Invitation to Scandal (4 page)
Read Invitation to Scandal Online
Authors: Bronwen Evans
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
He frowned. If Dark Shadow was a down-on-his-luck noble, perhaps she’d been given the barrel—payment for services rendered. To have a woman of her beauty, he’d pay almost anything, and he was sure other men would, too.
His eyebrow rose. Perhaps that is what she was after. Why had she stopped him when he could tell the sensuous beauty before him was as aroused as he?
By the state of her drab dress, money was in short supply. He could pay her. He was certainly wealthy enough, and he’d paid for the pleasure of a woman’s body numerous times before. In his line of work, working for the government, it was almost impossible to keep a mistress, so his liaisons were frequent and fleeting, often in exchange for money.
He shook his head to clear the desire clouding his judgment. With iron-willed control, he set her away from him and forced his desires back into check.
She lowered her eyes, and with a flush staining her creamy skin, she began to straighten her clothes.
“Will you look at me, darling?” he managed.
She tossed her glorious mane of fiery-gold curls over her shoulder and gave him a mutinous look. He kept his tone disarming. “What has caused your sudden about-face? I know you were enjoying my attentions. When we are fully joined, flesh to heated flesh, I’ll give you such pleasure your screams will be heard over the pounding surf.”
She sat back on her heels, her eyes weary. “I don’t doubt your skill as a lover, but I am not read—that is, I am not yours for the taking.”
He smiled. “Perhaps an incentive is required. How remiss of me to expect to sample your bountiful favors when I have offered nothing in return.”
Chapter 3
A
frown stole over her poignant heart-shaped face. Lord Strathmore felt himself harden further. God he wanted her. He resisted the urge to push her down into the long grass and forget his troubles by sinking deep within her hot, welcoming body.
frown stole over her poignant heart-shaped face. Lord Strathmore felt himself harden further. God he wanted her. He resisted the urge to push her down into the long grass and forget his troubles by sinking deep within her hot, welcoming body.
He couldn’t help one further attempt at getting what he wanted—knowledge about the cask of brandy. He reached for her and pulled her back into his embrace. “Name your price. I am an extremely wealthy man, and I shall be very generous.” He paused and gently kissed her lips. “Especially if you tell me about the barrel.”
Rheda was beginning to hate the barrel.
She couldn’t look away; there was something warm and tender in his eyes that seemed to be lulling her toward her own demise.
“How does five guineas sound?” He paused and ran his finger gently down her cheek, tracing the outline of her lips until they parted on a soft sigh. “I’ll double it if you tell me where you found the barrel.”
Her heart beat a wild pulse in her throat. A man just bartered for her as if she were a whore. She shouldn’t be surprised. Her actions were deplorable. She’d let him touch her, kiss her ... To her great shame, she longed to do more. With him. With this beautiful, dangerous rake.
Remember your mother.
Rheda twisted within his firm grip. “I am not for sale at any price, my lord.” With her pride hurt she uttered, “Let me go.”
His arms tightened. “Is the sum not enough? One hundred guineas?” She was shocked at the small fortune he’d offered, yet the purring quality of his husky voice quieted her alarm.
Vaguely Rheda realized she was letting him caress her again, stroking with hushed delicacy the column of her throat, her bare shoulder, her tingling breasts ...
Slowly he bent his head, his lips following the path his fingers had taken, his soft caress sending desire shooting through her body. A tremor shook her as he tugged her bodice lower, deliberately exposing her breasts to his heated gaze and wicked tongue.
“Two hundred,” he said, his voice husky with want, before his tongue played in a leisurely erotic dance on her skin.
Rheda came to her senses just in time. Just before his mouth latched on to her nipple. Just before she forgot everything except what this man could make her feel.
She struggled in his arms, trying desperately to pull out of his tight embrace.
“Don’t be afraid, angel ...”
