by Lisa Bingham
Directing the animals to the rear of the building, he dismounted then helped Aloise to do likewise.
“Where are we?”
Her voice was soft. Tremulous.
“This was once the cottage of a pair of schoolmasters. Elias Waterton. And his son.”
Her features grew pale, ghastly pale, and Slater nearly regretted his impulse to bring her here. But he had no time to change the course of events. Aloise shook free of his grasp and walked toward the dilapidated building.
Slater watched her carefully, looking for the most subtle sign of guile, but she seemed truly confused by what she saw—as if the place were familiar to her, but not quite remembered. Her hands lifted to press against her temples and she made a soft moue of distress, but she did not pause. Rather, she bent and stepped beneath the shattered beams into what had once been the keeping room.
When Slater followed, he discovered that the cottage had served as shelter for the things of the forest during his absence. Birds’ nests were wedged beneath the rafters and a score of faded tracks testified that it had been inhabited by the local wildlife. The furnishings had long since been taken, leaving only the tamped floor and the damaged walls.
“Where are we?” Aloise’s query was barely audible. She whirled to face him, her eyes wide and haunted. “Where have you brought me?”
Forcing himself to ignore the quavering tone, Slater demanded, “Do you know this place?”
“No.”
Her eyes said she lied.
“Do you?” he demanded again.
“No, I … I don’t … think so.”
He clasped her shoulders and she winced at his close proximity to her wound. But he had to know. He had to know if she remembered this place. Him. She had visited this house as a child. She’d sat on this very floor poring through his father’s books. She’d climbed on Slater’s knee, demanding he teach her the rudiments of reading. She’d been a child, but she should remember him. She should remember him.
Her eyes squeezed shut and her body shook. “I feel … so … so …”
“What, Aloise? What do you feel?”
“Sick.” The response was barely given when she dodged away from him and stumbled to the door. The heavy planks, swollen by years of bad weather, refused to budge. Fully conscious now, she gazed desperately about her, finally focused upon the missing wall where she’d entered and ran for the bushes. She’d hunched over an untidy mound of privet that had once served as a border, her empty stomach managing little more than dry heaves.
Slater felt an immediate rush of shame. He had done this to her. He had vowed to help her, to protect her, and yet, in forcing her to remember the past, he had caused her even more pain.
Moving outside, he supported her by the shoulders until the retching noises ceased. Then, swinging her in his arms, he lifted her on his own horse, tied the reins of her mount to his saddle, and settled behind her.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he urged the stallion into a brisk walk.
Touching the clamminess of her brow he murmured, “Home. We are going home, Aloise.”
“Who … are you?” she demanded weakly. “Why are you doing this to me?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
“Those jewels are mine, despite the fact that I have failed your tests today.”
She still believed he meant to judge her actions, he realized. So he hadn’t given himself away as much as he would have thought. But in allowing her a glimpse of his past, he would now have to continue the charade of believing her a thief. He would have to continue with those contests of ladylike virtues so that she did not guess his true intent had been to make her remember.
When he did not speak, she clutched his sleeve. “I am a lady.”
“Tomorrow, you may try again to prove such a thing.”
Slater kept the pace of their horses at a brisk walk knowing by the quick glances Aloise cast into the trees that—despite her condition—she was still intent upon finding some way to dodge him.
The woman was incredible. Her will was extraordinary. Her beauty indescribable. The yellow suit only added to her loveliness, her fragility. Like a jewel encased in a gold setting, she had taken on an added luster.
Had she known the original purpose of their outing, she might not have been so free with her emotions. Their impromptu ride had been spurred on by Curry’s report that Oliver Crawford’s men had tired of following the decoy coach Slater had sent to intercept Aloise’s father. After questioning some of the nearby villagers, they had reported to Crawford that the conveyance belonged to Slater McKendrick, his new neighbor. Riding pell-mell to Cornwall, he had come to demand a reckoning.
Knowing that it was far too soon for Aloise to see her father or vice versa, Slater had led her into the woods, leaving Curry to reassure the man that no one had seen his daughter or really cared what might have happened to her. He had been told to punctuate such views with the story that the coach Crawford had been following had been stolen from Ashenleigh’s mews by a randy hostler and a disgruntled maid.
Slater could only hope the man would believe such lies. After he’d so foolishly tried to jog her memory, Aloise needed to be returned to the comfort of a fire and a warm bed. Although Slater looked forward to the day when he would confront his nemesis, the time had not yet come. Slater still had to delve into Aloise’s consciousness and see how much of the past he could force her to recall—but gently, this time. Gently. He might wish to shield her from such unpleasantness, but Aloise was the only other witness who could insist that the truth surrounding Jeanne’s death be told.
Topping the rise, Slater noted the “all’s clear” signal of a satin wrapper thrown over one of the rear terrace railings. A gathering storm had caused an early darkness to settle, bringing with it a definite nip to the air. Neither of them had been prepared for the brisk sea breeze, and glancing back at his charge, Slater could see that her nose had pinkened and her arms wound about her body to fend off the cold.
