Breathless (21 page)

And he hadn't touched either of them in more than a week. Bloody hell, a woman was a woman, at least when it came to sex. He could have taken either of them, and if he was longing for someone else he could close his eyes and pretend he was smelling violets.

He pushed away from the bar, the beer sloshing a little bit. He'd had too much to drink and he knew it. They would be in London by noon tomorrow, thank God, and he'd never have to see Miss Jane Pagett again. She'd marry her worthy fiancé, have babies and a good life and he'd continue to raise hell.

He could pretend to be drunk, stumble into her private dining room and maybe she'd invite him in, talk to him in that soft, charming voice that he sometimes dreamed about.

He could…

He could head out to the stables and forget all about Miss Jane Pagett. She'd know better than to come traipsing down in her nightgown in the middle of the night this time. She could come across Jacobs the womanizing groom, and there was no telling what might happen.

The truth was, he didn't want to return to London. He was sick of the city, the smell and the smoke, the
noise. He'd been a traveling man since he first ran away from his master who'd beat him when he grew too big to climb up the chimneys. He wished he knew where that mangy old bastard was. He'd gotten right big, well over six feet, and it would give him a great deal of pleasure to loom over the old man and show him what it was like to be stuffed up a chimney.

Ah, but he'd let that go. Still, he was longing for sunshine and warm air. For different lands and words and choices. That was one reason he hadn't put up an argument when Long Molly told him they were to spend another night on the road. He was in no hurry to return to London. He could happily drive this landaulet anywhere Miss Pagett with the sweet brown eyes and the wonderful mouth told him to.

He prided himself on being a practical man, a pragmatic one. He'd had that damnable romantic streak beaten out of him when he was young, for all that Scorpion liked to tease him. There was just something about her eyes…

He drained his ale, setting the mug down with a snap. As always he was the last man standing, alone in the taproom. She would have gone to bed by now, wouldn't she? He could make a little bargain with himself. He'd go check on the private dining room. She was more than likely gone, in which case he'd go on out to his bed in the stables with no one the worse for wear. If she was there he'd stay and talk with her, flirt with her just a little bit. It was up to the fates.

 

The private dining room was up a few steps, and he stumbled, cursing. He was old enough to know better, he told himself, and reached for the cast-iron door latch.

The room was empty, the fire banked down to coals. It was a clear night, and the moon shone in brightly, illuminating the empty parlor. He closed the door and leaned against it, telling himself it was relief that he felt and nothing more.

And then he saw the stairs.

It was a very small inn. There was only one bedroom for the quality. Their servants, including Long Molly, were housed around back of the kitchens. He'd known that when he'd stopped for the night, hoping that the place would already be bespoken, and they could push on for the night, relieving him of temptation that much sooner.

But that had worked against him. The place was deserted except for the landlord, his good wife and the barmaid, and now all were abed. Everyone but the wicked, randy King of Thieves masquerading as a coachman, in search of…

He didn't want to think about what he was in search of. In truth, his brain was too foggy to clarify exactly what he wanted, though his lower half was leaving him in no doubt. And he headed for the stairs.

Would she be asleep? Would her door be locked? Any sensible woman would lock her door in a public house, but he wasn't convinced of Jane's sense. She'd let him kiss her, hadn't she? She'd invited him to join her by the fire. She hadn't a whole lot of sense when it came to protecting herself from wolves like him.

Though those were two different men she'd invited, he reminded himself. Perhaps he was completely wrong about the girl. Beneath her startled eyes and soft mouth was the heart of a wanton, who took whatever was offered.

No. She hadn't known how to kiss, and he could tell by the racing of her heart and the trembling of her body that she would have kissed him back quite hungrily had she known how. As it was, her attempts had only whetted his appetite.

No, she was an innocent, all right and tight. Most likely very tight, he thought dreamily. The women he tupped had had so many men that if he weren't a good-sized man he might have fallen out.

Ah, but virgins were the very devil. He'd had his share of them, going through scores of them when he first discovered sex, and they'd discovered things together. As he grew more experienced he avoided them. They cried, they hurt, they didn't know where to put their legs or their hands, they especially didn't know where to put their mouths, they believed your lies and they wanted to be held when all was said and done.

He looked at the staircase. There was a window on the landing, and the moon illuminated the way. Clearly that was a sign.

