Fanning the Flame (14 page)

He took a step toward her and a lean hand reached out to cup her cheek. "Good night, Jillian." They were the same words he had said to her last night but tonight they were spoken softly, as if something had changed between them.

"Good night, my lord."

"Adam," he reminded her.

"Good night . . . Adam."

He nodded and turned away. He believed in her innocence, but he didn't look as pleased as he should have. She thought it might have something to do with her telling him that she was a virgin.

Remembering the way she had felt when he held her, Jillian wasn't so sure she was happy about it herself.

Sprawled in an overstuffed velvet chair in front of the fire in his bedchamber, Adam swirled the brandy in his glass and took a drink. Now that he had bathed and put on a burgundy silk dressing gown, he felt a little better. He took supper in his room, a meal of roast capon and oysters, and began to think like a calm, rational being.

Unfortunately every time he did, he kept seeing the blush in Jillian's cheeks as she told him that she was a virgin.

A virgin.
Christ.

Adam swirled his brandy, stared past the glass into the flames. Caroline Harding had been a virgin the first time they had made love, but they had intended to marry, and in truth, the seduction was more her doing than his. Since then, he had never gone near a young, unmarried female. He had never really been tempted.

But Jillian tempted him sorely.

He took another deep drink, the liquid warming him and clearing his thoughts. The first time he had kissed her he had noticed her innocent responses. He should have known then, should have realized, but he simply hadn't been convinced.

He didn't trust women—almost none of them— and it suited his purpose far better to believe she was the bought-and-paid-for sort the gossipmongers said. Fenwick's servants believed it about her—or at least some of them did. Even the old man's nephew, Howard Telford, believed Jillian had seduced the aging earl.

But what he had said tonight was true. Even knowing that the late earl had intended to leave her his fortune, he couldn't shake his belief that she had no part in the murder. In fact, after hearing what she'd had to say, his instincts told him even more strongly that she was innocent of the crime and he was committed to helping her prove it.

Why that commitment remained so fierce he couldn't explain. Perhaps he did it for Sergeant Rimfield. Or perhaps because of the false accusations Maria had made.

Noticing his empty glass, Adam got up from his chair and walked over to the silver tray on his dresser where the brandy decanter sat. As tired as he was, the alcohol ought to put him to sleep, though he couldn't help wishing it were a different sort of sedative that lured him into slumber. Instead of the brandy, he envisioned a woman with hair the same reddish hue as the brandy and a body made for a man's pleasure.

An image returned of Jillian's naked breasts and he remembered how much fuller they were than he had expected, how they were heavier and more rounded at the bottom, tilting her nipples slightly upward.

Adam cursed as he went hard beneath the robe, reminding him that he had missed his chance last night for a female to ease his needs. He had hoped that Jillian would soon be sharing his bed. It was the reason he had installed her in the room next to his. Instead, the matter of her innocence put another barrier between them, and he wasn't exactly sure what he intended to do about it.

Adam tilted his head back, draining his freshly poured drink in a single swallow, then set the glass down and padded over to the big four-poster bed. Tomorrow he'd be able to think more clearly, decide what course he should take.

Tomorrow,
he thought as he shrugged out of his robe and tossed it across the foot of the bed. But he didn't think tomorrow would bring an end to the disturbing lust he felt for Jillian Whitney, or ease the hard flesh that throbbed every night beneath the sheets.

Chapter Eleven

Jillian swung her pelisse around her shoulders and fastened the clasp. She was going to see Peter Fraser, the runner the earl had hired. She wanted to find out for herself what progress he was making. She needed to know exactly what was going on.

Besides, she was about to go insane staying in the house all the time.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs when she spotted Adam striding toward her, brandishing the morning
Times.
The dark look on his face sent her pulse into a spin.

"Telford's demanding you be brought back to Newgate until the trial."

"Oh, God."

"He's set up a howl, accused me of impropriety and you of licentious conduct and God knows what else. We need to remedy the situation before it gets out of control. We're leaving London this afternoon."

"What!" She wadded the hem of her pelisse in her palm. "I can't leave London. I have to find out who killed the earl."

"You don't have any choice. Staying here, living unchaperoned under the same roof with me, is making your situation worse."

"I have to stay. I have to prove my innocence."

"Staying here isn't going to help you do that. You're a pariah in this town. Howard Telford has seen to that. No one is going to talk to you. They won't even let you through the front door."

"I won't go. I simply can't."

His eyes turned an icy dark blue. "I'm not giving you a choice. You've been released into my custody until this is over. That means you will do what I say."

She seethed but didn't argue. She knew that look, knew that he wouldn't change his mind.

"We leave for Blackwood Manor as soon as our bags are packed. My mother is in residence at the dower house. That makes your stay respectable enough to calm the wagging tongues."

"Your mother? How can you possibly expect the Countess of Blackwood to take in a murder suspect?"

"My mother won't know. Several years back, she suffered a stroke. There are times she is lucid, but much of the time she makes little sense."

Some of her temper faded. "I'm sorry. I can only imagine how hard that must be for you."

"Like your father, my mother had children late in life. She's lived a number of fruitful years and she's happy in whatever world she lives in. She's still a kind and generous woman. I think you will like her."

"I don't think this is a good idea. It isn't fair to embroil your family in this. Surely there is someplace else you could take me."

He cast her an unrelenting glance. "Tempers are running high. I want you somewhere safe. You'll be out of harm's way at Blackwood Manor."

"And your family?"

"Once you're proved innocent, the murder scandal will fade."

