But obviously his lesson had failed utterly, for here she was, sitting across from him, as damned lovely as a sinner's dream and looking no worse for whatever ill effects had plagued her, and probably with no idea how close she had come to being devoured by that crowd—blast it all to hell!
"Driver, stop at that tavern ahead." Jared turned back to Lindsay, tempted to grab and shake her hard, which was exactly what he had wanted to do outside Offley's hotel, if he hadn't been so intent upon seeing her safely away from the place.
Even better would be to pull her over his knee and give that pert rump a sound whack or two, yet what good would that do? He wasn't dealing with a child but with a woman, an incredibly foolhardy young woman at that—by God, and what of Matilda? If that feisty old Scotswoman, who'd made him feel more a boy in short pants than a grown man, knew Lindsay had sneaked out again . . .
As the carriage rumbled to a halt, Jared had to tell himself resolutely to stick to his new plan, although his first impulse was to command the driver to set out at once for Piccadilly. But his gut instincts were also telling him that if he didn't follow an admittedly ruthless course of action, Miss Lindsay Somerset might well find herself in another dire situation in which she would have no hope of a rescuer.
And no matter he had thought his hands washed of her last night, Jared considered grimly; given this latest antic, the last thing he wanted on his conscience was her downfall. Elise's already weighed heavily enough upon him.
"The Boar's Head, milord."
As the coachman swept open the carriage door, Jared stepped out and beckoned to Lindsay, her brilliant smile making him think how easily such a look might forgive the chit anything. But dammit, not tonight.
"Are you taking me to another favorite place?"
"Yes, they've good food here. I think you'll like it."
Lindsay felt such relief at the warmth of his answering smile that she could only stare at him for a moment, blinking with some chagrin when the driver cleared his throat to get their attention. As Jared paid the man, even jesting with him when the fellow inquired about the outcome of the boxing match, she felt her spirits soar higher.
He had been so silent in the carriage—other than asking if she was hungry—that she hadn't known what to think. It had been so hard for her to keep still; truly, it wasn't her nature, but she was glad now that she had. She took his proffered arm, elated that he hadn't directed the coach to take her home. If he had been angry, it appeared his ill humor had passed.
"I'm so sorry about the ruckus at Offley's," she blurted out, unable to keep quiet any longer. "We were at Almack's, Aunt Winnie, Matilda and I. Lady Sefton sent us a voucher—oh, but that isn't important. I heard about the boxing match from Peter Bench, Lord Bridley, and I thought perhaps you might be there. I so wanted to thank you for last night and ask if we might arrange another rendezvous—"
"And so things have turned out just as you hoped."
Lindsay looked curiously around her as they entered the near-empty tavern, a simple, unadorned place with sturdy furnishings and timbered walls and a huge stone hearth at one end where a low fire burned. "Oh, yes, well, other than . . ." She didn't finish, remembering all too clearly her wretched helplessness atop that table. "You've rescued me twice now—"
"Once. Remember our secret? We both know your swoon was a ruse, and quite expertly executed at that."
The low teasing in his voice thrilling her to her toes, Lindsay was reluctant to let go of his arm as he seated her at a table well away from the few heavy-lidded patrons who appeared to be nodding off into their mugs. She knew she was staring at him again, but she simply couldn't help herself.
He was so handsome, his eyes so blue . . . a deep sea-swept blue; there, she had named the uncommon color at last! Heat raced up her face when he pulled a chair from around the table and sat down next to her; her racing heart lodged in her throat as he reached for her hand, his strong fingers caressing hers.
"Ain't meanin' to interrupt anything, milord, but is there somethin' I could bring you and your fine lady friend? Wine? Mayhap a nice tablecloth to keep you both safe from splinters?"
Lindsay felt Jared stiffen, but she couldn't imagine why as she glanced up to find an attractive, ebony-haired serving woman with the biggest breasts she'd ever seen leaning over the—oh, Lord. Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze even as the woman gave a throaty laugh.
"Aye, you can't help but notice 'em. Quite a nice handful, or so I've been told . . . Ain't that right, milord?"
