by Lois Greiman
He caught her fingers in a careful grip. “Wasn’t there something you were going to do?” He had covered his wounded limb with the towel. When had he done that? She hadn’t even noticed. Perhaps because of his chest. It was all but bare. She had pushed his shirt aside. It was open to his waistband, bare of hair but for a dark, silky band that began below his navel and slipped away to unknown depths. One nipple was exposed, small and erect above the muscled mound of his chest. A scar was sliced diagonally beneath it, and she found that against all kinds of practical logic, she wished to touch it, to run her fingers along its ragged course, to let her fingers stray down the rippling expanse of his abdomen and beyond.
“Lass?”
“I cannot sleep with you,” she breathed, snapping her gaze back to his face.
He scowled, but the expression did nothing to make him less desirable. Indeed, if the truth be told, she had never been attracted to the weedy men considered pleasing among the elegant ton. She was, and always had been, attracted to power. To the kind of man who would use her and discard her. Who would declare his love in ringing tones, only to take her valuables and leave her bereft and naked, body and soul.
“I meant, I believe you were about to tell me your lover’s name,” he said.
“Oh. Yes.” She caught his gaze with her own, shook off her morose thoughts, and concentrated on the present. Who was this man? Why was he here? “Of course. His name is…” But suddenly her mind locked. She had been trained to lie. To fabricate, to build on nothing. She glanced out the window. Tattered moonlight shone on the nodding bloom of a faded rose. “Gardener.”
His brows rose. “Gardener.”
Holy saints. What was wrong with her? “Yes.”
“Might that be his name or his occupation?”
She moved away, stepping from between his legs, putting space between them.
“I believe I told you he was a miller.”
“A miller’s son,” he corrected, watching her, drinking her in. It was difficult to breathe. More difficult still to move away. But she managed to put a few feet between them. Though it felt wrong when he was there, within reach, his chest bare, his eyes hypnotic.
“I thought, perhaps, he had defied tradition and put his hand to another profession,” he said.
The muscles of his belly were bunched in rows. Her belly looked nothing like that.
“Lass?” he said.
Good Lord. “I didn’t think to ask,” she said, and turned away, cursing herself. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a naked man before. But he was a different kind of man. Not posh or elegant, but rough-hewn and chiseled. As if he’d been sculpted by the wind, an element of nature. Taking a steadying breath, she selected a needle from her tray.
He was still watching her. She could feel his attention though she didn’t turn toward him. “You simply call him Gardener?” he asked.
“In truth…” She found a length of sturdy thread but had a bit of trouble managing it with unsteady fingers. “We didn’t do a great deal of talking.”
Quiet darkened into silence.
“May I inquire about his surname?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and altered her features just a bit. In truth, she had no desire to appear repulsive to him, but she had little choice. Things were moving at a frantic pace, and she had vowed long ago not to lose control again. Not to repeat the mistakes of her past. She knew nothing of him, could not trust him, could not control the feelings that sizzled through her. Hence she looked inside herself and concentrated on homeliness, on dowdiness. In truth she would have to change very little. “I fear I have no way of knowing his surname,” she said.
“And this Gardener, he lives on Gallows Road.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said he was the reason for your presence there.”
“True.” She steeled herself and turned toward him.
He settled back in his chair, still watching her, but his expression changed not a whit. “Tell me, lass,” he said, “are you trying to fascinate me?”
“No. I’m trying to repel you,” she said, and was shocked by the honesty of her own words.
He scowled. “You’re not very accomplished.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, for he was wrong; she was excellent at warding off men. At least she was where most men were concerned. But perhaps he did not fall into that category.
Her hands were not quite steady as she threaded the needle. “Perhaps if I blacken my teeth and neglect to bathe.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” he said, voice low and velvety masculine.
She glanced into his eyes and he stared back, as if she were beautiful, as if she were mesmerizing. What was wrong with him? “This is going to be quite painful,” she said, and clearing her throat, managed to pull her gaze away as she approached him.
“A good opportunity to prove my mettle then,” he said.
He was arrogant and unperturbed. But he would not be so cocky once the needle bit his flesh. She almost winced at the thought. But the wound needed stitching, and she should be the one to do it, for causing him pain could only improve matters. She stepped between his legs. Her thighs brushed his, and even through the layers of her garments, his nearness made her shiver. Gritting her teeth, she gripped the needle harder, but her hand was still unsteady as she gazed down at his wound. Despite herself, she had no desire to hurt him.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, lass, have you no servants?”
The lips of the wounds were gaping, making her a bit queasy, which was strange, for she was accustomed to injuries, though they were generally her own. “Of course.”
“And where might you keep them?”
“You make it sound as though I store them in the wardrobe with my buttonhooks.”
“Do you?”
She shifted her gaze to his, wondering vaguely if he was trying to distract her, trying to make her task easier. “No,” she said.
“Where are they, then?”
“Abed, I would suspect.”
He considered that for a moment, sensuous lips slightly curved. “I would think a lady of your standing would desire some service.”
