Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] Page 12

  “I, I really must go now,” she said huskily. “I hope Tibby and Ethan both find happiness.”

  He turned with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, I’ve been boring on about people you don’t even know. I told you I was no good at conversation.”

  “No, no, it’s been fascinating,” she said truthfully. “I’ve loved every minute of it.”

  Their eyes locked. She was the first to break it.

  “I never had a chance with you, did I?” he asked quietly.

  “No. I’m sorry, not the way things are now.”

  He gazed into her face, as if trying to glean a hidden meaning in what she’d said.

  Unable to stand the intensity of his gaze she dropped her eyes. “If we’d met a year ago, then perhaps . . .” She made a fatalistic gesture. “But now, I really do have to go. We leave tomorrow morning.”

  “So this is the last time I’ll see you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. Mrs. Beasley requires one more visit to the Pump Room to complete the course of waters her physician prescribed. She’ll go first thing in the morning so we can get on the road early.”

  He nodded gruffly. He had one more day. Less.

  “It’s been an honor knowing you, Mr. Morant,” she said with only the faintest quiver in her voice. She held out her hand to him over the stone wall.

  His eyes locked with hers as Harry turned her hand over and placed a kiss in the center of her palm. Her fingers curved around his jaw in a featherlight caress, then she withdrew her hand.

  “P-please give my love to everyone at Firmin Court when you return there and—” Her voice cracked and she continued huskily. “T-take good care of them. And of yourself. G-good-bye, Harry Morant.” She turned and hurried away down the hill, disappearing in minutes.

  Harry mounted Sabre thoughtfully. Everything he’d learned about her in the last hour only confirmed what he’d been thinking for days now. She’d make him the perfect wife.

  Not because she was an earl’s daughter, but because she was Nell.

  Seven

  Harry found it hard to get to sleep that night. Nell was still set on going to London. It wasn’t because of a man; she’d said she wasn’t in love with anyone else, and he believed her.

  And the Beasley woman had no hold over her, she was just convenient.

  Harry kicked at the blankets that had become tangled around his legs.

  The only reason Nell was going to London was to find someone.

  He could find people. He could go to London.

  And he wouldn’t make her run out in the rain fetching things for him. He would make sure she was warm and dry and comfortable.

  She was not indifferent to him, he was sure. Almost sure. Fairly sure.

  As sure as a man could be who had been turned down twice.

  But she had kissed him back that time in the storeroom. She’d wanted him then.

  And he wanted her with a power that almost drove the breath from his body.

  More than any woman in his life. Just why she affected him so strongly, he wasn’t sure, just that she did. And every instinct he had was telling him to keep her, now that he’d found her again.

  His instincts had kept him alive though years of war. He’d learned not to question them.

  Harry thumped his pillow decisively. The solution was obvious. He would take Nell to London and help her find whoever it was she had to find. And while they were doing that, he would find out what it was that made her say she couldn’t marry him and . . . fix it.

  Simple.

  As long as he could persuade her to go to London with him.

  She hadn’t been amazingly persuadable up to now, he reflected. But a man could only try.

  And dammit, he would.

  They were going to the Pump Room early. What time was early? Dawn, Harry decided. No, before dawn—dawn was around eight, and he had an idea the Pump Room opened before that for ordinary folk. And perhaps for people intending to make an early start to London.

  He would get up at five a.m. then, to shave and dress. He wanted to look his best. Every little bit helped.

  Third time lucky, they said.

  The doors opened at six. Harry entered and sat down beside a column to wait. An amazing collection of invalids passed before him; clearly the times he had come before were the fashionable hours.

  He watched people hobbling in, being wheeled and carried and supported in. Poor bastards. They took the waters and left. Harry thanked God for his health and checked his fob watch.

  They arrived at half past eight. Mrs. Beasley swept in dressed in a scarlet velvet traveling dress and wearing a hat that bore enough flowers to cover a grave. Nell was in brown again with that ugly little brown hat she always wore. It was the kind of hat that deserved shooting, Harry thought.

