A Dangerous Man (15 page)

She sighed, her shoulders drooping. She only hoped Hart Moreland noticed her sophistication, she thought, self-congratulations fading away in a tide of wry honesty, because she certainly hadn’t proven her savoir faire to herself. All day she’d thought of little other than his passionate kiss, his long fingers stroking her body through the layers of clothes; his mouth warm and …

Impatiently, she tossed her shawl over a chair and, uncoiling her hair from its loose chignon, wandered over to the vanity. She sat down and slipped off her shoes.

She had tried so very hard to match Hart’s presumed insouciance with her own. After all, what was a kiss to a man of the world, particularly one like Hart? So she’d flirted and laughed, hoping Hart would not realize how much that kiss had shaken her. But Hart Moreland knew what he had
done. It was there in the amused and all-too-knowing smile she had tried so hard to ignore.

And then, shortly after dinner, as she sparkled with all the brightness the artifice and skills at her disposal allowed, he’d absented himself, leaving her to the company she’d so painstakingly beguiled. As soon as he had left, everything had gone flat, the spirited conversation had become brittle, the gaiety seemed forced. Even Nathan Hillard’s urbane wit had failed to charm.

She sat absently brushing her hair out, her thoughts troubled. There had been an echo of Hart’s ardor in the way Nathan had watched her. His intimate smile had been a world different from Hart’s. Hart’s smile had been amused and rueful, Nathan Hillard’s had been warm with approval and tenderness.…

Nathan Hillard was a handsome and elegant man. Her mother would have found him to be the perfect catch. She shivered and set the brush down. In doing so she tipped over an envelope propped against the bottom of the vanity mirror.

Casually, she turned it over. Her name inscribed across its thick, creamy surface caught her eye. She ripped open the end of the envelope, pulled the single sheet free, and unfolded it. There was no salutation.

I need money, Mercy. Badly. I am in trouble I can’t extricate myself from. Do this thing for me, Dearest Sister, get me some cash, at least 5,000 pounds. Don’t fail me, I’m begging you. It
could not be more important. These men are brutes. They’ll stop at nothing. I can give you a week—I think I can convince them to let me have that long to come up with the cash. I’ll contact you then.

Will

Blindly, she reached for the discarded envelope. She turned it over, searching for some clue as to its point of origin. Nothing.

Her mind raced. The other notes had been requests for small sums. This was awful. The handwriting was little more than chicken scratches, the sentences jumbled as though written by a frightened hand. Even the affectionate “Dearest Sister” sounded forced, unlike Will.

Hart had been wrong. This wasn’t just some young man kicking over the traces. Will was in serious trouble. It sounded as if his life was in danger.

And she’d forgotten him.

She covered her face with her hands, shocked and guilt ridden by how easily she’d lost sight of her reason for being here.
You’ve been so caught up in Hart Moreland, you forgot about Will
.

She stumbled up from the vanity, mortified. She had to find Will before he was hurt. What if he could not convince these men to grant him a week in which to come up with the money? She had to do something. Now. She could not sit safely in Acton’s mansion eating petit fours and playing charades
while her brother was in danger of being hurt, possibly even killed.

She spun about, as if in searching the luxurious apartment she would find an answer. She had tried every other avenue she could think. She could not go to Acton. Even if he was willing to brave his mother’s disapproval on her behalf, tucked away here on his estate what could he offer her besides consolation? She didn’t need consolation. She needed help.

She needed Hart.

The thought of breaking her promise choked her. She smothered the guilt. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of fine principles. She
wouldn’t
allow anything to put her brother at risk.

She cracked open the door to the hall and peeked outside. There was no one in the dimly lit corridor. Everyone was asleep. She took a deep breath, summoning her resolution. Hart’s room was at the end of the passage, the corner room.

She slipped through the doorway and crept the length of the passage. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, half in anticipation of being discovered, half in dread of what Hart would do when he discovered what she wanted.

She found his door and grasped the brass knob. It turned noiselessly. Unlocked. Silently, she stole inside.

Accustoming herself to the disparate lighting, she blinked. Bright flames cavorted in the hearth, pitching tall shadows against the walls. The rest of
the room was steeped in darkness. She cast about, looking for Hart.

A giant ebony four-poster stood empty sentinel in the midst of the cavernous room. Not a ripple marred the dark brocade counterpane. On a black walnut bench at its foot stood an open trunk. A few articles of clothing lay across the upraised lid. Her gaze moved on to a small battered valise, a scarred pair of boots, a few men’s toiletries on a bureau. So little accompanied him on his travels. And there, against the far wall, in the deepest shadowed corner of the room, lay a neatly folded blanket and pillow.

Odd
. She frowned, taking a step forward.

The smell of sandalwood and brandy alerted her an instant before she saw him, emerging from the point where the fire’s light and night’s blackness converged. A tensile figure in an unbuttoned white dress shirt and black trousers, an unfastened white tie draped around his strong throat, broad shoulders and narrow hips, hair that could absorb light or reflect it, moon-dusk skin, and crystalline eyes. Had he been standing there all along, watching her with that inimitable gaze? The thought made her retreat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

Chapter 12

H
e couldn’t believe she was here, in his room, in the middle of the night, in the house of his potential brother-in-law. She had to know she risked his sister’s future by coming here. One blemish, one whispered transgression associated with his name, and Annabelle could bid adieu to James Trent, Duke of Acton.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He wished he’d not indulged in so much liquor after leaving Acton’s dinner table. Acton’s table? Who was he fooling? He’d been leaving Mercy Coltrane and her smiles and her soft, round American accent and the fact that neither was for him. They had been for Nathan Hillard.

