They emerged into a clearing, and he saw in front of him a substantial lodge of gray slate.
They dismounted and went to the door. Rachel walked in without knocking. Jerome followed her, eager to see his brother. He stepped inside, calling loudly for Gentleman Jack.
There was no answer. A quick glance at the handsomely furnished drawing room to the left and the kitchen to the right told him both rooms were empty; He went down the narrow hall to a door at the end and found himself in a large bedroom.
Neither Morgan nor anyone else was there.
“Hellsfire, where is he?” Jerome demanded. He noticed a note on the bedside table, one of its corners tucked beneath a bottle of brandy. A lone glass had been placed beside the bottle. The note was addressed to him.
Jerome snatched it up and scanned his brother’s familiar handwriting.
Dear Jerome:
If you arrive before I return, make yourself at home. A little matter arose that I must deal with. I will be back as quickly as I can. Help yourself to my very excellent French brandy while you wait.
M.
Jerome sank down on the bed and slammed his fist down so hard on the table’s surface that the brandy bottle danced unsteadily on it. Damn it, now he must wait still longer for his meeting with his brother. Even worse, that waiting must be alone in Rachel’s company in this isolated lodge.
She had followed him into the bedroom, and he looked at her enchanting face above her equally enchanting figure and felt his body harden. His frown turned to a scowl.
“What is it?” Rachel faltered.
He handed the note to her. “Read it for yourself.” She did, then looked up, her eyes alight with curiosity. “What does M. stand for?”
So Morgan had not divulged his real name to her. Thank God for that. “It stands for Monsieur.” Seeing her incredulous look, he improvised, “I believe Gentleman Jack’s father was French.”
Jerome suppressed a smile at the thought of how his—and Morgan’s—father, who had been so exceedingly proud of his unsullied English lineage, must be turning over in his grave at that lie.
“Perhaps Monsieur will not be long,” Rachel said consolingly. She smiled at Jerome, that dazzling, dimpled smile that sent another surge of desire through him.
He swallowed hard and reached for the brandy bottle. Hoping to hell that Morgan showed up very soon, Jerome pulled the cork and poured a generous amount of liquor into the glass.
When he asked Rachel if she would like some, she made a face. “Nay, not that. Perhaps I shall make myself a dish of tea in the kitchen.”
He sipped the liquor and rolled it about in his mouth before swallowing it. It was, as Morgan had promised, a very fine French brandy. His brother liked only the best.
Jerome followed Rachel into the kitchen. She removed her jacket, revealing the matching violet lawn habit-shirt that she wore beneath it. He watched her tantalizing body as she stretched to reach a teapot on the top shelf of the cupboard. Another bolt of desire coursed through him. He took a gulp of brandy. It was excellent except that it had a faint, odd aftertaste.
Rachel went to the fireplace where a kettle of water was boiling over the glowing red embers. She was standing sideways to Jerome as she bent over to ladle water into the teapot. Her generous breasts thrust against the fine lawn of her habit-shirt. He remembered what it had been like to hold that sweet weight in his hand.
Hastily, he took another, larger gulp of brandy.
She moved around the kitchen as gracefully as a swan gliding on a lake. Hellsfire, how much provocation was a man supposed to bear? Jerome prayed that Morgan would return soon. Very, very soon.
He looked about him curiously. This was no tenant’s or woodcutter’s home. It was too large and well-furnished for that.
Jerome yawned and took another swallow of brandy. He could hardly keep his eyes open. If Morgan did not show up soon, his brother was going to fall asleep.
“You look exhausted.” Rachel gestured toward the bedroom. “You could take a nap on the bed while we wait.”
It was a most appealing suggestion. And it would have the added advantage of keeping him in another room, away from Rachel.
He went into the big bedchamber, stripped off his riding coat, cravat and boots, sank down on the bed, and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Jerome awoke slowly, his eyes so heavy he did not want to open them, his mind strangely lethargic and unwilling to accept consciousness. He forced his eyelids apart. Darkness had settled, and a candelabra burned beside his bed.
