Temptress in Training (28 page)

Before she was completely back to earth, though, he shifted. Still holding her, he rolled onto his side and then laid her on her back. She blinked up at him.

“You got free, my lord.”

He smiled. “No, my dear. I'm far from free. You tie knots no man could possibly undo.”

And then he was moving inside her again. She would not have thought it possible, but desire raged to a wildfire in her and she was, once more, sinking into the heated oblivion of wave after wave of thrilling climax. She held him as if she might float away on it.

Finally he growled out her name. She was clinging to his back, choking out her own incoherent cries of passion. He dropped down onto her, then rolled to his side, keeping her caught against him with one powerful arm. She wriggled tight against him, filling her lungs and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“Well. So that's what those cords are for,” she said when she could finally speak.

“Yes,” he said, tucking her close and chuckling as he kissed her hair. “And I hope you learned your lesson about keeping people bound against their will.”

Oh, she'd learned a lesson well enough. One she would gladly study again and again with him, if only fate would grant her that chance.

 

I
T WAS MORNING.
T
HE BIRDS WERE SINGING OUTSIDE
the window, and bright sunlight streamed through the gaps in the elaborate drapes. Dust motes glittered like minuscule gems. The air was fresh and pure.

And Lindley felt like hell.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and just sat there. Sophie still slumbered behind him, as peaceful as a child and as beautiful as an angel. He hadn't meant to still be here with her; he'd planned to steal back to his own bed long before daylight. Somehow, it simply had not happened. He'd stayed. Surely the servants would have noticed by now.

Why? He'd left many women after nights of passion; why had he not left Sophie? Because he'd felt as if leaving her would tear out his soul, that was why. What in God's name was wrong with him?

He wanted her. He wanted to stay with her, to make love until reality disappeared and there was nothing more to do but be happy. It was foolishness, of course. Happiness had no place between them. He knew that. He had his duty, and she had hers. His was to resume his hunt for her father; hers was to protect and defend the man.

It was a bloody shame, but this was just the way things were. It would be pointless to prolong the inevitable. He needed to leave. When she woke he would be gone and they would be enemies again.

Damn, but perhaps this truly would leave him a man with no soul. He felt hollow and cold already.

He padded softly around the room, gathering his clothing and cursing at their rumpled state. Really, he was cursing his own weakness. He should have never given in to temptation last night. He would be tired all day from the sleep he'd lost.

As if sleep was all he'd lost. The emptiness inside assured him that Sophie was not entirely alone there in that bed. A part of him remained with her. It would always remain with her. And she would never know it.

That was a blessing, he supposed. She would never know how leaving her this morning destroyed him. He could at least hold on to that little measure of pride.

He looked atrocious: his clothes were just thrown on and he hardly cared. He would find time to right himself later. For now, he needed to get away from her before she woke. Before he lost his nerve and begged her to let him stay.

For one insane moment he thought about leaving the locket for her, but force of will won out and he took it with him. Now he'd become a thief. Well, perhaps a handful of coins would ease his conscience. He took out his purse and dropped it onto her pack. He may have used her like a whore, but at least he'd paid her well. She could hate him more for it if she liked, but she'd earned that wage and should have it.

Grabbing his boots, he silently let himself out. The door squeaked on its hinges, but Sophie did not stir. He left her behind and pulled the door to behind him. It clicked shut, slicing whatever ties he'd still had to his decency. She would never know what it cost him to leave her today.

Making his way downstairs—which took him through the gauntlet of disapproving family members gazing with reproach from their portraits—Lindley found a bench and began working at his boots. He'd carried them rather than make a sound and wake Sophie. Yes, he was that much the coward.

“Will you be wanting breakfast, milord?” Wimpole asked, appearing from somewhere.

Lindley grimaced. The thought of treating himself to food only served to turn his stomach. He did not deserve the luxury of food.

“No,” he replied. “I'll be wanting my carriage. I have business to attend this morning, Wimpole. It cannot wait.”

