Adam had to glare up a good six inches to meet Baron Ramsay’s eye. He’d not intended to draw his sword, but the protracted interaction with Ramsay’s butler had frayed his already tenuous grip on his temper. He stood rigidly before the much larger man, his sword drawn but still at his side.
The baron lifted his hands and took a step back into the room. “I have no sword and would not fight you if I did.” He smiled wryly. “I am not eager to leave this life just yet.”
Adam re-sheathed his weapon and stalked past him into the room. He cast a quick look at his wife to assure himself she was unharmed before his gaze settled on the man who’d abducted her.
“You.” He strode toward the smirking, handsome face.
Before he could reach the arrogant-looking bastard—who’d scrambled to his feet and actually taken a step toward Adam—a hand like a vise landed on his shoulder and a second one closed around his forearm as it moved to the hilt of his sword.
“Now, now Exley,” Ramsay said, his tone pacific as he held Adam in an unbreakable grip. “I cannot let you kill Martín. You see, that is a pleasure I am reserving for myself. Perhaps you should ask your wife why she is here. I think she has several matters to discuss with you.”
The baron turned him to face Mia before releasing him. “Make yourselves comfortable. Martín and I will adjourn to the library.” The baron cut the younger man a grim look. “I have a few things to say to him. When you are finished here, you can join us and we can discuss the problem like level-headed adults.”
Adam stared at his wife’s bowed head while the others left the room. Once the door had closed he went to the large picture window and leaned one hand against it, looking out at the breaking dawn.
“Adam?”
He steeled himself and turned. Mia was looking up at him with eyes etched by fatigue and worry.
“Please—” She gestured to the small sofa. “Won’t you sit? I would like to tell you everything.”
Adam was shaking with fury born of an almost heart-stopping fear. Fear that he wouldn’t find her in time, fear that she might be hurt, fear that she would never return, fear that she might—God forbid—die. He clenched his jaw and sat.
She laid a hand on his forearm. “I have wanted to tell you the truth since almost the beginning, but I was afraid you would hate me when you learned how I deceived you.” She looked up at him, her eyes searching and desperate.
Adam crossed his arms, the action pulling his arm from her grip. “Go on.”
“I was so unhappy when we first met. The weeks I spent in England were hellish. My father was cold and controlling and I quickly understood that he wished I’d never come back. It took only days before I wished the same thing—that I had gone anywhere else in the world except here. Somewhere I could live without being a public spectacle or the latest on-dit for people who despised me.” She swallowed so hard he could hear it. “I have to confess that I entered our marriage with every intention of running away as soon as you left me at Exham and returned to London.”
Each breath Adam took was a struggle, as though some invisible force was crushing and squeezing his chest. He could not stop staring at her. She’d chosen him not in spite of his background, but because of it: she had wanted a man with a proven inability to keep a wife and she had found the perfect, pathetic fool.
Again she took his arm. “My plan was to return to the Mediterranean, where I could rejoin my son.”
His jaw dropped. “Your son?”
“Yes, I lied when I told you he’d died. I decided to keep his existence a secret after I returned to England. I could see any mention of a child born to a man who’d not been my husband would make an even more disastrous situation worse, not to mention give my father the idea I might one day want to escape.”
Her son? That was what she had been hiding?
“My son was his father’s true heir. Although Jibril—that is Arabic for Gabriel,” she said, fierce pride blazing across her face—“although he was not his father’s eldest, he was his most favored. His older brother Assad refused to step aside for him when the sultan died. For more than half a year they have fought for possession of their father’s wealth, power, and people. And now Assad has captured Jibril and is holding him for ransom. If I do not bring him the money”—she passed a hand over her face, as if to wipe the horrible thought away—“Assad will kill him.” She grasped his arm with both hands. “Don’t you see now? Why I had to leave you?”
Adam pulled away, too furious and confused to want her touch. “Why didn’t you come to me when you learned of your son’s abduction? Why did you turn to that ... that—” He gestured angrily toward the chair where the arrogant bastard had sat, grinning at Adam, smirking at the fact that he—and not Adam—had been the one Mia had turned to. The pain and rejection he heard in his own voice only made him more irate.
Her mouth trembled, “I wanted to—so badly. But I was afraid. You see, I need to go to him, Adam. I must go to Oran.”
“What?”
“Assad wants me to bring him the ransom.”
“You want to go to Africa?” His voice was unnaturally high.
She nodded.
“Have you gone bloody mad?” He stood and glared down at her. “Absolutely not. I will send Ramsay’s man with the money. I will pay him for the use of his ship, his crew—whatever is necessary. The only place you’re going, ma’am, is back to Exham.”
She clutched at his arm. “I must go. Assad wants the money only from my hand.”
Adam felt like he was a player in some bizarre farce. It was a struggle not to grab her and shake her until her teeth rattled.
“I don’t care what he wants, Mia. Any plans you’ve made for leaving English soil are out of the question. The sooner you accept it, the better it will be for everyone.”
