Pale Moon Rider (6 page)

The dazzling display drew Roth’s sharp glance and his hand grasped her upper arm. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

She looked first at his hand, then at his face.

“Do you not find it warm standing by the fire, m’sieur? Since you have invited me to stay for supper, I thought I would make myself more comfortable.”

Roth’s gaze flicked down. The act of disentangling her hair, combined with the weight of the heavy cloak had caused the latter to slip back off her shoulders and fall to the floor. The plain white muslin gown she wore beneath was sashed high beneath the breasts and cut low across the bodice, and because there were no formfitting corsets or multiple layers of petticoats between her body and the sheer layers of her chemise and gown, the four pairs of owlish eyes were now focused intently on the general area between her neck and knees.

This was one of those times, she hoped desperately, when beauty had its purpose. It had been at Roth’s insistence that their meetings take place as far away from the public eye as possible. His obsession with catching Captain Starlight and his conviction that the highwayman had eyes and ears everywhere—even in the regimental headquarters—made it imperative to avoid becoming the objects of anyone’s curiosity. Coventry was a large city of some seventeen thousand inhabitants, most of whom kept up the pretense of a London society, with those of the upper class thriving on gossip and speculation and eager to spread rumors of romantic liaisons. Since the outset of the war between
France
and
England
, regiments of local militia had been conscripted and trained against a possible threat of invasion, and nothing tickled the gossips more than seeing virtuous young ladies being swept off their feet by the uniformed gallants. By tomorrow, at least one of these four leering lords would be sober enough to remember a tall, slim
Française
with striking blond hair and startling blue eyes engaged in a secret tryst at the Fox and Hound Inn. And if he did not move quickly to prevent it, someone would be able to identify Colonel Bertrand Roth by the equally memorable flaming redness of his hair and the accompanying hot flush of crimson that flooded his face.

With a softly snarled curse, he snatched up the fallen cloak and draped it back around Renée’s shoulders. Grabbing her by the elbow, he ushered her across the room and out the door. He glared back into the far corner of the room which caused the four gentlemen to avert their eyes, though they were not sufficiently chastised out of nudging and winking among themselves. One even took the liberty of clearing his throat as Mrs. Ogilvie returned with an armload of bottles, complimenting her on the long-standing tradition of discretion at her fine establishment.

“That was extremely foolish, my dear,” Roth hissed as he led her into the shadows of the outer hallway.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, m’sieur.”

“Do you not?” He swung her roughly around and pushed her back into the corner, crowding in close with his body. “I am not entirely familiar with French manners, but in any language, a blatant challenge demands an equally blatant response.”

Renée tried to twist herself free, but his hands were on her shoulders, pinning her flat against the wall. “Let me go. Let me go at once, do you hear?”

“My hearing is quite excellent, I assure you. It is your ability to grasp and understand a situation that appears to be in some doubt, so if you will bear with me, Mademoiselle d’Anton, I will repeat this only one more time.” He pressed his mouth next to her ear so she could feel the moist heat of each whispered word tingle ominously down the length of her neck. “Should anything—
anything
—go wrong between now and the fourteenth, I will not hesitate to clap you in irons and see you dragged before the courts to stand trial alongside your brother as an accomplice to attempted murder. Moreover, I will personally choose your gaol cell, my sweet, to be the one with the fattest rats, the sourest stink, and the filthiest guards to seek your company at night.”

“Take your hands off me,” she gasped. “Take them off or I shall scream!”

“Will you indeed?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “Then by all means—scream away.”

Renée opened her mouth to draw a breath, but before she could do anything with it, Roth’s left hand shifted upward and something hard stabbed her in the tender junction of her neck and jaw, just below the ear. Once the initial shearing of white-hot pain had cut off every other thought she possessed, his thumb gouged deeper into the cluster of nerves and she found she could not move, could not blink, could not even breathe through the solid wall of blinding agony.

