by Louise Allen
Gregor, as he always did when he thought Quinn was threatened in some way, moved in very close behind them, making Celina glance over her shoulder. If you were not used to him, it must be like being followed by a large bear, Quinn thought. He was even growling, although Quinn doubted he realised it.
‘It is all right, Gregor,’ he said. ‘The peasants are not about to rise up and attempt to slaughter us with pitchforks and pruning knives.’
The Russian said something and Celina whispered, ‘What was that?’
‘An unrepeatable slur on the parentage of everyone here, involving an unnatural act and a donkey.’ He watched to see if he had shocked her, but she only bit her lip again and ducked her head to hide the smile.
‘That was dreadful,’ Celina declared once the carriage was moving again. ‘You would think that on a Sunday at least basic good manners would prevail!’
‘The Earl of Sheringham is a notable local aristocrat,’ Quinn said mildly. ‘They would take his side.’ Ten years ago social ostracism, the unfairness of the accusations, the shame of his inability to force a duel, had burned into his soul like acid. Now he had become the man they had accused him of being and he had the strength and the will to face down his accusers and make them eat their lies. But it made him angry that Celina was upset. He should not have attended church, he thought, then she would not have been exposed to that.
The fact that he cared about her feelings struck him as novel. What did it matter if this woman with her secrets, this intruder into his life, had her feathers ruffled? A week ago he would have shrugged and forgotten it. But Celina—
‘Gregor, why do you guard Lord Dreycott’s back so closely?’ she asked, cutting across his thoughts. ‘And when you came to the Park, you checked all the locks, the windows. Trimble told me.’
No! He did not want to talk about that. Or to think about it. Quinn’s elbow in his ribs came too late to stop Gregor. ‘Quinn saved my life when he bought me,’ he said simply. ‘Now I guard his.’
‘Bought you?’ Lina stared at Gregor, aghast. ‘You mean you are a slave? But that is dreadful—and illegal! How could you?’ she demanded, turning on Quinn. ‘That is barbaric!’
‘I could have left him to die, I suppose,’ Quinn drawled. ‘Would that have shocked you less? Gregor was a Christian slave of the Ottomans, captured in battle. He does not take well to…orders.’ To her amazement the Russian grinned at Quinn. ‘So they beat him almost to the point of death, which was the only way to subdue him, and then sold him. I saw him and bought him.’ He shrugged as though he was speaking of taking on a new farm worker at a hiring fair.
‘Me and a girl who had been hurt. And he freed me,’ said Gregor. ‘So I pay him by looking after his life that he is so careless of, seeing that he will not take my money now I have it.’
‘You were very cheap,’ Quinn said, sounding bored. ‘It would be an insult to ask for repayment. And you have saved my life half-a-dozen times over.’
‘And you mine. I am still in debt.’
It was one of the mysterious manifestations of male honour, Lina realised. They were as close as brothers, closer perhaps, and yet they had to feign indifference to those feelings, keep count of who had saved whose life.
She felt a little ill, looking at the rock-solid bulk of Gregor. What had they done to reduce him to near death? And what sort of man bought such pitiful wreckage and nursed it back to life? A good man, she thought. But he would not thank me for saying so. And a man who saves another man’s life may still be a danger to women. But what did he do with the woman who was hurt? The one neither of them seem to want to speak of.
‘Well, it is a relief to hear that we are not breaking the law by harbouring a slave,’ Lina said prosaically. ‘What happened to the woman?’
‘She is free now,’ Quinn said flatly, then showed no inclination to continue.
Lina could not think of a single coherent thing to say on the subject of Gregor’s story, not without becoming embarrassingly emotional. ‘I hope you will not mind a very simple luncheon. The late Lord Dreycott always gave the servants the day off from after breakfast until dinner time on Sundays, so there is just a cold buffet laid out.’
‘No, I do not mind.’ The carriage pulled up in front of the house and Gregor jumped down as Quinn answered. ‘Would you take a turn around the garden with me?’
The small jerk of the head directed at the other man was not lost on Lina. So, what did Lord Dreycott wish to talk to her alone about?
