The Barefoot Princess (14 page)

“My lord, please!”

“—shoulders. Really, Amy, what did you think I was going to say?” His eyes twinkled with the kind of wicked amusement that would have made him attractive…if she was interested in insensitive, dishonest, dissipated aristocrats. “Consider, Amy, how sweet it would be to know that you had me under your control and if you chose to leave me frustrated and wanting, you could go without a backward glance.”

“If you grabbed me as you did yesterday and pressed me into the mattress, I wouldn’t be able to control you.”

“Yesterday I lost my temper. I won’t apologize because I’m not sorry—I already told you how I feel about that kiss. But I swear on my honor—and Amy, although you doubt it, I do have honor—that I won’t force you again. Not while in this cellar.”

With her palm, she rubbed the tabletop, over and over, the smooth grain of the wood slipping beneath her touch. He offered her the devil’s deal—and she was tempted. So tempted.

Because what he said was true. In the daytime, thoughts of him invaded her mind, taking over sensible thoughts and average feelings. Worse was the night. She dreamed of him, constantly and in color, sometimes fighting, sometimes crooning, always menacing, always demanding, always enticing.

Like now. How did he know she had told herself,
If I was in control, then maybe…
How had she betrayed herself?

With a start, she came back to the cellar to find herself staring at the amused and knowing expression on Northcliff’s face.

Had
she betrayed herself?

Of course. He knew her—or perhaps it would be smarter to say he knew women—far too well.

Leaping to her feet, she started for the steps.

“Amy,” he called.

She turned back to him. “What?”

“You forgot the list.”

Of course she had. He had distracted her.

She walked back and picked it up.

“There’s something I didn’t put on the list,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be lucky to get up to your bedchamber, take these items, and leave without being caught.”

“But this is very important.” His deep voice snagged her unwilling attention. “When a woman makes love to a man for the first time, it’s best if she uses oil to ease the way.”

Amy froze, her gaze on his.

“Also, it’s best if she protects herself from unwanted pregnancy.”

“God, yes!” How could she have even have considered the enticement he offered and not thought of the obvious?

“In the top drawer of my bedside table, there’s a small box. It contains everything we need to make our night pleasurable. If you have to, leave everything else behind, but bring that box.”

She snorted as if in derision—but it was a weak snort. She walked toward the steps again.

“Amy.”

She turned back to him. “What?”

“Did you notice I didn’t ask for a nightshirt?”

She glanced at the list in her hand and wondered why he told her that.

Then she knew why.

He had just told her he slept nude.

Every night in the cellar right beneath her bedchamber, his naked body remained at the ready to welcome her. Now that she knew it, she could never escape the image…or the temptation.

Chapter 15

“I
cannot take that jacket to wear. It’s too different from the one I was wearing.”

“And that you ruined.” Biggers and Jermyn stood in his shadowy wardrobe off his bedroom and argued about the garb Jermyn would take back on his return to his prison. Jermyn insisted the clothes be essentially the same.

Biggers, a usually reasonable man, lectured on the necessity of variety.

“The ladies aren’t stupid. They’ll notice I’ve changed.” Jermyn chose a jacket that matched the original in color and cut. “I’ll return with this one.”

“They can’t be too intelligent. You escaped days ago and they haven’t noticed,” Biggers argued.

“I would presume that once I set my mind to keeping them in the dark, I would be equal to the challenge.” Grimly aware he was repeating Amy’s words almost verbatim, Jermyn said, “However, please recall that a nineteen-year-old girl and an old woman did plan, and succeeded in, the kidnapping of the marquess of Northcliff. You might choose to consider them simple, but I like to believe that the people who outwitted me are more than half-wits.”

“I see, m’lord. Of course you’re correct, m’lord. Exceptionally intelligent women, m’lord.” Biggers in no way indicated amusement. He was the perfect valet: upright, punctilious, always ahead of the styles, able to shave Jermyn’s chin without a nick and iron his cravats to a snowy crisp. He was also tall, thin and perpetually forty-three. He had been with Jermyn for twelve years and never revealed his history, yet he was well-spoken and shrewd in ways that implied his past had been far more perilous than his present. “I’ve sent a request to your solicitor to come with the books for the Edmondsons’ business.”

“And you told him—”

“That your uncle made the request. He has no idea who Mr. Edmondson has writing his letters, and believe me, m’lord, he’s too frightened of your uncle to question any order.”

“Good. Now I need you to scrutinize the servants. Almost all of them have been here for years, and if my uncle is corrupt, it only follows that he could have wooed their loyalty away from me and to himself by whatever means—bribes, I suppose.”

“Or blackmail,” Biggers said.

That hadn’t occurred to Jermyn.

