Breathless (25 page)

“I'll be fine,” Jane said, hoping she was right. The woman had plumped herself down on the seat opposite her, and when Neddie closed the door behind her the carriage was plunged into gloomy darkness.

Not for long. The woman rifled in her basket and a moment later came up with a tinder box. The two candles on the walls were lit, and she sat back to survey Jane.

“You're a plain little thing,” she said frankly. “Oh, you've got pretty eyes and a nice mouth, and your skin and teeth are good, but in fact you're quite ordinary, and the king has had some of the most extraordinary women in England. What does he see in you?” Before Jane could come up with an answer the woman thrust a basket in her hands. “I'm Gracie, by the way. I run yon ken—at least, the parts that they let me. And I'm wondering what would make King Donnelly give up everything, hand it over to an upstart like Jem Beesom with not so much as an argument. Mind you, Jem was making moves to take it over anyway, and he'll be a good enough master around here. But for Jacob to simply hand it over fair makes one think, and I had to see the lass what made him do it.”

Jane just stared at the voluble creature across
from her. “I didn't make him do anything,” she said, bewildered.

“No, I 'spose not. He's been restless for the last year or so. I've seen signs of it meself, and so has Jem, which is why he was ready to make his move. You should have seen his face when Jacob told him he was leaving and giving the leadership over to him. He looked ready to cry. Nothing like girding your loins for battle and having your enemy surrender. Not that Jacob and Jem are enemies, though let's hope Jacob doesn't change his mind, because Jem doesn't give up what's his easily. And of course you made him do it. He's got a thing about you. He guards you like some precious treasure—he'll be that mad when he finds out I came out here….”

Jane blinked while the girl continued to talk. Gracie had a thick accent, and for a moment she wondered if she was misunderstanding what she was saying. Gracie leaned forward and patted her hand. “Not much for conversation are you, Miss Pagett?” she said, ignoring the fact that she didn't allow much room for it. “That's all right—Jacob will take care of that. He'll get you to talking, right and tight. There's food in yon basket—Jacob said you were that hungry. And I've packed some of me own dresses for you, though you'll hardly fill them out. You're a skinny little thing, aren't you—though Jacob says you're tall. Are you in love with him?”

Jane was following all this silently, and she wasn't expecting the sudden question. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Miss Pagett. Are you in love with him? Ah, it's a daft question—most women are. All he has to do is look their way and they fall at his feet, me included.”

Jane was tempted to tell the woman that it wasn't
any of her business, but there was only so far her courage could take her. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said faintly.

“Ah, you do indeed, Miss Pagett.” She reached out and grasped Jane's wrist in a painfully tight grip. “Are you in love with him?” She squeezed tighter. “The truth now. I'll know if you're lying.”

“You're hurting me!” She couldn't bring herself to meet Gracie's eyes. “Of course I'm not in love with him. I barely know him. He's simply been very kind to me, but he doesn't care about me and I certainly am not in love with him.”

Gracie released her wrist, and Jane rubbed it. There was a dawning smile on Gracie's face, and she nodded. “You'll do. I told you I'd know if you lied, and you just lied to me. You never once said he was beneath you. I think he'll do right well with you.” Before Jane could say anything Gracie opened the carriage door and scrambled down the steps. She looked back. “Mind you, if you break his heart you'll have me to answer to.”

“But he doesn't love…” But Gracie was already gone.

She'd left the food behind, and the candles expelled some of the gloom. There was always a chance that Gracie was a madwoman who'd poisoned her, but at that point Jane was so hungry she didn't care. The bread and cheese weren't what she was used to—the bread was dark and dense, the cheese strong, and she ate every bit, loving it all.

It was getting darker outside, and when she heard someone at the door she drew back, afraid of another visit from Gracie, when Jacob Donnelly put his head in. “We're ready to go, lass, if you've still a mind to.”

He smiled up at her, that rakish, charming smile that matched his kiss. She shouldn't be thinking of that. “Yes,” she said in a steady voice. “I have to save Miranda.”

