by Mary Brendan
‘No...’ Fiona said, discarding the bone she’d stripped bare on the ground beside her. ‘I should like to get going, Mr Wolfson. I was expected in Dartmouth this morning.’
‘Why haven’t you married?’
Fiona shot him a glance, shocked by his crude enquiry. ‘I think that is none of your business, sir, and rude of you to ask.’
‘I didn’t complain when you pried into my life.’ He sliced another joint from the cooked carcase and lobbed it towards her. It landed, perfectly positioned, on the grass next to her.
‘I did not pry!’ Fiona spluttered. ‘I simply enquired...’ She tailed off, knowing full well that she’d done her utmost to prise information from him.
He sent her a smile. ‘If you want to know more about me, you’ll have to furnish me with some answers in return. Quid pro quo, Fiona.’
‘I’m a spinster because I’ve never received a proposal. And you? Are you married, and if not, why not?’ she retorted in retaliation.
‘I’m a bachelor...because I’ve never issued a proposal.’
‘And had you done so, sir, you might still be a bachelor having been turned down,’ Fiona pointed out sweetly. She ignored the silent laugh her barb elicited. He was obviously unrepentantly arrogant. ‘Well...now we have that out of the way, I’d like to journey on, Mr Wolfson.’ The savoury smell of the roast game, laying inches away, was tempting; she’d not eaten her fill, but she stubbornly resisted picking it up.
‘I’m not ready to go. Eat your food and stop sulking.’ Luke’s white teeth ripped off what meat remained on the bone hovering by his mouth. The waste was thrown over a shoulder and he upended the water bottle against his mouth.
‘Don’t you dare order me about,’ Fiona burst out, jumping to her feet. She felt irked at having been made to admit—to him of all people—that no man had ever wanted her as his wife.
‘You say your stepfather won’t pay out a ransom on you? I’m not surprised he won’t have you back.’ Luke pushed to his feet and kicked dirt on the dying fire. ‘I doubt he’s missing your acid tongue and lack of gratitude any more than I will when we go our separate ways.’
That comment made Fiona wince. ‘Again you are being impertinent, Mr Wolfson,’ she uttered coldly. ‘You know nothing about my stepfather. If you did, you’d understand he’d lure me again under his roof as long as it cost him nothing.’
‘I think you should explain what you mean by that.’
‘And I think your explanations are due first, sir, so don’t dare to interrogate me!’
Luke cursed beneath his breath for pushing her too far; he had been enjoying their lively talk despite the fact she could be the most insolent chit alive...and the most alluring. He wasn’t sure why he found her fascinating, but the longer he was in her company the more he appreciated her mild loveliness. Here, amongst nature, she seemed to blend in. Her slender graceful body and fawn colouring reminded him of a woodland creature, as did her disposition. She’d attempt to bolt or snap at him the moment he made a move to touch her. And God only knew he was feeling tempted to do so.
Fiona sank her teeth into her lower lip to still its angry tremble. She’d thought they had established a tiny bit of harmony while preparing their meal, but it had soon evaporated. It was her own fault for having brought up the subject of her stepfather; she found it hard to suppress her despising when speaking of Cecil Ratcliff. Even the Collins gang were no worse, in her eyes, than the man her mother had vowed to love and obey. At least those wretches took their plunder openly rather than by stealth.
‘I believe I’ve been more than fair with you, Fiona, but I realise that you have reason to think me a deceitful villain.’ Luke broke the silence, hoping to soothe her.
‘And are you a deceitful villain?’
‘Not in the way you think, and only for the greater good,’ Luke replied wryly.
‘An answer that says little,’ Fiona returned with a sparking glance. Her intuition told her that his casual manner concealed an unrelenting character. She was in the company of a soldier-turned-hireling who was used to giving nothing away. He was sparing with his information and his generosity, she guessed. Wolfson, if honestly acting as her saviour, would expect to be paid for his services.
