‘Use these to secure his wrists to the headboard. The last thing we need is for him to try to escape or to attack the first person who comes here after he is awake.’
‘Yes, miss.’
The footman wrapped the silk around one wrist at a time and tied Charles to the bed. Only then did some of the tension that had driven Emma all night begin to ease. All she had to do now was somehow keep him here until after the duel was scheduled to take place. Only three days.
‘David,’ she said, ‘I know you have been up since before sunrise, but someone needs to stay with him. Please make up a pallet and stay here, and come for me when he wakens.’
The young footman nodded.
Emma took one last look at her prisoner. He looked like a fallen angel—a dark angel. His coat had been unbuttoned but left on. It pulled across his well-muscled chest. When he woke up, he would be nauseous and he would ache from being trussed up, but she could not help either of those things.
He should have agreed not to meet Bertram.
Chapter Ten
Charles’s mouth felt like it had been dragged through the gutter. And his head….
He kept his eyes closed and his body still as he took inventory. He was on his back. His arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. His chest was bound. He decided his jacket was still on. As were his boots, breeches and stockings. He was fully clothed and couldn’t remember when he’d last been this uncomfortable.
He opened one eye. It was dark except for a sliver of sunlight slashing across the white ceiling. There wasn’t enough light to see much. He tried to sit up and couldn’t. His hands were pulled up over his head and seemed to be bound to something hard. He twisted his head to the side and up to see his left wrist tied to a headboard using a woman’s stocking. He also saw a young man sprawled on a makeshift pallet across the doorway.
The footman who had brought him Emma Stockton’s note.
The last thing he remembered was drinking her port and realising it was drugged. She had kidnapped him.
Charles smiled. She was a very resourceful woman who would do anything for her family. His admiration for her increased, as did another part of his body as he thought of her. He realised, with wry humour at his own expense, that his offer to make her his mistress in exchange for him not to duel with her brother wasn’t far from what he wanted.
She entertained him. She aroused him.
The man on the pallet stirred and Charles came back to his situation. He was her prisoner, a position he didn’t want to be in for long. Or at least he didn’t want to be bound to her bed under these circumstances.
He flexed the muscles in his arms and swallowed a groan of pain. She had him trussed up tight, as though he were dangerous. A compliment to him, but this would make it more difficult for him to escape—and escape he would.
He inched himself closer to the headboard until he could reach the stocking with his teeth. The delicate material smelled of sweet peas and woman. With a jolt to his groin, he realised these were her stockings.
When he closed his lips over the silk, he tasted and smelled her. The ache that had started earlier intensified as he filled his mouth with the smooth stocking.
It was an effort of will to tear the material with his teeth. He felt as though he bit her when he wanted to lick and kiss the delicate skin these stockings had covered. He groaned and shook his head to rid himself of the image of her pale skin close to his mouth. He made himself shred the silk until there were runs in several places and holes in others.
His breathing deepened.
‘I say, sir,’a sleepy voice said, ‘you should not be doing that.’
Charles jerked. He lay still for long seconds, willing the urgency in his loins to subside. The last thing he needed was for the guard to realise he was aroused by chewing on Emma Stockton’s stockings.
Reluctantly he took his mouth from her stocking. He finally spoke when he was sure his voice would not give away his body’s state. ‘What else would you expect me to do?’ Exasperation crept into his tone. ‘I don’t have the time to lie here trussed up like a Christmas goose.’
The young man looked uncomfortable. Not surprising. Footmen didn’t help kidnap members of the aristocracy.
Instead of replying to Charles’s irritation, the young man scrambled to his feet. ‘Miss Stockton needs to know you’re awake.’
Charles’s rebellious body reacted to her name. He called himself ten times a fool. Even if she was interested in him, he didn’t have the wealth her family needed. And he was in trade. Not that he was interested in her. His body wanted her, but that wasn’t unusual for him. Women fascinated him.
‘Ah, yes,’ he finally managed, ‘the daring Miss Stockton. I would like to speak with her.’ He was glad his voice didn’t give away the heat coursing through him.
The servant turned red. ‘You’ve no call to use that tone of voice when talking about Miss Stockton. She’s a lady who deserves respect.’ He added belatedly, ‘Sir.’
So the prickly woman was loved by her retainers. Charles hadn’t thought about it before, but he wasn’t surprised. If her determination to protect those she loved extended to her servants, then they had every reason to be loyal to her.
He said nothing.
‘And you must stop tearing at the ties, sir.’
Curious and feeling provocative, Charles asked, ‘Do you know what these are?’
The young man turned beet red, his blond hair sticking out. ‘Yes, sir.’
Charles would feel sorry for the footman if he didn’t feel so unsure himself about what he felt for the dratted woman. He realised he wanted the young man to feel as uncomfortable about his bindings as he did. ‘Why didn’t you use rope?’
The footman shuffled his feet. ‘Miss Stockton gave me those. Thought they would be easier on your skin than rope—sir.’
Charles snorted. ‘Well, they aren’t.’
