Dangerous to Kiss (13 page)

He shook his head as if to clear his brain of the mist that had gathered there. This could not be him, taking advantage of a woman’s inexperience! He knew better! One of the few times his father had ever lifted his hand to him was when, as a boy of fifteen, he had tried to seduce the vicar’s daughter in the barn behind the church. A man did not seduce an innocent young girl, not even if she was willing, and Sally Wentworth had been more than willing. A man treated all women with courtesy and respect, whether they deserved it or not. That lesson had been drilled into him by both parents since he was in the schoolroom, and he, in turn, had drilled it into his younger brother. Deborah Weyman was a special case. He had to break her, but she did not deserve this from him.

Deborah, sensing the subtle change in him, lifted her head and gazed up at him with uncertain eyes. There was a moment when she read the same uncertainty in his expression, then his eyes clouded over and his features hardened into a cold mask.

“Last chance, Deborah,” he said. “Tell me where Quentin is, or I shall well and truly fuck you.”

The crude word acted on her as he hoped it would. Her knee came up like lightning and struck him full on the stomach, sending him sprawling. Even if he had wanted to deflect the blow, which he didn’t, he doubted if he could have acted quickly enough. Wonderful! While he was doubled over in agony, she had scrambled to her feet, and was reviling his lecherous designs with all the facility of a fishwife from Billingsgate. That ought
to bring Nick rushing to the rescue and not a moment too soon. He ducked as first one shoe then the other came flying at him. With no other missiles in sight, she backed away from him. At the first sound of feet thundering on the stairs, Gray reached for his breeches and stepped into them.

A fist hammered against the door and the handle rattled. “Unlock the door.” Nick’s voice. “Deborah, are you all right? Unlock the door, I say, or I shall break it down.”

Deborah was crouched in a corner, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, staring at Gray as though he had suddenly sprouted another head. Ignoring that shocked look, he said tersely, “Cover yourself, woman, unless you want Nick to finish what I started.” She continued to stare at him until he made a sudden move toward her, then, diving for one of the quilts, she quickly wrapped it around herself. Only then did Gray produce a key from his pocket and answer Nick’s frenzied blows on the door.

As soon as Gray unlocked the door, Nick pushed past him and strode into the room. One look at Deborah’s bloodied lip and he turned furiously upon Gray. “What the devil is going on? What have you done to her? I warn you, Gray, I won’t have her harmed.”

Gray’s handsome features betrayed not a flicker of unease. “Why don’t you ask the lady what happened?”

Deborah answered before the question could be put to her. She could not bear to look Nick in the eye. She felt shamed to the depths of her soul, knowing she had participated in her own seduction. Voice breaking, she said, “He said a word to which I took exception.”

Bewildered, Nick looked from one to the other. “What word?”

Gray shrugged. Deborah turned away and began to pick up her clothes.

“And that’s all there was to it?” Nick’s voice was still rife with suspicion.

Gray folded his arms across his chest. His tone was conversational, his words were lethal. “If I want to take her, Nick, I shall, and I won’t ask your permission.”

The silence these words produced was long and profoundly frightening. Deborah was afraid to breathe.

Nick stared at Gray for long moments. By degrees, his hostility seemed to ebb away. “This one is different, Gray, you know she is.”

Gray laughed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Come along, Nick, and leave Miss Weyman to get dressed.” He flung an arm around Nick’s shoulders and led him from the room, carefully locking the door behind him.

“What really happened, Gray?”

They were on the stairs, and Gray put a finger to his lips, silencing Nick. Once in the kitchen, he said easily, “I put the fear of God into her, or more precisely, the fear of her ruthless captor. She is halfway persuaded that I mean to have my wicked way with her. ’Morning, Hart.”

Hart looked up from the bacon he was frying and grunted a greeting.

Nick sprawled on a chair. “She’s halfway persuaded?” he asked incredulously. “Gray, you can’t gull me. If you could only see yourself! Your lip looks as though it has been caught in a mangle, and Miss Weyman’s lip looks no better. Is this how you make love to a woman? Is this an example of the famous charm which has divested women of their wits if not their clothing since you graduated from the schoolroom? If so, I think you should be looking to your laurels, old sport. Even I can do better than that.”

