And, damn him, she couldn’t even be certain he had thanked her for a most enjoyable tussle, or simply for suggesting they leave off such foolishness and get some rest. Either way, she could never, never allow herself to give in to this man again.
Pray God he never asked.
WELL, HE’D DONE IT AGAIN. HE’D LET HIMSELF BE Julia’s bed toy once more. She’d turned those deep, dewy eyes on him, and he’d crumbled. Now all he wanted was to lie here, holding her against him forever.
He wouldn’t, of course. Forever for them ended three years ago.
That left nothing for him to do but lie there, staring into the darkness and fighting every instinct. Nothing could erase the past, and nothing could bring back what he’d lost. He’d lost Julia long ago. More accurately, the Julia he’d given his stupid young heart to had never even existed. He’d do well to remember that.
Any enjoyment he got from joining his body with this woman was purely biological. She was an actress, after all, skilled in using her body to deceive. She’d simply picked up a few new skills in the time since he’d last known her.
Likely she’d picked them up from Fitzgelder, damn his bastard soul. Rastmoor struggled to keep his breathing even. He was never going to let Julia know she did this to him, that such hate surged through him at the thought of another man touching her. He’d rather die than let her know she still owned him.
He’d have to be on his guard. No more whiskey, and no more losing control with Julia. He’d find his bloody cousin and get that locket back—and give the man his wife while he was at it.
She’d made her choice. Now, damn it, she needed to live with it. So what if she hated Fitzgelder, or if he was cruel toward her? Nothing that bastard did to Julia could ever be half so painful as what he himself would be living through every day of his life.
This night was just one more reminder of what he would never have. Julia was fortunate she had never loved him. Love was torture. Lucky girl to have been born with no heart.
Chapter Nine
Julia wished she had died in Fitzgelder’s bed three years ago. It would have prevented her from ever ending up in Rastmoor’s again.
Oh, but this was terrible. The heartache was as painful as ever. What on earth had she been thinking, inviting him in like this and daring to hope he might somehow still care? He’d stopped caring for her years ago. If he ever had cared for her and not simply for her lies.
She listened to him breathing beside her, separated by infinite space. He was sleeping; had been for hours, it seemed. He’d turned away from her when their lovemaking was done and simply fallen asleep. She’d been the one to lie here and regret.
Her own heartbeat pounded in the darkness. Wait, that was not her heart. Someone was walking along the corridor outside their room. Odd, the house had been silent for hours. It couldn’t possibly be nearing dawn already, could it? No, the moonlight was still strong through the window.
Julia felt her ears perk. Somewhere a door creaked, and there was the lightest padding on the floorboards in the hallway. A second set of footsteps? Smaller, lighter. A woman’s footsteps, and they followed the first set down the corridor and down the stairs.
Servants, most likely. Or perhaps it was some patrons at the inn who decided to leave without paying their bill. Surely that happened from time to time. Well, it was not up to Julia to find them out.
The footsteps faded into the night, but soon another sound caught her attention. Voices, just outside the window. A man’s and a woman’s, from what she could tell of them. So the footsteps had indeed gone outside. Whoever they belonged to were leaving.
No, they were arguing. The voices were speaking in hushed, angry tones. And one of them was familiar.
Sophie? Good heavens, could it really be?
Julia slid out of bed and moved silently to the window. The curtains were still parted, and she peered out, hoping the moonlight would be enough to illuminate the speakers below. It would have been, she supposed, except that the voices were coming from the shadows right up against the building. From her angle, Julia could not see them.
Her window was partially open, so she could hear them, though. The words came out as jumbled hissing sounds. Both parties, apparently, were struggling to keep their voices low while obviously quite at odds with one another. By God, it certainly sounded like Sophie.
Who could she be with, though? And for heaven’s sake, why was she whispering so? Why didn’t she just cry out for help? Obviously, though she was not at all pleased with her companion, she was not in need of rescue from him, either. What could it mean?
Julia could call down to them, of course, but if they were already going to such troubles to keep their argument secret, she doubted they’d stand there and shout back their explanation. Perhaps Sophie did indeed need rescue, and notifying the argumentative gentleman that they were being watched would only give him notice to abscond with the girl again. That would not be good.
Best to keep quiet and find out how things stood.
She glanced at Rastmoor. Damn him for sleeping so peacefully! Well, she didn’t need him. She’d find Sophie on her own then perhaps the two of them could put these useless men behind them. They’d leave the locket here for Rastmoor and be gone. He could sleep all he wanted, and Sophie’s friend could find someone else to argue with. She grabbed up her clothing and dressed as quickly and as quietly as she could. Rastmoor didn’t stir.
She tiptoed out of the room and went down the stairs. The house was still slumbering around her, and at each little creak of the floor, she wondered that no one noticed. They didn’t, however. She made it out the door unseen and crept around the building to find the place the voices had been coming from.
They were gone now. Drat. Where could they be? It had not taken her long to reach this spot, but somehow they had vanished. Julia ducked into the shadows and glanced up to make sure she was below the correct window. It appeared she was. So where did the arguing couple go?
