'I hope he is caught,' she said, trying to keep her voice and her emotions neutral. 'It would be terrible if he tried to do the same thing to someone else.'
'He will be caught,' said Anthony, his soft assurance in chilling contrast with the admiral's more excitable manner.
Abigail's gaze flew to his face. Despite the part he'd played in her rescue, she'd thought of Anthony as the more reserved, less aggressive of the two cousins. He smiled as he met her gaze, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.
'It may be a toss up whether Giff finds him first— or I do,' he said calmly. 'But Charles Johnson will be caught.'
Abigail looked away. She was disturbed by the cold hatred she'd seen in Anthony's face.
'How can you h-hate him so much?' she asked. 'You don't know him.'
'He put a rope around your neck and sold you!' Anthony replied, his normally well-modulated voice harsh. 'I don't need to know any more than that.' He stood up abruptly. 'I won't spoil your appetite any further,' he said, and left the parlour.
Abigail stared after him in consternation, then looked towards Admiral Pullen.
'I don't know the full story,' he said uncomfortably. 'But I do know that the privateers who captured Raven's ship put Hill in irons and planned to sell him at a slave auction. It seems he feels quite... strongly...about such matters.'
'Oh, my God!' Abigail had known from Gifford's first arrival in Bath that he suffered nightmares about some event in his past. She pictured again the moment she'd first seen Gifford and Anthony through the window. Gifford had been asleep, but Anthony had been awake and reading when his cousin shouted out his defiance at his nightmare enemy. She remembered Gifford's pointed comment to Anthony on the subject. Did Anthony suffer nightmares as well?
There was so much she didn't know about the two men. Perhaps if she knew more, she would find it easier to understand what Gifford really wanted from her— and how to win his love.
'Breakfast,' Admiral Pullen prompted her. 'You must keep your strength up. It's particularly important when you're facing a crisis. Though in your case, of course, the crisis is over,' he added cheerfully.
'It is?' Abigail stared at him.
'Oh, surely,' he said. 'Raven will take you to straight to London. No one there will know a thing about the
past few days. By the time the Season starts you'll be ready to take your place with the other debutantes. Splendid.'
'But I'm not sure if I want to go to London,' Abigail protested, on the spur of the moment.
'Not go to London?' he echoed, gazing at her in amazement. 'Why ever not?'
'I think I would be more comfortable returning to Bath,' she said nervously. 'If I'm in familiar surroundings it will be...' Her voice faded away as she saw he was shaking his head vigorously.
'No, my dear, no, I really don't think that's a good idea,' he said firmly. 'What happened is something of a minor—quite large—scandal in Bath at the moment. I really don't think you would find it comfortable there right now.'
'Scandal?' Abigail said in amazement. 'How can it be a scandal? No one saw Charles steal me, and I was rescued the very same night. To be sure I've been away these past two days, but I could easily have been taken unwell. Should anyone ask I could simply say I had a bad head cold.'
'I'm afraid not,' said Pullen heavily. 'It's true no one saw Johnson abduct you. But the wine he left drugged the housemaid's young man, and she ran screaming into the street. Then, by all accounts, Raven had Mrs Chesney and Anderson interrogating all your neighbours to see if they'd witnessed anything...'
'He did what? All the neighbours know I was abducted!' Abigail gasped. 'Why didn't he just tell the town crier?'
'He didn't do that,' Pullen said. 'But he did have Mrs Chesney's relatives make enquiries along all the main roads out of Bath—to determine your route.'
'Oh, my God!' Abigail buried her face in her hands.
'I'm sorry to say, the whole of Bath is talking about the incident,' the admiral told her. 'So you see, I really don't think you'd find it comfortable to return there just now.'
Abigail groaned. 'I never thought to ask how he found me,' she said. 'I was just so grateful he did. Good grief! Can't he do anything without making a great noise about it?'
'He's never been one to worry about what other people think,' said the admiral. 'So you'll be going to London. I'm glad to have that settled. Would you like some of this excellent mutton?'