“Only a little farther, Aloise.”
She nodded to show she had heard, but did not look up. Slater felt a twinge of guilt, but he quickly reassured himself that this had been the only way to keep her safely away from Crawford. He would see to it she was offered a warm meal, a hot bath, a spot of rum, and then she would be as right as rain.
As they neared the manor, one of the hostlers bounded toward them to take care of the horses. Slater swung to the ground. When he moved to help her dismount, she acquiesced in a very uncharacteristic manner, stumbling slightly against him. It was then that he realized her skin was like ice.
Damn. He’d forgotten that he was much more accustomed to the out-of-doors than this woman could ever be.
Swinging her into his arms, he carried her across the yard and up the front steps. Miss Nibbs, seeing him from the side window, quickly opened the door.
“Send a hot bath to the Rose Room.”
“She bathed this morning.”
“Do it,” he snapped, then regretted his impatience since it reminded him of another night, another woman. “Please, Miss Nibbs.”
The old lady grumbled at the waste of water, but after a quick glance of concern, obeyed of her own free will. Taking Aloise into the drawing room, Slater set her on one of the settees, then poured a measure of rum and returned to her side. She had risen to her feet and stood staring uncertainly at her surroundings.
“Here, drink this.” He nudged the glass in her direction.
Lifting the libation, she sniffed at it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Rum.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I despise rum.”
“Drink it, you look as if you could use a little bracing.”
She considered the idea, then nodded. The pungent liquor was nearly to her lips when she inquired, �
�I don’t suppose you’ve anything else available. Wine? Champagne?” When he shook his head, she asked hopefully, “Chocolate? I do so love a good cup— sweet, thick, velvety smooth. Rich.”
“No. I’m afraid you caught me unprepared. My cellars have not yet been fully stocked.”
She sighed in genuine regret. “What a pity.”
“It’s a good brew, I assure you. Drink.”
“Very well.” Gingerly resting the rim to her mouth, she took a tiny sip. Shuddered.
“All of it.”
“Oh, really, I think I’ve had quite enough.”
“If you don’t drink it to the dregs, I’ll wait until you’ve been rendered unconscious from a chill, then pour it down your throat.”
His tone had been perfectly civil, but she glared at him anyway. However, his threat brought about the proper result since she did as she was told, then shivered again. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, Slater drew her close to his chest, trying to ignore the way his body had begun to respond in an altogether unsuitable way. But the flushed quality of her skin and the sheen of her hair brought a swirl of emotions: confusion, longing, nostalgia.
“What, sir, do you intend to do with me now?” When she moved to rest her head on his shoulder, gripping his shirt for balance, her legs shifted suspiciously. Slater immediately swerved away.
Taken by surprise at the abrupt movement, she touched her brow. “What in the world—”
“Merely protecting myself, cherie. You’ve a nasty aim with that knee of yours.”
“Hmm. Practice.” Her odd retort caused her to burst into a peal of giggles. Just as suddenly, she became perfectly serious. “Have you any more rum?”
The woman was already well on her way to being truly snockered. The rum must have hit her empty stomach and gone straight to her head. Or she was playacting? Even after the shocks of the afternoon, Slater wouldn’t put anything past her.
He reconsidered having given her another draft, but since he needed her biddable and tame, another drink might not prove to be such a bad idea.
“Come. Sit over here by the fire first.”
Slater helped her to sink into one of the settees. When he would have backed away, she clung to him ever so slightly. Not as a simpering female would, or in a coy bid for attention, but as if she truly feared what might happen to her should he go.
“You won’t leave me?”
The query was nakedly forlorn, without pretense, without guile.
“No.”
“No one else has ever stayed. Not for good.”
Her comment caused him to hesitate, but when he would have said something, she let go of his support and reclined against the back of the couch, tucking her fists beneath her ear and drawing her knees up to her stomach.
She appeared so small in that position. So small and fragile and weak. Slater could break her with one unkind word, one unguarded glance. Oddly enough, he found that was the last thing he wanted to do.
She looked so much like Jeanne.
But this was Aloise. Her daughter.
His onetime betrothed.
“What about the rum? Have you more?”
“Yes.”
“I should like some, please—if it’s not too much trouble.”
He hunkered beside the chair. Unable to resist, he touched her, crooking his finger and skimming a knuckle across the curve of her cheek. “Mayhap you should have something to eat first.”
She nudged against him. “I’m not ’tall hungry.” Her tongue swiped at her lips, darting in and out so suddenly that Slater experienced a sudden and most inappropriate sensual pang. To deny the fierce sensual attraction he felt, he must deny the air he breathed. She aroused a part of him he’d thought had been destroyed. A tiny corner of his soul that had once believed in chivalry.
“Rum. I should like … sommme rummm.”
Ever vigilant to a possible escape, Slater splashed a small measure in her glass, and returned. “Come. Here are your spirits.”
He helped her to clutch the vessel. In doing so her breast rubbed against him. Valiantly, he tried to deny that forbidden pressure and the answering fire being stoked in his belly.
