“What note?”
He moved closer, his eyes conveying a certain lurid delight in his command over her. “You’ll only need to write two, one to Duncan, the other to your staff, and my butler will see that they’re delivered tonight by messenger.”
She shook her head sharply. “I’m not going back to Winter Garden. I will never go back there.”
He almost smiled. “Of course not. You’re coming with me instead, to the country, and a place of my choosing where we can be alone.”
At last, she understood. “So you can bed me at your whim? Do you really think I would give in to you so easily?”
He didn’t reply for a moment, though his eyes narrowed with the tightening of his jaw. “There is more involved now than simple lust, Viola. Everything has changed between us.”
Nothing had changed at all, and that broad statement left her dazed, embarrassingly intrigued, and more than a little scared that everything she held dear remained in jeopardy, threatened by a man who blamed her for certain failures over which neither of them had ever had control. It would take a mighty influence for her to disclose the truths behind John Henry’s conception, but if she refused Ian now, the danger of him exposing every suspicious detail regarding the birth of her child grew more plausible by the second. Suddenly the fear of her lengthy deceptions and ignoble past being laid bare before society’s eyes overshadowed any other. If nothing else, going with him to the country would buy her time.
“If you’ll find me pen and paper, sir,” she said haughtily.
For a slice of a second he looked surprised by her easy acceptance. And then with a nod, he gestured to the door.
“In my study, madam.”
She glowered at him for a long, charged moment, feeling helpless but determined, and especially regretful for taking care of him all those years ago, for trying when no one else would. And she would never, ever forgive him if he attempted to destroy her son’s future.
She lowered her lashes. “God help you.”
Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, she lifted her skirts, and with regal bearing, stepped past him to walk to the door of the green salon.
Chapter Fourteen
I sat beside him for a long while today, listening to his quiet, steady breathing. When at last he woke, he pulled me against him, wrapped his arm and leg around me, and hugged me close. I think I could stay in his arms forever. . . .
Ian fidgeted on the leather seat of his private carriage, unable to find a comfortable position, though thankfully the air had grown cooler by the hour as his driver now meandered through the countryside toward Stamford. It was closer to the city than his lands in Chatwin, and less populated this time of year, exactly as he wanted for his captive of the next few days.
He glanced at her, sitting across from him, rigid and silent, her eyes closed as she huddled beneath a coach blanket he’d tossed her when she’d taken her seat, though he knew she hadn’t slept since they’d left his town house. She was livid and worried, and he hoped she stayed that way for a while. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
He truly hadn’t been prepared for the range of emotions that had swept over him the moment he’d caught sight of her in the green salon—everything from fury, to regret, to outright lust and a stirring of something warm and comforting deep in his memory that he didn’t at all understand. She had been fully prepared to do battle, he supposed, and in any other situation he might have found her bravery compelling in a sweet and refreshing sort of way. But it was his increasing physical attraction to her that bothered him more than anything else because he simply did not understand it. By all accounts he should find her manner unappealing and unrefined, her appearance disgusting and offensive as one who fostered harm on the innocent. But he didn’t. Although others certainly thought her a lovely woman, and although he knew several ladies he would consider more classically beautiful, there was something about Viola that made his breath catch in his chest and his heart beat faster each time he laid eyes on her, and tonight had been no exception. At first glance she’d appeared lost, confused, and most of all stunning with the muted lighting of nightfall playing across her pale skin, her shiny, upswept hair, perfectly curved body, and those frightened, vivid hazel eyes. It had been difficult to stifle his desire to charm and seduce her on the spot, to forget himself, and his goals—until she’d once again evaded his questions and denied him answers.
He hadn’t planned to force her to go anywhere with him. It had been a last-minute decision borne of anger, restlessness, and a mounting frustration in his inability to drive the stake in far enough for his satisfaction, just as he’d realized she had gotten the best of him once more that evening. And maybe he would never be satisfied and able to move on to grasp a much brighter future. Some deep part of him wanted to fault her for his actions toward her, and yet he knew she’d been absolutely correct when she’d said he blamed her for his feelings. That had been a striking moment for him, a slap to his face that had jarred him, reminding him all too clearly that he had been the one to target her first. He had pursued her, with nefarious intent, but the moment tonight when he’d laid eyes on the painting of her child, his child, he’d suddenly wanted explanations more than revenge.
She had given him a son. His first son, and a bastard just like him, conceived during a bond he couldn’t exactly remember, and into which, in his weakness, he’d been very likely forced. Such a notion appalled him, and yet it was the fact that she wouldn’t acknowledge to his face that the boy was his that angered him so much and made him rationalize his deplorable actions toward her. And he didn’t know what to feel about it, either. Should he demand a meeting with the child? Should he take any responsibility for him, when Viola refused to acknowledge the relationship? Did he even want to know the boy? In one long, eventful evening, his entire life had changed to become far more complicated than he could have imagined. He now had a mind full of questions with no apparent answers.