‘You need not fear that I cannot settle your fee.’ Fiona fished the locket from inside her bodice and held it extended on its fine chain for him to see. ‘I will hand this over when we reach the King and Tinker. It is solid gold and quite heavy,’ she added, as she saw his eyes drop to it only fleetingly before returning to her face.
‘I’ve told you I want nothing from you.’
‘But I insist you take it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I would not have you believe you have bought me, sir.’
‘Forget I said that—it was a joke.’
‘Not to me...’
‘Then you must see yourself as a chattel more than I do.’
‘I assure you I do not! I am my own mistress and nobody else’s.’
‘It never occurred to me you might be otherwise, my dear,’ Luke drawled with lazy amusement, brushing a leaf off a sleeve.
She was a genteel spinster, not a prospective paramour, he reminded himself as he watched her blush beneath his insinuation. It was time to get going and find her a suitable chaperon to keep him at bay. Then, once she was on a coach heading west, he could have his belated meeting with Rockleigh before returning to London. The coming tête-à-tête deserved some preparatory thought, he impressed upon himself, as it was certain to turn unpleasant.
Luke knew he was attempting to force his mind to something...anything...that dampened the tormenting heat building in his loins. The longer he was with this provocative woman the more he felt sexual frustration gnawing at him. He avoided looking at her, concentrating on the imminent confrontation with his friend, wondering if it would be as well to ignore the appointment and head straight back to London. The idea of offering to marry Drew’s niece because the silly chit wouldn’t stop flirting and getting herself into scrapes was absurd and he was itching to tell Rockleigh so. But the matter would wait and perhaps in the interim his friend might accept he’d acted hot-headedly.
In his present irritable mood, Luke knew he might act hot-headedly and what had started as a minor problem could escalate to pistols at dawn. Better he got himself away from Fiona Chapman as soon as he could and follow Becky home. He’d pay his mistress one last visit before approaching the pretty redhead he’d seen at Vauxhall to replace her.
Then there was the question of Harriet Ponting. Once Luke had thought himself in love with the blonde. When she’d rejected his overtures on her parents’ advice, he’d realised he wasn’t, because he’d not felt heartbroken, just humiliated. After that he’d never again been tempted to find a wife, even though he’d since inherited land and wealth from his grandfather that made him a prime target for debutantes. Now he could afford to provide even a rich aristocrat’s child with the sort of life she’d been reared to.
Harriet Ponting was still porcelain pretty and on the few occasions that their paths had crossed her big blue eyes had signalled that she still liked him. Luke knew she’d make a good wife; from a couple of brief amorous encounters they’d snatched when unobserved he’d guessed she’d also make a reasonable lover. Her social graces were more highly polished than his own, so he’d no qualms about her being a skilful hostess. It was time he started thinking about settling down for the benefit of future generations of Wolfsons.
He’d considered heading to Eaton Square to accept one or two of the invitations that always piled up on his desk during the height of the Season. Yet suddenly he felt no inclination to return to town to socialise and pick a wife. With startling clarity he knew that a mild physical attraction and good manners weren’t enough to tempt him to remain faithful and give up carousing with courtesans like
Becky. The idea of adultery was sordid to Luke. He knew a great many wealthy husbands did flit between two or more women, but for him the subterfuge made a mockery of taking vows.
Fiona was aware of his sudden preoccupation and of her inexplicable hurt at his implication that she was too plain for a gentleman to want her as a paramour.
But whatever careless remarks he lobbed her way Fiona had glimpsed the desire burning at the backs of Luke Wolfson’s eyes. Simply because he could, he might take the opportunity to prove to her his powers of seduction while boosting his ego. And with a pang of raw emotion that stole away her breath, she realised that she wanted him to.
With clumsy fingers she undid the locket and stood up with it enclosed in her fist. She marched unsteadily over rough ground and very deliberately dropped the gold to the earth at his feet. ‘I have worked out for myself that you are a mercenary of some sort. Your payment, sir, for rescuing me and escorting me to safety. You might as well take it now, as later.’
Luke gripped her wrist before she could withdraw and slowly, with her struggling to free herself, brought her down to kneel in front of him so their faces were level.
