Captivating the Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

“Your father will be furious with me if we don’t marry, and since we aren’t going to, it’s fair to say his ire is unavoidable,” Gideon said wryly.

  She dashed a quick look in his direction. “Perhaps.”

  “He’s made it clear he expects us to wed. I can’t imagine a scenario in which our failure to do so doesn’t enrage him.”

  “Enrage is a strong word. I will simply have to convince him we do not suit.” She moved along the bookshelf and sent another glance at Stratton. “He will be gravely disappointed, but I will point out that there are other descendants.”

  Stratton took a few steps toward her, drawing her to stop and watch him. “That is truly all that matters to him—that you marry a descendant.”

  She heard the disdain in his voice and doubted he would ever understand. “I told you before. My father is from another time. He’s wanted to arrange my marriage for as long as I can remember. If I can allow him that privilege while finding a husband I can admire, if not love, then it will have worked out perfectly.”

  “Life is not that tidy.” He turned from her and stalked toward the door. “I’ll go and get the horses and bring them around front.”

  “Wait. We aren’t quite finished.” When he turned to face her, she continued. “We’ll need to stay somewhere in Glastonbury tonight.”

  “Yes, we’ll arrive late.”

  “There’s a small inn on the southwest edge of town—The Golden Stag.”

  He arched his brow at her in question. “If you know of it, do the proprietors know of you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never stayed there. I’ve only ridden by, but I remember it because the sign is beautifully painted.” He nodded, then began to turn again, but she stopped him, saying, “Stratton, do not try to leave me behind again.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “Don’t make me feel cornered again.”

  She realized that was important to him for some reason. No one liked to feel trapped, but she sensed it was more than that. “We’re in this together,” she said softly. “I like sharing this journey with someone, especially someone as invested as I am.”

  He didn’t relax at all. In fact, his features seemed to harden. He took a few steps toward her, his eyes dark. “We are not in this together. The treasures belong with the Order, not your father.”

  “My father is the Order. He keeps them safe on the Order’s behalf.”

  Stratton snorted. “Regardless, they shouldn’t all be in one place.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him again. “Then why did you give him two of them?”

  Scowling, he looked away from her. “Do you even know how to be quiet?”

  “Apparently, only when you kiss me.”

  His gaze snapped to hers, and suddenly, the large room felt as close and intimate as the closet-sized library they’d been in upstairs. She took a step toward him and then another. He didn’t move, his eyes holding hers. And then he blinked.

  “I’ll get the horses.” He turned and strode from the library as if the flames of hell licked at his boots.

  Daphne stared at the empty space where he’d stood. What an idiotic thing to say! Why had she brought up that kiss? Because being in his presence made her want to do it again?

  That was absurd. And yet it was true.

  He’d made it abundantly clear he had no interest in her beyond having to take her to Brue Cottage. She knew he’d abandon her at the earliest possible moment. Which meant she had to make herself indispensible if she wanted to find that cloak.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t need him. Maybe she’d learn the cloak’s location from the woman at Brue Cottage, and she could keep it from him. She didn’t really want to do that. She agreed the treasures belonged with the Order, for safety’s sake, but she also recognized that the items had belonged to his ancestor. Of course he’d want to find them. To hold them. To feel that connection.

  A shiver danced across her shoulders. Oh, to feel that bond with something concrete from the past…

  “Miss Foliot?”

  Daphne blinked and looked toward the doorway. Lady Stratton stood at the threshold and swept inside as soon as she made eye contact with Daphne.

  Dipping into a curtsey, Daphne murmured a greeting. “I apologize for storming in earlier.”

  The countess arched a brow. “Did you storm?”

  “I came unannounced.”

  “I understand why. Septon told me about your research with Morgan le Fay. And you seek the cloak?”

  “I do.”

  “It belongs to my family, my son—rightfully. I know the Order wants to keep it safe, but truly, if Gideon wishes to take it along with the other treasures, it would be within his rights.”

