She jerked her hands away from his mouth.
'You tried to bite me!' she exclaimed, shocked and indignant.
'I didn't bite you,' he replied impatiently. He'd have needed a rabbit's buck teeth to make any impression on her palm the way she'd held her hand flat against his mouth. Then it occurred to him that, despite everything that had happened, she had never shown the slightest fear of him.
She'd told him to get out of her bed at a most critical point in their love-making with no anxiety that he
might refuse. She hadn't been afraid he would force her. She wasn't afraid of him now—which was why she was so shocked that he'd even pretended to bite her.
It was obvious she trusted him. It was a start. Now all he had to do was manouevre her into marriage by withholding the pleasures of his well-made body from her until she proved suitably amenable.
'Good,' he announced to the world at large, glad to have settled upon a course of action. 'The carriages should have arrived by now. We must make a start.'
'Carriages?' Abigail was pressed up against Gifford's chest. His large hands circled her upper arms. She could feel the potent, masculine tension in his body. His gaze had been fixed on her mouth until she'd almost screamed with frustration at his failure to kiss her—and now he was talking about carriages!
'I ordered two,' he said. He released her arms and stepped away from her. 'One for the luggage and one for you and Anthony.'
'Me and Anthony?' Abigail looked at him in sudden alarm. 'What about you?' She had a sudden, terrifying notion of him going off alone to find Charles Johnson.
'Hate carriages,' he said tersely. 'I'll ride beside you.'
'Wouldn't Anthony prefer to ride too?' she asked curiously.
'Probably. His wound isn't serious, but I don't want him to over-exert himself,' Gifford replied. 'I told him you would be bored if we left you in the carriage by yourself.'
'You've told him he has to ride in the carriage to entertain me?' Abigail exclaimed indignantly. 'As if I'm a spoiled—'
'It was far more effective than telling him he should take care of his injury,' Gifford interrupted. 'He's of a mind he is now in full health and able to take up arms with the best of us.'
'He wasn't wearing his sling this morning,' Abigail remembered. She'd been so preoccupied by her own anxieties she hadn't given a thought to Anthony's minor injury. Even though he was fit and healthy it must still have taken its toll upon him.
'I suppose, what you mean is, I should entertain him,' she said. 'I dare say I can manage that. Providing an interesting distraction from tiresome realities is an important part of a companion's role. Miss Wyndham always said I was very good at entertaining—'
Gifford had been walking through the orchard path ahead of her. He stopped so abruptly she cannoned into him.
'What happened? Is there a puddle?' She tried to peer round him. 'Why on earth did you chose to go for a walk when everywhere is so muddy?'
Gifford spun round to face her. 'At least it isn't raining! And I'm wearing boots. What the devil have you got on your feet?'
'Pattens.' Abigail lifted her muddy skirts to show him. 'I'll have to change my dress before we leave.'
'Don't wear one of Miss Wyndham's,' Gifford said autocratically.
'I'll wear what I like!'
'Not in the carriage.' Gifford frowned at her. 'How do you intend to entertain Anthony?' he asked stiffly.
Abigail blinked at the unexpected question. 'I suppose I'll talk to him,' she said, bewildered. 'Although I believe I saw him yesterday playing with a small travelling chess set. Perhaps I should ask him to teach me chess. That should distract him from the idea that we're trying to curtail his activity. Do you think he would like to teach me chess?'
'Chess?' Gifford considered her suggestion. 'That will probably be acceptable,' he conceded. 'Well, don't dawdle. I want to get to London as soon as possible.'
He strode away, square-shouldered and stiff-backed, towards the inn.
Abigail followed more slowly, her thoughts in a jumble. She was heartbreakingly sure Gifford only wished to marry her from a misguided sense of honour. He had said quite clearly that marriage was not what he'd wanted.
But it was also obvious that he had enjoyed making love to her. It was his impatience to bed her again which had prompted his command that she should 'consider quickly'! Despite feeling a certain measure of indignation at his crudeness, Abigail was inclined to feel flattered rather than insulted by his openly expressed desire for her. Even in her secret dreams, she had never dared to hope she might inspire such passion in any man—let alone one as potent and charismatic as Gifford Raven.
