The Barefoot Princess (16 page)

He needed to get as close as he could to Amy.

He needed to possess Amy.

He needed to be one with Amy.

No other woman would do. Only Amy.

Her maidenhead blocked his advance, and he bared his teeth that anything, even her body’s defense, opposed him. He surged forward, a swift attack against the barrier, and as he broke through, she gave a brief and bitter scream. Her eyes opened wide; tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and dropped onto the pillow.

Abruptly pain had recalled her to this place, to her actions, to him. She saw him, the man she had taken as her lover, and fierce pride possessed her as surely as did he. Clamping her legs around his legs, she pushed her hands against his shoulders, shoving him onto his side. “Let
me.”
Her demand was no feminine plea, but an order from a woman accustomed to command.

He laughed, a low chuckle of mirth and frustration. He was halfway to paradise and
now
she recovered enough to demand sovereignty?

But he yielded. Of course he yielded, helping her scoot around so he lay flat on his back and she straddled him, sitting up, her breasts thrust proudly forward, strands of her hair brushing her chest.

He’d never experienced such an explosion of feminine heat and greed. Inside her, his cock grew harder, longer, expanding as his need grew ever more lawless.

Lawless…

Realization burst upon him. He’d forgotten the oil to ease his way, but more important, he’d forgotten the French sheath, the one that guarded against pregnancy. Unless he pulled out now, there was a chance that he would be a father…and Amy would be a mother.

And he didn’t care.

When they were finished making love this time, he wouldn’t be satisfied. With her sarcasm, her swift wit, her vibrating desire, Amy branded him.

Pull out? Hell, no, he wouldn’t pull out. When they were done tonight, he would do a branding of his own. In every way possible, he would put his mark on Amy. Before too much longer, she would know what it was to be his woman.

Putting his hands on her hips, he writhed with a very real agony as she used him to impale herself. Then he allowed her to set the pace, to soar within the limits of her body, to torment him with inept and magnificent lovemaking.

And as his seed burst from him, a bare fragment of a thought clamored in his body.

She’s mine. And I will never let her go.

Chapter 17

M
iss Victorine read the letter over Amy’s shoulder, and sighed heavily. “I feel guilty.”

“Guilty?” Amy greedily read Mr. Edmondson’s newest rejection, then lifted her gaze to Miss Victorine’s. “Why?”

“I’ve come to enjoy Jermyn’s company so much that I was actually hoping Mr. Edmondson would refuse the ransom.” Miss Victorine examined Amy’s face. “Is that what you were thinking, too?”

“No, that can’t work. If Mr. Edmondson doesn’t pay the ransom, we’ll be stuck here forever with Lord Northcliff in the cellar.” The idea didn’t fill Amy with dismay—and that made her realize what Miss Victorine meant. Despite Mr. Edmondson’s insulting prose, the letter lifted Amy’s spirits. With this
no
, she could plan another evening with Jermyn…and another night spent in his arms. Last night had been…so wild, so free, the kind of excitement she’d imagined her whole life. But she’d never been able to achieve that on her own. It had taken ardor and skill and daring.

It had taken Jermyn.

“Of course, you’re right. I just wanted to mention that I feel guilty about…enjoying Jermyn’s company so much.” Miss Victorine went to the hooks by the door and donned her bonnet and shawl. “I’m going down to the village while you tell His Lordship.”

“Oh, I’m not going to tell him now.” Amy glanced uneasily at the cellar. “He’s not yelling, so he’s probably sleeping.”

“He’s been sleeping a lot in the daytime lately.” Miss Victorine glanced at the cellar, too. “I hope he’s not sickening with something.”

“I’m sure he’s not.” If he was exhausted today, Amy knew why.

“You look peaked yourself.” Miss Victorine patted Amy on the arm. “Perhaps you should take a nap.”

Amy blushed. That Miss Victorine had noticed! “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I heard you wandering the corridor last night. Perhaps you’ll sleep more quietly tonight.” Miss Victorine smiled sweetly. So sweetly. And she departed, leaving Amy staring in shock.

She sank into a chair. Did Miss Victorine know…?

The idea didn’t bear thinking about. She couldn’t bear for Miss Victorine to think badly of her. She hated that everything for which she had fought seemed to be in peril, that her schemes had proved to be a dismal failure, that Jermyn despised his mother for acts which haunted Amy, and that that malicious cat had woken Miss Victorine.

Yet it was the thoughts of Jermyn’s possession, of last night’s pure pleasure which distracted Amy from the worries which buzzed like wasps through her mind and—

A sound blasted through the house.

Amy jumped. Fear leaped into her throat.

A detonation. A gunshot.

She knew it. Those difficult days on the road had taught her to recognize the blast of a pistol.

The gunfire came from—
dear God, it came from the cellar.

“Jermyn!” She ran for the stairway, down the first two steps. A man, a stranger dressed in black, leaped up the stairs toward her.

He knocked her aside, slamming her into the wall.

