Cheryl Holt (36 page)

“Shut up!”

He marched to the conveyance and climbed in. Another ruffian was present, and Charles seated himself, wondering if he’d ever meet the purported
client,
if these two lummoxes hadn’t been hired to guarantee he vanished.

Well, if they were disposed to murder, they’d have to work for their money.

The coach left the harbor, then the town, increasing his worry that they would kill him. They rode in silence, Charles glaring at them, the two hoodlums glaring right back, and soon, they turned onto a manicured lane, lined with fruit trees and flower beds, and they reined in beside a formidable building that must have previously been a damned castle.

“Where are we?” Charles asked, when he was on the ground.

“It scarcely matters.”

“It does to me.” If he was about to meet his Maker, it would be nice to know the name of the location where it was to occur. As his kidnappers escorted him in a rear gate, and up a spiraling staircase, they encountered no servants, and he couldn’t decide if they were sneaking in, or if the staff had been ordered to keep out of sight.

They entered a hall that was decorated with fancy paintings, ornate rugs, and fussy furniture, and they came to a carved wood door. His guards opened it and shoved him through.

“We’ll be outside,” Rafferty explained.

“For how long?”

“Until my client notifies us that our services aren’t necessary,” and he slithered away.

So . . . he wasn’t going to be executed. Just talked to death! He couldn’t determine which would have been the preferred conclusion!

Glancing around, he found himself in an elegant suite. The main salon was empty, but there was an adjacent room, and it was obvious that someone was inside. He stood very still, listening, trying to discern who it might be, and he was confused.

Lord Bristol wasn’t the type to play games or dawdle. He would have jumped into the discussion without delay. So who was it? Sidling nearer, he could smell warm water and fragrant soap, perfume, powders, and other feminine accouterments. Who had summoned him to the lavish jail?

A female, certainly. But Lady Eleanor was the only woman of means with whom he was intimately acquainted. She wouldn’t have . . .

His heart skipped a beat.

He went over and peeked in, and there she was. Eleanor, in all her spectacular, naked glory, was lounging in an elaborate bathing tub. Surrounded by the steam rising from the basin, she was mostly submerged, her legs bent so that her knees were sticking out. Her shoulders were exposed, as was her bosom, and the liquid lapped at her breasts, furnishing him with flirtatious glimpses of her nipples.

“Hello, Charles,” she calmly greeted, as if they’d seen each other the prior day, with no intervening trauma.

“Lady Eleanor.” He tipped his head in acknowledgment, but he wouldn’t bow or show any other courtesy. He’d loved her, was passionately familiar with every delicious inch of her marvelous torso, and he wasn’t about to prostrate himself before her.

“It’s about time you arrived. I’ve been waiting forever.”

She came up on her knees, the water rippling around her thighs, her entire front visible, and his nostrils flared, his phallus hardened, and he felt randy as a stallion about to
mount his favorite mare. He didn’t want to look at her, but he couldn’t resist.

He evaluated her, noting that her breasts were bigger, the nipples enlarging. Her hips were wider, more curvaceous, her tummy rounded with a tempting bulge. The skin on her face was smooth and supple, her hair more lustrous than he remembered.

She was pregnant, in full bloom, radiant and aglow with pending motherhood. There could be no doubt, no denials, but though his spirit soared, and his mind whirled, he gave no outward sign that her condition had affected him.

“Your henchmen delivered me.”

“And they did a very good job of it, too.” She scrutinized him, focusing especially on his crotch where his cockstand tented his trousers. “I was so afraid they’d have to resort to fisticuffs.”

Lately, he’d been so irritated, that he wouldn’t have been adverse to a brawl, though with his infirmity, he’d have come out on the short end. “I’m here, at your bidding. What do you want?”

“Hmm . . .” she mused. “What
do
I want? Such a difficult question.”

She lifted her dainty feet over the rim, and stepped onto the floor, droplets cascading onto the rug. Dripping, slippery, she approached, and he braced, fending off the rush of exhilaration he experienced by her proximity.

He would not be moved!

She slithered a finger into the waistband of his trousers, and pulled him to her so that they were pressed together, her damp skin moistening his shirt. Like a seasoned coquette, she ran her tongue across her bottom lip, wetting it, making it glisten.

Lust wrenched in his gut, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing her against the wall, and riding her. At
the moment, a brutal, savage coupling would have suited him just fine.

“Have you missed me?” she queried.

“No,” he lied.

“Not even a little?”

He didn’t answer, scowling at her, maintaining an air of boredom and animosity. When she received no response, her wicked hand left his waistband and slinked around his flank to his buttocks, and she urged him closer so that their loins made contact. As she was nude, the only item separating them was the placard of his pants, and he was wild to rip at the buttons and take her.

But he said nothing, he did nothing, so motionless that he might have been a statue.

She raised up on tiptoe, and kissed him. “Are you still angry with me?”

“I’d have to care about you to be angry.”

“Oh, Charles, don’t be so vexatious.” She kissed him again, nibbling and cooing, and so saucy that she was practically batting her lashes. “If I told you I was sorry, would you forgive me?”

“
If
you claimed you were sorry, I wouldn’t believe you.”

“I knew you’d be churlish.” She sighed. “That’s why I had help in fetching you. I didn’t suppose you’d come if I asked politely.”

