Too Wicked to Tame

  The first raindrop landed on her cheek. So softly she barely felt it. Several more followed, growing in volume and intensity. Tilting her face to the skies, she muttered an epithet no lady should know.

  Heath sat in his office the precise moment the storm hit. Wind and rain buffeted the tall mullioned windows at his back. He lifted his head from the ledgers scattered across his desk and turned to glance out the window behind him, hoping his sister and Portia had returned from their afternoon ride.

  He had seen them head out over an hour ago—had considered putting a stop to it. With yesterday’s debacle so fresh in his mind, how could he not consider putting an end to their time together? As far as companions went, Lady Portia was entirely unsuitable. Impeccable pedigree or not, she wasn’t a lady with whom his sister ought to keep company. Mina had never given him as much trouble in her entire life as she had since Portia’s arrival. Still, he couldn’t concentrate until he knew they were safely inside. Shoving to his feet, he strode from his office.

  He’d just reached the foyer when Mina burst into the house, soaked to the skin, jabbering so fast he could hardly make out a word.

  “Heath,” she panted between gulping breaths. Her wet fingers latched onto his wrist. “I’ve lost Portia!”

  “Lost?” he demanded, his heart leaping against his chest.

  “What’s this?” His grandmother called from the top of the stairs, one of her many cats tucked in her arm. The animal’s yellow eyes glittered in seeming mockery.

  “I lost Portia.” Mina shook her head, wide eyes a mixture of awe and worry. “Who knew a girl from Town could ride like that?”

  “Well, Heath,” his grandmother drawled, “you’ll have to go after her, won’t you?”

  A sound request. Logical. Except his grandmother’s eyes gleamed with a victorious light. She angled her head, her shifty blue eyes watching him, waiting.

  The hair on his arms prickled. He pinched the bridge of his nose, convinced more than ever that he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until Portia was gone. Still, losing her somewhere on his estate was not the way to rid himself of her.

  Inhaling deeply through his nose, he said, “Tell me precisely where you last saw her.”

  Mina’s shoulders sagged in clear relief. “You mean you’ll find her?”

  He felt his lips twist. Dropping his hand from his face he met his grandmother’s triumphant gaze, asking, “Was there ever any doubt?”

  Rain fell in torrents. Portia squinted against the downpour, giving up any attempt to guide her horse through the quagmire that threatened to drag them down. She let the reins fall lax in her hands and simply trusted that the animal desired shelter as much as she did.

  “Come on, boy,” she muttered through chattering teeth. Crouching low, she clung to the horse’s neck as he wrestled his hooves from the marshy ground. “Take us home.”

  A cottage materialized through the gray curtain of rain as if her words alone had summoned it. Her mount, clearly no stranger to the dwelling, bypassed the cottage, trotting straight for the nearby stables. He halted at the closed doors, snorting loudly enough to be heard over the heavy thrum of rain.

  “Not precisely what I had in mind,” Portia grumbled as she slid off the horse’s back and trudged through the mud to fling open the doors. Still, it was shelter, and she couldn’t begrudge the beast from delivering them safely from the storm.

  Her mount needed no prodding. He barreled past her in his haste to get inside. Muttering beneath her breath, she followed after him. Her gaze swept over the interior as she tugged off her clinging gloves. A quick survey revealed no animals and little in the way of equipment. Barren stalls stared back at her. Her horse sauntered in and out of these, snuffling and devouring the hay littering the ground.

  She followed the horse into one stall. Removing his saddle, she snatched a blanket that hung over one of the rails and rubbed the animal down.

  Satisfied that she had tended the horse to the best of her ability, she gave his rump one last pat and darted back outside, a hand shielding her face in a feeble attempt to ward off the deluge.

  After three swift raps, her hand went for the latch. Thankfully, the cottage door was unlocked. Gasping, she stumbled inside. Closing the door behind her, she eyed the room.

  This was no meager crofter’s cottage. Contrary to the humble exterior, the inside was well appointed—an elegant sanctuary.

