Savage Nights (The Savage Trilogy #2) (20 page)

“I am sorry, my lord,” he said, “but there is a man here from your house who says he has an urgent message for you that cannot wait.”

At once Savage stood, tossing his crumpled napkin on the table before me.

“Wait here,” he said curtly. “Do not leave. We’ll continue this when I return.”

He didn’t pause for my answer but turned and headed for the door, his tall figure in black cutting sharply back and forth among the tables.

I watched him leave and let my bitter tears spill over. I’d tried to do what was honorable and right by confessing, but instead I’d disappointed him, and worse, I’d wounded him, wounded him deeply. I knew him well enough to see that.

I bowed my head to blot my eyes with my napkin, not wanting the other diners to witness my misery. A woman weeping alone in a restaurant as a man stalked away: oh, yes, there was plenty of melodrama and gossip to be mined from that.

Yet it had been entirely my own fault. Over and over Savage had asked me to trust him, and I’d thought that I did, until I’d proved I didn’t. I could have kept my fault to myself, but that would have been a lie by omission, only making things worse. It was as simple and painful as that. I wanted to be his in every way, yet still part of me held back, unable to let go and give him the complete trust he deserved.

He’d said he’d return, but I wasn’t sure he would. I’d seen the pain I’d caused in his eyes, and I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to abandon me here and never see me again. I suppose if I trusted him as he wanted I’d be sure he’d come back, but once again, I didn’t.

I fumbled with the clasp of my beaded evening purse, hoping there was money inside. That was something that Hamlin, ever practical, always saw to—making certain there was enough at least for cab fare in every one of my purses—but in her haste to return to the Savoy this afternoon she’d left this particular purse empty. This disaster of an evening only continued to worsen, and I snapped the bankrupt purse close.

Still looking down at my lap, I dipped a corner of my napkin into my ice water and pressed it to my cheeks, hoping that would help me to keep back more tears until I could find my way back to my hotel.

“Take my handkerchief, Mrs. Hart,” urged a man as he took the empty chair beside mine. “Please. It’s never good for a lady to weep alone.”

Swiftly I looked up and caught my breath with surprise and dismay. Beside me sat Baron Blackledge, offering me his oversized handkerchief clutched tightly in his plump fingers. His curling ginger hair gleamed with pomade, and his smile was far too broad as he pressed closer to me.

“Good evening, Baron,” I said, striving to make my voice frosty and unwelcoming. I wiped away the last of my tears and sat very straight. “I do not believe Lord Savage would appreciate your presence here at this table.”

His smile only widened. “How can Savage appreciate my presence one way or another if he’s not here?”

I slid my chair away from his, only to have him follow and place his hand firmly on the back of my chair to keep me from moving it again.

“His Lordship will return,” I said as forcefully as I could. “I expect him back here any moment.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t be crying if you did.”

I raised my chin with a final sniff. “My emotions have nothing to do with His Lordship’s return.”

“Oh, of course they don’t,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Not at all. That’s why I saw Savage in the street, waiting for his carriage.”

Before I could catch myself my eyes widened and my lips parted with alarm at this news. Blackledge saw my reaction and laughed.

“You thought I’d be fooled by your little fib, Mrs. Hart, didn’t you?” he said, jeering as he wagged his finger in my face. “You thought I’d believe that Savage was coming back to rescue you. He’s not, and now I’m here instead.”

I swallowed hard. Because the table was recessed into the corner I was trapped between the mirrored wall and the baron’s sizable body. I glanced past him, praying I’d see Savage returning. He’d told me to wait here, and I had. He had to come back to rescue me; he
had
to.

“I wish you to leave me, Baron,” I said firmly. “Leave me directly, before I must summon the maître d’hôtel.”

He didn’t care. “You won’t do that,” he said confidently. “No lady likes to make a scene, especially not here at Gaspari’s. You’d do better to forget Savage, and come with me instead.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head for extra emphasis. He was right, of course. I didn’t want to make a scene, especially not if the king and his party were still here in the restaurant. More important, I wanted to be there when Savage returned.
When
, I told myself,
when, not if.

“I have no interest in doing anything with you, Baron,” I said. “None at all.”

