Sayer left and Adam took a ring of keys from its hiding place behind the clock and unlocked the small gun cabinet that stood against the far wall of his study. The cabinet held only a few items as most of the weapons he owned were in the gun room at Exham. He took out a highly polished wooden box containing dueling pistols and his short sword before relocking the cabinet and making his way to his rooms.
As he changed into his riding clothes he ran through the half dozen things he would need to mention to Batson before his departure, not the least of which was an explanation for his daughters about his and Mia’s sudden departure.
Adam shrugged on his coat and felt something in the breast pocket. He pulled out a single green glove—a small woman’s glove. The sight of his wife’s lost or forgotten item, one of the many things that had cluttered his life before he’d purged her from his space—if not his mind—five days ago, brought a smile to his face. And then he recalled what she’d done. Without thinking, he brought it to his face. The faint scent of her lingered in the soft leather and almost doubled him over. He stared at the small article of clothing in his hand.
“I’m going to find you, my lady,” he told the glove, drawing strength from the sound of his own voice. “And when I do . . .” He stopped. What would he do? Could anything she said or did make any difference to how he felt at this point—enraged, destroyed, and abandoned, again?
Adam shrugged away the questions, tucked the glove inside his waistcoat, and snatched up his own gloves. He could demand answers to those questions once he got his hands on her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mia marveled at the difference a carriage could make to a journey. She longed for the luxury of Adam’s coach, where she had lounged in comfort against piles of cushions and her husband’s muscular, protective body.
The post-chaise Bouchard had engaged was fast, and she told herself that that was all that mattered. She tried to banish yearning thoughts of her husband from her mind and concentrate on the journey before her. Not the least of which was the struggle she anticipated having with Baron Ramsay.
Very little moonlight shone through the grimy carriage window. Martín had not had an easy time convincing the post company to make a journey on such a dark night. Money had finally won the argument and he’d paid three times the usual rate.
Mia had the carriage to herself as Bouchard had insisted on riding ahead of the postilions to ensure there were no unanticipated obstacles in the road. The road still showed signs of the recent heavy rains, but not enough to impede their progress in any serious way. Mia could only assume he meant thieves or robbers.
Mia couldn’t imagine that any highwayman would be stupid enough to meddle with Martín. In addition to the pair of loaded pistols he kept in a holster that fit across his saddle, he also had a wicked-looking sword at his hip. All three weapons were beautiful and ornate, as were their tooled leather carriers. Martín himself was rather beautiful and ornate on his enormous blood bay horse, his elegantly tailored riding outfit as well made as anything her husband owned.
Mia had been shocked by the quality and fit of his clothing. Having only ever seen him aboard Baron Ramsay’s ship, she had not realized he possessed the wealth and taste necessary to turn himself out in such a fashion. She supposed he must have made a fortune during his association with Ramsay, who had seized almost as many corsair vessels as the corsairs themselves.
Mia couldn’t recall very much of her journey from Oran to Eastbourne. She’d been too relieved by Jibril’s agreement to accompany her back to England to think of much else. One of the few details of the trip that had stayed with her, however, was Martín Bouchard.
He’d made his interest in Mia apparent her very first day on the Batavia’s Ghost.
She’d found his open, lustful admiration more than a little thrilling after years with the sultan, a man who had considered any female over thirteen a crone. She’d soon begun staring at him when she wasn’t even aware of doing it. Watching as he’d strutted about the ship, stripped down to only an old leather vest and worn buckskin breeches that covered his body like a coat of paint.
While his raw sensuality had woken long dormant urges in her body, it had driven Jibril almost to the brink of insanity.
“That man is a swine and I forbid you to have anything to do with him, Mother. In the future you will cover yourself before coming on deck.”
Jibril knew it was not the tradition of English women to cover their faces and bodies. But the Berber side of him— that part that approved the manner in which the sultan had sequestered and protected his women—could not bear to see men gawking at his mother.
Bouchard had come up to Mia after Jibril had stormed off one day, disgusted with her refusal to don her hijab.
“Your son guards you like a dog guards a bone,” the Frenchman had said in heavily accented English, his smile mocking.
Mia had assessed him from top to bottom before meeting his astonishing gold eyes.
“There are many hungry dogs on this ship. Perhaps he is wise to do so.”
He’d laughed but he’d not denied her words. And Mia could tell there were few dogs as hungry as Martín Bouchard.
Mia had only avoided his bed on the journey because she’d known what it would do to her son to see his mother fraternizing with a man he’d viewed as a servant. While Mia liked to think she’d had the lion’s share in forming Jibril’s character, the sultan had left his imprint on their son.
And now Bouchard was the captain of his own vessel—the Golden Scythe—a corsair ship that had terrorized the waters of the Mediterranean for decades. Bouchard was no longer a ship’s mate but a wealthy, independent man. That, added to his looks and arrogance, made him a force of nature.
