After the Abduction (25 page)

Wisdom at times is found in folly.

Horace’s
Odes,
embroidered on a doll dress by Juliet Laverick for a servant’s child

W
ith mixed feelings, Sebastian watched her stroll out into the clearing. The little minx had certainly played him well this time. He should have called her bluff, told her she was welcome to blow her head off with any of his pistols she preferred.

But he hadn’t. And why? Because, devil take her, after a week without her he’d snatch any foolish, reckless chance to be near her again. He’d suffered too many days of constant hard labor designed to pummel her out of his mind, all the while knowing she was somewhere in Charnwood cementing her hatred of him. He’d lain too many nights awake and aroused, remembering her winsome smile, her luscious mouth, her little gasps of pleasure.

And after those endless, agonizing nights, he’d spent
far too many dawns pacing outside her bedchamber, wondering why he couldn’t simply walk in, waken her with a kiss, tell her all, and order her to marry him.

Uncle Lew was right—he could no more stay away from Juliet than he could give up Charnwood. That’s why he’d started spending his time out here, far from temptation.

And she was right, too—he was afraid of letting something slip. He was afraid of letting
everything
slip. All because he wanted her, because he was rapidly sliding into the abyss that had swallowed up his foolish father.

Oh, and didn’t she know his weakness, too, coming here in all her splendor to torture him. Look at her standing in the clearing—a golden Greek goddess in apple green, spreading spring with every sunny smile. Unfortunately, Greek goddesses had a dark side, and he’d uncovered hers.

So what trick did she have up her gold-bedecked sleeve this time? Why—though his mind screamed, “Run!”—was he standing here waiting to find out?

Because he was curious. Because he could never resist a challenge.

Because he wanted her so badly he’d risk anything for an afternoon with her.

Tearing his gaze from the open door, he doused the fire in the forge, then hurried to the basin to scrub off soot and grime. He dragged on a shirt and tucked it into his breeches hastily. On his way out the door, he stopped at his gun cabinet, unlocked it, and withdrew a case of dueling pistols.

By the time he joined her, she was humming tunelessly to herself, as if ladies took lessons in shooting from half-dressed rogues every day, as if nothing else had ever passed between them.

Good. If they could be civil and no more, perhaps he’d make it through this without wanting to strangle her…or drag her into his arms and kiss every sweet inch of her delectable body.

She turned as he approached, and her gaze fixed on the open neck of his shirt. “I thought you were going to dress.”

“This is as much as I wear when I’m working. If you expected formal attire, my lady, you shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s fine.” Her gaze drifted down the front of him, and she colored inexplicably. “Perfectly fine.”

Opening the pistol case, he held it out to her. “Your weapon, madam.”

She stared into the case, a look of unease spreading over her face. “Don’t you have any that are smaller?”

“You are certainly finicky today. Perhaps you’d prefer a slingshot.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “I was merely thinking that I have no reticule large enough to contain a pistol of this size.”

A reluctant smile touched his lips. “No, I don’t suppose you have. But there are pocket pistols. I just don’t have one ready to hand, since I prefer larger guns.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Removing her pretty kid gloves, she tucked them in her skirt pocket, then snatched the pistol from the case.

“Careful now. You never know when a gun is loaded, and flintlocks are notoriously jumpy. You wouldn’t want it to go off before you’re ready.”

Brow tightening in great solemnity, she nodded. She was taking this seriously, and he pitied any London gentleman who crossed her when she returned.

He drew out the powder flask, the rammer, a leather patch, and a lead ball, then set down the case. Soon he was showing her how to check the flint and ready the patch and ball, but every motion seemed laced with sexual meaning. Readying the patch meant sucking on the thin leather square to dampen it—an action he’d never thought twice about until he said, “Now you try,” and she did so. As he watched her suck the leather, all he could think was
how it would be to have that delicate little mouth sucking on his—

With a curse, he took the pistol from her and demonstrated how to pour the black powder down the muzzle and ram the ball down after it. Except that it meant shoving the rammer in with a deep thrusting stroke—

He groaned. This was absurd. He was getting hot and hard over loading a gun, for God’s sake!

