He heard the sound now. Going down.
Damn! He didn’t have a hope of getting back down there before her. He’d had little enough hope of reaching here in time. He’d just thought he could see which direction she took. She must have waited somewhere in between the floors to see where he went, then gone the opposite way.
Gavin didn’t know why he bothered, but he slipped back down the stairs again. He didn’t even know why he assumed the ghostly intruder was a she. From what little he had seen in the darkness, the apparition wore breeches. Idly, he wondered if Lady Blanche had a younger brother, but he couldn’t remember mention of one.
To his surprise, he discovered his blood running with anticipation as he avoided the main corridor to the kitchen and took a back one he’d learned in his days of exploration. He thought it most likely years since he’d felt this kind of excitement. The only thing he could remember running close to it in recent memory was receiving the letter saying he’d inherited this estate. That excitement had worn off quickly once he’d figured out that an estate which couldn’t send him the fare to England couldn’t be much of an estate.
He’d probably find disappointment at the end of this adventure, too, but for the moment, he enjoyed the chase. Lurking in this great hulk of a palace bordered on tedious most of the time. He found some satisfaction in squeezing profit out of every little asset he possessed, but despite his circumstance, money had never been his driving force. He didn’t have a driving force anymore.
That said volumes about his life, he supposed, but he set his lips in gratification as he saw candlelight dancing beneath the kitchen door. He had counted on his ghost’s penchant for good food.
With quiet care, Gavin locked the back stairwell door. Then, following the corridor to the front of the house in his stocking feet, he waited at the only other route to the upper floor.
Perhaps one of these days he’d brave the stares of the villagers and go in to be fitted for shoes, but in the meantime, saving his boots for outdoor wear made sneaking around easier. If his resident “ghost” tried the dumbwaiter trick again, he’d hear her. He thought her a little too clever to use the same trick twice.
When he saw her finally emerge from the same corridor he had taken, she moved warily, as very well she ought, Gavin thought grimly while keeping an eye on her progress. Wrapping his fingers around the rope tied to the door through which she had to enter now, he lingered in the shadows behind the ridiculous suit of armor guarding the main hall to the public stairs. He thought he just might enjoy seeing if he could turn a ghost’s hair white.
* * * *
Holding the sandwich she had prepared hastily and not attempted to eat, Dillian crept down the towering enormous hall. She cursed the beast for locking the door on her. She should have stolen that key long ago, but it had never occurred to her that it could be used against her. She’d rather thought of the key as an escape for herself should anyone come chasing after her.
She hated this monstrous hall. Perhaps in daylight, when the sun came through the stained glass dome in the foyer, it might seem a friendlier place. At night, it rustled with shadows and tiny unseen creatures. Or it echoed menacingly empty, as it did now.
The silence didn’t fool her. The creatures of the night knew when a human presence came among them. The monster waited out there somewhere. He’d come too close to give up easily. She contemplated finding a downstairs room and enjoying her meal until he went away, but it was late. She feared she might fall asleep before she knew it was safe to come out. She hadn’t developed any warning signals down here to let her know when he approached as she had in the upper halls. She had to escape upstairs to safety.
She couldn’t see him anywhere. How could a man as tall as the marquess hide himself in that great expanse of empty space? The moon must be out. Light filtered into the foyer from the glass dome. She could see nothing but the silhouette of the grand staircase and the few tables that still graced the entryway. He must be waiting at the top of the stairs.
Stealthily, she stole toward the crossroads between the front entrance and the corridor to the side entrance. She could go outside and sleep in the barn. The spring night seemed sufficiently warm. And if he’d locked the side entrance, she could just slip into the library and find a place behind the curtains in one of the window seats. He couldn’t search the entire downstairs for her. He’d grow tired of waiting after a while.
She’d almost made that choice when the door behind her slammed closed. The rat! He’d sneaked up behind her somehow.
Without another thought, Dillian took to her heels and flew down the front hall in the direction of the main stairs and safety.
And slammed directly into the broad chest of the towering form stepping out from behind the suit of armor. Her sandwich smashed between them.
“Gotcha!”
The voice boomed over her head as strong arms wrapped around her back and dragged her up against a powerfully lean body. Dillian felt crushed, suffocated—and something else she couldn’t quite name as she realized for the first time in her life she stood in a man’s embrace, her chest pressed against his.
Fighting the paralyzing effects of this imprisonment, she shouted, “Let me go, you big oaf!”
She squirmed, dropping her sandwich to shove at the encompassing bars of her prison, but she might as well shove at stone walls. Her petite stature had never particularly concerned her before, but she felt dwarfed against this monster. She found her face buried against his shirt ruffles in distressing intimacy.
“Let you go?” he asked with some trace of gruff amusement. “So we could play this game another week? I think not.”
He lifted her easily from the floor and hauled her in the direction of his study. Dillian squirmed some more, but it only made her appallingly aware of the differences between her body and his. Lord, but she’d never considered how hard a man’s chest could be! Or thighs. Or all the places in between.
