Prince of Swords Page 11

  “Like I was a sweetmeat and you a starving man,” she snapped.

  “You have it about right,” he said. “Though I liked your cat-and-mouse analogy even better.”

  “I suppose I’m not certain whether you want to eat me or kill me,” she shot back.

  “So innocent,” he murmured. “I want to eat you, Miss Maitland. I want to put my mouth all over your body.”

  She backed away from him, startled, some of her annoyance replaced by wariness. He followed her. The hall was dark and deserted, and it had been too long since he’d touched her. “My lord...” she began to say in a tight, furious voice.

  “Call me Alistair,” he said. “You remember what we did the last time we met?”

  “I remember you insulted me gravely,” she shot back, edging away.

  “Prepare yourself, Jessamine,” he whispered. “I’m about to insult you again.”

  He was unprepared for her slap. It was no gentle tap—the force of her blow was impressive, whipping his head back. She looked absolutely horrified at what she had done, and she stared at her hand as if it were an alien part of her body.

  “I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean...”

  “Don’t apologize. You meant to do just that. You’ll probably hit me again. After I kiss you.”

  This time he didn’t give her the opportunity to slap him. He simply pulled her against him, pinning her arms with his, and set his mouth against hers.

  She didn’t struggle, but he couldn’t congratulate himself on winning her over. She was still too astonished at herself for hitting him to realize that he was, as usual, taking advantage. By the time her disordered senses could reassert themselves, he’d already managed to strip them away again simply by pulling her tightly against him and using his mouth.

  She was bemused enough to open her mouth to him without protest. She was cold, shivering slightly, and the dampness of her clothing plastered against his made him want to shiver as well.

  She didn’t kiss him back, but then, she hadn’t the other time. She simply stood in his arms, as if enduring the insult, and he wondered how many other kisses she’d suffered. How many other gropings in a dark hallway.

  The notion was disturbing enough that he released her, and she leaned back against the wall, staring up at him. Her mouth was damp and reddened from his, and he expected to see cool hatred in her eyes.

  Ah, but he’d forgotten her eyes. Bewitching, they stared up at him with reluctant longing and confusion, and it was all he could do not to push her up against the wall and pull up her full, damp skirts.

  “Come to my room,” he said, his voice husky. “You’re cold and damp. Let me warm you up.”

  “No, thank you, my lord.” She was jarringly polite despite those vibrant eyes. “If you’ll let me pass, I’ll see to finding our baggage.”

  “The servants should be bringing them up.”

  “I’ve been informed by the housekeeper that servants don’t wait on servants,” she said stiffly.

  He just looked at her. “Go back to your sister,” he said.

  “As you pointed out, I’m damp and cold, and so is she. There’s no fire in our room, and I really don’t fancy either of us getting pneumonia. We have no money for a doctor. Oh, I beg your pardon—we’re not supposed to mention anything as crass as money,” she said bitterly.

  “You’d best make your escape while I’m still inclined to let you. Go back to your room,” he said again, keeping his volatile temper under control. “Or I’ll take you to mine.”

  She was wise enough not to call his bluff. He’d gone through a bewildering torrent of... he wouldn’t call them emotions, but reactions seemed a less-threatening word. Annoyance, irritation, outrage, grudging admiration. All underlaid with the worst case of lust he’d suffered since he’d first lost his virginity with a randy dairy maid.

  Maybe this even outdid his passion for the buxom Rose. It took him a moment to realize Jessamine had disappeared back into her room, closing the door tightly behind her. He almost changed his mind and went after her, when he remembered the annoying presence of a sister.

  First things first. He went in search of his hostess.

  Fleur opened her eyes drowsily. “Did you find our baggage?” she murmured.

  “Not yet, sweeting. Go back to sleep.”

  The room was dark, and Jessamine leaned against the door, grateful for the protection of the shadows. She had no idea what she looked like, but she had little doubt it would be damning. Just as she could see through her sister’s weak attempts at subterfuge, so could Fleur see to Jessamine’s troubled heart.

