The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  Careful to make no sound, he pushed to his feet, picked up his swordstick, releasing the blade, and tiptoed to the window. The road twisted away from the barn, empty in both directions. Whoever lurked below, they had apparently not brought reinforcements.

  He stared at his pile of clothes. Idiot. At least he could have put his shirt on before falling asleep. Hopefully it was a local farmer stopping to rest his horse, and not Alphonse or the Irishman who had discovered their refuge.

  He crept towards the opening where the ladder poked through. At any moment, someone might stick a head up through the floor. Christopher wanted to be ready.

  Sleepy and warm, Sylvia couldn’t believe her eyes. Christopher, standing as still as a statue, staring down into the barn. Strong, well-formed calves and thighs sprinkled with dark, crisp hair, a heavier thatch circling his male member and running in a line up his ridged stomach. The early morning light cast the muscles of his chest and arms into sculpted bronze. Glorious in his nakedness, he was quite the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Tingles tightened her breasts and she lifted her gaze to his intent expression. She smiled.

  He must have sensed her gaze, because he glanced at her, frowned and shook his head, then pointed down the hole.

  Someone was down there? Dread filled her heart. They had found them after all. It was all her fault. If she had not stopped to rob the farm, they would never have spent the night here. They would have kept on going to Calais.

  She got to her knees, grabbed up her gown and slipped it silently over her head. She rose to her feet, staring at Christopher, waiting for a signal, some sign of what to do next.

  He pressed his fingers to his lips and lowered himself to lie flat on the floor.

  Her mouth dried. Never had she seen a man laid out naked like a banquet. Her gaze lingered on round firm buttocks and lean flanks, drifted up his narrow waist to his broad shoulders. Beneath his dark coats and quiet demeanour, Christopher was one very beautiful male. And she wanted to taste him. All over.

  Had she run mad? This was definitely the wrong time to discover her salacious side.

  She drew in a deep steady breath and crept across the floor to lie down at his side, peering into the darkness below, the only patch of light directly below the open hatch to their loft.

  She opened her mouth. He shook his head.

  Then she heard the snorting chewing sounds of an animal that must have attracted his attention. An animal enjoying breakfast? The thought made her stomach rumble. It might just be a cow who had wandered in and found the old hay. Another sound. Shuffling footsteps.

  ‘Ach. I was sure I’d find them here, wee horsy,’ a voice muttered.

  Sylvia giggled and rose to her feet.

  Christopher jumped up and slammed his hand over her mouth.

  She tore his fingers lose. ‘It’s Jeannie,’ she breathed in his ear. She rose to her feet and prepared to go down the ladder.

  He grabbed her forearm. ‘Let me go first,’ he whispered. ‘She may not be alone.’

  She swallowed a laugh and gazed pointedly down his length.

  He coloured and headed for his clothes. With his back to her, he slipped his breeches over his muscled thighs and hid his gorgeous rump from her view. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled as he reached down for his shirt.

  She narrowed her eyes. If there was someone else down there, they had come for her, not him. She could not let him be harmed.

  Sucking in a breath, she grasped the top of the ladder, and placed one foot on the ladder.

  ‘Sylvia.’ Christopher’s frantic whisper echoed off the ancient beams.

  She frowned and put a finger to her lips. ‘Wait here,’ she mouthed and climbed down.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ Jeannie said, twisting her neck to look up at her. ‘Rafter is expected at the whorehouse at any moment. There will be hell to pay when they see the horses are missing.’

  Sylvia closed her eyes in thanks. Jeannie would come with them. And Sylvia would care for her, as she had been unable to care for her mother. The thought eased a little of the hollow place in her heart. ‘Christopher, she’s alone,’ she called up. She turned to Jeannie. ‘How ever did you find us?’

  ‘I mentioned this place to yon gentleman of yourn. I hoped to find ye here. Alphonse scoured the land around the house last night when they discovered ye were gone, but madame would not send him further afield until the Irishman came.’

  Sword in hand, Christopher scrambled down the ladder. He glared at Jeannie. ‘Did you tell them where to find us?’

