Last Night's Scandal (14 page)

She was supposed to kick him in the shins. Instead, her bare foot slid up along his leg.

The hand not holding her chin slid down her back and down and grasped her bottom, and he pulled her close, against his groin. Only a few thin layers of muslin and silk came between them. They hid nothing, protected nothing. His arousal, hot and heavy, pushed against her belly.

She was no pure innocent. She’d felt a man’s arousal before, but the heat had not raced through her like a flame along a line of gunpowder. She’d been titillated and aroused before, but she hadn’t ached as she did now. She hadn’t felt this wild restlessness.

He fell back against the door, taking her with him, and everything she knew fell away. All her knowledge and guile passed into nothingness. All she could do was yearn, and it was no pretty romantic longing but a madness. She rubbed herself against him, and opened her mouth to draw him inside and taste him. It was hot and lewd, a kiss of tangled tongues and thrust and withdraw, like the coupling every instinct screamed for.

She heard the sound, but it meant nothing. A vague sound that could have been anything.

Something beating, somewhere. She didn’t know where. It could have been her heart, making every pulse point thump with physical awareness of every inch of masculine body pressed against hers. It could have been the beat of wanting, that seemed to have gone on forever.

There was a knocking, but her heart knocked against her rib cage, with heat and need

. . . and fear, because what was happening was out of her control.

More knocking. A voice.

“Sir?”

A male voice. Familiar. On the other side of the door.

DeLucey survival instincts, refined over generations, yanked her from whatever mad
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universe her feelings had taken her to. She came back to the world: a chilly place, suddenly.

She felt Lisle stiffen and start to draw away.

She untangled herself from him.

She dared a glance at his face. It was perfectly composed. No danger of
his
feet leaving solid ground.

He calmly tugged her nightgown back into place.

Not to be outdone, she straightened his robe.

For good measure, she patted his chest in a friendly way. “Well, then, let that be a lesson to you,” she said.

She pulled the door open, gave Nichols a regal nod, and sailed out, head spinning and legs trembling, and hoped she didn’t crash into a wall or fall on her face.

Half past six o’clock in the morning

Sunday 9 October

In the dream, Olivia wore a very thin piece of linen. She stood at the bottom of a set of stone steps, beckoning. Behind her was a deep darkness. “Come, see my hidden treasure,” she said.

Lisle started down the steps.

She smiled up at him. Then she glided through a door. It slammed shut behind her.

“Olivia!”

He beat on the door. He heard answering thunder. But no, it wasn’t thunder. He knew that sound. Rocks, rolling into place. A booby trap. He looked back. Darkness. Only the thunder of the great stones rolling into the entrance.

Crash. Crash. Against wood.

What was that noise?

Not stones. A door.

Someone pounding on the door.

Lisle came completely awake, as he’d trained himself to do years ago in Egypt, when being able to shake off sleep instantly could mean the difference between life and death.

He sat up. The dim light filtering through the window curtains told him the sun was rising.

Where the devil was Nichols? At this hour, on the point of rising from a maidservant’s bed, very likely—or had he found his way into one of the female guests’ bedchambers?

Cursing his valet, Lisle hauled himself out of bed, dragged on his dressing gown, shoved his feet into his slippers, and stomped to the door.

He pulled it open.

Olivia paused, hand upraised.

He shook his head. He was still dreaming.

But no. The passage behind her was filled with the same grey light as his bedroom.

She was fully dressed. His sleep-clogged mind slowly took it in: the over-decorated bonnet . . . the high neck of the carriage dress with its fashionably swollen sleeves . . . the
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slim half-boots. Traveling clothes, his sleepy mind informed him. But that made no sense.

“What?” he said. “What?”

“We’re ready to go,” she said. “The servants’ vehicles have gone ahead. The ladies are in the carriage.”

He had no idea what she was saying. His mind cast up images of last night: she, nearly naked . . . he, losing his mind. A blunder. A whopping, great, nearly fatal blunder.

But there she’d stood, wearing little more than a shift, and that coming undone, and her hair tumbling loose while she waved her arms about, and other parts of her body moved along with them.

He’d seen Cairo’s dancing girls. Even in public, fully dressed, they moved suggestively.

At private parties, he’d watched them go well beyond that, baring their breasts and bellies sometimes, or dancing in nothing more than a fringe or a sash. In spite of what those amazingly limber bodies could do, he’d kept his head.

Olivia had stood before him, angry, not trying to entice him. She’d been fully covered, technically—and he’d lost his mind.

If Nichols had not come to the door. . .

“What time is it?” he said. What day was it? Was he dreaming, still?

“Half past six o’clock,” she said.

“In the
morning
?”

Her smile was dazzling, dangerous. “If we leave now, we can reach York by sundown.”

“Leave?” he said. “Now?”

“We’ll easily beat the Royal Mail to York,” she said.

“I’ve had three hours’ sleep,” he said. “What is the matter with you?”

“I should like to reach Gorewood as soon as possible,” she said. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can complete our mission and the sooner you can go back to Egypt.” She eyed him up and down. “You don’t seem to be ready.”

“Of course I’m not ready!”

Another dazzling smile. “Well, then, you’ll get to York when you get there, I daresay.” She turned and walked away.

He stood in the doorway, watching in disbelief as she sauntered down the corridor, hips swaying.

He backed into the room and closed the door.

A moment later, the door opened.

“I know what this is,” he said. “It’s revenge.”

“Sir?”

Nichols entered, carrying a tray. “I noticed that the ladies were preparing to depart,” he said. “I thought you’d want your coffee.”

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Chapter 8

York

That evening

A
s a boy, Lisle had once watched the mail coach set out at sunset from the York Tavern in St. Helen’s Square.