With growing desperation I glanced about for one of the waiters who seemed to have inconveniently vanished.

“Oh, but I think you do,” Blackledge said confidently. His eyes narrowed, watching me. “You can stop looking for help. I told the waiters that I wished to console you in private, and they’ve been tipped to stay away.”

“You’re a vile man, Baron,” I said. “I despise everything about you.”

He leaned into me, his face flushed with desire. “Don’t you realize that the more you try to keep away from me, the more I want you? I know what women like you want, Mrs. Hart, and I’ll give it to you, too, harder and hotter than you ever got from that weakling bastard Savage.”

He circled my wrist with his fingers, squeezing so tightly that I gave a little cry of pain that made him chuckle.

“Let me go, Baron,” I said, more panic than I wanted in my voice. “You’re hurting me. Let me go
now
.”

“Come with me, Mrs. Hart,” he said, more a demand than an invitation. “My carriage is waiting.”

His fingers were digging so tightly into my wrist that I was shaking from the pain. With my free hand I grabbed one of the dessert forks still on the table and stabbed it as hard as I could into his thigh beneath the table.

He barely flinched. Instead he smiled, almost laughing at me, with little flecks of spittle on his lips.

“Is that how you like it, Mrs. Hart?” he asked. “Is that how you play the Game? By God, you were meant to be mine, not Savage’s, and nothing you can—”

“Release the lady, Blackledge,” Savage said, suddenly standing before us. Outwardly he was calm, but I knew every muscle of his body must be tense with fury. “Let her go at once.”

Still grasping my wrist, Blackledge smiled up at him. “Why should I, Savage? Why should I be afraid of you?”

“I don’t give a damn whether you are or not,” Savage said curtly. “But if you do not take your hand away from Mrs. Hart and leave us at once, I shall rip your arm from your shoulder.”

“Don’t, Savage, please, I beg you,” I pleaded, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Not here.”

“Don’t fret, Mrs. Hart,” Blackledge said with bullying bravado. “He hasn’t the bollocks to do it.”

“Rather I haven’t your stupidity, Blackledge,” Savage said, his voice clipped and purposefully low so others wouldn’t hear him. “His Majesty is dining here tonight, and Gaspari’s is crawling with men with Scotland Yard. They’d be at this table in an instant if I treated you as you deserve, and for the king’s sake, I won’t do that. Nor should you.”

“His Majesty is here?” Blackledge uneasily peered around the room. I remembered how he was a much-lesser nobleman than Savage and clearly without the acquaintance that Savage had with the king, or the power that came with it.

“He is,” Savage said. “In one of the back rooms. But you’ll see his men scattered about if you care to look.”

Swiftly Blackledge looked past Savage. He must have spotted one of the guards, because at last he released my wrist. I quickly pushed my chair apart from his, rubbing the place where his fingers had left their mark on me. Savage grabbed the edge of the table and pulled it forward, freeing me. I grabbed my purse and slipped around the far side of the table to join Savage. As much as I longed to, I didn’t dare take his hand or arm, remembering how displeased he’d been with me before he’d left.

But still I stood close to him, by his side and a little behind him, taking comfort from even that slight proximity. His gaze was still locked with Blackledge’s, and I wasn’t sure their obvious hatred wouldn’t yet erupt.

“I’ve warned you before, Blackledge,” Savage said. “Keep away from Mrs. Hart. She has no interest in you, and never will.”

“We’re in London, Savage, and the Game is done,” Blackledge said. “She’s not yours any longer. You’ll see. She’ll be mine soon enough.”

“The hell she will,” Savage said curtly. “Mrs. Hart, if you please.”

He crooked his arm for me to take, and I gratefully did, holding tightly as he led me through the restaurant, pausing only to settle my evening cloak over my shoulders. His carriage was waiting outside at the curb, and he handed me inside and let his footman shut the door after us.

Throughout he said not a word to me, nor did he so much as meet my eye. He didn’t sit beside me in the carriage, as he usually did, but across from me on the opposite seat.

The carriage’s curtains were drawn against the gaslights that Savage so despised, and in the murky shadows only his white collar and cuffs shone through the darkness, leaving everything else reduced to uncertain shapes.