He started up the stairs, thinking about what lay ahead of him. If the door was locked would he force it? Would he knock, and if she said go away, would he? If she screamed would he put his hand over her mouth until she liked it? Just how big a bastard was he?

He reached the top landing. Her door was there, the only door, and he contemplated it. What if he opened the door and she smiled and bade him come in? What if she was frightened?

He stood very still. Tomorrow she'd be out of his life for good. Tonight was his last chance, and he had to be hog-whimpering drunk to even risk coming up these stairs.

He was at her door, and he leaned his forehead against the warm wood, closing his eyes. He thought he could smell the faintest trace of violets through the door, but that had to be his imagination. The imagination that had become his worst enemy.

He whispered her name, so softly it could be the sound of the wind through the fresh leaves outside the moon-shadowed window. And then he laughed soundlessly, at what an idiot he was being. Moon-mad indeed.

He pushed back from the door. The first thing he was doing after he dropped her off at her family home was head straight back to Beggar's Ken, grab Grace by the hand and take her up against the nearest hard surface.

And then he'd find Lady Blanche and do the same. And then see if he could get the two of them together—right now he felt as if he could take on half a dozen hungry women at once, he was so fucking randy.

He turned, silent, letting out his pent-up breath, not sure if it was relief or regret. And he started back down the stairs.

 

Jane lay in her bed, breathless and unmoving. She heard the footsteps, slow and faintly unsteady, coming up her stairs, and she knew who it was. He'd been drinking a fair amount, Mrs. Grudge had said with a cluck of disapproval, excusing herself early to see to him. So Jane had eaten her dinner in solitary splendor, waiting to see if anyone would come by. She'd even opened the door, just a crack, and waited, long into the evening, but there was no noise from the taproom beyond but the muffled sound of a few voices, and then eventually silence.

So she'd closed the door again and headed upstairs for her usual struggle with her gown and undergarments. Never in her life had she been without her maid, and she appreciated her absent servants' efforts more than ever.

Speaking of which, what did her maid Hester and Miranda's abigail make of their mistresses' sudden disappearance? She hadn't even stopped to think of that.

She'd find out soon enough. Tomorrow, in fact. Tomorrow, when she'd be back in her old life and Jacobs the womanizer would be long gone, ensuring her safety. Safety.

If she let Jacobs seduce her, she thought with a snort of amusement, at least he'd know how to get her blasted clothes off without much effort.

Or maybe he'd simply push her down on the bed and pull up her skirts. She could certainly manage her drawers on her own—it was the rows of tiny buttons at her sleeves and her back, and the corset ties that annoyed her, but in the end she managed. No need for a lover after all, she thought wearily.

She'd be so happy to get into fresh clothes again. Back to her own bed, the comfort of her maid and her family, her future mapped out in front of her.

She heard him in the room beneath her, and she muttered a polite curse under her breath. If she'd just stayed down there a little bit longer she could have seen him, talked to him. Harmless enough. Though she wasn't quite certain why she wanted to do that.

Anyway, it would have been a great deal longer. She'd been in bed for hours, tossing and turning. She'd even slept for a bit, then woken again, from a strange dream in which her mysterious jewel thief had kissed her once
again, picked her up in his arms and carried her into the light, and she'd looked up into his handsome face and seen Jacobs.

Ridiculous. If a man was clever enough and well-spoken enough to be a jewel thief then he'd hardly be driving a carriage to dispose of an unwanted female.

For that's what she felt like. Unwanted, awkward, in the way. Not that her parents ever made her feel that way. They loved her dearly, and her older brother doted on her, as well. But she knew the way her parents looked at each other, the deep passion that still ran between them, the kind of passion that wasn't to be her fate. And she knew she needed to let them be on their own.

When she heard the booted footstep on the first stair her heart slammed to a stop. And started again on the second step. There was nothing up here but her bedroom, no one up here but her. Lying in bed in the nightgown Mrs. Grudge had brought her, along with a few other necessities. And she heard another step, and she sat up, her hand to her throat.

She hadn't locked her door. There'd been a key all right and handy, and she hadn't used it. Hadn't she heard tales of robbers who came upon lonely inns and slaughtered the guests asleep in their beds?

But she knew those footsteps. It could only be Jacobs. Though why in the world would she suppose the handsome coachman would have an eye for someone like her?