  Jeannie drew herself to her full height and stared at his waistcoat. ‘Of course I didna’. I told them I thought you would continue on to Paris, to your friend. The madame is going to kill me when she finds out what I did.’

  Christopher wasn’t looking at her, he was looking behind her at the horses at the manger. ‘My God. You brought both horses.’

  Jeannie’s face broke into a grin. ‘That, too. Alphonse isna’ going to be happy. It will sure slow him down.’

  Christopher slid his blade back into its sheath. ‘Well done, Jeannie. Come on, then, we best make haste for Calais.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jeannie said. ‘We’ll need to hurry. Yon Irishman is due back at the house this morn, and he’s nae gonna be pleased, I think. An’ he’ll soon realise ye didna’ take the Paris road. Now there’s a man I dinna want to face when he’s fashed.’

  The thought of an angry Rafter sent a shudder down Sylvia’s spine.

  Jeannie’s fingers dug into Sylvia’s waist as Alphonse’s ancient nag ambled along the road. Christopher dropped back to her side. ‘Can you go any faster?’

  Sylvia glanced over her shoulder at Jeannie’s terrified face. ‘No. We are doing our best.’

  ‘We will miss the last packet to Dover if we don’t hurry. I don’t want to be in Calais when Rafter arrives.’

  Nor did she, but they’d been forced to take a circuitous route to the coast, not daring to risk the main highway. How long would it be before Rafter realised he’d been sent on a wild goose chase? Probably not long enough.

  ‘Leave me, Miss Sylvia,’ Jeannie croaked.

  Sylvia shook her head. She had lost too many people in her life. She would lose Christopher when they returned to England, but she would not lose Jeannie.

  Hours later, they clattered into the town, their horses’ hooves echoing off the silent, cobbled streets. She recognised the inn she’d slept in a few days ago. They were almost safe.

  A stable-boy dawdled from somewhere at the back to retrieve their horses. Christopher’s weariness showed in his slumped shoulders as he dismounted, but his hands were strong and firm around her waist when he lifted her down, before he assisted Jeannie out of the saddle.

  Poor Jeannie looked as if she had been out in a violent storm. Thin strands of grey hair hung around her face and she’d lost her cap. Sylvia put a hand to her own stringy hair. She probably looked worse after her romp in the hay.

  In low tones, Christopher arranged for the stabling of the horses. Though his posture indicated confidence, Sylvia saw the concern in his eyes as he spoke to the groom.

  He strode back to her and Jeannie at the stable door. ‘We’ve missed the last boat tonight. I’m going to see if I can find a local fisherman to take us across. If you ladies wouldn’t mind waiting in the parlour, I will return as soon as may be.’

  Sylvia caught his arm. ‘Is it safe to stay here? What if Rafter should come?’

  Christopher frowned. ‘I’ll rent a private room for you and Jeannie. Stay in it and stay out of sight. That’s all I can do.’

  He put a hand to his pocket. ‘Blast. I haven’t a penny to my name.’

  ‘Perhaps we should take shelter in the barn?’ She sent him a saucy smile.

  ‘God, no. My credit is good enough and, if not, there’s always my watch.’ He caught her look and grinned. ‘Hussy. Wait here while I make the arrangements.’

  He strode into the inn.

  Sylvia rubbe
d her chilled hands together. ‘We won’t be long now, Jeannie.’

  The hunted expression in Jeannie’s eyes cut her to the quick and she gave the old woman a hug. ‘Hold on. Everything will be well, I promise.’

  A moment or two later Christopher returned with a thin little innkeeper trotting behind.

  ‘This way, ladies,’ the skinny man said with a bow low enough for the Queen, despite their dishevelled appearance. Clearly, Christopher had paved the way well. Sylvia inclined her head, hooked Jeannie’s arm in her own and followed the innkeeper.

  The private parlour at the back of the inn welcomed them with a warm fire and bright candles.

  ‘What can I get for you, mesdames?’ the innkeeper asked.

