by Anne Stuart
Nicholas had already ascertained that fact. He was an intelligent man—he knew all he needed to do was be gentle with her and she’d have no defenses at all. She couldn’t help but wonder why he had stopped, knowing the sure way to have her.
Perhaps, blessed be, he didn’t really want her all that much. This game of cat and mouse might have nothing to do with real desire, and everything to do with anger and revenge.
And then she remembered the unmistakable feel of his body pressed against hers, and knew without doubt that the desire was very real. On his part, at least.
She wanted to cry. No, she didn’t, she reminded herself. It was a blessing she couldn’t. If she were to cry, he would know it. If she were to cry, he would comfort her. And she knew with chilling certainty just what form that comfort would take.
She wouldn’t move, wouldn’t breathe, wouldn’t let her heart pound. Wouldn’t betray her confusion, her agitation, any more than she had to. Not when he guessed the cause already.
He wasn’t the beautiful young man she’d fallen in love with when she was young and innocent. He wasn’t the handsome English boy with the face of an angel, who smiled at her with a sweetness just for her, who took her small hand in his large, strong one, who looked at her with such intensity that it had frightened her as much as it called to her. That boy had never existed.
He was the monster who mocked and repudiated her to her father, who left her family to face disaster and tragedy. He was a gamester, a drunkard, a womanizer, and a murderer. He was responsible for all that had gone wrong in her life, and if she simply killed him, then everything would be fixed.
Foolish, foolish conceit on her part. Killing Nicholas Blackthorne wouldn’t bring her parents back from the guillotine, or return her safe, bucolic life. It wouldn’t bring Charles-Louis back from whatever horrifying fate had befallen him. It wouldn’t return to her all the things she had lost. And it wouldn’t fill the black hole in her heart that she had wanted to fill with revenge.
She would let it go. Let him go. She should have known her thirst for justice would only rebound on her own narrow shoulders. Even at his worst, Nicholas Blackthorne was no match for the pure evil of Jean-Luc Malviver. And the sight of Malviver after she’d killed him, was a vision that would haunt her till her own grave. And perhaps beyond.
She heard a soft, guttural noise, one she didn’t recognize. Until she realized with a shock that the enemy beside her was asleep, her torment and troubles casually dismissed. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to roll from the bed and make her escape, even if her bound feet forced her to hop all the way to the border.
She told herself she dared not risk it. He’d already warned her of the consequences if she woke him, and those were consequences she dare not pay. She would have to lie there, pressed up against the fiery warmth of his body, and endure.
She closed her eyes. Only for a moment, she told herself. There was no pillow on the makeshift bed. No place to rest her weary head but on his shoulder.
In his sleep he moved, tucking her head against him, smoothing her hair away from her face as she snuggled up against him. He would never remember, she told herself, drifting off. He must be so used to sleeping with anonymous females that his gestures were instinctive.
Still, it seemed to her sleep-fogged mind that a smile might have curved his mouth as he stroked her. And for the first time, that smile was completely devoid of mockery.
Things were going surprisingly well, the Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening decided. In two days on the road they’d made remarkable progress, so that now they were only a day or so behind Nicky Blackthorne and his supposed hostage.
They’d managed to find decent inns along the way, and respectable horseflesh when they’d been forced to relieve the horses. Miss Binnerston proved herself estimable as always by sleeping like a cat, at least twenty hours a day. His own valet, Higgins, was his usual unobtrusive self, and it hadn’t taken long to put Ellen at her ease. By the end of the first day she was chattering to him with unselfconscious charm, rather as she had when she was an awkward adolescent, before the pangs of ill-advised puppy love had intruded on their comfortable relationship.
He wondered if he should have handled that differently. She had been all of seventeen when she suddenly started blushing and stammering and staring at him quite fixedly when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She’d really been quite luscious back then, with her soft curves and her shy smile, and he’d been sorely tempted to sample that youthful admiration and see whether he might develop a taste for it.
