Daring (10 page)

Chapter

8

M
aggie gasped as if he’d dealt her a physical blow, raising her small white face in shock. Good Lord, she had become a felon—she’d committed her first crime—for nothing. He had been helping Jamie all along. She was going to throttle the Chief if she ever got back to Heaven’s Court, which seemed highly unlikely to judge by the unforgiving look on the Lion’s face. One daring mistake, a misjudgment, and her life was in ruins.

“Where are you going?” she asked him in apprehension as he reached the door.

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “To try to find my sister again.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Eat me out of house and home to judge by the past hour.”

She pressed her hand to her heart. “But you can’t keep me here. Can you?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, his face haggard, his smile merciless. “Not unless you want to change your mind about prison. Malicious mischief. Theft aggravated by housebreaking. Drunkenness. Why, it’s enough to have you transported to Tasmania. As bad as I am, I think you’ll agree you’re better off in that bed, lass.”

She wondered about that, remembering the violently pleasurable sensations he’d just aroused in her. Yet even though he intimidated her, even though his behavior had proven unpredictable, she was more afraid to be left alone. “But the newspapers said you were going to prosecute Jamie,” she said in confusion.

“The newspapers made a mistake,” he said coldly, thrusting his arms into his jacket. “I don’t broadcast the cases I take for the poor.”

“Whyever not?”

His flashed her another pitiless smile as he opened the door. “Because it isn’t good for my image.”

H
er expression of despair gave Connor little satisfaction. He strode from the room, cursing his helplessness and feeling more numb than anything. The anxious faces that awaited him in the hallway destroyed any lingering hopes he’d held that tonight had been a practical joke. If someone wanted to punish him, they’d made a damn good start. For all his complaining, he cared more about his sisters than he’d ever admitted.

It was Connor who, at thirteen, had raised his orphaned family of six little girls. A half dozen fussy, demanding, endearing, emotional females who had driven him to the brink of madness so many times he’d earned a place of honor in Bedlam. He’d gotten four of them settled down; although Rebecca had never married, she claimed to be happy enough in her solitary life. But none of them had ever given him half as much trouble as Sheena: Sheena who had never really known their parents and who had taken their death the hardest, whose grief had left her emotionally scarred and grasping for affection.

Just let her be safe. Even if she never speaks to me again. Even if she bedev
ils my life until the day I
die, just let her come home unharmed.

He rubbed the muscles corded along his neck, frowning to make sense of Ardath and his uncle’s voices, talking at once, telling him what to do. Connor had wanted to be a lawyer ever since he could remember. He had raised himself
from the ashes of poverty and abandonment to achieve his success after his parents died. But if his early experiences had toughened his character, they’d also destroyed the last of his boyish idealism. He had grown up hard and fast, relying on his fists as much as his wits. Cynicism had begun to corrode his heart even in childhood.

Ardath moved around him, darting him a guarded look. Her face suspicious, she poked her head into the guest suite as if to scrutinize Maggie for battle scars. “She looks horribly upset.”

“With good reason,” Connor said flatly.

She turned on him, her skirts rustling in the awkward silence. “What did you say to her?” she whispered. “The girl has been crying.”

“Leave me alone,” he said. “I’m trying to think.”

The earl approached him; in the confusion he’d neglected to remove the gardener’s apron tied around his waist. “The inspector claims he has something important to show you, Connor,” he said quietly.

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs with Norah’s husband and the girls.”

His face grave, Connor nodded and strode to the top of the stairs. A short woman with bouncy blond ringlets and a large bosom bumped into him on the uppermost step, emitting a tiny shriek of excitement in his ear. He curbed his impatience and moved aside politely to let her pass. He’d completely forgotten he was supposed to be hosting a party.

“Daddy told me everything,
” she said in a breathy little-
girl voice. “I have to admit it came as quite a surprise. I never dreamed you harbored such strong feelings.” She batted her lashes at him. “You sly devil.”

Connor just nodded absently. He didn’t recognize her, she was quite peculiar, and he assumed she was referring to his sister’s abduction. “It is a bad situation,” he said in a dismissive tone. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss—”

She clamped her hand down on his arm in a grip of steel as he started around her, refusing to let him go. “Call me Philomena.” Her bosom quivered on a deep sigh. It drew Connor’s attention to the damp caviar stain on her dress “I’m not really a recluse, y
ou know,” she said with a self-
conscious giggle. “I adore parties.”

Connor almost lost his footing on the stairs, forcing a smile to hide the unpleasant jolt of realization. “Of course you do. Philomena
…
Excuse me a moment, won’t you?” Hell, what an annoying creature. She reminded him of an empty-headed china doll. To think he’d ever toyed with the idea of stating his interest to Elliot. The woman would drive him mad in a matter of minutes.