A clattering sound near the stables caught her ear. They must be preparing to leave! She stayed in the shelter of shadows and moved quickly in that direction. A hedge at the corner of the stables sheltered her while she tried to locate the source of the sound. No light spilled out from the doorway, and she was hesitant to dash in blindly.
Had it really been Sophie she’d heard? Cowering in the darkness, her trousers fastened crooked, her shirt hanging loose, and her memory fading, she was not entirely sure it had been. Also, she was not entirely sure it had been such a good idea to rush out here in the first place. Perhaps she’d been a bit rash, in fact. At the very least, it might have been sensible to rouse Rastmoor.
But now there was a light. Indeed, the flickering glow of a candle or even a torch, perhaps, lit the area at the far end of the stable. It got brighter. Julia wasn’t sure if this made her more at ease or more nervous. What was Sophie up to out here?
Then a figure appeared, silhouetted in the flickering glow. Indeed, it was a torch. The figure carried it and moved swiftly. Right behind him came another figure who also carried a torch. Both persons were male; at least they were dressed that way from what Julia could tell. Had Sophie taken to wearing a disguise? No, neither of these men were Sophie. And they didn’t appear to be arguing, either. They were in perfect accord as they matched steps and moved from the corner of the stable toward the main building.
Julia barely had time to wonder where they were going with such bright torches when the first man paused, then tossed his flame high into the air. It crashed against a window, scattering glass and sparks out into the night. The second torch was tossed in precisely the same window. Immediately the room inside became lit with a bright glow. By God, the curtains were aflame, and the room was on fire!
Worse, it was the room where Rastmoor slept like a log.
The figures who’d thrown the fire darted away, but Julia didn’t care. She was already screeching at the top of her lungs and racing back toward the inn. She had to get him out of the
re before he burned to death. Heavens, there was no doubt the fire had been intentional and that Rastmoor had been the target. Please God, let her get to him in time.
The yelling or the crashing or the roaring flames had managed to rouse some of the building’s occupants. As Julia pounded through the door, she ran smack into the proprietor, staggering, bleary-eyed and confused. She pointed toward the back stairs and shouted that there was a fire. His eyes unbleared immediately, and he began barking orders to no one in particular.
Servants appeared, and doors banged open at the top of the stairs. A woman screamed, and running feet clattered from everywhere. Julia couldn’t make her way up the stairs for the crowd of nightshirted patrons who were making their way down it. She scanned their frightened faces; none of them was Rastmoor.
She could smell the smoke now. Surprisingly, though, the air was still quite clear. This could only mean Rastmoor’s door was still shut tight. He was locked in there, still tucked in bed asleep and soon to be that way forever. If the flames didn’t get him first, the heat and the smoke would. They’d creep into his lungs, burning him and causing untold damage. She simply had to get to him!
Julia plowed her way through the crowd only to be knocked back by the first servant to rush by carrying a bucket of water. Two more followed. She found herself in step behind them.
At the top of the stairs, smoke began to billow. The door must have been opened. She couldn’t even see her way to Rastmoor’s room, but the sound of shouts and coughs gave her direction. She felt along the wall until she found it. A servant stomped her toe as he practically fell out of the room, still clutching his now-empty bucket. He clambered down the stairs, hopefully to return right away with more water.
The fire seemed to have taken hold rapidly. The faded, dusty draperies at the window must have provided ample fodder for those fiery torches. Had the bedclothes caught just as easily? Was Rastmoor still alive? She couldn’t see through the smoke.
But then she could hear. He was calling her name! Through the smoke and the shouting and the melee all around them, she could hear him calling her name.
“Julia!”
She pulled her shirt to cover her nose and mouth then moved toward the sound.
More servants pushed past, bringing water. At last Julia could make out forms and bodies in the smoky room. The cool night air outside seemed to be drawing the fire to it, and as more buckets of water were doused over the flames, the room cleared just enough so that she could see him plainly.
He was naked. Two men held his arms, pulling him back from the bed, which was on fire. Rastmoor struggled against them, not trying to escape the room, but glaring with a fury at the burning bed. He caught one of his would-be rescuers with a hard right swing and broke free, diving into the bed.
Her lungs burned, but Julia took a deep breath and ran to him.
“Anthony!”
He hardly seemed to notice when she dug her fingernails into his shoulder and tried to pull him away from the flames.
“He’s looking for some woman, someone named Julia!” one of the men near her yelled above the noise, taking Rastmoor’s other shoulder.
Together they dragged him from the dangerous bed, but he pulled the blankets with him. Julia had to dodge embers that coursed through the air around her. She grabbed Rastmoor’s chin to yank his face toward hers.
“Anthony!” she shouted. “Look at me, Anthony.”
It took nearly a full second before he seemed to recognize her. The wild gleam in his eye faded into recognition, and he dropped the burning bedding. His arms swung around her, and he held her to him in an inescapable embrace. Whatever air she’d had left in her lungs was crushed out. But she would never complain.
The concern for a missing woman had spread to others around them, however. Servants hurried to douse the bed, searching the linens for this mysterious Julia he’d been shouting after. The smoky air became heavy with added moisture.
