Wicked Promise (10 page)

Elizabeth mulled that over. She could only imagine the misery he must have suffered, even though he tried to make light of it. "I should think you would be bitter, but I can see that you are not."

He shrugged again, but the tension remained, a subtle tautness in the muscles across his shoulders. "I knew the consequences of my actions when I went that night to confront Stephen Bascomb. I meant to see him dead—one way or another. In truth, I am lucky I did not hang."

A chill ran through her.
I meant to see him dead.
It should have been shocking to hear him say such a thing, yet knowing him as she had begun to, she wondered what Bascomb had done to deserve the treatment he had received. She wanted to ask, but she was afraid to. The harshness in his features, the stiffness in his bearing, warned her she had pressed him far enough.

"Well, I believe I am ready for dessert," Aunt Sophie said, for once having the good sense to know when it was time for a change of subject. "You promised apple pudding, my lord, and I can almost taste it already."

Ravenworth relaxed, his smile a radiant white against his dark skin. "Then let us see it done, Mrs. Crabbe." He turned to the footman, who nodded, bowed, and backed away, returning a few minutes later with a large silver tray covered with an array of sweets including the promised pudding.

Elizabeth sampled hers while Ravenworth's dark head bent over the plate set in front of him. Little by little she was uncovering pieces of the puzzling Wicked Earl, yet she could not seem to fit them all together. He was a rake and a rogue, a gambler and a womanizer who made no bones about it. Yet there was something in his eyes that said there was another, altogether different man inside.

Perhaps it was simply wishful thinking. Perhaps he was the hopeless rake he usually appeared. Elizabeth was no longer certain—of the earl, or why she so desperately cared.

The evening turned out to be surprising pleasant, at least until the final few moments after Aunt Sophie had retired, leaving her and Ravenworth alone in the drawing room. Their easy conversation turned stilted as the hour wore on, Ravenworth sitting just a few feet away, his eyes turning dark in the lamplight as he watched her.

There was something disturbing in their silvery depths, something that made her breath catch and her heartbeat quicken. She found herself staring at his mouth while his gaze seemed to drift lower, to settle on the curve of her breast. The room felt hot, her skin flushed and damp.

Excusing herself on the pretext she was tired, she retired upstairs to her room, but it was impossible to think of sleep. The solitude of the garden beckoned. Surely, if she were quiet, if she used the back stairs, she could make her way outside and no one would be the wiser.

Pulling a cashmere shawl out of a dresser drawer, Elizabeth slung it around her shoulders and tied it over her breasts. She passed Mercy Brown coming up the stairs, but the girl was used to her occasional nightly treks and merely mumbled a greeting as she passed.

The night was especially dark, the moon a mere crease of light against a backdrop of thick gray clouds. It hadn't begun to rain, but the breeze was heavy with the smell of moist earth, and there was a dampness in the air that wouldn't allow her to stay out long.

Still, she made her way through the winding gravel paths, letting the solitude wash over her, enjoying the crisp night air and the slight evening breeze. An owl hooted softly and she turned to see him streaking above her head, a flash of white against the blackness of the sky, the quiet disturbed by the heavy flap of wings.

Elizabeth smiled. She had always loved owls. They seemed so mysterious. Unfathomable creatures, aloof and independent, governed by no man's law but their own. Rather like the earl, she mused, then smiled to think he would probably not take kindly to being likened to an owl. No, more a falcon, people would say, ruthless and aggressive, a dangerous predator, a creature to be reckoned with. Or the raven of his name, perhaps, sleekly dark and sinister.

Elizabeth thought him more a hawk, dangerous when the need arose, a beautiful, capable bird who hunted only to care for himself and his nestlings. An odd thing to think, she conceded, since the earl unashamedly admitted to willfully murdering a man.

Pulling her shawl a little tighter, Elizabeth continued along the path, pausing here and there to study a newly blossomed flower. A shadow appeared a little to her right, just at the edge of her vision, and Elizabeth started. Surely she had imagined it, yet her heart began to pound, the blood pumping fast through her veins. She listened hard but heard nothing to alarm her. Perhaps it was simply the owl, returning from its foray across the fields.