The short time she’d spent in the private dining room of the Black Swan had shown her his effect on both men and women alike. The serving wenches at the dirty, rough inn had been lined up to please the exotic, wealthy man. The way his eyes had roamed and raked their bodies had convinced Mia he’d already worked his way through the most attractive of the staff in the short time he’d spent at the inn.
The hostile attitude of the men at the posting company had demonstrated the effect of his looks, attitude, and money on the male population. Mia could not blame the men; she had never seen a man behave so contemptuously toward others. Even Adam, who had no compunction about using his haughty stare on a duke, had never displayed such wholesale disregard of everyone in his orbit. If Adam ever happened upon the Black Swan, which was unlikely, he would have no difficulty getting information about the arrogant Frenchman from the stunned staff of that shady establishment.
Mia smiled in spite of herself at Bouchard’s obnoxious, swaggering behavior. In his mind, if not in reality, he undressed every woman he encountered and thrashed every man. He was sensuality and violence personified. She had to admit he was more blatantly attractive than her husband, but she was no longer tempted by him—a development Bouchard found highly annoying.
Mia had put him in a surly, pouting mood after she was forced to make it plain that she had no intention of becoming his bed partner. Or, as the case had been, stable partner, which was where they’d been standing when he’d made his first overture, describing to her with smug assurance how he could pleasure her in multiple ways before their carriage was even made ready. Mia didn’t doubt it.
She sighed as she leaned her head back against her seat. She’d given her heart to her husband, a man who most likely didn’t want it. The thought of lying with another man—even one as attractive as Martín Bouchard—held no interest for her. His molten eyes, which she had once thought so mesmerizing, offered no comparison to the icy blue pair that heated with searing passion when Adam looked at her.
The Frenchman’s ridiculously lush and shapely lips did not for a moment challenge her preference for Adam’s thinner, yet somehow more sensuous pair, with their enigmatic ability to shift from cruel to amused in the blink of an eye. She had no desire to spend her tim
e with any other man. No other man’s inner workings seemed as interesting, unknowable, or intriguing as his.
Mia was infatuated by her husband.
Rather than find that admission repugnant or terrifying, she surrendered to the knowledge with joy and relief. She had waited a long time to find love and had never really believed or expected it would happen. Now that she’d found it, she could not regret it. Even if he never took her back after this, even if he only remained her husband for the sake of an heir, she would not regret the depth of feeling she felt for him.
The only other person she cared more for was her son. He was also the only person for whom she would have left Adam. Mia had no room in her mind to entertain regret about her decision just now. She had the sick suspicion she’d have the rest of her life to live with the effects of today’s actions.
* * *
Mia wouldn’t have believed she could sleep in the miserable chaise, but when the carriage came to a halt, she realized she must have slept for several hours. The outlines of Baron Ramsay’s ancestral home were barely visible in the predawn light. The only other time she’d been to Lessing Hall had been in the middle of the night and she had been too upset to notice anything about her surroundings.
Martín’s face appeared in the carriage window, the dark smudges beneath his unnerving eyes showing the toll the ride in virtual darkness had taken.
“Stay here while I send word to the baron.”
Mia was in the process of rearranging her disordered hair and frock when the door opened again and Martín put down the stairs and held out his hand for her. His expression was thunderous and Mia wondered what had happened in the short interval to make him so furious.
The answer to her question was apparent when she reached the door and encountered the stiff mien of a man who could only be the butler.
“Lady Exley?”
“Yes. I am Lady Exley.”
The butler hesitated, considering the best approach as he regarded a woman who might be the daughter of a duke and a marchioness in her own right. He turned to Martín, looking at him much as a man would look at a pile of malodorous refuse he had almost stepped in.
Martín threw his hands in the air. “Voyons! You have seen her. Now go get the baron!”
He snatched up Mia’s hand, pushed past the horrified butler, and led her through the enormous foyer, up a flight of stairs, and down a long hallway, pausing at a console table and taking the small candelabrum that sat on it. He opened the door and gently pushed her inside before closing the door behind them.
“Sit.” He gestured to a chair and placed the candelabrum on a long table behind the sofa across from it. He lighted several other candles before going to a small table, where the clinking of glass told her he was pouring a drink. He threw back the contents and then poured another.
“Brandy?” he asked after the second glass went the way of the first, as if he was only now realizing the rudeness of quaffing a beverage without offering some to her.
“Yes, perhaps a very small amount.” She would probably need more than that.
He grunted and busied himself with the decanter before unceremoniously handing her the glass and flinging himself onto the couch across from her, his beautiful riding clothes wrinkled and filthy from the long night. He sipped his drink and regarded her with a suspicious gaze, a distinctly unfriendly gleam in his eyes.
“It looks as if they know of you here,” she said.
He snorted rudely and took a drink. “That fool butler. I would thrash him if he were not at death’s door already.”
“Do you stay here often?” Now that he was no longer trying to seduce her with every word and glance, she found his arrogance boyishly endearing. Jibril often behaved in such a high-handed manner.
“Not if I can help it.” He finished his drink and put it down with a thump before dragging the back of his hand across his lips. Lips that were compressed in an expression of annoyance rather than their habitual sensual pout.
