The Reckless One (9 page)

“Yes.”

“I’d been in jail for four years, you know,” he said. “Four years is a long time to remember those carnal pleasures I was just learning to appreciate when I was captured. After I escaped—with your aid—it took me a few days to realize I was safe. But then … then I sought out those pleasures—when it didn’t mean risking my life.”

His face hardened. “And do you know what? Do you want to know something very odd?” His face was very close, his mouth looked very soft, the only soft thing in that hard visage. “Do you?”

She nodded, mesmerized by his low hypnotic voice, the heat of his hand playing just above her collarbone.

“Even in the blistering heat of the most powerful climax, I still tasted
you.”

She tried to hold back her gasp. Failed. Earned another one-sided smile.

“What’s this? A blush, little peregrine? Too raw? By God, I believe I’ve embarrassed the wench.” He gave a humorless laugh. “And to think I mistook you for Madame Noir. I really had lost the knack of reading a woman.”

“She was my relative,” she said.

“Allow a modicum of respect for my intelligence. I doubt you’ve ever even met the lady— No!” He lay a callused fingertip against her lower lip. “Your mouth begins to form a lie before it’s even half thought. Spare us both yet another of your fictions.” Hesitantly, as though compelled, he grazed his fingertip back and forth along her lower lip.

“I can’t help what you believe or disbelieve,” she answered, a sense of panic unlike any she’d ever experienced rising in tandem with the electric feeling suffusing her mouth, her cheeks and throat, her breasts and thighs.

“Damn me, lady hawk, is there any truth in you at all?”

Her voice wouldn’t work. She stared in mute appeal.

“Christ’s blood,” he murmured with that wicked, Satan-inspired darkness flooding his voice, “I can’t decide if God is punishing me or you. Let’s find out, shall we?”

He closed the short distance between their mouths. His lips touched hers with deliberate delicacy, clung. Her eyelids drifted shut.

Warm breath. Velvet mouth, firm and testing. Just a kiss, just the softest brush of his lips and yet her knees weakened and her head spun. He moved closer. She sensed it, felt his breadth surround her, above her … Threatening? Protecting? By the Virgin, she couldn’t tell.

Her head fell back against the wall. His fingertips branded one side of her throat with gossamer fire, skated down and across the top of her breasts, found the edge of her décolletage and slipped along it, moving with lingering deftness beneath—

A jolt of molten sensation electrified her. Her eyes flew open, her startled gaze leaping to meet his unreadable one.

“Let me go,” she pleaded. “Please. I am not rich and I have no name with which others might seek to align themselves. All I own is my virtue. Please don’t take that from me.”

Was his breathing staggered? She couldn’t say. Her own thoughts were in too great a turmoil to heed another’s state, her own breath too ragged.

“Let me go,” she repeated. “Please! I don’t even know your name.”

“ ’Tis Ra—Rafe,” he said, but his hand dropped to his side and he moved back. “Though I’ve had far more intimate discourse with women who’ve had far less knowledge of me than that.”

“How dare you speak to me like this?” The words broke from her rising panic. “I’m not one of your women of the streets taking money to lift my skirts.”

“Oh, rest assured, I did not find all of them on the streets,” he said. “And I had no money to offer.”

Fire swept over her chest and throat and burned in her cheeks. “So that’s what this is about.”

She had known this game she and the rest of the McClairens played would extract an ever-stiffening price. She had not foreseen this, though.

“What’s that?” he asked, a smile loitering in his dark gaze.

“You’ve sought me in order to penalize me for my actions in Dieppe. To take your revenge in … in having me against my will,” she ended brokenly.

When she finished, he snorted in disgust. “Rest easy. Your virtue is not at risk. Odd as it must seem to you, I would like to hold on to the notion—no doubt a self-deluding one—that I might find pleasure with a woman without resorting to rape.”

At her wide-eyed amazement, he broke out laughing, shaking his head. “And as for your idea that after four long years in a hellish hole I had naught better to do with my newfound freedom than hunt you down in order to toss you on your backside … By all the saints, Madame, your conceit outstrips even my own!”

Put thus, it did seem improbable. Only someone unhinged would set himself on such a course. She felt another blush rise to her cheeks.

“What are you doing here, then?” she asked.

He regarded her thoughtfully a second before answering. “Have you ever heard of McClairen’s Trust?”

“Aye,” she answered. Every McClairen knew the legend of the lost jewels. “It’s a parure of rubies and diamonds; a necklace, earbobs, brooch, and circlet. ’Twas said to be a gift that Queen Mary gave a McClairen lady in gratitude for her aid in discovering Darnley’s treachery.”

