“We’re not safe anywhere anymore.”
“I always take outriders with me now.”
“Where’s that dratted servant? I ordered tea simply hours ago. Does she expect me to sail to India and pick it for her?”
Nick stilled on the staircase of the inn as the chirping babble of female voices assaulted his ears. He’d awoken at dusk, freshened himself as best he could and decided to check out the lay of the land, uncertain of what road to take next. He had to “settle” with the Mistress of the house for his room anyway.
But he’d not anticipated this chatter of voices, this very feminine chatter of voices. It was quite a shock to hear such a din in an out-of-the-way location buried deep in the countryside.
A harassed-looking lad emerged from the small parlor where the women were loudly discussing their irritations. He grimaced at Nick. “I wouldn’t go near there if’n I was you, sir.”
Nick grinned. “Sounds like about a hundred ladies.”
“Only three and a helper lady or summat.” He shuddered. “That’s more’n enough fer me.”
“I will consider myself warned.” Nick nodded at the lad and quietly moved down the stairs, hoping to avoid that room and the feminine threat it contained.
His luck, as he had come to expect, was nonexistent.
“Oh—pardon me, sir…” Soft tones sounded from the open doorway.
Caught squarely in the small passageway, Nick had no other options but to turn around. “Ma’am?”
There was a brief silence as Nick looked at the woman in the doorway. Slim and delicate, her blonde hair curled softly around a face that would have enchanted a Renaissance painter. Full lips had parted as he’d turned and limpid blue eyes were widening as her gaze traveled his length. “My God. Nicky?”
Oh fuck. Nick recognized her immediately. Isolde Haverford. The most licentious woman in the tightly constrained world of the Ton and one he’d bedded enthusiastically a long time ago. As the man he’d once been.
His first thought was that she’d not aged in the least. His second was an unspeakable oath as the implications of her recognition sank in. She knew who he was. And he’d been so assiduous in trying to erase all traces of his existence from his former life.
To the world he’d known, he was apparently deceased. Sir Nicholas Blaine was rumored to have met his demise in Europe, thus ending the direct Blaine line and sending the estate to a distant branch of the family.
And yet here he was, in front of Isolde, clearly—to her eyes anyway—alive. What a fucking mess.
Isolde’s lips curved into that welcoming smile he remembered well. “Nicky darling—you’re alive! I’m just overwhelmed…and meeting you here of all places…” She advanced purposefully on him leaving him no option but to stand and await her pleasure. “This is truly a delight and makes this hideously awful journey worthwhile.”
Nick bowed politely over the hand she’d extended. “Isolde. It’s good to see you again after so long. You look well.”
Her laughter chimed around his ears. “So formal, darling.” She leaned close, keeping her hand clasped in his. “I still remember how marvelous we were together. You made me come—what—three times? Or was it four?” Her eyes turned hungry. “You knew how to touch me, Nicky. Nobody else has ever managed to do it quite that way.”
“I—er—” Nick dipped his head to conceal his gaze. “You are too kind.” What else did one say to such an outrageous comment? He did not want Isolde recalling that when they bedded with such enthusiasm, his eyes had been blue.
She laughed again. “But what on earth are you doing in this godforsaken place? And where have you been all these years? Oh Nicky—there’s so much we have to talk about…”
She drew him toward the parlor, an inexorable force tugging his arm. “I want you to meet my mama-in-law. Oh, that’s right—you wouldn’t have known I’m married, would you?”
He shook his head.
“I married dear Gawain two years ago now. Did you know him? Gawain FitzAdams?” She raised an eyebrow in query, but didn’t allow him the chance to respond. “He swept me off my feet…and here’s his dear mama. Do let me introduce you.”
Nick found himself dragged across a small and dingy parlor to a chair next to the fire. An elderly woman was frowning at him, “Who’s this?” Her mouth snapped out the words.