‘Of course, my lord,’ she said, still preoccupied with the parishioners’ hostility and Gregor’s dreadful story. She followed him through the little gate and into the pleasure grounds. ‘The gardens have been very neglected.’ They stood and look at the roughly scythed grass and unpruned shrubs. ‘His lordship was not much interested, I am afraid.’
‘Do you know anything about gardening?’ Quinn asked, taking her elbow in a light grip and steering her towards a dilapidated summer house. ‘I suppose I should get this put into order before I sell it, but although I can recite you reams of Persian poetry on the subject of gardens, that is of no practical use when confronted with the wind-blown north Norfolk coast. I doubt we could ever recline under a palm tree here while I peeled you grapes.’
He brushed off the seat inside the summer house and gestured to her to sit.
‘Gardening? No, not really.’ Lina tried to dismiss the picture Quinn had conjured up; it was too close to her fantasies about harems. Would he like her in fluttering, diaphanous silks? ‘But I can talk to the gardener, if you like, and see what can be done to make it look more cared for. There is just the one man, you see.’
‘Tell him to hire some help,’ Quinn said. He sat down, careless of his beautiful tailcoat on the lichen-covered seat. ‘Celina, thank you.’
‘Whatever for? It is no trouble to speak to the man. It will be quite interesting, in fact. I told you, I would like to be useful.’
‘That is not what I meant.’ He leaned forwards, his forearms on his thighs, and stared down at his clasped hands. ‘Thank you for coming so fiercely to my defence at the church. I am sorry if my presence embarrassed you with your friends.’
‘They are not my friends.’ My friends are all in a London brothel, my beloved sisters are lost. ‘They are acquaintances, that is all. And I am ashamed for their behaviour.’ He was very still, sitting so close beside her, and gradually the indignation subsided, leaving her with the realisation that she was alone in a secluded spot with the dangerous rake who had kissed her.
But now that she had begun to know Quinn Ashley a little she could see that there was more to him than a shocking reputation that he seemed more than willing to live up to. It was confusing. If she did not like him, admire him for his restraint at the church and his rescue of Gregor, she could be afraid of him, which was obviously the safe thing to be. As it was, the best she could manage was to be wary.
She was still furious with herself for even letting him provoke her into revealing she knew the other, disreputable, meaning of nun. He had said nothing more about it, but, on the other hand, neither had he done anything more to alarm her. Perhaps her flight from the gazebo had convinced him that she was virtuous and he should not attempt kisses, or worse.
‘You have left many friends behind?’ Quinn asked, making her jump. He straightened up and looked at her, the speculation in his eyes holding more than a simple question. It was the expression of a man assessing a woman and she felt it like a touch on her skin. She reminded herself that many men had an unpleasant predilection for corrupting innocence, but she could not feel the shudder of fear she hoped for, the reaction that would protect her. She simply felt the instinctive attraction of female to male.
‘A very few, close friends. We lived near each other. And my sisters, of course.’ Her world had become bounded by the walls of The Blue Door and her memories and dreams of her sisters. Now she was a friendless, fugitive virgin and utterly in Lord Dreycott’s power. Did he realise how vuln
erable she was? Was he titillated by it? Perhaps he thought she was too innocent to see her own danger.
‘You want to go back to them, I assume, when you have the money?’ Quinn asked, reaching for her hand. Lina made herself relax and let him take it. If she began to struggle, she thought she would panic and that, perhaps, would excite him more. But all he did was turn it over so he could study her palm.
Flirt, a little, an inner voice said. Be confident and lighthearted. Do not let him sense your anxiety or see how he affects you. If he is stimulated by stalking a virgin, confuse him. ‘Do you so wish to be rid of me, my lord?’ she asked, pouting a little. His eyes fixed on her mouth and Lina ran her tongue nervously between her lips.
‘Why, no, you are a charming addition to the household,’ Quinn said, his attention once more on her palm. He traced the crease that curved around the base of her thumb and she quivered, fighting not to close her fingers around his, trapping them. ‘Such a long life line. Look at all the adventures.’ His fingertip touched here and there where other, shorter, lines braided into the main one.
