Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. Lock the door, then come untie me. I have a feeling we don’t have much time.”

  Claire hurried to do as he said. Even as she turned the key in the lock, she became aware of an unpleasant smell. It was strong, and acrid, and she knew at once what it was.

  “The house is on fire!”

  She ran back to kneel beside Hugh, placing the pistol on the floor within easy reach and keeping a wary eye on Donen all the time.

  “I guessed as much.”

  At last the knots came undone, and Hugh’s hands were free. Wispy tendrils of smoke crept beneath the door, curling up into the room. To Claire’s horror, she realized that she could hear a distant crackling.

  “Leave me. Go out the window,” he said, yanking at the knots binding his ankles. Claire, just as busy unraveling the knots in the rope around his knees, shook her head.

  “Dammit, Claire,” he began angrily. Then the rope around his ankles came free, and the rope around his knees suddenly became easy to dislodge. He scooped up the pistol and stood up, then moved swiftly to the window. Claire was right behind him every step of the way. Thrusting the pistol into the waistband of his breeches, Hugh tried with all his strength to open the window. It didn’t budge.

  Hugh swore. “That leaves the door. Come on.”

  Catching her hand, he pulled her to the door. Smoke was pouring under it now. He turned the key in the lock, then hesitated, looking back at Donen. The man was making feeble swimming movements. Clearly he was not dead.

  “Hell and the devil confound it,” Hugh said bitterly, and practically leaped across the room to Donen’s side.

  “Get up.” He dragged the man to his feet. Donen swayed drunkenly and almost collapsed. Supporting him, Hugh swore again, then put his shoulder to the man’s stomach and lifted him in a fireman’s carry. Hugh grimaced at his weight, then headed back for the door.

  “Hang on to my coat, and stay low.”

  Claire did as he told her, and they moved out into the upper hall. Bent almost double, they hurried along it. Smoke was curling up the stairs and filling the upper hall. Claire ducked lower to avoid it, but when they reached the top of the stairs it became impossible. The stairs had become a chimney, and even as they started to descend, smoke rose all around them, thick sooty smoke that roiled and curled and slid up her nose and down her throat. She coughed, choking, then coughed some more. Hugh was coughing too, and she clutched the tail of his coat like a lifeline. The smoke stung her eyes, and it was difficult to see. He was no more than a hunched black shape, rendered almost unrecognizable by the bulk of Donen impaled on his shoulder. Below she could see an orange glow, and hear the crackling and popping of fire.

  But the fire and the smoke weren’t their only enemies, or even their main ones. David and his thugs were that—and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that they were nearby. They would be waiting to make certain she and Hugh did not escape.

  They were halfway down the stairs, and she could see tongues of flame racing up the curtains, licking at the walls. The whole first floor of the house seemed to be ablaze. The three steps remaining on the stairs suddenly seemed like three miles. She was growing dizzy, her mind whirling even as her eyes burned and she felt as if she were suffocating on the thick smoke.

  “Almost there.” Hugh was choking too, bending low under Donen’s weight. He stumbled and nearly went down, catching hold of the banister seconds before he would have fallen down the remaining stairs. Claire cried out in alarm and grabbed his arm. There was a clatter, a metallic clatter, as something fell down the stairs ahead of them. It was too dark to see what it was, but Claire didn’t have to see to know what it was: the pistol. They’d lost it. Finding it again was impossible. It was too dark, too smoky, and there was no time. The fire was taking on new life, leaping toward them across the floor, and Claire knew that if they didn’t get out soon, they would never escape.

  Then suddenly, miraculously, they were on flat ground, a carpeted floor, moving toward the door. At least, Claire hoped they were moving toward the door. She had lost all sense of direction, all ability to judge time or distance. She could only cling to Hugh’s coat, and cough, and pray.

  “Master Hugh!”

  It was James’s voice, James’s solid shape rushing toward them through the smoke and flames.

  “Here!” Hugh was hoarse, coughing. James reached them, dragging Donen off Hugh’s shoulders and onto his own back.