She didn’t notice the bruises. Didn’t try to chase him. “Jermyn!” She scrambled down the stairs into the cellar’s dim light. From the floor above her, she dimly heard the thumping of men’s boots. A scuffle. A thump.

She didn’t care. Flame-tipped feathers flew in the air like burning snowflakes. Smoking blankets mounded Jermyn’s shape. She gagged at the stench of sulfur and burning wool. Gagged as the icy fingers of terror closed her throat.

He was dead. Jermyn was dead.

As the covers burst into flame, she yelled, “No!” Her heart pounded, not with the heat of passion, but with the rush of blood chilled by dread. She leaped, ripped the blankets off the cot, expecting, fearing to see blood and broken flesh.

More blankets. The pillows. Blackened, burning…but no Jermyn.

In the turbulence of the moment, she didn’t understand.

She stomped out the flames. Stood gasping, shaking, wide-eyed, staring at the cot as if she could see the answer there.

Jermyn wasn’t here.

But where…? How…?

Above, she heard a man’s running boots as they struck the floorboards in the kitchen. She ran for the drawer, for her pistol—and Jermyn appeared at the top of the stairs.

For a second, a splendid, glorious second, joy crashed through her. He was alive. Thank God, he was alive!

He saw her. He stopped. He closed his eyes as if he were relieved.

Then the truth blasted her joy to crumbs.

He was alive—and he was free.

The swine!

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She shook her head, speechless with shock.

Jermyn glanced at the wisps of smoke still rising from the blankets. He focused on her blackened hands and face.

As he watched her, her whole body began to tremble.

The manacle was off. And he wasn’t gone. He was still here which meant that sometime, somehow, he’d freed himself and ever since, he’d been playing her for a fool.

“Are you burned?” he asked.

“I believe I have been burned. Yes. Yes, I’m sure I have been.”

“By the flames?”

“No.” She whispered, “How long? How long have you…?”

His gaze grew more intense. “Since the first time I kissed you.”

The tremor grew. In her life, she had been cheated, harried, chased, condemned. But never had she felt so betrayed. She’d made love to him, imagining that she held him in her power, and instead…instead he’d been laughing at her.

The iciness of her fear turned to blistering humiliation.

“Amy. Upstairs, I knocked out the shooter.” Jermyn paused as if giving her a moment to come to grips with her newborn reality. “I need you to help me tie him up.”

She stared at Jermyn, her eyes so wide they ached.

She wanted to kill him. She wanted to murder him. She wanted to slaughter him more than she ever had wanted that before—and only ten days ago she’d shot at him and would have killed him if he hadn’t ducked. Her ire that day was nothing to the wrath that burned her up now.

“Amy. I need help.” His voice held a whiplash that jerked her to attention.

She
couldn’t
kill him. That would be foolish. More foolish than all of her previous acts during this last, long fortnight.

She
could
find out who had tried to kill him—and why.

Meticulously she walked to the stairs and started up, each movement almost painful in its precision.

He moved to one side to let her pass.

She stopped. “No. You first.” She didn’t want him to touch her. And he would. She could see that in the spark and anger in his eyes.

How dared
he
be angry?

He waited. She waited. Silently they fought, a standoff between two strong-willed people.

Abruptly he gave in, going up the stairs and into the kitchen.

She didn’t know why he’d surrendered. She didn’t care. All that mattered was that he had and she could move forward, go up and face the consequences of months of scheming and plotting turned to ashes in a single moment with a single gunshot. Still in a turmoil of rage and grief, she followed.

In the kitchen, the door hung open. The table rested on its side, one fragile leg broken off. The vase was shattered, the unconscious man was half inside, half out, in an odd crumpled mass that indicated a collision and a struggle.

“I need rope.” Kneeling beside him, Jermyn rolled him over onto his stomach.

Amy laughed sourly and went after one of Miss Victorine’s fichus. Long and narrow, made of thin cotton and created to wrap around a woman’s shoulders and tie at her bosom, it would have to do. She handed it to Jermyn, careful not to allow his finger to touch hers.

Winding it into a narrow binding, Jermyn used it to tie the man’s hands tightly behind him. Rolling him onto his back, Jermyn looked up at Amy. “Do you know him?”

The fellow had brown hair, pockmarked skin, and a narrow face with a receding chin. A bruise swelled his temple and purpled his eye. He wore cheap clothes that didn’t quite fit him, a brown muffler around his neck and a knee-length black cloak enveloping his shoulders. Grime ringed his neck and ears.

He looked like a thousand other villains she’d met, and she shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Neither have I.”

Now, Jermyn…Jermyn she had met before, but in the open space of the kitchen, he looked different to her: taller, bulkier, in control of the situation.

Because
she
was no longer in control.

Looking down at her hands, she saw the black that covered her fingers. Her futile effort to save Jermyn’s unthreatened life had left her smelling like burning wool and feathers. Going to the washbasin, she ruthlessly used to the soap, scrubbing at her nails, wetting the towel and using it on her cheeks.

