Enchanted by Your Kisses

by Pamela Britton

  "When did it happen?" she asked.

  "Four years ago."

  "And you have been searching ever since?"

  "I have."

  "And no one will tell you where he is? Not even now that the war is over?"

  He snorted. "Tell the infamous Nathan Trevain where his only brother is? They would rather shoot one of their own in the head."

  Most likely true. Truly, the man had a way of getting under one's skin, and she'd only known him a few days. She could only imagine how the Admiralty felt about him.

  "How old is he?" she asked.

  His lip curled. "What difference does that make?"

  "None, but I want to know."

  His scowl turned into a frown. "He is twenty-one."

  She felt her eyes widen. Why, just a year younger than herself. That meant he'd been—

  "Abducted when he was seventeen," Nathan provided, obviously reading the direction of her thoughts.

  Seventeen and taken off a ship by complete strangers, forced to serve under men who no doubt despised him, never allowed to see his family and to go home.

  "Could he be dead?" she found herself asking.

  She'd been looking at his face intently, so she saw the way it changed, how his jaw tightened, his eyes dimmed.

  "He could be, but they will not tell me even that."

  "Perhaps they do not know. From what my father tells me, naval records are not the best. You would be lucky to find a list of crew members."

  He didn't look like he wanted to hear that. "Then I will find sailing plans. Perhaps a map showing which ships were off the coast of Virginia in 1779."

  "That you might find, but not here."

  "How are you so certain?"

  She shrugged, though it was difficult to do so, what with her arms tied the way they were. "My father does not spend a lot of time here. When he is not aboard a ship, he prefers to be in the country. I believe he likes the smell of earth after months at sea."

  "You're certain?"

  "Of course I am. He is, after all, my father, for all that we don't see eye to eye."

  He didn't say anything.

  "So you see, sir, you've set yourself a fruitless task. The papers you seek are no doubt at the Admiralty or perhaps in someone else's possession. It would take forever for you to find them."

  "Ah, but you forget something, my dear."

  He advanced upon her. And Ariel didn't like the look upon his face. Not one bit. She would have moved away, but she couldn't. She consoled herself with leaning her head as far back as she could.

  "And what is that, sir."

  "I have something your father wants."

  She didn't want to ask the question, truly she didn't. "And that would be?"

  "You."

  Her heart stopped, restarted again at twice the rate. "And what do I have to do with anything?"

  "Why, nothing, my dear, but I am certain your fellow countrymen will do whatever it takes to insure that one First Lord's daughter does not come to harm."

  And that, Ariel realized, was exactly what she'd been afraid of.

  PARTTHREE

  Weep not for little Leonie,

  Abducted by a French Marquis!

  Though loss of honor was a wrench,

  Just think how it's improved her French

  HARRY GRAHAM

  9

  And so he'd kidnapped her. He'd disappeared for an hour to return with a hired hack. The fiend deposited her inside like a bag of corn. That coach rattled around them now, a rackety affair with a piece of stuffing hanging out where Nathan sat.

  Nathan the spy.

  Nathan the abductor.

  She wanted to poke his eyes out, except she couldn't, because her hands were tied behind her back. Still.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  He didn't answer. His face was turned to the left, so she had a view of his good side. If the man could have a good side. Truly, he seemed enamored with the view out of the carriage window. She supposed a view of absolute and utter darkness would intrigue a man with an absolute and utterly black soul.

  "Well?" she repeated when he didn't answer.

  Finally he looked at her, his silver eyes having turned a dark, dark gray. Or perhaps it was the lighting. The inside of the coach had a carriage lantern with such dirty glass the flame looked dim at best.

  "Where I am taking you is no concern of yours."

  "Oh, but I beg to differ. Since I am the latest victim of your machinations, I feel I have a distinct right to know."

  He looked like he couldn't believe her audacity in insisting. Well, then, they were even, for she couldn't believe his audacity in abducting her from her own home.

