A Rose at Midnight (23 page)

Once more she glanced at Charles-Louis. His eyes were closed, his matted hair obscuring his filthy face as he leaned against the wall, his thin chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. Every word would have reached his ears. She hoped and prayed that Old Bones was right, that none of it reached his mind.

“When?” she asked, knowing she had no choice. “Where?”

“Porcin’s old house. He’s already taken possession. Tonight. You don’t know the man, but don’t be fooled if he pretends to be pleasant. He’s a wolf who’d tear your throat out for pleasure. Watch yourself.”

“And who is this wolf?” she asked wearily.

“His name,” said Old Bones, “is Jean-Luc Malviver.”

It took Ghislaine a moment to realize where she was. Lying on her back in a Scottish meadow, the sun bright overhead, the sweet smell of spring flowers teasing her senses. The ground was hard beneath her, but no harder than the streets of Paris. The sun was warm, blessedly so, and the sky was very blue. The dark, stinking city streets were long gone. She would never have to set foot in France again.

For the first time she welcomed the truce Nicholas had called. If she had no sense of honor she could be well on her way, out of his reach, and for some reason she was loath to go. She knew enough about hiding from an implacable, rapacious enemy to get away from him. But she’d given her word, and she intended to abide by it. Besides, this day of peace, of warmth and sunshine and nature, was giving her back something she’d lost long ago.

She sat up, staring around her with simple pleasure. She’d never thought much about the future—life was something to be gotten through, one day at a time, and to repine would be just as deadly as to hope.

But if the winds of fate were kind, she would like to live in the country. Someplace devoid of city stinks and people, a place with trees and flowers and birds, with the smell of fresh earth and swift-flowing water.

She liked this place. The purple-blue mountains in the distance, the ancient trees, the rocky soil. It was unlike any place she’d ever been—both lonely and peaceful. She could be happy in a place like this.

She had no idea whether it was the season for berries, but she rose unhurriedly to her feet. Her hair had dried in a tangle down her back, and she considered hacking it off with the now-sharp knife Nicholas had given her. She couldn’t do it. The victims of Madame La Guillotine had their long hair cropped, so as not to interfere with the blade. Every time she thought of chopping off her own locks she could feel the cold steel against her vulnerable neck.

There were no berries, but there were flowers. She knelt down, bringing her face close to inhale the fragrance, loath to end its short sweet life by plucking it, when she heard a familiar, infuriating drawl.

“How charmingly bucolic, Ghislaine,” Blackthorne said. “Rather like Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid. If I knew you were longing for rural pleasures, we could have stopped sooner.”

She didn’t move, unwilling to give him that satisfaction, but the scent of the flower sharpened, growing acrid. She rose, slowly, looking at him across the short expanse of clearing.

“Did you catch anything?” It was a polite question, but he merely shook his head, advancing on her, and her wariness exploded into sudden panic.

“Not until this moment,” he said.

She stumbled backward when he reached her, desperate to avoid him. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t touch me,” she said, not caring that her voice showed her fear much too clearly.

His smile was narrow and very dangerous. “What can I say,
ma mie
? As usual, I lied.”

Chapter 14

Ghislaine looked like a frightened fawn, staring at him out of huge, dark eyes. She seldom showed fear, but this moment was different. Her defenses had momentarily fled, and Nicholas told himself he was glad. The small trace of compunction he felt was easily ignored.

“I’m only going to kiss you,
ma belle,”
he murmured, his voice low and soothing, the voice he used for calming restive horses and nervous women. He was very good at using that voice; few women could resist its seductive purr.

Ghislaine was made of sterner stuff, of course. He expected no less of her. She continued to back away from him, as if he were the fiend incarnate, something he’d expect of a weaker soul. She wasn’t a woman who was easily cowed—anyone who used poison so effectively was hardly a shrinking violet. But there was something about him that shook her. That knowledge pleased him immensely.

“You promised,” she said again, still backing away.

