A Much Compromised Lady (2 page)

“A Gypsy girl broke into my rooms,” Nevin
said, red-faced now, his small mouth pulled down and the lines on
his face deepened with determination. “I will have her caught and
up before the law.”

He came forward a step, an emerald ring
flashing fire on his left forefinger as he moved.

“You certainly will not if you are dead,
sir.”

The older man hesitated, uncertainty clouding
his gray eyes. “Dead? Is that a threat, you...you...”

“That, sir, is plain speaking. My usual habit
for dealing with intruders is to shoot them. So far I have made an
exception in your case, out of consideration for the lady. However,
my consideration for anyone has its limits.”

Nevin huffed as if he did not believe this,
but he also did not take another step forward.

Watching the fellow, St. Albans wondered if
perhaps Nevin had not heard that the Earl of St. Albans never
bluffed. Their paths in Society crossed little enough that Nevin
might be unaware of anything more than the gossip—most of it
true—that St. Albans had shot three men. One in a fair duel, and
the other two not. Just in case, St. Albans shifted.

Moving his hand out from under the lady
beside him, he slid it under his pillow. However, his fingers did
not find the curve of his pocket pistol. He felt nothing. No smooth
mahogany stock. No chill of silver filigree. Just bare, worn bed
linen.

Annoyance flared again inside him, and
quickly died as the novelty of the situation caught his fancy. So
the lady in his bed had no use for diamond stickpins, but she had
one for loaded pistols. He could not help the quirk that lifted the
corner of his mouth. Oh, she really was a delight. He simply could
not afford to let these louts ruin his evening with her.

“Get out,” he said, already starting to turn
back to where she cowered under the covers with only the dark curls
of her hair peeking out from the bed linen.

Nevin hissed out a curse, but the landlord
was already muttering about how the thief must have slipped down
the back stairs, and those Gypsies were probably already miles down
the road.

Hearing the desperation in the man’s voice to
leave, St. Albans glanced back at the trio. “Oh, go find your own
woman elsewhere, Nevin. And leave me mine.”

Fury blazed in the older man’s eyes. His
mouth pulled into a tighter sneer. “You...you disgust me.”

“Oh, for...go and be disgusted elsewhere,
unless it is that you have a fonder taste of watching sin.”

Nevin glanced once at the form concealed by
the covers. The emerald ring glinted again as his fingers clenched
and loosened. He swung around and strode out, his back stiff as a
poker.

The landlord began another set of ducking
bows, pushed his gawking, sleepy son out before him, and left,
pulling the door shut behind him.

St. Albans waited until he heard the click of
the broken latch before he swung out of bed. Dragging the wooden
chair forward, he secured the chair-back under the knob.

He turned back to the bed.

As he had expected, his Gypsy had sat up
again and now she pointed his own pistol at his heart. The silver
glinted in the firelight as her slim hands quivered with the
faintest tremble. It was very faint, but enough to make him
cautious. His pistol had a rather light trigger, and he did not
care to tempt a nervous woman. It would probably be a blessing to
the world if she shot him dead, but odds were that she’d only maim,
and he had seen just how cursed painful a bullet could be.

No. That fate did not interest him.

Crossing his arms, he leaned against the
wall. “My dear delight, pray do not spoil the evening by becoming
predictable. A shot will only bring them back, and you can hardly
want that beautiful neck of yours ruined with a hangman’s rope.
Besides, I can entertain you far better alive than I can dead.”

Her wide mouth pulled down, and she said in
that teasingly cultured, throaty voice, “I do not have to kill
you—only wound you.”

St. Albans smiled. “You had best aim to kill,
sweet desire. I honestly do have the devil’s temper, and unless you
shoot me dead, I cannot vow to show you anything but my worst
side.”

Glynis hesitated. The grim certainty in his
tone sent a shiver along her skin. She did not want to see his
worst side. She did not think she would care much for it. And she
did not want to shoot him. She did not want to shoot anyone, in
fact. Drat him for being right, anyway. A pistol report would only
bring back the others. She ought to have heeded the cards. But if
she had not come, Christo would have. And he had not her light
touch, so it had had to be her.