The liquor may have clouded his mind, but there was nothing blurred about the jealousy searing his imagination. Nothing ephemeral about the stark hunger her kiss had bequeathed.

And now she stood here, a slender figure in a
gown that melded with the shadows, her back pressed to the closed door of his bedroom suite, her face veiled by darkness.

She didn’t say a word. He could hear her anxious breathing. He stared at her, damning himself for not throwing her out.

“What?” His low voice carried across the room. A log snapped in the hearth and a shower of embers briefly illuminated her face. She looked intent, determined. A woman who would have what she wanted.

But she doesn’t want you
. The thought goaded him and he responded to his own treacherous longing with anger. Damn her for making him want her, for making him willing to risk Annabelle’s future for a few minutes with her.

“I’ve come about the offer I made the other night,” she said.

He laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Did you come to see what you thought to hire?” he asked, his tone harsh, a bitter smile unfinished on his face. “Isn’t that the American way? Never buy a pig in a poke.”

“No,” she whispered, stricken.

Too raw? Too aggressive? Wasn’t that what the Coltranes had wanted from him? Aggression? Violence? Was that not what he was all about? Had always been about?

“Yeah. Yes,” he said. He jerked his shirttails from his trousers, yanked the remaining buttons free of their holes, his eyes never leaving her face. He pulled his shirt open, exposing his chest, and
turned, his arms held rigidly out from his body, palms turned up, presenting himself for inspection.

He wanted to look into her eyes. Because he wanted to know what he’d see when she looked at
his
body. Appreciation? Indifference? Contempt?

But he was as cowardly as he was hypocritical. Even as he stood thus—an animal being considered for purchase—he was afraid. Afraid there would be no approval. Afraid he’d fail her appraisal. Afraid Hillard was the better candidate. Afraid she’d go away.

He was nearly twenty-eight years old and he had had sex so seldom, he could remember each coupling in intricate detail. Twenty-eight years and his near celibacy had never been more than a mild irritation. But ever since having seen her, the irritation had opened into a gnawing wound, a deep gash he couldn’t knit back together.

“I’m not here for … I’m here because you have to help me.
Please
, Hart.”

Her obvious fear plunged him into sobriety. He buried his ardor, banked it deeply, a sizzling ember in a bed of snow. He turned, unwilling to have her see how her words hurt him. Of course she had not come for him. Of course.

“Forgive me,” he said. He laughed humorlessly. “I seem to say those words to you on an hourly basis.”

He heard her swallow. She came forward into the flickering firelight. Her expression was uncertain, her movements tentative. Her hair hung in a ruby-glazed cloak about her shoulders.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to come any closer to you,” he said, shame making his voice hoarse. Fool. Regardless of the sweet, budding ardor with which she’d returned his kiss this morning, she was as unfamiliar with lust as he had lately grown accustomed to it. “What do you want?”

“It’s Will.”

“I told you, forget him.”

“I’ve had a note from him. He needs money.” She held a sheet of paper out, suspended from her fingertips.

He took the thing, read it, and returned it. “So? He needs money. I can’t tell you how many of these letters I’ve read.”

“From whom?”

He ignored the question. “It does no good to pay them. There’s always another letter. Another entreaty. It’s a shakedown, Mercy,” he said, suddenly tired.

“This one is different. Desperate. He’s in trouble. I know it.” Her tone was pleading.

“Forget him, Mercy.” He took her arm and turned her back to the door, propelling her before him. “Have a fine time here, enjoy the countryside. Go to London, take in a play—”

“Damn you.” She jerked free, whirling to confront him. Her eyes, so near his, shone with intensity. “Listen to me. My brother needs help. I’m going to aid him. And you’re going to help me.”

“No. I’m not.”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. Her voice was
low, piercing. “If you do not, I will tell all these people that you were once a gunfighter.”

She waited for violence to erupt. She’d pushed him too far and she knew it. But she didn’t know any other way. She needed him. And she’d pay whatever price her tactics demanded of her.

His austere features shuttered abruptly, deadened and lifeless. She might as well have been speaking Apache for all the reaction he gave. The firelight limned his lean, muscular torso; like hoarfrost on granite. His coldness was nearly palpable. Only his eyes, gleaming and focused, were alive.

“Is that a threat?” he whispered.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

His expression tightened. She realized with a sickening sense of horror that he was smiling. “So much for your word,” he said.

“I’d break my word a thousand times for such a cause.”

“Some
cause
you’ve found yourself, Mercy.” The word hung between them, mocking and derisive. “What cause? Perhaps your brother is a wastrel who has gambled too deeply.” He advanced one step closer. She held her ground. “Or maybe just a pitiful addict in the throes of withdrawal.” He brought his hand up, grazing his knuckles along her chin. “Or any other strutting piece of worthless crap who’s drunk too much or whored too much or gambled too much. Some
cause.”

Her lips quivered. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what you think. All I know is that you
will
help me find him.”

“Will I?” he whispered. Her skin was soft and silky; already he knew too well the chamois texture of it, the graceful delicacy of the bone beneath. She was trembling. The pulse at the base of her neck fluttered wildly.

“Yes.” He could barely hear her.

“I’m a ruthless man, Mercy. Conscienceless. I’d have thought you’d realized that. Especially after this morning.” His voice flowed over her, low and dangerous, like the purr of a lynx. “And I always get what I want. Are you sure you want to put yourself in the way of my plans, Mercy?”

She was silent.

“You should be afraid.”

“I am.”

“Good,” he said. “Go back to bed.”