Well, at least he’d be safe with the shooting part. Lifting the pistol, he fired easily at the center of the target. Her horse whinnied, and she gave a little shriek. When he glanced over at her, she looked pale. He suppressed a smile. It was one thing to contemplate shooting a pistol in the abstract and quite another to do it. He handed her the gun. “Now you try loading it. But be careful—the barrel’s still hot. Wait until it cools a little.”

She held the gun gingerly, less eager than before. “What if I do it wrong?”

“Then you’ll blow your head off,” he drawled. When her gaze jumped to him in abject alarm, he chuckled. “I won’t let you do it wrong.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Biting her lower lip, she propped the butt against her hip as he had, then concentrated on following the steps he’d shown her. He tried not to dwell on her erotic motions. He had to keep his mind on the task at hand, or she’d hurt herself.

To his surprise, she was as nimble at manipulating a gun as she was with a needle. God help him if she ever did decide to put a ball through his skull.

When she finished, she cradled the butt awkwardly in both hands. “So it’s loaded.”

“Yes. Do you want to try shooting it?”

“I-I suppose.”

Stifling a laugh, he stepped closer to fit her hands more securely around the butt. “Hold it as if you control it, or
you’ll never convince anyone of your willingness to fire. Half of the power in having a pistol comes in the brandishing of it.”

She nodded, but her hands shook and her fingers were placed all wrong.

“Here,” he said impatiently, moving behind her. Reaching around her on either side, he maneuvered her fingers into the correct position.

He was painfully aware of having her so close, so soft in his arms. The sun-warmed scent of lilac in her hair, the fragility of her fingers around the huge gun made him swallow hard. He wanted those fingers curving around something else, gripping it, stroking it—

“How do I shoot it?” she asked.

Well, first you squeeze…

He swore under his breath, released her hands, and stepped back. The woman was downright dangerous, no matter what she gripped. Best to remember that. “Curl your index finger into the trigger hole.”

“Like this?”

He glanced easily over her shoulder at her hands. By thunder, she was a petite thing, wasn’t she? “Yes, like that. See that bump on the end of the barrel? That’s the sight. Lift the pistol until you can look straight down the barrel and see the center circle of the target sitting right on top of that bump.”

She did as instructed. Her grip was firmer now. “Tell me something, Sebastian.”

“What?”

“You knew what you risked in being around me. You knew I might recognize you as Morgan at any moment, yet you continued to play my games. Why?”

He’d expected a question on pistols. The abrupt change of subject made him tense up. “I thought this was a shooting lesson, not another of your inquisitions.”

“I’m making polite conversation, that’s all.”

“It’s hardly polite to accuse me of things I didn’t do.”

She didn’t rise to that. He could see her hands tremble, but she didn’t lash him to ribbons with her tongue. Instead, she squeezed the trigger, sending the ball off into the trees beyond the target somewhere.

“I missed,” she said in obvious disappointment.

“No one ever hits the first time. It takes practice.”

She lowered the pistol. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because it’s one of those you can’t answer without incriminating yourself. Like ‘When did you stop beating your wife?’”

A laugh burst from her. “Nobody ever asks a question like that.”

“You just did.” Taking her hand, he pressed the powder flask, another ball and patch, and the rammer into it. “Load the pistol again.”

Apparently not minding his abruptness, she did as he said. “All right, let me rephrase the question: Why have you been spending time with me? Why did you agree to my silly proposition to have you ‘tutor’ me?”

He saw no point to lying. “For the same reason any man spends time with an enchanting woman. Because he’s attracted to her. Because he enjoys her company.”

“Nothing more than that?”

He wasn’t sure what she was fishing for. “Nothing more than that,” he repeated.

She lifted the gun to look down the sight, but either she was nervous or she hadn’t quite grasped how sighting down the barrel worked, for her aim was substantially off.

He reached over to steady her arm. “Here, forget about the sight. Just think of the gun as an extension of your index finger and point it at what you want to shoot.”

