Bound By Temptation (2 page)

He would finish with the woman, and then he would find Isabella. He would not fail her again. Nudging the door closed with his hip, he set the tray on the table and then locked the door with care.

He turned.

The woman was awake.

He couldn’t see her face clearly, as she lay sprawled across the bed, but the poker stiffness of her body left no doubt that she was awake. Awake, and not calm.

Why hadn’t she screamed? He would have expected her to raise a bloody ruckus. He’d meant to gag her, but had delayed it, given her deep slumber. It had seemed wrong to shove a stocking between her delicate lips while she slept.

He set the tray down on a corner table and strode toward her. Questioning her would take but a moment. He would frighten her with the possible consequences of her actions, and when she was properly chastised he would let her go, sure that she would never resort to such measures again.

He would not let her go the way of his mother. If only somebody had put a stop to her wild ways. This time, he would take control.

Stepping into the woman’s view, he met an angry pair of flashing eyes. He had not realized they were golden. He’d sat with her, lifted a pint with her, and he’d not noticed her remarkable eyes.

He would have expected fear, but all he saw was fury.

He glared back at her. He would not be distracted. He had one purpose, to confront the little thief, get her to confess, and scare her into mending her ways.

He waited for her to speak. Silence was power.

She continued to glare at him, her lips pulling into a tight scowl.

He waited.

She pursed them tighter.

He waited—and sure enough it came.

“Who the bloody hell are you and what the bloody hell am I doing tied to your bed and where the bloody hell am I? What on the bloody earth did you do to me last night?”

“That’s not very original. Surely you’ve a more potent curse than ‘bloody.’” He ignored his own multiple use of the word in his thoughts mere moments before. He glared down at her. “And I am the one to ask the questions.”

She had the lightest sprinkling of freckles across her nose. He shouldn’t have noticed.

As if catching his regard she wrinkled her nose. “If you don’t release me and answer my questions I’ll scream.”

He stayed calm. “Why haven’t you already done so?”

He watched her swallow, caught the tinge of fear in the movement. She was not as cool as she would like to appear.

She swallowed again and answered with some poise. “I only waited to be sure it wasn’t a prank or a mistake. It wouldn’t have done to throw a fit before I knew the situation. I can assume that as I don’t know you, sir, that it was not a hoax.” She held her voice calm, but he could see the pulse racing at her throat, see her thoughts race within those remarkable eyes.

“Please, if you’re going to scream, go ahead and get it over with. It can only help resolve the situa
tion faster,” he said, letting her know that he was the one in control. Hysterics were the last thing he wanted, but he thought she was too intelligent to bring about her own demise with more speed than necessary. He knew how this game worked. She’d soon start to flirt with him, use her womanly powers to change his mind. Unfortunately for her, he’d long been immune to such forms of persuasion.

His mother had been a master at the art, and he would never follow in his father’s footsteps in this manner.

She opened her mouth, and for a moment he thought she was going to surprise him and scream. One loud cry, he was sure, and there’d be a man at the door within seconds. It might not be a well-kept inn, but it was a busy one.

Her mouth shut with a pop, and he could see consideration in the way she pursed her lips. The longer she kept the constables away, the longer she’d have to persuade him to let her go.

“What did you do to me last night? How did I end up here?” she asked.

“You know the answer to that as well as I.” He was not going to be dragged into meaningless conversation.

She did not like his answer. Her eyes flashed with anger again, and he could see her consider her best move.

“Untie me.” She spoke with the accent and command of the highest born lady, and for a moment
he almost doubted himself, but no true lady would be found downing ale and winning at cards. And no true lady would have laughed as she did, the absolute joy of the sound filling the room with sunshine. He hadn’t known that sunshine had a sound before last evening. No, ladies did not laugh like that.

“Untie me, or I will scream. You should have gagged me.” She definitely knew how to sound like she was used to wielding authority.

But so was he. “You’re not going to scream.”

