by Renee Rose
If only she knew the identity of the buyer, she might try to meet him at once to sell him false plans. She had read them—she could forge a facsimile. The plans had been nothing more than drawings of ships with dimensions called out and artillery positions labeled on the pages. She could take the money and escape long before the ball started and Gottard would reward her for her craftiness.
For a moment she considered staying for the ball and still attempting at the scheduled rendezvous. But no, with the plans missing, it could be a trap. She needed to leave at once, get back to London and pray she could make Gottard believe her story.
* * *
She went for her walk again in the morning, part of her hoping she might run into Lord Darlington again. She kept to the outskirts of the woods, though she knew the chances of falling in a second hole were slim to none. As always, the fresh air soothed her nerves, the birdsong opened her heart and the solitude relaxed her. She walked back around the perimeter of the manor property, past the gatehouse. As she reached the back side of it, an arm snatched her from behind, a strong hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her scream. The assailant picked her up and carried her, walking swiftly into the gatehouse.
“I found the papers, Miss Hunt.”
She recognized the menacing voice. It belonged to Lord Darlington—or whatever his real name was—and the difference in it sent chills down her spine.
“To whom will you sell them? Or did you buy them?” He sounded angry. He did not release the tight grasp around her waist, but he eased his hand from her mouth for her answer.
“I do not know what you mean!”
“Do not lie to me!” he shouted, giving her a shake. He dragged her forward, pushing her belly down over an old saddle lying on a crate. The gatehouse appeared to be used as overflow for stable equipment, the smell of old leather and hay filling her nostrils. Pulling her wrists behind her, he tied them with a cord.
“What are you doing?” she cried in alarm.
“Silence!” he snapped and she heard the sound of something swishing through the air a second before a line of fire across her backside made her scream. She looked over her shoulder to see Darlington flexing a riding crop between two hands. Panicking, she struggled to stand up, but he pushed her torso back down, leaning his hand on her low back.
“Your rabbit act was very good. You nearly had me fooled,” he said and further terrified her by pulling up her skirts. He yanked her pantalets open at the split, baring her bottom to his view.
She fought him, trying to stand, but could not wriggle from his iron grasp.
“Did you recognize me for what I am?” he demanded, applying the crop across her bare cheeks.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she gasped in pain.
“Did you hope to distract me from my purpose with your charms? Was that your plan?” he demanded, whipping her again with the terrible crop.
“I swear I do not know—”
“Silence!” he snapped, applying the horrid crop even harder than before. “Do not speak unless I ask you a question.”
“But you did ask—” she bit off her protest as another stroke made her gasp.
He tapped the crop against her smarting flesh, the momentary reprieve only making her aware of her exposure, imagining what the sight of her naked buttocks must look like to him. “Do you know,” he said in a slightly calmer voice, “you are the only woman I have ever wanted to court? The joke was on me, was it not?” he asked bitterly and sliced the crop down again.
She cried out, tears spilling from her eyes, as her mind struggled to recover from bewilderment. Lord Darlington believed she possessed papers that somehow incriminated her; that much was clear.
He whipped her again, making her scream again. Amidst her confusion and fright and the searing pain of the whipping, she clung to one little buoy: his anger seemed borne of a sense of betrayal. He truly cared for her—or he had before now.
He struck her three more times in rapid succession, making it impossible for her to catch her breath to even cry out. When he paused, a sob bubbled up in her throat. The sound seemed to affect him, because he stroked her throbbing flesh with a gentle hand. He sighed and spoke in a lowered voice, tinged with defeat. “Will you tell me where you got the papers?”
“I do not know—”
“Stop,” he commanded with disgust. “I cannot stand hearing the lies.”
He continued the slow stroking. She knew she ought to protest, but the relief his touch brought her outweighed all else. She remained so exposed, lying prostrate with her bottom on display for his punishment and now caress. And yet a heat coursed through her body, not just on the surface of her raw cheeks, but deep inside, flooding her with a sense of need.
His hand stroked lower, across the juncture where bottom meets thigh. To her horror, his thumb wicked a bit of moisture from her inner thigh.
“I do believe you find this arousing,” he said in surprise.
Hot shame flooded her face and chest.
“I suppose I do, too,” he muttered.
Real panic overtook her and she struggled to throw herself off the saddle, but he pushed her back down. “Relax,” he said, tugging at her bound wrists. “I am not that sort of man.”
To her surprise, he unbound her wrists and whirled her to face him. “I cannot even bring myself to scare you into talking.”
She looked up, surprised at the torment she saw in his face.
“Nor do I wish to see you hanged,” he said grimly.
She attempted to pull away, the threat of hanging sending her heart racing.
He held her fast, staring down into her face with a haunted look. “Is this a lie, too?” he asked, licking his thumb and reaching toward her birthmark as if to rub it off.
Fury kicked in and she threw her head away from him, thrashing against his hold.
He caught her nape and brought her head back to face him. “No, you really do not know how beautiful you are,” he said sadly, leaning down and kissing the splotch just outside of her eye with lips so soft she could scarcely believe they belonged to the same man who held her in a vise-like grip.
