After the Abduction (7 page)

But she
had.
And that changed everything.

The sound of Mr. Pryce’s steps climbing a stairway prodded her into hastening after him. Perhaps he could lead her to her nemesis.

Following him was easy enough. Years of walking softly to and from her father’s chamber during his illness had made her light of foot, and the years of penury they’d
suffered before Rosalind’s marriage had taught her how to navigate poorly lit corridors.

Stealthy as moonlight, she edged up the staircase at a discreet distance, relying on Mr. Pryce’s stiff tread above as her guide. She froze when he reached the top. Then she slipped onto the landing below to wait breathlessly. Light shot into the hall from a door being opened.

“Still hiding yourself away up here, are you?” Mr. Pryce said as he walked inside.

Only then did she dare climb to the top. Heart pounding, she skirted the square of light and pressed into the shadows beyond to wait until Mr. Pryce came back out. She’d dearly love to eavesdrop on their conversation, but dared not venture nearer. Being caught would defeat her purpose.

Seconds later, Mr. Pryce came out and closed the door behind him. He descended the staircase quickly, but only when his footsteps died away did she approach the room he’d left. Fear punched holes in her confidence. What if she was wrong, after all? What if she made a fool of herself?

She wasn’t wrong; she couldn’t be. And if she didn’t confront Lord Templemore now, she’d lose her chance. Dragging in a steadying breath, she swung the door open and stepped inside.

Into the maw of hell. Lantern light reeled eerily over bits of firearms stuck to walls and disgorged onto a long table. Vials of suspicious powder marched down the middle, and a faint stench of sulphur pervaded the smoky air. At the center, with a lantern before him on the table, reigned Lord Templemore, his fingers working metal just as Hephaestus crafted ironwork in the flames of an immortal forge.

Judging from the sooty ceiling and the faltering fire, his servants were afraid to enter here. How very sensible of them. She began to regret not being equally sensible. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Then he spoke without looking up. “Close the blasted door, Uncle. It’s cold enough as it is without you letting in the draft.”

Swallowing her fear, she shut the door behind her. “Do forgive me, my lord—I shouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

His back snapped straight as a sprung bowstring, but he didn’t look at her. “Ah, Lady Juliet. You must be lost. The guest bedchambers are in the east wing.”

As always, the coldhearted beast held his emotions close. “I’m not lost, as you well know. I’ve come to make you tell me the truth. Because no matter what name you use—Morgan or Lord Templemore—you’re still the man who kidnapped me.”

With those precise motions she remembered so well, he set down his metalwork and slid around on the leather-upholstered stool to face her. “My lady, you’re distraught, and that has made you irrational. Shall I call your sister?” Full of false concern, he started to rise from the stool.

“Stay where you are! I’m more rational than I’ve been in my entire life.”

Eyes black as his soul assessed her. “I see. Do you regularly accuse lords of the realm of running with smuggling gangs and kidnapping young women?”

“You’re my first. Though I dearly hope you’re my last.”

“So do I. I’d hate to see another man wrongfully accused.”

Her temper flared. She hadn’t come here intending vengeance. She’d simply wanted answers. But his arrogant refusal to admit the truth stirred some wretched, uncivilized instinct to punish him. “You might as well give up this pretense. I know you’re the man we seek.”

“Do you?” His smile was edged in menace. Behind him, the lantern light peeked over his substantial shoulders, limning his image in flame, making him appear even more the God of Fire than before. “Pray tell me, other
than wishful thinking, what has convinced you I’m your kidnapper?”

Oh, how she hated that placating tone—the one he’d used two years ago, when she’d been a silly, gullible girl. If it took all night, she would banish it from his voice. “Wishful thinking has naught to do with it, unless the wish is to see you on your knees begging for mercy while I hold one of your nasty pistols to your head.”

That did it. The smile vanished. “Bloodthirsty little baggage, aren’t you?”

Yes. And it felt good, better than she’d expected. “I only wish for justice.” She paused. “As for how I can be sure who you are, I have more than enough proof of that.”

