Always a Temptress (5 page)

Turning back to her candle, Kate actually laughed. “Please, Schroeder. If you wish to remain on congenial terms, try not to resort to such absurd euphemisms. I am no guest, and we both know it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you are here, then I suppose it’s true. Diccan is involved in this travesty.”

“He offered the house.”

Kate nodded, as if she understood.

Schroeder hesitated. “Are you all right, Your Grace? You seem a bit…”

“Tetchy? Think nothing of it. Kidnappings seem to make me fractious.”

“This has happened before?”

“No, but once my brother Edwin hears how successful Diccan has been, I’m sure he’ll waste no time taking up the idea. Edwin was never much of a leader. He is, however, an excellent follower.”

Schroeder took an experimental step closer. Kate didn’t move. “May I help you change now? The men will be bringing your baggage up for you.”

Kate kept her voice admirably pleasant. “It is nothing personal, Schroeder. But touch me, and you’ll limp for a month. What you
can
do is to provide more candles. This one is failing. Or get Harry to open the window.”

“I’m afraid—”

“Try not to be afraid. It’s such an exhausting emotion.”

Schroeder spent another ten minutes trying to get Kate to see the error of her ways. Kate spent the time watching the candle eat away at itself. She could hear her luggage being dragged up the stairs. Once it reached the top, though, silence fell.

Schroeder stood before the door like a warrior. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding truly regretful. “I can do no more without your cooperation.”

Kate should have known Harry would come up with an effective torture. She itched. Her hair felt like a rat’s nest, and she wanted to scrub her teeth. But she wasn’t about to strip for anyone, especially if Harry was the one asking.

Turning back to the candle, Kate nodded. “I understand. I hold you completely faultless in all of this. You tell Harry that if he wants to see me naked, he can make it worth my while, like everybody else.”

Sighing, Schroeder turned to go.

“Schroeder,” Kate asked suddenly. “Do you have a first name?”

Schroeder paused. “Barbara, Your Grace.”

Kate nodded. “Would you mind if I used it? I despise unnecessary formality.”

Schroeder didn’t answer right away. “It would be an honor, Your Grace.”

“Kate,” Kate said, briefly deserting her candle to meet the abigail’s uncertain gaze. “Or Lady Kate.
Never
Your Grace.”

Still looking confused, the woman dropped a quick curtsy and opened the door.

“I would truly appreciate some candles, please, Barbara,” was all Kate said. It annoyed her that her voice had begun to thin out again, and that her hands were trembling in her lap. “What time is it?”

Schroeder turned. “A bit after midnight.”

Kate almost groaned out loud. At least five hours to go.

“Thank you.” What else could she say? Barbara could do nothing about the dark.

“Something is not right,” Schroeder said without preamble when she ran Harry down in the kitchen where he was brewing tea.

“Plenty is not right,” Harry said, not looking up. “Did you search her?”

“She didn’t move, not once. She could barely look away from the candle long enough to face me, as if that candle were the only thing she could see. Does she have problems being shut in, or being in the dark?”

Pot in one hand, his tin mug in the other, Harry looked up. “How would I know?”

“You said you knew her.”

Harry tilted his head. “I never remember her holding still.”

Schroeder pulled out a cup for herself and wiped it out with her skirt. “I’m telling you. Something is wrong. Cannot we at least open the window?”

“And have her escape?”

“It’s three stories up, Major. She isn’t a bird.”

He poured Schroeder’s portion before his own. “She’s a witch. We’d wake up and she’d have vanished with all her luggage and our horses. No.”

“Then get her some candles.”

“She can have candles. She can have chandeliers. Once she strips.”

“You mean once I search her clothing.”

His head snapped around. “When we find the verse.”

“What if we don’t?”

He turned back to his tea. “Then she ate it and we’ll have to find a way to make her tell us.”

“You’re so sure?”

“You don’t know her.”

“You don’t seem to, either. Not if you don’t know why she stares at candles as if they are the window out of a prison.”

