Lizzie still could not believe this was happening. She could not believe Carson had abducted her from her home, forced her into this ludicrous and undoubtedly illegal handfasting ceremony, and then, in all the hubbub, remembered her childhood trick of climbing down from the turret.
Standing behind the broad-shouldered, tall man, Lizzie was struck by another disbelief—that Carson had bound her to the Earl of Lambourne.
Not that she had any idea who he was, really, but she rather supposed that in any event, an earl was quite a lofty title with whom to be handfasted. What madness had prompted him to agree to this? What debt did he owe Carson to warrant it?
When Lizzie had first seen him standing on the platform, she’d noticed that he hadn’t bothered to shed his greatcoat, which gave her the impression he’d been ambushed and dragged inside, just like her. But then he’d been so bloody cheerful and had smiled so charmingly that she couldn’t help but believe that he’d agreed to it.
Sir Charm continued to hold her arm as Carson and his enormous Highlander locked them in the room again. When she heard the bolt slide into the lock, Lizzie jerked her arm up, intending to break free of the earl’s tight grip, but he startled her by suddenly wheeling about. In one swift movement, he pushed her up against the bed. Lizzie was so startled that she lost her footing and slipped, landing on the bed.
Suddenly he was looming over her, forcing her onto her back and bracing himself with one knee and his hands. “If you do anything so foolish again, Lizzie Beal, I shall no’ hesitate to exact a proper punishment! I do no’ intend to hang!”
The ominous sounding proper punishment notwithstanding, Lizzie snapped, “You obviously deserve to hang, you scoundrel, or you’d no’ be here, aye?”
For some reason that made him smile roguishly, and honestly, he seemed almost an apparition with his handsome, chiseled face, his square chin, his black hair, and dove gray eyes. In fact, his smile was astonishingly captivating, and for a moment, one slender moment, Lizzie didn’t mind that he was holding her down on a bed.
“I’ll no’ deny that I’m a scoundrel…but I’ve done nothing to deserve the likes of you.” His eyes wandered from hers, drifting lazily down to her lips, to the skin of her bosom, which was, Lizzie realized with horror, revealed to him, as her shawl had slipped. “Although I will freely admit that I had imagined someone far less comely.”
“Let me up!” she cried, pushing against his chest.
Lambourne caught her hand and held it tightly against his breast. “Let us no’ be so hasty, lass. First, I will have your word that you’ll no’ try something as foolish as leaping from windows.”
“I’ll no’ promise anything!”
“Then prepare for your punishment.”
“All right, all right!” she cried.
“All right, all right what?”
She took a breath, chiding herself to think. “I promise,” she said testily as she slyly moved her free hand down her side, to her knee, where she gathered the fabric of her gown.
He cocked his head and frowned. “As easy as that?” he asked suspiciously. His gaze was drawn to her bosom again, making Lizzie feel hot beneath his perusal. “I pray you are true, for I need you to be easy now.”
Easy! Lizzie gasped and tried to shove him off her body, but Lambourne planted the hand he held high above her head and placed his other hand on her shoulder, holding her down. “Try to listen, will you, for there is more than one way to skin a cat,” he said, and Lizzie frantically gathered more of her gown until she could touch her bare knee. “It has been my experience that if one fights, the chains that bind will only tighten,” he said. “But if one is easy, the chains will slacken.”
“I will never be easy for you!” Lizzie cried as she raised her leg and touched the polished handle of the small dirk she’d managed to put in her stocking before Carson’s men could drag her away from her home. “I will die before I am easy for you!”
“Ach, now, a stubborn, willful lass is bound only for trouble,” he added, and without as much as a glance at her free hand, he caught her wrist and twisted her arm. Lizzie cried out and dropped the dirk.
The earl grabbed it off the bed and held it up between them. “This might have been handy to have when you demanded I undo the binding, aye?” he snapped angrily. “Why did you no’ tell me you had it? Because you intended to use it on me?” He hurled the dirk across the room.
“How dare—” Lizzie started, but he grabbed her arms and pulled her up at almost the same moment he twisted her about and tossed her facedown on the bed. Lizzie barely managed to get her hands beneath her before he crawled over her, his legs locking her in on either side, his body on hers.
