Breathless (12 page)

But unbidden came the memory of Lucien's erection, planted at the juncture of her thighs, and even through the layers of clothes he seemed substantially bigger than her erstwhile lover. Christopher had hurt her—Lucien would tear her apart. What in God's name was she going to do?

“Stop twitching,” he murmured sleepily in the ear he'd just nipped. “We've got a long way to go, and I, for one, would like to pass some of it in sleep.”

“What about Jane?” she fretted.

“She's already asleep, and it's clearly nothing more than a slight cold. I've sent word to her family that she's accompanying you on a visit to a dear friend and will return in a few days. It should set their minds at ease, at least for a time.”

“They'll be terrified. Jane and I always had the capacity for getting into trouble.”

“Then when the truth comes out they won't be that surprised.” He pressed her head against his shoulder, and while she wanted to pull away she knew he'd simply force her, and in truth it settled there quite comfortably. “Go to sleep, my angel. It will give you strength to fight me in the morning.”

And with that sage advice, she did.

S
he dreamed, of course. Curled up beside her enemy, she dreamed of Christopher St. John, his handsome face with its weak chin and his ugly hands. He was chasing her through a forest, and she was naked, nothing but her hip-length hair as covering. And as she ran she tried to pick leaves to hide her nakedness, but they fell off, and she kept running, toward some mysterious safety in the distance. She could feel Christopher gaining on her, smell the ugly sweat-smell of his body, and she knew his thick hands were reaching out for her, catching her hair with a painful yank, and then suddenly she was free, hurtling forward against safety, a warm body with arms that enclosed her. He smelled of leather and spices and warm male skin that was a far cry from Christopher's foul odor, and she looked up with love into Lucien's scarred face.

Her eyes flew open in shock, wide-awake. He was asleep beside her, thankfully unaware of her insane dreams, and his arm was loose around her. She tried to edge away, certain he slept on, but his short, sharp “don't” disabused her of that notion.

“I need to stretch,” she whispered. “And I want to check on Jane.”

He moved his arm then, releasing her, but she had no illusions that it would be more than a brief respite.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and Jane was curled up on the opposite seat, a lump in the shadows. She reached over and touched her forehead, careful not to wake her. It was blessedly cool—she had no fever, despite her sniffles.

She glanced instinctively toward the door. She couldn't leave Jane, and they were traveling too fast for her to attempt a leap to freedom. She sat back on the seat, reluctantly accepting her fate. For now.

“Why do you think I brought your friend along and didn't send her straight back to town?” Lucien said in a soft voice that wouldn't disturb Jane. “You can hardly try to escape as long as she's with me. Indeed, I'm aware of the closeness of your two families. If you ran off and left her with me I suppose I could make do with her. It might serve as an adequate revenge.”

“If you touch her I'll cut off your hands,” Miranda said fiercely.

He laughed. “In truth, it's you I want to touch, my precious. I'm simply a practical man who'll make do what I have to in order to attain my ends. You have no idea just how ruthless I can be. I suggest you don't force me to show you.”

He wouldn't be able to see the hatred on her face. Which was just as well. What did they say—revenge is a dish best served cold? If she let the heat of her rage take hold she'd be helpless. She needed to be cool and calculating if there was any chance of besting him.

No, she thought. Besting the Scorpion was unlikely.
Holding her own, refusing to let him win, was a more reasonable goal.

Why had she dreamed of him as safety? Safety from Christopher St. John? What madness was that? Lucien's kiss, his hands on her body, had brought back all sorts of memories of Christopher's assault on her body, all of them unpleasant. She had survived that, and survived it well, left with nothing but an aversion to that intimate act between men and women, that thing she didn't even like to name.

So why had Lucien won? Why had she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back? Why had her body, that most intimate part betrayed her to his knowing hands?

He was even more devious than she'd given him credit for. He was no scorpion; he was a snake, a lying, treacherous…

“And what lovely thoughts are you thinking, my darling?” he murmured softly, pulling her back against him, where she settled easily enough. Damnably easy. “Looking forward to your wedding night?”

She let him feel her instinctive shudder, but he simply laughed. “I was thinking you were more a snake in the grass than a scorpion.”

“Then you know little of scorpions, my precious. Scorpions are deceptively lethal. They avoid sunlight, and they poison their prey before the victims realize what's going on.”