“I will scream and summon the authorities and—”

He did nothing but continue to stare down at her, unwilling to let her see his exasperation.

“Untie me.” Again the words were spoken with that tone of almost royal prerogative.

“No, I want to be sure you’re available for your visit to the magistrate.” He needed to frighten her, needed to be sure she would never be so foolish again.

“The magistrate?” A definite edge of concern entered her voice.

“What else would you expect?” God, he wished he’d just called for help last night. He tried to do a single good deed by not sending an unconscious woman into custody, and this was his reward. He had made her his responsibility, and he took responsibility very seriously.

“I certainly don’t expect the man who abducts me and ties me to his bed to be the one threaten
ing to call in the authorities.” She sounded calmer, more in control. She twisted her head toward him. “I must use the chamber pot. Untie me.”

It was probably a trick. Still, he was a gentleman. He walked to the window. It was a good drop down with nothing to grab. She would not be leaving that way.

He turned back to the room.

There was nothing she could use as a weapon. Not a single brass candlestick or fireside poker. She might be able to swing the single chair, but he doubted she could get much force behind it.

He walked to the small table and poured a cup of rapidly cooling tea. It was not of the quality to which he was accustomed.

Cup in hand, he walked over and considered her. She was glaring at him again, those golden eyes shining like a cat’s. She made no further argument, but let her eyes do her speaking.

He sighed. There was no help for it. His cravat loosened easily and she brought her arm down to her side quickly, rotating the wrist to loosen the muscles. Her expression did not speak of gratitude.

The other tie was not as easy to undo. The fine knit of her stocking slipped through his fingers as if it were alive. He grabbed her slender wrist in one hand and tried to work at the knot. Her skin was warm in the cold of the room, her pulse rapid beneath his fingers. Focusing on the knot was impossible.

“Get out of the way. I’ll do it,” she ordered.

His grip stayed firm. He didn’t speak, just continued to work the knot. She smelled of cinnamon. How did she manage that? It was almost as if she had biscuits stashed in her bodice. There was a temptation to search.

The knot. Pay attention to the knot.

“Hurry up, or I’ll piss on your boots.”

“Keep your temper and hold your bladder. Rushing me won’t help. You’d have been better off with less fine stockings—your legs must freeze in these. I can’t imagine that they don’t just slide down under the garter.”

She rolled her eyes at him. It was enough to make his fingers stop midtask. The soft silk of the stocking caught on his nail at the sudden jerk. Nobody, save his sister Violet, had ever bestowed such an expression upon him.

“Don’t stop. I am not joking about my needs. There was a great deal of ale involved last night.” She squirmed, and her breast brushed the back of his hand. Its warm weight tempted him to turn his hand, to cup her with his fingers, to—

No, this was undoubtedly her plan. He would not be tempted.

He kept working on the knot, giving not the slightest indication of his attraction. Perhaps it was his renewed determination that had it slide apart almost instantly.

The stocking dropped to the floor as he stepped back.

“Take care of your needs and then we’ll talk.” His voice was deliberately harsh and unforgiving.
He stepped back to the window and stared down at the cobblestones of the stable yard below.

“Aren’t you going to give me privacy?”

“No.”

He heard the soft hop of a bare foot against the boards of the floor. The floor must be icy beneath her feet. He could picture her standing, her back straight, and an unforgiving glare marking those fine features. Giving in would not come easily to her.

A smile raised the corner of his lips as he imagined her ire. This was a battle he could not lose.

She stomped across the room and he knew he had won.

He waited and gave her an extra moment before turning. He could afford to be gracious.

The smile on his face grew as he further imagined her expression at his victory. He turned and—

She was eating his bacon. Perched on the edge of the table, the plate on her lap, she held the thick rasher and devoured it avidly. She licked her fingers and smiled up at him. The smile remained as she picked up his cup of cold tea and sipped that also. Her eyes peered at him over the rim of the mug. They were laughing.