He supposed she might never admit that he’d fathered her child, and as he’d now had hours to consider it rationally, he finally thought he understood her reason. If she denied it, her son would grow up a baron and inherit all to which his name and rank entitled him. It would be far smarter than claiming the child a bastard and attempting to blackmail the father; she could never have envisioned him marrying her for any reason. Perhaps blackmail had been her initial intent, but by getting a titled gentleman to propose instead, she’d settled on the better surety. But had the honorable Lord Cheshire known this fact when they’d married? When he’d died? It was just such speculation about how and why she’d taken a chance on getting herself with child, every implication and detail, that had been haunting him since they’d left his town house.
Ian turned his gaze to the small widow and stared out to the inky blackness. It wasn’t safe to travel at night, and yet in some manner he delighted in the danger, especially if it made her more uncomfortable. The next few days were going to be miserable for her, and if he could keep his guilt suppressed, he might delight in that misery as well.
“Are we nearly there?”
Ian turned to her shadowed figure, feeling her stare upon him, her expression unreadable in the darkness. “Yes, nearly.”
She huddled down further into the blanket. “Where are you taking me?”
He didn’t reply immediately, uncertain how much to tell her of the next few days to come.
Her tone flattened as she asked, “You’re not planning to murder me when you’re finished ravishing me, are you?”
He almost laughed at a notion so outrageous. “Murder? Good God, Viola.”
Pulling the blanket tighter around her neck, she replied, “I’m sure you can see why I have my doubts. You clearly despise me, have taken me captive, and nobody on earth knows where I am. You also have enough wealth and authority to deny any involvement in my disappearance, and eve
rybody would believe you.”
He adjusted his large frame in his seat. “You’re exaggerating both my importance and my dislike of you.”
“Am I? As a high-ranking gentleman of the peerage, you know as well as I that you’re a rather important person.” She softened her voice to add, “And quite honestly we both know I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t turned your hatred of what happened to you into a retaliation against me personally.”
For seconds he debated a caustic retort, then decided against it as he turned to gaze out the window again. The sadness and frustration she exuded in words and form shrouded the nagging remorse he felt in taking her from the city by reminding him of just how innocent she thought she was in his captivity five years ago. But he refused to contemplate that now. She would understand his perspective soon enough.
They sat in silence again for the better part of an hour, until at last he could see the shores of the lake at Stamford through the tiniest flicker of dawn creeping into the eastern sky. Then his fishing cabin came into view and he sat up, glancing at her huddled form.
“We’re here,” he said, tapping her on the knee with his foot.
She blinked and sat up a little straighter, glancing around. “Are we at Stamford?”
“We’re on my land,” he replied vaguely. “We’re not, however, going to the house.”
She frowned as she caught his gaze. “I don’t understand.”
“You will shortly.”
After a quick glance out the window, she shifted uncomfortably on the leather seat. “I . . . um . . . need to freshen up a bit. And I’m hungry.”
He groaned inside. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might require more than a bush to crouch behind. He knew there was a chamber pot at the cabin, though he hoped to God she wasn’t on her monthlies, something else he hadn’t considered in this inane plan to abduct her without thought.
“All in good time, Viola. We’re almost there.”
The coach slowed as it crept through a thicket of trees, the road growing rockier as they neared the small lake. Viola sat forward and peered out the window.
“What exactly are you planning, Ian?”
“You’ll see—”
“This pretense has gone on quite long enough,” she interjected as irritation took hold once again. “You’ve taken me into the country with no notice, not a stitch of clothing aside from what I’m wearing, without any idea of how long I am to be your prisoner—” She gasped, her eyes opening wide as her fear of his full intentions dawned. “You’re not going to chain me.”
“And have you suffer such an indignity?” he replied at once, purposely leaving her to wonder. Sardonically, he added, “At least you know I have no artistic talent and won’t paint it for the world to see.”
“I never expected the world to see that painting, Ian,” she retorted. “You have to know that. You forced me to act when you threatened my reputation and everything I hold dear.” After a pause, she added, “You also made me angry.”
Amusement swept over him as he relished that truth. Suddenly he cared more about her secrets than her motives. “Did your husband see it?”
Her brows creased in a frown. “No, not that one.”
“Not that one? You mean he saw others? He was aware of your erotic work?”
“I couldn’t very well sell it without his knowledge,” she replied with exasperation.
He hadn’t thought of that. “Did he . . . encourage it?”
She fidgeted on the leather seat. “Of course he encouraged it. He championed all of my artwork. As a good husband does.”
Ian allowed that revelation, and her formal choice of words, to sink in a bit before deciding he wanted more. “Is that what a good husband does, Viola? Encourage his wife to create artwork designed to arouse other men?”
