If Laura had been in the mood to grin, she would have been grinning at Ernest’s discomfort.
“Yes, yes,” Farley said. “Do it!”
Ernest moved toward the bed and out of Laura’s view.
“I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry, Farley,” Hamilton drawled. “It’s not far to the smuggled goods. I can give you directions …”
“You’ll take me yourself. That’s the only way your men will give me what is mine.”
Hamilton continued as if Farley hadn’t spoken. “And I wish you’d stop waving that gun around. What harm do you think I can do to you? My God, man, I’m naked and trussed like a Christmas goose.”
Laura winced at the image, then scooted far enough that she had a view of Farley.
He stood with his feet planted firmly, his pistol held in both hands. He kept the barrel steady and pointed straight at the bed as he said, “I don’t trust you, Hamilton. You always have a confederate hidden somewhere or another.”
Laura recognized her cue. Pistol aimed at Farley’s heart, she stepped in the door, cocked her weapon and said, “So he does.”
Ernest knelt on the bed, sawing on Hamilton’s bonds.
Both men swung to face her, horror etched on their faces.
Farley swung his pistol toward her.
Hamilton roared, “Farley, no!”
At Hamilton’s shout, Laura jumped.
But her father had trained her well.
She pulled the trigger. And missed.
No, not quite.
Blood spurted from Farley’s thigh. His leg collapsed. He fell sideways.
Yet quick as a cobra, he aimed at her again.
Laura threw herself on the floor and rolled.
With another roar, Hamilton ripped himself free of his bounds.
He smashed into Farley.
Farley fired.
Laura flinched. Expected the burning flash that would end her life…
Hamilton knocked Farley’s pistol out of his hand. With the same smooth motion, his fist slammed Farley under the chin.
The back of Farley’s skull bounced against the floor.
Catching him by the cravat, Hamilton flung him toward Ernest, who caught him and rested his knee on Farley’s windpipe until, out of air, Farley ceased clawing at the landlord.
No pain. Laura was fine.
She tried to lift her head to tell Hamilton, but he gave her no chance.
“Laura!” His shout made her ears ring, but his hands turned her over as gently as if she were a fragile china piece.
“I’m fine. Really.” She was, although she’d hit the floor so hard she’d knocked the breath out of her lungs and bruised her elbows.
But the bullet hadn’t struck her. That’s what mattered. The bullet hadn’t struck her.
Hamilton’s sharp eyes observed her. He took a long breath, half-closed his eyes, and muttered, “My life is no longer my own.”
“What?” she asked. What kind of comment was that?
Hamilton shook his head as if everything should be all too obvious to her. Then he snapped, “Ernest, secure that blackguard.”
“I have, m’lord.” Ernest pointed the knife at Farley’s throat. “Nice shot, m’lady.”
Wanting to set matters straight about this false marriage, Laura began to say, “I’m not—”
Hamilton picked her up and cradled her in his arms, muffling her protest with his vigor and the impact of his large, bare body. “Hush, my lady,” he said. Then he lifted one finger. “Listen.”
Outside, she heard the jingle of horses’ tack and the movement of hooves in the mud of the stableyard.
Boots pounded through the taproom and up the stairs.
With a rush of alarm, she realized their rescuers had arrived.
Unfortunately, they’d arrived too late to rescue anyone, and they’d arrived too early for Hamilton to dress himself in a scant semblance of respectability.
Hamilton and Laura were compromised.
“Hamilton.” She pushed at him. “Let go of me!”
“Keefe,” he reminded her, and brushed her hair away from her face. “You banged your forehead.”
She touched it and brought her hand away, expecting by his concern to see blood. There was nothing, and it ached only a little. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You need to get dressed!”
The pounding boots reached the doorway, and a brisk male voice called, “Sir!” A young man Laura recognized from Hamilton’s London office skidded into the room, pistol raised. He stopped cold at the sight of the naked Earl of Hamilton crouched on the floor with a woman in his arms. “Sir?” The gun wavered.