She fired. This time the ball nicked the outer rim of the target.

“Very good.” He took the pistol from her. “Practice makes perfect.”

She wiped her shaky hands on her skirt. “Is that why you spent time with me—to practice honing your skills with women? I suppose you were merely amusing yourself with me since I was conveniently here.”

The ache in her voice was unmistakable, and it suddenly dawned on him what she wanted to know. “It wasn’t like that.” He loaded the pistol himself this time, needing to keep his hands from reaching for her. “To be honest, my interest was more honorable. I was courting you.” He held his breath, uncertain what she’d say to that.

“Rosalind said the same thing, but I didn’t believe her.”

He let out his breath. “Why not?”

“Because I’d already decided you were trying to distract me from my purpose.”

“That’s what
you
were doing. Trying to madden me into saying something rash.”

“Yes.”

Her honesty startled him. “Yes?”

“If you’ll recall, the straightforward approach got me nowhere that first night.”

She had him there. Turning, he stared out over the fields beyond the cottage and asked the question that had been plaguing him for a week. “So all that talk about my ‘adequate’ kissing and my trite compliments—”

“—was the not-so-straightforward approach.” She lowered her voice. “You melted my bones when you kissed me two years ago, and you’ve done it every time since.”

Pulse racing, he swung around to stare hard at her. “Is frankness your latest trick?”

She shook her head, her eyes dark with imploring. “No more tricks, I told you. I’m being perfectly honest. I’m attracted to you, too. I enjoy being with you, too.” A blush stained her cheeks. “I-I enjoyed what you did…
what we did…” She stiffened. “But I can’t go on without knowing why you kidnapped me. Is it so very much to ask?”

Hot blood pulsed through his veins. When she looked at him like that…

He must escape her, before she dragged him back under. “You have no idea,” he ground out. Turning, he stalked toward the cottage.

She froze a moment, then hurried to catch him, reaching him just as he’d opened the door. She caught his arm. “Please hear me out, Sebastian. I know you think I want revenge, that I’ll use the truth to hurt you, but I swear I won’t. Don’t you see? It’s the not knowing why you did it that’s tormenting me. I just have to know why.”

He stood with his hand on the doorknob, shaking with the need to tell her. But what if this was the most devious trick of all?

Her hand tightened on his arm. “Isn’t there some way I can prove that I’m not seeking revenge? Something that will make you feel secure enough to confide in me?”

There was one thing. He stared down into her anxious face and felt a twist inside his gut. “You could marry me.”

She released his arm, paling. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Precisely what I said. If you marry me, then I’ll know that whatever secrets I have—if there are any—are safe with you. It would prove I could trust you. You wouldn’t turn against your husband. I know you wouldn’t.”

She frowned and glanced away. “But if I marry you and discover that you’re not the man I thought, that you possess a dark or criminal nature, then I’ll be trapped in an unworkable marriage with no recourse.” Her gaze swung back to him. “No, you have to tell me the truth first. Then I’ll consider whether to marry you. That’s only fair. You weren’t the one wronged, after all.
I
was.”

She was right, and he knew it. He wanted her so badly, he almost agreed. But he wasn’t ready to risk so much, not
after having glimpsed how strongly she felt about what he’d done. And certainly not with his life and Morgan’s in jeopardy.

Suddenly he thought of a solution to their dilemma. “All right. You could do one thing that wouldn’t trap you, but would prove you care for me enough to keep my secrets.”

“What’s that?”

“You could come to my bed.”

Chapter 15

Take heed lest passion sway

Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit.

Milton’s
Paradise Lost,
sketched, but never worked, by Juliet Laverick when Rosalind talked about going on the stage

J
uliet gaped at him, certain that she’d misheard. “You mean—”

“Let me make love to you.” His intent gaze sent luxurious shivers dancing along her spine. “I know you, Juliet. After your unwise elopement, you’d never give yourself to a man frivolously, even to learn the truth. If you share my bed, it’ll prove to me that you’ll keep an open mind and not be ready to condemn. It will prove you have genuine feelings for me.”