To Surrender to a Rogue (11 page)

"What—," she began, only to be cut off by a shout from Eustace's assistant

"Look! I think Lord James has nearly got the lad!"

"Lord James?" repeated Alessandra.

"Aye, the gentleman came charging down the hill and dove straight in from these rocks," said the assistant "He must have nerves of steel."

"For God's sake, someone help him!" she cried.

The men around her shuffled uncomfortably. "The current is too swift, even for a strong swimmer," said Eustace. "I've sent a party down to the shallows. With luck, they will be able to pull Lord James and the lad to safety."

"But that may be too late!" Alessandra looked around wildly.

"It's too dangerous to try anything else, Lady Giamatti," said Eustace softly. "Let us pray..."

A sudden cheer went up.

She wrenched her gaze back to the water and saw that Jack had managed to snag the boy by his collar and was now angling for the riverbank. His stroke was powerful, despite being hampered by the awkward burden, but the swirling eddies and frigid waters looked to be sapping his strength.

"Kick, sir, kick!" called one of the workers.

Alessandra bit her lip, so hard that she tasted blood.

"By Jove, I think he is going to make it" exclaimed Eustace. "Be prepared to pull them ashore."

Ready hands reached down.

"Blankets," she called out "Someone fetch blankets."

"And brandy," added Eustace's assistant

A last splash brought Jack within arm's reach of land.

One of the workmen grabbed the boy, while two others caught hold of Jack's shirt and fished him out of the water.

Gasping for breath, he lay for a moment on the rocks before pushing up to his knees and shaking the sopping hair from his eyes.

A shower of drops flew through the air and splattered over Alessandra's skirts.

A second cheer went up as Jack levered to his feet.

Standing in a puddle of mud, with water dripping from his face and his long locks spilling in a sodden tangle around his shoulders, he should have cut a rather pathetic figure. Instead he somehow looked...magnificent The very picture of raw virility.

Alessandra couldn't help but stare. His shirt was ripped in several places and clung to every contour of his chest, showing an indecent amount of muscle and a peppering of coarse black curls. Through the nearly transparent linen, she could see that they tapered in an intriguing trail down to his navel.

Her gaze dropped lower.
A big mistake.
The wet buckskin breeches fitted like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. He had very well-formed thighs, bulging with thick, corded sinew and firm, hard...

Lower. Look lower.

"Y-your boots," she stammered.

"Yes, yes, I know," growled Jack. "My boots are not proper swimming attire, but they were already ruined."

She bit her lip in confusion, realizing that her halting words had been interpreted as criticism.

"Lord James! Thank Jupiter you are safe!" The arrival of Dwight-Davis put an end to the awkward moment

Skidding to a stop, the scholar wheezed for breath as he mopped at his brow. "That was a deucedly remarkable display of bravery, sir! We are fortunate indeed to have such a hero in our ranks."

A murmur of assent went up from the cluster of workers.

"The river is not so deep, and the currents look worse than they really are," replied Jack.

Alessandra could not help but notice that he looked uncomfortable with the lavish praise.

"It was nothing out of the ordinary," he went on. "How is the lad?”

"Cold and frightened, but completely unhurt," piped up Eustace. "Thanks to you, sir."

"Someone should accompany him home to his mother," said Alessandra. "I'll go."

"An excellent suggestion, Lady Giamatti," said Dwight-Davis. "And I shall take Lord James back to town before he catches his death of cold."

"A dip in the river is hardly cause for such a fuss," he muttered, allowing a blanket to be draped over his shoulders.

"Nonetheless, I should hate to see a promising career in the classics cut short before it is properly begun." Dwight-Davis dabbed at his brow. “To speak of having to inform the Duke of Ledyard that having survived the battlefields of Portugal and Spain, you had sacrificed your life in the peaceful farmlands of Somerset."

"Don't worry, His Grace has sons to spare," replied Jack.

"Here, sir." One of Haverstick's assistants shoved a flask of brandy into Jack's hands.

"Make way, make way” called Dwight-Davis, raising his shovel with a flourish, as if it were an Imperial standard.

The crowd parted amid another round of cheers.

Hail Caesar.
Alessandra watched the procession for a moment longer before turning to find the rescued child.

J
ack ran a hand through his still-damp hair, undoing what little order his brush had just achieved. He grimaced at the looking glass, wishing he could shuck off his coat, unknot his cravat, and spend the evening painting instead of attending the supper soiree at the local Historical Society.

Duty
he reminded himself. He was fast learning that scholarship and soldiering had much in common—there were times when it was required to parade around in fancy dress.

All of Bath was eager to entertain the Italian delegation. Jack cast a baleful look at the stack of invitations on his mantel. Assemblies, concerts, picnics...Hell, if he had a choice, he would pitch a tent by the river and dispense with the formalities and flatteries.

After a final tug to the folds of starched linen, he squared his shoulders and quitted his rented quarters for the short walk across Queen Square.

"Welcome, welcome, Lord James!" Mr. Lattimer, the head of the local Historical Society, greeted him effusively as he came through the portico. "I trust that you are suffering no ill-effects from your heroic rescue mission."

