“I failed to protect you,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows bemusedly. “Is that your job? To protect me?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
And he bent his head very slowly toward her. She watched him nearing, the birds getting ever closer, and she thought, He’s going to kiss me.
And then he was.
His lips were far softer than she would’ve thought—and they moved over hers gently but firmly. He’d kissed her once before, but that time it’d been so swift she’d hardly had time to assimilate the sensations. This time she could. His bristly cheeks scratched hers, but she didn’t mind. She was caught up in the sensation of his mouth, the smell of his neck—warm and masculine—and the sound of his breathing coming faster as he kissed her. He ran his tongue lazily over her lips, and she was so enchanted that she parted them, letting him in. He surged into her mouth, tasting of man, and she moaned, softly, just a little, but it was enough for him to pull back.
“I’m hurting you,” he said, scowling.
“No,” she replied, but it was already too late.
He rolled off the bed, taking with him all his glorious warmth and his magical mouth.
Beatrice pouted.
“I’ll send for your maid,” he said as he pulled on his boots. “Would you like anything? Tea? Some broth?”
“I’d like some tea,” she replied. She squinted at the window, but the curtains were pulled. “What time is it?”
“Almost night,” he said. “You’ve slept all day.”
“Did I?” How strange to remember morning and then nothing at all until after dark. The thought jogged her brain. “You were hurt!”
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“Your arm. I saw one of the men cut your arm.”
“This?” He pushed back the sleeve of his coat to reveal a torn and rust-stained shirt.
“Yes, that!” She was struggling to sit up now. “Why haven’t you had it seen to?”
He pressed her gently back down. “Because it isn’t of any concern.”
“Maybe not for you—”
“Hush.” His gaze was quite fierce. “You’ve had a stressful day, and your wound must ache. Rest now and I’ll come and see you when you’re properly attired.”
He strode from the room masterfully.
Properly attired? Beatrice frowned and only then realized that she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on under the covers.
Oh, my.
IT WAS AFTER ten by the time Reynaud got to Vale’s house and started banging on the door. Too early for Vale to have returned if he was out at a social event, too late for him to be receiving if he was spending a rare evening at home. Reynaud banged anyway. Vale was his only ally as far as he could see, and at the moment he needed an ally.
The door opened to reveal the face of a disapproving butler, whose expression modified only a little when he saw it was a gentleman knocking.
“Sir?”
Reynaud shouldered past the man. Damned if he’d stand on the step like a beggar. “Is the viscount home?”
The butler’s brows lowered. “Lord and Lady Vale are not receiving this evening. Perhaps if you—”
“I’m not coming back tomorrow,” Reynaud interrupted. “Either you go rouse him from wherever he is, or I’ll get him myself.”
The butler drew himself up and sniffed. “If you’ll wait in the sitting room, my lord.”
Reynaud stalked into the indicated room and spent the next ten minutes pacing from one end to the other. He was just about to give it up and go find Vale himself when the door opened.
Vale strolled in, yawning and wrapping a banyan about his middle. “Much as I’m glad that you’ve returned from the dead, old man, I really must insist that I reserve my evenings at home for my wife.”
“This is important.”
“So is marital harmony.” Vale went to a tray with a decanter and glasses. He held up the bottle. “Brandy?”
“Beatrice was stabbed this morning.”
Vale paused, decanter still in his hand. “Beatrice?”
Reynaud waved an impatient hand. “Miss Corning. She got in the way of an assassination attempt on me.”
“Good God,” Vale said softly. “Is she all right?”
“She fainted and bled quite profusely,” Reynaud muttered, the image of Beatrice’s soft skin violated still fresh in his mind. “But she woke just an hour ago and seemed in her right mind.”
“Thank God.” Vale splashed some brandy into a glass and took a gulp. “And how closely related to you is Cousin Beatrice?”
Reynaud gave him a look. “Not that close.”
