A Rose at Midnight

by Anne Stuart

  He backed away from her, swiftly, before the temptation grew to be too much, and it wasn’t until late that night, well into a bottle of brandy, Tavvy this time drinking with him, that he realized what he’d said to her, the French endearments instinctive and automatic.

  He’d told her she was beautiful, his precious child, his angel in a dark night. He’d told her she was his soul, his life and breath, and the heat of his desire.

  And, God help him, he’d told her the worst thing of all. He’d told her that he loved her. And even now, he wasn’t quite sure if he’d lied.

  Chapter 18

  The boat was no longer moving. Ghislaine lay face-down in the bunk, scarcely daring to breathe, as she waited for her stomach to settle. She didn’t dare try to sit up. When she had, a few hours earlier, the room had swum in circles around her, and she’d ended in a heap on the floor. That was bad enough. She would have managed to crawl back into the bunk sooner or later, but he’d come in, picked her up in his arms, and placed her back on the bed, murmuring things to her in the language of her youth. She’d almost forgotten the sound of it—Parisian gutter French was very different from the softer, more elegant sounds of the vanished aristocracy. She let herself drift as Blackthorne talked to her, as he tucked the light blanket over her weak, shivering body. She let herself pretend she was fifteen again, and anything was possible.

  She didn’t want to open her eyes. If she did, she’d see the pitch and fall of the cabin, and there was absolutely nothing left in her stomach to lose. She had no idea how long she’d been in this torture chamber, but surely they couldn’t have reached the continent already.

  It was then that she realized she wasn’t alone in the cabin. Her dulled senses told her that, and as they sharpened, she realized it wasn’t her nemesis. She opened one eye, carefully, and saw the swarthy profile of Nicholas’s valet-cum-henchman sitting in the corner.

  “You’re awake, then,” he said. “Time’s a-wasting. If you’re coming with us, you’d best get up.”

  Ghislaine didn’t move. “Is there a choice?”

  “No. His lordship’s not about to let you go.”

  There was something in Taverner’s voice that broke through her dulled misery. She struggled into a sitting position, and while the cabin spun for a moment, it quickly righted itself. “And you think he should,” she said softly.

  Taverner nodded. “Aye, I do. You’re nothing but trouble to him, but he’s too blind pigheaded stubborn to realize it. He doesn’t even know what he wants with you, but he’s not reasonable enough to let you go.”

  “You could help me.”

  Taverner looked at her stonily. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re right. I’m nothing but trouble. He’s got the authorities after him for murdering that man…”

  “What do you know about it?” Tavvy scoffed. “I was there, Mamzelle. It was a fair fight, not that the late Jason Hargrove wanted it to be. Tried to kill Blackthorne, that he did, after my master deloped. Even so, Blackthorne did his best just to wound him. But the stupid bugger wouldn’t let things be.”

  “Very noble of Blackthorne,” Ghislaine said faintly.

  “Besides which, we’ve reached the continent. No one’s going to come after him here.”

  “Already! How long have we been at sea?”

  “You mean how long have you been puking your guts out? Three days. Kind of rough justice, if you know what I mean. Lasted just about as long as Blackthorne’s late indisposition from gastritis.”

  “What about his cousin? I thought she was coming after us.” Ghislaine struggled for one tiny straw of hope.

  “You think he’s afraid of someone like Lady Ellen?” Taverner scoffed. “Not bloody likely. And it doesn’t matter how many gents she has with her. They won’t catch up with Blackthorne, not if he don’t want them to.”

  “Then why do you think he should let me go?” Her brain was too weak to make sense of all this.

  “If I knew that, maybe I’d see my way clear to helping you,” Tavvy said in an aggrieved voice. “I just think you’re trouble, and he’d be better off without you. It doesn’t make any sense. I know he hasn’t bedded you, so it can’t have anything to do with that. You’re not his type anyway—he likes ’em buxom and blond and silly. And things that don’t make sense worry me.”

  She had to be insane. Or suffering the aftereffects of seasickness, to feel stricken at the thought of Blackthorne preferring large blond ninnies. She should be thanking God that he hadn’t been attracted enough to take her.

