by Anne Stuart
“And besides, you only cheat to lose. That’s hardly a grave insult.”
“Any irregularity in matters of gaming is deemed worthy of a duel.”
“But you don’t fight duels.”
“There’s always a first. Do you want me to vanquish Nicholas Blackthorne if he’s still in residence? I could call him out, put a bullet in his black heart, and finish the business there and then.”
She felt an odd little start of panic. “Don’t be absurd, Tony. He’d be much more likely to kill you.”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“Who would bring me chocolates?” she demanded with a mischievous smile.
“Or naughty French novels? Very well, I’ll keep myself safe. I cannot talk you into remaining a few more days?”
“You cannot,” she said, stifling the pang inside.
“Then at least let me escort you back to Ainsley Hall. The roads are dangerous nowadays, with highwaymen and the like. And if Nicholas hasn’t departed I can at least speed him on the way.”
“I won’t be able to offer you any hospitality,” she warned him, much pleased by his offer.
Tony waved an airy hand. “I wouldn’t expect it. Does that mean I’m considered as great a threat as Blackthorne? What a compliment.”
“Any man is considered a threat. And it’s entirely ridiculous. Are you certain you want to accompany me, Tony? After all, you’d be curtailing your own visit as well. I thought you planned on staying a fortnight.”
Tony smiled at her with particular sweetness. “I find my reason for being here to have disappeared. When you leave I’ll be more than ready to leave too.”
He didn’t mean what she thought he did. She was wise enough to realize that. Nevertheless, she was too cowardly to ask exactly what he did mean. On this rare occasion, ignorance was indeed bliss.
“When would you care to leave?” Tony continued, obviously unaware of the troubled direction her thoughts had taken.
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, at first light. I simply can’t rid myself of the feeling that something quite terrible has happened.”
Tony drained his claret. “And I’ll be more than happy to prove to you that nothing at all is amiss. Your wonderful French chef can provide me with a splendid meal, and I’ll spend the night at the local tavern. Does that sound acceptable to you?”
“Perfect,” she said. “As long as…” She let her voice trail off in confusion. She was about to say as long as Gilly was still there. But there’d be no reason for her to have left. She certainly wasn’t going to fall prey to Nicholas Blackthorne’s wiles.
“As long as what?”
She managed a bright smile. “As long as you let me beat you at chess again.”
“Done,” he said, a curious warmth in his very gray eyes. “You have only to ask and I’m your obedient servant.”
She was used to polite phrases from gentlemen who never meant them. Tony was being just as glib. It was only her fault that she half-believed he meant them.
Nicholas Blackthorne leaned back in the chair, a cool cloth held against his face. He was winded, damnably weak, and cursing. Not cursing as much as the female now lying facedown on the bed in the next room, neatly trussed and tied by Tavvy and him when the fight finally ran out of her.
She’d managed to inflict a fair amount of damage. He’d only said her name and she went wild, obviously wanting to kill him with those small, hard, painful hands since he’d deprived her of any weapon. He wouldn’t have thought such a tiny creature could be quite so dangerous, but it took all his compromised strength to subdue her. He ended up sitting on her in the middle of the room, hoping she wasn’t being cut by the shards of crockery she’d smashed earlier.
It was absurd to be concerned. She was determined to kill him—why he should worry about her well-being was beyond nonsensical.
If he had a decent bone in his body he’d simply decamp, leaving her in her ignominious position until one of the other servants found her. He’d overstayed his welcome, and since he’d had no word on Jason Hargrove he could pretty much assume the old dog was going to recover. He and Tavvy should head back to London and the opprobrium of their friends, head back to the gaming tables and the fine claret and the unpoisoned brandy.
But he wasn’t going to do that. If he simply left, Mademoiselle Ghislaine de Lorgny might very well count her blessings and behave herself. But he didn’t think so. He’d never seen hatred so intense before. She would follow him, and he’d end up with a knife between his shoulder blades when he least expected it.
