Seducing the Beast (11 page)

She wriggled in his lap again. The damned woman would drive him to insanity. Once more he felt the stirrings of a desire formerly in deep hibernation.

“Have we much farther to go?” She yawned.

His reply was curt. “Yes. Be still.”

“Your lap is too hard, lumpy and uncomfortable.”

“So sorry, madam, that my lap fails to meet your standard of luxury.”

“I’ll be numb soon,” she complained.

He only wished he might be the same. Unfortunately he was increasingly sensitive to her restless fidgeting. “Witchcraft indeed,” he muttered.

Rolling her head against his shoulder, she hoped aloud that the Earl appreciated his loyalty. “Or do you expect nothing in return for your services except his noble forbearance, his approval and the occasional scraps from his table? What a bitter old tyrant he must be.”

“You know nothing about the earl. You have no right to criticize.”

“I know exactly what he is--an ill-tempered ogre who cannot tolerate his own brother’s happiness, simply because
he
is miserable.” She wriggled again, pressing her bottom into his groin, one hand on his thigh to steady herself.

“Enough,” he growled. “You can walk.” Without ceremony, he pushed her off his horse and rode on, making no attempt to slow his pace. He turned off the road to cross a field sodden from recent rain, determined to punish her. He showed no pity, could not. He prayed for more rain. A blizzard. Anything to cool his blood.

She struggled to keep up, claiming a twisted ankle.

“It will do you good to walk some more,” he flung over his shoulder. “May the exertion wear out your tongue, as well as your feet, temptress.” And he urged his horse into a brisk trot.

“It seems the earl breeds his servants to be as proud and pompous as himself,” she cried. Shortly after this she fell, tripping over a muddy rut, landing on her face. Hearing that startled yelp, he stopped, turning his horse to find her.

“Come, wench,” he mocked. “Make haste, or I’ll leave you for crow bait.”

Cursing, she scrambled to her feet, the front of her gown covered in mud. Two steps later he heard her stumble again. He halted, looking for her. She was wiping her hair back, leaving her brow bloodied. She must have clutched for anything to break her fall and cut her palm on a thorny bramble. The sight caused a pinch in his chest, and he returned for her.

“Had enough?” he demanded.

When she would neither look at him, nor speak, the pinch grew worse. He swung down from his horse, licked his fingers and wiped the blood from her brow, resisting the urge to touch any more than that, but granting himself this one caress disguised as a practical act.

She mumbled weakly. “Don’t touch me. Leave me here to die. No one would miss me, I daresay.”

He was amused by her; it couldn’t be helped. Pity she was his brother’s lover. “Not much further now,” he said, his voice softened.

“My ankle is all broke.”

“Let me see--”

“Get your filthy paws off me! Yes, I suppose you’re sorry now and so you should--”

Once more he lifted her off her feet and carried her, slung over his shoulder like rolled carpet, to the waiting horse. From then on he walked and she rode.

It was dark when they arrived at their destination. She would not see much of her surroundings, but it was a windy hillside and as he’d known it would, that fresh peck of sea salt in the air woke her just enough to resume her complaints in regard to his “rough, filthy, lecherous claws” and “villainous manhandling”. Heedless, he carried her inside the cottage, dropped her among the floor rushes, and lit a fire in the hearth. Warning her sharply to sit there and stay warm, he went out to his horse.

By the time he came back, she was fast asleep by the fire and snoring.

It was done. He’d saved his brother from immediate danger. Whether Gabriel would see it in quite the same light was another matter.

He must admit, he’d be fairly enraged himself, if someone took her away from him.

Kissed awake by wooly sunlight warming her face, Maddie found herself on a bed of sorts. Feeling around cautiously, she discovered she was still dressed, her headache was gone, her stomach settled.

It was a tiny, narrow space with one window through which gentle morning sun drifted. The only sound was the warbling cry of a gull. Up on her knees, she looked out and discovered a verdant hillside leading gently down to a breeze-ruffled cliff edge overlooking a peaceful bay. The tide was out, having abandoned piles of seaweed-strewn driftwood along an expanse of wet sand. In the distance, the sea glistened, a treasure chest of sapphires and pearls.

