by Cheryl Holt
“No.”
“Yes. No. Yes. No. Is that all you can say?”
“No.”
“If you don’t give it back to me right now, I’ll scream. I will. I mean it.”
“Do you suppose anyone would hear you, and even if they did, would you want them to rush to your aid? If you were found locked in with me, your reputation would be shredded.”
She was so angry he could practically see steam coming out of her ears. Yet despite the danger, she pounded her fist on the door. She paused, listened for footsteps, and pounded again.
She repeated the process numerous times, but everyone—servants included—was down at the party. Ultimately she whipped around, her eyes flashing daggers.
“What is your plan?” she inquired.
“I don’t have one.”
“Am I to be ravished? Is that what you intend?”
“You should be so lucky.”
“Give me my key,” she said again. “Let me go.”
There was a decanter of wine on a table in the corner. He ignored her and went over to it and pulled out the cork.
“Let’s sit by the fire and have a glass of wine,” he suggested.
She gaped at him as if he had two heads, then muttered a comment under her breath that sounded very much like an epithet.
“Foul language, Miss Wells?” he facetiously said. “By a person of your stellar profession of noble do-gooder? I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked!”
“You are a lunatic.”
“Yes, I always have been. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t need my opinion confirmed by others. The evidence is too blatant.”
They stood, her glaring, him grinning. Hadn’t he told her he always got his way? She was very stubborn, so apparently it would take her a while to accept reality.
“Fine,” she finally mumbled. “Be a horse’s ass. See if I care.”
She swept by him and returned to the balcony, and he was irked by her insolence.
No one was ever allowed to disrespect him. No one would dare. He simply took up too much space in any room he occupied, and his wishes and commands were paramount.
He couldn’t guess where he’d come by such imperious arrogance, but he figured he’d inherited it from the father he didn’t remember. How else was he to explain his obstinacy and domineering traits?
He followed her onto the balcony. She was staring at the stars again, and he stepped in very close and eased her into the balustrade so she was trapped in the circle of his arms.
He nuzzled his nose into her hair, and he recognized he was being an incredible boor—he actually had a few manners and knew how to display them.
“Stop that,” she said.
“No. I like the way you smell.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Go away.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, I want you to.”
“So? I never listen to women.”
“Couldn’t you start? Just for me?”
He chuckled, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, and it dawned on him that she was outrageously pretty. When she’d stormed into his office in London, she’d been buttoned up in her drab gray dress, so he hadn’t really noticed much about her other than her sharp tongue.
Out in the gazebo he’d complimented her gown, but it had been dark, and he hadn’t yet realized her hair was red.
He hadn’t assumed he liked red hair on a woman. If he had a choice, he preferred blond trollops, buying into the generally held belief that a red-haired woman had a temper, and Miss Wells’s caustic attitude seemed to prove the rule.
Her big blue eyes were wide, twinkling in the moonlight, and for the moment providing every indication that she was extremely distressed.
Gad, was it tears he was witnessing?
“Are you crying?” he asked almost in accusation.
“No.”
But she swiped a furtive hand across her cheek, and he scowled and studied her more closely.
“You are! You’re crying.”
“So what if I am? It’s my bedchamber, and I was all alone and minding my own business until you barged in. I can cry if I want to.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re up here bawling and—”
“I’m not bawling.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what? Crying?”
“Yes. I can’t abide feminine histrionics.”
“You poor thing! You don’t have to stay and suffer them.”
She wiggled around so she was facing him, and suddenly the front of his body was pressed to the front of hers, and he was delighted to report that—for all her slender stature—she was very shapely. He could feel her breasts, her flat tummy, her mons crushed to his phallus.
Not surprisingly, his cock sprang to attention. Evidently he was attracted to her, but then he was attracted to any female who walked by. He wouldn’t read anything into it, wouldn’t give it more import than it deserved.
Still though, he was flummoxed by the flood of gladness that swept through him. He was so happy, so content. There was a current of energy flowing from him to her that was electrifying. It made him feel grand and omnipotent—well, he always felt omnipotent—but the impression had never been caused by a woman.
“What’s wrong?” he posed more gently.
“I’m sad, you oaf.”
“Why?”
“Because life is hard, and I get tired sometimes.”
He gazed at her, dizzy with conflicted emotions. The strangest urges were washing over him. He wanted to cherish and shelter and protect as he’d never wanted before.
The feelings were so powerful and so riveting that he might have been bewitched. If he’d been a superstitious fellow, he’d have rushed out, found a wise woman, and bought a charm to ward off evil spirits.
But he wasn’t superstitious, and he had no idea what to make of the sensations she produced. It was eerie, it was extraordinary, and he caught himself thinking he’d like to wallow in her company for hours merely so he could keep being barraged by the agitation she stirred.
“Why are you in London?” he asked. “Tell me the truth.”
“I went years ago, when I was seventeen.”
“Why?” he said again.
