She doubted he was even listening to her. Brushing past her, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. As much as she might have wished he were leaving for good, she knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. He’d been gone less than a heartbeat before he returned, his arms laden with a dusty saddle, saddlebags and a rolled up blanket that she had no doubts held a firearm of some sort.
“I’m staying,” he said again, his voice implacable.
As if to punctuate his claim, he dropped his belongings on the floor and tossed his hat on top. Then he removed his jacket, revealing a pair of pistols strapped to his hips.
Louisa was startled by the sight of the firearms, as well as the sheer strength of the man’s body without the shield of the bulky leather coat.
Dear sweet heaven above. This man was supposed to protect her?
And who would protect her from him?
A potent frustration flooded her body as she was confronted with her own vulnerability. For two cents she would scream, causing a scene the likes of which he had never seen before. But even as she contemplated that extreme course of action, she knew that such behavior would hurt her reputation far more than his.
“If you will excuse me,” she said through clenched teeth, “I’ve had a very trying afternoon. I’m feeling the need to…grieve.”
Knowing that remaining in this man’s presence for another moment would be more than her infamous temper would bear, she marched into her bedroom and slammed the door. Bitsy took one look at her and scampered back to her basket.
Of all the interfering, overbearing barbarians! He seemed to think that she had nothing but fluff between her ears. She had half a mind to let him know just how clever she could be. She would ask Mr. Pritchard to send the man packing—or summon a magistrate and have Mr. Smith hauled away in leg irons!
But even as she contemplated the idea, she froze. Was that what a true marquess would do? People would be expecting a woman with manners polished in finishing school. Recalling the women she had worked for in the past few years, Louisa was well aware that aristocratic ladies tended to be subservient, meek and mild. She mustn’t allow her own stubbornness to give her away.
And yet…she couldn’t fathom how she was going to endure more than a day or two in Mr. Smith’s company. He was too…too…
Disturbing.
How in the world was she going to get rid of him?
A knock at her bedroom door caused her to jump. Too late, she realized that she hadn’t twisted the key in the lock. Before she could blink, the door had opened and John Smith stood framed in the archway.
Bitsy growled from her spot on the floor.
“I arranged for the hotel staff to send up a bath. I assumed you would want to wash before Mr. Pritchard returned.”
Louisa was caught off balance at her bodyguard’s thoughtfulness. She teetered on the brink of anger, exasperation and tears. A chance to clear her mind and soak her aches away was just what she needed. Only then would she be able to clear her head and think more rationally.
“Thank you,” she offered in a low voice.
A fleet of liveried servants filed into her room, setting a long copper tub on the floor. With expert efficiency, they draped a linen sheet over the sides and against the bottom to protect Louisa from sharp edges. Then they proceeded to fill the tub with buckets of hot water, all the while avoiding the little dog that scampered between their legs.
Just as abruptly, the room emptied and Louisa was alone.
Not about to make the same mistake twice, she tiptoed to the door and carefully turned the key in the lock. Then and only then did she begin to feel a lessening of the tensions that had been gripping her muscles.
As her body relaxed, she became aware of the throbbing of her limbs from an assortment of bruises. Tugging the gloves from her hands, she frowned when she saw that the leather had been pierced by sharp pieces of gravel. Spots of blood dotted her palms.
Breathing deeply, she tried to quell the burst of nausea that too much excitement and nervousness invariably inspired. Since birth, she’d been cursed with a weak stomach whenever her emotions ran high.
Railing against her traitorous emotions, she unpinned her bonnet and tossed it onto the bed. Then, with fingers that trembled, she unbuttoned her bodice and wriggled free.
Normally, Louisa was tidy to a fault, but today she didn’t have the energy to move any more than necessary. As she wrestled with the fasteners of her skirt, petticoats and corset, she suddenly wished she hadn’t sent Chloe on an errand.
At long last she emerged from her man-made cocoon. Taking her first real breath in hours, she drew her chemise over her head and stepped out of her pantalets.
Ruined. All ruined. Even the delicate lace of her corset and chemise had succumbed to the pressures of the day.
Again, tears gathered and a sob lodged in her throat. She never would have imagined that an afternoon could go so horribly awry.
Tearing the pins from her hair, she shook out the tresses so that they tumbled in waves to a point well below her hips. As she padded to the tub, her fingers massaged her scalp, willing away the headache that was already beginning to form.
“It’s been a beastly day, Bitsy,” she whispered to the dog who watched her avidly.
Two dark eyes blinked at her from a mop of silky white hair, but she stood clear of any possible splashes of water.
Draping a bath sheet over a nearby chair, Louisa reached into a jar on the bedside table, gathering a handful of scented salts and tossing them into the water.
She had just turned to step into the tub when a pain shot through her thigh, raced up her back and down to her toes. Crying out, she glanced down and saw a ghastly purple-black bruise darkening her skin from hip to knee.