Chapter Thirteen
Her heart in her throat, Abigail went in search of Gifford. She'd considered the option of waiting tamely at the inn for him to return—but then he might take her by surprise and put her at a disadvantage. If she went to find him, he would be the one taken by surprise at her unexpected appearance—and that might give her the advantage.
She swallowed back her nervousness. Her reasoning might sound convincing, but she suspected Gifford Raven was very rarely taken at a disadvantage.
The sky was clear blue, the air fresh after the storm. Water collected in shining puddles in the yard and raindrops sparkled on the leaves of the apple trees. The path through the orchard was waterlogged and muddy. Abigail's skirts were quickly soaked through from the wet grass. She stepped out carefully, but with great resolution. She was going to carry the war straight into the enemy camp.
She looked up from negotiating a particularly large puddle. Gifford was six feet away, staring at her, his expression unreadable.
Tall. Formidable. Unconquerable. His black eye-patch seemed unusually forbidding in the morning sunlight.
Abigail's mind went completely blank. Her stomach somersaulted with anxiety. Her legs felt weak. She stared at him, unable to say a single word.
He was so handsome. So strong. So' self-assured. And completely out of her reach. It was almost impossible to imagine this cold-eyed, autocratic man in the throes of the passion they'd experienced last night. This morning he seemed so distant.
'Take off the damn cap,' he growled at her.
'W-what?' Of all the things she'd anticipated he might say to her, that wasn't one of them.
'It's ugly. Take it off.' He braced his hands on his hips and glared at her.
'I will not!' Abigail was incensed that Raven seemed to feel he was already entitled to dictate what she wore. She wasn't his mistress yet.
'It's ridiculous,' he snapped. 'Quite inappropriate. My fiancee does not dress like a middle-aged spinster.'
'Your w-whatV Abigail's heart bounded with shock at Gifford's curt statement.
'We'll be married as soon as we reach London,' he told her grimly. 'It's not what I wanted, but in the circumstances it cannot be avoided.'
Abigail's budding hopes withered like unwatered seedlings. He didn't want her, he was just abiding by his honourable principles. Her disappointment was intense, a physical pain so strong she wanted to double up under the force of it.
Instead she lifted her chin proudly, refusing to let him see how deeply he'd hurt her.
'I don't w-want to marry you,' she said flatly. 'And I won't'
A muscle twitched in his cheek. If he'd been a lesser man, she might have thought he'd flinched. No doubt he was merely expressing his displeasure at her mutinous behaviour, she thought miserably. Gifford Raven was a born autocrat. And his naval training had only intensified his tendency to take command.
'I'm sure you don't,' Gifford said grittily. 'But it is necessary. You will still have a Season in London. I meant for you to have the opportunity to dance and flirt at Almack's like the other debutantes. As it is, you may still dance—but I'm damned if I'll tolerate you flirting with another man.'
Abigail stared at him. Her thoughts were chaotic. Her emotions pinwheeled almost out of her control.
'Since I won't be your wife, I'll flirt with anyone I like!' she flung back at him.
'Not while I have breath!' In two quick strides he was in front of her, looming over her, his expression fierce and intense.
He didn't touch her, but he was so close she could feel
the heat and power radiating from his virile body. It reminded her of the trembling, straining tension in his hard muscles when he'd been poised, unmoving, inside her.
She might have blushed at the unbidden memory that filled her mind at such an inopportune moment—except she remembered what he'd said then.
'I was trying not to hurt you.'
In the midst of his own, overwhelming passion he had been concerned for her well-being, and afterwards he had been so loving and gentle in the way he'd held her. He'd given her everything she'd needed except sweet words. And now he was angry at the idea of her flirting with another man.
Perhaps there was still hope.
She gathered up all her self-assurance and gave him a small, tight smile.
'I will consider your proposal,' she said unsteadily. 'But, in the meantime, I will wear what I choose, when I choose.'
