Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (26 page)

Livvy had stumbled upon a perfect plan to see that Gordon would be found guilty of murder; she was going to freeze to death in the darkness of his carriage, and it was going to take only ten minutes for her to do so! The man had been in Merrill’s for the entire evening; so of course there would be no heat. Neither could she find a blanket.
Perhaps the driver is curled up beneath it somewhere.

Her head was clear, she had the pistol in hand, but she worried she’d be caught off guard at Gordon’s arrival if only from the loud chattering of her teeth. She considered pulling her skirts up over her head, hoping her many layers of underthings would keep her lower half warm, but her decision was postponed when a carriage pulled up alongside Gordon’s. Her hand raised to the curtain, but she thought better of it. The murmurs of numerous men made her consider for the first time that Gordon might not enter his carriage alone. And if he had company, that company might enter the carriage first, giving the blasted man sufficient warning to get away!

She had one shot. She had to be very sure it entered the correct man. Since she might need to do a bit of bluffing before brandishing her weapon, she held the gun next to her leg, concealing it with her skirt. She’d not be using the thick yards of fabric for warmth after all.

The other carriage had not moved. Surely it was blocking the street.

Gordon’s carriage rocked as if the driver might be climbing up to take his position. The time was at hand! She knew it reeked of blasphemy to pray for help killing the man, but she did so anyway.

The door opened slowly, but no one entered. Her heart must have beat a dozen times while she stared at the square of light, waiting.

“Miss Reynolds, please leave the pistol on the seat and climb out.”

Northwick? Northwick! Why could it not have been anyone else?

The world got suddenly colder, and it had naught to do with the door remaining open.

“No.” She was lucky to have said it without her teeth knocking together.

She heard a familiar growl just before the carriage rocked again.

“I’m coming in. If you shoot me, I shall wring your neck before I die.”

He deposited himself across from her and unfortunately, someone beside the door held up a lantern. She had to fight to keep from raising the pistol and shooting out the light—or shooting Northwick so she need not endure the look on his face.

“Where is the gun?” He held out a hand.

She lifted a brow.

“Damn it, Miss Reynolds. You have surely drawn enough of my blood this evening to satisfy even you.”

She didn’t understand. Drawn his blood? When she had set him aside? Was he hurt so deeply then?

He growled again and turned his arm. Dark drops made a trail across his cuffs.

She met his gaze with confusion, but when she opened her mouth to ask him when she could have done such a thing, her jaw protested. The chattering from her teeth moved into her bones and she lost the ability to control anything.

“Damn it!” Northwick lifted her left hand, then released it and pulled her right arm from beneath her skirt. The pistol was heavy, but she could not release it. She watched, detached, as he pushed the tip toward the floor. “Stand back,” he called to the one who held the lantern.

A fierce shiver racked her body just then and the gun went off. There was a spark of fire, a puff of smoke, and that was all.

The look in Northwick’s eyes was murderous, but it hadn’t been her fault. If he would have left her alone, he would have been in no danger.

He peeled the gun away a bit roughly, then jerked her forward. Shards of pain cut up her fingers, then up her arms when her body slammed into his. She was the ice now, far too thick for his warmth to reach her. One of his arms slid behind her bottom and down to her knees and suddenly she was flying sideways through the carriage door and back into the slightly more frigid air. Her chin was numb and she held it away from him, fearful her face might shatter if it were bumped.

He whisked her around Gordon’s carriage to the one stopped in the street. It was her own. She need not glance up to know that John would be there. His disappointment in her was something she could not bear at the moment. She had to get away. She had to get her pistol back and reload it. She had to get back into Gordon’s carriage. Surely he would be arriving any moment.

“Get inside!” She looked at Northwick’s face, but he was looking at someone else. There was that lantern again.

The lantern went inside.

“Hold her, Harcourt. Get her warm.”

She was tossed into the carriage like a sack of wheat and she feared what bones might break when she hit the floor, but she was caught and lifted onto someone’s lap. She dared not look up to see if it was Harcourt. She was mortified, held like a baby.

The door closed. A heavy blanket was tucked around her. She breathed in warmer air, but then it went cold again when the door reopened and in flew another small blanket.

“Use this as well,” Northwick grumbled. “And do not give her this.” He extended her father’s intact cane to Milton. The dark horse’s head was unmistakable—the handle of the sword she’d placed on Germaine’s carriage. He could not have happened upon it. He had to have been watching! And as Milton spread the smaller blanket over the top of the first, she realized it was her mother’s cloak. The fur trim tickled her lips. The cloak had been taken by... Taken by someone whom she’d possibly cut with a sword.

North had followed her into Merrill’s.

He likely heard every word she’d said, perhaps been one of those to have laughed at her as she fled. Why, oh why couldn’t he have just left her in Gordon’s carriage?

She prayed that when the blankets were lifted away, they’d find no trace of her. Surely her overwhelming sense of ‘nothingness’ would reduce her to dry bits that could be scattered on the wind.

Her face stung, as did her toes, but she did not care. The heat from the man holding her overcame her chills and she stopped shaking at least. Her teeth still rattled, but not incessantly. She held herself away from him until her arms tired. She tried to resist, but the man she believed was Harcourt pulled her close and tucked her head beneath his chin.

“Harcourt?”

“Yes, Olivia.”

“Would you mind running that small sword through my heart?”

“Yes, Olivia. And Northwick would also mind, I promise you.”

“He was there? Inside Merrill’s?”

“He, Milton, and I.”

Oh, dear lord!

