Breathless (24 page)

He was sorry there wasn't some kind of shawl in here to pull over them. He hadn't been thinking, at least, not much. He'd been so angry with her. He'd spent the entire day trying not to think about her body pressed up against his, about the smell of her in the fresh spring air, and then the sight of his appalling rooms had simply set something off. He'd come storming in, to find her soft and sweet and rosy in her hot bath, and all he knew was he needed to be naked with her. Immediately.

He'd had enough presence of mind to know that it was still light outside. And he didn't let anyone see his back, the damage that had been done.

It was bad enough that she could feel it, and he'd wanted to pull away from her then, when he'd felt her hands on him. Almost. But her touch had been so gentle, her mouth so sweet, that instead he'd let her stroke him, hold him as he pumped into her body, let her dig her fingernails into him as she reached her final climax.

He could barely feel it—the scar tissue so thick that the top layers of his skin were numb. Though oddly enough, her gentle caresses had been unmistakable.

He tucked her head against his shoulder, wrapping his arms and his body around hers. He didn't tend to fall asleep after sex; he was always too intent on escaping.
But right now he felt he could close his eyes and drift off quite easily.

That wasn't going to happen. He could feel her tears slow, feel her body relax into sleep, and he carefully pulled away from her, stifling his groan. He didn't want to. Her dressing room was big enough, perhaps he'd have the servants tuck a small bed in here. Most dressing rooms had a place for a lady's maid to sleep. Though he didn't necessarily want to disport on a servant's bed.

It took him a while to find his abandoned clothes in the dark, even though his eyes had become accustomed to it. He dressed quickly and quietly, then opened the door to her bedroom, letting in a shaft of twilight.

She was pretending to be asleep, but the tears on her face were fresh. He didn't stop to consider the ramifications, he simply went and scooped her up in his arms, thanking God she wasn't that big and his leg wasn't that weak. He carried her over to her bed, setting her down as he pulled away the covers, then placing her under them, tucking her in. She was still crying. Pretending to be asleep, but he'd felt the heat and wetness on his skin.

He stared down at her, not certain what he should do. He could mock her—she would rise up and fight back, the tears forgotten. Perhaps.

But what if she simply cried more? He was usually impervious to crying women. Any women who spent time with him usually ended with tears, because he simply wasn't interested in the little games they tended to play.

Miranda's game was anything but little. And for some odd reason her tears bothered him, perhaps because the rest of the time she was so fearless. He opened his
mouth to chide her, then closed it again, and for some damnable reason he stretched out his hand and pushed the damp strands of her hair away from her tears.

Christ, if he stayed any longer he'd probably climb into bed and start comforting her!

He turned, quickly, wondering where the hell he'd left his cane. He couldn't see it in the twilight, and it was too dangerous to wait. Limping, he made his way out of her rooms as fast as his aching leg would let him, closing the door silently behind him.

J
ane let him hand her back up into the carriage, closing the door behind her. He hadn't done anything but offer her his hand when needed, and she knew a sudden lowering of spirits after the exhilaration of seeing Mr. Bothwell felled like a stone, and she sat back in her seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap as the carriage moved forward with a jerk. A faint, melancholy smile danced across her lips. He really
wasn't
a very adept coach man.

He was, however, far more of a gentleman than her erstwhile fiancé. He wouldn't stand by and let a lady be bullied, and he'd brought her safely home in the first place, when a king of thieves would certainly have more important things to do. Of course, he probably wanted to retrieve the ring that he'd quixotically put on her finger. But that was in the dark, when he hadn't had a good look at her. Ever since he'd seen her clearly he'd been the soul of propriety, no doubt regretting that soul-searing midnight kiss.

Well, soul-searing for her, Jane amended with great
practicality. Midnight kisses were most likely de rigueur for thieves.

She had to get to Miranda. If her husband was truly planning to bring her to a meeting of the Heavenly Host, then Miranda could be in grave danger. Everyone had heard the stories, the black masses, the drinking of blood, the orgies and devil worship and human sacrifice. It was of far greater importance than mooning after a man who was so inappropriate he wasn't beneath her, he may as well be on the moon.

What would her parents say if she told them she'd fallen in love with a thief? Not that she had, of course! She would admit to a mild infatuation, but nothing more. Still, it was an interesting question. What would they do?

Most parents would beat their rebellious daughters and lock them up on a diet of bread and water. But her father had been a man of much experience, a reformed rake and gamester, a vicar before acceding to the title, a man of great compassion and understanding. He would listen calmly, and pass no judgments.

And her mother, who'd lived her own scarlet life before she'd met her father, would doubtless keep an open mind. She'd always said, “You never know where love might find you, but when you see it, grab it with both hands and hold on tight.”