'Consider—!' Gifford bit off the rest of his angry rejoinder. 'Dammit! Do you want to end up like that old hag you were living with?' The demand exploded out of him.
'Don't you dare speak so disrespectfully of Miss Wyndham!' Abigail fired back. She clapped the palms of her hands against his chest and tried to push him away.
Instantly Gifford caught her upper arms and held her locked against him. Only by maintaining tension in her arms did she manage to keep him at a small distance.
Her treacherous body didn't want to be separated from Gifford, even by a few inches. Her arms wanted to relax so that she could lean against him. She resisted the urge and pressed her lips together, angry at her weakness.
'I meant no insult to Miss Wyndham,' Raven said grimly. 'It was your own situation that concerns me.'
'My situation is my affair—not yours,' Abigail said jerkily. 'You are not responsible for me—or anything I have done.'
'I'm responsible for my own actions, dammit!' Raven snarled. 'Whether you like it or not, I've never turned my back on my responsibilities.'
'I absolve you for...for anything you may have done that makes you feel responsible for me,' Abigail said with difficulty.
'Are you hoping to find another stallion who pleasures you better?' Raven demanded savagely.
It took several seconds before his meaning sank in. Abigail stared at him in growing shock and disbelief.
'Y-you think...!' she stammered, dumbfounded by the implications of his words. 'Oh, my God! You are so stupid I could box your ears!' she shouted at him. 'You are a stupid man!'
'That's the second time you've called me stupid.' Raven scowled at her, but some of the fierce tension gripping his body slowly ebbed out of him.
'Well, you are stupid,' she said stubbornly.
Then she remembered why she'd had occasion to call Gifford stupid before. He'd claimed that not many women would wish to dance with such a disfigured man. She was too confused and over-emotional to consider the significance of what he'd said then, but her arms relaxed enough that he was able to pull her closer to him.
'You are the first person I've met who has considered me lacking in intelligence,' he told her roughly.
'You're the first person I've met who doesn't like my cap,' Abigail retorted.
'It hides your hair,' he said irritably. 'It's far too flimsy to keep your head warm—should the weather turn colder. It serves no practical purpose.'
Despite her confusion and uncertainty, Abigail almost smiled. She thought Gifford had just paid her a compliment—in a roundabout, bad-tempered way. 'Many things serve no practical purpose,' she said.
'Hmm.' His gaze lowered from the rich Titian curls framing her face to her eyes—and then settled on her mouth.
Abigail's pulse rate—which had settled into a slightly calmer rhythm—instantly accelerated.
Gifford stared down at her soft, full lips. They parted slightly under his intense perusal. His body kicked with unruly desire as he saw the tip of her tongue flick nervously over her lower lip.
He wanted her. But he was still stinging from her cold rejection last night. He had been on the very brink of joining his body with hers, of driving them both into the temporary oblivion of utter ecstasy—and she'd thrust him away! She'd coldly ordered him from her bed as if she were a great courtesan grandly dispensing her favours!
Her rejection cut deep, hurting and humiliating him much more severely than he was willing to admit even to himself. He'd been fighting a battle with himself ever since he'd left her room.
One second he wanted to consign the fickle, cold-hearted wench to perdition, the next he was trying to understand why she'd denied him so unexpectedly.
He knew she wasn't experienced in the art of making love. He had felt her virginal barrier, and her gauche
observation about horses had confirmed her innocence. He was also certain she'd enjoyed her initiation in his arms.
To be sure, a few doubts had occasionally crept into his mind as he strode through the dawn countryside, but he had heard—and felt—the moment she had shattered with pleasure beneath him. She had not been cold or overly modest then!
She'd even told him that the old hag Wyndham had told her there was much pleasure to be had in the arms of a well-made man! Gifford flattered himself he was as well made as any other man—whatever the old crone had meant by that dubious phrase.
