A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  Two hot spots appeared on either cheek. “Then I shall insist.”

  “That’s awfully decent of you. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” She cleared her throat. “How much longer will they keep us here?”

  Suddenly drained of strength, he slumped against the wall. “Would to God I had the answer to that.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chelsea awoke to milkmaids, egg men, and saloop vendors shouting their wares below her window. She hiked the quilt over her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated on slipping back into the dream. She had dreamt of Anthony before but never had the fantasy been so vivid, so real. She could almost feel his big hands stroking her with shocking intimacy, hear his whispered endearments, smell his musky scent as he labored over her, pleasuring her until she exploded in a place that had no name. The same place that now throbbed with a dull rawness.

  Her eyes flashed open. Face hot, she lifted the covers and peaked beneath. Pale flesh—her flesh—greeted her. The night before was no dream.

  Dear Lord, what have I done?

  She had not merely allowed Anthony to make love to her but had brazenly invited him to do so. The circumstances leading to that momentous decision—their argument at Vauxhall, the confrontation with Ambrose, Jack’s absence—trickled through her mind. As she grew accustomed to the idea, she discovered that she wasn’t really sorry she’d lain with him. In fact, she was prepared to do so again.

  And now it seemed he was gone.

  Loneliness stabbed at her. She sat up and smoothed her palm over the imprint where he had lain. The mattress was cold. He must have left in the middle of the night.

  She picked up the pillow that had briefly been his and buried her face in it, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of musky male. She shut her eyes, the better to recall every detail, every nuance—the sandpapery roughness of his jaw against her cheek, the minty aroma of his shaving soap, the solid hardness of his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, and the reassuring pressure of his palm cradling the small of her back.

  If she had any doubts about how deep her feelings ran, the bleak depression engulfing her dispelled them. She loved Anthony. She loved him with her full heart. That realization should have been cause for rejoicing but her beloved was bound to another. She would, she must, leave London as soon as they liberated Robert.

  Robert. Last night, absorbed in the wonder of making love with Anthony, she’d all but forgotten about the brother she’d pledged to save. She had forgotten about him, for several hours. And she’d already wasted the morning in feeling sorry for herself. Shame washed over her. She was facing a life without Anthony, but Robert might not have any life at all if she didn’t bestir herself.

  A sharp rap on the front door sent her bolting out of bed, searching for her wrapper. Despite her resolution, her heart raced. It must be Anthony returned. Who else would call this early? Hoping to reach him before Jack awoke, she ran barefoot down the stairs. She unbolted the door, and her welcoming smile died.

  “Good morn, missus.” The milkmaid lifted the ladle from one of the two pails dangling from the yoke she shouldered and dragged it through the froth. “I seen the empty jug by the door and thought ye might fancy some o’ this lovely fresh milk?”

  Chelsea nodded, afraid to answer lest her voice crack. Anthony had left in the middle of the night without a word or even a note. Doubtless there were any number of explanations for his abrupt departure, but only one kept lancing through her muddled mind—he didn’t want her after all.

  The milkmaid cast a skeptical glance at the stoneware vessel. Gnats swarmed the spout. “Shall I pour it into this’n or…?”

  Chelsea barely noticed the insects. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  The woman shrugged. “Suit yerself.” She eyed the jug. “That’ll be sixpence for full or thruppence for ’alf-full?”

  He doesn’t want me. I should be relieved. No, I am relieved.

  Anthony’s decision would save them—her—the pain of a protracted farewell. In a few days he would be out of her life. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

  The milkmaid tapped an impatient foot. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but I’ve me rounds to make. D’ye want that jug filled or not?”

  With her future left hanging, full or half-full suddenly seemed too weighty a decision. “Whatever you think best,” Chelsea murmured.

  “Then full ’tis.” The woman held out her palm and cleared her throat.

  Thoughts tangled, it took Chelsea a moment to interpret the gesture. “Pray wait a moment, and I’ll fetch my purse.”

  She walked into the parlor, found her purse, and returned with the money, her movements as heavy and mechanical as a sleepwalker’s.