“I’ll subtlty question the servants and ascertain which ones keep their allegiance to you.” With great delicacy, Biggers asked, “So with the events of the recent weeks, is it safe to say we no longer place our trust in your uncle?”

“It is safe to say that.”

“And in fact, it’s no accident that you’ve suffered so many calamities?”

“That’s right.” Jermyn rubbed his thigh where the bone had broken.

“Then, m’lord, I would feel safer if you were to carry this with you.” Biggers rolled up his sleeve and showed Jermyn the thin leather strapped there. From the sheath, he pulled a small knife with a shining blade.

Yes, Biggers definitely hid some kind of disreputable past. The blade and its cleverly hidden sheath proved it.

Jermyn accepted the knife, touched the sharp point, and smiled. “Very good.”

“When you disappeared, I took the liberty of confiscating a firearm from your father’s collection of dueling pistols.” Biggers produced a gun from his pocket. “Please, m’lord, this is a fine piece. Take it, too.”

Jermyn examined the pistol. With its distinctive ivory handle, the beautiful decoration on the barrel, and the initials J. E. on the bottom of the stock, it might have been nothing more than a toy. But his father collected only the best, and Jermyn hadn’t a doubt this pistol would shoot straight and true. He took it and the powder and shot Biggers offered.

Right now, Jermyn felt he could trust only Biggers, the people on Summerwind…and his eternally candid Lady Disdain.

And while he didn’t doubt she would try to obtain the clothes, she couldn’t bathe for him. “When will my bath be ready?”

“It takes time, m’lord, to heat the water, and may I point out it took a fair bit of explaining as to why I wanted a bath delivered to your chambers in the middle of the day when you were gone.” Biggers chose another jacket. “How about this one for your evening meal?”

Jermyn laughed and began again to explain his circumstances when he heard a click, and the door to his bedroom suite opened.

Biggers prepared to step out and see who dared enter without knocking, but a caution honed by kidnapping and imprisonment made Jermyn place a restraining hand on his servant’s shoulder.

Biggers’s eyes lit up as he realized that this unauthorized entrance could mean intrigue.

Bold as brass, a dark-haired serving girl strolled past their line of sight.

Softly Biggers sighed in exasperation.

But although her face was turned away, the insouciance with which she walked, the straight line of her back, the ugly, old-fashioned gown warned Jermyn…it was Amy.

Grabbing Biggers, Jermyn pushed him against the wall and signaled for silence.

Biggers nodded, eyes wide with interest.

She walked toward the bureau, moving out of view.

The two men sidled around to watch her.

She examined the bedchamber first. She tugged at the bed curtains, rubbed her hand over the polished footboard, and went to the window that looked out onto the balcony and from there, out to sea.

She was satisfying her curiosity about Jermyn, and Jermyn found himself delighted in her interest.

Then she opened the top drawer of his dresser. She removed a soft white shirt. She shut that drawer and opened the next. She removed a cravat. She shut that and opened the next…stockings and underwear joined the growing pile.

Jermyn’s breath stilled. He watched intently. So far, she had followed his instructions. Now he waited to see if she would follow his last, insistent direction.

In the top drawer of my bedside table, there’s a small box. It contains everything we need to make our night pleasurable…leave everything else behind, but bring that box.

He bent his will on her.
Amy, get the wooden box. Get it.
If thoughts had power, then his directive would surely be followed.

She gathered the clothes, wrapped them in a piece of brown paper and tied them like a package with a string. She thrust the package into a large cloth bag that hung by her belt and started toward the sitting room.

In frustration, Jermyn wanted to stick his fist through the wall.

Why couldn’t the girl just once do as she was told?

At the doorway, she hesitated.

Jermyn’s heart lifted.
Do it,
he mentally urged.
Get it.

She glanced toward the bedside table, then away. Jermyn could almost see the tug-of-war between her good sense and her yearning.

Had he baited the trap with enough desire? Had he played the meek, willing male with enough sincerity?

With a soft “Blast!” she hurried to the bedside table. Opening the drawer, she pulled out the wooden box and stared at it as if it were a striking snake. With a glance around her, she placed it on the table and raised the lid. She lifted the small, gilt-and-blue bottle. Pulling the stopper, she sniffed.

Jermyn preferred a combination of bayberry and spice, and he held his breath as he scrutinized her face, waiting for her reaction.

If she didn’t savor the scent, he had no doubt she would put it back.

But for a mere second, she closed her eyes. Pleasure placed a faint smile on her lips.

She liked it.

And he hoped she associated the scent with him, with the day she’d kidnapped him. That would be sweet justice indeed.

Briskly she stoppered the bottle, replaced it in the box and slid the box in her pocket.