"None whatsoever," replied Jack, wondering how he could put a damper on any further mention of the afternoon. "I think that the incident has been greatly exaggerated"

"Again, you are being far too modest, sir!" Dwight-Davis hurried over and insisted on giving him a hearty handshake.

"Indeed, the gentleman deserves a medal for bravery." Frederico Bellazoni turned around from one of the glass display cases and lifted his glass in salute.

"A splendid suggestion." Dwight-Davis's eyes lit up. "I'm sure we could fashion a lovely one with a Roman coin and some—"

"Signor Bellazoni was just making a little joke," said Jack, countering the Italian's silky smile with a curt shrug. He shifted his gaze to a shelf lined with marble fragments. "Now tell me, are those statues of Sulis Minerva from the temple here in town?"

As he had hoped, the two scholars were quickly distracted by his question and plunged into a detailed explanation of their history. Frederico listened politely for several minutes before drifting off to join a group by the refreshment table.

An informal supper was served, along with a great many toasts. Quelling the urge to consult his pocket-watch, Jack sipped his wine and tried to pay attention to the elderly wife of a local Society member, who was prosing on in excruciating detail on the armaments of an ancient centurion. There were a handful of other ladies present, their occasional laughter breaking the monotony of male voices.

As for Alessandra della Giamatti...

Jack slanted a look around. She had arrived late and was immediately surrounded by her fellow countrymen. They were still paying court to her, and judging by the smiles and the ebullient snippets of Italian drifting up from their table, the group was having a gay time.

He speared a lobster patty and signaled for a footman to refill his glass.

Her cheeks ached from the effort of keeping a smile in. place. And slowly but surely, Alessandra felt the niggling pain creeping up to her temples. Lud, she
never
had headaches.

"Will you try a taste of the creamed pheasant, Alessa?" asked Orrichetti. "We hear horror stories about English cooking, but it is really quite tasty."

"Thank you, Pietro, but I have a full plate."

"From which you have scarcely taken a bite." The conte wagged an elegant finger. "I shall have to invite you to my residence and have the cook prepare a proper
fettuccine Alfredo.

She managed a small laugh. "On such a diet, I would soon be as fat as the Prince Regent. However, you must be sure to sample the cream from Devonshire while you are here. Even the French are forced to admit it is superb."

"Si,
but the
Inglieze
have nothing to compare to
mozzarella di Bufala
from Caserta," exclaimed Professor Mariello.

"The cheddar cheese is not half bad..."

Her lips quirked. Italians were almost as opinionated about cuisine as they were about politics. It was no surprise that a lively discussion on food continued for the rest of the meal.

Card tables had been set up in the adjoining room and the guests were invited to have their tea while enjoying a game of whist Alessandra demurred, choosing instead to take a seat at the pianoforte set in the shade of the potted palms.

She began to play, using the interlude to compose her emotions. Perhaps Beethoven would be a better choice man Vivaldi, she thought wryly.
Dark versus light.
The conflict mirrored her own strange mood.

Lord James Jacquehart Pierson was having an unnerving effect on her. She wished she could dismiss him as just another aristocratic ass—a rich, dull-witted dilettante who would soon grow bored with the demanding discipline required by archaeology. But it was becoming harder and harder to think of him that way. Just before supper, Dwight-Davis had shown Jack's portfolio of architectural watercolors to her and the Roman delegation.

They were, in a word, superb.

like the man himself, the paintings possessed a muscular grace.
Strong. Sure.
There was great delicacy to detailing, but it was not at all effeminate. That he possessed an impressive artistic talent upset her assumptions. She wished she could see his air of confidence as there arrogance...perhaps because she secretly envied such inner self-assurance. Yes, he was unyielding in some ways. Yet it confounded her expectations that a battle-hardened blade of the
ton
could have a sensitive soul. That his recent attentions to her daughter had shown an unexpected kindness had also compounded her confusion.

She didn't want him to be nice, she wanted—

A shadow fell across the sheets of music, a solid silhouette of a man's profile that easily overpowered the fluttering pattern of the leafy fronds.

For a big man, Black Jack Pierson moved with the stealth of a cat.

Alessandra was incredibly aware of his presence—how could she not be? He was so large, and so
looming.
She didn't have to look up to know his long hair was falling down over his starched shirtpoints, the curling ends kissing the fine merino wool of his evening coat

Diavolo.
She could almost swear that the heat of his gaze was prickling like red-hot pitchforks against her flesh.

Her fingers jerked on the ivory keys, striking a wrong note.

She glanced up in confusion. "Is there a reason you choose to stand there and glower at me, Lord James?"

"Forgive me if my expression displeases you," replied Jack quietly. "I was not aware I was glowering."

Alessandra resumed her playing, hoping to hide the erratic thump of her pulse.
Why, oh why, was her body refusing to stay in rhythm with her mind?

"According to you, I cannot smile, so I fear I have few options left," he added. There was a hint of humor in his tone.

She didn't trust herself to speak. Surely if she didn't answer he would go away.

His palm pressed against the polished wood as he leaned in a little closer. "Have I done something new to offend you, Lady Giamatti?"

