by Lisa Bingham
Her fingers slipped and she screamed as she felt herself falling, falling. But just when she thought the ground would slam against her tender backside, two arms snapped around her waist, breaking the impetus of her plummet.
The silence that followed was awful. Squeezing her eyes shut, Aloise didn’t need to see who had come to her aid.
“Going somewhere, mistress?”
Chapter 7
“I thought I’d get a little air,” Aloise muttered flippantly, but when she looked at her captor, it became clear that he was not amused.
“How very unwise of you.” In the encroaching light of morning, his licorice-black eyes glittered most alarmingly. So much so, that Aloise wondered if she might have been better off tangling with the tiger. “Do you often parade about your hosts’ gardens in your stays and chemise?”
She refused to be cowed, even when the tone of his voice hardened. “Having never been invited anywhere, I couldn’t say.”
“Hmm.” After that thoughtful sound, he carried her across the courtyard, toward a pair of French doors that had been thrown open to the dewy air.
“You may set me down, I assure you.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
She glanced over his shoulder, wondering if she should try to wriggle free and run, but the tiger continued to watch her with bright, gleaming eyes, its tongue occasionally sweeping out to lick its jowls as if regretting the loss of a tasty morsel.
The man didn’t speak, making her wonder if she were about to be inflicted with some sort of horrible punishment. Her father had always seen to it that she was castigated for any show of willfullness. Why should this man prove any different?
Hoping to diffuse the volatile situation, Aloise deftly changed the course of the conversation. “What an unusual pet you have.”
“Sonja is not a pet. One wrong move, and she will have you for breakfast.”
Aloise tried to tell herself that the man was merely jesting, but after careful scrutiny of his rock-hard jaw and the intent stare of the tiger, she was forced to heed his warning. At least for the moment.
“How did you come by such an unusual … garden ornament? Most people would have settled for a birdbath rather than a predatory animal.”
“Sonja was given to me while I was abroad.”
Despite herself, Aloise felt a pique of interest. “Abroad?” she repeated, unable to prevent the note of reverence that entered her voice.
“Yes, cherie.” He looked down at her then, darkly, his eyes filled with meaning. “I have been to Africa.”
She would have immediately pummeled him with questions, but something about the slight twitching of a muscle in his jaw prevented her. Without preamble, he marched up the stairs, opened the door to the Rose Room, and dumped her on the untidy bed.
Sighing at the condition of her bandage, he stalked across the room to tear off a portion of her bath sheet and use it to bind the wound. Aloise averted her eyes from the sight of the fresh streaks of blood, but such an action caused an even more alarming sensation since she became aware of each touch, each brush of movement, each warm caress.
“Rest,” the stranger ordered, jerking her from her thoughts. Then, he turned and abruptly exited into the hall. Before locking her in he stated, “I would not venture out for any more air.” One black brow lifted in clear warning. “Sonja is not the only creature who likes to prowl through my garden looking for something to feast upon.”
With that, he shut the door, leaving her with nothing more than her tangled linens, the mournful notes of the chimes, and the disgruntled grumbling of the tiger to keep her company.
However, minutes later as she stripped off her stays—hiding the one ruby she’d managed to keep—and wrapped herself in a pink satin duvet, she couldn’t deny the gooseflesh that peppered her skin. As if she weren’t quite as alone as she would like to think.
“You’ve got that overly intense brooding look again, Slater. It rarely bodes well for the object of your concern.”
Slater didn’t bother to turn as Will Curry moved into the sitting room behind him. He continued to stare out the window pane into the encroaching dawn, trying to ignore the fact that a mere wall away, Aloise Crawford had divested herself of everything but her chemise and had fallen asleep.
When he’d seen her clambering down to the garden he’d been too angry to take much note of his guest’s attire. But after leaving her, he’d returned to this room and peered through the eyeholes of the ornate plaster mask built into the wall. One which corresponded to a similar ornament on the other side.
In all the years of wondering what had happened to Aloise Crawford, he had never dreamed that she could prove to be so lovely. Somehow, it had salved his conscience to convince himself that she’d taken after her father, becoming a mousey-haired, meek-tongued woman with Crawford’s beaked nose and all the passion of a roasted potato. He’d sworn she would prove to be cold to the bone.
He’d been wrong. So very wrong.
He couldn’t deny how much she looked like her mother—and acted. Good hell, she had a temper. He rubbed the spot where she’d bitten him—bitten him! In the past thirty-six years of his life he had endured hunger and deprivation. He’d been shot, knifed, beaten, and whipped. But no one had ever bitten him. No one had ever managed to take him off guard in that manner, damn her hide.
“… say, old boy, aren’t you listening?”
“Hmm?” Jerking back to Curry’s insistent demand, he finally turned to confront his friend.
Just as he’d suspected, Curry’s puckish features were clouded with a frown of displeasure. Other than being a bit rumpled and dusty, he appeared none the worse for wear after their riotous journey, but Slater guessed that his temper was not so unaffected.
“At long last, I have your attention. Or at least a portion of it.” Will snapped the door closed. “Would you like to tell me just what the hell you plan to do now?”