His head tilted to the other side, and the amber eyes glittered with amusement as he watched the successive waves of pain alter the expression on her face. “You do invite these things upon yourself, you know. You persist in throwing these little defiances in my face, as if I have not yet risen to the response you seek. Is that it? Do you prefer a more
violent
display of passion? Your own countryman, the Marquis de Sade, has written extensively on the subject of women who crave to be broken before they can feel truly fulfilled. Is it the same with you? Is it a
penchant
you French have acquired through the years of rampant decadence?”

Renée’s eyes blurred with tears. The pain was excruciating and she could do nothing as he bent his head forward and thrust his tongue into the curl of her ear. Great pooling splotches of darkness began to cloud her vision; her lungs were on fire, her heart was pounding like a fist inside her chest though the blood seemed to have nowhere to go.

She felt Roth’s mouth slide wetly down the curve of her throat, and she felt the sudden intrusion of his hand beneath her cloak. He grunted appreciatively when he encountered the fullness of her breast and with a rough jerk, he pulled the fabric down and brought her naked flesh into his palm.

Through the pounding of her fear, Renée could hear the four young lords laughing and clinking glasses inside the common room. They were less than twenty paces away, yet they might as well be twenty miles. So overcome was she by the pain Roth was inflicting on her neck and jaw that he was able to brutalize her with complete impunity.

“I think,” he murmured, “it would be rather ungallant of me not to escort you home, certainly not with a dangerous highwayman on the loose.”

Renée managed a strangled, choking sound in her throat. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a tall black shape loomed up behind them. She could not be sure it was not her eyes playing tricks, for they were so distorted by tears and pain she could see very little at all, but in the next instant, she heard a dull thud and the pressure on her throat was suddenly broken. Roth’s head snapped to one side and remained that way for a long moment, his eyes glazed with confusion and not a little surprise. Then he was crumpling down onto his knees in front of her, his hands clutching at her skirts in a frantic, but ultimately futile, effort to retain his balance.

Finn raised his hand to swing again and Renée saw the glint of a heavy iron candlestick clutched in his fist. Before he could strike the second blow, however, Roth was on his face, his arms and legs spread in an ungainly sprawl across the floor.

Finn snorted once to express his satisfaction and replaced the candlestick.

“Are you all right, mad’moiselle?” he asked gently in French.

With the pressure on her throat eased, Renée was able to breathe again and she did so in great gulping mouthfuls as she clutched at Finn’s arm and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am all right. He—he was trying to make me …”

“I can well imagine what he was trying to make you do,” Finn said with disdain, “and I would suggest—if we do not wish the rest of the patrons of this wretched little hostel to know it as well—that we remove ourselves as quickly as possible.”

“But … we cannot just leave him here.”

He glanced down and, after a brief hesitation, reached to an inside pocket of his livery jacket and withdrew a slim silver flask. Unstoppering it with his teeth, he dribbled a fine stream of brandy over Roth’s neck and collar, then fit the emptied flask into the unconscious man’s hand. When he straightened, he saw the look on Renée’s face and arched a wiry eyebrow.

“Strictly medicinal, I assure you. I anticipated it would be a cold evening.”

She glanced back down at Roth. “Will he not be angry?”

“Furious, I warrant. But unless he wishes to face a very public charge of attempted rape, which would not only bring the wrath of the crown down upon his head, but the outrage of every officer and gentleman in the parish, I rather think he will bear his humiliation in silence and do nothing.”

Renée shivered and fumbled to draw the edges of her cloak together.

“Come,” he said. “Before I am tempted to throft him again on principle.”

Her feeble attempt at a smile spurred Finn into stepping over Roth’s splayed legs and hastening Renée out the door to where the coach stood, black and gleaming against the night sky. When she was seated inside with the rug pulled high under her chin, Finn climbed up into the driver’s box and whistled the horses to attention, A grinding spin of the wheels and they were away, the glare from the coach lamp dwindling quickly into the distance.

