Cates, Kimberly (13 page)

"Is that so?" Isabelle demanded.

Juliet angled her gaze around until they fell on something far more disturbing than the faces in the doorway. A swath of bronze skin pulled taut over the corded muscles and shadowy valleys of a man's naked shoulder. Skin—hot, naked—burned like liquid satin against the place where her nightgown drooped off one bare arm, while a sinewy thigh prickly with fine dark hair imprinted itself in the soft column of her leg.

"You're—you're naked! Lord above!" Juliet gave a cry of alarm, tried to struggle away from him, but the trap of heavy satin sash was too tangled around them both.

"You're not particularly well covered yourself," Slade muttered, one arm curving beneath her breasts, crushing her against him like an iron band, the other fumbling to draw her nightgown bodice back up over a generous slice of bare breast. But the gown was pinned beneath her, and it was a futile effort.

"Let go of me!" she demanded, wriggling in an effort to get free.

"I can't," he growled. "Unless you decide to leave your nightgown behind. I'm bare as the day I was born."

Awareness jolted through her like a lightning-strike. The only thing between his nude body and her own was an infinitesimal web of fabric. If that was so, then the firm bulge pressing into her buttocks was...

She gave a horrified squeak, the notion of getting away from him was almost worth risking the horrific chance of catching a glimpse of naked male flesh. But she didn't dare expose Elise and the other women to such a thing.

She steeled herself to hold perfectly still. Fire spilled into her cheeks as she peered up at the gaggle of ladies. "Please, listen. I can explain."

"Sabrehawk, the Prince of Sin, naked in your bedchamber. Your nightgown hanging half off. I'd like to see you try to explain,
ma petite."
Isabelle crossed her arms over what had once been called the most luscious breasts in France.

Juliet would have expected the Frenchwoman to pounce on this situation as if it were a tray full of her favorite French bonbons, reveling in a delicious bout of teasing. But not so much as a glimmer brightened those eyes that could dance with such unholy glee, no hint of bell-like laughter clinging about Isabelle's mouth.

Juliet gave another futile tug at the lace-edge of her shift, and met the older woman's gaze. "I came upon Mr. Slade in the garden last night when I was taking the basket of food out to the back gate. He had an altercation with some of the wretches who have been tormenting us. After discussion, we decided it would be best if Mr. Slade stayed at Angel's Fall for the time being."

"That doesn't explain why he's naked as the day he was born." Isabelle's eyes narrowed.

"My breeches were damp from the rain," Adam growled, "and though I probably should have spent the night wet and itchy and miserable in them, I took them off. That's all there is to it."

"Isabelle, fie on you!" Violet objected. "You cannot be hinting that our Juliet has been seducing Sabrehawk!"

"Look at her, for Christ's sake," Adam blustered. "Does she look like the kind of woman I'd fling myself at in a fit of passion? I prefer my women a trifle older and more worldly-wise."

Juliet had no idea why a swift surge of hurt should rise in her breast at his dismissal.

"Perhaps in the future you should confine yourself to the bedchambers of women who know what to do with that magnificent weapon of yours?" Isabelle snapped.

"Stop it, Isabelle! This isn't the time for such games," Elise quavered. "Let Juliet explain." Great chocolate-brown eyes turned to her with the desperate hope of a child who wants her mama to reassure her that the tooth-drawer won't hurt her or that a lost kitten will come home. Juliet's greatest terror had always been that she would somehow fail Elise.

"Juliet, why is he here?"

"Because, you see, he—" Juliet started to explain, stopped, suddenly helpless. Her gaze darted over her shoulder to clash with Adam's dark eyes. Eyes clouded with warning, caution. Saints above, what could she say? She could hardly tell them the truth, that Fletcher was being hunted, a fugitive. No one knew better than she did how unguarded her ladies' tongues could be. It would be unexcusable to put the boy in more danger. Especially for so weak a cause as to quell their gossip.

"Explain it to us, Juliet." Isabelle's winged brow arched over one lovely eye, its jewellike brilliance suddenly glittering, hard. "No men are allowed here. "Tis the first rule. I remember you drumming it into my head most insistently the first night I arrived on your doorstep. And last night you reiterated it quite clearly."

"I know," Juliet said, groping for something to sweep away the brittle challenge in the older woman's face. "But you don't have to worry about Mr. Slade, I promise you. He will lodge here, in my chambers. He won't be a threat to your reputations."

