“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” He studied her silently. “However, I will have your name.” His tone was cajoling as if she were an errant child. She tried to conceal her annoyance.
“Why do you need to know my name?”
He responded with a crooked smile. “Do not be angry just because I have demanded the truth from you. I did free you. I want the name of the woman I am about to kiss,” he added.
Rheda’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Your attempt at seduction is getting tiresome. There will be no kiss; my simple thank-you should suffice.”
She tested her legs and gingerly rose to her feet. She looked down on him still kneeling on the grass. Her breath caught in her throat; he looked as chiseled and flawless as a Greek sculpture that had recently been cleaned. Then he smiled, and he looked as exciting as his prancing stallion. Untamable. Unmanageable. Deliciously dangerous. The hairs on her arms rose. She’d never met a man like him.
His contented grin, like a cat that just swallowed a bucket of cream, sent her stomach tumbling. His smile was his most potent weapon. His lips full and inviting. He no doubt slayed many a woman with such a smile, and she had to dig her fingernails into her palm to keep from succumbing.
“I should go now. I need to get the barrel home before dusk.”
“You are worried about the Revenue men. There is no need. I’ll protect you.” He rose to stand before her. Carefully, she stepped a little away, trying to tear her gaze from his powerful body, trying to put space between them.
He considered her for a minute, and she lowered her eyelashes to hide her resentment.
“I’ll help you get the barrel home. I could use some rope and tie it to Caesar’s saddle. We could drag the barrel along the road behind him.” He indicated his impressive stallion. “It will be less tiring.”
He seemed much focused on her barrel. She was reluctant to let him help her, but it would look suspicious if she did not. Would he think she had something else to hide? Right now she didn’t need any government man, if he was one, poking his nose in her business.
Besides, she could not very well leave it abandoned here while she went in search of Daniel. Someone might take it, and then where would Meg and her children be?
Like a mouse facing a cat guarding some extremely inviting cheese, she instinctively knew she could not trust him. What really prickled her skin was she should have thought of his suggested transport option herself, before leaving home. She would have avoided being caught.
When she made no reply, he raised his hand again to her cheek. “You have such lovely silken skin.” Lord Strathmore’s husky voice sounded deeper than before, too appealing, too seductive. His eyes gazed into hers as if he sought the Holy Grail rather than the source of a barrel. She could almost feel herself compelled to step forward and reveal the truth.
His thumb stroked her jaw, his touch lingering and provocative. She knew she should move, flee his disturbing nearness, yet she was held captive by the intensity of his gaze, by the raw, powerful masculinity emanating from him.
His knuckles brushed over her moist, swollen lips. Fiery sparks shot from his fingers to her skin. She shivered.
“Tell me you don’t have a lover. Tell me you do not belong to anyone,” he huskily said as he continued to stroke down her throat.
Still half-dazed, she frowned, his brows were lowered, his nostrils flared. He looked like his Thoroughbred, a stallion primed for a race, but held back at the gate. His presence emitted a magnetic field that brought the fine hairs on her body upright. Struggling to clear her head, she tried to make sense of his words—belong? What on earth did he mean? She clapped her hands to her cheeks. He thought her some man’s mistress.
Chapter 4
His question irked her; it was so typically male. Women, by necessity, always belonged to some man. Either a father, a husband, or, as in her case, a brother. “Yes, my lord.” She belonged by her younger brother’s side, Daniel Kerrich, Baron de Winter, as an equal. She did not and never would “belong” to any man.
But Rheda would not dissuade him of his notion.
Regret dowsed the desire burning within his eyes. “A pity I had not met you sooner.” The rasp in his voice continued his seduction. “Perhaps you‘ll soon tire of your protector. I am more than willing to offer for you. You are a beautiful woman, full of passion. A man would have to be in bedlam not to want a taste.” He released her and stepped clear. “You still have not told me your name.”
“I don’t intend to, my lord.”
He inclined his head. “Are you afraid of your protector finding out about our little interlude?”