  The milkmaid dropped the coins into her apron pocket. “Oh, dearie me, I nearly forgot. A gentleman bade me give ye this.”

  The crinkle of paper cut through Chelsea’s lethargy. A message from Anthony, it must be! She knew no one else in London.

  Impatience surged, and she nearly snatched the crisp square from the woman’s outstretched hand. Then she saw the ebony border, and her heart sank.

  Dear God, no.

  The note slipped through her fingers and fluttered to the floorboards. Everywhere she felt numb, frozen, except for her heart, which pounded wildly.

  The tradeswoman bent and picked it up. “Black-edging,” she said, shaking her mob-capped head. She handed the paper back to Chelsea. “I hope it ain’t a close relation?”

  Throat tight, Chelsea slipped the letter into her pocket. “My brother.”

  Solemn faced, the woman ladled milk through a funnel into the mouth of the jug with brisk efficiency. “I’ve lost two brothers o’ me own to the typhus. ’Tis terrible ’ard loosin’ a brother.”

  “Yes, it is.” Chelsea’s frozen brain began to thaw. “You said a gentleman bade you deliver it?”

  The milkmaid removed the funnel from the jug, replaced the lid, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Aye, ’andsome he were and so polite. Quite the gentleman.” She sighed, coarse features softening. “Well, good day to ye.”

  Chelsea nodded. Handsome and polite. Quite the gentleman.

  She closed the door. Leaving the milk inside the hallway, she carried the note into the parlor and over to the window where an eastern exposure provided sufficient sunlight for reading. Hands shaking, she broke the wax seal and unfolded the foolscap. The penmanship and cloying cologne were the same as before and undoubtedly the kidnapper’s.

  My Dearest Love:

  How could you deceive me so? Last night you allowed that vile rake to despoil what I would have deified. For that I must, I will, punish you, my inconstant darling. I shall expect you at the Rutting Bull within the hour. Yes, I am that eager to begin your reformation, my fallen angel. Use the tradesmen’s entrance, which will be unlocked, and come alone. If Montrose follows, Robert dies, as will your fine lover.

  Your fine lover. These past weeks, she’d clung to the notion that the kidnapper was a stranger. How could she have been so blind, so unequivocally stupid? Only one man loved—and hated—her so absolutely.

  Squire Dumfreys.

  Why even the paper reeked of his cologne. That same cloying scent had clung to the original ransom note and to her clothing the day he’d assaulted her.

  Painful as it was, she forced her thoughts back to that frightful day. Dumfreys hadn’t seemed surprised to see her, nor taken aback by the money she’d requested. When she’d asked for the five hundred pounds, how quickly he’d concluded it must be for Robert. And then, of course, he’d tried to rape her. Determined to put the ugly memory behind her, she’d blinded herself to its connection to the kidnapping.

  Like a jealous lover, he’d stalked her ever since, biding his time, watching her as he might be doing even now.

  Chills skittered her spine. She stared out the window, scanning the awakening street. A housewife stood on her stoop, waving to her departing husband. An old man loaded produce into the back of a
wagon. Two little girls played hopscotch while a spaniel dog looked on. A squat matron headed toward Shepherd’s Market, a wicker basket over her arm. All commonplace sights, but Chelsea wasn’t comforted. Somewhere, anywhere, he might be lurking, watching her even now.

  The scenery spun. Chelsea turned away from the window, resisting the urge to snap the shutters closed.

  I am the ransom.

  Had Anthony suspected as much weeks before when he’d insisted she move into his house? At the time she’d thought he was only out to seduce her; a part of her had agreed for the pure pleasure of thwarting him. But he hadn’t tried to seduce her at all, only to protect her.

  Now it was up to her to protect him. If he followed her to the tavern, she had no doubt that Dumfreys would kill him. And, if she told him her intention—to take Robert’s place as hostage—he would never let her back out the door. No, she would have to do this alone.

  Heart pounding, she raced up the stairs, grateful that her bare feet were nearly soundless. Jack might be deaf as a doornail, but he had an uncanny knack for hearing what she didn’t want him to. And, for his own good, he mustn’t follow her either.