And even if it didn't, he was giving her no choice.

As the earl commanded, Jillian was packed and ready to leave by noon, her leather trunks filled with the clothes the footman had retrieved from Mrs. Madigan, Lord Fenwick's housekeeper, lovely garments the dear old earl had insisted she purchase.

Blackwood's fine black, four-horse traveling coach waited downstairs, and though she wanted to stay, the law had placed her under his control and she had no choice but to obey.

The thought left her irritable and out of sorts as she paced the floor of her bedchamber. At least she would be free of the city, out in the open green fields, enjoying clear blue skies untainted by soot and fog.

She should be grateful, she told herself. He was offering his assistance when no one else had. Her stomach knotted. He had offered to help her, but now she knew the price he expected in return.

It wouldn't happen, she told herself. The earl was a reasonable man—most of the time. Once the cloud of suspicion no longer hung over her head, she would find a way to repay him—and not with the use of her body.

Perhaps he would help her to secure a position as a governess somewhere. She loved children and she had been very good at teaching them. These past few months, she had missed the sound of their laughter, the joy in their young faces when they had earned her praise.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly noon. Time to leave. Dear Lord, she didn't want to go.

Feeling caged and ill-tempered, she descended the stairs to the entry. Reggie and Maude waited at the door. She had almost reached them when she saw Lord Blackwood step out of his study and start down the hall in her direction. His coat and waistcoat were missing, his cravat carelessly untied and his sleeves rolled up, showing suntanned, corded forearms. She couldn't help a quick, indrawn breath at the handsome sight he made, and her irritation crept up a notch.

He rolled down his sleeves as he approached. "Sorry. I had some paperwork to do before we left. I didn't expect it would take quite so long."

"I've changed my mind," she said just to be annoying. "I've decided to stay in London. Perhaps if I am here, I can find something that will help clear my name."

Hard blue eyes bored into her. "I don't think you understand. I have linked my name to yours and until this is over, you go where I go. Make no mistake, Miss Whitney. I am leaving the city and so are you."

She watched him climb the stairs in knee-high riding boots, snug black breeches, and a full-sleeved white lawn shirt, and wished he didn't look so blasted good.

Jillian shook her head, annoyed with her thoughts. So what if she found him attractive? So what if his kisses were utterly delicious? The earl was obviously a virile man and her brief experiences with desire had shown her what a potent force that could be.

He was attractive, yes, but he was also arrogant and far too domineering.

Whatever happened, one thing was clear—the Earl of Blackwood would scarcely have a serious interest in a penniless female embroiled in scandal and under suspicion of murder.

No matter how handsome he was, no matter how stirring his kisses, there could never be anything serious between them. She had to remember that.

Jillian turned as he pounded back down the stairs a few minutes later, followed by his valet, Harley Smythe. Harley was an ancient, white-haired man, bone-thin, who walked so straight his spine bowed slightly backward. Obviously another of the earl's acquaintances from the army.

Harley creaked over to the door and looked out at the heavily loaded conveyances. "Everything appears to be ready, milord." He carried a small leather satchel, the last of the earl's baggage—all he could possibly manage.

"All right. Let's get out of here." The earl took Jillian’s arm and firmly guided her out the door.

A little after noon, a procession of three Blackwood-crested carriages bowled out of the city, Ramses, the earl's black stallion, tied to the last. One carried baggage. Reggie, Maude, and Harley occupied another. And riding in the lead conveyance, Jillian sat across from the earl.

As soon as they escaped the traffic, the vehicles set off at a fast clip for the tiny village of Black's Woods, near Seaford, and the earl's estate, Blackwood Manor.

The journey fast became tiring. His lordship had decided they should travel as far as they possibly could. Jillian, he said, might be recognized, and he didn't want to chance an ugly scene if she were.

With that in mind, they traveled the sixty-odd miles in two days, stopping overnight at the Hare & Thistle. Adam spent little time in the coach, preferring to ride his stallion and enjoy the fresh air. Jillian tried to ignore how handsome he looked astride his big black horse and the ease with which he rode. She tried not to notice his straight-shouldered, military bearing or the long, powerful muscles in his legs as they flexed in the saddle.

She was exhausted by the time they arrived at their destination at dusk the following evening. Still, her breath caught at the first sight of Blackwood Manor, perched on a cliff above the sea, an incredible array of round stone towers, red clay chimney pots, and assorted spires. The setting sun washed the house in blazing gold. With the sea below the cliffs shadowed to a rich deep blue, the effect was dazzling. As tired as she was, the sight was so rousing her fatigue fell away.

"What do you think of it?" There was pride in the earl's deep voice as he gazed at the sprawling estate that was his home. Standing at the bottom of the carriage stairs, they gazed out at the green lawns stretching from the cliffs to the front of the house, the verdant, rolling hills spread out around it.

"It's breathtaking. It looks as if it's been here for hundreds of years."

"The house was originally built around twelve hundred as an abbey. King John made a gift of it to the Cistercian monks, but in the early sixteenth century most of the building was destroyed by fire. The first Earl of Blackwood bought the land—a little over eight thousand acres, and what was left of the abbey. But much of what you see is Elizabethan, built by the third earl in the early seventeenth century."

There were windows everywhere and the way the house perched on the knoll the entire front overlooked the sea.

"It's like something out of a fairy tale." Her mouth tightened. "Quite luxurious . . . for a prison."

The earl cast her a forbidding glance. "If that is the way you see it, you might as well enjoy your stay. As you pointed out, you won't be leaving—at least not until I say."