Someone found Rastmoor’s trousers and tossed them to him. Julia pried herself away and tried to look manly and concerned instead of terrified and weepy, as she felt. Rastmoor glared through the haze as he pulled his trousers on. She choked for trying to breathe.
The danger was past. The smoldering bedclothes and window drapes were tossed out through the broken window. Servants in the yard below stomped out the remaining flames. Servants above poured their final buckets over the darkened woodwork and furnishings. The terrible glow of flames was at last replaced by smoky darkness and stinging air.
The inn’s structure had been spared, as had all the guests. Heavy soot coated everything from Julia’s hair to the walls around her, but thankfully all of it would be fine after a thorough cleaning. Rastmoor was alive and well. Thank God.
Julia was not likely to forget the scene any time soon, though. What would have happened had she not been awake and had not thought she’d heard Sophie? She shuddered to think of it. Indeed, the outcome could have been very different. Their would-be murderers might have succeeded.
Damn that Fitzgelder! She had no doubt this was his doing, but who else was involved? Sophie? Had that truly been her voice outside? Julia didn’t know what to believe. Things were jumbled inside her head, and nothing made sense right now. She needed some fresh air.
“Come on,” Rastmoor was saying, tugging at her elbow.
She followed him out, past the servants who hurried by. He led her down the stairs and out into the cool, damp night. Her lungs ached, and she coughed in great gulps of the heavenly air.
But he didn’t let her revel in it for long.
“Where in God’s name were you?” he demanded. His own voice was hoarse and gravelly.
“There was someone talking . . . in the hallway. Then they came out here, so I followed them.”
“You came outside in the middle of the night because you heard someone talking?”
“It was Sophie! She was arguing with a man.”
“Sophie? Does she still have the locket?”
He was already looking around, scanning the sooty faces cluttering the yard. She hated to disappoint him. True, she might have saved his life tonight, but she had the distinct impression he’d much rather have had her save that locket.
“Sorry, I can’t be sure it was even truly her. It sounded like her voice, but when I came outside, they were gone.”
“They? Who was she arguing with?”
“A gentleman—I don’t know. I couldn’t hear what they said.”
“And the fire?”
“That I did see. Two men. They threw something burning up into the window. They were trying to kill you!”
He glanced up. From where they stood, the blackened window frame was easily visible. There were three other windows on this side of the building, but only one showed signs of fire. Clearly it was no accident those torches had landed in his room.
Now his gaze returned to her. She felt oddly self-conscious. What was he thinking? He stared at her intently, yet his face showed no emotion.
“Too bad you didn’t find our missing Sophie, Julia,” he began. “But how fortunate you were out here safe and sound when someone was trying to burn me to death—in your bed.”
Now his expression made her take a step backward. She had a sinking feeling she knew what was running through his head. Oddly enough, she really couldn’t blame him. He believed her capable of terrible things; why should murder not be one of them?
“Lucky they knew exactly which bed I’d be in, Julia,” he went on. “Considering I gave up my room after everyone else had gone to sleep. Unless perhaps you’d like to convince me those flames were meant for you.”
She stared back at him and forced herself to blink back tears. By God, she would not cry for him, no matter what he accused her of. And certainly she’d never propose that she had been the arson’s target tonight. She knew as well as he that very few people on the planet cared whether she lived or died.
RASTMOOR HAD TO WALK AWAY FROM HER. HE’D BLATANTLY accused
her of wanting him dead, and she’d said nothing. She’d batted her eyes at him and stood there, cold as stone—beautiful under the shapeless men’s clothing and the layers of soot—but heartless and dispassionate as marble.
Damn. She’d enslaved him again, hadn’t she? She’d wrapped herself around his soul, and there was nothing he could do about it except lash out with harsh words then turn his back on her and hope to forget her for a moment or two. God, all he really wanted was to hold her against his chest and feel her heart beating.
He’d been nearly insane when he’d awakened in that smoky, smothering room. In his sleep-befuddled state, he simply could not comprehend that she was not with him, that she was not somehow trapped there, tangled in the fiery bedding, suffering and dying. He’d made a complete fool of himself, hadn’t he?
He always did when Julia was involved.
“Sir!” A dirty little scullery maid came scurrying up to him. “They say you was looking for a woman?”
Blast. Now even the kitchen help labeled him desperate. “No, thank you.”
The girl dropped her hoarse voice low. “ ’Cause if you was looking for a woman—for a particular woman—I might know something about her.”
“What?”
She leaned closer, and her words came out in a whisper. “A certain woman might have just left here a little bit ago.”
“Left here?”
He quickly glanced over to where he’d left Julia. She looked every bit a ragged hand at this point and was busy helping tend to some of the mild injuries several servants had suffered in the battle. She was paying no mind to Rastmoor, and it irked him, despite the fact that he shouldn’t have cared.
But the maid before him was happy to continue her story. She nodded up at him, her eyes bright with conspiracy. “She left in a carriage, sir.”
“A carriage?” Well, that would be an odd thing at this hour. He certainly hadn’t noticed any carriage waiting in the yard, although he had to admit he’d been rather preoccupied surviving a fire and holding himself back from throttling Julia for endangering herself. Whatever could the little wench be talking about?
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