A Touch of Passion (17 page)

When she failed to comply he pounced, wrestling her backward on the bed. He hit her with the pistol, and blood trickled into her eye, making it difficult for her to see. He pinned her down with his large body, and she could barely get breath into her lungs. The muzzle of his pistol once again pressed against her temple. Panic took hold, and she tried to fight back. The hand holding the gun cuffed her chin. “Don’t struggle or it will be worse for you.”

She wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Besides, if she fought him, he might have to put his weapon down. She tried to remember everything her brothers had taught her about fighting off an attacker, but she’d never been flat on her back, weighed down by a large body. She did know his vulnerable parts, however. She stopped struggling momentarily, and as soon as she felt his body relax slightly atop her, she struck, fast like an adder—a knee to the groin and a thumb in his eye.

He cursed next to her ear, loud enough to reverberate through her head. She pressed her other thumb into his other eye and bucked her body. It worked—he flipped off her and the gun flew high into the air.

She immediately rolled away from him, and as she did, she kicked out at his groin once more. Her foot found its target, and he fell back on the bed, clutching his privates, his mouth open in a silent scream.

As luck would have it, the gun fell into her lap. In an instant the pistol was pointing at
his
heart.

“Now, if you want to keep your battered manhood, I suggest you tell me whom you’re working for.”

Grayson swore at the moon. Two of them.
Cowards
. Where the hell had these two come from? His anxiety over Portia being alone in their room didn’t affect his fighting spirit, however.

“Guv, hand over your money and valuables,” one of the goons said, waving a pistol that looked as if it would be more likely to misfire than shoot straight.

They were English—interesting. Had they been sent by his enemy to delay him or to finish him off? The gun pointed directly at him indicated the latter.

“You are a long way from home, gentlemen.”

“Cor, give the guv a medal. Why d’you think we’re robbin’ yer?”

Maybe this was simply a mugging. If so, he should pay them and be done. He couldn’t be delayed. The only thing keeping him from panicking was the knowledge that two of Seaton’s men were guarding Portia’s room. He drew out what little money he had and handed it over.

“We’ll take the fancy watch on that chain I see hanging out of yer pocket,” the crook said, then spat on the ground.

“No. I gave you money, and I shall keep my personal belongings.”

The bigger man moved closer. “You don’t want me to pound that noble face for you, p’raps loosen up a few teeth. What would the ladies say when pretty boy is not so pretty?” He blew Grayson a mock kiss, then stepped closer—close enough for Grayson to let loose with a huge punch, sending the attacker to the ground. He then turned his attention to the man with the gun.

“I have given you enough money to get back to England and then some. Shoot me, and my friends will hunt you down and kill you slowly. I suggest you take your partner here and leave before I disarm you and use that weapon to knock the last of your teeth out.”

The man shifted from foot to foot, suddenly unsure of himself. When he glanced down at his friend, Grayson made his move. He dived and tackled him around the waist, carrying both of them to the ground. They landed hard, Grayson on top, and the pistol went flying. Within seconds Grayson had his knife at the man’s throat.

“I gave you the option of leaving, and since you didn’t take it, I’ll have my money back.” He fished in the man’s pocket and removed the money he’d handed over. Then he got off the man, who lay winded. “If you want to get back to England this desperately, report to the
Amelea
tomorrow morning.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Bring your friend.”

With that he took off at a run back toward the hotel, praying his delay hadn’t cost Portia her life.

She eased off the bed and put some distance between her and her erstwhile attacker. She could take her time, as he was still rolling on the bed moaning. She kept glancing at the door, wondering where Grayson was. He should have been back by now.

She moved across to the window and peered out at the busy street below. She could not see him, but perhaps he was already back in the hotel.

“Why would I tell you anything?” wheezed the man. “I’m a dead man once Blackwood gets his hands on me.”

He was right, she knew. What did a man like this value? She smiled inwardly. “What if I could guarantee your safety and pay you double what your employer is paying you? And triple if you help us apprehend him?”

He sat up. “You can’t protect me from Blackwood. There is no way he’d agree to pay me.”

“Not Lord Blackwood, no. But I could pay you.”

“A woman? Where would you get the money?” He raised an eyebrow. “I owe a lot of money.”

