A Rose at Midnight Read online

  No, Nicholas’s shirt would have to do. If she was going to end the night in a battle, it would provide as much protection as anything she had with her.

  The hours passed; long, empty hours. Gert returned and had the hip bath removed, took the tray with its half-eaten meal, and wished her a good evening. Ghislaine almost wished her good hunting in return. If only Nicholas were drunk enough to fall for Gert’s abundant, obvious charms, she could have a decent night’s sleep to gather her strength back around her. She wasn’t in any condition to fight him off. And she had no doubt whatsoever that that was what Nicholas had in mind.

  She could always submit. In the end, it was probably what she’d have to do. She’d learned the trick of closing her mind and ears, and letting her dreams soar out into the clouds, while some man hunched and panted and sweated over her body. She’d distanced herself and survived.

  But a small, nagging little part of her wondered whether she could be just as efficient distancing herself from the devil incarnate who’d abducted her. The man who looked like an angel from hell.

  Nicholas was getting very drunk. He considered stopping. The landlord’s punch was a fine one, redolent of cinnamon and nutmeg and rum, but he’d never been excessively fond of rum punch. The serving girl was well-rounded and obviously willing, brushing her quite impressive breasts against him every chance she got. Tavvy had already closed his eyes and sunk back against the settee, and would probably awake six hours from now stiff and sore and blessed with a colossal headache.

  The landlord would provide an alternate bed that he could share with the girl, if he gave any sign that he was interested. Indeed, he was mad not to be. The creature upstairs was a murderous harridan, doubtless a virgin, blessed with a skinny body and a wasp’s tongue. Besides which, she wanted to kill him. That sort of thing had never done wonders for his ardor, and he’d be much better off sampling the serving girl’s more obvious wares.

  But he couldn’t keep his mind off the woman upstairs. He had to force himself to remember that she was a woman, not a girl. She reminded him of that innocent child he’d half-fallen in love with so long ago, and yet she was different enough that he knew there was absolutely no danger of his succumbing once more to that unexpected weakness.

  She’d had no idea, of course. All she remembered was his flat rejection of her, convinced that that rejection had cost her her family. She didn’t know the yearning that had burned behind his dismissal of her, the cynical denial that had eaten away at his soul.

  All the rum punch in the world couldn’t make him forget her. It never had, over the long intervening years, though it and claret and brandy had come close. He’d gone days, weeks, even months without thinking about her, so that she’d finally become a distant memory, a faded dream that somehow no longer seemed quite real. Until she returned to his life like a flaming fury, ready to take her revenge for his transgressions, both real and imagined.

  He supposed he ought to be understanding enough to allow her her illusions. It was easier to hate a person than a system of government, a bloodthirsty mob, a smug old man who was so busy trying to take his fortune with him that he waited until it was too late. If he were nobler he’d shoulder that burden of guilt, let her hate him and despise him and blame him if it made her feel better.

  He drew the line at letting her murder him, however.

  He could always go upstairs and bed her. Then she’d have no doubts at all about what an unregenerate monster he was. He’d tied her up, abducted her, taunted her. Surely there was no need to stop there. He’d never hesitated in the single-minded pursuit of his sensual pleasures before.

  But he’d never taken a woman by force either, and he had no doubts at all that with Ghislaine it would be force. For some oddly quixotic reason he didn’t want to brutalize her. At least, he told himself coolly, not tonight.

  And for some equally absurd reason he didn’t want to avail himself of the serving girl either. She smelled of the mutton she’d served, and while he had no doubts at all that he’d enjoy her enthusiasm, he simply didn’t want her. An unsettling state of affairs, and one he could thank Ghislaine de Lorgny for.

  He rose on surprisingly steady feet, picking up the half-empty brandy bottle. “Time to join m’wife,” he announced.

  The girl pouted. “She’s probably asleep by now,” she said boldly. “And didn’t you say it was her time of the month?”

  Had he really been crass enough to announce that? Probably. He smiled with sweet drunkenness. “We don’t let such things bother us,” he confided. “She’s French, you know.”

