A Reckless Encounter

by Rosemary Rogers

  This was nothing like the last time, nothing like she had ever dreamed. He seemed to know that for he murmured softly to her, words that made no sense but were intuitively comforting. Eyes closed, she drifted on the tide of this new and unexpected emotion.

  Still shuddering, she felt him move over her. His clothes were gone now, his body bare and hot against her as he moved between her legs. His skin was so dark, almost a bronze color, and there were faint ridges of scars on his chest and arms, pale against the golden sheen. She thought suddenly of one of the statues she had seen, the smooth, carved muscles of chest and belly signifying the leashed power and masculine prowess of a Roman god, a warrior.

  His entry was slow, steady, an inexorable pressure that was only slightly uncomfortable at first.

  No, it was nothing like her first time with him, nothing like she’d anticipated, for the slow thrust and drag of his body inside her created an exquisite friction that had her once more scaling the heights of sensuality. It was an erotic motion, encompassing, and she surrendered to it completely. Why resist? Despite everything, he had only to begin caressing her and she was lost, inexplicably powerless to refuse him—and powerless against her own reaction to him, the need to be with him, her treacherous body overriding caution and common sense.

  It even overrode the knowledge that he lived in the camp of the enemy.

  “Kiss me, love,” he said softly against her ear. She lifted her lips to his, losing herself in the sweet, driving rhythm of their bodies, in the primitive response that she had never dreamed was so strong, until finally she forgot everything else.

  22

  It was nearly midnight when Colter escorted Celia from Madame Poirier’s establishment, casually putting her into a carriage and taking up the reins as if it was a common occurrence.

  Perhaps it is for him, Celia thought, and resisted the urge to see if anyone was watching them. Her hands shook slightly, and the yellow taffeta rustled loudly as she arranged it on the narrow seat of the closed gig. The hat she wore had dark curls peeping from beneath the brim, for though they left by the discreet side door provided for those customers who preferred no one know of their nocturnal visits, there was still the chance they might be seen.

  It had been the sauntering stroll through the parlor that had unnerved her most, the few men present with a bevy of unclad females more shocking than she had anticipated. But she had done well, she knew, for Colter squeezed her arm when she leaned into him, feigning a sultry laugh as he slid a hand into her bodice, and one of the men who’d glanced up at them turned away after a moment.

  She’d known she must look very much as some of the other women there, her eyes half-lidded with the residue of passion, her lips still swollen and bruised from kisses, and her breasts sensitive in the low-cut gown that revealed the tops of her nipples and the marks left by Colter’s hands and mouth on her skin. She’d even felt like one of them, her loose hair carelessly held back by a ribbon, mussed as if she’d just risen from bed—which she had. It must show on her face, that passion, the hot, wild ferocity of her response to him that had surprised her with its intensity.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he’d drawled lazily as they lay panting and exhausted in bed earlier in the day, “I’d swear you were an experienced courtesan, love.”

  Angrily she’d tried to rise from the bed but he’d only laughed and held her down easily, pinning her with his body atop hers, his hands roaming her curves and hollows with growing familiarity until she surrendered once again to the inevitable passion he provoked.

  What did the future hold for her? And how had she lost control of it so quickly? Oh, it was all so bewildering, the need to leave London and the dark shadow of danger hovering over her, when she had done nothing to invite it other than accept a map of the city.

  But that had been enough, Colter said shortly, and one day he’d explain it to her when he was certain she was safe.

  Reaction kept her stomach churning, and even now, as the landau jerked forward and they were at last leaving the house, she could barely control her trembling hands. To her surprise, Colter took one of her hands in his and pressed it to his mouth, his eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Don’t let down your guard,” he murmured. “And keep the hat on. That disguise is only good from a distance.”