Harry slammed the pot down, sloshing water across the grimy table. “Schroeder, don’t get poetic on me. She’s a duchess, not a fairy princess. Now please. Search her.”

Kate wasn’t sure how much longer it was, except that the candle had worn away to a puddle, and she was seriously thinking of ripping at the shutters with her fingernails. She needed to have more light. The walls were closing in, the darkness thickening, and she refused to face what it hid. More, she knew, since she’d spent that time caring for wounded in Brussels. Another layer of nightmares now lay in wait.

She was so focused on the little flame that she didn’t even hear the lock turn. She just suddenly knew that there was new light in the room.

“I’m not a monster,” Harry said from the doorway.

She wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say. She wasn’t sure she could say anything. Sweat had collected under her armpits and between her breasts, making her itch even more.

He walked in, his boots thudding on the floor. “What game are you playing, Kate?”

“You’re the one playing the game, Harry. Why don’t you tell me?”

She knew better than to goad him, yet she couldn’t seem to help it. Once upon a time, they had fought like duelists, trading verbal blows as they’d argued about everything from astrology to architecture, their laughter as sharp as their wit. For a long time now, though, the barbs they’d traded had carried nothing but venom.

“Please, Kate,” he said, and he almost sounded sincere. “I don’t have a choice.”

He stepped close enough that she could smell fresh air and leather. She almost closed her eyes with the sheer pleasure of it, a scent of freedom and summer and hope. Deserting her candle, she considered the harsh angles of his face.

For the first time, she realized that he looked like hell: strained and tired and lined, as if something literally weighed him down.

“Everyone has a choice, Harry,” she reminded him. “You
could
believe me instead of a notorious assassin.”

“And you could help us find out why he would have made the accusation.”

“I would be happy to, if that was what you really wanted. But what you really want is to see me humiliated, and I am not in the mood for it.”

“The Surgeon admitted it right before he died,” Harry accused. “He said that you had the verse. That you were tied up in this. Diccan told me himself.”

She shrugged and returned to her candle. “The Surgeon lied.”

Harry didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Even so, Kate swore she could hear his skepticism.

Fine. Let him believe what he wanted. He always had.

“You like this room so much,” he said, “you’ll just stay here until you cooperate.”

She hoped he didn’t see the shudder that went through her. “The longer you hold me, the greater your chances that I’m going to spread this tale all over London.”

“You’d become a scandal.”

She laughed, relieved that it sounded sharp and dry. “Where have you been, Harry? I
am
a scandal. I’m the woman mothers point to when they want to show their chicks how not to behave.”

“Don’t make it sound as if you’re put upon. You chose the way you live.”

“Indeed I did. Which no longer has anything to do with you.”

It was his turn to laugh. “Don’t I wish that were true. I’m supposed to be selling out right now and going home. I’ve waited ten years to do it. Ten
years
with no goal in mind but to survive long enough to get out, grab only what I can fit in a rucksack, and wander the world.
Alone
. Without commanders or enemies or lying, manipulative women to stop me from doing what
I
want for a change. You’re making me wait, Kate. That’s not a smart thing.”

Again, as if he couldn’t help it, he approached, stepping so close she could feel the heat pulse off him; she could almost taste his breath against her skin. He stood there for the longest time, not quite touching her, not speaking, not moving. Crowding her, though, with sensations, with memories, with the forlorn hope of youth.

For once, she didn’t mind. He was distracting her, setting up an almost harmonic resonance in her that seemed to light her body from within. Her skin hummed, her blood slowed and thickened, until it seemed to pool in her belly, until it tautened her nipples and filled her breasts.

For a moment, a long, blissful moment, she forgot about the candle and the dark and the long hours till morning. She forgot Harry’s animosity and the impossible task he’d set her. For just that moment, she relived the exquisite pleasure a body could enjoy. A pleasure that lived in the memory of one long ago summer when she hadn’t known any better.