  “This way.”

  Hugh’s hand grabbed hers, and, bending low, together they followed James while fire raced across the ceiling and pieces of flaming wood and plaster dropped like leaves in autumn around them. Her eyes were watering so badly that she could hardly see, and her throat burned. Black smoke coiled around them, making it almost impossible to breathe, and the roar of the fire was all she could hear. She turned herself over to God and Hugh, and seconds later she felt a rush of fresh air. Then she knew they were going to make it. Following Hugh, she staggered out onto a small stoop still graced with a bright pot of flowers, and sucked blessedly cool air into her lungs. Knees threatening to buckle with every step, she started down the shallow steps, Hugh still holding her hand in a death grip.

  “No!” It was a shout, full of fury and despair, and it made Claire look up, made her search the darkness with her watery, burning eyes, riveting her attention with its anguish. A group of men rushed toward them, surrounding them, lifting Donen away from James, and even as Claire sank to her knees she identified the author of that cry.

  It was David, standing in the grip of a trio of men, his gaze fixed on her and Hugh as they dropped to the lawn in front of the burning house. Hugh was coughing desperately, and she was too, her lungs aching as she fought to expel the smoke she had inhaled, but still something made her keep her eyes on David. As she watched he tore himself free of the men holding him, and rushed toward her and Hugh. He had a pistol in his hand.

  “Hugh!” she shrieked, or tried to shriek, but the sound emerged scarcely louder than a croak. But he heard, and looked up, frozen for an instant in place. He fumbled at the waistband of his breeches, but came up empty. There was nothing they could do to defend themselves. She tried to get to her feet, to move, but her strength was spent. Still on his knees too, Hugh thrust her behind him.

  A shot rang out. Hugh gasped, jerking, clutching at the front of his coat. Claire screamed. David rushed on by even as she grabbed for Hugh, looking at the two of them, his face contorted in a mask of hate. Then he leaped up the steps, and disappeared into the burning house.

  “Come back here, you!” Men pounded after David, though how many Claire couldn’t have said. Her arms were around Hugh now, and she had the feeling that she was all that was keeping him upright.

  “Hugh! Hugh!”

  “I’m hit,” he said, the words surprisingly distinct. “Don’t worry, it’s not too bad.”

  Then he swayed, and even with her arms around him trying to hold him back he toppled sideways onto the grass.

  At that precise moment, a shot rang out in the house.

  33

  “Milady, I’ve got bad news.” Still leaning over Hugh, Claire glanced up at the speaker, uncomprehending. He was a slight, wiry man in his mid-fifties perhaps, and stood regarding her anxiously, his cap in his hand.

  “What is it?” She was impatient. James, kneeling on Hugh’s other side, had peeled off his coat to stanch the bleeding wound. A carriage was being brought around to convey him home.

  “Your ’usband—I’m sorry—’e’s dead.”

  Claire went suddenly still. Sinking back on her haunches, she stared up at him. A glance over her shoulder told her that the house still burned; bright flames crackled toward the sky, brightening the night in all directions and painting everything in the vicinity orange. A bucket brigade threw water on the worst of the fire. It seemed to make no difference. She could feel its heat from where she sat.

  “I followed ’im inside. I saw
’im do it, but I couldn’t stop ’im.” There was apology and belligerence mixed in his tone.

  “Do what?” She still did not understand.

  “The fire didn’t get ’im, milady. ’E shot ’imself.”

  “Oh, dear God.” Claire couldn’t help it. The news struck her like a slap in the face, and made her feel ill. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  She was too numb to decide exactly what she felt about David’s death. Paramount, she realized, was relief that he wouldn’t be able to hurt her or Hugh anymore.

  “Milady, we’d told ’im, when we grabbed ’im out in the street: ’E was under arrest for hiring out the murder of your coachman, and your own kidnapping, and for the attempted murder of you and ’Is Grace there.”

  “He wouldn’t have wanted to live. He would have been disgraced, ruined.” Hugh’s voice was faint, but hearing it at all struck joy into Claire’s heart.