  Jeannie and Sylvia looked at each other. ‘A nice cup of tea,’ they chorused and laughed.

  ‘Ah, les anglaises et le thé,’ he murmured and bowed himself out.

  When Christopher entered the empty taproom, his hopes of finding a ship’s captain plummeted.

  ‘No fishermen tonight?’ he asked the boy behind the bar washing glasses.

  ‘It is late, monsieur,’ the pot-boy said. ‘All the local men are all down at the waterfront where the women are.’ He winked lewdly. ‘We cater to a different clientele and they left on this afternoon’s packet. You are the only guests tonight.’

  ‘If I needed to find a man with a boat, where would I go?’

  ‘At the Sign of the Mermaid most likely, monsieur. Can I get you something to drink?’

  The days were such a blur, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a tankard of ale. He swallowed the dust in his throat. He didn’t have time. He had to get the women to safety before Rafter came up with them. ‘No, thank you. Just give me directions to the Mermaid.’

  The pot-boy did so and, intent on getting there before everyone was too drunk to sail, he hurried to the door. A pair of broad shoulders clad in black blocked his path.

  ‘Kit. Finally I run you to earth.’

  Christopher reeled back. ‘Garth. Bloody hell. What the devil are you doing here?’

  Garth’s dark eyebrow flicked up. ‘Nice greeting, I must say. I’m looking for you, of course. I thought I’d better make sure you were all right.’ He frowned. ‘Except when I got here, it was as if you had disappeared into thin air.’ His usual devil-may-care expression turned grave. ‘You are all right, aren’t you? You look a bit pale.’

  For Garth to notice that kind of detail meant he looked a perfect scarecrow. ‘I’m passable.’

  Garth stared at him. ‘You’ve been involved in some sort of scrape without me to get you out of trouble. Devil a bit.’

  Christopher gave a shout of laughter. ‘Doing it a bit too brown, brother. It’s usually the other way around. I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, I have to get Sylvia and her maid back to England.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘You didn’t by any chance sail over in the Witch did you?’

  Garth grinned. ‘I did. Thought you might need her and knew you’d never think of taking her yourself.’

  Christopher stiffened. ‘Why would I? She belongs to you now.’

  Garth clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You know how I feel about that. We always shared her when Father was alive. You’re just too damned stiff-necked to accept anything from me.’

  Christopher raised a hand. It was an old argument and the wrong occasion. ‘The thing is, she’s here. Can we get off tonight?’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Porter.’

  ‘If anyone can do it, he can,’ Christopher said.

  ‘Right,’ Garth replied with a nod and a big grin. ‘Let’s ask him.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  L uxurious indeed. Glowing from her sponge bath, Sylvia wandered around the Sea Witch’s well-appointed stateroom. So well appointed she’d found a nightgown to fit her in the sea chest, and, best of all, a sailor had brought jugs of hot water for bathing. Over Jeannie’s protests that she ought to help, Sylvia had sent the poor old woman to bed. This luxury she needed no help to enjoy.

  Absent-mindedly, she pulled a comb through her wet hair as she investigated the room. The polished mahogany fittings with brass hinges and handles gleamed in the swinging lamplight. An ivory-backed hairbrush rested in a cunning rack on the dressing table fixed to the wall. She picked it up and turned it over. Everything had a place and everything was small and neat, like a doll’s house. Except the bed.

  The blatant, opulent monstrosity had a midnight-blue canopy and pale blue satin sheets embroidered in gold with the Stanford crest. ‘I’ll join you in a while,’ Christopher had said before he left her to bathe. Expectation blazed in his eyes and her heart had quickened.

  After she had bedded him willingly, he assumed she was his. Sadly, she was. Her body was his, but had she given him her heart? She wasn’t sure. But she would not become his plaything, to be discarded at will. The thought of waiting for that dreadful day tore a hole in her chest. Better to get it over with before she became too attached.

  She set the hairbrush back in its place and continued her roaming. This was Lord Stanford’s room, she guessed. Or rather the room where he entertained his ladies. Fleetingly, she wondered where he would sleep tonight.

