Prince of Swords Page 18

  “Yes. She has a tendency to worry, and to hover.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might go? Has she made any close friends, or any enemies, among the guests here?”

  “She and Ermintrude have never gotten along.” She was calmer now, relaxing under his businesslike demeanor, and she pulled her feet up under her on the bed, tucking her bare toes beneath her nightrail. The sight of those small, bare toes almost undid him. “But I doubt Ermintrude would do her any harm. I thought perhaps she might be assisting Mr. Clegg...”

  “Clegg’s asleep,” he said flatly. “Dead drunk, and I expect he’s alone. Has she said anything about a man? Do you suspect she might be carrying on an assignation?”

  She blushed again. He’d taken the candle from her and set it in the deep windowsill, and it threw strange shadows about the room.

  “I don’t know. She’s been keeping something from me, and I haven’t wanted to pry, but I suspect it might have something to do with the Earl of Glenshiel.”

  It was all he needed for it to fall together. His faint suspicions had had no basis—now they did. “Is she in love with him?”

  Fleur lifted her head and stared him straight in the eye. “I didn’t know you believed in love, Mr. Brennan.”

  It was a challenge, flung down like a gauntlet, and he took an instinctive step toward her, when Clegg’s thick voice tumbled loudly down the hallway.

  “Who’ve you got in there, laddie?” he demanded, crashing against the door. “Having a bit of tasty pie, are you? Why don’t you share with your mates, eh?”

  Fleur leapt up in utter panic, and Brennan moved swiftly, pulling her against him and clapping a hand over her mouth. “Go away, Josiah,” he called out in a sleepy-sounding voice. “You’re drunk, man, and hearing things.”

  “Takes more than the likes of Sammy Welch to drink Josiah Clegg under the table.” He pounded against the door once more. “Come on, Robbie, let me in,” he wheedled. “You’ve got a lass in there, I know it, and me John Thomas is in need of snug nest for the night.”

  Brennan could feel Fleur shudder in his arms, and he held her more tightly, wishing he could stop her ears as well as her mouth. “You’ll wake the others, man,” he called out. “You don’t want the quality being disturbed by the likes of you—think what Sir John would say.”

  “Bugger the quality. And bugger Sir John,” Clegg muttered in a slightly quieter bellow. “Are you going to let me in?”

  “No.”

  “Bugger you too, then. I’ll find out who you’ve got in there. See if I don’t. And then I’ll have a taste of it meself. I’m not a man who takes no for an answer. Had each of me sisters by the time they were twelve, for all their tears and pleading.” His voice trailed away, his footsteps as well, but Brennan made no move to release Fleur.

  He’d forgotten he had his hand across her mouth. Forgotten, until he felt the faint pressure of her lips that might almost have been a kiss. He slumped back against the wall, and she sank against him, soft and pliant, seeking warmth and comfort.

  Ah, he could comfort her well and truly, he told himself. Love her so well her life would be ruined, and all he could offer her was a hard life in Yorkshire in the mud and dirt and dales.

  He caught her face in his big hands, letting his thumbs gently caress her mouth. She was so young, so foolish, so giving. He’d hurt her time and again trying to drive her away, and she still looked at him with love and trust in her eyes.

  “Lass,” he whispered, “you’ll be the death of me.” He kissed her very gently on the lips, all he would allow himself this time, and then set her away from him with regret and determination. And she didn’t fight him, simply pulled her shawl more tightly around her.

  “The servants said Glenshiel’s got the stomach grippe,” he said in his most prosaic voice. “That’s not the time a man uses for flirtation, but things aren’t always as they seem. Let me make sure Clegg’s gone back to bed, and then you run along to your room while I check on his lordship. I’ll try and be discreet—we don’t want the entire household knowing if your sister decided to slip the traces for one night.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” Fleur said staunchly.

  He sighed. “Lass, I could have you on that bed in two seconds flat if I wanted. Are you telling me your sister’s any different?”