Neither Finn nor Renée looked back at the inn, therefore neither one saw the sliver of light cut into the gloom as the door opened and closed to emit the tall, dark silhouette of a man.

He stood a moment in the cool night air and stared thoughtfully after the fading coach lamp. Then he, too, was gone, the wide black wings of his greatcoat curling back in his wake.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he locals referred to Harwood House as the Gloomy Retreat. Built of gray stone, it stood isolated and forlorn against a bleak landscape, its ancient gables and lichen-covered walls exposed to fierce and unpredictable winds that blew off a nearby heath. A depleted stand of elm and yew marked the approach to what had once been the defensive outpost of a Norman baron; the round tower belonging to the original keep still marked the far end of the east wing. Only this ancient structure boasted a flat lead roof and crenellated stone teeth. Successive generations had added formal rooms and galleries and a second full wing of guest apartments, the whole surmounted by steeply pitched slate roofs.

These newer additions boasted long, mullioned windows, most of which had long ago lost the strength to do battle with the elements. The rooms were drafty and cold in the winter months, airless and musty in summer. The upper apartments suffered most from the strain of the heavy slate tiles exerting pressure on the rafters, and most of the ceilings leaked in anything more than a light fog. Dour an
d penurious, Lord Charles Finchworth Holstead, E
arl of Paxton, had inherited well on paper, but most of his estates were heavily mortgaged and his finances stretched too thin to justify squandering any coin on repairs or upkeep. At Harwood House, there were birds nesting in the eves and the windows rattled loose in their centuries-old cuspings and traceries.

Renée and her brother had taken bedrooms in the older wing, near the blocked stone walls of the old keep. Neither of them minded that the housekeeper, Mrs. Pigeon, and the rest of the meager staff of servants preferred to make their quarters in the sounder structure of the west wing. The isolation suited Renée, especially when the sky was as bleak as her mood and the possibility of sunshine seemed hopeless.

There was no one waiting up for her, no one standing attendance on the front door to greet her or take her cloak. She would have felt honored that someone had thought to leave a candle burning in the hall sconce if she had not known it was more for the benefit of the dragoon who normally slept through his watch in a comfortable chair in the foyer. That he was not in evidence now, either meant he was in the pantry sharing a bottle of red wine with the scullery maid, or that the wine was finished and he was sharing something else with the dull-witted chit.

The chore of tending to Renée’s needs usually fell to Jenny, a slender, round-faced girl from the village who tried to do the best she could for her young mistress with the few resources at hand. But she would be long abed-by now. And while there were likely to be logs in the wood-box and kindling in the grate, there would be no fire blazing in her bedchamber to burn off the damp chill. Such an extravagance would be considered wasteful by Mrs. Pigeon, since there had been no one in the room all evening to enjoy either the heat or the light.

When Renée, Antoine, and Finn had arrived at Harwood House a fortnight ago, they had been presented with a lengthy list of what was permitted and what was generally discouraged. Great, glowering emphasis had been placed on the fact that whatever grand style to which she and her brother may have been accustomed while growing up in their gilded chateau in France, they were in England now; they were living off the grace and goodness of their uncle’s charity and there would be neither waste nor willful excess, not so long as Ephemerty Pigeon’s fist was clamped around the household keys.

A large, bellicose woman, Mrs. Pigeon had a face like one of the cement gargoyles that crouched over the battlements of the old tower, and footsteps heavy enough to rouse dust from the cracks between the floorboards. She had been in Lord Paxton’s service for twenty-five years and was well acquainted with the ways of stretching a penny into a pound. She did not like Renée and made no secret about it. Any questions Renée asked were answered in snorts or grunts and any requests met with glaring belligerence. It was usually left to Finn, in his capacity as valet, coachman, servant, and guardian angel to find extra wood, extra candles, and even to charm an extra cup of chocolate out of the cook if it was required.