Perhaps he intended the double entendre. Perhaps not. Either way, his words steeled her resolve. She squatted between his knees, holding her breath as she brushed against his skin. “What I desire is to be left alone.”
“Ahh…” He sighed. “So you can become promiscuous in peace.”
“Just so.”
“Which hasn’t yet transpired.”
Dammit! What had happened to her ability to lie? “Except for Gardener, of course.”
“Of course. Are you going to stitch that or not?” he asked.
She refused to look away, to blanch.
“It’s going to hurt,” she repeated.
“If I pass out will you revive me?”
“I fear I’m fresh out of smelling salts,” she said, and poised the needle.
“I’m certain your nakedness would do quite well.”
She slanted a glance up at him. “Tell me, Sir Drake, might there be something fundamentally wrong with you?”
“I’ve been wounded.”
“In the head?” she asked, and he laughed.
The sound was pleasant and low. It rumbled through her system like a distant storm, threatening dire consequences if it came too near. And she was too near. Far too near. Steadying herself, she dipped the needle toward his leg.
“What if I scream?” he asked suddenly.
She jumped, then closed her eyes and focused on the task at hand, pressing the needle into his flesh. He didn’t so much as flinch.
“If I scream will you soothe me?” he asked.
She didn’t glance up. What kind of man didn’t flinch? “With nakedness?” she asked.
“I knew from the moment we met that you were a bright lass.”
She glanced at his face. Their gazes caught. His lips were still curved into the semblance of a smile. His eyes gleame
d in the flickering light. “How are you faring? Truly?”
“If I say it hurts like hell will you take me to your bed?” he rumbled.
She stared at him. Her ministrations didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Why? Had his time at sea made him immune to pain? Or did he have some kind of power she did not understand? Who was this man?
“If I say yes will you cease your yammering?” she asked.
“Will it be a lie?”
“Yes?”
“Yes, you’ll take me to your bed, or yes, it will be a lie?”
“I believe there may be something terribly wrong with you,” she said, and turned back to her task.
“I’ve been wounded. In your defense,” he reminded her.
Her stitches were small, even, careful. His leg never moved. “Isn’t it rather ungentlemanly for you to remind me?”
“I said I was randy, lass. Not gentlemanly.”
“Can’t you be both?”
He thought about that for an instant. “I have no reason to think so. Will you sleep with me if I’m impressively brave?”
He was impressively brave. It was uncanny. “No.”
“Where did Gardener live exactly?”
Was he trying to keep her off balance? Teasing her with his base sensuality, changing the subject, then questioning her? “Why do you wish to know?”
“I’m hoping to learn his secrets.”
“Secrets?” She dabbed away a drop of blood with the corner of the towel draped across his lap.
“How he lured you to his bed.”
“You are absolutely incorrigible. How did you ever last at sea?”
“I did not spend much time half naked with a beautiful woman between my legs.”
She glanced up, but he wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t mocking her. He still thought her beautiful. That was uncanny too. Unless he was lying. But for what purpose? And how had he known all along that she was a woman? Her spell had been strong. Roth and his nasty cutthroats had believed it from the first moment to the last. “Tell me of yourself,” she said.
He remained still for a moment, wordlessly watching her face, as if he were memorizing it, as if he were entranced. “There is little to tell.”
And that was strange too. What kind of man didn’t wish to speak of himself? Not an innocent one. So who was he? And why had he come to her defense? “Where did you grow up?”
“On the Serenity.”
“Aboard ship? Surely you weren’t born there.”
“I would guess ye might be able to guess from me speech where I was birthed.” He had intentionally made his homey burr heavier.
“Ireland,” she said.
“County Galway, until the hardy age of nine.”
“Nine.”
His gaze was dark and steady. “Da thought time at sea would be advantageous for me.”
“Why?”
“To make me a man, mayhap.”
He was probably telling the truth. Men were, at times, intolerably stupid, after all. “You weren’t supposed to be a man,” she said. “You were supposed to be nine.”
“How unfortunate you weren’t there to explain it to Da.”
He gave nothing away with his tone, and she wondered what his true feelings were. It was impossible to tell, for she was jabbing him repeatedly with a needle, and thus far he had shown no reaction whatsoever.
“Brothers? Sisters?” she asked.
“I have none.”
“You were an only child?”
He was watching her. She could feel it and glanced up at him.
“Why do you ask, lass? Do you wish for children yourself?”
She almost flinched at the question. Could he read her mind? Guess her thoughts? Did he know that the idea had dominated her desires for months on end?
“I’m finished,” she said, and dabbed at the wound, ready to stand, but he caught her chin in his hand.
“Do you?” he murmured.
“No,” she lied.
His expression was deadly serious. “Good. For you’ve no need to concern yourself on that account where I am involved.”
She couldn’t contain her scowl. “You’re unable to sire children?”
He was silent for a moment. “So I am told.”
“By the bastard—” She stopped herself, surprised by her unexpected passion. “By the surgeon who thought you would die before morning?”
