Nicole Jordan

by Wicked Fantasy

  Deverill gave a scoffing huff of laughter, remembering Antonia’s eyes sparking with outrage just a short while ago.

  He hadn’t expected her to acquiesce without a fight, but her ingenuity had caught him off guard. She’d been clever to start a fire as a diversion. And if she’d known how to swim, she would have escaped him. Instead, she’d threatened to take his head off with that chain.

  Yet he would far rather have her railing at him and menacing him with a chain than lying here so pale and still. She was feisty and brave, qualities he admired in a woman. She was tough and vulnerable all at once, a combination that touched him far more than he wanted to admit—

  Just then Antonia stirred. Softly groaning, she arched slightly, inadvertently pressing her breasts against the muslin of her bodice.

  Deverill’s gut tightened, locking the air in his chest.

  Then she came awake with a start, looking dazed and puzzled as she gazed up at him. Holding his breath, Deverill watched her beautiful face with its cloud of flaming hair, her trembling mouth. He wanted nothing more in that instant than to kiss her, to taste those ripe lips and reassure her. But he fought the urge, knowing he needed to protect Antonia from himself, in addition to the deadly nobleman she wanted to marry.

  Therefore, he merely lifted a hand and gently brushed wild strands of hair away from her face.

  At his light caress, Antonia felt a sigh whisper through her. She had been dreaming of Deverill again, yet if this was a dream, why did his touch feel so real? And why did her head hurt so abominably?

  Slowly she looked about her. She was lying in a bunk, while Deverill sat beside her, holding a damp cloth to her aching brow.

  “Where . . . am I?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  It surprised her a little that he actually answered her, proving that he was no figment of her imagination. “In my cabin.”

  She wondered how she had come to be here, yet she couldn’t think clearly when Deverill’s long, bronzed fingers were stroking her forehead so tenderly. Her pulse fluttered, while all her senses came to vivid life.

  “You struck your head when you fell,” he murmured.

  Reaching up tentatively to feel her forehead, she found a lump the size of a robin’s egg.

  Then suddenly she remembered.

  Antonia flinched as the events of the past hour came rushing back with a vengeance. Deverill’s treachery. Her attempted escape. The sudden blackness.

  He must have brought her here while she was senseless, she realized. His cabin resembled the one where she’d been held prisoner earlier, only larger and more luxuriously furnished.

  With effort Antonia narrowed her eyes at him. “When I was assaulted, you mean,” she retorted hoarsely.

  Deverill grimaced, but his gaze boldly held hers, never wavering. “I am sorry you were hurt, Antonia.”

  “So you claim. But it appears you are still abducting me.”

  “For your own protection. I misled you because I knew you wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “Reason! Don’t speak to me of reason. You are no better than a pirate!”

  He gave a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head while eyeing her as if both annoyed and fascinated by her stubbornness. “I am touched by your gratitude, sweeting. The truth is, I’m preventing you from wedding a murderer and becoming a victim yourself.”

  “I wish you would spare me your concern and your infuriating high-handedness!” Antonia struggled to sit up, cringing at the pain in her head. “Since when did it become your providence to rule my life, Deverill? To make such choices for me?”

  “Since I learned of Heward’s villainy. With your father gone, I consider you my responsibility.”

  Knowing it was hopeless to argue that point with him, Antonia merely glared. “You said you had evidence of your allegations. Or was that a lie as well?”

  Rising, Deverill carried the damp cloth and the basin of water to the washstand, then went to his desk. Retrieving a well-worn piece of vellum, he returned to Antonia and handed it to her. “This is the letter Mrs. Peeke sent me several months ago. Read it and tell me I don’t have justification for suspicion.”

  She scanned the contents, her heart plummeting as she read. The housekeeper’s letter insisted that Mr. Maitland had intended to call off Miss Antonia’s betrothal to Lord Heward but was murdered before he could do so, and it pleaded for Deverill’s help in uncovering the truth.

  “Mrs. Peeke must be mistaken,” Antonia murmured faintly to herself.

