With that she swanned away—to the stairs so that when Loretta came up with Esme’s shawl in her hands, she could deliver it while keeping her distance from him.
Rafe sipped his brandy as he digested what he’d heard, what he’d learned, then considered what it meant.
He was starting to figure it out. He’d correctly identified Esme’s intention from the first; all she’d done and said since had only confirmed it.
Loretta, however, he’d only just started to see clearly.
He fully intended to see a lot more.
Fully intended to uncover her secrets.
Even without Esme’s calculated prod he didn’t think he could resist.
Esme had engineered the situation; regardless of her manner of showing it, he was certain she’d be thrilled when he picked up the gauntlet her dear Loretta, however unintentionally, had just flung at his feet.
Hours later, hip propped against the starboard rail just forward of the bridge, Rafe stood on the observation deck idly scanning the river sliding slowly past. Along this stretch, forests of fir reached down to the banks, dark sentries lining the gently rippling stretch of moon-silvered blackness.
He stared, but didn’t really see. In the silence, he could hear every little sound—an owl hooting in the forest, the creak of a rope from the stern; he would hear if any cultist tried to swim up and climb on board.
It was just after midnight. Hassan wouldn’t relieve him for several hours yet. Time enough to decide his tack with respect to one Loretta Michelmarsh.
The passionate female who hid behind a façade of demureness for no reason that he, or apparently even her great-aunt, could discern.
He’d suspected the existence of that façade before today, but this afternoon he’d seen the passion. Not completely unleashed and in full flight, but during the contest she’d been unrestrained, direct, fearless, and bold.
She’d been herself—and he’d been ensorcelled, enthralled.
He had to learn more, but how? Especially now she knew he knew, and was determined to deny it.
How did one get a woman to be herself when she didn’t want to be?
He was still wrestling with that when he heard the squeak as the swing doors on the stairs opened, followed by thesound of footsteps climbing the treads. He held still in the shadows, waiting, watching.
A dark head emerged, followed by a graceful, willowy figure, clad once more in her pelisse with a shawl slung about her shoulders.
She halted at the top of the stairs and looked around. Then she spotted him and strode swiftly and purposefully across the deck.
He straightened as she neared. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No.” She halted before him. Stared up into his face. “And it’s all your fault. I’ll sleep like a baby once I’ve got this … you"—wildly she waved one hand—"sorted out.”
He suppressed a grin. “How do you plan to do that?” She’d worked herself into a state.
“By making it very clear that I will not play your games, that contrary to what Esme may have led you to believe, I have no interest in … in … in exploring anything—not anything involving me.” Loretta let her temper color her eyes, but in the poor light he probably couldn’t see.
Folding her arms, she glared at him. She had to put an end to this before it truly began. Before it could go any further, and undermine her carefully constructed life. “I realize I might appear in some respects to be a challenge, especially because I have no interest in gentlemen. But as that is the case, and I assure you it is, then I’m sure you’re too much the gentleman to keep pursuing me, Esme’s encouragement or not.”
There! Let him argue that.
She waited—waited for him to incline his head and agree to stop teasing her.
After a long moment of studying her face, his face in unhelpful shadow, he reached out and ran the back of one finger down her cheek.
Her nerves literally leapt. So did she. “Stop that!”
“Why?”
“I just told you why!”“No. You told me that you had no interest in gentlemen—which group I take it is supposed to include me.” His shadowed gaze held hers. “That"—he pointed to her cheek—"or more specifically your reaction, says otherwise.”
“It does not!” She felt her cheeks heat, and was suddenly grateful for the weak light.
He tilted his head. “So you’re not attracted to me?”
She lifted her chin. “No.”
He pushed away from the rail and swung around her; instinctively she pivoted to keep facing him—facing the danger—then he stepped forward and she backed against the rail.
Locking a hand about the rail on either side of her, caging her, he lowered his head and looked into her eyes. “Prove it.”
She blinked. Her eyes were as wide as they could get. “What?” The word came out perilously close to a squeak.
“Prove it.” His tone didn’t grow any less uncompromising with the repetition.
Her mouth felt dry. Her heart thudded. But … “How?” Perhaps if she could….
“Kiss me.”
“No!” She wanted to push him away, but didn’t dare touch him. Didn’t dare risk any further damning reactions.
He sighed as if she were a difficult child. “If you’re truly not attracted to me, then if you kiss me, and I kiss you in return, nothing will happen. Definitely not for you, and certainly not for me. I’m not in the habit of kissing ladies who aren’t attracted to me—I imagine the experience will be quite off-putting.”
“Off-putting?”
“Indubitably. So if you want to put an end to all speculation over what might or might not come to be between us, then kissing me should spell an end to any suggestion of a mutual attraction.”
She held his gaze, then glanced at his face, briefly studied his expression. He was serious. Serious about calling herbluff. The thing was … it wasn’t exactly a bluff. More like a calculated decision.
What would happen if she kissed him? Was her will strong enough to keep her senses in line—for the space of just one kiss?
Looking at things another way, could she get out of this trap she’d backed herself into without kissing him?