He pressed close, his mouth next to her ear. He was heavy. Solid. “You sorely try my patience, lass,” he said gruffly. “Are you mad? Do you truly think you can harm me with that wee knife? You only vex me with it! Now listen to me! You are no’ the only one in this room who would be free of this bloody rotten predicament! If you will be easy and have a bit of patience, you and I might achieve our mutual goal, eh? Eventually, the scoundrel will free us, and when he does, we may free ourselves! But until that moment comes, you best learn to play a clever game to get what you want—no more throwing yourself out windows or pulling wee knives, aye?”
“Get off me,” she hissed.
“I will, and gladly. But allow me to offer a piece of advice, will you? A lady should never physically engage a man, for invariably, his thoughts will turn to another sort of tussle entirely.”
Lizzie cried out with alarm, but the earl had already lifted himself off of her. Stunned, she rolled onto her back. Lambourne was standing beside the bed, his hand outstretched in a silent offer to help her up. Lizzie ignored him and rose from the bed, her mind whirling as she methodically straightened out her rumpled skirts. When she glanced up, Lambourne’s gray eyes were shining with amusement…and interest.
Lord, but it was suddenly warm in this room. Heat swelled inside her, licking at her seams, looking for an escape. A little air might help things, and she glanced at the window.
“Donna even think it,” he warned her.
She frowned and carelessly tossed her shawl onto the bed.
“Whom do you mourn?” the earl asked, his gaze flicking the length of her gray gown.
“Why do they seek to hang you?” she retorted.
He lifted his gaze; one corner of his mouth curved up in a wry smile. “It is naugh’ but a rather unfortunate misunderstanding,” he said. “Now it is your turn—whom do you mourn?”
“My father,” she said, and slyly glanced toward the wall where he’d tossed her dirk.
He followed her gaze, then nonchalantly walked to where the dirk lay, picked it up, and held it out to her.
The gesture surprised her; she quickly snatched it from his palm, lest he think to take it back, and put her back to him. She bent over, gathered up her skirt, and slid the knife into her stocking again. When she turned round, he was smiling. He walked to the table and held up a decanter of wine. “Madam?”
Lizzie shook her head. He poured a glass for himself and took a healthy drink before settling into one of the chairs at the table. “There is mutton stew if you’re of a mind,” he said, gesturing to the dishes.
“I could no’ possibly eat,” she said, folding her arms implacably. She didn’t understand how he could remain so calm. He was more than calm—he was insouciant as he broke a chunk of bread from the fresh-baked loaf and ate it. He smiled.
Lizzie looked anywhere but at him. His gaze was too intimate somehow, and it had the very disturbing effect of muddling her thoughts. She had no patience for muddling—she was worried to death about her sister, Charlotte, and she couldn’t imagine how she and Lambourne might possibly pass this night in the same room without giving rise to all sorts of harmful speculation. What would her intended, Gavin Gordon, think when he heard the news she’d been handfasted of all things?
He’d probably already heard of
it, for that was precisely what Carson hoped to achieve—ruining her chances with Mr. Gordon.
“My grandmother believed that a frown would become permanent if one indulged in it too long,” Lambourne opined.
Lizzie glared at him. “I’ve quite a lot on my mind just now, aye? Really, milord, how can you be so…so jolly?”
“I am hardly jolly,” he said cavalierly, and propped his feet up on the empty chair. “But I see no point in fretting overmuch.”
With his bread and wine, he’d made himself quite at home, and it riled Lizzie. “Who are you, really, then? There is no hangman, is there? My uncle paid you to do this!”
He laughed. “I assure you, there is no’ enough money in all of Scotland to entice me to this,” he said, gesturing to the two of them.
“Then why would you agree to a handfasting?” she demanded. “You donna even know my name.”
“That is no’ true—your name is Elizabeth Drummond Beal, otherwise known as Lizzie,” he said with an incline of his head. “And I did no’ agree to a handfasting, I was coerced just as you were.”