The woman laughed again, but a door slamming against a wall made her curse softly under her breath.
"Della, wot's takin' you, woman?" came a gruff shout across the room, a strapping fellow with a glistening bald pate peering out at them from what Lindsay imagined was the kitchen. Yet suddenly the man's belligerent tone grew ingratiating as he wiped his hands on a towel and threw it over his shoulder, then forged out to greet them. "Ah, Lord Giles, welcome! So pleased to see you tonight—and the luvly lady, of course."
Lindsay lowered her head at the man's shrewd and blatantly admiring perusal. She slipped her hand from Jared's to draw her hood closer around her face.
"We'd like supper, Sprigs, and wine."
"Aye, so you shall have it, milord, the best in me house! We've got plain food here, but good—wife, why in blazes are you dallyin'? You heard the gentl'man! Fetch some wine!"
Lindsay winced as Della earned a sound smack on her generous rump for moving too slowly, the tavern keeper spreading his work-reddened hands wide as if to apologize as she sauntered away.
"She's a good girl, Della, aims to please most times. A bit saucy, but I've ne'er heard me customers complain. Well, I'll be off to the kitchen—"
"We'd like to be served upstairs in my room, Sprigs. When everything is ready, have Della knock and leave the tray outside the door. I'd rather we weren't disturbed."
If Jared had said they were thinking of taking an evening dip in the Thames or planning to sup with mad King George himself, Lindsay couldn't have been more astonished. Her eyes were as wide as the tavern keeper's appeared for an instant; in the next there was nothing but a knowing smile on the man's face as he bobbed his shiny head and hustled away. But she had no chance to dwell upon his disconcerting reaction, for Jared once more took her hand.
"Come. It's quieter upstairs. More private."
She could only nod, having lost her voice entirely. She could feel curious eyes boring into her back when Jared drew her from her seat and they made their way to the stairs, but she kept her head lowered, more so Jared couldn't see how red her face felt at that moment, her mind running away with itself.
Jared had a room here? Of course, as a spy, perhaps he found the Boar's Head more suited to the secretive nature of his work, just as Tom's Cellar was a place where he could relax. Oh, dear, everything was suddenly so confusing—she would have much preferred to remain in the dining room. But that wasn't very daring of her, no, not adventurous at all. And, of course, it made perfect sense that he might wish to converse with her in a private place, especially if he intended to share with her some of his heroic exploits . . .
"It's not very elegant, but it suits me."
She made herself smile brightly, pressing her hand to her breast to quiet her thundering heart as he pushed open a door and stepped aside so she could enter. A lamp near the unassuming double bed was burning low and the bedclothes were turned down—an amenity which didn't surprise her, considering how deferential Sprigs had been downstairs—and the room appeared well kempt though a bit threadbare, just as Jared had said.
"You . . . you don't have a town house in the city?" she couldn't help asking, her gaze skipping from a weathered pine wardrobe to Jared's face. He shook his head as he pulled the pistol from his coat and set it upon a table.
"I'm never in London long enough to warrant the trouble—hiring servants and so on. Please, sit."
Glancing from the down-turned bed to the one chair in the room, Lindsay felt herself re
dden again and nearly tripped over the frayed carpet in her haste to perch herself on a stuffed arm.
"Wouldn't you be more comfortable without that cloak?"
"M-my cloak?"
He had shed his dark navy coat, tossing it onto the bed, a teasing smile on his face as he approached her. She swallowed hard, unable not to notice the expert cut of his waistcoat and how snugly it fit his lean torso, his fawn-colored breeches as close-fitting and hugging his flanks like a second skin, his black riding boots making little sound upon the carpeted floor. Then he was standing in front of her, his fingers unfastening the frogs of her cloak before she could think to do the task herself.
"The stove in the corner offers little heat, but it's not so cool that you need wear this any longer."
Lindsay shivered as he slipped the hood from her hair, his hands lightly skimming her face before they moved to push the cloak gently off her shoulders. He was staring so deeply into her eyes that she had the strangest sensation she was drowning, drowning in something deliciously warm and altogether inviting. Only with great effort was she able to look away, almost giddy as she looked for anything to talk about.
