by Eve Silver
“Why do you call Mr. Warrick His Lordship?” she asked after a moment.
“He has our respect, and other reasons,” Hawker said, thrusting her bag at her. She took it without thinking, tensing her muscles against the sudden pull of its weight. “But more than that I cannot say. You’ll have to ask himself.”
With a shuffle and a nod, Hawker turned and strode away. Halfway along the dim corridor, he stopped and looked back. “You lock up now. No sense inviting trouble.”
Baffled, Jane retreated into the room and after placing her bag on the floor by the bed, she slowly walked back to the door and turned the key in the lock. Wariness tramped icy steps along her spine as she swiftly changed into her nightclothes, and she glanced around the edge of the screen more than once just to be certain she was still alone. Coming round from behind the screen, she carefully laid her damp dress over the back of a chair near the fire.
The sound of a horse’s whinny carried upward on the night air. Jane moved to the window and pulled the drapery aside, just a hand span, no more, caution whispering that she have a care.
At first she saw only the ghostly reflection of her face in the glass, but after a moment, she found she could see beyond that to the courtyard, awash in the glow of the brightly lit windows of the inn. The rain had let up. She let the curtain fall back and moved to snuff her lamp, leaving the chamber lit only by the paltry glow of the fire.
Then she returned to the window and peered out once more. Her view was clearer now with the lamp doused, and she watched as three large carts, each drawn by a pair of horses, pulled into the yard below to join the wagon she had clung to earlier. A shudder shook her frame as she thought of that wagon and the men who had terrorized her, of the solid warmth of Aidan Warrick, the rough threat in his voice as he warned them off.
Crushing the cloth of the curtain in her clenched fingers, she dragged her thoughts back to the tableau before her. Men spilled from the inn. They gathered round the wagons, spoke in hushed voices that did not carry. She could hear little more than a soft murmur of sound, their words lost to her.
One man swept his arm before him, a gesture of haste, and the others complied, hurriedly unloading one cart and carrying the contents inside. With equal speed, the men transferred the contents of another cart to the one that now stood empty. A man gave a low shout and with the creak of a wooden axle, the newly laden wagon moved off.
They were like ants, so very industrious and focused on their task. Jane’s heart kicked at her ribs, thumping a frantic rhythm, certainty settling in a leaden lump. What she witnessed was not a few local men finding a bit of extra coin in occasional smuggling. This was contraband on a grand scale, a planned operation of routes and passages, with the New Inn at its core. Here was no harmless bit of quiet trade, but something far greater.
And far more sinister.
She wrapped her arms about herself, rubbing her hands up and down to ward off the chill that seemed to come from deep within.
The silent men made short work of the third wagon, unloading it with sober and swift precision, and soon all the carts had been divested of their burdens. Less than a half hour after their arrival, the wagons moved on, creaking out of the yard to the narrow ribbon of road that was quickly swallowed by the darkness of the night.
A lone cart remained, the one that had been there since Jane’s arrival. It stood untouched, menacing in its mere presence.
She stared out at the darkness, wondering what she should do now. Cold night air seeped through the window to touch her skin and make her shiver. Practicality and exhaustion bid her seek warmth and rest in the large bed that dominated the room. Yet, sleep seemed an unlikely eventuality, so twisted were her thoughts, the scene she had just witnessed adding another layer to her disquietude.
She was about to turn from her clandestine perusal of the yard when a movement in the shadows caught her eye. Dropping the curtain until she peeped through an opening of less than an inch, she held her breath and watched as a large shadow separated itself from the overall gloom, tails of a greatcoat fluttering in the wind, broad shoulders and tall form identifying the man even before she saw his profile.
Aidan Warrick. Dark prince.
And, it would seem, king of thieves.
Chapter 5
The sound of the hall clock striking midnight yanked Jane from a deep slumber. She bolted upright, every sense strummed to heightened sensitivity. The misty swirls of her dream—she thought it had been more a nightmare—receded as sleep gave up its hold. An unfamiliar sound nagged at the edges of her awareness. There, it came again, a soft scraping noise from outside her door. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sat, tense and alert.
Reaching over the side of the bed, she groped for the fireplace poker that she had placed on the floor when she retired. With shaking hands, she gripped the cool metal. She had relit the lamp earlier, her inner turmoil too great to withstand the dark in this unfamiliar and frightening place.
The sound came again, a definite scratching. Now, the light of the lamp glinted off the door key as it fell from the lock, pushed aside by something thrust through the keyhole from the opposite side.
For an endless second the key tumbled end over end before it landed with a metallic clink on the wooden floor. The door handle turned slowly and, with a lazy squeak, the portal swung inward.
Jane tightened her hold on the poker, her breath held suspended as Mr. Warrick stepped into the room.
“What are you doing here?” The words croaked past her too-dry lips. She was uncertain if she felt dismayed or relieved.
Balancing a heaping plate on one hand and a bottle of wine in the crook of his arm, Mr. Warrick hunkered down to retrieve the fallen key. After locking the door once more, he tossed two keys on the small table, placed the plate of food and bottle of wine beside them, then doffed his heavy coat and hung it on a wooden peg next to her own cloak.