“Vicar Sterns was the minister in the village. He and his wife invited me to accompany them when they started the mission.”
“Your parents permitted you to join them?”
“My father did. My mother has been dead since I was a girl.”
“Your father, he didn’t mind? He didn’t care?”
“I begged to go.”
“I can’t imagine you had a driving need to live in poverty and serve the poor. What happened?”
The night seemed to encourage confessions, and he thought she’d confide in him, but she shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter. Not after all this time.”
“It matters to me.”
“I can’t fathom why it would.”
“I’m not sure either, but for some bizarre reason I’m dying to know more about you.”
“If you die, it will be from boredom after listening to my life’s story.”
“I doubt it.”
They stared, her blue eyes probing, delving, as she struggled to figure him out. Usually he shielded himself from such intense assessment, but for once he let her look, let her see.
For all his wealth and pomp and power, he was very lonely, an orphan with no kin, no past, and only violent, loyal Ramsey as his friend.
Apparently she viewed something in him that made a difference, for she said, “I was engaged.”
“What became of your fiancé?”
“He married my sister.”
Michael bit down a gasp. “Gaylord Farrow was your fiancé? He married your sister after you’d been betrothed?”
“Yes, so I had a chance to leave with Vicar Sterns and I took it. It’s humiliating now to admit that Gayl
ord broke my heart, but in my own defense, I was just seventeen. I didn’t know any better.”
“I’m acquainted with Mr. Farrow,” he cautiously stated. “We’ve had many business dealings.”
“Then you’re aware that he’s…well…”
She cut off, being reluctant to air the Farrow dirty laundry, and he said, “He’s an odd duck.”
“Very odd.” Bitterly, she added, “A reckless, odd duck.”
Michael knew what she meant, but he asked, “In what way?”
“He has a terrible gambling habit. He can’t control it.”
“I’ve heard that about him.”
“We’re in a jam because of his wagering.”
Michael nodded, not providing the slightest hint that he was cognizant of the facts.
Clearly her sister and brother-in-law hadn’t shared the details about Farrow’s downfall, and Michael didn’t believe that he should have to enlighten her. She’d find out soon enough, and he was certain she’d blame him, would accuse him of taking advantage, of filching what wasn’t his.
He was always blamed. In all of the men who’d ruined themselves with Michael, he’d never met a single family member who blamed a father or a brother. They were all positive that if Michael hadn’t come along, there would have been no horrid ending.
“What sort of jam are you in?” he inquired.
She paused, then forced a smile. “Oh, listen to me babbling on. It’s nothing, really. We’ve hit rough patches before, and we’ve managed. We’ll get through this one too.”
Her remark underscored how little she’d been told about the pending crisis. Luckily she had a place to live at the charity mission in London. He wondered where Gaylord, Pamela, and Rebecca would go. Somehow he couldn’t picture them moving in with Miss Wells and residing in Michael’s seedy neighborhood.
He thought he had no conscience, but a sliver of one flickered to life, and he felt bad about what would transpire. Not because of what would happen to her kin, but for how it would impact her. She had a kind heart, as was obvious by her choice of employment, by her continued contact with the sister who’d stolen her fiancé.
She would fret. She would grieve. She would hold Michael responsible, and though it was completely out of character for him, he hated to suppose she’d think poorly of him.
Before he could stop himself, before he could reconsider, he dipped down and kissed her. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t planned to. At least he didn’t assume he’d planned to. She just looked so wretched. What was a fellow to do?
His lips touched hers, very lightly, very sweetly, and for a brief second she allowed the embrace, then she eased away.
“I don’t want this from you,” she protested, but without much of a fuss.
“Hush,” he murmured.
“If I behaved in a way that made you believe I—”
“Hush,” he said again.
She gazed up at him, appearing forlorn and weary and so very, very lovely. Those masculine instincts flared again, to shelter, to protect, and he couldn’t help himself.
He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her more tightly to him so he could kiss her in earnest. He kissed her as if she was the last woman on Earth, as if he was about to draw his last breath and would never kiss anyone again.
He didn’t know how long they continued. He didn’t run his hands over her person, didn’t clutch or grope or maul her. He simply tasted her lush mouth, letting the connection of their bodies provide a soothing balm he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
When he finally decided to halt, a protracted amount of time had elapsed. She didn’t scold him or push away from him, which he took as a very good sign. Her knees were weak, and he suffered from the strongest sense that if he released her, she’d slide to the floor.
The moment was fraught with unspoken emotion. There were a thousand comments perched on the tip of his tongue. For inexplicable reasons, he wanted to unburden himself, wanted to tell her about his haunting dreams and strange visions, but he never talked about the past except with Ramsey and that was only on the rarest occasions.
Most shockingly, he wanted to ask for things he should never receive from her and she would never bestow. He yearned to have her, to keep her for his own, and the poignant ideas were so peculiar that he felt bewitched again.
