Pistol in one hand, knife in the other, the masked man slashed through the net and then the ropes. He yanked Garrick to his feet. Blood rushed into his extremities. He bit back a protest. “Outside,” his captor said.
Struggling to regain his wits, Garrick shuffled out on feet pricked by a thousand pins, and every joint in his body complaining. Outside in the dazzle of a fine morning, the woman, also masked, bent over a pan on the fire. The blankets piled nearby suggested she’d camped there.
As usual, her hair was covered with her peruke. She looked up as Garrick sat down cross-legged against the wall of the barn. “You walk like an old man.”
He glared at her. “So would you if you’d been tied like a parcel all night.”
She collected more wood for the fire from a pile at the side of the barn. On the way back she sniffed as she passed him. “You stinks. Ben, take ‘im to the pond to wash.”
So her partner’s name was Ben.
“On your feet, my lord,” the man said.
“Why bother?” he said, glowering at Ben. “You’re just going to murder me.”
Ben picked up his rifle, grabbed Garrick by the upper arm and marched him down to the pond where he untied the ropes at his wrists.
“Strip.”
Garrick glanced at the woman. “No.”
“Then I’ll do it fer ye while she holds the rifle. Leave your damned breeches on if ye must.”
Garrick huffed out a breath. No point in arguing for the sake of it.
He removed his coat and dropped it at his feet. His shirt followed, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Retaining his breeches, he stood. With a wary eye on Ben, he backed into the water.
“You’ll see my bullet coming,” Ben said.
Garrick didn’t trust either of them and let disbelief show in his face. When the water was deep enough, he sluiced the water over his arms and face. The woman strolled to the water’s edge and tossed him a bar of soap, then she picked up his shirt and stockings, rinsed them and hung them to dry over the fence.
“I’ll have those back, wench,” Garrick called. She ignored him.
Although the mud on the bottom oozed between his toes, the water was cool and reasonably clear. Garrick could not help but enjoy the freshness after his ghastly night. He kept an eye on Ben who, while he held his rifle casually, held it with the assurance of a man practised in its use. Garrick was sure the man had seen military service from his disciplined movements and ramrod carriage. A hard man, who would not make escape easy.
He soaped his hair and sank beneath the water to rinse. When he came to the surface he saw Ben alert, his rifle cocked. He stood up slowly, aware of the wench watching from the bank, her gaze travelling over his torso, her lips parting slightly as if she’d never seen a man without his shirt.
Heat pooled instantly in his loins. Damn her. She’d done it on purpose. He splashed more water over his face, forcing his body under control before he could think of leaving the water. Fortunately, she returned to her cooking.
So Garrick made his way out of the pond and headed for his clothes.
“No need to be shy,” the woman said. “Put them on when they are dry.”
Ben looked scandalised. He muttered something under his breath, but gestured for Garrick to go ahead.
The scent of bacon assaulted his nostrils. Whether because it was being cooked outside, or because he was ravenously hungry, his mouth watered. He kept his face impassive and returned to his place against the barn wall.
“Sit by the fire,” she ordered. “We don’t want yer catching a chill.”
He curled his lip. “Not before you get my money, at least.”
Ben jerked the rifle. “Sit near the fire.”
Garrick cursed and sat as directed.
The woman slapped the eggs and bacon on to a slab of bread and handed it to him. She did the same for Ben. It tasted as good as it smelled. It would do no good to starve himself. He’d need every ounce of strength to escape these two.
She stood up. “We need fresh water.” She walked away.
Moments later, he heard her gasp behind him.
Ben looked up from his food. “What is it?”
Garrick knew what had caught her attention. It was the reason he never removed his shirt in public. He glowered, but said nothing as she placed a cup of water beside him, her gaze still fixed on his back.
“Look at this,” she said to Ben.
Unfolding his brawny body with a grunt, Ben stood up and joined her at Garrick’s shoulder. He whistled softly through his teeth.
“Who did this?” she asked.