  He pulled back behind the column a little as La Beasley swept past. Not that she would have noticed. Expecting nobody fashionable, she spared not a glance for anyone else, but imperiously brushed aside anyone in her way.

  Nell followed in her wake with a shy smile or a quiet word to the people she passed, and as she paused to let an arthritic old woman hobble to a chair, Harry stepped out from behind his column. She froze for a moment, glanced at Mrs. Beasley, who was oblivious, then shook her head at Harry and hurried after her employer.

  As he’d expected, she wasn’t intending to speak to him. He waited while she settled Mrs. Beasley in a chair and placed a shawl around her shoulders, then, when she loudly complained that there was a draught, helped her to shift to another chair.

  Finally Nell moved toward the pump. Harry stepped into her path. “I must talk to to you,” he said.

  She glanced back to check her employer hadn’t noticed. “No, we’ve said our good-byes.” She filled the glass.

  “One final word.”

  She shook her head and took the glass of hot mineral water to Mrs. Beasley.

  Harry moved closer, making it clear to her that he wasn’t going to tamely leave. He would speak with her. He folded his arms and waited.

  It wasn’t long before Mrs. Beasley noticed him, as he’d known she would. She eyed his body, glanced at Nell, then looked back at Harry to check who he was watching.

  Harry inclined his head politely at her but didn’t move. The woman preened, fiddled with yet another large jewel resting in her substantial cleavage and gave him a come-hither look.

  Harry didn’t move.

  Nell looked away.

  Mrs. Beasley leaned in Nell’s direction and said something that Harry couldn’t hear. Nell shook her head and seemed to disagree.

  Harry tried not to smile. He knew exactly what was happening.

  A mutinous expression on her face, Nell marched toward him. “Mrs. Beasley wishes me to convey an invitation to you to join her,” she said in a flat voice, and then with a hint of fire, added, “and I wish to convey my desire for you to leave.”

  Harry pulled his fob watch from his pocket and consulted it ostentatiously. Then with a sorrowful expression he hoped was visible from the other side of the room said, “Tell your mistress, I’m desolated to have to disappoint her, but I have an appointment.” He smiled and added, “With you in the small room out the back in two minutes.”

  “No. I won’t—”

  “Otherwise I will join you both now and tell you exactly what’s on my mind.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s blackmail.”

  “Dreadful isn’t it?” he agreed. “But effective.”

  She hesitated, her jaw tightening as she read the determination in his eyes. “Oh, very well, if you must be so unprincipled. But only for a moment.”

  He inclined his head. “I’ll see you there in two minutes’ time.”

  Nell returned to her seat hoping her face didn’t show the inner turmoil she was feeling. Wretched man. If she didn’t meet him he would make trouble for her.

  She didn’t want to meet him. What was there to say, after all? She’d said her good-byes, she
was ready to leave . . . as much as anyone could be. Oh, why did he have to make it so hard for her?

  Stubborn, impossible man. Every man she’d had in her life had let her down in the worst way. Did he think she was going to trust her future and her happiness—and more, her daughter’s future happiness and security—to a man she’d met precisely four times?

  Even if he was the most appealing man she’d ever met.

  Papa was kind and sweet and had bucketloads of charm but he’d ruined Nell’s life. As for what he’d done with Torie . . .

  And Papa had loved Nell.

  Not a single word of love had passed Harry Morant’s lips. Not that she would believe it anyway, but still, she was glad of that, at least. The last thing she wanted was a man like him falling in love with her.

  How impossible would he be then?

  “Well?” Mrs. Beasley said as she returned.

  “He said was sorry, but he had an appointment to keep.”

  “Hmph. I suppose that’s why he was here at such a wretchedly unfashionable time. What a pity.” She stared across the room at him. “He’s such a divine specimen of masculinity.”