“You'll be paying a call on Lord Dashford, I presume,” Wimpole said with an all-too-easily-understood grin. “I rather hoped that's the way it was for you and the young miss, milord.”

So the man had him rushing to offer for Sophie now, did he?
Damn it.
Of course that's what would be expected. He'd introduced Sophie as a proper lady. The household staff was bound to know he had not treated her like one last night. Naturally they would expect him to do the right thing.

Well, he would not correct Wimpole's assumption. Sophie deserved to be treated well during her stay here, and leaving the servants to believe she would soon be their mistress would ensure that. Lindley owed her that much, at least. He would shelter and protect her as long as he could. Haven Abbey would do until he could make further arrangements for her.

“See that Miss D'Archaud has everything she needs, Wimpole,” Lindley directed, dodging the man's obvious but unexpressed questions. “And since we are not certain what danger still exists for her, I'd like it if you and the staff could keep her indoors. Safe. No matter what.”

He hoped that might serve to deter Sophie from running away anytime soon. He had no doubt that would be her first objective, but he could trust Wimpole to see that she was retained here. For added measure, he'd get word to Feasel that the girl was to be monitored at all times. From a distance, of course.

Wimpole was all too eager to promise they'd take good care of the girl, and before Lindley could rethink his plans he left. He spared one glance over his shoulder as he drove away. Haven Abbey was bright and beautiful on this morning. How could the place appear so peaceful when everything about it caused such chaos inside him?

He guided the carriage out onto the main road. A rustle in the brush off to the side caught his attention, and before he could even react he heard his name called out. He let out a frustrated sigh.

“Damn it, Feasel, must you always be jumping out at me like this?”

“Didn't get enough sleep, milord?” his man replied with a smirk, jogging up to the carriage.

Lindley reined in his horses and frowned. “My sleep habits are hardly your concern.”

Feasel laughed. “I take that back, milord. Sounds more like you got a little too much sleep, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, he knew what he meant, damn him. As if his relationship with Miss Darshaw was something to be bandied about on the street.

“What news do you have for me, Feasel?” Lindley asked, making it very clear he was not about to be badgered about what did—or did not—go on last night.

Feasel took the hint, cleared his throat, and got on about their business. “No news from Tom yet on Fitzgelder's whereabouts, but it's early still. Foolish lad probably found some snug little port to drop his anchor last night. I expect to be hearing from him anytime now. Then I'll tan his randy little hide.”

Bother, but it was inconvenient the boy saw no need to rein in his passions any better. With Fitzgelder on the prowl this was not time to let their guard down. Still, Lindley supposed he could hardly fault the lad, not after giving in to his own Achilles' heel last night. Somehow they'd get by until Tom decided to do up his trousers and make himself useful again.

“Well, don't tan him so much he's no good to us, Feasel,” Lindley advised. “I'm heading up to Loveland today, and I'm counting on Tom to find his way there in case I need him.”

“I'll head up there with you, milord.”

“No. I need you here. Keep an eye on Miss Darshaw.”

Clearly Feasel felt this task was beneath him. “Oh come, sir. You can't think she'll be much of a threat to us now, after all this?”

“Of course she's no threat! By God, Feasel, you'll stay here and see that she stays at the abbey and no one gets to her.” Lindley hoped his tone conveyed the gravity of his intentions. Feasel was a good man, but he would not be high in Lindley's favor if he allowed any harm to come to that young woman.

“I see, sir,” Feasel replied, and Lindley believed he truly did. “She will be safe.”

“Good. I'll send help for you when I can. When you are in contact with Tom, have him come after me. You know the way?”

“Well enough, sir,” Feasel assured. “So the girl told you her father would be at Loveland, even though our people have seen nothing of him there?”

“He's not there
yet
, Feasel. He will be.”

“Very well, milord. But what if—”

Feasel's words were cut off by pounding hoofbeats. Lindley instinctively reached for the pistol he had tucked on the floor near his feet. Feasel pulled a lethal-looking knife from his boot. Neither was needed.

