Elizabeth Elliott (17 page)

He wanted nothing more than to cherish her, to shower her with gifts that would make her happy. She had but to open her arms to him and he would make her one of the richest women in England. She had frowned over his gifts, and smiled most when he insisted she help balance his ledgers. Most galling of all, she seemed more inclined to be a pauper. His generous offer had offended her.

He might admire her determination to guard her virtue if he didn’t know the fate she faced without wealth of her own. And more to the point, if he didn’t ache each time he looked at her. She didn’t want his gifts, she didn’t want his gold, and she knew they could not marry.

Yet there were times when he caught her staring at him with such blatant longing that his bones felt as if they were melting. Those looks revealed far more of her thoughts than she knew, and far too much of her character for his peace of mind. A passionate virgin. That was just what he needed in his chamber each night.

He settled back on his heels and rubbed his chin. There was no doubt in his mind that marriage was her price. Was that really so impossible? Thomas had told him enough of what had happened after they left Lonsdale that he was convinced of Claudia’s innocence. If she were truly as innocent as she seemed, was it fair to hold her responsible for the actions of her uncle and brothers?

His family would hate her, but they did not have to live with her. They might accept her in time. Not that it mattered if they never accepted her. His marriage was his own affair. Only the king could object to his choice of brides, and with the Church all but forcing the issue, an objection from that corner seemed unlikely.

That left only the dower. It would be a cold day before he paid her uncle one florin to marry Claudia. He didn’t relish the thought of paying the brother, either, if Dante turned up alive, for he was surely cut from the same cloth as Roberto. That problem would take a little more time to work out.

He stood up and walked to his bed, feeling half dazed. The notion of making Claudia his wife was not nearly as appalling as he thought it would be. The thought was not the least bit appalling. It made perfect sense. He did not need a marriage made to forge a political alliance, nor the lands and coins of a bride’s dowry. He needed heirs. He pictured a child with bright green eyes, then rolled his own.

This obsession with Claudia needed to come to an end. Why couldn’t she be sensible and just agree to be his mistress? That was the easiest course for them both. No ties, no commitments. When they tired of each other, they could simply go their separate ways.

He climbed into bed and turned onto his side, his gaze drawn to her once more. Her face was turned away from him, but he studied the pattern of waves in her hair, how the firelight caught each swirl in a perfect, seemingly endless sea of mahogany. Most women wore their hair braided at night, but not Claudia, much to his delight and dismay. Right now he would like nothing more than to run his fingers through those silken tresses, to wrap his hands in it until they were bound together by her hair.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to banish the image, but that only brought more vivid images to life. How many more restless nights would he be forced to endure? She had slept untroubled and untouched for two nights in his chamber. Already it seemed like two hundred. Soon he would be willing to promise her anything to have her in his bed, not for just one or two nights, but for the two hundred he had already imagined.

He rolled onto his back and frowned at the ceiling. It seemed unlikely that he would tire of her that soon. He might not ever tire of her.

That was a foolish thought. Of course he would tire of her. No woman could hold his interest or attention for more than a few fortnights.

His eyes drifted shut and he began to dream of green-eyed babies.

Claudia dreamed of rats.

She was on the ship that had brought her to England, a barque that carried wines and spices and as many passengers as the captain could cram into the crowded cargo holds. And rats. A great many of them. Roberto and Dante slept on either side of Claudia to protect her from the creatures that came out at night. Not the ones that crawled, but the ones that walked upright. It was impossible to protect anyone from the rats.

The rats were everywhere, scurrying about in the open as if they owned the ship, crawling over and around anything in their way, occasionally sinking their sharp teeth into an exposed hand or ankle. She had felt the shiver of small clawed feet scamper over her blankets each night, but she could never grow accustomed to the rodents’ presence as the others seemed to. She hated that ship. She hated the rats even more.

In her dream she heard the disgusting noises they made, smelled their dank, musky scent that had fouled the cargo holds, and felt the quicksilver weight of the rodents dart over her legs. She even fancied that she felt one tugging at her hair. It was just a dream, of course. Somehow she was conscious enough to know that she was in Guy’s chamber, that the ship’s rats couldn’t possibly be here. If she could just wake up a little more, the rats would go away.

