St. Raven (3 page)

She supposed she should be terrified, but she seemed to have moved beyond that to mild insanity.

Since arriving in London, she’d written frequent letters to her best friends back in Matlock, entertaining them with her observations of the capital and the ton. What a shame she’d not be able to write about this.

Witty phrases popped into her mind to do with Le Corbeau and the
haute volee
, which meant the high flyers of society—the dandies, dukes, and Patronesses of Almack’s, who had all failed to notice the arrival amongst them of ordinary Cressida Mandeville. They’d notice if this scandal ever became known!

She wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, but she was furious at how those men had handled her. Her wrists were tied with her
garters
, and she suspected her ankles were bound with her very expensive silk stockings. Which some man had removed, the knave!

Malmsey-nosed knave, she borrowed from Shakespeare, hoping that indeed her captor had the swollen red nose of the drunkard.

Strange that a person could be frustrated, bored, frightened, and furious all at the same time.

She turned her mind to planning. She must escape this captor, continue to Stokeley Manor, and complete her mission…

It was very late, though, and she’d hardly slept recently for dread of this journey, so, wandering amid wilder and wilder plans, she drifted off to sleep.

She woke with a start.

Darkness?… No, blindfold! This wasn’t a nightmare, then.

It was reality, and
he
was back.

She’d been waked by sounds—things being moved some distance away. If only she could see! Faint light around the edge of the blindfold told her a candle was lit.

He was back, presumably with time now to
do
things. Shivers ran through her, and her teeth threatened to chatter. She clenched them, but it didn’t work. He’d hear, and he’d… do what?

Water. Splashing.

The mundane picture was shockingly clear.

He was pouring water from a ewer into a washing bowl. A slight splashing told her he was washing. It leached the terror out of her, leaving her limp and dazed. A vile rapist might well wash before attacking her, but it seemed so unlikely.

The sound of water awakened thirst. Her throat turned tight and dry enough to choke her. “May I have a drink of water?” she managed.

Abrupt silence. “I thought you were asleep. Wait a moment.”

She worked her tongue around her mouth to moisten it, all the while following sounds. Water pouring. Footsteps again, coming closer. She only flinched a little when he touched her face.

“Water,” he said, clearly to diffuse her fear. What a strange villain this was.

She didn’t resist when his arm pushed under her and raised her. When cool glass pressed against her bottom lip, she opened her mouth. He tilted the glass, and blessed water filled her mouth. She swallowed; he poured. A strange union—his hands, her mouth, working together as if practiced by familiarity…

But then the synchrony broke. He tilted too fast or she swallowed too slow. She jerked, almost choked.

“Sorry.” The glass was removed. She felt him stroke the dribble from her chin, and she smelled sandalwood again, stronger now. He’d just used sandalwood soap on his hands.

Soap, horse, leather, man. She had never noticed such things before, and she didn’t want to now. They created a weakening sense of intimacy. She needed to see! To see a malmsey-nosed villain.

“Don’t. Please—”

“Hush.” He laid her back down, settling her head last and carefully. A new foolish distress attacked. She could imagine what she looked like, lying here in her tilted turban and crushed, disordered finery.

He walked back across the room, and she heard a strange sound. A soft tearing. A muttered curse.

His false beard and mustache!

What would he look like without them? More important, would she know him? She’d lived among the
haute volee
these past months. On the edges of the fashionable world, but still there. If she did recognize him, she must not show a hint of it!

A new worry stirred. Would
he
recognize
her
?

That would be disaster. She was merely the daughter of Sir Arthur Mandeville, however, minor nabob. She doubted most of the ton were aware of her existence. And anyway, a man desperate enough to become a highwayman would hardly have been dancing at London balls.

More washing. Two thumps that were probably his boots. Her hearing was so sensitized by then, so frantic for detail, that she heard his stockinged footsteps as he came back to the bed.

Now. Now it would happen. Fighting might be useless, but she’d fight anyway. When a hand grabbed her foot, she kicked.

Something cold touched her ankle. She felt a sharp tug.