But she’d been his best friend’s baby sister, not the sort one could trifle with. Any move on his part would have been taken very seriously indeed, and he simply hadn’t been ready to settle down. There were too many women in London, too many horses, too many games of chance.
He certainly would have had a much more comfortable life if he had shaken off his customary indolence and given Ellen Fitzwater what she’d been unconsciously asking for. They’d have been married these last eight years, doubtless with at least a couple of little ones to enliven the more stifling aspects of married life. They wouldn’t be haring off to Scotland in the middle of the wettest spring people could remember, encumbered by her companion and his valet, so that every night he retired to a solitary bed and thought of her; alone, dependent on him, just a few doors away.
He wondered whether Carmichael would have gotten his missive yet, and what he planned to do about it. Tony had been arrogant enough about the matter, simply stating that he planned to marry Carmichael’s sister, and it was up to him to insert the notice in the Times whenever he saw fit. With Tony’s current string of ill luck, Carmichael was probably chasing after them with as much diligence as they were chasing after Nicholas Blackthorne.
Lord, what a tangle! As they were getting closer and closer to achieving their goal, he was slipping further and further back. Ellen was treating him with the cheerful, sisterly camaraderie she’d felt before she’d developed that crush on him. And he found himself longing for just a trace of that romantic awareness. He was beginning to have the decidedly uncomfortable suspicion that she saw him in the light of an aging uncle.
He was only ten years older than she was, for heaven’s sake! Hardly in his dotage. If they were in London she might see him differently—he was considered a vastly eligible parti, with his unencumbered, reasonably comfortable fortune; his lack of bad habits, and his not inconsiderable physical charms. What he couldn’t understand was how a girl could be so besotted one year and so immune the next?
He stared at the mug of mulled wine in front of him. She was already safely tucked up in bed, her dragon of a companion sleeping with her. Lucky dragon. He wondered what Ellen wore to sleep at night. She had a fondness for overbright colors—chances were she eschewed the normal virginal white lawn in her night rail and went in for pinks and peaches.
He shifted uneasily in his seat at the thought of Ellen’s own pink and peach body draped in he nightclothes. Lord, if anyone was becoming besotted, he was. He had been too long without a woman. Since first coming to town he’d availed himself of all the genteel forms of gentlemanly sport, and he’d seldom been long without a ladybird living under his protection. It had all been very polite, mutually enjoyable, and he’d been generous when the relationships had ended.
He’d never been at the mercy of his urges before. But somehow, being cooped up in that carriage with Ellen was having the most alarming effect on him. He even dreamed about her, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t remember when he’d last dreamed about a woman.
If they continued to make the progress they had in tracking down Blackthorne, this little interlude would come to an end a bit sooner than he would want it to. Instead of bringing him closer to Ellen, it seemed to be settling them into an uncomfortably comfortable relationship. He’d come to count on her adoration. The withdrawal of it, replaced by friendliness completely devoid of romantic awareness, was more disturbing than he ever would have guessed.
He was going to have to exert himself, there was no doubt about that. He was conceited enough to think it wouldn’t require that much effort, but he’d already been discovering his earlier conceit had been sadly misplaced. If he didn’t watch it, someone would snatch her away from him before he had time to give her an alternative. The time had come for just a trace of ruthlessness.
The chaperons would have to go.
Ellen lay awake in the warm, soft bed while Binnie snored gently beside her. She still couldn’t quite understand Binnie’s insistence on clinging to her, night and day, up to and including sharing a bed. It wasn’t as if there was any real threat to her reputation, or, heaven forfend, her chastity. More’s the pity.
She prided herself on handling things extremely well with Tony. Not for a moment had she given in to romantic longings. She’d been brisk, friendly, no-nonsense, all that he could have asked for in a forced companionship. Not once had she exhibited any of the quite shameful longings that had grown stronger than ever with each passing hour.
