Shana Galen

by When Dashing Met Danger

  “I need to warn you that Décharné knows who I am,” Alex went on. “He took me in London. Lucia was with me and was taken as well.”

  “Little pissant,” the woman scoffed. “His prick is as small as his brain. He won’t find you here.” She sat up and sauntered to the chaise. She stared down at Lucia, and Lucia stared right back, focusing on the woman’s crimson lips.

  “Oh, she is very pretty,” the redhead said. Lucia tensed, and Alex squeezed her hand. She wasn’t sure if it was meant as a warning or a gesture of reassurance.

  “And your name is Lucia. That’s lovely. Where—”

  “Do you know you’re falling out of your dress?” Lucia blurted, and immediately felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She’d hardly known what she was going to say until she’d said it. Beside her, Alex tried to suppress a grin.

  “So are you.” The woman reached out, delicately touching her collarbone. Lucia looked down and was shocked to see huge red slashes across the pale skin. With a gasp, she noticed her dress was torn and fully half her chemise was visible. She pulled the material closed with fumbling fingers.

  For a moment, she had no idea where the scratches had come from. She ran her finger over the scratch marks, and the memories flooded back to her.

  The men at the docks. Patch. Raspy. She shuddered.

  The woman squeezed her again. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  Lucia glanced from her to Alex. “I know. I was always safe.”

  Alex’s eyes darkened at her words, and she felt a stab of fear. She’d been scared during the attack, but that fear had been nothing compared to the terror that paralyzed her when she thought Alex had been shot. The terror of losing him was unbearable.

  “How do you feel now?” Alex asked.

  “Better.” Wonderful, she thought, now that he was safe.

  “Well, surely you would feel better after something to eat and a good night’s sleep,” the woman said. “What do you say?”

  “Oh, that would be heaven,” Lucia said, turning from Alex and smiling into the woman’s warm brown eyes.

  “That’s the least I can do. I’ll send a girl with clean clothes. Don’t expect too much, but I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Thank you, again. Whatever you have will be wonderful.” Lucia couldn’t wait to get out of the ragged pink dress.

  “You look a great deal like him,” the woman said, her eyes narrowing.

  Lucia frowned. “Like who?”

  “Like the boy who was staying upstairs. His name was Jean, I think.”

  A bolt of lightning tore through Lucia, and she jumped to her feet. “John! That’s my brother! Is he well?” She knelt at the woman’s feet, grasping her hand and clutching it. “Please. You must take me to him.”

  The woman glanced at Alex, and Lucia saw something pass between them.

  “I would like nothing better,” Sophie said, “but he left several weeks ago.”

  “What was his destination?” Alex asked.

  “Paris, I believe. Why?”

  Alex glanced at Lucia. “We’re looking for him. Dewhurst tells me his sources haven’t heard from the boy in weeks.”

  So that’s what they were discussing in the hallway of Alex’s town house, Lucia thought. The news did not comfort her.

  “If I hear anything I’ll let you know at once,” she offered. She squeezed Lucia’s hand. “I’ll leave you now.”

  “Thank you, Sophie,” Alex said. Lucia wanted to thank her as well, but her voice was choked in her throat.

  “It is nothing,” Sophie said, opening the door and stepping out into the hall.

  Chapter 21

  Lucia sat motionless. John. John had been here. Where was he now? Was he safe? Well? Alive? Oh, Lord, please, please let him be alive. I’ll do anything…

  “Lucia, lie down.”

  She glanced up as Alex took her by the shoulders and led her to the bed.

  “John was here,” she said, feeling dazed.

  “I heard.”

  She sat down, and Alex lifted her foot, removing one pink slipper and then the other.

  “I told you he wasn’t in London,” she said, staring at her discarded shoe.

  He chuckled. “I should have listened to you.” He reached around her and began unbuttoning her dress.

  She made no attempt to stop him, but she said, “The food is coming. I have to keep my clothes on.” She barely felt his hands on her.

