A Rake's Vow (13 page)

The truth was, she was safe. She would be the very last lady to throw her cap over the windmill for a gentleman like Vane Cynster. He might be caring in some ways, he might be so powerfully attractive she couldn’t focus on anything else while he was by, but she could never forget what he was. His appearance, his movements, his attitudes, that dangerous purr in his voice—all were constant reminders. No—she was safe. He wouldn’t succeed in seducing her. Her deep-seated antipathy to elegant gentlemen would protect her from him.

Which meant she could, with impunity, satisfy her curiosity. Over those odd sensations he evoked, sometimes knowingly, at other times apparently unconsciously. She’d never felt the like before.

She needed to know what they meant. She wanted to know if there was more.

Brow furrowing, she paced on, formulating her arguments. Her experience of the physical was severely limited—she herself had ensured that was so. She’d never before felt the slightest inclination to so much as kiss any gentleman. Or to allow any gentleman to kiss her. But the one, amazingly thorough, astonishingly lengthy kiss she’d shared with Vane had demonstrated beyond doubt that he was a master in that sphere. From his reputation, she’d expected nothing less. Who better to learn from?

Why shouldn’t she take advantage of the situation and learn a little more—all within the bounds of the possible, of course. She might not know where his lines lay, but she knew where hers were drawn.

She was safe, she knew what she wanted, and she knew how far she could go.

With Vane Cynster.

The prospect had consumed her thoughts for most of the afternoon and all of the evening. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep her eyes from him, from his large, lean frame, those strong, long-fingered hands, and his increasingly fascinating lips.

Patience frowned and continued to pace.

She looked up as she neared the end of her well-worn route—her curtains were still undrawn. Crossing to the window, she reached a hand to each drape to twitch them shut—in the gloom below, a light gleamed.

Patience froze and stared down. The light was quite clear, a ball glowing through the fog shrouding the ruins. It bobbed, then moved. Patience didn’t wait to see more. Whirling, she hauled open her wardrobe, grabbed her cloak, and ran for the door.

Her soft-soled slippers made no sound on the runners or stair carpet. A single candle left burning in the front hall threw her shadow back up to the gallery. Patience didn’t pause. She flew down the dark corridor to the side door.

It was bolted. She wrestled with the heavy bolts, dragging them back, then pulled open the door. Myst shot out. Patience stepped quickly outside, and shut the door. Then she whirled and started out—into thick fog.

Five impulsive steps from the door, she stopped. Shivering, she swung her cloak over her shoulders, quickly tying the cords at the collar. She glanced back. Only by straining her eyes could she make out the wall of the house, the blank eyes of the downstairs windows, and the darker patch that was the side door.

She looked toward the ruins. There was no sign of the light, but the Spectre, whoever he was, could not have reached the house, even using the light to guide him, not before she’d reached the side door.

In all likelihood, the Spectre was still out there.

Setting her back to the house, Patience took a few cautious steps. The fog grew denser, colder.

Tugging her cloak more tightly about her, she set her teeth and forged on. She tried to imagine she was walking in bright sunshine, tried to see in her mind’s eye where she was. Then the first of the tumbled stones dotting the lawn loomed out of the fog, a reassuringly familiar sight.

Dragging in a more confident breath, she continued on, carefully picking her way between the toppled stones.

The fog was densest over the lawn; as she neared the ruins, it thinned, enough for her to make out the major structures, from which she could judge her position.

Cold, damp streamers of thick fog wound their way in and out of the shattered arches. A drifting mist obscured, then revealed, then obscured again. There was no real wind, yet a fine thread of sound seemed to whisper through the ruins, like a distant keening from ages past.

As she stepped onto the lichen-covered flags of the outer ward, Patience felt the eerieness close about her. A denser drift of fog wafted about her; one hand outstretched, she felt her way along a short wall, part of the monks’ dorter. It ended abruptly; beyond was a large gap giving onto the flagged corridor leading to the remains of the refectory.

She stepped toward the gap; one slipper slid on crumbling masonry. Stifling a gasp, Patience leapt forward onto the corridor flags.

