Deep inside her she heard his need, the sound of near desperation in his voice. Her body answered, begging to join with him, to become one. She slid one leg around his hips, needing to bring him closer, to fit him against her.
Bracing her weight against the column, Grant lowered a hand to cup her buttocks and pull her closer. His hand smoothed down the back of her haunch, over her knee, and up the inside of her thigh until his knowing fingers could slip through the slit of her undergarments and touch her intimately. She responded immediately with a start at first and then giving herself over completely to such exquisite pleasure.
“Give me this night, Phadra. I want this night,” he said, his voice ragged. He kissed her again, deeply, fully, as if he could take the measure of her very soul with his kiss. His body pushed her back against the cool, painted brick of the support column. The hand that had pleasured her now began unbuttoning the buttons of his breeches.
Even lost in his embrace, Phadra was aware of these movements and so much more. In his kiss she could taste the desire that drove him—and, again, that fierce, almost overwhelming desperation. She ran her hands over his strong shoulders, the bandage, the muscles of his arm. A swordsman’s arm.
And in just a few hours he would fight a duel over her.
As a drowning victim struggles to the surface for air, Phadra now warred with herself. She pressed herself closer to him, feeling the strong beat of his heart, the pressure of his chest against her breasts, the night’s warm air, the sweat of their excitement. She wanted him inside her, making love to her. She wanted him to live….
Almost as if from a distance, she heard herself say, “No.” She made herself say it again, the sound stronger this time. “No.” She slid her leg down and leaned back, taking his face in her hands. “Please, Grant. Listen to me. We can’t do this. We can’t.”
His eyes were glazed with passion. After she spoke, he jerked his chin out of her hands. He leaned against her, letting her feel the tense readiness of his body, the strength of his arousal. “Yes, we can,” he shot back in a harsh whisper.
Phadra pushed against his shoulders with the heels of her hands. “No! I can’t do this if you are going to fight that duel tomorrow. I can’t let you go off to die that way.”
Grant stared at her as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.
For one mad second Phadra wanted to call the words back. But she couldn’t change her mind, not if there was a chance that she could get him to see reason.
To her dismay, he pulled back, gently setting her down on the floor. Embarrassed, she pulled her bodice up to cover her nakedness. He frowned in reaction and then turned his back to her. “Go away, Phadra.” His voice was so low, she wasn’t sure that he had said anything.
“You’re upset with me,” she said, fighting a rising sense of panic at the thought that she might have gone too far.
As he tucked his shirt back in and finished buttoning his breeches, the air was so quiet and still between them that she could hear the sounds of his fingers against the material.
“It’s not right,” she said.
“And you think that by refusing me, you will change my mind?”
She hated the question. She didn’t know what she thought or felt. All she knew was the thrumming of unfulfilled desire. She stumbled over her words, trying to put her feelings in order. “I can’t make love to you and then send you off to a fool’s death. I can’t do it.”
“Go,” he said again.
“Grant, please—”
He whirled on her, his handsome face contorted by anger. “Go, I said! You want me to give up my honor for you. I will not do that. Do you understand? You cannot have my honor!”
“Grant—”
“Go, damn you!” he yelled in a voice so ragged with emotion that Phadra took to her heels and ran down the stairs, her sweet little bells accentuating each step.
The sound of deep male voices by the front door woke Phadra at her post on the parlor floor, just inside the closed door. She could distinguish Grant’s voice, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. The door shut.
Phadra scrambled to her feet. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Her plan was to follow Grant to his assignation. In the wee hours of the morning, she’d decided that she had to talk to Captain Duroy. She had to make him understand that Grant hadn’t stolen her from him. If it meant ruining her own reputation by revealing the story of how she had run away, then so be it. Cracking open the door, she saw that the hallway was empty.
She charged out of the parlor and ran to the front door, grateful to have the good, sturdy boots, from her days at Miss Agatha’s, to wear. Not even Miranda’s knife could cut through their leather.
Peeking out the front door, she saw Grant’s tall figure and that of another man ride off on horses down the street. Phadra slipped out the door, saying a prayer that all had gone well and Wallace was ready to go. He was an unwilling accomplice, but—as she had pointed out to him the night before—his first loyalties were to her.
To her relief, Wallace led a rented team of horses out of a side alley. Phadra jumped when the door flew open behind her. Henny stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips.
“I can’t believe you are going through with this,” she said.
“Henny! You scared me half to death.”
“I’m hoping I’m going to scare some sense into you!”
“It’s too late,” Phadra called over her shoulder as she ran down the steps and climbed up into the open carriage beside Wallace.
With a snap of the reins, she and the butler took off after Grant. “Do you have any idea where they will be going?” Wallace asked.
Phadra looked up at him blankly before saying, “You mean there isn’t one place where everyone goes to fight duels?”
Wallace groaned. “Not in a city the size of London.”
Phadra chewed on that knowledge a moment before asking, “Where are most duels fought?”
“Well, I don’t know that much about it myself, but I hear Hyde Park is a popular place.”
“Are we going in that direction?”
“Aye.”
“Then it must be Hyde Park,” Phadra said with a confidence she was far from feeling.