  “No one will notice one more woman in her chemise,” Alex said. He was close to her, and his voice was low and soothing. “Slip out of your dress and lie down.”

  She did as he said, and he tucked the vulgar red bedcover around her. She felt like a little girl again, waiting for her nanny to read her a bedtime story. But she was no little girl now, and this place was nothing like her childhood bedroom. For one, it wasn’t pink. Still, it felt very good to rest on a bed, even if it was in a brothel.

  Alex stroked her hair, then began taking off his boots. Too exhausted to sleep, Lucia studied the room, wondering if John’s had been anything like hers. Lord, she hoped not.

  She swallowed hard, glancing at the paintings of the naked women again. How had Sophie found so many illustrations of women in such varied…poses? And who had painted them? Her eye caught one particularly suggestive picture, and she had to look quickly away, her cheeks burning hot.

  “Do you want me to take them down?” Alex was grinning at her.

  She gave him a superior look. “No. Whatever for?”

  Alex’s grin widened. “I thought they might be making you uncomfortable.”

  She huffed, folding her hands over her abdomen on top of the covers. “Ridiculous.”

  Alex nodded, clearly still amused. “My mistake.”

  “Obviously.” She focused her gaze on the wall beside her, determined to ignore the paintings. If they didn’t bother Alex, they didn’t bother her. Very much. Studiously avoiding the pictures, Lucia stared at the wallpaper instead. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop a gasp from escaping. The paper was not a print, as she’d thought, but couples portrayed in various sexual positions. She quickly turned her head away.

  And met Alex’s amused eyes. Infuriating man.

  But before she could chastise him, there was a knock on the door. Alex went to open it, and a polished footman entered carrying a bowl, towels, and a pitcher of water. Behind him skipped in a girl holding a tray of food and wearing only a sheer, thin robe.

  Lucia choked on a cough as the nearly naked girl thrust the tray onto a table and jumped into Alex’s arms. “Christophe!”

  Lucia shot up, ignoring the dizziness that accompanied the swift movement.

  “I am so happy to see you again!” the girl gushed, rubbing her body against him. “It has been far too long. You will have to come and entertain the girls with your stories at breakfast.”

  Alex laughed. “I don’t have any stories,” he said, finally releasing her, but—Lucia noted—still holding the girl. “I’m a tedious old man.”

  “You, old, Christophe?” The girl gave him a lewd look. “We’ll see about that!”

  Lucia made a strangled sound, and the girl glanced at her for the first time. Lucia read triumph in her eyes.

  The girl turned back to Alex. “Madame thought you might be hungry.” Then, watching Lucia the entire time, she leaned forward and kissed Alex.

  How dare she! Lucia fisted her hands.

  The girl giggled. “I have to go now. Madame is waiting.” As she scooted out the door, she gave Lucia a satisfied grin.

  Indignation rose in Lucia like hot air. But she’d never show it. She straightened her spine and gave the trollop a look of haughty disdain worthy of the queen.

  Alex chuckled, and Lucia barely bit back a scream. He shook his head, unbuttoning his waistcoat, back still to Lucia. “You’ll feel better after you eat something,” he said without looking at her. She gripped the covers harder, fighting the urge to grab one of his discarded boots and fling it at hi
m.

  He peered at the tray. “Typical French,” he said easily. “Bread, wine, and cheese.” The silenced lengthened, and he finally turned to look at her. “Oh hell, Lucia. Now what?”

  Lucia gave him a fierce look. “Nothing.”

  “You’re not jealous of Brigitte, are you?” he drawled, stripping off his waistcoat. He dropped it and started on his shirt.

  “Jealous?” she said on a false laugh. “Jealous! You are severely deluded, sir. Jealousy is an emotion quite unfamiliar to me.” She tossed her head.

  “Right.” He pulled off his shirt, and despite her anger and exhaustion, her gaze traveled the length of his chest, from his broad shoulders all the way to his narrow waist.

  She crossed her arms. “Right.”