She sank to her knees beside him. “Adam, if you forbid me to go to my son and anything happens to him, I will never forgive you. Do you understand what that will do to us?” Tears ran from her red-rimmed eyes—eyes already swollen from crying.
“You mean other than what you’ve already done to us?” His words were like the crack of a whip. He pulled away from her, sickened by her begging and how it made him feel—brutal and heartless. And scared.
“Let me explain, Adam, about Gamble. That was all a misunderstanding.”
Adam pulled her to her feet and motioned to the settee. “Sit.” He turned and paced the room. “Go ahead. Tell me about the misunderstanding.”
“It was true that I led him to believe I would grant him my favors.”
Adam snorted. He couldn’t look at her. He wanted to throw things, to break things. Something substantial. His eyes lit on a large marble in the corner, a representation of Fortuna. He gave a bitter laugh. How bloody appropriate, yet another duplicitous, scheming woman.
“Adam, I only did it because I—”
He swung around. “I don’t care why you did it, Mia. You brought a servant into my house—under my roof—with the promise that he would become your lover?”
She nodded, her face creased in misery.
“How far did it go?”
“Nothing! We did nothing. He was getting angry because I would not lie with him. I decided to get him out of the house for a time, until I could think what I would do about my son. I gave him my mother’s jewels to take to Eastbourne. I wanted Bouchard to sell them and give the money to Jibril. That was what I was doing the day you came into the room and caught us. It was true I had unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat, but it was only so I could put the packet inside and make certain it was not too bulky and that nobody could see it if . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
It did, but Adam believed her. Nobody—certainly not a woman of her intelligence—would make up such a story. But the truth was that she’d brought a man into his house intending to sleep with him, to offer her body in exchange for his help. That was bad enough, but then sh
e’d kept him around, even after their feelings had changed and they’d realized—he stopped. Their feelings had changed? No, his feelings had changed. He still had no idea what she felt about him—if anything. Who was to—
“Adam.” She’d come to stand beside him again, her small hands grabbing his arm. “You must let me go to him, Adam, you must. If I do not and he is hurt, I will hate you forever.”
Adam looked at her tearstained face and felt the force of her words. He remembered the hopeless rage he’d experienced—still experienced—when he realized there was nothing he could do to save his own children. If there was a way to save his daughters from their uncertain futures and if any person—man or woman, stood in his way—he would kill them.
He closed his eyes. Africa? How could he allow it? It would be like cutting off his arm and sending it to the Mediterranean. No, it would be worse. He could learn to live without his arm. He was not sure he could live without Mia, no matter how angry and hurt and battered he felt. He might never be able to forgive her, but that didn’t mean he would ever let her get away from him.
“Adam?”
He glared down at her, at this woman who’d shredded his heart as easily as a piece of paper. Her expression was one of mute misery and crushing anxiety.
He held out his arm. “Come, let us rejoin the others.”
* * *
Mia was too terrified to ask what decision her husband had made. The butler waited for them outside the sitting room door.
“This way if you please, my lord, my lady.”
They found the other two waiting for them in the library. Ramsay came forward when they entered the room.
Adam stared up at him. “I am going to choose to believe you would not have allowed my wife to make a journey of this magnitude without first consulting me.”
Mia hid a smile as her rapier-slim husband challenged the towering man.
Ramsay nodded. “You are absolutely correct, Exley. I had not entertained such a thought even for an instant. No matter how big a bully your wife is.” He smiled amiably and motioned to the tray of food and empty seats.
Adam ignored him, released Mia, and approached Martín.
Mia’s breath caught in her throat as the insouciant Bouchard rose to his feet. The two men were almost of equal height, she realized, but the Frenchman was bulky and broad beside Adam’s sleek elegance.
“Lady Exley tells me you brought her the information regarding her son.”
Martín smirked.
“For that, I thank you. But if you go against me or around me in any way, on any matter concerning my wife, I will not be so sanguine the next time.” His hand rested close to the rapier he still wore.
For a long, horrible moment Mia thought Martín would press the issue. But, whether it was because he did not really care, did not feel like fighting, or did not want to incur Ramsay’s ire, he shrugged and the tension broke.
Adam sat on the settee beside Mia but looked at the baron.
“So, when do we leave?”
* * *
They discussed matters until Mia, Adam, and Martín could hardly stay awake. Much of what they would do would depend on the situation they would find in Oran when they arrived.
“In any case,” Ramsay said when he noticed the amount of yawning among the three, “we can’t decide everything right now. You might as well get some sleep as there is nothing else you can do today. The earliest we can depart will be tomorrow, and we will need a bit of luck for that.” His lips twisted into a mocking smile. “I had a rather important engagement in London and will need to send word to postpone things before I leave. You will have to give me the afternoon to see to matters and we can meet to discuss everything at dinner.”
Lessing Hall, the seat of the Davenport earldom, was considered one of England’s most impressive country seats and it was easy to see why. The ancient house dated from the Saxon period but had been expanded upon in the centuries that followed.
The mistress of the house, Lord Ramsay’s aunt—the current Countess Davenport—was away in London with her twin sons but her housekeeper, Mrs. Faring, had lovely and spacious chambers ready and waiting for them.
