The man beyond the door was asleep, no one was watching her and she was not bound. Now was the time to attempt escape, before they discovered her return to consciousness and restrained her. Whoever they were, which really didn’t matter at the moment, it was a certain bet that they meant her no good.
She wanted to go home. Her throat tightened at the thought of Pressy, her former governess and present companion who had been like a mother to her since her own mother died. Pressy would be wild with anxiety about her, as to a lesser degree would be all of the servants who took care of her at Blakely Park. With no real family of her own, she had come to think of them as family, and they had the same regard for her. Will Coachman, if he still lived, would be hounded by guilt at having let her be taken. Jonas, the young footman, would wonder if there wasn’t more he could have done to save her. Jessup would be having endless days of hysterics because she had failed her mistress when she was most needed. All, all, would be glad to see her home again.
Even Russell, the enormous black hound she had taken in as a starving puppy and raised to galloping adulthood, would be missing her. And oh, how she missed all of them!
She had to get home. She just had to!
Moving carefully, the care motivated as much by pain as by fear of discovery, Isabella very gingerly managed to maneuver herself into a sitting position. Her head swam, but by means of sheer determination she forced her mind to function. This might be her only chance to escape. She could not allow bodily weakness to cheat her of it. Not if she ever wanted to get home again.
By clinging to the bedpost nearest her head, she managed to get to her feet. She stood still for a moment, leaning against the wall, waiting for her head to clear. The room was cool enough to make her shiver, despite the fire that burned steadily in the hearth. Her bare feet curled in protest against the cold boards of the floor. But the room’s chill had one benefit: it helped to clear her head a little mote.
She took a step, and then another. Her knees threatened to buckle at any minute, but will power leavened with a healthy dollop of fright kept her going.
Isabella managed to make it to the door, only to discover, as she tried the knob, that it was securely locked.
She tried it a second and a third time before she was convinced: there would be no escaping through this particular portal. There were two windows in the room, one on either side of the bed, shrouded with heavy silk draperies in the same celestial blue as the walls and bed hangings. If she could not leave by the door, perhaps she could get out through a window.
Casting a quick look at the booted feet still clearly visible through the half-open door to the antechamber, Isabella was relieved to find them unmoving. The snores continued unabated. Leaning against the wall, battling the weakness that tried to claim her, Isabella made her way to the nearest window. Thrusting aside the heavy draperies, she made a chilling discovery: on the outside of the frosted glass the window was fitted with iron bars. There would be no escape this way.
Fighting down panic, Isabella stumbled to the other window. It, too, was barred.
What did she do now?
The snoring remained loud and rhythmic. Whoever the man was beyond the door, he was certainly deeply asleep. It was very likely that the key to the door was somewhere on his person, or perhaps lying nearby. She had knocked a man unconscious once before. And that man had not been asleep.
Looking wildly around, fighting the twin demons of panic and weakness that threatened to overwhelm her, Isabella spied an intricately wrought triple candelabra on the floor by the bed. It was only a matter of moments before she had it in her hand. The thing was satisfyingly heavy.
Now all she had to do was step inside that doorway and bash the sleeping man over the head.
Panic cramped her stomach. Clutching the candelabra like a talisman, she told herself to be calm and sensible. She had only to be quiet, and careful, and from somewhere summon the strength of an ox.…
Gritting her teeth, fighting against the weakness that clouded her mind and threatened to send her to her knees, she got to the half-open door. She could see only a little bit of the room beyond, enough to notice that it was a dressing room, perhaps, and every bit as elaborately decorated as the bedroom it served.
In order to view any more of the sleeping man besides his boots, much less knock him unconscious, she was going to have to push the door farther open and slip inside the room.
Isabella pushed at the door. It opened soundlessly, leaving her staring at a squashed-face giant of a man sprawled out in an uncomfortable-looking chair. His head was thrown back against the striped silk of the chair’s top, and from his yawning mouth issued the ear-splitting snores.
He was the biggest man she had ever seen, and there was no mistaking his identity: Paddy.
He had let her go, and she was going to repay him by hitting him over the head with a candlestick. But he had only let her go because a gun battle had erupted; if it hadn’t, sooner or later he probably would have wrung her neck, whether he’d wanted to or not.
That hardened her heart quite effectively. Isabella only prayed that she had the strength to do the job properly. She shuddered to think of his wrath at being clubbed over the head should she not succeed in rendering him unconscious.
Isabella crept almost to the big man’s shoulder. She took a deep breath, raised the candlestick high …
“Don’t make another move!” commanded a harsh voice from the end of the narrow room. Isabella was so shocked that she jumped, her eyes flying to discover a single bed shrouded in shadows against the far wall. In her concentration on the giant, who’d been illuminated by the small pool of light coming through the door from her own room, she had completely failed to see anything else.
A light flared in the charged darkness, was touched by long male fingers to a candle by the bed. Isabella blinked at the sudden spreading light, her eyes fastened to the bed and its occupant.
The man in it was bare-chested except for a white bandage wrapped around his middle, with tousled tawny hair, and several days growth of beard darkening his jaw. He had struggled up on one elbow, and looked as if he would have trouble staying in that position for long.