And collided with a man.

She opened her mouth to scream—a hard hand clamped over her lips. An arm like steel locked about her waist, trapping her against a long, hard frame. Patience relaxed; her panic flowed out of her. There was only one body within ten miles like the one she was pressed against.

Reaching up, she pulled Vane’s hand from her lips. She drew breath to speak, opened her lips—

He kissed her.

When he eventually consented to stop, he only lifted his lips a bare fraction from hers. And breathed: “Quiet—sound travels very well in fog.”

Patience gathered her wits. And breathed back: “I saw the Spectre—there was a light bobbing about.”

“I think it’s a lantern, but it’s gone or shielded now.”

His lips touched hers again, then settled, not cool but warm against hers. The rest of him was warm, too, an oasis of heat in the chilly night. Her hands trapped against his chest, Patience fought an urge to snuggle closer.

When he next lifted his head, she forced herself to ask, her words still no more than a whispered breath: “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“Who knows? I thought I’d wait for a while.”

He followed up the tantalizing brush of his breath against her lips with a much more satisfying caress.

Patience’s head spun. “Maybe I’ll wait, too.”

“Hmmm.”

Some unknown minutes later, while taking a necessary pause for breath, Vane commented: “Did you know your cat’s here?”

She hadn’t known if Myst had followed her or not. “Where?” Patience looked about.

“On the stone to your left. She can probably see better than us, even in the fog. Keep an eye on her—she’ll probably disappear if the Spectre returns.”

Keep an eye on her
. That was difficult while he was kissing her.

Patience snuggled closer to the warm wall of his chest. He adjusted his hold; his hands slid about her waist, beneath her cloak. He drew her more firmly against him, shifting so she was trapped—very comfortably—between him and the old wall. One arm and shoulder protected her from the stones; the rest of him protected her from the night. His arms tightened; Patience felt the strength of him down her length, felt the press of his chest against her breasts, the weight of his hips against her stomach, the solid columns of his thighs hard against her softer limbs.

His lips found hers again; his hands spread over her back, molding her to him. Patience felt heat rise—from her, from him, between them. They were in no danger of taking a chill.

Myst hissed.

Vane raised his head, instantly alert.

A light flashed through the ruins. The fog had grown denser, making it difficult to tell where the lantern was. Reflections bounced off the cut faces of broken stones, setting up distracting glows. It took a moment to locate the strongest source of light.

It shone from beyond the cloisters.

“Stay here.” With that whispered command, Vane set her from him, leaving her in the lee of the wall. In the next instant, he disappeared, merging into the fog like a wraith.

Patience swallowed her protest. She looked around—just in time to see Myst slip away in Vane’s wake.

Leaving her totally alone.

Stunned, Patience stared after them. Somewhere ahead, the Spectre’s lantern still glowed.

“You have to be joking!” With that muttered statement, she hurried after Vane.

She saw him once, as he crossed the courtyard within the cloisters. The light bobbed some way before him—not near the church but on the other side of the cloister, heading toward the remnants of other abbey buildings. Patience hurried on, glimpsing Myst as she leapt over the stones of the ruined wall of the cloister. As she followed, Patience tried to remember what lay beyond that wall.

A hole, as it happened—she tumbled headlong into it.

Patience valiantly smothered her instinctive shriek, nearly choking in the process. Luckily, it wasn’t stone she fell on, but a grassed incline; the impact knocked the air from her lungs and left her gasping.

Twenty yards ahead, Vane heard her muffled shriek. He stopped and looked back, scanning the fog-shrouded stones. A yard behind him, Myst came to a quivering halt atop a stone, ears pricked as she looked back. Then the sleek cat leapt down and streaked back through the fog.

Silently, Vane cursed. He looked ahead.

The light had vanished.

Drawing a deep breath, he let it out, then turned and stalked back.

He found Patience lying where she’d fallen; she was struggling to push herself upright.

“Wait.” Vane jumped down by her feet. Leaning over her, he slid his hands under her arms and lifted her. He set her on her feet beside him.

With a smothered cry, Patience crumpled. Vane caught her, lifting her, supporting her against him. “What is it?”