Garrick heard the pity in her voice and cringed. He did not need her sympathy, damn her. “An accident, years ago.” Uncle Duncan had lost his temper. He’d expressed his regret as Garrick lay on his stomach, bandaged and medicated. Le Clere had never lost control like that again but it always served to remind Garrick what lay beneath the surface.
“An accident?” She stared at Ben, her face full of incredulity. “Have you ever seen…?”
“In the army, I have. An officer’s cane can do that kind of damage.”
She reached out and pressed a finger on his back. Garrick jumped with a curse.
“Sorry,” she said, whipping her hand away.
“Forget it,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Just give me my shirt if the sight troubles you.”
But once again she touched him, gently now, tracing the three straight diagonal lines across his back. His skin jumped and flickered, although her touch was as gentle as a butterfly, as light as a whispering breeze, almost a caress. He felt his chest constrict. The women he had known in London were interested in only one thing and it did not involve tenderness. No woman had ever touched him so softly, not since his mother…
Garrick squeezed his eyes tight, forcing down the memories. He pulled away from her questing fingers.
Ben shook his head. “They’re old, but no accident.”
She paced away. “If he’s to spend another night here, you will need to find a better way to make him secure.”
He glared at the woman. How long did they expect to keep him here? “Le Clere won’t pay you. He is not such a fool.” He hoped.
“I’ll find something.” Ben’s voice sounded kindly, less harsh. “Up you get, lad. Sit over by the fence.”
Garrick rose to his feet. Silent and grim, Ben tied him to the fence with enough rope to shift his position. Tied up like a wild animal. Like one of his nightmares. He clenched and unclenched his hands, forcing himself to hold back the anger rising in his gullet. He took a deep breath. Then another. Control. Sooner or later they’d make a mistake.
Ben left them on foot, meaning he was headed for somewhere nearby. Were they in league with one of the local farmers? One of his tenants? An interesting and disturbing thought.
Forced into idleness, he watched the wench groom all three horses. The skin-tight breeches hugged the flair of her hips, and her slender thighs above riding boots were the stuff of pleasurable dreams. The full shirt and open waistcoat didn’t hide her narrow waist, but gave no impression of the size of her breasts. Those he’d felt, small and firm, when he’d kissed her.
He shifted, furious and uncomfortable at his body’s arousal. No doubt she knew how incredibly sensual she looked in her boy’s garb. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing he’d noticed. Instead, he closed his eyes to picture her face behind the mask, light eyes, certainly. But what colour hair lay beneath her ridiculous old-fashioned wig? Her eyebrows were fair. But her hair could be anything from red to gold. The sun warmed his skin. A bee bumbled by in a soft drone on air scented with grass and sweet clover.
———
Having finished with the horses, Eleanor decided to feed her prisoner before Martin returned and they left for the night. A platter of bread, cheese and pickles seemed a somewhat meagre offering for a man who must be used to the finest dining. On the way, she gathered up his now-dry clothes. The Marquess
needed to get dressed. The sight of him sprawled on the grass like some Adonis really was too much, especially since he had fallen asleep, leaving her free to peek all she wanted. The way he had watched her from beneath half-lowered lids, while she groomed the horses, had made her feel hot and awkward. She’d been glad when he’d drifted off to sleep.
He looked so peaceful propped against the fence, his head lolling against a naked broad shoulder. Like an angel. A fallen one, with that sensual cast of his lips and the body of a heathen god. And there was just so much of him. Even stretched out on the grass, his male virility was overpowering.
Her breath became shallow as she stood just looking at the rogue. What would they have thought of each other if they had met under different circumstances? In London, perhaps? Would they have met? A proper young lady wouldn’t be introduced to a rake with his reputation.
Whereas a real lady highwayman might well take advantage of a handsome prisoner tied up at her mercy. A little thrill shot through her insides at the image. Dash it. How could she be so wicked? She really wished she’d never started along this path.
She set the plate beside him and the pile of clothes. He must have sensed her presence because he opened one eye, then the other and stretched. “You’ll forgive me for not getting up.”