‘You read palms?’ It was curiously difficult to speak normally with his shoulder touching hers and the heat of his hand cradling her fingers.
‘A beautiful Romany taught me.’ Quinn hesitated, then opened his left hand, palm up. ‘You see the break in my life line? I am sure she would tell you that was where she knifed me in the back and left me for dead.’
‘What happened?’ Lina’s hand closed around Quinn’s in a startled grip.
‘Gregor happened. We were in Constantinople and he had gone off for a few days trading to leave me to my new inamorata. He strolled back in to find me ruining a particularly fine kelim rug, stopped the bleeding and went to retrieve my gold.’
‘And the Romany? What did he do to her?’
‘I did not ask him,’ Quinn said. ‘It taught me never to trust a woman, even a naked one.’
‘So where was the knife?’ Lina asked, determined not to be shocked. And, truth be told, she was as riveted as she ever had been when reading a sensation novel. His grip had shifted to open her hand again and his long fingers moved gently over the back.
‘In her hair.’ Quinn’s smile was rueful. ‘Now, you could be hiding a pair of duelling pistols in that bonnet.’
‘Perhaps I am.’ She let the silence drift on for a moment, full of unspoken words. ‘But I have no intention of removing it to show you, Quinn.’
His given name slipped out and Lina bit her lip as though to catch it, too late.
‘You keep secrets, Celina,’ he observed.
‘As many as your Romany, I have no doubt, my lord. But none so lethal.’ Although I killed a man…or I was the instrument of his own lust killing him. ‘Will you read my fortune? For, if not, I must ask for my hand back so I may go and make sure that luncheon has been set out.’ She was pleased with the light, amused tone of her voice.
‘Let me see.’ He lifted her hand to study it, the movement bringing them closer together. ‘A strong life line. Here.’ He touched a point and frowned. ‘Perhaps a moment of risk.’ His voice became puzzled for a moment. ‘Soon, I think. You must take care—if you believe such things. Your head line is straight—you are honest and intelligent, but perhaps too controlled by emotion. Ah, yes, see your heart line?’ He traced the line curving under her fingers. ‘Loving, intense—that is what overrules your head sometimes. And combined with this…’ he brushed his finger over the swell of flesh at the base of her thumb ‘…the Mount of Venus, I can tell you are passionate as well.’
Quinn lifted her hand to his lips and touched them to the soft mound, making her shiver.
‘Why, thank you, my lord, it lacked only a camp fire and some silver to cross your palm with! I see you sometimes wear an earring, which would complete the illusion. There was just such a lurid fortune-telling in a Minerva Press novel I was reading only the other day.’ He released her and she stood up.
‘I was Quinn a moment ago,’ he said, as he towered over her.
‘And I was careless,’ she murmured, glancing sideways under her lashes as she moved away. ‘I will see you at luncheon. My lord.’
Chapter Eight
She’s a married woman who has run away from her husband, Quinn decided on Tuesday morning as he stripped off his sweaty clothes. He and Gregor had been wrestling and using singlesticks and his muscles tingled with the exercise. He ducked under the big pump in the stable yard with a gasp as the cold water hit his heated skin. That was the only explanation that appeared to make sense of all the puzzles the woman presented, he argued to himself, scrubbing soap into his chest.
Celina was wary of men and yet she possessed a number of knowing little tricks and was comfortable with dinner-table conversation. She was assured with the servants and with their few callers, competent with the household management. A husband who had beaten her, perhaps? Or forced himself on her.
‘Harder,’ he ordered the groom who was bent over the pump handle. The male staff were used to him and Gregor now, the audience for their morning training fights had shrunk and the work of the yard went on around them as if two large, naked, dripping men were a commonplace sight.
He frowned as Gregor turned and he saw the familiar pattern of white scars lacing his friend’s back. Cruelty to anyone, whether it was a woman, a child or a beaten Russian slave, made him coldly angry.