  And an annoying one, Nell thought. Today he was dressed in gleaming top boots, tight buff trousers that molded to his powerful thighs, a dark blue coat and a blue and gray striped waistcoat that contrasted wonderfully with his gray eyes.

  He was just too wretchedly handsome for his own good. And he knew it. He must have thought she would take one look at him and fall into his arms.

  Well, she had more important things on her mind, and she wasn’t falling into anyone’s arms, even if they did look like Apollo. With dark brown hair. And gray eyes. And a smile that did strange things to her insides.

  The only person Nell had ever been able to rely on was herself. She didn’t need her life to be any more complicated. And she didn’t give a snap of her fingers for any handsome, lusty, stubborn charmer.

  Mrs. Beasley jumped. “What was that for?”

  Nell blinked. “What?”

  “You snapped your fingers.”

  “Oh, sorry. I just thought of something.”

  “Well, don’t.” Mrs. Beasley sipped the hot mineral water with distaste. “Vile stuff. I can feel it doing me good, but thank God it’s the last dose.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Nell would meet him, all right, she decided. And she’d give him a piece of her mind.

  She shifted uncomfortably on her seat. A moment later she wriggled again.

  “For heaven’s sake, girl, sit still.”

  “I can’t,” Nell confessed. “I think I need to visit the necessary. Immediately. The veal olives last night, perhaps . . .”

  Mrs. Beasley waved her off distastefully. “Well, run along then. I hope to goodness you’re not going to cause any delays on the road, because I’ll warn you now, I won’t tolerate it.”

  Nell hurried away toward the back of the room. She slipped through the baize-covered door and let herself quietly into the storeroom. It was empty, then Harry Morant slipped in behind her.

  Suddenly the storeroom felt a whole lot smaller.

  “I suppose you thought I wouldn’t come?” she said. The skin of his jaw had that fresh-shaved look she found so appealing in men. She could smell the faint tang of some cologne.

  “I knew you’d come.” His eyes crinkled in a faint, triumphant smile.

  The smile fanned the flames of her temper. “Only because you’d blackmailed me!” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “How dare you threaten my livelihood?”

  “Livelihood!” He snorted. “Working for that witch isn’t a livelihood.”

  She threw her hands up in frustration. “It’s not your business. Now, you’re wasting my time. We leave for London within the hour.” She tried to push past him but he stopped her.

  “I’ll take you to London.”

  Nell was dumbfounded. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “But you don’t want to go to London. You hate London, you said you can’t breathe there.”

  He made an impatient gesture. “Do you or do you not want to go to London?”

  “I do, but—”

  “Then I’ll take you.”

  “You can’t. It—it wouldn’t be proper. If I arrived with you in London, everyone would think I was your—” She broke off.

  “My—?” He raised one eyebrow.

  “You know very well what,” she retorted.

  “Perhaps. But it would be quite proper if you came as my wife,” he said. “Marry me and I’ll take you to London.”

  Nell started to tremble. Marry me and I’ll take you to London.

  He moved closer. “Look, it’s not love’s young dream I’m offering you but it makes sense. You and I desire each other—you know that. I need a wife and you need someone to take care of you. And I’ll take you to London.”

  She put out her hands and held him back. He made no attempt to take hold of her, but he didn’t move away. His waistcoat was smooth and silken under her fingertips. She could feel the strong, steady thud of his heart beneath her palms. She wanted to pull them back, but she knew he would only move forward again.

  “I—I told you I couldn’t marry you,” she said shakily. “Why won’t you listen?”

  “Your lips say one thing . . .” He looked at her lips and his voice deepened. “But when I kiss you, they say another.”

  “It was a stolen kiss,” she muttered.

  “Perhaps, but you kissed me back. You pulled me closer. You pressed your body against me and ran your fingers through my hair.” His voice was deep and intense. “You took my tongue into your mouth.”