“Aye,” he said. “That’s the one.”

She frowned. “ ’Twas lost. Probably sold to finance yet another glorious return.”

“Ah! A cynic and a Scot?” He laughed. “Who’d have thought the two could coexist in one body. As for the Trust, some say that the McClairens hid it at Wanton’s Blush and here it remains.”

“And
that’s
why you’re here? I don’t believe you.”

“Have you a better explanation? Besides the irresistible lure of breaching your own maidenhead, of course. Assuming that you aren’t lying and it’s unbroken yet.”

“Knave!” she said, more from embarrassment at his reminder of her foolishness than at his crudity.

His gaze mocked her. “I’ve been here a week already. ’Tis been an easy enough venture thus far. Carr keeps most of the east rooms empty, using them as a warehouse. So here is where my search has begun.” He swept his arm over the room.

“The McClairen Trust is naught but a child’s nighttime story,” she said gruffly. “If there were any rubies and diamonds they’ve long since disappeared. I am surprised you know the tale, though. It’s only a local legend. How
do
you know about it?”

“I had a cellmate named Ashton Merrick. He told me.”

Her eyes widened. Of course. ’Twas common knowledge that Carr’s sons had been captured by some Scots seeking revenge against Carr. They’d sold them to the French as political prisoners and the French kept them for ransom. Just as everyone knew Carr had refused to pay for their return until last year—or so she was told—when Ash Merrick had briefly reappeared.

Mayhap Rafe had met Raine Merrick, the source of all her grief. Mayhap this man even knew something of that thrice-damned rapist’s fate. “Ashton Merrick had a brother,” she said.

“Aye.”

“Did he share your cell, too?”

“No. Raine Merrick was kept in a different city. A different prison. I doubt he even knows if Ashton lives or is dead. I don’t.”

Favor closed her eyes. “God keep Raine Merrick from that knowledge if it were to provide him a dram of comfort,” she muttered.

“You hate this Raine Merrick?” he asked.

She didn’t want to discuss that black-souled demon. Not now. Not ever.

Behind them Orville stirred, groaned, and rolled over. She needed to leave. Once more she drew on the Abbess’s wisdom: Act a queen and you don’t need a crown. She squared her shoulders.

“Orville will shortly awake. Unless you plan to murder him—which,” she hastily continued on seeing the thoughtful manner in which Rafe regarded Orville, “will only cause a search of the premises—I suggest you leave here.

“Now, my thanks for your aid. In return, I promise I shall not tell anyone of your presence here.” She started past him but he stepped in front of her.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I haven’t given you leave to go yet. I have been thinking.”

Alarm danced up her spine. His expression had grown wolfish. She mustn’t let him see her fear. She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Thinking? Ah. I trust this is not a novel experience?”

His mouth quirked appreciatively. “I don’t want anyone to know about me. It’s been a bit venturesome having to steal food from the kitchen at night. And if I don’t find my jewels in this wing, I’ll have to search the occupied parts of the castle. I’ll need to blend in to do that. That means I’ll need clothes. Nice clothes.”

“So?”

“So, you will bring me both food and clothes. Unless, that is, you want your host, Lord Carr, to find out that his heiress and her brother are not so flush as he’d assumed.”

“You wouldn’t dare tell him. You couldn’t afford to confront him. He’d have you hanged as a thief.”

“I don’t need to confront him at all. I have only to write a letter.”

“That’s blackmail!”

“Yes,” he replied easily. “I know. But though it doesn’t look to be nearly so interesting a revenge as the one you envisioned, it will have to do.”

Raine leaned against the doorjamb, enjoying the sight of the young woman’s rigid spine above the tantalizing sway of her hips as she swept down the hall and disappeared into the gloom. He’d seen her crossing the courtyard a few days before. Something had been familiar in her stride, in the set of her shoulders, and the way she held her head. For a moment, in profile, she’d resembled someone from his past but then she’d turned and the sense of long-ago familiarity had been supplanted by a much more recent one. But it wasn’t until he’d seen her closely that he’d realized that the black-haired girl fleeing an amorous pursuer was the same golden-tressed widow who’d so thoroughly duped him in Dieppe.

She’d dyed her hair and plucked the fierce slashing brows—which, oddly enough, he rather regretted—and disguised the full sensuous curve of her mouth under a thin painted line. She’d even done something to her eyes, causing the pupils to devour their iridescent blue—a grave error in his estimation should she indeed be seeking a mate.