She opened her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the faint outline of the hearth in Guy’s chamber. Half-waking dreams were the worst kind, for they tended to mix fantasy with reality. Even knowing she was in Guy’s chamber, the presence of the phantom rats seemed to linger. She could almost smell the horrid beasts. Then she felt something
tug at her hair, a very real tug that had nothing to do with her dream. At the same moment, she saw the silhouette of a rat against the dying embers of the fire as it scurried across the hearth.

Guy bolted upright at the sound of Claudia’s scream and grabbed his sword. His gaze searched the shadowy lumps of pillows before the fireplace, but the shrieks seemed to come from different parts of the darkened room. Then he heard the ropes creak beneath the mattress as she leaped onto his bed.

“Santo cielo! Via! Vattene!”

The shrieks that followed made it nearly impossible for Guy to listen for sounds of an intruder. He moved closer to Claudia’s vague figure but kept his back to her, to protect her from the unseen threat. His sleep-dulled senses struggled to find the words to ask her what was wrong. “Ma che ti prende?”

His squire burst into the room before Claudia could answer. Not that she seemed inclined to do anything but shriek.

At least Stephen proved more helpful. He carried a sword in one hand, a rush torch held high in the other. Guy scanned the corners of the room and found it empty.

“Grazie a Dio! Toglieti dai piedi!” Claudia looked as if she had gone mad. She clung to his bedpost with one hand and shook her long hair with the other, all the while performing some wild dance on his mattress. “Ho un topo nei capelli!”

He caught a glimpse of frantic green eyes through the mahogany cloud of her hair before she gave the heavy mass another vigorous shake.

“Un topo! Oddio un topo!”

“A rat?” He felt a grin curve his lips until she let out another wail.

“Toglimelo dai capelli!”

He dropped his sword and knelt next to her on the bed, pulling her down in front of him. He had always wanted to bury his hands in her hair, but not to search for a rat. Or a
mouse. Or whatever she felt was tangled in the silky tresses. She calmed down the moment he touched her, held herself still and silent while he ran his hands over her head, then he gathered her hair at the nape to sift his fingers through its entire, amazing length. He repeated the process, not to search for a nonexistent rodent, but because he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like holding a river of satin. He felt her shiver and only then remembered to reassure her.

“There is not a rat in your hair, sweetheart.” He motioned to his squire. “Light the brace of candles, then you may leave us, Stephen.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Guy continued to stroke her hair while Stephen carried out his order. It seemed to calm her. It didn’t calm him one bit. His heart began to beat harder, and each breath felt more labored than the last. Stephen left and he couldn’t stop touching her, couldn’t stop combing his fingers through warm silk.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Hold still,” he murmured. Her hips shifted once more between his knees and he scowled at his hands, glad she could not see them tremble. He continued to work at her hair, gently untangling it, secretly trailing the ends over his bare legs.

He was sick. He had stooped to sneaking his pleasure from her. What torture would he dream up next? A horsehair shirt? Nay, that would be a minor discomfort compared to the brush of her hair against his skin. It would have to be something more drastic to surpass this torture. The rack, perhaps. He looked down at his hands, startled to realize they had turned to fists in her hair. He made a conscious effort to unclench his fingers.

“I swear I saw rats in this chamber.” She looked over her shoulder, her face flushed from embarrassment, or her earlier exertions, or perhaps both. He felt a guilty rush of excitement as he watched the enticing rise and fall of her breasts beneath her blue gown. “I saw one on the hearth, and felt another in
my hair. The nasty beast was trying to make a nest there. And I am sure I felt a third run across my legs.”

She shuddered, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull her onto his lap and into his arms.

Claudia had other ideas. She braced both hands against his chest and tried to scoot away. “Per l’amor del cielo!” Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “You are naked!”

“I am not naked.” He tightened his grip on her waist, although there was no need to restrain her. She sat as still as a statue.

“You look naked to me,” she insisted.

He was not about to stand up to let her examine the loincloth he wore. At the moment, that would probably alarm her more than thinking him naked. “You have nothing to fear from me, Claudia. You are frightened and I would comfort you, if you let me. Nothing more.”