She was. Daniel would challenge Lord Strathmore to a duel for the liberties he’d taken. Or worse, insist on marriage. She couldn’t allow that since she’d encouraged him. “Perhaps,” Rheda acknowledged breathlessly. She certainly wasn’t about to inform him that his was the first kiss she’d ever experienced. Her body’s response told her how good it was.
Lord Strathmore’s sensuous lips drew taut at her words.
They stood watching each other, the tension skimming around them, until he turned and whistled for Caesar. “Come, boy. We are duty bound to see the lady home. With her barrel.”
He beckoned her toward his horse.
He finished tying the barrel with rope and hitching it to the saddle so that it dragged behind his stallion, then turned to look at her, his face a mask of seriousness. “If I were your protector you wouldn’t need to lug barrels found on the beach to market. I would keep you in luxury beyond your wildest dreams.”
She ignored his remark, unsure what to say. He could not possibly know she’d turned down a more honorable offer than his. One that would have helped her brother and given her more wealth and status than his casual proposition ever could.
Long ago she’d vowed never to be owned, even in marriage. Her father never valued her mother for anything. When her mother died, her father spent the rest of his life whoring, gambling, and drinking to excess. It was as if her mother had never existed.
So she’d made plans of her own. Plans that Lord Strathmore’s stallion could well advance, if only she could—what was the term—borrow Caesar for a day or two. Suddenly she hoped Lord Strathmore, or rather Caesar, would be staying in Deal.
They walked in silence beside his horse. The sound of the barrel scraping over stones and holes in the dirt road filled the air. Their progress was slow. The cask couldn’t be bounced too hard or it would break.
“Are you simply passing through Deal, Lord Strathmore?”
“Please, call me Rufus.”
She pretended to be interested in her rescuer, but in reality she was scouting a very skilled eye over his Thoroughbred horse. Caesar would be perfect to breed with her two Arabian mares.
Her dream was to own the biggest horse stud in Kent. If successful she’d be free of any male obligations, and she’d be able to help the villagers of Deal. Smuggling was a dangerous business, and it left far too many widows and orphans.
She would breed Anglo-Arabian horses to sell to the cavalry. The idea had come to her when she’d been given two Arabian mares by Prince Hammed. It was his suggestion to cross them with an English Thoroughbred.
With consternation, she admitted the only flaw in her plan was that she lacked the money to procure a Thoroughbred stallion. Daniel refused to even consider her plan. She eyed Caesar as if he was the pot of gold at the end of her rainbow.
With a jolt, she realized Lord Strathmore had asked her a question. She glanced about her. They were at the last crossroad before entering Deal.
She could not take him to her home, so she pointed left. Meg’s cottage was at the edge of town, a few blocks back from the docks. The road on the right led back inland toward Hastingleigh Estate, the Earl of Hale’s property.
“You have not been listening to a word I have said. You seem much taken with Caesar.”
She smiled demurely. “It’s just that I have never seen such a fin
e horse. Is he a Thoroughbred?”
“Yes, Caesar is a purebred. He is listed in the General Stud Book, and his sire’s bloodline can be traced back to Godolphin Arabian—one of the first Arabian stallions ever brought to England.”
She swallowed her excitement. Godolphin Arabian was one of the finest and oldest bloodlines. Any horse bred from one of his offspring would be worth a fortune.
“Caesar looks very frightening. Does he have a nasty temperament ?”
Rufus turned and rubbed Caesar’s nose. “He is very much like me, friendly and easygoing unless someone crosses him.” The threat hung in the air disguised as a casual statement.
She ignored it.
“Do you let your wife ride him?” She caught her breath. Rheda hadn’t heard of any betrothal, but then she did not keep up with all the Society gossip. She was annoyed with herself for being interested in his reply. Why did she care if he was married? She’d tasted freedom, and she swore she’d never end up as chattel like her mother. Besides, at five and twenty she was already considered a spinster.
Lord Strathmore laughed out loud. “I am not married, and no I do not let anyone else ride him. Would becoming my mistress be more conducive now that you know I am not married? Is your current benefactor married?”