He pulled his arm free, spotting Aaron watching them from the bottom of the stairs with an idiotic smile of approval. But even the frightening prospect of a romance with the unappealing Philomena faded from his mind as he noticed his brother-in-law Charles and the inspector pushing through the small throng of guests to greet him. Norah, Caroline, Sarah, Jennie. His four sisters safe, at least for now. He wondered fleetingly about Rebecca. He’d feel better having her here, just knowing she was safe instead of living unprotected in those Highland wilds. A woman needed a man to take care of her.

His chest tightened at the look on Charles’s face. He hurried down the remaining stairs. Everything around them dimmed into a distant fog. Something bad had happened, some news about Sheena. He felt it in the terse silence that engulfed him. “What is it?”

Inspector Davies handed him a folded piece of parchment. The tightness in Connor’s chest turned into a vise that squeezed his heart as he recognized the broken rose seal. Memories clutched at his mind, dragging him into the past like claws. “This was just found on the front steps,” Davies said. “I took the liberty of opening it, sir. I think you’d better read it.”

T
he man removed his mask and rubbed at the thick scar tissue that marred the left side of his face. It was an unconscious gesture, as if he wanted to erase the pain of his original injury. He knew his appearance repulsed certain women and held an inexplicable attraction to others. He wondered if the woman who called herself Maggie Saunders would recognize him beneath the mask.

Maggie Saunders. His scarred lip flattened in disdain. What a common name. A French tutor by day and amateur thief at night who’d gotten involved in an abduction, a thief
who was being hailed
as a heroine for attacking a man
with a champagne bottle.

He stared past the unlit grate to the older man who sat across from him. “Are you sure she’s still in his house?”

His companion stroked his thin mustache and nodded slowly. “Of course I’m sure.”

“
Then why are we waiting? I told
you I want to get out of the country.”

“It isn’t that simple,” the other man replied with infinite patience. “Buchanan has reason to be cautious now. As far as I can gather, his family is taking care of her. She’ll be frightened, suspicious of strangers. The abduction is fresh in her mind.” He spoke with the confidence of a man accustomed to subterfuge. “I thought we’d agreed this must be done carefully.”

A sound from the outside of the door of the quiet inn interrupted their conversation. The first man picked up his mask and automatically covered his face. His companion sighed and glanced at his watch. “I’ll meet with Buchanan tomorrow. I’ll find out exactly what his plans are. He trusts me.”

“Well, I don’t trust him,” the man in the mask said bitterly. “The sooner we get her away from him, the better.”

His companion rose and pulled on a pair of gray leather gloves, then reached for his walking stick. “You’ve waited this long. Another few weeks isn’t going to make that much difference.”

“You don’t know that.” The man’s blue eyes glittered from the mask with unholy resolve. “He isn’t called a devil for nothing, is he?”

Chapter

9

M
aggie was drifting in the depths of a laudanum-laced dream when the ungodly shouting in the street awakened her. Her mind in a fog, shivering from the nightmare she’d escaped, she crawled off the bed and staggered across the darkened room to investigate. She guessed she had a good hour left before it was time to get up for work.

This was the first time in years she’d overslept.

As she struggled to open the window, she wondered dimly which moron in the boardinghouse had taken it upon himself to move all her furniture during the night. The portion of her fuzzy brain that appeared to be functioning registered the fact that it was drizzling outside, she’d neve
r had so much trouble with this
wretched window, and Lord, had she fallen out of bed last night? She ached all over, starting with a dull throbbing at the back of her head.

In fact, she felt like she’d been run over by a coach and four.

She stared down into the misty street, blinking to clear her blurred vision as she searched for the familiar landmarks of Heaven’s Court. Her gaze lit on a man in a dark cloak and cleric’s collar standing by the gate.

She frowned, drawing back slightly. Who on earth had cleaned up all the mess, the broken-down carriage
s, the wheelbarrows, the barric
ade of whisky kegs while she slept? The Chief would have a conniption. He believed criminals should keep up criminal appearances.

“Be sober!” the man shouted. “Be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour!”

The man noticed Maggie in the window. He stopped, apparently satisfied he had dragged at least one sinner from her bed. He stomped forward until he stood directly beneath her, banging his Bible with his fist.

“There is no peace for the wicked!”

Maggie glanced down in bewilderment at the unfamiliar nightdress that had twisted around her bare feet. “There’s no peace for anyone, you old windbag, spouting Scripture at this hour,” she shouted back in annoyance.

“Who is this that gives counsel by words without knowledge?” the man quoted, his voice rising into a bellow. “Gird up now your loins, like a man, for I will demand it of you, and answer thou me!”

A turnip came flying through the air from the side of the house, followed by the irate order to, “Belt up, you silly sod!”

Maggie brought the window down with a satisfying bang, muttering under her breath, “Gird up my—”

“Loins,” said a tired and disturbingly fami
liar voice from the opposite corn
er of the room. “The Reverend Abernathy has taken a rather perplexing interest lately in more than just the state of my immortal soul.”

S
he pivoted, staring in amazement at the long, shadowed figure unfolding from an armchair to loom over her. A sick feeling washed over her as flashes of memory flooded her mind from the previous evening. It
had
been real.