Patience leaned into him. “My knee.” She bit her lip, then weakly added, “And my ankle.”

Vane cursed. “Left or right?”

“Left.”

He shifted to her left, then swung her into his arms, her left leg cradled between them. “Hang on.”

Patience did. Holding her against his chest, Vane climbed the short slope. Lifting her high, he set her down on the edge of the hole, then clambered out. Then he bent and lifted her into his arms again.

He carried her into the cloisters, to where a large stone offered a convenient seat. Carefully, he set her down, letting her legs down gently.

Dead grass and damp leaves clung to her bodice. Vane brushed at them. Patience immediately brushed, too, not at all certain what she was brushing away—the detritus, or his hands. Despite the sharp pain in her knee and the duller ache in her ankle, the swift sweep of his fingers across her bodice had made the tips of her breasts crinkle tight.

The sensation left her breathless.

Vane shifted, half behind her. The next instant, she felt his hands slide about her from behind, fingers firming and feeling her ribs. Before she could gather her wits, his fingers slid upward.

“
What are you doing?
” She was so short of breath she sounded hoarse.

“Checking for broken or bruised ribs.”

“Nothing hurts there.” This time, her voice sounded strangled—the best she could do with his fingers pressed hard beneath her breasts.

A grunt was his answer, but at least he let her go. Patience dragged in a much-needed breath, then blinked as he knelt before her.

He flicked up her skirts.

“
What
—!” Patience desperately tried to push the soft folds back down.

“Stop fussing!”

His tone—clipped and angry—made her do just that. Then she felt his hands close about her sore ankle. His fingers searched, probed gently, then, very carefully, he moved her foot about. “No sharp pain?”

Patience shook her head. His fingers firmed, gently massaging; swallowing a sigh, she closed her eyes. His touch felt so good. The heat of his hands reduced the ache; when he finally released her ankle, it felt much better.

His hands slid upward, following the swell of her calf to her knee.

Patience kept her eyes shut, and tried not to think about how sheer her evening stockings were. Luckily, she wore her garters high, so when his hands closed about her knee, he wasn’t touching bare skin.

He might as well have been.

Every nerve in her legs came alive, focused on his touch. He probed, and pain flashed; Patience jerked—but welcomed the distraction. He was very careful after that. Twice more, she hissed in pain as he tested the joint. Eventually, his hands left her.

Patience opened her eyes and quickly flicked down her skirts. She could feel her blush heating her cheeks. Luckily, in the poor light, she doubted he could see it.

Vane stood and looked down at her. “Wrenched knee, slightly sprained ankle.”

Patience shot him a glance. “You’re an expert?”

“Of a sort.” With that, he picked her up.

Patience clung to his shoulders. “If you would give me your arm, I’m sure I could manage.”

“Really?” came the less than encouraging reply. He looked down at her. In the gloom, she couldn’t make out his expression. “Luckily, you won’t be called upon to put that to the test.” His tones remained clipped, excessively precise. The undercurrent of irritation gained in intensity as he continued, “Why the devil didn’t you stay where I left you? And didn’t Minnie make you promise not to chase the Spectre in the dark?”

Patience ignored his first question, for which she had no good answer. Not that her answer to his second question was particularly good either. “I forgot about my promise—I just saw the Spectre and came rushing out. But what are
you
doing here if it’s too dangerous to chase the Spectre?”

“
I
have special dispensation.”

Patience felt perfectly justified in humphing. “Where’s Myst?”

“Ahead of us.”

Patience looked but couldn’t see anything. Obviously, Vane could see better than she could. His stride didn’t falter as he wound his way through the tumbled blocks; her arms locked about his neck, she was inwardly very glad she didn’t have to hobble up that particular stretch of lawn.

Then the side door loomed out of the murk. Myst stood waiting on the stoop. Patience waited to be put down. Instead, Vane juggled her in his arms and managed to open the door. Once across the threshold, he kicked the door shut, then leaned his shoulders back against it.

“Set the bolts.”

She did as he said, reaching about him. When the last bolt slid home, he straightened and headed on.