Patrica Rice (18 page)

With that resolve of sardonic humor, Daphne tapped lightly at the worn wooden panel.

She heard a stirring inside, then a quiet voice that made her heart turn in her chest.

“That you, Beckworth?”

She couldn’t answer, not with soldiers just yards away in the hall below. Gently, Daphne turned the latch. It was locked.

Biting back a cry of frustration, she scratched lightly again, damning him for not opening the door at once. At any moment someone could choose to amble up either of those staircases, and she would be well and truly caught. How could she persuade him to turn the key?

She heard a mutter just the other side of the panel, and knew he was closer. “Open up, hurry,” she whispered, praying he could hear.

On the other side of the panel, Evan stared at the cracked and peeling wood and wondered if his fever had returned. Had his boredom and wishful thinking created phantoms to whisper through the cracks of the door and haunt his lonely hours?

He could almost imagine the fresh scent of apple blossoms wafting around him, and he rested his forehead against the old wood while a surge of longing swept over him. He remembered well the last time he had held a bundle of soft curves and feminine vulnerability in his arms, and the scent of apple blossoms had taunted him then.

He was growing quite mad for lack of action, and he damned Rhys and Gordon for imprisoning him here.

The sound of boots on the stairs registered the danger of allowing his mind to wander, and he stepped back, but not before the unladylike hiss on the other side of the door caught his full attention.

Jerking open the door, Evan reached through and grabbed a handful of damp wool and jerked his visitor through the narrow opening, then closed and solidly bolted the door.

They stared at each other in fear and fascination. Evan sought the shadowed bruises beneath the lovely wide green eyes and cursed, then couldn’t help allowing his gaze to travel over the trim figure displayed by the tight fastening of the fashionable spencer beneath the damp pelisse. He took the heavy garment from her shoulders and threw it aside. It was as conspicuous as a fur muff on a summer day. His lips twisted at her naive attempt at disguise.

“Is there a battalion of soldiers on your heels?’’ he inquired wryly.

Daphne’s mouth was too dry to reply. She could see Evan’s bandages beneath the untied neckline of his open linen shirt, and for the first time, she acknowledged the manly chest beneath layers of gentlemanly clothing. His tightly tailored buckskin unmentionables were partially unbuttoned, and she jerked her gaze back to his face before she could look further.

A day’s beard roughened Evan’s shadowed cheeks, and his golden hair fell in tousled disarray across his forehead, but she was scarcely aware of these defects. His eyes held hers, and her tongue froze in her mouth as his hand caught her shoulder.

“Speak, Daphne, or I shall die of heart failure here and now. What has driven you to this madness?”

The sudden crack of thunder and burst of heavy rain on the tile roof overhead jarred her back to her senses, and the fear coursing through her roused her to action. This was Evan, the despot of the woods. She must warn him and leave.

“Captain Rollings has something planned for tonight. There are men below and stationed along the river. It seems to have something to do with the inn. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Had I been consulted, I would have recommended staying home.’’ Evan’s dry answer did not reflect the turmoil inside as he turned away and strode toward the rickety table that served as washstand and dresser.

He poured a tumbler of water and returned to hand it to her. She looked paler than he had ever seen her. “Drink this, then tell me what the deuce you are doing out in weather like this, and without a maid.’’

Daphne sipped gratefully at the water, then glanced around at the room in the dying light of the storm. She could make out only the shape of a wide cot and the washstand, and the window on the far wall—dismal surroundings for the grandson of an earl, but a notch above the cave.

“I wanted to talk to you. Gordon told me you were here. And then I heard the soldiers talking . . .”

“And you hied yourself up here into an impossible situation. Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a
fool,
madam?” Evan turned and strode away before her anxious face made a fool of him, too. He gripped the window frame with both hands and glared down at the shrubbery below. The river was just beyond that line of trees. With a little imagination he could almost see the red coats through the leaves and the torrential rain.

Anger replaced anxiety as Daphne glared at his back. “Pardon me for being concerned. If you have the situation well in hand, I shall be happy to leave.’’ She turned to unbolt the door, but his words halted her.