A pot clattered, but neither brother paid any heed to it. “I don’t wish to make love to her,” said Gray. “Our purpose is to break her, remember?” He snagged a thick slice of bread that was toasting at the open fire and bit into it.

“I might believe you,” said Nick, snickering, “had I not walked into a room where the ripe smell of passion almost choked me. Talk about being knocked over with a feather!”

There was a commotion at the fireplace as Hart dropped the frying pan he was holding, then an oath as he picked it up without benefit of a pot holder and subsequently
slammed it on a trivet. When he turned upon Gray and Nick, his expression was wrathful. Theirs was startled.

“If you have dishonored that lady, you shall answer to me,” he declared. “This was no part of our understanding.”

The brothers exchanged a quick look. “Hart! Hart!” said Gray, pulling a long face. “Have you so little faith in me? Nick is exaggerating, as usual. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, don’t I?” taunted Nick.

“Nick, tell him!”

“Oh, very well. Hart, you know me. I was merely enjoying a bit of fun at Gray’s expense. The trouble with you, Hart, is that you don’t have any brothers. If you had, you would know that there is nothing we like better than to torment each other. Isn’t that so, Gray?”

At these reassuring words, Hart unbent a little. It had never seriously entered his head that Gray would dishonor Miss Weyman, whatever the ultimate goal. The Graysons weren’t like that. He well remembered the intimidating interview with Gray, when he had finally screwed up his courage to ask for Gussie’s hand in marriage. Gray wasn’t interested in his wealth or his title. He wanted his sister to be settled with a man who would make her happy. The Graysons had been raised to cherish their womenfolk, and if Hart failed in his duty, Gray would take a very dim view of it. Hart was left in no doubt that in that event he would be facing Gray at some distant dawn with a dueling pistol in his hand.

Miss Weyman would not be designated as a member of Gray’s “womenfolk,” but she was still a member of the weaker sex. He had never known Gray, in spite of his cynicism, to treat females with anything but respect and gentleness, yes, even the bold hussies. Miss Weyman was different, of course. It was quite possible she was implicated in the murder of Gray’s friend. Gray could be ruthless, but Hart did not think he could throw off the tenets by which he had been raised. At least, he hoped he could not.

Aware of two pairs of eyes on him, Hart ventured, “I
won’t be a party to anything … well … dishonorable.”

“Nor would Nick. Nor would I.” Gray’s voice became brutally soft as he continued. “But you will allow that these are exceptional circumstances? She knows where Quentin is. I mean to find him. If there was another way, don’t you think I would take it?”

Though the belligerence had faded from Hart’s expression, he was persistent. “I can’t believe that she was involved in Gil’s murder, or that she would do anything to harm Quentin.”

“I find it hard to believe too.”

“Well, then?”

“I have been known to be wrong before now.”

Eyes glinting, Nick said, “Hart, didn’t I tell you he fancies the girl? She won’t come to any harm with Gray. He took one look into those big baby-blue eyes of hers, and—”

“Her eyes are green,” corrected Gray.

Nick’s shoulders shook with laughter. “What did I tell you, Hart? As I was saying, he looked into those big,
baby-green
eyes of hers and read his fate in bold letters. She’s his wench. He doesn’t believe she is a murderess any more than you or I do. And when this is all over, he’s got to face the music. You should feel sorry for him, Hart. I know I do.”

Amusement stirred in Gray’s eyes. “When this is all over,” he said, “I shall be happy if I never set eyes on the wench again. By the way, Nick, do try for a little less melodrama when you charge to the rescue. I thought it was a little overdone.”

“Anything to oblige,” answered Nick cheerfully.

“And Hart, just keep on as you are doing. I think she fears you almost as much as she fears me.”

Hart made no comment other than to slam a kettle of boiling water on the rickety table. “You need a shave,” he told Gray, indicating the kettle.

“One does so miss one’s valet on these missions,” said Gray. “I take it my portmanteau is in the other room?”

“As is Miss Weyman’s,” replied Nick. “Shall I take it up to her?”