  She quickly donned her men’s attire and came back downstairs, Jack’s pistol tucked inside her coat pocket. Praying for the courage to fire it, she tiptoed through the house. Inside the kitchen, she peered around the pantry corner to Jack’s cot. It was empty. Odd that he’d risen so early when he must have been out half the night. But there was no telling when he might return. She snatched a sugar cone from the pantry shelf and hurried out the back door. Mist brushed her face as she crossed the small yard and let herself out the gate.

  The horse Jack had let from the lending stable was in the mews across the alley. She entered the carriage house. Autumn poked her head over the stall and whinnied.

  “Good morning to you too.” Chelsea stepped back to avoid being cleaned and turned the horse’s head away. “This probably constitutes spoiling but you’ll earn it before this day is over.” She took the sugar from her pocket and offered it. A second later, the stable was filled with the sound of chomping.

  The treat devoured, Chelsea wiped her wet palm on her trouser leg and headed into the tack room. She’d left the door to the carriage house open and enough light filtered inside for her to find the necessary gear. She returned and settled the blanket, then the saddle, across the mare’s swayed back.

  “Robert’s been kidnapped.” Speaking her thoughts aloud, she bent to tighten the cinch beneath the beast’s belly. “I can’t ask Anthony or Jack for help, so it’s up to us to save him. Understand?”

  Autumn snorted as if indignant on Chelsea’s behalf. Ears pointed forward, she pawed the straw.

  “I thought you’d see it my way.” Chelsea tugged on the noseband, drawing the horse’s head down. “A kiss for luck.”

  Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to the white star between the wide-set eyes. Then she stepped onto the mounting block and climbed up.

  How precious and precarious life seemed as they cantered through the city streets, a brisk breeze stinging Chelsea’s cheeks and teasing her hair loose from its braid. Scenes from her one-and-twenty years played before her mind’s eye. So many times it was Anthony who took the lead—wrestling her to the ground after she robbed him, pouring her wine and spilling his soul, loving her with such exquisite gentleness that the memory melted her insides. She had known him less than a month and yet he dominated her thoughts, even now when she was about to throw herself on the mercy of a lust-crazed lunatic.

  It was as though her life had begun the moment they met. The previous night, she’d felt her soul merge with his even as their bodies merged into one. She smiled. At once humbling and exalting, this experience of losing herself in another, in Anthony, was one she’d never forget. She had only one regret.

  She’d never told him she loved him.

  Mr. Bellamy—Robert—was sleeping like the dead. That is, if the dead could snore. No matter where Phoebe moved—and she’d visited all four corners of the tiny chamber by now—the sonorous booms followed. Finally she gave up and claimed a corner of the straw pallet at his head. Stifling the wicked urge to pinch his nostrils—a sure cure for male snoring, according to her mother—she lifted the guttering candle. The dying light pooled over his profile, and she found herself wondering what he looked like beneath the beard. Handsome, she decided, her gaze settling on his mouth. Earlier, when he’d dared to flash that impudent grin at her, she’d noticed that his teeth were white and even. Now she saw that he had beautiful lips as well and, she suspected, a strong, square jaw.

  Thrashing, he muttered something unintelligible and threw off his red military coat. Badly rumpled, it had been pressed into service as a blanket. Picking it up, she settled it back over him. She sighed. He wasn’t a tall man, but she suspected he looked splendid in uniform.

  Even so, if he snored like this every night, she pitied his future wife.

  Really, Phoebe Elizabeth, Mr. Bellamy’s nocturnal habits are none of your affair.

  Her mother’s voice, strident with disapproval, sent her edging away from him. At any rate, it was likely exhaustion that made him sound off so. Their confrontation had sapped what little strength he still possessed, for afterward she’d had to help him to the pallet. She giggled. What a fit Mama would have if she’d seen me with my arm around his waist, leading him back to bed, no less! Her mirth faded when she recalled the sharpness of his protruding ribs and the way his trousers hung from his shrunken shanks.