The rider hailed them as he approached. It was Tom.

“Well, here he is now, milord,” Feasel said, clearly loud enough for Tom to overhear. “My own precious get, the useless moll-monger himself.”

“It's good to see you, Tom,” Lindley said, hoping any hide-tanning could wait until he was gone. “Your father was just saying he was hoping to hear from you at any moment.”

“Well, he's hearing from me now, and I've got something to tell ye, sir,” Tom said, somewhat breathless from his ride, or perhaps the fury in his father's eyes.

“Come to brag of your night's debauchery, are you?” Feasel asked.

“No, sir!” Tom replied. “I've come to tell ye what I saw, heading on the north road.”

“Fitzgelder?” Lindley asked.

“No sir, he ain't been through Warwick yet, though I was lookin' for him all the night long.”

Feasel grunted dubiously at that.

Tom continued. “It was some actors; a whole pack of them, milord.”

“And did the actresses distract you with their great big—”

This time Lindley did the interrupting. He knew exactly what Feasel thought his son had been doing, but he did not wish to get in the middle of a family dispute. Especially not over such things as great big, er, distractions.

Tom barely took time to frown at his father. “No, sir. I didn't see any actresses. Well, not any young ones, anyway. This was a troupe of mostly men. And, milord, they was heading on up toward that place you told us your man D'Archaud might be going.”

Well, but this did sound promising. “The actors were heading to Loveland?”

“Aye, sir,” Tom replied. “And at least one of them was speaking French, too!”

By God, that was good news indeed. If D'Archaud had been looking for some of his old friends to hide him, a troupe of French actors would be the first place Lindley ought to look. My, but how convenient that Tom was a randy young sort and happened to be out and about at all hours to notice the troupe.

“Good work, Tom. How long ago did you see them?”

The young man shrugged and his mop of sandy hair flopped onto his forehead. “It wasn't yet daylight, sir. Papa left word where I'd find him, so I got myself out here as quick as I could.”

That would have been an hour ago, at least. From Warwick it was just over an hour's ride to Loveland. D'Archaud and his friends were quite likely there already. Damn, but if they found what they wanted and then left, Lindley might lose track of them yet. He was not about to let that happen.

“Then we have no time to waste. Tom, you head back to Warwick and follow them up to Loveland that way. I'll go from Southam and come around from the east. If we get to Loveland and they are not there, we will know they must have gone on north.”

Tom nodded. The boy might be easily distracted, but he wasn't slow. He'd follow up on his end of things. Lindley could trust him.

“And what of me, milord?” Feasel asked.

“You'll stay here.”

Feasel looked almost hurt. Did he truly think Sophie was so very unimportant to any of this?

“I need you, Feasel,” Lindley said. “She's got to be kept safe.”

“Very well, milord. I'll remain here.”

“Thank you.”

Lindley honestly could not ever remember thanking the man for anything and meaning it this much.

“Are we riding hell-for-leather, sir?” Tom asked.

“Most definitely,” Lindley replied. “Er, if your mount can take it.”

“Aye, sir. He don't look like much, but he can move.”

“Then let us be on our way.”

Tom grinned like a child in a sweetshop. He spurred his horse forward, gave his father a nod, and was off in a cloud of dewy dust. Lindley gave Feasel a nod of his own, then urged his pair into motion. D'Archaud wouldn't know what hit him. It would all be over soon. Justice would finally be served.

Somehow, though, Lindley found it hard to match Tom's enthusiasm.

 

S
OPHIE STOOD AT THE WINDOW AND WATCHED. SHE'D
given up battling the tears. By now they were flowing freely and there was little she could do except an occasional dab.

He was gone. She'd heard him this morning. He'd climbed out of bed, dressed silently, insulted her by leaving behind an embarassingly large pile of coins, then left. She could do nothing but stare out the window and watch his beautiful carriage glide elegantly down the lane.