Together the two men watched as she left the bedroom. Jermyn heard a click as the outer door closed. Guardedly he walked out, surveyed the sitting room.

Empty.

Turning to the bewildered Biggers, Jermyn said, “Quickly, man. I need that bath!”

A new moon shown through Amy’s bedroom window, faintly illuminating the minuscule chamber, her narrow bed, and the sparse furniture. She’d never felt claustrophobic here before, but tonight she did. It seemed that if she only dared seize the chance, Northcliff would teach her to soar independent of the pedantic reaches of gravity.

Sliding her arm beneath her pillow, Amy stared at the dark square box on the table.

Grandmamma, Poppa, and her sisters had worried that Amy was wild and foolish, but to Amy it had seemed the things about which they worried—manners, daring, a decided lack of interest in the quiet arts—held no importance.

But maybe Grandmamma was right. Maybe Amy’s propensity toward running fast, dancing joyously, and singing loudly were indicators of a wild character.

Amy tossed in her bed, then froze as she heard Northcliff’s voice in her head.
Do you know that when you rise in the morning, I hear your footsteps over my head? I imagine you slipping out of a worn nightgown, your body gleaming pale and sweet, and donning one of your ghastly gowns. At night, the floorboards creak as you ready yourself for bed, and I imagine you undressing. And all night long, every time you turn over in your virgin bed, I hear you. You have me imprisoned, but I am watching you.

A shiver ran up her spine at the memory of Northcliff’s words, but it wasn’t fear. It was desire. She wanted to rise from her bed and go to him. She wanted to see him. Not just his face or the expanse of his chest, but all of him. Because while he said he had been imagining her, she had also been imagining him.

In a motion so slow and cautious her ancient straw-stuffed mattress made no noise, Amy sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. Northcliff was awake below. She knew it; she could feel his unswerving attention, the waves of his will beckoning her to him.

It shouldn’t matter what he demanded.

It didn’t—except that that was what she wanted, too. She had fought stronger, more determined foes than Northcliff, but Northcliff had adopted a strategy she couldn’t resist. He had enlisted her own body.

It was chilly in her bedroom, but she was hot. She worked hard all day cleaning Miss Victorine’s house, mending the roof and the walls, tending the garden. She should be relaxed and fast asleep, but her fantasies kept her tense and awake. Certainly her mind would not rest. Again and again she visited every word he’d ever spoken to her, the sensations he’d created when he kissed her, the color of his eyes and the resolute way he turned his head. Everything about him was jumbled up in one huge ball of snarled emotions and she didn’t know how to untangle them.

She glanced at the box again.

She wanted to sing, to dance, to soar…to experience joy once more. And she thought Northcliff could give her joy. Bring her fulfillment.

He was chained—by his ankle, and by his promise. That tiny niggle of insecurity she still experienced could be dealt with…

She called herself Princess Nobody. Northcliff called her Lady Disdain. Yet she was only Amy, taking on a cruel world in a hopeless fight and losing the battle.

Tonight she had the chance to seize a moment for herself. Never again would she have such a opportunity.

As she sat up, the mattress crinkled and the bed frame groaned. She didn’t care.

Lifting hands to the chain around her neck, she removed the silver cross that marked her as a princess of Beaumontagne. She hung it on the bedpost, painstakingly placing it so the ornate design of the rose of Beaumontagne hid its face against the wood.

She stood. The floorboards squeaked. She didn’t care about that, either. He would know she was coming to him. As he waited, let him suffer.

She lit the stub of her candle. She picked up the box. She tiptoed down the corridor. Miss Victorine was snoring peacefully, and Amy sighed with relief. She shielded the flame as she passed Miss Victorine’s bedchamber, watched her half-opened door, took extra care to be quiet…and her bare foot came in contact with a large, furry, solid object.

She gasped in fright. She stumbled. Her bare feet struck the boards in an uneven rhythm. The candle swayed wildly.

Coal yowled and raced into the kitchen.

Amy caught herself. She righted the candle before it dripped. Stopping, she listened, her breath tight with anxiety.

Miss Victorine’s snoring halted. She snorted, coughed…the bed squeaked as she turned over…silence followed, a horrible silence during which Amy imagined Miss Victorine staring at the light. She waited to hear her call out.

Then Miss Victorine started snoring again, more lightly.

Amy ran lightly after the cat and glared at him, that malevolent, tattle-tale black cat.

He glared back, his fur fluffy, offended as only a feline can be. He settled on his haunches before the fireplace where the red coals still gleamed, judging her as she tiptoed across the cool floorboards to the cellar door. “I don’t care what you think,” she told him. “I’m going down there.”

But she hesitated for one long moment at the top of the stairs.

If she answered Northcliff’s call, she’d never be the same.