“I make a lot of money with my cider business.”

“I had heard your cider business was very profitable. But twenty thousand pounds’ worth?”

“A trifling sum. You look familiar, but I cannot remember your name. Have we met before?”

“We have met twice now. Once at a masquerade ball at Lord Helthrop’s, where I tried to compromise you in the study, and then when I kidnapped you by impersonating Lord Blackwood.”

She spluttered in rage, recalling the incident, even though it had been a number of years ago. “That was you that night in the study?”

He nodded.

“I remember kicking you in the privates that night too. I would have thought you’d learn.” His face colored. “You ruined my favorite gown, ripping the sleeves.” She’d managed to escape, and Rose had helped her leave the ball without anyone noticing the disarray she was in. She had never told anyone besides Rose about the attack, as she had no idea who the man was—he too had been wearing a mask—and she’d handled the situation. She’d simply made it a point never to be alone in a room with a strange man ever again.

“You followed me into the study thinking I was Lord Blackwood. That’s what gave me the idea to trap you.”

“Except I’ve stopped you once again. I’m in control, so how about we start with an easy question: who are you?” He made as if to move, and she said angrily, “I’d be just as happy to shoot you for the indignities I suffered in Egypt. My brother Philip broke his leg!”

He sat back, wisely deciding to believe her. For a moment he sat assessing her silently. The moments ticked on. At last he said, “My name is Lord Weston.”

Ah, now she understood his desperation. “I’ve heard my brothers talk of you. You’re the Duke of Chester’s disavowed brother. No man would let his daughter near you. I’ve heard you have the French disease. Not a condition an heiress would want.” Horror slipped over her skin like a slimy worm. He’d been about to rape her. “I should shoot you,” she spat at him.

“No one would miss me if you do. You’d probably be doing me a favor too.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m waiting for your answer, Lord Weston.”

Finally he said, “My employer is ruthless. If she finds out I’ve helped you, I’m dead.”

Their enemy was a woman? Interesting. Portia understood that women could be just as intelligent, just as deviant, and just as vengeful as men. Perhaps she was a woman Grayson had scorned.

“I’ve heard you will probably die from the disease. If I were you, I’d want money so I could enjoy the years I have left. If you don’t agree to help me and I tell Grayson what you tried to do, you’re dead anyway. This way we help each other.”

He slowly nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “I seem to be between a cliff and the long fall to the bottom. How do I know I can trust you to keep your word? You could simply hand me over to the law once you have what you want.”

She walked toward him, the gun trained at his heart lest he forget she meant business. “You won’t know, except I give you my word, and it’s better than many gentlemen’s. Besides, what other choice do you have? Grayson’s not going to take kindly to you attacking his wife.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. Given that you two are at odds, he’s not likely to listen to your idea.”

“What idea?” a deep voice boomed from the doorway.

An instant later Grayson was at her side, wanting to take the pistol she held. Much to his indignation, she ignored him. “Lord Weston and I have come to an arrangement. If he tells us who employed him, I’ll pay him double what
she
offered him to kill me.”

Grayson struggled to get his breathing under control, seeing her so close to the enemy. Weston was a son of a bitch and wouldn’t hesitate to snap her neck if it meant he could escape.

What really irked him was his feeling of disappointment that she’d not needed his help at all. She evidently had disarmed a man almost twice her size. Of course, he was very pleased she was safe and unhurt, but still …

“Weston. I should have known a man like you would be desperate enough to harm an innocent young girl. I should challenge you, but I rather think you’d cheat. Perhaps I’ll simply shoot you and rid the world of an abuser of women.”

Weston looked at Portia and sarcastically said, “I did say he would not agree.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t pay you a cent. I think I’ll simply beat the information out of you.”

“You can try,” came the growled reply.

The two men eyed each other like two rutting stags. Grayson heard Portia sigh, but he refused to be the first to look away. His hands itched to lay Weston out flat. Did the man think he couldn’t see the tear in Portia’s dress?

“Stop it. I’m the one who captured him, I’m the one holding the pistol, and I shall be the one making the decision,” she said, directing her comment at Grayson. “If you would tie him up—” At Weston’s cry she said, “I’m not stupid. I don’t trust you. You would sell your own mother to make money. You’re just as likely to double-cross me as you have our villainess.”