  "You will know soon enough where I am taking you. In the interim, I suggest you sit still and be quiet.

  "It would be easier to sit still if my rear was not deposited on a broken spring."

  He lifted the right side of his mouth, his scar more noticeable when he did that.

  "And I really do wish you'd untie my hands. Frankly, I fear I shall fall over every time we round a turn."

  "If I untie you, you will undoubtedly try to escape."

  "From a moving carriage? Do not be absurd. I would break every bone in my body."

  "As long as one of the bones was your mouth, I would count that a blessing."

  She pursed her lips before saying, "Mouths do not have bones, they have muscle."

  His eyes narrowed at her pointing out what he obviously knew. "Then pray God your muscles seize up."

  "Well, Mr. Trevain, I shall make you a deal. I will keep myself quiet if you untie my hands."

  They rounded a corner. She made an exaggerated lurch.

  "Oh, very well," he snapped, reaching for her hands. From nowhere he pulled a knife. Her eyes widened at the sight. Where had that come from?

  With one sure stroke he cut the knot, but she noticed he kept the rope on the seat next to him. Heavens, what if he intended to tie her up again? But she wouldn't let him. She would escape. And despite what she'd told him, she found herself contemplating the wisdom of jumping from the coach.

  Smashed, bruised body?

  Or wait until a better moment?

  Wait until a better moment. Yes, indeed.

  But it was a long ride into the country. At least that was where she assumed he was taking her. The roads grew progressively worse, the ruts so deep she would wager a person couldn't see out of them. And then, finally, blessedly, the vehicle began to slow.

  "We're here."

  Yes, but where exactly was here?

  She deduced the answer herself a moment later as the carriage door opened. He stepped down first. Ariel was mortally disappointed when he retied her hands before allowing her down. Gracious, but this night had begun to frustrate her no end. Imagine. Being kidnapped. Why, it defied belief. And by a man who was heir to a dukedom. Gracious, it felt positively medieval.

  "Follow me," he ordered, stepping away from the coach.

  Ariel wanted to decline. Truly she did, but he didn't look to be in the mood for resistance. He glared down at her, and even with nothing but moonlight illuminating his mammoth form, she could see the glower he gave her, a glower made more ominous by his scar. Gracious, but he was a forbidding-looking man.

  "Now," he added.

  She rolled her eyes, then did as instructed, though it near killed her to do so. She hated having her hands tied, especially when she wanted to wrap them around his throat. And the cad didn't help her keep her balance. Her feet met the sodden ground.

  Just where was she anyway? she wondered, turning.

  She asked the question aloud, surprised when he said, "Somewhere where it will be safe to hold you until I hear from your father."

  "Oh," she answered, studying the place.

  Moonlight illuminated the dark gray stones of a manor with a flat, crumbling roof and windows so black they resembled rotted teeth. Tall, gnarled trees shot up from the overgrown grounds. Her eyes widened. The pungent
stench of waterlogged vegetation assailed her nose. This was no secret love nest he used, she realized, this was a shamble. A stagnant-looking pond butted up against the right side of the structure. The driveway was so overgrown with waist-high weeds the carriage had had to drop them where they stood. It looked exactly the sort of place a mother would warn her children against visiting, like the home of a villain in a children's bedtime story.

  She looked back at her captor, frowning, then beyond him as a small man with an odd gait approached, his knee-high boots and carriage jacket announcing him the coachman. Trevain stopped. The coachman held out a lantern. Golden light slipped over ruts and tufts of grass. He stopped near them, looking her up and down.

  "Were we followed?" Trevain asked, stepping in front of her and blocking his view.

  "Not as far as I ken tell."

  "Good."

  Ariel peeked around Mr. Trevain in time to see him take the lantern from the fellow's outstretched hand. The driver shot her a last look of curiosity before turning around and hobbling away. Nathan turned around, too, almost smashing her in the process. His silver gaze swept down. The look on his face was so grim, so cold, she grew, if possible, even more nervous.

