A Much Compromised Lady (4 page)

Blast her, but he would not be acting so
badly if she had not started this all by asking him what could he
do.

He was the Earl of St. Albans. He had been
from the day he was born, since his father was wise enough to break
his neck before seeing what kind of son he’d sired. He could do
anything he pleased.

And he was not, he thought with gritted
teeth, going to listen to the laughter of those ghosts from his
past; those things he could not do were things he chose not to. And
that was that.

He turned his mind from such ancient losses,
but those shadows softened his mood. She did not know him. And he
should not be so angry with her for being ignorant. Indeed, it was
part of her charm that she did not know him well enough to be
cautious enough around him.

“You may apologize now, my sweets,” he said,
trying hard to soften his tone. Reaching up, he brushed a dark curl
from her cheek. “And then we shall move on to more pleasant
things.”

St. Albans’s finger brushed across her skin,
warm and tender. And Glynis’s fear vanished like a fire doused by
sand. She struggled to find the armor of her anger, but too many
emotions had buffeted her tonight. Too much fear, too much of
nerves strung tight, too much scorn. She just wanted it over.
Fatigue filled her bones and weighed her soul, and she knew
suddenly that she was done fighting her own fate.

She had thought mention of marriage might
make him lose interest. He had not. She had thought if she gave him
a shrewish tongue that would put him off. It had not. And she saw
now that she would have to pay the price for the mistake of putting
herself into his path.

“Oh, just have done with it,” she told him.
She shut her eyes tight and turned her face to him, prepared to
endure his kiss, and whatever would follow. He would take what he
wanted from her, and she would just have to hope that no child came
from this. If it did, she would deal with that, too. She had dealt
with so much already in life. What was one more set of burdens?

Staring at the woman before him, the image
that St. Albans had tried to blot out for the past six months rose
again. The vision flashed in his mind of a golden-haired beauty—the
only woman he had ever allowed to escape. And that good deed had
done nothing but torment him. What idiot had ever said that virtue
was a reward? It had become a blasted curse.

For six months, he had done his best to
obliterate the uncomfortable feelings which that one act had
stirred within him. So what if that lady had seemed to find love
with another. Love never lasted. And that lady and her lord were
merely fools, living in a delusion that would shatter someday. Of
course, they had made London a boring place to be, for at any
moment the pair of them might turn up to remind him that he had
given into that idiotic impulse; he had told that lady the truth
instead of seducing her into staying with him.

His reward had been nothing but a restless
unease that he could not shake.

Ah, those fools would be the ones who someday
regretted their folly. But he was bloody well not going to allow
the sight of them—happy as only the besotted can be—to ruin his
pleasure.

Which was why he was not in London.

Taking his Gypsy’s chin in his fingers, he
tilted her face up. This one, he would not let go. Not even if she
turned to wood in his arms. He had learned better of himself. He
would take what she offered, and enjoy it, and he would bloody make
her enjoy it as well.

He began to lower his lips towards hers, but
he stopped when his mouth hovered a breath from hers.

Staring down at her closed eyes, he told her,
“I mean to have you no matter what.”

He felt her chin move as her throat
contracted, and she said, “So have done. And then I will go.”

“What if I don’t want to let you go
after?”

Her eyes opened then, wide and alarmed. He
smiled. Ah, at last. Better to have her scratching like a wild cat
than stiff with martyred submission.

However, the alarm vanished from her eyes,
and she smiled. His senses sharpened with warning. What was she
planning now? He waited, relief washing through him that she was no
blond, blue-eyed innocent. Heaven and Hades save him from such
ladies ever again. Far better to have this dark-eyed Gypsy full of
too many inventive ideas, a little liar and a thief, and fair match
for his own dark soul.

She wet her upper lip with her tongue and
tipped her head to one side. “Perhaps then we shall talk more about
your helping me—if I help you beforehand?”

St. Albans leaned forward to capture that
mouth with his, but a firm hand on his chest stayed him.