Was physical pleasure enough to sustain a marriage? Many women made do with neither love nor passion. Was she greedy because she wanted both?
Abigail sighed. When she'd made up her plan to capture Gifford's heart it had never occurred to her that he might already have made up his own plan to marry her. It was tempting to acquiesce. But if she married him now, made herself readily available to him whenever he wanted her, he would never have to consider how he truly felt about her. She might well find he regarded her only as a pleasurable convenience, when what she wanted to be was his beloved wife.
She couldn't give in now. She had to give Gifford the time and opportunity to learn to love her.
Gifford conducted a private debate with himself as he rode ahead of the two carriages. He didn't want to confine himself in the coach with Abigail under Anthony's amused and observant gaze. But nor did he entirely trust Abigail out of his sight. She seemed to have no notion of what constituted seemly topics of conversation for a young female. Something would have to be done about that before he exposed her to wider society.
Good God! What if she suddenly expressed appreciation for the fine quality of a gentleman's coat and started stroking him! Just as she had stroked him the previous day when she'd thought his shirt needed ironing. Of course Gifford knew her action had been prompted by her innocence—and a female's natural, though to him somewhat inexplicable, obsession with the proper care of fine clothes.
Perhaps some kind of needlework, embroidery perhaps, would be a good way to keep her hands occupied.
Then if she took a notion to stroke someone she might stab them with the needle.
He sighed, knowing his fancy was quite ridiculous. Abigail wasn't clumsy, and she wasn't lacking in wit. She charmed almost everyone who knew her. It hadn't escaped Gifford's notice that he'd been able to call upon the help of so many men when Johnson had abducted her.
She was a shade too direct and open in her dealings with him—but he admired her for it. He didn't want her to stop saying whatever came into her mind—he just didn't want her to share her intimate thoughts with anyone else.
He sighed again. She was right when she said he had no finesse. He was a fighting man, not a courtier. He was ill at ease in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of fashionable society. He had no notion of how to dance pleasing attendance upon a female.
But despite her cruel rejection when she'd ordered him from her bed, he was convinced that Abigail liked kissing him. He clung to the one advantage he knew he had. He might be no hand at making pretty speeches—but he'd given her a much more tangible, potent pleasure. Of course, he never should have made love to her—but, since he had, it was his duty to marry her.
Gifford prided himself upon the fact that he'd never been reluctant to do his duty, no matter how difficult the circumstances.
Chapter Fourteen
The rope tightened around Abigail's neck. She gasped and choked, unable to move as men's leering faces crowded around her. Hands clawed at her. She was trapped...
She jolted awake. For several seconds she still couldn't move. Trapped in the terrifying void between nightmarish sleep and rational consciousness.
The room was dark and unfamiliar. It wasn't the bed she had shared for two nights with Gifford. This was a far grander coaching inn. She rolled on to her back and rested her forearm acr
oss her eyes.
She was shaken to the core. Too frightened to slip back into sleep. Almost too scared to venture from the bed in case the ravaging phantoms burst out from the unfamiliar shadows to claim her.
She'd begged Gifford not to leave her side the first night he'd rescued her—and he hadn't. Last night he'd watched over her from a distance and followed her into the rain before bringing her safely back to her bed. Tonight she was alone. Tonight she had to face the demons by herself.
She forced herself to sit up, unreasonably afraid that her movement would draw the attention of unseen, hostile observers. Gifford had leapt from his bed with a great shout of defiance in a similar situation—but she lacked the courage for such a grand gesture.
She eased herself to the edge of the bed and gingerly extended her feet to the floor. She experienced a childish fear that ghostly hands would seize her ankles. She held her breath anxiously then, with sudden resolution, stood up. She looked around the shadowy room, then turned towards the door.
She bit her lip indecisively. Gifford had been watching over her last night. He'd even suspected she was sleepwalking. Would he be watching her tonight? Almost of their own volition, her feet padded silently over the floor towards the door. Lingering tendrils of her nightmare still coiled around her like taunting wraiths, invisible but malevolent.
