The Perfect Princess (14 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered meekly.

She frowned as she considered the logistics of the operation. Not only would she have to put her arms around him, but she’d have to press herself against him as well.

“I think,” she said, “it would be easier if you turned around while I wind the bandage around you.”

“Rosamund, I’m not going to let you get behind me.”

Her eyes jerked up to meet his. He wasn’t smiling, but she was almost positive there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

It was mortifying. She was twenty-six years old and she felt as skittish as an adolescent girl.

With brows down, she wrapped her arms around him, and fumbled with the binding. When her breasts brushed against his chest, he flinched.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but the binding must be tight.”

She went through the operation again. He didn’t flinch this time, but his breathing became audible. “Hold still,” she said, and pulling hard on the two ends of the binding, she tied them in a neat knot.

When he remained silent, she looked up at him. He had that strange look on his face again, as though someone had just stabbed him in the back. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she murmured.

He didn’t say anything, but just stood there, staring at her. The silence lengthened.

“You . . .” he said.

She couldn’t drag her eyes from his. “I . . . ?” she said.

They edged closer. His hands wrapped around her arms. She touched a hand to his bare chest. His skin was warm. She could feel the thundering of his heart. Or was it her own heart? It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her face to his.

When his hands suddenly tightened and he thrust her away from him, she cried out.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you know you’re playing with fire? Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to flirt with a man unless you’re prepared for the consequences?” His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “Or did you think you could seduce me into letting you go?”

The haze in her mind instantly cleared. He was back to being the villain again, with his dark eyebrows slashed together, scowling at her.

She put her hands on her hips. “Is this all the thanks I get for trying to help you? And you are mistaken, Colonel Maitland. It would no more enter my head to seduce you than to run off with one of my footmen. Have you forgotten who I am?”

That was the problem. He
had
forgotten who she was. Something was happening between them, something that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

He pointed to the bed. “Get over there and
stay away from me!
”

She could scowl as well as he. “With pleasure,” she snapped. “And please refrain from calling me Rosamund. I’m Lady Rosamund to the likes of you, and don’t forget it,” and she flounced to the bed.

Shortly after, the sandwiches and coffee arrived and hot water for their ablutions. Richard did no more than wash the dirt from his hands and face. Rosamund was more fastidious, and took her time in the closet—with the door ajar to give her some light—and she scrubbed herself with the washing cloth from head to toe.

When it came time to have those few hours of sleep he’d promised himself, Richard was dismayed to discover there was nothing in that room he could handcuff her to. Well, that wasn’t precisely true, but it meant she would have had to sleep standing up or crouched on the floor. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to lock her in the closet, but it was cold in there with no fire or candle. And it seemed so unjust after the way she’d dressed his wound. She needed her sleep as much as he did. There was nothing for it but to handcuff her to himself.

When he pulled her to the bed, she didn’t make a scene. She didn’t say a word. In fact, she hadn’t spoken since he’d ordered her to stay away from him, and that suited him just fine. Not that she was cowed into submission, not the Lady Rosamund Devere who had put him in his place by pointing out—as though he needed to be told—that she put him lower than one of her footmen. And like the true lady she was, she now behaved as though he were invisible.

She was having a peculiar effect on him, this maddening aristocrat who irritated him one moment and filled him with admiration the next. He was irritated because
she wouldn’t obey him; because she forced him to act like a monster; and most of all, because she was too innocent for her own good. She seemed completely unaware of her power over men. When she was dressed in the height of fashion, she was stunning; in men’s clothes, she was irresistible! Those long shapely legs! That nicely rounded bottom! Not to mention the tantalizing sway of her hips! Couldn’t she see what she was doing to him? Evidently not.

Strangely enough, the things that irritated him were the very things he admired about her. She feared him, yet she couldn’t be cowed into submission, not for long. She possessed a reserve of strength that nothing could crush. And her innocence went far beyond her ignorance of men’s lusts. She’d cleaned and bound his wound when it would have been in her best interest to let him bleed to death. How could he not be touched?

She’d overturned all his preconceived notions about women of her class. Well, most of them, anyway. Maybe she had been bred to be nothing but an ornament, but when she was put to the test, she could turn her hand to just about anything. In that respect, she was not unlike Abbie Templar and Gwyneth Radley.

Except that he had never lusted after Abbie or Gwyneth.

Lust. Is that what it was?

He could handle lust, but what completely unnerved him was the odd yearning that came over him whenever Rosamund softened toward him. Those intelligent gray eyes of hers would gaze steadfastly into his as though she were seeing into his soul.

Did you kill Lucy Rider?

No. I did not
.

Did she believe him? He thought, hoped that she did, because . . . because . . .

Hell and damnation! He was doing it again. He should be catching up on his sleep, not brooding over a
woman he had only known for a day! For all he knew, she could be a clever schemer who knew how to play on a man’s weaknesses. He didn’t think so, but he’d been wrong before now. It was trusting a woman that had brought about his downfall. He wasn’t going to fall into that trap again. He had things to do, plans to make, and at the top of his list of things to do was to get rid of this troublesome chit.

He turned his head on the pillow and looked over at her. They were so far apart that a coach could have driven down the middle of the bed. His arm ached from this unnatural position. His side ached. He was stiff all over. He’d never get to sleep like this.

He dug in his pocket, fished out the key to the handcuffs, and unlocked them. Rosamund sighed and turned into him. She was sleeping. To test her, so he told himself, he brushed a finger over her lips. No response from her, but he felt the power of that touch all the way to his loins.