“I hope we never find it. When the master finds out that I let you hoodwink me into this, he’ll turn me out without references.”
“But at least he’ll be alive to do so,” she replied with false sweetness. “Besides, I’ll give you references.”
“Ha! Fat lot of good that will do me. References from a wife who doesn’t know her place.”
“Wallace, I’ve already been over this ground with Grant. We’re all agreed. I don’t know my place. Now, can’t you make these animals go any faster?”
With another snap of the reins and a great deal of grumbling under his breath, Wallace did exactly that.
Phadra held on to the side of the carriage with one hand and used the other to hold her hat in place as they drove to Hyde Park. It was going to be too pretty a morning for a duel. Already the first rays of the sun were turning the sky rosy and golden.
Pistols at dawn.
Grant and the other gentleman, who Wallace assured her was his second, were completely out of sight as they turned into Hyde Park. And stopped.
At this hour the park appeared peaceful and quiet. Too quiet.
“Where do you think they’ve gone?” Phadra asked, straining to see through the trees and wisps of early-morning fog for a sign of life.
“I’m not even certain we’re in the right place,” Wallace answered. He drew a deep breath. “Well, we’ve done everything we can. Better get you home.”
Phadra put her hand down firmly on his, which was holding the reins. “Drive on.”
Wallace raised his eyebrows but did as he was told, following the main path through the park. Phadra watched for any signs that riders might have recently turned off the path, but there were so many tracks that she had no success.
They rounded a turn
and there, a quarter of a mile away from them was a small gathering of people beneath two huge, leafy oaks. Phadra pointed it out to Wallace. “Drive over there.”
“I don’t think this is wise.”
“I don’t care.”
“It could be anyone. The young bucks fight duels here almost on a daily basis. It wouldn’t look good if we stumbled into someone else’s business, would it?”
“Drive.”
Wallace turned the horses off the road and onto the grass. As they drew closer Phadra felt even more certain that this was the right place. In another second the wispy fog lifted enough for her to make out the bold red and blue of the officers’ uniforms. She reached over and squeezed Wallace’s arm, almost overcome with joy that they had found the right place.
They saw two men separate themselves from the group. Each took up a station away from the other, one man in uniform, the other in severe dark clothing. It could only be Grant!
Phadra’s grip on Wallace’s arm tightened. “Wallace, we must hurry. Can’t these horses go any faster?”
They were still about four hundred yards away when Phadra heard one man shout an order. She couldn’t hear what was being said over Wallace’s telling her that the “damned cattle” were going as fast as they could without a road to travel.
Phadra couldn’t wait. She climbed off the seat and, hanging her feet off the edge of the carriage, slid down to the ground, landing on her knees. She didn’t worry about her bonnet, her dress, or Wallace’s shouts for her to wait. Instead she struggled to her feet and ran with her heart pounding in her throat past the horses, heading for the clearing beneath the oak trees.
There was another shout. This time she heard what had been said: “Turn and fire!” She ran faster, even as Grant raised his arm and fired into the air.
“No!” she cried. At that moment she stepped in a small hole, and her ankle twisted underneath her. She fell heavily to the dew-kissed earth.
A split second later another shot cracked the air.
Chapter 15
As he stood staring into the bore of William’s pistol, a million thoughts invaded Grant’s mind…. but the last thing he thought he would hear was Phadra’s voice distinctly shouting, “No!” even as William raised his arm and fired into the air.
Phadra.
Phadra was here!
The shock of realization mingled with the sudden elated relief Grant felt that he was alive. Afraid that if he took a step in any direction, his knees would betray him by buckling, Grant stood very still. William lowered his arm. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air as the duelists studied each other for a moment that stretched like eternity. Finally William said, “I couldn’t do it.”
“I’m glad.”
His dry answer broke the restraint between them. William came forward with an outstretched hand. Grant met him halfway. Their hands clasped as men of honor, and then they embraced as friends.
William raised his head. “I’m sorry, Grant. I shouldn’t have challenged you. I let my hot temper rule my good sense. I beg you to forgive me.”
“It’s behind us, William.”
William stepped back and answered softly, “Ah, but you have the girl.”
Immediately Grant recalled the image of Phadra as she had been the night before: clinging to him and responding with wanton passion to his kisses, then demanding his honor, his pride. And he remembered her shout only moments earlier.
She was here. He could sense it. He looked over William’s shoulder, past the men who served as their seconds, past the surgeon’s dark carriage, his eyes searching for her. He immediately recognized Wallace sitting in the seat of a hired vehicle. As if sensing his master’s scrutiny, the servant came to attention.
And there was Phadra—walking away from Wallace toward a grove of trees.
“Did you hear that shout?” Duroy was asking. “I realized then that I couldn’t shoot you. We’ve been through so much together. Who shouted, anyway?”
“Phadra.” Grant frowned. What the deuce was she doing walking off that way? And she looked as though she was limping slightly.
“Phadra?” Duroy turned and stared in the direction in which Grant was looking.
“She’s over there,” Grant said. “The woman in the canary-yellow dress.”