  The prospect of deteriorating to a similar state chilled her. Young as they both were—he’d admitted to being not yet twenty—they might be in their graves ere long. Youth was no protection against starvation—or murder.

  A key jiggled in the lock on the other side of the door. She thought of how the scar-faced man had leered at her and how fierce the big oaf had looked when she’d screamed, and her courage curdled.

  The door handle turned, and she huddled closer to her fellow captive. A moment later the scar-faced man lurched inside, bringing with him a supper tray and the stench of stale spirits.

  “My, ain’t this cozy. Settled right in, I see.”

  Phoebe followed his gaze to her fellow inmate’s sprawled form, and heat rushed her cheeks. She jumped up, spattering candle wax on her arm.

  “He’s been asleep the whole time,” she whispered as though explaining herself to one of the dowager patrons of Almack’s.

  He cocked a black brow as though he didn’t believe her. “Oh, ’as ’e now?”

  He set the tray on the table and beckoned her forward. Phoebe put aside her misgivings and crept closer. She hadn’t eaten since nuncheon the day before and hunger gnawed at her.

  He dragged out the chair and held it for her. “Come ’ere and take a load off.”

  Knees shaking, she complied. Turning away from his insulting gaze, she surveyed the tray’s contents—two trenchers of gray pottage, a round loaf of brown bread, and two tankards of ale.

  Why, there isn’t enough here to keep one person alive, let alone two. “Is this all there is?”

  “Aye.” His lips slid back from his yellow teeth. Gold flashed. “Cheer up, ducks. If ’e sleeps through, ye can ’ave ’is share.”

  The villain! As if she’d stoop to stealing food, let alone this vile rubbish, from a starving man.

  He backed toward the door. “Will there be anything else, Miss High and Mighty?”

  Remembering her mother’s injunction to be firm with inferiors, she forced back her fear. “Indeed, we shall require several items, including a basin of warm water and a razor for Mr. Bellamy to shave.”

  “Warm water?”

  She nodded, searching for a spoon. “Another candle will be required as well.”

  There was no cutlery, so she tore off a slab of bread, dipped a corner in the broth, and nibbled. Ugh. Her stomach heaved. Not only was it stale but, she suspected, molded too.

  Choking it down, she pushed her plate aside and tu
rned her attention to the candle. The tallow had burned to a nub and the dangling wick, in need of trimming, dribbled wax everywhere.

  Looking up, she added, “On second thought, to save time you might bring two candles and a trimmer.”

  “Might I now?” He came forward and leaned over her, a hand resting on either chair arm.

  “I might be able to arrange that…if ye was nice to me, that is.”

  Accustomed to order rather than ask, she gritted her back teeth. “I’d like two more candles…please.”

  Bending low, his foul breath brushed her nape. “Mr. Stenton.”

  Squeamish as she was, she’d savor the sight of him swinging from the gibbet. “Please…Mr. Stenton.”

  He fingered a loose curl that brushed her shoulder, his long nails scraping her skin. “Oh, I’ll wager ye can do even better than that.”

  Panic paralyzed her. The only part of her anatomy she seemed capable of moving was her mouth.

  “If you hurt me, my papa will see that you hang.”

  He pulled the chair out from under her. It crashed to the floor. Instead of landing with it, she was bent face-first over the table, her gown and petticoats riding above her waist.

  “Always ’ad a mind to see what kind o’ drawers the Fancy wears,” he cackled. “Silky,” he rasped, palming her buttocks.

  “Stop it!” she cried, tears stinging her eyes.

  He forced a bony leg between her thighs. She tried to close them, to rise, but the hot muzziness was upon her, and her screams muted to whimpers.

  Suddenly her tormentor’s groping hands fell away. Limp with relief, she lifted herself and tugged her gown back down.

  “How dare you lay hands on a lady.”

  She turned to find Mr. Bellamy standing behind Stenton, his chains wrapped about their jailer’s scrawny neck.

  Stenton was surely gasping his last when a large shadow fell from the doorway. The second man, the one with a pugilist’s stocky strength, bounded inside. This time Phoebe had no difficulty screaming.