“The thought of a hot bath crossed my mind.”
“Damn it, Slater, that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“Then what did you mean, Curry?” Slater’s tone grew steely, warning Will that even as his friend, there were bounds to his familiarity.
His efforts were wasted. Curry flopped onto the settee, hooking one leg over the arm, not in the least dissuaded from pursuing his course. “You know very well that I’m asking what you’re going to do with Mistress Aloise Crawford now that you’ve got her imprisoned in the Rose Room—and what in heaven’s name do you intend by having Louis and Rudy and a chambermaid gallivanting all over the countryside in your coach?”
Slater moved to the sideboard to pour himself a snifter of brandy. “I’m merely keeping her out of her father’s clutches for a time.”
“Why? Why not take her to the authorities, have her relate what she saw fifteen years ago, and be done with the whole affair?”
“She claims she doesn’t remember her mother. At all.”
“Do you believe her?”
He briefly thought of the way she’d struck her head that night so long ago. “I haven’t decided. But I won’t let her leave in any event.”
“How do you plan to ensure she stays here? Imprison her in the Rose Room?”
“In part.” He waited an instant, knowing that Curry would have a great deal to say about his unorthodox procedure. “I have also accused her of thievery. She must remain with me until her claims otherwise can be proved true.”
“That should endear you to her.”
Slater shrugged in apparent unconcern.
“I suppose you’ll spend the intervening time pricking her conscience for the true extent of her memory.”
“That I will. In the meantime, Louis and Rudy will lead Crawford on a merry chase, keeping him occupied until I’m prepared to let him know where to find his daughter.”
Curry opened his mouth, hesitated, then threw his hands into the air. “Fine. Do what you wish. Yo
u will anyway.” Curry’s scrutiny centered keenly on Slater. “She’s very beautiful, don’t you think?”
Slater didn’t move, didn’t blink. “Depends on your point of view, I suppose.”
“Lush figure, dark coloring, a spirit of fire, how many ways do you need to study her?”
Slater compared the woman who’d fought with him on the beach with the one who had tried in vain to charm a tiger the same way one would charm a recalcitrant kitten. His expression lightened slightly. “She is a model of contrasts.”
“That fact intrigues you.”
The room pulsed in silence, becoming so quiet that Slater thought he might have heard the tinkling of the wind chime in the other room. “Possibly it does.”
Curry rose. “In that case, I shall anticipate the next few days with great pleasure. Meanwhile, I intend to go in search of my own hot bath. You may continue to brood at your own leisure.”
“I never brood.”
“Mmm. So you keep telling me.”
Will exited the sitting room, leaving a restless quiet in his place. Slater remained still for one minute, two. Then, as if drawn by a velvet cord, he padded into the hall to his private office.
Miss Nibbs had been this way as well. He could tell by the scores of tapers that had been lit in the corridor. Since losing her original position in the Waterton household fifteen years ago, and being forced to take sanctuary in a friend’s cellar to avoid Crawford’s wrath, Miss Nibbs had grown to despise the dark. Slater, on the other hand, had become a creature of the night.
Extinguishing the candles and leaving a wake of inky shadows, he stepped into his own private sanctuary. An overflow of his father’s books and maps had been stacked here after the library had been filled. The precious reading materials were the only things Miss Nibbs had been able to salvage from the cottage after Crawford had ransacked the place. She’d kept them in boxes and trunks, somehow knowing that he would come back. Knowing he would have his revenge. When his solicitor had managed to locate and approach her about working in Ashenleigh, she had brought the things to their rightful home. Her gift to the boy she had never forgotten.
Taking the last candle, Slater left it aglow, entering the room that harbored the oh-too-familiar musty scents of old books and paper. The smells were even more intense since his father’s collection had only been moved into the house mere days earlier. Miss Nibbs had been quite busy since receiving word that her master would soon return.
For long moments, Slater stood still in the doorway. Moving slowly, he crossed the room to a set of heavy velvet draperies. Hooking them behind the brass rosettes imbedded in the gilt ornamentation of the alcove he stared up at the sweet face that regarded him so quietly, so seriously.
The artist had captured Jeanne’s exquisite features to near perfection. Although Slater had been able to provide the man with nothing more than the tiny miniature in Slater’s possession, the painting had taken on a life of its own. A warmth.
“I’m sorry, Jeanne. So sorry,” he whispered, knowing that their was no way he could atone for his mistake of years’ past. But at least he could try to expose the truth. Right the future.
“Well, Jeanne … I have finally found her. Aloise is here with me. And she is beautiful. Much like you.”
Maybe Slater was imagining things, maybe he read more into the artwork than anyone else would find there, but in the dewy warmth of dawn beginning to stretch its fingers through the far window, he thought he saw a slight smile lingering deep in her eyes. The very idea caused a shaft of sadness to spear his heart.
This woman should have lived to see this day.
She should have lived to see the woman her daughter had become.
“Get up.”
Aloise woke to the abrupt command, blinking over the top of the single duvet that had managed to stay on the bed. She barely had time to gather her wits about her when Miss Nibbs marched into the room, harrumphing in displeasure.