‘How do you know I’ll keep my end of the bargain?’
‘I don’t,’ Fiona breathed. ‘But soldiers of fortune gain work through recommendation, I imagine, and if you cross me I will make it known you’re corrupt.’
‘You’d ruin my reputation, would you?’ he murmured, amused.
Fiona gave a brief nod, wishing she’d not used the threat for it seemed to have had the opposite effect to its purpose. She was acutely aware of her imprisoned wrist and although his fingers had relaxed on her she knew they’d tighten in a second if she attempted to rise.
‘Perhaps I might ruin yours first.’
Fiona’s golden eyes clashed with his dark sultry stare. ‘I think it rather late for that, sir. My reputation was in tatters the moment that highwayman tossed me over his shoulder.’
‘Nothing to lose, then...’ Luke’s tone was silky, his eyes watching her tongue tip darting to moisten her top lip.
‘Pick up your payment and take me to the King and Tinker!’ Fiona ordered shrilly, aware that he was backing her into a corner with his clever words.
‘I’m sorely tempted to do without any more of your snapping and snarling and leave you here.’ Luke’s voice was mellifluous, at odds with the threat in his words. ‘Shall we call a truce for what remains of the ride to the inn?’
Fiona pursed her lips, but nodded while twisting her wrist in a renewed effort to liberate it. Unable to do so, she turned her head from him. ‘I think it best we don’t converse, sir,’ she said icily. ‘All we do is rub one another up the wrong way.’
‘That’s an interesting thought...’ And one I could have done without, he inwardly mocked himself. He released her straining form so abruptly that she fell sideways on to the turf, her skirts askew, displaying her lissom shapely calves.
It was too much temptation for Luke to resist. As Fiona wriggled to straighten her petticoat he braced an arm over her, all thoughts of Harriet and Becky gone from his mind. Immediately Fiona became still, her eyes engulfed by a heavy-lidded blistering gaze.
Luke touched a long forefinger to her softly panting mouth. ‘Let’s not fight and argue, sweet,’ he said huskily. ‘We’ve some hours of travelling in front of us... Better we ride together as friends?’
Mesmerised by the soft finger outlining her lips, she could do no more than wait to see what he might do to her next. She had been kissed before by the more persistent of her suitors, but never, when with those gentlemen, had her heart battered at her ribs, as it did now, in a mix of excitement and trepidation.
Fiona watched his dark head dipping closer, his mouth nearing hers and although a sensible inner voice urged her to beat him off, she could not. He wasn’t pinning her down as he had before when she’d fled from him; nevertheless, she felt trapped by her own need to have a small taste of being seduced by Luke Wolfson. Still he teased her as his face scuffed her cheek and his breath bathed an ear, then upwards skimmed his fingers to touch back from her forehead stray tendrils of silky hair.
He stroked his lips to a corner of hers and with a moan Fiona swung her head so their mouths collided.
Luke was lost in her sweet enthusiasm. A courtesan might put up a better fight before going down.
But he knew that Fiona Chapman had no sophisticated tactics to use to increase his desire; neither did she need them. She tasted smoky and sweet from the spit-roasted meat they’d eaten and he could sense a faint scent of lavender on her skin.
As his tongue skimmed her lower lip Fiona wound her arms about his neck, instinctively pressing up against him, to increase the chafing pressure of his chest on her bosom.
Luke drew her up further as he sensed her need, deepening the kiss, teasing her with the plunge of his tongue until she met him with shy touches of her own.
Somewhere deep in his consciousness he knew he should stop this madness before it went too far. But he was in an agony of arousal and his hands were already straying to open her cloak and slide within to caress her.
