Dangerous to Love (3 page)

An actress of sorts
was how she had described herself, and everyone knew what that euphemism signified. Not that he had any quarrel with women of that class. With his history, he would be a hypocrite to condemn her. Whores and prostitutes had been the companions of his youth, not so much as objects of pleasure, but as friends and counselors. Truth to tell, the highborn ladies of easy virtue with whom he took his pleasure were not so very different from the whores of his youth, and he liked them the better for it.

Victoria Noble, if that was her real name, did not precisely remind him of the whores of his youth. She had style, he would give her that. In point of fact, from his not inconsiderable experience, he would have to say that Victoria Noble was probably the best that money could buy, and it was his opinion that before long she would be the mistress of some wealthy gentleman of fashion. Hard on that thought came the notion that the wealthy gentleman in question might well turn out to be himself.

It wasn’t that she was a raving beauty, or that her figure was exceptional. Her features were refined and dominated by a pair of lively blue eyes. Her form was pleasingly feminine, not too thin, but not overripe either. He supposed that her dark hair was her best feature, though it was hardly
à la mode.
It was long and lustrous, and fell to her shoulders in waves. Without hesitation, however, he could have reeled off the names of a dozen women who could put her in the shade, except in one particular. They did not possess one tenth of this girl’s allure.

When he looked at her, he had the uncanny feeling that he was seeing many women. At present, in her white embroidered dimity, she had the look of a virgin about to be sacrificed on Aphrodite’s altar. Earlier, when he had caught the pulse of passion in her eyes, she had put him in mind of an Eastern slave girl whose sole object in life was to pleasure her lord and master. Then she had tilted her chin, staring him down, and he had an impression of a
grande dame,
presiding at her fashionable salon. It set a man’s mind to wondering what ravishing creature she would turn into next.

He knew one thing. He had never met anyone like her before. He knew something else. He had to have her, and he did not care what price she put on herself. Grinning, he reached for the claret bottle and held
it
out to her.

Serena accepted the offer of wine. Her one thought was to use any means at her disposal to delay the moment when he would suggest that they retire to the adjoining bedchamber. At the moment, they occupied a small private parlor and were seated before a blazing fire. At his suggestion, she had removed her cape. Having already exhausted the subject of his gaming house, she was wracking her brains for some other neutral topic of conversation.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

Oh God, how she wished she could oblige him, then this farce would be brought to an end. But that wasn’t what she wanted either, for then he would dismiss her, and she would have to go downstairs and face the militia. Besides, how could she reveal her true identity now? How could she explain her presence here tonight without the escort of her footman? The truth would not save her, not with this man, not with the hero who had fought with government forces at Prestonpans. He was an anti-Jacobite. If he knew the truth about her, in all likelihood, he would hand her over to the militia without a qualm.

“There’s not much to tell.” Delaying while her mind grappled to invent a background for herself, she sipped her wine.

“Family?”

“No. I’m an orphan.” This seemed to be far easier than inventing a fictitious family whose names and attributes she was sure to muddle.

“Ah, then you have no resources to draw on except those with which nature endowed you. By the looks of you, I’d say you’ve done very well for yourself.”

She wanted to hit him. “Thank you,” she said.

From the floor above came the sound of a door slamming, followed by the muted tramp of boots. Another door slammed.

“What do you suppose is going on?” she asked. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“Mmm? Oh, the tavern has a full house. I was fortunate to find accommodations for us.”

Serena’s eyes flitted nervously to the door that gave onto the bedchamber, and a trembling began in the pit of her stomach. It would never come to that, she promised herself. She wasn’t a complete simpleton. She knew that before a woman of the street bestowed her favors, she
made sure the gentleman could meet her price. That wasn’t going to happen in her case for the simple reason that she was going to set her price at something astronomical. When negotiations broke down, as they must, she would make a dignified exit. But not before time, she cautioned herself, not before the threat of the militia had been removed. Once they were gone, she would order the landlord to call a hackney and she would return to her home none the worse for her adventure.