At least she had seen the box. As they had
heard, Francis Dawes traveled with it, keeping it close to him. She
had almost touched the dragon carved upon it, but she had had no
time to do more. So now she must get back to Christo and lay new
plans. Better plans.

Only this green-eyed devil stood in her
way.

Lowering the pistol, she eyed him cautiously.
She kept her fingers wrapped tight around the cool feel of
polished, deadly wood. She did not trust this
gaujo
, with
his steady gaze that seemed to look into her, and his cold voice,
and his too-hot touch. Her lips still tingled from that kiss he had
taken. Of course, she had offered herself. She had to own that. But
she had not expected what had followed.

Thinking only to befuddle him, and to hide
herself, she had pulled him to her. And then a storm of fire had
swept her into a spinning world of heat and sensation. He had done
that to her. How? How did he know how to do such things to a
woman?

She studied him, as if viewing a new kind of
wild animal.

He had the conceit of his kind, this
gaujo
lord. It was bred into the clean, sharp lines of his
jaw and cheekbone, and that arrogant nose. It lay coiled in the
wide shoulders and strong muscles of his form now exposed by his
disordered shirt and his close fitting pantaloons which outlined
every lean sinew. There was much to interest a woman. But also much
she despised. He stood there as if he owned this room and all in
it—her included. His eyes were as cool as any green glen, and she
knew how easy it was to hide danger in such places.

As she studied him, his smile twisted his
mouth into a cynical slant. He had a sensuous lower lip, full and
soft. Her pulse galloped faster as tension crackled in the air. She
knew how that mouth had felt on her. And how his hair, now drawn
into glinting gold by the firelight, had felt like the finest silk
fringe under her fingers.

No, she did not trust this
gaujo
.

She kept hold of the pistol, but she put on
her best pleading face, the one she used for begging shelter on
someone else’s land. “Please...please, let me go. I stole
nothing.”

One eyebrow lifted in such mockery that her
fingers itched to shoot him for no better reason than to obliterate
that look from his face and replace it with shocked surprise. His
eyes, however, warmed as they rested on her, and the appreciation
in them cooled her temper, though it did nothing to make her feel
more comfortable.

“You mean, rather, you came away
empty-handed. Come, my delight, be honest at least. You may not be
a thief, but it is not from lack of trying.”

Her temper flared and her chin shot up. “You
mean I am a Gypsy, so I must be a thief! Well, I came looking only
for what is rightfully mine. For what that lying
gaujo
stole
from me—from my family!”

“
Gaujo
? And what is a
gaujo
?”

Struggling to temper her pride, she tried to
remember the lessons her mother had taught.
Surrounded by the
Gadje, the Rom’s only defense is his tongue.

She shifted on the bed, and his gaze flicker
across her body. She had a far better weapon there than any mere
pistol. But she would have to take care how she used it.

Softening her tone, she said. “You’re
gaujo
. As was that other lord. It is someone who is not one
of the traveling people.”

“Well, that is true enough, but I do object
to being classified with Nevin. We really do not have much in
common—other than perhaps an interest in you.” A measuring look
came into his eyes. “And I will point out that you did steal one
thing—my pistol.”

She glanced down at the silver and wood
pistol in her hands. It would fetch a goodly price in any market,
and Bado would certainly have urged her to pocket it—and the man’s
gems—for the good of the family. But she hated that such need had
always driven her.

Looking up at this
gaujo
again from
under her eyelashes, she saw his mocking smile, and she could not
bear it. She had too many times been called thief—justly and
unjustly. Well, no more. She had sworn that day when
Dej
had
told them of their true inheritance that there would be only one
thing for which she used her skills. By God she had sworn, and on
her father’s memory. She would not break that vow.

Slowly, carefully, she put the pistol on the
pillow beside her. Rocking back on her heels, she folded her hands
in her lap.

“I have stolen nothing,” she said, her
expression kept empty. There, let him try to do what he wanted with
her. She knew a few tricks yet to deal with such as him. Pulling in
a breath, Glynis waited, her heart racing.