“You were terribly brave, and terribly clever. You reminded me of your father’s dog, though much prettier of course.”

“Barking mad?”

He laughed. “No. Just terribly brave considering your size.”

“If Northwick hates me so, why did he come? And why could he not just leave me in Gordon’s carriage?”

“Because he is willing to sell his soul to see you safe. He does not hate you, Livvy. He hates the risks you take. He fears he will not recover if something happens to you.”

“I cannot allow Gordon to eliminate everyone who prevents him from murdering me.”

“Anyone, man or woman, would be foolish to assume that burden alone.”

The carriage slowed to an abrupt halt. Behind her, Milton cocked a pistol and aimed it at the door. Harcourt pulled her tighter.

Two knocks. “It is Northwick.”

“Come,” Harcourt said.

The door opened and Northwick motioned Milton outside.

“You too, Harcourt.”

“I do not think—”

Northwick gave Harcourt a look that stopped him from finishing.

“Please, Presley,” he whispered.

Harcourt looked at her with regret. Then lifted her away from him.

She shook her head. “No!” But her arms were tangled in the blankets and she could not reach for him before he deposited her on the opposite seat.

“Sorry, Livvy.” Harcourt kissed her head and was gone.

She tore at the blankets and swung her feet to the floor. As soon as Northwick’s bulk was out of the way, she lunged for the door, but he pulled it closed. For the longest time, she stared at his fingers gripping the handle. She would not look at his face; one more fierce look from the man would kill her. She could feel the hardness of his eyes boring into her and turned away from him, into the seat, pulling her legs up, crossing her arms over her chest, willing the great weight of her embarrassment to stop her heart and have done.

Mercifully, he dowsed the light.

Shivers crashed over her, but she would not reach for the blanket. She could survive the cold until they arrived home. Ten minutes. She could last ten minutes more. Within the darkness, he would never see the silent tears escaping down her cheeks.

There was no need to cry, she told herself, over and over again, but the tears continued.

The blankets rustled and she stiffened, but it wasn’t blankets that touched her—it was Northwick’s hands, feeling her shoulder, wrapping around her waist, sliding beneath her knees. She told herself to resist, but her dread made her boneless.

What can he possibly do to me now?

Once again, she was sitting across a man’s lap. His clothes were cold. She could not sense his customary heat. Again, the blanket came ‘round her, was tucked here and there against the cold air. Another shiver rolled through her and on into him. Was he shaking as well?

A hand touched her hair and slowly moved to her cheek. She held her breath as her head was tilted back, then nearly sobbed when his mouth descended upon her own. In her weakened state, she relished the contact, reveled in his attention in spite of what he might think of her. She needed this, and she reached for his head, to show him just how dearly she needed it.

Her fingers brushed into his hair. Her palm settled against his cheek—his
wet
cheek. Had the man been shedding tears? Impossible! And yet, there they were.

The thought slipped away, however, lost in the onslaught of warm lips and warmer breath that chased away her shivers. His tongue held her complete attention, demanded it. And there, in the dark, nothing else mattered. There was no yesterday or tomorrow. There was only that moment, and she would have given all the rest to make that moment last.

Their breathing was the only sound. The creaking and clopping of a carriage and horses faded into darkness. He pulled her closer, until she could move no closer. And yet, it would never be close enough.

His lips moved to her jaw, then her neck. His fingers moved across her shoulder, then traveled along her neckline. She moaned as she remembered back to that encounter in the darkened dressing room, how she’d lost her senses there as well.

His hand froze. He pulled back, but only far enough to set his forehead against her own. His breathing slowed along with hers.

“Marry me, Livvy. Set aside your heroics and be my wife. I beg you.”

“When this is over—”

He interrupted by kissing her again and while he did so, he pulled the blanket over her, tucked it between them, then held her close before ending the kiss.

“I would do anything you asked of me, Livvy. But I am taking back my promise. I will not marry The Scarlet Plumiere. She lives too dangerously. Let her die, with Ursula.” He kissed her forehead, then whispered against it. “Marry me, Olivia Reynolds. Marry me.”

There he was, waving to her from that path she wasn’t to take. She had already made this decision. She knew she must resist that beckoning hand and turn away. But her reasons were different now. This time, running into his arms might cost him his life. Turning away from him would only cost him his pride, and perhaps a very small piece of his heart.

He held very still, waiting for her answer.

“How can I?” She could only whisper. “How can I tell Lord Gordon and the world that the surest way to hurt me is to hurt The Earl of Northwick? I will not do it. Do not ask it of me.”

“Then promise me, just here, just now, between the two of us. Tell me you’ll be mine, Livvy. We will tell no one. But you must give me hope. You must tell me you will never do anything so foolish as you did tonight, sneaking away from your own protection. Dear God, if you had not frozen to death, you would have been at Gordon’s mercy!”

“I would have shot him. I might have ended up at the mercy of the courts, but the rest of you would have been safe.”

“Livvy.” His voice changed. “The pistol misfired. If I had not stopped you, it would have misfired when you aimed it at Gordon—if you’d been able to catch him off guard. Then you would have only succeeded in making him more angry than he was already.”

“Misfired?” She remembered the flare, the smoke. But there had been no painfully loud report. No wonder he thought her so foolish; she had failed to load the weapon properly!

The carriage rolled to a stop. She was home, safe for the moment at least. But none of them were safe for long. After an atrociously long day and night, she’d failed to make any difference whatsoever.

Northwick seemed not to notice they’d arrived.

“Yes, misfired. So now will you give me your promise?”