How strange, she mused, that this place was supposed to be punishment. She was a prisoner here, until she complied with the Earl of Swafford’s wishes, and his servant promised to be a contrary and hostile host until she relented. Unfortunately for them, she was in no hurry to return to real life, where she failed at every task. Now she was here, she would enjoy herself and get as much out of it as she could.

The loft of the cottage was divided by a half wall and he slept on the other side, sprawling messily on his front across a bale of hay, one foot hanging in mid-air. He’d removed his boots and shirt, but nothing else. On his guard, no doubt.

She descended the narrow, rickety staircase to the lower floor of the cottage. There was little furniture: a table and two chairs, some copper cooking pots hanging over the big hearth, an unsteady writing table by the window, a few books and some shelves holding pewter plates and jugs. The pantry was very adequately stocked, as if the house expected guests. She found an apron there, a headscarf and some wooden clogs.

Hair tied back with the linen scarf, she began humming away while cooking bacon over the fire. She slipped outside to gather a bouquet of dog daisies and loosestrife for the table, returning as her captor, woken by the hearty odor of sizzling bacon, clattered down the stairs with one boot on as if he feared someone set fire to the cottage.

When she bade him a polite “Good morning”, he exploded at her.

“What the devil are you doing?”

She slammed the pan of bacon down on the table, her good mood now severely tested. “If you want to eat, put your shirt on before you come to the table.”

He sank slowly to the step, halfway down. “You cook?”

“I daresay there are many things I can do that would surprise you. Make haste, before it gets cold.”

He came all the way down and when she reminded him again about his shirt, he reached for a sleeveless leather jerkin hanging over the back of a chair, throwing it on with a quick shrug of his shoulders. It fit.

“This is your house?” she asked, pouring from a jug of ale she’d found in the pantry.

“It belongs to the earl.” He prodded tentatively at the bacon with one finger. “This is his land, his property. I come here sometimes.”

She motioned to her apron. “With women?”

His golden eyes were guarded, thoughtful. “That apron belonged to the plowman’s wife who lived here.” No further explanation.

“Where is she now, then?”

“Dead. When I was a boy, she and her husband looked after me…sometimes.” The explanation ground to a halt and he straightened his shoulders. “Why so many questions?”

“Good Lord, I’ve a right to be curious, surely!”

When she drew up a chair and sat beside him, he looked startled, uncomfortable, as if no one ever sat so close before; he might decide to shift his chair away. Instead, after a brief hesitation, hunger won out and he tucked into his breakfast.

Eager to learn as much as possible about his master, she prodded him. “The earl spends most of his time away?”

“Diplomatic missions abroad.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever he’s sent.” He glared at her and she waited, brows politely arched. “Often to France,” he added reluctantly, “most recently as the queen’s ambassador to Spain.” He paused, shifted awkwardly in his chair. “That’s why he’s away so oft. Not by choice--by duty.” Again, another pause, followed by a dismissive shrug. “You wouldn’t understand.” Naturally, he thought she couldn’t possibly comprehend a man so complicated and superior as his almighty master.

“And you sailed abroad with him?” That explained the sea salt, she thought, and the sun-browned skin. As he reached for more bacon, speared it on his knife, she coyly admired the lean muscle of his long, deeply-tanned arms. His chest too was partially displayed beneath the open jerkin, revealing more than she, a well-raised young woman, should ponder over. Not that it had ever stopped her before.

She propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin in one upturned palm. “Tell me more about your earl.”

“Why? What is it to you?”

“You told me yesterday that since I don’t know him, I have no right to criticize. So tell me.”

He scowled. “The earl is a proud man and keeps a great deal close to his chest. No one knows him truly, although they might think they do. That’s why he’s misunderstood…by people like you.” Point made, he returned his attention to breakfast.

“He’s not married?”

He shoveled bacon into his mouth with the greed of a man who’d starved for days, although she’d seen him ravage an entire roasted pheasant the day before.

Only when she repeated her question did he mumble, “He has a wife.”

She was surprised, having assumed the Beast’s deformities kept him from marriage. Maddie ran her fingertip casually along the table. “Are you married?”

