Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  And…Oh, dear God above—was that smoke he smelled?

  Wick came upon the door a beat before Griffin and rattled the knob. When the door didn’t open he beat his fists against it. Griffin reached around him and tried the knob himself, calling out for Olivia at the same time. When she didn’t respond, he pounded the heel of his hand against the door.

  “Miss Cole!” Griffin rapped the wood hard. “Miss Cole!” He put a restraining hand on Wick’s efforts. “Find Truss. Tell him to bring the key. Hurry!” Griffin punctuated the order by throwing his shoulder into the door. Except for compression of his own muscle and bone, there was no give. Griffin ignored the pain and rammed it again. The door held and he went back to pounding. “Miss Cole!” Dammit! “Olivia!”

  Olivia couldn’t move. She was pinned by the weight of the man on top of her. Over his shoulder she could see small flames spreading slowly across the pillow sham, fed by the draft from the open window. She tried to make him understand there was danger here, but he merely pressed a forearm across her throat and she was silenced. Every frantic look she cast in the direction of the fire, he seemed to interpret as merely an effort on her part to avoid looking at him.

  His features, the ones she had briefly thought as handsomely molded, were twisted in a rage so profound that he was deaf and blind to everything at the periphery of his senses. She was not merely the center of what he saw. She was all that he saw.

  He yanked at her shift. When the narrow blue ribbon sewn into the scooped neckline thwarted his attempt to rend the material, he shoved his hand under it. He groped for her breast, then finding it, squeezed with a viciousness that brought tears to Olivia’s eyes and the air rushing from her lungs. She tried to draw another breath, but his forearm lay too heavily across her throat. It seemed he was pressing harder now. She pushed at his shoulders and tried to turn on her side to break his hold. It took only moments for her to understand he would not be moved.

  Her hands fell back to the floor. If she did not panic, if she did not exhaust herself, she knew he would need the hand on her breast or the arm across her throat to assist him in what was ultimately his intent. If he killed her first it would be because there was madness in his rage, not because it had been his aim to do so at the outset. He might kill her afterward, to silence her, but it was just as likely that they would die together, consumed by the flames that were now twisting and leaping across the bed.

  Olivia sucked in a deep lungful of air as the pressure on her throat was lifted. She coughed hard, breathing in the first acrid eddies of smoke to reach her. She managed to gasp a warning between the choking breaths. “The bed!”

  “So you do want it,” he fairly growled in her ear. “And comfort besides.” He mashed his mouth against hers.

  She blinked. He had completely misunderstood. She tasted blood on her lip as he ground his mouth on hers and felt him separating her robe at her thighs. He lifted his hips slightly as he grabbed fistfuls of her shift and raised it to her hips. She tried to keep her legs together, but he jammed a knee between them. She beat her heels on his calves and at the back of his thighs as he fumbled with the flies of his trousers. At her sides her fingers scrabbled on the floor, searching…searching…

  Griffin pressed his ear to the door, trying in vain to hear something above the sound of his own harsh breathing. Frustrated, he kicked at it. Once. Then again. Bloody hell. Where was Wick? Where was Truss? Where was the goddamn key?

  Olivia’s fingertips found the edge of the towel that had been wrested from her hands. She tugged on it, first finding a finger’s worth, then a handful. She whipped it across the back of his neck and found the opposite tail with her free hand. Beyond his shoulder she could see tiny tongues of fire lapping up the bedcover and applied all of her resolve to this last effort.

  Before he could guess what she was about, she quickly crossed the tails of the towel and exchanged them in her hands so that she could pull them as tightly as her strength would allow.

  The immediate effect was to make him release his cock so he could try to break her hold. When he grasped her wrists and pushed he only succeeded in tightening the noose she’d fashioned. He clawed at the linen towel, his eyes bulging, but could not get even so much as a fingernail between his skin and the damp fabric.

  Olivia applied steady pressure. The muscles in her arms and across her back trembled with the strain required to sustain it. From the hallway she heard someone call her name again. When she’d heard it before she’d had no voice to cry out. Now she hadn’t any strength to spare for the effort.

  His face was ruddy, but no less so than hers. Olivia’s temples throbbed as the hot blood of exertion collected in her head. Her knuckles were nearly as white as the towel she was gripping. There was a similar whiteness at his neck where his skin was pulled taut by the linen garrote.

  He was able to heave himself up but not able to dislodge her hold. The space he created, though, gave her the freedom to move out from under him. The towel twisted on his neck as she shifted to one side. When his arms gave way he collapsed face down on the floor, and as quick as that she was on his back, holding the tails of the linen like reins on a horse that she meant to bring to an abrupt halt.

  It might have been hearing her name yet again that gave her pause. It could also have been the heat at her back that finally stayed her hands. She gave it no thought at the time. She simply released both ends of the towel and stood, but not without first pressing one knee hard into his spine as she did so.

  His groan satisfied her that he was alive, but also made her wary.

  Olivia grabbed the towel as she leapt away from him, afraid he would recover the strength to pull her down again. Her attention was drawn to the door as it shuddered hard in the frame.

  “Olivia! For God’s sake…. Olivia!”

