Wicked at Heart (21 page)

He froze, the
words ringing in his brain like the last peal of a bell. 
If you were to
drop dead. . . . drop dead . . . drop dead . . .

The idea was too
horrible, too wonderful, even to consider.

His heart began
to pound with excitement.

Payment, justice,
an eye for an eye.  Adam had not deserved to die, and Morninghall would pay.  Bolton
would see to it.  He'd pay with humiliation, with disgrace, and ultimately with
death.  But Bolton, who could not afford to get his own hands dirty, had to
find a way to bring it about.

He saw
Morninghall striding to the rail to receive him.

And Foyle
staring hatefully after him, his eyes burning with resentment.

Foyle.

Foyle would know
every prisoner aboard the hulk.  Foyle would have no trouble finding some
wretch right beneath Morninghall's aristocratic nose whose hatred of the
marquess was every bit as virulent as Bolton's own.  Foyle was young and
ambitious; Foyle would do anything to get promoted; Foyle wouldn't dare
question an admiral.

Best of all,
Foyle would also hate Morninghall.

For the first
time since Adam's death, Bolton felt alive — wonderfully, gloriously,
alive
. 
Assassination via a prisoner would never be traceable to him.  He balled his
hands into fists beneath his cloak, and looked up at the cabin windows above.

His voice was
raw with emotion.  "An eye for an eye,
and then we'll be even
."

Oh yes,
Morninghall would pay.

And he would pay
dearly.

Chapter
12

Punctual as
ever, Gwyneth arrived at the pier just before two o'clock, her face shaded by
the brim of a smart green hat, her hair coiled and pinned, her parasol rapping
an impatient tattoo against the weathered gray planking on which she stood.

Morninghall was
late.  She was willing to bet he had no intention of meeting her at all, and
was sitting in his cabin with a telescope trained on her at this very moment. 
She could easily picture him leaning back in his swivel chair, feet propped
against the window seat, laughing as he watched her make a fool of herself.

And only a fool
would trust Morninghall.

She would have
been better off doing as Rhiannon had suggested: seeking out the Black Wolf and
soliciting
his
help, instead!

She gazed across
the sparkling waves toward the prison ship.  A breeze, rich with the scent of
the marshes, played over the water, ruffling the ribbon that tied just beneath
her breasts. 
The Black Wolf, indeed.
  And yet, he had female hearts
fluttering all over Portsmouth, and tongues wagging with speculation about who
he really was.  Rumors abounded that he was an escaped American prisoner of war
— but being American didn't detract at all from his status as a hero.  The British
government might not be lifting a finger to ease the plight of the prisoners of
war, but if the overwhelming outrage Gwyneth had witnessed when she had described
the conditions in which they were kept — and the subsequent eagerness of the
people of Portsmouth to sign her petition — was any indication, there was much
to be proud of when it came to the generosity and compassion of the English
people in general.

Where on earth
was Morninghall?

And why did her
heart beat just a little faster when she thought of him?

You're only
human, Gwyn.  There's nothing wrong with you.  You are not the first woman to
find the marquess dangerously attractive, nor will you be the last.

A sudden
movement from the prison ship caught her eye.  Shading her eyes with her hand,
Gwyneth saw a boat putting off from the prison hulk with several figures
sitting in it.  Two sailors at the oars, a smaller figure sitting just behind
them.  And there, resplendent in a blue uniform that matched the deep azure of
the harbor —

Morninghall.

Well, la-dee-da,
he was keeping his word.

Of course, he
was only doing so to unnerve and annoy her, she thought, to put her off guard. 
Hell would freeze over before his motives for helping her had anything to do
with compassion for those poor prisoners.

She shut her
eyes.  God help her, of all the hulks in England, why had she chosen this one?

The boat was
making good speed, the oars rising and falling on either beam and flashing in
the sunlight.  The marquess sat in the stern, looking neither left nor right, his
face in shadow and only his mouth painted with a slash of sunlight.  Behind him
Gwyneth could see the huge mass of the prison ship, where hundreds of arms were
thrusting and gesturing — quite obscenely, she noted — from its iron-barred gun
ports.  Raucous jeers and taunts rolled across the water on the breeze, and a
sudden stab of pity assailed her.  She didn't envy a prison hulk captain his
life — or his command.