  Wringing water from her hair, she moved to the center of the single-room dwelling and turned in a small circle. Her gaze fell on the large tester bed, the type found in any fine home. An elegant dining table, accompanied with high back chairs, sat before the shuttered window. A large desk, littered with books and papers, occupied one corner. A chintz-covered sofa was angled before the fireplace, allowing room for a large sheepskin rug, the mere sight of which already made her feel warm. Her gaze landed on a stack of wood in a basket.

  “Yes,” she breathed, her breath fogging the air. Already she imagined the heat of a fire soaking into her bones and ridding her of foggy breath. Hurrying forward, she arranged the logs in the fireplace. Her cold fingers stumbled several times, stinging from both cold and the abrasive wood, until at last she coaxed a fire to life.

  Her trembling hands then attacked the buttons of her habit, eager to be rid of the clinging wet fabric, eager for the fire to do its work and warm her bones.

  Stripped bare, she draped her clothing over the backs of the chairs. Shaking in the frigid air, she snatched the blanket off the bed and drew it around her. Wrapped tight, she sank onto the rug before the hearth, the soft lambskin a heavenly cloud beneath her chilled body.

  She stared into the dancing flames, feeling rather satisfied with herself. Bathed in the warm glow of the fire, she felt at peace in the unexpected solitude. Freedom at last, even if short-lived.

  She had contemplated running away before. Escape from responsibility. From the pressure of insurmountable debt. From a constant sense of inadequacy. If her mother could escape, could take leave of all expectations placed upon her, why not her?

  Sighing softly, Portia rested her chin on her knees. She flexed her toes in the soft wool. Her eyelids grew heavy as she watched the flames stretch and sway in the hearth. Lethargy crept into her bones and her thoughts drifted back to her mother. Did the daughter she left behind never intrude on her thoughts? Portia gave her head a violent shake and wiped at the sudden dash of tears on her cheeks, refusing to let such thoughts rob her of this rare-found tranquility.

  She snuggled onto her side, loosening the blanket so that it draped over her. With the soft wool cushioning her body, she could almost imagine she floated in the heavens. Popping sounds from the fire and the steady beat of rain lulled her. She closed her eyes and let her muscles sink and melt into deep sleep.

  Chapter 18

  Heath rode like a demon, calling Portia’s name over the howl of wind and rain. He lost all sense of time as he searched, scanning the horizon, his voice growing hoarse from shouting.

  Tracks could not be found in this weather, so he scoured the countryside, pushing Iago hard, oblivious to the cold, to the rain that chilled him to the very marrow of his bones. As the minutes rolled into an hour, fear wormed its way into his heart.

  If she gave her horse its lead, it should know its way back. His fear heightened. Unless she had lost her horse, had been thrown—like their first meeting. She could be on foot—or worse, lying unconscious somewhere.

  Words shuddered from his mouth, from lips that had long gone numb. Gradually, they began to take meaning in his head. God, let her be safe. Let her be safe. Don’t take her, too.

  For the first time since boyhood, he prayed to God for intervention. The same God that had cursed his family with a blight that haunted their every day, a specter from which he could never escape.

  His horse plunged down a steep incline, and Heath stopped at the bottom, realizing he was near the lodge. His retreat. The sanctuary he had fled lately, preferring it to the dower house
and the questions he would undoubtedly find in Della’s gaze when he could not bring himself to touch her.

  Hope burned low in his gut, hot and hungry as he thundered into the yard, pulling up hard at sight of the stable door swinging in the wind. Digging in his heels, he rode into the barn, discovering a mount from his stables snuffling the ground for hay in one of the stalls.

  A hiss of breath escaped him. Portia was here. Safe. He dismounted and made short work of unsaddling Iago and securing him in a stall next to the sorrel. Tension knotted his shoulders, winding a path up the back of his neck. He stalked through the yard, his relief dissolving in place of anger. Anger at her. Anger at himself for the fear that had gripped him.

