The Scoundrel’s Seduction Read online

  “May I?” he asked.

  “They are your pillows, are they not?”

  Not exactly, but he wouldn’t argue the point. He was as much of a guest as she was. Ultimately, as much of a prisoner, too, he supposed.

  He plumped the pillow and set it on the floor, then lay on the carpet. He’d slept on harder surfaces in his life. He’d survive this night.

  He pulled the blanket up over his body.

  “Good night, Monsieur Hawk,” she said, and he sensed that spirited edge back in her voice.

  Despite himself, he smiled. “Good night, my lady.”

  Chapter Four

  The next day dawned clear and bright but rather cold. Winter clung to London with a tenacious grip this year, and sun shone on the melting frost that edged the windowpanes, making it shimmer like a thousand tiny diamonds.

  Sam stretched his body long, then twisted and turned, working out the kinks in his muscles. Shockingly, he’d actually snatched an hour or two of sleep. Perhaps he should sleep on floors more often.

  All was silent in the room, and he stood, suddenly irrationally worried that Lady Dunthorpe had somehow found a way to escape again. That would have been impossible. He was a light sleeper. There was no way out but the door, and if she picked the lock again, she would have had to do it over his slumbering body.

  He took two long strides to the edge of the bed.

  She still slept, her face peaceful in slumber. Her features were lovely, her face a perfect ivory oval, her eyes closed in repose but when open, so large in her face and such a clear, dark shade of blue. Her nose was a small, sharp blade, narrow and triangular in profile—a very French nose, like a smaller, more feminine version of Laurent’s. Her eyebrows were dark blond arches, her chin smooth, her cheekbones pronounced.

  He shouldn’t be admiring this woman’s appearance, but …

  She was lovely. He wished … Well, he wished circumstances were different.

  Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes opened, then widened when she saw him gazing at her.

  “Good morning,” he said softly.

  “Monsieur Hawk.” Her voice was scratchy and low with sleep. “Have you been awake long?”

  “No, in fact, I have not,” he said.

  “Mmm.” She pulled the blankets up to her neck tight around her and rolled onto her back. “Here it is,” she said softly. “My first day of widowhood.” She smiled bitterly. “I thought he’d outlive me, you know. He was so … devious.”

  “He was overconfident.” Sam sat on the edge of the bed. He studied her, knowing she’d run the gamut of emotions last night. Yet grief had not been prominent among them. “You didn’t love him.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but she answered him. “Ah, no. Not at first, not ever.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  “Foolish reasons,” she said. Then she went silent.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. He understood this, for he’d married for foolish reasons, too. Twice.

  Lady Dunthorpe’s gaze slid toward him and then back to the ceiling. “I should be trying to kill you,” she said bluntly.

  Oddly, her words warmed him. He fought a strange twitching of his lips that might have led to a smile. “Should you?” he asked in a bemused tone.

  “You are a killer.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  “You murdered my husband.”

  “No.” Murder was not what he did. What he did was eliminate threats to the monarchy.

  Casting a skeptical look in his direction, she continued. “I shouldn’t be speaking with you. I should despise you with everything I am. If I were a good wife, I would hate you. I’d be fighting, screaming. I would not be holding what some might call a pleasant conversation with you. Not be speaking familiarly to you when you are the first thing I lay my eyes upon in the morning. Not—” She stopped abruptly, her voice catching on the word.

  “Not what?”

  “Not feeling … thankful.”

  He raised his brows at that.

  “Dunthorpe is—was—not a kind man. And you, Monsieur Hawk … you are the very first person I have ever told that to.” She paused until the silence stretched long. “What is wrong with me?” She directed the question to the ceiling. “You killed my husband, and now you hold me imprisoned. And I do not hate you. I must hate you.”

  He swallowed hard. He wanted to touch her, to let her know he understood exactly how she was feeling. That guilt of not caring enough—he’d been there before, with both his wives. It wasn’t a place anyone should ever be forced to go. And he wouldn’t wish it on her, even if she was a traitor.

