A Dangerous Courtship (16 page)

"Go on," he urged when she faltered. "You wished to take the package where? To whom?" He moved his hands farther up her arms, his fingers whispering softly over her sleeves and her skin beneath.

Oh, but he was playing a mesmerizing game with her!

"To London,"
Veronica ground out, her words clipped as she yanked out of his hold.

Her violet eyes blazed as she stepped to the side and away from him, cornering herself by the head of the bed and the latch of the door.

"That is the story, sir. That is all I know, and it is
all
you'll be hearing from me, And now," she said, reaching a shaking hand behind her for the bolt of the door, "I suggest you take your leave."

To her consternation, Julian did not budge.

"Are you going to wait until I scream for help?" she asked.

He shook his head. "You won't be screaming, Veronica."

"And how can you be so certain?"

"Because there is something about your Venus Mission you are not telling me. And that something, my lady, will keep you quiet. Of that much, I am certain."

Veronica wanted to thrust him out the door and slam the thing behind him.

But she didn't. She couldn't.

He was, alas, correct.

"I want you to leave," she said again, ignoring the hammering of her own heart.

"Why? Because I make you nervous with my questions? Or with my presence?"

Both!
she wanted to shout.

"Neither," she said, with all the dignity she could muster. And then, a thought striking her, she added, "Since you are so eager to serve as my personal guard, sir, it would bode well for you to know that all those in my service do exactly as I deign."

His black gaze gleamed. "Is this your way of informing me, my lady, that you are a hard taskmistress?"

Veronica nodded, finally feeling as if she had some ground to stand on with this man. "My servants do what I demand, when I demand it," she said in a perfect white lie. "If—if you are to be my personal guard, sir, you must do as I say,
only
as I say."

The light in his eyes turned smoky. "Ah, so I am to be my lady's slave." His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth. "It does not sound like such a horrible existence," he murmured huskily.

Veronica felt a wave of heat wash through her. The meaning of his words and the train of his gaze was not lost on her. He was, in his own graceless and shocking fashion, reminding her of the kisses they'd shared at the abbey, of their touches, too. Drat him, but he'd rounded the tables on her once again, manipulating not only the moment, but her emotions as well.

Veronica decided it best to act as though she did not read the real meaning of his words. Far better to just end this conversation and do so quickly, she thought, and said, "I-I am glad we have come to an understanding." She opened the door wide, motioning him out into the hall. "Good night, sir."

"'Tis Julian," he rakishly reminded her again.

The last thing Veronica saw as she pushed the door shut was that too-handsome grin upon his bruised and battered face.

Chapter 10

Julian spent a long night outside of Veronica's door. He dozed in short spurts and was disturbed by someone only once, about four in the morning. It proved to be one of the inn's maids, a little bosky but not fully top-heavy from her night of celebrating Midsummer's Eve. She'd come upstairs to douse the lamps she should have seen to hours ago.

Julian helped her with the task and then, at her insistence, was bequeathed a mighty feast for his troubles. The maid brought up a platter of meats and cheeses, hunks of bread, and even a draught of milk for him.

"Thank you," Julian said with a smile.

"It be no trouble," the maid replied, "and I'll not even be askin' why yer sleepin' outside her ladyship's room. I won't ev'n let on to the innkeep 'bout it."

Julian reached deep into his pocket to give her some kind of payment, but found only a sixpence, a shilling, and a few half crowns. He frowned, remembering that he'd left his purse, along with Veronica's package, with his mount. All were being well protected by a stable hand Julian had met years ago in Ripon—a man who knew only that Julian was a friend of Garn's and was quite an accomplished boxer, a man whom Julian knew he could trust.

He gave the maid the coins. The girl seemed to think it a windfall. She beamed him a pretty smile and then left him in the hallway.

Julian ate every bit of the food, then settled against Veronica's door, hearing the creak of that huge bed of hers as she shifted her position. He tried not to imagine the sight of her in nothing but a night rail, her lustrous hair fanned out atop her pillow, that kissable mouth of hers opened slightly as she slumbered. The image, however, presented itself all too clearly in his mind.

Julian leaned his head back against the door, forcing himself instead to study the small patch of predawn sky visible through the smudged window of the hallway.

This day marked a new beginning for him. He was headed for London. At long, long last, he was going to make some headway into learning who'd murdered his family... and Lady Veronica would be the one to lead him on that trail.

Julian frowned as he thought of the moments with her in the rented chamber. His behavior had been inexcusable, he knew. He'd been boorish and base, his conduct anything but that of a gentlemen. He'd been deliberately roguish, knowing full well she was affected by him, and hoping to take advantage of that weakness. But when he'd touched her he'd realized he was just as affected by their nearness and he'd had to fight down the urge to gather Veronica into his arms and kiss her as he had done at Fountains.

He had no excuse for his behavior other than he wished to ferret out the murderer of his beloved family. Finding the culprit was the only thing that mattered to him. The only thing that
could
matter. He'd thought to coax truths from the lovely Veronica, but had learned only what he'd already deduced earlier in the evening: that she truly did not know about the contents of the bundle. She was an innocent party in the mystery. Her "friend" in London, however, was not.

At sight of the sky at last lightening through the dirty window, Julian got to his feet and gave a knock on Veronica's door. "'Tis morning, my lady, and time to leave."

"I am awake," she called, and by the sound of her voice had been awake for a good long while.