She felt the soft brush of his breath on her ripe swells. If he suckled her she’d be lost, so she suddenly found her strength. Spying a heavy stick, she grabbed it and swung it at his head. It connected with a sickening thud, and he let her go. She fell backward on the grass as he struggled to his feet with a roar of injured pride.
“What the hell was that for?”
Rheda hid her fear, pulling up her bodice. She scowled up at him, refusing to let her own helplessness conquer her. “I am not for sale and you would not listen. You wouldn’t unhand me.” She lowered her voice. “Perhaps rape is the only way you can take a woman.”
He stood staring down at her, his breath coming in ragged pants. “We both know it would not have been rape. Even now I can see the desire in your eyes.”
“Yes—a desire to be left alone. Not to be molested by a brute stronger than me simply because he feels like it. Not all women are whores. Or is monetary incentive the only way you know how to get a woman?” She all but spat the words at him.
Shock flared in his eyes. He glared down at her, his rigid stance indicating how livid he was.
She followed his angry stare, only to gasp as she quickly lowered her skirts from where they were bunched around her waist, her legs exposed to his heated gaze.
He was breathing heavily. She could not quite meet his eyes. She had been enjoying his touch, his fingers’ caress, and his lips’ soft trail. Her eyes could not meet his knowing gaze; instead, they roamed downward and came to rest on the great cylindrical bulge in his trousers. He was still hard for her. She could not tear her gaze away.
“If you keep staring at my trousers like that, I’ll think you are lying and you do in fact want me as I want you.”
His words brought more heat to her cheeks.
“Are you going to put me out of my misery?” When he spoke, his voice was an intimate murmur designed to coax the deepest secrets from her. Her eyes were drawn back to his bulge. “I meant were you going to tell me about the barrel ?” His voice grew heavy with sarcasm. “Unless you were thinking of some other way to end my obvious suffering. I wouldn’t want to touch you again and be accused of rape.”
She shook her head and looked away. With a strangled sigh, Rheda leaned back on her elbows and looked up into his ruggedly handsome face, trying to still the sparks of heat flaring in her veins. She had to tell him something. She knew from experience that a man of Lord Strathmore’s fortitude would not leave her alone until he had his answer.
“We had a big storm pass through here a couple of nights ago. I found it washed up on the beach this morning. It must have fallen off a ship. I thought I’d roll it home.”
“On your own?”
“I couldn’t risk leaving it. Someone else might take it. Selling the contents of this barrel could feed us for a month. Unfortunately, as I was rolling it, the barrel slipped off the road down this little slope. I managed to stop it from going over the cliff, but became pinned against this oak tree.”
She kept her features blank as the lies rolled off her tongue. If Lord Strathmore was with the government he’d learn nothing from her. Smuggling was punishable by transportation to the colonies, but finding goods washed ashore after a storm was merely salvaging.
His voice became resolute and dropped an octave. “I do not think so; the barrel is not even wet.” He dropped down to kneel on the grass beside her, making any idea of escape ludicrous. Besides, with his stallion there was no way she could outrun him. “Do I need to coax a better response from you?” He reached to cup her chin in his hands. He lowered his face until their lips almost met. “I ask again, where did you get it?”
Rheda swallowed her fear. “On the beach, my lord.”
“You will tell me the truth. It wasn’t in the water, was it? What beach? Where did you find it exactly?” His words flew at her with urgency.
She stammered, his nearness affecting her more than she liked. “I—I cannot remember exactly which beach, but it was near here. The cask is heavy, and I hadn’t rolled it very far before I became pinned.”
He eyed her wearily as if judging the truth of her words. Her heart began to pound as his eyes darkened from deep brown to almost black. He lifted one hand to stroke her hair as it lay flowing loose on the ground. In a low, deadly tone he said, “Perhaps I should summon the Revenuers and let them extract the truth from you since my methods of persuasion do not work.”
Meg always told her to work with the devil you know. She would be wiser to place herself in this man’s hands than let the Revenue men get her. But she seethed with indignation at having to beg. She crossed her fingers behind her back and lied. “Please, Lord Strathmore, I swear on my father’s grave that I found it on the beach.”