“It’s pouring again. Where do you think you will go? Had you some notion of gaily flitting downstairs, twirling your parasol, and displaying yourself to a tavern full of randy soldiers and asking for a ride home?”

She had half a mind to fling the glass at him, but water was not nearly as satisfying as ale. Instead, she refilled the glass and handed it to him. “Here, wash your filthy mouth. ‘Tis a pity it cannot wash the dirt from your mind.”

He swung around and glared at her, but she was halfway across the room now, and he could not keep his anger. She looked so fragile in this gloom, that it took all his strength to keep from reaching out to her.

“That’s the world the rest of us live in. Are you such a saint that you haven’t noticed? What could have possessed you to come here when every precept of society warns against it?”

Daphne wilted beneath the harshness of his voice: He was right, of course. Their other encounters, while improper in the extreme, were also very private. This was something much different, and she had done it to herself.

Twisting the fingers of her gloves, she spoke to the floor. “Melanie and I are leaving with your grandfather for Bath in the morning. I wanted ... I didn’t know if Gordon ...”

Voices broke out in argument on the front stairs, and Evan’s head jerked up. With a despairing glance around he groaned, caught Daphne’s shoulders, and pushed her toward the bed. “Take the jacket off, let your hair down, and get beneath the covers. Try to look as if you’re asleep.”

Not understanding what he meant to do but understanding his urgency from the vociferousness of the argument below, Daphne hesitated only a second.

When it became obvious that Evan was releasing his breeches in preparation to removing them, she blanched and turned away. It scarcely made any difference if they were caught with or without clothing at this point. She was well and thoroughly ruined. Shakily, she reached to remove the pins holding her hair.

She heard Evan padding about the room behind her as she unfastened the short jacket and threw it over the wash stand. She glanced at the narrow bed and down at her double layer of lovely skirts, and setting her lips, she hastily released the tiny buttons holding the eyelet overskirt in place.

She tried not to hear Evan’s intake of breath as she let the hampering cloth fall to her ankles. She was still fully concealed beneath the thin muslin of her gown, but it had been designed to be worn beneath the concealing skirt and spencer. The bodice was low and the fabric, very frail. Telling herself he had seen more when she wore her night-rail, Daphne slid beneath the thin wool blanket of Evan’s bed.

Evan had to force his gaze away from the shimmering waterfall of nut-brown tresses cascading down a slim, barely-clad figure sliding hastily beneath his covers. He had never tried to picture what she would look like in his bed. He was not a man given to flights of fancy. But the sight of her there stirred images no man could be blamed for having. He grabbed his brandy flask and sprinkled it liberally over his shirt. That was a trick he had learned well from his ladylove, though it had never fooled her. He did not think the intruders below were so perceptive.

The boots sounded alarmingly loud on the uncovered wooden planks of the hallway. Evan combed his hair into his face with his lingers, turned to see that Daphne was facing the window with only the wild tangle of her hair revealed, and held his breath as the pounding of fists rattled the bedroom door.

“Open up in the name of His Majesty!”

Chapter Fourteen

The rain pounded against the roof and thunder crackled overhead as Evan slowly slid the bolt open. He daren’t turn for one more glance at the woman in his bed. If his plan failed, she was ruined for life, and he would be in no position to save her. Not even Gordon would be inclined to rescue her. He had to play his part well; her life as well as his depended on it.

The gloom of the storm clothed the room in darkness, and Evan breathed a sigh of relief as he realized the man outside carried no candle or lantern. For all practical purposes, it was early evening. Beckworth wouldn’t have wasted good oil and tallow by setting out lights yet.

Evan could scarcely discern the gleam of brass buttons as he peered warily around the door’s edge. He crouched low to disguise his height, keeping his gaze fastened at the level of the soldier’s chest.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded in the querulous tones of a Cornish squire aroused from sleep. He’d had a sergeant once from those parts. He’d learned to mimic him well.

“We have orders to search this inn for a wanted criminal. Who are you and where are you going?”