  It was still unbelievable that there were desperate men who would rob and, perhaps even kill for the map that James Carlisle had given her. If that was true, why hadn’t they come for it before? she’d asked Colter, and he’d only shrugged. While she didn’t know what significance the map held for those who pursued it, and he said that she didn’t need to know, she couldn’t help but wonder why it was so important.

  There was so much he didn’t say, but if he truly felt she was unsafe in London, perhaps it was best she leave for a while. Oh, what must Jacqueline think of all this? She must have been horrified last night when she’d realized Celia was gone. It would have been even more mystifying to her once she was told that Celia wouldn’t be back for a while.

  “Only for a short time,” he’d promised her, but there had been a vagueness to the promise that was disquieting.

  Beyond the city gates it was pitch-black, the darkness broken only by the lanterns affixed to the carriage. Patches of dense fog shrouded Hounslow Heath, dangerous at this time of night, a warren of footpads and highwaymen.

  Colter seemed to know the way, his hands adept on the reins. Cold air swept across the gig, and Celia’s teeth began to chatter with the cold despite the thick lap robe she pulled up to her chin. The taffeta dress was much too thin, and she thought longingly of her warm wool redingote trimmed in fur and with braided frogs that fastened it all the way to her throat.

  Weariness seeped through her, and the tension of the past twenty-four hours left her numb. But when she tried to fall asleep, oblivion eluded her. There was so much to think about, so much she wanted to know…Surprisingly, despite the occasional jolt when a wheel dipped into one of the ruts on the road, she fell asleep at last.

  It was a restless slumber, with vivid dreams and images of masked men and the feeling of imminent danger, so that she woke abruptly when the gig came to a stop. It was black outside the gig window, not even the light from the lantern to brighten the dense turbid blanket of night. She heard a swift, whispered conversation, then the gig door opened and she felt Colter’s hands on her, pulling her from the vehicle to stand her on her feet.

  “Hurry, we haven’t much time, Celia.”

  Sleepily she protested as he bustled her from the gig and into another coach, this one, thankfully, with warm bricks for her feet and a much thicker lap robe to tuck around her shoulders.

  “Don’t ask questions, love,” he said when she voiced a concern. “Believe me when I tell you this is all necessary.”

  It seemed now as if they went back in the direction they had come, for the road seemed vaguely familiar, the larger coach well-sprung as it barreled along at a brisk pace. She was still alone inside, though there was another man atop the carriage, a driver, perhaps, who sat next to Colter. They passed an inn she had noticed earlier, and now she was convinced they were going back to London.

  An elaborate ruse, perhaps, to convince the men who had attacked her that she was gone from the city. Oddly, she did feel safe with Northington, though once she would have laughed at the very notion of it. The son of the man she’d hated for so long was her lover. Oh, what would Maman think if she were still alive?

  But then, if Maman were still alive, perhaps she would never have formed such a hatred that it would direct her life. When she returned to London, she would tell Jacqueline the truth, tell her why she had really come to England after so long. She deserved to hear the truth. Besides, the need for vengeance was somewhat abated. Perhaps life had taken care of that better than she could, for hadn’t Jacqueline told her that the earl was an invalid, never able to leave his house, confined to a chair most of his days? Yes, it was a much better judgment than she could p
ronounce on him. Maybe it was true that fate took care of all.

  But if she hadn’t come to England, she would never have met Colter. Did she love him? Oh, it was an emotion she hadn’t expected to feel, and didn’t know how to gauge. She felt something for him, of course, an emotion that was still so new and raw she wasn’t certain how to explain it even to herself. How could she know? How could she tell if it was truly love she felt, or maybe just a variation of the desire that she felt when she was with him?

  The coach lurched to one side and she grabbed at the handstrap just above her right ear to keep her balance. Their speed had increased, but now nothing outside the window looked familiar to her. In the growing light of early dawn she saw hilly slopes and heaths shrouded by misty streamers of morning fog.

  They had been traveling for hours, and soon they stopped again in a remote spot beneath an old wooden bridge, where she was once more put into yet another carriage.