She would think that. A more experienced woman would have known how provocative these scented silk stockings were. They were worse than any rope. Rope might cut and burn his wrists, but these intimate clothes had touched forbidden areas of her body and caused more damage to his mind. He had thought his attraction to her was merely because she openly disliked him. He was beginning to realise it was more.
He wanted her as a man wants a woman. He wanted her beneath him, her legs around him, her lips begging him. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to erase the picture of her flush with pleasure—pleasure he gave her.
‘Sir?’ The footman’s voice was worried. ‘Are you sick? I will get a pan.’
Charles stifled an uncomfortable laugh. Was he sick? Certainly, but not the way the young man thought. ‘I don’t need a pan. Get your mistress.’
‘Promise not to chew the bindings while I’m gone.’ He looked stubborn.
‘I’ll be damned if I promise anything. If you can’t fetch Miss Stockton before I work my way through these, then you are too poor a guard to be here.’
The young man’s eyes flashed, but he kept his mouth shut. He quickly gathered the bedding from the floor in front of the door and piled it on a chair by the window. He looked at Charles before leaving.
Charles counted to ten after the door closed, then moved back up in bed and continued to gnaw at the silk stockings. He would be free when she arrived as long as he kept himself from the tempting fantasy of how the stockings would look on her.
She had nice ankles, she likely had nice legs. He wanted to taste her skin, run his tongue along the satin of her inner thigh just above where the garter would hold her stockings. Desire washed over him like heat lightning, tightening his loins. He groaned.
The door opened and the scent of sweet peas joined his vision.
‘What are you doing?’
Her voice sent a rush of blood to the part of his body that troubled him. He spoke harshly. ‘What does it look like? I am eating your stocking. Would you prefer for me to eat something else?’ He met her ey
es with his, doing nothing to hide the need that rode his body like an unsatisfied woman.
She flushed as her gaze went from him to the damp stocking and back to him. ‘Are you hungry?’
He looked at her and wondered if she knew what they were talking about. Didn’t she know he wanted her when it was evident in his voice and the aroused state of his body, which he doubted his pantaloons hid?
‘Yes, very hungry.’ Desire held him in a vise as his gaze moved over her. She was demurely dressed in grey but her ankles peeked below the hem. He could see the outline of her left thigh, a thigh the stocking he had just released might have covered yesterday.
His need increased. He closed his eyes to the sight of her, dazed that she had this power over him. He would have never thought it. She wasn’t his type of woman.
‘Are you ill?’
Was that worry in her voice? He thought it might be. Another part of him wondered why the idea made his stomach knot pleasurably, much like it did when he made love to a woman. She wasn’t for him. No matter what his body thought.
‘Are you feeling guilty?’ He countered her with sarcasm, hoping to put paid to his response to her and to hide the thickness in his throat.
Her shoulders hunched then straightened. ‘Certainly not. I am merely concerned that you will be sick on the clean sheets.’
‘Not very clean since your henchman put me in bed with my boots on.’
Her light brown brows furrowed. ‘I am sorry. I left them thinking they would make you comfortable.’
He laughed a short bark that did nothing to ease his discomfort. ‘They also left my coat on. It was damned painful when I woke up.’
Dismay moved over her features. ‘Then I owe you several apologies.’
‘I think so.’ For the raging fire that coursed through his body if nothing else.
She stiffened and eyed him as though he had gone too far. Did she finally realise the state he was in? Any inexperienced Miss would be affronted at his blatant arousal.
‘But if you had agreed with my request,’ she said, ‘none of this would have been necessary. So, it could also be said that you brought this on yourself.’
Her voice was cold, but did nothing to dampen the heat in him. She didn’t know he wanted her or she refused to acknowledge that she knew. He didn’t know which and wasn’t sure it mattered. He had to control himself better than this.
His eyebrows rose. ‘I did not issue the challenge. Your brother did.’
‘I am sure you did something to provoke him.’
‘I merely treated him as he deserved.’
‘So, you did provoke him. I thought as much.’ She moved toward him, her fine grey eyes narrowed.
He studied her, wishing his body would let him think clearly. Still, he saw no reason not to tell her the truth. ‘I don’t like the way he gambles so that you must shoulder the burden of trying to marry off Miss Amy. A burden your brother continues to make harder to accomplish by continuing to gamble and lose.’
‘You are concerned about me?’ She stopped inches from the bed, disbelief in her widened grey eyes. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you provoked him out of perversity. Although, I don’t understand why our concerns should take even a moment of your time.’
He tried to shrug and winced as the bonds kept him from moving. He ignored her last comment. ‘I don’t like to see anyone taken advantage of.’
Her face showed her puzzlement but her voice was cold. ‘So because you don’t like his gambling, you insulted him so that he challenged you.’
This time he stopped himself before shrugging. ‘Your brother isn’t known as a dueller. In fact, I didn’t think he would challenge me.’
‘You think him a coward.’
Yes was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t say it. ‘Bertram said he was protecting his sister’s name.’ A stupid reason, but he didn’t need to say it out loud. He had a feeling she agreed.