“Everything’s first rate, Robinson,” Hamilton said. “Put your firearm away.”
Someone bumped Robinson in the back, and he stumbled forward.
A boy of perhaps eleven looked around, spotted Laura, and pointed. “It’s her. She’s the one who sent me.”
“Did you get help, Franklin?” Hamilton asked.
Franklin clenched his skinny fists and placed them on his hips. “Yes, m’lord, the woman told me to.”
“You’re a good man.”
Hamilton’s praise made the gangly lad flush with pleasure.
Propelled by the crowd behind him, Robinson moved farther into the room. At last half a dozen men with firearms clustered around him.
Laura had seen them all at one time or another in Hamilton’s anterooms. She had despised them, thinking these respectable men had turned to crime for the promise of wealth. Now, she realized, they were part of Hamilton’s government operation, catching spies to maintain England’s integrity during the war. They were good men, and they all stared, first at Hamilton and Laura, then at Ernest and Farley. They examined the oozing wound Laura’s bullet had inflicted in Farley’s leg, and that seemed only to intensify their bewilderment.
“What is going on here?” Robinson asked.
Ernest stood and dragged Farley off the floor. “Here’s yer villain. Ye’d best take him before he bleeds to death.”
Robinson didn’t seem to be able to grasp the situation. “That’s not Jean,” he protested, “that’s Farley.”
“Your scornful tone explains very well how Farley has been successful in his disguise,” Hamilton said.
The men murmured while Robinson considered. At last, in a tone that pleaded for credence, he asked, “That’s Jean?”
The men all looked to Hamilton for acknowledgment, and Hamilton nodded. “That, my friends, is our spy.”
“Oafs.” Farley lunged for Robinson and succeeded only in falling to one knee.
Examining him with all the fascination of a boy with a frog, Robinson asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
Ernest grabbed Farley by the hair and twisted his head back. “M’lady shot him.”
“My … lady?” Robinson asked.
“The Countess of Hamilton.” Ernest pointed. “There.”
Laura moaned. When she’d told her little fib, she’d never thought it spread so far and provide her with such embarrassment.
“That’s not the Countess of Hamilton,” Franklin said loudly.
Ernest puffed up like a blowfish. “It is too, ye stupid boy.”
Hamilton said nothing, but when Laura strove to sit up, but Hamilton clutched her more tightly and admonished, “You need to be put to bed.”
Laura glanced up to see a dozen astonished eyes turned in her direction, and she stopped struggling and hid her face in Hamilton’s chest.
No doubt just what he planned, for he said, “As you can see, my lady and I require privacy.”
“M’lady?” Franklin’s round eyes got rounder. “Tell me it ain’t so, m’lord. Tell me ye never got married. Like a … like a boring old fellow who dozes at his own hearth.”
“It is a lowering moment for us men of the world to discover that nothing but marriage will do,” Hamilton told him. He turned to Robinson. “If you and the men would remove Farley—”
“Ah.” Robinson stood as if
paralyzed. “Yes, sir.”
“Robinson?”
Hamilton’s voice sounded polite, but Laura looked up in time to see the faint smile which curled his lips. She wanted to hit him, but his reminder seemed effective, for Robinson the men surrounded the now-helpless spy.
“Franklin.” Hamilton winked at the boy and nodded toward the men as they hustled Farley out of the room. “Aren’t you going to help them?”
“Yes, m’lord.” Franklin back out of the room, his gaze still fixed on Hamilton and Laura with the morbid disgust of a young boy facing love and other mushy stuff. Pausing at the door, he shook his head sadly. “I still can’t believe ye, who has been such a rip-roarer, are married.”
Hamilton chuckled, a warm sound deep in his chest. “You’ll have to imagine the wedding ceremony … just as I did.” Raising his voice, he called, “Robinson? If you would return for a moment?”