  He regarded her for a moment, shrugged again, then bent down to retrieve his waistcoat.

  “You do seem to know her rather well, though.” Lucia bit her lip, wishing she’d kept silent.

  He glanced at her. “I come here when I need to disappear for a few days. When things get dangerous. Madame Loinger is no friend of Bonaparte, and she helps when she can.” Alex picked up the tray of food—the tray Brigitte had brought—sat down on the floor with it, then looked at her expectantly. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  With a sigh, Lucia tugged the covers from the bed, wrapping them around her, and with a huff she plopped on the floor across from him. She didn’t care about the food. Absently she picked up a piece of bread and nibbled it, then she tried the cheese. A moment later she was stuffing hunks of bread and cheese in her mouth, incredibly ravenous.

  “Leave some for me.” Alex laughed and reached for a slice of cheese.

  Lucia was mortified. She’d eaten half the tray already. She tried to swallow the mass of food wedged in her mouth and was grateful when Alex handed her a glass of wine.

  “Slow down.” He chuckled again. “We can ask for more.”

  She waved a hand, still trying to swallow the food.

  He leaned back on one elbow, savoring his wine, his chest burnished in the lamplight. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, taking one of the few remaining slices of bread.

  She nodded. “Yes. I feel better. Now that I’m here with you.”

  The hand at his lips froze, and he lowered the bread slowly.

  “Lucia, we need to settle something.”

  Alex had to almost physically restrain himself from reaching for her. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, comfort her, but he knew where that would lead. Making love to her had been a mistake. She had said so herself. And it was a mistake he was not about to repeat, especially when she was hurt and tired and likely to say things she didn’t mean.

  He glanced at her and could have killed himself for any of the innocence he had stolen from her wide blue eyes. He was not going to fall in love with her.

  “What do we need to talk about?” she asked. “If it’s about John, I warn you—”

  He waved a hand. They’d discuss that later. “It’s not about John. It’s us.”

  “Oh.” She smiled ruefully. “There’s an us?”

  “I’m going to sleep on the chaise tonight,” he said. “I think that’s best.”

  “Let me.” Her eyes didn’t meet his. “You’re bigger and—”

  “No. You need your sleep.” He eyed the red welts on the exposed skin of her chest and had to push the rage away. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, you will be, won’t you?” she murmured. He didn’t respond. He hated the way things between them were ending, hated keeping her at a distance—tonight and forever. But at least there was no misunderstanding between them. No ambiguity.

  She picked up another piece of cheese, but she seemed to have no appetite now. He frowned, remembering the childlike relish with which she’d devoured the first few bites of food. A few words and he could have her laughing again. But it was best to keep his distance. He’d made the decision, and it had nothing to do with his own fears and raw feelings. It had nothing to do with the pangs of conscience that assaulted him whenever he forced himself to remember that he had taken her virginity. She’d been willing—more than willing. A night of passion didn’t always end in happily-ever-after, and now she knew that. He’d given her the lesson.

  But his desire for detachment was more than guilt. Involving himself with her was dangerous. Look what had happened to her tonight.

  A rush of rage coursed through him as he remembered the way Décharné’s men groped her, defiling her by their mere presence. If there hadn’t been the need for urgency, he would have made certain both men suffered slow, agonizing deaths.

  He studied her wounds again, feeling the pain of each, though he knew they were minor and would heal in a matter of days. In fact, he noted as she lifted her wineglass, her hands looked worse than the claw marks. Pink and swollen from struggling with the ropes that had bound his hands, he imagined her fingers were tender and painful. He caught one hand as she reached for another piece of bread, and she looked up at him, blue eyes affecting him more than he wanted, dragging him down into their unfathomable depths, threatening to drown him. Quickly he released her.

  She pulled the makeshift robe around her shoulders, but not before he caught a glimpse of her shapely calves and the nip of her waist under the thin chemise. His eyes moved slowly upward, and through the thin material he could make out the pink of her nipples. The swell of her breasts. Bloody hell.