Then Harry stepped back and the link snapped. Kate almost shuddered with the loss. Suddenly the dank old room was colder and emptier even than it had been before. All the rest of her life came rushing back to her, and she remembered who she was. What she was. And what she wasn’t.

“Your candle’s about to go out,” Harry mused. “Would you like another?”

She was so proud of herself. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did she betray her distress. “You mean if I help you, you’ll help me?”

She swore she could hear his teeth grind.

“I’ll give you until noon,” he said, and she heard the confusion in his voice. “If you haven’t cooperated, then I’m afraid the gloves come off.”

As if in punctuation, the candle flame, pulled by Harry’s movement, leapt up once and then died.

Don’t leave me in the dark
, Kate almost begged. But she didn’t. She did not beg anymore. Ever. She would survive the dark, just like always.

When the candle flickered out, Harry paused only a moment before stomping over to the door and yanking it open.

“Mudge!” he yelled as if he were in an army camp. “Candles!”

His voice shook, and Kate knew he’d been as affected as she.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

“What do you mean, she got away?” the quiet voice demanded.

The man standing before the desk raked his hands through a perfectly coiffed Brutus haircut. “Someone stole her.”

His companion was not amused. “Stole her. Like a pocket watch?”

He sank into an upright chair, his focus on the ornate Turkish carpet beneath his feet. “We waited at the Angel, as agreed. We meant to intercept her coach as it crossed the downs. But—” He shrugged and raised drawn gray eyes. “Someone was ahead of us.”

“And you didn’t follow?”

“My men are still looking. I felt obliged to come notify you.”

“And I thank you. It was wise to come during the funeral. You should not be remarked on.” A dry smile crossed the knife-sharp features. “I imagine you’re getting your share of commiseration over your own wife’s death.”

The young man flinched. “My children…”

“Will understand, I promise. You have only done what you need to, after all. We couldn’t move without you.” A finger tapped against the leather desk blotter. “I’m afraid that this setback will delay everything, though.”

The man stood and pulled at his jacket. “We’ll find her.”

He had barely walked from the room when a hidden door swung open alongside the bookshelves. An exquisite auburn-haired beauty with large blue eyes and a voluptuous figure stepped into the room.

“It is too bad you must rely on such as he,” she said, her accent decidedly French. “I could have taken good care of your duchess, me.”

“You will undoubtedly get your chance, Mimi.”

Mimi poured two glasses of brandy and took the recently occupied chair. “You promised,” she said, handing a glass over. “I get to finish it. I have not had any fun, me, since the Surgeon is killed.”

Her compatriot took up the brandy and tasted it. It would not do to reveal to the redheaded doxy just how repugnant she was. Ah well, needs must.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to wait for you to dispatch the duchess. However, once it is done, I don’t see why you can’t enjoy yourself a bit. Would you like to follow in the Surgeon’s footsteps and do a bit of carving?”

The redhead actually shivered with delight. “Oh, yes. Mimi, she will like that.”

As if she couldn’t wait to share the news, she reached beneath her skirt and pulled out a lethal-looking scimitar-shaped butcher knife, lifting it so that the light slithered down the blade. “Her knives are lonely.”

“Good. I have the perfect message to leave on the Duchess of Murther.”

Oh, yes, a very good one
. Suddenly Mimi wasn’t the only one shivering with delight.

O
h, Mudge,” Kate mourned, laying her hand on the boy’s arm. “You’re wasted on the army. You should come work for me.”

The wide-eyed boy blinked as if he’d seen a vision. Kate wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t recovered her trunks, and she hadn’t changed her dress, but she had candles. She felt reckless with relief, and Mudge was a beautiful boy. Which meant that she was enjoying a bit of flirtation with the breakfast Mudge had just brought. After all, Mudge was the one who had saved her.

Oh, all right, Harry had ordered the candles, but Mudge had brought at least a dozen. Kate’s first instinct had been to set them on every surface in the room and light each one so she could banish the last of the shadows. She knew better, though. Harry could just as easily order them away. So she lit two and pocketed the rest until she could hide them where Harry wouldn’t find them.

