The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 15

  “You’re welcome.” She started to rise, but he stayed her with a hand on her arm. “No. I will take care of it. You rest.”

  She smiled up at him. “If you feel I am exhausted from my extreme exertions in the kitchen this afternoon, my Sam, then you are mistaken indeed.”

  He squeezed her arm. “I can’t imagine I’ll ever see you exhausted, Élise.”

  “I am touched by your confidence. Now, allow me to help you.”

  He sighed. “If you wish it.”

  “I do.” She put her hand on her wineglass, then removed it. “But I will leave the wine out, yes? We will have another glass when we are finished.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  They worked in companionable silence, Sam washing and rinsing the dishes and Élise drying them and putting them away. As always, they made short work of the mess, and once again—as he had been every other night—he was impressed by this woman’s lack of spoiled affectations. Sinking wrist-deep into grease and turkey bones didn’t bother her in the least.

  Her true personality was a surprise to him. From that first long-distance glimpse he’d had of her that night of the opera, all sorts of assumptions had clicked into place. Very few of them had proven true.

  He went outside to dump the dishwater, and when he returned into the warmth of the cottage, he found her in the dining room, pouring them two glasses of wine. She handed him his. “Salon?”

  “Yes,” he said on a half sigh, half groan. His limbs felt heavy. He hadn’t had that active a day … Perhaps the events of the past weeks had begun to catch up with him.

  They retired to the salon, where Sam built up the fire, then joined Élise on the sofa.

  He took his wineglass from the side table and took a deep swallow. The wine, which he’d retrieved from the small cellar here at the cottage, had a rather odd bitter aftertaste, but otherwise it was very good.

  He set the glass on the table and in a moment of true weakness, slung his arm around Élise. She cuddled against him. The rounded flesh of her breast pressed against his side. His cock, the damned thing, grew hard and tight and hot.

  He wondered if she knew exactly what kind of an effect she had on his body.

  He took a long, slow breath. He wouldn’t lose control. He wouldn’t. Each day had been a greater challenge to him, because she grew more appealing to him with every hour. More lovely, more attractive. And as his interest in her grew, so did his hunger for her.

  He slid his fingers up and down her arm. He liked the feel of her slender arm beneath his fingertips. She was so feminine …

  He reached for his wineglass and took another sip of wine. His cock was still rock hard. So hard it was beginning to hurt.

  “When do you think Laurent will be back?”

  “Any day,” he told her. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the next day. Probably not longer than a week. Remember, though, it might not be Laurent who comes to us. It might be Carter, or someone else.”

  She sighed. “I hope it is Laurent or Carter. I like them.”

  “You like your jailors?”

  “They are not very wicked jailors. They are both gentlemen.”

  More so than he had been, no doubt. He sighed, and the release of air left his body feeling heavy and weak. He glanced over at the wineglass, trying to recall how much he’d had to drink. Surely not enough to feel as sotted as he did. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

  She pulled away from him, looking at him with those lovely ocean-blue eyes.

  “Are you tired?” she asked him softly.

  “I am, a bit,” he admitted.

  She took the glass from his hand, and he realized it was empty. Odd, that. He couldn’t remember drinking the rest.

  She leaned forward, her lithe body moving over him, to set the wineglass on the table.

  Her little hand stroked down his sleeve; then her elegant fingers curled around his hand. “Perhaps we should go to bed.”

  He knew what she meant. He did. But hell if those words didn’t release all kinds of carnal images to flood his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  After a moment, she said, her voice flooded with uncertainty, “Sam?”

  He opened his eyes. He’d managed to stanch the flood of erotic pictures. Almost.

  “Yes?”

  “Shall we go upstairs?”

  He had to think a moment, translating her words through the muddle in his brain. Then he nodded. That was probably best. He was damned tired.

  “Élise?” he murmured, stopping her by tightening his grip on her hand as she began to rise.

  She sank back down onto the sofa. “Yes?”

  He gazed at her, all seriousness now. “I want to kiss you,” he said gruffly.

  He just wanted a kiss. Just one little kiss to take the edge off this biting hunger for her.

  She stared at him. And then she swiped the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. He groaned softly and dragged her to him.

  He tried not to be a boor. A part of him wanted to eat her up, to be greedy and take, take, take. But another part wanted to cherish her, wanted to show her all the protective instincts she brought out in him.

  He wanted her to be his. God, how badly he craved that. Knowing she was his, all his, would be the sweetest feeling …

  Her lips were soft and warm under his, tasting of wine and the herbs from their dinner but still ripe with her innate sweetness. Her body fit so deliciously, perfectly against his, like she was made for him.

  He drew back a scant inch, whispering against her mouth, “You’re so lovely. So perfect.”

  Hell, he wasn’t one to spout pretty words to a woman, but she needed to know—he needed to tell her—

  “So are you, my Sam.”

  “No,” he groaned. “I am a killer. I killed your husband.”

  And there it was, in black and white. He drew back farther, his arms slipping from where they’d been holding her tight against him.

  She cupped his cheek and pushed at it, forcing him to look from his lap up into her face.