Certain that must be it yet still a little nervous, she turned and started back up the path toward the house. She'd gone only a few short paces when fabric rustled, footfalls sounded, and a man sprang into the path in front of her.

Elizabeth screamed before he could stop her, turned and started to run, but another man appeared on the path behind her and she collided with his chest. He was a thin man, skin over bones, but he was tall and he was stronger than he appeared. Shoving hard against him, she twisted away from the hand he clamped over her mouth, and screamed again, but it came out muffled and weak.

The first man, larger and rougher than the other, swore an oath and jerked her around. He wrenched an arm up behind her back until pain shot into her body and she thought she might be sick.

"Shut your damned mouth, wench, before I shut it for you." He was a burly man with a thick red beard and it was obvious he meant what he said. "You hear me? From now on you be quiet and do exactly what I say."

She winced at the pain, bit down on her trembling bottom lip and nodded, though as soon as she could muster the courage she intended to scream again.

In the end she didn't have to. A noise sounded in the garden, someone running along the path. A flash of movement, a body hurling through the air, then the skinny man went down as if he'd been hit with a barrel of bricks.

"Nicholas!"

He grabbed the bony man by his shirtfront, lifted him up and punched him in the jaw so hard his head thumped loudly against the gravel. The burly man gripped her arm and started to drag her away, but Elizabeth dug in her heels and began to fight him. She wasn't going to let him take her to Bascomb, not as long as there was breath left in her body.

Nicholas bolted after them. He gripped the man's shoulder and whirled him around, pried her loose from the bruising fingers and shoved her out of the way, then swung a blow to the stomach that doubled the big man over.

The red-bearded man came up swinging, but so did the earl. Nicholas dodged a heavy blow, then threw a vicious punch to the stomach that had the heavier man doubling over. The earl's knee shot up beneath the man's chin and a loud crunch sounded. He tumbled over backward, landing solidly on his arm, and the crack of bone split the quiet in the garden. A harsh groan was followed by a curse, then the man was on his feet and running, holding his shattered arm, his coattail flapping, his tall, skinny friend pounding along in his wake.

Nicholas didn't follow, just strode to where Elizabeth stood swaying on her feet and gathered her gently into his arms.

His hand stroked over her hair. "Elizabeth, are you all right? They didn't hurt you, did they?" He was breathing hard but so was she. She could feel the last faint hum of energy still running through his body.

"I—I'm fine. Just frightened mostly."

He held her a moment, letting her absorb the heat and comfort of his body. Then he eased himself away. Examining a slight bruise on her cheek, he swore an oath she thankfully didn't catch.

"It's nearly midnight, dammit. What the devil were you doing out here?"

Elizabeth hauled in a steadying breath. "I needed some air. I often come at night to the garden."

"You often—" His jaw clamped down. "Sweet God, woman, have you lost your wits? Those were Bascomb's men. They must have skirted my guards and found a way onto the grounds of the house. I didn't think the whoreson would be so brazen, but apparently this is another time I've been wrong." Silver-blue eyes bored into her. "And you make it so damnably easy."

Elizabeth swallowed. He was madder than she thought. "I'm sorry. I believed it would be safe."

"Well, obviously it isn't." His fingers dug into her shoulders. A muscle tightened in his cheek. "Bloody hell, Elizabeth, you have to be more careful. Don't you understand—if I hadn't been out on the terrace when you screamed, Bascomb's men might well have carted you away!"

Elizabeth bristled, jerked free of his hold. "I'm sorry this happened, but I can't stay inside all the time. For God's sake, I was only walking in the garden!"

"Yes, dammit—and you were very nearly abducted. From now on you won't go out of the house by yourself. You won't go anywhere unless someone is with you."

Elizabeth's chin shot up. "That is insane. I refuse to live that way. You don't own me, Nicholas Warring. I won't be treated like a prisoner and there is nothing you can do about it."

A dangerous glint appeared in those steel-blue eyes. Bold black brows pulled down, making him look every bit the dangerous man he was. "Isn't there?"