  “Yet I do not hate you,” she continued, and he could hear the self-condemnation in her voice. “I respect you. How did you find me when I escaped? I tried to confuse you. I made many turns—”

  “I knew where you were headed,” he told her. “To Marie Rameau’s house.”

  She released a whistling breath through her teeth. “You know much about me, monsieur.”

  “Yes.” But not enough. Not nearly enough.

  Gazing at her as she gazed up at the ceiling, he turned over the new information in his head. She hadn’t loved her husband. Dunthorpe—the bastard—had been cruel to her.

  Perhaps she wasn’t working for France. But she was French, and through her own connections along with Dunthorpe’s, she’d had access to the highest echelons of both the British and French governments.

  Yet … the idea niggled at him. She could be innocent. Completely uninvolved with what Dunthorpe had done.

  The intensity of his desire for her innocence hit him with such force it almost sent him reeling.

  He rose abruptly. “Do you want breakfast? Smells like Carter is cooking ham and eggs. And I’d wager he’s made some coffee, too.” The kitchen was just a few steps down the corridor from here. The appetizing scents had wafted into the room, and Sam’s stomach clenched with hunger.

  She met his gaze. “I am seldom hungry,” she said solemnly, “but today I feel as if I could eat a horse.”

  “We’ll bring you a basin, to wash if you feel like it.” He forced himself to turn away. He needed some distance from this woman. Some perspective. She was, without any seeming effort, causing him to risk toppling from his pedestal of emotionless calm. He felt disjointed, confused. Like she was slowly snipping away all the tightly wound threads that held him steady. “I’ll join you in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

  “Wait.”

  With his hand on the door handle, he looked back over his shoulder, seeing her lips had parted in surprise. “You do not believe I will attempt to fly away from you again?”

  His lips curved into a rare grin. “If you do,” he said softly, “I’ll catch you.”

  Shaken yet again by his own surprising, unwelcome reaction to her, he escaped into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Élise felt odd. Like she was walking through the thick fog of a dream. How often had she dreamed she was free of Dunthorpe? Too many times to count, surely.

  Laurent brought in a steaming basin as well as a comb and a towel, and she washed her face and combed her hair. It had been many years since she’d done her hair herself, but without the help of a mirror, she managed a braid, which she wrapped into a low chignon.

  She glanced at the dress she’d worn last night—the dress she’d torn to remove the ribbon. It wasn’t wearable anymore, though she wouldn’t want to wear it anyhow.

  It was Lady Dunthorpe’s dress. She would still be known by that title, but inside, she was no longer Lady Dunthorpe. No, she was Élise again. Trapped and imprisoned by one of Dunthorpe’s enemies, but no longer carrying all the weight upon her shoulders as she had when she’d belonged to the viscount. And that was exactly what she’d been: a possession. A possession he’d resented and despised.

  She shouldn’t feel so much lighter, because the future could hold anything: long-term imprisonment, torture, even death. But she c
ouldn’t help it. Dunthorpe was dead, and she did feel lighter.

  She rifled through the closet until she found the smallest dress. It was large, but not as ridiculous as the nightgown and the breeches had been. It was a simple white muslin with lace trimmings, and when she finished donning it, she felt … clean.

  She went to the small, frost-limned window and looked outside at the sidewalk of the London street. Every so often, wheels rolled by, horses’ legs pranced past, skirts swished by, and legs clad in dark wool clipped along. Her existence had been irrevocably altered last night, but the rest of the world moved on. London wouldn’t stop for anyone. Not even Lord Dunthorpe.

  She should mourn him. Even if she didn’t love him, even if she’d spent half her marriage believing him the devil incarnate … shouldn’t she mourn him?

  He’d always said she was a terrible wife. A part of her had known he was right.

  She pressed her cheek against the pane, the coldness of the glass biting into her flesh. Guilt was a useless, meaningless emotion. She knew this well. And yet she could not help it. It swamped her, seeped into her very skin.