It was not an auspicious beginning. As the carriage moved into the street I braced myself for more of the awful conversation he’d broken off earlier. I’d let him begin. I wouldn’t dare start first, not until I could better judge his humor. I was so prepared for the worst that when he finally did speak it startled me enough that I jerked in my seat like a nervous cat.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Not gentle, not soft, not charming, just … quiet. Subdued. “Do you need to see a surgeon?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Not at all.”

“Are you certain?” he asked. “You were holding your wrist as if it were broken.”

“It’s not broken,” I said. “Only bruised, and that will heal soon enough.”

He shifted restlessly on the seat, stretching his legs out before him and brushing against my skirts.

“A bruise isn’t nothing,” he said. “I don’t want you to suffer at the hands of a brute like that, but I didn’t want to thrash him as he deserves with the king so near. That would have been unwise.”

“Yes, it would have,” I said, figuring it was safe to agree. “I wouldn’t have wanted you hurt, either.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have been the one to suffer,” he said with offhanded assurance. I’d already witnessed how frighteningly powerful—and violent—he could be in a fistfight, but Blackledge was a large man and a bully as well. I wouldn’t want to see them come to blows, especially over me.

Savage paused, and I sensed he was watching me, or at least my shadow. “You were there when I came back.”

“You saved me from Blackledge,” I said. “Again.”

He grunted. “I’m hardly a hero. I should have returned sooner. What he did to you—”

“It was nothing, Savage,” I said. “I don’t know why he persists in following me.”

“He’s obsessed with you,” Savage said. “Which is understandable. It’s the only thing I can understand about him.”

I flushed in the dark. I understood, too, for I was obsessed with the irresistible man sitting across from me.

“I wish he weren’t,” I said. “I have made it as clear as I can that I will never have any interest in him.”

“That only makes you more desirable to a bastard like that,” he said. “The more you resist him, the more he’ll want you. He’s dangerous, Eve.”

I shivered, remembering how the baron had enjoyed hurting me. “I’ll still never agree.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” Savage said, pausing for a moment. “I asked you to wait for me, Eve, and you did.”

“Of course I waited,” I said. “I wanted to.”

“You trusted me.” It was a statement, plain and unadorned, so why did it make my heart quicken?

“I did,” I said. “I do. I do not know what became of me with His Majesty. He was so old and unwell that he reminded me of my husband, and being married, and … it frightened me, and unsettled me.”

I let the words trail off awkwardly, not even sure myself of what I was trying to say. Again, the silence yawned between us, interminable in the darkness.

He drew in a long, deep breath, then let it out as a sigh.

“My poor Eve,” he said, reaching for me across the seats. “No matter how we try to escape, the past always finds us, doesn’t it?”

I curled against him, his mouth finding mine in the dark. He could say what he wanted about the past.
This
was my sanctuary, my solace, and in him I forgot Blackledge and the king and my husband, Arthur, and everything else and lost myself in desire. No matter what Savage said, the past would cease to matter. Here it was only the two of us, and the white-hot fire that burned between us. I prayed it was the same for him, too.

I loved how the darkness in the carriage heightened my other senses, making me doubly aware of his taste and his scent, the feel of his lips moving over mine, the rough wetness of his tongue as it slipped into my mouth. I relished the potency of his kiss, how it was enough to make me light-headed with longing. I melted against him and over his lap as lust flared and the carriage rocked gently beneath us.

He unhooked my evening cloak and let it fall to the seat and then shoved the rustling skirts of my gown to one side so he could find the bare skin of my thigh over the top of my stocking, his hand covering as much of my flesh as he could. Our tongues twisted and tangled hotly together, and I felt his cock harden against my hip.

I reached between us, slipping my hand over the flagrant length of him, still shrouded by his trousers.

“Does this mean I am forgiven, Master?” I whispered breathlessly, slowly slipping the buttons free on the fly of his trousers. There were more buttons beneath that on his drawers, his impatient cock straining against the fine cotton. At last it sprang free, vibrant and hot in my hand, as hard as steel and as soft as velvet.

He grunted, his cock thrusting familiarly against my hand, and I smiled. There was considerable traffic tonight in the East End, and the carriage’s progress was so slow that we’d have plenty of time before we reached St. James’s Square.