“Well, as to that I'm not sure her ladyship is going to need saving, but I'm at your service.” He held out his hand, the strong, well-shaped hands that had once touched her quite indecently in the darkness, and she wondered if they'd touch her again. “I've got a smaller, lighter carriage waiting for us, and since you've expressed such doubts about my driving ability I've got a professional to drive us. If you'll come with me.”

She would go anywhere with him, she knew that to her everlasting shame. Gracie had seen the right of it: sensible or not, she'd fallen in love with the man, and she should just stop fighting it and spend her energy learning how to deal with it. How to keep from showing it, how to live without him. Because that was the way it was going to be. She wasn't for the likes of him. She wasn't for the likes of anyone.

But for a few brief days she could turn her back on common sense and self-respect. She would be with him, and that was enough.

She put her hand in his, and went.

A
ll right, so this wasn't working out as well as she'd planned, Miranda thought, sitting at the newly polished and tuned piano, her hands motionless on the keys early the next morning. The house was too big to drive Lucien crazy—if she was being bright-eyed and amenable, he could always simply walk away. She'd kept him from her bed last night by the simple expedience of asking when he was coming back and that she'd enjoyed it “oh, ever so much!”

She wasn't quite sure if he knew the truth. He said he knew women's bodies, knew her body better than she did, and from his astonishing mastery over her she suspected he was right. She could try to work harder on her flippant attitude. If he decided he wanted her again, which seemed unlikely considering the wide berth he was giving her, she would try telling him she found it tiresome. If he persisted she could keep talking as he touched her, even sing in her unfortunately off-key voice as he…as he…

No, maybe she couldn't manage that. It was far too overwhelming. In fact, she hadn't quite made up her
mind about the whole thing. With Christopher St. John it had simply been nasty. With Lucien it was…demoralizing. Upsetting. All-consuming. It stripped her soul even as he stripped her body, leaving nothing left. Both times she'd somehow had to pull herself back together, and each time it had been harder.

It had nothing to do with the emptiness she'd felt after Christopher St. John had taken her to bed.

With Lucien, she felt too full, too overwhelmed, in a very real sense. She could shrug off St. John's clumsy pawings, the hurt he'd dealt her.

Lucien would be a different matter entirely.

She ran her fingers over the keys, launching into a Bach prelude she'd memorized last year. She loved Bach, the mathematical precision of him, the joy and lightness. She played with great force, hoping to annoy Lucien wherever he was in the house. It was a challenging piece, and she tended to miss notes, but she still enjoyed herself tremendously.

“Please stop.”

She let out a shriek, crashing her hands onto the piano and turning to glare at him. “You frightened me,” she accused him. “Must you sneak up on one like that?”

“You were playing so loudly I doubt you would have heard a dragoon of soldiers if they marched in. If you must torture a composer why don't you choose one of his more lugubrious pieces—perhaps a fugue? Surely your repertoire must include pieces that don't have to be played quite so loudly? One that you might, perhaps, know better?”

He was dressed in black, as always, and sunlight shone in on his scarred face. His pale eyes were unreadable as he watched her, and she could only hope she was
equally inscrutable. Because she looked at his ruined beauty and her heart ached.

“I'm afraid it's not the knowledge that makes me hit wrong notes, it's the level of skill,” she managed to say sweetly, pulling herself together. “People say I play with great abandon.”

“Yes. Abandoned to all sense of musicality.”

“I suppose you can do better?”

“I can. I won't. Please yourself, but a little more quietly, if you will. I have the headache.”

She hit a chord on the piano, quite loudly, one note deliberately off, watching him wince before she left off and rose from the bench. “So tell me, at what time are we leaving for our visit?”

“As soon as you're ready. I assume you're longing to get away from here and back into company—you should enjoy yourself extremely.”

That soon
. “Actually I've been very happy here,” she said brightly. “I like having my own house, and I enjoy having it to myself. But I'm perfectly happy to go wherever you wish. I'm looking forward to meeting your friends.” She summoned her dazzling smile, the one that didn't reach her eyes. “My darling, I'll do absolutely anything you wish me to.”

His expression, cynical as always, did little to ease her anxieties. “I was hoping you'd say so, my dearest. I have great plans for you.”