It helped that dawn had come and gone. Not that she could precisely see it. But she’d felt it in her marrow, like an atavistic clock, stirring her senses awake, pushing the monsters back into their corners. The light effervesced in her blood, brewing giddiness. Freedom, even the illusion of it, coursed through her like a drug.

“Mudge is immune to you, Kate,” Harry said from the doorway.

She made it a point not to acknowledge him. Her attention was on his improbably beautiful batman, who stood staring at her as if she were an exotic species of animal he’d never seen before. “How old are you, Mudge?”

The boy shrugged, his Rifleman green uniform pulling oddly across his shoulders. “Not sure, ma’am. Twenty?”

She nodded, flashing him a blatantly insincere smile. “A good age. The age of wonder. The decade of discovery. You’d love to be in my employ, Mudge. You’d meet such interesting people. See such interesting places.
Do
such interesting things.”

She knew she shouldn’t torment the boy this way. He wasn’t up to her weight. Harry, on the other hand, was, and he was obviously irritated with her. The tighter his brow grew, the more reckless she felt.

“For instance,” she said, leaning close to Mudge, “do you know what I’ve recently acquired from Josephine Bonaparte herself? Well, not from her hand, poor dear. She died before I had the pleasure of meeting her, which I consider a tragedy.” She sighed, knowing exactly what it did to her bodice. “Just think of the secrets we could have shared, her the mistress of the most rapacious ruler of our age, and me…”

Chuckling, she quirked her eyebrows. Mudge smiled. She didn’t need an interpreter to see that the smile was impersonal. Mudge really was immune. She was glad, actually. She liked the boy.

“Don’t,” Harry warned her.

She turned her smile on him. “You don’t want to know, Harry? After all the effort you’ve gone to over the years to cement my reputation, at least in your own mind? Of course you do.”

She didn’t move, didn’t turn away from the man who had defined her adulthood. “I got it from her estate,” she continued brightly. “Josephine’s. Her things were up for auction, and I snagged a real prize. A psyche mirror.” Turning back to Mudge, she leaned in close, as if imparting secrets. “Do you know what that is, Mudge?”

Mudge shook his head, looking exactly like a man enjoying a confidence. “Imagine you’re about to tell me, ma’am.”

She smiled and put every suggestive thought into it. “A psyche mirror,” she said, her voice pitched lower, her hands sweeping through the air in punctuation, “is an oval mirror on a stand. A
tall
…oval mirror. The innovation is that in it I can see a reflection of my entire—” She swept her hands down, mimicking her own contours, still smiling. “Self. All at once. Scandalous, don’t you think? I keep it in my boudoir.”

“Mudge,” Harry interrupted.

The boy started and turned, as if he’d completely forgotten that Harry was there.

“Did you get supplies?” Harry asked.

Mudge blinked. “Yessir.”

Harry nodded. “How about some food, then? The men will be hungry.”

Mudge bobbed his head and turned to give Kate an abrupt, rather clumsy bow that endeared him to her all the more. “Y’r Grace.”

She held out her hand as if he were a viscount on a morning visit. “It has been a pleasure. Don’t let Harry intimidate you, my dear. He’s all uniform and no sword.”

Touching her fingers, the boy flashed her a bright grin. Then he fled.

Harry waited until Mudge was well out of sight before stepping into the room. “I’m afraid your efforts were wasted on him,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb in a pose of insouciance. “He’s not your type.”

“Not my type?” Kate retorted with a quirked eyebrow. “You truly think there is a man alive who’s not my type? I must be losing my touch.”

“He’s a soldier in the king’s army, and would not be well served by any of the men hearing him called ‘dear.’”

Kate strolled over to the boarded-up window, as if she could see out of it. “How on earth did Mudge find himself in the army?”

“It was that or Botany Bay. He was caught stealing bread.”