  She closed her eyes and stood still, just breathing for long minutes. Finally, she’d gathered enough strength to move forward. She straightened her spine and went to the door. She’d been surprised Hawk hadn’t locked it when he’d left, but she knew why as soon as she emerged into the corridor.

  Laurent was standing guard at her door. When he saw her, he pushed off from the wall, grinning. “I hope you’re hungry. Carter has whipped up quite the feast.”

  “I am hungry,” she told him. And, like she’d told Hawk, she was. She was famished. She felt like she hadn’t eaten in a month.

  He led her not into the dining room but just down the corridor to the kitchen, a bright and warm space with a cheerful fire roaring in the stone hearth.

  A square table with four chairs was set in the center of the room, and Hawk and Carter were already seated at it and eating. There were several plates in the center, piled high with slices of ham, fried eggs, toast, butter, jam, flaky buns …

  Her stomach growled as she took in all that delicious-smelling fresh food. Loudly enough to draw the attention of all three men.

  Laurent chuckled and patted her arm. Hawk glanced at her over his newspaper, employing that blank expression he seemed to have perfected.

  Carter was probably Hawk and Laurent’s age combined, but though deep wrinkles grooved his forehead and mouth, he looked powerfully built. His hair was brown peppered with gray, his face round, and his eyes, a friendly light blue. He gave her a welcoming smile and gestured to one of the empty chairs. “Come, Lady Dunthorpe. Sit. I’m Carter, by the way. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

  She inclined her head as she lowered herself into the chair. “Monsieur Carter.”

  “Some eggs? Ham?”

  “Yes and yes,” she told him gratefully, sliding into the seat. Laurent took the last empty chair, and using a large spoon, piled food onto her plate and then his.

  Hawk had laid his newspaper on the table. “Would you like a bun? With butter? Jam?”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “Both, please.” Dieu, these men certainly were intent on feeding her. It was charming, in a very bizarre kind of way.

  She took some egg up on her fork. It was still hot, and the pleasant, hearty taste burst over her tongue.

  She closed her eyes in pleasure. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so hungry. So enamored of food.

  They all ate in silence for a moment. Well, she and Laurent ate. Carter busied himself with buttering one of the buns that steamed when he cut it open—goodness, had he baked bread this morning?—and Hawk had folded the newspaper and set it aside. Now he held a coffee cup cradled in his hands as he gazed at her.

  His dark eyes seemed to drink her in as she ate. It was unnerving.

  He lowered his coffee cup to the table, still staring at her. He was beautiful, in a most rough, masculine way. His expression was dark and inscrutable. He had a rather square-shaped face, with a strong nose and jaw. A broad forehead with thick black slashes as brows. Lovely, lovely lips. Pink and plump, they softened the harshness of his face.

  His eyes were beautiful, too—darkly exotic, with thick black eyelashes.

  “Coffee?” Carter asked, jolting her attention from Hawk.

  “Yes, please.”

  Carter placed the buttered bun on her plate, then went to the stove to fetch the coffee.

  Hawk sighed. “It’s in the papers already.”

  He slid the newspaper across the table. It was the Times, Élise saw. And there it was: VISCOUNT DUNTHORPE MURDERED.

  She lowered her fork and took the newspaper to skim the column. It told of how Lord Dunthorpe had been brutally executed by a Frenchman last night in his home in Kensington. The villain had escaped with Lady Dunthorpe, and at this point speculation abounded that Lady Dunthorpe—who’d been born on French soil and still held on to her affinity for that country—was part of the scheme to murder her husband. Perhaps she was even the architect of the plot.

  The citizens of London were advised to be on the lookout for the lady as well as for a large, burly, dark-haired Frenchman.

  The rest of the article was dedicated to the implications of the viscount’s death on England and on the conflict with France.

  Élise closed her eyes for a long moment. She shouldn’t be surprised by this. She’d never been well loved—not like her husband. And she was French. Of course they would suspect her.

  When she opened her eyes, all three men were watching her. Hawk’s gaze was wary, Carter’s concerned, and Laurent’s curious.