She sighed and stopped her momentum. Head cocked to one side, she curled her lips. ‘We both know he has only made things worse. I am sure that as soon as word of your duel gets out—as we both know it will—tongues will wag about Amy more than before. Everyone will believe there is something for Bertram to avenge.’
Sympathy for her situation nagged at him. ‘And I did not help matters by playing along with your headstrong sister.’
‘Are you apologising?’ she asked in wonder.
Was he? ‘Perhaps. I will definitely apologise if you release me.’
She shook her head, and he thought she actually regretted what she was about to say. ‘I can’t. I know you keep saying you won’t hurt Bertram, not on purpose, but you might by accident. He is silly and irresponsible, but he is my brother.’
‘You believe that I don’t intend to hurt him?’ Did she trust him now? A cool wash of pleasure moved over him.
She looked embarrassed and her gaze slid away from his. ‘I…I think you plan on not hurting him. But you might, so…’
‘You won’t let me go.’
She shrugged. ‘I will let you go if you write a note to him begging off.’
He forgot and tried to shrug, even though his tightly fitted jacket and trussed-up arms made it painful. ‘No. It would be the worst possible thing I could do for my reputation.’ He stared at nothing for a moment, wondering how much of himself to reveal to her. ‘There was a time when my reputation was all I had. If I call off, I will be branded a coward. Cowards are looked down upon. I won’t do that.’
‘I thought you would go back to that.’ She moved to the door. ‘Can I have you brought something to eat and drink?’
His admiration for her evaporated along with the desire that had held him in its grip, when he realised she intended to leave him like this. The beginning of anger took their places. ‘How do you think I will feed myself?’
It was obvious from the look on her face that she hadn’t thought that far ahead. Another time, he might have laughed at her consternation, but he was in no mood.
‘I shall think of something.’
‘You do that,’ he said, putting all his frustration and discomfort into his voice. ‘You do exactly that.’
She gave him one last look and closed the door. He listened to her footsteps until they faded. For long moments he lay gazing at the ceiling, which was now well lit by the morning sun filtering through the thin white muslin curtains.
Somehow he had to escape. He wasn’t about to let a woman hold him captive, and he wasn’t about to let his reputation be ruined because of a whining, worthless thing like Bertram Stockton. He might be a rake and willing to live with that appellation, but he wasn’t a coward.
And to hell with what his body wanted.
He knew there was more to Stockton’s challenge than his sister’s reputation. It was the contempt he felt for the man and that Stockton recognised. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bertram Stockton didn’t despise himself and his behaviour but was too weak to change.
Goodness knew he understood. He had descended into Hell before finding the strength to stand up to his gambling addiction. Only he hadn’t dragged his family into Hell with him. That is what really stuck in his throat about Emma Stockton’s brother.
Emma stood at the door to the servant’s room in her attic where Charles Hawthorne lay—her prisoner. A shiver of excitement coursed through her. She had dreaded having to kidnap him and now there was a part of her that was thrilled to have him at her mercy. This was a very dangerous thing she did.
The weight of the tray holding a pint of ale, a hunk of bread with butter and a slice of cheese brought her mind back to the problem. He had to be fed. She couldn’t hold him for three days without giving him sustenance. But she couldn’t release him to eat, either. He could easily overpower her.
She would have to feed him. Or a servant. Or not. She wasn’t sure which.
She toed open the door and entered. He lay on the bed, a piece of her stocking in his mouth. He had tried to free himself again.
&
nbsp; She turned abruptly away to set the tray down. She needed a moment to compose herself. When she had decided to have him tied with her old stockings, she had thought the silk would be easier on his skin. She had never considered that seeing him bound with a piece of her intimate clothing would make her stomach feel funny. And with a silk strand dangling from his well-shaped lips he was so tempting she had to do something to stop her thoughts.
She was not a loose woman. She was no Harriette Wilson to be aroused by a man who was not her husband. Nor did she want him for a husband. She just wanted him to leave her family alone.
Taking a deep breath, she turned around and faced him. ‘I have brought you some food.’
He spit out the piece of her stocking. ‘How am I to eat it?’
She took another deep breath and made an instant decision. ‘I am going to feed you.’
An arrested look stilled his features. ‘You are?’
Her palms started tingling, and she told herself not to be silly. He was harmless no matter how dangerous he looked this moment. And she didn’t care for him. She didn’t even like the man.
But the tingling spread up her arms.
‘Yes, I am going to feed you.’ She lifted her chin. ‘As you no doubt know, I have few servants so those I have are very busy. They don’t have the time to care for you.’
He smiled in a way that told her he was more than willing to be cared for. ‘But you do.’
Heat moved over her cheeks. Drat being a redhead. She cleared her throat. ‘I am making time because I am the one responsible for you. Nothing more.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Nothing more.’
She had known this wasn’t a good idea, but she truly had no one else to do it. Turning her back to him, she pulled a small table to the bed along with a wooden chair. The tray just fit on the table. She sat down and took the napkin and unfolded it.
Angling to face him, she placed the linen square on his chest without looking at his face. Musk and bergamot mingled with the smell of fresh bread and ale. Her head seemed to swirl, and she had to put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.
Georgina Devon Page 14