Jo Goodman (8 page)

She knew something about pistols. Her father had had a large collection of them. At one time the present earl had added to their number and then, when fortune reversed itself, had begun selling them off one by one.

These weapons were American flintlock pistols. The handles were maple, oiled and shined so they had the warm red and brown tones of a polished chestnut. The fittings on the butt and trigger guard were brass; the barrel was steel. These were pistols made for dueling, for responding to questions of honor and slights against one's reputation—real or imagined.

How often had they been used? she wondered. And by whom?

Feeling sick to her stomach, Mercedes closed the case and set it back in the valise. She carefully replaced the trousers and book, the shirts and stockings, then returned the valise to its place on the floor. Because she was sitting so still she could feel the fine tremor in her hands without seeing it.

It was some thirty minutes later that Colin returned to his room. He didn't knock or ask permission to enter. He figured his footfalls in the corridor were fair warning.

Except to lift her head slightly, Mercedes didn't move when he entered. She was much in the same position as when he left her, and at first he thought she hadn't made any use of the tub and water at all. On closer inspection he saw that she was no longer looking quite so gritty as when she had arrived. Her complexion was essentially colorless but the gray cast had disappeared along with the streaks and smudges of dirt. The bruise along her jaw was a shade more evident and to accompany the faint discoloration was the beginning of a swollen line.

Colin pulled out the top drawer of the dresser a fraction of an inch and hung Mercedes's cleaned and mended stockings over the edge. Her shoes, which had also been scrubbed, he placed on the floor. He held up her gown just long enough for her to see that he had done his best to remove the stains, then he thrust it at her for her closer inspection.

His stitches were neater than her own. The shoulder seam was flawlessly repaired. The neckline, a more difficult thing to make right since the material itself had been rent, was mended with all but invisible stitching. The small tear on the skirt had disappeared and at the waist another seam had been restored.

For reasons she couldn't fathom, she felt the unfamiliar ache of tears in her eyes and throat. The pressure subsided almost as quickly as it had come and she remained curiously dry-eyed. The lump in her throat was merely swallowed.

Still sitting, she held the dress in front of her. "Thank you."

He didn't acknowledge her gratitude. Instead he indicated the cedar box in his left hand by raising it and pointing to her petticoat with the torn flounce. "Take that off and I'll fix it as well."

"Oh, no. You don't have—"

"Take it off."

"Must you always interrupt?" she asked, regaining some spirit. "At least allow me to finish my protest."

"Miss Leyden," he said, drawing out her name with exaggerated patience. "When a fly alights on my nose I don't wait for him to finish his business. I brush him off as soon as I can."

"Are you comparing me to—"

"I don't believe I could be any clearer." He watched her lower jaw sag a notch. "You're gaping, Miss Leyden. It's not very flattering."

"I have no intention of flattering you, you great ignor—"

"I meant the expression didn't flatter you," he said. Her jaw clamped shut and the full line of her lips compressed. "There, I see I've made my point. Now take that petticoat off or I swear I'll strip it off myself."

This time she didn't argue. Standing, holding her dress up modestly, Mercedes wriggled out of the petticoat and threw it at him.

"Have a care, Miss Leyden," he said. "Or I might think your thanks was all form and no substance."

"Go to—"

He did not interrupt her with words, but with a single arched eyebrow. "Yes?" he asked when she didn't finish.

Mercedes's gray eyes flashed. "Hell," she said forcefully. "Go to hell!" She dropped back on the bed hard, stunned by her outburst.

"Good for you, Miss Leyden," Colin said. He crossed the room to the chair behind her, moving out of her vision so she couldn't see the narrow, satisfied smile that raised the corners of his mouth. When she was angry her eyes were like a lightning storm. It was a sight worth seeing again. "Perhaps the fly is really a wasp," he mused aloud. "I swear that was a little sting I felt."

His observation gave her a start. The dagger between her breasts suddenly felt as big and as obtrusive as a jousting lance. Did he know it was there? Was his comment a veiled reference to it? How could—

"No riposte?" he asked casually.

"Must you even interrupt my thoughts, Captain Thorne?"

That narrow smile became a little wider. Colin bent his head and opened his sewing box. When his silence drove Mercedes to near distraction and she finally turned around, he was blithely threading a needle.

Anything she had planned to say was gone from her mind. "Why do you carry a sewing kit?" she asked.

"Every seaman does, leastways if he wants to look presentable on shore."

"Are they all so good with their handiwork as you?"

Colin tacked the flounce with large, even stitches to hold it in place. "Some are better, some worse," he said matter-of-factly.

"How did you learn?"

"The usual way a sailor learns. Mending sail." He threaded the needle again, this time with finer thread, and began repairing the hem with tiny stitches. Mercedes moved to the other side of the bed to watch him more closely. "Aren't you going to put that on?" he asked.

"What?" Then she realized he was speaking of her gown. She was still holding it in front of her, although with less concern for her modesty now. "Oh, yes... yes, of course."

Colin's head cocked to one side, but he didn't raise his eyes in her direction. "It was only a question," he said. "Not a command."

A small shiver slipped along Mercedes's skin. What was he saying? That he approved of her state of
dishabille?
This was the trickiest part of her plan. Mercedes had no clear idea how to go about seducing any man, let alone one as seemingly indifferent as Colin Thorne. Perhaps she had made a good start after all. "Then I'll wait until you've finished with my petticoat," she said softly. His shrug was not all that she could have hoped for. She allowed the gown to fall a fraction. Her camisole strap slid over one shoulder and she let it remain.

He glanced up, his eyes alighting on her bruised jaw. "How did that happen?" he asked.