  That seemed to say enough. The serving girl disappeared into the kitchen with a sullen set to her plump shoulders, but he’d be surprised if she didn’t decide to wake Tavvy up for a bit of fun.

  The stairs were too damned dark and narrow, but he managed to make it up there without spilling a drop of his precious brandy. The fire in the front room had burned down low, and there was no sign of Ghislaine. She had to be in the bedroom beyond. Was she waiting for him, lying in the bed, nude and ready? Was she standing behind the door with a knife, prepared to unman him?

  He pushed open the door cautiously. The firelight illuminated her pale face, and he had no doubt whatsoever that she was sound asleep. She looked no more than fifteen years old, lying in the middle of that big bed, the covers drawn up to her chin. He’d felt like a satyr then; he felt like a rutting stag now.

  He backed out of the room, leaving the door open, and went to sit by the fire. From his vantage point he could still see her, lying in the bed, and he told himself he had to keep an eye on her in case she woke up and decided to push him into the fireplace or something equally nasty.

  He drank out of the bottle, letting the fiery stuff burn its way down his throat. And he knew he was lying. He wanted to watch her as she slept. Because he wanted to pretend it was thirteen years ago, before the world had gone mad.

  Before he had lost his soul completely.

  Chapter 8

  Sir Antony Wilton-Greening didn’t sleep well. The Crown and Boar provided a decent enough repast, the beds were clean and well-aired, the cellar tolerable. Normally he would sleep like the dead, waking up at his customary eleven o’clock to start his day.

  He knew he didn’t possess that luxury. He needed to be off by dawn if he was going to escape without Ellen joining him. Not that there weren’t decided advantages to having her along. For one thing, he had no guarantee that the mysterious Ghislaine would prefer his protection to that of an attractive bad ‘un like Nicholas Blackthorne. Even assuming she had gone unwillingly, and he was by no means convinced of that, she might have come to terms with her abductor. Particularly since Nicholas would probably attempt to keep her in a style to which she could easily grow accustomed, and Tony had no interest in her dubious charms at all. He found he had no taste for French gamines—he preferred English roses. He’d been completely truthful when he’d told Ellen that no one would find out if she accompanied him if he didn’t want them to know. If he had been forced to take her with him, he would have made sure exactly those people necessary had found out—those people necessary to enforce a speedy marriage. It would cut through a great deal of bother. Ellen, for all her matter-of-fact good nature, was a dreamy romantic at heart. If he wanted to marry her, and he most definitely did, he’d be forced to go through some ridiculous sham of a courtship, and he simply didn’t have the energy for it. He wanted his nice, comfortable life, with an affectionate, undemanding spouse like Ellen to make sure his home was run properly, his estates were crawling with heirs, and his marital duty wasn’t impossibly onerous. It had taken him a while to come to the decision that Ellen would suit him, but once that decision had been taken, there was no swaying him from his purpose. He just didn’t want to have to exert himself more than necessary.

  No, a forced marriage had definite advantages, not the least of which would be Ellen’s feelings of guilt and gratitude. It would keep her from making impossible demands if she fel
t she’d forced him into it.

  On the other hand, he was fond enough of her not to wish her the burden of guilt and gratitude. And there was always the outside chance that he might just enjoy her impossible demands.

  No, better to do it in a straightforward manner. Go after the miscreants, fetch Ghislaine back, and come up with a reasonable offer for Ellen’s hand. If she demanded it, he supposed he could even manage to court her a bit. After all, she did have the most melting smile.

  His man woke him at the ungodly hour of five in the morning with a mug of warm porter, a platter of ham, and fresh bread that almost made such an indecent hour acceptable. He accomplished his toilet in record time, tying the most basic of cravats, allowing his man to shave him between sips of the beer, and surveying his brightly polished hessians with a weary sigh. The rain had abated, but even in the slowly lightening morning sky he could see the clouds hovering, ready to descend once more. He was not in the mood for a jaunt to Scotland.