“Oh?” He rose from his stool, straightening to his full height.

Tall men had always intimidated her, and he was awfully tall. Still, the thought that he might use that against her merely firmed her resolve. “Your brother was educated abroad, didn’t you say?”

A wary nod was her answer.

“And not even in an English colony, but in Geneva, where they speak French.”

“His education was given in English, madam. He had the best tutors.”

“Not until he was thirteen. By your own admission, he spent his early years without such advantages. And with the sort of mother you’ve described, he might have been left to run wild in the streets. At the very least, he would speak with an accent; at the most, he’d lack breeding and refinement as well.”

His lips thinned. “Is there a point to all these insults to members of my family?”

“My kidnapper had a refined English accent and a polished manner. Like yours.”

“Did he indeed?” He strolled closer, stopping only a foot away. “But two years can alter one’s memory greatly,
especially when memory tells us lies to soothe our feelings. Perhaps remembering him that way makes it easier for you to…excuse your bad judgment in eloping with him.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. How dared he even insinuate such a thing? “That isn’t my only proof, sir. I’ve found more since you spun your tale this morning.”

Leaning against the table, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you? I’m all ears.”

The words tumbled out. “First, there was my kidnapper’s manner of dress—as sober as yours. And the lie he chose to tell—that he was in the army. Your brother was a navy man, so why didn’t my kidnapper say he was in the navy? That would’ve made the masquerade easier for him and more convincing.”

His gaze flicked over her. “From what you and your family said, convincing you didn’t prove terribly difficult.”

She flushed. It was true; how readily she’d believed his lies. He’d said what she’d wanted to hear, made her feel what she’d wanted to feel. What she still wanted to feel, truth be told. Although now she knew better than to give in to such uncertain and dangerous emotions.

“Besides,” he went on, “if Morgan had revealed that he’d been in the navy, it would have made it easier for him to be tracked afterward, wouldn’t it?”

“Yet he used his real name with the smugglers,” she countered triumphantly. “Obviously he wasn’t too concerned about being tracked.”

A muscle ticked in Lord Templemore’s jaw. “I’m afraid I can’t explain that. Just as I can’t explain why he kidnapped you to learn some spurious information about the
Oceana,
or why he went aboard. If you’d care to enlighten me with some theories, I’d vastly appreciate it.”

That was the trouble—she had none. Nor had Griff. Indeed, it was the primary reason he’d dismissed her concerns so cavalierly.

“Do feel free to question the townspeople, madam,” he
prodded. “They’ll tell you I was here in Shropshire when my brother was consorting with those smugglers. At least until August, when I went to town to see to some matters concerning my pistol designs. But you said yourself that you know I was in town as late as November.”

An idea suddenly occurred to her. “But how do we know it was really
you
? Perhaps Morgan took your place, appearing in public to cover your actions while you went to Sussex. Once you found out about the ship, you told him and he sailed off in it.”

He gave the heavy sigh of a man much beleaguered by fools. “Why would I leave the brother I barely knew in charge of my estate, so I could go…what? Adventuring? And why on earth would I consort with smugglers in the first place? Or perhaps you think that’s how I came by my wealth? Because if so, then speak to my servants. They’ll be happy to enlighten you about how I did
that,
and it wasn’t anything illegal, I assure you.”

He was so fiendishly logical, it annoyed her. His calm words
ought
to sway her convictions, but they didn’t. Because she knew on some level beyond logic that he was her kidnapper. She just
knew
it.

“So, madam, have you any other ‘proofs’?”

“It hardly matters,” she complained, “since you ignore the ones you don’t like.”

He flashed her a surprisingly genuine smile. “And you ignore my explanations.”

Her obstinacy reasserted itself. “Explain this then—my kidnapper knew guns well, just like you. He even recognized a Manton flintlock, though he saw it from a distance.”

“I hate to disappoint you, my lady, but any military man would. And my brother, as I told you, served several years in the navy.”

That flustered her. “Still…he excelled at using his own pistol, and I understand that you excel in that area as well.”

“I see. So you saw him shoot? Was it at a person or a target?”