  "Come," Nathan said.

  Ariel held her ground, suddenly afraid of being alone with him, despite what she told herself. Truth be told, she hadn't had much luck with men when she was alone with them. A backward glance revealed the driver climbing aboard the coach.

  "He's leaving?" she squeaked, dread stabbing her stomach.

  "He is."

  "Are there any other servants inside?"

  A glance revealed a frown. "No, my lady. I'm sorry to report there will be no one to wait on you hand and foot."

  That wasn't what she'd been concerned about. Gracious. It was being alone with him that worried her.

  "Come," he said again.

  Ariel held her ground, wanting to turn, run after the coach, screaming, "Wait, come back. I beg you!"

  "My lady, we can do this the hard way or the easy way."

  Her gaze shot up again, Ariel wondering what he'd do if she said, "The hard way." Perhaps toss her over his shoulder as he'd done earlier. She didn't relish the notion. When he'd picked her up, she'd felt deuced odd.

  "My lady?"

  "I. . ." she gulped, her hands clenching behind her back. "I, er, would prefer the easy way, Trevain."

  "Don't call me that," he snapped.

  "Don't call you what?"

  He grabbed her arm. She yelped.

  "Do not use my last name as if I am part of your British society."

  Well, there was no questioning his bloodlines, even if his manners did proclaim him less than a gentleman. "But you are British."

  "I am Mr. Trevain, as people address me in America."

  Oh. She leaned away from him. His grip tightened. "Let me go," she gasped. "Mr. Trevain."

  He did. Ariel took a step back, breathing heavily. The distance made her feel better, not wonderful, but better.

  "Enough of this. We are going inside even if I have to toss you over my shoulder."

  Oh, heavens. Pray God, no. Not again. He grabbed her by the forearm and all but dragged her on a zigzag course through weeds to the front of the house. He hardly paused when he reached the front door. His hand pushed on it with more force than necessary. When he lifted the lantern, the door swung wide to reveal an inside as gloomy as the outside. Spiderwebs hung like arachnid draperies. Pieces of broken furniture dotted the dusty floor.

  "Damn," he muttered.

  "I believe someone needs to hire a new decorator."

  He ignored her sally, pulling her forward.

  "No," Ariel gasped, planting her heels. The floor was so covered with filth and grime that the soles of her slippers left twin clean streaks on its surface.

  "No," she repeated, trying to twist way.

  "What the devil is the matter with you?"

  "I'm being kidnapped. What do you think is the matter?"

  "I'm not going to harm you."

  "So you say, but you've been less than honest with me in the past."

  "I am being honest with you about this. Now, come."

  "But I don't want to go in there."

  "My lady, as you mentioned, you're being kidnapped. As such, you've no choice but to go exactly where I want you to go."

  "And where exactly would we be going?"

  "Inside this wreck of a home."

  "Yes, but to what room?"

  Never had she seen such an expression of impatience on a man's face. "What the devil does it matter?"

  Gracious, he almost blew her hair out of her face with the volume of his voice. "It matters to me."

  He didn't speak. Ariel could see his hands clench and then unclench as he struggled for patience. Well, good, the cad deserved whatever discomfort she could give him. He turned to her, appeared to come to some sort of internal compromise and said, "Very well. I'm taking you to the master bedroom."

  "The bedroom?" she squeaked. Another bed. More rope. Him leaning over her. Oh, no.

  "The bedroom," he repeated, turning toward the staircase.

  She dug in her heels.

  "No, wait. I would prefer to stay down here, if you please."

  "No, I do not please."

  "You don't?"

  He seemed to realize she was stalling—which she was—for he flicked her a look of disgust mixed with impatience before tugging her toward the staircase again. Ariel had no choice but to follow, feeling rather like Lady Chalmer's poodle. Mr. Trevain appeared unhappy, too, for he slammed his foot down on the first step.

  It broke in two.

