Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

by His Captive Lady

  Part of her, the angry, desperate, guilty part, kept telling her that if she’d only kept on in those first weeks she would have found Torie.

  The other part, the quieter part, reminded her of how helpless she’d felt collapsing in the street, surrounded by strangers. And how terrifying it had been to come to consciousness with strangers pawing through her clothes, touching her body.

  That last day she’d collapsed and woken up wet and freezing, her fingers blue with cold. She must have lain unconscious for some time. Her gloves and hat, even her handkerchief was gone. She was lucky the thieves hadn’t taken her dress and petticoat. She might have frozen to death, had Freckles not snuggled up along her body, keeping her warm. Nell hadn’t been able to stand at first, she was so very weak. She’d realized that night that she could very easily die right there, in the London streets . . . unmissed, unregarded.

  She was right to get herself home, to Firmin Court, to get money and help to search properly. She hadn’t known everything was gone, and that she’d be just as helpless as before.

  She hated being helpless.

  If she’d come to London with Mrs. Beasley, she would have had no hope of searching these outer villages. She wouldn’t even have known to do it.

  Before, nobody had told her that all foundling and orphan babies brought to London workhouses were sent to the country. They’d simply told her they had no babies. And foolish Nell had taken their word for it.

  Why hadn’t they told her the babies were sent away? She wanted to scream with helpless rage. The time that omission had caused her to waste, tramping from workhouse to workhouse, time she couldn’t afford, time Torie couldn’t afford.

  If only she’d known Harry Morant back then. Harry wasn’t the sort of man people ignored. Harry pressed for more information, and when necessary, bribed or intimidated the information out of them.

  They swayed, turning a bend, and Nell leaned in against him grateful for whatever miracle had brought her to this man. He didn’t talk about what he might do, or would have done, or could do: he simply did what needed to be done. Without fuss.

  They reached the London road and stopped to light the carriage lamps. But a mile or so down the road he turned off in a different direction.

  “There’s a workhouse at Islington,” he explained. “It’s not far off the London road, so your father might conceivably have gone there. We’ll find out where they send their babies and start searching again first thing in the morning.”

  She nodded.

  He looked down at her and gave her a small squeeze. “Tired?”

  “A little.”

  He was silent a moment. “I’d like your permission to take my friends Rafe and Luke into our confidence. We were in the army together and they’re good fellows. They could visit the various workhouses and find out where the babies have been sent, and you and I will go there. It’s a more efficient way of searching.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” she said. Two ex-officers wouldn’t let themselves be fobbed off. If there was news, they’d get it. As for them knowing, if it was a matter of her reputation or her daughter’s recovery, there was no contest.

  “I don’t mind you telling them at all. I don’t care what they think of me, as long as I find my daughter.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “They’ll have nothing but respect for you.”

  The gas lamps lit the quiet streets of Mayfair. It was late. As they pulled up in Mount Street, Harry descended first, then lifted her down. He paid the groom and they went inside.

  They were no sooner in the door when his aunt came bustling out of the drawing room. “My dears, where have you been all this time? Nell, my dear girl, you look exhausted. Harry, your wretched business affairs have—”

  Nell braced herself for the interrogation.

  “Nell has the headache.” Harry cut across his aunt’s flow. “You will have to excuse her. She’s going to her room to have a bath and lie down.” He placed his hand in the small of Nell’s back and propelled her firmly up the stairs.

  Nell went willingly. “But I don’t have a headache,” she told him as they reached the first landing.

  He paused, his hand warm and strong in the curve of her back. “Which would you rather do—have a bath, take supper in your room, and make an early night of it, or go back downstairs and have my aunt ask you all about your day? Or take you out to the theater or something? You have only to say.”

  She stared. He’d guessed how she felt about facing his aunt after the day she’d had. “No! No, a bath and a quiet night sounds heavenly. Your aunt is wonderful, but I’m feeling a bit . . . tired.” Miserable was a better word, but she wasn’t going to give in to it. Tomorrow was a new day.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to contact Rafe and Luke.” He delivered her into the hands of her maidservant and left.

  Cooper poured scented oil into the bath and swished it around. “Miss Bragge gave me this bath oil and some special soap for you, m’lady. It’s French and smells beautiful, like vanilla and apple blossom and something else.”

  Nell roused herself to respond. The last thing she wanted to do was to have to chatter on, but Cooper was so determined to prove herself as a lady’s maid, Nell didn’t have the heart to tell her to be quiet. “I will have to thank Miss Bragge,” Nell said. “It’s very kind of her.”

  “She’s helping to train me, m’lady. She gave me this and a jar of extract of green turtle oil for your complexion and says you’re to rub it in day and night.”

  “Extract of green turtle oil?” Nell eyed the jar doubtfully.

  “It’s very expensive,” Cooper told her with pride as she helped Nell out of her dress.

  “I’ve never used lotions much,” Nell said. The truth was, she never had money for such things.

  Cooper tut-tutted. “All complexions need lotions, m’lady. Yours is beautiful now, but you want it to stay that way when you get older, don’t you? And keep Mr. Harry looking at you like he wants to eat you up?”