Adam had brought Sayer with him and the two disappeared into his bedchambers while Mrs. Faring showed Mia to an adjoining room, where a maid waited.
“I’ve taken the liberty of having Bessie wait on you, my lady, as you’ve brought no maid with you. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Faring.”
The housekeeper departed and Mia waited until Bessie finished undressing her and took her clothing somewhere to be cleaned before opening the connecting door to Adam’s room. The bathing chamber held the largest copper tub she had ever seen. Standing beside it, with a towel in his hand, was her husband. Something moved at the corner of her vision and she saw Sayer, his arms full of clothing. He saw her and left the room without saying a word.
It hurt more than she could have believed that Adam would take his bath without her; he knew how much she loved bathing with him.
He was angry and she had no idea how to find her way back to the intimacy they’d shared before her lies had divided them. Had she broken the fragile bond that had grown between them? Had she found love after all these years only to ruin it?
Mia must have made a sound because he lifted his head and looked at her.
She went toward him and held out her hand, not asking, but taking the towel he was using to dry himself. His eyes were like disks of glass as he watched her rub the water from his body. He returned her smile with an impassive stare.
“This is quite the largest bathing tub I’ve seen.”
“Ramsay is a large man and his uncle and grandfather were the same.” He lifted his arm so she could dry beneath it.
It seemed to Mia that no matter how often she saw her husband naked, she could not keep her heart from leaping into her mouth. When she looked up into his eyes she saw that his eyebrows were two black slashes on his pale brow and she flushed under his direct stare, ashamed at how she’d forced him to chase her and fight his way into another man’s house. She’d treated him badly and exposed him to yet more ridicule—no different from his other wives, it seemed.
“I am ashamed at how I treated you, Adam.”
He gave her the same cold look he’d given her the night they met. The night he’d come alone to her father’s house, one man in a crowd of hundreds who would not even acknowledge him. “Can you forgive me?”
He leaned down until their faces were almost touching. This close she could see the white and blue shards of his eyes. The muscles in his jaws tightened and Mia could feel his anger—his pain. She did not know what to do or what words to say to bring back the warmth.
“Is my forgiveness so important to you?”
Her heart pounded as she considered his cold, mocking words. She could think of nothing that would express how she felt, how her heart had broken to leave him. She took his hand and lifted it to her mouth, kissing his palm.
“What can I do to apologize, my lord?”
He shrugged lazily, the muscles of his chest and shoulders contracting in a way that made her want to lick every inch of him. “I daresay you’ll think of something.”
He watched through narrowed eyes as she sank to her knees before him.
His pose was arrogant, his hands on his hips. The sight of calluses on his thumb and forefinger—mute evidence of his hours spent fencing—was unbearably erotic. She looked at his face and saw the faint, dismissive smile she’d not seen since the early days of their marriage—he’d once again donned his mask. The only sign he was not bored hung between them. Mia looked from his cool gaze to his erection and brought her mouth to the level of his hips. She leaned closer and flicked him with her tongue, pleased by the violent shudder that tore through his body.
No, not bored.
She ran her tongue the length of the pulsing vein, an action that ripped a gasp from him.
“Good God.” The words were harsh and utterly lacking in contempt.
Mia smiled and took him in her mouth.
* * *
Adam wove his fingers into her coppery hair as she took him deep, working him with a relentless skill that brought him to the point of climax far quicker than he wanted.
Her kneeling form was the very embodiment of feminine submission and contrition. But Adam could not forget how easily she’d made love to him while she’d kept another man dangling in his very own house, no matter how skillfully she employed her mouth. He stepped away from her and she looked up, no doubt annoyed he’d interrupted her masterful performance.
“Get up.” He took her upper arms and lifted her. Her lips were swollen and slick from their tender labor and the sight made him burn. He looked into the huge pupils of her green eyes and the desire he felt—no, the love he felt—robbed him of breath.
And so did the hate.
Hatred for the power she had over him, the power to take his happiness and sanity away, the power to give him either pleasure or pain as she chose; hatred for the thousand ways in which she now held him in the palm of her hand.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”
She complied without speaking. He trapped her hands with his and pulled her arms taut, roughly shoving apart her legs before stepping between her thighs. He entered her with a thrust so violent he lifted her off her feet. She moaned and pushed back against him and the last vestiges of his sanity burned away.
“You will never leave me again,” he gritted the words into the back of her fiery head as he filled her. “Do you hear me?” He slammed into her. “You are mine,” he said from between jaws clenched so hard it hurt. She arched against him in answer.
“If I ever catch you with another man, I will kill him while I make you watch. And then I will punish you.” He thrust savagely to illustrate his point. He rode her without any finesse, tenderness, or care for her pleasure, the only thought in his mind the need to brand, dominate, and possess.
His climax was violent and all-consuming. It turned his body inside out, the brief escape from everything except pleasure a gift unlike any other. But all too soon he came back, collapsing against her and vaguely aware of her contractions subsiding around him.
Dangerous Page 24
