Mary Blayney (11 page)

“He could have arrested you or run you through purely for sport. Did Georges tell you what a devil he is?” She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. The gesture caused her unlaced dress to slip down her arm. The lace edges of her stays rested on her nipples.

“I did not know you cared,” Gabriel said, running his eyes down her body. “I noticed Desseau said little to defend you until I insisted he speak. Is he jealous? Does he see me as a competitor for your attention? It is true in more ways than one.”

“In that there is no contest, my lord.” The words carried as much contempt as a voice could convey. She reached up to raise the strap of fabric as she turned from him. Gabriel stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Were you seducing him or was he seducing you?” When she would have spoken, he raised his hand and pressed his fingers against her lips for just a moment.

“Never mind. Spare me the details,” he said with casual insult. “Let me imagine what you were doing, sharing a glass with an old lover. You were in his arms, but it is clear that you had not been to bed.”

“You cannot begin to understand what Raoul and I share, my lord.”

She reached for the wineglass again. He took it and threw it, so that it shattered against the wall. It did nothing to ease his temper. “Tell me,” he demanded, ignoring her shocked gasp and the wine trailing down the wall. “Tell me why I should not be concerned that my
savior
was trysting with one of Napoleon’s loyalists.” Gabriel stepped closer to her. “When you are intimate with the enemy, it becomes my business.”

“We are friends.”

“You are friends with a man whose work it is to enforce Napoleon’s laws? Or is he a spy too?” He laughed. “Not that it matters who you sleep with, unless it means you are closer to the enemy than you should be.” Damnation, he was sick to death of this.

“When we are together, we are man and woman. His uniform means nothing.” She pulled her dress up again, which only served to draw his attention to her dishabille.

“Now
you
are spouting lines from a third-rate play. He is a spy, isn’t he?” He wanted to know every one of the secrets she guarded so zealously, tried to recall how Georges had phrased it. Georges had implied that if Charlotte were taken, Desseau would be in as much trouble as she was.

“Raoul Desseau is a friend.”

“A friend,” he said derisively. “Does that mean he does not have to pay you for sex?”

Her smile was a wicked little twist of the lips.

Frustration bubbled inside of him. “Having sex with your clothes on cannot be comfortable.” He closed the distance between them. She backed up against one of the bedposts. “I suppose that it could add a sense of the forbidden,” he continued, reaching up to play with the loose strings of her corset.

Charlotte drew a deep breath. He ran a thumb over the crest of her breasts. She shivered, but did not push him away. “Why do you tremble? Are you pretending that my touch offends you? Or is it because you want more?”

“Let me go.”

“First tell me something.” Now their bodies were separated only by the clothes they wore. His fingers caressed her neck. He wanted to shake her, to make her tell him all that she knew, all that she planned. “Tell me what you and I are to each other. Not equals, by any means. I want to know what your plans are. Not be treated like a dog who must follow commands.”

“The captain and I are not lovers.” She tried to move away, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“It was the fool I am playing who made that mistake. Gabriel Pennistan is not that naïve. No, you and Desseau are not lovers, any more than you and I are.”

He reached into his pocket, tossing the last of his coins on the bed. “I have money now.” He pulled her to him, pushing her dress, stays and shift down her shoulders so that her breasts were uncovered. He pinned her arms at her elbows. “If we are not lovers, Charlotte, take the money and give me your best imitation.”

13

C
HARLOTTE REMAINED COMPLETELY
still for a moment. Not from indecision but from shock. How could she have so completely misjudged this man? Whether his lust was fueled by envy or fear, it was real. And not something to be toyed with. His mouth pressed against hers, not coaxing but demanding. When she would not open to him, he let go of one arm and pulled her closer. She could feel his arousal and was sure he had only one thing in mind.

As panic set in, she felt dread coursing through her. She would not be a victim again. “Let me go. Let me go.” She punctuated each word with a kick, which did nothing to deter him.

“Give in to me, Charlotte,” he said, raising his head, looking her in the eyes, his now darkened with lust and anger. “Give me what I am paying so much for.” He pushed her back so that she was half lying on the bed. “Give in to me, or I will take what I want.”

She tried to spit in his face, but it was no more than a sound.

He lay on top of her, making it hard to breathe. Or was it the terror that trapped the breath in her throat? This was not the first time she had been used to salvage a man’s pride. With her husband, struggle had only made the punishment worse. She would save herself the only way she could. Charlotte turned her head and looked toward the window, imagining she was anywhere but here. It took all her might not to protest to this man whom she had—could it be?—begun to trust, but the instinctive “No, Charles” escaped her lips.