  Ariel heard his teeth clack together. She stared, wide-eyed, at the rotted wood, then up at Mr. Trevain, who, undaunted, dragged her over the splintered wood and took the second step.

  It broke, too.

  This time he was better prepared. His hand let go of her arm to clutch the balustrade for balance.

  The handrail broke, too, inch-thick dust puffing up around them as the wood clattered to the floor.

  Ariel stared from the railing to where the railing used to be, to Mr. Trevain, back to the railing again—much less ominous-looking—then back to the floor, wondering what he would do.

  "Bloody hell," he cursed. "Bloody, bloody hell," he repeated. "Will nothing go right this night?"

  Since he didn't seem to be asking her the question, she ventured to say, "Does this mean I can go home now?" in a small, hope-filled voice.

  He turned. Ariel shrank back. Silver eyes narrowed. His scar made a vivid slash across his face.

  She realized in that instant that the man before her was an entirely different man from the one she'd come to know in the past few days. This man seemed colder, more cruel. He looked horrid now, his expression so dire the urge to escape grew in direct proportion to the fire in his eyes.

  "Come," he snapped. "If I remember correctly, the servants' quarters are back this way."

  Servants' quarters? Any relief Ariel felt at having escaped the bedroom suddenly returned. "Mr. Trevain," she wheezed out breathlessly, for he was back to making her totter along behind him. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to stay in the hall."

  But he ignored her. Ariel almost tripped as he pulled her over the broken rails. The lantern illuminated a door directly ahead, spiderwebs hanging down the door frame. Lots and lots of spiderwebs. Ariel shivered. Trevain pushed against the door.

  It fell over, too.

  At that moment Ariel was struck by the sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. She couldn't help it. The night had been such a disaster, the realization that she wasn't the only one to have a streak of bad luck was almost more than her strained emotions could bear.

  "If I huff and puff, do you suppose I could blow the whole house down?"

  He turned again. Ariel wondered where the words had come from, except that she felt a secret, vindictive urge to bait him. Most likely because she was miffed that he would dare try to use her and fa
iling that, kidnap her. She tensed, and for an instant, just a brief moment, she thought the lid might blow off the barrel of his temper. Somehow he managed to hold on to it, though. Ariel wished her father could exercise such control.

  A yelp escaped her as he grabbed her at the crook of her elbow.

  "You," he gritted out through teeth that were surely clenched—quite an amazing feat, actually, "are coming with me."

  Nathan watched her eyes grow round. She darted a look at the door, her face seeming to pale, her heels digging in again. Her hair had grown more wild, more riotous, he noted, not that he cared, his frustration with the night and his reluctant captive coming to a head. Gods, he couldn't believe the place was in such disrepair. Leave it to his uncle to do such a thing. Long ago his father had told him about his British family's hatred for anything connected to his father's name—this estate for example, the one and only piece of property Nathan could rightfully claim as his own—but until tonight he'd never fully realized the truth of those words. At least they could have hired a caretaker. Lord knows the duke of Davenport had enough coin to pay the wage.

  He tugged her forward. She didn't budge. His patience snapped again as he whirled back to face her. "My lady," he gritted, feeling the right side of his mouth lift in a snarl. "Once again, we can do this the hard way or the easy way."

  "I don't suppose if I say the easy way you'll tie me to the kitchen table, instead."

  Kitchen table? Why in God's name would she want him to do that.

  "Or any piece of furniture." He saw her swallow. "Anything but a bed."

  Understanding dawned. He straightened. The chit thought he was going to rape her. Again. Frankly, he didn't know if he should be offended or amused by her obsessive fear of his touching her. While she was certainly beautiful, he would sooner bed a viper than another British woman, especially one as untrustworthy as her.

  "My lady, let me assure you, I have no intention of bedding you. Ever."

  "Do you promise?" She swallowed.

  He wanted to yell at her that of course he promised, only to realize how ridiculous this whole conversation was. When did he lose such complete control of his captive?