  She flinched as if he’d slapped her. “No, Mr. Brennan. We’re both whores at heart when we think we’re in love.”

  She didn’t say another word, watching him silently as he pulled on his shoes and stockings. It felt oddly domestic, and yet he wondered what else he could do to drive her away, to give her a total and permanent disgust of him. He’d given her as grave an insult as he could imagine, and yet he sensed that she saw through the deliberate cruelty and lies to the truth of matter: That he loved her with all his heart, curse him. And would for the rest of his life.

  The hallway was deserted. He took the candle in one hand, put the other around Fleur, and ushered her out into the shadows, shielding her smaller body with his. But as they turned the corner leading to the main section of the house, he thought he heard the quiet closing of a door.

  Jessamine kept sliding off the leather seat. There may have been straps to hold on to, but in the darkness she couldn’t find any. All she could do was try to brace herself as the coachman called Nicodemus Bottom drove them at a hellish pace toward London.

  She wondered whether her companion had fallen asleep. She wouldn’t have put it past him—he seemed to have nerves of steel, and the riotous rocking of the carriage probably had little effect on him.

  “What would you have done if the bullet had actually hit me?” she asked suddenly. “It was dark—you couldn’t have been that sure of your target.”

  “I see perfectly in the dark,” he said in a tranquil voice. “And I’m an excellent shot.”

  “Still, you couldn’t be certain.”

  “Life is never certain, thank God. One of its few pleasures.”

  “What would you have done?” she persisted.

  “I’m not quite certain. I may have cradled your wounded body in my arms and sat there in the dirt, howling my despair and remorse at the moon.”

  “There is no moon tonight.”

  “Well, scratch that notion. Perhaps I might have rushed you back to Blaine Manor in search of medical aid, confessed my sins, and allowed your friend Clegg to carry me off to the hangman.”

  She shuddered silently, glad he couldn’t see her. “I can’t see you being quite so self-sacrificing.”

  “Can’t you? You’re probably right. If it were a mortal wound, I probably would have had Nicodemus drag your body into the underbrush and cover you with leaves. A slight wound gives me too many unpleasant possibilities,” he said with a drawl. “I am a practical man, you know.”

  “I believe you.” She leaned her head back against the hard cushion. “Don’t you think our hostess will wonder where we are?”

  “I’m in bed with the grippe. As for you, I’m afraid you overestimate your importance. In the scheme of things you are more than expendable.”

  “My sister...”

  “The thief-taker will look after your sister, I expect.”

  “No!” Her sudden panic was absolute, and ignoring the reckless speed of the carriage, she lunged for the door.

  He stopped her, of course, with his hard hands, and when he thrust her back against the seat, he came with her, crowding her there, too big, too warm, too strong. “Not Clegg,” he said, having read her reaction. “Brennan will see that she’s safe.”

  “I’m not convinced that’s an improvement,” she muttered.

  “You can’t control everything, Jessamine,” he said with a low purr. “Your sister is young and foolish, and she doesn’t give a rap about position or money or any of the practicalities of life. She’d toss them all away for her handsome Bow Street runner, and you won’t be able to stop her.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I�
�ve done my poor best to further the match. You want her to marry a worthless aristocrat like me? She deserves much better.”

  “Damn you.”

  “Indeed. If you want to save your family from ruination, you will have to sacrifice yourself on the marriage altar, not your little sister.”

  “No,” she said flatly. “I will never marry.”

  “Then you can become some rich man’s mistress,” he said. “Someone who will keep you in diamonds and not much else. Someone who will teach you to appreciate the pleasures of the flesh.”

  “No,” she said again, cold and certain.

  “No marriage, no mistress? Are you planning on becoming a nun, then?” he murmured, sounding no more than casually interested. But he was too close, she could feel the warmth of him, and his long legs were too close to her own breeches-clad ones.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  He laughed then, a soft, infuriating sound, and his hand caught hers before she could slap him. “You weren’t made for celibacy, my pet. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  She wasn’t expecting his sudden strength as he pulled her into his arms, across his lap. She struggled, but the rocking, jarring motion of the coach only flung her back against him. His hand caught her chin, holding her face still as he kissed her, but the more she squirmed, the tighter he held her.