Polite to a fault, even if there was an edge of sarcasm in his voice. “I’ll forgive ye. Eat. It’s all you’ll get today.” She flopped down against the fence. “So you thought to trap us with yer talk of gold at the inn?” she asked as he munched on the bread.
He swallowed and she watched the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple in the strong column of his throat with utter fascination. “I wanted my signet ring back,” he said.
“Not the watch?”
A glimmer of a smile curved his lips. “A gift from a lady with rather flamboyant tastes. You are welcome to it.” His face sobered. “The ring was my father’s.”
The hollow note in his voice made her cringe—she knew how awful she’d feel if she lost her mother’s locket. But he only had himself to blame. If he’d not proved so intractable about the repayment of the mortgage, none of this would have happened.
Something moved at the edge of her vision. By her knee. A spider. Big and black and hairy. Walking up her leg.
She froze. A shudder ran down her spine. Held her rigid.
“Looks like you’ve made a new friend,” he said, grinning.
“Get it off,” she gasped.
He laughed. “It’s only a spider.”
“Get it off me,” she said through stiff lips, afraid to breath in case it moved. “Please.” Her voice shrilled.
With a muttered curse, he leaned forward and brushed the horrid thing away with his bound hands. It scuttled into the grass. “There. It’s gone.”
Her skin prickled as if it was crawling all over her. Trembles shook her body. Her teeth chattered. “I hate them.”
“It’s gone.” He tipped her chin with the back of his hand, smiling. “I promise you.” He lifted his arms, dropped them over her head, around her shoulders and drew her on to his lap. “You are all right.” He pressed his lips to her jaw below her mask, let her nuzzle into his shoulder where she drew on his calm, comforted by the steady sound of his heartbeat.
Slowly her trembles dissipated. She felt safe, protected, for the first time in many months. And being held in his arms seemed like the most natural thing in the world. The chills of revulsion lessened. Heat rushed to her face. “I’m such an idiot,” she muttered against silken skin smelling of soap and smoke from the fire, and another scent. Him.
“We all have our fears,” he said gently, as if he really understood. He tipped her chin with the back of his bound hands, the sight of the rope making her cringe. And when she met his gaze, his warm brown eyes showed concern. “All right now?” he asked, then frowned. “Tears?” He smoothed her cheek below the mask with his thumb, then bent his head and pressed his lips to the place he had rubbed as if to kiss away her fear. Like an adult with a child. Sweet. Kind.
An ache squeezed her chest. Guilt. And something else she didn’t dare name.
She dropped a kiss of gratitude on his cheek, missed and landed on the corner of his mouth. He angled his head and captured her lips full on, licking and tasting, while his forearm supported her nape. Tingles raced across her breasts. Her insides clenched.
Oh, heavens. At any moment, Martin would return. Yet she didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop. Not yet. Soon. She opened her mouth to his questing tongue. And she was lost. Lost in pleasure. Dizzy with the rapid beat of her heart. The lack of air. Sensations rippled though her body, pleasurable little thrills, warmth, and languid melting.
Her hands clung to his sun-warmed shoulders. Satin skin, firm muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Pure strength. Lovely wicked flutters deep between her thighs held her enthralled.
She lay her hand flat against the haze of beard on his jaw. He broke the kiss, turned his head, the roughened skin grazing her palm, and licked the base of her thumb, hot and wet, followed instantly by cool. A shiver of delight danced across her breasts.
She moaned at the sensual onslaught.
This is wrong, a little voice whispered. You will never be the same again. Get up now.
He shifted his weight and eased her on to the ground, cushioning her shoulders with his forearm. She opened her thighs at the nudge of his knee and a sweet burst of pleasure fired in her core.
“Untie me, chérie. Vite. Quickly. Free my hands.”
Eleanor stared at him blankly.
“Cut the rope,” he pleaded, his breathing ragged and shallow, his voice hoarse. “Set me free. I’ll do nothing to hurt you.” His soft, accented voice was an urgent enticing whisper in her ear. His thigh ground against her, pushing between her legs, creating hot surges of sweet agony.
“A promise you will keep, my lord.”