  “You are a defender of your king and of your prince,” she said softly, “and I do not hold that against you.”

  Something melted inside him, making him feel languid and oh so tired. She brought her lips to his again and kissed him softly. “Come,” she murmured. “I will take you upstairs.”

  She took his hand again and tugged him up from the sofa. It felt like his body weighed a ton.

  He just wanted to go to sleep. He’d feel better—refreshed and awake—in the morning. It had been a long day. A long month. A long life.

  She doused the lantern but left the fire going. He gave a heavy sigh as they started walking up the stairs. It seemed to take forever to get up to the short corridor at the top. She pulled him to her bedchamber, and they went inside. He pushed his makeshift bed against the door, then sank down onto it.

  Something nudged at his brain, told him this wasn’t right, to beware. But, God, he was so … damn … tired. He rubbed harshly at his eyes, but it made no difference. He needed to close his eyes. Just for a few minutes, even, and all would be better.

  Élise knelt before him and was removing his boots.

  That was kind of her, he thought.

  And he didn’t remember anything more.

  * * *

  When Sam lost consciousness, Élise found herself unable to leave right away. She finished tucking him in bed, ensuring he would be comfortable. She straightened his limbs—no easy feat given the difference in their sizes—slipped a pillow under his head, and pulled the covers up around him. Then she simply looked at him.

  He looked peaceful in sleep with the harsh, serious lines of his face relaxed. But he didn’t look young. He looked like a mature man who’d been through hell and who’d come out of it burned and scarred but still in one piece.

  He was a survivor. Like she was.

  She stroked her fingers down the side of his face. He didn’t budge, and she might have been worried if not for the steady rise and
fall of his chest and the puffs of air she felt against her fingers when she moved them over his lips. Just to be sure, she checked his pulse and was further pacified by the slow, strong, and steady beat of his heart.

  To her, he was beautiful. Strength, determination, intelligence, and loyalty. She’d never before met a man with that particular combination of qualities. To her, they were most compelling. They proved to her that he was special.

  And now she had betrayed him.

  No, not really, because she’d never made him any promises. She’d made it quite clear to him that she still wanted—and intended—to escape. Still, she couldn’t completely thrust away that tinge of guilt.

  She tugged, pulled, and yanked at the mattress, finally creating a space just barely wide enough for her to squeeze though. Through it all, Sam didn’t move.

  She rose, opened the door as quietly as possible, and slipped out of the room through the narrow gap. She went straight to the attic, where she’d covertly laid aside a boy’s costume not dissimilar to the one she’d worn when she’d tried to escape back in London.

  She wasn’t a fool. A lone woman would draw far too much attention. She needed to dress like a boy—again. She’d probably still draw attention, but it was the best she could do.

  Hurriedly, she discarded her dress and petticoat and replaced them with the gray woolen trousers, shirt, and coat. She tucked her hair under the matching gray cap and slung the old-fashioned, layered cape over her shoulders. The benefit of this costume was that she’d also found a pair of boots that had probably once belonged to a youth of thirteen or fourteen. Still too big for her, but certainly better than going barefoot. After she’d pulled on the boots, she gathered her clothes and then climbed down the narrow steps from the attic as quietly as she could.

  And then she went to check on Sam one more time. Just to be sure he was all right.

  He hadn’t moved from where she’d left him, but his chest still rose and fell with steady regularity. Resisting the urge to crouch down and touch him, she turned away and left the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind her.

  Using hot coals from the hearth, she lit a lantern. She fetched some food and wine from the pantry.

  Then she stole two crowns and a shilling from Sam’s purse, which he kept in the desk drawer in the salon.

  She had become a thief, she thought, with a choking surge of guilt. He could have her prosecuted and hanged for this, if he caught her.

  He might be angry enough at her escape to do it, too.

  With her heart pounding and her arms full, she hurried to the stable. In the gelding’s stall, she set to saddling it. She was by no means an expert at saddling horses, but she rode them often when she was in Brighton, and she’d watched her groom saddling her mare any number of times.

  Of course, that had been a sidesaddle. Chewing on her lower lip, she lowered the lantern on a shelf and the other items she’d brought on a bale of hay, then focused on her task, first cinching the saddle on, then attempting to bridle the animal. Encouraging the gentle bay to take the bit took six tries, but finally, she managed it. It had taken too long for her to do that, she knew. A half hour, at least. Sam might right now be stirring, realizing she was missing …

  She found the saddlebag she’d seen on one of the shelves and stuffed it with the food and money as well as her feminine change of clothes. She opened the door to the stall and to the stable, propping them open as best she could, using large rocks to hold the doors in place, then she stood on the bale of hay and mounted.

  Once she was up, she held still a moment, adjusting herself to the awkward position of riding astride with her legs splayed awkwardly on either side of the horse.

  She had ridden astride as a child with her brother. Her mother would have been horrified if she’d found out, so it had been a secret between her and Anton.