She recognized him at once despite the shadows that hung over the bed. There was no mistaking those cameo-perfect features—or the gleam of golden eyes.
He held a pistol in his hand, and despite his obvious weakness, it was pointed straight at her wildly beating heart.
IX
His eyes moved over her, widened. Looking down at herself, Isabella saw why. She was clad in the most indecent nightdress she had ever beheld in her life. It was pure virginal white, but its color was the only virginal thing about it. Made of diaphanous gauze, it constituted the sheerest of veils over her body. Its neckline was demure, its sleeves long. Its hem reached her ankles. And yet she might as well have been naked.
Her small breasts pressed wantonly against the fabric. Either the chill of the room or the sudden heat of his eyes caused her nipples to thrust against the sheer cloth like hard little buds. Their rosy color, and the darkness of the circles surrounding them, were perfectly visible to her eyes—and, she had no doubt at all, to his.
The lithe line of her rib cage, the narrowness of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips, all were revealed to him. She followed his eyes down over the very slight convexity of her stomach, down the length of her slender legs, to her bare white toes, and up again.
When she saw that he was staring at the sable triangle between her legs, she thought her body would catch fire from embarrassment.
Drawing a quick breath, she sidestepped so that Paddy and his chair were between them. Her hair was tumbling in a wild tangle down her back to her waist. Shaking it forward, she used the fawn-colored mass to shield her body still further from his view. Still clutching the candlestick, her face a flaming red, Isabella at last dared to meet those golden eyes over the top of Paddy’s sleeping head.
What she saw in them made her remember,
with heart-stopping immediacy, the scalding heat of his hand cupping her breast.
Then, as suddenly as they had blazed, his eyes cooled, hardened. It was as if he were mentally drawing rein on whatever thoughts had caused that sudden hot flare.
“Put the candlestick down!” he ordered, his voice grim. Then, in a sharper voice, he called, “Paddy!”
Isabella meekly set the candlestick on a table beside the chair, her eyes never leaving the man in the bed. He seemed very weak, almost as weak as she suddenly felt. She clung to the chairback, watching him wide-eyed as he cursed his sleeping friend. His language was enough to singe her ears, but she scarcely heard any of it.
It occurred to Isabella suddenly that she had never before seen a man’s bare chest. Bernard had always come to her bed in the dark, and even then he had not fully undressed. This man—Alec—had wide shoulders, wide enough to block more than half of the simple iron rungs of the headboard from her view. They were heavy with muscle, powerful-looking. His arms were as muscled as his shoulders, corded with them as he leaned on one elbow. His chest tapered down from his shoulders in a wide, deep vee, narrowing until the pale blue satin duvet which covered the bed abruptly cut off her view at his waist. A wedge of curling hair several shades darker than his tawny head covered his chest. It was bisected by the pristine white of a bandage. The bandage had been wrapped around his body several times, and was positioned just below his nipples. His nipples. Isabella stared at the brown circles peeking through the nest of hair, and felt herself go even hotter than before.
Her eyes flew back to his, ashamed of where they had been, to find that he was watching her. His eyes were still cool, still guarded and faintly hostile, but there was an awareness of her in them that made her suddenly catch her breath.
The pistol he pointed at her wavered suddenly before being snapped to attention again. Alec frowned at her over its gleaming barrel. Luxuriously thick, tawny eyebrows nearly met over the bridge of his nose.
“Paddy!” The call was louder this time, then was repeated at almost a shout. The giant stopped snoring, snorted and blinked.
“Damn it, Paddy, wake up, will you? Fine bloody bodyguard you turn out to be!” This last was said under his breath, in a disgusted murmur.
“What?” Paddy sat up, shaking his head to clear it. “Did you say something, Alec?”
“I said wake up, lummox, and look about you. The lady there was on the verge of making mincemeat out of your brains!”
Paddy turned to see Isabella standing behind him, staring down at him with an expression of utter terror on her face. He swore, and jumped to his feet, facing her.
Isabella shrank back against the wall, dragging the chair with her both as a shield from his eyes and as protection from any forthcoming violence. He was huge, at least six and a half feet tall, hulking with muscle for all the semi-civilization of a crumpled frock coat and breeches. His hair was a brown so dark it was almost black, grizzled in places with gray, and cropped close against his skull. His features were nothing short of homely: a broad low forehead set like a shelf over small, deepset eyes; a short nose that might once have been pug but now merely looked squashed, as if it had been on the receiving end of too many blows; a wide mouth and an even wider jaw that jutted out into a square, prominent chin with, absurdly, an off-center dimple. A frown on such a face was unnecessary, but he was wearing one. Her back flattened against the smooth, cool plaster of the wall.
Paddy’s frown turned to a full-blown scowl, and he took a step forward. Isabella felt fear clench her stomach. She drew a great, ragged breath, pressing even harder against the wall.
“What are you doing out of bed, miss?” he asked gently, as if she were an errant child caught out in a misdemeanor. Isabella opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes, huge and very blue with fright, slid guiltily to the tell-tale candelabra, then jerked back up to his battered face.