So, they'd both had a sleepless night, Julian thought to himself, and he wondered what thoughts had been tumbling through her mind. He'd given her every reason to loathe him—a fact that left a very ugly taste in his mouth. No doubt she'd spent the night fretting over what ill-mannered liberties he might try to take during their travels to London and fearing, too, whether or not he would have a loose tongue concerning their indiscretion at Fountains.

Julian made a mental note to be on his best behavior where Veronica was concerned. She was a lady, not some hardened wanton, and he would treat her as such, despite the intimacies they'd shared.

He waited a moment longer, hearing the muffled sounds of her movements in the room and then the sleepy voice of her maid. After checking the landing and assuring himself all was quiet on this floor and that Veronica would not be set upon the minute she walked out of her door, Julian headed downstairs.

The taproom, with its smoke-blackened beams, was empty save for one bedraggled man sleeping off a night of drunkenness. The coffee room was also quiet, its door standing ajar. Julian moved into the kitchen, where a bleary-eyed cook, and the maid he'd met earlier, had roused themselves and were setting to the task of preparing breakfast.

The maid brightened at sight of Julian and, ignoring the cook's curious stare, hurried toward him. "Wud ye be wantin' some porridge or toast, sir?" she asked.

Julian shook his head. "No, thank you. But might there be a room where I can freshen up? I've a long day of travel ahead and—"

"Say no more, sir," the maid cut in, smiling that pretty smile of hers, and before the cook could stop her she led Julian out of the kitchen, then through a maze of narrow corridors to a small room at the very end of the inn.

"Ye just 'elp yerself, sir," she said, popping the door open. The room was small and crudely furnished, but clean. "Now don't be thinkin' I let just anyone in 'ere. I don't. But ye 'ave been generous w' yer coin so I be generous in like. There be a basin of fresh wat'r and—and I not be mindin' at all if n ye be usin' me comb and some of me ribbon fer that handsome 'ead of 'air of yers."

Julian ran one hand through the shagged lengths of his black locks. "Ribbon, you say?"

"Aye. Red and blue, ev'n pink," she said proudly, then left him alone, hurrying back to her duties.

Julian decided at that moment that once he'd reached London and his solicitor he would make certain the young maid was forwarded a tidy sum for her kindness. He moved toward the basin that sat atop a small, rickety washstand and commenced to wash away the stains of Fountains and his beating. Above the basin, hung at a crooked angle, was a cracked looking glass, smoked by age.

Julian chanced a glance at his reflection, startled by what he saw. He appeared leaner, harder, edgier than he ever had in his life. His time at the abbey had taken its toll, casting his features into sharp, harsh lines, as though they'd been fashioned from the hardest flint. And the beating he'd taken at the hands of the ruffians had left its stamp as well. There were bruises along his cheekbones, the cut on his lip had swelled to an angry slash of tender-looking pink, and his right eye, though salved, had swollen grotesquely and was now a nasty shade of bluish-black tinged with purple. No wonder Veronica's abigail had drawn back in horror when he'd stepped into the coffee room last night Julian grimaced at the memory.

But Veronica. Ah, the brave, beautiful Veronica had met him stare for bleary-eyed stare and had not swooned at the spectacle he presented, but had instead pushed him down atop a chair and taken it upon herself to minister to his injuries.

And now, this morning, she was going to face her devil of a coachman and somehow explain why Julian would be returning with them to London.

Julian frowned at his own reflection at that thought He'd given her no quarter but to accept him as her guard, and she'd finally acquiesced—but at what cost to her own self he now wondered.

Julian suspected there was something not quite right within Earl Wrothram's household. No genteel lady should be so frightened of a mere coachman her father employed. But fear the man Veronica did.
Why?
he wondered.

And why, Julian further pondered, would Veronica allow Julian his head, accept him to play her guard, when in doing so she would doubtless lay herself prey to her coachman's ire.

The only answer could be that, whoever this friend in Town of hers was, the person held great sway over her. Clearly Veronica would risk a great deal for this "friend." The mere thought that this person could beVeronica's intended or mayhap even her lover left an ugly, hideous taste in Julian's mouth. He did not like at all the possibility of Veronica having known—and liked—another man's touch or kiss. And that the very lovely lady might have set her heart on a swell who had not the backbone to retrieve his own bloody package made Julian's blood boil. As for the fact this swell might have the Eve Diamond, might have been the one to plant the explosives and kill his family... ah, that made Julian's entire being convulse with rage.

With all these thoughts banging through his mind, Julian scowled at his battered reflection, then leaned low over the basin and set in earnest to the task of washing his face and neck and hands with the crude bar of soap that sat beside the basin.

A short time later, his ablutions nearly finished, Julian combed the tangles from his hair and tamed the urge to just shear the locks. Only when the murderer of his family was revealed would he shave and cut his hair. Until then, he'd go about like some mad Byron, his locks long.

Spying the maid's ribbons, Julian reached for one—the red one. He pulled his long hair back and tied it into a queue with the ribbon, its ends trailing to his broad shoulders.

He glanced once again at his reflection, deciding he looked like a damned pirate of old and certainly not what he truly was—the seventh Earl of Eve. 'Twould have to do, though, and his act of cleaning up a bit would have to be enough so that he did not appear a total ruffian in the sight of Veronica's servants. She would have a difficult enough time of it in explaining his presence, let alone in seeing that he was accepted as her guard.