He’d got the completely wrong idea about her question. She’d asked about a wife to test Caesar’s temperament. She could hardly “borrow” the stallion if he turned nasty on her. But like most men, Lord Strathmore assumed she was interested in him.
“My protector is not married. I only asked the question because it has been a dream of mine to ride a stallion such as this one day.”
“Perhaps during my stay in Deal I could allow that.”
Her pulse leaped. “You plan to stay in Deal? Do you have business here?”
“Not business, no. I’m visiting a family acquaintance, the Earl of Hale.”
Rheda’s heart sank. She should have known he would be staying with Christopher.
Just then Meg’s door opened and four little terrors swarmed toward them. Caesar whinnied and stamped his feet at the sound of the children’s squeals.
“Easy, boy.” Lord Strathmore’s voice was calm and soothing.
Meg stood in the doorway of her ramshackle cottage, concern etched on her face at the sight of Rheda and her companion.
Rheda hurried forward. “Meg. Look what I found on the beach. We should be able to sell the contents and feed the little ones for a month.” Luckily, Meg caught her warning look.
Her boys rolled the cask around the back of the cottage as soon as Lord Strathmore had untied the ropes. Once the cask had been stowed, the boys returned to admire the stallion.
Meg played her part beautifully. “That’s a good day’s work, Rhe. Won’t you come in and have some tea now? Come on, you lot, leave the beast alone and come inside.”
Rheda looked back at Lord Strathmore. He’d made no attempt to engage either woman in conversation. He simply stood holding Caesar’s bridle with one hand and resting the other hand on one narrow hip, his powerful legs slightly spread, as if he stood on a heaving ship’s deck riding out a storm.
Thankfully, he did not try to come nearer to the cottage. Yet she felt no relief. Rheda was certain she hadn’t seen the last of the gorgeous viscount. She must not go near Hastingleigh until Lord Strathmore had departed. Explaining that to Daniel without enlightening him to today’s events would be difficult.
With a cool look, she tried to infer their acquaintance was over. “Thank you, my lord.”
He blew her a kiss, his face alight with a mischievous grin. “Until we meet again, sweet Rhe.” He could not hide his gloat over finally learning her name.
With sinking heart, she turned and stepped over the threshold of Meg’s cottage. She’d have to put the word out around the village that they were not to give the viscount any information about a woman named Rhe.
She paused before closing the door. With dread she knew she’d be unlikely to stop a man like Lord Strathmore from ferreting out the information he required. His pockets were deep, and the villagers, if in dire circumstances, might betray her. With grim determination she decided she’d have to involve Dark Shadow. No one would cross the infamous smuggler. If Dark Shadow called for silence, not a soul would talk.
She wasn’t sure if Lord Strathmore was really interested in her, a woman he desired for a dalliance while he visited the area, or if he was actively after the source of her barrel.
She pressed her hand to her churning stomach. She closed the door on his handsome face, inwardly cursing how the day had eventuated. Once he’d visited Fraser’s Landing, he’d know she’d lied.
She needed to learn more about Viscount Strathmore. What was he really seeking in Deal? She’d have to find out and quickly.
Rufus watched the door of the cottage close and let out his breath in a quiet rush. The encounter had been very enjoyable and quite fortuitous. Before he’d even settled in, he’d found evidence of smuggling and another beautiful local lass whom he could seduce for information. Rhe plainly knew more than Lucy. Rhe tried to hide it, but she was a terrible liar.
He shook his head, feeling amused, a self-mocking smile twisting his mouth. He’d felt Rhe’s response in his arms, so she wasn’t immune to his favors. He wasn’t conceited. Females, no matter what class or age, consistently vied for his attentions.
He frowned. Why did she not want him to learn her identity? She had something to hide. Don’t get too excited. Perhaps she was scared of her protector. He would have to ascertain his name and position. He’d win her eventually. His blood heated. He was going to enjoy this assignment.