Grayson’s eyebrows rose. The word “villainess” and Portia’s earlier use of
she
finally penetrated into his consciousness. “A woman.”

Portia nodded. “The female sex can be just as deadly as any man.”

He knew that well enough. Christian had been pinned under a wagon, and a woman had calmly set fire to it and watched him burn.

“Taking Weston back to England is not a good idea.”

“It’s one boat ride.”

“And then what? We have to go overland, and with our enemy still out to kill you, I can’t watch him too.”

Clapping interrupted their argument. “You’re such the hero, Blackwood. In case you hadn’t noticed, Lady Portia doesn’t need your handholding. She got my gun from me.”

Grayson snapped back, “And I’d love to know exactly what you were doing that made you so careless.” Portia’s face turned red, and Grayson felt his blood boil. He had a very good idea of what Weston had been trying to do. He made a move toward Weston, but Portia’s tiny hand pressed squarely into his chest, holding him back.

“Not now. There are more important things to do than avenge my honor. I think my kick to his groin went a long way toward doing that, anyway.”

Fuming, Grayson used his eyes to send a message to Weston over the top of Portia’s head:
This is not over.
Weston’s smug smile indicated he’d received it loud and clear.

“Blackwood, if I get my money, you get a name. Don’t screw up her plan. It suits all concerned, does it not?”

The bastard was right. Grayson turned to call for Seaton’s men. He would have plenty of time to thrash Weston once he had the villainess’s name. Portia might have agreed to a deal with this scoundrel, but he certainly hadn’t.

The rest of the voyage to England was uneventful, yet Grayson couldn’t relax. Weston was confined in the hold, and Portia seemed to be under the impression that she could handle a man like him, but Grayson didn’t trust him. Weston was like a large python, he thought. Pythons typically remained motionless in a camouflaged position and then struck suddenly at passing prey.

Portia had no idea whom she was dealing with. Weston would double-cross them if it meant more money, and he’d not hesitate to hurt or kill Portia if he had to. Grayson would prefer to tangle with the devil.

When they reached Deal, in Kent, their party settled in at the Sea Dog Inn in the center of town, far enough back from the rough waterfront but still not the most salubrious of accommodations. Their rooms occupied the entire top floor, and it would be almost impossible for an attacker to climb up to reach them. And Grayson made sure that Weston was chained securely in a small, windowless, locked, and guarded room at the rear. Though if Weston wanted to jump out a window to escape, Grayson thought wryly, he’d love to give him a helping hand. His landing would be very messy.

Grayson took what was intended to be the maid’s room off Portia’s bedroom. Seaton took the room at the head of the stairs, and his men occupied a room on the other side of the corridor. A private dining and sitting room completed the accommodations.

There was no way Grayson was letting Portia out of his sight until the enemy was caught. But he was already dreading the night, knowing she would be sleeping so near and that this would likely be the last chance to make love to her before they married. Once he delivered her to her family, proprieties would need to be observed. Desire sharp enough to whet the bluntest blade had his body on edge, but he had a point to prove to Portia, and he’d be damned before he let her learn how easy it would be for her to ensure he did her bidding.

A sudden cry followed by a commotion at the top of the stairs saw him draw his pistol. “Portia, stay in your room, and don’t come out until I call.” He barely waited for her nod of agreement before he flung open the door and eased his head out. Seaton was arguing with a very large black-haired gentleman at the top of the stairs. Grayson recognized the accent: refined, English, with a trace of French. It was Arend Aubury, Baron Labourd, one of his fellow Libertine Scholars. Arend had obviously got the letter Grayson sent him from Gibraltar.

The Libertine Scholars were a group of friends from school, six young bucks who had taken their carousing as seriously as their schooling. It had earned them the nickname “Libertine Scholars.” Grayson hadn’t expected Arend to meet him in Deal; he’d asked for him to gather the England-based Libertine Scholars, Hadley Fullerton and Maitland Spencer, Duke of Lyttleton, and meet him at his townhouse in London. Christian Trent and Sebastian Hawkestone were still overseas.