Her eyes flashed in renewed irritation. “I think you should be the last person to judge what a good man does, Ian, after abducting me for a vile purpose. I don’t suppose you’ll want to give these details to Anna when you ask for her hand.”
She was trying to incite him, and truthfully, he didn’t at all want to consider how unheroic he’d behaved these last few hours. Right now all he wanted was answers.
“Why didn’t he see the one you auctioned last night?” he continued, voice lowered.
Without hesitation, she glanced away and replied, “I painted it after his death.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t believe that for a second. “You don’t know? You already told me you had no intention of selling it. Or maybe that’s not true at all and you were, instead, keeping it as blackmail in the event I came forward and charged you with a crime.”
She looked back at him, scrunching her face, thoroughly appalled. “Why do you always think the worst of me?”
A certain guilt gripped his chest, which he tried very hard to dismiss. “I’m just hoping to understand your motives, that’s all.”
She scoffed. “I don’t think you care a fig about my motives. All you want is to hurt me, and in any way possible.”
He wouldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. But since she’d been a bit more forthcoming, he decided to press her for more intimate detail. “Did your husband know you carried another man’s child when you married?”
“I believe we’ve settled this notion,” she articulated very slowly. “John Henry is my husband’s son.”
He eyed her speculatively, his head tipped to one side. “And yet you conceived in January.”
Her features grew brittle as she glared at him in the early morning light. “I conceived on my honeymoon, your grace, in early February, though this is really none of your business.”
“And your son was born nearly two months early? Your husband must have been very . . . concerned.”
“My husband was overjoyed.”
She’d stressed that with complete conviction, her voice dripping with caution, and yet Ian could not imagine the gentleman he saw in the portrait overjoyed at anything at all. Then again, if he’d thought the child had been his, and since one could hardly distinguish features on a newborn infant, perhaps he’d simply been overjoyed at having an heir, especially when his first wife had never carried at all. One would think he’d have been suspicious that his second wife would deliver him a child so soon after their marriage, but in the end he’d had a son. Perhaps that was all that had truly mattered to the man.
“Did you marry for love, Viola?” he asked softly.
He’d managed to ruffle her feathers so much that she looked momentarily confused by the sudden intimacy of the question.
“I loved Lord Cheshire, of course,” she admitted with only the slightest hesitation.
“Is that why you married him?”
She sighed. “I married him for the same reasons anyone might marry—companionship, children, stability, and yes, love.”
“And a title?” he drawled.
The side of her mouth lifted fractionally. “Although many a lady hunts for a husband with the grandest title, that wasn’t the reason I married mine.”
“What, then, did you find particularly . . . compelling in Lord Cheshire?”
“Compelling?”
He shrugged, watching her closely. “If not for his title, what attracted you to him?”
She squirmed a little on the seat, turning her attention outside again. “He was very charming.”
Ian almost snorted. If there was one thing he could not envision at all in the baron, it was charm. “Did you also find him handsome?”
“He was handsome enough for my tastes,” she snapped. “Not every lady is graced with the opportunity to marry a man as perfectly proportioned and marvelously appealing as you, sir.”
She’d meant that sarcastic retort to st
ing, and yet such a backhanded compliment coming from her stirred his blood, thoroughly warming him from head to toe. Masking an immense satisfaction, he replied, “Frankly, I think you were far too beautiful for him. I’m certain he knew it, too, and counted his blessings that he could bed you every night.”
After casting him another fast glance, she scooted down further into her huddled blanket. “I think it’s inappropriate to discuss my late husband in such a manner, your grace.”
He would have debated that, but the coach abruptly halted. “We’re here,” he said flatly. “Let’s go.”
She didn’t budge.
Ian grabbed her wrist from beneath the blanket and pulled as he opened the coach door, relishing the rush of cool air from the lake that struck his face as he lifted her with him and alighted.
“Take the horses to the stable, Larson,” he ordered his driver. “I’ll walk to the house later.”
“As you wish, your grace,” the man replied without even a glance at Viola. Seconds later he snapped the reins, made a quick turn, and headed back through the trees.
Ian began striding toward the cabin, holding her hand, more than a little impressed by how she managed to keep her head high and shoulders rigid when her skin felt cold and she had to be scared to death.
“What is this place?” she asked as they reached the small, wooden door six feet from the edge of the water.
“It’s a private little cottage,” he said, releasing her and reaching into his jacket pocket for the key.
“It doesn’t look much like a cottage.”
He didn’t respond to that indisputable observation as the door creaked open. The cabin smelled of wood smoke and fish, and its small one room would likely fit inside his town house pantry. It was dark, sturdy, and perfect.
Clasping her elbow, he fairly pushed her inside.
“You can’t expect me to stay here,” she remarked, stepping over the threshold and into semidarkness. “Ian, I refuse—”
“This is the perfect place for an intimate discussion.”
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