Ah, no. Martin. Face scalding, she slipped under the loop of the Marquess’s arms and rose to her feet, breathing hard. What had she been thinking?
Martin cocked his rifle with a loud threatening click and the Marquess struggled to a sitting position.
Bewilderingly, her mind seemed to be full of molasses, thick and syrupy and deadly. He’d comforted her and she’d dissolved like butter in hot milk. Mute with embarrassment, she stared at Martin weighed down by a necklace of iron chain and shackles. He levelled his rifle.
The Marquess stiffened, as if bracing for…Oh God. Martin was going to fire. “Put the gun down,” she yelled. “He is unarmed and bound. No harm was done.”
Martin held her stare for a long moment, then grimaced. He let the rifle fall to his side, but his body remained stiff, his movements jerky as he set the rifle against the fence. He pulled the Marquess to his feet. “Back to the barn for yer lordship.”
“Take your hands off me,” the Marquess said, steadying himself on his feet, his face as flushed as hers felt.
Was he ashamed of their kiss? And why did it matter? Once this was over, she’d never see him again. A pain she couldn’t fathom filled her heart. Oh, God, what was wrong with her? Kissing him like a wanton, all the while knowing Martin would return at any moment. She had lost her mind.
He’d been so kind about the spider, not laughing the way her brothers always had at her stupid female fear, that she’d forgotten they were enemies. And now Martin looked ready to commit murder. Something she would not allow. She picked up the Marquess’s clothes and the rest of the food and followed them into the cool depths of the barn.
Martin fixed the iron chain to the ring in the wall and fastened the shackle to the Marquess’s ankle before cutting the ropes free.
“That’ll hold you,” Martin said.
The Marquess glanced up from inspecting his chain. “Your accommodations leave much to be desired.” The lazy drawl seemed at odds with the revulsion she glimpsed in his eyes. “Why not shoot me and have done? I’ll be damned if you’ll get any money.”
Bravado, she thought. And yet
…
“We’ll see,” Martin said, stepping back.
“Leave me alive and I’ll hunt you down like dogs,” the Marquess said, in matter-of-fact tones.
He meant it. Was he taunting Martin deliberately so he’d shoot? Did he hate those chains so much? Bile rose in her throat, a sour taste of guilt. Her heart sank. She couldn’t see it through. She could not keep him chained here day after day, thinking they were going to kill him and watching his hatred grow.
She gazed down at him. He winked. More bravado.
Martin growled a curse.
In her heart she knew the Marquess would try again to charm her into setting him free. And she wasn’t sure how long she could resist, unless she kept away from him completely. It would be best if she left him to Martin. Best for her. Not for him, given Martin’s present mood.
Coward.
And what if his uncle wouldn’t pay the ransom? What would they do then? Not only would they not have the money they needed, they’d have the Marquess bent on revenge. If only she had something he wanted in exchange for the mortgage.
There was one thing he seemed to want. Her. And that was out of the question. Wasn’t it? Was it really too high a price to pay for what she’d done?
She inhaled a deep breath. “Bring ‘is horse inside,” she said to Martin. “We needs to talk.”
They did very little talking on the way back to her cottage after leaving their horses at Martin’s cousin’s farm. Anger surrounded Martin like a wall Eleanor could almost touch; while she regretted causing him upset, his grim silence left her free to mull over her options.
The Marquess did like her. He kissed her when she was Ellie. And he kissed her when she was Lady Moonlight. And instead of kissing her, he could easily have overpowered her before Martin came back. He’d been too busy kissing her to save his own neck, the rake, and she’d thanked him by chaining him to a wall. She winced.
But if she took this step, she’d be well and truly ruined. Wasn’t she already far beyond the pale of what was acceptable? A thief, and, if this afternoon was anything to go by, a wanton. Her stomach gave a horrid little lurch, the kind that stops your breath at the knowledge of the inevitable. It didn’t matter. She was the one who’d created the mess, she should be the one to pay the price. Not the Marquess. Certainly not Sissy and William. And definitely not Martin. It also would not lead to prison.
Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress Page 6
