Her Mad Baron (2 page)

The window had bars, just as Duncan had warned. She hissed through her teeth with anger when she tried to pull them open. They never kept it locked, Duncan’s informant had assured him. A quick glance in and she saw this room contained a bath. Not the correct window after all. She must have lost track when the rope tumbled down.

The shade and clouds were vanishing, and soon she’d be exposed in early afternoon sunlight. She wished she could climb in the dark. The risk of someone spotting her, a woman in grey clinging to an upper story of a grey building seemed less dangerous than falling. Jimmy might have been skilled at night climbing, but she didn’t want to risk it.

With as much speed as she could muster, she moved sideways. Fingers, toes, wedge and hoist.

Another window farther along on the same floor wasn’t barred, and a curtain even fluttered invitingly. After cautiously peering into the room to make certain it wasn’t occupied, she levered the window fully open and leapt lightly in.

It was a small storage room of some sort, and she looked through the crates that smelt of old lavender and camphor, finding only moth-eaten clothes and a few fur pelts. No knife.

As she explored the boxes, one of her hairpins fell to the floor with a ping. She shed them as regularly as a dog sheds fur. With a sigh, she pulled the rest out and looked around to see how she should hide them. Better not to stow the sharp metal hairpins in her pockets when she wore trousers. She shoved the pins and coil of rope deep under one of the larger furs.

The room felt unused, though the open window kept it from stuffiness. Spots in the dusty floor showed that rain had come through the window and disturbed the dust. She scuffed out her footprints she’d made in the dust and reflected gloomily that such a rarely used room would probably be locked from the outside.

She was wrong. It wasn’t locked, and better still, the door hinges were well oiled so nothing squealed as she slowly swung open the door.

In the hall, she heard distant, angry voices, and she pushed herself flat against the wall. As she tried to discover where the voices originated, Florrie examined the corridor. Even this high in the building, where the upper servants’ quarters would be located, she found signs of luxury. The wall she pressed against was paneled, the parquet floor polished.

There was a jingle of keys, and before she had time to hide, a maidservant in an apron came out of a room.

The maidservant, a large, muscular woman, put the key in the door lock then froze—but her interest wasn’t in Florrie. She faced the other direction. Indistinct shouting floated up from downstairs. Doors slammed.

“What’s that then?” the servant asked, and Florrie at last noticed a man with a gun standing in the shadows. Good God, he was just lurking in the hall outside the room. She could have run straight into him if that door hadn’t opened.

“Dunno. Probably just Grub on a tear. I’ll check.” He thumped away, down the stairs.

Florrie held her breath.

A roar came from a story below. Someone else began shouting. Uh oh. Had someone spotted Duncan?

The woman peered over the banister then hurried down the stairs.

Florrie slipped down the hall on her noiseless slippers. The woman had left a key attached to a heavy ring jammed into the door lock. A room kept secured—a good sign that treasure lay on the other side. Florrie turned the lock, opened the door and slid into the room.

She choked back a shout of alarm.

A man’s figure lay uncovered and sprawled across the bed. Dead? No, his breath was heavy and even. He was asleep.

As she stared at the man, she heard footsteps and a muffled oath. The oath, then the sound of metal scraping, sent Florrie diving under the bed. A moment later she understood that the woman servant had returned and locked the door again.

In the silent room, Florrie dragged herself out from under the bed and tiptoed to the door.

Locked. She was trapped with a man who wore nothing but a pair of ragged knee-length trousers. Or, good heavens, those were drawers.

This was no old dying man. He was young and well built. Fascinating though his form might be, she tried to avoid looking at his naked chest or limbs.

The man might have been ill, though—lying on a bed in the middle of the day. His brown and tawny hair was disheveled, and he wore an unkempt beard.

She gave a small squeak of alarm when he opened his eyes. He looked at her with interest but not a trace of surprise.

“I’ve never had visions of girls turning into boys. Or is it the other way around?” he said conversationally. “You’re quite a vivid one.” He closed his eyes again. She turned away from him and, trying to suppress her growing panic, examined the door with its empty keyhole.

He spoke from behind her. “Would you care to play a parlor game? You need only answer yes or no.”

It wouldn’t do to annoy him. He might call for help or attack her. Something she’d heard about the superhuman strength of a madman came to her, and she gulped air and tried to sound calm. “Fine, sir.”

“Will you turn into a snake again?”

Oh, heavens. “No, sir,” she whispered.

The man watched her again with blue, too-bright eyes. He sounded well educated, but she understood why he’d been locked up. She was trapped with an insane person.

She lay on her stomach to peer under the door to see if anyone still stood near the room. No shadows or movement.

“Lying on the floor. Odd behavior, even for an apparition, don’t you think?” His well-educated voice, with a hint of amusement, didn’t fit his insane words or appearance. Her fear eased.

“No, sir.” She rose and brushed off her front. She again tried not to look at the nearly naked man, but couldn’t help noticing his well-formed limbs and the hair on his body. He resembled statues she’d seen except for that light hair across his chest and in a neat line from his flat belly down to the drawstring of the low-slung garment. And nipples.

Good heavens. No more staring.

He, however, ogled her unselfconsciously. “I still say it’s not lunacy,” he said as if carrying on an argument they’d had earlier. “I admit this is stronger than usual. Clearly they’ve upped the dose again, for you are unambiguous. No blurring or shifting edges. By now you ought to have turned into a wolfhound. Or perhaps you’ll melt. Will you change into something else soon?”

“No.” She had been facing him, but now looked quickly away. He had gotten to his feet. Standing, he appeared larger and more...unnervingly unclothed.

“I know the game was my idea, but do you speak in more than monosyllables? The last one sang.”