  “Can he claim to own something that wasn’t ever his or wasn’t given directly to him?” Daphne asked.

  Lady Stratton’s lips curved into a half smile. “And how do we know they weren’t?”

  “Is there something you want to share?” Daphne asked, torn between finding the woman irritating and intriguing.

  “The legacy of Arthur and his knights is strong in my family. Before we knew we were descended from a knight, my family has long treasured the stories. My family hired de Valery to document the tales.”

  “Those are treasures in themselves,” Daphne said.

  “Nothing is more of a treasure to me than my son. Despite whatever you may have heard about him, he has a warm heart and a gentle soul.”

  Gentle? He was stoic and guarded. But yes, Daphne had glimpsed warmth and humor, and those were the things that had attracted her. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard much about him. I don’t pay any heed to gossip.”

  The countess looked surprised and pleased. “How wonderfully refreshing. Well, let me tell you the truth so that you can completely ignore everything else you might hear. Gideon’s father was a debauched reprobate. He was rumored to have killed his first wife, which I never believed. He was capable of many cruelties, but I don’t think murder was one of them. He preferred to humiliate those he wanted to hurt, but mostly he just liked to drink to excess and engage in lewd activities.” Color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t turn from Daphne. “He did his best to pass his proclivities on to Gideon, and he was successful—for a while. But then Gideon met Rose, and everything changed. She was the sweetest young woman.” Her expression turned sad.

  Daphne’s gut clenched. “Who was Rose?”

  The countess blinked, her dark lashes fluttering like grass in a summer breeze. “Rose was his wife. Did you not know he was married?”

  The revelation stung. Why hadn’t he told her? Was that why he’d run? “No, I did not.” She wanted to ask a hundred questions but didn’t dare.

  “He doesn’t talk about it, at least not that I’ve seen. Losing her was incredibly painful.”

  Daphne summoned the courage to ask one question. “May I ask what happened to her?”

  “It was a riding accident. Her death was awful enough, but Gideon learned she’d been carrying his babe.” The countess finally looked away, but just for a moment, her throat working as she swallowed.

  Daphne’s heart twisted. Stratton’s restrained manner made sense to her now. She also understood why he wouldn’t want to marry. Again. Why hadn’t he told her about Rose? Daphne thought she maybe understood that too.

  “I know you were expecting to marry him,” Lady Stratton said. “Please know that my son needs love. More than anything, he needs love. Please don’t marry him if you don’t love him.”

  How could she love him? There hadn’t been time for that emotion to take hold. And yet, she’d seen the potential for it to develop. Or perhaps she’d been listening to her father spin tales of her marrying a descendant for so long that she’d conjured a romantic union in her head, regardless of the gentleman.

  She suddenly felt a bit sick about the whole thing. There was one more thing she understood: why he’d left Ashridge Court. Daphne stepped toward the countess. “I don’t love your son, Lady Stratton, but I care for him.
He doesn’t wish to marry me, and I won’t allow him to be forced into it. We will find the cloak together and deliver it safely to the Order.” And then what?

  At that moment, she had no idea.

  Chapter 9

  “We already served dinner,” the innkeeper’s wife said, her dull blue eyes regarding Daphne with a mixture of skepticism and fear.

  They’d decided Daphne should wear a veil to avoid being recognized in Glastonbury. It had proven a good idea since their inn of choice on the outskirts of town—The Golden Stag—had been full. They were now at The Bell and Goat, the fifth place they’d tried and likely their last option. They were exhausted, the moon was obscured by clouds, and it was late.

  “But you do have a room?” Gideon repeated, transferring the bag, which carried the food they had left after pausing to eat a few hours earlier, to his other hand.

  “We do, but what’s wrong with ’er?” the woman asked, again looking toward Daphne.

  “Nothing,” Daphne said in a rather sunny tone that he had to give her credit for. “I had an accident as a child, and it left my face rather disfigured. Hideous, actually. Would you like to see?” She grasped the bottom of the veil, and Gideon wondered what the hell she was about. There was no nasty scar.