“Glad to hear it.” Vale dropped into a cushioned chair. “I hope she recovers fully so that you can then propose to her. Because I tell you now, matrimony truly is a blessed state, enjoyed by all men of good sense and halfway adequate bedroom skills.”
“Thank you for that edifying thought,” Reynaud growled.
Vale waved his glass. “Think nothing of it. I say, you haven’t forgotten how to treat a lady in the bedroom, have you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve been out of refined society for years and years now. I could give you some pointers, should you need them.”
Reynaud’s eyes narrowed. “This from the man I had to save from an irate whore when we were seventeen?”
“Good God, I’d forgotten that incident.”
“I haven’t,” Reynaud muttered. “She had a big bruiser for a pimp.”
“Yes, well, her argument was with the fact that I refused to pay triple her price when her pimp showed up, not with my bed skills,” Vale pointed out. “Even at seventeen, I could’ve shown you a trick or two—”
“Jasper,” Reynaud growled in warning.
Vale hid a grin in his glass and then sobered as he lowered it. “Who were the assassins?”
Reynaud threw himself into a chair. “Three ruffians, not very skilled at it, I think. They were led by a man with a pronounced walleye.”
“Indeed?” Vale tilted back his head to stare at the ceiling. “Did he have any other interesting characteristics that might make him recognizable?”
“Tall, quick, knew how to use a knife.” Reynaud shrugged. “Not much else, I’m afraid.”
“The color of his hair?”
“Brown.”
“Ah.” Vale considered for a moment. “I’ll send another letter to Munroe. We need him here.”
Reynaud frowned. “You think the attack on me is somehow related to what happened seven years ago?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Look here.” Vale sat forward in his chair, no longer the lazy aristocrat but a man of intense intelligence. “I’d thought we’d hit a dead end in finding the Spinner’s Falls traitor. And then you arrive home, and in the space of little more than a week, two attempts have been made against your life. This is extraordinary!”
“Glad to bring you some joy,” Reynaud muttered.
Vale ignored the sarcasm. “I’m more convinced than ever that you have important information that will either expose the traitor or make him vulnerable in some way.”
“Then you’ve entirely cast off the idea that St. Aubyn was behind the attacks?” Reynaud had already come to this conclusion, but he wanted to hear Vale’s thoughts.
The other man shook his head. “Blanchard is a pompous blowhard, but he has enough brains not to make an attempt against your life. Besides, I know you dislike the man, but he’s never struck me as so thoroughly lacking in morals as to hire an assassin.”
Reynaud scowled. “That’s—”
“Besides, why would Blanchard risk killing you when you gave the gossips such lovely fodder the other night?”
Reynaud swung to glare at his friend.
“I sympathize.” Vale shrugged. “But you must admit your antics on the dance floor did nothing to help your cause.”
“We’re talking about Blanchard—”
br /> Vale waved a hand, interrupting him. “Blanchard’s not the point. We’re getting closer to the Spinner’s Falls traitor. How I’m not sure, but we must be, judging by these attacks on you. If we can get Munroe down here and put our heads together, maybe we can figure this thing out, once and for all.”
“Very well,” Reynaud said slowly. “But perhaps we should send a messenger. A rider would get to Scotland before the mail. Or would you rather go yourself?”
“We’ll send a messenger with a letter.” Vale jumped up and went to rummage in a desk as if intending to write the letter that very moment. “As it happens, I don’t want to leave London at the moment.”
Reynaud looked at him inquiringly and was astonished to see a flush climbing his old friend’s cheeks.
“My wife is, ah, expecting the sixth Viscount Vale,” the other man muttered. “Or perhaps merely an honorable miss—not that I care a whit in either case. I just want a babe with all its toes and not looking too much like its pater.”
Reynaud grinned. “Congratulations, man!”
“Yes, well.” Vale cleared his throat. “She’s a bit nervous about the whole thing, so we’re keeping the matter quiet while we can. You understand?”
