The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series)

by Collette Cameron

Fury mottled her full face. She stomped to the center of the room. “Poke fun at me, will you? Not for long, I assure you. You see—though I cannot imagine why, you’re such a shapeless stick—Otto finds you attractive. He has a splendid solution to end your farce of a betrothal to my Roark.”

  Her Roark?

  Adaira twirled the parasol. “Indeed?”

  Keep stalling.

  Surely by now, Roark and the others had noticed the Ferguson women’s absence from the ballroom. The men would search the lower levels first, of course. Did Roark even know this chamber was being used for a retiring room?

  “Schnell,” Freidrick hissed, shuffling his feet. “Before someone comes.”

  “Otto has decided to leave sooner than anticipated. He insists you accompany him, willing or not. Roark will end this mockery of a betrothal once he learns you’re in the count’s company.”

  Adaira angled her head. “How can you be sure? Roark’s the one who insisted on asking for my hand, even though nothing untoward occurred. Did he tell you that? He can be quite determined when he sets his mind to something. He was most resolute that he and I should become affianced.”

  Mrs. Winthrop chuckled nastily. “Oh, I assure you, Otto has quite an interesting reputation, don’t you darling?”

  A sinister smile curled von Schnitzer’s mouth. “As you say. Die Damen are never das same.”

  “My daughter isn’t going anywhere with him.” Mother tightened her grip on the log tongs.

  “I’m not setting foot from this room with your cousin. Not now. Not ever.” Adaira lifted the parasol. If only it were her crop. She suspected the count was unhinged and didn’t want to speculate what his last comment implied.

  “Yes, you will, if you value their lives.” Mrs. Winthrop wiggled her fingers at Adaira’s family. A spiteful smile twisted the widow’s lips. She reached into her reticule and removed a small pistol.

  Mother stiffened. The others sucked in chorus of sharp breaths.

  Pointing the gun at them, Mrs. Winthrop snickered. “In case you’re wondering, I do know how to use the gun. And yes, it is loaded.”

  Thunder pounded in Adaira’s ears. Fear replaced the blood in her veins. “One pistol for four—” Clara made an inarticulate noise. “Five of us?”

  Adaira shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Roark, where are you?

  Mrs. Winthrop’s malicious smile widened, crinkling her pudgy cheeks and the corners of her eyes. “You don’t really think I’m that simpleminded, do you? No, Otto and Freidrick are armed, too.”

  A fiendish grin on his face, Freidrick removed a gun from the back of his waistband. He pointed the pistol at each of them in turn, jerking the weapon and making shooting noises with his mouth.

  He’s addled too.

  The count patted his lower back, then his breast pocket. “Eine pistole und messer.”

  A knife, also? Before the intruders showed their guns, Adaira had thought to have Clara run for help. That is, if the adjoining door was unlocked. That idea was soundly dashed. Adaira didn’t doubt for a moment the weapons were loaded. Neither did she doubt these vermin would use them. Insanity evidently ran in their family.

  “Ich begann das barn feuers,” Freidrick bragged in a mixture of German and English. He waved his gun menacingly.

  Mrs. Winthrop glared at him. “That was idiotic of you. Roark could have been killed, imbecile!” She whirled to the count. “You assured me the whelp had stopped setting fires.”

  Count von Schnitzer shrugged. “He was angry about das hund.”

  Adaira clenched the parasol handle so tightly, it’s a wonder the aged wood didn’t snap. She took a step forward. “You filthy, coward. You’re nothing but a. . .”

  “Addy, no,” Mother warned.

  Adaira glowered at Freidrick, despicable cretin. Willing to kill innocent animals because he’d been thwarted. She didn’t want to imagine what the cur would have done to Kiki had Adaira not rescued her.

  Glaring at Mrs. Winthrop, Adaira lifted her chin, and challenged, “You cannot get me out of the house undetected.”

  “Oh yes, we . . . he can. I know several back stairways and passages. I’ve already showed Otto. We let Freidrick in that way.” Mrs. Winthrop tittered, batting her lashes coyly. “How did you imagine Roark and I managed to be discreet?”

  Adaira wished she could crawl in a deep hole. After vomiting first. It was galling enough she knew Roark’s relationship with the widow. But to have the woman boast of it in front of Adaira’s family was beyond the pale. Anger and mortification emboldened her. “I imagined you used the main entrance, as promiscuous strumpets with no concern for their reputations do.”

  “Addy. Don’t antagonize her,” Mother murmured, her voice low.

  Face pinched, eyes narrowed to slits, Mrs. Winthrop pointed her gun at Adaira. “Otto, take the wench now, before I truly lose my temper. Only use the passages I showed you. If someone comes upon you, pretend to be having a dalliance. I’m sure the chit can be made to cooperate with a weapon pressed to her side.”

  The count removed his gun. He aimed the barrel at Adaira and motioned for her to move to the door. Still holding the parasol, she slipped around the edge of the settee.