The boat was
close enough now that she could see the buttons on the marquess' coat, the
arrogant blade of his nose, the dark whorls of his rakish hair.  Obviously the
distance between the pier on which she stood and the ship whence he'd come was
misleading, for the journey seemed to be taking forever.  She began to fidget,
feeling like a fool standing here on the pier, waiting, conspicuous, open to
observation.  She should have arrived late and made
him
wait.  As it
was, she could feel that malevolent gaze upon her, and wondered what he was
thinking . . . plotting.

Remembering.

Her face blazed
with sudden heat.

The boat was
still approaching, that motionless figure in blue as intimidating as the
figurehead of a Viking ship.

Gwyneth wanted
to flee, or at the very least turn her back and stride slowly up and down the
pier as she waited for the boat to arrive — anything to avoid standing here
like an actress onstage.  Instead, she forced herself to remain exactly where
she was, her back stiff, her wrist poised elegantly atop the parasol, her chin
high and her gaze nailed to the approaching boat.  Two could play the
intimidation game.  She would stand right where she was, as resolute as he. 
See how he liked it!

She watched as
the boat came alongside the pier, bumping hollowly against the old poles that
supported it.  Moments later Morninghall, a leather satchel tucked under his
arm, was climbing up the small ladder.

Gwyneth's heart
began to race, and her hands went damp within the gloves.  She clenched them
over the parasol and waited, nearly snapping the ivory handle.

He reached the
pier and slanted her a long, simmering glance that could have burned the crust
off a piece of toast.  "Good afternoon, Lady Simms.  You are looking —"
his gaze raked the length of her body, burning holes through the suddenly
too-hot bombazine as he caught and lifted her hand — "lovely today."

Gwyneth yanked
her hand from his.  "We are here together on business, Morninghall, and do
not forget it."

"Ah, but I
can wish that it were
another
sort of business, can I not?"

Turning his back
on her heated reply, he addressed one of the sailors in the boat.  "Off
with you now, Roberts. "

"That's
Rogers, sir."

"Of course. 
Rogers.  I shall return in about two hours.  Let the boy out of your sight
and it'll be your damned head."

"Young Mr.
Ashton is safe with me, sir."

"Be sure of
it — or else."

He turned and
wordlessly offered his elbow to Gwyneth, but she was studying the skeletal waif
sitting forlornly behind the oarsman.

"Really,
Morninghall, must you starve your servants as you do your prisoners?" she
accused angrily.

He took her hand
and tucked it in the crook of his elbow, covering it with his own.  "Toby
is
one of the prisoners.  I took pity on him and rescued him from belowdecks." 
He arched a brow at her, but his eyes glittered with defensive anger.  "I
thought you would've looked kindly on my action . . . not condemn it."

"Oh,"
she said, lamely.  "I . . . see."

"Do you? 
Then let's go," he snapped, all but dragging her down the pier.  "I
haven't got all bloody day."

Her shoes
skidded on the bleached planking.  "I want a word with young Toby."

"Later."

"You can't
just leave him sitting in the hot sunlight for two hours, that's cruel!"

"Don't jump
to conclusions you have no business making in the first place.  Rogers —
Roberts — whatever the devil his name is — will take him off to the George for
a pint and a hot meal."

"A hot
meal?"

"Yes, what
of it?"

She made her
feet move, lest she be dragged the length of the pier.  God help her, he was
magnificent in his
badness
!  She tilted her head to the side and looked
up at him as she all but ran alongside.  "You know, Morninghall, I am
beginning to wonder about you.  Taking pity on a prisoner.  Bringing him on
boat rides across the harbor.  Hot meals out.  Careful, lest I begin to think
you have a heart, after all."

His jaw
hardened.  "Only fools make mistakes like that, Lady Simms.  You do not
strike me as a fool."

"And you don't
strike me as the soulless serpent you try so hard to emulate," she
retorted.  And then, more softly:  "At least — not always."