  Thinking of him, she found the stirrups and tucked her booted feet into them. Anton had been the kindest of big brothers. Though he’d been five years older than her and off at school throughout most of her childhood, he always had a hug and a kind word for her when they were together. And he’d always taken time to be with her, to play with her, to teach her things no one else would, like how to ride a horse astride.

  He should have grown into a kind and generous man. But no. The guillotine had taken his life at the age of fourteen.

  “All right, mon bon ami,” she murmured to the animal, reaching down to pat its withers. “Are you ready to escape from this place?”

  The horse shifted on its feet, which was more of a response than she’d expected, and she took it as a definite “yes.”

  “Very good, then,” she whispered, taking up the reins. “Let us spread our wings and fly.”

  She walked the horse out of the stables and down the long, lonely drive that led from the main road to the cottage.

  The night was deathly quiet, but the half-moon peeked through a shifting layer of clouds, giving the road a faint, silver-limned glow to help light her way.

  The ride to London was a long one, and it would probably take her a week, at least. London wasn’t the ideal place for her to go—knowing she had so many enemies there did not make it an appealing objective in the least. But the Duke of Trent lived in London, and her mind had kept returning to the man for a reason. He was the one she must go to for help.

  She faced a week or longer of hard riding, concealing her identity, and sleeping in forests and fields at night, but she had done all that before, long ago, in France. She could do it again. And in a week or so, she’d be in London, and the Duke of Trent would help her.

  If Sam didn’t catch her first.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sam clawed his way through the thick veil of sleep, slicing long, jagged lines and pushing his way through to the lucidity promised on the other side. He pried his eyes open, but they slammed shut again as acute dizziness washed through him.

  Good God.

  He caught his breath, forcibly settled his stomach, and cracked his eyes open once more. The dim morning light cut into his head like daggers, and he gave a low groan.

  He struggled up onto his elbows, trying to remember how he’d ended up in bed. He remembered dinner, sitting in the salon with Élise, coming upstairs, her taking off his boots …

  His boots were sitting side by side next to the mattress. Élise …

  He pushed the blankets aside and staggered to his feet so he could see the bed.

  Empty.

  The shock to his system was as jolting as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head. It also made the situation clear—so damn crystal clear that the revelation stabbed into him.

  She’d drugged him. And then she’d left.

  His lips went tight as the coldness washed over him. He wouldn’t shout, scream, indulge in fury or panic. He would face this with frigid, icy precision, as he had with so many other problems over the years.

  It was why he did what he did. It was why he was one of the best.

  He searched the house methodically for clues. She’d taken the boy’s clothing and boots from the attic. She’d taken enough food to last her a day on the road. She’d stolen two crowns and a shilling—an odd amount. If he were her, he would have taken the entire purse.

  He didn’t need to check the stable, but in the interest of being thorough, he did.

  She’d taken the horse. Of course she had.

  So, as dawn turned the cloudy eastern sky a dull gray, Sam set off on foot.

  He went south, because that was the only direction she could have gone. There was nothing for her in the north. The south would be more dangerous, but Élise wasn’t a coward, and everything she knew was in the south. He walked in that direction with confidence.

  Within an hour, he was mounted on a horse he’d purchased from a yard in the village of Windermere.

  Within two hours, it had begun to rain, and he rode through Kendal in a torrential downpour.

  He stopped at the King’s Arms
Inn, which had not yet received any correspondence from Trent. After a brief debate with himself, he went across the town to the Crown Inn, where his sister and brothers were staying.

  His brothers were still abed when he arrived, but Esme was up and breakfasting in the common room. He strode into the room, which was populated with several tables, most of which were taken by other guests enjoying their breakfasts. She was seated at a small table, scribbling away in her notebook, while her maid sat in a shadow in the corner, waiting patiently.

  He was at his sister’s side when she finally looked up and saw him. “Sam! Um …” She hurriedly clapped the notebook shut and placed it atop a similarly sized package beside her plate.

  “Good morning, Esme.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here! Where is Madame de Longmont?”

  It said a lot about the assumptions Esme had made about his relationship with Élise when she expected her to be at his side this early in the morning.

  “She is not with me.” He wasn’t going to volunteer any more information than that.

  “Oh … uh …” Esme glanced down at her half-empty plate. “Oh, please do sit with me.”

  “All right. I will for a moment,” he told her. As soon as he was settled in the chair across from her, he removed his hat and placed it on the table. Then he leaned forward and murmured, “I don’t have much time, but I wanted to be sure all was well with you and Mark and Theo as I rode through town today.”

  A line appeared between Esme’s brows. “Oh? Are you leaving the area?”

  “I’m not sure. I might return; I might not.”

  She gazed at him, her look turning speculative as she studied him. Then she simply said, “I see.”

  “Tell me why you’re here. What have you discovered about our mother’s whereabouts?”

  “First we should see to getting you some food—”

  He reached forward, closing his hand around her wrist. “I don’t have time to eat.”

  The line between her brows deepened. “Some coffee, then?”

  “Yes, coffee.” He looked up, and as chance would have it, a woman was passing by hefting a coffeepot. He hailed her, and a moment later, she placed a steaming cup before him.