“She was on the verge of braining you with that candlestick there, friend. Fortunately for us both, I don’t sleep like the dead.”
Paddy turned reproachful eyes on her. Isabella saw that they were brown, and soulful. Strangely kind eyes for such a monster of a man.
“Aw, Alec, she’s frightened.” He might have been speaking of a puppy.
Alec snorted. “She wasn’t frightened until you woke up. She was bent on murder—yours, and probably mine after that.”
“You weren’t really going to hit me with that, were you, miss?”
“I—I…”
Lying had never come easily to her, but she was learning fast. Before she could frame a denial, though, she was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the lock of the bedroom where she’d been.
All three of them listened as the door was locked again. Then soft footsteps crossed the other room, paused.
“Oh my heavens, where’d she get to?” The voice was female, slightly husky, and annoyed.
“In here, Pearl,” Paddy called. Isabella was vastly relieved to have attention diverted from herself. She was feeling muzzy-headed, and it took all her strength just to remain on her feet, much less defend herself against the giant and his handsome friend.
The woman came to the door of the dressing room and looked at the trio inside with obvious surprise. Isabella’s eyes widened at the sight of her. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, which she was. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white. Her face was soft and round like a child’s, with the requisite cupid’s bow mouth, artfully reddened, pouting prettily below a nose that might have been a hair too retroussé but was lovely for all that. Her eyes were midnight blue, framed by incredible lashes that were astonishingly dark for such a fair-haired woman. It wasn’t any of that, or the amazing quality of her white skin, or the soft pink flush in her cheeks, that made Isabella’s eyes grow round. It wasn’t the trio of towering purple plumes in the elaborately upswept hair, or even the necklace of what appeared to be enormous, genuine sapphires around her neck.
It was her gown. Or rather, what wasn’t covered by her gown.
The woman had a figure that would stop a full-grown bull moose in its tracks. And a large portion of it was on display.
Full white breasts flowed lushly over the scanty bodice, which was of purple brocade edged with black lace. Above it her neck and shoulders and all of her breasts down to the very nipple were bare. Isabella could actually see the crescents of dark pink areolas.
After a shocked stare, Isabella finally managed to drag her eyes lower. Beneath the magnificent bosom the woman had a tiny waist that curved into generous hips clearly outlined by the clinging, ruched brocade. The dress hugged her lushly curved thighs until it reached her knees, where the purple brocade parted to reveal a petticoat of tiered black lace. The lace was semitransparent, allowing the viewer a peek at plump, silk-stockinged legs with a garter tied daringly just below one dimpled knee.
Never in her life had Isabella seen such a costume. The word indecent barely did it justice. Clearly designed to engender lust in a man, it was provocative, tantalizing, simmering with promise. Isabella thought of the two men in the room with her, undoubtedly ogling this flaunting exhibition, and her face flamed a brilliant red.
X
“My lord, angel, what’re you blushin’ for? We all got the same equipment, ain’t we?” Pearl addressed that question to Isabella with lively surprise.
“But some of you are … more abundantly equipped than others,” Alec intervened with a wry grin. Pearl’s eyes flew to him.
“Oh, Alec, you’re better! It’s so good to see you sittin’ up, darlin’!”
She rustled across the room, dropping to her knees beside the bed. Throwing her arms around him, the purple plumes scraping the wall as she lowered her head, she kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. Watching, Isabella felt a strange discomfort somewhere in the vicinity of her belly, and hastily averted her eyes. Then, when at last the kiss was done and Isabella thought it was safe to look again, Pearl pressed Alec’s head to her bare white bosom in
a gesture so intimate that Isabella felt her face burn anew. Her eyes dropped to the floor for the second time in as many minutes.
“Ahem.” Apparently also embarrassed, Paddy cleared his throat and shifted his eyes from the embracing couple to Isabella. His cheeks, like hers, were a shade pinker than they had been before.
He shook his head at her. “You shouldn’t’ve got outa bed, you know. You’ve been lying there, out of your head delirious, for nigh on a fortnight. Wearing yourself to the bone ain’t gonna help you recover.”
Isabella fixed her eyes on him with a certain desperation. Rustling sounds and a soft giggle from the direction of the bed warned her that the embrace had resumed. For some reason her eyes wanted to turn in that direction, and she had to battle to keep them fastened on Paddy. If she hoped to make head or tails out of the situation in which she found herself, she had best keep her wits about her, and watching that woman’s lascivious display with Alec certainly did not help clear her mind. She understood nothing of what was going on, but clung to one fact: so far these people had shown no disposition to harm her. They might, though. Remembering the original kidnappers’ plan to murder her, she felt a cold frisson of fear quiver along the back of her neck.
Until she was safe at home again, no one could be trusted.
Her eyes slid past Paddy to the bedchamber beyond.
“I—I think I will go back to bed. If you’ll turn your back, that is. I’m not dressed,” she explained hesitantly, gesturing down at herself as he looked at her with a growing frown. The chair and her hair still shielded her body from view, but if she stepped out from behind the chair, her hair would cover only so much. Alec and Pearl were clearly too preoccupied to notice anything but themselves, but Paddy was not. She gazed at him pleadingly. To her surprise, he turned his back.
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