Louisa collapsed onto a nearby chair just as the door came crashing open and John Smith stood poised in the opening, a pair of pistols aimed in her direction. Squealing in outrage, she felt his gaze rake the length of her body as she grabbed for the bath sheet. Jumping to her feet, she sought the first weapon she could find, a long-handled scrub brush. Whirling on the man who claimed to be her bodyguard, she rained blows on his arms and shoulders. At the same moment, Bitsy jumped from the basket. Yapping and snarling, she came to her mistress’s defense, nipping at John’s heels.
“You beast! You haven’t got the manners of a goat…or a…” Unable to summon words caustic enough, Louisa growled in disgust instead.
Her attack had very little effect. After replacing his revolvers in his holster, he disarmed her with a deft flick of his wrist. Tossing the brush onto the bed, he scooped the dog from the floor and set it outside the bedroom, pulling the damaged door shut.
Separated from her mistress, Bitsy barked even more frantically, and the thump of paws and the scrabbling of claws made it clear that she would try her best to remove the barrier.
Ignoring the din caused by the dog, John wrapped his arms around Louisa’s waist and bodily replaced her on the chair. He held her tightly until her outburst wound down like a child’s toy. Then, despite her protests, he pushed the hem of the towel to one side, exposing the length of her thigh and the horrible bruise.
A long silence followed. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
Whatever she had expected him to say, his low apology wasn’t it. The sincerity of his tone dissipated her anger like so much smoke, leaving her weary and trembling. His eyes drew her into their dark pools. Again, she felt a sense of familiarity she couldn’t explain.
Gently, fleetingly, John examined the battered flesh. Retrieving one of the linen squares from the pile on the dry sink, he dipped the cloth into the cool water of the pitcher and returned.
Without a word, he pressed the cloth to her skin, softly, fleetingly, with only enough pressure to transfer the coolness, yet not enough to cause her pain.
“Do you have any other injuries?”
“No.” The word barely escaped her tight throat. Nevertheless, he met her gaze directly, obviously searching for the
slightest sign of deceit. “No! I’ve got a few scrapes on my hands, but nothing serious.”
One by one, he lifted her palms and dabbed at them with the cloth. With the blood wiped away, it was easy to see that the wounds were superficial.
“I’m truly sorry that I caused you harm.”
His voice was low and seemed to brush against her nerve ends like soft velvet. A molten fire settled deep in her body, radiating to her extremities.
This was madness. Sheer and utter madness. Louisa had been informed of her husband’s death less than an hour before. Yet, here she sat in a state of total deshabille with a man who was a stranger to her. Yes, she had prepared herself to marry a man she’d never met, but this…
This encounter was more intimate, more alluring, more dangerous than anything she could have imagined occurring between a man and a woman.
Vaguely, she supposed that the emotions that swirled within her were the first whisperings of passion—an emotion that she had begun to believe she was incapable of feeling.
One of Louisa’s secret desires was to write a book filled with romantic tales. She wanted to invent stories equal to the depth of emotion found in the works of Charlotte Bronte or Jane Austen. And yet, despite her romantic inclinations, Louisa had never experienced pleasure in a man’s arms.
In her years of service, she had not completely escaped the attention of male visitors. Her red hair and voluptuous build had caused many a man to attempt to woo her into submission. Indeed, it had been the untoward advances she’d encountered in one of her last positions that had caused her to journey to America. Yet in all that time, she had never experienced the quickening of her heart or this telltale shortness of breath. She had begun to believe that she was incapable of such riotous emotions…
Until now.
John glanced up from his ministrations, causing her to look quickly away.
Dear sweet heaven above. She couldn’t let him know what he was doing to her. Her humiliation would be complete if he were to sense the way he’d managed to plow through her defenses in such a short time.
As he bent over his task again, tending to her opposite hand, she gazed down into the tumbling waves of his hair. Her fingers twitched with her sudden need to touch those curls.
What would he say if she were to give in to her insanity? Would he look upon her as a wanton? He wouldn’t be the first. During the attempted seduction by her former employer, he had claimed that no woman with such flaming hair could be anything but a siren and a seductress.
How would John Smith react to being seduced?
The thought raced through her mind with the searing heat of a brand, and she jerked free of John’s hands, her fingers curling into fists until the scrapes burned.
John cast a questioning look in her direction, then resolutely tugged the sheet into place, hiding the length of her thigh and allowing her some modicum of privacy.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Her voice was far too husky and telling to her ears. She could only pray it wasn’t so revealing to his.
His eyes narrowed consideringly. “I’ve got some liniment in my saddlebags that will help to ease the pain. It smells like the very devil, but it will do the trick.” Without another word, he stood and walked to doorway. “After your bath, we’ll see to it.”
We’ll see to it?
The mere thought was enough to make her tremble anew. Her breathing became strident, her body flushed as she realized that this man had taken more liberties with her than any other human being she had ever encountered. And now he calmly informed her that he wished to touch her again? To tend to her injuries himself?
No. No, she couldn’t bear it. Not after all she had endured today. To have him touch her again would be her undoing.
Knowing that she must not allow him to sense even a hint of weakness in her manner, she jumped to her feet, tightly clutching the towel.
