Gabriel D'Arcy
Where was Meak exactly? West of London. Berkshire, if she recalled correctly. The property had been included in the document on his background as a place he rarely visited.
And regardless of where it was, during the course of their games of chess, in the silent moments while he weighed his next move, she had decided not to attempt an escape. Fate or his lust or something else had presented an unexpected opportunity to become more closely acquainted and she would follow wherever it led. Carpe diem. Seize the day. And there was no need to worry. Once Reggie reported to Mrs Featherstone, she would go to Paul and he would move heaven and earth to discover her whereabouts.
If Mooreshead had not been so good at hiding, she would know their ultimate destination. It could not be Meak. Or the family estate in Norfolk, where he had claimed to be these past few months. He had...disappeared over the summer. Perhaps to France on his yacht that came and went from port to port around the coast, doing what, no one knew. But their Parisian contacts had not seen him, according to Paul. Now the chance had presented itself to discover where he went and what he did, and, more importantly, to know for certain where his loyalties lay. A chance she would not pass up.
And if Paul was right and Mooreshead was a turncoat—for some reason she could not fathom, she felt slightly sick at the thought—then he would pay for his crimes. And she would have the satisfaction of knowing she had prevented him from doing further harm, as well as being one step closer to finding her sister.
‘Checkmate,’ he said, winning their third game.
She leaned back and began unbuttoning her remaining glove. ‘Two out of three to you. Your collection of gloves grows larger by the hour. I see I shall have to go shopping very soon.’
His eyes twinkled as he caught her gloved hand in his right hand and raised it to his lips. Tingles ran up her arm. Unruly heat warmed her blood. She cast him a sultry glance as he nipped the end of the glove’s forefinger between his teeth and tugged. A pleasurable shiver ran down her spine. With each nip of his teeth at her fingertips of leather, something darker and more dangerous tugged deep in her core. Desire.
It had been a long time since she had felt such a deep sensual pull of male allure. In the years of her marriage, she had learned how to turn male lust to her advantage, but her encounters were never about her desires. Vilandry had never appealed to her that way, though she’d done her wifely duty, and the other affairs had been reciprocal arrangements encouraged, if not arranged, by her husband. To keep Minette safe. She pushed the memories away. Now was not the time to remember the betrayal or the fear. The threats had come close to breaking her then and she could not let the recollection of them near the surface now.
She needed to seduce a man into trusting her. A man who wouldn’t simply fall beneath her spell, like some green youth, or an old man who needed firm young flesh to get him interested. Beneath Gabe’s charm lay a cold, hard man. A man full of suspicion and steely resolve. She would need to find out what drove him. Money? Ideals? Power? All things she could understand, though rarely in her previous life had ideals played much of a part. It would make her task easier if she understood his motives. For that she would need to get into his bed and under his skin.
Certainly a man of his calibre and experience would be a worthy adversary in the arena of amour. And any other arena, she admitted to herself. But seduction was her best weapon. She let her visceral pleasure at Gabe’s touch show on her face as she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.
The glove was loose now and an inexorable pull by strong long fingers drew it free in a slow slide. The fine hairs across the back of her hand stood to attention in the cooler air. She shivered and his smile widened. The teasing smile on his lips turned distinctly sensual.
Looking into her eyes, he turned her hand palm up, his thumb massaging the tender flesh. ‘Such a pretty hand,’ he murmured. ‘So white. As delicate as a bird’s wing.’
And as easily crushed by his superior strength. The comparison was not lost on her.
‘You mistake, my lord,’ she said her voice full of amusement. ‘The whiteness is clearly marred for such flights of fancy.’
He glanced down, his long gold-tipped lashes shielding the ice-blue of his gaze. He pressed his lips to the flesh brought to life by his thumb. Hot, dry lips. Softened by desire. And she ached to feel those lips on her own. Shocked by the strength of her carnal response, she curled her fingers, but if he noticed her protective reflex he did not react, but rather turned her hand knuckles up. ‘Freckles,’ he said as if making an extraordinary discovery.
