Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Author Note

  “I never miss an Anne Gracie book.”

  —Julia Quinn

  Praise for Anne Gracie

  “If you haven’t already discovered the romances of Anne Gracie, search for them. You’ll be so glad you did. She’s a treasure.”—Fresh Fiction

  “A powerfully emotional, steal-your-heart story . . . This magical romance not only warms your heart, it raises your temperature, too. Brava!”

  —Romantic Times (top pick, 41⁄2 stars)

  “Have you ever found an author who makes you happy? Puts a smile on your face as soon as you enter her story world? Anne Gracie has done that for me ever since I read Gallant Waif and through every book thereafter.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “One of the best romances I have read in a long time . . . The Perfect Waltz is the book to share with a friend who has never read a romance novel—consider adding it to your conversion kit.”—All About Romance

  “It’s rare to find a novel that’s so moving and entertaining at the same time. I’d give a ten to the whole series if that were possible.”—Romance Reviews Today

  “One of those books that needs to be read from beginning to end in one sitting. Honestly, I couldn’t put it down!”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “Romance at its best . . . I was captivated by this story . . . Rush out and pick up this book—you won’t be disappointed.”

  —Romance Junkies

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Anne Gracie

  THE PERFECT RAKE

  THE PERFECT WALTZ

  THE PERFECT STRANGER

  THE PERFECT KISS

  THE STOLEN PRINCESS

  HIS CAPTIVE LADY

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  HIS CAPTIVE LADY

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Anne Gracie.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-22324-6

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is in some ways a lonely occupation but for me it has brought a whole new world of friends.

  Thank you to Barbara Schenck and Linda Brumley for unfailing encouragement and critical support, and to the Maytoners—a very special bunch of brilliant women who bring new meaning to the word friendship.

  Finally thank you to all my readers: you make it all possible.

  One

  Hampshire, England November 1817

  She looked like a drowning madonna. Harry Morant couldn’t help but stare. Her face was turned up to the sky, drenched, her skin accepting the misty drizzle the way a flower accepts the rain. Dark hair clung in soaking tendrils around her face, hung in damp ropes down her back, mingling with the dark oilskin draped around her shoulders. Her complexion, pure and creamy, glowed like a pearl in the wet forest gloom. It was shimmering, pale, almost unnaturally so.

  Harry slowed his horse, Sabre, and rode closer to the heavy dray grinding its slow way through the New Forest. He kept Sabre to the edge of the road, avoiding the churned-up mud made by carts and carriages.

  His companion, Ethan Delaney, gave him a surprised look and slowed his horse also. Harry took no notice. He only had eyes for the woman.

  Her face was fine-boned and narrow, with high cheekbones. Her nose was long and straight but her mouth was lush, soft, and vulnerable. Harry stared at her mouth and swallowed.

  She sat on the back of the cart, wedged between barrels and packing crates, squashed in like a last-minute piece of baggage. Her feet dangled above the road. Her shoes and the hem of her skirts were covered in mud. Beside her was a small carpetbag.

  A slight movement caught his eye. Half hidden by the canvas, pressed up against her skirts, lay a mud-covered spaniel. It watched Harry warily but made no sound.

  The woman showed little awareness of the road unfolding beneath her as the four great cart horses churned doggedly through the mud, straining against the load. Her body adjusted without thought to the lurching of the vehicle. She didn’t appear to hear the constant stream of obscenities that flowed from the driver’s mouth. Occasionally she flinched at the sound of the whip he used so freely.

  She didn’t take her eyes off the sky. Not once.

  A milkmaid, perhaps, on her way to a hiring fair, or some young servant woman traveling to take up a new position. Maybe the carter’s daughter. No, he decided, not that—she was not well enough cared for for that. Unless the carter was a brute.

  She looked exhausted. Her eyes were huge, dark-ringed, and weary against the pallor of her skin. Her bare, ringless hands clutched the edges of the oilskin, holding them together, keeping the worst of the rain off.

  Harry slowed Sabre until he and the woman on the cart were traveling at the same
speed. Beside him Ethan made a resigned sound, then urged his horse ahead.

  Sabre stepped delicately through the rutted mud of the track, bringing Harry almost within touching distance of the girl. Not a girl, he realized. A woman. Five-and-twenty, perhaps?