“I said
perhaps
. But do you not wish
me to first help from your other clothes?”

He eyed her warily. She tugged his shirt
loose from his pantaloons and smoothed a hand over his stomach and
up to his chest. Pinpoints of pleasure danced through him.

“Whatever did you have in mind?” he asked
with a smile.

“A game. A Gypsy game. You must stand in the
middle of the room with your eyes closed. And for every garment I
take off, you must take off one, as well. But there is one
thing—you must not open your eyes until I tell you to. It is bad
luck, and I will never trust you if you promise not to look and
then do so before I tell you.”

She was at it again. Scheming. He glanced at
the chair propped under the door knob. She could not move it
without his hearing the scrape of wood on wood.

So why not indulge her?

“Where do want me to stand?” he asked.

She led him to a spot halfway between the bed
and the door and asked him to close his eyes. The smile she gave
him as she asked had his pulse hammering.

“Promise not to look before I say,” she told
him, her mouth pulling into a pout.

“I promise.”

“No, it must be a sacred vow. On your
honor.”

“I have little enough of that, my
sweets.”

“Then on your family’s name.”

“Oh, very well. I promise, on the name of
Winters, that you have the word of the Earl of St. Albans not to
look before you say.”

Her hand brushed his chest again, leaving his
skin tingling. He closed his eyes and was rewarded with the sound
of cloth rustling. Stiff fabric was draped across his naked
shoulder.

“That is my corset. Now, in turn, pull off
your shirt. But keep your eyes closed.”

He obeyed, and began to think that he could
actually become accustomed to such commands from her. For a time,
at least. Perhaps he would even keep her with him for a few days,
or so. It had been long enough, after all, since he had had any
such lengthy liaison.

More cloth rustled, and soft fabric lay
across his shoulder. She whispered in his ear, “There is my shift.
Now I have nothing on at all. Will you match me before I tell you
that you can look?”

It took a few moments for him to strip off
his pantaloons. Knitted from fine wool they clung to his legs, but
he soon dragged them off and tossed them aside. He did not wear any
drawers underneath, and the cool air swirled around his bare
skin.

Straightening, he waited a moment for her
next command. What would she do before she told him to open his
eyes? He liked how resourceful she was. Perhaps they might even
enjoy each other’s company a few weeks?

The silence lengthened. Tilting his head, he
stretched out his other senses. He had not heard the chair scrape,
so she must still be in the room—and yet, it was too quiet. Too
empty.

A cold draft wound around his legs.

Opening his eyes, he spun around.

She was gone.

He stood naked in an empty room. The chair
stood on its four legs beside an open doorway. Fury pulsed so hot
in his veins that he almost forgot his lack of dress and went after
her. But the cold air began to cool his body and his head. He
glanced down at his naked skin and a smile lifted one side of his
mouth.

That little witch. So, she thought she had
made good her escape. She thought this was done.

Well, she had not yet learned what it was to
deal with the Earl of St. Albans.

* * *

Glynis ran down the backstairs of the inn,
her bare feet slapping quietly on the wood and her heart quick as
her feet. The door creaked as she pushed it open, but the noise of
the tap room muffled the sound. From upstairs she heard nothing,
but she knew she had little time.

Under her cloak, the cold swirled up and
chilled her skin as she slipped outside. She winced as her feet
slipped into mud. A pity she had to leave her shoes under that
gaujo’s
bed, but she knew when to cut her loses. And she
knew when to strive for yet another chance, even when she was ready
to give into defeat. Life had taught her that skill. And to enjoy
the small favors of this world. Such as the one that the rain had
stopped.

The air smelled wet and sharp with the
sweetness of early roses and the earthly pong of the stables that
lay behind the inn. Overhead, clouds danced, parting to reveal the
silver disc of a new moon, and closing again to hide its glow.

