A Rake's Vow

  Vane exchanged a long glance with Patience, then transferred his gaze back to Gerrard’s face. “It’s possible that’s why you were rendered unconscious—so you never did finish your latest view.”

  “But why?” The bewildered question came from Minnie.

  Vane turned to face her. “If we knew that, we’d know a great deal more.”

  Later that night, by unanimous accord, they held a conference in Minnie’s room. Minnie and Timms, Patience and Vane, gathered before Minnie’s fire. Sinking onto the footstool beside Minnie’s chair, one of Minnie’s frail hands clasped in hers, Patience scanned the others’ faces, lit by the flickering firelight.

  Minnie was worried, but beneath her fragility ran a streak of pure stubborness, and a determination to learn the truth. Timms seemed to consider the malefactors in their midst as a personal affront, if not to her dignity, then certainly to Minnie’s. She was doggedly fixated on unmasking the villains.

  As for Vane . . . Patience let her gaze roam his features, more austere than ever in the shifting golden light. All hard angles and planes, his face was set. He looked like . . . a warrior sworn. The fanciful notion popped into her head, but she didn’t smile. The epithet fitted all too well—he looked set on eradicating, annihilating, whoever had dared disturb Minnie’s peace.

  And hers.

  She knew that last was true—the knowledge had come to her borne by the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he’d helped her with Gerrard, in the way his eyes had searched her face, watching for worry, for signs of distress.

  The sensation of being within his protective circle was sweetly comforting. Even though she told herself it was only for now—for the present and not for the future—she couldn’t stop herself drinking it in.

  “How’s Gerrard?” Timms asked, settling her skirts in the second chair.

  “Safely sleeping,” Patience replied. He’d turned fretful as the evening wore on, until she’d insisted on dosing him with laudanum. “He’s snug in his bed, and Ada’s watching over him.”

  Minnie looked down at her. “Is he truly all right?”

  Vane, leaning against the mantelpiece, shifted. “There was no sign of concussion that I could see. I suspect that, other than a sore head, he’ll be his usual self in the morning.”

  Timms snorted. “But who hit him? And why?”

  “Are we sure he was hit?” Minnie looked at Vane.

  Grimly, he nodded. “His recollections are clear and lucid, not hazy. If he was seated as he said, there’s no way a falling stone could have struck him at that angle, with that sort of force.”

  “Which brings us back to my questions,” Timms said. “Who? And why?”

  “As to the who, it must be the Spectre or the thief.” Patience glanced at Vane. “Presuming they’re not one and the same.”

  Vane frowned. “There seems little reason to imagine they’re the same person. The Spectre has lain low since I chased him, while the thief has continued his activities without pause. There’s also been no hint that the thief has any interest in the ruins, while they’ve always been the Spectre’s special haunt.” He didn’t mention his conviction that the thief was a female, and thus unlikely to have had the strength, or intestinal fortitude, to cosh Gerrard. “We can’t rule out the thief as today’s culprit, but the Spectre seems the more likely villain.” Vane shifted his gaze to Timms’s face. “As for the why, I suspect Gerrard saw something—something he may not even realize he’s seen.”

  “Or the villain thought he saw something,” Timms replied.

  “He’s really very good with noting detail,” Patience said.

  “A fact the whole household knew. Anyone who’s ever seen any of his sketches would be aware of the detail he includes.” Vane stirred. “I think, given the disappearance of his last sketch, that we can safely conclude that he did indeed see something someone didn’t want him to see.”

  Patience grimaced. “He doesn’t remember anything special about what he’d sketched.”

  Vane met her gaze. “There’s no reason whatever it is would appear out of the ordinary to him.”

  They fell silent, then Minnie asked, “Do you think he’s in any danger?”

  Patience’s gaze flew to Vane’s face. He shook his head decisively. “Whoever it is knows Gerrard knows nothing to the point, and poses no real threat to Gerrard now.” Reading a lack of conviction in all their eyes, he reluctantly elaborated, “He was lying out there for hours, unconscious. If he was a real threat to the villain, said villain had ample time to remove him permanently.”

