The Devil's Waltz (20 page)

He rose, strolling around the card table with casual grace. “You needn't look so martyred, dragon,” he whispered. “It's not going to hurt.”

“I believe it's a dragon's victims who tend to be the martyrs,” she pointed out, trying to stand her ground.

He came up to her, far too close, and once again she was conscious of his height. No one ever made her feel small, helpless, but if anyone had that effect on her it would be Montcalm. There was no question that next to his impressive height she actually felt delicate. There was something ridiculously protective about his sheer size. And she had to stop thinking things like that just as he was about to kiss her.

She reached behind his head, caught his long hair in her hand, and offered her cheek to him, closing her eyes.

He laughed. “I don't think so, my love.” And he swept her into his arms, pulling her tight against his strong body, and put his hungry mouth on hers.

He tasted like wine and hot sweet sin. She let go of his hair, needing to hold on to something more solid, and his body was the only thing in reach. She clutched his shoulders, just for support, and let him kiss her, trying to remain very still.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, and she had no choice but to look up into his laughing eyes. “We'd already gotten to lesson two, dragon. You can do better than that.” And this time she let him press her mouth open as his hands cupped her face, holding her
in place as he slowly, leisurely kissed her, a lazy seduction that left her heart pounding, her pulses racing, her stomach knotting in inexplicable longing.

When he drew back this time there was a self-satisfied expression on his face that she wanted to slap off. She yanked herself out of his arms. “We wagered one kiss,” she said. “That was two.”

“Was it?” he said innocently. “Then I'd better give it back.” And before she realized what he was doing he'd pulled her back against him, into a tight embrace, and kissed her again.

She wasn't expecting it, wasn't prepared for it. This was no lazy seduction, no charming flirtation. This was carnal, deep and shattering, and before she realized it he'd pushed her up against the wall, holding her there as he kissed her, and the feeling was so powerful she felt as if she might explode. His hand covered her breast, barely restrained by the antique chemise, and she could feel her nipples tighten against him, feel a wash of something totally foreign and good sweep over her body, until she was both hot and cold, trembling, wanting to weep, wanting to slap him, wanting to rip the white lace from her body and place his mouth where his hand was.

When he drew back this time he was breathless, and his usually laughing eyes were dark and troubled. “That was more dangerous than I'd expected, dragon.”

She couldn't catch her breath. She wasn't going to cry in front of him—indeed, what reason did she have to cry? It was nothing more than a kiss. Or three kisses, to be exact.

She shoved him back hard as anger swept over her. “You bastard,” she said, furious.

The confused expression in his eyes had already vanished, and he was laughing at her again. “Such language, my pet,” he said. “No need to get overset by a simple kiss or two. It means nothing.”

It was bad enough already. That mild dismissal was the last straw. If she had shoes she would have kicked him. As it was, she slapped him so hard that it made her hand numb, whipping his head to one side, and all laughter was gone from his face. Her violent reaction startled her and she wondered whether he'd hurt her in retaliation.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said after a moment. “But I wouldn't make a habit of it if I were you. Some men hit back.”

She tried to say something arch and dismissing. She even had the words in her head, something along the lines of a mocking, “They're not gentlemen like you,” but her voice, her resolve failed her. She opened her mouth to speak, shut it again, and then ran like a coward, knowing ridiculous tears were beginning to spill over. It wasn't until she reached the bedroom and slammed the door behind her that she remembered she'd left the books behind.

She looked at the bed. His bed. And pulling the heavy covers from it, she dragged them over to the fire and wrapped them around herself, lying down on the threadbare rug, away from the disturbing painting that loomed over the bed, to stare, hollow-eyed, into the fire.

 

Hell and damnation, Christian thought, staring after her. He didn't think dragons could cry. It was a good thing she'd run—if he'd actually seen the tears he would have had to comfort her, and if he'd comforted her he would have kissed her, and this time there would be no stopping him.

She really had the most astonishingly arousing effect on him. He couldn't remember having that powerful a reaction to a simple kiss before. Well, in truth there'd been nothing simple about the kisses or the…feelings lurking beneath. He'd wanted to shock her.

He'd managed to shock himself.

He really ought to get rid of her. She was more complicated than a simple game to amuse him while he was rusticating. She was dangerous, and he was a man who knew to avoid unnecessary peril.

She had no idea how lovely she was in that flowing lace that had been delightfully transparent. Her long mane of thick, wavy hair was a complete surprise—it was a crime to keep such lustrous beauty tied back in a tight little knot. And while some sentimental part of him missed her spectacles, he could bless the fact that they were no longer able to obscure her huge gray eyes. Or the emotions that stormed through them that she tried so hard to hide.