Her legs were suddenly free, and she used them to try to push away from him.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Why not? You’re a criminal!”

“But of the more gallant variety.”

She could tell he was coming no closer, so she stilled.

“You really didn’t want to go on with Lord Crofton, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I did.” She wished he’d take off the blindfold, but then didn’t. She mustn’t see his face.

Silence, but then a weight settled on the bed not far from her feet. She flinched. She couldn’t help it.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you going willingly with Crofton?”

“That, sir, is none of your business. Now kindly return me.”

“You think he’ll be waiting for you by the road?”

The lazy amusement made her want to scream with frustration. She
had
thought that, and it was ridiculous.

“Of course not. You can take me to Stokeley Manor.”

“Whereupon he will have me arrested.”

“Take me close, then. I will manage on my own from there.”

“I don’t doubt it.” After a moment, he asked, “Who are you?”

Now what? He must assume that she was a light-skirt, so why the question? What answer would get her on her way? Everything,
everything
, hinged on getting to Stokeley Manor.

He seemed to think he was rescuing her. So he’d let her go only if he believed her to be a hardened harlot.

“Who am I, sir?” she replied in as bold and brittle a tone as she could. “Your captive, and yes, Crofton’s whore.”

The bed moved again. Oh, Lord. He was lying down. Not touching her, but lying beside her…

A hand brushed down the front of her gown. She flinched but managed to silence a protest. Presumably a whore wouldn’t mind.

Would he feel her desperate heartbeats?

That hand stroked up again, lightly past her breasts, shockingly against the bare skin of her chest, and then over her throat, trapping breath there. She stretched back, desperate to escape.

“I won’t hurt you, my lovely one, but if you’re willing to serve Crofton, why not serve me for the night?”

He suddenly rolled on her, pressed on her, hot, hard, huge.

“No!” she screamed, trying helplessly to fend him off with her bound hands and skirt-tangled legs.

He captured her wrists, and she felt lips on her fingers.

He was
kissing
them?

“Why not?” Such a light voice, as if she were not lighting at all. “I’ll pay your usual fee. I’ll pay double.”

How would a whore react?

“I’m very expensive.”

“I’m very rich.”

“And selective. I don’t go to just any man with guineas in his hands.”

He chuckled. “I’m not just any man, sweet nymph of the night. You know, I’ve never had a whore refuse me before.”

She recognized her mistake this time. Probably a whore never did refuse a man with guineas in his hands.

Whore. She’d set off on this adventure prepared to be that, but only because she believed she could avoid it. Now here she was, assaulted, helpless, pressed upon by this vile man’s body and his will.

Should she let him do what men do so he’d help her complete her journey? Bile rose at the thought, but she would let him, if it would work. It wouldn’t. He’d find out she was a virgin, and heaven alone knew what would happen then.

Something brushed her lip—a thumb, she thought, and tossed her head to escape it. He overwhelmed her, his big body pinning her, pinning her hands between them, as his hands confined her head and his lips pressed to hers.

She heard her own stifled sob and prayed he’d take it for protest not terror.

“I’ve never forced a woman,” he whispered against her lips, “and I won’t start with you. But can’t I persuade you? It would be delightful for both of us, and you know, you must know, how a man’s blood heats after action and danger.”

“No! I mean,
don’t!
Lord Crofton hired me. I consider myself his at the moment.”

“Honor among sinners?” He was laughing at her. “Come on, my pretty. He’d do the same if our situations were reversed.”

He moved. His weight lifted off her. For a moment she hoped, but then his knee pressed down between her legs, parting them. Pressed up!…

“Stop.
Please
!”

He stopped, but he did not free her. She lay there, breathless, pinned, pressed…

“Who are you?” he asked again, and at last she understood.

He didn’t believe her. For whatever reason, he didn’t believe she was a courtesan, and he was prepared to force the truth from her. He wouldn’t stop until she gave in.

Bitterly, she accepted the inevitable. She was on his territory in matters physical and metaphysical. In this, he was the victor. What name, though? Not her own.