He mounted Caesar and turned back to the crossroads. At least he had a place to start his search—Fraser’s Landing. If the lead came to nothing, he hoped a wild gypsy girl with hair the color of dried wheat, sparkling emerald eyes, and a body made for sin would make such a search unnecessary. She knew something.
Luckily for him she was the perfect age to be experienced enough to make her seduction enjoyable. He would enjoy having the enchanting temptress beneath him, above him, any which way a man could take a woman. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. With a wry flex of his eyebrow, he admitted he desired her. Everything about her was profoundly sensual, from the silky softness of her hair, to her lickable creamy skin, to her slim thighs, firm yet soft, and those eyes ...
A man could lose himself in those vibrant green eyes. He’d have to be careful. At least he knew her name—Rhe. Who the devil was she? It was clear she did not live at the cottage, although she pretended she did.
Perhaps she lived with her benefactor and was ashamed. Rufus’s stomach clenched. Or her protector was very good in bed, hence her loyalty. Rufus had offered a hefty sum for the privilege of having her, yet she’d declined. Then again, perhaps she loved her protector. Something stabbed near his heart. He scoffed out loud. A kept woman couldn’t afford the luxury of love. No, it had to be something else.
He tapped the end of his riding crop on his chin. She’d make a magnificent mistress. Pity he didn’t plan to stay in Deal long enough to bother needing one. Right now he did not need a mistress; he needed information. However, Rhe might satisfy him in more ways than one. She’d make an excellent informant and a succulent bedmate.
Caesar, normally sure footed, missed a step. Pain shot through him, almost making him lose his seat. Riding a horse fully aroused was most uncomfortable. However, the pain was a timely reminder. His memory subtly shifted. Marguerite. Rufus tightened his grip on the reins. He’d been down this path before, and his colleague had paid with his life.
Women could be just as deadly, just as cunning, and just as brutal as any man.
Anger surged through him at the mere memory. Marguerite’s kisses had been the sweetest taste of sin. He would not be fooled again. Rhe might share his bed and enjoy his body, but he’d never let himself care for a woman who could be the enemy.
Rufus swore a low oath at his continuing d
iscomfort. He may desire the wild gypsy woman called Rhe, but he would use her, gain his intelligence, and move on. He would treat her as the enemy until he achieved his goal. Only then would he care one way or the other whether she was innocent of any crime.
He pressed a hand to his side, remembering the pain resulting from Marguerite’s stab wound. Guilty until proven innocent was now his motto. To lose himself in a beautiful woman and ignore her ability to deceive was a mistake he would not make a second time.
Nevertheless, it did not mean he could not enjoy the soft, curvaceous gypsy’s charms. He just had to remember what the female sex was capable of—outside of bed sport.
So how could he find her again? He loved the thrill of the chase. He would locate the woman and seduce her. With grim determination, Rufus knew he’d find a way. He needed information and she had some. Still, there was no question that her lush loveliness entranced him.
This time he would not forget his mission. Not only did he have a job to do, this traitor was the key to untangling his father’s disgrace. He would not rest until he’d cleared his father’s name and restored the Strathmore honor. If that was at all possible.
He grinned. Despite his mission, he would enjoy a dalliance. No, not just a mere dalliance, he felt a restless aching need to possess her. He wanted the fascinating beauty in his bed regardless of what he could learn from her.
His eyes narrowed. No. The mission must come first. He’d waited more than twelve years. His own redemption hung on his success.
Damn. He knew his thoughts were false. The vixen had burrowed under his skin. He wanted her. And Rufus Knight, eighth Viscount Strathmore, always got what he wanted.
“Are you in trouble?” Meg asked as she made the boys sit at the small table in the middle of her cramped but clean cottage. Meg might not have much, but what she did have she looked after. Rheda could see her own reflection in the rickety polished table and chairs, and the ratty armchairs by the fire, although worn, showed not a speck of dust. “He certainly looks like trouble,” Meg added. She placed the children’s bowls of stew in front of the hungry younger lads and turned to offer Rheda a drink of fresh lemon.
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