Lizzie snorted. “Coerced is hardly an appropriate description.” Abducted, kidnapped, and dragged from her house while her horrified sister and servants looked on was more apt.
“What I can no’ understand,” he continued, “is why Beal would feel the need to handfast you to anyone. You’re a handsome woman, aye? Surely your prospects are no’ so dim.”
The offhanded compliment inexplicably made Lizzie blush. “’Tis none of your concern,” she said, and abruptly walked around the bed, as far away from him as she could possibly get in this small room, and pretended to examine a painting of an elk hunt.
“Dimmer prospects than one might imagine, apparently,” he added with a snort.
“I have prospects.” At least she hoped she still did.
“Then I take it your uncle Beal does not approve of them.”
She was not going to have this conversation with this man. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He gave her a slight but cocky smile. “How did he coerce you into this handfasting, milord? Who wants to see you hanged?”
“Ach,” he said, and waved a hand before helping himself to more bread.
“‘Ach?’” she echoed. “That’s all you will say? What have you done, then—murder someone?”
“The thought has recently crossed my mind, aye, but no, I did no’ murder anyone. I had a…a wee falling out with the Prince of Wales.”
Lizzie blinked. “The Prince of Wales?”
“A trifling matter,” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He lifted his wineglass. “It will resolve itself.” He sipped.
Lizzie turned round fully now, eyeing him curiously. “I’ve no’ seen you in these parts. Did I err in thinking you a Scot?”
“Oh, is mise Albannach,” he said, assuring her he was a Scot. “But I’ve lived many years in London.”
His Gaelic, she noted, was roughly spoken. Lizzie studied him. He was obviously a man of wealth. He was dressed in fine clothing, albeit rather rumpled. His boots were the finest leather she’d ever seen. “Perhaps you would have done well to remain in London, milord.”
He smiled; his fingers toyed absently with the stem of his wineglass. “Perhaps. I think we are too intimate for titles, aye? You may call me Jack.” He flashed a deliberately seductive grin. “That is what all my intimate female acquaintances call me.”
“The ones who would cause you to be hanged?” she asked sweetly. “Please make no mistake, milord—I am no’ an intimate female acquaintance of yours.”
“No?” he asked, slowly gaining his feet. “As long as we are locked in this bloody awful room, we might at least consider the possibility.”
When a man so strongly built and pleasing to the eye uttered those words, the possibility flitted dangerously across Lizzie’s mind. But she abruptly turned her back to him. “I’ll be lying cold in my grave before I’ll consider it.”
That didn’t stop him; he walked a slow circle around her, studying her from the top of her head to the tips of her boots. “A pity, that.” He spoke low, shifting even closer to her. “I’d think lying cold in one’s grave is no’ as enjoyable as lying warm in one’s bed.”
Her pulse was beginning to race. “This is a hideous circumstance in which to attempt a seduction.”
“Seduction?” He straightened up and gave her another smile that left her feeling a little light-headed. “I am not attempting a seduction, I am making an observation. I will have you know that I would never attempt to seduce a woman who did no’ desire to be completely”—he paused, letting his words hang a moment as he admired her décolletage—“and thoroughly seduced.”
“I assure you, I have no such desire,” she insisted.
He smiled knowingly. “No’ yet, at least.”
Lizzie gasped. “You are unconscionably bold! And you flatter yourself, milord!” She abruptly pushed past him and fled to the foot of the bed, where she looked about the small room for any sort of escape from his dancing gray eyes.
“Well, then!” he said cheerfully. “If you’re no’ inclined to make this confinement at least a wee bit more enjoyable, I believe I shall retire. I’ve had a rather long day.” He gestured to the bed. “For you, madam.”
She looked at it. So did he. “Y-you take it,” she said. “I’ll sleep by the door.”
“The door?”
“Aye, the door!”
“You’ll protect us, will you, with your wee knife?”
“Please! When my fiancé comes, he shall find me by the door and know that nothing transpired here that could possibly raise alarm.”
“Oh?” Lambourne asked, looking interested. “So the mysterious suitor is coming, then?”
“If my fiancé hears of it, I am certain he shall,” Lizzie said, lifting her chin.