  “Eat me up?” Nell looked up in surprise.

  Cooper grinned. “Like a half-starved dog lookin’ at a juicy bone, m’lady.”

  “Good heavens,” Nell said faintly. She dropped her chemise and stepped into the bath. She was a little self-conscious; she wasn’t used to having a personal maid, and she hadn’t been naked in front of anyone else since she was a child. She wondered if Cooper would be able to tell from her body that she’d had a baby.

  She slid down in the bath. The water was fragrant and beautifully hot and slowly some of the tiredness and tension soaked out of her.

  She soaped her washcloth thoughtfully. A half-starved dog with a juicy bone?

  Of course Cooper had a strong romantic streak, that was obvious. She thought Nell had made a romantic love match, whereas Harry had explained it to Nell in purely practical terms. Her title would be useful and so would she, with his horses. And she knew the estate and the people on it. It did make sense.

  But Cooper’s observations caused a little prickle of anxiety.

  Nell scrubbed herself all over then allowed her maid to scrub her back and wash her hair. She massaged Nell’s scalp and neck thoroughly. It was heavenly.

  Harry Morant had made it as plain as any man could, right from the start, that he desired Nell. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the exact shape and hardness of him throbbing against her hand.

  She closed her eyes and rinsed off the suds with warm water, then wrapped her hair in a towel and stood and dried herself in front of the fire.

  Cooper brought her old nightgown to her and slipped it over her head. Nell was a bit embarrassed by the worn and patched garment. She’d never intended another soul to see it. Miss Bragge had probably had some scathing things to say about her wardrobe.

  While Cooper supervised the removal of the bath and the water, Nell knelt on the rug in front of the fire, drying her hair. She had memories of doing this with her mother. Mama would
towel dry Nell’s hair and then comb it through, and she would often tell Nell a story . . .

  Nell tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Would she ever get to do that with Torie?

  When her hair was almost dry, she moved to the dressing table and sat down. She picked up the jar of green turtle oil, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. It smelled quite pleasant. She dipped a finger in and applied a dab of lotion carefully to her skin. It felt cool and soothing.

  She stared at herself in the looking glass. Her own very ordinary face looked back at her. If only she had taken after Mama instead of Papa in looks. Mama had been a beauty.

  She didn’t understand what Harry Morant found so desirable about her, but she had to accept it. A delicious shiver ran through her, pooling at the base of her stomach. She had no doubt of his desire.

  But it worried her. Because of this desire for her, he’d put everything else aside to bring her to London to search for Torie, a child not his own, who would bring scandal into his life.

  His willingness to accept her daughter made her want to weep with gratitude. He’d even planned out the search, like a soldier planning a campaign, she thought with a lump in her throat.

  Cooper took up a brush and began to brush Nell’s hair.

  Nell sat, deep in thought. Because of his desire, Harry Morant would marry Nell, restoring almost everything in her life that she’d lost: a secure future, a respected position, and the home of her heart. She would even have a chance to breed horses as she’d always wanted to.

  If—when they found Torie, it would be as if all the terrible things of Nell’s last year had been wiped away, and only the good would remain. Apart from Papa dying.

  And all because of one thing.

  Desire.

  For a woman who loathed the very idea of sexual congress.

  She moistened her lips. It might not be too bad, she thought, not with Harry. Physically, she found him very appealing—beautiful, actually, if you could use that word for a man. And she liked him. More than liked him, a small voice reminded her, even if he didn’t want to know ...

  And anyway, it didn’t take long. And even when it was vile, the rewards could be great, she thought, sending up another prayer for Torie.

  Mares never seemed to enjoy being covered by a stallion, either. What a mare could endure, Nell could. She just hoped it would be enough for him.

  Because what she did have to give him by the bucketful, he didn’t want.

  Love.

  She loved Harry Morant. She wasn’t sure when it had happened. Perhaps it was that first day in the forest, when his gray eyes had burned into hers for the longest time. And then he’d reached out and given her his hat . . .

  Perhaps it was the first time she’d kissed him. She’d fought the feeling then, denied it, even to herself, when she thought he threatened her search for Torie.

  It might have been that moment when he’d said, She’ll live with us, of course.

  Or perhaps it was when she’d realized how he’d held her through the night, keeping her from harm, asking nothing from her even though he badly wanted her.

  He’d never asked anything of her.

  She suspected he never asked anything of anyone. It was one way to keep yourself safe. Nell had done it herself.

  But you couldn’t keep yourself safe forever. Nell had felt one flutter beneath her breastbone and then another, and suddenly she was helpless with love for the tiny creature growing inside her.

  And that was nothing to what she’d felt when she first held Torie against her heart, inhaling her daughter’s scent as she put her to her breast. She would do anything to keep Torie safe. Anything.

  But she hadn’t kept her safe; she’d slept through the night and let Papa steal her daughter. The thought sent a wave of nausea through her.

  There was a knock on the door and Cooper put down the brush to answer it. She came back with a covered tray. “Your supper, m’lady. Mr. Harry had Cook send it up for you.”

  Nell shook her head. “I don’t want anything, thank you. Send it back.”

  Cooper hesitated, then took the tray back outside.