  Patience shuddered, but nodded. Both Minnie’s and Timm’s faces grew bleak. “I want this villain caught,” Minnie declared. “We can’t go on like this.”

  “Indeed.” Vane straightened. “Which is why I suggest we remove to London.”

  “London?”

  “Why London?”

  Resettling his shoulders against the mantelpiece, Vane looked at the three faces turned up to him. “We have two problems—the thief and the Spectre. If we consider the thief, then, while the thefts don’t follow any rhyme or reason, the chances of the perpetrator being one of the household is high. Given the number of items stolen, there must be a cache somewhere—we’ve virtually eliminated any possiblity that the stolen goods have been sold. If we remove the entire household to London, then, as soon as we leave here, the staff, all of whom are above suspicion, can start a thorough search. Simultaneously, when we arrive in London, I’ll arrange for all the luggage to be searched as well. In a house in London, further thefts and the hiding of items taken will be much more difficult.”

  Minnie nodded. “I can see that. But what about the Spectre?”

  “The Spectre,” Vane said, his expression growing grimmer, “is the most likely candidate for our villain of today. There’s no evidence that the Spectre comes from outside—he’s most likely one of the household. All that went before—the sounds and lights—could have been someone searching the ruins by night, when no one else was about. Today’s events presumably arose because Gerrard unknowingly got too close to something the Spectre doesn’t want seen. All that’s happened suggests that the Spectre wants to hunt in the ruins without anyone else about. By removing to London, we give the Spectre precisely the situation he wants—the ruins, deserted.”

  Timms frowned. “But if he’s one of the household, and the household’s in London . . .” Her words faded as understanding lit her face. “He’ll want to come back.”

  Vane grinned humorlessly. “Precisely. We’ll just need to wait and see who makes the first move to return.”

  “But will he, do you think?” Minnie grimaced. “Will he persist, even after today? He must realize he needs to be more careful now—he must fear being caught.”

  “As for fearing being caught, I can’t say. But”—Vane’s jaw firmed—“I’m quite sure, if it’s the empty ruins he wants, he won’t be able to resist the opportunity of having them all to himself.” He caught Minnie’s eye. “Whoever the Spectre is, he’s obsessed—whatever it is he’s after, he’s not going to give up.”

  And so it was decided: The whole household would remove to London as soon as Gerrard was fit enough to travel. As he did a final round of the silent, sleeping house, Vane made a mental list of preparations to be put in train tomorrow. The last leg of his watchman’s round took him along the third floor of the west wing.

  The door of Gerrard’s room stood open; soft light spilled across the corridor floor.

  Silently, Vane approached. He paused in the shadows of the doorway and studied Patience as, seated on a straight-backed chair set back from the bed, her hands clasped in her lap, she watched Gerrard sleep. Old Ada dozed, sunk in the armchair by the fireplace.

  For long, uncounted moments, Vane simply looked—let his eyes drink their fill—of Patience’s soft curves, of the sheening gloss of her hair, of her intrinsically feminine expression. The simple devotion in her pose, in her face, stirred him—thus would he want his children watche
d, cared for, protected. Not the sort of protection he provided, but protection, and support, of a different, equally important, sort. He would provide one, she would provide the other—two sides of the same, caring coin.

  He felt the surge of emotion that gripped him; he was long past breaking free. The words he’d used to describe the Spectre rang in his head. The description applied equally well to him. He was obsessed, and was not going to give up.

  Patience sensed his presence as he neared. She looked up and smiled fleetingly, then looked back at Gerrard. Vane curved his hands about her shoulders, then grasped and, gently but firmly, drew her to her feet. She frowned, but let him draw her into the circle of his arms.

  Head bent, he spoke softly. “Come away. He’s in no danger now.”

  She grimaced. “But—”

  “He won’t be happy if he wakes and finds you slumped asleep in that chair, watching over him as if he were six years old.”