  Not that her heart had anything to do with it, she reminded herself fiercely, scrubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand. Despite the upheaval of the last few years, she was still a relative innocent. She had witnessed things, known things, seen things in the cards that horrified and astounded and yes, even fascinated her, but she hadn’t done any of those things, and she never would. Had never wanted to—until he put his hands on her.

  In truth, it was a good thing they were segregated from the other guests. While it would surely prevent Fleur from forming a suitable attachment, it would also keep Jessamine away from Glenshiel.

  And what if he should happen to spy Fleur? He seemed positively enamored of her own dubious attractions. When presented with a diamond of the first water like Fleur, there might be no stopping him.

  And how could Fleur resist such a wicked, beautiful, dangerous gentleman? Jessamine was made of much sterner stuff, and yet even she ended up odiously helpless in her response to him.

  Fleur would be ruined, and Jessamine wasn’t about to let that happen. The fast-fading plans for a secure future were the least of her worries. He would break Fleur’s gentle heart, and that Jessamine would not allow.

  Her own heart and spirit were made of sturdier material. She could survive anything. Her sister was far more vulnerable.

  She glanced over at Fleur’s sleeping form. So delicate, so lovely, and so very sweet. It was that sweetness of nature Jessamine envied far more than her celestial beauty. Fleur would never have slapped that man’s elegant, beautiful face so hard that the outline of her hand was imprinted on his skin. Fleur would have shamed him with her goodness.

  There was one rickety chair in the dismal room, and Jessamine sank down on it, hearing its ominous creak with true dismay.

  It was going to be a truly wretched week, and she had no one to blame but herself.

  Ten

  It was going to be a truly splendid week, Alistair MacAlpin thought as he bestowed his most Machiavellian smile upon his shallow hostess.

  “Really, Lord Glenshiel?” Sally fluttered. “The Maitlands... ?”

  “I’m so looking forward to seeing them again,” he continued smoothly. “Few people were aware of the fact that my father stood as godparent to the two of them, and my late brother’s attachment to Miss Maitland hadn’t been made public before his untimely death, but I still consider them to be family.”

  Sally turned bright pink. “Your brother was engaged to Jessamine Maitland?” she said with a little shriek of astonishment.

  A lie was a lie, and a convenient tool to be used when needed, but for some reason Alistair was loath to let his brother have any claim on Jessamine, fictional or otherwise, even in death. “No, Miss Fleur Maitland.”

  Sally looked even more horrified. “She could have been no more than sixteen when your brother died!”

  “It was a family arrangement,” he said smoothly. He was almost as adept a liar as he was a thief, a talent that provided him with a wry amusement. “We were waiting until she left the schoolroom before we announced it.”

  “How very sad,” Sally said, placing a sympathetic hand above his knee and kneading slightly. She had thin, grasping fingers, and each time she touched him, her fingertips climbed higher. He’d resigned himself to the fact that sooner or later he’d have to bed her, a prospect he had viewed with lazy acceptance. Ho
wever, one look at the bedraggled Jessamine Maitland and his mild enthusiasm for his hostess had vanished.

  “You’re extremely fortunate they’ve agreed to come to you for your party. Miss Jessamine is in great demand, you realize. Her rare combination of breeding and esoteric abilities make her much sought after.”

  “Er... yes,” Sally muttered.

  “I believe she’s even been consulted by the royal family.” He wondered if he had gone overboard, but Sally drank it up like a scraggly kitten at a bowl of milk.

  She rose abruptly. “We’re very lucky indeed to have such a distinguished guest,” she said breathlessly. “As a matter of fact, I’d best make sure they’ll be comfortably settled when they arrive.” She disappeared in a flurry of puce skirts, heading toward her unpleasant sister. Whatever she whispered in her ear was not well received, and Alistair tried to summon up an ounce of pity for Freddie Arbuthnot, sitting obediently by her side. Freddie cast him a look of glazed despair, and Alistair simply shrugged, leaning back against the fussy, overstuffed chair, a faint smile playing around his mouth.

  In fact, he was prepared to enjoy himself immensely.