Had she gone to such lengths to, as she claimed, make herself more appetizing to the English gentleman’s palate? Perhaps. She would never be a classic beauty, her sharp-angled face lacking that oval symmetry such demanded. But there was some element that drew the attention, a certain comeliness, some quality that made a man want to watch her mouth move as she spoke, to touch the high outer curve of her cheek.

Raine pushed off the wall, turning and strolling back into the room. Miss Favor should be on her knees right now, thanking God that the past years had taught him restraint. Not a great deal of restraint, but enough that he’d asked her name before tossing her on that rickety bed and finding out just how attentively the holy Sisters had guarded their charge’s virtue.

Aye, Favor McClairen was lucky. Her name had stopped him. But in his impetuous youth … or should he find out she’d lied again …

He sighed. Unfortunately, there was no doubt she was Favor McClairen—whether or not she and her brother chose to call themselves Donne. He’d recognized her. She was no longer a child, but the obstinate set of her chin was the same, as was the fierceness in her eyes.

His smile faded. He glanced down at the unhappy Orville, currently attempting to rise to his hands and knees. Raine dusted off his hands and considered Favor’s advice. She was probably right. The last thing he needed was to have Favor’s suitor searching for him.

Orville raised his head, peering blearily about. With a grimace—after all Orville hadn’t been doing anything Raine himself hadn’t considered—Raine rapped him sharply on the jaw. Orville’s eyes promptly rolled back and his head hit the floor with a thud.

With a grunt, Raine hefted him over his shoulder and straightened. He headed down the corridor in the opposite direction the wench had gone. He needed to think.

Perhaps Favor really was seeking to repair her clan’s fortunes by making a spectacular match. Certainly he, better than most, knew how desperately those fortunes needed repairing. After his father had betrayed the McClairens to the Crown, he’d been rewarded with every bit of property and wealth the clan had once owned. But that hadn’t been enough for Carr. He’d made sure no McClairen would reclaim a ha’penny of it by the simple expedience of murdering them all.

Raine dodged the memory of the instrumental part he’d played in his father’s plan. He opened a door leading to the occupied section of the castle, poked his head out, and, seeing no one in either direction, dumped Orville. Orville moaned and Raine shut the door.

He followed the tower’s narrow winding staircase up to the next level, needing no lantern to illumine his way. He knew Wanton’s Blush well, every secret passageway and concealed niche, every hidden room and priest’s hole. More times than he could remember he’d hidden here to escape his father, thanking a usually indifferent Creator for the superstition that kept Carr from these rooms.

At the top floor, Raine headed for the small bedchamber he’d been using as his headquarters since his arrival. There he struck a tinderbox and lit the lantern on the table inside the door. Wearily he snagged a bottle of Carr’s finest port from a tabletop and kicked a dusty armchair toward the single window overlooking the sea. He sank down on it.

He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, took a deep draught, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He paused at the rough feel of his beard. He needed a shave. His gaze fell to his white shirt, slightly stained in spite of his having washed it thrice since his arrival. He smiled at such delicacy. If nothing else, his years of incarceration in that sty had imbued in him a deep and abiding passion for cleanliness.

He leaned his head back, letting his long legs sprawl out before him. As soon as he found his mother’s jewels he’d buy himself a hundred new shirts and as many breeches. He’d never again wear a soiled stockinet cloth or sweat-stained waistcoat again. Mayhap he’d become an eccentric and breathe only through a scented silk kerchief.

When
he found his mother’s jewels? Today it seemed the more likely question was
if
he found them. As far as he knew he was one of the only people to have ever seen the fabled jewels.

’Twas shortly before her death. He’d been nine years old and on a mission to steal a sugar lump. He’d arrived at the kitchen door to find his mother already there. Knowing her views on small boys who pilfered sweets, he’d ducked into the larder.

As he’d watched, an angry-looking redheaded fellow had entered. Afraid of being caught spying, Raine had hunkered down. Though he hadn’t heard much, it was clear the stranger was trying to compel his mother to some act and just as clear she was not to be compelled.

Finally, the stranger left and his mother soon thereafter, her lovely face a mask of worry. Desiring only to comfort her, Raine had slipped out of the kitchen and followed. But rather than head for her private chambers, she’d hastened to the small office she used to receive the local merchants and instruct the household staff. Before Raine could catch up with her, she’d shut the door behind her.

Worried, Raine had peeped through the keyhole. He’d seen her bend over a battered oriental tea chest and begin manipulating the wooden tiles on its surface. Suddenly a shallow drawer had popped up from its center.