He brought his mind back to the mystery of Celina. He had been suspicious about the aunt from the start—she did not exist, he was fairly certain. Somehow Celina had known Simon and the cantankerous old devil had given her sanctuary. It had probably appealed to him, hiding another man’s wife. And it explained why she had not been referred to by name in the codicil to the will—to put a false name might invalidate it and a fugitive wife would certainly not be living under her real name.
‘We’re late,’ the Russian said as the stable clock struck noon. ‘The water will be getting cold.’
‘Come on, then.’ Quinn scooped up his clothes and padded off over the stone setts. The hot baths to be found throughout North Africa and the Middle East were a luxury he sorely missed, but a good soak in the great marble sarcophagus was a reasonable substitute after exercise.
The kitchen door was shut, in accordance with the routine that saved the blushes of the female staff, and he and Gregor climbed the service stairs to the first floor before opening the door on to the deserted bedroom corridor.
‘I’ve got a theory,’ he said, low voiced, as they strode along, leaving wet footmarks on the old chestnut boards. ‘I have come to the conclusion that Cel—’
The door in front of them opened and she came out as he spoke, her head bent over the pile of folded linens in her hands. She walked straight into Quinn and all three of them stopped dead. The linens went everywhere, a fluttering snowstorm of chemises, petticoats and nightgowns. Quinn lost his grip on his own clothes and dropped them, aware that Gregor had strategically clasped a shirt to his midriff, preserving essential decency if not much else.
Empty handed, he and Celina stared at each other for a frozen moment. He realised that he was trying to lock eyes with her to stop her looking down but, by instinct it seemed, she dropped to her knees to scramble after her scattered underthings. Quinn dropped, too; it was the safest thing to do, given that his body was reacting enthusiastically to the mental images feminine underwear conjured up. He seized the nearest item of clothing and clapped it over his loins.
Celina bundled up the rest of her things, got to her feet and backed through the door she had come out of, eyes wide, cheeks pink. The door slammed in their faces as Gregor doubled up laughing.
Quinn looked down; his modesty was being inadequately sheltered behind a flimsy piece of frivolity with fine lace and silk ribbons. Glowering at his friend, he tapped on the door, opened it a crack and tossed the chemise through before closing it again. They retreated down the corridor and into Quinn’s room.
Gregor mopped his streaming eyes. ‘Blue ribbons ar
e not flattering to you,’ he choked.
‘Celina was not shocked,’ Quinn said, clambering into the cooling bath and sinking up to his chin. ‘She was surprised to bump into us, she was flustered, but she was not shocked. Not as a sheltered virgin walking slap bang into two nude men ought to be.’
‘You are right,’ Gregor agreed, sobering up and climbing into the other end. ‘You were saying just as the door opened—’
‘I think she is a married woman who has run away from her husband,’ Quinn said. ‘She does not react to men like an innocent, but neither does she behave like a wanton.’
‘You will tell Havers?’ The Russian scrubbed at his chin in contemplation.
‘No.’ Quinn submerged completely and resurfaced streaming water. ‘By English law a married woman’s money is her husband’s. If she has run from some bastard who beats her, then the last person Simon would have wanted to give money to would be him.’
‘What are you going to do with her, then?’
‘I’m thinking on it.’ But he already knew what he would do. He would offer Celina a carte blanche and make her his mistress. It would save him the bother of finding a chère amie in London. She’d agree to it, she’d be a fool not to; it was an attractive, convenient arrangement for both of them and when he left he would add to Simon’s legacy, make sure she had enough to keep clear of her husband for ever. He just needed to find the right moment to put it to her.
Lina sat on the end of her bed and regarded her scattered laundry. Well! It was not as though she had never seen a naked man before—they could occasionally be found wandering the corridors of The Blue Door, usually somewhat the worse for drink and pursued by one or more of the girls, giggling as they tried to shoo them back into the bedchamber.
But the effect of those two large men at close quarters was… She searched for a word. Overwhelming. They were both magnificent, although she found herself strangely unmoved by Gregor’s solid bulk. She had seen him first, seen the white lacing of whip scars over his torso, and recoiled to find her eyes locked with Quinn’s.