  “You’d travel a lot lighter without me,” she managed to say in a reasonable voice. “He’s probably just being stubborn. If I simply disappeared on the docks, he might end up being grateful that the decision was taken out of his hands.”

  “But it’s not going to be taken out of my hands, my pet,” Blackthorne’s cool, elegant voice responded from the doorway. She hadn’t even realized it was ajar, and Blackthorne had a quiet step. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned, but I find I don’t mind the extra bother of taking you with me. For the present, at least.”

  She glanced at him warily. The man who had come to her during the endless ocean voyage, the one who’d put cool cloths on her brow and murmured French endearments, the man who’d gone so far as to hold the basin for her with a singular lack of disgust, had disappeared. In his place was the dark man who could frighten her if she let him. The cool, implacable nemesis who would not listen to reason or pleading. Whatever merciful, gentle traits he might possess had vanished.

  And right now she was too weak to fight. Taverner was still slouched in the corner, looking singularly unworried that his master might have overheard his disloyalty, but then, Blackthorne and his valet had an unusual relationship. She wouldn’t give up hope. If Tavvy disapproved of her presence, he might see fit to overlook some aspect of her captivity. All she would need was another moment of inattention, and she’d be gone. And this time he wouldn’t be able to track her down.

  “Come along, Ghislaine,” Blackthorne said, moving into the cabin, dwarfing it with his size and elegance, and she felt even shabbier and smaller. But not helpless. Certainly never helpless. He held out a hand; well-shaped, strong. She wasn’t about to take it. He waited patiently, like a spider. “Come along,” he said again. “Dry land awaits you.”

  She would have followed the devil himself off the boat. She tried to climb off the bed, ignoring his hand, but Blackthorne wasn’t a man to be ignored. He simply caught her arm in his, pulling her from the bed, and, in truth, she needed his strength as she tried to steady her trembling legs. Only for the moment, she reminded herself. Only until they got off this monstrous boat. She needed to wash her face and hands, to comb her hair, to try to find something decent to wear among Ellen’s oversized gowns. She even needed to put something in her stomach, though the very thought made her shudder. Then she could see about making her escape.

  And this time it would be for good.

  The low roads of Holland were in better shape than those in England. The hired carriage was a step above Blackthorne’s ramshackle affair, decently sprung with modestly comfortable cushions. There was more room, too, so that Blackthorne’s large, masculine body shouldn’t have been so overwhelming in the less than cramped space. It still was.

  He watched her. His eyes never left her face as they crossed the miles. His attitude was lazy, his long legs extended, his arms crossed, the lace cuffs dripping over his hands. His eyes were half-closed, and the faint smile on his narrow mouth was disturbing. It was all Ghislaine could do not to reveal how disturbed she was.

  Something had changed. Something had shifted between them, and that change didn’t bode well for her. It seemed as if Blackthorne had come to a decision, and whatever that decision was, it wouldn’t be to her benefit.

  She watched him, more covertly than he watched her, and considered the possibilities. She watched, and waited, dreading the moment when the coach would stop for the day. Even the
torture of the endless travel was preferable to the uncertainty of what the night would bring.

  The hour was much advanced when they finally halted. The inn was a cut above the seedy hostelries they’d frequented in England, and if Ghislaine had been less anxious she would have wondered whether lodging was cheaper on the continent, or whether Blackthorne was no longer worried about the specter of pursuit. It was probably a combination of the two, but as she sat alone in the private chamber, warmer and more spacious than its dark, dank English counterparts, she had other things to worry about.

  She paced the room, her arms hugged tightly around her, kicking her overlong skirts out of her way. There was no reason that tonight was going to be different from the other nights they’d spent since Blackthorne had carried her off. As Taverner had pointed out, she was hardly his type of female. There’d been a number of that sort, buxom, blond, and giggly, serving in the taproom—she’d spied two before Taverner had whisked her upstairs. It stood to reason that Blackthorne would find succor in their soft arms.