Cursing under his breath, he pushed back the quilted cover and got to his feet. After adding a few lumps of coal to the fire, he went to the window and looked out. Across the river, the lights of London were winking out.

Hugh would have given up on him by now. At least he could trust Hugh to do the right thing. Hugh wouldn’t try to find him, knowing that he might lead others to him. He would carry on as though nothing had happened.

Only one person knew where he was going, and that was Harper.

It must be the fatigue that was making him maudlin, he decided, but he couldn’t help thinking that he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. He had so few friends that he couldn’t afford to lose one of them.

On that depressing thought, he grabbed his greatcoat from the chair, draped it around his shoulders, and bedded down in front of the door. If she tried to leave the
room, she would have to get past him first, and that would never happen.

He’d forgotten his pistol. Uttering another oath, he dragged himself to his feet and padded back to the bed. His pistol was on the floor, tucked out of sight under the mattress. After he retrieved it, he stood there, lost in thought, staring down at the sleeping girl.

When he realized he was smiling, he frowned.
Damn few friends and one troublesome chit
, he thought fiercely, and he stalked back to his makeshift bed. Now he remembered where he had taken that wrong turn. It was when he had abducted the Lady Rosamund Devere.

He settled down, closed his eyes, and began to count sheep. A moment later, he sat up and felt his coat for the object that was digging into his side. It turned out to be Lady Rosamund’s shoe. Was there no escaping this woman?

The thought stayed with him for a long, long time.

O
n entering his rented house at the edge of the village, Hugh Templar removed his wet overcoat, lifted the candle from the hall table, and climbed the stairs in search of his wife. It was very late and there were no servants about, but he knew that Abbie would still be up. He found her in the nursery. She didn’t hear him come in, and he took a moment to savor the sight of her. She was rocking his infant son in her arms as she crooned a tuneless lullaby. Abbie couldn’t hold a tune. Little Thomas didn’t seem to mind. He gazed raptly into his mother’s face and cooed along with her.

“Hugh,” said Abbie as he came up to her. “I expected you home hours ago.” She put a finger to her lips, then gestured to an adjoining door that was slightly ajar. Hugh nodded to indicate that he understood the message. Thomas’s nurse might be awake and listening to every word.

“Blame Woodruff,” he said. “I waited for hours, but he
didn’t turn up. Then my horse went lame and I had to walk most of the way home.”

Abbie nodded her approval. There was no Mr. Woodruff. He was the pretext for Hugh being out of the house at all hours, a fictitious dealer in ancient coins.

“Look,” she said, “I think Thomas’s hair is getting darker.”

Hugh obediently studied his son’s head. There was no hair, only a silky fuzz, and what little there was of it was as blond as his mother’s.

“Mmm,” said Hugh tactfully.

“He looks just like you.”

This obviously gave Abbie so much pleasure that Hugh didn’t argue the point. To him, all babies looked alike. The difference was that when he took
this
baby into his arms, as he did now, something peculiar happened to his insides.

A few minutes later, when Thomas was asleep and tucked up in bed, they tiptoed to their own bedchamber directly across the hall.

As soon as Hugh closed the door, Abbie said, “Shall I get you something to drink? Whiskey? Coffee?”

“No. I’ve had my share tonight at the Falcon, waiting for our friends to turn up.”

“What is it, Hugh? What’s wrong?”

“It’s all right, Abbie. They escaped from Newgate and they haven’t been caught. I learned that much.” He removed his jacket and flung himself into one of the armchairs flanking the grate. “But the escape did not go as we’d planned.”

Abbie seated herself on the footstool in front of Hugh’s chair and gazed up at him. His face was lined with exhaustion, but that came as no surprise. He’d left late that afternoon for the Falcon, in the neighboring village of Latham, with fresh horses for Richard and Harper, and another fat purse of money to speed them on their way. She’d expected him back hours ago.

“Tell me what happened,” she said quietly.

He let out a long breath. “I waited for them at the Falcon, as we arranged, but when the hours passed and there was no sign of them, I decided to ride into town to find out what had happened. When I got to the outskirts of Chelsea, I joined a long line of travelers who were being stopped and questioned by the militia. They were looking for our friends and,” he smiled a little, “someone they had abducted.”

Abbie sat back. “Abducted!! Richard and Harper abducted someone? Who?”

“Lady Rosamund Devere.”

Her jaw sagged, then she said incredulously, “Romsey’s daughter?”

“That’s the one. I got all this from one of the militiamen, you understand. It seems that there were riots in London today, and the mob marched on Newgate, making movement through the streets impossible. I suppose Richard and Harper couldn’t get to the horses so they did the next best thing. They commandeered Lady Rosamund’s carriage. Trouble is, and I mean
real
trouble, Lady Rosamund was still in it.”

When he saw Abbie’s stricken expression, he choked off the laughter that threatened to bubble up. And really, he thought, the situation was anything but funny. He put his laughter down to the strain of the last few hours, worrying about his friends. And there was more to tell.

He looked at Abbie. Most men, he knew, would shield their wives from so much knowledge, assuming that they couldn’t handle it. They didn’t know Abbie. He’d worked with her on a case once, and he was alive today only because she had kept her head.

“There’s more, Abbie. They found the coach abandoned on the other side of Chelsea. Harper was driving it, but he got away. There was no sign of Richard or Lady Rosamund, but the soldiers are making a search of the area.”

“You think they’ll find the cottage?”

“It’s possible.”