  He lifted his mouth from hers, and in the darkness she could see the cool glitter of his eyes. “The more you fight me,” he murmured, “the more you excite me. Might I suggest passive acquiescence for a while? After all, there’s a limit to what I can accomplish in such cramped and active quarters, and if there’s no challenge, I might grow quickly bored.”

  It sounded reasonable enough. Not that she was about to trust him, but how he could manage to lie with her in this tiny space was beyond her limited comprehension. Besides, fighting hadn’t worked.

  “Go ahead,” she muttered gracelessly. “Do your worst.”

  “Oh, no, my love,” he said, reaching for the front of her borrowed shirt. “I intend to do my very best.”

  His fingers were warm against her chilled flesh as they slid inside the front of the shirt, inside the loose neck of her chemise. She opened her mouth to protest, but he put his lips against hers as his warm hand covered her breast, and the jolt of the carriage sent a strange, unnerving tremor through her body. Through her belly.

  “No,” she whispered when he moved his mouth down the side of her neck, nibbling lightly, pressing his teeth against the sensitive skin at the base of her throat.

  “Yes,” he growled, an animal sound of pure hunger, and she tried to will herself to be utterly still. Not to respond to the things his mouth was doing. Not to respond as his fingertips slid over the tight swell of her breast, teasing the nub, so that a strange, burning ache began to spread from where his hand touched her, caressed her, down between her legs.

  She shifted, squeezing her knees together, and in the darkness she heard his soft laugh. “It won’t do you any good, darling,” he said. “I’ll get there in a little while.”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about, and she didn’t want to. His sensitive fingertips were drawing concentric circles around her breast, and she found she was having faint trouble breathing. It had nothing to do with his mouth at her collarbone, nibbling its way downward. Nothing to do with the muscled legs beneath her, with no thick layer of skirts and petticoats. She might as well have been naked—there were only two thin layers of cloth between them, and she could feel his body heat, his muscles, his...

  She tried to pull away as the realization hit her that he was fully, frighteningly aroused, but he wasn’t about to let her go. He’d somehow managed to unfasten the tiny pearl buttons, and the ribbons of her shift had already come loose. It was simple enough to bare her breasts to the cool night air. Simple enough for him to bend his head and close his mouth over her.

  She shrieked, but there was strength beneath his erotic caress, and she couldn’t break free from him. He tipped her back against his arm, giving him greater access, and she felt dark, wicked, and oddly pagan as his hot, wet tongue circled her breast, then sucked at it, deep, drawing motions that made her want to weep with confusion and need.

  This was what Marilla had warned her against. Jessamine could feel herself being drawn down, down, into some dark, wicked place of longing and delight, where nothing mattered but the dangerous pleasure of his mouth sucking at her breast. Surely this was witchcraft, far more than her simple cards? It was so powerful it frightened her, and she could feel her will draining away. And with her talents, her one defense against a cruel world.

  “Stop,” she whispered. “Please. I don’t want to lose my gift.”

  “That’s the first time I ever heard it called that,” Alistair murmured. And he slid his hand between the tightness of her thighs, cupping her.

  She was too horrified to do more than moan. His mouth captured her other breast, and if anything, the sensations were even more intense, a depraved delight that echoed in the pressure of his long, elegant fingers against the most private part of herself.

  She wanted to tell him to stop, but it would have been a lie tumbling from her mouth. She didn’t want him to stop. Marilla had warned her, and now she knew why. She was ready to toss everything away for the sinful pleasure he was giving her, the deft stroke of his fingertips through the indecent breeches, the hungry pull of his mouth at her breasts, the strength of his arm beneath her back.