“So why are you called the Scorpion? Are you a poisoner?”

“Oh, there's little I won't do if the need arises. But in fact the name came from the pet scorpion I brought with me from Jamaica when I finally returned to England.
I brought it as a pet, and my traveling companion took to calling me Scorpion as a term of affection.”

“A female, no doubt.”

“The scorpion? Yes. The traveling companion was not. He was a friend.”

“And where is your deadly little pet? Are you planning to unleash it on me?”

“I'm afraid Desdemona died. I was staying at an inn outside of Paris and she got loose. The landlord panicked and stomped her to death.” His voice was cool and detached, but Miranda wasn't fooled.

“And what happened to the landlord?”

“He met with a fatal accident. On my sword.”

She shivered. Again, he could doubtless feel her reaction, but he said nothing. He enjoyed thinking he'd cowed her, she realized. That was his goal—to shatter and destroy her, not physically, but in every other way. A suitable revenge for the sister that Miranda knew nothing about.

And with sudden blazing insight she realized her one defense. She could weep and cower and moan, and ensure his victory.

Or she could embrace the adventure. She had taken social ostracism and made it a joyous life. She had reacted to abduction with calm fortitude. She was sadly lacking in the frail sensibilities most young women were prone to. She was practical, adaptable, and not one to waste too much time bemoaning her fate.

She glanced over at Jane. So he'd brought her along to keep her in line. She could think of one way to handle that. “In truth,” she said in a conversational voice, “I'm glad you brought Jane along, particularly if she's not
truly unwell. Her companionship makes things much more bearable.”

She felt him stiffen, and she almost wanted to giggle. “That's hardly a charitable way of looking at things,” he said. “Don't you think she's frightened? Worried about what her parents would think?”

“As long as she's with me she'll be fine, and her parents have complete faith in my ability to keep her safe. We've gotten into a number of scrapes in the past and I've always looked out for her.” She smiled in the darkness, enjoying his discomfiture. “I'll keep her safe this time, and thoroughly enjoy her company. It was indeed very kind of you to keep her with us.”

“I didn't do it as a kindness,” he snapped, then took a deep breath, regaining his self-control. “Though of course I rejoice in my ability to bring you pleasure.” There was silence for a moment, and Miranda held her breath, waiting to see if her ploy worked.

She felt his body relax. Strange, that she had grown so accustomed to his body so quickly, that she could read his reactions. “But I'm afraid that Miss Pagett won't be continuing our journey. I've made arrangements for someone to escort her back to London. She'll be leaving us at…ah, but I think you're better off not knowing where we're going. I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.”

Miranda let her shoulders slump in a good show of defeat as she grinned into the darkness. She'd done it! Her first ploy had worked, and Jane would be returned, safe.

And then all she had to worry about was herself. And she knew exactly how she was going to do it.

She snuggled against him, pressing her face against
the superfine of his coat. In fact, he did smell good. Leather and wool and spice and warm male skin. The battle was on. And she was not without weapons after all.

 

The sky was growing lighter when they stopped to change horses again, and Miranda peered out the window, trying to gauge where they were. The posting house gave no clue—how many Cock and Swallow taverns would there be scattered around England? The landscape was no help at all, either. They were in the countryside, and through the early morning mist she thought she could see mountains, but that was useless, as well. The Pennines ran up the center of England; their carriage could be on either side of them. She tried to see if she could smell the salt tang of the ocean, but there was nothing in the air but the earthy smell of early spring.

Jane had emerged from her fog and was looking about her with vague alarm. “Do you have the faintest idea where we are?” she asked nervously. “My parents are going to explode.”

“Lord Rochdale sent a note to your parents. They'll be appeased at least for a while, and then you'll be back home, safe and sound. They may scold, of course, but you know your parents could never be too harsh.”

Jane smiled ruefully. “But what are they going to say when they see this?” She'd pulled off her glove, and the extravagant diamond glowed even in the dim carriage light.

“You still can't get it off?”

Jane tugged at it, but it stayed where it was, as if glued. “I was hoping a day without eating would make
a difference but it seems to be there for good.” She glanced at her right hand, where Bothwell's pitiful ring resided. “I suppose I could cut off my finger.”

“Don't even joke about such things. Do you think Bothwell is worthy of self-mutilation?”