No, he would leave Ainsley Hall, all right. But he wasn’t going to London and his warm, comfortable rooms. He was going to Scotland, to the tumbled-down hunting lodge that was part of his entailed inheritance, a place he hadn’t seen since he was ten years old. A place he’d once loved.
And he and Tavvy weren’t going alone.
The Road
Chapter 5
Ghislaine was cold. Miserably, achingly cold, her entire body trembling with it. She must have gotten soft in the last year, living in the fat English comfort of Ainsley Hall. She’d prided herself on being impervious to minor discomforts like the weather, and here she was, shivering.
Fear had nothing to do with it, she told herself, squirming around on the too-soft bed. She was afraid of nothing on this earth. She’d faced the worst, and survived, whether she’d wanted to or not. Fate couldn’t send her any more cruel blows.
He’d tied her wrists too tightly, but then she already knew he was a conscienceless bully. She’d been stronger than he was, a fact which gave her no small pleasure. She’d worked hard for a living, and her muscles were strong, while Nicholas Blackthorne was nothing more than an indolent fop, intent on dissipated pleasures. It was no wonder he was nearly bested by a woman half his size and weight.
His recent bout with rat poison might have something to do with his weakness, she admitted reluctantly. If he hadn’t spent the last two days near death, he could have defeated her a great deal more handily. It had been a long time since she’d had to use her limited strength to protect herself, and she’d gotten out of the habit. She was soft, dangerously soft.
She rolled over on her side, grimacing in the darkness. She could hear their voices drifting in from the other room, and she wondered with a kind of emotionless curiosity just what they had planned for her. Whether she was about to be handed over to the local magistrate, or whether Blackthorne had a more immediate, personal revenge in mind. The local authorities wouldn’t take kindly to her—for one thing, she was a foreigner, and she’d learned all too well the insular English distrust for foreigners. For another, she’d tried to kill a gentleman, an undisputed member of the upper classes. To be sure, he was the blackest, most disreputable gentleman ever to set foot on British soil, and he deserved to die a lingering, painful death, but she doubted the magistrate would agree.
She felt cold and sticky. The brandy had dried and stiffened on the front of her dress, and her clothes had been torn during her furious assault. Her hair hung around her face, and she must have looked like all the furies combined. It hadn’t even daunted Blackthorne. He’d laughed at her, laughed at her rage. For that alone she wanted him dead.
But she’d lost. She’d half-expected to, from the moment she knew he’d arrived at Ainsley Hall. Her course had been set in motion, and she’d had no choice but to follow it, even knowing it was doomed to failure. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to bring him down with her.
She ached all over. Her head throbbed, and she remembered his hand crashing into her as she’d tried to scratch his eyes out. He didn’t have any gentlemanly scruples, at least she could grant him that. If he had, he might not be alive now.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, struggling to catch her breath against the tightness of her bonds. The shadows from the firelight flickered against the ceiling, casting ominous shapes overhead, and she wondered how long she had to regain her strength,
her determination. How long before she had to fight again.
The door opened wider, and she held herself very still, already prepared for a renewal of the battle. And then she heard the familiar scrabble of paws on the parquetry floor and an anxious yip as Charbon hurtled himself at the bed. It took him a number of attempts to breach it, and then he was pouncing all over her, licking her anxiously with his rough little tongue, making a soft whining noise in the back of his throat.
They hadn’t gagged her. There was no need—who would have paid the slightest bit of attention if she called for help? “Poor baby,” she whispered, her voice a soft caress. “I’m all right, I promise you.” Her voice sounded rough, even to her own ears, and the dog wasn’t placated. He whimpered again, placing his cold wet nose against her cheek, licking anxiously.
“You can’t imagine how it gratifies me to hear that,” a hateful voice drifted to her ears from the open door.
She didn’t turn her head to look at him, didn’t give him any indication that she’d heard him. She hadn’t many defenses left—she intended to cherish each one.
She kept her gaze concentrated on the shadowed ceiling as he strolled into the room. A moment later Charbon was scooped off her chest, and she braced herself to hear a canine yelp of pain.