“An old friend, Bellemère. A very old friend…Sir Nicholas Blaine. Nick, this is the Dowager Countess FitzAdams, my husband’s dear mother. We all thought Nick dead, he’s been gone so long.” Isolde turned to Nick and smiled seductively. “Too long, I believe. He’s been missed.”
The message was unmistakable and brought a snort to the older woman’s throat. “Looks like.” She tapped her cane on the stone floor next to her chair, ignoring Nick’s attempt at a polite bow. “Chandler.” She squinted around. “Chandler, damn you. Come here.”
A figure moved in the shadows behind the Dowager. Tall and slender, a woman appeared, gowned in sober grey from head to foot. Her eyes remained lowered respectfully. “I’m here, your Grace.”
“About time. Go and find out what happened to my tea, gel. Make yourself useful.” The old lady snarled out the command. “And while you’re at it, fetch me a drop of brandy. These old bones could use more warmth than this atrocious fire is putting out. And make it a good vintage, damn you.”
Since whatever heat there was radiated directly onto the Dowager, Nick realized that the old woman was used to having her every whim obeyed instantly. And probably by that poor companion of hers.
Dropping a quick but elegant curtsey, the companion headed for the door, passing Nick as she did so. For one instant, warm brown eyes met black eyes…a casual brush of glances. For Nick the result was anything but casual.
If church bells had rung in his ears he couldn’t have been more surprised. Only years of hiding his emotions permitted him to remain still as shudders of sensual awareness poured down his spine like the icy waters of a river in flood.
His cock stirred hungrily, his fangs ached within his gums and he blinked, unable to comprehend for a second or two what had happened.
Chandler’s face had paled as they exchanged looks, but now it flushed with a delicate bloom as she wrenched her gaze from his and hurried away. Nick could not have described her well at all, but the memory of those eyes burned inside his brain in the most peculiar way.
With difficulty, he turned to Isolde, feigning an air of disinterest he was far from feeling. “Chandler? I don’t recognize the name?”
“Bellemère’s companion. A distant relative, I believe. Nobody of importance. Although she is quite…helpful…to Gawain and myself.” An odd expression crossed Isolde’s face. “And Bellemère, of course. We’re quite lucky to have her, I suppose. Not that she could hope for a better position.”
Isolde shrugged. “But enough about her. Tell me of your adventures, dear Nicky.” She seated herself on a small settle and gestured to the cushion beside her. “And what you’re doing in this awful place…”
Ignoring the subtle hint, Nick strolled to the mantel and leaned against the brickwork. “‘Tis a question I find trembling on my own lips. How could such elegance and beauty could be found lurking amidst such humble surroundings?”
It was outright evasion, but Nick knew women. Give them an opening to talk about themselves and they would take it gleefully. Isolde’s answer confirmed his theory once again.
“Oh darling, it was too awful. Our wheel came off—right off—on our way to FitzAdams Towers. We could have been killed. We’d only been away for a few hours. Visits, you know. This was the nearest inn with a blacksmith that could repair it. We’re supposed to be home by now. ‘Tis only a matter of a couple of miles further too. Just the worst cursed luck.”
“Dratted roads.” The Dowager mumbled something. “I suppose Hetty’s asleep?”
Nick looked at the third lady in the room, draped in a blanket and snoring soundly on another chair. “If that’s Hetty over the
re, then yes. She seems to be resting comfortably.”
“Good.” The Dowager nodded. “She’s not a young gel anymore. Accidents will happen but they rattle her brain too much these days.”
Isolde glanced surreptitiously at Nick. “A bosom bow of the Dowager.” She whispered the words sotto voce. He acknowledged the information with a slight lowering of his head and a quick smile.
“Should’ve had outriders too.” The Dowager continued her soliloquy. “Dangerous parts around here these days.”
Nick watched the old woman. “You surprise me, ma’am. Dangers? In our very own countryside?”
She folded her lips together angrily and glared at him. “Are you mocking me, young man?”
“Not at all. I just find the notion of danger and these quiet villages difficult to reconcile.”