“I have no honor, I warned you of that,” he said, advancing steadily. “Besides, it’s a beautiful afternoon, there’s a soft breeze and a lovely woman nearby. It’s too much for even the saintliest soul to resist.”

“And you’re hardly the—” She tripped as she moved backward, and he caught her as she fell, pulling her up against him with only the lightest of clasps. She struggled, but he knew a token struggle when he felt one. She was capable of much more force.

“Just a kiss, love,” he said, putting his fingers under her chin and tilting her head up to meet his mouth. She held very still as his lips tasted hers, but he could feel the faint tremor that ran through her small, strong body, and he wondered idly what caused it. Hatred? Or desire?

He lifted his head to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, and her face looked white, strained. “Open your mouth,” he murmured. “The sooner you give in, the sooner it will be over. It’s nothing more than a simple kiss.”

It required only the slightest pressure of his fingers to make her open her mouth, and he kissed her slowly, leisurely, with all the expertise he had at his command. She stood in his arms, if not acquiescent, at least riot fighting him. Her body was stiff at first, and then slowly grew more pliant, her hips tilting up against his with the light encouragement of his hand at the small of her back, her perfect breasts through the thin layers of clothing pressing against his chest. He could hear the lazy buzz of bees in the background, the distant song of birds, and the wind rustled through the leaves overhead as he kissed her, until she was shaking, until he was shaking, until he wanted to push her down in the sweet-smelling grass and tear away her clothes and his, until he wanted to find comfort in the sweet danger of her body.

He was never quite certain what stopped him.

Surely not a lack of desire—he was as randy as a young boy, ready to burst if she even touched him.

Maybe it was the way her hands tightened on his shoulders in helpless pleading. Maybe it was the softness of her body and the ferocity of her soul. Maybe for once in his life he wanted to do a decent thing.

He released her slowly breaking the kiss first, trailing his mouth across her cheek until he knew she could stand without falling. Until he knew
he
could stand without falling. And then he stepped back.

“You see,” he said in a voice that sounded completely unmoved. “Nothing but a simple kiss.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him in shock and dismay. An odd reaction, to be sure, to something as commonplace as a kiss, he thought.

“If that was a simple kiss,” she said, “I can’t imagine what a complicated one would be like.”

“I could always show you,” he said, reaching for her, but she was quick this time, dancing out of his reach. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the house. If you’ve failed to provide us with fish for dinner, I’m going to have to do something about it myself. That ancient chicken Taverner brought back will take hours before it’s edible.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to wring its neck,” he said in a long-suffering tone.

Her smile was just slightly unsettling. “Not at all. I’m very good at killing… chickens.”

He couldn’t help it, he let out a shout of laughter, one free of the darkness that usually hovered around him. “Just so long as you don’t poison the poor creature.”

She was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before, her huge brown eyes wide and wary, her delectable mouth open in surprise. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Why are you looking so stricken?” he asked, still uncharacteristically good-humored. “Did I discover your foul plan? If you’ll pardon the pun.”

He couldn’t coax an answering smile from her at his dreadful joke. She simply stared at him, ashen-faced. And then she turned and ran.

He was half-tempted to chase after her, but he kept still as she raced across the meadow, her skirts and chestnut hair flying behind her. She looked like a wood sprite; innocent, delectable, and he knew if he chased her he’d catch her all too easily. He wasn’t ready to do that, as he felt his light mood darken once more.

He’d left his fishing tackle down by the river when he’d given in to temptation and come in search of her. He’d go back and fetch it. For one brief moment she’d come surprisingly close to kissing him back. Perhaps he’d be able to coax an even more enthusiastic response from her as the shadows lengthened.

He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted her enthusiasm. It was the most obvious revenge of all, seducing the hate-filled Ghislaine, stripping her clothes, her anger, her defenses away, until she was lying entwined with him, panting, breathless, sated and disarmed. It would be far too easy. He knew how to make a woman respond to him—he was adept at it, and even someone as murderously vengeful as Ghislaine wouldn’t be able to withstand him for long.