Fiona gasped as a large warm hand cupped her breast, teasing her nipple through her bodice. When his hand slipped free some buttons and thrust to touch her nude skin she moaned in delight at the sensation of hard fingers tantalising every inch of warm satiny flesh. His head lowered, his mouth circling the sensitive little nub before suckling hard and fast and making her cry out in wonder as fire streaked through her veins. Luke positioned her legs astride him, drawing back her skirts, but allowing her some modesty by not lifting them completely. He curved a hand about her nape, drawing her head down to his, tempting her back into their shared web of sensuality while loosening his trousers. The sweet feminine core of her felt slick as he teased her with a fingertip...then two...that began easing fractionally further into her. He knew that, virgin or no, she was ready for him and he’d only to free himself and ease her hips down to impale her, because he was more than ready for her.
Fiona’s breath was rasping in her throat and the sound was so foreign that it startled her into parting her lashes. Her eyes merged with his, pleading for she knew not what. Despite drugging desire she understood she was risking everything for this man...a stranger who did deals with criminals. But it was the memory of something Collins had said that finally brought her to her senses. Luke Wolfson had a woman waiting for him at the inn they were about to head towards...
Luke sensed the change in her as she blinked, put up an inner struggle to defeat his boast of conquering a woman by seduction rather than force. Before she could push him away, he tumbled her so she lay sprawled beneath him, then very deliberately he touched together their lips before getting up with an oath exploding between his teeth.
He scooped up the gold locket from the peat and was gathering the mare’s reins by the time Fiona had scrambled to her feet.
Slowly he approached her with such an impenetrable expression that Fiona stumbled back a pace, wondering how he could seem unmoved by what they’d just done. Without a word he lifted her on to the saddle, mounted, and within seconds the refreshed mare was hurtling out of the woods and towards the road.
His arm encircled her waist with such confidence that Fiona knew he was challenging her to break her silence and object. But she’d no intention of speaking to him because she might betray feeling a dreadful jealousy for the mistress he had waiting for him at the King and Tinker.
Chapter Ten
‘Yours, I believe, sir.’ The fellow propelled the girl forward by her shoulder. ‘You should take better care of her, or teach her how to behave.’
The Duke of Thornley gawped at the stranger who’d just addressed him as though he were an incompetent nanny who’d failed his charge. But what angered His Grace the most was having the upstart do so in front of his daughter while manh
andling Joan to boot! And all at such an ungodly hour of the morning! He’d not been abed more than a few hours when a servant had woken him and told him he’d a visitor demanding an urgent audience.
Alfred Thornley had had a good dinner with his friend the squire and they’d swallowed much port and brandy to wash down the game that His Grace had magnanimously supplied from his own larder. He’d not reached home till three hours after midnight and had been helped up the stairs to his chamber by two trusty footmen. His head was thumping from over-imbibing and he was struggling to make sense of the scene in front of him.
‘I beg your pardon!’ he finally thundered. Alfred tightened the belt on his dressing gown with hands that shook with suppressed rage.
‘And so you should.’ Drew Rockleigh was in no mood for humouring the fellow, duke or no.
Yesterday evening he’d opened his door at gone ten o’clock at night not to the man with whom he had a grievance, but to a young woman searching for the same fellow. She’d told him she was a duke’s daughter and he’d snorted disbelief at that. At first. Then he’d realised she was not some opportunistic doxy, but exactly who she said she was. Joan Morland would not tell him what she wanted with Wolfson or why she’d travelled late at night on perilous roads with just a frightened-looking youth driving her two-wheeled gig. Drew’s increasingly wrathful demands for information had all been met with the same answer: it was a secret. Finally, in exasperation, he’d ordered the chit back aboard her transport and escorted her home.
‘What the devil do you mean by that remark? Beg your pardon? Why should I, you young pup?’ The duke planted his fists on his hips, his small black eyes sparking dangerously. ‘What the deuce do you think you are doing here? What is it you want? Make it quick before I have you removed,’ Thornley rattled off, his face glowing puce. ‘Are you a madman?’ he spat out in conclusion.
‘Papa—’ Joan started in a strangled voice, hoping to make her father cease insulting the fellow who’d brought her safely home. She was in terrible trouble, she knew, but her fears were for her father. She wanted His Grace to calm down in case he burst one of the blood vessels she could see throbbing at his temple.