There was a moment as though they were frozen in a hideous tableau. Then he released her so quickly that she almost slid off the bed. Walking as far from her as the room would allow, Pennistan stopped at the small window that gave out onto the street. He kept his back to her. He leaned his arms against the wall and lowered his head. Their labored breathing was the only sound in the room.

Run!
was the only thought Charlotte’s panicked mind would allow. She pulled her chemise and stays into place and the sleeves of her dress up.
Run. Leave the tavern. Find Georges.

Charlotte took three unsteady steps toward the chair, to gather her shawl. Pennistan must have heard her. He was across the room, pushing the door shut even as she tried to wrench it open.

“Let me out of here. Now.” Her voice shook.

“Not yet,” he said.

She raised her hand and slapped him as hard as she could. His head snapped sideways as the crack sounded between them. He shook his head and raised a hand to his cheek.

That was stupid,
she thought, even as she was tempted to do it again. How she wished she had not stopped carrying her knife. She dropped her shawl and turned back to the table, and lifted the empty carafe. If she aimed carefully and used all her strength it would make as deadly a weapon as a knife.

He held up a hand as she turned toward him, testing the carafe, her eyes narrowed.

“You misunderstand me, Charlotte. You cannot leave like this.”

“Yes, I can. It will not be the first time a whore has had enough of a client.”

“That is not what I mean.” He stepped away from the door, frustrated. “You cannot leave with this between us.”

“There is nothing between us.” She shouted the words. “How many times do I have to say that?”

He shook his head and she could see disbelief on his face. “There is the fact that I tried to force you. That I was so angry that I would have taken you against your will.”

She tried to relax her hold on the carafe, to ease the cramping in her fingers, and walked toward the door, watching him the whole time.

“You can leave if you wish,” he said. “You can slap me a dozen times if it will ease your upset. But I would rather you not crown me with that decanter.”

She had her hand on the latch, the carafe in her other hand when he spoke again.

“I must have begun to believe my own acting. I do know that you are not the prostitute you pretend to be. It is a role you play. I know that,” he insisted.

Her hand was still on the latch, but the agonized look on his face made her wait to hear what he would say next.

“Charlotte, I apologize.” He bowed and waited for her to make a decision.

She wanted to run, to leave him behind. The silence lengthened and still he waited, with a patience she knew must be an effort.
The money,
she reminded herself. They needed the money and the security it brought.
Think about the future, not the past.

Not quite trusting her voice, she drew a breath. “If you touch me again without my permission, I will hurt you badly. I promise you that.”

His nod was firm, if not much more than a jerk of his head.

She set the carafe on the floor, not too far away. With fingers that were still shaking, she began to do up the laces of her stays that still hung loosely on her shoulders. It took a long few minutes to complete the simple task. Pulling the green silk up, she pressed the lace inserts into place, giving the dress the illusion of modesty.

She could no longer avoid looking at him. He had said he could read the truth in her eyes. She hoped her bland expression hid her fear, her memories.

“Shall I call a maid to lace up your dress?” he asked, his regret unmistakable.

She closed her eyes as her fear eased. “It would be unusual for me to call a maid. I have never done so before.” Without looking at him, she presented her back. His footsteps were the only sound he made.

He began to fumble with the strings and she could tell that he was upset too. A little of her apprehension escaped with her next breath.

“These tapes are not made for a man’s hands.”

She smiled weakly. There might be temper in him, but the gentleman had won out.

“You know, Charlotte, as I was coming up the stairs I had no other plan than to help you. Then I was going to take off on my own. I can speak the language, I have a little money. I can act. You showed me that.” He kept on talking as he worked the laces. “Between the first tread and the last I realized that I know two people in this town. I suppose it is possible that I could find work. But if I stay in France until the war ends it is as good as admitting guilt. There is the chance I would be forced to enter the army of Napoleon.”

She nodded. He was done with the lacing but continued talking to her back.

“I do believe that you will see me home. I hope that you know I am telling the truth.”

She took several steps away and then faced him. “Yes, I believe you. Only a madman would want to stay here in France.”

“I rise in your estimation,” he said with a wry smile. “No longer fool or traitor. Thank you.”

“That still leaves any number of other failings,” she reminded him. How amazing that they could carry on a civil conversation when she, at least, was still shaking. “We should leave, my lord.”

“Call me Gabriel, will you? There are no lords and ladies here.” He spoke as he walked to the bed. “Or Pennistan if my given name is too intimate.”