“Hardly, when the point of the exercise is to make her feel as miserable and uncomfortable as possible. Please, Hart, I don’t think my nerves can stand any more rattling of pots and pans.” He reached for a tin mug and filled it from the kettle. “Now,” he said, “this is how we shall bring matters to a speedy conclusion.”

When Gray locked the door, Deborah lost no time in seeing to her toilette. The water in the pitcher, the little that remained after her ablutions of the night before, was ice-cold. Finding no washcloth, she dampened one of the threadbare towels and rubbed it briskly over her body. Her hands and face received no more than a quick splash. It took her only a few minutes to don her clothes. Her hair was a mess of tangles. For long moments, she gazed with loathing at that filthy, broken comb before finally snatching it up and dragging it through her hair.

Having tidied herself, she threw down the comb and waited expectantly till someone should come to the door to escort her to the outside privy. After pacing impatiently for several minutes, convinced that no one gave a thought for her comfort, she looked around the room for the indispensable commode with its equally indispensable chamber pot. There was no commode, but she found the chamber pot. It was in the washstand, behind the slop pail, and it was crawling with maggots.

Smothering a scream, she dropped the chamber pot and took a quick step back. He had done this on purpose, in an effort to wear her down so that she would tell him what he wanted to know. Furious at such base
tactics—another example of the man’s crudity—she used the water from the slop pail to drown her uninvited guests, and wished she could do as much to her ruthless abductor. It was horrible. She would burst before she would use that filthy, broken-down thing.

Indignation bolstered her courage. She moved purposefully to the door and used one of her shoes to hammer upon it. Within minutes, the key turned in the lock and she was confronted with the fierce-looking, dark-haired man, the one they called Hart.

The hot words of reproach died unsaid. She didn’t know how to read this man and decided not to provoke him. “May I be permitted to visit the outhouse?” she asked, managing a faint smile.

He gave her an unreadable look before leading the way down the steep staircase and into the kitchen. There was no sign of Lord Kendal or Nick but she could hear their voices in the next room. The kitchen looked as though an army had been through it. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and pots and pans were strewn over the table and floor. The smoke from burned bacon hung on the air. She smirked, thinking it would take them a month of Sundays to clean up the place. She just wished she were there to see it.

She wasn’t smirking a few minutes later when she was marched back to her room and the key was turned in the lock. She didn’t care to eat a cooked breakfast, but she would have given anything for a piece of dry toast and a cup of something hot to drink. She had been offered nothing. Lord Kendal was lower than the lowest rodent.

She looked around her small prison and examined every nook and cranny to see if there was a way of escape. Deciding that the window would be her best bet, she grasped one of the boards across it and yanked with all her strength. It would not budge, and there was nothing in that room that she could use as a lever, no candlestick, no fire tongs or poker. Lord Kendal was a very cautious man. If she were to escape, she would have to go out through the door. It wasn’t impossible, but she would do well to choose her moment with care.

There was no chair, but by arranging the mattresses and quilts, she managed to make a sofa of sorts. It was hardly comfortable, but it would do. Gingerly seating herself, she leaned back against the wall for support and began to take stock of her position.

Kendal was a formidable enemy, but he was not infallible. He thought she could easily be cowed into doing whatever he wanted, and that’s where he had made a colossal error. He needed her. Alive, she was worth something. If anything happened to her, his plans would come to nothing.

She made a sound that was not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Who was she trying to fool? She
was
easily cowed. She wasn’t a heroine. And if sometimes it seemed that she was brave, as Miss Hare seemed to think, that was only because she had been backed into a corner and could do no other. Even a cornered rabbit would put up a fight. If Albert had only realized it, he might still be alive to this day.

It was her way, when memories of that appalling time came back to her, to ruthlessly suppress them. This time, she found them hard to suppress. She was all at sea. Fear had done this to her. Her ability to think clearly was fast disintegrating.

Restless now, she rose and began to pace. Realizing that she was chilled, she retrieved her cloak from the floor and threw it over her shoulders, then went to stand by the window. Through one of the slats, she could make out a field of barley, and beyond that, the hills silhouetted against the pink haze of a new dawn.