  Their faces were almost on a level when her gaze dropped and their eyes met.

  Harry couldn’t drag his eyes away. Her eyes were a deep sherry color. Steady and clear, like gazing into a deep forest pool, pure, but dark with the tannin of fallen leaves.

  His gaze devoured her face, her skin, moon pale and glistening with mist. Pale, soft lips, cold from the rain, parted slightly as she looked back at him. Now he was close enough to see each individual droplet of mist clinging to her long dark lashes. He had a mad urge to taste one. He was close enough to touch her. What would she do if he simply reached out and gathered the moisture from her lashes with his fingers, but even as the thought occurred to him, she blinked and the possibility was lost.

  Just as well. It was a crazy notion.

  The rain had darkened her hair. He wondered what color it would be, what it would look like in the sun. Damp tendrils framed the thin face, clinging to her forehead, her temples, her cheekbones.

  Harry’s fingers itched to reach out and rearrange a curl that hung almost in her eyes, in danger of tangling itself in her long lashes. Would it curl around his finger if he did? Like a living thing?

  Lord, but she was wet! Her gaze hadn’t shifted, and suddenly Harry felt a wave of heat surge through him. To cover his sudden confusion he lifted his hat, as if in greeting. Instead he found himself reaching out and placing it gently over her sodden curls.

  It sat low on her forehead hiding most of her face. She didn’t say a word, just tipped back her head and, from under the brim of his hat, gave him a long, thoughtful look.

  “You should climb under cover.” He nodded toward the heavy canvas that had been tied over the cart’s contents. It would be close and dark in the small space between the boxes and she wouldn’t be able to see out, but surely it would be better to be dry in a dark enclosure than to sit open to the sky, exposed to the rain.

  She followed his glance, then gently shook her head. He couldn’t see her eyes properly anymore, but her mouth moved, and his eyes fastened on the soft curve of her lips. Another wave of heat passed through him.

  Sabre sidestepped restlessly under the involuntary clenching of Harry’s buttocks and thighs and for a moment he was blessedly occupied with controlling his mount, seizing the distraction to try to get his own body under control.

  He should move on. Ethan was no doubt waiting impatiently ahead and Harry was expected in Bath for dinner.

  Besides, this woman was some kind of milkmaid or servant girl. Nothing could come of it. And Aunt Maude was already making arrangements.

  But somehow . . . His gaze devoured her.

  He hadn’t felt like this in . . . years.

  The forest thinned. Harry glanced ahead. They were coming to a fork in the road. One continued on toward Shaftesbury, and thence to Bath, while the narrower road branched away to the right. He would let fate decide whether he pursued an acquaintance with this woman or not.

  He walked Sabre along beside the cart, saying nothing until they reached the turnoff. The cart turned to the right.

  So be it, Harry thought. Fate had spoken.

  He prepared to ride off, but found himself staring at those small, cold-roughened hands clinging to the side of the cart. Without thought he pulled off his leather gloves and tossed them into her lap.

  She caught them and, from under the deep brim of his hat, gave him a puzzled look.

  “Put ’em on,” he muttered. “Your hands look frozen.”

  For a moment she didn’t move, then she slid first one hand into his glove, then the other. They slipped in easily; the gloves were far too big.

  And then she tilted the hat back and gave Harry a smile.

  Harry stared, gave her a jerky nod, and urged Sabre to the west.

  Much later it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually heard her say “thank you.” He remembered seeing her lips shaping the words. He’d nodded stupidly and ridden forward, passing the cumbrous dray without noticing, oblivious of everything except that smile.

  “Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,” Ethan said as Harry joined him. “Givin’ away hats now, is it? I thought that was your favorite.” His gaze dropped to Harry’s bare hands. “And, no—tell me not your gloves, your Polish fur-lined gloves. I’ve envied you those gloves for years.”

  Harry shrugged. “She was cold. And wet.” He wasn’t quite sure what had got into him, either.

  Ethan snorted. “I’m cold and wet, dammit. Colder and wetter because of the snail’s pace you adopted beside that blasted dray. I’ve been practically frozen many a time since I’ve known you and I’m supposed to be your friend. If you’d wanted to give away those gloves, you could have given them to me.”

  Harry said nothing. He wasn’t going to add to Ethan’s enjoyment of the situation by trying to explain the unexplainable.