"Eh, bien.
But what about yours? There is to be a different set of rules for you, is that how it will be? The angel so far above us sinners can entertain a dozen men in her chambers if she wishes. Isn't that a trifle hypocritical?"

"Stop!" Elise pleaded. "You cannot say such things about Juliet." But Juliet couldn't help knowing what Isabelle said was true. From the beginning, these women had teetered with one foot in each world. The world of carnal pleasuring they had inhabited for so long—terrible, yet familiar—and the other, a chance at the fresh beginning Juliet offered. Juliet had always realized it would take only the tiniest push to shove them either way. That most of the women still hung in the balance, undecided... afraid... Could Juliet be making a fatal mistake?

"He kept the mob from overrunning this place yesterday," Millicent said. "I think we should let him stay."

Juliet could feel Slade's muscles tense against her back and buttocks. "I'm staying here to protect Miss Grafton-Moore, protect all of you from the slime who want to hurt her. That is my sole purpose for lodging at Angel's Fall."

"But our Juliet has made it clear we're to protect ourselves," Isabelle insisted with a wave of one beringed hand. "You may gather up your things,
monsieur.
We have no need of your services."

"It is my decision to make, Isabelle," Juliet said firmly. Though why in heaven's name she wasn't using the Frenchwoman's reaction as an excuse to oust Adam from Angel's Fall she had no idea.

"Both Mr. Slade and Mr. Raeburn will be residing here for the time being, and that is final." She saw the women exchanging uneasy glances, while Isabelle's eyes grew strangely flinty.

"Now," Juliet continued, "if you would all leave so that Mr. Slade and I can... can get dressed, we can finish this discussion at the breakfast table."

"We might as well spend breakfast jabbering, since we'll certainly not be eating anything," Isabelle sniped. "'Tis your turn to make the meal, Juliet, and I doubt you have it steaming on the back of the stove. Of course, Violet and Millicent and I, we must—"

"Enough!" Millicent grasped Isabelle's arm. "Get out, now as Juliet asks."

One by one, the women drifted away, but Juliet knew she'd remember forever the expressions on their faces— disbelief, disillusionment, and confusion. The only thing that was certain was that suddenly the rules had changed, and that had unsettled them all.

Elise paused at the doorway, two hot spots of color on her wan cheeks. "Juliet, do you—do you wish me to remain? To help untangle you."

The prospect was horrific. Elise flinched when she faced a fully clothed man on the street. Juliet knew the depth of loyalty in the girl, offering to confront a naked Adam Slade.

Juliet swallowed hard. "No. I'm certain we'll be able to manage just fine."

The girl exited, casting back one worried look before she shut the door. The instant she disappeared, Juliet started wrestling against the bindings.

"Ouch!" He grabbed at his lean middle. "Bloody hell, something
bit
me!"

"The scissors," Juliet explained, pulling their gleaming silver points away from his flesh.

"Blast and damn, what are your scissors doing strung across my doorway?" he demanded incredulously. "For that matter, what's the rest of this junk clattering about for? It almost looks as if someone set it up on purpose."

"I did."

"Why?" Adam growled, plucking at the blue ribbon. "What the devil is this contraption?"

"A trap," she admitted, abashed. "I made it out of my sash to catch you if you should decide to roam about."

"A
trap,"
he enunciated slowly, starting to untangle it with one hand. "What a relief. For a moment, there, I thought it was some odd fashion you females had cooked up. This snare was damned resourceful, angel. Except that you caught yourself. In a beastly compromising position, I might add. Thank God I'm not some noble gentleman, or the two of us would be on our way to the altar right now."

The prospect would have been enough to chill Juliet to her marrow, if it hadn't been for an unexpected, hot prickle of excitement in some hidden part of her. But Slade had already brushed the subject aside and was groping for the bedclothes dangling off her feathertick.

"Can you reach a hank of that sheet?" he asked.

She scooted over a bit, Adam following, his other hand still clamped on the bit of nightgown. And Juliet was struck again by what a meager shield she made for such a large helping of masculinity.

"Blast, we're never going to get out this way," Slade groused. "The devil with modesty. Just close your eyes."

