re shivering,” he murmured. “Here, take my coat.” Shrugging out of the garment, he draped it over her shoulders.

  “Grazie.”

  “Prego.” Her hair had come loose, and a tangle of wind-snarled curls fell over her shoulders. Burying his fingers in their silky texture, he brushed them aside and pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “I am sorry.”

  The muscles tightened in her throat as she swallowed. “For what?”

  “For… for a great many things. But mostly for putting you in danger. I should have anticipated that there might be trouble.”

  Kate turned into his arms, her face impassive, save for a tiny quivering at the corner of her mouth. “I’m responsible for my own decisions.” Her lashes lifted in a flickering of burnished gold. “Besides, I thought you didn’t have a conscience.”

  “I don’t, cara. I’m an amoral cad.” He slid a booted foot across the floor, forcing her back against the sculpted stone. “A wicked wastrel.”

  “A ruthless rake?”

  Her arms looped around his neck and his pulse began to thud wildly against her soft skin. Through his own salty sweat, he could smell the heady sweetness of her scent.

  “Si. The worst sort of rotter,” he rasped.

  Her breasts grazed his chest, leaving two singed spots of fire.

  “Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”

  Gritting his teeth, Marco held back a groan. “Dio Madre, you are playing a dangerous game, Kate.”

  The coat slipped to the floor.

  “That’s nothing new. I’ve been doing it so long it’s become second nature.” The sardonic smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Pooled in their aquamarine depths was a ripple of some elusive emotion.

  He leaned in closer, and though she quickly looked away, he caught the fleeting glimpse of the vulnerable young lady she tried so hard to hide. Catching her chin, Marco pressed his fingers to the delicate flesh and felt her tremble.

  “Kate—Katarina,” he whispered, slowly framing her face between his palms. Against his sun-bronzed skin, she looked so pale and fragile that he feared she might shatter at any moment. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You can just be yourself.”

  A tear pearled on her lashes, but she blinked it away. “Myself,” she echoed. “Oh, you have no idea how wicked a person the real Kate Woodbridge is.”

  Kate wasn’t quite sure what had come over her. She felt as if she had fallen overboard into a churning sea, and the only way to keep from drowning in doubts was to cling to something strong and solid.

  She skimmed her hands along the slope of Marco’s shoulders, reveling in the sculpted contours of muscle and sinew. But unlike the surrounding stone, he pulsed with an inner fire. His breath, still traced with brandy, warmed her cheek and a hard, masculine heat rose up from the slabbed planes of his chest, burning away the damp chill of the air between them.

  “Oh, trust me, Kate. I have seen enough wickedness in my life to recognize its face. And you do not remotely resemble it.”

  “You are wrong,” she whispered. Hearing Tappan talk so easily of murder had shaken her to the core. A decent man lay dead, his life snuffed out as if it were of no more consequence than a candle flame. And the shock waves stirred guilty memories, ones she had thought lay buried in her past. But perhaps such ghosts were never really laid to rest.

  “I—I am not innocent of murder.” The words slipped from her lips of their own accord. “Not Von Seilig, but another man.”

  A tomblike stillness gripped the moment. Clouds scudded overhead, shrouding Marco’s face in a passing shadow. The distant bark of the dog was the only sound to penetrate the windowless walls.

  Kate shifted in a soft rustle of silk, forcing herself to seek his eyes. She would not be so cowardly as to dodge the look of disgust. Marco might be an unprincipled rogue, but no man would view the confession with anything other than loathing.

  “I imagine there was a good reason for it, Kate. No matter what you say, you are not a cold-blooded killer.” The moon broke through the darkness, lighting the glimmer of sympathy on his features. “You are not alone. I, too, have taken a life. More than one, if it makes you feel any better.” He leaned back and propped an elbow on the sculpture. “It w
as in Naples, I imagine.”

  She nodded, choking back a burble of desperate laughter at seeing him leaning on a monstrous marble phallus. The situation was wildly, madly absurd. Here they were talking about death while surrounded by a lusty, lascivious ode to life.

  No one could accuse them of having a conventional relationship, she thought.

  “Ghiradelli, you are lounging on a—”

  “Prick,” he finished, “Yes, and a rather handsome devil, don’t you think?” He ran a hand over the smooth rim of the flanged head. “Not that I’ve ever been tempted to indulge in that sort of play. I find women far more fascinating.”

  Kate couldn’t repress another soft laugh. “Aren’t you ever serious?”

  “Very rarely, cara.” He shifted his hips, drawing her back into his arms. Only a few thin layers of linen and gossamer silks lay between them. Through the soft wool of his trousers, Kate was intimately aware of the chiseled shape of his thighs, solid and unyielding against hers.

  The dog and danger outside their sanctuary suddenly seemed very far away.

  “Tell me about Naples,” he pressed.

  It was a story she had never dared tell anyone, not even her fellow ‘Sinners.’ Yet, somehow the words came out. She haltingly described the humid night, the fetid alley, and the pimp’s attack on the helpless whore.

  “I heard her cries and couldn’t just slink away. The brute had a cudgel and had bloodied her face. When he pulled a blade from his boot, I drew my own knife and tried to scare him off.”

  “If I recall, Luigi Bonnafusco was twice your size and weight,” murmured Marco. “With bulging biceps and fists as big as Parma hams.”

  “Yes, well, I have often found that bullies tend to be cowards at heart,” she replied. “He retreated at first, and I managed to help Magda to her feet. But then he came at us again, swearing and snarling that he would see us both dead. I fended him off until we reached the end of the alley. Seeing us close to escape, he charged like a bull. And tripped over a broken wine cask.” She paused, reliving the horrid few seconds of his fall—the jarring impact of his heavy body tumbling against hers, the hot slice of steel sinking into flesh as she lost her footing.