  She spun on her heels and ran toward the sound of that voice. It was Breckenridge. She met his pounding by placing the flat of one hand against the door panel. Throwing the towel over her shoulder, she twisted the knob with her other hand. When nothing happened she remembered all the reasons that was so.

  Glancing back, she saw that not only was her attacker beginning to stir, but the fire was slipping over the edge of the bed. “I can’t get the key! Go! Go away! Get everyone out!”

  She was not at all certain she was heard. She slapped the door and yelled the one word she hoped would garner his full attention.

  “Fire!”

  Chapter Four

  Olivia didn’t wait to learn if Breckenridge understood her. The fire at her back was skipping its way across one of the small area rugs. She turned and ran for the bathing room.

  The pitcher and bowl on the washstand were the handiest items to easily fill with water. Once she’d dipped them into the tub she found the bowl was too awkward to carry. She let it drop to the bottom of the tub and hurried back into the bedroom with the pitcher. She aimed her first throw at the fringes of the fire, hoping to keep it from spreading. There was little enough time to judge the success of her action, but the thought she carried back into the bathing room along with the empty pitcher was that her best effort might count for nothing.

  Olivia filled the pitcher again, set it down, then yanked the towel from around her neck and took off her robe. She pushed both items under the water until they were sodden before she dragged them out and took them and the pitcher back to the fire.

  She tossed the water from the pitcher first, once again at the periphery of the fire, then she used her wet robe to smother a circle of the flames on the bed. Using the wet towel, she beat at the fingers of fire crawling over the edge of the mattress and frame.

  Olivia had no sense of the passage of time. What she knew was her own labored breathing and the acrid scent of smoke, ash, and wet, charred wood filling her lungs. Her arms ached, heavier it seemed than the things she was carrying. Each trip added weight to the struggle.

  When she got too close to the fire, flames licked at the damp hem of her shift or singed he
r hair. When she stood back, her efforts merely fanned the flames. If she tried to make her way too quickly, she found herself slipping on the slick puddles that dotted the hardwood floor. If she forced herself to slow down, it seemed that the fire was racing.

  She finally fell into a rhythm that she completed by rote: dip, lift, haul, toss, return. There was variation only if she used the wet robe and towel to beat the flames or the pitcher to throw water on them, but even these actions she alternated in a way that made them appear part of her pattern.

  In just such a manner she completed trip after trip, holding out for the fire’s unconditional surrender.

  Griffin and Truss found her sitting on the apron of the fireplace, her knees drawn almost to the point of her chin, her back resting against the green-veined marble jamb. She clutched each end of a twisted, dripping towel in her fists while the bulk of the linen was wrapped just below her knees, holding them in the tight fold she’d created.

  Griffin gently opened Olivia’s fingers and removed the wet towel from her hand. There was little of it that wasn’t blackened, but the small white patch he found he applied to the streak of soot bisecting her cheek like his own scar. He noticed that she retracted a bit from his touch, but he took it as a good sign that she was aware of his presence.

  When he’d first come through the door, Truss on his heels, he wasn’t at all certain that that was the case. She hadn’t given the slightest indication that she knew she wasn’t alone any longer. It struck Griffin as unnatural, even otherworldly, that she hadn’t turned her head toward their entrance. She sat, still as stone, as she did now, staring straight ahead at the wisps of smoke and steam still rising in curling ribbons from her bed.

  Tears welled at the edge of her lower lashes, though whether they were prompted by some emotion or merely a consequence of the pungent irritants in the air, Griffin could not determine. The towel was useless here. He withdrew a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. A tear slipped free as she lowered her gaze to the handkerchief. She stared at it a long moment, almost as if she were trying to reason its purpose, then she offered a brief, watery smile and raised it to her eyes.

  Griffin used that opportunity to glance over his shoulder at Truss. The butler was stamping out smoldering patches on one of the rugs with all the high-stepping vigor of a fair colleen at her first dance. Griffin’s brief grin turned grimace as he surveyed the damage to the room. At a glance he could see that in every way it could have been much, much worse. Close to the bed, the flocked wallpaper was streaked with water and soot. The bedcovers had supported a great deal of the fire, and he could see that not only were parts of the mattress burned, they might be burning still.

  “Cease your jig, Truss,” Griffin said, rising from his crouch beside Olivia. “Help me get this mattress out of doors. I think we can roll it sufficiently small that we can push it out the window.”

  Truss stumbled a bit as he brought himself up short. Recovering himself and his dignity, he grabbed one corner of the mattress and began lifting it toward the foot of the bed, smoldering bedcovers and all. Griffin quickly took up the opposite side and helped him. They hefted the bedroll to their shoulders and carried it to the open window.

  It required effort, but a bit of cursing seemed to grease the opening, and they pushed it through. Griffin put his head out to make certain it cleared the small porch roof. It bounced, unfolded, then hung on the lip for several long moments before it fell in a cascade of snow, smoke, and feathers.

  Griffin retreated from the cold and biting air and shut the window. He instructed Truss to carefully look around and make certain there were no other potential fires, then he returned to Olivia’s side.