No, she was a greater danger than he'd realized. In the end, she'd won her wager after all. In the morning he'd have Harry send Jeremy the stable lad out to hire a decent carriage for her, and once she was safely gone
he could concentrate on Wynche End. He still had a sizable amount of money from Chipple's payoff, and if he was careful it could go quite a ways toward restoring this place a bit. Even make it self-supporting if he managed to get the place working again. The breeding stables had once been very fine, in the time of his great-uncle, and the surrounding land, currently untended, had always been fertile. All it required was a concentrated effort.

He didn't expect any trouble from Josiah Chipple. He'd be too busy chasing down his daughter, trying to stop her marriage, blustering and yelling. Wynche End was too far away for him to bother and Christian planned to keep that nice safe distance. At least until the old man's wrath had cooled.

In the meantime, he was perfectly fine here. As soon as he got rid of the Honorable, far too distracting, Miss Kempton.

 

Josiah Chipple was not a happy man. He'd lost an entire cargo—once an uprising began and blood had been spilled it was a waste trying to save anything for future profit. Better to simply obliterate the rest of the holding into the sea than deal with the kind of problems restive slaves could provide. He hired the right kind of men who kept them chained, passive and so beaten down that they'd cause no trouble for any prospective buyer. But once they began to fight back there was no salvaging it.

He'd lost half his crew, including his captain, a vicious brute who'd served him well and shared his prof
its for the last twenty years. He'd have a hard time replacing him, and in the meantime one less ship was running, one less cargo was being harvested and delivered. He'd arrived back at Chipple House in a foul mood, only to be greeted with the news that his daughter had run off with the man who'd dared to blackmail him.

If it hadn't been for business, Christian Montcalm would have been dealt with promptly. But things hadn't been going Chipple's way, and the morning after he returned home he was ready for blood, any blood. It mattered not if it was related to him—his daughter had betrayed his wishes, and no punishment was harsh enough. He'd been foolish to think she was the only way to fulfill his dreams. He was still a young man, just this side of fifty. He was wealthy and could marry again, perhaps a titled widow who was still fertile enough to give him sons. He had no more need for Hetty than he'd had for her mother once she'd proved unable to give him any more children.

First, he had to find where Christian Montcalm had taken his daughter. And discover where that snotty bitch Miss Kempton had gone, as well. Betrayal was on every side, and Josiah Chipple did not take well to betrayal.

He would use every means at his disposal to ensure his vengeance, and one of the most valuable was information. By the end of the day he knew more about Christian Montcalm and his forebears than the man did himself. The possibilities were endless. He only had to choose one and set it into play. And watch his revenge flower.

I
t was a gloomy, gray day, matching Annelise's mood. There was still no sign of her brown dress, and the only thing sedate enough in Christian's great-aunt's wardrobe was a forest-green riding habit. Even putting it on made her feel edgy, but it was either that, or a dress with far too low a décolletage, or the powdering gown, and the habit was the least of all the evils.

No shoes, of course, and the elegantly clocked silk stockings were slippery on the floor. At least the cut on her foot was healing. She bundled her hair into a tight knot at the back of her neck, pulled a chair close to the fire, and sat, determined not to move until she absolutely had to. She wasn't going to face Christian Montcalm again unless she was forced to.

When Mrs. Browne brought her a tray of food, she had taken one look at her expression and backed out quickly, with the muttered promise that she'd work on her dress. Annelise had nibbled on the cheese and bread, then ignored the rest. There had to be some way out of
Wynche End. And fast. She was far more susceptible than she'd ever realized.

The sound of horses' hooves drew her out of her gloom and she went to the window, peering out through the light mist, just in time to see Christian disappear down the overgrown drive on what looked to be a perfectly healthy horse. One that could have carried William while Annelise rode safely with Hetty. It was the final straw. She was going to find wherever Christian had hidden Chipple's heavy gun and shoot him. She was going to walk twenty miles in stocking feet just to get away from him. She was going to do just about anything to ensure she never had to be near that lying, rutting bastard again.

She found the kitchen with no difficulty, and stormed into the room to find Harry Browne sitting at the table, drinking a mug of tea, and Bessie busy making bread. Sensing that what was about to follow such an entrance was women's talk, Harry excused himself and left as quickly as he could.

“Your husband's a wise man,” Annelise said in a tight voice, taking the seat he'd vacated.

Mrs. Browne laughed. “You'd scare the bejesus out of the devil himself, miss,” she said. “Though I'm thinking it's not my Harry you're wanting to kill.”