  “Why do you say so?” Deverill interrupted her shaken thoughts.

  Because it was too horrifying to contemplate, Antonia responded silently.

  “These really are only suspicions, not proof,” she finally said aloud, looking up. Then another thought occurred to her. “You had Mrs. Peeke’s letter all this time? You should have told me about it from the first.”

  “Perhaps,” Deverill replied. “But consider my perspective. What would you have done if I had shown you this letter a week ago? You would have confronted Heward with the accusations, wouldn’t you?”

  “Possibly,” she answered honestly.

  “And as a result, you would have put Mrs. Peeke in grave danger and foiled any chance to draw Heward out.”

  Antonia raised a hand to her aching forehead, wondering if Deverill could possibly be telling her the truth. She couldn’t bear to think that her beloved father might actually have been murdered by her betrothed, yet deep down, she felt doubts creeping in about Heward.

  She shuddered involuntarily. Only yesterday she had told Lord Heward she would be agreeable to moving forward the date of their nuptials. Had she truly been that gullible? Or was she overreacting now? She had never seen the slightest hint that he was capable of so horrible an act. And she owed him some measure of loyalty . . . didn’t she?

  She focused her gaze on Deverill again. “Why did you not let me speak to Mrs. Peeke tonight instead of dragging me off in that barbaric fashion? I could have questioned her directly about her suspicions.”

  “Because there was no time. You might still have refused to come with me, and I couldn’t risk it.”

  “So you abducted me from London in the middle of the night? You had no right, Deverill!”

  Her heated declaration rang in her head, making Antonia flinch as a fresh wave of pain stabbed her skull. She wasn’t certain she could deal with this just now. She was still reeling from the shock of her abduction. Deverill had turned her world upside down in an instant. And Heward could be entirely innocent.

  She clung to the hope. She didn’t want to examine why she was resisting Deverill’s damning allegations so fiercely, for then she would have to acknowledge her own culpability in her father’s death—

  Antonia abruptly cut off that too painful line of thought. “What other evidence do you have against Heward?” she forced herself to ask.

  “None yet. But I have every intention of proving Mrs. Peeke’s beliefs.”

  She latched on to that as a drowning sailor would a lifeline. Deverill had no proof! If he hadn’t deceived her so outrageously, she might be willing to give more credence to his reasoning now. But she would be damned before she gave him the satisfaction of knowing he had raised grave doubts in her mind about Heward. She was too upset at him just now for tricking her. And her head throbbed too acutely for her even to think straight.

  When he took the letter from her, she forced herself to say coolly, “This is not enough to convince me that Heward is a villain. And you won’t be able to cajole me into believing him guilty.”

  Deverill’s mouth curled. “I would sooner wrestle a tiger than try to cajole you, love.”

  Antonia felt herself scowl. It had just struck her why Deverill had paid her such close attention during the past week. Because he had feared for her safety. And not because he was attracted to her. Her cheeks colored. There had been moments in the past week when she’d wondered if he might be feeling the same bewitchment she’d felt for him.

&nb
sp; It was humiliating to remember her own yearnings for him. What a fool she had been. Deverill didn’t want her. He didn’t find her nearly as fascinating or alluring as she found him. He was acting merely as a guardian, not a lover. He’d set himself up in the role of her deliverer, whether she wished him to or not.

  Her frustration returning full force, Antonia swung her legs over the edge of the bunk and stood, the better to face Deverill. When a wave of dizziness hit her, she shrugged it off. “This has gone far enough, Deverill. I demand that you take me back to London.”

  “No.” His handsome features were set in uncompromising lines. “I am not letting you return until I’m certain you are safe from Heward, so you might as well accept it.”

  “Where are you taking me?” When Deverill hesitated as if he couldn’t trust disclosing their destination to her, Antonia wanted to hit him. “If you don’t tell me, I swear I will . . .” She couldn’t think of a threat impressive enough, so she simply finished, “I will make you sorry.”

  “I am terrified.”

  She nearly kicked his shins at his sardonic humor. “I don’t believe I am in danger from Heward!”