  She lifted her head but made no attempt to stand. Her frown caused a thin black crease to form between her eyebrows. “Is he…? He was moving when…” She craned her neck, trying to look around and over the frame of the empty bed. “I thought he would help, but he never…”

  Griffin registered Olivia’s confusion but not the reason for it. His dark eyes caught hers, held them. “He? Do you mean Truss?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. The other. Lying on the floor.”

  “What are you talking about?” It was then that he remembered something Wick had said: gentleman villain. “Who are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. That is, I don’t know his name.”

  Griffin did not try to make sense of what she was saying. There were other matters that required his attention first, not the least of which was Olivia’s own condition. Her teeth clicked in the pauses between words and her body had begun to tremble violently as though she might actually shake off the cold. Her damp shift clung to her like a second skin, one that was not a whit warmer than the first. It was no surprise that she remained curled like a hedgehog in the one place in the room that offered a modicum of heat.

  Griffin opened up the armoire, saw nothing that would serve, and removed his frock coat instead. He drew it tightly across Olivia’s shoulders before grasping her wrists and lifting her to her feet. There was some slight resistance on her part, but he had no patience for learning the cause of it. When he saw she was unsteady at a stand, he simply lifted her.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” Griffin told her. “And stop squirming. I’m not going to—” He stopped because he realized her spastic movements weren’t in aid of getting away from him. She was simply shivering that hard. “I’m taking her to my room, Truss. If Wick and Mason were successful in getting everyone out of the house, tell the staff to herd them back in. Serve them all drinks at my expense. That should engage them again. I saw Priestly at the tables. An explanation to him will be enough to calm the waters. He will see to it.”

  “How shall I phrase it, my lord?”

  “Carefully.” Depending upon Truss to show proper discretion, Griffin exited the room.

  The lack of a maid frustrated Griffin’s efforts to attend Olivia. He considered and dismissed the idea of requesting one of his female guests to assist him. The fewer people who knew that she’d come close to burning his establishment to the ground, the better. He did not yet know the cause of it, so allowing someone else to put their own construction upon events did not strike him as a wise decision.

  After setting Olivia down on his bed, he gave her one of his nightshirts and went in search of towels. When he returned with an armful she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, heels hooked on the frame, trying to find the opening of the shirt.

  Griffin set most of the towels near the fireplace to warm them and carried two to the bed. He used one to briskly dry her damp hair and the other to rub some heat into her feet and calves. His movements were impersonal but his manner was not without sympathy. He told her what he was going to do before he did it, offering her every opportunity to help herself.

  Olivia let him remove his frock coat from her shoulders then draw his nightshirt down over her head. She reached under the fabric and tugged on her own nightgown, shimmying out of it as it was replaced by the infinitely warmer linen. When he pulled back the bedcovers she crawled under them without any urging.

  Griffin put his frock coat back on. It smelled of smoke now, he noted. He picked up the towels and her ruined shift and tossed all of it into his dressing room for Mason to deal with. The towels that had been warmed by the fire he rolled into linen logs and tucked them under the covers next to Olivia’s body. She thanked him as she turned her cheek into the one he placed beside her pillow.

  Griffin rang for a servant before he drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. Warm, healthy color was just beginning to return to Olivia’s cheeks by the time his summons was answered. He asked for a report regarding the well-being of his patrons and was satisfied to learn that the excitement of the moment had subsided. The generous application of alcohol had dampened their enthusiasm for questions but not for gaming. Such comments that his absence aroused were met by assurances that he would soon return to tables. Griffin did not say whether that was likely or no
t, but he appreciated the footman’s attention to this detail.

  He requested a pot of tea for Olivia and a whiskey for himself before he dismissed the servant. When he turned back to Olivia, he found that she was watching him. There was a certain wariness in her eyes that made him question himself.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you think I mean to?”

  Olivia didn’t respond.

  Griffin’s lower lip thrust forward as he released a puff of air. “I see,” he said, taking her silence as answer. “I did not realize I had given you cause to think so ill of me.”

  Olivia’s voice was little more than a whisper. The back of her throat ached with the effects of the smoke and repressed tears. “He told me you knew,” she said. “That you knew he was there…in my room. I didn’t believe him…but you’re acting as if—”

  “As if I don’t understand,” he said, interrupting her. “Except I am no actor. I don’t understand. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you comprehend my confusion.”

  Under the covers, Olivia drew her knees up as she sought to contain her body heat. That her posture was also defensive was a point she did not care to contemplate. “He is one of your guests. A gamer.”

  “Describe him.”

  She closed her eyes. “A bit taller than I am. A year, perhaps two, on either side of my own twenty-four years. Fastidious in his dress. Pale yellow hair. A sweet, almost shy smile. Blue eyes. They were…cold.” She shivered slightly and her eyes flew open. Breckenridge was watching her closely. She avoided his gaze and stared at a point past his shoulder. “He was slight of build, but strong. Athletic, I think, one would say. Perhaps someone who pursues gentlemanly activities like sparring or fencing.”

  “He might be any of a great many gentlemen who come here of an evening. Is there nothing else? Something that distinguishes him?”