She’d underestimated Blackthorne. “Your mistress isn’t in the mood for doggy kisses,” he said to the puppy in a soothing voice. “And we don’t want you licking the brandy off her clothes, now do we? Get along with you.” He set the dog on the floor and gave him a gentle nudge.
Charbon bounced back onto the bed with an indignant yip, and Ghislaine had no choice but to look at the puppy, ignoring the tall, dark figure that loomed above her.
“You’re just as determined as your mistress, aren’t you?” Blackthorne said, and there was a trace of cool amusement in his voice. “Tavvy?” he called over his shoulder. “Dispose of this creature, will you?”
She couldn’t help her instinctive protest as he once more scooped Charbon’s wiggling body off her.
Taverner appeared beside the bed, taking the puppy in patient hands. “What do you want me to do with him?”
Blackthorne was watching her very carefully, gauging her reaction, and she concentrated all her limited energies on keeping her face blank. “You could always drown him,” he said in a dreamy voice. “Or break his neck.”
“No!” The voice was torn out of her. Shame filled her at her weakness, but she couldn’t let him die without a protest.
“No?” Blackthorne echoed, leaning over her. “Are you asking me to save your little dog?”
She wanted to spit in his face. She stared up at him, into his dark, merciless eyes, and wished she could curse him. “Yes,” she said, forcing the words.
He smiled then, a small, cool smile of triumph. “Take the dog to the housekeeper and tell her to watch over him until Ellen returns, Tavvy. I’m sure my cousin will take him to her bosom.”
It was the best she could hope for, and part of her despised accepting even that much mercy from the man. She bit her lips together, determined not to show any gratitude, but he was wise enough to expect none.
“What do you want me to tell the old lady?” Taverner asked, pausing in the doorway.
“What we’d planned on,” Nicholas said, staring down at her, unmoved by the hatred in her eyes. “That Mamzelle has decided a life of drudgery can’t compare with that of an English gentleman’s mistress.”
“No!” she protested, but he simply smiled, his hand reaching out to stroke the side of her face gently. She jerked away furiously, but he caught her, his hand hard.
“I didn’t say I was actually going to bed you, darling,” he murmured. “I merely think it would be politic for the servants of Ainsley Hall to think you prefer my bed to the kitchens. I gather you haven’t told Ellen about your past. Most unwise on your part. If she knew, she’d raise heaven and earth trying to stop me. As it is, she’ll simply have to assume her eccentric chef was vulnerable to the lures of sex and money, like most of her countrywomen.”
“Stop you from doing what?” she asked in a rough voice.
For a moment his eyes lit up with a mocking humor. “Why, I’m not sure yet. I’ll make it up as I go along. Are you going to walk with me out to the carriage in a nice, biddable fashion, or am I going to have to use brute force?”
“I’d prefer you take me to the magistrate.”
“I’m certain you would, ma petite, but I consider that option much too boring. I find I really dislike being poisoned, and some small, ignoble part of me is longing for revenge. You should understand that much, shouldn’t you, Ghislaine? For whatever crimes you imagine I committed against you and yours, you decided you’d murder me. Perhaps I’ll return the favor.”
“Do it now,” she said fiercely.
He simply shook his head, the faint, damnable smile on his face. “Anticipation is half the pleasure,” he said.
“I won’t come willingly.”
“Subduing defiance is the other half,” he said, and for the first time she noticed the snowy-white neckcloth in his hands. A moment later the gag was in place, tied behind her head, and she stopped struggling, knowing that the more she struggled, the longer his hands would touch her. And she found the touch of his hands unnerving.
He hauled her into a sitting position, and a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. She’d hit her head during her struggles, and the pain was just beginning to reassert itself. She refused to let herself sway, sitting very still, waiting.
He was fully dressed—an ominous sign. He was a symphony in chiaroscuro, from his shiny black boots, carelessly tied cravat, silver-trimmed black coat, and dark, black breeches. He looked like the devil himself, and she wondered whether he was planning to go straight to hell. And whether he was planning on taking her too.
He draped the bright green silk cape around her, and she didn’t bother protesting. He knew full well it was Ellen’s, and he’d chosen it anyway. He fastened it beneath her chin, his long fingers cool against her skin, and pulled the hood up over her head.