He glanced down
at her.  Something confused and fearful shadowed his eyes, and for the briefest
moment the harsh lines of his profile softened.  Then, scowling once more, he
yanked her along as though he wanted to get away from her perceptive words. 
Anger and annoyance was stamped on every line of his face.

Gwyneth was
relentless.  "Why, Morninghall?  Why these sudden kindnesses?"

"None of
your business."

"No, it
is
my business.  I want to know why you suddenly seem to care about someone other
than yourself."

"I felt
guilty," he growled, eyes straight ahead as he guided her through the
seedy buildings that hugged the waterfront and up a narrow, cobbled side
street.  "Guilt and compassion are two different things."

"If guilt
spawns compassion, then I have no complaint with you, Morninghall."

He set his jaw
and went silent after that, veiling his expression and giving no clues about
what he was thinking.  But despite his stony facade, the tangible anger that
emanated from him, Gwyneth sensed there was great unrest behind those devil's
eyes of his, and that she had set something quite wonderful — and powerful — in
motion.

Did Satan have a
heart, after all?

All too soon
they arrived at a small, unkempt brick building within sight of the
waterfront.  The marquess grasped the iron knocker and pounded it, hard.

"We're an
hour early, Morninghall!" Gwyneth hissed in fierce protest.

"Good."

"Mr. Rothschild
is unlikely to be expecting us!"

"I
know."

The door swung
open, and a wizened old man stood there, his expression surprised, then
indignant.  His shiny pate was as bald as an egg, speckled with liver spots and
ringed by a fringe of yellow-white hair.  Spectacles perched on his bulbous
red-veined nose, and his clothing was businesslike and well made.  He might've
looked benign, perhaps even grandfatherly, if not for the suspicious, trapped
gleam in his cunning dark eyes.

"M — my
lord!  I did not expect you 'til three —"

"Of course
you didn't.  Surprise, surprise, Rothschild.  Step aside or be knocked aside,
it makes no damned difference to me."

"Morninghall!"
Gwyneth gasped, shocked.

Ignoring her, he
grasped her elbow and dragged her past the little man, who trailed them in high
indignation.

"Really, my
lord, I must protest!  I am right in the middle of my lunch, the books aren't
finished, I — I haven't finished adding up all the figures —"

"You mean,
doctoring them?  Pray, Rothschild, I shall see them as they are. 
Now
. 
And as for your lunch, finish it in the other room with my blessings.  I'll
call if I have need of you, which, by the way, I shall doubt."

"Sir, I
must
protest!"

"Protest
all you like.  In the meantime, bring me the damned books, starting with
January of this year, and be quick about it."

Bristling, his
fists clenched with helpless rage, the contractor scurried off into another
room.  Gwyneth, shocked and embarrassed, turned her head to stare at the
marquess.  He had already taken a seat and was pulling a thick, black ledger
out of his satchel.  He looked up and caught her eye.

She saw the
impatience there, the unspoken challenge.  She sat down slowly.  "I must
say, Morninghall, I don't think much of your methods, but they most certainly
yield results."

He merely opened
his book and began flipping through the pages with businesslike efficiency. 
"Rothschild's reputation is as a cheat, a liar, and a knave.  Soon,
perhaps, you'll see why I wished to surprise him with our untimely arrival. 
Men like him need to be caught off guard."

He found the
page he wanted, leaned back in his chair, and looked at her from across the
table, his gaze flat as a viper's and just as unsettling.  She found the quiet
scrutiny unbearable.

"Must you
gaze at me like that, Morninghall?"

"I'm just
looking."

"It is
the
manner
with which you're looking that I find most uncomfortable.  If you're
going to intimidate anyone, intimidate Rothschild, not me."

"Do I
intimidate you?"

"I am not
going to answer that."

He merely
smiled, knowingly, and let his gaze slide heatedly down her throat . . . over
her collarbone . . . to her breasts, tingling with fire beneath their bombazine
shield.

"I mean it,
Morninghall."

"Really,
Lady Simms.  Do you think I'm going to leap out of this chair and —" he
lifted one wicked eyebrow — "
ravish
you?"