He smiled mirthlessly. As a talent, seduction ranked somewhere above skill with cards and a step below fine horsemanship. He possessed those two talents as well. Why wasn’t the world his to command?

His earlier, equable mood had vanished with daylight as he made his way back to the decrepit hovel that had once been a gentleman’s elegant hunting lodge. Smoke was issuing from the chimney, the ripe smell of wood smoke teasing the air, and he realized it had grown chilly once more. He paused, staring at the ruined house, and wondered whether, if things had been different, he could have saved it. And then he shrugged. The damage had been done long ago, decades of neglect taking their toll and the fire being the final straw. His martinet of a father had been uninterested in frivolous pleasures such as hunting, and the mad Blackthornes weren’t noted for the care they gave their property. Though given the extent of the ruination, it was probably his grandfather who had first let the place disintegrate.

That grandfather had been murdered in his married mistress’s bed. One uncle had been killed in a duel, another by his own hand. It was no wonder the place in Scotland had fallen to rack and ruin. The Blackthornes were too busy destroying themselves to pay heed to a simple country house.

What would it take to put the place in good heart again? More than he possessed, that was certain. He wasn’t sure why he’d held on to the place—it was patently absurd when you considered the five hundred acres of prime hunting and fishing land that surrounded the building. He could have sold it time and again to pay a portion of his monumental debts, to stake himself to a new round of gaming. But he hadn’t, and he could only blame an errant sentimental streak.

There was no room in his life for sentiment, for warmth or weakness. The beauty of the countryside had almost tricked him into thinking otherwise. By now he should have learned that the only thing he could count on was himself.

One thing was for certain; he wasn’t going to spend another chaste night in bed with Ghislaine. He was going to seduce her out of her murderous intent and then abandon her. His earlier fancy of taking her back to London was discarded. She was having a demoralizing effect on him. He was starting to care about her. And he had no intention of caring about anyone.

He noticed no sign of Tavvy, a fact which both pleased and disturbed him. He knew only a moment’s discomfort when he saw the remains of the chicken Ghislaine had butchered and gutted. There wasn’t a chef in the world who could stay squeamish.

The chicken might have been old and tough, but it certainly smelled wonderful when he stepped into their makeshift room. Ghislaine was at the far end, eyeing him warily, and he noticed with passing regret that she’d bundled her silky chestnut hair behind her.

He was tired of waiting. She was there, at his mercy, and he wanted her. Why in God’s name should he hesitate? He’d always prided himself on a total lack of decency—urges and desires were to satisfy, and to hell with the cost. He couldn’t afford to weaken now. If he showed Ghislaine any pity, he’d end up with a knife in his throat or a belly full of poison.

He might very well end up that way despite his best efforts. It only made sense to enjoy what his hopeful executioner had to offer. Even reluctant, her mouth was very sweet. And the enthusiastic serving maid at the inn a few nights back had only managed to whet his appetite. No substitute would do. It was Ghislaine he wanted writhing beneath him, taking him into her tight, fierce little body. It was Ghislaine he would have.

Ghislaine knew that her time had run out. She accepted that fact with determined fatalism. So he would take her body. It was only to be expected. If she had any sense at all she’d be glad of it, joyful that he was giving her even more cause for her bitter hatred of him. At a time when that hatred was faltering, she needed all the fury she could muster.

If only he hadn’t smiled. Today had been a disaster from start to finish, an assault on her determination and her defenses. The dark satyr had disappeared, replaced by a world-weary country gentleman with a dangerous sense of humor and a smile that would melt the heart of a gorgon. While she had done her best to harden her own heart, a part of it was still ominously vulnerable, and his smile had been sunshine to her winter soul.

But there was no smile on his face now, no lightness. If she hadn’t known otherwise, she would have thought he’d spent the last hours closeted with a brandy bottle. The warmth of the afternoon, the innocence of a country meadow had vanished into something dark and twisted. And she told herself she welcomed the darkness. There would be no danger of succumbing.

“I’m tired of waiting,
ma belle,”
he said, and there was faint contempt behind the casual endearment.