Reverently, his mother had withdrawn a heavy gold object from the drawer. It was large, shaped roughly like a dragon, or a lion, and fitted with big, rudely cut stones. She handled it only a second before placing it back in the hidden compartment.

Raine, uncertain of what the object was, nonetheless knew it was something his mother wanted kept concealed. He’d never told anyone about it. Not even Ash. Certainly not his father.

Only later, when he’d begun to hear rumored tales of something called the McClairen Trust, had he realized what he’d seen. By then his mother was dead. Having no great love for her people, and even less for his father, he’d kept mum.

During his years in prison he’d thought often of that homely brooch. It became his lodestar. He’d spent hours plotting exactly how he would liberate it, where he would go with it, how he would sell it and to whom, what price he would ask. He built his entire future around its retrieval, not at all sure he would ever live to experience it.

Now he had the opportunity to realize those dreams.

If he could only find the bloody chest.

Getting into Wanton’s Blush without his father’s knowledge had been no problem. Raine had simply joined the line of servants awaiting their masters’ carriages. He’d grabbed a trunk from the ground, heaved it to his shoulder and followed a footman into the castle and up the servants’ staircase. There he’d dropped his burden and taken an abrupt detour to his mother’s room, assuming he’d be in and out of Wanton’s Blush in less than an hour.

There his plan had gone suddenly awry. Nothing was as he’d remembered it. Worse still, not one item of his mother’s remained.

Raine took another swallow of port, recorked the wine bottle, and set it carefully beside his chair. He’d been searching the castle ever since.

The upper stories of the east façade, in general disuse four years before, were now totally abandoned, given completely over to storage. And what storage! If nothing else, the last week had given Raine a newfound appreciation of the demon driving his father. He’d never seen such a testimony to one man’s avarice. The place was honeycombed with crates and trunks and furnishings, stuffed with a fantastic mixture of valuables and litter.

Nothing had been thrown. A man could spend half a lifetime sifting through the wreckage and ruin, the treasures and tripe accumulated by a dozen generations, searching for that one small oriental chest.

Not that he had any choice. He had no money, no skills, no past, no future. He couldn’t—or rather wouldn’t—approach his father. Carr believed his youngest son to be rotting in a French prison and as far as Raine was concerned he could just continue to believe so. He would have been there yet had it not been for her.

Raine laced his fingers across his belly and let his chin rest against his breastbone, pondering. Things had become complicated.

Favor McClairen.

He smiled. He was beginning to think God was not indifferent after all, but simply sat upon His celestial throne patiently awaiting the opportunity to perpetrate pranks upon mankind. Nothing else could account for the fact that she, of all the women in the world, should have been his unintentional liberator.

Interesting that she was using her real Christian name. He understood her need to keep the McClairen part mum; Carr would have her flogged from the place should he know. So obviously she didn’t expect the name “Favor” to be recognized. And truthfully, he allowed, who would remember that the scrawny girl who’d saved his life nine years earlier had been named “Favor”? Certainly no one in Carr’s household would have asked after that child’s name. Except for himself—and that months later, after his wounds had healed and the girl had disappeared.

He closed his eyes, the taste of the excellent port not quite enough to purge her own delicate flavor from his lips. Had her name been Sal or Peg or Anne he might well have done exactly what she’d accused him of planning and tossed her on the bed.

But she was wrong on one score. It wouldn’t have been for revenge.

He’d been deceived and used so many times that her small betrayal didn’t even make an appearance on his most-notable list. Amusing, really, that she obviously felt the sting of guilt so keenly. His congratulations to the holy Sisters.

No, he would have taken her because he wanted her.

The lust and longing he’d kept at bay ever since she’d left him abruptly broke free with devastating results. He inhaled deeply, his muscles tensing. He hadn’t meant to tell her how she’d haunted him, how images of her had primed him for sex more than willing flesh and clever mouths. He hadn’t meant to arm her with that particular knowledge.

But then, she was still babe enough not to even realize the weapon he’d handed her.

He frowned. How did one account for her implausible mixture of innocence and savvy? That ingenuous, direct gaze and the accomplished lies? It was a puzzle and, more, it was stimulating. Nearly as arousing as her sweet little body.

He felt again the texture of her velvety breasts, the supple yield of her body, and replayed that simple kiss.

He wanted more.

But then, damnation, her name was Favor McClairen, a girl who’d every right to hate him and wish him dead. The one girl in the world whom he was obligated to aid in every way he could.

The girl whose life he’d ruined.