  She wanted, needed, more from him, though she wasn’t quite sure what that encompassed. She reached up to push him away, but her hand tangled in his long hair, and she found herself caressing the silken strands, closing her eyes in fading delight as he...

  The carriage slammed over a bump, tossing the two of them sideways, and never in her life had Jessamine been so grateful for a rocky ride. It didn’t matter that she was on the floor of the carriage, tangled with Alistair. What mattered was that his mouth was occupied in cursing, not kissing her, and she was able to regain enough of her scattered senses to push herself free from him and scramble back up to the seat, yanking her shirt back around her exposed breasts.

  Her body still tingled, burned, from his caress. Her breasts ached, the place between her legs was on fire, but she pulled her legs up tight against her for protection.

  “Don’t come near me again,” she warned him fiercely.

  “I can’t get very far in this carriage,” he said dryly, his voice making it clear that he was entirely unmoved by what had just transpired between them. Jessamine’s fury and shame was complete.

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “If only it were that easy.” He moved in the darkness, sinking down beside her once more, and she struck out at him in sudden panic.

  He stopped her, ruthlessly, efficiently, catching her flailing fists in his hands and holding them prisoner. “Behave yourself,” he snapped.

  “Me?” Her outrage was complete.

  “We’ve several hours of traveling time left, even taking Nicodemus’s enthusiastic driving into account. I suggest you put your head on my shoulder and go to sleep.”

  His utter gall rendered her momentarily speechless. But only momentarily. “And I suggest you—” Her extremely clever and rude suggestion was muffled as he slung an arm around her shoulder and drew her against him. Her struggles were absolutely useless—she had no idea such an elegant creature could be possessed of so much strength.

  “Have you worn yourself out yet?” he inquired in a mild voice, seemingly untouched by her wild attempts at escape.

  It was useless. Jessamine forced herself to go still as a wave of angry emotion washed over her.

  “That’s right,” he murmured against her hair. “Go to sleep, my fierce one. You’ve a long night ahead of you, and you’ll need what rest you can get.”

  He was right, she was unutterably weary. “I hate you,” she mumbled, giving in, letting her body relax in his grip.

  “I know you do, my precious o
ne,” he said. “After tonight you’ll have even greater reason.”

  “After tonight you’ll be in Newgate.” It should have come out as a threat, but her extravagant yawn lessened the effect.

  It was utterly ridiculous, she thought. She couldn’t curl up next to him, trusting enough to fall asleep. She couldn’t relax in this jolting, tumultuous carriage. She was being abducted, she hated him, she...

  Slept.

  Seventeen

  It was a grand night for reiving. Alistair tilted his head back, staring into the clear night sky, and breathed deeply of the crisp autumn air. The rain clouds had finally vanished, the thin sliver of moon had set, and a handful of stars shone brightly against the rich black velvet of the sky. Like a cluster of perfect tiny diamonds, he thought. It was a damned shame that most of the people he robbed had execrable taste in jewelry.

  “Where are we?” Jessamine asked.

  He turned to glance down at her. Nicodemus had dropped them off in the mews that abutted Curzon Street with the admonition to “watcher back.” The night was still, and if any watchmen were on duty, they were in another part of the area.

  She looked utterly delicious. Men’s clothes suited her—there was something inexplicably arousing about the way the breeches clung to her long legs, the way his shirt flowed over her breasts. But then, he found her arousing no matter what she wore.

  “London,” he said briefly.

  “I know that!” She seemed remarkably uncowed by her experiences so far. In fact, she’d been abducted, almost seduced, threatened, and even shot at. And she was still brave enough to be angry.

  “You’re going to help me rob that house over there,” he said, nodding in the direction of a newly constructed mansion that owed more to money than aesthetics.

  “You can’t make me,” she said. “All I have to do is run, screaming...”

  “And I’ll catch you before one tiny shriek is out of your mouth. And I wouldn’t be very happy,” he replied in his most gentle voice.

  Even in the dark of night he could see her skin blanch. “What makes you think I won’t find some way to call attention to us?”