Staring into his eyes, sensing the implacability in him—in the battle-hardened commander he actually was—she inwardly cursed. She had, she suspected, just thrown down a gauntlet she hadn’t meant to toss.
Clearly she was going to have to learn the rules of this game sometime—and that time appeared to be now.
She tipped up her chin, narrowed her eyes on his. “So if I kiss you and feel nothing, you’ll agree to treat me as you would a younger Esme?”
“If I kiss you and you feel nothing, I’ll agree to whatever you want.”
That sounded fair. “In that case—”
In a rush, she raised her hands, framed his face, and pressed her lips to his. She didn’t give him a chance to kiss her. She wasn’t going to let him overwhelm her; she intended to remain in control….
Firm, resilient, mobile. His lips moved under hers, and captured her awareness.
Her world stopped. Her senses focused, fixated.
She pressed her lips against his, wanting to see …
And he did it again. Shifted his lips beneath hers again, more this time, and she had to follow.
Had to see where the path led—had to know …
Then he was kissing her and she was kissing him, and the exchange seemed to have no beginning and no end. It drew her in, effortlessly held her senses, then he parted her lips, and her senses spun.
Whirled as his tongue slipped between her lips and stroked, touched, caressed.
Waltzed as he found her tongue and tempted, and she returned the pleasure, followed, and tasted him as he tasted her.
Never had Rafe walked an edge so fine, so fraught with the danger of taking too much, moving too fast, and sending her running.
By sheer force of will he kept his hands locked on the rail, denying the almost overpowering urge t
o seize her instead, to wrap his arms around her and lock her against him, her soft feminine warmth to his much harder heat.
Not yet.
But soon.
That much was now written in stone.
Even with only her hands on his cheeks and their lips and tongues touching, he could sense her curiosity welling, flaring out of control. Could taste it like honeyed wine on the slicked surface of her luscious lips. Could sense it grow to a steady flame as he pressed further, deeper, slowly but subtly claiming her mouth …
She pulled back on a gasp, eyes wide. She stared at him for an instant, and he couldn’t read her thoughts.
“Good God!” She breathed the words more than said them.
For an instant her hands remained cradling his cheeks, then they dropped to his shoulders, she pushed and he stepped back.
Still she stared, then she abruptly shook her head, looked away. “No.”
Without another glance or utterance of any sort, she stepped around him, walked to the stairs and quickly went down.
Rafe stood where he was and watched her. Only after she’d disappeared did he let his lips curve.
Her “Good God!” hadn’t been uttered with heat, with horror, not even with shock. Her fascination, her enthrallment, had rung clearly.
Discovery. Revelation.
Unbounded interest.
All had resonated in her stunned voice.
As for her “no” …
Smile deepening, he turned to lean on the rail and look out at the night.
Her “no” hadn’t been directed at him, but at herself.
Four
November 29, 1822
The Uray Princep on the Danube
The following morning, Rafe joined Esme and Loretta at the breakfast table in the dining salon. Esme greeted him warmly. Loretta barely glanced his way.
Although he tried to catch her eye, she refused to meet his. The predictable exchanges between him and Esme about the weather—chilly—and the scenery—increasingly dominated by dark forests—failed to elicit any response from Loretta.
After that kiss that, contrary to her intention, had demonstrated conclusively that there was indeed a powerful attraction between them—an attraction he was determined to pursue—she appeared to have grown even more repressive, not less.
Eventually, driven to prod, he asked, “I do hope your walk on the deck last night didn’t leave you with an unexpected chill.”
Brows rising, Esme glanced at Loretta.
Meeting Esme’s gaze, Loretta stated, “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a quick turn about the deck.” Without looking at him, she continued, “It was quite mild. The outing didn’t affect me in the least.”
Too irritated to gawp, he narrowed his eyes at her—at herprofile, since she still refused to look his way. “I had thought the change in temperature during the time you spent on deck would have registered—indeed, would have made some impression.”
She cast him a sharp glance. “Clearly it did not.”
He trapped her gaze. “You seemed very aware of the change when you left the deck so precipitously.”
“I can’t recall anything noteworthy.”
“You can’t be that forgetful.” He arched a brow. “Or is it intentionally forgetful?”
Her eyes had narrowed to bright blue slits. Setting down her teacup, she pushed back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m sure there’s something else I should be doing.” She rose; annoyed, he got to his feet, too. To Esme, she said, “I’ll be in the stateroom if you need me.”
With that, she turned and marched away, around to the stairs; he heard her slippers pattering as she went down to the cabins.
Irritated and not above showing it, he frowned and resumed his seat. Glancing across the table, he took in the smile wreathing Esme’s face. She was utterly delighted.
“What game are you playing?” His growled question only made her smile more brightly.
“I’m not playing at all, dear boy. In this, I’m merely an observer.”
He humphed. “You could at least help.”
“You know, I don’t think I can. This is one of those challenges one has to manage without assistance. I did tell you it wouldn’t be easy.”
His response was a distinctly unencouraging look.
She grinned, laid down her napkin, and rose. “Admit it, if it were easy, there would be no thrill in the chase—you’d grow bored.”