“What have you done?” she demanded cryptically, gesturing to the coverlets spilling onto the floor and the sheets still knotted and wound around the leg of the four-poster.
Aloise had not bothered to repair her room. Her surroundings must look odd indeed, but she refused to explain herself to this imperious crone. Therefore, she blinked, fixed the woman with a hard stare and retorted, “I’m a light sleeper,” thinking that it was truly none of this woman’s business what went on in Aloise’s bedchamber, regardless of the condition of her linens.
The old woman was clearly not impressed with her explanation. She frowned in Aloise’s direction, her gaze raking the length of her disheveled figure. “You did not try to escape, I hope.”
“I did.”
The woman opened her mouth in shock at such audacity then added, “Evidently he caught you, since you are still here.”
Aloise refused to respond to such a pointed reminder of her failure.
The woman folded her arms beneath her ponderous breasts. “I can see that you didn’t follow the master’s instructions and bathe.”
“No. I did not.”
“He will be highly displeased.”
“Then the master may do the bathing if he wishes. I, however, was not in the mood.”
The woman’s chin trembled in irritation. “How is your mood this morning?”
In all truth, Aloise would have loved a bath. Saltwater and travel dust caked her skin and made her feel decidedly sticky.
The woman grunted again. “Don’t bother to answer. What you want is of little consequence. The master will be obeyed.”
Aloise opened her mouth to offer a pithy remark, but Miss Nibbs gave her no opportunity.
“If you are to wash properly, I will have to send servants to empty the tub.”
“Fine.”
“Then fill it again.”
“Fine.”
Miss Nibbs swept from the room, and glad for the respite—if only for a minute or two—Aloise buried her head beneath a pillow. However, it was not the servants that Miss Nibbs had gone to summon she realized in dismay when even the down-filled bolsters could not drown out the thump of boot heels on the marble staircase. Aloise knew in an instant that Miss Nibbs had sought the owner of the house to chide Aloise for her negligence.
Aloise’s legs churned in her haste to rise from the bed, unintentionally hiking her chemise high about her thighs just at he walked through the door. She scrambled to push the fabric back into place, an uncomfortable blush staining her cheeks at having been caught with so much bare skin exposed.
Her host stopped just a few yards past the threshold and Aloise was struck to the core by her first glimpse of him in broad daylight.
Dear Lord, had she really thought she could seduce this man? She gazed up and up at his inordinate height, noting his forbidding coloring and the gleam of eyes that were accustomed to being angry.
“I trust you slept well.”
“No. I did not.”
Miss Nibbs gasped at her rudeness, but Aloise was not about to take back the words. She had not asked to be brought here; she had not asked to stay. This man had kept her by force, bent her to his will.
His lips twitched ever so slightly at her impertinence, but did not tip far enough to curve into a smile. He flicked a glance at her disheveled underthings, then the knotted linens still trailing toward the window.
“Miss Nibbs, I’m afraid our guest had a bit of a mishap after retiring which forced her to … abandon her clothes for a time. Therefore, you will need to see to laundering them. I believe you will find a dress and two petticoats dangling outside her window. Clayton will help you get them down.”
The old crone grumbled to herself, but went to do as she’d been bidden, leaving Aloise alone with her host. Alone and quite unprepared for the crackling energy that settled into the room around them.
As much as she had grown to dislike Miss Nibbs’s patronizing tone and her fawning attention to this man’s wishes, Aloise
nearly called her back. She did not want to be left with this stranger. He was much too large. Much too intense.
He must have sensed a bit of her unease, because he moved farther into the room as if to catch her should she try to bolt. “I’ve sent one of my men to Tippington to make inquiries.”
“I did not steal the necklace.”
He sighed as if wearied with the same argument they’d held earlier. “Well, I believe that today I will give you the opportunity to prove to me that you are the lady you claim to be.”
He walked around her in a large circle, eyeing her as if she were a mare on the block. “First, though, I see that you are in dire need of an appropriate wardrobe.”
She stiffened her shoulders and glared at him. “There is nothing wrong with my clothing.”
“Save that it is knotted and soiled and hanging outside your bedroom window,” he said turning his back and walking to the door.
Furious at being so easily dismissed, she added, “Then I’ll wait until it has been cleaned.”
Grasping the knob, he stepped into the hall. “No. You won’t. Because you see, cherie, my men and I have been away from England for a very long time. We are not yet accustomed to the stunning beauties to be found on this little island, and the costume you are wearing—however charming—manages to be quite transparent when you stand in front of the window. Such as you are doing now.”
The smile he offered her was positively wolfish. Her cheeks burned and her hands automatically rose to cover herself, but they both knew such a gesture had occurred much too late.
“I will send the servants up with more hot water— and you will bathe, my dear. Then I expect you to join me in the breakfast room in one hour.”
With that, he closed the door, leaving her trembling and decidedly nervous. She knew without a doubt that this man had studied her body through the all-but-transparent fabric of her shift. If the heated gleam of his eyes was any indication … he hadn’t been completely unaffected by what he’d seen.
