Chapter 19

19

The problem with falling asleep at odd hours, Annelise thought, was that you woke at odd hours. Ever since she’d set off on this ridiculous rescue mission her sleep had been fitful and uncomfortable, and it was no wonder she managed to drift off in the strangest of circumstances, including sitting right in front of her direst enemy.

She woke briefly when Mrs. Browne came to check on her and bring her a tray of food. She clucked over the cut foot and rebandaged it for her, had the men remove the tub and generally fussed around her in the most delightfully maternal way. Annelise had never known a mother, and her older sister, Eugenia, was somewhat lacking a nurturing streak, at least where her siblings were concerned. Wrapped in comfort and a full stomach, she fell back into a deep sleep only to wake up at some godless hour, and lie staring at the dying embers of the fire.

She lay there wondering what time it was, when, as if in answer to her unspoken question, a clock chimed somewhere in the bowels of the house.

Three times. At least something in this place was still in decent order.

The main disadvantage to lying in bed, sleepless, is that all one’s worries came flooding back to haunt one, and were magnified a thousand times. At three o’clock in the morning Josiah Chipple was a deranged murderer, Hetty and William certain to die in a carriage crash, and Christian Montcalm was the devil incarnate.

It was the damned ceiling fresco, she thought, rolling over and punching the pillow. Even in the darkness she knew it—she didn’t have to see it to remember each lascivious detail. As long as Christian’s ancestor looked down at her in the darkness it was no wonder she couldn’t sleep.

When the clock struck four she gave up, lighting the candle beside her bed, and started looking for something, anything to read.

Mrs. Browne had cleaned and dusted the room well, but its state of disrepair was impossible to disguise. If she had needle and thread she could

mend some of the tears in the cushions, but there was nothing, and if she didn’t find something to occupy her mind she’d go mad with worry.

The house was silent, and she knew where there were books, hundreds of them. She could find her way there quite easily, snatch one or two, and be safely back in her bed before anyone in this sleeping house realized it.

She had no idea where Christian’s bedroom lay, and she didn’t wish to.

Besides which, he’d probably drunk himself to sleep, the profligate wretch.

Just a short little foray through the silent house and she’d be set.

She stepped into the hallway, the candle flame doing precious little to pierce the inky darkness. Her foot caused her little trouble—just a slight tenderness protected by Mrs. Browne’s more efficient bandage, and she only limped slightly as she made her way down the broad oak stairs.

The library was to her left, easy enough to find, and though the floors were cold beneath her feet, she moved slowly, afraid she’d bump into something unexpected.

There was still just the trace of a fire burning in the fireplace, adding a touch of light that was needed. She went first to the shelves on that side of the room, lifting her candle high, squinting in the darkness at the titles.

“The novels are on the other side of the fireplace.” His voice came out of the darkness, and she let out a little shriek, dropping the candle, plunging the room into darkness. She froze, terrified that he was somewhere around her like a shapeless monster, about to pounce, her imagination going wild, when she saw his shadow move in front of her, and a moment later he’d lit a candle from the dying fire.

He didn’t even glance at her—simply turned around and began to light the tapers in an elaborate candelabrum, bringing too much light into the room, illuminating him far too clearly. His hair was loose—much longer than she’d realized, and he wore nothing but breeches and a white shirt that was unfastened at lacy cuffs and collar. And halfway down his chest. He looked rumpled and faintly grumpy—as if he’d been roused from sleep.

“To what do I owe the honor of this midnight visit, dragon?” he inquired mildly enough.

“I would think it would be obvious enough,” she replied nervously. “I was looking for something to read.”

“You came to the right place. You also woke me up and I always have trouble falling back asleep. You’ll have to entertain me.” He dropped into a

chair with languid grace, looking up at her out of his extraordinary eyes.

The eyes of a devil.

Annelise jumped. “Certainly not!”

“You have a very suspicious mind, Miss Kempton. I meant conversation, nothing more. Clearly you’re having trouble sleeping, as well.

So sit down and tell me what you think of my decrepit gothic manse.”

She was torn. On the one hand, she wanted to bolt for the stairs, secure in the belief that he’d make no effort to stop her. On the other hand, his very lack of interest ensured her safety. She hesitated.

He sighed, as if he found the whole thing very tiresome. “Miss Kempton, I promised on my honor that I will manage to behave myself. I’d hardly take advantage of a defenseless young woman under my own roof.”

“Of course you would,” she said, moving toward the chair. “But since I’m not a defenseless young woman I have little doubt that I’m safe.”