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘Charming.’ He brought his gaze up to rest on her face. ‘You have been kissed by the sun.’
‘Everywhere, except my face.’
‘Everywhere,’ he repeated, his voice deepening with desire. It strummed a chord low in her belly. A flutter of inner muscles turned her limbs liquid with longing. ‘I looking forward to learning them all. One by one by one.’
‘And so we go to Meak,’ she whispered. And something inside her wished there was no other purpose.
The carriage turned and swayed, rocking on its springs, scattering the chess pieced to the floor.
With a cry of surprise, she knelt to gather them up.
A soft sound made her look up.
Naked desire carved itself on his face.
Heat flared in her cheeks as if she was an innocent schoolgirl when she realised the image she presented kneeling between the thighs of this virile male. But the light in the carriage was dim and hopefully hid her blushes. ‘Later,’ she said and tossed the small wooden pieces into the box. A promise made was a promise kept. And in truth, she was looking forward to keeping her promises for her own sake. Anger welled up at her traitorous thought. The man was her enemy. Passion was her blade, not her pleasure.
With a smile she returned to her seat on the opposite side of the carriage at the same moment it drew up. The coachman, as he had at all their stops, opened the door and let down the steps.
Gabe stepped down and helped her to alight.
While he turned to give instructions to his driver, she glanced up at the house. A square stone house. A house of good proportions, but modest without ornament or grandeur. She had heard much of Bagmorton in Norfolk. The seat of the marquessate. This was a poor secondary dwelling for a nobleman such as Mooreshead. Not a single window glimmered with light. Not even the lantern at the front door glowed a welcome, though dusk had the day well in retreat.
‘I see we are unexpected,’ she said.
‘You mistake the matter.’
The coachman returned to his box and the carriage pulled away, turning into a smaller drive at the side of the house.
He held out his arm and she placed a hand on his sleeve. Rock-solid strength. All virile male. Now the game would begin in earnest. A game she must win.
The front door opened as they reached the top step. A young man with tousled mouse-brown hair peered out. The candle in his hand flickered in the wind, casting shadows over his moon-round, pimply face. His eyes lit up when he saw Mooreshead and yet there was a slackness about his expression. Nicky instantly recognised the vagueness of an innocent soul.
‘Good evening, Walter,’ Gabe said. ‘Let us in, dear old chap.’
The boy, for she really couldn’t think of him as a man though she judged his age to be about thirty, grinned and stepped aside, his eyes growing wide and round as his gaze fell on her. He gave his master a puzzled look.
‘She’s a friend,’ Gabe said. He leaned closer and muttered a few words in the boy’s ear. He shot off, leaving them to enter the gloom of the hall. Gabe chuckled. ‘He’ll bring us something to eat. Nothing much, I’m afraid, since the house is mostly shut up.’
‘I thought you said we were expected?’
‘I was expected.’ His voice was as dry as dust. ‘I am always expected.’
It didn’t look much like it. She kept the thought behind her teeth. An Englishman’s house was, after all, his pride and joy. His castle.
Mooreshead’s movements were sure in the semi-dark and the sound of steel striking flint preceded the flare of light. Instinctively she closed her eyes and turned away, so as not to ruin her vision. And when she turned back, he was lighting a branch of candles set by the door.
The marbled entrance hall boasted a grand set of carved stairs leading up to the first-floor landing and...nothing else. No tables or chairs or pictures on the walls. Just a floor of marble in squares of pink and grey and walls of white.
‘This way,’ he said, holding the candelabra high. They passed an open door. A drawing room, she thought. It too was bare. Completely empty.
Her stomach sank. She knew what this place was. Not a home. Not a sink of iniquity where he brought his latest paramour as the gossips would have it. It was a halfway house. A halt on their journey, not their final destination.