She’d been so certain she’d outgrown him. Outgrown that silly, girlhood crush, so that now she could take simple pleasure in his company, without blushing, without stammering, without weaving all sorts of impossible fantasies.
If only he’d married the inestimable Miss Stanley. They would have dealt so well together, she with her starchy, elegant manners, he with his indolent, negligent charm. He’d have grown smug and portly; he might very well have named her godmother to one of his children, and there’d be no more question of any romantical nonsense.
But as long as he wasn’t married, as long as he was still ostensibly available, then there was always the remote, impossible possibility that he might turn to her.
Every morning she gave herself a stern talking-to, berating herself for foolish daydreams that bordered on the shocking. Every night she thought of him, just a few doors away, and her body grew hot. Once, just once, she’d like to share a bed with someone who did more than snore.
They would catch up with Nicholas Blackthorne in less than two days, according to Tony. She hadn’t thought any further than that, only knowing she had to rescue Ghislaine. But what if Tony was right? What if Gilly had gone willingly? Heaven knew, Nicholas Blackthorne was enough to tempt even the most determined spinster from her lace caps. Perhaps he’d been able to seduce Gilly from her hatred of men and her affection for Ellen.
But she didn’t think so. She had no doubt at all that Gilly would come with them. The one question that had begun to plague her, one that she had considered far too late, was what if Nicholas didn’t choose to let her go?
Tony hadn’t taken her belated concern in good stead. He’d seemed affronted that she could even consider the possibility that Nicholas could best him in a duel. But indeed, it was only common sense. As far as she knew, Tony had never fought a duel in his life. Nicholas had killed his man at least twice.
When had things gotten so complicated? If only Nicholas Blackthorne had never shown up at Ainsley Hall! Ellen had grown accustomed to her quiet life, the long, empty future stretched ahead of her, husbandless, childless, but rich with the friendship of people like Gilly and Tony.
And now, suddenly, friendship wasn’t enough. She longed for Tony in the most indecent, unladylike ways. And the more she tried to repress it, to act as if he were her favorite aging uncle, the more the longing increased.
She wanted this sojourn to end. She wanted the safety of Ainsley Hall, the comfort of her ordinary life.
She wanted the sojourn to last forever. Tony’s company was addictive, and as painful as her foolish daydreams might be, she had to cling to them, to him, for the short period that had been granted her.
Binnie snuffled loudly, flopping over in the bed and settling down into a quieter snoring. Did Tony snore? What did he sleep in? What was he like when he was around the Divine Carlotta or one of his other inamoratas? Did he treat them with the same indolent charm?
She would never know. And if she had her wish, Tony would never discover that she’d never quite outgrown that childish longing she had for him.
Except that it wasn’t quite childish anymore. She didn’t want to dance with him at the local assembly, to flirt with him over charades, to marry him with all pomp and glory in St. Paul’s with her family proud of her at last.
She wanted to lie naked with him. To have his children. To kiss him on his mouth. She wanted him to look at her with heat and longing in his gray eyes, with the heat and longing she felt every time she looked at him.
Daydreams. Foolish fancies. She needed to get back to Ainsley Hall, to her lace caps and her gardening. She needed Gilly’s common sense to set her straight.
But, Lord, don’t let it happen too soon. Just a little while more, please. Before she became good Aunt Ellen once more.
Chapter 12
Ghislaine felt warm, and safe, and cherished. She knew she was back at Sans Doute, still a child, her baby brother asleep in the nursery, her parents in their sumptuous apartments. She could be no more than fifteen—at fifteen her life had taken a dark, painful turn, and she’d never felt that safe and loved again.
Perhaps it had all been a dream. An endless, hideous nightmare, full of death and despair, but a dream nonetheless. If she opened her eyes she’d see the pale mauve walls, lined in silk. She’d see the bright blue sky and hear the birds singing.
The sky was always blue at Sans Doute. The birds always sang. Except for the day they took her parents away, and she and Charles-Louis followed in their wake.