But of course, she wasn't in love. It was simply an interesting supposition to while away the time, the endless time she'd spent in one carriage after another. She'd be far better off worrying about what she'd do for clothing. It had been bad enough spending two days on the road with two dresses, clean undergarments and a bowl of cool water to freshen in. Another three days or however
long it might take was lowering. She wanted to run away, to travel, to see different and glorious places and things. She simply wanted the occasional change of clothes, as well.

Was it so wrong for an aspiring adventuress to be fond of the small elegancies of life? Like cleanliness?

Would Mrs. Grudge accompany them this time? How was she going to respond to a former whore known as Long Molly? Well, presumably the same way she responded to a cheerful widow named Mrs. Grudge, she decided. No matter what else she did with her life, Mrs. Grudge was a good and affectionate traveling companion. Not to mention good at making up stories about Jacob the philandering house-servant turned coach driver.

The coach came to its usual abrupt stop, throwing her forward, and she caught the strap just in time to keep from hurtling onto the opposite seat. There was a great deal of conversation outside, most of it unintelligible, and then the door opened and Jacob Donnelly appeared.

She had automatically started for the door when he shook his head. “Not here, Miss Jane. I've got a couple of men watching the horses and at least four keeping an eye on the carriage to make sure no one disturbs you. But I'm not having you out among these rogues.” There was no mirth in his eyes. Clearly the term rogue was an understatement. “This is Beggar's Ken, home to vagabonds and thieves for the last seventy-five years and no place for a lady. I'll do my best to get my business done quickly, and then we'll be on our way.”

“Yes, but…” She stopped, not wanting to complain.

“Yes, but what?”

“Is there any way we could get some clothes for me? And perhaps something to eat?”

He looked amused, some of the grimness fading from his eyes. “It'll be seen to.” He paused. “I can have you safely back at your parents' house in the countryside if you wish it. You don't have to stay with me. I promise I won't let your former fiancé anywhere near you.” His lip curled in contempt.

He was looking for a way to get rid of her, she thought, her heart dropping. “You don't have to take me anywhere,” she said, doing a creditable job of sounding unmoved. “I can find a hackney back to my house—by now Mr. Bothwell will have removed himself and I can simply leave orders that he's not to be admitted. You don't need to feel you have any responsibility for me. I'm certain there are a great many things you'd rather do than…”

He put one foot on the step, vaulted up and leaned into the dark carriage interior, and she let out a little squeak of nervousness. One that was swallowed by his mouth, closing over hers as he slid one big hand behind her neck, holding her there.

It was a brief, thorough kiss, and when he pulled back she simply sat there, dazed. “There's nothing I'd rather do. And you needn't worry I'll be all over you. I'll be taking you to Ripton Waters, all right and tight, and leave the rules up to you. But you'll be treated like a lady. I just wanted to make my point.”

She was still stunned by his kiss, but she tried to gather some of her shattered intellect. “Ripton Waters? Is that where they are?”

He nodded. “In the Lake District. So it'll take us two
days to get there if we push hard, maybe three. But I'm game if you are, lass.”

She had no reason why she adored it when he called her “lass,” but it made her stomach warm and her heart smile. “I'm game,” she said. “If it's not too much trouble.”

He grinned at her, that same, cheerful, slightly wicked grin. “No trouble at all, Miss Jane.”

 

Lucien ate dinner in solitary splendor in the dining room. It was damnably clean, and he'd been right. There were flowers, vases and vases of fresh daffodils, and he could only be glad the greenhouses were in disrepair, or she'd have even worse throughout the house. The daffodils were bad enough, their sunny yellow at war with his mood. He was tempted to take his cane and smash all the vases, but resisted the impulse. He was feeling guilty, and it was making him childish and petulant, and he wanted Miranda to come downstairs with her sunny smile and bait him once more.

But she didn't. He didn't see her until the next day, when she sailed into his study wearing a gown of cherry sarcenet with paler trim and he immediately wondered how difficult it would be to get her out of that particular gown. And which dark place he could take her.

“Good morning, Lucien,” she said in that mock-cheerful voice. “My, my, you do tend to immure yourself in your study, do you not?”

“I find it soothing.” He ran his eyes over her. “Don't you?”

She glanced around her. “I find it gloomy. We could paint it a charming shade of…”

“Touch this and I'll beat you.”

“Empty threats, my dear,” she said, sinking into the chair. “I wanted to find out more about the visit you mentioned. What clothes will I need to bring with me? You were more than generous with my wardrobe, and I'm certain I have everything I need, but Bridget will want to know what to bring ahead of time. Will anyone I know be attending?”

“So many questions!” He leaned back in his chair. “I'll answer them in order. Clothes are of little importance at our little gatherings. I've ordered something suitable from a dressmaker who specializes in such things.”

“A different dressmaker?” she said, her voice faltering. Then she smiled. “Oh, lovely! More new clothes! You really are the most thoughtful of lovers!”

“I'm happy to have pleased you, my love. And whether you know any of the other guests or not, I should most sincerely doubt it.”