Could it really be that simple? It could, she told herself sternly, as long as she kept her head. She mustn’t panic. As long as they remained in this little parlor and Raynor made no move to get her into that bedchamber, she had nothing to fear.

“Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” he said, and under her startled gaze, he unfastened his smallsword and set it aside. He slipped off his coat, and began on the buttons of his waistcoat. That, too, went the way of his coat.

“Help me?” he said, his fingers on the top button of his shirt.

Serena moistened her lips. It was time to introduce the subject of her fee. Another door slammed, only this time it was on the same floor. The tramp of boots drew nearer. The militia, it seemed, were making a thorough search of the building. Were they looking for her? Did they have a description of her? Wide-eyed, she rose to her feet.

The girl’s eyes, thought Julian, were fathomless, enticing a man to plumb her secrets. She was a siren, with arts as old as time, against which a mere mortal man had no defense. She came to him in small, halting steps. Her shy reluctance was a sham, of course, but it did not feel like a sham. She was, he acknowledged, a consummate actress. Slave girl, siren, virgin,
grande dame
—she would be whatever a man wished her to be.

“Kneel down,” he said, and she knelt at his feet, the picture of womanly submission. He drew her between his thighs. “Unbutton my shirt.”

God, she was good at what she did! No simpering, no coyness. She was a woman who knew the value of silence. She knew a lot more than that. There was no haste to her movements, but rather a slow sensuality that edged his passion to crisis point. Breathing was becoming difficult. His shaft was so hard he thought his breeches would burst.

When the rap came on the door, Julian closed his eyes and cursed vehemently. “If that damned landlord—”

“Open in ’Is Majesty’s name!” came the strident command, and the doorknob rattled.

With eyebrows raised, Julian reluctantly stood and went to answer
it.
Over his shoulder, he said, “Don’t move from that spot.”

He opened the door just as the young militiaman on the other side was about to kick it in. “State your business, man,” said Julian without ceremony.

Ned Maseby took in the state of undress of the finest gentleman he had ever seen in his life. A quick look over the gentleman’s shoulder revealed the reason for the dishabille.

His Adam’s apple bobbing, young Ned said, “Begging your pardon, yer honor, but we ’as reason to believe that one of them there Jacobites is ’iding out in the tavern.”

Julian forbore comment, though there was much that he might have said. He might have said that this was not the kind of peace he had fought to procure, where the defeated enemy, all men of honor, were mercilessly flushed out to be hunted down as though they were foxes. In all civilized countries, the killing stopped on the battlefield. The treatment of Jacobites by those in authority
was a scandal to all right-thinking Englishmen. He had fought on the winning side, and he took no pride in it.

“A Jacobite?” he said pleasantly. “And do I fit his description?”

“Eh.” Ned grinned sheepishly and tried to make a joke of it. “Not if ye’re not a Scot. The lad we are looking for is one o’ them ’ighland chieftains.”

In his flawless cultured accent, Julian said, “Then you should have no difficulty finding him.”

The hand holding the door had relaxed a little, and as it opened wider, Ned’s eyes bulged. The girl on the floor was unpicking the laces that held the edges of her bodice together.

The lecherous grin on the young militiaman’s face swiftly vanished when he encountered the storm in Julian’s eyes. Swallowing, saluting smartly, Ned mumbled an apology and moved off.

Having shut the door and locked it, Julian hesitated a moment, his brows pulled together in a frown.

Serena was half turned away from him, tightening the strings of her bodice with fingers that shook alarmingly, not knowing whether to be pleased or dismayed that the harlot’s role she played was so convincing that it had taken in both a rank libertine and a lecherous member of His Majesty’s militia.

“What is it?” asked Serena. “Why are you frowning?”

Julian pushed his gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind. “No need to be frightened,” he said. “You know our brave militia lads. They must invent traitors where none exist.”

Traitors,
that’s how he thought of Jacobites. She had been right not to trust this man. He would never have aided a Jacobite fugitive. Not that they needed his help now. From what the militiaman had said, it was obvious
that Flynn and their “passenger” had got clean away. Now she had to do the same.