  “What are you doing with that, Cooper?” Harry had seen the tray go up, not two minutes before. She couldn’t possibly have finished it.

  “M’lady said she didn’t want any supper, sir.”

  “Did she eat anything?”

  Cooper shook her head.

  “Then stop right there,” Harry told her and mounted the stairs rapidly. At Nell’s door he knocked, opened the door, then took the tray from Cooper’s hands. “That will be all, Cooper,” he said crisply, stepped into Nell’s bedchamber and kicked the door shut behind him.

  And froze. Damn. He should have thought of this.

  Nell was standing in front of the fire, warming herself. His mouth dried. With the fire dancing behind her that old cotton nightgown of hers was damned near transparent, showing the outline of long, slender legs and lush hips. Her skin was delicately flushed and her hair loose and curling, still slightly damp.

  He had thought of it, he admitted.

  For the last hour he’d battled against visions of assisting her at her bath, soaping her creamy silken flesh, rinsing her down, then wrapping her in a towel and carrying her flushed and damp to bed.

  And now here she was, flushed and silken and damp and smelling like a cake straight from the oven. And wrapped in something a damned sight less substantial than a towel. But he wasn’t going to touch her, he reminded himself. And he could handle this.

  She eyed the tray suspiciously. “Why did you bring that back? I told Cooper I wasn’t hungry.”

  “I don’t care if you’re hungry or not,” he said, putting down the tray on a small side table. “We went over this at breakfast, so come and eat.” He held a chair for her.

  He could see the darkness of her nipples through the thin cotton. The first five buttons at the neck were undone, leaving a tempting glimpse of shadowy cleavage. He repressed a groan.

  Where had those lush breasts come from? When he first saw her she’d seemed quite flat-chested. Not that it had made a ha’porth of difference to him, then or now.

  Every time he came near her, his body responded with such fierce intensity he had to battle to keep it under control.

  He shouldn’t have come here. He knew how he’d respond. It was stupid, dangling temptation in front of him like this. Bad enough to have to hold her chastely through the night, but now it would be worse, because he would have this vision of her in his mind. In his mind and in his arms.

  And in his bed.

  Damn good thing there was a table between them. He removed the cover of the tray. He’d ordered a light supper for her: a soft-boiled egg, toast, butter, and marmalade, with a pot of tea.

  “I don’t want it,” she repeated.

  “Don’t you like eggs?”

  “I do normally, but I don’t feel like eating tonight.”

  “You’re tired and miserable, that’s all. You’ll feel better with food in you.”

  She folded her arms and gave him a mutinous look. He buttered one of the slices of toast, cut it in half, then cut each half into narrow strips. She watched him suspiciously. He neatly cut the head off one of the boiled eggs, sprinkled on salt and a little pepper, then brought the plate with the beheaded egg and the chopped-up toast to her.

  She didn’t unfold her arms, but Harry didn’t care. The pressure pushed her breasts higher and the opening of her nightgown gaped, revealing the lush curves.

  He forced himself not to notice. He dipped a strip of toast into the runny yolk of the egg, and held it to her lips.

  She pressed them tightly together. He kept it there. “Open the door,” he said, as if to a small child.

  She tried not to smile.

  “Do you know what we used to call these when I was a child?” he asked.

  “Toast soldier—mmph,” she ended, as he slipped the eggy soldier between her open lips.

  She chewed and swallow
ed. “That was very sneaky—” she began, and he slipped another piece of toast into her mouth. He felt her warm breath on his fingers.

  The next time, she tried to dodge him but he was too quick for her and slipped it between her lips anyway. Her eyes danced as she ate it.

  By the fifth piece of toast it had become a game; she was laughing and Harry’s problem was getting worse and worse. Who would have thought that feeding a woman toast dipped in egg could be an erotic experience?

  “I haven’t eaten eggs with toast soldiers for years,” she told him. “It was always my favorite nursery supper.” She moistened her lips, then parted them to receive her next morsel.

  Harry repressed a groan. It would be so easy just to lean forward and cover that sweet, rosy mouth with his. But it would be an invitation to madness. She was not yet ready for what he wanted.

  He jabbed the soldier into the egg and thrust it forward. A fat drop of yolk fell onto the inner curve of one creamy breast.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Harry said nothing. For a long moment they both stared at the drop of golden yolk, gleaming and moist against the silken skin. He swallowed, but he could no more resist the temptation than fly.

  Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head and licked the yolk away, laving her skin with his tongue. Her skin was cool and silken smooth. She smelled warm and delicious, like newly baked cakes and autumn apples.

  She tasted of woman. All woman.

  He inhaled deeply and fought the temptation to bury his face in the fragrant hollow. He grazed the satin skin lightly with his jaw.

  “Ohh,” she murmured. Her nipples were taut, thrusting against the thin fabric of her nightgown, only inches from his hands, from his mouth. He could feel one brushing against his arm. He moved his arm. She shivered deliciously and her eyes darkened.

  At her visible response to him, he felt a primeval surge of triumphant possessiveness. He’d found her, against all the odds he’d found this woman, this one woman like no other, his own personal siren. His woman. His wife.

  His wife-to-be.