Rising again, he just grunted.
She was right, on all counts. But he didn’t have to like it.
It was afternoon, and the boat was slowing to come alongside the docks in Pressburg; Rafe was on his way up fromthe cabins to join the rest of the passengers on the observation deck when the captain hailed him.
“We have cargo to put ashore here, and some to take on. It is likely we will remain at dock for the next twenty-four hours.”
Rafe inclined his head. “Thank you for the warning.”
The captain wryly smiled. “It is not only that we will be tied up, you understand, but that the ladies will wish to go sightseeing.” He tipped his head toward the observation deck. “I have heard them talking.”
Rafe inwardly groaned. “Again, thank you for the warning.”
With a salute the captain went on his way. Rafe paused, marshaling the arguments most likely to succeed in keeping Esme and her great-niece safely on board, then continued up the stairs.
Emerging onto the observation deck, he located Esme and Loretta, their maids behind them, standing with all the other passengers at the starboard rail, all pointing and exclaiming at the sights as the boat angled to come alongside the wharf.
He hadn’t spoken to Loretta since she’d left him at the breakfast table. He was fairly sure she was avoiding him. Given how he felt over her attempt to dismiss the kiss they’d shared the previous night, that wasn’t perhaps surprising. He felt like glowering at her; in response, she seemed determined to keep her nose in the air whenever their paths crossed.
They were doomed to cross now. Steeling himself for the anticipated battle, he walked over to join her and Esme.
“I can’t believe it’s in such a sad state.” Loretta stared at the ruins of the castle that, according to the guidebooks, stood proud and tall on a plateau above the river, dominating the town at the plateau’s base. “There’s nothing but rubble left.”
“It used to be magnificent.” Frau Gruber, wrapped in shawls, nodded at the ruins. “Queen Maria Theresa used to hold court there. When I was a girl, I was lucky enough tosee inside. So much gilt and enamel, and wonderful carving! It was a beautiful palace.”
“What happened to it?” Esme asked. “Napoleon?”
“No. It was a fire. An accident, I heard.” Frau Gruber shrugged. “These things happen.”
Loretta stared at all that was left of such magnificence; she felt so deflated it was difficult not to sag. “I was so looking forward to seeing it.”
“Never mind.” Esme patted her arm. “There’s still a great deal to see here. The town has a wonderfully rich history.”
“I suppose there’s still the Grassalkovich Palace, and the Archiepiscopal Palace as well as the cathedral.” Loretta continued to stare at the ruins above the town. “But I was so set on seeing a castle of such longevity, one that still functioned.”
She’d hoped to use it as the centerpiece for a vignette. She’d managed to send three installments off to her agent from Buda, but her editor wanted more; she would need to send at least two more from Vienna, their next stop.
Re-sorting the various topics that had occurred to her, looking for another that might resonate with what remained in Pressburg, she was nevertheless aware of their courierguide hovering behind her and Esme.
She was doing her best not to think of him by name in the hope that stressing his position would help her remember to keep him at arm’s length, more particularly to keep herself at arm’s length from him. Yet even though she kept her gaze fixed on the town, she was awar
e of him studying her, then looking at Esme, then back at her.
Esme, too, was pretending not to have noticed him, although Loretta was quite sure she had. “I know it’s a great disappointment that the castle is in ruins, dear, but I suspect the Primate’s Palace will be even more richly decorated. As I recall, Napoleon and King Francis signed the Peace of Pressburg there. As the Corsican upstart was ever one to insist on the highest degree of pomp and circumstance, that suggests that the Primate’s Palace was, at least at that time, the most significant palace in the town.”
As if just noticing Rafe, Esme turned. “Ah—there you are, dear boy. I was about to suggest that we visit the Primate’s Palace this afternoon. There’s plenty of other sights worthy of our attention, but we can leave them for tomorrow when we will have the whole day, yet poor Loretta here is so cast down with discovering the castle has been reduced to blackened rubble that we really should do something to distract her.”
If Loretta had been one of his sisters, Rafe would have scoffed, but she truly was, as Esme said, cast down, her expression lacking the animated eagerness he was accustomed to seeing; the spark of intelligent enthusiasm usually lighting her eyes was doused, absent.
Even as, inwardly frowning, he studied her, Hassan came up from the stern. When Rafe looked at him, he murmured, “No sign of cultists anywhere.”
“There—see?” Esme smiled at Rafe. “No reason whatever we shouldn’t indulge in an afternoon’s excursion.”
Eagerness lit her gray eyes, but Rafe couldn’t tell which she was most set on seeing—the architectural sights, or the sight of her great-niece tormenting him.
“I suppose you’re right.” Loretta turned to join the discussion, animation reinfusing her features to a small degree. “The Primate’s Palace is sure to be interesting.” She’d spoken to Esme, but then looked at Rafe. “And a short excursion off this boat will do us all good.”
He met her eyes, was peripherally aware of the others—Gibson, Rose, and Hassan, as well as Esme—waiting on his decision.
At least she was acknowledging his existence again.
The Reckless Bride Page 8