She could stab him, she thought dreamily. If he thought she was going to have anything to do with his nasty little friends she would have to disabuse him of the notion, but she didn't quite believe he meant to go through with it. He was a man who valued his possessions, and a wife was, unfortunately, a possession,
assuming he still meant to marry her. She couldn't see him lending her out to his friends.

Could she? For the sake of the revenge he held so dearly?

She would stab him.

She smiled sweetly. “Will we arrive in time for dinner? Otherwise I'll have Mrs. Humber make us up a basket.”

“We don't eat formal meals. Don't worry your head about such things—Mrs. Humber will take care of it. All you need to do is smile and be pretty.” After a moment he lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “What was that, my love? Did I hear you growl?”

Miranda's fingers had curled into claws, and she quickly relaxed them. “Not at all, my darling. I'm looking forward to this.” Bloody hell, he was good at this. What was the line? “That one may smile and smile and be a villain.” He wasn't Richard the Third, he was Hamlet, out for revenge.

Except it had been Hamlet speaking, had it not? She looked at him, wondering just how villainous he truly could be. Stab him, she thought, marshalling her courage.

“What are you thinking, my pet? Your lovely brow is now furrowed.”

“I was thinking about Hamlet,” she answered with absolute truth.

“My lovely classical bride! Of course you were. ‘O smiling, damned villain,'” he said, and she jerked at how close he was to her thoughts. But then, that had been the way during the short, sweet time they had been friends. They had been curiously in tune with each other. He
went on, “But even Claudius repents. I've already told you, the closest I can come is Richard the Third.”

On impulse she reached up and touched the scarred side of his face. “Caliban,” she said softly. “Are you going to tell me how this happened?”

He didn't move for one breathless moment. And then he flinched, pulling away from her. “I don't think it would entertain you, my lady,” he said, suddenly formal. “There are far more interesting ways to spend our time.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “You try so hard to convince me how evil you are,” she said softly, dropping her overbright smile. “Don't you tire of it?”

“Trust me, my love, it's effortless.” He was cold, withdrawn, his pale eyes wintry. “We'll be leaving within the hour. I've left instructions with your so-called maid. Be ready.”

 

If Jane had thought the pace of her first trip north had been ventre à terre it was nothing compared to this one. Jacob Donnelly's driver was far more skilled, though in fact no one could make such high speeds on the rough roads easy, and she held on to the strap as they traveled into the darkness, trying to keep from being bounced around.

They rode in grim silence. Jacob had changed his clothes, and apart from asking her if someone had brought her some food he said nothing, leaning back on the opposite seat, his long legs propped on the floor beside her, and he slept.

She wished she could do the same. She felt as if she'd spent her life in a carriage, and while she still loved the idea of travel, she wouldn't have minded a more
leisurely pace or time off between trips in the best of all situations.

This was far from the best. She glanced over at her companion, frustrated. She was frightened for Miranda, who seemed surrounded by enemies. Her closest friend had accepted her dismissal and in fact had been so busy becoming enamored of a thief she'd forgotten all about her. After all, Jane had seen the way Rochdale had looked at her. She knew what love looked like—she'd seen it often enough between her parents, and she was sure she'd recognized it without question.

But it seemed as if she was wrong. Not if he was going to offer her up to the Heavenly Host as some sort of gift, or sacrifice, or plaything. She shuddered.

Jacob Donnelly slept on, impervious to worry and the racketing of the carriage, impervious to everything. She might just as well be alone in the coach, she thought, much aggrieved. If he didn't wake up and set her mind at ease she would be tempted to go into strong hysterics.

They hit a bump, and she almost flew off the seat. Her companion barely moved, and enough was enough. They'd been in the carriage almost twelve hours, stopping only to change horses, and the morning sun was coming up. If her companion was really that sound a sleeper then she pitied the poor woman who married him.

Of course she did, she mocked herself. Poor, shy, pitiful Jane. She reached out and kicked him.

He didn't move, continuing to sleep soundly as the coach tore onward. She wondered what would happen if she pinched him. She reached out to kick him again when his quiet voice reached out through the dawn-lit carriage.

“Don't kick me, lass,” he said quietly.

“Mr. Donnelly,” she said, hating the sound of her high and nervous voice. “Do you think we're going to get there in time to dissuade Lord Rochdale from taking Miranda to his evil friends?”