Robinson popped back into the doorway. “Sir?”
“You know what to do with Farley?”
“We’ll do our best to save his wretched life, sir, so he can be questioned. Then” — Robinson’s mouth creased with satisfaction — “he’ll dance the hemp jig.”
“Good man.” Hamilton dismissed him, and Robinson took Franklin by the shoulder and urged him away.
Ernest stood alone in the middle of the room. He looked uncomfortable and guilty, and he attempted an ingratiating smile.
Hamilton frowned forbiddingly.
Ernest wilted. “M’lord, in my own defense I want to say I never knew he was anything but a smuggler.”
“I trust that is true, Ernest.” Hamilton clutched at Laura as she again struggled to scoot away. He whispered, “You’re the only thing keeping me decent, and warm. It’s damned cold here on the floor.”
Like a host who senses his guests’ discomfort, Ernest bustled over to the fire, knelt and fed the flames. “If ye can see yer way clear not to arrest me, I swear I’ll not have further dealings with spies.”
“Nor smugglers,” Hamilton said.
Ernest sighed. “Nor smugglers.” He brightened. “I’ve built up my stock of brandy, anyway.” Seeing the bottle of wine sitting on the table, he walked to it and, using the corkscrew he kept at his belt, opened it. Taking two cups out of his pockets, he set them beside the bottle, then stepped back with a flourish. “I’ll leave ye, then, m’lord and m’lady, to finish yer honeymonth.”
With a start, Laura realized she was about to be left alone with a very naked, possibly vengeful Hamilton.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HAMILTON’S ARMS tightened around Laura. “Satisfied?”
Shocked, she asked, “What?”
“Satisfied I’m not the wicked smuggler or the ruthless murderer?”
“Yes, I am satisfied about that matter.” But when Laura looked closely she still saw the twitch of a tiger’s whisker and the gleam of a tiger’s sharp tooth.
She was in danger. In very grave danger. She needed to get away. She needed to get out — now. Trying to slide away from the clutch of his paws, she said, “I’ll leave with Ernest so you can dress.”
Hamilton’s query jerked her to a halt. “In what?”
A vision of his clothing soaking in the mud ripped through her mind, and she said feebly, “Perhaps Ernest can find something” — she glanced toward the door — “that you can wear.”
The door was closed. Ernest had vanished.
The room was empty except for a tiger and his prey.
“He’s gone!” Laura didn’t know why she was surprised. Ernest showed a talent for disappearing precisely when she needed him.
“He probably realized I wanted to commend your bravery … in private.”
Again she tried to ease away from Hamilton.
He allowed her.
Which made her ever more wary. “Commend?”
“You did save the life of one of His Majesty’s most important agents.”
“So I did.” Perhaps getting away from Hamilton hadn’t been such a clever idea. True, it was a relief to escape his embrace, but now she had to look at him. All of him. Especially the parts that towered over her when he rose to his feet, and the parts below that, those most dynamic parts which reminded her all too well of the wicked hour of temptation … and pleasure.
He stalked toward her. “You captured a known spy. I don’t even know why my men and I bothered to come to this event.”
She backed toward the desk. “I don’t think you’re being fair.”
“Fair? Why should I be fair?” He smiled at her with every evidence of courtesy.
But she couldn’t relate his Examining the oozing wound Laura’s bullet had inflicted in Ernest’s leg, Ernest added, civility with his uncivilized nudity. How large he appeared when stripped of his clothing! Much larger than when his shirt, breeches and coat gave him bulk. Clearly she could see the breadth of his shoulders, the ladder of his ribs, the muscles of his thighs.
His legs were longer than hers, too, but he didn’t move more quickly than she did. If anything, he seemed to be prolonging the chase, taking care not to overcome her.
“Of course, you did need me.” His mouth twisted. “I served you admirably as bait, did I not?”
With great precision, she said, “I did not tie you to the bed as bait.”