  “Addy!” Mother breathed.

  Adaira glanced over her shoulder.

  Terror glittered in her mother’s and sisters’ eyes. Pale as milk, Clara swayed. Gauging the situation, Adaira’s mind raced.

  There were five of them. Each gun only had one shot, and none of the hammers were cocked. If the women attacked in unison, caught the widow and the Austrians off guard, they might very well succeed in disarming the vermin.

  “Can I at least say farewell to my family?” Without waiting for permission, she moved to embrace her mother and sisters. As she hugged each one, she quickly whispered to them in French. She didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around Clara, giving her a swift command as well.

  Dragging the parasol, Adaira made a pretense of moving with exaggerated reluctance toward the door. All the while, she assessed her abductors with covert glances.

  Freidrick lingered part-partway in the corridor, nervously shifting from foot-to-foot. Mrs. Winthrop stood with her hands resting atop the settee. The pistol loosely held in one, triumph lit her face. Count von Schnitzer turned to follow Adaira from the room. She caught him ogling her backend.

  “Schnell,” Freidrick growled again, before poking his head around the doorway. “I think someone kommt.”

  Panic laced his voice.

  Adaira seized the opportunity and screamed, “Now!”

  Hell broke loose. Curses and shouts filled the chamber. Mother and Clara flew at the count. Seonaid and Isobel descended on Freidrick. Adaira sprang the parasol open in the widow’s face.

  Unprepared for the attack, Mrs. Winthrop stumbled backward, tripping over the rug. She landed hard on her ample arse. Her gun skidded beneath the settee. Adaira popped the parasol shut. Without a hint of hesitation or remorse, she walloped the hefty widow in the face. Bone crunched. The woman shrieked in agony. She clutched her gushing nose while struggling to her feet.

  Breathing hard, Adaira pivoted to help her mother and Clara. There was little need. The count held one wrist firmly against his chest, no doubt broken. He sported a broad welt on his face. His gun lay several feet away. Mother kicked it under the armoire, grim satisfaction on her features.

  Cursing, he made for the door, plowing into Adaira as he passed her. Sharp pain lanced her side.

  Seonaid and Isobel had Freidrick well in hand. Swearing a string of German oaths, he held one hand to the scissors protruding from his shoulder. His other arm, limp and bleeding, dangled at his side. Isobel pointed his gun directly at his heart.

  “Addy!”

  Hearing the first
distant yell, the villains tore from the room, moving amazingly fast considering their injuries.

  “Seonaid? Isobel?”

  “Giselle, where are ye?”

  “Adaira!”

  Pounding footsteps reverberated as men thundered up the flight of stairs.

  The women fell into each other’s arms. Collapsing onto the floor, unmindful of the pools of blood, they hugged, laughed, and sobbed simultaneously.

  Roark was the first to skid into the chamber. Dugall, Yancy, Flynn, Father, Westbrook, Maisey, and a slew of others Adaira didn’t recognize immediately followed.

  Holding her ribs, she grinned up at Roark. Her hair plopped onto one shoulder. “Sometimes unladylike behavior is most convenient.”

  His ice-blue eyes widened in shock. The color drained from his tanned face.

  Adaira dropped her gaze to her throbbing side. She lifted her hand. Scarlet stained her palm. “Will you look at that? I do believe I’ve been stabbed.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Stockinged feet on his desk, a glass of brandy in one hand, Roark flicked his watch open. A quarter past midnight. He snapped the timepiece shut before returning it to his waistcoat pocket. Taking a long swallow, he welcomed the warmth heating his gut. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, then the top of his shirt. His neckcloth already lay in a heap atop his desk.

  What a day.

  His mind churned wearily. He couldn’t summon the strength to place his feet on the floor and walk upstairs. Tomorrow he’d have to find Helene and the von Schnitzers. They’d not returned to her house, according to her butler. Nonetheless, Roark’s men monitored the premises around the clock. At least he knew who’d started the fires now.

  Rage, second only to that he’d experienced when he’d learned of Adaira’s ravishment, heated his blood and drove his thoughts. He’d sent for the local magistrate at once but didn’t expect the official’s arrival until midmorning. Roark’s gaze prowled the room, passing the whip mounted on the wall, then snapping back to it. For the first time in his life, he was sorely tempted to use the lash on someone.

  He’d seen Doctor Thornton to the door over an hour and a half ago. The physician assured Roark, Adaira’s wound was superficial. Her long stays had taken the brunt of the blow. She’d only required five stitches and now, rested comfortably.

  Although the ball had ended early, Roark insisted his guests eat before returning home or seeking their chambers. After all, Cook had prepared a succulent spread.

  His betrothal went unannounced. Little doubt remained that every soul in attendance was already apprised of the news. He smiled ruefully and lifted his glass, offering a silent salute to his affianced asleep two floors above.

  Roark had planned to check on Adaira before he retired. His obligations prevented him from looking in on her earlier. Now, the hour was much too late to go tapping on her bedchamber door. Once again, duty took precedence over his desire.