  The look Patience bent on him stated very clearly that she knew precisely which string he was pulling. Vane met it with an arrogantly lifted brow. He tightened his arm about her. “No one’s going to harm him, and Ada’s here if he calls.” He steered her to the door. “You’ll be of more use to him tomorrow if you’ve had some sleep tonight.”

  Patience glanced over her shoulder. Gerrard remained sound asleep. “I suppose . . .”

  “Precisely. I’m not about to leave you here, sitting through the night for no reason.” Drawing her over the threshold, Vane pulled the door shut behind them.

  Patience blinked her eyes wide; all she could see was darkness.

  “Here.”

  Vane’s arm slid around her waist, and tightened, locking her to his side. He turned her toward the main stairs, strolling slowly. Despite the lowering gloom, Patience found it easy to relax into his warmth, to sink into the comfort of his strength.

  They walked in silence through the darkened house, and on into the opposite wing.

  “You’re sure Gerrard will be all right?” She asked the question as they reached the corridor leading to her room.

  “Trust me.” Vane’s lips brushed her temple. “He’ll be fine.”

  There was a note in his deep voice, rumbling softly through her, that reassured far more than mere words. The last of her edgy, perhaps irrational, sisterly trepidation slid away. Trust him?

  Safely screened by the dark, Patience let her lips curve in a knowing, very womanly, smile.

  Her door loomed before them. Vane set it wide and handed her through. A gentleman would have left at that point—he’d always known he wasn’t a gentleman. He followed her in and shut the door behind him.

  She needed to sleep; he wouldn’t be able to rest until she was dreaming. Preferably curled in his arms.

  Patience heard the latch fall home and knew he was in the room with her. She didn’t look back but walked slowly to stand before the fire. It was blazing, stoked by some thoughtful servant. She stared into the flames.

  And tried to clarify what she wanted. Now. This minute.

  From him.

  He’d spoken truly—Gerrard was no longer six years old. Her time for watching over him was past. To cling would only be to hold him back. But he’d been the focus of her life for so long, she needed something to replace him. Someone to replace him.

  At least for tonight.

  She needed someone to take from her all she had to give. Giving was her outlet, her release—she needed to give in much the same way as she needed to breathe. She needed to be wanted—needed someone to take her as she was, for what she was. For what she could give them.

  Her senses reached for Vane as he drew nearer. Drawing a deep breath, she turned.

  And found him beside her.

  She looked into his face, the angular planes burnished by the fire’s glow. His eyes, cloudy grey, searched hers. Setting aside all thoughts of right and wrong, she raised her hands to his chest.

  He stilled.

  Sliding her arms upward, she stepped closer; locking her hands at his nape, she pressed herself to him and lifted her lips to his.

  Their lips met. And fused. Hungrily. She felt his hands lock about her waist, then he shifted, and his arms closed, viselike, about her.

  Her invitation, her acceptance, shook Vane to his soul; he only just managed not to crush her to him. His demons howled in triumph; he swiftly shackled them, leashed them, then turned his attention to her. Of her own volition, she pressed closer. Letting his hands glide down the delicate planes of her back, he molded her to him, urging her hips nearer, then, sliding his hands further, he cupped the firm curves of her derriere and drew her forcefully into the V of his braced thighs.

  She gasped and offered him her mouth anew; rapaciously he claimed her. In the back of his mind rang a litany of warning, reminding him of his reined demons, of the concepts of civilized behavior, of sophisticated expertise—all the hallmarks of his rakish experience. Said experience, without conscious instruction, came up with a plan of action. It was warm before the fire—they could disrobe before it, then repair to the civilized comfort of her bed.

  Having formulated a plan, he focused on its implementation. He kissed her deeply, searchingly, evocatively—and felt her flaring response. Her tongue boldly tangled with his; distracted, keen to experience the sweet response again, he tempted her, taunted her, to repeat the caress. She did, but slowly, so slowly his senses followed every flick, every sliding contact, with giddy intensity.