  Ethan persisted, an irritatingly knowing smile on his battered face, “Harry Morant, we’ve traveled the length and breadth of the peninsular for years, in ice and snow, through battles and burning heat and I’ve never known you to give away a good pair of gloves, or your favorite hat.”

  “That was different. I needed them then.”

  Ethan gave him an incredulous look. “And you don’t need them now? Man, it’s pissing down if you haven’t noticed.”

  Harry had noticed. He pulled his collar higher and rode on. “So,” Ethan said after a moment. “What’s her name?”

  Harry shrugged.

  “She wouldn’t tell you?”

  Harry shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, where does she live?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “God give me strength. And what did you say—no, don’t tell me, nothing, or as good as.”

  “Not everybody is as garrulous as yourself, Delaney.”

  “No, but, Harry, lad, even stumps have to talk if they’re to find themselves a woman.”

  Harry said stiffly, “My aunt is finding me a wife as we speak.” He wasn’t “finding himself a woman.” The girl on the cart looked pathetic, that was all. And he just . . . gave away his hat.

  “Your aunt,” Ethan said in deep disgust. “What kind of man gets his aunt to find him a bride?”

  “A prudent one.”

  Ethan made a rude sound. “And you with that pretty face of yours—why, the women line up for you, man!”

  Harry snorted.

  “I saw ’em at that ball for your brother’s weddin’, hangin’ around you like Spanish flies hang around meat. Now if it was me, with my ugly mug, I’d understand bringin’ in an aunt, but you . . .” He shook his head.

  “They were about as welcome as Spanish flies,” Harry told him.

  Ethan exploded with laughter. “Pull the other one, boyo. I heard you creepin’ in around dawn every other morning, smellin’ of some lovely’s perfume—and a different perfume every time.”

  “That was the trouble,” Harry muttered.

  “Lord grant me such trouble.”

  “They didn’t want me,” Harry said.

  “Could have fooled—”

  “They weren’t even interested in talking to me.” They’d made Harry feel like a—what was the word the Italians had for it?—gigolo. Called to my lady’s bed at my lady’s whim, but never invited for dinner, never a ride in the park. And of course, never a dance, for with his bad leg he looked a sight on the dance floor.

  “Talking?” Ethan’s jaw dropped. “Oh, aye, you’re famed for your conversation, aren’t you?”

  Harry gave him a look. Ethan laughed and patted Harry’s cheek. “As silver-tongued as the black stump you are, me lad, bu
t at least the ladies appreciated your other qualities.”

  Harry shrugged. “It was just bed sport.” They might have been ladies, but they’d never treated him as an equal, as a gentleman. Just a gentleman’s by-blow.

  Ethan gave a deep sigh. “Just bed sport, eh? A terrible thing to endure.”

  Harry couldn’t help but smile. “No, but it was harder than you think.”

  Ethan glanced at Harry’s crotch and said, “Well, it would have to be, the amount of use it got.”

  They both laughed. They rode in silence for a short while, then Harry said, “Every single one of them was married.”

  “Well, that’s only reasonable, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want to be ruinin’ a virgin, now, would you? I’m sure those fine London ladies had done their duty by their husbands and produced an heir or two, so what’s the harm in them havin’ a little fun with a good-lookin’ young feller like yourself?”

  Harry thought about it. “They’d made vows, Ethan.”

  “Aye, but they’d probably no choice in the matter. You know how it is with the aristocracy—they arrange these things. It’s only lucky peasants like meself who get the luxury of marryin’ for love.”

  Harry seized the opportunity to turn the conversation away from himself. “If it’s so wonderful, Ethan, why have you never married?”

  “Too busy up till now, fightin’ wars for poor, mad Farmer George. But don’t you worry, I’ve got me eye on a little filly. I’ll be married before the year’s out, count on it.”

  “You? Who?” Harry was surprised. He couldn’t think of anyone, any girl or woman who Ethan had been seeing lately. “Anyone I know?”

  “Ah, well, that would be tellin’, and I won’t be tellin’ until the lass herself agrees.” He gave Harry a rueful grin. “She’s not an easy lass like yon London ladies—takin’ a great deal of difficult wooin’, my girl is.”

  “Difficult wooing?” Harry couldn’t believe Ethan was serious. If Ethan was walking out with a woman, surely he’d have noticed.