He ushered her onwards with a press of his hand in the small of her back. Their footsteps echoed on the tile and on the bare wooden stairs as they made their way upwards. There was not a stick of furniture or floor covering anywhere. He flung open a door. This room contained a large bed sumptuously accoutred with bedding and pillows and hangings from a canopy of embroidered green silk. In the centre was a table with two chairs, and a cold hearth, laid ready for a fire.
‘Welcome to my abode,’ he said, his voice full of amusement and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a smidgeon of regret.
Chapter Three
Gabe closed the door and turned the key.
The countess swung around, her eyes wide and suspicious. With a grin, he tucked the key into his fob pocket. ‘We wouldn’t want to be interrupted, now would we?’
Her gaze went back to the bed. ‘No,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘We wouldn’t.’
Incredibly, despite the ache in his arm, his body tightened at the velvety caress in her voice, causing his head to spin. No, it wasn’t her, it was lack of blood, even if she was the most enticing female he had encountered in a very long time. He had to keep his head here. She was a woman around whom he dare not lay down his guard. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy what she offered; he just wouldn’t let lust overcome reason. But right now there were other more practical matters requiring his attention.
He knelt at the hearth and touched a candle to the spills left ready. Poor Walter never let him down, no matter how long between visits. There was always a fire ready to be lit, and food to be had from his mother’s kitchen at the not-so-distant cottage he’d provided for them. A guest, though, was a novelty.
The back of his neck prickled. Awareness of her moving closer. He turned sideways to keep her in view at the edge of his vision. Her expression was calm, but resolute. She had come to some sort of decision. To flee? To murder him while he slept? She wouldn’t have the chance for either. He touched the flame to the spills laid neatly between the kindling. They caught at once. ‘Sit by the fire,’ he said. ‘Warm yourself.’
She sank onto the chaise and held her hands out to the blaze. She was taking it all much too calmly to be innocent. He’d made the right decision to bring her along. He certainly wasn’t going to leave her to Sceptre’s tender mercies.
A scratch came at the door. He unlocked it, then opened it to Walter carrying a tray. ‘Come in.’
Gabe carefully pocketed the length of rope curled around the beer mug while his back was to the countess, then took the tray and set it on a nearby chest.
‘You will bring the rest as I instructed?’ Gabe asked the lad. It was always best to deal with one thing at a time.
‘I will, my lord,’ Walter said, doing his best to look properly serious.
Gabe closed and once again locked the door behind him. The countess got up and went to the table, seating herself in one of the chairs. ‘I’m famished.’
He wasn’t surprised. She had eaten little on the road. Likely she feared he might drug or poison her. Or it might have been a case of nerves held under tight control. Whatever it was, she needed food. One-handed, he carried the tray to the table. In addition to beer, his usual tipple, Walter had thoughtfully provided a pot of tea. It was what the lad’s mother drank and therefore he thought all females would be the same.
‘I can ask for wine, if you prefer,’ Gabe said. ‘Or cognac.’
‘So your cellars are furnished better than your house,’ she said with a smile. ‘Tea suits me very well. I am practically English, n’est ce pas?’ She buttered a slice of bread the size of a doorstep, placed a hunk of cheese on top and bit delicately into it with small white even teeth. She had a lovely, generous mouth with lips of just the right lushness. Not too full or too red. Just right for kissing.
He dragged his gaze away and buttered his own slice, careful not to show the pain the movements caused.
‘Tiens, where do we go next?’ she asked.
Startled, he stared at her.
‘You do not intend that I stay here.’
Not a question. He swallowed the urge to laugh at the sharpness of her attack. Nor would he pretend she had not scored a hit. ‘You will see when we get there.’
They finished eating in silence and she took her cup of tea back to the hearth. Any other woman would be trembling with fear at this point. But she wasn’t any other woman. She was his enemy and likely carefully chosen. He might admire her. Even lust after her. But he would not underestimate her.