For a moment, he was at a loss to place his surroundings. He shook his head, trying to clear it of cobwebs. What was wrong with him?
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the low rumble of thunder. Slowly, it came to him where he was. Hellsfire, he must have slept for hours. Was Morgan here, waiting for him to awake?
Jerome tried to sit up and found his arms and legs could not obey the command of his brain. Puzzled, he attempted to bring his hands down from their awkward position stretched above his head. He felt the sting of rope biting into his wrists, preventing him from moving them. Jerome started to bend his knees and more rope scraped cruelly at his ankles.
That brought him to full wakefulness. By twisting and lifting his head, he confirmed his worst fear. His hands and his feet were bound to the bedposts.
Bloody hell, he was a prisoner!
But whose, and to what purpose?
He had come here at Morgan’s bidding, but his brother would not have done this to him. Of that, he was certain.
And where was Rachel? Dear God, had she been seized, too, and... He felt sick at the thought of what might have happened to her. It was enough to make him want to commit murder. He would find a way to free himself, and then he would kill whoever was responsible for this. Yes, by God, he would.
A shadow moved quietly, gracefully forward into the circle of light cast by the candelabra beside the bed.
It was Rachel, as beautiful as ever, but clearly nervous and frightened. He ran a quick eye over her.
Her raven hair was still neatly arranged. So were her clothes. She had not the terrified, dishevelled look of a woman who had been forced against her will. He drew in a long breath of relief.
She bent over him, touching his cheek. Unwanted desire for her snaked through him,
“At last, you have awakened.” Her warm honey voice caressed him with her concern. “I was becoming worried about you.”
“What time is it?” he whispered.
“Nearly midnight.”
Thunder rumbled again, still low, but not quite so far away this time.
“Who else is here?”
“No one,” Rachel said. “We are alone.”
“Then why the hell are you standing there?” he exploded. “Untie me. We have no time to lose.”
Her lovely, expressive face tightened into unhappy lines. “I fear I cannot.”
“Why not?”
She gulped. “Be—because I have abducted you.” For a moment Jerome could only stare at her, too dumbfounded to speak. She met his gaze timorously, an uncertain smile on her beautiful lips.
He yelped, “You have what? Why would you do that?”
A rosy blush rose in her cheeks. “I want to marry you,”
His heart gave the most inexplicable little leap of joy, then his sanity returned. Surely, she must be hoaxing him, but her grave violet eyes told him she was not. He could not believe this was happening to him.
“What a unique way you have of proposing,” Jerome snapped. “But you are mad to think I will accept your offer.”
Rachel met his glare with a guileless gaze. “You will have no choice. Once we have spent the night together, you will be forced to do so just as poor Lucinda Quincy was forced to wed that awful Philip Rutledge after he abducted her.”
“You are truly mad,” Jerome said with strong conviction. “Now, damn it, untie me at once!”
“I am sorry but I dare not do so.”
/>
Since his father’s death when he was eighteen, Jerome had been the duke, always very much in control of every situation. Now suddenly he had none at all. Instead, he was lying here, the helpless prisoner of a beautiful, unscrupulous female who apparently would stop at nothing to achieve her ends.
Jerome experienced a flash of rage so brilliant and intense that it seemed to blind him for a second. Never, in his entire life, had he been as livid as he was now.
Suddenly the full significance of his situation struck him. They had been gone several hours. When both Rachel and he had been missing from dinner, a search would have been launched for them. They might be found at any moment.
He cringed at the thought of being discovered in this ignominious position, tied to a bed, after being abducted and taken prisoner, not by a gang of outlaws who had overpowered him, but by one demure young girl.
And he, damned fool that he was, had followed her blithely into her trap, like a lamb to slaughter.