Kate wished she could say she was surprised. “Why, Harry,” she said, turning back on him, her own eyes wide. “You’ve taken him under your wing, haven’t you? Altruism? I’m not sure it fits you.”

“I reserve it for people who deserve it. Mudge has no idea how to lie.”

“And I’m so very good at it, you see no reason to protect me.”

“I never said you were lacking in intellect, Kate.” Straightening, he offered her a chilly smile. “It’s almost noon. Are you going to cooperate, or will this get difficult?”

“Oh…” Kate gave the appearance of considering his question. “Difficult, I think.”

He stared at her, obviously fighting for control. She held her breath, not sure what she wanted him to do. She wanted to fight him; to tear strips off his skin for the insults he’d delivered, the assumptions he made. She wanted to get past him and escape.

He shook his head. “Don’t push me, Kate. I’m not in a good mood.”

She smiled. “Good heavens. If kidnapping your favorite nemesis doesn’t put you in a good mood, Harry, I fear you’ve lost the knack for happiness. Probably a good thing that those two engagements of yours didn’t work out, then, don’t you think? Think of what their lives would have been like. Especially…Lady Poppy, wasn’t it?”

The minute she said it she regretted it. She saw his mouth go white and braced herself.

“You just won’t stop, will you?” he snarled.

A shiver of fear chased down her spine; a shudder of anticipation as he stepped right up to her.

“Is that what you want?” he demanded. “For me to lose my control?”

Was it? His eyes, those soft sky-blue eyes, were the color of hot flame. He seemed to fill the room. She stood her ground. Joan of Arc. Boudicca. Except she didn’t think those valiant women had been holding out against the confusion of desire.

He stood so close, she could feel the wash of his breath against her cheek. “You want me to take it from you?” he asked. “Is that the taste you’ve acquired over the years? Would you like me to control you? Maybe tie you up, or get out my riding crop? I know that some women like the sting of it across their sweet little asses. How about you, Kate? Is that what you’re waiting for?”

Suddenly the room went cold and Kate couldn’t breathe. Her skin crawled; the blood drained from her face, leaving her unpardonably dizzy and clammy. “Thank you, Harry,” she managed to say, holding perfectly still. “You’ve finally made me glad I didn’t run off with you.”

Harry reared back, as if she’d slapped him. “Just now?” he demanded. “Hell, Kate, I was glad the day I left.”

Stalking out, he slammed the door behind him. Kate dropped into her chair, her knees giving out. The only thing that made her feel better was the knowledge that his hand had been shaking as he reached for the door on his way out.

For a long moment, she just sat there, her stomach somersaulting and her head swimming. He was right. She’d gone too far, and she’d been paid back for it. She lifted her hands to see that she was shaking, too, but she really wasn’t sure what from. Anger? Fear? Desire? How was she supposed to separate them?

She had to get away. This insane contest between Harry and her would only escalate, which would solve nothing. She had no answers for him, nor did he, it seemed, for her. He certainly couldn’t tell her why anyone would think she belonged to the bloody Lions. He would just keep sparking her temper and rousing her body until something very bad happened. And Kate had had quite enough of very bad in her life.

Taking an unsteady breath, she leaned her elbows on the table and dropped her head in her hands. She’d been allowing Harry to take the lead up till now. She had to change that. She needed to get out, and she was the only one who could do it.

First she took the time to hide her candles and flint. Like a starving child with her first meal, she couldn’t assume more was coming. Pulling up a floorboard near the grayish rug, she slipped her stash beneath and moved the table over it. Then she scoured the room for tools, for weapons, for weaknesses.

Harry had prepared well. The bed was suspended on ropes, and the chest of drawers emptied of everything but dust. And although a hit over the head with a wooden drawer might surprise or even cut, it would not stop. There weren’t any sheets on the bed, nothing but a tattered pea-green brocade that would probably rip from no more than a look. There wasn’t even a mirror to smash.

She went over the room inch by inch. She didn’t expect success; Harry had been too thorough. So she was even more surprised when only half an hour later, she found her answer.