She turned the key with stiff, cold fingers. She half-expected a hand to grab her from behind and drag her backwards as she slowly turned the doorhandle.
She opened the door the merest crack and peeked out into the hallway beyond. A man was sitting in a chair opposite. She saw his feet first. For one heart beat she thought it was Gifford. Then her gaze rose as he stood and came towards her, and she saw it was Anthony.
'Abigail?' he said softly, concern in his brown eyes. 'Is something wrong?'
'Oh.' She closed her own eyes, disappointment and confusion briefly overwhelming her.
'Abigail?' She felt him take her arm in a supportive grip.
'I'm sorry.' She opened her eyes again and gave him a weak smile. 'I'm being foolish. I had...I had a d-dream. It was so real.'
'I know,' he said gently. 'Were you looking for Giff? Shall I fetch him to you?'
'Gifford?' Abigail blinked. 'Why are you sitting outside my door?' she asked.
'You didn't think we'd leave you unguarded in a public inn?' Anthony said lightly. 'And Giff has to sleep some time.'
'Of course... Guarded?' Images from Abigail's nightmare surged back to the forefront of her mind. 'Do you th-think...do you think Charles will come back for me?' she whispered, her eyes darting anxiously up and down the hallway. She'd never given the possibility a thought before.
'No. No, I don't,' said Anthony, his voice deep and reassuring. 'But Giff and I—perhaps our experiences have made us a little more cautious than most men, that's all. We're here, sweetheart. No one's going to hurt you.'
Abigail drew in a steadying breath and smiled at him. 'Thank you,' she said. 'Thank you for watching over me. I'm sorry you've been put to so much trouble.'
'No trouble at all,' said Anthony. 'Would you like me to fetch Giff?'
'No.' Abigail blushed at the implications of Anthony's question.
Besides, Gifford's manner towards her had been cold and distant since they'd embarked upon their journey. He hadn't travelled in the coach with her and Anthony, and he'd barely spoken to her that evening. She was afraid he was already regretting his hasty decision to marry her. He'd certainly given her no opportunity to try to arouse his tenderer feelings towards her.
'No. No, thank you,' she said to Anthony. 'I don't want you to disturb him. I think I can sleep now. Perhaps you can sleep in the carriage tomorrow,' she added, as an afterthought.
'Perhaps.' Anthony smiled. 'But I might disturb you and embarrass myself with my snores. Goodnight, Abigail.'
'Goodnight.' Abigail closed the door softly and returned to bed. She felt out of sorts because of her nightmare, her unsatisfactory conversation with Anthony, and her confusion over Gifford's true feelings towards her. But it was comforting to know that both men were guarding her so carefully.
Gifford stood on the quarterdeck of the Unicom, his hands locked together behind his back.
He'd been lucky. The two privateers and their prize had originally been sailing together. Gifford and half his men had been prisoners on one privateer while Anthony and the rest of the men had been hostages to Gifford's good behaviour on the other. The Unicom had been put under the command of a crew of privateers. But the morning before he'd escaped from his own captivity a storm had blown up. It had lasted for
most of the day and separated the three ships. Gifford had taken his chance, released himself and then his men from their imprisonment and together they'd captured the privateer.
Normally he treated enemy prisoners with consideration, but he had nothing but contempt for the dishonourable conduct of the privateers. He'd incarcerated them in the same stinking hold his men had so recently escaped from.
His luck had held. He'd had two days before the lookout had spotted the Unicorn on the horizon. Two days in which his men could return to some measure of fitness after their mistreatment, and he could learn how the unfamiliar ship sailed.
It had been a tense, expectant moment when the Unicorn was finally within gunshot. Gifford's men were proud of their ship and their captain. None of them could bear the thought of the Unicorn in the hands of such a despicable enemy. Every single man under Gifford's command had shared his determination. Either they retook the frigate—or they sent her to the bottom.
They'd recaptured her.