She brushed past him to go to the window.

“My God.” He stumbled back as if she’d struck him hard. “I felt that. When you-you touched me. God.” He groaned. “It grows worse. I grow mad.”

“Pardon,” she said. The window was open, but the bars were locked tight. She couldn’t escape that way. “I don’t mean to bother you, sir.”

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not...Are you real?”

She stopped to consider what she should say. Would he call for help if she admitted yes, she was.

She didn’t answer.

He blew out a long breath. “I was right. They must have started in the porridge.” He sounded angry. “You’d think I’d notice the flavor.”

He moved toward her, and something in his manner had changed. He was less casual now. Still friendly. She hoped.

She backed away, but he’d gotten her against a wall. “I attacked a nurse, you know. But surely you know that whether or not you’re a figment of my imagination.”

The last time her blood had coursed through her like this, she’d just slipped off a roof and barely saved herself from falling. The same dizziness engulfed her and made her words come out in a whisper. “No, I don’t. Sir.”

“She wouldn’t answer my questions. I lost my temper with her. And now I must wear that.” He pointed back to the bed.

She thought he meant he must wear the bed, until she saw the chain that lay on the floor, one side attached to a carved loop of the heavy mahogany bedstead. “You forgot to tell me to chain myself and toss you the key.” He waggled a key at her. “Too late now.”

She shifted along the wall crabwise. “You don’t need to attack me.” Her voice cracked.

“Why not? Ah, you mean you’ll be compliant. Very good. Lovely phantasm of a rational dress reformer.” His smile was dreamy as he took another step. “Not a real woman. Not dropped out of the sky. Not in here with me when they know I’d murder you.”

She gave a small whimper.

He stopped for a second and regarded her. “No, no. I promise I won’t attack you—even if you do turn into an angry reptile. I’ve learned my lesson.”

His eyes gleamed. Madman with a touch of humor in his manner. But were madmen conscious of their insanity?

Another door. She moved towards it, praying it wasn’t merely an adjoining dressing room. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

She grabbed at the door. Locked.

“That’s two of us,” he whispered. “I, too, should have stayed away. Or told someone who gave a damn.”

He’d come close. Only inches separated them. His trembling hand closed the distance, and with surprising gentleness, he stroked her cheek. “Oh, my sweet little vision, you are so soft. I haven’t touched any sort of woman in so long. Real or imaginary.”

She wasn’t sure what to do. Her heart’s hammering thundered in her ear. Fear and something else pulsed through her. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered, not quite able to catch her breath. “Please. Let me go.”

“No, of course I won’t hurt you. You’re my most pleasant apparition. Can’t afford to have you turn into a hissing lizard.”

She decided not to point out she couldn’t turn into anything. “When will they come back?”

“Hours,” he murmured. “Hours and hours. Will you entertain me until then? Or at least another minute or two?”

She considered screaming and banging on the door but then she’d be frog-marched off to jail. Better to take her chances with the madman who drew very near. Astonishing how pleasing he looked and smelled. Surely he was well-cared for, although he could have used a haircut.

Without considering the matter, she held her breath and pushed a lock of his hair from his face so she could examine him closer. Soft hair, handsome bearded face. Even attractive men could go mad.

The fear punched through her again as he laid his hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She squeaked, and he stopped pulling, but didn’t remove his hands. Instead he slowly bent his face to hers.

She must have been hypnotized for she didn’t protest, and her fear twisted far inside her, transforming into that other form of excitement. The kiss he gave her was tentative, and she could have broken away, but the touch of his mouth on hers was pleasant. Extremely pleasant. His lips were dry, slightly rough, but warm.

And then suddenly she felt moisture on her mouth. When the tip of his tongue brushed hers, she jerked her head back. “What are you doing?”

Jimmy had never attempted so bold a move. He’d told her he respected her as the gentlewoman she was, or was supposed to be.

“A lover’s kiss.” He squinted at her, and his hands moved to her face. She flinched away, but he only cupped her cheeks with his large clean fingers. “Your skin is unbelievably soft.”

She’d have to stop this. She must ignore the dizzying rush created by his touch and admit the truth. “Sir, my skin is real. I’m real. I’m a person.”

“I’d swear too silky to be real,” he breathed. Watching her mouth, he moved to kiss her again. She could have ducked away, but perhaps, no. A lover’s kiss might appease the madman.

It wouldn’t be a terrible thing to experience such a kiss, and this might be her one chance.

His breath fanned her cheek, pleasingly fresh, with only the hint of some sort of bitter chemical. Medicine for his madness.

“This is inappropriate,” she said, speaking to herself as well as him.

He sniffed. “Ah, but this is fine. Propriety has no place in a madman’s routine.”

“Sir. You’re practically unclothed.”

“I apologize. They took my clothes. One more kiss, perhaps? I’m not truly mad, you know.”

She’d let him kiss her again, so he wouldn’t grow angry with her.

The kiss drew heat into her body and made her legs go weak. She must have been insane herself because she wasn’t afraid of him now, not at all. Or rather fear wasn’t the strongest emotion coursing through her. And appeasing him wasn’t the reason she let him touch her. Curiosity filled her.

Curiosity and something far more sinister deep inside her. The longing that had often come to her, especially in her muddled dreams, seized her full force. She wanted this. A small groan rose from her throat, and she tentatively touched his shoulders with her fingertips. His flesh felt smooth and solid. The man was clearly very strong.

Just as he trapped her against the wall again, a single part of him nudged her
. His erection pressed against her belly. She gasped at the realization that through only thin layers of cotton, a man’s private parts touched her body.

“No,” she said faintly. “That won’t do. No.”