“You'd be right. Where has Mr. Montcalm disappeared to, and where did he find that horse?”

“He told you he had no horses?” Mrs. Browne asked incredulously. “Well, I shouldn't be surprised—he'll do just about anything to get his way. You shouldn't let him bother you, miss.”

“I'm not going to let him bother me. I'm just not going to let him keep me here. What I need are a pair of boots or shoes that would fit me. I intend to walk and keep walking until I find some form of civilization where they'll help me.”

Mrs. Browne looked hurt. “Now, miss, I'll help you if that's what you want. Master Christian led me to believe you wanted to be here.”

“Master Christian is a bald-faced liar.”

“He is, indeed,” Bessie agreed in a comforting voice. “He needs someone to teach him a lesson.”

“He's past being taught,” Annelise said.

“There's another horse in the stable, as well, and I know Harry would saddle her for you…”

“I don't ride,” Annelise interrupted. “Walking will do me just fine.”

“It's more than three miles to the village, the roads are a sea of mud, and another storm is coming in. I'll talk to Master Christian, see to it that you have decent transportation…”

“He can go to hell.”

“Aye, there are times when he's sure that's his only choice. The poor lad's had a rough time of it, and it's little wonder he is what he is. Not that it's any excuse, mind you.”

Annelise wasn't going to ask. She had no interest in Christian Montcalm's “rough time” and nothing under the sun would induce her to respond to Mrs. Browne's careful hint to probe deeper.

And then she sighed. “Why has he had a rough time?” she asked wearily.

“Lost his entire family to those bloodthirsty Frenchies,” she said. “Mother, father, brothers and a sister. Murdered in cold blood, while Master Christian was here visiting his grandfather. He's always blamed himself that he wasn't there with them. Not that he could have helped—he'd simply be dead, as well. But guilt is a funny thing.”

“His family was killed during the Terror? But he's not French.”

“Half-French,” Mrs. Browne corrected. “But you won't find him admitting to it. He wiped every trace of that country out of his life, out of his voice and his clothes. With the help of his grandfather's beatings, I might add. He was left an orphan at the mercy of an evil old man, and he learned to survive as best he could. But he won't drink French wine, won't wear French clothes, pretends he doesn't understand the language. Pretends his poor lost family never even existed.”

“And that gives him an excuse to lie? To use other people as he sees fit?”

“No,” Bessie said. “But there's still a decent man inside worth saving. Harry and I wouldn't be here if we didn't believe it.”

“Well, I'm not saving him,” she said crossly. “And he wouldn't want me to.”

“Of course not, miss,” Bessie said, a little too quickly. “I wasn't even thinking such a thing. I just didn't want you to judge him too harshly for his selfish ways.”

“All I want is to escape from his selfish ways,” Annelise said flatly. “And I'll need my clothes and a pair of shoes to do so.”

“I can see to it. Promise me one thing, miss. I'll find you a decent pair of shoes, I'll finish fixing your dress and I'll make sure Harry has transportation for you tomorrow morning. It might only be a farm cart, but he'll have that much or he'll hear from me.”

“All right,” she said, waiting to hear the rest.

“In the meantime there's a pair of riding boots in the scullery that might fit. Nothing fancy, of course, but at least they'd be something.”

Annelise plastered her best smile on her face. “That would be lovely,” she said in a dulcet tone.

Then came the Annelise's part of the bargain.

“And you'll wait until tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she said without blinking. “I'll just go for a little walk. I need some fresh air.”

Mrs. Browne looked at her doubtfully, but in truth there was nothing she could say. She could only watch as Annelise found the oversized boots, slipped her feet inside, and stepped out into the damp spring air.

 

It was time to face the harsh facts of life, Annelise thought. If she didn't want to stay here, at the mercy of Christian Montcalm and her own foolish fancies, then the alternative was to leave. Just because she hadn't ridden in five years didn't mean she didn't know how—she'd always been a natural horsewoman, and that innate talent didn't vanish from lack of use. She was
wearing a riding habit, and apparently the Montcalm stables had another suitable horse. All she had to do was saddle and bridle it, no difficult task for her, and then ride away. So simple, and yet so complicated.

But hiding in her room didn't fix anything. As far as she knew Christian was still out for the afternoon, and while she was running the risk of meeting him in the stables when he returned, at least there'd be other people there. The stable lad, and maybe Harry Browne. He wouldn't dare do anything with an audience.

But there was no sign of anyone as she made her way through the old house. The afternoon sun slanted in the western windows, penetrating the gloom just a bit. If this were her house she'd rip away the tattered curtains, pull up the shredded rugs, wash the windows and toss all the broken furniture. The place could be made habitable, with a small army of servants to clean it and a thoughtful touch. Flowers from the overrun gardens would be a start.