She froze as she recognized the strangeness of some of the bulges pushing against her. As if understanding the reason for her fear, her captor adjusted her to fit beneath one arm. Now she practically rode his hip. She tentatively pounded a fist against his back, but as she thought, it cost her more pain than him. He just dug his fingers in tighter.
Dillian closed her eyes in mortification as she realized how intimately he held her. She didn’t open them again when he threw her onto the couch. She waited for the beast to light the lamp and expose her in boys’ breeches and shirt. A hot flush spread across her cheeks before he could even see her.
To her surprise, the lamp didn’t come on. She sensed his terrifying presence looming over her, preventing her escape. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and looked up. Cloaked shoulders blotted an enormous expanse of her vision, but she could see nothing of his face in the darkness. She realized he had his hands on his hips and his legs spread aggressively. She didn’t like that stance at all.
“May I have the honor of an introduction?” he asked with sarcasm when she said nothing.
Dillian thought about it. She didn’t know if he’d believe her if she told him the truth. It did seem a trifle ludicrous for a twenty-five year old staid lady’s companion to hide in walls and steal food. He had only to light a lamp to see she wasn’t a boy, if he hadn’t surmised that already. Perhaps she could draw some sympathy if she gave some story about a nobleman enclosing her father’s tenant lands...
Impatiently, he interrupted her creativity. “If you’re going to lie, do it quickly. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time. I can guess where you came from in any event. I’ll just wait until the lady wakes to confirm it. Until then, I’m keeping you someplace safe. I have no intention of spending the next week setting more traps.”
Dillian gasped as the marquess jerked her back to her feet by grasping the neck of her shirt and hauling her up. She swung her fists and kicked, but he seemed impervious to her blows. Fear finally crept over her. She didn’t know this man. He could do anything he wanted
to her and throw her bones out for the wolves if he wanted. Or just stash her corpse in the walls, for all anyone would know.
Blanche would know. Blanche could set the duke on him, but it would be far too late to save her by then. Dillian squealed as he dropped her into a new seat, this one a wing chair beside the fireplace.
“You have no right to treat me like this, you monster!” she protested, jumping to her feet as he moved away.
The cloaked marquess jerked something off the draperies and effortlessly pushed her back into the chair. “I believe the punishment for breaking and entering is transportation, at the very least. Since the Americans have very disobligingly refused to receive any more British riffraff, you may contemplate the climate of Australia for a while.”
He jerked the drapery cords around her chest and arms, securing her firmly against the back of the chair. He worked methodically, and Dillian shivered again as his knuckles brushed the side of her breast. She fought her terror with words. “This is ridiculous! You can’t do this. I’m a lady. I have powerful connections. You can’t treat me like a common thief.”
“Oh? Who says?” The aggravating creature knotted the cord and wandered off in the direction of another window, apparently in search of further rope.
Now that he no longer stood near her, her terror dissipated, and Dillian wanted to scream with fury. He wasn’t even listening. The beastly man had made up his mind and didn’t have any intention of listening to reason. When he approached again, she kicked her foot furiously at his midsection.
The marquess merely caught her ankle and wrapped the silken cord around it. He didn’t handle her roughly, just matter-of-factly, His hand was almost gentle as it held her still. No man had ever touched her leg like this. Dillian didn’t like the sensation. She wriggled, trying to slip beneath the tie binding her. His grip tightened and rode a little higher on her leg.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he informed her. “You don’t have a chance. I’m prepared to be lenient at the moment, but not if you give me any more trouble.”
“I was only protecting Blanche,” she said sullenly as he kneeled on the floor and fastened her ankle to the chair leg. His proximity made her nerves crawl. Strangely, her leg felt cold when his grip loosened. She understood the indecency of breeches when she realized he knelt between her knees to tie her other ankle to the chair. She shivered with the raw vulnerability of this position.
He seemed unaware of his prisoner’s tension until he had the last knot tied. When he raised his head to examine the adequacy of her binding, she felt him hesitate, and she gave thanks for the lack of illumination in here. She still couldn’t see his face, so he couldn’t see the fear in hers. The cord strained beneath her bosom as she tried slipping her arms out from under it. When his hand came down to rest on her thigh, she nearly leapt out of her skin.
Amusement tinged his voice as he used her leg as a support for returning to his feet. “I think I like my women this way,” he mused. “Shall I bind your mouth, too, so I can get some sleep?”
“Don’t you dare,” Dillian answered with venom. “I’m trying to tell you, you’re making a mistake. I am not a thief.”
“You’re not a guest,” he pointed out prosaically. “I didn’t invite you. You’ve raided my larder every night this week. You’ve ruined my sleep, caused no end of havoc among the servants, and picked my flowers without permission. I think I deserve some recompense.”
When he moved away, obviously intent on making himself comfortable on the couch, Dillian kicked at her leg bonds and struggled against the upper ones. “I cleaned your blamed bedroom, your royal lordship! What else did you want me to do? Scrub your kitchen? From the looks of the filth around here, I thought someone might appreciate my gesture. Obviously, you’re the beast you seem and prefer the dirt of your lair.”
He turned to glare at her for that. “I have reason for what I do. You are in no position to comment on it. Now, get some sleep. Morning will come soon enough.”