She had gone from fear and anger to laughter in less than a minute. His mind filled again with the sunshine of her laughter the night before.

It must be her own private lure, her own scheme to manipulate him into letting her go without calling the authorities.

It was that laughter that had enticed him over
to the card table, that had begun this whole fiasco. His heart hardened against it. He was not a fool.

With firm determination, he walked toward the woman and, reaching out, plucked the cup from her fingers. She did not resist. He grabbed the pot and refilled the cup. Then, with deliberate precision, he drank from the exact spot she had.

He too could play intimate games.

Her eyes narrowed and then relaxed, their focus glued firmly to the spot where his mouth caressed the stoneware.

He could taste the bacon. Her lips had left behind its savory essence. His tongue slipped out to fully taste the remainder.

Her eyes followed the movement, her pupils growing large. She brought the slice of bacon she still held up to her mouth and bit it slowly, the soft crunch causing him to salivate.

He was intensely aware that her lips had been on the cup only seconds before. He had meant his action as a gesture of disregard, but now it was something more.

Her tongue darted out, mimicking his gesture, as she caught a crumble from her lip. He swallowed and felt his nether regions harden. Her eyes stayed locked on his, and he could almost feel the heat of each deep breath that filled her chest.

She took another careful bite, licking her fingers delicately. With deliberate care she ran the tip of her tongue over her shiny lips. Her chin tilted down, but those huge golden eyes still held
him. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her glance never left his face, but he could sense her awareness.

She slipped off the edge of the table, her hips swaying in a timeless female rhythm as she approached. A foot before him, she stopped. The hint of a smile marked her mouth, but it was so subtle as to be almost undetectable. “I’ve stolen your breakfast. Wouldn’t you like a bite?”

Her arm rose, and she rubbed the edge of the bacon against his lip. Again his mouth was filled with the rich, savory flavor, but this time he was staring at her mouth, still slick and shiny, the lips slightly parted, the pink of her tongue visible between the small white teeth.

He shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. This would not do. He leaned forward and took a bite of the bacon, crunching through it with speed and a touch of cruelty.

She pulled back at the force of his bite, her hand shaking. Then she gathered herself together and let her shoulders fall back, her breasts rising with the movement. Even beneath the warm wool of her gown, their full curves enticed.

Her game was clear.

He stepped back, not in retreat but to gather his forces. His back brushed the cold stone mantel of the fireplace. How had he imagined that there were no weapons for her in this room?

He turned on his heel and walked to the side. He would not be trapped, not by any woman.

“Are you done with my breakfast?” Again, the
words were harsh, but why should he pretend kindness? It was time to be sure she was properly chastised, and then send her on her way. He would not waste any more time.

“I’d actually like more tea.” She spoke quietly, forcing him to focus on her mouth. “I find I have quite a thirst after last night. Do you mind?” Her gaze moved to the teacup he still held cradled in his hand.

He bloody well did mind. Damn, he was using that word again. Why did everything seem so damn bloody this morning? “Here, take it.” He held out the cup, making sure their fingers did not touch.

She accepted it with a crooked grin. She understood his care and it amused her. She walked toward the table, her skirts swirling about her rounded hips.

He was tempted to stare out the window again, but that would be cowardly. He would give her but one moment, and then be done with this whole affair.

He let his gaze roam over her again, taking every measure of her charms. Then, with cold calculation, he turned back to the fire and rested his head against the high mantel, staring down into the dark ashes. He waited as he heard the slosh of the pouring tea and slight gurgle of her swallow. He kept his gaze firmly on the hearth.

He had intended direct confrontation this morning, but given her seductive games, a less aggressive approach might be called for—might get him out
of here sooner, back on the road faster. He would not change his words, but he forced himself to moderate his tone.

“Tell me. Why did you steal my watch? Surely it would have been easier to slip a few notes and some coin from the table? Or did you steal that as well?”