  “What if I never returned?” she said softly. “No one would miss me.”

  Laurent shook his head. “We’re not going to hurt you. Hawk made that clear, didn’t he?”

  “That’s not precisely what I mean,” she said.

  “Do you mean you wish to disappear?” Carter asked.

  “I … don’t know.”

  Hawk narrowed those dark, all-knowing eyes. “Why?”

  She retrieved her fork and speared a piece of egg, then looked up at him. “I have finished with this game of being Lady Dunthorpe.”

  Hawk seemed to ponder her for a moment; then he said, “Perhaps you wish to return to France?”

  She gave a low, dark burst of laughter. “Is that what you think? Do you attempt to trap me into admitting I am a French spy? I am not so foolish, Monsieur Hawk.”

  He shrugged. “The truth will come out eventually, Lady Dunthorpe.” He placed special emphasis on the hated name, presumably to ruffle her feathers. But she wouldn’t allow him to anger her. She let the sarcastic title scatter off her feathers like beads of water she shook free. “You’d save us a great deal of time and energy if you simply gave us what we wanted now.”

  She merely shook her head. She knew what they wanted. Names, dates, what information was conveyed, how, and to whom. She couldn’t give them any of that.

  And even if she could, she wouldn’t.

  She let her gaze move between the three men. “You are unfair to me, gentlemen. You kidnap me, refuse to tell me who you are, who you work for … Then you provide me with a most comfortable bed and a most excellent breakfast. But those are not enough. How can you expect me to vomit information as if to purge it from my very body?” She shook her head. “Non. There must be fairness in this.”

  Laurent gazed at Hawk. Hawk gazed at her. Carter just chuckled.

  “She has a point, Hawk,” Laurent said.

  He was rewarded with a dark glare.

  “In the event that you have indeed learned nothing,” Hawk snapped, “we do not sell information. We do not negotiate with traitors.”

  “Well, my lady,” Carter said. His voice was relaxed. Cheerful, even. “The man raises a decent question, doesn’t he? Are you a traitor?”

  “Hawk and I have had this discussion,” she told him. “It grows tedious.” She took a big bite of her
bun to illustrate that point, then made a blissful noise. It was pure flaky, buttery deliciousness.

  “She claims she is not a traitor,” Hawk told Carter.

  Had she claimed that? She didn’t think so, not directly.

  Hawk’s probing focus remained steady on her. “So you are saying you wish to make a trade? What will you trade for information? Your safety?”

  She met his gaze evenly. “Haven’t you already promised me that?”

  He stared at her—Dieu, how she wished she could read him better! Then he shook his head slowly. “No, my lady. I have told you I won’t hurt you. And I can say without hesitation that Carter and Laurent won’t, either. None of us is in the business of hurting women. However …” His voice faded.

  She arched an expectant brow at him.

  “It’s possible we won’t be able to protect you forever,” he finished flatly.

  She glanced at Carter, then Laurent. Both their expressions were grim. Hawk was telling the truth.

  She focused on her food. This was something that would require some thought. What would it take for her to give her meager secrets away? Would those secrets be enough to placate them?

  She didn’t know. Right now, she couldn’t think of what they could possibly give her …

  Well, that wasn’t completely true. A new identity. A new life. Freedom …

  But who would she be relaying her secrets to? Would they be used for good or evil? She needed to know before she agreed to tell them. She wasn’t so selfish. She’d seen war and death and mourning, and she wouldn’t be responsible for any more.

  “All this talk of traitors, it gives me many hints,” she said casually, changing the subject, buying time. “I believe you are English spies.”

  Hawk arched a brow. “Do you?”

  “I do.” She took a bite of ham, chewed and swallowed. “You are British spies who discovered that Dunthorpe was doing something very bad indeed. So, you”—she nodded at Hawk—“disguised your voice so the French would take the blame for murdering him. I suppose you didn’t want the English people to know what a very bad man he is—was. You wish to protect the people from that knowledge, while increasing their hatred for the French.”