“I need you to grab my hair and teach me how to get away,” she said. Her voice was a little shaky, but she was proud of herself all the same. Her request was met with a moment of silence.
“From behind?” Mr. Hastings finally asked. “Am I dragging you off?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“Perhaps,” she said, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Or perhaps just holding me still.”
There was another long second of silence. “I see,” he said, and she blushed because she could tell he did see. “What else do you need me to teach you?” His voice sounded rather grim.
“I need to know how to unlock a set of handcuffs,” she said, staring at the wall.
“You should have Sir Barnabas teach you that,” Mr. Hastings said. “I can do it, but he’s the best. Very fast.”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said absently, a vague memory of her escape slipping through her mind. “He was, wasn’t he?”
“Ma’am?” Mr. Hastings asked.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “Can you teach me how to get away if they’re holding my hair?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m going to grab it, but not tightly. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Yes, but they would want to hurt me, wouldn’t they?” she asked. “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Hastings. I’ve already proven I won’t break.”
“No indeed, ma’am,” he said with a rough chuckle. “I don’t believe you would.”
Chapter 15
“I…is that my cravat?” Ambrose stopped his angry march into Barnabas’s office to stare in shock at the cravat in question.
Barnabas looked down. “How can you tell?” he asked, not bothering to deny it.
Ambrose felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’d meant to charge in to the Home Office and have it out with Barnabas without letting last evening interfere with his business. He’d thought confronting Barnabas at work rather than at his home, where the encounter took place, would make a difference. But the shock of seeing Barnabas in his cravat threw him off immediately. He turned to make sure the door was closed. He should have checked before asking the question, but shock had made him indiscreet.
“I know because I have them specially embroidered,” he told Barnabas grimly. “Anyone who knows that will know that that’s my cravat.”
“Well, who knows?” Barnabas asked, leaning back in his office chair.
“My tailor,” he began.
“Who is also my tailor,” Barnabas interrupted. “Go on.”
“My valet.” Ambrose waited for another interruption, but Barnabas simply raised one brow. “My mother has probably noticed. My father used the same design.”
“Is that all?” Barnabas asked.
“Well, anyone who pays close attention to my attire,” Ambrose said, knowing the argument, if that’s what it was, was already lost.
“I’d offer to have them all killed, but you seem like the sort who’d be overly attached to his mother.” Barnabas smiled.
“Yes, well I do like her alive,” Ambrose said. “Fine, wear the cravat. Consider it a gift.”
“On the contrary,” Barnabas said. “You were the gift. This is more like pirate’s booty.”
“What?” Ambrose asked, willing his blush to go away. This was not going at all as he had planned, which was unfortunately true almost every time he was in Barnabas’s company. It didn’t help that he was looking very fine today in a soft brown jacket with a cream colored waistcoat with gold embroidery. It set off the far more subtle embroidery of the linen.
“It’s mine by virtue of conquest,” Barnabas said with a lascivious grin. “I wear it today as the victor.”
“You went to your knees first.” Ambrose was surprised by his own nerve. Barnabas simply laughed.
“But you went last,” he said.
“I fail to see the difference,” Ambrose said. He confronted Barnabas across his desk. He didn’t make the mistake of sitting in the small chair. Last time he’d come here he’d come as a supplicant. Today he came as an equal.
“My efforts were conquest,” Barnabas said. “Yours were submission.”
“They most certainly were not,” Ambrose said tightly. “I did not do those things out of fear, but out of desire and curiosity.”
“And was your curiosity appeased?” Barnabas asked, his voice teasing. “Not to mention your desire?”
“I came here not to speak about what transpired between us, but about my meeting with Hedgecock this morning.”
“Ah,” Barnabas said. He tapped a finger on his desk. “It just so happens I met with Lord Hedgecock this morning as well.”
“I know,” Ambrose said angrily. “He told me that you had informed him I was in favor of Lord Winston’s bill. I assured him that I most certainly was not and that it must have been a misunderstanding on your part.”
“And what did Hedgecock say to that?” Barnabas asked, curiosity in his voice and nothing more.
“He laughed and told me that I’d best watch my back because when Barnabas James wants something he gets it, no matter what he has to do to get it.” The episode still rankled. “Is that what last night was about? The means by which you hoped to achieve my support for Winston’s bill?”
“I thought you didn’t come here to discuss what happened last night,” Barnabas said, infuriating him.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Rest assured there will be no more episodes like it,” he spit out. “I wouldn’t let you use my vote for your political machinations, and I certainly won’t let you use my body for them.”
Barnabas surged out of his seat and came around the desk. “I will use your body as I see fit,” he said in a low voice. “That was the arrangement. As for what happened with Hedgecock, that was his misunderstanding and not mine. What are you really angry about? My presumption that last night changed your position, or the idea that last night meant nothing more than a political machination, as you call it?”
“Give me back the cravat.”
Barnabas stepped forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. “Make me,” he said.