"Do . . . do you always carry a pistol? Of course, as a spy, you must, I'm sure—and—and it was fortunate you had one with you tonight at Offley's. Fortunate for me, I mean."
"Yes, it was very fortunate. And yes" —he reached up to run a callused fingertip slowly along her cheek— "I never go anywhere without a weapon."
The sudden hard glint in his eyes and the harsh timbre of his voice did not go unnoticed. Lindsay was beset by a chill, not of fright, but of vivid empathy. She could imagine the trials he must have endured while in loyal service to the Crown, the trials he still must face. It made her yearn to know that much more about him and she inclined her head, leaning into the strong masculine hand that still cradled her face. But at the sudden knock on the door he left her, Lindsay sinking dizzily from the stuffed arm into the chair.
"Your supper, luv—milord."
She heard Della's throaty laugh, glanced over and saw the buxom tavern keeper's wife give Jared a broad wink, but he said nothing as he took the tray and kicked the door shut.
"Jared . . . shouldn't we have thanked her?"
"She's a woman more fond of coin than words," he said dryly, drawing a small three-legged table to Lindsay's chair and setting down the tray. "I'll compensate her tomorrow—but for now, let's see what she brought us."
Lindsay's mouth was already watering at the savory smells in the air. She gasped with delight when Jared drew aside a white linen napkin.
"Why, its Cornish pie, surely!" She watched eagerly as he cut into the flaky brown pastry and offered her a generous serving, the steamy filling of ham, leeks and thick cream custard oozing out onto her plate. "Or a dish very much like it. I haven't had anything that looks this good since I left Porthleven. Corie's housekeeper, Frances, makes the most wonderful Cornish pie."
"Obviously Sprigs does, too," came Jared's amused comment as she popped a heaping forkful into her mouth, her mistake not to blow upon it first. At once her eyes began to tear, since the food was so warm. Lindsay threw a grateful look at Jared when he handed her a pewter goblet filled with red wine, and she drank hurriedly.
"Oh . . . oh, that's better." Chagrined with herself, Lindsay returned the goblet to the tray with a sheepish smile. "I guess I was hungrier than I thought. There was food at Almack's. Stale cakes, actually. Not very appetizing even if I had felt like eating."
"So things there haven't changed that much."
Lindsay stared at Jared as he lifted his goblet and drank deeply, his words surprising her. "You've been to Almack's?"
He nodded, a strange smile on his face. "I haven't been graced with my notorious reputation forever. There was a time when I was granted entrance through those hallowed doors—"
"Oh, Jared, it would have been so wonderful if you could have been there tonight," Lindsay blurted. "I watched for you all evening—none of my partners danced even half as well as you. It isn't fair at all that you should be excluded through no fault of your own, and I intend to post a letter tomorrow morning to Lady Sefton and the other Patronesses, saying just that. I don't believe a word of what my aunt or anyone else has said about you, not a word—oh!"
Lindsay's eyes grew wide as Jared's hand clamped tightly around her wrist, wider still when he drew her roughly up to face him, her plate of food crashing to the floor. His eyes seemed to burn into hers.
"What do you really know of me, Lindsay Somerset? Tell me."
Chapter 10
Lindsay didn't know what to say, wondering wildly what had caused his drastic change of mood. "N-not much, truly, only that you're a spy—"
"Oh, yes, a spy. So it's been rumored. What else?"
"And an earl."
"Yes, the sixth Earl of Dovercourt, the title inherited from my uncle the fifth earl, Alistair Giles. And?"
"And . . ." Lindsay faltered, Jared searching her eyes with such intensity that she felt a blush race to her scalp. "You once lived in India. I . . . I remember that from last night. Calcutta."
"Ah, and what else do you remember?"
He had drawn so close, his face, his lips hovering so near hers, that Lindsay's knees suddenly felt weak. "Only that—that I believe you kissed me."
"Kissed you? Are you sure?"
She bobbed her head, her breath snagged in her throat.