The balance of power had shifted. She didn’t like it. Everything in her rebelled against it. But as so often in her life, she had to face the implacable truth. She had no power here. Another human being dominated her, and her wishes were as nothing.

When she returned, her skin scoured to a painful purity, Jermyn was rifling through the weasel’s pockets. He pulled out a grubby handkerchief and a pouch with a few pence. Those he tossed aside, his contempt for the coins showing Amy only too clearly the gulf between them. He found the second pistol in an inside waistcoat pocket, and if Amy hadn’t been watching him closely, she wouldn’t have noticed his start. He examined the ivory handle, the decorated steel barrel, and even looked at the bottom of the stock. Its gleaming surfaces were at odds with its foul owner. “This is a fine piece.” Jermyn sounded odd, like a man who’d had his worse suspicions confirmed. “And it’s loaded.”

They both knew why. If the first shot had failed, Weasel-face planned to use the second.

Painstakingly Jermyn placed the pistol in his coat pocket.

Amy eyed Weasel-face closely. He had gained consciousness: he watched them from beneath his pocked eyelids. He looked like nothing more than an Edinburgh pinch purse—yet he owned two pistols and he’d made his way here. He was no ordinary scoundrel.

As if to confirm her conclusion, Jermyn pulled a stout polished walnut stick from a pocket hidden beside Weasel-face’s thigh.

“Give me his cloak,” Amy said.

He hadn’t fought when they took his weapons, but now the villain sprang to life, struggling against his bonds.

Jermyn let him test the knots. In a conversational tone, he said to Amy, “My father taught me to sail. By the time I was eight, I could tie a fine knot, one that tightens as a man fights against it.”

“So I see.” Amy stayed against the wall, well out of the way of Weasel-face’s thrashing form. In all the times she and Clarice had been in desperate predicaments, she had many times wished to be elsewhere, but never so much as now.

When the fellow was satisfied he wasn’t getting free, he gave up and glared at them.

With a smile that looked like a prelude to a snarl, Jermyn pulled a knife, a small, wicked-looking blade that Amy had never seen before. He cut the cloak’s fastenings, pulled the length of it out from underneath the man, and handed it to Amy.

She ran her fingers along the hem and found what she expected. As she ripped open the stitching, one by one twelve gold guineas dropped into her hands.

“A man of means. How unexpected.” Jermyn examined the fellow again. “One wonders where he got the money.” Again Jermyn smiled that toothy, threatening smile. He rubbed his fist into his palm.

The man’s gaze shifted warily to watch as if he had personal acquaintance with Jermyn’s fist.

She knew how he felt. Jermyn had knocked her sideways, too, although not with his fist. No, for her the pain came in different ways, in blows to her pride and her heart.

“Where, my evil-smelling friend, did you get the blunt?” Jermyn asked.

Amy saw a flash of panic, then the man gave a pitiful moan and collapsed back into unconsciousness. But one eye remained slightly open and far too cognizant of the surroundings.

Her mouth twisted wryly.

Unexpectedly Jermyn’s gaze caught hers. The gold flames lit his brown eyes in a determined blaze. The mouth she’d so recently kissed was a firm line, the chin she’d admired was squared and stern. He was no longer her companion of the long evenings, her restrained lover of last night. He was the marquess of Northcliff. Not a man, but a master.

Clearly he considered himself
her
master.

Well, why wouldn’t he? She had foolishly claimed him—but he wasn’t available to be claimed. He was the marquess of Northcliff. And while a princess of Beaumontagne could kick dirt in his face, and a woman who had him in chains could feel confident she called the shots, she was now merely Miss Amy Rosabel. Miss Amy Rosabel who had abducted him, imprisoned him, chained him, and seduced him. Now he was free. He was the master. She was not even English. She was a foreigner, without family, a criminal. If he wished, he could order her death. If she took her life into her own hands and appealed to the Beaumontagnian Embassy, he could refuse to send the message.

For why should he believe she was a princess? Her grandmother would tell her that a real princess would never be deceived by so obvious a ruse as Jermyn’s.

Amy could tolerate wet and cold, pain and hunger. She couldn’t bear to wait for trouble. She might as well hurry things along.

Picking up the pitcher, she dashed the water in the man’s face, and on Jermyn, too…right into his lap.

Jermyn sucked in his breath. His irate gaze flew to hers and he half-rose, menace brought to life.

The man on the floor shouted, “ ’Ere, what’d ye do that fer?”

With a last look at Amy that promised retribution, Jermyn knelt beside him again. He grabbed his shirt and lifted Weasel-face so he was nose to nose with the wet, furious marquess. “Who sent you?” Jermyn demanded.

“What?” The guy pretended to be barely conscious.

Jermyn slammed him against the floor, then lifted him again and shook him like a terrier with a rat. “Don’t pretend with me. Who sent you?”

The villain’s head wobbled on his neck. “I don’t know.”