In his rough and tumble world, he never made commitments. He was a liar and fraud, and he never gave his word or made promises because he never kept them.
She broke whatever spell had been festering. Flashing a lazy smile, she said, “That wasn’t so bad.”
He snorted with amusement. “High praise indeed.”
“You’re different than I assumed you to be.”
No, I’m not! “What did you assume?”
“I pictured you as an ogre who lurked under bridges and ate passing travelers.”
“I can be an ogre—when I’m riled.”
“But that’s not who you are deep down.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“You like to bluster and preen. You like people to think you’re tough and cruel.”
“I am tough and cruel.”
“You might be sometimes, but it’s not who you really are.”
She voiced it with such conviction, as if she knew facts about him she couldn’t have known, as if they’d been friends for a dozen years and she’d uncovered all his secrets.
She was idiotically wrong, of course. He had no gallant tendencies and every awful story she’d heard was true. Yet he liked to imagine he was the man she believed him to be. It would be intriguing to pretend.
“You should go,” she said.
“I suppose I should.”
She linked their fingers and led him out. It was a dear experience for him, as if she was his adolescent sweetheart and they’d sneaked away from her chaperone. He meekly followed along as if he were a pet dog.
She stopped by the door.
“Give me my key,” she told him.
He thought about refusing, about demanding to keep it so he could visit again, but he still couldn’t figure out why she provoked him in such odd ways, and he wasn’t about to foster a relationship. There was no point to it, and in the coming days and weeks she’d have plenty of reason to hate him.
He handed it over, and she stuck it in the lock and turned it. She opened the door a crack and peeked out to ensure no one was walking by.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone you were in here with me,” she said.
“I might.”
She studied him, then scoffed. “You liar. You never would.”
He studied her too, then grinned. “No, I never would.”
“Good night, Mr. Scott.”
“Good night, Miss Wells.”
He swooped in and stole a quick kiss, then strolled out, bold as brass.
CHAPTER FOUR
In Rebecca’s opinion, men were thick creatures. She’d flirted with enough of them to know.
During her final year of school, when she was sixteen, she and her fellow students had constantly plotted over the precise types of husbands and marriages they intended to have.
Most of her classmates had travelled home to enjoy the courtship rituals that would turn them into brides. Most of them had succeeded. She was the only one lingering in the ranks of the unwed, and if something didn’t happen soon she would move into the ranks of spinsterhood.
After a lengthy round of chaos—her father dying, Gaylord inheriting—Rebecca’s dowry was gone, and every suitor in the kingdom had heard about it.
In the beginning she hadn’t understood why she’d received no proposals. She’d sent out plenty of hints that she was available, but her suggestive manner hadn’t elicited the slightest interest.
A school friend had enlightened Rebecca, mentioning how sad it was that Gaylord had frittered away her dowry. Up until that moment, Rebecca hadn’t realized there was a problem.
Still though, she was determined to wrangle herself a husband,
and if she couldn’t, then she wasn’t too proud to wrangle another sort of arrangement entirely. She would do anything—literally anything—to escape Gaylord and Cliffside.
They were all on a downhill slide, and when Pamela and Gaylord crashed at the bottom, Rebecca refused to crash with them.
She was over by the French windows that led out onto the verandah. The latest set of dancing had just ended, so the room was crowded, and no one was paying any attention to her.
Ramsey Scott glanced at her, and she winked and waited for a reaction. Once she was certain he’d gotten her message, she snuck outside and hastened down into the garden, stopping under a lantern so he’d have to be blind to not see her.
When he appeared on the verandah she could barely keep from waving, but she didn’t. He started toward her, and she took off too, rounding a hedge so she couldn’t be observed from the house. Not that anyone would care.
The neighbors ignored her. She was the unwed sister, the forgotten sister whose future had been destroyed by Gaylord. Pamela might complain about misbehavior though. Pamela wallowed in a fantasy where she pretended their life was still the same, that they were still rich and respected and Rebecca had a reputation worth protecting.
Ramsey Scott was the first bachelor Rebecca had met in ages, and she was incredibly intrigued. He was big and tall and handsome. Dressed in black, he exuded danger and menace, and when he sauntered through a parlor people stepped out of his way, scowling as he went by.
She’d never encountered a man who had that kind of effect, and she wanted to know all about him. Why wasn’t he married? From his clothes and demeanor, she figured he was wealthy. Gaylord had many posh London friends. Was Ramsey Scott one of them?
If so, might he be in the market for a very pretty, very accommodating wife? If he wasn’t in the market, there was no law to prevent her from working to change his mind.
She listened as his boots crunched across the gravel, and very quickly, there he was. He towered over her, looking grim and mysterious and lethal, and her tummy tickled.
“You’ve been chasing me all night, Miss Wells,” he said, “and it seems you’ve caught me. Now that you have, what will you do with me?”
“I have several good ideas,” she saucily retorted.
“I’ll just bet you have.”
“Let’s walk out by the lake.”