Another scratch on the door.
Her expression turned wary. As well it might. She would not like what he would do next.
He gestured to the bed. ‘Please, lie down.’
A flare of anger sparked amid the blue. ‘Why? Are you planning a ménage à trois? I assure you it is not to my taste.’
‘Good grief,’ he said, before he could stop himself. ‘What would make you think such a thing?’ He pulled his pistol from his pocket. ‘The bed, if you please, Nicky.’
She responded to the note of command in his voice with an upward tilt of her chin. Her gaze dropped to the pistol as if considering her options. He bit back a smile at her courage. Finally, clearly unwilling, she climbed gracefully onto the bed.
‘Hands together, if you please.’
She rolled her eyes, but complied. ‘Really?’
He caught both hands in one of his, set down his pistol and pulled the rope from his pocket. He made quick work of the knot then tied it to the bedrail above her head.
She gave a small tug, shook her head and smiled. ‘You pervert.’
‘Sorry. I just don’t need to be worrying about you for a while.’
He let Walter in. ‘Well timed.’
‘You said to wait fifteen minutes.’
Gabe could imagine him down in the kitchen watching the minutes tick by. ‘You did very well indeed.’
Walter flicked a sideways glance at the countess. His jaw slackened.
‘I need your help,’ Gabe said.
‘Yes, my lord.’ The lad’s eyes were clear and guileless.
Gabe sighed. This was about to get very difficult. And very painful. ‘Put the things I asked for on the hearth and help me out of this coat, if you please.’
Walter knelt and produced several items from his capacious pockets. A knife. A box of basilica powders. A bandage. His lips moved as he laid the items out on the grey-veined marble. He looked up at Gabe for confirmation that he had all that was requested.
‘Well done, old fellow,’ Gabe said. Damnation, he did not want to ask Walter to do this.
The lad stood and Gabe turned to let him peel the coat over his shoulders and down his arms.
Walter gulped. A gasp came from the bed.
He glanced down. He wasn’t surprised to see the bandage the innkeeper’s wife had applied soaked through with blood.
‘You idiot,’ Nicky said. ‘It looks a great deal worse than a scratch. Do you have a death wish?’
He looked at her and was surprised by the anger in her face. ‘It is not as bad as all that.’
She made a scornful sound in the back of her throat.
She was right. Beneath the bandage, his arm was a mess. By rights, he should be calling for a surgeon. Not something he had time for. He glanced at the greenish tinge to Walter’s face.
‘Dear fellow, fetch me a bowl of hot water, will you, please?’
Walter swallowed and nodded, his gaze still fixed on the bloody bandage.
‘Off you go, then.’ Gabe watched him gallop out of the room. Carefully, he untied his cravat and laid it over the chair, then worked at the knot in the bandage.
‘Can I help?’ Nicky asked.
He glanced over at her, stretched out on the bed, her arms over her head, her face framed by her elbows, her lush breasts pushed up against the confining fabric of her riding habit. Again a surge of unwanted lust. He grinned. ‘The sight of you lying there is keeping my spirits up.’
‘More than your spirits,’ she said, pointedly glancing at his hips.
‘Hussy,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Your kind of help I can do without.’
‘I don’t think your Walter is going to be of much assistance,’ she retorted. ‘He’s likely to cast up his accounts and have you playing nursemaid.’
‘Too true.’ He got the knot undone and pulled the bandage away from the wound, sucking in a breath of pain when it caught in the dried blood crusted around the edges.
‘Mon Dieu,’ she muttered. ‘Les hommes.’
No doubt she was rolling her eyes again. With the bandage off, he pulled his shirt over his head and inspected the wound he’d only glimpsed when the woman had bound it up for him. An inch or two to the right and it would have hit his heart. He probed it gently with a fingertip. And cursed.
‘The ball is still in there.’ she said.
He wiped his bloody fingers on his shirt. ‘Apparently so.’