  It was going to be a hellish week, Robert Brennan thought miserably, looking across the scrubbed kitchen table at his two compatriots. Samuel Welch was a wiry little man, neither worse nor better than most of Sir John’s men. Brennan had tipped a few with him, and found him congenial enough company, if a bit too willing to take a bribe. He was busy crowing about the ease and pleasure of their current assignment, guarding a bunch of nobs and enjoying themselves without having to exert the slightest bit of energy. Welch was no more ambitious than most of his type, and if he’d be lacking his thief-taker’s share during the next week, at least he’d live better than he’d ever expected to.

  It was the third man at the table who gave Brennan pause. He was busy flirting with one of the housemaids, his swarthily handsome face creased in a reassuring smile, his gold front tooth glinting in the firelight. He must have felt Brennan’s thoughtful gaze on him, for he turned back to look at him, his eyes narrowing.

  “Enjoying yourself, Brennan?” Josiah Clegg demanded, draining his mug of ale. “Or do you prefer life out on the streets, catching criminals?”

  “I prefer to be where I’m needed,” Brennan said.

  “Such a little schoolboy. But no, you’re a farm boy, ain’t you?” he said. “Did you like your ride here? Got to cuddle up with two ladies. One of them’s right pretty, I hear.”

  “I know my place, Josiah,” he said.

  “I know my place as well,” Clegg said with a wheezy laugh. “And it’s underneath Miss Fleur’s skirts...”

  Brennan didn’t launch himself across the table and wrap his huge hands around Clegg’s throat, much as he longed to. He didn’t allow even the slightest change of expression to mar his cool demeanor. Clegg would use any weakness he could find in his enemies, and to Clegg, all men were enemies, particularly those in competition for the same thief-taker’s share.

  “I’m with Sammy here,” Clegg continued. “I intend to live well while I have the chance. When we get back, it’ll be time enough for me to catch the Cat. In the meantime, let him prowl all he wants. His days are numbered.”

  “What makes you think you’ll be the one to catch the Cat, Josiah?” Welch demanded. “With that price on him, you’ve got some strong competition. I for one intend to be the man to catch him. I ‘spect Brennan does as well.”

  Josiah’s smile would have been positively beatific if it weren’t for the cunning in his small eyes. “Intend all you want, boys. The Cat’s mine, and nothing and no one is going to stand in my way of a thousand pounds.”

  “I thought it was five hundred?” Welch murmured. “For a thousand pounds I’d turn in me own father.”

  “If you happened to know who he was,” Josiah replied. “Don’t get in my way, Sammy. I’ll cut your throat if you try.” And he smiled pleasantly, the gold tooth flashing.

  Brennan didn’t move, his razor-sharp memory taunting him. It had been years earlier, before Sammy Welch’s time. A Bow Street runner on the trail of notorious Flash Robbins had been found in bed with a whore, his throat slashed. The whore was dead as well, and no one had seen anything suspicious. And two days later Clegg had run Robbins to ground and collected the moiety on him.

  It had been a curious coincidence, one that had troubled Brennan. He’d been drinking with Martin, the hapless runner, the evening before he was killed, and Martin had boasted that he’d set a trap for Robbins that no one could possibly escape.

  But it had been Clegg who’d sprung the trap. And Martin who’d been buried in a pauper’s grave a few days before Flash Robbins followed him.

  “Good with a knife, are you?” Brennan asked casually, reaching for his own mug of beer.

  “Fair to middling,” Clegg replied with heretofore unobserved modesty. “But I wouldn’t hurt my old friend Sammy. I was just joking, is all. We’re brothers, the three of us. Comrades in arms.”

  “Brothers,” Brennan said, keeping the irony out of his voice.

  It was going to be a hellish week.

  “I don’t understand how such a dreadful mistake could have been made,” Sally Winters, now Sally Blaine, was saying as she tucked a confiding arm through Jessamine’s. “I gave strict orders to Mrs. Jolly that you and your sister were to share the blue and gold room. It’s the most elegant room in the house, usually reserved for visiting dignitaries, but it’s been so long since we’ve had a chance to have a comfortable coze that I thought you deserved to be pampered. I was in alt when Ermintrude told me you’d agree to come to our little party, and I cannot think how such a misunderstanding could have come about. I’m much distressed.”