  “Hugh.” She leaned over him, laying her hand gently against his bristly cheek. He turned his head and his lips brushed a butterfly kiss against the edge of her palm. “Don’t try to talk. A carriage is coming to convey you to your house, and a surgeon is to meet us there.”

  His eyes were open, gleaming deep gray in the light from the fire, and he smiled rather faintly at her. James was pressing his tightly folded coat to a spot high on Hugh’s left shoulder. His pursed lips and the rigid set of his shoulders conveyed volumes of disapproval that his master should be thinking of trying to do anything at all.

  “Don’t worry about me. It’s scarcely more than a flesh wound, I promise you. I’ve had far worse, and survived it.” Hugh reached for her hand, and she entwined her fingers with his. Then he looked beyond her at the man who had brought her the news about David.

  “You’re from Bow Street, I take it. What’s your name?”

  “Sam Dunn. And I was charged with investigatin’ milady ’ere’s kidnappin’ some months ago. Last night we took a fellow into custody who told us all about it, and we started lookin’ up his friends whut he claimed were involved. The rest just sort of fell out from there.”

  Hugh’s gaze flickered to Claire.

  “We’ve got good information on this case, Yer Grace, plus a star witness, one Mr. Marley. The rest of these will likely swing.” He nodded to his left. Looking that way, Claire perceived two men bending over Donen, who was kneeling on the ground, engaged in a protracted fit of coughing. Beyond him was the street, where small knots of onlookers had gathered to watch the blaze.

  “I have something to say to you, Mr. Dunn,” Hugh said.

  “Mr. Hugh, the carriage is at hand. There’ll be plenty of time for talkin’ after this ball comes out of your shoulder.” James spoke in a scolding tone, and looked up at Claire as if for support.

  “I agree with James,” she said, looking down at Hugh.

  “You two are not going to start ganging up on me, are you?” Despite its increasing faintness, his voice was touched with wry humor. “I’ll not have it, and so I warn you both.”

  “Pish-tosh,” said James with a sniff.

  Claire smiled. “I agree with James.”

  “Oh, Lord. I can see my life is going to be a misery from here on out.” But Hugh managed a smile as he said it, and caught her hand, carrying it to his mouth. Then he seemed to look past her to get an unimpeded view of Dunn again.

  “I would ask you a favor,” he said abruptly, addressing Dunn. He was no longer smiling. “My cousin—he leaves a mother who loved him dearly. For her sake, I would ask you to say nothing of any crime he may have committed, or tried to commit, or how he died. I would tell her—and the world—that he was killed in the accidental burning of my house, nothing more. I will make it worth your while, of course.”

  Mr. Dunn inclined his head. “Very well, Yer Grace. As Yer Grace wishes.”

  “Master Hugh, you’ve bled so much you’ve soaked through my coat! And here are George and William, two of our own footmen, to carry you to the carriage. I hope you’ve no more members of the lower orders you wish to carry on a conversation with before that may be done?”

  “No, James, I am quite ready,” Hugh said meekly, and suffered himself to be picked up and borne off to the carriage. Claire walked beside him, smiling sympathetically down at him as he winced at being bobbled over a rough patch of ground, or flinched at being lifted into the carriage.

  “I want to talk to you once this thrice-damned ball is out of my shoulder,” he said, possessing himself of her hand as she settled herself on the seat beside him. “You will oblige me by not making any plans until I have done so.”

  “Very well,” she said, smiling at him. They rode together largely in silence after that until they reached Richmond House, and immediately set it to bustling. Hugh was carried upstairs to the surgeon, who was waiting for him, and Claire was left with the unenviable task of breaking the news of David’s death to his mother. In her whole life, she thought as she sat down beside Lady George in that lady’s bedchamber, with her maid well stocked with smelling salts and hovering close at hand, there had never been a task she wished for less.