Ambrose set his walking stick down and reached out to untie the cravat, and Barnabas took advantage of his momentary inattention to push him back forcefully. Ambrose stumbled back into the wall and Barnabas pounced, pressing full against him, trapping him there. Both men were breathing heavily.
“I won’t do this here,” Ambrose said, his voice low and rough.
“But you’ll do it elsewhere?” Barnabas said. He reached up and ripped Ambrose’s hat off, tossing it across the room.
Ambrose glared at him. “Let me go.”
“No.” Barnabas grabbed a fistful of Ambrose’s hair and held him still for a kiss.
The kiss was a continuation of the argument as they fought for control. Ambrose grabbed the back of Barnabas’s jacket in his fist and tightly cupped Barnabas’s jaw, holding him still as he tried to ravage Barnabas’s mouth. Ambrose was shocked by the passion that possessed him. He let go of Barnabas and jerked his head to the side, breaking Barnabas’s hold. They stood there panting, staring at one another.
“This is madness,” Ambrose said in a rough whisper.
“This is lust, pure and simple,” Barnabas corrected him. “Tonight this will reach its inevitable conclusion.”
Ambrose clenched his jaw. “Which is?”
“Me fucking you, of course,” Barnabas said. He licked a path up Ambrose’s neck to his ear, and Ambrose couldn’t stop the shiver of desire that passed through him. He both hated and craved it. “Then your curiosity and your desire will be satisfied, my lord.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Lord Wetherald said, bowing in response to Mel’s curtsey. He frowned. He was always frowning at her. Now that she knew a different side of him, the passionate side that had responded so deliciously to Sir Barnabas the night before, she suddenly longed for his smiles.
What a ninny she was. She’d always been like that as a child. S
he didn’t want something until she couldn’t have it anymore.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said demurely. She gestured to the settee in the middle of the parlor. Soames had insisted on putting them in there again. She didn’t know what Wetherald must think. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” he said politely. Mel wanted to hear him moan again. Clearly she had no shame. She forced the lurid memory out of her mind as she turned away and composed her features. She could feel herself blushing, which was ridiculous. He had no idea she’d heard him last night.
“Soames,” she said politely. “Would you be kind enough to ask Cook for some tea?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a deferential nod of his head. She wished he wouldn’t do that. Of course Wetherald saw nothing amiss in it. He was complicit in this conspiracy to keep her in her place, which wasn’t her place anymore. She sighed.
“Is there something wrong?” Lord Wetherald asked in concern.
She turned to him with a false smile. “Nothing at all, my lord,” she answered.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said with a pleading look. He was terribly handsome, wasn’t he? At first she’d thought him old fashioned with his beard. Now he looked like a dashing cavalier of old. Perhaps he’d set a new style.
“Do what?” she asked, trying to follow the conversation. It had been years since she’d daydreamed about a man, and look where it had gotten her. She’d best curtail that tendency, and right away.
“Keep ‘my lording’ me,” he said with the smile she’d been longing for. It more than lived up to her anticipation of it. It was sweet and tender and just a bit chastising. She found the combination potent. While Sir Barnabas railed at her, Lord Wetherald cajoled. Really, the two men could not be more opposite. Clearly that was the attraction between them.
“It is your title, my lord,” she said, fighting a smile as he sighed in frustration.
“Call me Ambrose,” he said. “Or at the very least Wetherald. After all, I’m told I must call you Mrs. Jones, which is awkward for me.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Sir Barnabas mentioned that you are not very good at subterfuge.”
“Did he?” he said. He wandered over to the window and peered out at the street. “It’s true I have not lived the same life he has.” He looked back at her with an absent smile. “It was never necessary for me to dissemble. For him it is a way of life.” She couldn’t read the tone of his voice.
“And that bothers you?” she asked.
He turned away from the window and half sat on the ledge. The pose was more casual than any he’d adopted in her presence before. “No,” he said. “Not really. I understand the necessity of it in his line of work.”
“Spying, you mean?” she asked. “Yes, I suppose so. I’d think as a gentleman you’d find his occupation offensive.”
He looked at her sharply. “Why?” he asked. “I know that’s it’s necessary for England’s safety.”
“Most gentleman look down on men who spy, no matter what their motivation.” She watched him carefully. He was so proper and ethical; she found it odd that he would overlook Sir Barnabas’s occupation.
“I must confess I held that view at one time,” he said. “Until I took my place in the Lords and the very real need for the gathering of information was made clear to me. Now I see any man who undertakes it as quite brave. Not just because it is a dangerous endeavor, but because of the very attitudes of which you speak.” He was as sincere as ever as he said it, as if he was defending Sir Barnabas’s honor. She liked him all the more for it.
“I never thought much about it,” she admitted. “Not until I met Sir Barnabas and Mr. Hastings. I find both men to be honorable and quite trustworthy.”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Wetherald said with a rueful smile. “They are men who lie for a living, after all, no matter the cause for it. I’m sure it’s hard not to let that sort of thing spill over into their real lives.”
“I don’t think you give them enough credit,” she argued. “They, more than any of us, recognize what is real and what is not.”