He opened his eyes, looking at her with a lazy appreciation that startled her. What was there about her skinny, plain figure that was worth appreciating? “Now, Miss Jane,” he said, “you'll find that most things aren't quite as bad as they seem. The Heavenly Host are no more than a bunch of spoiled, gormless aristocrats with more money than sense, and they try to keep themselves entertained by playing at being wicked. It's mostly harmless, if not particularly sanctioned by the church, and some of the things that go on there might be against the law, but I always hold with the fact that if the two or three or more people involved want to do it then it's no one else's business.”

“Two or three or more…?” That was something she didn't care to think about. “So there's no blood sacrifice or anything?”

“The only thing that gets sacrificed is some fools' dignity.”

Jane concentrated on making pleats in her poor abused traveling dress. “And have you ever been to one of these gatherings?”

“Oh, they're not for the likes of me. For one thing, I've never been particularly interested. For another, only a favored few are allowed to join, and those are of the upper crust. Your fiancé was rejected.”

“
What
?” she stared at him in shock. “My boring, stiff-necked, straitlaced fiancé wanted to be part of their disgusting group?”

“Maybe he wasn't so boring as you thought.”

“Trust me, he was,” she said. “One can be perverse and still be boring.”

He laughed. “Very true. And being a member doesn't mean you've lost your soul. Your own…” He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he'd said too much.

But Jane, for all her shyness, had never been particularly slow. “‘My own…' what? Never mind, I know the answer to that. My father told me he spent many years as a total wastrel. It shouldn't surprise me in the least that he was part of them.” She looked at his impassive face. “You did mean my father, didn't you?”

“Ask him if you dare,” he suggested affably. “I've said too much.”

“You don't know my father, do you? I can ask him anything.” She sat back on her seat, fidgeting. “Do you think we'll get there in time to keep them from going?”

“Don't worry, lass, we'll get to Ripton Waters in plenty of time, but it wouldn't do to underestimate Scorpion. He'll more than likely realize he's a flaming idiot and stop before he goes through with it.”

“A flaming idiot?”

“You and I both know he's mad for her, something I never thought I'd see. I'm more than happy to take you up there, just to set your mind at ease, but he's in love with her, and I suspect she feels the same way.”

“And yet he's serving her up to the Heavenly Host,” Jane said with some asperity.

“You've seen Scorpion, Miss Jane. You've spent time with him. Do you really think he's the kind of man who'd share the woman he's fallen in love with? His problem is he doesn't seem to realize it just yet, and he
won't listen when I tried to point it out to him. But he'll come to it soon enough when he sees another man put a hand on her.”

“If she's really safe then why are you willing to race up north to rescue her?” she said, unconvinced.

His smile was slow and charming. “Maybe I just wanted the chance to spend time with you.”

She allowed herself an inelegant snort. “I own a mirror, Mr. Donnelly.”

His smile vanished. “Perhaps you do, lass,” he said finally. “But you must be half blind. And the name's Jacob.”

And before she realized what he'd intended, he'd moved across the carriage and sat beside her, his warm, big body pressed up against her, and he'd taken her nervous hand in his.

 

Miranda curled up in the corner of the coach, her cloak wrapped tight around her. They would be gone for three or four nights, Lucien had said, and yet he refused to let her bring Bridget. The trunk that had been packed for her was both ominously small and mysterious. She had no idea what was inside it, but clearly there wasn't much.

She'd done her best, played her cards well, but she had to face facts. She had lost. Lucien always held the stronger hand, and there was only so much skill could do against a master player. He was taking her to his degenerate friends, the final proof of how little she truly mattered. Any hopes she'd had of a real connection had finally died.

He rode outside, a good thing. She would have had a hard time keeping up her bubbly conversation during
the ride, which he'd told her would take most of the day. Instead she could try to think if there was any way of escape.

He'd told her it would never be rape. Perhaps he only meant with him. He would offer her up to his friends, and she had no idea what would happen if she struggled. Perhaps it would only sweeten the game for them. She'd refused to struggle with St. John—she would hardly give a bunch of jaded aristocrats that pleasure.