  Jessamine had spent the last two years of her life in circumstances that would have curled Sally’s artfully arranged hair. She had no doubt whatsoever how they’d come to be put in such a wretched little room, and Ermintrude’s sour expression as she accompanied them to their new rooms was a far more honest testimonial than Sally’s flutterings. What puzzled Jessamine was the fact that Sally had obviously thought better of her shabby treatment.

  “Don’t give it a thought,” Jessamine said sweetly, casting a cursory glance around their new rooms. Four times the size of the little cul-de-sac they’d originally been allotted, the room was ornate to the point of garishness. Marriage hadn’t improved Sally Blaine’s taste. “I’m certain we’ll be extremely comfortable here.”

  Sally’s smile slipped for a moment, and she glanced around the room with anxious pride. “We do hope you’ll be refreshed enough to join us for dinner. My guests are most eager to meet you—I’ve told them all about my dear childhood friends.”

  I’m certain you have, Jessamine thought coolly. For some reason their value had increased dramatically, and she had no idea why.

  “We have all sorts of entertaining people,” Sally chattered on brainlessly. “Mr. Arbuthnot has come, and the Earl of Glenshiel as well, though I suppose you know that. Such a tragic history, poor man, losing his brother like that. He manages to bear up so well.”

  “His brother died?” Jessamine murmured.

  “But of course you know that as well, since your sister was engaged to the poor man. If only he’d been able to control his fatal addiction to gaming and drink. Fortunately milord Glenshiel seems far more temperate.”

  Temperate was the last word Jessamine would have used for Glenshiel, and Sally’s light prattle made no sense whatsoever. “Indeed,” she murmured helplessly.

  “Such a sad case. When Alistair arrived in London, people were quite fearful he might harbor a grudge. Not that there was any cause, of course. No one put the glass in James’s hand. No one forced him to game away most of the family resources. But Alistair has proven to be the most charming of companions, if not precisely marriage material. Not that you would be thinking of such a thing, dear Jessamine. You’ve always had a delightfully pragmatic view of your circumstances.”

&nbs
p; “Indeed,” Jessamine said again, inwardly seething.

  “So I know you won’t mind if I monopolize his lordship, considering your connection with him is so distant.”

  “Practically nonexistent,” Jessamine said through gritted teeth.

  Sally bestowed a condescending kiss on Jessamine’s stony cheek. “I knew you were a sensible girl. We’ll see you shortly.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” she said, dismissing her hostess with a cool air. Sally practically raced her way out of the room, Ermintrude beside her, making no effort at graciousness.

  “What do you suppose that was all about?” Jessamine murmured, staring at the closed door.

  “I don’t care!” Fleur replied, tossing herself on the huge bed. “Perhaps it was simply a mistake.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it if I were you. Sally had every intention of treating us like upper servants, until something, or someone, happened to change her mind. Someone told her a pack of outrageous lies, and it doesn’t take much to guess who that person was. The Earl of Glenshiel. And if he’s nursing a broken heart due to a family tragedy, I’d be very much astonished.”

  “Why worry?” Fleur said, flinging herself back amid the billowy coverings. “At least we’re going to get the week we hoped for. Let that suffice for the time being.”

  “I suppose I should,” Jessamine said uneasily.

  “You worry too much, Jess. You’ll get wrinkles.”

  “Better me than you.”

  “For the worry? Or the wrinkles?” Fleur shot back.

  “Both,” Jess said firmly. “I’m used to worrying, and we’re not counting on my face to save the family fortune.”

  It was only the faintest shadow darkening Fleur’s beautiful eyes. A moment later it was gone, as if it never existed. “Have no fear, Jess. If there’s a wealthy prospective suitor, I’ll have him eating out of my hand in a matter of days. I just need to practice my feminine wiles.”

  “You don’t have any,” Jess said flatly. “And you don’t need any. Just be your sweet self, and you’ll enchant anyone who sees you.”