  The innkeeper’s wife raised her hands and turned her head as if Daphne were a beast who might attack. “No, no! Keep yerself covered. Aye, we have a room.”

  Gideon swallowed a laugh. “Good. We don’t require dinner, just a pair of beds.”

  The woman shook her head, and a gray-brown strand of hair came loose from her haphazard bun. “Don’t have a pair. Just one room left on the second floor, and it’s got one bed. If ye don’t want to sleep with yer sister, I could give ye some extra blankets for the floor.” The way she said sister seemed to insinuate she didn’t believe they were siblings as he’d introduced them.

  “Whatever you have is fine. I already paid your husband when he took the horses.” Gideon had been loath to leave them with the man until satisfying himself the innkeeper knew horseflesh and would tend them carefully after their journey. It had become clear the innkeeper loved horses and spent a great deal of his time with the beasts and left the management of the inn to his wife. After meeting Mrs. Downey, Gideon could understand why. It wasn’t that she was unpleasant to look at—which she was and which made her fear of Daphne’s “scar” rather ironic—but her general appearance of shabbiness and gruff demeanor.

  “The extra blankets would be welcome.” Gideon prayed they would be free of fleas and filth. He glanced around the small keeping room and was relieved to see it appeared tidy, if not spectacularly clean. One table in the corner was cluttered with dishes, but he suspected that was her meal and they’d arrived as she’d finished. The floor could use a good sweeping, but that was perhaps the way it always looked at this time of day.

  “I’ll fetch ’em,” Mrs. Downey said. She pinched her nose and squeezed the bridge, then sniffed. The sound was loud and grating, and Gideon fought the urge to clear his throat in response. “I’ll let ye show yerselves up. Just two rooms on the second floor—yours is on the left at the top of the stairs. Mine’s the one on the right, so don’t get lost.” She pivoted slightly away from them and bellowed, “Bess!”

  A girl of maybe twenty came running from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, mum!”

  “Get some blankets and take ’em up to the second floor. And get a fire goin’!”

  The girl nodded and took herself off.

  “Er, thank you,” Gideon said. He put his hand at the base of Daphne’s spine and guided her toward the stairs. They climbed to the first floor in silence. At the landing, she turned and whispered, “The bed better be clean.”

  He hoped the same. “Just go.”

  She continued on and at the next landing turned to the left. The ceiling was low, and Gideon had to bend his head. Daphne opened the door to their room and hesitated on the threshold. A single sconce lit the landing and spilled a meager amount of light into the dark chamber.

  Noise from the stairs drew Gideon to turn. It was Bess with an armful of blankets. She rushed by him and stopped short before running into Daphne. “Beg yer pardon, mum.” She dipped a curtsey.

  Daphne plastered herself against the doorframe to allow her to past. Though Gideon couldn’t see her face, he could imagine her expression—something that said, What is going on in this inn?

  After depositing the blankets on the bed, Bess used flint to start the fire in the hearth, which was opposite the door. Gideon rushed to help her build it into a decent fire, setting the bag on the floor near the wall. She shot a nervous glance in his direction and murmured her gratitude as her face flooded with color.

  Once the fire was going, she lit a spill that she took from the mantel and ignited two candles that were also on the mantel. Gideon stood and, as his head nearly grazed the ceiling, realized this was the only place in the room where he could stand at his full height. The roof pitched down at the other ends, and at its lowest point, the height of the room was maybe five and a half feet. It was a petite room, sized perfectly for Daphne.

  Bess turned to face them, looking first at Gideon but quickly averting her gaze as her face once again turned bright pink. She then tried to focus her attention on Daphne, only to widen her eyes slightly in distress—had she heard Daphne talking about her disfigurement? Or perhaps Mrs. Downey had told her before she’d come up. Whatever the reason, her gaze dove to the floorboards. “Shall I make up a bed for ye on the floor?” she asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gideon said.