  He halted at the door, hand poised over the latch. Was this another trick? Another device to force him alone with her? He scowled, recalling his grandmother’s satisfied expression as she looked down on him from the top of the stairs.

  Constance had warned him. And he had not listened. He had, instead, let fathomless blue eyes gull him. He stared at the door, watching rain sluice down its plane, knowing to go inside would mean utter isolation with a woman he craved with every fiber of his being. Last time Constance had interrupted. His sister would not arrive to save him this time. No one would. He had only his will-power on which to rely.

  Inhaling deeply, he flung open the door, telling himself he could resist one marriage-minded female.

  He truly must be mad to have allowed things to come this far. To let his heart soften toward any woman. Soft hearts bled, and in their pain they caused grief and havoc. His parents had proved that.

  Yet he could set things right. Starting now. He would do what he should have done from the beginning. Whether she wanted to or not, Portia’s holiday was at an end.

  Like a moth to the flame, his gaze found her—asleep on the lambskin before the fire. He approached, blood rushing to his groin as he eyed breasts so pert his hands itched to palm them, to take the tight, pebble-sized nipples into his mouth.

  If he had any doubts, they fled in an instant. Lady Portia Derring would do what ever it took to get him to the altar.

  Portia whimpered at the sensation of cool air crawling over her breasts, shriveling her nipples and stroking her belly with icy hands. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared in confusion at the murky room. Firelight flickered over the walls like demons writhing and twisting in some kind of primeval dance. With a shiver, she closed her eyes again and pulled the blanket back over her nakedness, grasping at the fleeing scraps of her dream.

  She had been standing beneath a warm Athens sun—the gleaming columns of the Parthenon stretching to a sky so blue her eyes ached to look at it. Her mother stood beside her, her face glowing as she talked. The sun beat down on Portia’s bare head until her scalp tingled. A breeze, fragrant and balmy, kissed her face. For a brief moment, in the sanctuary of her dream, Portia had everything she ever wanted.

  Closing her eyes tightly, she breathed through her nostrils and concentrated, trying to recapture the scent of sweet, honeyed air, trying to glimpse marble columns gleaming in the afternoon sun. All to no avail. It was gone. Lost. A frown tugged at her lips.

  A drop of water fell on her forehead, cold and irritating. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. Another followed, as cold and irritating as the last, and she opened her eyes, hoping that the roof didn’t have a leak.

  No leak, she registered with a strange sense of detachment as she gazed up at the shadowy figure of a man, immense and looming above her. A scream lodged in her throat. Clutching the blanket to her chin, she sank deeper into her bed of wool.

  “Get up,” he growled.

  “Heath?”

  “On your feet,” he demanded, the force behind each word a gouge to her heart.

  Tucking the blanket beneath her armpits, she rose, bringing herself flush against him. She attempted to step back but his hand clamped down, quick and brutal on her arm.

  Filling her lungs with a fortifying breath, she attempted to speak, “How did you—”

  “Was this part of the plan?” His gaze scraped her like a freshly sharpened blade. Eyes she knew to be gray were now black as night. Deadly as a viper’s stare. “Waiting for me naked and sleep-warmed?”

  She looked down at herself, at his hand on her arm, at her blanket-swathed body, and had a pretty good idea of how he saw her. A woman lying in wait, a predator primed to seduce.

  The fire at her naked back felt almost too warm. No doubt her skin glowed pink, flushed. Her eyes sleep clouded. Her hair—she didn’t want to imagine its condition. It must look a mess. She dragged a hand through the snarled mass, tucking several loose strands behind both ears in a feeble effort to restore it to order.

  “Oh, you’re good,” he sneered, dropping her arm as if burned. “I almost believed you. Believed that you were as much a victim as I to all of Grandmother’s machinations. But this has been your game from the start, hasn’t it?”

  Portia shook her head fiercely. “No. You’re a fool if you believe that.” She lurched back, uncaring that her back grew uncomfortably warm. She would step into the flames of hell itself if it put distance between them. She waved an arm toward the door. “You think I had some part in arranging the storm that stranded me here?”