  Unfortunately, that was where Nicholas had chosen to take his absconded female. Not that he had much choice. Assuming Blackthorne still thought Jason Hargrove would recover, he knew he’d be persona non grata in town. People tolerated a great deal from someone of Nicky’s dubious charms, but this time he’d gone a bit too far, and the man had the sense to lie low.

  Unfortunately the Blackthorne estates were mostly gone, sold to pay gaming debts. His Uncle Teasdale’s country seat, Amberfields, had been the last to go, which left only a small manor house in the Lake District and a hunting lodge over the border in Scotland.

  According to the servants at Ainsley Hall, Scotland had been their eventual destination. It could be damned cold there this time of year, and absolutely dead of company. Tony had every intention of getting up there as fast as he possibly could, fetching Ghislaine, willing or not, and haring back to Ainsley Hall.

  Of course, there was always the decidedly unpleasant possibility that Blackthorne might challenge him to a duel. Blackthorne had certainly fought enough of them to have developed a taste for them. Tony only trusted that he wasn’t likely to want to kill an opponent twice within a month.

  The carriage was waiting out front; Carmichael’s carriage, his horses well-fed and rested, his man and the driver perched on top, awaiting Tony’s arrival. He didn’t like the thought of being immured in that carriage for another few days, particularly without Ellen’s company but he accepted his fate with a sigh. If this was the way to win the proper wife, then he could make the sacrifice.

  Hastings was about to dismount and open the door for him when Tony waved him back to his perch. “I can manage,” he said, climbing into the carriage and settling back heavily, pulling the door closed after him. It was dark in the interior, the predawn light filtering in, but there was no question that he was far from alone. He looked across, directly into Ellen’s innocent blue eyes.

  “I thought I’d save you the trouble of having to fetch me,” she said.

  For a moment he was too dumbfounded to say a word. Miss Binnerston sat beside Ellen, asleep as usual, and even his intended bride looked a bit weary. “Very thoughtful of you,” he said finally, as the coach started smoothly. “How long have you been waiting?”

  Ellen yawned, too tired to make any pretense at covering it. “Awhile,” she admitted. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget your promise.”

  “My promise?”

  “To take us with you. We won’t be any trouble, Tony, I promise you.” She leaned forward, suddenly intent, and he could smell the sweet, flowery scent she favored. An innocent perfume, free of musk, it reminded him of spring afternoons. And Ellen. “Please don’t take us back.”

  It was exactly what he’d intended. It was the pleading in her eyes and the scent of her perfume that changed his mind. “I promised, did I?” he murmured. “Then I can’t very well break my word. You’ll behave yourself, Ellie? Do exactly as I tell you?”

  “Of course,” she said eagerly.

  He wondered what she’d say if he ordered her to put her arms around him and kiss him. He wouldn’t, of course. He’d accepted his responsibility, and in doing so, made it impossible for him even to suggest something improper.

  So he simply smiled at her, keeping his hands at his side. “I’ll take you at your word.”

  “We’ll find her, won’t we, Tony?” Ellen asked, her pale face creased with worry. “Nicholas won’t really hurt her, will he?”

  “I can’t imagine why he would. Any more than I can imagine why he’d abduct her in the first place. Are you absolutely certain…?”

  “Certain,” Ellen said firmly. “She never would have gone with him willingly. I have great faith in you, Tony. We should have her safe by nightfall.”

  “Considering they have a two days’ head start, I fear you’re being slightly optimistic,” Tony drawled. “But we’ll find them as soon as we can.”

  “I know you will. You know, Tony,” she said, her fine blue eyes sparkling in the murky light, “we’re going on a splendid adventure.”

  Tony thought longingly of his comfortable bed in London, his sybaritic pleasures, compared to life on the road with a pair of females. “Splendid,” he echoed faintly. And he wondered how long it would take him to get rid of Ellen’s chaperon.

  She could smell the fire. Hear the flames licking through the old wood structure, the screams of the servants still trapped inside. The roar of the angry mob, demanding vengeance, taking it on innocent people as they hauled her parents away.