  “Tell that to the innocent young woman who gave her life tonight.”

  Antonia stiffened at the grisly reminder, but she was determined not to let Deverill distract her. She raised her chin in the air, giving him a haughty look. “For all I know, you murdered that woman and are putting the blame on Heward.”

  She knew the moment the words left her mouth that she had gone too far; Deverill’s eyes suddenly blazed at her with unnerving intensity.

  Boldly advancing, he brought his body a hairsbreadth from hers. She had to lean her head back just to see his dark expression. She’d thought him intimidating before, but his nearness made his body seem even more powerful and overwhelming, especially compared to her slighter form. His eyes gleamed hot and dangerous as he raised his hand to glide his fingers into the tresses of her hair.

  Her heart hammering hard on her ribs, Antonia stared up at him, knowing he was holding his anger tightly leashed. The air about them seemed to crackle with tension and something more . . . a potent sensuality. His eyes were hooded and fixed on her lips.

  But then he gave a low curse and let his hand drop abruptly, stepping back as if he didn’t trust himself to be near her.

  A faint swell of relief washed over Antonia. She wouldn’t know how to defend herself against Deverill if he truly became enraged.

  His voice, however, was ominously soft when he spoke. “I expected better from you, princess. Do you really think me capable of murder?”

  He wasn’t feigning the pain in his eyes, the bleakness, she knew. He felt anguish over the death of that woman, she was certain.

  Antonia drew a shaky breath. “No. No more than I think Heward capable of murder.” Deverill’s scowl deepened, but she went on. “There is one more thing I don’t understand. If you suspected Heward of being such a villain, what were you doing with him at a club anyway?”

  His dark eyebrows lifted in mocking crescents. “What do you think I was doing?”

  Antonia flushed. “Well, I mean . . . I know what you were doing. . . . I mean . . . you were obviously with a ladybird. But why were you there with Heward?”

  “Because he invited me there. He intended all along to frame me—and I fell for it like the greenest gull.”

  Her own frown deepening, Antonia gingerly rubbed her aching forehead. Deverill had been at a pleasure brothel tonight, savoring the charms of a highflyer. Strange how it bothered her more to think of him with another woman, when Heward’s actions had been just as dissolute . . . and when Heward professed to love her. But she didn’t want to cloud the issues at hand.

  “So do you mean to answer me?” Antonia asked. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To Cornwall, where you’ll be safe from Heward.”

  “Cornwall is a large place, Deverill.”

  He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Did you meet Lady Isabella Wilde when you visited Cyrene?”

  “Yes.” She recalled that Lady Isabella was a lively, elegant noblewoman of half-Spanish, half-English descent who had survived three husbands. Antonia had liked her immensely.

  “Isabella,” Deverill said, “owns a castle near Falmouth that belonged to her last husband. She plans to be there for the next month at least, to attend the lying-in of her sister by marriage. I’m certain she’ll be willing to take you in.”

  Antonia gave him a disbelieving look. “And you just plan to deposit me on her doorstep without warning? You have the manners of a heathen, Deverill.”

  “Perhaps, but Bella won’t mind.”

  “I mind!”

  “You can think of it as an adventure.”

  Her fingers clenched into fists at his provoking tone. When her father had taken her to the beautiful Isle of Cyrene two years ago, she’d thought it a wonderful adventure—in fact, the only real adventure she’d ever had. And she would have loved to visit Cornwall under different circumstances, but not as Deverill’s captive.

  “I’m not giving you a choice,” he added, his tone more curt.

  Suddenly exhausted, Antonia sank back down on the bunk. Despair had started to replace her fury, for they likely were nearly out to sea, and she knew Deverill wouldn’t change his mind about returning her to London. She didn’t have the strength to argue with him any longer, though. She couldn’t think clearly with her head splitting open, when she was so dizzy she might faint at any moment.

  She needed time to digest his terrible accusations, in any case.