  She made an embarrassed gesture of denial, and he immediately took advantage, moving closer, until he was so close that they stood, breast to chest and thigh to thigh. The heat of his big, hard body burned through her brown stuff traveling gown as if it were the lightest silk.

  “You know you want it as much as I do.”

  She did, God help her.

  “You work for that witch because she’s going to London. Convenient, you said it was. Marry me and you’ll have convenience and security. Till death us do part.”

  Oh God, why did he have to put it like that? Nell thought. As if he knew how much she craved security after twenty-seven years of the shifting uncertainties of life with Papa.

  And she did desire him. What red-blooded woman would not? The mystery was why he would desire her, but she didn’t question it. She could feel the desire radiating from his big, tense body in the close confines of the storeroom.

  She swallowed. And now he wanted to take her to London.

  The temptation was enormous. If she said yes, she could have everything she wanted . . . almost.

  But she would have to lie to get it. Lie by omission.

  She turned her head this way and that, trying to escape that intense gray gaze, but it was no use. She was trapped.

  He thought her an innocent. He would change his tune if he knew about Torie, she was certain.

  He didn’t love her. It would take love of an extraordinary degree to take on a wife with an illegitimate child—one she had no intention of giving away or hiding or being ashamed of. What happened was neither Torie’s fault, nor hers.

  It would take love . . . or perhaps utter indifference. If the latter, then perhaps there was a chance for them . . .

  She opened her mouth to explain.

  “So this is how you behave!” Mrs. Beasley throbbed from the doorway. “Sneaking off behind my back to fornicate in a storeroom! At nine o’clock in the morning! You little trollop! How long has this been going on?”

  “I didn’t, it’s not what you think—” Nell stammered. “Mrs. Beasley, I promise you—”

  “Don’t lie to me, strumpet!” Slap! Her hand flashed out, leaving a livid mark on Nell’s tender cheek.

  Enraged, Harry pulled Nell back. “Touch her again, madam, and so help me, though I’ve never laid a fi
nger on a woman in my life, you’ll be the first.”

  Mrs. Beasley took one look at his white face and glittering eyes and stepped back out of reach. She looked at Nell and said in a loud, spiteful voice, “I always knew you were a trollop! You’ve been eying off all the men ever since I’ve taken you on—”

  “Silence!” Harry snarled. “Speak to Lady Helen with respect or suffer the consequences.”

  She flushed angrily and said to Nell. “You know he’s a bastard, don’t you, Lady Helen? Some lord rutted with his whore of a maidservant and got himself a bast—”

  Slap! Nell’s hand made a white imprint on Mrs. Beasley’s cheek. “How dare you speak about him like that!” Nell flashed.

  “You little bitch!” La Beasley surged forward, her arm raised to deliver a back hander.

  Harry caught her fleshy arm in mid-swing. “That’s enough.”

  “She’s my employee, I can do whatever I like.”

  “No, madam, she’s my affianced wife, and if you touch her, I’ll throttle you.”

  “Get your filthy hands off me, you fornicating bast—” Nell surged forward to defend him again. Harry dropped Mrs. Beasley’s arm and caught Nell around the waist. Trapped between two furious women, he could think of only one thing to do.

  He swung Nell over his shoulder and shoved past her gibbering, enraged employer. Ignoring Nell’s kicks and demands to be let down, he strode unevenly through the silent, staring Pump Room crowds, his limp very much in evidence.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, as if nothing untoward was taking place. “Just taking my fiancée for a stroll.”

  “Arr, those waters,” one old man said into the hush. “Marvelous what they can do for a body.”

  Eight

  “Put me down,” Nell insisted for the twentieth time. She pummeled him with her fists to add force to her demand.

  “Not till I’ve got you safe,” Harry stumped on, unperturbed by the stares of strangers on the street. “My aunt’s house is around the next corner.”

  “This is kidnapping.”

  “So it is.” He patted her on the rump and she squeaked with annoyance and thumped him on the back.