“Not that the servants will be under any illusions,” he murmured, surveying her with a thoughtful air. “I just don’t happen to want them to realize you’re not quite willing. They’re not overly fond of you; Tavvy discovered that much in the servants’ hall. They think you’re insufferably proud and above yourself. They’ll be absolutely delighted to think you lifted your skirts for the likes of me.”
She lunged at him, forgetting her ankles were bound together, and he caught her as she fell against him. “So eager, ma petite?” he murmured. “You’re right—we’ve overstayed our welcome.” And he scooped her up in his arms, the enveloping cape wrapped around her bound arms and legs, the hood hiding her face. “Very romantic,” he said in a dry voice. “I suggest you don’t waste your time trying to struggle. I’ll be able to subdue you quite efficiently, but I’d have to hurt you. I’m not ready to do that. And the servants aren’t likely to come to your rescue, even if they thought you were being taken against your will. Don’t fight it, Ghislaine. You have no escape.”
She’d prided herself on accepting the inevitable, and she recognized the truth in his words. For now, for the next few hours, at least, she was entirely at his mercy. She needed to conserve her strength, her energy. Because sooner or later, her chance would come. And Nicholas Blackthorne would learn firsthand about the fires of hell.
The Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening glanced out the carriage window into the storm-clouded countryside. If he’d had any choice in the matter he would have stayed at Meadowlands until the weather cleared. But Ellen had been determined to leave, and he’d been just as determined, in his own deceptively indolent fashion, to accompany her. Besides, if the weather had been clear he would have had very little excuse to ride in the excellently sprung carriage belonging to his old school chum Carmichael. Ellen knew he had a new gelding, and while he never liked to exert himself unnecessarily, he also detested enclose
d spaces like carriages. He would have been hard put convincing her he actually wanted to be immured in a carriage with her for almost ten hours. Not without telling her the truth.
She smiled at him, pushing her golden-blond hair back from her pale face, and he smiled back. She was one of the few women who wouldn’t be intimidated by his oversized frame. Carmichael called him The Mountain, and his most recent mistress, a deftly inventive opera singer whose talented mouth knew no limits, had used other, even franker terms for him.
He would miss Carlotta, he thought with a sigh. Miss her bawdy ripeness, her screaming tantrums, and her enthusiasm in bed. He couldn’t hope to find that same unabashed enthusiasm in a woman of quality. He’d resigned himself to the fact that his marriage bed would be a staid, polite affair, conducted in darkness beneath layers of covers. At least he had every intention of enjoying the time outside the bed with someone compatible.
Ellen Fitzwater was more than compatible. She was charming, innocent, alarmingly clever, and possessed of boundless affection for him, rather like a well-trained spaniel. And like any true Englishman, he loved his dogs. She was also quite lovely, with her soft curves and English-rose complexion. It was some time after the incredibly proper Miss Stanley had broken their engagement that he’d first realized Ellen would suit him admirably. Part of that decision had been helped by the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to do anything about it for several years. He was a man of strong opinions, likes and dislikes, but prided himself on being a tolerant man. Things tended to fall into place for him—he’d been blessed with a respectable fortune, a minor title, loving parents, a form that women tended to find pleasing, and an ability in matters of gaming and sport that made him universally appreciated. If occasionally he saw things a little too clearly he usually managed to maintain a polite veneer. He suffered fools, not gladly, but often. He was usually just too even-tempered to do otherwise.
Ellen had almost disrupted his well-laid plans. He’d had enough town bronze to know that she wouldn’t make a splash during her first season. He’d kept an eye on her progress, ready to step in if some enterprising young man came up with an offer, but as he’d expected, the young men of London didn’t have the supreme good taste to appreciate a subtle beauty like Ellen. Tony was a firm believer in monogamy, and he was too fond of Ellen to offer her anything less than a dutiful husband. His close call with Miss Stanley had given him a proper appreciation for the joys of bachelorhood, and he simply hadn’t been in any hurry to dispense with its pleasures in exchange for monogamy and duty.