  He ignored her and glanced about the cottage, his gaze stopping at the chair where her clothes draped. “Get dressed.”

  She looked at her clothes. “They’re still wet.”

  He thumbed behind him to the door. “Since we’re going to ride back out into the rain, wet clothes won’t matter much.”

  Portia shivered. “Can we not wait until the weather clears?”

  His lips curled back from his teeth. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you? More time alone with me.” He advanced, stalking her like a jungle cat, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “And just how far would you go to trap me?” His eyes dropped and she felt them burn a trail over the tops of her bare shoulders. “Who’s to say I won’t take what you’re offering and still not wed you?” His hand rose, brushing the slope of one shoulder, sliding down until the backs of his fingers grazed the swell of one breast.

  Her breath caught, and not entirely from fear. She should loathe him and the suggestive gleam in his eyes, the wicked bent of his thoughts. How could she feel anything but contempt for a man who thought so ill of her? Who thought her dishonest and conniving?

  She watched his mouth as he continued to talk, hypnotized by the slow, seductive movement of his lips, the way they moved to form each and every word—regardless that his words were poison. “Are you prepared to wager all, Lady Portia, on the chance that I will come to scratch and wed you?” He angled his head. “It’s a wager you’ll lose, but I’ll accommodate you. I wouldn’t mind a taste of what you’re flaunting.”

  With a snort of disgust, she twisted away from his roving fingers, suddenly feeling as though foul insects crawled across her flesh. “Get your hands off me. I’m offering you nothing.”

  She blinked rapidly, wondering at the sting in her eyes, the awful thickness in her throat. He would not reduce her to tears. Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “I’m not about to be dragged across the countryside simply because of your deranged notion that I’ve designs on you. When will you get it through that thick skull of yours that I am not in pursuit of you?” She raked him with a withering glare.

  His chest lifted on a great inhalation as if gathering strength and patience from some deep well within him. As if he were the one being tested and pushed beyond aggravation. “We are not about to stay here together. This rain could very well continue on through the night.”

  “Then leave.” She flung a hand in the direction of the door. “Feel no obligation to remain. Heaven knows you’re not safe with me. Why, I might ravish you.” Rolling her eyes, she stomped toward the table and pulled out a chair. Securing her blanket more tightly about her, she planted herself in the seat. Lifting an eyebrow, she dared him to force her to move from her spot.

  He c
ould leave. She was staying put.

  He took his time replying, looking from her to the door as if he debated hefting her bodily from the chair. She held her breath, willing him to leave—willing him to quit this absurdity and believe her. At last, he sighed and muttered, “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

  “Pesky gentlemanly honor,” she mocked. “Picks the most inopportune times to surface.”

  He cocked his head and studied her through narrowed eyes. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Portia.”

  “No, my lord, you don’t suit me,” she countered.

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Ah, but we know that to be untrue.”

  Memories intruded. The taste of his kiss, the velvet slide of his tongue in her mouth. She pushed aside the unwanted memories and reminded herself of his total misjudgment of her. How could she crave a man who thought so little of her? Where was her pride?

  She stifled the urge to howl in frustration. “What you know couldn’t fill the inside of my boot.”

  “God’s teeth, you’ve a viper’s tongue. No wonder you can’t find a gentleman to wed in Town.”

  The barb stung and she stiffened, fighting for composure.

  He looked away, too—to the single window, where wind and rain rattled noisily against the shutters. He sighed, and the sound resounded through her.

  Swallowing, she strove to appear poised, unaffected—the precise way she didn’t feel at the prospect of a night alone with him.

  “I’ll sleep on the rug,” he finally said. “But don’t think my staying changes anything. You’re not so tempting I can’t resist you for a single night.”

  Heat scalded her cheeks. She surged to her feet, every inch of her quivering with fury. He had delivered his final insult. Her hands clenched about her blanket, her fingers stiff and bloodless. “I’ll sleep on the rug. I found it quite comfortable before you woke me.”

  With stiff movements, she marched back to the lambskin rug.