Mia laughed and drew a venomous look.
The door flew open and bounced off the wall.
Mia and Martín both sprang to their feet.
“My lord, I am—” the younger man began.
“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” Ramsay yelled, his single green eye on Mia. She felt, rather than saw, Martín release a sigh as he realized he was not the focus of the other man’s ire.
Mia refused to let Ramsay intimidate her, no matter how intimidating he was. She placed her fists on her hips. “Assad has taken Jibril.”
Ramsay stopped a foot away from her, his hands lifted, as if he’d been on the point of picking her up, carrying her back to the carriage, and stuffing her in it.
He turned to Bouchard.
The erstwhile arrogant captain shrugged and commenced to examine his boots.
“Where is Exley?” His gaze flickered across the room, as if Mia might have hidden him somewhere.
“He does not know I am here.”
He let out a wordless bellow and shoved one big hand through his sleep-mussed hair, which already stood out at odd angles. “You came here without him? Are you insane? The man will probably shoot me and run his sword through me when he finds out you’re here.”
“Did you not hear me?” Mia demanded, rage boiling up inside her and driving her voice up at least two octaves.
“Yes,” he yelled back. “I heard you, Mia. Your son has been taken by his brother. They are engaged in a bloody war! What the devil did you expect to happen? I told the young hothead he should stay, but he would not listen.” He stared down at her with a murderous look on his face. “Just as you did not listen when I told you to confess to Exley.” He threw his big hands in the air. “What a surprise! Like mother, like son.”
Of all the arrogant, obnoxious, odious—Mia reached up and poked him hard in the chest with her finger. “Listen to me you . . . you . . .” Mia stamped her foot, too furious to even think straight. “You beefhead!”
Ramsay’s mouth formed a stunned O of surprise that would have been humorous under other circumstances but only irritated her now.
“I didn’t want to come here—to speak to you or listen to your orders—but Bouchard made me. So, will you let me tell you what has happened instead of roaring like an enraged bull? Will you just shut up and listen to me for once?” Mia’s last words echoed through the big room like shots from a pistol.
Ramsay’s mouth made a snapping sound when it shut. Martín, on the other hand, looked as if his jaw would graze the floor. His eyes bulged as they flickered from Mia to his former captain, a man feared by some of the worst killers and rogues on the planet. The silence in the room was brittle, broken only by the sound of Ramsay’s grinding teeth. Years seemed to pass before he nodded abruptly and gestured to the settee behind her. “Sit and tell me how you have come to be here.” He dropped into the chair across from her.
Mia’s legs shook like blancmange as she resumed her seat and related the events of the last twelve hours. Once she had finished she added, “I have only come to you because Martín insisted. He argued, rightfully, that you are one of the few people to have escaped the sultan’s slave quarters, which is probably where they are holding Jibril. Martín believes you could give me information that would help to smuggle Jibril out. He does not think Assad will release Jibril even if I bring the money.”
The baron’s eye narrowed as he looked at Martín. Whatever Martín saw in his face made him flush and drop his eyes under the bigger man’s gaze.
Ramsay heaved a sigh and rubbed the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. It was the same injury that had taken his eye and was a souvenir from Sultan Babba Hassan—the father of the man Mia was asking him to help. The irony was not lost on her.
“Martín should have come to me before he told you of this, Mia. But he’s right. The only reason Assad would ask you to deliver the ransom is to take revenge. And you know it.”
Mia nodded. “Yes, he has always believed I convinc
ed the sultan to order his mother’s death. It is not true. I never spoke to Babba Hassan in favor of her death, but I did nothing to discourage him, either.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” Ramsay said. “Assad’s mother was a monster and terrified any slaves who worked in the palace.”
“I do not dispute she was an evil woman, Ramsay. But the manner of her death did not serve her son. The sultan never trusted Assad after what his mother did. The manner of her death left Assad ashamed and angry—and it raised my own son to favored status at his expense.”
He waved his hand. “That is water over the dam.” His expression shifted from irritated to businesslike. “Martín is correct in that we will have to steal Jibril away from the palace.”
“We? Surely you will not go? You have only just returned to England.”
“Yes, I will go.” Ramsay scowled, although the expression seemed more directed at himself than Mia. “No matter how bloody inconvenient it is, no matter that she will flay the skin from my back,” he added under his breath. “But you? You”—he pointed a big finger at Mia—“will be of absolutely no assistance. In fact, the only thing your presence will serve to do is make an easy target for Assad. So, if you—”
Loud voices came from beyond the door.
Ramsay lunged to his feet. “What the devil is it now?” he demanded of nobody in particular before striding toward the door and wrenching it open. Mia tried to peer around him but his huge body blocked the view into the hallway.
“Ah, Ramsay. Just the man I was looking for.”
Mia jumped to her feet at the sound of Adam’s voice.
“Now, I am past the point of asking nicely, Ramsay. Where. Is. My. Wife?” The hiss of a sword leaving its scabbard punctuated his demand.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dangerous Page 23