She gave a scream of frustration when he settled on the couch, covering himself with the cloak. The scream didn’t disturb his position in the least.
Refusing to give in, Dillian shifted her shoulders and started the process of releasing her arms.
Chapter Five
In the light of early morning, Gavin leaned against the staircase and stared at the locked study door across the hall. He’d left his prisoner sleeping with exhaustion, one arm free of the ropes but the other hopelessly knotted in place. She must have spent the better part of the night trying to free herself.
With the draperies drawn against the day, he hadn’t seen a great deal of her when he left the study, but he’d seen enough to guess the rest. He’d known last night that she wasn’t large but nicely curved. He could still feel the firmness of her thigh beneath his palm when he so foolishly used it for support. He preferred not remembering how long it had been since he’d touched a woman’s thigh.
But his thoughts kept straying to chestnut curls falling across a creamy brow. Gavin’s fingers stroked the mangled side of his face as he remembered the flawless perfection of her cheek. He’d sold all the ornamental mirrors in the house long ago, but he need only cast a brief glance in the shaving mirror in the mornings to remember how he looked, if he needed reminding.
Perhaps Michael had the right of it. Perhaps he should woo the damaged woman upstairs. Even should she see again, the Lady Blanche would find it more difficult to shrink from his scars when faced with her own. The lovely woman in the study would only shriek in horror if exposed to his disfigurement. It had happened once too many times in the past to doubt her reaction. Beautiful women in particular reacted unreasonably, and the woman in the study was a picture of loveliness.
She was also a clever, willful, deceitful little saucebox. Gavin couldn’t imagine what she was about hiding in his walls and driving him to madness. But he pretty well figured it had something to do with the Lady Blanche.
He could hear the chair in the other room topple with a thud. She must have woken while he lingered here. She would hurt herself if she kept it up. He had to go in there, confront her with her perfidies, and drag the truth out somehow. But going in there meant showing himself to her. Only half-blind Matilda faced him willingly. And his cousins, but they were another lot of willful baggages. He couldn’t expect the same from a stranger.
He could wear the cloak and hood, he supposed, but damn it, this was his house. He didn’t feel inclined to go about in costume in his own home. He used the cloak for warmth rather than wear out his good coat, but the days grew increasingly warm. Meeting her in the garb of hooded beast didn’t appeal. Gavin supposed listening to her shrieks of horror when she saw his uncovered visage would give him some perverse pleasure after she had spent so many nights frightening his servants.
With that malicious thought in mind, Gavin unlocked the study door and strode in.
She had both arms free and struggled with the ties at her ankle as she lay sprawled on the floor where the overturned chair had left her. The fall should have bruised her from head to toe and left her screaming bloody murder. Instead, she looked up as far as she could—about the height of his kneecap Gavin calculated—and began a stream of imaginative invectives that encapsulated his ancestors as a combination of vile insects and field rodents. He’d never heard anyone swear so inventively without using a single curse word.
He waited patiently until she ran out of adjectives, then grabbing the back of the chair, he said, “Hang on, I’m pulling it upright.”
This time, she cursed bluntly, but she grabbed the chair arms as he tilted the chair. Gavin considered remaining behind her, where she couldn’t see him. With all the heavy draperies drawn throughout the house, light seldom made much progress through these chambers. She could just avoid looking at him as the servants did. But his own perverseness made him cross the room and open the curtains even as she bent to untie her ankles.
“If you try running away, I’ll catch you,
” he informed her as the sunrise penetrated the room, sending its warmth over his face.
“I’m not running away. My feet are asleep. Have you gone up to see Blanche yet? She’ll worry when I don’t check on her.”
Gavin turned with surprise at the tone of concern in her voice. He expected to find her still bent over her task, but she had turned her head to watch him with curiosity. He should have known. He winced inwardly, waiting for the automatic scream as full sight of him registered. Instead, his beautiful prisoner’s eyes widened, and she tilted her head, avoiding the shaft of sunlight hitting her full in the face so she could see him better.
“I had wondered, my lord. The way you skulk around, I’d expected a deformed beast. I’m disappointed. It’s just rapier scars. Is there some significance to the design?”
The rotted drapery he clenched in his fist ripped from its moorings. Gavin swung around and viciously jerked it from the rod, flooding the room with morning light.
Behind him, the mischievous female taunted, “Very good, my lord. Will you swing from the chandeliers next? Or have you sold them all?”
Gavin wanted to growl and jerk another drapery down. He considered flinging whatever came to hand to reduce her into quivering terror. He was perfectly capable of terrorizing her. He’d done it before. Even the servants stayed out of his way. All except Matilda, of course. But he had the unnerving feeling that he would have to actually physically molest this one before she would get the message.
Instead, Gavin swung around and gave her an evil smile. He knew it was an evil smile. The muscle on the scarred side of his face didn’t work properly. It created a sardonic look that at best caused people to look away.
“Good morning to you, too,” he replied in his most unctuous tones. Maybe she would think he meant to eat her for breakfast.
She returned to untying her ankles. “I’m glad you think so. I’m starving. I suppose the rats made a feast of my dinner last night.”
The Marquess Page 6