The shutters. They had been nailed closed, but the hinges were within a good yank of pulling from the wall. All she had to do was pry them loose and she could sneak out that way. She just had to hope that Harry hadn’t already cut away the ivy that had once climbed up the old stone walls.

Now for a plan. She needed to wait until deep night, when her guards were at their most lax. What Harry didn’t know was that her own country home, Eastcourt Hall, was no more than ten miles away. If she could get as far as Marlborough, she could catch the Bath coach and be there in no time. If worse came to worst, she would just walk.

But until then, what?

Brushing down her gown, she settled into her rickety little chair and thought, absently picking the soft wax from the battered old table. She would have to let herself be searched. She’d known it all along. But at first she’d been too panicked to think clearly, and then too furious. She’d even entertained the idea of making Harry do it.

Why not?
she thought, savoring the sharp taste of righteous indignation. Why not hold out so long that she would force him to strip her? Why not stand before him, dignified and silent, as the shame grew on him? Let him be the villain. Let him have to face other people’s condemnation for what he did. The minute they caught sight of his cockstand, they’d know just how altruistic his actions were.

She wasted far too much time on the idea. But she just couldn’t seem to turn away from the fantasy of Major Sir Harry Lidge, the hero of the Peninsula, the saint of Salamanca, finally brought down a peg or two.

Climbing to her feet, she began to pace. No, she couldn’t do it. Not because she didn’t want to hurt Harry. She did, especially after his behavior since they’d been here. But after all she’d been through, she refused to put herself in the position of being a victim ever again, even for the satisfaction of seeing Harry’s downfall. She simply couldn’t allow him to hurt her.

She would allow Barbara to do the job. For some reason, Kate trusted the woman’s knowing smile and quiet strength. Besides, if Kate understood correctly, with the search came access to her trunks. There was extra traveling money tucked beneath a false bottom that would ease her way.

And so it was that when the bar across the door slid back and the door opened, Kate was patiently waiting in her chair as if expecting visitors in her salon.

Barbara smiled as she stepped in, her expression apologetic. “I am sorry to bother you, your…Lady Kate,” she said, her accent stronger than before.

“Barbara, there you are,” Kate said, climbing to her feet. “If you’ll bring in my luggage and close the door, we can get on with this.”

She had obviously surprised the woman, because for a moment Barbara couldn’t seem to do more than stare, her hands clasped together at her waist.

“And find me a screen, please.”

Schroeder frowned. “But, Lady Kate…”

Kate elevated an eyebrow. “Those are my terms, Barbara. Would you really prefer to wrestle a duchess to the ground just to see her titties?”

Schroeder had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I was instructed to…completely disrobe you, Your…Lady Kate. Just in case you were hiding something beneath.”

Kate looked down at her dress. “Where? What do you think I did, tattoo the verse across my stomach?”

Still Schroeder didn’t move. Standing before Kate, she seemed implacable. But since she was also the head of the group of servants Diccan had collected to gather information, Kate hoped the woman was professional enough to see the benefits of compromise.

“Please, Barbara,” Kate nudged. “I would rather have this done before Harry comes storming back in here.”

Evidently Barbara agreed with Kate, because after another small hesitation, she bobbed a curtsy, smiled, and turned for the door.

In only minutes, Kate was changed and her travel clothing carried away to be picked through. “Does this satisfy you?” she asked as she rebraided her hair.

“I wasn’t the…” Barbara stopped short and shook her head, as if losing an argument with herself. “Yes, Lady Kate,” she said instead with a brisk bob. “Thank you. Would you like a bit of tea?”

“Ah.” Kate nodded. “With cooperation comes reward? Yes, come to think of it, I would love tea. I believe I am half starved.”

Again Barbara betrayed a flicker of surprise. Probably because she expected Kate to continue waging her war. After all, according to Harry, if nothing was found, Kate wasn’t going home. What neither Harry nor Barbara knew was that Kate was, indeed, going home. She might as well sustain herself for the trip.