The soldier on the other side of the door tried to shove his boot through the crack, but Evan held the latch firmly while appearing to use it for drunken support. “I’m a merchant, sir, traveling with the wife. Can’t a man have a decent night’s sleep? Listen to that weather out there. Your criminal would have to be a madman to be about on a night like this.”

“Let me in, you old fool, so I can search the place, and then you can have the comforts of your bed again.”

The soldier shoved harder against the door, and Evan allowed it to give just enough for the man to get a glimpse of the feminine form in the bed.

He chuckled at the soldier’s gasp. “Ain’t she a rare one? Just wed, we are. The brandy’s put her right off to sleep, and I’m like to hear about it in the morn, but not now, sir. So ifn you’ll excuse us ...” He stepped in front of the soldier’s view.

The man muttered a curse, gave Evan’s stooped and shirt-clad figure a disbelieving look, and clattered down the hallway again. Evan gently closed the door, straightened to slide the bolt home, and leaned against the wood with a sigh of relief. “Well, wife, you had best make room for me in there. It’s going to be a long night.”

Daphne sat up hurriedly, pulling the covers to her chin and staring into the gloom at the white ghost of Evan’s shirt. “Long night? I cannot stay here any longer. I’ll have to sneak over to the Dalrymples’, tell them I was caught in the storm.”

Evan advanced on the bed with a mirthless smile. “And what, pray tell, will you tell the soldier no doubt stationed at the end of the hall? That you’ve decided to run from your brandy-soaked bridal bed?”

“Surely, they haven’t...” She stared in disbelief as Evan deliberately sat down on the mattress beside her and reached for his discarded trousers. His shirt came down to his stockings, and she couldn’t stop her gaze from straying lower. In the semidarkness she could see little of the long, muscular legs disappearing into the buckskin, but just the knowledge of his near-nakedness caused her to blush profusely.

Evan watched her with growing amusement. This episode had its farcical side. If only dear brother Gordon could be here now ... That wasn’t a thought he wished to contemplate. “Did you hear him go down the stairs?’’ he demanded, forcing her to recognize their plight.

She hadn’t. Daphne stared at him in dismay. “Perhaps he’ll fall asleep?”

“When? Midnight? You wish to sneak past him then and pound on the Dalrymples’ door?’’ Evan stood and pulled his trousers up, calmly tucking his shirttails in while she watched. He didn’t know how much she could see, but it was too late for modesty for either of them now. He was just beginning to realize the full extent of damage this night had wrought.

Daphne pulled the pillow behind her and sank back into it. Her hair spilled over the short sleeves and drawstring neckline of her gown, and she impatiently caught the thick mass and pulled it to one side, absently braiding it with her fingers.

Evan stayed her hand, leaning over to release the silken mass and spread it across her gown again. “I like to look at it. If I were your husband, what would you say to me now?”

Daphne stared at her irritating companion, and opened her mouth to give him a searing reply. Something in his touch and the tone of his voice caused her to close it again. Mischievously, she replied in the same spirit as his question, “You smell of strong spirits, sir. I wish you would bathe.”

He laughed low in his throat and sat down beside her, folding his hands behind his head as a pillow against the wall’s hardness. “What do you think our soldiers would say should I call for Beckworth to bring me a bath?”

“You needn’t worry about the soldiers so much as what I would say,” Daphne replied acerbically. “Be the tub shallow or deep, I would find some means to drown you in it.”

“That’s not fair, Miss Templeton. You speak as if this is all my fault. I did not invite you here, if you’ll remember.”

His genial tone did not ease her flush of guilt and confusion. She was quite old enough to know the extent of her rashness and the consequences, but she refused to think of it until she was certain there was no escape.

What she had more difficulty ignoring was the man’s large body seated so intimately beside her, in such a compromising place. She feared she knew what he was thinking, and she hastened to stamp out such notions.

“Your rash and criminal actions invited this outcome,” she admonished him in as severe a tone as she could summon. “Had you not set yourself in such a position as to be wounded and hunted down like an animal, I would not have been compelled to act as I did. I only hope this convinces you and Gordon to put an end to this charade and go to the authorities with your complaint.”