St. Albans’s pulse kicked up a notch. Such an
unwise move for her to relinquish her protection. He could now put
her back where he wanted her—underneath him.

And yet he stood there, arms crossed, not
moving towards her. Oh, damn his curiosity. It would indeed be the
death of him one of these days.

“If you are not a thief, then why are you
here? What did he take from you that you would risk your neck to
get it back?”

Tilting her head, she studied him from the
corner of her dark eyes.
What lie will she tell me?
he
wondered.

Voice credibly even, and her gaze steady, she
said, “I was his mistress. He promised me a box of jewels, and I
came to claim that from him.”

St. Albans’s mouth quirked. Oh, she really
was quite wickedly wonderful. Liar, thief, and Lucifer knew what
else. Virtue had always attracted him with its fascinating
illusion, but sin had always been far more entertaining.

“You were his mistress?” he repeated. He knew
enough of Nevin to know that the man would never take any creature
so low as a Gypsy to his bed—no matter how tempting she was. Thank
heavens he himself had no such prejudice.

She frowned at him, those dark eyes
flashing.

“And he promised you a box of jewels?” St.
Albans said, hoping to prompt her to embroider her story.

Slowly, she nodded. St. Albans’s smile
widened, and Glynis’s heart began to hammer a warning again.

Uncrossing his arms, he pushed off the door
and came towards her. She forced herself to sit still and watch him
approach. She knew better than to flinch. A hound always chased the
fox that ran. Better to hold still and dodge at the last moment, if
she could.

“In that case, my delight, forget Nevin. I
shall give you far more than a box of jewels.”

She waited until he reached the bedside
before she scurried back, putting the width of the bed between
them. She had no illusion of safety. She had felt the strength in
his arms. But all she needed was to stay from his reach, and to
find a way to unblock the door.

“Do you think me a fool to believe such a
promise again? You are like him. You will say anything now, but
come the morning, you will give nothing.”

Green fire flashed in his eyes. Glynis’s
throat tightened and her pulse skittered. She knew how a dangerous
it might be to taunt a lord such as him, and now she saw just how
much he hated to be compared to Francis Dawes.

“You dare...” he started to say. He cut off
his words. He pressed his mouth tight, and his upper lip thinned to
a cruel line. She waited for him to move, to react. Instead, his
mouth softened and quirked. “You are good. Very good, indeed. A lie
to feint, and then a
botta segrete
to score a palpable
hit.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Fencing, my delight. A secret attack. You
compare me to Nevin, hoping I shall respond and offer you an
opening. And almost I did. But the wound is not fatal, my Gypsy. I
did warn you that you had best go in for a kill.”

He smiled and began to move around the
bed.

Panic flooded Glynis. She thought briefly of
trying to scramble across the bed for the door, but instincts
tingled, warning her that he wanted her tangled in those covers
again. Well, she would not play his game. She had no hope of
winning.

Backing into the corner, she watched him come
around the end of the bed until he stood before her, the fire
lighting one side of his face and the other half of him in shadows.
Heat blazed from his skin, far warmer than the embers in the
fireplace. She wet her lips and swallowed, but her throat remained
hollow and parched. Her heart pounded faster against her ribs, and
she struggled to keep her mind clear and quick.

“You are right,” she admitted. “That was a
lie. And you deserve better, for you did not give me away to the
others and I see now that you could have. You are not like that
man. You have honor in you.”

He stopped his advance and stared down at
her, his expression startled and a little bemused. “Honor? My dear,
you really did choose the wrong room for hiding if you think
that.”

“No. I choose well. I heard the maids talk of
you—that you like women. And so I knew that you would be a good
man.” Glynis gave him a warm smile. “After all, how can any man who
likes women not be good in his heart?”

St. Albans stared at her, baffled and
distracted. Her logic defied rationality. It also irritated him.
What in blazes was he doing arguing philosophy with her? And yet,
he could not allow these delusions of her hers to persist. “My
sweet mystery, a love of the fair sex is the least likely
indication of virtue in this world.”