“No, I wouldn’t have.” He pried her loose and set her away. “Now say what you’ve brought me here to say. Get the whole bloody thing off your chest so that I can go. I’m busy, and I have a thousand details to accomplish by the morrow. I’m leaving for America. Sailing with the dawn tide.”

“Why?”

“There’s nothing here for which I’d remain.”

He yearned to have her know how desperately she’d wounded him, how crushed he’d been by her rejection. Before
her, he’d lived a simple life, had carried on as a poor man ought, never pining for things beyond his ken. She symbolized the sole occasion he’d reached beyond his station. She’d made him dream and aspire to unattainable goals, and at her snatching them away, he’d felt as if the ground had been yanked out from under him, as if he couldn’t find his balance.

He hated her for dangling herself before him. She was like a shiny star that would always be beyond his grasp, despite how fervently he tried to latch on to it.

“I’m sure you’re anticipating your departure,” she breezily stated, “but you’ll have to cancel your trip. You see”—she came to him, once more, snuggling herself seductively—“I have an itch that needs scratching, and you’re the only one who can relieve my suffering.”

Is that what this was about? She’d had him abducted and forcibly conveyed to an isolated, hidden castle, merely so they could fornicate? The woman was mad as a hatter!

Hadn’t she abused him sufficiently? Must she add cruelty to her list of sins? Didn’t she realize that being in her presence was a torment worse than any he’d ever endured? It went beyond his war battles, or his near death and loss of an arm in Spain.

He was furious. At himself, for desiring her after all she’d said and done. But at her, too, for having the effrontery to flaunt herself, to feign a fondness that he wanted to count upon, but which had never been real.

She wanted to copulate? How dare she impose on him! How dare she deem him so weak, so irresolute! Though he was an individual of modest resources, he had his pride, and there were some mistakes he wouldn’t make twice.

“I’d rather be castrated,” he decreed.

Spinning on his heel, he strutted out. In a snit, he jerked at the door, having forgotten that his two jailers were lurking. They leapt to attention, blocking his egress, neither discouraged by his vicious frown. What he wouldn’t give to have two
useful hands! He’d beat the presumptuous pair to a pulp!

Behind him, Eleanor strolled up, and he glanced at her. She’d covered herself with a robe, and she was tying the knot as she advised Rafferty, “I’m having a spot of trouble convincing Mr. Hughes to stay.”

“You had imagined you would, milady.”

“Yes, so I’ll need him restrained. Would you tie him to the bed for me?”

“With pleasure.”

“What?” Charles gasped. His two guards advanced on him, and he bristled. “Don’t even
think
about it.”

“She’s paying us a fortune,” his nemesis replied, and Charles was positive the accursed knave’s eyes were twinkling with merriment. “Don’t fight it. You can’t win.”

Undeterred, they seized him and lugged him to the bed, and with a few quick knots, he was secured, trussed at wrist and ankle, like a Christmas goose, but not before it occurred to him that the cords had already been moored to the bedposts.

Had the insane shrew planned from the beginning to have him bound? Was there no end to her lunacy? Her treachery?

He didn’t struggle against the bondage. What was the use?

“Thank you, gentlemen.” She was so nonchalant that they might have been helping her across the street, rather than abetting her in her deranged scheme. As she checked the strength of the ropes, she chuckled, tickled with their work, then she ushered them out, turned the key in the lock, and approached.

“Now . . . where were we?”

She shed her robe, letting it slide to the floor, then she perched on the mattress, running her palms down his chest, his stomach, to his groin, where his disloyal cock swelled. She plucked at the buttons on his pants, and after several naughty flicks, revealed his privates.

Grinning, she took hold of him. “I know
you
are angry with me”—she leaned down, licked the crown, causing his abdominal muscles to tense, his balls to ache—“but your body and I seem to be getting on remarkably well.”

“Bitch,” he hurled, wanting to hurt her with the terrible word, but she wasn’t insulted.

“I
am
behaving badly,” she admitted, “but you’ll have to bear with me.”

As if he had any choice! “How long do you expect to keep me here?”

“Until the mood passes.” She winked, relishing the control she wielded, reveling in her dominion over him. “Or until you forgive me.”

Was that all it would take? “I forgive you. So let me go.”

She waggled a finger, negating his false avowal. “You have to mean it.”

“I do.”

“Let’s be certain, shall we?”

She eased him into her mouth, her teeth and tongue gliding over the sensitive tip, and he stared at the ceiling, wondering how he’d stumbled into such an impossible jam. And how was he to get himself out of it?

 21 

Stephen walked down the deserted hallway, glad to be away from the crush, even if it was for a few minutes. The ballroom was hot, crowded, and in the past weeks he’d grown weary of the handshaking, the pats on the back, and the congratulatory drivel. No one could talk about anything but war, when it was the sole topic of which he cared to be reminded.

As to his purported valor, he was gracious in accepting their compliments, but while another man might have been flattered and basked in the glow, he wished they’d desist.

Inside his jacket, he could feel the crackle of parchment that had just been delivered by royal messenger. Suddenly, he was a baron, a title and estate having been awarded by the King as compensation for his bravery under fire.

The investiture was scheduled a few weeks hence, in a fancy imperial ceremony at the palace. How would his father react? His brothers? At the notion of Stephen becoming a peer, his oldest brother, James, would likely laugh himself silly. Who could have imagined such an outrageous conclusion?