But not for her. She skirted the flower beds with their riotous growth, resisting their beckoning colors as she made her way to the stables. She saw with approval that at least this outbuilding was in reasonable shape—no leaking roof, no broken windows to let in the damp spring weather. Her father had been the same—neglectful of his own dwelling while making sure that his horses were well tended to—but in this case Annelise couldn't object. People could fend for themselves. Horses needed proper care. She could overlook carelessness toward humans more easily than she could to
ward animals, which was a strangely irrational attitude. But one that held firm. The state of Christian Montcalm's stable was the first genuinely good thing she could say about him.

She walked into the outer building, but all the stalls were empty. It smelled of fresh hay and manure and all the lovely horse smells that she'd missed so much. It smelled like her childhood, when she had been happy, and she almost turned around and ran back into the house rather than face all the painful memories that had come flooding back. There wasn't a day when she didn't miss her father, his feckless charm, his casual affection, his boundless optimism in the face of total disaster. She never knew for certain whether the fall had been an accident or not. Her father was too good a horseman, even in his cups, to make the kind of mistake that sent him sailing over the hurdle ahead of his horse, to a broken neck that killed him instantly. But then, he wouldn't endanger a horse if he were bent on killing himself. He'd have taken one of the dueling pistols and put a gentlemanly end to himself.

Although he wouldn't have wanted his daughter to find him. He'd always been absurdly fond of Annelise, a fact that her sisters found annoying. She understood him, weaknesses and all, and loved him anyway. To her sisters he was simply a disappointment and an embarrassment.

There were times she was even glad he'd died the way he did. The last thing he would have remembered would be riding hell bent for that jump, his favorite
gelding, Bartleby, beneath him, the wind rushing through his overlong, grizzled hair, the light of joy in his bloodshot eyes. When they'd found him he was smiling, his lifeless eyes staring upward into the sky.

She hadn't let them shoot Bartleby—it hadn't been his fault that his master had been thrown. There were times when she thought the horse grieved as much as she did. But there was no money left, the estate was entailed to a second cousin from America, and the horses had to be sold to pay off her father's massive debts. Even her own beloved mare, Gertie, had gone, the most wrenching blow of all. At least she could content herself with the fact that wherever Gertie ended up, she'd be loved and ridden, and if there'd been any way for Annelise to keep her she still wouldn't have ridden her.

All these memories were far too painful, but Annelise stiffened her shoulders, dismissing them from her mind, and walked forward. She couldn't afford to shirk from anything, no matter how difficult. The least she could do was face Christian's horses, see if she could even contemplate riding one.

Annelise instantly regretted her resolve, as Christian came through the door from the adjoining stable area, still dressed for riding. Bad timing all around, Annelise thought, but she wasn't going to run.

He didn't look particularly pleased to see her, which was a relief. Wasn't it? “What in the world are you doing here? And what's that you're wearing?”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” she responded tartly. “It's a riding habit, a bit out of date but still perfectly
serviceable. I believe it belonged to your great aunt. And what else would I be looking for in the stables but the horses?”

“You're afraid of horses.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You simply don't like them?”

“I love horses.” She wasn't going to give him any more information than she could, a tiny bit of revenge that didn't go very far in assuaging her own sense of emptiness.

“You love horses, you're not afraid of them, but you don't know how to ride?”

“I never said that. I know how to ride. I choose not to.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His hair was loose and wild from his ride, his high cheekbones flushed from the wind. He'd make some unsuspecting heiress a most attractive husband, she thought grimly. But he was not for her, and he seemed to have suddenly remembered that.

“And are you changing your mind?” he asked.

She might have asked the same of him, but she didn't. “I thought I would merely check out your stable and see whether there might be a suitable mount. The sooner I leave Wynche End the better for both of us.”

“Agreed,” he said coolly, and she didn't flinch. Her father would have been proud of her. “I intend to do some entertaining and your presence would be a bit difficult to explain.”

“Indeed.” Entertaining? He'd already found a new heiress, she surmised. She should have known—when
there was no other female around he whiled away his time flirting with her, kissing her, teasing her. Give him an alternative and she was quickly forgotten. She'd always despised self-pity and here she was, falling prey to that very same emotion.

He was watching her closely, but she knew that her calm expression gave nothing away. “My neighbors have a couple of marriageable daughters,” he continued in an affable tone. “Very pretty, the both of them, and the parents seem inclined to overlook my less than stellar reputation in return for the joining of our two estates. They wouldn't be too pleased to think I had a mistress in keeping.”