Alessandra switched to a Salieri sonata.

"I've not really had a chance to properly apologize for my risque' remarks at the Julius Caesar Society. Please allow me to do so now. It was ungentlemanly to indulge in such petty teasing."

"No further apologies are necessary," replied Alessandra. "I implied that you did not belong there. You had a right to feel insulted."

Jack cocked his head. "Then I assume you continue to dislike me because of our first few encounters."

She felt a tinge of red creep over her cheekbones. "Though we converse in English, we seem to be speaking to each other in foreign tongues, sir. I don't dislike you, Lord James."

"You simply resent my heavy-handed attempts to do the right thing?"

Her lashes lowered, curtaining her eyes. "English notions of chivalry are different from those of Italian men."

"You would prefer Machiavelli?" he asked slowly.

"I would prefer that men of every nationality would stop pestering me!" exclaimed Alessandra in a low voice.
"Santa Cielo!
You all act as if I am a helpless, brainless creature, incapable of looking out for myself. Once and for all, if I ever need help, I shall ask for it."

"Be assured that even if you were speaking in Urdu, I would understand the message quite clearly, Lady Giamatti," replied Jack.

"I doubt you understand at all." A sigh stole out from her lips. She was tired. She was tense. That still did not quite explain how the next words spilled out "Sometimes I am not quite sure what it is I mean. Or want"

Appalled at the slip of her tongue, Alessandra steeled herself for a sarcastic retort

Instead, Jack made a wry face. "Actually, I know the feeling."

Her hands stilled in shock. "I—I don't see how you could. A man of wealth and privilege, who has every advantage in life. Why, the world is your oyster."

"Perhaps I don't care for seafood." A half smile played on his mouth. "You know, I don't like it any more man you do when someone makes presumptions about my life, Lady Giamatti."

The candlelight flickered softly across his face. Like his beautiful paintings, Black Jack Pierson appeared deceptively simple at first. But the closer she looked, the more she saw the complex layers and subtle textures that gave shape to the whole.

"Isn't a scientist supposed to refrain from jumping to conclusions?" he asked lightly.

Alessandra was finding it hard to think of scientific rules or textbook theorems as she watched a smile play at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, a serious scholar should always base any judgment on careful research"

"And empirical observation." Jack lowered his lashes. "I expect that you shall be watching me closely over the coming weeks."

Dio Madre.
It was hard enough to keep her eyes off him now. The thought of intimately observing the flex of his long, lithe muscles as he worked made her mouth go a little dry.

"I shall try to ensure that you have no grounds for complaint," he finished.

Feeling even more confused, she wasn't quite sure how to answer. "I... that is, you..."

"May I join you?" Flicking at the palm fronds, Frederico brushed by the decorative greenery and perched a hip on the piano. "Or am I intruding on a private conversation?"

Jack stepped back. "Not at all. We were just discussing philosophy."

"Philosophy?" Frederico arched a gilded brow. "But the evening is supposed to be a social interlude, not a time for serious subjects " He shifted his stance and gave a light laugh. "So I'm sure you won't mind if I steal Alessa away for a stroll on the terrace."

Ha! She would just as soon walk through the gates of hell

"Come,
cara.
English gardens look so lovely in moonlight" The pressure of Frederico's hand on the small of her back belied the softness of his voice. Alessandra could sense that he did not intend to take no for an answer.

Much as she wanted to swat away his fingers, she rose.

"Enjoy the view." Jack turned without further comment and walked away.

For an instant she wished she were the little boy from the afternoon, held safe in the circle of Jack's muscled arms.

A childish notion.
She could not look to anyone but herself for rescue from the sordid cesspool of the past

And from the moonlit English gardens, would the Italian be strolling his way into the marchesa's bed?

Jack drowned the snide question in a long quaff of brandy.
Why should he care?
he chided himself. It wasn't as if he would be asked into her boudoir anytime soon.

Quelling a growl—and the urge to punch out several of Frederico Bellazoni's perfect teeth—he took another swallow. And yet...

He slanted a sidelong glance at the couple. Strange, but she looked more like a lady being dragged to an execution than an eager lover on her way to a romantic tryst

Then again, perception was all in the eye of the beholder. He had been woefully wrong before, and it wasn't a mistake he cared to repeat Even without her warning, he now knew better than to plunge yet again into her private affairs.

Jack stared into the dregs of his glass. The truth was, he couldn't begin to fathom her feelings—and he wasn't sure whether that angered or intrigued him. There seemed to be strong currents swirling just below the surface of her outward self-assurance.

But maybe he was simply imagining things.

His mouth thinned. Unfortunately, he was cursed with a very vivid imagination, for even as he turned away to study a display of Roman coins, he couldn't help but recall their midnight kiss. Her rigid reserve had suddenly dissolved into a wave of passion. Hell, the taste of sweetness and sparks still lingered on his lips...

"Lord James! How good to see that you are dry! But your glass should be wet!" Dwight-Davis waved to a passing footman. "More brandy. And let us all raise a toast to our hero."

Jack gritted his teeth.
Hip, hip, hooray.

* * *