  It stood to reason, but she didn’t believe it. He was coming for her tonight, she knew it. And he knew she knew. The tray of dinner, missing such a rudimentary utensil as a knife, bespoke it.

  She’d barely touched a thing. She’d left the glass of wine alone, needing all her wits. She’d kept him away this long. Surely she could dissuade or distract him one more time.

  The hours passed. The fire burned low in the hearth, and in the distance she could hear the sound of laughter from the taproom, the giggles floating upward through the thick timbers of the old inn. Her panic had all been for nothing.

  She kicked off Ellen’s oversized slippers and climbed up onto the high bed. It was soft, fresh-smelling, with fine linen sheets that would have done justice to Ainsley Hall. The bed was big, and it would be hers alone. She lay back, fully clothed, staring at the shadows on the wall. It wasn’t disappointment she was feeling.

  Yes, it was, she admitted, determined to be honest with herself. Not disappointment that he wasn’t going to make her the recipient of his disgusting attentions. But disappointment that the battle, so long in lingering, was still waiting to be joined. Sooner or later the simmering tension between them was going to explode. She’d been prepared for it, prepared to fight. To be left alone was anticlimactic. Of course it was a disappointment.

  She heard a shriek of laughter from belowstairs, and her small hands clenched into fists. Thank heaven for willing barmaids, she told herself devoutly, her nails digging into her palms. Thank heaven for one more night of reprieve. Thank heaven for…

  The sound of the door to her chamber stopped all notions of enforced thankfulness. Blackthorne strolled in, casual, elegant in the candlelight, and the shadows that played around his face made him look predatory. It was no illusion.

  Ghislaine sat up quickly, cursing her timing. If she’d simply held out another ten minutes she would have been ready to face him. Not lying in bed, vulnerable.

  He smiled at her. It wasn’t reassuring. That smile was simply a small, mocking curve to his thin lips, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t mind if I lock the door, do you?” he murmured, doing so without waiting for her assent. “I don’t want us to be disturbed tonight. Not that anyone would be fool enough to do so. I have a certain reputation, even in the back of beyond. Most people would think twice about crossing me.”

  She edged back against the head of the bed. There was no light in his face, no tenderness or mercy. He was going to have her, and nothing she could say or do would stop him.

  She had to give it one last try. “You don’t really want me,” she said, watching as he stripped off his elegant jacket. “You know you don’t. If you want sex, why don’t you avail yourself of the women downstairs? I’m sure they’re much more willing and experienced.”

  “I’m not interested in willing,” Nicholas said, removing his neckcloth with long, patient fingers. “I want you.” He sat down in the chair by the fire and proceeded to pull off his boots, no easy trick, considering their custom fit. She watched in fascination, knowing there was no place she could run to.

  He unfastened his shirt as he approached her, and he was very big in the darkness. This was no raddled old earl, no clumsy, plump butcher. This was her worst enemy, a man of dangerous beauty and lethal charm. A man who wanted to hurt her, to punish her. A man who would do so by giving her pleasure, if he could.

  Her only defense was to make certain there was no pleasure. She eyed him stonily. “Don’t do this.”

  His smile was gently mocking. “You knew it would come to this, sooner or later.” He reached out and touched a strand of her long chestnut hair. “Didn’t you?” She refused to answer, and he tugged, a sharp little jerk. “Didn’t you?” he said again, his voice deceptively soft.

  “I can’t stop you.”

  He shook his head in agreement. “You can threaten to kill me, you can threaten to kill yourself, you can kick and scream and fight me if you’ve a mind to. But you can’t stop me.”

  “All right then.”

  He stared at her, momentarily startled, and dropped the lock of hair. “All right then?” he echoed.

  “I can’t stop you. I’ve no fancy for being forced. Go ahead.” She pushed herself back down on the bed, arms stiff at her sides, staring at the ceiling, and waited.

  She’d hoped to call his bluff. It was useless. She felt his fingers at the buttons that traveled down the front of Ellen’s oversized day dress, felt the coolness of the night air as he undid the fastenings one by one.