"And what would you have done if one of those men at Offley's had grabbed you from that table and kissed you—a man you didn't know, a man who might mean you harm—"
"I would have slapped him, kicked him."
"And tried to get away?"
"Yes, yes, of course!"
"So what if I told you that I might mean you harm, Lindsay—that perhaps in my personal affairs I'm as disreputable as people say, as your aunt says? A spy, an earl, I've lived in Calcutta. You know so precious little about me, yet here you are, alone, in my room, at a tavern—"
"No, I don't believe you could ever mean me harm!" Lindsay cut him off, her vehemence startling her and, she could see from the darkening of his eyes, clearly startling Jared. "If so, you would have last night in the carriage, but you didn't—only kissed me, and you swore to Matilda that . . . that . . ." She didn't continue, looking down blindly at the mess at her feet, her face burning.
"So Matilda told you she saw us."
"Yes." Lindsay spoke in a half whisper, breathing in the subtle scent of bay rum emanating like heat from Jared's shirt, his skin. "And I told her that you were daring and brave and gentlemanly—"
She gasped, Jared releasing her wrist to raise her chin to face him, his eyes staring deeply into hers. "Is this so gentlemanly, Lindsay?"
She had no more than an instant to draw breath before his lips found hers, his mouth so warm, warmer than sunlight, devouring her as he drew her roughly against him. She didn't think, couldn't think, his body's lean hardness pressing possessively against her softer form until she no longer felt herself, only him. Then his mouth was gone from hers and she fluttered open her eyes, gasping again when he kissed a trail of heat and fire down her throat.
"Is this gallant, Lindsay?" His voice was thick and hoarse, his powerful arms crushing her against him. "Tell me to stop—strike me, scream for Sprigs, scream for help, woman!"
She shook her head wildly, her jumbled thoughts no match for the sensations overwhelming her until his hand moved to cup her breast—and it was then Lindsay jerked as if stung.
Yes, she should tell him to stop, she should! But such a heat had filled her as his thumb slowly rubbed a nipple through her satin bodice that she felt powerless against it—a breathless inner voice resounding that he wouldn't be touching her so if his intentions weren't honorable.
"Woman, I vow you're in danger . . . scream, damn you!"
His breath was like flame as he dipped his head to her breast. Lindsay, whimpering deep in her throat when she felt his lips touch her flesh, dropped her cheek to his burni
shed hair and whispered, "I can't . . . I won't. You're everything I've always wanted, everything I've always dreamed for a husband . . . Jared?"
He had frozen, his mouth against the soft, scented curve of her breast, her heart beating frantically against his lips, the heat of her body invading his senses even as he cursed vehemently to himself.
Husband? Had the chit said . . . ?
Trembling feminine fingers entwined loosely in his hair, her voice so hopeful, so trusting. "You're noble and gallant and I will never believe otherwise . . . a true hero, Jared, no matter what anyone says. You're only saying these things to dissuade me, because you know the terrible dangers you face—but I could face them with you. I could—we could—"
"Blast and damnation, woman!"
Jared disengaged himself so abruptly from her that she nearly toppled backward, but he didn't reach out a hand to help her. He could only stare at her, realizing with utter disbelief that nothing—no, not even a full-blown seduction—would convince her that he meant her harm. Which he didn't, but he had done his damned best to make her believe it, nigh thrown her onto the bed if he'd gone a moment longer—by God, could any one woman be not only foolhardy and impossibly naïve, but such a romantic fool?
He thrust his fingers through his hair, realizing, too, that he must appear a crazed lunatic as he circled the room, stopping to glance at her only to resume pacing in utter frustration, until at last he threw up his hands.
There was only one bloody thing to do. With a low curse he grabbed up her cloak and strode to the door, where he turned and held out his hand.
"Come, I'm taking you home."
Beautiful blue eyes stared at him in confusion. "Home?"
He gritted his teeth and nodded, doing his best to shove all thought of the silken texture of her breasts, the perfumed taste of her skin, from his mind. "Yes, right now. You've read me too well. I cannot lie to you. All this" —he swept his arm around the room— "was done to dissuade you, just as you say."
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