  Lucia finished the last bite of cheese and stood.

  “What are you doing?” he growled. She glanced at him briefly, then pointed to the pitcher of water Madame Loinger’s footman had left on the bedside table.

  “I’m going to wash some of this grime away,” she said, pouring water into the washbowl. She dipped a towel in it and wiped her face, then, allowing her covering to slip, ran the cloth over her neck and shoulders.

  She couldn’t possibly know what this was doing to him. Couldn’t possibly know the torture she inflicted. Her back was to him, and she couldn’t see his stare as the towel traced a damp line over her shoulders. Couldn’t see his gaze follow the tiny droplets of water that ran down her back to disappear under her chemise. He could imagine the path those droplets followed, and he itched to trace it himself.

  She bent to wash her legs, and Alex forced himself to look away, hands running through his hair in frustration. She was his punishment, he decided. Yes, that was it. His trial by fire for all his reckless, insensitive deeds of the past. And now God was testing him. A trial of desire.

  “Alex, is something wrong?”

  He looked up, and she was frowning at him curiously.

  “No,” he said gruffly. “It’s late. Go to bed.” Yes, that was it. Once she was under the covers and he couldn’t see her, he’d be fine.

  For once she didn’t argue, just rearranged the bedclothes and climbed in. Bloody hell. He couldn’t help but notice there was plenty of room for him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take the chaise. It was damned small, but he couldn’t trust himself in the bed with her.

  She raised a brow, a last invitation to trade places—or share. The sleeve of her chemise slipped, exposing a pale shoulder. With a groan, he blew out the candle. “Good night,” he said and closed his eyes.

  He’d just managed to purge his brain of the image of her bare shoulder when she said, “Do you think we’ll be safe here?”

  Bloody hell. She sounded closer than he’d imagined her. Too close. “Go to sleep.” He closed his eyes again, concentrating on the task.

  “But what if—”

  “Lucia.” He stared into the darkness. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Now go to sleep.” There.

  “I know,” she said a moment later, her voice drifting across the room to caress him. He opened his eyes, scowling in the dark.

  “But, well, there was a minute tonight when I had my doubts. I mean, in the warehouse your hands were tied and then—they were suddenly free. How did you manage that so quickly?”

  He f
rowned. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, but she was obviously not going to go to sleep until he answered her questions. “I had a knife in my sleeve, and I cut the ropes.”

  “A knife? Where did you find that?”

  He closed his eyes, knowing what was coming. “I had it in my boot on the ship, and when we docked I slipped it up my sleeve.”

  “Wait a minute.” He heard her sit, and immediately images of the sheets sliding over her breasts rose in his mind. They’d slip down slowly, and with the torn chemise—

  He threw an arm over his eyes.

  “Wait just a moment,” she repeated, voice filled with annoyance. “You had the knife with you the whole time?”

  He groaned inwardly. “Yes,” he answered, arm muffling his voice.

  “But if you had the knife, then why did we have to bloody our fingers loosening the rope? Why didn’t we just cut the bindings?”

  “Because if Décharné’s men had found the rope cut on the ship, they would have known I had the knife. I thought it was safer to keep it hidden until we had an opportunity to escape.”

  “Oh you did, did you?” she yelled. He winced.

  “Well, I hope you are happy. My hands are ruined. When I get home, my mother—”

  He grit his teeth. Chit could be damned irritating at times. “Go to sleep, Lucia,” he commanded.

  “I’m not—”

  He shot up. “Lucia.”

  “Fine.” She huffed, and he heard her flop down, mumbling.

  Finally she was silent, and not a moment too soon. Another word from her, and he would’ve strangled her. Not that the silky skin of her neck under his fingers would be unpleasant. He particularly loved the hollow at the base of her throat…

  Bloody—

  Alex rolled over and struggled to keep from falling off the couch. His legs dangled over the edge at the knee, and he could feel a definite cramp starting in his back. A few feet away he heard Lucia shuffle and turn over. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 22