He smiled. It was an unnerving smile, as if he found her amusing. He didn’t bother to contradict her, the swine. “Even so,” he said. “You’re still safe. Why are you limping?”

“I cut my foot.”

He frowned. “Was something left lying about? That’s unlike Mrs.

Browne, but—”

“It was my spectacles,” she said, sinking into the chair. The same one she’d fallen asleep in before, but this time sleep was far too elusive.

“Ah, I wondered what had happened to them.” Apart from curiosity he seemed unmoved. She was marginally prettier without her spectacles—her gray eyes were her best feature. But he seemed uninclined to tell her so.

“How do you manage to see?”

She didn’t even consider not lying. He would know far too well what she was lying beneath in that grand bedroom, and she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Unless, of course, she was attaching far too much importance to herself, and he wasn’t even vaguely interested in where she slept. “I can manage a few feet in front of me,” she said. “After that everything is a blur.”

Now, why did she think he didn’t believe her? “Pity,” he murmured.

“Piquet?”

“I’m not playing cards with you. And what are you doing down here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Ah, but someone else is already sleeping in my bed,” he replied, shuffling the cards as he disregarded her protest. “And for some reason I doubted you’d feel like sharing.”

“I’m in your bed?” Annelise shrieked.

“Exactly where you belong.” His smile was devilish. “When I sent Hetty and her champion off I told you I didn’t have the beds for you all.

The rest are mouse-eaten and mildewed—Harry dragged them outside to burn them.”

“I can’t sleep in your bed—it’s…it’s indecent!”

“Not without me. Don’t worry—the sheets are clean.”

“But what about the bed where Hetty and William…that is…”

“Where they what? You never struck me as someone who’d shy away from plain speaking. What did they do in that bed?” His voice was lazy.

“Stop goading me, or I won’t play cards with you,” she said.

“Blackmail,” he said. “It always works. And their mattress went the way of the bonfire too. You’re sleeping on the second best—Bessie did some quick work to make it usable, but the rest were beyond her talents.”

“That’s a relief at least.”

“You mean you feel better lying in my bed than Hetty’s? I’m charmed!”

“Be quiet and deal.”

“I should warn you,” Christian murmured. “I’m very lucky at cards, and I intend to win.”

“Why would you care? It’s not as if we’re wagering any money on the outcome. I have none.”

“True enough. But playing cards without wagering is a waste of time and no fun at all. There are things to wager besides money—you suggest the stakes.”

She didn’t hesitate. “If I win you send your man as far as he needs to go to hire a carriage for me. I don’t care if it’s all the way to Bath.”

“Agreed, though I rather hate to put a lame horse on the road. As for what I want…” He let his voice trail off as his eyes swept over her.

“Don’t even think it.”

“Now, how can I help what I think?” he replied. “What is that thing you’re wearing, by the way? It’s surprisingly…diaphanous.”

“Behave yourself. It belonged to your esteemed aunt.”

“And looking at you in it makes me feel positively incestuous.” He dealt the cards with swift, casual grace, the lace on his unfastened sleeves

dripping down over the cards. Making it far too easy for him to cheat.

“Why don’t you roll up your sleeves,” she said. “I’d prefer to get a clear look at your hands.”

He held them out. They were a gentlemanly white, long fingered and elegant. Hands not suited for hard labor. Hands suited for playing cards and drinking wine and touching a woman….

“They’re very graceful, aren’t they?” he said with pride, admiring them.

“I’ve been told my hands and my eyes are particularly pleasing. Though there are other parts of my anatomy that are equally gifted….”

“Stop it! Do you accept my wager?”

“Of course, my pet. And if I win, I want a kiss. No more, no less.”

“No.”

“But yes,” he said, giving her his devilish smile. “I think my terms are very reasonable. I could have asked for far more, and instead I’m content with one little kiss from the lady. What do you have to lose?”

He was far too amused by all this. “I thought you made it clear that you no longer had any use for me.”

“Now, what gave you that impression?”

“Perhaps the fact that you abducted my charge.”

“Such provincial thinking, dragon. I’m perfectly capable of juggling two women or even three.”

“You promised you wouldn’t touch me.”

“And I won’t. Unless I win the hand.”

She stared at him, full of mute frustration. She told herself she had nothing to worry about. He was teasing her, simply because he could. She was the best entertainment the place could offer, and annoying her clearly amused him. Not that he’d mind kissing her—he seemed to find a level of enjoyment in it. But his main goal was to irritate her, which kept her relatively safe. And the chance that she might win, and escape this uncomfortable situation sooner, made it worth the risk.

Because she didn’t really want him to kiss her. Did she?