He doubted Olivia had seen it today. She and her coven might have arrived in time, but they would travel only as far as the George in Coney Street. It was a large old hostelry whose quaint gabled and plastered exterior, with its curious figures, dated to the sixteenth century.

When Lisle arrived, night had fallen, and the Royal Mail was long gone. He’d traveled more than a hundred miles this day. He’d ridden hard, trying not to think about last night, and he’d kept the stops short for the same reason. At present he ought to be too tired and hungry to think, but he had a conscience, and it wouldn’t stay quiet in the back of his mind.

He trudged up the stairs and along the corridor. He heard the hurried footsteps, but it was a distant awareness.

Olivia came around the corner so quickly and unexpectedly that he barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into him. As it was, he swayed a little at the impact, but his arms promptly came up and went around her to stop her from toppling.

“I knew you’d miss me,” he said.

It wasn’t the wisest thing to say and, in light of what had happened last night, not letting go of her immediately wasn’t the wisest thing to do. But he was a man before he was a wise man, and he did what a man did when a bundle of frothy femininity fell into his arms.

She was dressed in mile upon mile of some heavy, silky stuff and lace and ruffles—with at least six miles of material in the great, ballooning sleeves. She was dressed, that is, except for where coverage would do the most good: the milky expanse of shoulder and bosom abundantly on display. She was warm and shapely and soft, and for one giddy moment he couldn’t remember why he ought to let go of her.

She gazed up at him, her deeply blue eyes soulful. “I missed you dreadfully,” she said with a catch in her voice. “The hours passed like eons. How I bore the separation, I cannot say, but it depleted the last stores of my strength.” She sagged. He was tired enough and the rampant femininity in his arms made him stupid enough to believe, for exactly three seconds, that she’d fainted.

Then he remembered that this was Olivia.

“I’ve been riding since early morning,” he said. “My arms are tired, along with everything
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else, and I’m very likely to drop you.
Very
likely.” She straightened and gave him a little shove.

He let go and stepped two paces away. “Is it me,” he said, “or are you not wearing as much in the way of clothing as you used to do?”

“It’s a
dinner
dress,” she said.

“But you’re not at dinner,” he said. “You’re running about a public hostelry in a frenzy.”

“Because they’ve escaped,” she said. “The ladies. When I wasn’t looking, they bolted.”

“Considering the punishing drive they endured this day, I’m not surprised,” he said.

“Really, Olivia, you know antiques need gentle handling.”

“They’re not antiques!” she said. “They’re two wicked women who aren’t nearly decrepit enough, and they’ve gone out roving in the night.” She waved her arms about, in that way of hers, making the soft flesh on display undulate in a highly provocative manner.

He tried to look away but he was tired, and his intestinal fortitude wasn’t up to the job.

“They took it into their heads to visit the Minster,” she said, “because they haven’t been there since the fire, and they wanted to see the crypt.” Lisle called his mind away from the satanic flesh. He remembered that a madman had set fire to the York Minster two years ago. The wreckage had revealed a large crypt under the choir.

“They wanted to crawl about the bowels of a burnt-out cathedral,” he said. “At night. That’

s mad even by your standards.”

“Not
crawl about
,” she said. “It isn’t like you and your tombs. They only want to have their blood curdled. A burnt-out ruin at night is irresistible. And it’s convenient—a few minutes’

walk from here. They should have returned hours ago.”

“I’ll go collect them,” he said.
Curse them.
He was famished. He was nearly delirious from lack of sleep. And now he must go out into the streets of York hunting for two lunatic crones.

“I’ll go,” she said. “They’re my problem, and this is my fault, for letting them pull the wool over my eyes. ‘A nice bathe and a nap, that’s all I want,’ ” She mimicked Lady Cooper. “The wicked deceivers. They knew that was what I wanted to do. I should have realized. They napped through the stages until breakfast. And again in the afternoon. They were well rested, brimful of energy. I should have realized they’d get up to something. I blame myself. I’

ll take a pair of servants and hunt them down.”

“You’re not going into a burnt-out church in the middle of the night without me,” he said. “I’

m used to crawling about tombs and temples in the dark. You’re not.”

“You need a bath,” she said. “You smell like a stable yard.”

“I want to bathe in peace,” he said. “I want to eat my dinner in peace. I should like a night’

s uninterrupted sleep. I can’t do any of those things while that pair’s out running loose.”

“I’m perfectly capable—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “We’ll go together—but you have to change into sensible clothes.”

“There isn’t time!”

“If they’re dead, they’ll still be dead when we get there,” he said. “If they’re merely in
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trouble—”

“Merely!”

“—or up to trouble, which is far more likely, I daresay they’ll survive an extra quarter hour.

They’re about as delicate as wild boar.”

“Lisle.”

“You can’t crawl about the charred debris looking for corpses in that dress,” he said. “Let Bailey stuff you into something less—less—” He gestured at her exposed bosom. “Airy. But make haste. I’ll give you a quarter hour, no more. If you’re not ready, I’m going without you.”
Fifteen and a half minutes later

“Trousers,” Lisle said grimly.

She’d burst through the door in the nick of time. He was already on the pavement, ready to leave—without her. Exactly as she’d suspected.

“You told me to wear something sensible,” she said, still breathless from the mad race to get ready. “I should never be able to get into tight spaces in a dress.”

“You’re not going into any tight spaces,” he said.

“For women, most spaces are tighter these days,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, our fashions are a great deal wider than they used to be. Most of my sleeves are the size of butter churns. I’m sure Great-Grandmama had an easier time getting about in hoop petticoats.”