“Of course.” Reynaud frowned. Melisande looked healthy enough, but so many things could go wrong in a pregnancy.
“And in the meantime,” Vale said as if happy to drop the subject, “while we wait for Munroe, I think it prudent to make some inquiries regarding your attackers. London is an enormous place, but there can’t be that many walleyed assassins for hire.”
“Thank you,” Reynaud said, and for the first time in many, many, years, he felt like a friend had his back.
Now if he could only keep Beatrice safe.
“TELL ME A story,” Beatrice said. She was in bed—the fourth day of lying abed to “rest”—and she was bored beyond reason. She wore a comfortable day dress and sat up against her pillows, but she was definitely confined to her bed.
“What sort of story?” Lord Hope said rather distractedly. He was in a chair by the bed, supposedly to keep her company, but he had a stack of papers from his solicitors, and he was reading them instead.
“You could tell me about the first time you made love to a woman,” she said conversationally.
There was a pause during which she was certain that he hadn’t heard her, and then he looked up. His black eyes were gleaming, and now she knew he had heard her. “You’re still recovering, so I think we might want to save that particular story for another time.”
“How disappointing,” she said, looking down demurely.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps something else might amuse you.”
“Such as?”
He shrugged. “Would you like to hear about army life? Or what Vale and I did in the schoolroom?”
She cocked her head. “I’d love to hear about those stories sometime. But now I’m wondering about your time with the Indians.”
He looked back at his papers, a small frown between his brows. “I’ve already told you: I was captured and made a slave. There isn’t much else to talk about.”
She studied him, aware that it would be polite to drop the subject. The story of how he was captured and brought to the Indian camp was harrowing. He obviously didn’t want to talk about his captivity. But she also knew—somehow, without logical explanation—that he was lying. There was more, much more, to his story. Seven whole years’ worth. The time during which he’d transformed from the laughing boy in the portrait to the hard man before her. She needed to hear how that had happened, and perhaps he needed in some way to tell her.
“Please?” she asked softly.
For a moment, she was sure he’d deny her. Then he flung the papers down. “Very well.”
“Thank you.”
He stared into space for a time. Then he blinked and said, “Yes, well. Gaho wanted me because she needed another hunter for her family. I should explain that some Indians have an interesting tradition. They take captives of war or raids and place them ceremonially in their family. So I took the position that a son would’ve filled in Gaho’s family.”
“Then she was your adoptive mother?”
“In theory only.” Reynaud’s mouth twisted. “I was, for all practical purposes, a slave.”
“Oh.” Again she thought that must’ve been a terrible blow to his pride—to go from being a viscount and an officer in His Majesty’s army to being regarded as a slave.
“She treated me well enough.” He was gazing sightlessly out her bedroom window. “Certainly better than we sometimes treat our prisoners of war. And, of course, I was glad not to’ve been executed. But, in the end, I was a slave, without control over my own life.”
For a moment he was quiet.
“What were your duties?” she asked.
“Hunting.” He looked at her, his mouth twisting. “I found out after a while that at one time the village had been much bigger, but the tribe had been decimated by disease some years before. Where once there had been many able-bodied men to provide meat during the winter, now there were only a handful. I went out with Gaho’s husband, another older man who we called Uncle, and Sastaretsi.”
She shivered. “That must’ve been awful—to have to hunt with the man who had intended to kill you.”
“I watched my back at all times.”
“And did you try to escape?”
He looked down at his papers. “I thought of escaping constantly. Every night as they bound my hands and staked me to the ground, I thought of ways I could unwork the knots. My fingernails grew back in, but I soon realized that I wouldn’t be able to survive for long on my own. Not in the dead of winter when meat was scarce and the whole village was in danger of starving. That country is vast and savage. The snow can reach as deep as a man’s chest. I was hundreds of miles into French-held territory.”
Beatrice shivered. “It sounds brutal.”