What if they found him like this—trussed up on this bed like a damned chicken? A wave of the most intense mortification Jerome had ever experienced washed over him. He would be the laughing stock of England! He would never live it down.
It was humiliating beyond bearing that he, the twelfth duke of Westleigh, the scion of a long, distinguished line of brave men, had been reduced to this shameful, ludicrous state.
All the famous pride of the Parnells, generations of it, rose up in full fury. He would never forgive her! He would rather kill her than marry her!
Thunder boomed very close now, but Jerome scarcely noticed it in his rage. In that moment, he hated Rachel more than he had ever hated anyone. The damned devious witch! He had known better than to trust her, but fool that he was, he had let her worm her way through his guard.
But she was not just another scheming, faithless beauty No, indeed! She was the most perfidious, devious, diabolical female that he had ever had the misfortune to meet!
Why, she made Cleo Macklin look like a damned saint in comparison.
In his shame, fury and frustration, Jerome fought to escape his hemp shackles.
His frantic thrashing availed him nothing, however, for the ropes were tied far too tight. He succeeded only in abrading his wrists and ankles until they bled.
Rachel grabbed his wrists, frying to arrest his wild flailing. “Please, stop,” she pleaded. She sounded on the edge of tears. “You are hurting yourself dreadfully.”
It was nothing compared to the hurt she had inflicted on his pride. “Why am I so unfortunate as to be singled out for the dubious honour of being your husband?”
She flinched at his sarcasm. “I loathe Lord Felix and I cannot bear to marry him.” Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding. “You are my only hope of escaping him.”
“Then, my dear, you have no hope at all.”
She looked as though he had taken a whip to her. “Why not marry Felix? Most women would happily do so. He is very rich.”
“As if I cared for that!” she cried scornfully. “Can you not understand? I do not want to be another ornament that he has collected. Even if he were not repulsive to me with his ridiculous ways, and his diamonds, and his musk, how do you think a man who would kick a little dog would treat his wife?”
Rachel had a point. Furious as he was at her, Jerome could not help feeling for her plight. “Then marry Tony Denton,” he suggested.
“Aunt Sophia would never accept him as my husband in place of Lord Felix. Tony is not nearly rich enough.”
“But were he, you would prefer him as your husband.”
“No, I think Tony would make as bad a husband as Lord Felix. Although he can be pleasant and charming, he is not at all what I want in a husband. He is a rake who cares for naught but his own pleasures.”
Her accurate assessment of Denton’s character caught Jerome by surprise. For a moment, he was pleased that she saw the reprobate for what he was. Then Jerome remembered that, despite this, she had still slept with Tony. Like Cleo Macklin, Rachel was delighted to have Denton as her lover, but she preferred a rich duke, a faithful fool, for her husband.
It was fortunate Jerome’s hands were tied or he might have strangled her. He closed his eyes to block out the sight of her and considered how he could best get her to untie him.
When he opened his eyes again, Rachel smiled shyly at him and moved a little away from the bed. She began removing the pins that anchored her hair atop her head.
He watched in fascination as her long, thick tresses tumbled down about her shoulders in rich, silken profusion. Jerome, stifling a groan, tried not to think of what it would be like to bury his hands and his face in that shining ebony cascade.
Rachel’s fingers toyed with the top button of her violet habit-shirt. He wondered why she looked so uncertain. She was clearly wavering over something.
Finally, he saw her jaw tighten in grim determination, and she unbuttoned the top button. As her hand moved down to undo the second one, he noticed that it was trembling.
By the time she unfastened the third button, Jerome’s mouth was dry The cleavage of her beautiful breasts, firm and full, was revealed in the gap, and he felt his body’s hot response.
“Damn you,” he growled, “did you strip like this for Denton?”
Her fingers fell away from the buttons and her confused gaze met his. “What?”
“Did Denton put you up to this—and to abducting me?”
“Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because it is the sort of backhanded knavery that bastard would do with relish. It would please him immensely to succeed in trapping me into marriage with one of his mistresses.”
“Mistress!” she cried, clearly staggered. “I am not his mistress!”
Jerome did not for one moment believe her. “How, then, did you pass the hours with Denton the night before last?” His voice was thick with derision. “Playing whist?”
“Sweet heaven, I was not with Tony that night!” Jerome was so incensed that, forgetting his restraints, he tried to sit up only to be jerked painfully back by them. “Do not deny it, damn you! I saw you and him sneak out!”
“Not together!”
“No,” he conceded, “but within three minutes of each other, and I saw you return after dawn the next morning. Or will you try to tell me you spent that night at Wingate Hall?”
“No, I did not,” she admitted quietly, “but neither was I with Tony.”
Jerome did not know whether to believe her or not. “Then where the hell did you go—and where was Denton?”
“I suspect that he went to the pretty maid at the White Swan Inn that he favours whenever he is at Wingate Hall.”
She said it with such unconcern that Jerome wondered whether she might possibly be the one woman in England who had been able to resist Denton’s seductive advances.
She checked his wrist nearest her, then leaned across him to examine the other one. Her scent of lavender and roses wafted over him. Her breasts moved forward against the gap in her shirt, swaying enticingly only scant inches above his face.
He recalled how soft her breast had been in his hand. That memory had the opposite effect on his own anatomy. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
After what seemed like an eternity to him, she finished her examination of his wrists and sat up straight, looking at him with reproach, “Can you not see that your struggles are futile? You only hurt yourself.”
Jerome fought to even out his choppy breathing. When he succeeded, he inquired, “If you were not with Tony that night, where were you?”
“Here with Gentleman Jack. He had suffered a relapse. Not a serious one, as it turned out, but I was caught by the storm, and it prevented me from returning until light. I had to sleep on the settee in the drawing room.” A smile played on her lovely mouth. “I seem fated to spend stormy nights here.”
Jerome had forgotten about the note from Morgan that had lured him into this trap. “What part did Gentleman Jack play
in my abduction?”
“He wrote the note to give to you, and then he moved out of his hideaway here so that we could be alone.” She gave him one of her irresistible, dimpled smiles. “I own I did not believe Gentleman Jack’s note would bring you here, but it did. Why did you come?”
“Curiosity” Deducing that Morgan had not told her they were brothers, Jerome did not intend to inform her either. So long as Morgan was known only as Gentleman Jack, he would have no difficulty resuming his life as that personable and popular young rake, Lord Morgan Parnell, when he forsook his Robin Hood role. But if the highwayman’s true identity was discovered, not even the Duke of Westleigh, with all his power, could save him. “How did you persuade Gentleman Jack to write that note?”
“He was so grateful for my treating him after he was shot that he promised me he would do any favour that I wanted of him. When I asked him to help me abduct you, he was very reluctant to do so, but he is a man of his word.”
Yes, Morgan was that. Having given Rachel his oath, he would feel compelled to keep it even at his own brother’s expense. “Did Gentleman Jack tell you to tie me to the bed like this?”
“No, he said that if you were not tied, you would overpower me and leave, but the bed was my idea. I thought you would be more comfortable.”
Comfortable! Damn her, it was the most humiliating position in which he had ever found himself. His wounded pride festered, and his earlier rage, having receded, now washed back over him stronger than ever.
He must persuade her to untie him before they were found like this.
But not, damn it, at the price of marrying her.
“We have been gone for hours,” he said. “Your relatives must be wondering what has happened to you.”
“Oh, no, I left them a note that we had eloped.”
Jerome swore under his breath. “Did you also tell them that you had abducted me?”
“No, only that we were going to be married.”
“Like hell we are.” Her certitude that he would wed her fired his rage like a torch set to gunpowder. No one had ever been able to force Jerome to do something he did not want to do. He would never permit her either to trick or shame him into marriage.
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