by Anne Stuart
“Don’t even think it.”
“Now, how can I help what I think?” he replied. “What is that thing you’re wearing, by the way? It’s surprisingly…diaphanous.”
“Behave yourself. It belonged to your esteemed aunt.”
“And looking at you in it makes me feel positively incestuous.” He dealt the cards with swift, casual grace, the lace on his unfastened sleeves dripping down over the cards. Making it far too easy for him to cheat.
“Why don’t you roll up your sleeves,” she said. “I’d prefer to get a clear look at your hands.”
He held them out. They were a gentlemanly white, long fingered and elegant. Hands not suited for hard labor. Hands suited for playing cards and drinking wine and touching a woman….
“They’re very graceful, aren’t they?” he said with pride, admiring them. “I’ve been told my hands and my eyes are particularly pleasing. Though there are other parts of my anatomy that are equally gifted….”
“Stop it! Do you accept my wager?”
“Of course, my pet. And if I win, I want a kiss. No more, no less.”
“No.”
“But yes,” he said, giving her his devilish smile. “I think my terms are very reasonable. I could have asked for far more, and instead I’m content with one little kiss from the lady. What do you have to lose?”
He was far too amused by all this. “I thought you made it clear that you no longer had any use for me.”
“Now, what gave you that impression?”
“Perhaps the fact that you abducted my charge.”
“Such provincial thinking, dragon. I’m perfectly capable of juggling two women or even three.”
“You promised you wouldn’t touch me.”
“And I won’t. Unless I win the hand.”
She stared at him, full of mute frustration. She told herself she had nothing to worry about. He was teasing her, simply because he could. She was the best entertainment the place could offer, and annoying her clearly amused him. Not that he’d mind kissing her—he seemed to find a level of enjoyment in it. But his main goal was to irritate her, which kept her relatively safe. And the chance that she might win, and escape this uncomfortable situation sooner, made it worth the risk.
Because she didn’t really want him to kiss her. Did she?
“Done,” she said. “Deal the cards. And roll up your sleeves.”
“You think I’d cheat?”
“Without question.”
He laughed. “My love, if you were a man I’d have to kill you for that.”
“But I’m not. And I don’t trust you.”
“Very wise,” he said, rolling his sleeves up. Not necessarily the best idea—his forearms were strong, formidably attractive. She seldom saw men’s arms beyond the lace cuffs, any more than men saw women’s legs above their ankles. It made things uncomfortably intimate.
He scooped up the cards and dealt them again, still too quickly for her peace of mind. The first hand went well, with Annelise winning by a few points. The second hand went to him, overwhelmingly so, and she was feeling less and less secure.
“Best two out of three?” he suggested.
She had been an idiot to agree to this in the first place. Her father had taught her to play cards as well as swear, but she was in the presence of a master. She realized that the first win he’d simply been toying with her.
The sooner she got away from him the better. “Agreed,” she said, wondering if she could figure out how to cheat. He’d never suspect it of her, and dishonorable as it was, fudging the cards might prove her only chance.
But even if she were an accomplished cheat she would have gotten nowhere. Despite his lazy attitude his eyes were alarmingly intent, and he watched every move, every expression with the attention of an avid gambler, not a lustful lover. At least she could calm herself with that notion. He didn’t want to win so he could kiss her, he wanted to win for the sake of winning alone. He’d only picked the prize to embarrass her.
She’d been embarrassed before in her life and survived—she’d survive this, she thought as she let her losing cards drop onto the table.
“Best three out of five?” she suggested helplessly.
“I don’t think so. Time to pay your debts.”
She wasn’t going to argue, or plead. She had too much dignity for that. She rose, feeling like a French aristocrat about to face the guillotine. She almost said as much, but something stopped her. Blind instinct, or some hidden memory or whispered gossip, but she kept silent, her back straight, waiting for him.
He rose, strolling around the card table with casual grace. “You needn’t look so martyred, dragon,” he whispered. “It’s not going to hurt.”
“I believe it’s a dragon’s victims who tend to be the martyrs,” she pointed out, trying to stand her ground.
He came up to her, far too close, and once again she was conscious of his height. No one ever made her feel small, helpless, but if anyone had that effect on her it would be Montcalm. There was no question that next to his impressive height she actually felt delicate. There was something ridiculously protective about his sheer size. And she had to stop thinking things like that just as he was about to kiss her.
She reached behind his head, caught his long hair in her hand, and offered her cheek to him, closing her eyes.
He laughed. “I don’t think so, my love.” And he swept her into his arms, pulling her tight against his strong body, and put his hungry mouth on hers.
He tasted like wine and hot sweet sin. She let go of his hair, needing to hold on to something more solid, and his body was the only thing in reach. She clutched his shoulders, just for support, and let him kiss her, trying to remain very still.
He lifted his head and looked down at her, and she had no choice but to look up into his laughing eyes. “We’d already gotten to lesson two, dragon. You can do better than that.” And this time she let him press her mouth open as his hands cupped her face, holding her in place as he slowly, leisurely kissed her, a lazy seduction that left her heart pounding, her pulses racing, her stomach knotting in inexplicable longing.