He was far beneath her in every way, she reminded herself. One didn't speak to servants; one didn't even look at them. Though in truth her parents were far more casual than that, and treated the vast number of servants
who kept Montague House going with kindness and respect.

And the Rohans as well weren't particularly starchy. Not that anyone would consider hopping into bed with a coachman, no matter how handsome he was. It simply wasn't done.

Not that a betrothed, virginal young lady should consider hopping into bed with anybody but her husband, and only that well after the marriage ceremony. It was too bad she couldn't view the inevitable ceremonial deflowering with the excitement that was rising with each of his footsteps on the narrow, twisty stairs.

He reached the top, and she let out a squeak of excitement and dismay, one she quickly smothered as she clapped both hands over her mouth. It took but another step or two to reach her door, and she waited, holding her breath, for the door handle to move.

She heard a soft thump, and she considered calling out. Good sense kept her silent. The door handle remained still. He would knock, so as not to scare her. He wouldn't want to frighten her, after all. Particularly since, if he didn't know she was hoping, expecting him to follow her up those stairs, and she'd be likely to scream the house down at the first sign of an intruder.

She wouldn't scream. She closed her eyes, and she could feel him on the other side of the door, and she waited, breathless.

Until she heard him turn around and start back down the stairs again, leaving her alone in her virginal bed.

Safe and sound. And weeping.

T
he sun came out on the sixth day Miranda was at Pawlfrey House, and for a moment she simply stared at the window in shock. The bright beams turned the lingering raindrops on the windows into diamonds, and it was suddenly warm.

She would have dressed in her old pelisse but Lucien had given word, high-handed creature that he was, that all her clothes were to be burned, as if she were a victim of the plague, so she had no choice but to take the fur-trimmed one and the thoroughly enchanting bonnet that went with it.

She'd been circumspect with her bonnets since the incident, when before she'd indulged in the most outrageous confections. This was much more to her style than the subdued hats she'd grown accustomed to, and she set it atop her head with real pleasure.

Which was nothing compared to what she felt when she stepped out onto the front portico and looked around her.

The air was warm, too warm for the pelisse, and she unfastened it, draping it over her arm. The ground was
still wet beneath her feet, but as she walked past the tangled growth that surrounded the old house and got her first glimpse of blue, blue sky she suddenly felt as if she could breathe again.

There was a broad expanse of overgrown lawn in front of the house, with the driveway twining around it and beyond, to her astonishment, was the vast stillness of a lake, quiet and empty, with mountains looming behind it. She shouldn't be surprised. After all, it was the Lake District, was it not? But Lucien seemed to have his own private body of water. Of course he would—he had more money than God, he'd told her, blasphemous as always. The field leading down to it was a mass of yellow, thousands upon thousands of daffodils, their familiar scent a perfume in the air. Everything sparkled from the brightness of the sun, and when she looked back at Pawlfrey House she realized it was even larger than she'd thought. She was pleased to see the roof looked in decent shape, as did the windows, and as for the wretched condition of the front of the house, it was nothing a small army of gardeners couldn't whip into shape in no time.

Mrs. Humber would scream, she thought placidly. She'd fought hiring the maids, insisting there was no one available, until she discovered that Miranda planned to make her do the hard work alone. Eleven strong and healthy young women were immediately produced.

She looked at the house. Her house. She could be happy here, which would drive Lucien mad. She would be happy if he were there, to joust with, to sleep with. At the oddest moments she would remember those moments in her bed, and her body would react in the strangest ways, tightening, blossoming.

If he stayed away it would be even better. Sleeping with him upset her. It threw her mind into disarray, it made her want to laugh and cry and dance and scream. It was disturbing, and she preferred calm. She didn't want to long for his kiss, his touch, his mouth on her body. The very thought made her start to tremble again, and she pushed it out of her mind. There must be a rose garden somewhere. She could put some of her energies into that.

She walked down to the lake, an easy hike with the overhead sun bright above her. The water was clear and cold to the touch, and there was an old dock leading far out into the lake.

She dropped her pelisse onto a large stone and headed for it. She could hear the cry of the birds overhead, wheatear and mountain blackbirds and ravens as they wheeled and darted, and she smiled up at them, before she began to climb up onto the dock.