C
lara hoped her mouth was not gaping. Was that what he thought had happened? Steal his watch—the idea was preposterous, even on a dare she’d never committed theft. Well, there were those love poems that her cousin had received, but she’d been only twelve at the time and the poetry had been so truly dreadful as to demand to be read aloud rhythmically.

Steal his watch. She didn’t even remember seeing his watch. Granted, given the fact that she didn’t even remember him it would have been unlikely that she’d remember his watch.
Don’t think about that. Not now.

Whatever had happened last night to make her forget, she sensed that he had no part of it. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she did trust that he believed this situation was as simple as her stealing his watch.

She longed to close her eyes and rub her temples, to wait until this whole mess made sense. Instead, she snagged the last strip of bacon and caught the tip between her teeth, staring at him from the
corner of her eye. There was something familiar about him.

It was hard to place. He stood just over six foot, well above most men of her acquaintance. That alone should have made him memorable. When she added in dark hair with just a hint of fire at the ends and eyes so dark a blue they were nearly black, he really didn’t seem a man she would forget.

But she had.

She felt a shiver rise, and suppressed it.

Staying calm was most important. She forced all other thoughts back.

“Are we previously acquainted?” She ignored his question about the watch, trying to take control of the situation.

“Do you include last night? I can assure you we were well acquainted then.” He glanced toward the bed.

She wanted to roll her eyes again. That had clearly not happened. The very idea was preposterous. The thought helped to steady her. “You’re not an accomplished actor. Don’t even attempt to fool me. I think this is a moment for honesty.”

“I don’t see why you should think so. I hardly call stealing my watch honest.”

“I did not steal your watch.” She had not wanted to confront this so directly. Men rarely did well with a direct approach.

“Only because I stopped you.”

She spoke each word slowly. “I do not steal.”

He let his gaze rove over her. She knew what he saw, the slightly worn dress over a figure too full
and too short to be fashionable, hair that was no doubt standing straight out, skin that no longer awoke each morning as rapidly as the rest of her—she probably had pillow lines still running across her cheek, and eyes shadowed by fatigue and knowledge. She was well aware of her own charms—and her lack thereof. She drew herself taller and forced herself to pretend that appearances did not matter. She waited until his gaze returned to her face and then repeated, “I do not steal.”

“Hah.”

“Did you just say hah? I am not sure if that makes you sound six years old or sixty.”

He didn’t like that. His chest stuck out another inch and his chin tilted up. The man was just too tall. It was hard to be commanding when staring at the top buttons of a shirt. He’d left the collar undone.

There was the faintest sprinkling of dark curling hairs peeking above the edge of white linen. She’d always enjoyed the way a few hairs abraded—Where had that thought come from? One moment she was thinking he sounded sixty and the next—This would not do.

“I am sorry, sir, but I can assure you I did not steal your watch. Indeed, the only possible reason I would have done so would have been as a tease and, as you deny any acquaintance previous to last evening, that is impossible.”

He pulled out the chair and sat, resting his elbows on the table and cradling his head in his
hands. “You are giving me a megrim. This should be a simple matter. I only decided to speak with you as a courtesy. No matter how heart-wrenching your story, I have every intention of having you taken before the magistrate.” He sounded so distant, so cold. “It was only misguided gallantry that prevented me from calling him last evening. I didn’t fancy sending you into custody barely conscious.”

She was glad he was not watching. Her composure was definitely slipping. What had happened last evening? It was true she’d tipped more than one tankard of ale, but she couldn’t believe she’d downed enough to place her in the state he described and certainly not enough to leave her with no recollection.

She shivered as she considered all that could have happened. Waking up tied to a bed was mild compared to some of the pictures her imagination could paint. If she wasn’t careful she would be sick. Robert would not be pleased at all—nor would Lord Darnell.

“You can’t call the authorities.” She said it calmly, but firmly. There were some who moved up in the world unexpectedly who never learned how to behave. From the moment she’d become the Countess of Westington, she’d made it a point to learn her position. The quiet voice of command was invaluable.