“No, Mr. Smith, we will not tend to anything.” She tried to make her tone frosty and her posture imperious. “As far as I’m concerned, you have overstepped your boundaries.”
“I heard you scream, Mrs. Winslow.”
How was it possible for her formal title to ring like a caress?
“I barely cried out!” she insisted.
He shrugged. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“The sound was nothing more than a reaction to discovering the bruise. And in any event, even if my life had been in peril, you should have knocked!”
“And will you have me announcing my arrival to unknown brigands and making proper introductions before attempting to rescue you?”
She hugged her arms under her breasts, then released them again when his gaze dropped to the tautly pulled bath sheet.
“Mr. Smith.” She tried again, attempting to sound as self-righteous as a dowager queen. “If you are to remain in my employ—”
“I am in your husband’s employ.”
“But my husband is dead!”
“Then I will wait until that time when I feel a responsible party has been brought in for your care before making any changes to the agreement I had with your husband.”
“I am more than able to take care of myself.”
“Not from what I’ve been able to see.”
She gaped at him openmouthed. “I—I hardly see how you could have come to such a conclusion. I’ve been on my own for—”
She barely managed to stop herself in time. She’d been about to reveal that she’d been alone for years. But by admitting such a thing, she would betray her charade.
“I’ve been on my own for weeks.”
His expression was rueful. “That hardly makes you an expert.”
Her bare foot stamped on the ground in irritation before she could stop herself. “Mr. Smith, if you would examine today’s debacles—”
“Today’s what?”
“Debacles! Calamities, fiascoes… If you considered them, you would be forced to admit that all of my misadventures have resulted from your own overhastiness to act.”
“Overhastiness?” he repeated as he turned away in apparent unconcern. “Is that truly a word?”
The moment he opened the door, Bitsy raced in, her toenails scrabbling on the wooden floor as she fought to stop her forward charge. Instead, she tumbled head over heels under the bed.
Without a second glance, John continued into the sitting room. At the man’s apparent disregard for her feelings, frustration roiled within Louisa, causing the last wisps of sensuality to evaporate. Stomping after the man, she tried to hammer her argument home.
“You are missing the point. If you hadn’t interfered in business that was not your own, I wouldn’t have been hurt today and that door wouldn’t be broken!”
John turned, his eyes dark and filled with determination. “I can assure you, Mrs. Winslow, that you are very much my business.”
Before she could absorb the change in direction, he turned and prowled toward her with the stealth and determination of a cat. “I plan to see to your safety.”
“But it is you who has made me unsafe!”
Before she knew what he meant to do, he whipped an arm around her waist, hauling her tightly toward him.
“Unsafe?” he growled. “You have no idea how vulnerable you are at this moment. There are those who have already declared their intentions to destroy you.”
His words chilled her to her very bones. Looking up at the sharp cast of his features and the tight line of his mouth, she was forced to believe him.
“B-but why?” she whispered.
“Because of who you are…and who you are destined to be.”
Then, before she could absorb his cryptic statement, his head dipped and his lips closed over her own.
Louisa felt as if she had been struck by lightning. A streak of sensations shot through her body, even as her limbs seemed to lose all strength. Unconsciously, she gripped
his jacket with both hands in an effort to remain standing, while his lips moved over hers in such effortless mastery that she couldn’t help but respond.
John’s arms wrapped tighter around her waist, drawing her against him, pressing her to his length. Without the protection of her clothes, each muscle and ridge was imprinted in her body and seared into her memories.
Unable to stop herself, she released her grip of his clothes and plunged her fingers into his hair, delighting in the silky texture, the thick weight of the sable curls. Her mouth opened to the pressure of his tongue, and she shuddered as one of his hands spread wide to explore the swell of her hips.
And then, distantly, just when Louisa was ready to abandon all reason, she heard a scrape, a scratch…
The twist of a key in the lock!
Chapter Four
Both of them moved at once, Louisa to step away and grip the bath sheet, John to pull her protectively behind his body even as he used his free hand to whip a revolver from his holster.
Horrified, Louisa watched as the door slowly opened, revealing not only the dainty form of her maid, but the mousy figure of Mr. Pritchard, as well.
“Get out,” John growled, fixing his revolver on a spot between Pritchard’s eyes.
The little man gasped and backed up against the doorjamb, holding his satchel in front of him as if it were a shield.
“No!” Louisa stepped around John’s body, grabbing his arm, even as her bodyguard pulled back the hammer of his revolver.
Mr. Pritchard offered a high squeak of distress.
Chloe began muttering prayers beneath her breath.
Bitsy bolted into the room, saw a new target of frustration in Mr. Pritchard and began snarling at him, trying to bite the man’s trousers.
“Bitsy, please stop!” Louisa cried.
Mercifully, the dog obeyed, sitting on her haunches, her gaze bouncing over the players in the room. It was clear that the tension in the hotel suite continued to distress her, but she’d been trained well before being sold to Louisa, and she didn’t dare disobey.
Louisa turned to John. “Stop,” she said again, tugging at his arm. Slowly, gradually, he released the hammer and lowered his arm.
Lisa Bingham Page 4