It was slippery from being in the water so long, and there was no railing, but she couldn't see the contours of the lake from the shore, and from her vantage point there wasn't even a farm in sight. She wanted to see how far the lake extended, and whether there were any neighbors. Just in case she had the need for a midnight escape.

She started down the wooden dock, showing a reasonable amount of care, when the voice she dreaded most, longed for most, broke her concentration.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” he shouted, startling her so that she whipped around, and promptly slipped on the slimy wood decking.

She went down on one knee, catching herself before she tumbled into the icy cold waters, and then she
brought her other knee down, staying there, motionless, trying to regain her breath.

Her pounding heart was beyond her control. The combination of the fright he'd given her and her inevitable reaction to his return made calm just about impossible.

She looked up at him, and froze.

She'd never seen him in sunlight before. He was dressed in black, as always, his black hair tied back, and she could see the scarring quite clearly. He had his cane with him, but apart from that his body was tall, lean, and yes, she must admit it, beautiful. She found everything about him beautiful, even more so in the bright sunlight, with him glowering at her.

“You nearly scared me to death!” she called back. “Must you sneak up on one?”

“Must you risk your life on a slimy, rotting piece of dock? Come back here at once. No, on second thought, don't move. I'll have someone bring a boat out to get you.”

“I fancy the water is only waist deep if I happened to take a tumble, and while I wouldn't like it I doubt I'd be in much danger.”

“It's well over your head. Don't look!” he added impatiently. “You might fall.”

“I'm not that poor a creature,” she replied, leaning over the dock to peer into the clear water. And pulled back, immediately, feeling dizzy. “You're right, it's very deep.”

“Of course I'm right!” he said crossly. “Why would I lie about it?”

“You have a habit of lying to me, and you're very good at it. I have every reason to doubt your veracity.”
Bloody hell, she suddenly thought. She wasn't going to show her annoyance. She let out a trill of laughter. “Ah, but listen to me! How silly I'm being. Welcome home, my most adored…what shall I call you? My lover? Future husband? If I'm a kept woman does that make you my keeper? Like something in a zoo?”

His expression was sardonic. “That sounds accurate.”

“You're very droll.” She rose to her feet and started toward him.

“Stay right there!” he said again.

“I know it would devastate you if I happened to fall and drown myself, but I'm hardly going to wait here until you fetch someone with a boat. I dispensed with my pelisse and the wind is cool off the water. I'm ready to come in and welcome my darling…keeper properly.”

“I'm coming out to get you.”

She arched her brow. “Why? Won't two be more dangerous than one on this wretched thing?”

“I'm more afraid of you slipping on the rotten decking.” He mounted the steps, his cane clicking on the wood.

“But if you tried to catch me we'd both fall in,” she pointed out.

“Do you swim?”

“No.”

“I do. If we both fall in I should probably manage to save us both. While the water is very deep you're not far from shore, and even when it's this cold I should still manage to suffice.”

“And if I'm too much for you?”

“Then I'll save myself and let you drown,” he said
with callous good humor. He was moving down the walkway with slow, measured steps, barely limping.

“You're already dressed in mourning. That should make things easier. Though perhaps I'll push you aside and watch
you
drown.”

“Not if you can't swim.”

“Something that needs to be remedied this summer when the water gets warmer,” she said firmly, moving toward him.

She must have hit a plank that she'd missed before. The ominous crack was the first warning, and then it splintered beneath her foot, and this time she was falling, falling toward the icy depths, when he was there, catching her, yanking her across the space and pulling her against him. His other arm came round her and his cane clattered to the dock and over into the water as he held her.

She looked up at him, breathless again. “Thank you,” she said, unable to find her saucy voice. “I don't think I would have liked a ducking.”

He didn't move; he just held her, his pale eyes watching her, an odd expression in them. And then he released her, looking around him. “Damn, I've lost my best cane.”

It was floating out of reach, an ebony stick with polished gold top. “We could get one of the servants to go after it.”

He grimaced. “They can try. In the meantime that presents us with another problem. I came down on my bad leg when I was trying to rescue you from the results of your folly. I doubt I can make it back to the house on my own.” He looked at her. “I'm afraid I'll have need of your assistance.”

It was an odd moment, she thought, surrounded by sparkling water that nonetheless held danger and death. Facing a man who was everything she hated and everything she longed for. And then she moved. “Of course,” she said finally. “Put your arm around my shoulder and we should do quite well.”