  She nodded once. “Privy’s out back. Breakfast is early, but not too early. Mrs. Downey doesn’t like to be disturbed, so I do ask that ye be quiet like.” She shuffled her foot. “But then I s’pose sleeping is fairly quiet…” Her voice trailed off, and Gideon had to hide a smile at the girl’s exuberance.

  He moved toward her and withdrew a shilling from his pocket, which he pressed into her hand. “Thank you, Bess. We’ll be quiet.”

  She looked up at him and this time smiled along with her blush. “Thank ye, my lord.” She looked horrified. “I don’t know why I called ye that. Ye just seem so…lordly,” she finished lamely.

  “I am not a lord.” He wondered if she somehow knew who he was, but how could she? He’d never been to this part of Glastonbury, and he’d introduced himself and Daphne as Mr. and Miss Morgan.

  “Ye will be to me,” she whispered. Then she turned and scurried from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Daphne whipped the veil from her face and looked about the room. “I am so glad to have that off.” She settled her gaze on him with an amused glint in her eye and a small smile teasing her lips. “Bess is going to dream about you tonight. And maybe all the nights in the future.”

  He grunted in response as he picked up one of the candles from the mantel and walked toward the bed, bending his head as he went.

  “How does it look?” Daphne asked, removing her hat and looking about before settling her gaze on a pair of hooks on the wall near the door. She went and hung her hat on one of them.

  “Like a bed.” He set the candle on the nightstand.

  “You’ve been rather short all day.” She picked up the saddlebag and took it to the small, rickety table on the other side of the room.

  “Really? I feel quite tall.” He stood at the shortest part of the room as he investigated the bedding.

  Daphne’s laughter filled the room for a brief moment before she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I forgot to be quiet,” she whispered loudly.

  “I doubt Mrs. Downey is up here yet,” Gideon said since it looked as though she still had chores to do downstairs. But what did Gideon know? Perhaps she left it all to poor Bess and had already gone to bed. “No sign of fleas, and the bedclothes look clean enough.”

  “Enough? That doesn’t sound encouraging. But I daresay we don’t have much choice at this hour.”

  “We have
no choice—this was our fifth attempt at lodging, if you were counting.”

  “I wasn’t, actually, but I’m glad to know you pay attention to such detail.” She loosened the cravat of her riding costume. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

  “No, I think we should sleep. We do need to be up early.” He arched a brow at her. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

  “Strangely, no. I am filled with anticipation for tomorrow.” Her eyes gleamed in the dim, flickering light from the fire and two candles. She walked to the opposite side of the bed and turned back the coverlet. “Oh, this is just fine.” She ran her hand over the sheet. “If a bit scratchy.”

  “Good. I’ll sleep over there.” He pointed to the other side of the room and went to pick up the blankets.

  “You don’t have to,” she said. “The bed is big enough. We can always roll one of the blankets and put it between us—for propriety’s sake.”

  “I think propriety has already been breached.”

  She pursed her lips—so pink and succulent. “Then we’ll put it between us to keep us from temptation.”

  He was suddenly incredibly tempted. Whether from her words or his fixation on her mouth, he didn’t know and it didn’t matter. “No.”

  “Oh, don’t be a martyr,” she said with a sigh. “It was a very long day, and you’re tired. I promise I won’t touch you.”

  Was that a danger? He had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if she wanted to. Ever since she’d mentioned kissing him again earlier—had that just been today?—he’d found himself coming up with situations in which that might happen. Sleeping with her in a bed was one sure way.

  It would be so easy to revert to the old Gideon. To flirt with her, to take whatever she would give him and let the consequences be damned. But he’d worked hard to leave that man behind. Besides, she deserved better.

  “Stratton, don’t you trust me?”

  He couldn’t tell if it was a taunt or a genuine question. Either way, he didn’t like it. Trust had nothing to do with it. It was about honor and respect. “I respect you too much to overstep, and sharing your bed would certainly overstep.”