“Done,” she said. “Deal the cards. And roll up your sleeves.”

“You think I’d cheat?”

“Without question.”

He laughed. “My love, if you were a man I’d have to kill you for that.”

“But I’m not. And I don’t trust you.”

“Very wise,” he said, rolling his sleeves up. Not necessarily the best idea—his forearms were strong, formidably attractive. She seldom saw men’s arms beyond the lace cuffs, any more than men saw women’s legs above their ankles. It made things uncomfortably intimate.

He scooped up the cards and dealt them again, still too quickly for her peace of mind. The first hand went well, with Annelise winning by a few points. The second hand went to him, overwhelmingly so, and she was feeling less and less secure.

“Best two out of three?” he suggested.

She had been an idiot to agree to this in the first place. Her father had taught her to play cards as well as swear, but she was in the presence of a master. She realized that the first win he’d simply been toying with her.

The sooner she got away from him the better. “Agreed,” she said, wondering if she could figure out how to cheat. He’d never suspect it of her, and dishonorable as it was, fudging the cards might prove her only chance.

But even if she were an accomplished cheat she would have gotten nowhere. Despite his lazy attitude his eyes were alarmingly intent, and he watched every move, every expression with the attention of an avid gambler, not a lustful lover. At least she could calm herself with that notion.

He didn’t want to win so he could kiss her, he wanted to win for the sake of winning alone. He’d only picked the prize to embarrass her.

She’d been embarrassed before in her life and survived—she’d survive this, she thought as she let her losing cards drop onto the table.

“Best three out of five?” she suggested helplessly.

“I don’t think so. Time to pay your debts.”

She wasn’t going to argue, or plead. She had too much dignity for that.

She rose, feeling like a French aristocrat about to face the guillotine. She almost said as much, but something stopped her. Blind instinct, or some hidden memory or whispered gossip, but she kept silent, her back straight, waiting for him.

He rose, strolling around the card table with casual grace. “You needn’t look so martyred, dragon,” he whispered. “It’s not going to hurt.”

“I believe it’s a dragon’s victims who tend to be the martyrs,” she pointed out, trying to stand her ground.

He came up to her, far too close, and once again she was conscious of his height. No one ever made her feel small, helpless, but if anyone had that effect on her it would be Montcalm. There was no question that next to his

impressive height she actually felt delicate. There was something ridiculously protective about his sheer size. And she had to stop thinking things like that just as he was about to kiss her.

She reached behind his head, caught his long hair in her hand, and offered her cheek to him, closing her eyes.

He laughed. “I don’t think so, my love.” And he swept her into his arms, pulling her tight against his strong body, and put his hungry mouth on hers.

He tasted like wine and hot sweet sin. She let go of his hair, needing to hold on to something more solid, and his body was the only thing in reach.

She clutched his shoulders, just for support, and let him kiss her, trying to remain very still.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, and she had no choice but to look up into his laughing eyes. “We’d already gotten to lesson two, dragon.

You can do better than that.” And this time she let him press her mouth open as his hands cupped her face, holding her in place as he slowly, leisurely kissed her, a lazy seduction that left her heart pounding, her pulses racing, her stomach knotting in inexplicable longing.

When he drew back this time there was a self-satisfied expression on his face that she wanted to slap off. She yanked herself out of his arms. “We wagered one kiss,” she said. “That was two.”

“Was it?” he said innocently. “Then I’d better give it back.” And before she realized what he was doing he’d pulled her back against him, into a tight embrace, and kissed her again.

She wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t prepared for it. This was no lazy seduction, no charming flirtation. This was carnal, deep and shattering, and before she realized it he’d pushed her up against the wall, holding her there as he kissed her, and the feeling was so powerful she felt as if she might explode. His hand covered her breast, barely restrained by the antique chemise, and she could feel her nipples tighten against him, feel a wash of something totally foreign and good sweep over her body, until she was both hot and cold, trembling, wanting to weep, wanting to slap him, wanting to rip the white lace from her body and place his mouth where his hand was.

When he drew back this time he was breathless, and his usually laughing eyes were dark and troubled. “That was more dangerous than I’d expected, dragon.”

She couldn’t catch her breath. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him—

indeed, what reason did she have to cry? It was nothing more than a kiss. Or three kisses, to be exact.

She shoved him back hard as anger swept over her. “You bastard,” she said, furious.

The confused expression in his eyes had already vanished, and he was laughing at her again. “Such language, my pet,” he said. “No need to get overset by a simple kiss or two. It means nothing.”