  A cosy armchair behind the door looked inviting. Tucking her bare feet up under the hem of her gown, she curled up in it. She glanced at the bed again. Whatever would she would say to Christopher when he returned?

  Anticipation simmered in her blood like water over hot coals. She wanted him. Just once more, she promised herself. Back in England, back to reality, she would insist they go their separate ways. Tonight would be their last together.

  She turned her head at the sound of the opening door and smiled as Christopher entered. He had also bathed and was wearing a short blue-silk dressing gown. His or Lord Stanford’s. Not that it mattered. His attention focused on the bed and she caught his disappointed expression in the dressing-table mirror when he saw it was vacant.

  She laughed and opened her arms to him. ‘I was waiting for you.’

  In three short strides, he reached her and knelt at her side. ‘You look beautiful,’ he whispered. For a moment his large, warm hands cupped her cheeks and he brushed his lips against her mouth, a seductive invitation. She parted her lips.

  ‘Ah, not yet,’ he murmured against her mouth, his breath moist against her skin. ‘This time we use the bed.’ He picked up a strand of her hair and ran it across his palm. ‘I love your hair down. Like spun gold, yet soft as silk.’

  She ran her fingertips across his jaw. ‘You shaved.’

  ‘Mmm. Garth lent me his gear.’

  ‘You talked to your brother about us?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Garth doesn’t judge.’

  Sylvia’s gaze wandered to the bed. Of course Garth didn’t judge.

  ‘Come, sweet.’ Christopher’s soft tone turned husky. She’d never heard him sound so intense. He caught her up in his arms.

  Spicy cologne filled her nostrils. ‘Mmm,’ she hummed against his neck. His indrawn hiss of breath in response set up a drumming in her pulse.

  Without effort, he carried her to their own blue ocean of desire. Triumph gushed through her. For this brief moment he belonged to her.

  Later, as she lay in his arms, sated, languid and content, she clung to the sense of belonging. If they could only stay here, rocked by the gentle motion of the waves, like innocent babes.

  Her fingers traced the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest, circling its flat nipples and raking through the smattering of light brown curls.

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured and she smiled and gave his shoulder a gentle nip.

  She wanted to remember for ever the way he looked and tasted and felt beneath her hands. She placed her palm against the strong firm line of his jaw.

  He turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. From beneath his lashes, he glanced down at her, emerald fire in forest green. He smiled. Open, frank and youthful. The rare
smile he seemed to save exclusively for her and for Garth, his brother.

  He petted her hair where it lay over her breast. ‘Pretty.’

  ‘Why did you come chasing after me?’ she asked. ‘I assumed you would be happy to see me gone.’ Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she waited for the answer.

  He looked puzzled. ‘It was my duty. My uncle charged me with the responsibility of making sure you were settled.’

  The reply didn’t surprise her, but it sounded cold, unfeeling, and a chill ran over her skin as if a stray gust of sea breeze had found its way into their cosy nest.

  She let go a little sigh, desperately trying not to mind. She could not expect him to feel as she did. While her parentage might be as noble as his, her bastardy put her beyond the pale.

  His large warm hand closed around hers and she realised she had clutched at her locket. She glanced up and found him watching her.

  ‘What did I say?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. I was thinking how lucky I was that it was you who…’ Her face grew hot. Yet the time for blushes had long passed. She was a woman in truth. A well-bedded one. She chuckled. ‘That it was you who came first to Madame Gilbert’s. I just wish I remembered more about what happened.’

  His shaft hardened against her thigh. Her own centre pulsed in reply. Interesting. Thoughts and words seemed just as sensual as touches. Something she had not learned as a child.

  ‘I would sooner forget,’ he growled.

  She gasped. Hot prickles stabbed at the back of her nose and eyes; she sniffed to clear them away.

  He tipped her chin with his clenched fist. ‘Tears, Sylvia?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, you might not remember all that happened, but it was torture for me. There you were, one of creation’s most beautiful creatures, laid out like a dream, and you had no inkling of who was in the room.’