When the haze of thwarted lust and bitter rejection had finally cleared somewhat from his mind he had concluded that Abigail must have been concerned about her reputation—her future security—when she'd ordered him from her bed. It was the obvious explanation for her change of mood. His conclusion had not improved his mood. Did Abigail really think he was the kind of conscienceless blackguard who'd take a woman's maidenhead and then abandon her?
Gifford had been angry, insulted—and apprehensive—when he'd unexpectedly come face to face with Abigail in the orchard. Apprehensive, because he couldn't be absolutely sure she would not reject him again. He didn't want her to be cold towards him. He wanted her to be warm and responsive.
Of course, he didn't need her to be warm and...loving. His mind shied away from the implications of that word. He wasn't looking for love. He was independent and self-sufficient in all his needs, but it
did pique his pride that Abigail had so easily been able to forgo another flight into ecstasy in his arms.
Now she was graciously considering his offer of marriage! As if she had an option! Did she really think there would be a queue of more eligible bachelors waiting at the door of Almack's to vie for her hand?
He frowned down at her lips. Her forearms were still braced against his chest, denying him the satisfaction of feeling her full breasts pressed close to him. He resisted the temptation to move his hands from her upper arms to slide possessively across her back and down the curve of her waist to the pleasing roundness of her bottom.
He had no intention of revealing to her how irresistible he found her, when she clearly found him insultingly easy to resist.
Of course she would be surrounded by eager suitors if he allowed her to go to Almack's unwed. He could not imagine any man who gained sight of those soft pink lips, rosy cheeks, rich auburn hair and seductive green eyes not succumbing to her charms.
Not to mention her courage. Her resolution. Her wayward but delightful tongue.
He noticed that she was looking somewhat disgruntled. Leaning a little closer to him and lifting her chin a little more than the demands of pride might require.
The little witch wanted him to kiss her!
Triumphant, savage satisfaction pumped through Gifford's veins. Learn your opponent's weaknesses. The first and most important principle of any successful campaign—and now he knew Abigail's. She liked kissing him!
Well, he would withhold that pleasure until the contrary little vixen married him!
She was pouting now! He couldn't entirely blame her. He had been staring fixedly at her mouth for some minutes. She was probably wondering if he'd forgotten how to kiss.
Horses move more! Hah!
She'd just have to wait.
&n
bsp; A few seconds later the aching need in Gifford's body prompted him to reconsider the terms of his surrender to Abigail's charms. Perhaps it would be acceptable to kiss her when she'd agreed to the marriage—rather than abstaining until the moment he got the ring on her finger. An event which would, after all, take place before witnesses.
'Consider quickly,' he growled.
'Consider what?' She looked at him in bemusement.
'My proposal, dammit! You're inflicting unnecessary hardship on both of us by your delay.'
'Hardship?' Abigail echoed. 'What hardship does my delay cause to you? I'm the one who—' Her mouth suddenly fell open into a soft round O of startled enlightenment. 'You boar! A rutting stag would show more delicacy in his courtship.'
'What do you know about stags?' Gifford demanded. 'Did you spend your entire childhood studying the mating habits of the larger mammals?'
'Of course not!' Abigail blushed furiously. 'You have no business saying such improper things to me.'
'May I remind you that it was not I who first introduced this subject into—'
Abigail put her hands over his mouth. That had the immediate effect of muffling his words—and the secondary effect of allowing him to pull her body flush with his.
He saw her eyes widen with awareness. He was still holding her upper arms, which meant they were standing breast to breast, but there was no contact between the lower parts of their bodies.
Gifford ground his teeth together in frustration as he considered the benefits and disadvantages of hauling her up against his throbbing erection. It would be a torturous form of pleasure at best—and also tend to confirm her accusation that he lacked delicacy in his courtship. Besides, she might coldly order him to release her. The humiliation of her rejection was still raw in his mind and his heart.
He forced himself to stand still. Not to increase the contact between them.
Abigail didn't move either.
He glowered at her, then bared his teeth against her palm and clicked them together menacingly.
Gifford's Lady Page 19