Where did that promise come from? He was beyond sick. This bordered on insane. He took several deep breaths and wondered if she had any idea how tightly he held himself in check, how his control could slip through his fingers as easily as her silky hair.

She gave him a wary look. “I do not need comforting, Baron. Those loathsome rats simply startled me. I am not afraid of them.”

He found himself smiling at the blatant lie. “Truly? Then is it some sort of Italian ritual to dance around a bedpost and toss one’s hair about when one sees a rat?” He rubbed his chin, his tone thoughtful. “I suppose that would scare off any rat.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I was a little disturbed at the thought of a filthy rat tangled in my hair. Anyone would be startled after waking up from a sound sleep to find rats crawling all over them.” She nodded, as if to confirm her opinion. “Aye, I was startled. Your home is so fine that I did not expect it to be infested with rodents. Now that I think upon the matter, I do not remember seeing any cats inside the keep. ’Tis little wonder rats roam so freely. I will visit the
dairy barns tomorrow to find a nice tabby for your chamber, and these rats will be—”

“Nay.”

“—gone within a day or two.” Her brows drew together into a puzzled frown. “Even if it does not actually catch anything, rats will not stay where—”

“No cats. I cannot abide the creatures.”

“Surely a cat is more tolerable than filthy rodents. Cats are clean and quiet, and they—”

“I said, no cats. They are sneaky, conniving creatures found most often in the company of witches.” One dark brow rose. “You are not a witch, are you?”

“A witch! How could you—” She studied his face for a long moment. “You are afraid of cats?”

“I am not afraid of any scrawny feline.”

“Aye, you are afraid of cats,” she insisted. “Why else would you live with rats?”

Guy glared down at her. “I do not live with rats. I tolerate them. If you must know the truth, cats make me ill.”

“I see.”

“ ’Tis truth. They make me sneeze. My eyes itch and water, then they swell to the size of eggs.”

Claudia burst out laughing. His indignant expression made her cover her mouth to muffle her laughter, but that didn’t seem to appease him. “I am sorry, my lord. ’Tis just the thought of eggs where your eyes should be …” She started to giggle.

Guy’s scowl faded into a sheepish grin. “You will not repeat that to anyone. I would not have my men know that I could be brought low by something so insignificant as a common cat.”

“My lips are sealed, Baron.”

She drew a line across her lips, and his gaze followed the path of her finger. He stared at her mouth, a dark look in his eyes. “Aye, they are.”

He wanted to kiss her. The knowledge sent a sharp stab of heat through her. She wanted him to kiss her, to feel the
same delicious rush of excitement she had felt in the gardens at Lonsdale when he held her in his arms and caressed her mouth more than kissed it. But he hadn’t been naked then, nor in his bed. He began to lower his head.

“What news did Thomas bring?”

He hesitated, his brows drawn together as if he needed a moment to comprehend her question. “No news I did not expect. We are betrothed.”

His mouth moved closer to hers. She grasped for some subject that would distract him, her own thoughts muddled by his obvious intention. “I, ah—ahem. That is to say—” His warm breath felt like a caress against her face. In another instant, he would be kissing her. “Sewing. Yes, that’s it. Did I show you the fabric I chose to make your tunic? I will need to measure you to make sure it fits.” His hands tightened on her waist. He didn’t look the least distracted. “I-I also removed the necklace that I sewed into my cloak. Will it be safe in my clothes trunk, or do you have a strongbox where I could place it for safekeeping?”

“The necklace will be safe in your trunk.”

“Would you like to see it?”

He shook his head.

“You wanted to see it when we stopped in the forest. Now you may.” She gestured toward her trunk. “ ’Tis right there. Perhaps you could tell me its worth in florins so I could begin to make plans for the day I leave Montague. I have no notion of its value, but my brothers gave me the impression that the necklace would allow me to live in some measure of comfort if they could not see to my needs. Surely it should fetch enough to see me settled in modest lodgings in London, if I manage to journey there with less than an army. And yesterday I noticed that your agents trade jewels on occasion. ’Tis likely they could strike a better bargain with a buyer than I. Do you think one would accept my necklace on commission?”