Her stomach sank. It was at a sandstone ceiling. Morgan had shot so as to make it crumble right in front of them without the entire tunnel collapsing. His lofty lordship would hardly find that convincing. After all, it could easily have been accidental.

“Have we come to the end of all your ‘proofs’? Or are there more?”

His patronizing tone grated on her, but all she had left was the argument he’d find least persuasive. “There is…one more. His scent. And yours. They’re the same.”

He burst into laughter. “Now that’s rich. We
smell
alike? I dare say many men do. If that’s your most compelling evidence, you don’t have a nose to sniff on.”

She stamped her foot. “How
dare
you laugh at me, you…you scoundrel! After what
you
did—”

“I did nothing, Lady Juliet.” Pushing away from the table, he strode up to hover over her, forcing her to crane her head back to look into his forbidding features. “Forgive me for laughing, but this notion of yours is madness. I understand why you’re eager for vengeance, but you wish to visit it upon the wrong person.” He spoke patiently, as if correcting a child. “The persons you should attack are the rascals attempting to ruin your reputation. Concentrate your powers of deduction on figuring out who
they
might be. Not on revenging yourself on your dead kidnapper’s brother.”

“This isn’t about revenge! I want to know the truth, that’s all. I want to know why you did it, what purpose was served by it. I think I have the right to know, especially if I shall have to suffer the consequences of it.”

The rawest remorse flashed over his features before he regained his iron control. “You do have the right to know. But I can’t tell you, no matter what you think. I have no idea why my brother acted as he did.”

The man was too infuriating to be believed. How dared he continue to stand there and deny his identity to her face!

For a moment, they stood eye to eye, neither one willing to give an inch. But as her temper cooled, she acknowledged that straightforward accusations did her no good. He knew he could hide behind his bulwark of family lineage and money, so no matter how damning her evidence, he’d ignore her demands that he confess.

Unless she tricked him into it. And Lord knows, he’d tricked
her
enough times.

Dropping her head, she began to sniffle. “You’re right, of course. I’m grasping at straws. But it’s only because I’m frustrated that your brother is beyond my power. I can hardly believe I’ll never have the chance to make him pay for what he did.”

“Was it really so very awful?” The tone of false concern had vanished. Now he sounded earnest, almost gentle. “You said he didn’t…assault your honor.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh and wiped away an imaginary tear. “What else could I say, with my family listening? I’m too ashamed to tell them what really happened—how that beast mistreated me, debauched me, and took my innocence.”

He swore a low oath. “You’re not claiming that he—”

“Yes.” She lifted her face in great distress. “That’s exactly what I’m claiming.”

She waited for him to explode, to deny it loudly and thus reveal himself.

He searched her face; then his look turned calculating, as if he’d guessed precisely what she was about. “So my brother deflowered you, did he?”

Swallowing hard, she nodded. She’d never told such a monstrous falsehood in all her life.

“You’re lying.”

Her pulse quickened. Success at last. “And how would
you
know?”

“Because my brother was a gentleman. He’d never have mistreated a woman.”

Disappointment knifed through her at his deft parry. “You said you barely knew him, so how could you possibly know his character?”

That flustered him. “I just do, that’s all.” He stepped closer, and the sudden glint in his eyes made her back up. “But I have a way to
prove
he didn’t debauch you.”

He advanced again, and her heart dropped into her stomach. She could think of only one way he could prove such a thing. “Surely you can’t mean to—”

“No, nothing so dramatic as that.” His arm snaked about her waist, tugging her flush against his lean body. “But if my brother introduced you to the seductive arts, then you probably know something about kissing. Let’s see, shall we?” And before she could even protest, his mouth covered hers.

She froze, swamped by memory. The last time he’d held her. The last time he’d kissed her.

This was the same, but different. His lips were softer now, more coaxing, sliding over hers with a heat and familiarity that startled a trembling in her belly. She tried the tactic that generally worked on her most impertinent suitors and went rigid in his arms. But how could she stay stiff as a poker with
him
? It was too much to ask.