The first name to pop into her mind was that of the curate’s wife in Matlock. “Jane Wemworthy.”

“Whore?” he demanded.

Breath came now, a deep breath of anger. “No.”

Then he was gone. Gone from her body, gone from the bed.

She fought when he grabbed her hands, but then she felt cool metal again. A moment later her hands were free. She reached up to shove the horrible blindfold from her face, almost taking her turban with it until pins caught her hair. She worked the cloth over it, sitting up, searching the room for information, for anything that might help her.

She was in a modest bedroom lit by a branch of three candles. Ivory wallpaper, mahogany armoire and washing stand, rust-brown curtains and bed-hangings.

And the man standing at the end of the four-poster bed was the gloriously handsome Duke of St. Raven. She felt as if her eyes were expanding with shock, and tried desperately not to show that she had recognized him.

How could she not?

Everyone knew St. Raven. He was the elusive star of society, the glorious prize. He’d inherited the dukedom from his uncle last year just after Waterloo and promptly fled the country. Cressida didn’t know if he’d fled or taken the new opportunity to travel, but people had spoken of it in that way. He had, after all, instantly become the prime quarry in the marriage hunt.

A young, handsome, unmarried duke.

When he’d returned a few months ago and begun to attend society events, the steam of frenetic fervor had been enough to drive an engine. Cressida couldn’t count the number of times she’d been in the ladies’ room at a ball or soiree and heard young women gasping about
seeing
! him,
speaking
! to him, and sometimes even
dancing
! with him.

Most ladies held no hopes of becoming his duchess, but a few were contenders. Diana Rolleston-Stowe, toast and duke’s granddaughter, had burned with ambition. The beautiful Phoebe Swinamer had assumed an almost proprietary air toward him. Cressida looked at the man before her and wondered how Miss Swinamer dared.

He was tall, but that wasn’t what made him so formidable. Nor was his rank. In a simple shirt, open at the neck, and black leather breeches, St. Raven filled the room. He took up more space than his size explained. And he was as handsome close to as from a distance.

Though big and strong, he possessed a fine-boned elegance, along with the drama of dark hair and deep blue eyes. As she’d noticed before, his lips suggested things a lady should not even think about.

“You recognize me.” It was not a question.

Too late, too late, she saw her danger. “Yes.”

Would they hang a duke for playing highwayman? Surely they’d have to do something if she identified him. She slid a glance at the long, sharp knife on the table by the bed. She could almost feel it slicing into her throat…

“More water, Miss Wemworthy?”

In her terror, the offer and the name confused her, so she stared at him. Then she managed, “Yes, please, Your Grace.”

Surely not even the most deranged criminal and murderer would behave like this.

Or laugh, as he did now. “I think we’ve progressed beyond such formality. Call me St. Raven. I intend to call you Jane.”

“Even if I object?”

He gave her the filled glass. “Miss Wemworthy is such a mouthful, and sounds so stern, as well. Like the sort of woman who disapproves of amusements, or writes improving tracts.”

Cressida concentrated on drinking, trying to stifle her reaction. He had Mrs. Wemworthy exactly. Surely everyone didn’t suit their names?

St. Raven did have something of the predator about him, but Mandeville was all wrong for her. Centuries ago, Sir John Mandeville had written of his travels to wild lands full of dragons and creatures who were half-man, half-beast. She loved the stories, but had never wanted to travel beyond the safe and ordinary herself.

Safe and ordinary? She was on the Duke of St. Raven’s bed! She couldn’t help thinking of the hundreds of young women who would swoon at the thought.

Surely she was safe from rape. Compromise a young lady whom he then might have to marry? She was surprised he hadn’t already tossed her back on the King’s Highway.

“More water?” he asked, as if her thirst were the prime concern.

“No, thank you.” She had other needs, however, and refused to be missish about them. “I will soon need a chamber pot, Your Grace, and privacy to use it.”

“Of course,” he said, equally unembarrassed. Cressida realized that she’d hoped to put him out. “Give me your word that you won’t try to run away before we talk again, and I’ll provide you with a private room and all comforts.”