  34

  In the event, it was nearly a week later before Claire had a chance to have any substantive conversation with Hugh again. This opportunity came about only because, tired of waiting for her to put in an appearance on her own, he had sent James to summon her to his side. It was late afternoon, and the house was hushed and quiet. Hugh was in his bedchamber, propped up in bed, clad in a fresh white nightshirt with his shoulder bandaged beneath. As he himself had prophesied, the wound was not life-threatening, although loss of blood and the fever that had accompanied it had kept him abed for longer than he had cared to endure. As a consequence, he was cranky, and in need of a shave, and so endearing withal that Claire could not help but smile lovingly at him even as he tried to dictate to her.

  He greeted her abruptly, then said, “I will procure a special license for us as soon as I am out of this bed, and we can be married—say, at the end of next week.”

  Still smiling, Claire shook her head at him. Their hands were clasped on top of the blanket, and his tightened over hers as she did.

  “I can’t do that, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “What do you mean, you can’t do that? Do what? Marry me?”

  He sounded exactly like a peevish little boy.

  “I can’t marry you next week,” she clarified.

  “Very well, then. Let us say, the following week.”

  She smiled gently at him. “Let us say, this time next year.”

  He stared at her, clearly not sure he could believe his ears. “What?”

  “Next year,” she said firmly. “David hasn’t even been in the ground three days. The proper period for a widow to wait before remarrying is at least a year.”

  “To hell with that.” He looked outraged. “You cannot in all seriousness expect me to wait a year.”

  Claire shook her head at him. “And you cannot in all seriousness expect me to marry you next week. The scandal would be unbelievable.”

  “I don’t care about the scandal.”

  “I do.”

  He was beginning to frown at her. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “If you love me, you’ll damned well marry me.”

  “I want to marry you. I will marry you. But not for a year.”

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” He stared at her in disbelief.

  She nodded.

  “I’m guessing you want to have a big wedding. Church. Bridesmaids. Do it up right.” He didn’t sound as though he found the prospect totally enthralling.

  “Actually, it will be my second wedding,” she said meekly. “I thought we would keep it small, with basically just my sisters and brother-in-law, and a few other select relatives and friends.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.” His face brightened a couple of degrees. “That should be fairly easy to arrange. All right, I’m willing to compromise: How does next
month sound?”

  She shook her head at him, laughing. “Too soon.”

  He eyed her with clear frustration. Then she thought she saw a look of pure cunning gleam at her for a moment out of those narrow gray eyes.

  “Claire,” he said plaintively, tugging at her hand, “you haven’t even kissed me yet.”

  She was suspicious, but more than willing. Acceding to the pressure on her hand, she moved until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. His grasp on her hand remained firm. Looking at him as he sat propped up on pillows against the headboard, at his hard, handsome face, the unruly disorder of his black hair, his broad shoulders in the white nightshirt, Claire felt her heart skip a beat.

  Then his free hand came up to cup the back of her head, and he pulled her mouth down to his. She had expected a hard kiss, or at least a demanding one, and would have enjoyed it very much, too. What she got instead were warm, soft lips on hers in a kiss that was so tantalizing, so gently seductive, that Claire felt the thrill of it clear down to her toes.

  “Marry me,” he said, moving his mouth from hers to trail a hot little line of tingly kisses along her jaw.

  “Yes, I will.” She was distracted, and sounded it.

  “Next month.” His mouth sought her lips again, and his hand covered her breast. She was fully dressed, in a plain black silk dress designed for mourning, and the heat of his palm burned clear through the layers of her dress and corset and chemise.

  “Oh,” she said into his mouth as his hand tightened, because she really was surprised at how wonderful his hand on her breast felt. It had been a long time since she had slept with him, more than three months, and she had almost managed to forget his ability to reduce her to quivering jelly in his arms.

  “Next month,” he said again, firmly, and kissed her again, his tongue taking leisurely possession of her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with hungry abandon. At the same time, he squeezed her breast and then rubbed his palm across the nipple. When his fingers sought the hard little nub, gently pinching it, she felt fire shoot along her nerve endings, and arched her back to urge that hand closer yet.