It was bad enough already. That mild dismissal was the last straw. If she had shoes she would have kicked him. As it was, she slapped him so hard that it made her hand numb, whipping his head to one side, and all laughter was gone from his face. Her violent reaction startled her and she wondered whether he’d hurt her in retaliation.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said after a moment. “But I wouldn’t make a habit of it if I were you. Some men hit back.”

She tried to say something arch and dismissing. She even had the words in her head, something along the lines of a mocking, “They’re not gentlemen like you,” but her voice, her resolve failed her. She opened her mouth to speak, shut it again, and then ran like a coward, knowing ridiculous tears were beginning to spill over. It wasn’t until she reached the bedroom and slammed the door behind her that she remembered she’d left the books behind.

She looked at the bed. His bed. And pulling the heavy covers from it, she dragged them over to the fire and wrapped them around herself, lying down on the threadbare rug, away from the disturbing painting that loomed over the bed, to stare, hollow-eyed, into the fire.

Hell and damnation, Christian thought, staring after her. He didn’t think dragons could cry. It was a good thing she’d run—if he’d actually seen the tears he would have had to comfort her, and if he’d comforted her he would have kissed her, and this time there would be no stopping him.

She really had the most astonishingly arousing effect on him. He couldn’t remember having that powerful a reaction to a simple kiss before.

Well, in truth there’d been nothing simple about the kisses or the…feelings lurking beneath. He’d wanted to shock her.

He’d managed to shock himself.

He really ought to get rid of her. She was more complicated than a simple game to amuse him while he was rusticating. She was dangerous, and he was a man who knew to avoid unnecessary peril.

She had no idea how lovely she was in that flowing lace that had been delightfully transparent. Her long mane of thick, wavy hair was a complete surprise—it was a crime to keep such lustrous beauty tied back in a tight little knot. And while some sentimental part of him missed her spectacles, he could bless the fact that they were no longer able to obscure her huge gray eyes. Or the emotions that stormed through them that she tried so hard to hide.

No, she was a greater danger than he’d realized. In the end, she’d won her wager after all. In the morning he’d have Harry send Jeremy the stable lad out to hire a decent carriage for her, and once she was safely gone he could concentrate on Wynche End. He still had a sizable amount of money from Chipple’s payoff, and if he was careful it could go quite a ways toward restoring this place a bit. Even make it self-supporting if he managed to get the place working again. The breeding stables had once been very fine, in the time of his great-uncle, and the surrounding land, currently untended, had always been fertile. All it required was a concentrated effort.

He didn’t expect any trouble from Josiah Chipple. He’d be too busy chasing down his daughter, trying to stop her marriage, blustering and yelling. Wynche End was too far away for him to bother and Christian planned to keep that nice safe distance. At least until the old man’s wrath had cooled.

In the meantime, he was perfectly fine here. As soon as he got rid of the Honorable, far too distracting, Miss Kempton.

Josiah Chipple was not a happy man. He’d lost an entire cargo—once an uprising began and blood had been spilled it was a waste trying to save anything for future profit. Better to simply obliterate the rest of the holding into the sea than deal with the kind of problems restive slaves could provide. He hired the right kind of men who kept them chained, passive and so beaten down that they’d cause no trouble for any prospective buyer. But once they began to fight back there was no salvaging it.

He’d lost half his crew, including his captain, a vicious brute who’d served him well and shared his profits for the last twenty years. He’d have a hard time replacing him, and in the meantime one less ship was running,

one less cargo was being harvested and delivered. He’d arrived back at Chipple House in a foul mood, only to be greeted with the news that his daughter had run off with the man who’d dared to blackmail him.

If it hadn’t been for business, Christian Montcalm would have been dealt with promptly. But things hadn’t been going Chipple’s way, and the morning after he returned home he was ready for blood, any blood. It mattered not if it was related to him—his daughter had betrayed his wishes, and no punishment was harsh enough. He’d been foolish to think she was the only way to fulfill his dreams. He was still a young man, just this side of fifty. He was wealthy and could marry again, perhaps a titled widow who was still fertile enough to give him sons. He had no more need for Hetty than he’d had for her mother once she’d proved unable to give him any more children.

First, he had to find where Christian Montcalm had taken his daughter.

And discover where that snotty bitch Miss Kempton had gone, as well.

Betrayal was on every side, and Josiah Chipple did not take well to betrayal.

He would use every means at his disposal to ensure his vengeance, and one of the most valuable was information. By the end of the day he knew more about Christian Montcalm and his forebears than the man did himself.

The possibilities were endless. He only had to choose one and set it into play. And watch his revenge flower.

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