Gifford had taken ruthless advantage of the fact that the privateer prize crew on the Unicorn still thought the privateer vessel he was commanding was in friendly hands. By the time the privateers had discovered their error, the small prize crew in control of the Unicorn had been overwhelmed.
Now Gifford had two ships under his command. The Unicorn under his own captaincy, and the privateer vessel under the command of Lieutenant Fenton. But
only half of his crew had been held prisoner with him. He was woefully short of men. He'd been able to grant Fenton only a skeleton crew, sufficient to sail the captured privateer, not to engage in battle.
But if he couldn't capture the second privateer by stealth, no matter how much he had already gained, he would still have lost. Because Anthony and the rest of his crew were hostages aboard the enemy vessel.
Gifford stood on the quarterdeck of the Unicorn, his scarred face stony as they chased down the remaining privateer. He was dressed, not in his own uniform, but in the clothes of a privateer. His hat was pulled low over his forehead, the shadow thrown by the brim partially concealing his distinctive eye-patch.
If he made a single mistake now, Anthony would be murdered. A man as close to him as his brother. Closer, in some ways. Gifford was several years older than his brother, Cole. He could remember, briefly, a world in which Cole did not exist. He could remember his first introduction to his red-faced baby brother. But Anthony was two years older than him. Anthony had always been part of Gifford's life. There had been the long period of separation after Gifford had joined the navy, but during these last couple of years, when Anthony had sailed with him, the bonds of their boyhood had been renewed.
Gifford clenched his jaw. The thought of Anthony manacled and sold into slavery was monstrous. The thought of Anthony dead in these circumstances was almost unbearable.
His stomach cramped as he heard the lookout's hail. His prey was in sight.
He gave a series of quick orders, reducing sail and making some essential alterations to the rigging and canvas to make it appear from a distance as if the Unicorn had suffered storm damage.
He didn't want to come within hailing range until shortly before nightfall, another two hours away, but he didn't want his slow progress to arouse the other captain's suspicions. He had the privateer's signal book. And he had forced several of his prisoners— separately, and at knife poin
t—to give him essential information to hoodwink the other captain. He'd also compelled two of those prisoners to help him make the masquerade convincing. They knew that, if they did anything to betray him, they were dead men.
As long as the other captain remained in a state of false security during daylight, Gifford would be able to mount a covert attack under the cover of darkness.
If the attack succeeded, he would have recaptured his own ship and gained two prizes into the bargain. If he failed—Anthony would die...
Anthony looked up from his small chess set to see Gifford approaching him. At least his cousin had taken the trouble to dress, but Anthony recognised the expression on his face. Gifford had had another nightmare.
'I can watch. You sleep,' Gifford said curtly.
Anthony didn't comment on his cousin's mood. He hesitated, wondering if he should mention Abigail's bad dream. Gifford had been very understanding of her anxieties immediately after her ordeal but, as his own
tension had increased, he'd become increasingly overbearing in his dealings with her. Anthony had heard two versions of Gifford's marriage proposal. He was sure that both versions had been edited for his benefit. But he was also certain that it had been less of a proposal, and more of a ruthless command.
Perhaps if Gifford realised Abigail had anxieties of her own he would be gentler with her. Or perhaps he would see them as another burden he had to shoulder, and his need to control all her actions would just become stronger. Anthony decided not to interfere.
He stood up and offered Gifford the chess set. 'An interesting problem for you to while away the hours,' he said.
Gifford frowned down at the small board. 'It's mate in two moves,' he said dismissively.
'Is it? Goodnight.' Anthony strolled away to his bedchamber, a grin on his face.
'Do...do you have nightmares?' Abigail asked, as the carriage rattled towards London. It was a very personal question to ask a man she knew so little of, but she didn't know how else to begin the conversation.
'Sometimes,' Anthony replied.
'Oh.' Abigail swallowed. She wanted to know why Gifford and Anthony both had nightmares—and what exactly they were about. But she didn't know how to ask. 'Gifford has bad dreams sometimes too,' she said breathlessly.
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