“If you tell me which beach, I shall not hand you over to the Revenue men. Do you know what would happen to you if I do? They’ll likely not care about my being accused of rape.”
She lowered her eyes. “I will tell you.”
His hand continued to cup her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Well, I’m waiting.” His eyes bored into hers. “Which beach?”
She chewed her bottom lip. Which beach should she pick? It would have to be Fraser’s Landing. It was the only beach with a slope gentle enough for her to have rolled the barrel up it. Besides, it was a beach smugglers never used.
“I found the barrel on Fraser’s Landing. It’s not far from here. Do you know where it is?”
He gave a small nod—followed by such a devastating smile she wished him to Hades. A ruthless man should not own such a smile. It made remembering the danger he represented impossible.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” He studied her silently. “However, I will have your name.” His tone was cajoling as if she were an errant child. She tried to conceal her annoyance.
“Why do you need to know my name?”
He responded with a crooked smile. “Do not be angry just because I have demanded the truth from you. I did free you. I want the name of the woman I am about to kiss,” he added.
Rheda’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Your attempt at seduction is getting tiresome. There will be no kiss; my simple thank-you should suffice.”
She tested her legs and gingerly rose to her feet. She looked down on him still kneeling on the grass. Her breath caught in her throat; he looked as chiseled and flawless as a Greek sculpture that had recently been cleaned. Then he smiled, and he looked as exciting as his prancing stallion. Untamable. Unmanageable. Deliciously dangerous. The hairs on her arms rose. She’d never met a man like him.
His contented grin, like a cat that just swallowed a bucket of cream, sent her stomach tumbling. His smile was his most potent weapon. His lips full and inviting. He no doubt slayed many a woman with such a smile, and she had to dig her fingernails into her palm to keep from succumbing.
“I should go now. I need to get the barrel home before dusk.”
“You are worried about the Revenue men. There is no need. I’ll protect you.” He rose to stand before her. Carefully, she stepped a little away, trying to tear her gaze from his powerful body, trying to put space between them.
He considered her for a minute, and she lowered her eyelashes to hide her resentment.
“I’ll help you get the barrel home. I could use some rope and tie it to Caesar’s saddle. We could drag the barrel along the road behind him.” He indicated his impressive stallion. “It will be less tiring.”
He seemed much focused on her barrel. She was reluctant to let him help her, but it would look suspicious if she did not. Would he think she had something else to hide? Right now she didn’t need any government man, if he was one, poking his nose in her business.
Besides, she could not very well leave it abandoned here while she went in search of Daniel. Someone might take it, and then where would Meg and her children be?
Like a mouse facing a cat guarding some extremely inviting cheese, she instinctively knew she could not trust him. What really prickled her skin was she should have thought of his suggested transport option herself, before leaving home. She would have avoided being caught.
When she made no reply, he raised his hand again to her cheek. “You have such lovely silken skin.” Lord Strathmore’s husky voice sounded deeper than before, too appealing, too seductive. His eyes gazed into hers as if he sought the Holy Grail rather than the source of a barrel. She could almost feel herself compelled to step forward and reveal the truth.
His thumb stroked her jaw, his touch lingering and provocative. She knew she should move, flee his disturbing nearness, yet she was held captive by the intensity of his gaze, by the raw, powerful masculinity emanating from him.
His knuckles brushed over her moist, swollen lips. Fiery sparks shot from his fingers to her skin. She shivered.
“Tell me you don’t have a lover. Tell me you do not belong to anyone,” he huskily said as he continued to stroke down her throat.
Still half-dazed, she frowned, his brows were lowered, his nostrils flared. He looked like his Thoroughbred, a stallion primed for a race, but held back at the gate. His presence emitted a magnetic field that brought the fine hairs on her body upright. Struggling to clear her head, she tried to make sense of his words—belong? What on earth did he mean? She clapped her hands to her cheeks. He thought her some man’s mistress.
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