He watched her in momentary silence, dark eyes stormy. “My thanks,” he said.
“For what?”
“Hating him.”
Their gazes met and fused, but she pulled hers away. “You may get dressed,” she said, and turned away.
She could tell by the noises behind her that he did just that, but in a moment he spoke again.
“I would know but one thing, lass.”
She glanced at him, saw that he was safely dressed.
“What did he do to earn such beauty as yours?”
Ella steadied herself and searched for a coy answer, but the truth came instead. “I am no beauty.”
His eyes shone in the firelight. “Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime.”
She set her medicinal tools aside and looked at him straight on. “Andrew Marvell?”
“My own sentiments, while similar, rarely sound as lyrical.” His eyes captured hers. She pulled hers away, feeling fidgety and foolish.
“Here, then,” she said, and taking the small volume from the table, handed it to him. “I believe some of his work is in this volume.”
He took the book. Their fingers brushed. Feelings washed through her, but she pulled away and cleared her throat.
“Tell me, lass, are all your evenings so entertaining?”
“Indeed not,” she said, turning toward the door. “Gardener was my first.”
He followed, but even without looking, she could tell that he limped. “I meant the excitement on Gallows Road,” he said.
“Oh…that…” They had reached the foyer. She forced a shiver and turned toward him. “I do appreciate your intervention.”
“Do you?” He was standing close enough so that she could smell the rich, male scent of him, almost familiar, almost irresistible.
“Of course.”
He shifted a half inch closer. “Enough to—”
“No,” she said, and though his lovely mouth quirked up a quarter of an inch, his eyes were deadly earnest.
Opening the door with an unsteady hand, she stepped through. She was an expert at managing people, had been trained to do just that, but she felt strangely unbalanced, as though he were an uncertainty she’d not encountered before. She didn’t like uncertainties.
He followed her outside and down the cobbled walk to the hitch where their mounts were tied.
His gelding nickered softly. He put a hand on its neck as she untied her mare, but in that moment he turned toward her and touched her hand.
“Ella.”
Feelings sparked off in a thousand errant directions. Their gazes caught and sizzled. Silence echoed in the night.
“You’ll make a grand mum, lass,” he said.
Did he know her desires? Her plans? she wondered, but she made light of it. “Might you be saying I am old, sir?” she asked.
He stared at her for an instant, then chuckled, low and quiet. Bowing, he mounted his steed with more grace than she would have thought possible, and rode away.
She watched him leave, enjoying the dark, tingling aftermath of his presence, but the fog swallowed him in a moment. And with it came an indefinable feeling, a prickling of the skin, an odd awareness that could neither be fully explained nor understood.
She was being watched.
Chapter 12
Feelings born of instinct and honed by ragged experiences told her to hide, warned her to run before they found her, held her down, probed her mind.
Her hands shook with the need to find a dark place, somewhere secret, somewhere safe, but she forced away the weakness. She woul
d not closet herself away. Not again. No, she would fight. Would use every power in her unearthly arsenal. So she stood very still, letting her senses awaken, letting her mind expand and unfurl until she could pinpoint the location of the interloper, could taste his presence.
He was male. She knew that immediately though she couldn’t have said how. He stood behind her and to the left. Some fifteen yards separated them.
And suddenly she wished desperately for a weapon. Something conventional, tangible, not just her own weak abilities, but she forced herself to turn, to remain motionless, to stand her ground. She would not cower again. “Are you going to reveal yourself, or will you hide there like a cur for the entirety of the night?” she asked.
There was a moment of silence before a dim form stepped from the silvery shadows a few strides away. Closer than she thought! Almost upon her. Still, she conjured all her strength, but in that instant, she recognized him.
Jasper. She felt her muscles sag with relief, but she knew far better than to show it. Never tip your hand.
“When did you know it was me?” he asked. His voice was steady in the darkness.
Why hadn’t she sensed him earlier? Why hadn’t she recognized his signature? What was it about Drake that jumbled her senses? She turned away, hiding the tremble in her hands. The mare’s reins proved difficult, but she managed to untie them. “You smell of danger and deceit,” she said.
“What do you know of him?” he asked, and stepped farther into view, a shadow among shadows.
She led the mare toward the narrow brick stable. “It’s rather unbecoming for you to spy on me. Don’t you have minions to do that sort of thing, Jasper?”
“I came on your sister’s behalf.”
She turned abruptly, heart tripping. “What happened?”
“You don’t need—”
“Where is she?” Her heart was hammering loud and hard. “What happened?”
“She’s fine. Safe.” He scowled, thinking, almost seeming to tense. “Why? Did you sense something?”
She concentrated, but there was nothing there, no pain, no fear, just a smattering of fatigue, of worry. Ella drew a breath, forcing herself to relax. “Why are you here, Jasper?”
“Did you sense something?” he repeated.
She glanced at him as she stepped into the barn. From the farther of the two roomy stalls, Dancer nickered. Silk ignored him. Always aloof. “Is something amiss?” Ella asked.