Humming a ditty to herself—something that sounded distinctly like a bawdy limerick he had once heard—she drained the contents, then smacked her lips.
“It’s still quite awful, you know. Quite, quite, awful. But I do believe I’m beginning to develop a taste for it.” She smiled at him, a silly drunken smile.
“Tell me, do you like rum?” The phrase held all the satin-bound overtures of a proposition.
“Nearly as much as brandy.”
“Per … sonally. I like chocolate.” Her fingertips walked up his chest, lingering ever so slightly in the crisp hair to be found there.
“I believe you mentioned that fact.”
“I have never been to one of those chocolate houses. But I should think they are wonderful places.” That dainty hand curled around his neck, delving into the waves of his hair. “According to Alexander Pope, chocolate is the elixir of the gods … or some such idea in the same vein. I am inclined to agree.”
She pulled, irresistibly, irretrievably, until his mouth hovered above hers. Wary, but intrigued, Slater allowed Aloise to have her way. In doing so, he pinned her skirts to the chair so that she could not try to fell him again with her knee. However, that appeared to be the last thought from her mind.
“Tell me, how do you like your chocolate?”
“Bitter and black.”
“I thought as much.”
Her lips closed over his and there was a tentativeness to the caress, a tasting. Her lashes flickered shut and she appeared to savor the newness of their embrace.
Slater grew still in surprise. Dear sweet heaven, she never ceased to amaze him. He’d always been able to peg his women in the past, to decipher their motives and even manipulate their moods. But this woman left him guessing. Shy and vulnerable one minute, feisty and ill mannered the next, she was a riddle to a man accustomed to keeping his own emotions well hidden.
His arms slid around her back, measuring the slight build of her torso and the tiny circumference of her waist. Bending lower, he opened his mouth and pressed his tongue to her lips, bidding her to open to him. She balked at first, then reluctantly obeyed.
She was sweet. Too sweet. Her mouth was a honeyed cavern. Her teeth small and even.
Despite her boldness, Slater sensed that the act of mingling tongue with tongue was new to her, so he taught her slowly. Advancing, retreating. A quick study, she soon followed suit. Within minutes, he moaned deep in his throat, holding her so fiercely, their hearts could have been one.
When he backed away, she took a calming breath. “Just as I said. I like it sweet, thick, velvety smooth. Rich.”
He chuckled, pleased by her inadvertent audacity. The ladies he’d entertained over the years had either been ready for a tumble or as frozen as ice. This woman courted a disturbing mix of innocence and feminine wiles.
“’Tis only the first course.”
“Mmm.” She murmured another word that sounded distinctly like “rum” then stroked his forearm with her knuckles, up and down. Up and down.
“Mistress?”
She strayed to his ribs, explored each indentation with the curious wonder of a stranger allowed to explore an unfamiliar realm.
When she would have delved lower than was proper, he caught her shoulders. Before he could say a word, her lashes flickered and she stared at him beneath lazy lashes. “You think I’m a child, but I know what to do with men,” she murmured, her speech slightly slurred. “You see, I’ve been a student for many years … many … many … years.” She smiled in a way that was infinitely beguiling. “He thought he could stop me. He thought he could … lock me up… i
n that house. But I learned all I needed to know from books.”
Swinging her legs to the floor, she stood, wrapping her arms around his hips and drawing him closer, closer.
“Not merely the novels … you un’nerstand, but art books … sculpture … plays. Then … on nights as black as Croesus … I peeked through the keyhole … watching the guards … with their women …”
He felt a rush of horror at her words. What had happened to her all these years? Where had Crawford kept her? What had she endured?
She gripped the taut muscles of his buttocks. Disturbed by her drunken bravado, Slater tried to prevent her advances. “Aloise, I don’t think—”
“Then neither will I,” she whispered, releasing him, but only for a moment. She grasped the lapels of his waistcoat and drew him down for a hungry kiss. Passion warred side by side with youthful exuberance.
Slater felt himself responding wholeheartedly. He could not have stopped the increased tightening of his body had the room been set on fire. But Slater was not so far gone that he did not taste the hint of desperation in her caress. The fear.
When she drew back, her eyes glittered with a forbidden mixture of emotions. Restlessness. Passion. Distress. With her hat coming loose from its pinnings and her coiffure dissolving into loose silken tendrils, she appeared both the temptress and the abandoned waif.
Why had he ever thought that her father could mold her into something she was never meant to be? This girl could no more adopt his cruelty and indifference than fly. She was a thing of light and nature, free, loving, passionate. Rather than dampening her spirit, the trials she must have suffered beneath Crawford’s care had merely intensified her willingness to give. To love.
He cupped her cheeks between his palms, staring deep into her eyes. Eyes as dark and eloquent as a forest glade. Eyes that could never hide their true feelings. Eyes so like Jeanne’s—yet different, younger, filled with hope.
“Please, Slater … let me go free.”
The words tumbled from her lips, husky with the emotions she fought to conceal.