Jane's face suddenly lightened, and she looked like her old self, something Miranda hadn't seen in months. “I don't think he's worthy of one finger, much less my entire hand in marriage.”

“Much less your entire body,” Miranda added. “Good. I'm glad that's settled. I was afraid I was going to have to abduct you so you wouldn't marry such a prosing old bore.”

“He's not that much older than we are,” Jane pointed out fairly.

“He's old. And Brandon would have helped me carry you off. He calls him Bore-well.”

“And instead the Scorpion is the one to carry both of us off.” Jane sighed. “He's an odd man, isn't he? If I weren't certain he was besotted with you I'd worry.”

Besotted,
Miranda thought. She was a means to an end and nothing more. She smiled, hoping she could continue to trick her friend. “He's promised to have people waiting to escort you back to London, though he refuses to say when. We probably won't have much warning, but I wanted to assure you how happy I am.” The lying words were like bile on her tongue, but she forced a serene smile on her face, and to her relief Jane appeared to believe it.

“It's all right to be nervous, Miranda,” she said, misreading the edge in her voice. “You like to pretend you know everything about…about sex and men, but really, you only have experience of an absolute rotter. I just
thank God St. John is not accepted in good company anymore. I don't know what I would have done if I'd been forced to face him.”

“At least he's had to go to ground,” Miranda said, happy to talk about anything but Lucien.

“And no one could be further from Christopher St. John than your future husband,” Jane said, absently toying with the diamond ring. “I suspect you'll be very happy.”

“A match made in heaven, in fact.”

Jane laughed. “Well, hardly. You forget—I know you too well. I imagine you'll have your battles. But I think you will…”

The door opened, and Lucien stood there, blocking the early morning light. “Miss Pagett,” he said in his smooth, charming, scorpion-voice, “this is where we part ways.”

“Already?”
Miranda couldn't keep the initial squeak of pain from her voice, and she was rewarded with Lucien's damnable smile.

“I'm afraid so. We have an oh-so-respectable dame to keep her company, one of my light traveling coaches with my second-best driver, and he's an excellent shot, as well. He'll keep her safe and sound until he returns her home. Come along, Miss Pagett. You'll…” His words trailed off as his gaze fell on her ungloved hand. “That's quite a lovely ring you have, Miss Pagett. Your affianced husband must be quite besotted with you.”

Jane turned bright pink as she tried to hide her hand in her skirts, but he was reaching out for her, to let her down, and she had no choice but to put her hands in his.

And Miranda knew a moment, a merest flash, of irra
tional jealousy. She started after them, but Lucien closed the door. “You'll be staying in the coach, my darling.”

“I can't,” she said flatly. There were a thousand things she hadn't said to Jane, warnings, messages…

“You can.”

“I have to use the necessary.” She didn't even blush. She would use anything as a weapon against him, and he could hardly argue. They'd been riding a long time.

“I'll have one of the chambermaids bring you a pot, my love. You'll stay put.”

She wanted to snarl at him. Instead she leaned out the window and called to Jane. “Tell my parents I love them. And tell them I'm blissfully happy.”

“Blissfully?” Lucien echoed with a soft laugh. “I'm honored.”

She glanced at him, and he couldn't see her hands curled into fists in her lap. “Blissfully, my love,” she said firmly. And sat back, rather than burst into tears at Jane's retreating back.

 

Jane sat in the private parlor of the coaching inn, drinking her tea. She was uneasy, though she wasn't quite sure why. She had complete faith that the coach and chaperone the earl had summoned would be there momentarily—she couldn't imagine anyone daring to do less than Rochdale demanded. She was going home, which was a good, thing, wasn't it? With luck she'd be back before Mr. Bothwell even noticed she had gone.

Not that she particularly cared. She just hoped she had the courage to break off the engagement that was now looking like a living death.

Back in her ordinary world, though, it would probably seem like the wise thing to do. Marry the man,
and she'd have her own house and children. Surely she could tolerate him for that much.

She'd rather concentrate on Miranda and her husband-to-be. Something was wrong, Jane thought, though she couldn't put her finger on it. She had no doubt at all that Miranda was in love with Lucien de Malheur, but there was something in the way of it, and she couldn't imagine what. As for the earl, he was harder to read. If it weren't for the way his strange, pale eyes followed Miranda wherever she was, she might have refused to leave.