  “We’ll stop at an inn later,” Colter told her when she asked where they were going. “Tonight you’ll sleep in a bed and have a hot meal, but for now, you’ll have to endure the discomfort. It’s not so bad, is it, love?”

  Aware of the man atop the driver’s box, Celia flushed a little when Colter kissed her quickly, then lifted her into the black lacquered carriage that had seen better days. It had begun to rain, the brief sunshine of earlier vanished behind dark low-lying clouds. The roads swiftly became muddy ruts that sucked at the carriage wheels and slowed their progress.

  Celia huddled inside, grateful for the warm bricks but wishing they could stop. It seemed the journey would never end. At last they halted in front of a roadside inn on the outskirts of a tiny village. Postboys scurried to take the horses, while Colter came to take Celia inside, his arm around her shoulders as they ran through the pouring rain.

  A bright, warm fire provided a cheery blaze and heat and Celia went at once to stand before it, her hands held out. It wasn’t the best of establishments, she could see that, but it was dry and warm and didn’t move or jolt like the carriage.

  Near frozen, she paid no attention at first to the voices behind her, until she heard a woman’s scolding, “I’ll have no doxies in me good inn, sir, and never ye mind the coin!”

  Glancing up, Celia saw Colter engaged in conversation with an aproned woman who stood with hands on hips, glaring at Celia across the common room. Belatedly she recalled the dress she wore and the silly hat that she’d put back on her head, and flushed. It was obvious the innkeeper’s wife considered her a harlot, and with the other patrons giving her curious looks, she felt suddenly as if she was. Her face was hot with embarrassment, but she refused to retreat.

  Let them think what they would! Her spine stiffened, and she turned to watch the fire again, ignoring them.

  Apparently Colter soothed the woman’s ruffled feathers with coin or intimidation, for a few minutes later the alewife brought two cups of wine to a nearby table, though her lips were pursed in tight disapproval.

  “Yer room’ll be ready soon enow,” she said sullenly, “but it be upstairs at the back.”

  Overlooking the pigsty no doubt, Celia thought angrily, but held her tongue as the woman flounced away.

  Colter brought two platters of beef, bread and kidney pie to the table, and sat down across from Celia. He pushed one toward her.

  “You’ll never see them again,” he said flatly, and she lifted her gaze to his face, knowing what he meant.

  “It’s the dress,” she said. “I should have changed. I don’t care what that old cow thinks, but I would rather we not attract attention.”

  “There hasn’t been time for you to change clothes. We only have a few hours for you to rest.”

  “Why this rush? Why can’t we just go to the authorities and have the constable—”

  “It’s not that simple.” Dark blue eyes studied her, then he shrugged. “Tell me everything you remember about the map.”

  “I told you twice that I don’t recall anything about it except that he’d made marks of some kind on it—small x’s on some of the streets, but I don’t know the names.”

  “Here. Eat this.” He reached across the table to slice her beef, the blade of his knife glinting in the murky light of fire and a flickering lantern. “It’s tough but edible. Put it on bread and it might go down easier.”

  She stared at him. “This has something to do with what I’ve been reading in the papers, doesn’t it? About the Six Acts that Parliament just passed. People are angry.”

  “We English are always up in arms about something.” He slapped a slice of beef on a bread crust and held it out to her. “Keep up your strength. You may need it.”

  Frustrated, she leaned close, her voice low and fierce. “I want to know just why you’re dragging me all over the country! It has something to do with Carlisle and something to do with that map, and I think it has something to do with a brewing rebellion!”

  His quick upward glance was abruptly opaque and dangerous. “Keep your bloody voice down, Celia. Unless you intend to have your fencing lessons put to the test in the near future, you’ll watch your tongue.”

  She sat back. “I never took fencing lessons. I lied.”

  “What a surprise. Eat your dinner. It may be the last hot food we have for a while.”