Bolstering her courage, Jane raised the poker to make clear her intent to defend herself should the need arise, and asked, “Why are you here, Mr. Warrick?”
He glanced at her. “I am here to share the bed. There is no other to be had. The inn is full.”
“You jest.” She tightened her hold on the poker, and watched him warily as he removed his waistcoat and hung it over the bedpost. Incongruously, she noticed that there was one shiny brass button missing, and she focused on that lack, barely daring to breathe as from the corner of her eye she saw that he undid the lacings of his linen shirt and pulled it from the waistband of his breeches. Her pulse jumped as the open shirt bared the solid expanse of his naked chest. He lifted the hem and pulled his pistol from his belt.
She felt hot and strange at the sight of his skin and the thin line of light brown hair that ran down his midsection. Her blood felt too thick, and her lips too dry.
Reflexively, her fingers curled tighter still around the poker. “I asked if you jest.”
“I do not. Make room for me.”
“I think not, sir.”
Their eyes locked and held.
“Planning to cosh me on the head?” He gestured at the poker.
Her reply caught in her throat, and then she forced it free. “If I must.”
He grunted. “Move over.”
At the softly voiced command, Jane’s heart stuttered to a stop, then restarted, bounding at an accelerated pace that left her light-headed and a little woozy. She could scarce fathom that he had saved her from those men outside only to then perpetrate the same vile act they had intended upon her person. Was her virtue to be a part of the price he was set on exacting from her father?
She wriggled back against the solid wood of the headboard and brandished her makeshift weapon in what she prayed was a daunting manner, though her arms quaked with nerves.
“What manner of monster are you?” The words were out before she could think to stop them.
“A tired one.” He laid the pistol carefully on the floor beside the bed, and then turned to look at he
r. “Now be a good girl and scoot over.”
Jane stared at him in amazement. He expected her to welcome him as easily as that. Scoot over, he said, and she was to allow him into her bed. Resentment, cold and pure, poured through her, followed by self disgust, because there was a part of her that wanted to touch him, to feel him, solid and warm, next to her.
Fury at herself, and at him, lent her courage that she had not dreamed she possessed. “I will fight you,” she breathed. “I will cosh you on the head.”
Mr. Warrick studied her for a protracted moment, running the first joint of his thumb across his lower lip. “I wish you wouldn’t—”
Girding herself for defense, Jane reared up. “I will not easily yield to your unnatural—” Her words died as he leaned forward and took the poker from her as deftly as a breeze snatching a leaf. He tossed the thing to the floor where it landed with a sharp clatter, and then braced one hand on the edge of the mattress. With the other, he caught the long, damp braid that hung down her back.
Leaning close, he stared down at her, eyes glittering in the meager lamplight. She could smell his hair, his clothes, his skin, rain-washed, a whisper of citrus, and underlying that the tantalizing hint of a scent that was his alone. Her chest felt tight, constricted by some unseen band.
Despite her innocence she recognized the sharp twist of yearning in the pit of her belly for what it was: her own accursed longing for this man. This terrible, beautiful man.
He recognized it as well. His awareness was there, in the darkening of his eyes, the deepening of his breathing. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, her own breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Pulse beating a wild rhythm, mind screaming that she must retreat, must flee from his dishonorable intent, she sat where she was, mesmerized by the heat she read in the mercurial depths of his eyes. Oh, dear heaven! What was wrong with her that a tiny secret corner of her soul revelled in his obvious desire, even as fear made her galloping heart nearly burst from her breast?
She opened her mouth to demand that he unhand her, that he remove himself immediately, that he—
He kissed her. His mouth slanted across hers, his tongue tasting the edge of her lips, her teeth, and beyond. She smelled spiced wine, tasted it.
Only in her secret dreams had she ever thought to be kissed, and never had she imagined such a lush and shameless claiming.
The taste of him, cloves and wine and man.
The room spun away until there was nothing but Aidan, kissing her until she forgot to hate him, forgot all but the thrust of his tongue, the feel of his mouth, the wicked heat that poured through her like molten honey. She reached for him, hands fisting in the loose fabric of his shirt, her only anchor in this swirling storm.
“Jane.” He wrenched away, the soft linen of his shirt sliding through her fingers. Taking a step back, he raked his fingers back through the thick, long strands of his hair.
The wide expanse of his chest broadened as he drew in a deep breath, and his hands dropped to his sides, clenched into fists. Jane thought he struggled to master some great emotion. After a moment he looked at her, appearing bemused, then his lips tightened in displeasure.
With her?
When he spoke his voice was gruff. “Forgive my trespass.”
He was displeased with himself then.
She looked down at the tangle of sheets and nightclothes that bared her feet, her calves. She had not fought him as she had vowed she would, but rather had yielded with humiliating ease. Tears pricked her eyes. With frantic, jerky movements she tried to thrust the bedsheets back into place, desperate to cover her naked limbs, to hide the evidence of her wanton abandon. Her imprudence. Her wretched acquiescence.
With renewed zeal she jerked the sheets.