She snorted. “Well, just ask Hetty. Held up, she was. Robbed right in her own carriage. Bloody highwaymen.” The cane thwacked on the floor for emphasis. “They should all be strung up. Hung from the highest gallows and left there until the crows have picked their eyes out and eaten the flesh off their bones.”
A rattle from the doorway distracted Nick’s acute hearing and he watched as Chandler entered bearing a tray.
“Ah, good. You took your time, you ninny.”
Ignoring the insult, she made her way gracefully to the Dowager’s side. She also ignored Nick.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—that would get her to look at him once more, when Isolde interrupted. “Oh…oh…” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve had the most splendid notion.”
Nick felt his skin tingle a little with something that could have passed as apprehension in a mortal man. Isolde’s “splendid notions” usually involved her and somebody else, naked, in bed. He had long since passed the point where a romp with her would be attractive in any way.
He could see her clearly through eyes that had watched his own life span wither and die. Isolde was superficial, selfish, convinced that the only way to prove her femininity was to spread her legs and also convinced that life revolved around fucking. She had aged well and was still an attractively sensual woman, but the idea of bedding her left Nick cold.
He possessed a strong urge to mate, of course. Fucking gave him pleasure and release, especially when coupled with the act of feeding his thirst for blood. Thérèse had seen to that.
Nick clamped down on his errant thoughts and focused instead on Isolde’s excited face. “You shall accompany us, Nicky. Ride with us as we return home. Give us your protection for the rest of our journey and set dear Bellemère’s mind at rest. Then you can stay at FitzAdams Towers before continuing your journey instead of in this dingy place.” She blinked wide blue eyes at him. “Do say yes…oh please do say yes?”
Nick knew he had no choice. To refuse would be to occasion comment and questions he did not wish to answer. Yet to agree would be to reenter a world he’d purposely left a long time ago.
Then the Dowager’s companion moved slightly and once again he received a quick glance from a pair of large warm brown eyes.
He turned to Isolde. “How can I possibly say no?”
*~*~*~*
Verity Chandler knew her hands were shaking as she took the empty brandy glass from the Dowager’s grasp. Why this man should affect her so, she had no idea. He was dangerous—of that she had no doubt whatsoever.
There was an air of leashed power surrounding him like the faint glow of a distant star in the night sky. Something hard to see but definitely present.
Or perhaps she was just creating a mythical magic where there was none simply because he’d helped her the night before.
Of course, he didn’t know it. Would never know it, if she had her way. It would be unthinkable for him to discover that she was “Hermes”, the leader of a gang of highwaymen. Even more unthinkable would be the knowledge that a certain Verity Chandler had fallen head over teenage heels in love with Sir Nicholas Blaine long, long ago.
He didn’t know her, hadn’t recognized her or remembered her name. As she hastened to prepare the Dowager for the rest of their journey, Verity silently chuckled at her own stupidity.
It had been almost—no—more than twelve years since she’d seen him. He’d changed in that time and God knew she had as well. Besides, during most of his visit to Oakleigh he’d been sharing drinking adventures with her brother Clive, both of them at Cambridge, both living life to the fullest and enjoying all the vices available to their set…wine, women and probably song. Although Verity knew Clive couldn’t sing a note.
“Move, gel. Sometimes I think your head is stuck in the clouds. That’s what you get for being a Long Meg.” The Dowager snapped harshly at Verity and jerked her from her reminiscences.
Used to such treatment, Verity let it slide by simply lowering her head in submission. They were to re-enter the coach shortly, as soon as Sir Nicholas had collected his belongings and settled his account.
Verity spared a moment from her duties to wonder if he had sufficient funds. For some reason he looked…desperate. There was a sense of despair behind his dark gaze. Last night he’d come through with a solution that had relieved her and quite possibly saved a few lives. Even now, Cooper was in the small room he rented from Dame Wandle, lost and confused, trying to recall where he’d gone after the Michaelmas fair.