“I see her,” Duroy said. “I say, that color makes her stand out, doesn’t it? And the dress is rather different.”
“It looks medieval.”
“Medieval?”
“My wife sets her own fashion, William,” Grant responded dryly. “I’m sure if you take a turn around the museum, you’ll see a picture of a dress very much like it. And that silly hat, too.” He started walking toward Phadra, who had disappeared behind a clump of shrubbery.
“Oh,” William answered in a tone that said he understood nothing. He walked beside Grant. “What is she doing here?”
Grant handed his dueling pistol to Duroy. “She probably had it in mind to stop us.”
“Stop a duel?” Duroy asked in an incredulous tone. “No one interferes with an affair of honor.”
“When I catch her, I’ll tell her you said so.”
Duroy stopped abruptly, as if struck by a sudden thought. “You know, Morgan, perhaps I should consider myself fortunate that I didn’t marry the lady.”
Grant stopped also and turned to the officer. “You don’t even know the half of it, William,” he said before turning on his heel and charging after his wife. Behind him, he could hear the men questioning Duroy and then bursting out into deep male laughter; Duroy must have told them that Phadra had planned on stopping the duel.
Wallace, his hat in his hand, intercepted him. “I told her not to do it, Mr. Morgan,” he said, having to trot to keep up with his master’s long strides. “I argued with her. But you know how she is. She doesn’t always listen to reason. Even Mrs. Shaunessy told her it was a fool’s errand—”
“Wallace, shut up.”
The servant’s mouth closed with a snap.
“Take that rig and bring it around to the other side of the park. My guess is that she is heading in that direction.” He started to walk off. Over his shoulder he added, just so the servant would understand that he wasn’t finished with him yet, “And I’ll talk to you later.”
Grant considered the subject closed and started off again. But Wallace’s voice timidly called to him.
“What?” he practically roared as he turned on the servant.
Wallace jumped slightly but stood his ground. “Don’t be too hard on her, Mr. Morgan. She only did what she thought was right.”
Once again Grant was struck by the loyalty Phadra inspired in servants—servants whose wages he now paid! “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said curtly. “Now get that rig over to Knightsbridge.” He walked toward the grove of trees where he’d spied Phadra last, his long legs eating up the distance between them.
Phadra knew he was following her…and she knew he was angry. At first she’d been relieved when Captain Duroy had fired into the air. Certainly her prayers had been answered. But then Grant had turned and recognized her. In that awful moment of recognition, she didn’t have to read minds to know that she was in serious trouble.
Her ankle hurt, though not enough to prevent her from walking. Afraid that if she went back to Wallace, Grant would blame him for her actions, Phadra had decided the best course of action would be to run in the opposite direction. Maybe if Grant had time to reflect upon the duel and its possible consequences, he would understand that she only had his safety at heart.
She’d almost talked herself into turning around and facing him when she heard him call her name. His deep voice rang through the park, and in it Phadra heard his displeasure.
No. Now was not the time to turn and face him.
Her decision made, she came out of the park and quickly limped across Knightsbridge. The park might have been quiet and serene, but on Knightsbridge, London appeared wide awake and off to the business of the day. Dodging t
hrough the morning traffic coming into the city, she worked her way across the street. In her haste, the ribbons holding her bonnet, one that she had cleverly fashioned after a design in a Bellini painting, had come untied. As she avoided a farmer’s cart the bonnet blew off her head.
“Phadra!” Grant’s voice carried over the din of the traffic. She let the bonnet go.
Hobbling down the street, her mind worked frantically, formulating a plan. She’d hide from Grant, then walk home. It couldn’t be that far. Later that night, when he was calmer, they’d talk. He’d see that she had his best interests at heart. He might even laugh about the whole unfortunate incident.
“Phadra!”
Phadra looked over her shoulder and then choked.
She could see Grant’s tall figure on the other side of the road. He didn’t look as though he was ready to laugh—or to abandon the chase.
And Phadra didn’t feel ready to confront him. She ducked down the first side street she came to, pausing only long enough to see that he was weaving his way through the traffic. Her last glimpse was of him sidestepping a dogcart loaded with milk cans.
Phadra rounded a corner and took another street, brushing by fellow pedestrians on the narrow sidewalk in her haste. He wasn’t far behind. She could sense his presence—and his determination—by the prickling sensation up the back of her neck.
He shouted her name, and she limped down an alley. Here the neighborhood appeared more shabby, the tall houses narrow and crowded. A heavyset man in a hurry almost knocked her over. To avoid him, she stepped out into the unpaved street and narrowly escaped having a chamber pot dumped on her head.
Catching a whiff of the contents, Phadra covered her face with her hand and moved on. She couldn’t keep running like this. Her ankle hurt, and she had a sharp stitch in her side.
Stopping at the threshold of another alley, this one smelling of rotting fish, she realized she had two options. One was to face Grant. The other was to hide and hope that he passed her by.
“Phadra!”
Hide.
Phadra dodged into the alley. A stack of rain barrels sat haphazardly against a building. Quickly she hid behind them and pulled her skirts in, angry that the first thing she’d pulled out of her wardrobe to wear was such a bright and frivolous color.
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