“We'll make our way off the dock first. I won't risk having you drown because of me.”

She gave him her sauciest smile. “You won't? Pray, why not? Have you fallen madly in love with me and forgotten all about your precious revenge?”

“I never forget about revenge,” he said in a cool voice.

“Of course you don't.” She took his arm and placed it around her shoulders, and when he tried to remove it she jabbed her elbow into his stomach. Gently. “Behave yourself or we'll both go over. Slowly now.”

He couldn't very well fight her. He let her help him down the rest of the dock, managing to climb down the stairs with his usual grace. The walk up to the house was more difficult, and she realized he'd been withholding his weight on her while they were still in danger. It gave her something to concentrate on, rather than how big he was, how warm he was, pressed up against her body.

She could feel his heart beating. She glanced up at him, but his face was averted. She was on the side that was less grievously scarred, and for a moment she faltered in astonishment.

He stumbled, glaring down at her. “What's the problem?”

“You're quite beautiful,” she said ingenuously. And then realized what she had said. “But la, of course a
fiancée, if that is what I am, would think so. I'm sorry you're in such a foul mood, my love. Did you have a bad time in the city?”

“My leg hurts like the very devil,” he said. And then he must have realized he was admitting a weakness to her, even worse than accepting her help. His sardonic smile reappeared. “But my time in the city was well-spent, so I am hardly likely to complain. We'll be leaving for my friend's house party tomorrow. His estate is just outside of Morecambe, and it shouldn't take us more than a few hours to get there. We'll formalize our wedding vows there, and I promise you an absolute orgy of delight.”

“It sounds delightful.”
Bloody hell.
Lucien didn't use words without great thought, and “orgy” was not a good one. “I'll look forward to meeting your friends.”

“I'm sure they'll find you…delicious, just as I do.”

“
Just
as you do, Lucien?”

His cool smile was his only reply.

By that time the servants had seen them coming, and they were surrounded, with Bridget clucking over the stains on her dress where she'd fallen and Lucien borne off in another direction. She continued on into the house with Bridget, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

Mrs. Humber met her in the hall. “He's back, you know.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Miranda said briefly “He joined me down at the lake.” If it wasn't quite the joyous reunion she wasn't about to clarify it. “Do you think he'd be happy with your manner of addressing me?”

Bridget made a muffled choking sound, but fortunately for her Mrs. Humber was too infuriated to notice.
Miranda watched as a panoply of emotions swept over her, but the woman managed to get herself under control. “I have no idea what you're talking about, my lady,” she said in a tight voice.

“Better,” Miranda murmured. “Come along, Bridget.”

 

Lucien went directly to his study, using the walking stick his valet had quickly provided. He walked into the room, closing the door behind him, shutting everyone out, and then took the stick and smashed the Chinese porcelain vase on the mantelpiece, the delicate silver candelabrum, the crystal clock on the desk. And then he threw himself into a chair, cursing.

His room felt stuffy, dank. He'd told them to let no one, including his curious fiancée, into his study, though he'd left the library unlocked. He wasn't ready for her to go mad from boredom, not yet. He had another act for this drama yet to be played.

If he'd been close enough he would have smashed a window with his cane in order to let in some fresh air. He hated his leg, hated the weakness. The scars he bore with a perverse pride, but when his leg, his body betrayed him he became infuriated. Miranda was lucky he hadn't drowned her simply out of bad temper.

And then he laughed at his own absurdity. He was like a little boy having a tantrum, and he'd best get over it, quickly. He hated showing weakness, particularly in front of her, and anger was weakness.

Damned foolish woman! What the hell did she mean by wandering out on that slippery, rotting dock all by herself? She could have gone in, been rapidly taken by the freezing water and no one would have ever known what had happened to her.

The very idea made his temper rise again, and he made an effort to control it. It wasn't as if he actually cared about her, he told himself. But if she died in an accidental drowning it would blunt the pain of her family's suffering. They would mourn her and move on with their lives, knowing she was at peace.

He had gone to a great deal of trouble for just the right revenge—he didn't want to have it foreshortened. He wanted them to suffer, knowing she was trapped up here, subject to his every whim, and he wanted them knowing just how twisted his whims could be. He wanted them to spend years worrying about her, wondering about her, and have no recourse.