“You forget, I've been on the town for a number of years, and I've met a great many people.”

“Not these. Even a soiled dove such as Lady Miranda Rohan would be warned against these particular men.”

“Only men are at this party?” she asked with a barely audible gulp. “Is it a gaming party?”

“Some will bring mistresses. Some will even bring sisters and wives if they're particularly perverse. For the most part, though, Long Molly will send a dozen of her finest ladybirds up to entertain them.”

“I am to assume you mean whores?”

“Who else to entertain the Heavenly Host?”

She didn't flinch, he had to grant her that. But then, she was an intelligent woman, perhaps a bit too
intelligent. She had probably figured that much out already.

“And we are to be married in front of this particular group of your friends?” she said in a tranquil voice. “Not that I object—they sound perfectly delightful. But don't weddings have to be held in churches in order to be legal?”

“You're talking about matches made in heaven, my love. Or at least, in drawing rooms. Our match was made in hell, and the ceremony planned will reflect that. With appropriate revelry afterward.” He was watching her closely, looking for a reaction. “An absolute orgy of rejoicing.”

She didn't fail to understand him. Her smile remained firmly in place, but she rose, her body graceful, and he remembered the feel of her beneath him. He'd only taken her in the dark and now wondered what color her nipples were, dark or light? And her triangle of hair—did it match the rich brown of her head or was it darker, lighter? The problem with keeping to the dark was that in ensuring she couldn't see his scars, in return he couldn't see her. And he wanted to.

He would when the Host convened. He and everyone else would see a great deal of her, and he refused to feel guilty about it. If she objected he would send her safely back to her room, defeated.

But she wouldn't object. She wouldn't cry off. And he was looking forward to it.

“And when may I look forward to this exceptional treat?” she inquired in a dulcet voice.

“We'll leave tomorrow. It's not a long drive—not more than a few hours. We'll leave in the after noon.”

She had her share of courage, he could grant her that.
“I imagine you have a very great many things to do, having been gone so long. Shall I see you for dinner?”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, watching her closely for signs of distress. There were none. “Good morning, my love.”

He sat very still when he was alone once more, staring at her empty chair, abstracted. He was feeling oddly melancholy. It was most likely the advent of spring. He always tended to brood when spring arrived, though he'd been unable to understand why. Perhaps it was simply his determinedly evil disposition. Sunshine was no good for a villain. He was much more disposed to darkness and shadows.

He laughed. Now he was acting like an adolescent, like that ass Byron she'd compared him to. Posturing and moping. Things were moving along quite well, and he had no reason to brood. For all Miranda's resourcefulness, all he had to do to silence her was to take her to bed. In truth, things were coming together just as he planned. The bizarre ceremony was in place, and once the revels were over he would bring her before a priest in a church and finish it off legally, just to close her last avenue of escape. And let the Rohans suffer. The only drawback was that the grandsons of Francis and the sons of Adrian Rohan didn't partake of the Heavenly Host. It would have been perfect if they were in attendance when their sister was brought in.

Then again, they'd probably stop things. No, this way they'd hear about it once it was fait accompli, and they would suffer.

He simply wondered why he wasn't feeling more pleased about the whole thing.

 

A light rain began to fall on the carriage roof, and the day was growing darker. Jane reached for the heavy shawl, huddling under it. She'd forgotten her pelisse in her precipitous flight, forgotten everything when he'd held out his hand to her.

She'd simply put her hand in his and gone, without a backward glance. She hadn't even stopped to consider whether Mr. Bothwell might be dead. If he was, then Jacob was in grave trouble, and the sooner they got out of London the better. Even so, striking a gentleman of Mr. Bothwell's stature was a highly dangerous thing to do as well, and he could have the Bow Street Runners out after them. Mr. Bothwell was the kind of man who would hound a person, and she couldn't bear to think of her jewel thief endangering himself for her sake. The longer it took him the more nervous she became, at one point opening the carriage door to go look for him.

A bad idea. She'd had the shades pulled down on the carriage, but the sight of the area was shocking. The filth, the poverty, the sheer number of people milling around. A huge man appeared at her door immediately, and while he didn't look particularly savory his smile was quite sweet, despite the number of teeth missing.

“You'll need to stay in the carriage, miss. The king says that no one's to go near you and you're not to set foot outside. Too dangerous for the likes of you, if I do say so myself. There are some bad people around here.”

“And you're one of them, Neddie,” a woman's cheerful voice came through, and Jane looked behind the man to see a pretty woman standing in the rain, a basket on her arm. “I've brought food for her.”

“The King said no one was allowed in.”

“Do you really think he was worried about me?” she woman countered, pushing past him. “The girl's bored and hungry, aren't you, miss? I've brought you food.”

Neddie wasn't looking any too happy with this, but he decided not to argue. He moved out of the way, and the woman climbed up into the carriage. “You call me if you feel the need, miss. I'll be right here.”