He stepped toward her. “Here, let me. You’re making a tangle of it.”
She slapped his hand away when he grasped the edge of the sheet, then snatched her own hand back in horror as she realized what she had done. “Mr. Warrick—”
“Aidan.”
Her gaze flew to his. Damn him. Why did he have to be kind? It would be easier if he treated her badly. Easier to hate him. Easier to protect herself... from herself. “You are Mr. Warrick to me,” she said.
He only tugged the sheets from her hand and quickly rearranged them in perfect order, leaving her modestly covered.
Straightening, he picked up the plate of food he had brought with him and stood gazing down at her. “As I was saying... I wish you wouldn’t fight me. I want to eat, and sleep, and in the morning I want to wake with the dawn and see to business. There is no room in my plans for argument.”
Nor was she in a position to argue, she added silently.
As though reading her thoughts, he spoke casually. “If you insist on a fight, I can always tie you to the bedpost.”
His words left her feeling cold. This from the man who had just kissed her with such passion?
Yes, of course. For there was not a necessary link between passion and affection, or respect. She would do well to remember that.
With a sigh he put the plate back on the table, bent forward at the waist, and planted both palms flat against Jane’s right side. She imagined she felt the heat of his touch through all the layers of cloth that separated her skin from his. Stiffening, she watched him warily, uncertain of his intent. He cocked one brow, and then with a single shove he pushed her to the far side of the bed. Before she could respond, he lay down atop the sheets beside her. With one hand he plumped a pillow at his back, then shifted until he half reclined.
There was a span of several inches between them, as well as the layers of sheets and the blanket that covered her but not him. Still, she felt the overwhelming threat of his presence.
“What is it that you plan for me?”
“I know what I did not plan.” His gaze moved to her lips, then slowly back up to her eyes. The way he looked at her then made her skin heat and confusion buffet her.
He spoke of the kiss. He had not planned to kiss her. She looked away, at the wall directly across from her. There was a thin crack high in the left corner, and she stared at it until her breathing came back under her control.
“Why did we come here?” She wondered that she dared question him, that she courted his ire without bridling her tongue. Perhaps it was because she was used to her father, who had left so much in her care while he drank and joked and often slept away half the day. Always when she questioned him, he had told her what she needed to know.
Except he had not told her of their debt. Their impending ruin.
And so here she was, lying in bed beside a man who was not her husband. Who was, in fact, her captor.
But that was a lie. He had not stolen her away. He had bought and paid for her. The thought made her ill.
“I told you, we came because I have business here.”
His words provoked a distinct wariness. She had watched his business from the window, though she had no intention of telling him so.
Rocking his torso forward, he pulled up one trouser leg to reveal a leather sheath, the handle of a knife protruding from the top. She watched in silence as he undid the straps that held the sheath in place, and then laid the weapon carefully on the small table beside the bottle of wine. He lifted the plate of food with his right hand, and twisted to settle it on her lap. Helping himself to a chicken leg, he glanced at her. “And soon my business will be done. Now eat up.”
Jane blinked. There was a pistol on the floor and a knife on the table. Mr. Warrick was not the gentleman that the villagers of Pentreath had conjectured him to be. Nay, she was rapidly becoming convinced that he was the smuggler, the pirate, that Dolly had foretold.
She stared at the mountain of food before her and was astounded to find herself tantalized. She was hungry. She glanced at Mr. Warrick from beneath lowered lashes. He lifted the bottle of wine from the table and settled it between his legs, the long glass neck protruding several inches above his thighs.
; He seemed to have forgotten her. His head was tipped back, resting against the wooden headboard, his eyes closed as he chewed. She had the strangest urge to run her fingers along the rigidly carved line of his jaw. Her gaze drifted to his lips.
She thought of his kiss. Dark and lush, a kiss to lure her from rationality.
Her world was no longer sane. Perhaps she was no longer sane, for she could not summon the bone numbing terror that had withered her heart when those two men had grabbed her outside. Here, lying next to Aidan Warrick, a man of questionable morals and admittedly wicked intent, she felt no fear.
Forgive my trespass. The knowledge that she did forgive him was bitter poison. Yes, she forgave him, though she could find no logic in such largesse. He was her enemy, a cold, cruel man who represented all she should despise. Yet after a mere handful of hours spent in his presence, she was half smitten with him.
The realization left her feeling pitiful, wretched.
She despaired to think that she longed so desperately for the things she would never have that she wove fantasies about a monster who had torn her world apart.
For that, she could not forgive herself.
“Jane, you will eat.” Mr. Warrick lifted a chicken leg from the plate and offered it to her.
She took it and gnawed daintily. The skin was crisp, the meat moist, and before she knew it she had devoured the whole thing, along with a chunk of soft bread.
His own meal complete, Mr. Warrick took the plate from her, setting it aside before lifting the bottle of wine from between his legs and tipping it in her direction. She shook her head. With a shrug, he brought the bottle to his mouth and tilted his head back to take a long, slow pull. He dragged the back of his hand across his lips, his eyes locked on hers, and he offered the bottle once more.