“I will give you a few hours to make your escape,” he said, then claimed her mouth in a hot, bruising kiss, turning her insides to liquid fire and inciting a demanding pulse between her legs. He released her as roughly as he had taken her, stalking out of the gatehouse without looking back.
* * *
He walked back to the manor, his own heat making his waistcoat and jacket seem too constricting. His hands trembled, whether from anger or passion, he could not be sure. His actions had surprised him. He had never been hot-tempered, nor did he behave erratically. He would not have survived this long as a spy for his country if he had. Yet Eliza Hunt’s betrayal cut him to the core, showing him just how far his fantasies of a future with her had carried him.
But he should have known. He would never marry, and the bizarre encounter he just left proved why he was incapable of love. What sort of man tore a woman’s drawers open and whipped her? He had not even tried to extract information from her. He had lost his head completely, taking a crop to her wriggling bottom like a sick man.
And yet…
He stopped abruptly, remembering the evidence of her arousal on her inner thigh. He put his thumb to his nose, smelling her nectar, a shudder of desire running through his entire body.
Dear God, I am lost.
He wanted her. Desperately. The idea that she should have found the degrading manner he treated her arousing sent a shot of lust straight to his cock. His mind clouded in confusion. Had he been cruel? He had spent his entire life stuffing the desire to take a woman across his lap and punish her bare bottom deep inside himself. He did not want to be the sort of cruel man his father had been—beating his wife and child until they ran away, changed their names, and hid from him. Now his most guarded secret had tumbled out in a moment of passion and to his shock, its victim had been as aroused as he.
And only the larg
ess of that discovery could have caused him to forsake his country and allow the key person involved in the selling of England’s secrets to escape. He began walking again, debating what to do. He had the papers, which he had found hidden in the lining of Miss Hunt’s trunk. They were the most important thing, although she might have already copied them. Did he allow her to get away Scot-free or did he notify Smith and Jenners immediately, perhaps to follow her on her escape?
Following her could lead them to a better source of information, and he could always work with the magistrate to ensure leniency, though he no more wished to see her shipped off to Australia than he did hanged. Yes, it was the only right thing to do. He made his way swiftly back to the manor, entering the servants’ quarters.
Jenners met him on the stair. “I have been looking for you!” he exclaimed.
He raised his eyebrows in warning.
“—My lord,” Jenners added, affecting a more subservient tone. “I, er, wondered if you needed anything.”
“Yes, Jenners, I do. Come to my room at once.”
“Yes, of course, my lord,” Jenners said. Smith joined them and the three men climbed the stairs up to his room.
“Miss Hunt’s maid left the premises,” Jenners said the moment the door shut.
“When?”
“Two hours ago,” Smith said. “I am sorry, I did not find out until she had already left, or I would have followed.”
“Did she leave alone?”
“Yes, one of the drivers took her. She claimed something about a sick relative, but no messages had come in that I heard.”
“Do you think she made the transaction?” Jenners demanded.
He reached in his pocket and drew out the papers, tossing them in Jenner’s direction onto the bed. “Not unless she sold them to Miss Hunt. I found these in her room this morning.”
“Where is Miss Hunt?” Smith demanded. “She did not leave with her maid.”
“No, she is still here.”
“Do you think the maid hid them with her mistress to keep them safe before the transaction? And perhaps found them gone after you visited, and fled?” Jenners said.
His entire body shook. Miss Hunt could be innocent? He desperately hoped it, and yet… if so, his actions had been beyond inexcusable. If she were truly of the powerful Hunt family, he had just ended his entire career and would be lucky if he did not get shipped off to Australia himself for what he had done to her. Oh, God.
“I will go and find Miss Hunt,” he said, surprised his voice sounded calm. “Keep your eyes out for any other coming and going.”
“There is someone coming now,” Smith said, walking to the window as a carriage pulled up outside.
“I will go and find Miss Hunt,” he repeated, unable to stay a moment longer in the stifling room. He left, taking the stairs swiftly, only to find the person he did not actually wish to see. She stood beside Lady Westerfield in the front parlour, poised to greet the newcomers. She had not seen him, but his hostess did.
“Oh, Lord Darlington,” she cried. “Come and meet Mr. and Mrs. Hunt, they are just arriving now.”
If he were a woman, he would have swooned. His head spun, sweat dampened his undershirt, and his stomach seemed full of lead. Too ashamed to even look at Miss Hunt, he nonetheless sensed her own fluster.
The butler showed the couple in and the women stepped forward to greet them before Lady Westerfield made introductions. He knew his face must be pale because he felt cold despite his clammy palms. Somehow he greeted the Hunts, though he knew not what he said. Daring a glance at their daughter, he caught her eye with a lurching sensation. She stood studying him, the intelligent evaluation disturbing him even more. He wanted to speak to her, but he did not know what to say.