It must still be dark outside—there was no teasing light beyond her closed eyelids. The silk coverlets were heavier than usual, the pillow beneath her head more solid, more like bone and muscle than feathers.
But they had to be feathers beneath her head. If they weren’t, then she wouldn’t be at Sans Doute, and her nightmare would be real. There would be no comfort or safety, only danger.
His arms were around her waist, pulling her close against him. One leg lay between hers, a possessive intruder, and his hand was tangled in her hair. She could picture it, the long, white fingers entwined in her chestnut curls, could remember the same image from the ramshackle inn. Would she find a pile of coins beside the bed?
But she hadn’t earned those coins. Wouldn’t earn those coins. He couldn’t buy her. He could kidnap her, keep her hostage, take her by force if he had a mind to. Even kill her. But he couldn’t buy her acquiescence.
A man’s shoulder shouldn’t be comfortable. Especially a man as lean and muscular as Nicholas Blackthorne. But it was. His chin rested on her forehead, and she told herself she didn’t dare move. If she did, he might awake and finish what he’d started the night before. It was a risk she didn’t want to take. Her only alternative was to remain utterly still, trapped in his arms, pinioned against his strong, hot body. She would simply have to endure.
He’d untied her arms and legs sometime during the night, and she hadn’t even been aware of it. Her own arms were around him, clinging to him like a weak, helpless female. Like someone who wanted to be in his arms. Absurd.
His chest was smooth and warm, his cambric shirt having come unfastened during the night. Since she had nothing else to concentrate on, she decided to stare at his chest, looking for signs of sagging muscles, the flab of a wasted life.
Curse him, there was no sign at all. His skin was smooth, taut, a white gold in the murky dawn, his nipples flat and hard amid the faint tracing of dark hair. She surveyed him, telling herself that it was disgust burning a hole in her stomach, disgust and the strong coffee of the night before. But she couldn’t help wondering how he would taste.
She knew suddenly that he was awake. That he’d been awake for some time now, and her circumspect behavior had been a waste of time. “Let me up,” she said in a small, angry voice.
His hold on her didn’t tighten, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking she had any chance of escape. Not until he was ready to release her. And he wasn’t the
slightest bit ready.
His hand slid over her jaw, smoothly, delicately, a caress that made her shiver in reaction as he tipped her face up. “You survived the night, Ghislaine,” he murmured, “your chastity intact. Don’t you think I deserve a reward for my forbearance?”
Before she could tell him what he deserved, his mouth dropped down on hers, lightly, kissing her with brief thoroughness before she could pull her wits together to protest. Just when she was about to raise her hands and shove him, he rolled away from her, sifting up on the sagging bed and running a hand through his long, rumpled dark hair.
A moment later he glanced back at her, and there was a quizzical expression in his dark eyes. “My friends wouldn’t believe it,” he said.
“You have friends? That astonishes me.”
He smiled, his usual mocking grin. “Still fighting? Maybe I should have taken you after all. You wouldn’t be feeling quite so cocky. And I’d be feeling more so.”
He surged off the bed, stretching his arms over his head, and for a moment she watched him, mesmerized. He was tall, endlessly tall, with long legs and arms and torso, lean and well-muscled, lithe and graceful. It was a crime for such a demon to be so attractive, she thought. It made everything so much harder.
“Dreaming of poisons, ma mie?” he murmured. “You’ll have to wait. For now I think a period of rustication is in order. We’ll be charmingly bucolic—you can cook for me, I’ll fish and shoot and be the perfect country gentleman. At night we’ll sit around the fire and hold hands and talk about our happy life.”
“Shoot?” She belatedly noticed her skirts were hiked up to her knees. She pulled them down to her ankles, but he didn’t appear to notice.
“Did I mention shooting? Foolish me. Now that you know I have a gun, I’ll probably have to tie you up again. I don’t fancy a bullet in my back.”