That had been over four weeks ago and shortly before he’d joined the Midnight Shadows. Truly, Nick had kept his word and uncannily erased Cooper’s more inflammatory memories.
The men would be relieved. She was quietly ecstatic. And now Nick himself was to travel with them to FitzAdams Towers at the behest of the lovely Isolde.
A cold curl of distaste unfolded within Verity’s breast as she helped her employer clamber into the carriage and tucked her securely beneath the blankets and furs. Isolde had more in mind than a charitable offer of hospitality, Verity would bet money on it. And there seemed something more between Isolde and Nick than just a mere acquaintance.
Could they have been lovers? It seemed possible. She was certainly beautiful enough and had a strongly whispered reputation for lasciviousness prior to her wedding. Even though marriage to the handsome Gawain had laid much of that to rest as far as the Ton was concerned, there were those who did not forget such things.
Verity settled herself in the very corner of the carriage, facing backward. She was used to the uncomfortable position—the customary lot of a companion. She had a room and food, both of which she’d been lacking when she’d arrived at FitzAdams Towers. She also had employment with the Dowager Countess FitzAdams.
And she had a secret. Beneath her lumpy feather mattress, in her tiny room under the eaves in the attic of the Towers, was a small bag. It was growing slowly heavier with each nocturnal journey Verity took under her alternate identity—that of Hermes.
She hid a smile from her fellow travelers. They were in no danger from highwaymen this night since the brave leader of the small band was actually sitting inside the carriage for once. There would be no masked men, no threats or weapons…no whip.
A little shiver of something unsettling rippled over Verity’s skin. She liked using the whip. Liked the sound it made, liked the smell of the leather—liked the feel of the instrument as it nestled into her grasp.
What scared her most was not the skill she’d developed with it over time…no, it was the delight she took from using it and the uncomfortable thought that just once she’d like to be on the receiving end of a couple of blows.
Her fantasies scared her with their intensity—their heated desires. So inappropriate for a woman of her station. So wrong…so…arousing…
She’d like to be gently and erotically whipped. She’d like to be naked at the time. And then she’d like to be thoroughly fucked.
And after the events of the last couple of nights, she now knew by whom. Her fantasy lover finally had a face. And a name.
Nick Blaine.
She suddenly realized something. Her
fantasy lover now had black eyes.
When she’d known him all those years ago, they’d been blue.
Chapter Four
Nick rode quietly next to the leader, letting the four carriage horses set the pace for them all. The darkness was no impediment to his vision, of course, but the rest of the party could not see so clearly and thus moved more slowly through the night.
He was very aware of the women in the carriage. The Dowager and her friend Hetty had been settled with much fuss, but Isolde had let her hand linger in his as she mounted the steps. “I’m so glad you agreed, Nick. ‘Twill be grand to spend an evening together.” Her fingers tightened on his. “With Gawain, of course.”
“Of course.” Nick encouraged her to mount the final step. “You are kind to extend such a gracious invitation.”
Fortunately the Dowager hurried Isolde’s progress and there was only Chandler left.
He was about to extend his hand to her when a servant called him to his horse and he was forced to leave the woman to her own devices. Which was not what he’d intended at all. There was something about her that gnawed at his brain and he wanted to find out what it was.
She occupied his thoughts as he let the jingling harness lull him into contemplation. Chandler. Chandler. The name was vaguely familiar, ringing a small bell somewhere in Nick’s head.
He cast his mind back through the years—something he’d not done for quite some time. Memories of his “mortal” past had troubled him, pained him and forced him to accept what he now was. It was a habit he’d given up once he’d learned that the life he recalled could never return.
Now, for the first time in ages, he deliberately opened that mental vault and peered backward in time to the life of Sir Nicholas Blaine. The human Sir Nicholas Blaine. Images of a young man in the prime of life flickered past Nick’s inner gaze, distant enough now that they might have belonged to another man’s past.
They seemed unreal—almost idyllic—and Nick wondered why he’d not appreciated the life he’d led while he was leading it.
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