“That’s true.” He nodded genially. “It was revenge, I think you said?”
The desk bumped her thighs and she grasped the edge with her hands. A sense of déjà vu overcame her — they’d done this before. “Revenge seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Not now?”
“You’re not tied now.”
“You are a very astute woman.” He loomed over her and took her chin in one hand. “Did it never occur to you I would, one day, be untied?”
“I didn’t expect to be here when it happened.”
“Bad planning, but I’m grateful.”
She ducked under his arm. Skittering toward the door, she tried it, but wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
Ernest had proved himself quite handy with the key.
She turned, expecting to find Hamilton behind her.
Instead he was pouring wine into the cups and smiling genially. “You’re nervous,” he said.
“Have I reason to be?” She challenged him, but retreated toward the fire.
“A woman as courageous as you should never be nervous.” He lifted the cups. “Wine?”
“I don’t think wine is a good idea.”
As if she had never spoken, he said, “After all, you threw yourself into danger to save my life.” He walked toward her, unashamedly nude, and offered the wine.
At first she didn’t want to accept it, but the need for artificial fortitude overcame her. Taking the cup, she took one sip, then drained it in one long, cleansing swallow. Handing it back to the startled Hamilton, she squared her shoulders. “I didn’t do it for you, I did it for Ronald. You were in the way.”
“For Ronald only?”
“Anyway, I promise I will never rescue you again.”
“I agree.” He placed the cups on the floor. “You won’t.” He efficiently began to strip her of her clothes. “Because I’m going to tie you to the bed until you’ve learned better.”
Now he allowed her to see beyond the cordial smile and play of hospitality. He was, she realized, truly aggravated with her. When she tried to struggle, he treated her like a two-year-old, overcoming her physical objections with plain, overbearing competence.
“This is not acceptable!” she exclaimed, trying to hold the hands that roamed over her so effectively.
“Having my wife step in front of a bullet is not acceptable, either.” He wrestled her out of her gown, her petticoats, and her shift, and apparently decided he could leave the stockings and garters.
“All right! I’m sorry I told Ernest I was your wife. I didn’t know you’d ever find out about it. I certainly didn’t know you’d take unfair advantage of a woman traveling alone.”
He
chuckled. “Why not? You took unfair advantage of me.”
“I most certainly did not!”
Swinging her into his arms, he said, “It’s quite unlike you to refuse responsibility where you should take it.”
She wanted to answer him tartly, but in the place where their flesh met, she experienced a sensation not unlike the one she’d discovered earlier in the evening. Shocked, she muttered, “You’ve imprinted yourself on me.”
“What?”
“I said” — she struggled to regain control of her unruly tongue — “I admit I’m responsible for coming here and trying to find Ronald’s killer, and I admit I’m responsible for telling Ernest I was your bride, but of what actual crime can you accuse me?”
He dropped her on the bed and the feather mattress puffed up around her. Leaning over, he trapped her between his arms. “Of stealing my heart.”
“Don’t joke.”
Coming closer, and closer still, he touched her lips with his. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. More of a suggestion, or a promise. With his lips still on hers, he said, “I’m not joking.”
She wanted to ask for clarification, but as she told him, she was a coward.
When she didn’t speak, he straightened and rubbed his hands together. “I’ve never done this before, and you took all the ready material the first time. What shall I use to bind you?”
Bouncing up, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Look at this.” He lifted his scarf off the floor. “Lucky for me, you must have missed it when you threw my clothes out the window.”
“Lucky you.”
“Lie back down again.” He crawled onto the mattress to enforce his command. “And put your hands up by the railing.”
“Are you always reduced to tying your mistresses?”
“Not my mistresses, no.” He straddled her. “But I’ve never had a wife before. It would seem they’re a little harder to subdue.”
“We have said no vows.”
“We will say them.”
“I’m not your wife.”
Hamilton looked quite serious as he lifted Laura’s hands to the rails over her head. “You will be.”
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