  There was no point in badgering him, she saw that now, for he was as obdurate as a mule, his face closed as he ate the tough, stringy beef and hard bread crusts.

  “I hope you didn’t pay much for this,” she muttered.

  He grinned. “You’re becoming a shrew, love. Considering she wanted to evict us promptly—morality can be so fleeting at times—we’re damned lucky to have it. If you can stomach vinegar, you’ll enjoy the wine.”

  The upstairs room at the back of the inn wasn’t much better, Celia discovered, but at least the bed had clean linens and an honest mattress instead of a straw-stuffed sack. It felt awkward, standing in the middle of the small room with no fire in the empty grate, drafts seeping through cracks around the window as she shivered.

  “I see we must pay extra for a fire,” Colter observed, and moved to the window to peer out. “At least the view is free. I trust you like pigs.”

  “You’re in a fine humor for a man who fled London in the middle of the night,” she said sourly. “I’ve had little enough sleep, but you’ve had none.”

  “I’m used to it. Soldiers in the field rarely sleep long or well.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that you’re a war hero.” She sat on the edge of the bed; it creaked slightly beneath her weight. “You’ve no doubt done more than your share of lying awake plotting your next massacre.”

  Colter turned from the window to look at her, and in the gray light through dingy panes, his expression was unreadable. “Yes,” he said softly, “I have. Not just in France, but in the Americas, too.”

  Arrested by his tension, she sat with her foot pulled across her knee, the slipper she’d just removed still in her hand. He looked ruthless. The facade of the past days was just that, a thin veneer disguising a man capable of killing and more. How had she forgotten, even for a moment?

  That day on the Kentish coast she’d seen the fierce light in his eyes, the reckless deviltry in his face when he had taken a loaded pistol and searched for the men who had shot at them. She had known at once that he was accustomed to danger, thrived on it.

  The slipper dropped from her hand and she bent to retrieve it. When she straightened, he was staring out the window again, as trickles of rain made silvery paths on the thick leaded glass.

  “Stay inside,” he said without turning to look at her, “and get some rest. I’ll be back later.”

  There was no use asking where he was going. He wouldn’t tell her, she knew that.

  And God help me, I don’t think I want to know.…

  23

  A cold rain came down in a fine mist like a cobweb; sticky moisture clung to his hair and face as Colter moved toward the line of stables behind the i
nn. They were as ramshackle as the half-timbered inn, with the same thatched roof. Beneath his coat he carried two pistols stuck into the waist of his trousers, both primed with dry powder.

  Detaching from the deeper shadows at the back of the stable, a man he recognized approached across the littered yard, sidestepping steaming piles of horse manure.

  “You’ve been followed,” Tyler said abruptly, and jerked his head toward the north. “Bow Street Runners.”

  “Are they close?” Colter stepped beneath the overhang of the livery stable.

  “Not yet. They will be. These men aren’t the regular Runners, but hired by Leverton.”

  “It would be interesting to know how they found us. See what you can learn.”

  Nodding, Tyler glanced around the nearly empty yard. He frowned and looked uneasy. “I think I may already know.”

  “Mowry.”

  Tyler looked startled, but nodded. “He’s the only man I told of your plans.”

  “I’ll deal with him later. Was the map found?”

  “Her room had been ransacked, and the maid swears she knows nothing about it. Ruthven is finding out what he can, and there’s to be another meeting in a few days. If the log is in their hands, Carlisle might betray himself.”

  “Were Celia’s assailants found? No, I didn’t think they would be. I thought I’d killed at least one of them, but the body could have been removed before it was found. Christ, there was no need for Carlisle to attack her. She’d planned to send back the directory the next day, and had just told him so.”

  “He gave her the map aboard the Liberty because he knew you were watching him and wanted to get it off the ship. He looked to be unpleasantly surprised to discover that she knew you.” Tyler leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowed in thought. “It could be that he was afraid you’d get to it first and figure out what it means.”