  Not until he finally summoned his wits and eased back from their kiss did he feel her hands on his chest. Through his shirt, her palms branded him, her fingers kneading. She swept her hands up to his shoulders; his coat impeded the movement. She tried to push the coat off. Breaking their kiss, Vane released her and shrugged. Coat and waistcoat hit the floor.

  She fell on his cravat, as eager as his demons. Brushing her hands aside, Vane rapidly flicked the knotted folds undone, then dragged the long strip free. Patience had already transferred her attentions to his shirt buttons; within seconds she had them undone. Hauling the tails free of his waistband, she flung the sides wide and greedily set her hands searching, fingers tangling in the crisp hair.

  Looking into her face, Vane savored the look of sensual wonder in her features, the glow of anticipation in her eyes.

  He reached for her laces.

  Patience was enthralled. He’d explored her, but she hadn’t, yet, had a chance to explore him. She spread her fingers, and her senses, drinking in the warm resilience of taut muscle stretched over hard bone. She investigated the hollows and broad planes of his chest, the wide ridges of his ribs. Crisp brown hair curled and caught at her slim digits; the flat discs of his nipples hardened at her touch.

  It was all perfectly fascinating. Eager to extend her horizons, she seized the sides of his shirt.

  Just as he seized the sleeves of her gown.

  What followed had her giggling—foolishly, heatedly. Hands locked on each other, they rocked and swayed. Simultaneously, they both adjusted their grips. While she fought to wrestle his shirt from him, he—far more expertly—divested her of her gown.

  He hauled her into his arms and ravished her mouth, plundering deeply, one arm locking her to him while his other hand dealt with the drawstring of her petticoat.

  Patience answered the challenge and returned the kiss avidly—while her busy fingers fought with the buttons of his breeches. Their lips met and melded, parting only to fuse heatedly again.

  Her petticoats fell to the floor in the same instant she pushed his breeches over his hips. He broke from their kiss. Their eyes met, heated gazes colliding. With a soft curse, he stepped back and stripped off both boots and breeches.

  Eyes wide, Patience drank in the sight of him, the brutally hard, sculpted planes of his body bathed in the fire’s golden light.

  He looked up and caught her watching. He straightened, but before he could reach for her, she grasped the lower edge of her chemise and, in one smooth movement, drew it up and o
ver her head.

  Her eyes locked on his, she let the soft silk fall, forgotten, from her fingers. Hands, arms, reaching for him, she deliberately stepped into his embrace.

  The golden instant of meeting, the first touch of bare skin to bare skin, sent exquisite delight lancing through her. She sucked in a quick breath. Lids lowered, she draped her arms over his broad shoulders and pressed closer, settling her breasts against his chest, her thighs meeting his much harder ones, her soft belly a cradle for the rampant hardness of his staff.

  Their bodies slid and shifted, then locked tight. His arms closed, a steel vise, about her.

  And she felt the coiled tension that held him. The leashed tension he held back.

  The power, the force, she sensed in his locked muscles, in the taut sinews that surrounded her, compelled her. Fascinated her. Emboldened and encouraged her. She wanted to know it—feel it, touch it, revel in it. Tightening her arms about his neck, she pressed even closer. Lifting her head, she brushed her lips across his. And whispered, “Let go.”

  Vane ignored her—she didn’t know, couldn’t know, what she was asking. Lowering his head, he captured her lips in a long, lengthy kiss designed to intensify the glorious sensation of her naked body sinking against his. She felt like cool silk, vibrant, delicate, and sensual; the slide of her against him was a potent caress, leaving him achingly aroused, achingly urgent.

  He needed to get her to the bed. Soon.

  She broke from their kiss to place hot, openmouthed kisses across his collarbone, across the sensitive skin just below his throat.

  And to reach for him.

  She touched him. Vane stilled. Delicately tentative, she curled her fingers about his rigid length. He stiffened—and hauled in a desperate breath.

  Her bed. His demons roared.

  Guided by unerring instinct, her fingers closing more confidently about him, she licked one flat nipple, her tongue scalding hot, and murmured, “Let the reins go.”