“Do you know,” Wetherald said, coming over and sitting down on the settee beside her, “I believe this is the longest, most personal conversation we have ever had.”
“Is it?” she asked in surprise, trying to remember past conversations. All that came to mind were stilted exchanges about how she fared and the weather. “I do believe you’re right.”
“And of course it’s about Barnabas,” he said wryly. “Even when he’s not in the room he dominates it.”
She laughed. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” She bit her lip in indecision and then decided to take the conversation to an even more personal level since he’d opened the door. “Do you care for him very much? I think he is quite taken with you.”
He looked surprised at her comment. “Is he?” He didn’t sound convinced. “I’m not sure affection is at the heart of our relationship.” He blushed as he said it. It was charming. On instinct she reached out and patted his hand.
“I’m sure it is,” she assured him. “Just last night he came to see me, lamenting that you had left him alone. He has trouble sleeping by himself, he said. And he wondered what you must see in him.”
Wetherald looked positively astonished. “After I left? Why, it must have been quite late.”
“It was,” she said. It was her turn to blush. “Think nothing of it. I, too, have trouble sleeping. He knew I’d be awake.”
He placed his hand over hers. It was a warm and comforting feeling. She was surprised. Ordinarily she didn’t like to be touched, but she liked Wetherald’s hands on her. With astonishment she realized that she’d initiated the contact.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t,” she snapped, snatching her hand back. “Don’t pity me. I can’t stand it.” She stood up abruptly and moved away. Wetherald stood as well and was about to say something when Soames wheeled in the teacart. “Soames,” she said with relief.
“Your tea, madam, my lord,” he said. He bowed and left the room. She wanted to call him back but didn’t dare. She had no idea how she’d explain it.
“Cream, no sugar, correct?” she asked Wetherald as she sat back down and picked up a cup.
“I don’t care about the damn tea,” Wetherald said tightly. Mel looked at him in shock.
“What?” she asked. She couldn’t believe he’d used profanity in front of her. Lord Wetherald, the perfect gentleman.
He came back and sat beside her, then took the cup and set it down on the table. “I’m sorry that I haven’t understood for months what it is you need from me,” he said sincerely. “I’m trying, really I am. You must tell me what you want me to say and do. I’m fumbling along here. I just want to help, Melinda.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said without thinking.
“What am I to call you?” he asked in obvious distress. “I can’t call you Mrs…and I keep forgetting Mrs. Jones. Is that what you want me to call you?”
“I’m not Melinda anymore,” she said, picking the cup up again and calmly pouring the tea. “I’m not Melly, or Melinda, or even that married woman. I’m Mel. I’m someone new.” She handed a bemused Wetherald his cup after adding cream.
“Mel?” he asked in confusion. “But that is an absurd name.” He blushed after he said it, his face chagrined. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
She laughed as she poured her own tea. “It is an absurd name, which is why I like it. My entire life has been absurd. But more to the point, I like it because it suits this new me I’m discovering. I’m not the carefree child Melly, nor the vain, foolish girl Melinda, and I am certainly not the cowed wife of that bastard.” She paused and took a breath and noticed her hand trembling. Quickly she put down her cup. When Wetherald reached for her hand, hesitating above it, she turned it over in invitation and he grabbed it and held on tightly. She appreciated the warmth of it.
“Yo
u are right, of course,” he said. “You are Mel. I’ve never known a Mel before. You have a clean slate with me.” He smiled at her, and there was so much warmth in it, so much caring. So much Wetherald. For months his concern had been cloying. Today it was a welcome balm to her battered soul. Perhaps writing the list last night and her lessons with Mr. Hastings had taken a deeper toll than she’d first imagined.
“Barnabas says it’s important to know who you are before you can give yourself to another.” She wasn’t sure why she told him that.
“I think you are almost there.”
“Oh, no,” she said, letting go of his hand. “I will never give myself to another again. I am just for me from now on.”
This time Wetherald’s smile was sad. “Yes, I can understand that,” he said.
“Do you know who you are?” she asked. She picked up her tea with a steady hand and took a sip.
“I thought I did,” he said. “Then I met Barnabas.”
“So you’ve had feelings for him for some time?” she asked. His laugh was genuine.
“I had feelings about him,” he said. “Not quite the same thing. For years I’ve found him infuriating and that’s about it.”
“And now?”
“And now I don’t know,” he admitted ruefully. “The irony is that you met Barnabas and started to discover who you are. I met Barnabas and realized I wasn’t who I thought I was.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” she asked. “If you know who you are not, then you know who you are.”
“I wish it were that simple.” He set his cup down and leaned back on the settee, staring at her.
“What?” she asked warily.
“I have feelings for a woman,” he said. She tried to hide her dismay, but clearly he saw it. “I cared for her before Barnabas and I…that is to say, my feelings for her came before Barnabas.” He blushed.
“So you do not care for him,” she said. It came out as an accusation.
“The problem is, I think I do,” he confessed, “which is a terrible thing.”
For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13) Page 12