He nodded. “It was so cold that my eyelashes froze when we went hunting.”
“What did you hunt?”
“Whatever we could find,” he said. “Deer, raccoon, squirrels, bear—”
“Bear!” She wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t eat it, did you?”
He laughed. “It takes some getting used to, but, yes—”
The door opened, interrupting him. Quick came in with a tray of tea. “Here’s something for you, miss.” She set down the tray. “Oh, and a note for you, my lord.”
She handed a folded scrap of paper to Lord Hope.
Beatrice watched him as she took a dish of tea from Quick. Lord Hope knit his brows as he read, and then he crumpled the paper and threw it into the fire.
“Not bad news, I hope,” she said lightly.
“No. Nothing for you to worry about.” He got up from his chair. “In fact, you should be resting now. I’m off to see about some business.”
“I’ve been resting for four days,” she called to his broad back.
He merely smiled over his shoulder and shut the door behind him.
“I’m tired of lying abed,” she complained to Quick.
“Yes, miss, but Lord Hope says as you’re to stay there another day or so.”
“When did everyone start listening to him?” Beatrice muttered childishly.
But Quick considered the question solemnly. “I think ’twas when he took charge of Henry after he was wounded, miss. And then he seemed to know just what to do when you were hurt.” The maid shrugged. “I know he ’tisn’t officially the earl yet, miss, but it’s hard not to treat him that way.”
“He does seem to’ve fallen naturally into the role,” Beatrice murmured.
In the last week, Lord Hope had overseen her medical care. In addition, from what she could tell by the letters he read and the conversations she overheard with the servants, he seemed to be receiving reports from the various Blanchard estates and holdings. Reports that normally would go to her uncle.
She hadn’t seen Uncle Reggie since t
he morning after she’d been attacked, and now she wondered—rather guiltily—how he was getting on. No matter how Uncle Reggie protested, everything was changing about him. It must be hard for him. Harder still since he seemed to have the idea that she was only on Lord Hope’s side. If it were up to her, she’d be on both their sides… if only they’d let her.
Beatrice sighed. She was tired of lying abed, tired of only hearing about news and events instead of experiencing them. “I’m getting up.”
Quick looked alarmed. “Lord Hope said—”
“Lord Hope is not my master,” Beatrice said loftily, and threw back the covers. “Have the carriage brought round.”
Forty-five minutes later, she was rolling through London on the way to Jeremy’s house. She hadn’t seen him since the attack, and she was beginning to get rather worried. Lottie had sent a note every day and a lovely little bunch of flowers, but Beatrice had received no word from Jeremy. Had he even heard that she’d been hurt?
By the time the carriage pulled up in front of Jeremy’s town house, the sky had darkened, threatening rain. Beatrice climbed out of the carriage and ran up the steps of the town house to knock at the door. She glanced at the black clouds overhead while she waited, wishing Putley would hurry.
When at last he opened the door, she made to walk past him, saying, “Good afternoon, Putley. I won’t be staying long.”
“A moment, miss,” the butler gasped.
“Oh, really, Putley, after all this time, can’t you at least pretend you know me?” She smiled up at him, but then her smile fell from her face as completely as if it’d never been there.
The butler’s face was gray.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and for once he did sound sorry.
Which only made panic rise in her chest. “No. Let me in. Let me see him.”
“I can’t, miss,” the old butler said. “Mr. Oates is dead. Dead and buried.”
Chapter Ten
Princess Serenity’s horse had been killed, and Longsword had none, so they were forced to set off for the witch’s lair on foot. All that day they walked, and though the princess was small and slight, never did she falter. At nightfall, they came to the foot of the mountain where the witch lived. In the dark, guided only by the light of the pale moon, they climbed the great black mountain. Strange beasts stirred in the shadows, and mournful birds cried in the dark, but Longsword and the princess pressed on. And as the first light of dawn crested the peak of the mountain, they stood before the witch’s castle….