“Let’s start over, shall we?” said Julian. He returned to the chair he had vacated. “And this time, I shall try to keep myself well in check. No, don’t move. I rather like you kneeling at my feet in an attitude of submission.”

He raised his wine glass and imbibed slowly. “Now you,” he said. When she made to take it from him, he shook his head. “No, I shall hold it. Come closer.”

Once again she found herself between his thighs. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, but he knew.

“Place them on my thighs,” he said, and Serena obeyed. Beneath her fingers, she could feel the hard masculine muscles bunch and strain. She was also acutely aware of the movements of the militia as they combed the building for Jacobites.

“Drink,” he said, holding the rim of the glass to her lips, tipping it slightly.

Wine flooded her mouth and spilled over. Choking, she swallowed it.

“Allow me,” he murmured. As one hand cupped her neck, his head descended and his tongue plunged into her mouth.

Shock held her rigid as his tongue thrust, and thrust again, circling, licking at the dregs of wine in her mouth, lapping it up with avid enjoyment. When she began to struggle, his powerful thighs tightened against her, holding her effortlessly. Her hands went to his chest to push him away, and slipped between the parted edges of his shirt. Warm masculine flesh quivered beneath the pads of her fingertips. Splaying her hands wide, with every ounce of strength, she shoved at him, trying to free herself.

He released her so abruptly that she tumbled to the floor. Scrambling away from him, she came up on her knees. They were both breathing heavily.

Frowning, he rose to his feet and came to tower over her. “What game are you playing now?”

“No game,” she quickly got out. “You are going too fast for me.” She carefully rose to her feet and began to inch away from him. “We have yet to settle on my .  .  . my remuneration.”

“Remuneration?” He laughed softly. “Sweetheart, I have already made up my mind that for a woman of your unquestionable talents, no price is too high.”

These were not the words that Serena wanted to hear, nor did she believe him. Men did not like greedy women. Though she wasn’t supposed to know it, long before his marriage, her brother Jeremy had given his mistress her congé because the girl was too demanding. What was it the girl had wanted?

Her back came up against the door to the bedchamber. One hand curved around the doorknob in a reflexive movement, the other clutched the doorjamb for support.

Licking her lips, she said, “I .  .  . I shall want my own house.”

He cocked his head to one side. As though musing to himself, he said, “I’ve never had a woman in my keeping. Do you know, for the first time, I can see the merit in it? Fine, you shall have your house.”

He took a step closer, and she flattened herself against the door. “And .  .  . and my own carriage?” She could hardly breathe with him standing so close to her.

“Done.” His eyes were glittering.

When he lunged for her, she cried out and flung herself into the bedchamber, slamming the door quickly, bracing her shoulder against it as her fingers fumbled for the key.

One kick sent both door and Serena hurtling back. He stood framed in the doorway, the light behind him, and every sensible thought went out of her head. Dangerous. Reckless. Wild. This was all a game to him!

He feinted to the left, and she made a dash for the door, twisting away as his hands reached for her. His fingers caught on the back of her gown, ripping it to the waist. One hand curved around her arm, sending her sprawling against the bed.

There was no candle in the bedchamber, but the lights from the tavern’s courtyard filtered through the window, casting a luminous glow. He was shedding the last of his clothes. Though everything in her revolted against it, she knew that the time had come to reveal her name.

Summoning the remnants of her dignity, she said, “You should know that I am no common doxy. I am a highborn lady.”

He laughed in that way of his that she was coming to thoroughly detest. “I know,” he said, “and I am to play the conqueror. Sweetheart, those games are all very well in their place. But the time for games is over. I want a real woman in my arms tonight, a willing one and not some character from a fantasy.”

She turned his words over in her mind and could make no sense of them. Seriously doubting the man’s sanity, she cried out, “Touch me and you will regret it to your dying day. Don’t you understand anything? I am a lady. I—”