Juliet screwed her eyelids tight. She heard the sound of fabric ripping, felt that hard hot body disengaging from hers one heavily muscled limb at a time. The japanned iron tray gave a ringing bong as it wobbled down onto the floor, the remains of a porcelain bell giving an off-key tinkle. There was a whisking sound as he grabbed up something, doubtless to cover himself.

"You can open your eyes now," he said.

Under any other circumstances she might have found it outrageously amusing, the mighty Sabrehawk, legendary swordsman, standing there with his hips swaddled in one of her cast-off petticoats, his face thunderous with aggravation and chagrin. But it only made him look all the more masculine, potent and powerful and dangerous.

Despite her burning humiliation, Juliet was mesmerized by sleek sinew and bulging muscle, a warrior's body—hard-used in battle, honed into a weapon of human flesh, still bearing the pale white tracks of scars carved by other men's swords. Men, Juliet knew instinctively, who had not lived to wield their weapons against any other foe.

"They would have had to find out about this arrangement somehow," he said, tightening his grip around the cascade of beribboned fabric.

"I suppose so." Juliet climbed to her feet. "But I would have preferred to discuss it when we were both fully clothed."

"They'll get used to the situation in no time. As for their doubts, they'll dismiss them soon enough. Only a lunatic could believe anything could arise between the two of us— the angel and the sinner."

Surely he was right. Why did that certainty make her a trifle sad? And why did she keep chafing over the censure in Isabelle's eyes?

She chewed at her lower lip, tired and troubled, uneasy at the memory of the expression on Isabelle's face. Was it possible that by allowing Adam Slade to remain at Angel's Fall she'd shaken the foundation of everything she'd built here? Broken faith. Trampled trust.

Juliet has made it clear we're to protect ourselves—
Isabelle's words echoed in her mind. She'd worked so hard to instill that sense of self-reliance in these women, women imprisoned by society's idiotic views and their own crippling self-doubt of confidence in their own strength.

It had been a grueling battle. A never-ending one— defying the dictates of society. And from the moment Isabelle had arrived at Angel's Fall, she'd been the most resistant to the new philosophies. The first to dismiss such preachings with a jest and a mocking laugh. She had seemed almost eager, anticipating the crumbling of Juliet's convictions when they crashed headlong against the doctrine of the real world.

Then why had Juliet seen such a sense of betrayal buried in the courtesan's eyes moments ago? Just a flicker of disillusionment from a woman so cynical Juliet was certain she believed in nothing, in no one. Not even herself.

It would be all right, Juliet assured herself uneasily. She'd calm Isabelle's misgivings through her actions. Make certain Adam Slade did not interfere in the workings of Angel's Fall. She would remain in control, not abdicate her authority, her responsibilities, or even surrender the threats made against her to this hulking warrior of a man. Beginning with her confrontation with Lord Darlington tonight.

She paced to her desk, opening the tiny drawer, her fingertips running over the golden petals of her mother's necklace as though it were a talisman.

She couldn't fail. She'd done so before, and her father had suffered. Papa and Jenny. She closed her eyes, remembering flyaway copper curls and a smile so bright it could light up the world.

Remembering a desperate search mounted after it was too late.

No. She'd never fail that way again. Especially tonight. Because if she did, innocent Elise would pay the price.

Chapter 7

If Adam had to listen to women's chatter for one more minute, his head would explode. He pressed his fingertips against his temples, Millicent's tinkling laughter making him grind his teeth. Fletcher sat before the lady, a study in youthful captivation, his eyes glistening with fervor, his cheeks blushing every time Millicent spoke to him—an all too frequent occurrence during the endless hours of the day.

It seemed they were to be flooded with women, drowned in them, overrun by them—except for the one woman he needed to see.

If Adam had hoped to plead his case with Juliet, pressure her into leaving Angel's Fall, he'd been thwarted at every turn. For after a breakfast so tense even the mouse under the table couldn't eat, she'd bustled off in a flurry of activity, brushing him aside as if he were a bothersome fly.

"I have work to attend to, Mr. Slade," she'd said with crushing determination, then she'd disappeared into a whirlwind of lessons—cooking lessons and lessons in reading, mending, and stitchery. She'd presided over the household like a militant mother hen, barely sparing a glance to the two men underfoot, while most of her ladies squabbled over everything from who was to do the dishes to what was supposed to be baked for tea.