“Of course I can. In fact, I don’t see that I have a choice.” He sounded surprisingly weary.

It was her turn to move to the window and stare
out at the cobbled yard. She was still at The Dog and Ferret. He must have just bundled her up the stairs last night. Her fingers dug into her palms as she considered who might have seen her.

“No, really. You can’t.” Her chest felt tight with the effort of staying upright.

“I can and I must. You are clearly a danger that cannot be left loose.” He did not sound pleased by his answer.

She turned back from the window and walked to the bed. It looked so warm and cozy compared to the deep chill of the room. The pillows might not be as fine as her own, but they were still inviting. Just curling up in the bed for the rest of the day and ignoring all this seemed wonderful.

She wondered if he’d curl up with her and let his weariness fade. Where had that idea come from? It was preposterous.

Still…

The idea did present possibilities.

She sat on the edge of the bed, allowing her skirts to rise up, revealing her feet and ankles. The bed creaked under her weight. His head lifted toward her. She cocked a hip provocatively. “Really, you can’t.” She let her voice deepen. It was surprisingly easy to do as she met his cool blue gaze. “I realize it’s a mistake to try and tell a man what to do. There’s something innate that makes you all object to orders. I think even my footmen sometimes grimace at my commands. They don’t think I see, of course, but men are also not good at hiding their emotions.

“You for instance are trying to decide if I really have footmen. You’re examining my dress again and comparing it to my speech.” She ran a hand along her waistline, letting her fingers play gently with the fabric. His eyes followed. “Accents can be affected and clothing, of course, can be borrowed or bought from shops specializing in the previously worn. I believe my maid makes a fortune taking my castoffs to such a place. But that’s only my in-town clothes. Here in the country I much prefer the used and comfortable.

“I can see you are still not persuaded. The cloth is good, heavy and tightly woven, but the elbows are worn, the seams frayed, and there is a singular lack of ornament save for the edging of lace, and even that is slim.” Her fingers moved up her body to the rounded neckline of the dress, pausing to press at the thin lace.

It was not her words that held him. It was the low, inviting tone of her voice and the subtle gestures highlighting the curve of her body as she discussed the dress.

Really, men were all the same—give them a peek at a bit of flesh and they were slaves. It had been both humorous and powerful with her husband. Recently, it had been closer to tedious.

Still, there was something in his rigid posture that captured her interest. He might not be able to avoid his baser thoughts, but he was not pleased by them.

“I do not know what the quality of your dress had to do with whether I should call for the au
thorities. You are a thief; it matters not how fine your dress.” He spoke slowly and with precision.

She held his gaze. It was clear he wanted to look away, to avoid temptation, but he did not.

She ran her tongue across her lower lip, watching his gaze move. “We both know exactly what I mean and that it does matter. I fancy you would not like to live in a world in which it did not. I am sure you are very comfortable with your station. The leather of your boots and the cut of your shirt say it for you, as surely as my dress.”

“I do not care who you are.”

That brought a smile to her face. “Oh, you care a great deal. I have strayed from my point, however. I should not have ordered you. I should have persuaded. Men do so much better with persuasion.”

He started to speak, but she brought her finger up to her lips, silencing him. “All that really matters is who I am. I had sought to avoid this, but before this proceeds I should simply introduce myself.”

“I am Clara Bembridge, the Countess of Westington.”

His face changed at her words, but perhaps not in the way she was expecting. She leaned forward trying to get a better understanding of what she saw in his dark eyes, but they reflected back at her as endless as a puddle at midnight.

“You’re Lady Westington?” he could not keep the disdain and shock from his voice. He had heard all about the adventurous Lady Westington and none
of it had been good. It explained so much about her behavior. A lady she might be, but in name only—he wasn’t even sure how many lovers she’d had. She was a close acquaintance of his sister Violet, and that explained more than enough. No wonder she’d been comfortable in the tavern drinking with such a rough crew.