  The responsibilities of an earl; never-ending, trying, and wearisome. Sighing, he lowered his feet to the floor. Wrapped in weariness, he stood. After quaffing back the remaining mouthful of brandy, he placed the glass on his desk. Grabbing his tailcoat from the back of the chair, he quit the room, eager to find his bed.

  Since he fully expected a long-winded lecture from Pepperhill reprimanding him for gallivanting about the house half-clothed, the valet could retrieve Roark’s shoes and neckcloth in the morning. Pepperhill was happiest when acting the role of a martyr. Roark half-grinned, already hearing the valet’s fussing and clucking.

  Shoulders slumped and fatigue clouding his mind, Roark climbed the stairs. He found himself standing outside Adaira’s door, seemingly born there on feet guided by his subconscious. Soft amber light glimmered in the crack paralleling the floor.

  Was she still awake? Perhaps she was in pain. Or was she afraid? Given the past two days, she’d every right to be hysterical. That she wasn’t caused him to admire her all the more.

  In retrospect, placing guards about the house and grounds might be prudent. He didn’t expect Helene’s rashness to extend to another abduction attempt. Still, erring on the side of caution seemed wisest.

  Hearing a soft cry from within Adaira’s chamber, he tried the door’s latch. Irritation gripped him when it turned in his hand. Why wasn’t her chamber locked?

  She cried out again.

  He threw open the door.

  A lamp burned low on the nightstand, wrapping the room in a comforting golden cocoon. Adaira, her petite form dwarfed by the bed, whimpered and thrashed. Roark reached the bed in a few long strides.

  Her face contorted. She swatted weakly with her hands. “No. Stop. . .” Voice wavering on a sob, she begged, “Please stop.”

  Flinging his coat onto a nearby chair, Roark sat on the edge of the bed. “Adaira.”

  He touched her shoulder lightly with two fingers.

  “No! she cried, lurching upright. She scurried backward until the pillows and headboard prevented further retreat.

  “Shh, vixen. It’s me.” Roark laid a hand on her leg to comfort her.

  Confusion and tears swam in her sleep-heavy eyes. “What?” She closed her eyelids and drew in a tremulous breath, wincing slightly. She pressed a hand to her side. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to check on you before I retired. I heard you shout.” He adjusted his position on the bed, bending one knee to rest his thigh atop the mattress. “Are you all right? Was it a nightmare?”

  A haunted look shimmered in her eyes. She nodded. “Yes.”

  What he wouldn’t give to go back in time and destroy the man who’d done this to her. “Do you dream of the attack often?”

  “Not anymore.” She brushed hair away her face, flicking it over her shoulder. Relaxing a fraction, she said, “I haven’t had that one in years.”

  Her lower lip quivered. She sucked the soft flesh into her mouth, biting it with her top teeth.

  “Come here.” Roark extended his arms.

  Adaira scrambled across the bed. She launched onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly, he doubted her brothers could pry her off. Her nightgown, rucked to her knees, exposed shapely calves and ankles.

  He shifted again, extending his legs before him and settled her more comfortably on his lap. He rested against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed.

  “How’s your wound?”

  “A little sore.”

  “Want to tell me about your dream?” he whispered into her silky hair.

  She smelt like a walk in the garden. Lily, iris, lilac, summer sun, and morning breeze, condensed into one fragrant little bundle. He touched his nose to her hair and drew her sweet scent deep into his lungs.

  She gave a watery chuckle against his chest. “Are you sniffing my head?”

  His rumble mixed with hers. “Yes, I am. You smell wonderful.”

  “You always smell wretchedly fabulous too.”

  “I do?”

  “Uh hum.” Adaira sighed and nestled deeper into his lap and shoulder. One hand curved behind his back, the other lay dangerously close to his groin. His member twitched, then twitched again, like a spoilt child demanding attention.

  He kissed the crown of her head once more.

  “The dream?” he coaxed.

  She shook her head against his chest. “I don’t want to talk of it.”

  A gusty sigh and a shudder followed her declaration.

  Roark trailed a finger over one silky cheek. He lifted her trembling chin upward. “It might help.”

  Her soulful eyes, pain and the remnants of remembered horror lurking in their depths, probed his. “I don’t want to remember. I want to forget it ever happened.”

  Her focus shifted to his lips. “Will you kiss me and make me forget? At leas
t for a while?”

  Her eyes pleaded, even as her lips parted. She tilted her head, her lashes sweeping closed.

  To deny her would be beyond cruel. Roark bent his neck, feathering the lightest of kisses across her mouth. She sighed and cupped the back of his head, urging him closer. He deepened the kiss, angling his head and pressing his mouth harder against her velvety softness.

  One tentative nudge and she opened fully to him, meeting his tongue with her own. Adaira moaned deep in her throat, one hand running over his shoulder and chest. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her off his lap and onto the bed. He laid down beside her.