“Well, well…a fiancé rides into the midst of this madness to straighten things out,” he said. “That ought to liven things up a bit.” He winked playfully at her and began to unwind his neckcloth.
“He’s…he’s no’ precisely my fiancé,” she absently amended as she watched him remove the neckcloth and lay it across the back of a chair. “But we have a very firm understanding,” she said as he laid his collar there too.
“I admire that you’ll no’ allow a wee thing like a handfasting vow to stop you, lass. My compliments on your impending nuptials,” he said as he started on the buttons of his waistcoat. “And you must have the bed. I’ve no’ yet lost all sense of decency—I canna allow a lady to sleep on the floor.”
She realized Lambourne intended to remove his clothing to sleep. “No,” Lizzie said, shaking her head. “I will sleep on the floor.”
“Ach, now, Lizzie, donna be so stubborn!” he playfully chided her as he shrugged out of the waistcoat and draped it over the chair. “Take the bed—”
“I will no’ take it!” she insisted. “I will no’ allow him to believe I’ve taken one step near that bed!”
“Sleeping on the floor will make for a miserable night, you may trust me.”
She shrugged.
Jack sighed. “Very well, then. Suit yourself.” He pulled his lawn shirt from his trousers.
“Stop, stop!” Lizzie cried, throwing up a hand and turning her head.
“What now?” Jack demanded. “Can a man no’ sleep unencumbered?”
Her face was blazing; she could feel it. “No! No! Of course no’!”
“I was no’ intending to sleep naked, if that is what you think,” he said irritably. He took one of the pillows and a blanket from the bed, then strode to where Lizzie stood and handed them to her. “Good night, lover,” he said, and flashed that dashing, rakish smile.
Lizzie grabbed the pillow and blanket and whirled away from him. She made a place to sleep near the door and pretended to be fastidious about it so she’d not have to look at him. She heard him at the basin, then heard the creak of the bedsprings. That was followed by the sound of his boots dropping,
one by one, onto the floor.
She did not want to look, she would not look—
She looked. He was on top of the counterpane, propped against the headboard, watching her. “This,” she said primly, gesturing to her pallet, “is the only acceptable solution under the circumstances.”
“Then it would seem there is nothing left to say but good night.” And with that, he snuffed the candle.
Only the coals of a dying fire at the hearth illuminated the room. Lizzie eased herself down on her pallet and tried to make herself comfortable, using her wool shawl as cover. To be safe, she withdrew her dirk and held it in her hand.
Minutes later—maybe as much as an hour later, who knew?—Lizzie heard Lambourne’s breathing deepen. At least one of them was sleeping soundly. He was right about the floor—it was hard and cold, but at least Lizzie had the small and admittedly foolish hope that Mr. Gordon could not possibly believe anything devastatingly improper had happened.
She slept poorly, the cold seeping into her marrow. Her back hurt and her limbs felt numb. At some point, something startled her out of her shallow sleep. The fire had been stoked and, moreover, Lizzie felt a presence near her. With a gasp of fright, she jerked her hand up, waving the dirk in the air as she rolled onto her back.
“Diah, put that away!” Lambourne exclaimed.
He was crouching next to her. Lizzie quickly pushed herself up and pushed her hair from her eyes with one hand as she pointed the dirk at him with the other. “Blackguard! If you touch me I will no’ hesitate to use this!” she exclaimed, and took another swipe in the air for good measure.
The Earl of Lambourne sighed wearily and held up the greatcoat that he’d obviously been holding in his hands the whole time. “Lie down,” he commanded her. When Lizzie did not react immediately, he groaned. “I only mean to cover you! I could hear your teeth chattering across the room. If you’d prefer no’ to shiver all night, then lie down.”
The greatcoat did look warm. Lizzie reluctantly did as she was told.
He spread the greatcoat over her, taking care to tuck it in close to her body. When he was satisfied, he inched closer and smiled at her with the lazy confidence of a roué. “Do allow me to make one thing perfectly clear, Lizzie Beal,” he said softly. “I am no’ a man who forces his affection on any woman—do you quite understand me? Furthermore, when the time comes that you want my affection, you will bloody well beg me for it.”
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