She swallowed hard but didn't look away. "No, there is not. You might scare everyone else, but not me. I'm not the least bit afraid of you."

His expression turned as dark as the thunderclouds overhead. He drew himself up until he seemed to tower above her. "You ought to be afraid of me, Elizabeth." The words whispered out with soft menace. "Perhaps you should fear me even more than you do Lord Bascomb."

For a moment, his gaze held hers and she felt like a bird caught in a net. Then he dragged her hard against him and his mouth crushed down over hers. It was a brutal kiss, punishing in its force. She tried to twist free, but he held her fast, parting her mouth with his tongue. It swept inside boldly, sending little shivers down her spine. Her hands pressed against his chest and she could feel the heat of him, the muscles expanding, the too-rapid beating of his heart.

His knee slipped between her legs, brushing the inside of her thigh, and she told herself to push him away, that what he was doing was wrong, but her hands remained on his chest and the throbbing of her pulse matched the heavy cadence of his.

Something shifted in the air between them. His hard mouth softened, the rough kiss gentled, turned coaxing instead of demanding. His lips were firm yet pliant, giving now instead of taking, as soft as she had imagined, warm and strong, yet somehow oddly tender.

Heat rolled through her, settled low in her belly, spread like warm honey through her limbs. It was a sin, she knew. Nicholas Warring was a married man. He was a rake with a dozen mistresses, a man who took whatever woman he wanted then grew bored and brutally cast them away.

It was wrong, but it didn't feel wrong at all.

Nicholas groaned and pressed her more fully against him, into his heat, the power of his solid frame. She felt the rigid hardness of his desire, but instead of pulling away, her arms slid around his neck and her fingers laced into his wavy black hair.

A small sound came from her throat and Nicholas shuddered. For an instant he deepened the kiss and her whole body burned. Then suddenly he went still. His heart was thundering, his tall lean frame nearly rigid. Clasping her wrists, he carefully freed himself and took a step away. His expression was dark and unreadable, as if the fire she had seen in his eyes had been banked for another day.

"Go back to the house," he said, his voice low and harsh. "Do it now, Elizabeth, and don't come out here alone again."

Elizabeth didn't argue. Her lips still tingled from his kiss; her legs felt wobbly and numb. She managed a faint nod in his direction, turned and raced back toward the house.

This time the fear pumping through her had nothing to do with Bascomb or his men.

N
ick paced the floor of his bedchamber. For the third time within the hour, he paused beside the window overlooking the garden. On the ground below, anemones, pansies, and tulips had begun to bloom in bright shades of purple, yellow, and pink. Color streamed along every walkway, yet Nick found himself thinking how bleak it all looked without Elizabeth there to enjoy it.

Three days had passed since he had banned her from her favorite place of refuge. It wasn't fair, he knew. It was his fault the men had been able to breach his defenses. He had underestimated his opponent yet again.

Nick looked down from the window. From his vantage point above the garden walls, he could see the men Elias had hired, a veritable army this time, placed at strategic points along the rough gray stone.

Elizabeth would be safe there now. She could pick flowers if she wished or sit and study her birds. She would be safe in the garden. And, he vowed, she would once more be safe from him.

Nick turned away from the window, his strides long and determined as he crossed the room, turned the silver knob, and pulled open the door.

Elias Moody called out to him from the door of his dressing room. "She's in the conservatory, Nick. I seen her go in there this morning."

His mouth edged up. "How do you do that? How do you always manage to know what I am about?"

Elias gave him a canny smile. "Ain't much of a trick in this case. Miss Mercy seen ye kiss 'er the other night in the garden. Ye been moody and out of sorts ever since. I figured, sooner or later, ye'd be tellin' 'er ye was sorry."

"I am sorry, dammit. I can't believe how badly I lost control."

"You're a man, my friend, nothin' more. She's a pretty little thing and ye've got feelin's for 'er."

"I'm not allowed to have feelings like that. For God's sake, man, I'm her guardian. I'm supposed to be protecting her."

"And so ye did."