  “You don’t need to do this,” she said through clenched teeth. “All that’s necessary is to lift my skirts.”

  The soft sound of laughter didn’t warm her. “Had some experience, have you? I don’t want just what’s between your legs, ma mie. I want your entire body.” He pulled her to a sitting position, pushing the dress off her shoulders.

  “My body is at your disposal, monsieur,” she said politely, not aiding him as he undressed her. The chemise was made of fine lawn. It reached her knees, and she found herself hoping he’d have the decency to leave her that much. He didn’t. He rolled down the white silk stockings and tossed them away, then stripped the chemise from her body, until she lay there naked, forcing herself not to move as he watched her out of those dangerous, hooded eyes.

  “You’re very small, my pet,” he murmured, not touching her, his eyes drifting down over her small, rounded breasts, her flat stomach. “One might almost think you were still fifteen. I can remember it as if it were yesterday…”

  He couldn’t have picked words more suited to enrage her. “Bastard!” she hissed, lunging for some covering. “I’ll never be fifteen again. I hate you, I hate you…”

  He hauled her back, covering her body with his, pressing her down into the soft mattress, and where his shirt was open she could feel his hot flesh against her skin, and she shivered in the shadows. “You’ll never be fifteen again,” he agreed, staring at her, his eyes glittering.

  The weight of him, resting against her, was doing strange and terrifying things to her insides. She could feel his arousal pressed against her, and the reality of it was suddenly more than she could stand.

  “For the love of God, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Don’t do this to me. For pity’s sake, leave me alone.”

  For a moment he didn’t move, and she allowed herself a brief flare of hope that one last time she’d found the words to deflect him. That hope vanished as he slowly shook his head. “Whatever gave you the notion that I had any pity in me? Any love of God, any decency? I’m a wicked man, Ghislaine. And I’m about to prove to you how truly wicked I am.”

  He dropped his head down, blotting out the fitful light, and put his mouth against hers. She bucked against him in one last attempt to throw him off, but he ignored her, his mouth open against hers, kissing her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands holding her head still even as her fists flailed against him.

  It was a losing battl
e, and she knew it. Not because he was too strong, not because he could overpower her. If she kept fighting him it might still be enough to stop him. Despite his assertion that he was truly wicked, she didn’t really believe he would rape her.

  It was a losing battle simply because she knew she couldn’t fight him. His mouth was too sweet on hers, calling forth a response that had stayed buried deep inside. The more she struggled, the freer her emotions were. The more she fought against his kiss, the more she wanted it.

  Somehow her arms had become entwined around his neck. Somehow she’d slanted her mouth beneath his, accepting his kiss, her body softening against his hard one, ready to accept that too. His hands slid down and cupped her small breasts, and she heard her instinctive moan of pleasure from a distance. Heard it with mounting horror.

  She forced herself to drop her arms to the bed beside her body. Forced herself to slow her breathing, to lie still beneath him. He lifted his head to stare down at her, his eyes glittering with anger and frustration, and she met his gaze with stony impassivity.

  “Is this your final defense?” he asked, his voice roughened in the darkness. “You’re going to lie there and ignore me while I have my wicked way with you? It won’t work.”

  She controlled her start of shock that he’d seen through her so easily. “Do whatever you like,” she said, her own voice a husky betrayal. “I can’t stop you.”

  “You can’t fool me either,” he said. “There are some ways you can’t control your body.” And he put his mouth on her breast.

  She jerked, her fingers clenching the sheets beneath her, trying to force herself to keep still as inevitable streaks of desire raced through her. Desperately she tried to bring the dark, safe place back, but it was elusive. There was no place to escape to; there was just the darkness and Nicholas’s strong body pressing against hers, his mouth on her breasts, his long fingers running down over her stomach, between her legs, so that she jerked again, forcing herself not to fight him.

  He lifted his head, and her breast was cold and damp in the night air. He slid his long fingers into her, and she dug her heels into the mattress as well, biting down hard on her lip. “Another way your body can’t lie,” he whispered, leaning forward and touching her tight lips with his tongue.