  Tomorrow, Antonia promised herself. She would face them tomorrow when she could think more logically, when she was feeling less vulnerable, when her spirits were not so devastated by the unthinkable events of the evening.

  “You should be thanking me for taking you to Lady Isabella,” Deverill commented. “She has enough consequence to shield your reputation.”

  Realizing that her situation would soon become public knowledge, Antonia dropped her face in her hands. Regardless of whether or not Heward was guilty, Deverill was going to spoil everything her father had striven for since the day she was born. Papa would have been devastated to see all his efforts for her ruined by scandal.

  “I suppose it doesn’t much matter where I go,” she said dismally. “My reputation is probably already sullied beyond hope—or it will be once I’m discovered missing from London.”

  “No one will know about your abduction. Mrs. Peeke is to put about the tale that you’re making an urgent visit to the country to provide solace to a dying friend. And Miss Tottle should be joining you in a few days in Cornwall.”

  Antonia raised her head to stare at him. “You arranged that?”

  “I asked Mrs. Peeke to see to it.”

  “But Heward will never believe that spurious falsehood.”

  “True, it’s unlikely. In fact, he’ll probably conclude—rightly—that I took you to prevent you from marrying him. He’ll doubtless be enraged that you are gone and that his goal has been thwarted. But he won’t want the world to know his enemy has you, for it makes him look impotent and could also ruin you socially—an unwanted stigma for his future bride if he can manage to salvage his marriage scheme. So I expect he’ll stick with the story of you visiting the country.”

  Even with her head swimming, Antonia was able to follow Deverill’s logic and realize that it made sense. But there were others who would be concerned by her disappearance as well. “Emily . . . Lady Sudbury, will be worried sick for me.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Peeke will reassure her. And it shouldn’t be for more than a few weeks, a month or two at most.”

  “Two months!” Antonia repeated weakly.

  Then suddenly she gave a start, realizing that Deverill had removed his coat and was unbuttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking off my blood-soaked clothing. I’ve had one hell of a night, and I intend to get some sleep.”

  “You mea
n to sleep here?”

  “It is my cabin, after all.”

  Antonia glanced at the single bunk. “Then I should move to another cabin.”

  “That’s impossible, I’m afraid. The one I originally put you in is damaged by smoke and needs to be scrubbed down to make it habitable.” He paused pointedly. “You remember whose fault that is, don’t you?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “You can’t expect me to sleep in the same cabin with you!”

  “You can have the berth. I will put up a hammock in the corner.”

  “That is totally unacceptable.”

  Turning, Deverill folded his arms across his formidable chest and stood scrutinizing her. His stance was outwardly relaxed, but the look in his eye was all dominant, challenging male.

  “You can scream and pout all you wish, vixen. But you’ll stay here with me, where I can keep an eye on you and prevent you from burning down my ship. After you knocked Fletcher witless, I don’t trust anyone else to guard you but me. You’ll find I’m not as easy a mark as poor Fletcher was.”

  Antonia rose to her feet, silently fuming. Deverill’s attempt to protect her reputation had done little to lessen her smoldering resentment of him, and his continued provocation was enough to incite her to mayhem. But she strove to maintain a reasonably calm tone as she voiced her protest. “Surely even you realize the impropriety of such a sleeping arrangement.”

  He did indeed realize the impropriety, Deverill reflected darkly as he proceeded to string a hammock in one corner of the cabin. He didn’t want to sleep here alone with Antonia, either. Not when he was so easily aroused just looking at her. But he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t attempt some other damnable stunt, one that would result in a worse injury than she’d already suffered.

  Thinking of her injury made Deverill grimace. If he was any kind of gentleman, that nasty bruise on her forehead would be enough to quiet his sexual urges. He sure as hell shouldn’t be lusting after Antonia when she was hurt.

  Yet seeing her now—her wild-eyed, stormy look, her cheeks flushed with temper—he wanted badly to turn that ire to passion. He wanted to strip her of her gown, stretch her out naked in his bunk, and spend what was left of the night making love to her. Just the thought was enough to drive his throbbing manhood tight against his breeches.