“I’d rather be boiled in oil.”

Lips pressed tight, she watched him eat. After a moment she said, “No doubt your master, at his advanced age, suffers from chronic ill health, digestive ailments and rheumatic disorders.”

“Particularly of late, since he encountered something that disagreed with him.” Reaching for his ale, he added. “You take an interest in medical matters?”

“It is a hobby of mine, the study of cures and remedies.”

The gold sprigs in his eyes gleamed bright. “Did your dead husbands benefit much from your study?”

Remembering abruptly who she was supposed to be, she laughed and he did too this time. A pleasant, unexpected sound, it ended suddenly as someone else intruded.

“Beg pardon, young lady, I saw the smoke and…” The old man standing in the open doorway saw Maddie first, before his heavy-lidded eyes found her companion and his careworn face transformed.

Griff leapt to his feet. “Gregory!” He put his arm around the old man’s shoulders and led him outside. “The earl has a guest. She expects to be here a day or two.” When he began whispering frantically, she, naturally, got up to follow.

Gregory saw her standing in the doorway and respectfully touched his cap, but Griff looked over his shoulder and snapped at her to go inside.

“It is good to have you home,
Master Griff,
” she heard Gregory say. “And, if I might say, with a comely young lady. Shall I send Sally up with a bit of supper?” His voice faded and, peeking around the doorframe, she saw the two men walking away down the path, out of earshot.

* * * *

By the time he returned she was perched on the table, swinging her feet.

“The earl’s steward,” he explained gruffly. “Gregory, a good man. He and his wife live down by the bay.” Wondering why he bothered giving any explanation to the irritating wench, he flopped back into his seat and took a long swig of beer directly from the jug.

As she sat on the table, feet dangling just out of his reach, in clogs several inches too big, he wondered why he’d never met her before. How the devil had Gabriel seen her first? Where had she been two years ago when he was last in London? He vaguely remembered hearing her name slandered at court. Lady Shelton was no favorite of the queen’s and so would not have been invited there. Even so, had no one ever drawn his attention to her in some crowd? A notorious woman like this he would have remembered.

“Gregory said I am comely,” she hedged.

Was she reading his mind again?

He kept his face stern. “His eyesight has failed these last few years, poor chap.”

Aha, victory! Those lips, defiantly kissable, for once found no immediate response. Grabbing a corner of her apron to wipe his greasy mouth, he said, “Now you will write that letter to Gabriel.”

“But the sun’s out. It would be such a shame to waste it, sitting inside, writing a silly letter. We could go for a walk.”

“Walk? For what?”

“For pleasure.”

He was appalled by the idea. “I never do anything purely for pleasure.”

She folded her arms, the portrait of a stubborn, doubting wench.

Standing quickly, he took her by the shoulders and steered her over to the little, crooked desk by the window. “Sit there and write to Gabriel.” He broke open the lid of the pewter ink pot.

“What shall I write? Oh, you write it.”

“It must be from you--in your hand,” he said crossly. He must get this letter written, so he could send her back to London and out of his sight. Somehow he must cope with this and keep his mind uncluttered by her attempts to distract him.

But when he leaned over her, one heavy set of fingers clasped around her delicate hand, poised to guide the first mark on the paper, she protested, “I’ve never written a letter meant to break someone’s heart.”

“You will not break Gabriel’s heart,” he said firmly.

“He loves me.”

“Thinks he does, perhaps, but if that boy kept his brain in a walnut shell it would still rattle.” He guided her quill to the ink pot. “I’m sure you know what to say, madam.”

She looked up at him. He knew he was too close, it couldn’t be helped. He tightened his grip around her fingers.

“The earl is a cruel man to want his brother’s heart broken,” she said. “If it were my brother, I should want him to be happy, even if I disagreed with his choice of bride.” Having said this, she faltered suddenly, her blue eyes dimming subtly. “Still, I suppose I too have been blamed for meddling in the romances of others.”

He was barely listening, too aware of his quickened heartbeat, the smallness of her hand, the warmth and closeness of her body and the sweet scent of lavender in her hair.