Connor Buchanan, the legend, larger than life, her captor, her victim. Her unwilling ally against an enemy neither of them could name. She took a step back, frightened by the intensity of emotion in his eyes.

Disoriented, disbelieving, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the cheval glass on the other side of the room.

There was a bandage on her head. She looked as grim as death herself. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, hoping the horrifying image would disappear. It didn’t.

“Perhaps you ought to lie back down, lass,” he said gruffly.

She turned slowly. She felt unsteady and faint, tiny flashes of light dancing before her eyes. “How long have you been here?” she asked in a dry voice.

He stretched his muscular arms over his head before answering, straining as if to ease the tension that gripped him. With athletic grace he advanced across the room until he stood before her in the glow of the dying coals.

She took another instinctive step back toward the window. With his harsh, unshaven face and rumpled evening clothes, he looked as if he’d spent the better part of the night living up to his bad reputation.

“When I wasn’t following false leads to my sister’s disappearance, I was watching over you.” His voice sounded thick with overuse and discouragement. “Ardath and I took turns. The doctor was afraid you might slip into a coma.”

She lifted her hand to her head, still stunned that it all was real. “You didn’t find your sister?” she said hesitantly.

“No. Apparently a black coach was spotted on the way to the Highlands during the night.”

“Was there a ransom note?”

“Yes. Ten of them, actually,” he said in a hard voice. “There was also an anonymous letter threatening that my sister Rebecca will be the kidnappers’ next victim.”

“Could it be a hoax, my lord?”

“I believe it is. But I’ve been concerned about her anyway and cannot afford to dismiss it. I intend to visit her without delay.”

His face like flint, he brushed by her to the window. Maggie caught a whiff of whisky as he passed, whisky and bay rum, a potent but not unpleasant combination. The reverend’s rantings grew dimmer in the background. A maidservant in rag curlers had chased him off with a broom.

The sudden quiet made Maggie aware of the blood thrumming in her ears, of the fact that she’d spent an entire night in this man’s house. A wave of light-headedness swept over her. She couldn’t think of what to do next.

Connor turned; the grainy light played up the shadowed fatigue on his face. “Do you remember anything more?”

She ru
bbed one foot against her ankle, feeling a shiver ripple through her. “Nothing helpful.” She decided it
was his penetrating gaze that ma
de her feel so cold. “I swear I’d tell you if I could remember.”

“Would you?” he asked wearily.

“Of course,” she said, bristling. “What do you think I am?”

“That seems to be quite the mystery. According to everyone else, you’ve achieved nothing less than angel status during your short but amazingly eventful life. Deposed aristocrat turns street urchin. Isn’t that the story?”

“You still don’t believe me?”

He gave her a noncommittal shrug. “Don’t take it to heart. All I have are your criminal tendencies to go on. As far as I know, you’re nothing more than a thief and a housebreaker.”

She was also beautiful, he thought irrelevantly, admiring her in the ghostly light. Even Norah’s unflattering flannel nightrail couldn’t prevent the damage her softly alluring shape did to his male libido. She looked young and vulnerable, her face frightened and appealingly fragile. Connor might have stirred up a measure of sympathy for her if she had broken into anyone else’s house. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been more attracted to a woman, or a time when attraction had been more inappropriate.

“I don’t care if you’re the most powerful man in the world,” she said suddenly, surprising him with her boldness. “I’m twenty-three years old. You can’t keep me locked in this room forever.”

“That old? How interesting. I told you I could have you put in Carlton Jail if you’d prefer. Somehow I don’t think you’d get much pampering there, though. No roast turkeys, no flowers or champagne.”

Expelling her breath in an irate huff, she pushed around him to examine herself in the mirror. “What have you done with my dress?”

He propped his elbow back against the wi
ndowsill, his features drawn. “I
believe the laundress is trying to remove the chocolate stains—chocolate from the
éclairs
you were
stealing. Anyway, lass, you’re in no condition to be leaving this house.”

A look of panic crossed her face. “But I can’t wait for the laundress. I’ve just remembered—”

He straightened, his fatigue lifting. “You’ve remembered—”

“Help me.” she cried shakily, pulling at the bandage. “Help me find some other clothes. It’s almost dawn. There isn’t much time left.”

Connor assumed she was talking about Sheena’s abduction, that she remembered some crucial detail. Speechless with relief, he started to rush around the room, throwing open the doors to the wardrobe before he realized that they were empty, and besides, he had no intention of allowing her to set foot outside this room. He wheeled, half afraid she would forget what she wanted to tell him.

“I can’t find anything here,” he said impatiently. “Sit down, for God’s sake, and I’ll ask Ardath—”

He broke off as he noticed that her eyes had fluttered shut and the blood seemed to be draining from her face, her head lolling forward onto her chest.

“Miss Saunders,” he said in alarm, reaching out to catch her a split second before she slumped to the floor in an untidy heap.