Mercedes almost grimaced in frustration. It was knowing the unattractiveness of that expression that kept it in check. He hadn't noticed the smoothness of her bare shoulder or the curve of her breasts. No, his dark eyes had narrowed on the blemish. Mercedes lifted her hand to it self-consciously. "He hit me."

"Who?"

The question confused her. He asked it quickly, as if he suspected some lie and could surprise the truth out of her. "I'm sure I don't know."

"How did you get away?"

She was tempted to say she fought her fictional attacker off. Instead she stuck with a more plausible answer. "There was a noise in the brush—an animal probably—but he didn't know that. It frightened him and his grip loosened."

"And that's when you were able to get away?"

"That's right."

"Then you came here."

She shook her head and her eyes wandered off, away from his penetrating stare. "Not at first," she said quietly as if retrieving a painful memory. "At first I hid... and I stayed hidden for a long time. He searched for me, then I think he tired of it. He just seemed to disappear. Even then I was afraid to come out. Once I did, I didn't know where to go except here. You don't know how the earl would have reacted to my appearance."

Colin said, "Tell me."

His soft command made her flinch. This would be more difficult because it wasn't exactly a lie. There had been any number of occasions in recent years when her uncle had made unpleasant accusations. "He already thinks I'm free with my favors," she said. "He would reproach me for... for whoring. He'd say I'd gotten no more than I deserved."

"And this is the man you
don't
want me to kill?" Colin asked.

Her head snapped around. "Is that supposed to be amusing? Do you think I'd want him dead because of that?"

"Let's say I wouldn't blame you."

"You don't understand," she said sharply. "It doesn't matter what he says or does. It only matters who he is."

"He's your uncle."

"He's the Earl of Weybourne!"
Her raised voice drew no reaction from him, but she did not like herself for it. Mercedes drew in a calming breath. "You can't appreciate how powerful he is."

Colin finished the last stitches, bit off the thread, and returned the needle to the cedar box. "I understand that he's mismanaged a fortune, brought creditors to bear, abused his authority, and browbeaten his niece into believing he has a life worth saving."

It was all true but it wasn't all of the truth. Her clear gray eyes implored him. "There will be consequences you can't imagine."

"Consequences?" he asked. "For me?"

She shook her head and said quietly, "For me."

Intrigued, his brows raised slightly. "How's that?"

Mercedes came up off the bed. Agitated by his relentless questioning, she was unaware she was no longer dragging the gown with her. Moments earlier such an action would have been deliberately flirtatious. Now it was without design or guile. "If he's gone they'll come after me," Mercedes said softly.

He watched her skirt around the edge of the bed, out of his reach. Her under petticoats swayed against her legs. There was the first faint rise of color just at the level of her breasts. Her throat was taut as she lifted her chin at a defiant, challenging angle. In contrast, Mercedes's slender arms were crossed in front of her, the posture shielding and defensive. He supposed she meant to look inviolate. What he saw was her vulnerability.

Colin dropped the sewing box on the floor and let the repaired petticoat lay over the arm of the chair. He stood. Even done slowly his movement caused her to take a step backward. He saw her bump her hip against the bedside table and wince. It was evident to him that she was not reacting to immediate pain but a previous one.

Forgetting his other questions, he asked, "Where else were you hurt?"

She held out an arm to ward him off as he approached. "It's nothing."

He started to push her arm aside, thought better of it, and let his fingers close around her wrist instead. She tried to pull away but she simply hadn't the strength. He waited for her to understand she was outmatched and surrender to the inevitable. "Let me see," he said.

In response Mercedes's mouth flattened in a mutinous line.

"So that's the way it's going to be." With no more warning than that, Colin flicked his wrist and yanked her into his arms. In one swift motion she was lifted off her feet and cradled against him, one of his arms under her back, the other under her knees.

Mercedes was all outraged dignity and clenched teeth. She refused to say the obvious. He would put her down when he was ready and not one moment before. Entreaties on her part at this point were laughable.

Colin laid Mercedes on the bed. Her clumsy attempt to sit up was swiftly dealt with. His large hands clamped over her wrists and held them down at the level of her shoulders. His hip nudged hers. As Colin leaned forward, his head bending over hers, a lock of sunshine yellow hair fell across his forehead.

Seized by the unreasonable desire to brush it back for him, Mercedes stopped struggling.

"That's better," he said.

Nothing was better, she thought miserably. She was supposed to want to kill, not caress him.

"Now, let me see what's been done to you."

For a moment she'd forgotten what all his strong-arm tactics had been in aid of. "It's a bruise," she said. "I looked at it myself when I bathed. I assure you I'm going to live."

He let her finish then proceeded as if she hadn't spoken, raising her petticoats almost to her waist then lowering the left side of her cotton drawers. Where her skin was uninjured it was pale and creamy. The lividity of the bruise made it seem even more so. The bruise itself was about the size of a sovereign, so dark at its center it was almost black. It blossomed outward in vivid purple hues.

Colin whistled softly. "It's about a quarter of the size it's going to be tomorrow."

"Have you had your fill?" she asked with some asperity. "I told you it was only a bruise."

He didn't right her clothes just yet. He had seen enough injuries to be able to guess at the origin of this one. "Your skin was nearly punctured. Did he have a weapon?"

Mercedes's low growl at the back of her throat spoke eloquently to her frustration.

Colin watched her, fascinated. Belatedly he realized what the growling was in aid of and he straightened her drawers and petticoats. He still didn't release her wrists. "Better?"

She didn't deign to answer that question. "He didn't have a weapon," Mercedes told him. "At least not that he used on me. I ran into something as I was making my escape." She thought it was sufficiently vague to satisfy him. She couldn't very well tell him that the corner of a desk had been the culprit.