  Ghislaine had stood on the edge of the forest, Charles-Louis’s hand clasped in hers, too numb to worry about whether they would be seen or not, as Sans Doute, the home of the de Lorgnys for three hundred years, burned to the ground.

  Her mother’s clothes were ripped half off her body as she was shoved and mocked. Her father was bleeding from a gash in the side of his head as he stumbled after his wife, helpless to protect her. And in the background, the screams from the servants trapped inside Sans Doute, the smell of the fire, the stench of burning flesh, the horror that left the two children rooted to the ground, until sanity finally prevailed and Ghislaine tugged her brother into the woods, away from the horrific sight.

  At least her parents weren’t dead. They hadn’t been butchered, or left inside the burning chateau to die a hideous death. She’d heard the crowd shouting something about Paris. If her parents survived that long, they would be taken and tried. There was little doubt as to their eventual fate. Madame La Guillotine had already begun her foul work.

  But as long as they were alive there was still hope. And Ghislaine was young enough then to nourish that hope, for her young brother’s sake as well as her own.

  The trip to Paris was an endless nightmare. Her satin embroidered slippers, made for nothing more strenuous than dancing on parquet floors, were shredded by the second day, Charles-Louis was sullen and weeping, unwilling to understand the catastrophe that had overtaken their lives, instead demanding his nursemaid Jeanne-Marie and his tutor.

  Mr. Coteaux had been trapped inside the burning chateau—Ghislaine had seen him illuminated in a flame-filled window. And sweet, maternal Jeanne-Marie had walked behind their mother, shoving her into the dirt when she stumbled.

  She traded their silk clothes for rough peasant garb and some stale bread and cheese on the morning of the second day. Charles-Louis complained that the rough cloth hurt his skin, the wooden shoes hurt his feet, and his stomach was empty. Ghislaine controlled her sisterly temper and promised him bonbons when they reached their uncle’s house in Paris, iced cakes if he was silent when they hid from the roving bands of angry peasants, new silk clothes if he could just walk another few steps.

  It took them a week to reach Paris, a seventeen-year-old and a twelve-year-old, and two greater innocents had never been on the streets. By the time they reached their uncle’s elegant town house, his body hung from the lamppost outside.

  Ghislaine shuddered, trying to block the memory from her sleep-drugged mind. She hated
the nightmares, hated reliving the past. Why couldn’t she remember the happy times, the years at Sans Doute, her parents smiling at her, her little brother innocent and warm and loving? Why did she always remember death and despair?

  “Bad dreams, ma belle?” a familiar voice drifted in from the front room. For a moment Ghislaine was disoriented, knowing that voice, for a brief, mad instant welcoming it. And then she remembered where she was, and who held her prisoner.

  She sat up in the lumpy bed, breathing a quiet sigh of thanks that she had slept alone. It was morning—a sullen light filtered in the windows, presaging another gray, rainy day. “It is my present existence that is the nightmare,” she said.

  She should have known better than to goad him. She could see him by the fire, sprawled in the chair, an empty decanter beside him. She watched as he rose, graceful, lethal, and came toward the open door.

  She wanted to pull the covers up to her shoulders, but she resisted the impulse. If she gave him any sign that he unnerved her, he would use that knowledge. He already had most of the weapons in their unholy battle—she wasn’t going to put another in his long, elegant hands.

  He stopped at the doorway, lounging negligently. He needed a shave and fresh clothes, he needed a decent night’s sleep and abstinence from the brandy decanter. She watched him, keeping her face completely blank, and wondered how long this was going to keep on.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked abruptly, aware of the fact that this was hardly the best time to confront him. Not while she sat in bed dressed in nothing more than one of his fine cambric shirts.

  Nicholas simply smiled a small, cool smile. “What do you think I want?” he countered.

  She forced her hands to remain still on the coverlet. “I won’t make the mistake of thinking you want me,” she said calmly. “You certainly don’t have to abduct women if you’re desirous of a tumble, and I’m certain a willing female would be greatly preferable.”