* * *
Nicky glared at him as he got up and draped his shoulder with a towel from the washstand in the corner. The man was an idiot if he thought he could take a ball out of his arm himself.
The boy returned with a kettle of steaming water and a bowl. ‘Set it down on the hearth, lad.’ Walter did as requested and then beamed at his master.
Mooreshead frowned. ‘I should have asked you to bring up some brandy.’
The boy looked worried. ‘What does it look like? Me mam went back to the cottage.’
Mooreshead shook his head. ‘It’s all right. I’ll get it. You wait here with the countess.’ He strode out of the room.
‘Walter,’ Nicky said with a beguiling smile. ‘Untie me. Please.’
He giggled, but didn’t move.
‘Walter,’ she said again, more firmly but gently. ‘He can’t possibly remove that ball from his arm. He needs my help. Untie me.’
‘I don’t take no orders from anyone but him.’ He stuck out a lip.
She sighed and let her head fall back. ‘What makes you so loyal to a man like him?’
He stared at her in puzzlement. Innocent loyalty. What would he say if he knew the truth about the man he served? Would he care? Probably not. She certainly thought better of Mooreshead for his kindness to this poor benighted man-child.
‘Tying people up is wrong, you know.’
Shadows filled his eyes. ‘I know,’ he mumbled. ‘Mam wouldn’t like it. But she said I must always do as he asks.’
‘Why?’
He frowned and stared off into the distance as if he was trying to recapture a memory, then smiled in triumph. ‘Old marquess tossed us out with not a penny in our pockets—’ he inhaled a quick breath ‘—so we must do all we can to help my lord. It’s only right.’
The words came out so fast it took a moment to make sense of them. ‘His father tossed you out?’
‘When Pa died. He...he needed the cottage for the new man.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know the new man. My lord was very angry. I thought I was bad. He was bad. Old marquess.’
He started to look upset.
‘And so Lord Mooreshead brought you here, to his home.’
‘Lord Templeton.’
She closed her eyes. Right. He would have been Templeton while his father was alive. ‘Walter, I want to help Lord Mooreshead, but I can do nothing with my hands tied.’
He shook his head, his bottom lip protruding. ‘No one tells me what to do ’cepting milord.’
She huffed out a breath. ‘I am not telling, mon ange. I am asking. Please.’
He took a hesitant step towards the bed.
‘Leave Walter alone,’ Mooreshead said harshly from the doorway, his face as dark as a thundercloud. He had a dusty bottle tucked under his arm.
Walter shrank back.
‘It’s all right, Walter,’ Mooreshead said, gentling his tone. ‘It is her I am angry at.’
Walter glared at her. ‘Bad.’
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Stubborn.’
He looked at her. ‘You are right, I cannot do this by myself. Yet, to be honest. I am loath to let you free and put a knife in your hand.’
She smiled at him sweetly. ‘Quite the conundrum.’ Bah, she should not be rising to his bait. ‘Why did you bring me here, Mooreshead? What is it you want from me? If it is ransom, you are at outs. I have no one who cares enough to pay for my release.’
‘Don’t play games, Countess,’ he said setting his bottle down on the hearth. ‘Whoever you told about our assignation this morning had me shot.’
The only possibility was Paul. She shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’
He gave her a hard look. ‘So you do not deny you told someone in addition to the members of your household. Who?’
Her heart jolted at her mistake. ‘I told no one apart from Reggie and my companion, Mrs Featherstone, about our plan.’ She gave a shrug of indifference. ‘I thought nothing of it. I ride every day in Hyde Park.’ She glanced at the window that clearly showed it was full dark outside. ‘By now she and Reggie will be worried out of their wits. They will no doubt contact the authorities. Eventually someone will think to look here.’
He regarded her for a long moment, then inhaled, his wide chest expanding, the frown between his brows deepening. Pain. She pretended not to notice.
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