When he drew back this time there was a self-satisfied expression on his face that she wanted to slap off. She yanked herself out of his arms. “We wagered one kiss,” she said. “That was two.”
“Was it?” he said innocently. “Then I’d better give it back.” And before she realized what he was doing he’d pulled her back against him, into a tight embrace, and kissed her again.
She wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t prepared for it. This was no lazy seduction, no charming flirtation. This was carnal, deep and shattering, and before she realized it he’d pushed her up against the wall, holding her there as he kissed her, and the feeling was so powerful she felt as if she might explode. His hand covered her breast, barely restrained by the antique chemise, and she could feel her nipples tighten against him, feel a wash of something totally foreign and good sweep over her body, until she was both hot and cold, trembling, wanting to weep, wanting to slap him, wanting to rip the white lace from her body and place his mouth where his hand was.
When he drew back this time he was breathless, and his usually laughing eyes were dark and troubled. “That was more dangerous than I’d expected, dragon.”
She couldn’t catch her breath. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him—indeed, what reason did she have to cry? It was nothing more than a kiss. Or three kisses, to be exact.
She shoved him back hard as anger swept over her. “You bastard,” she said, furious.
The confused expression in his eyes had already vanished, and he was laughing at her again. “Such language, my pet,” he said. “No need to get overset by a simple kiss or two. It means nothing.”
It was bad enough already. That mild dismissal was the last straw. If she had shoes she would have kicked him. As it was, she slapped him so hard that it made her hand numb, whipping his head to one side, and all laughter was gone from his face. Her vio
lent reaction startled her and she wondered whether he’d hurt her in retaliation.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he said after a moment. “But I wouldn’t make a habit of it if I were you. Some men hit back.”
She tried to say something arch and dismissing. She even had the words in her head, something along the lines of a mocking, “They’re not gentlemen like you,” but her voice, her resolve failed her. She opened her mouth to speak, shut it again, and then ran like a coward, knowing ridiculous tears were beginning to spill over. It wasn’t until she reached the bedroom and slammed the door behind her that she remembered she’d left the books behind.
She looked at the bed. His bed. And pulling the heavy covers from it, she dragged them over to the fire and wrapped them around herself, lying down on the threadbare rug, away from the disturbing painting that loomed over the bed, to stare, hollow-eyed, into the fire.
Hell and damnation, Christian thought, staring after her. He didn’t think dragons could cry. It was a good thing she’d run—if he’d actually seen the tears he would have had to comfort her, and if he’d comforted her he would have kissed her, and this time there would be no stopping him.
She really had the most astonishingly arousing effect on him. He couldn’t remember having that powerful a reaction to a simple kiss before. Well, in truth there’d been nothing simple about the kisses or the…feelings lurking beneath. He’d wanted to shock her.
He’d managed to shock himself.
He really ought to get rid of her. She was more complicated than a simple game to amuse him while he was rusticating. She was dangerous, and he was a man who knew to avoid unnecessary peril.
She had no idea how lovely she was in that flowing lace that had been delightfully transparent. Her long mane of thick, wavy hair was a complete surprise—it was a crime to keep such lustrous beauty tied back in a tight little knot. And while some sentimental part of him missed her spectacles, he could bless the fact that they were no longer able to obscure her huge gray eyes. Or the emotions that stormed through them that she tried so hard to hide.
No, she was a greater danger than he’d realized. In the end, she’d won her wager after all. In the morning he’d have Harry send Jeremy the stable lad out to hire a decent carriage for her, and once she was safely gone he could concentrate on Wynche End. He still had a sizable amount of money from Chipple’s payoff, and if he was careful it could go quite a ways toward restoring this place a bit. Even make it self-supporting if he managed to get the place working again. The breeding stables had once been very fine, in the time of his great-uncle, and the surrounding land, currently untended, had always been fertile. All it required was a concentrated effort.
He didn’t expect any trouble from Josiah Chipple. He’d be too busy chasing down his daughter, trying to stop her marriage, blustering and yelling. Wynche End was too far away for him to bother and Christian planned to keep that nice safe distance. At least until the old man’s wrath had cooled.
In the meantime, he was perfectly fine here. As soon as he got rid of the Honorable, far too distracting, Miss Kempton.
Josiah Chipple was not a happy man. He’d lost an entire cargo—once an uprising began and blood had been spilled it was a waste trying to save anything for future profit. Better to simply obliterate the rest of the holding into the sea than deal with the kind of problems restive slaves could provide. He hired the right kind of men who kept them chained, passive and so beaten down that they’d cause no trouble for any prospective buyer. But once they began to fight back there was no salvaging it.
He’d lost half his crew, including his captain, a vicious brute who’d served him well and shared his profits for the last twenty years. He’d have a hard time replacing him, and in the meantime one less ship was running, one less cargo was being harvested and delivered. He’d arrived back at Chipple House in a foul mood, only to be greeted with the news that his daughter had run off with the man who’d dared to blackmail him.