Clutching her dress to her naked body, Glynis
tightened her hold on her cloak and ran through the squishing mud.
She had no regret for her shift and her corset. They were small
payment to make for her escape. But her dress was of good wool, and
with only three dresses to her name she had risked the few seconds
it took to drag it and her cloak out from under the bed. She had
left her shoes for fear of the noise they would make. And she had
had to use every skill she’d ever honed in slipping into or out
from places to shift that chair and turn the doorknob in
silence.

Silence now filled the night—the creatures of
the woods had taken to their nests and burrows during the storm.
She would be wise now to copy them. Her toes dug into cold mud and
she let out a breath that she had not even known she was holding.
Safe. Almost safe.

With a care not to slip in the mud, she made
for the shadows of the woods that lay near to Littlebury’s village
green and the Red Lion inn. Silent now, she slipped behind the
blacksmith’s shop and from there into the woods. Under the shelter
of an oak, she stopped, her back to the wide trunk and rough bark.
Her lungs hurt from the cold air, but now she could afford to let
out a deep sigh of relief.

With her cloak still over her shoulders, she
struggled into her dress, leaving the ties in back loose. As she
straightened, a hand fell onto her shoulder.

Startled, she swung around, her fist clenched
to strike. But a familiar voice whispered with dry mockery,
“
Droboy tume, Romale
.”

The greeting, common enough among the Romany
eased open Glynis’s fist. Relief warmed through her like the rush
of good wine. “
Nais tuke
,” she whispered back, an edge to
her thank you. She added, “For frightening ten years off my life.
Why are you not waiting at the stream where we agreed to meet?”

She could not see Christo’s frown, but she
knew it must be there on his handsome face. His dark coat—turned up
to cover his white shirt—and dark breeches and soft, dark boots
changed him into a towered shadow, rather like one of the oaks
around them. As always, a sense of calmness came with him. But she
knew—and could feel—the restless energy that lay under that surface
composure. It was only when she saw Christo with his horses that
she ever felt that the quiet of his body also filled his soul.

“You were late,” he said, his voice soft but
his words clipped. He had been worrying too much. He always did.
“What went wrong? Wasn’t it there?”

She shook her head and glanced back at the
inn. Yellow candlelight spilled from the public room on the ground
floor. The sound of a man’s guffaw and the scrape of a fiddle being
tuned echoed in the night. From the upper story, Glynis glimpsed a
chink of golden light as a curtain shifted. Her heart skipped a
beat and a shiver chased across her bare arms.

“He had it, just as his servants said he
would. But the story will have to wait. Come,” she said, tugging on
his coat sleeve for him to come with her into the woods.

He did not move.

With her eyes accustomed to the darkness, she
stared up at him. The moon flirted again with the night, appearing
from behind her veil of clouds, and gave light to the set of his
clenched jaw and the impatience glinting in his eyes.

“Another time,” she pleaded. “We knew this
was a gamble, and we have lost. But there will be another time. A
better time.”

Wet leaves squelched as he shifted his
weight.
Please, Christo
, she begged him silently. He had not
her skills. Oh, he could charm easily enough, and could sell a
blind horse to a crippled man. But too often he chose the straight
path, no matter what its cost. And ever since they had learned the
full truth of their inheritance, she had felt the frustration
growing inside him. That lack of contentment had always been there,
as it had with her. Now it had a channel inside him, and she had
seen it start to change him.

He wanted—as did she—justice for what had
been done to their father, to their mother, to them. But at times
she feared that, in him, a dangerous need for revenge had started
to grow.

Uneasy with such misgivings, she pushed them
aside. They had troubles enough without allowing her inventive mind
to see more than was there.

“Come,” she said again, tugging on his arm,
trying to pull him with her. They could not risk an open
confrontation with Francis Dawes. As Lord Nevin, Dawes had power,
and the law with him. To his kind they were Gypsies. Vagrants.
Thieves, liars, and outcasts. They had no land, no status, no
rights. Dawes could have them arrested and transported for no more
cause than his word that they had done wrong. He was a gentleman.
A lord
, she thought, with bitter scorn. And he had good
reason to want them gone from this land. Or better still, to want
them dead.