Worst of all, though he believed her innocent, he must keep her high on his suspect list. He could not trust his own judgment where she was concerned. He had found the papers in her room, after all. Which made apologizing a tricky affair.
Excusing himself, he escaped, waiting for the summons to come from Westerfield or Mr. Hunt for the meeting that would end his career and his chances with Miss Hunt.
No, he had already ended her affection himself, regardless of the outcome of his career.
* * *
Darlington had looked shaken to the core. His pale face had worn the distinct look of a naughty schoolboy. His eyes had been wide and round and sweat had glistened at his hairline. When their eyes had met, he begged apology. Had he looked at all mocking, her humiliation during their earlier meeting might have made her lash out now. But it seemed the arrival of her parents had proved she was not the criminal he had believed her to be, and his evident mortification over his error softened her.
He had escaped from their presence, appearing for dinner but speaking little. Lady Westerfield had sat them together again, but neither spoke a word to each other or anyone else, the silent meal tense as the static between them grew.
You are the only woman I ever wanted to court.
His words repeated in her mind turning the pain of sitting on her blistered bottom into a sensuous experience tinged with excitement and passion.
You really do not know how beautiful you are.
His emotion had seemed so real, his words, candid. Though she ought to be angry with his treatment of her, she could not find it in her to regret even a moment of it. Not even the harsh bite of the crop he had wielded without mercy.
I do believe you find this arousing.
So she had. What did such a thing mean? Why should she be aroused by having her poor flesh flayed by a madman?
As if in answer to her question, the following day she and Lady Westerfield were alone in the parlour and her hostess made the offhand remark that set her belly on fire again.
“I love having so many guests. If it were up to me, I would invite everyone to stay until summer. But Lord Westerfield would take me over his knee if I even suggested such thing!”
Remembering Darlington’s threat to take her over his knee, she understood now the look on his face as he had stood considering her. Hungry. As if the idea of taking her over his knee appealed to him.
“Do all husbands do… such a thing?”
She thought she might have offended her hostess, but the lady laughed. “Certainly it is their right. I think some enjoy their rights more than others. Lord Westerfield is rather strict, but I like it.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile, as if she relished Lord Westerfield’s discipline.
“Why?”
“He is a passionate man. It is one of the ways he shows his love, I suppose. When he punishes me, I always see how much he cares. I have his full, undivided attention.”
“Would you not prefer his attention another way?”
She shrugged. “I prefer it all ways, I suppose,” she said, her mouth producing the teasing smile again. “But I would not give up his discipline, no. There’s something particularly… intimate that occurs when he takes me to task. And it always follows with something far more gentle,” she said, raising her eyebrows to indicate her indelicacy.
She flushed to her roots, her sore bottom tingling, her body buzzing from the word intimate.
“Afterward I feel so close to him, and I know just how much he cherishes me. So yes, it may seem strange, but I rather like it when he takes a firm hand with me.”
She and Darlington had been intimate.
Was that why she felt so aligned with him? Since seeing him so horror-stricken the day before, she felt a need to reassure him, as if he were the victim of their encounter and required comforting. Or maybe she just wanted to be sure he knew she still wanted courting.
The thought made her dizzy. Did she still wish to be courted by Darlington, the man who was not a lord, but some sort of spymaster? The man who had pulled her drawers open and taken a crop to her backside. And made her enjoy it?
Yes. Perhaps even more now. She had seen danger and passion in him and now that she had tasted it, it called to her from her deepes
t desires. And something about the way Lady Westerfield spoke made her long to experience the same—to be taken to task by Darlington, to be cherished.
“How are things going with you and Lord Darlington—I thought I sensed an attraction, but last night you hardly spoke.”
Lady Westerfield had always been known for getting straight at the heart of a matter.
“I-I do not know, honestly. We had a misunderstanding, but perhaps it can be smoothed over.”
Lady Westerfield patted her hand. “I am sure it can. I noted the way he looks at you, my dear, and I can see he is smitten.”
She managed a wobbly smile. “I hope so,” she said faintly. Then, remembering Darlington had said Lord Westerfield was aware of his true identity, she probed, “What do you know about Lord Darlington, my lady?”
“Call me Kitty,” her hostess corrected. “I know very little—I understand he has been traveling out of the country for several years, but just returned and was eager to make Lord Westerfield’s acquaintance as they share certain political ideals.”
“I see,” she said, disappointed in not learning something more. Well, she would have to ask him herself.
She spent the afternoon hoping to run into him, but the man had disappeared and the evening meal presented another stifled interaction from which he departed immediately.
She went to her room, cursing again the untimely departure of her maid, a girl who had not been in her employ long, and whom she doubted she would allow to return considering the way she had left for some supposed emergency without even speaking with her. Lady Westerfield had offered her the use of her maid, but she declined it for the evening, able to undress herself without much trouble, as her gown and corset both used a simple lacing rather than hooks.
It seemed Lady Westerfield or her efficient Mrs. Burling had sent someone in to light her lamp, though, which was a relief. She shut the door, moving toward the wardrobe when a large hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.
* * *