If it hadn’t been for business, Christian Montcalm would have been dealt with promptly. But things hadn’t been going Chipple’s way, and the morning after he returned home he was ready for blood, any blood. It mattered not if it was related to him—his daughter had betrayed his wishes, and no punishment was harsh enough. He’d been foolish to think she was the only way to fulfill his dreams. He was still a young man, just this side of fifty. He was wealthy and could marry again, perhaps a titled widow who was still fertile enough to give him sons. He had no more need for Hetty than he’d had for her mother once she’d proved unable to give him any more children.
First, he had to find where Christian Montcalm had taken his daughter. And discover where that snotty bitch Miss Kempton had gone, as well. Betrayal was on every side, and Josiah Chipple did not take well to betrayal.
He would use every means at his disposal to ensure his vengeance, and one of the most valuable was information. By the end of the day he knew more about Christian Montcalm and his forebears than the man did himself. The possibilities were endless. He only had to choose one and set it into play. And watch his revenge flower.
20
It was a gloomy, gray day, matching Annelise’s mood. There was still no sign of her brown dress, and the only thing sedate enough in Christian’s great-aunt’s wardrobe was a forest-green riding habit. Even putting it on made her feel edgy, but it was either that, or a dress with far too low a décolletage, or the powdering gown, and the habit was the least of all the evils.
No shoes, of course, and the elegantly clocked silk stockings were slippery on the floor. At least the cut on her foot was healing. She bundled her hair into a tight knot at the back of her neck, pulled a chair close to the fire, and sat, determined not to move until she absolutely had to. She wasn’t going to face Christian Montcalm again unless she was forced to.
When Mrs. Browne brought her a tray of food, she had taken one look at her expression and backed out quickly, with the muttered promise that she’d work on her dress. Annelise had nibbled on the cheese and bread, then ignored the rest. There had to be some way out of Wynche End. And fast. She was far more susceptible than she’d ever realized.
The sound of horses’ hooves drew her out of her gloom and she went to the window, peering out through the light mist, just in time to see Christian disappear down the overgrown drive on what looked to be a perfectly healthy horse. One that could have carried William while Annelise rode safely with Hetty. It was the final straw. She was going to find wherever Christian had hidden Chipple’s heavy gun and shoot him. She was going to walk twenty miles in stocking feet just to get away from him. She was going to do just about anything to ensure she never had to be near that lying, rutting bastard again.
She found the kitchen with no difficulty, and stormed into the room to find Harry Browne sitting at the table, drinking a mug of tea, and Bessie busy making bread. Sensing that what was about to follow such an entrance was women’s talk, Harry excused himself and left as quickly as he could.
“Your husband’s a wise man,” Annelise said in a tight voice, taking the seat he’d vacated.
Mrs. Browne laughed. “You’d scare the bejesus out of the devil himself, miss,” she said. “Though I’m thinking it’s not my Harry you’re wanting to kill.”
“You’d be right. Where has Mr. Montcalm disappeared to, and where did he find that horse?”
“He told you he had no horses?” Mrs. Browne asked incredulously. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised—he’ll do just about anything to get his way. You shouldn’t let him bother you, miss.”
“I’m not going to let him bother me. I’m just not going to let him keep me here. What I need are a pair of boots or shoes that would fit me. I intend to walk and keep walking until I find some form of civilization where they’ll help me.”
Mrs. Browne looked hurt. “Now, miss, I’ll help you if that’s what you want. Master Christian led me to believe you wanted to be here.”
“Master Christian is a bald-faced liar.�
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“He is, indeed,” Bessie agreed in a comforting voice. “He needs someone to teach him a lesson.”
“He’s past being taught,” Annelise said.
“There’s another horse in the stable, as well, and I know Harry would saddle her for you…”
“I don’t ride,” Annelise interrupted. “Walking will do me just fine.”
“It’s more than three miles to the village, the roads are a sea of mud, and another storm is coming in. I’ll talk to Master Christian, see to it that you have decent transportation…”
“He can go to hell.”
“Aye, there are times when he’s sure that’s his only choice. The poor lad’s had a rough time of it, and it’s little wonder he is what he is. Not that it’s any excuse, mind you.”
Annelise wasn’t going to ask. She had no interest in Christian Montcalm’s “rough time” and nothing under the sun would induce her to respond to Mrs. Browne’s careful hint to probe deeper.
And then she sighed. “Why has he had a rough time?” she asked wearily.
“Lost his entire family to those bloodthirsty Frenchies,” she said. “Mother, father, brothers and a sister. Murdered in cold blood, while Master Christian was here visiting his grandfather. He’s always blamed himself that he wasn’t there with them. Not that he could have helped—he’d simply be dead, as well. But guilt is a funny thing.”
“His family was killed during the Terror? But he’s not French.”
“Half-French,” Mrs. Browne corrected. “But you won’t find him admitting to it. He wiped every trace of that country out of his life, out of his voice and his clothes. With the help of his grandfather’s beatings, I might add. He was left an orphan at the mercy of an evil old man, and he learned to survive as best he could. But he won’t drink French wine, won’t wear French clothes, pretends he doesn’t understand the language. Pretends his poor lost family never even existed.”