It was probably a tame evening for her. If even half the things he’d heard were true, then—It truly did not bear thought.

“Yes, I am.” She sat up straight on the bed. Her jaw tilted up and it was clear she was ready for a fight. She could see what he was thinking and did not like it.

Raising a hand he massaged the back of his neck. With every word she spoke the muscles were tightening, tension and pain creeping up the back of his skull to his temples.

How had this suddenly become so complicated?

He should have been done with her last night. This was his reward for trying to show mercy. No good would come of this. “Is there not somebody responsible for you? Some man who can come and take you off my hands?”

“Some man?” Her voice was low and he heard the warning in it. A red flush spread across her cheeks. Yes, she would get along well with Violet. He lacked understanding of these women who didn’t comprehend their place in creation. It was not such a complex thought. And, ironically, it was always the women who seemed to have a brain in their heads who were given to such fancy.

“Yes, some man, father, brother, son—it matters not.”

“Son?” Her eyes flashed as she said the word. “Just how young do you think I was delivered? Or how old do you think I am?”

He was too smart to answer that. Last night, he’d thought her his age or older. This morning, asleep, she’d looked years younger, hardly more than first out. Now he couldn’t tell. “A brother or a father then?”

“I am an only child, and my father rests in the churchyard up the hill. I notice you don’t mention a husband?”

“You are known to me, if by reputation only, and I am well aware that you are a widow—if of the merriest kind.”

She shifted so her skirts dropped, covering her bare toes. It wasn’t until they disappeared from view that he realized how taken he’d been by their casual innocence. He’d never noticed a woman’s feet before, but those sweetly curled pink toes had distracted him.

He dropped his head back into his hands. If he didn’t look at her, his thoughts would be safe.

She didn’t speak for a moment, and he sat staring at the scarred tabletop and listening to the jostle of horses below.

“We must determine how I can get out of here without being seen.” She spoke finally. “I don’t fancy the village knowing I spent the night with you. Assuming, of course, we were not seen last night.”

“I don’t believe we were. I hustled you up the stairs once I had decided on a course of action. And we most certainly did not spend the night together. I slept in my carriage.”

“Your carriage?” Her full laugh filled the room. “You actually worried for my reputation.”

“Reputation may seem a matter of ridicule to one such as you, but I can assure you I take it most seriously. And it was not your reputation I was concerned about.”

Her laughter died at his words. “One such as I? I don’t wish to know what you’ve heard of me.” He heard her slide off the bed. “It doesn’t matter in any event. If you’ll tell me where I might find my shoes and my other stocking, I’ll be gone and trouble you no more. You can forget you ever met me.”

If only he could. He couldn’t even pretend that he’d soon forget the way her hair had spread across his pillow as she slept, or the glisten of her lips as she licked the last crumb of bacon from her fingers, or that delicious laugh. He rather imagined that last would float around the edge of his dreams for a lifetime.

“There’s still the matter of my watch. Lady or not, I will not countenance thievery.”

“I can only say again that I did not steal anything. Unless, of course, you added it to the pot and I took the hand.”

“You know that is not what happened. It fell from your cloak when you prepared to leave.”

She was silent again. He looked up, trying to
determine her mood. He was not used to a woman who could maintain a silence. His sisters had never been quiet women. Violet was always too busy trying to take control of a situation she had no business being involved in. And Isabella…well, Isabella simply could not stop talking.

He pushed aside the thought of Isabella. He dreaded the circumstances he might find her in. His own guilt rarely let him rest easy. He curled his fingers into a tight fist. He would finish with this nonsense and be away.

Lady Westington was resting her head against the mantel in a pose reminiscent of his earlier one. She lifted her head and stared at him through weary eyes. “I am not a thief. How many times must I repeat that to make you listen? I certainly have no need of your watch or any proceeds it would bring. I could buy a hundred, I daresay a thousand watches should I need another.”