He collected the coins, threw back the covers and rumpled the sheets and pillows.

She should have thought of that. She closed her eyes and willed the anxiety away.

“Who is Charles?” he asked with casual interest.

“My husband,” she said, too late realizing she should not have answered.

He stopped what he was doing with a start of surprise.

“I thought you told me you were a widow.”

“I am.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“What are you thanking me for?”

“Telling me the truth. It was the truth, was it not?” he asked, as he turned to face her fully.

“Yes, it was, but not meant as a confidence, my lord. Rather a testament to my hatred of him. I will not let anyone even imagine him alive.”

He looked down at his suit, brushed at some imaginary lint, pulled at his waistcoat. He picked up her shawl and handed it to her. “What do we do now?” he asked.

“Let me think a moment,” she said and turned from him.

Gabriel considered the consequence of his horrible behavior. Charlotte Parnell would speak honestly only when she was so upset that she spoke before she thought. When she was more afraid of what would happen to her than she was of the truth. What had it taken to frighten her past bearing? The threat of rape. He could still hear the strangled gasp and a name that had brought him to his senses.

Her fear had given him the answer to one question. Widowed from a man who had done the worst a husband, or any man, could do. He would not blame a woman for killing a husband who used sex as punishment.

He wondered if she had.

She certainly would have done whatever it took to escape from him tonight. His apology had helped and his “What do we do now?” had made it clear that he accepted her as the leader in this.

“It will be easy. Come.” She gave him no more than that. Was it part of his punishment? He did not ask but followed her out of the room.

The streets were empty, the sky clear, and with it came much colder air. Charlotte pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she took his arm.

He knew the only reason she could bring herself to touch him was that it would have attracted attention if she did not. They walked in silence awhile, still not comfortable with each other.

“My temper comes from my father. I did not realize that for a long time, as his is a cold and calculated rage that would strip you of all your humanity.” She did not tell him to be quiet, so he kept on. “The new duke has Father’s arrogance without the anger. He is cool and calculated, with all his sensibilities carefully hidden. My brother Jessup has my mother’s charm and nothing from my father but perhaps his skill with cards. Olivia is so like our mother, but with a tendency to anger over the most trifling incidents. I am wondering if having a husband will change that.”

He wished he had not said the word
husband
, and hurried on.

“I learned to control my temper,” he continued. “Most of the time. Another gift from my tutor. I wonder if he is still alive. Thanks for a thankless task are in order.”

She did not seem particularly interested in what he was saying, but he could feel her relax a little. He was learning to interpret her touch as well as read her eyes.

“When I do lose my temper, I always regret it. There was a time when my father and I did not speak for a year. I wanted to study anatomy and he refused to allow it. Called me a disgusting thrill seeker, a man who used science as an excuse for depraved behavior. I told him that I would leave forever. It was my mother who played peacemaker, as always.”

Just when he thought he had nattered on quite long enough, she spoke.

“You would not defy him? Surely you have some money of your own?”

“Yes, but my mother insisted that she needed me. That she had lost one son in Mexico—he died there when his ship sank—and the other was no better than a wastrel to them.”

“So you chose to study the stars?”

“In the end it was what father and I could agree on. He thought it would bore me quickly. I thought I could outlive him and return to my other interests.”

“And now your father is dead.”

“Yes. It seems so odd. Hard to believe. The last time I spoke to him, he seemed well enough. Gout and some pains in his back.” He felt little sorrow, was embarrassed to realize that what he felt was relief. “I suppose that my life will not change much. Jessup is healthy and will someday marry an heiress who will support his gambling. Lynford is married and his wife will no doubt provide him with enough boys that in time I will be so far down the line of succession that they will all forget me.” He stopped and turned to her. “That could be true already. Charlotte, do you know if the new duke has children yet?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, starting them walking again. “You do not wish you were the heir?”

“Good God, no. The very thought of taking a seat in the House of Lords and listening to their endless machinations would drive me insane.”

“Surely the wealth and influence is a fair trade for that.”

“I hope my brother feels that way. As for me, I see now that Dr. Borgos has the truth of it. I want to do something more purposeful with my life than deal with politics. There are others better suited to that than I am. I will study science and at least
try
to find a way to make the world a better place.”

She was silent a long time, but she did not laugh at him. When she did speak she changed the subject.

“You do not mention your other brother, the naval officer.”

“I just did. David is the one who disappeared in the Gulf of Mexico almost ten years ago.”

“No. I met him when I traveled to Derbyshire to speak with the duke.”

“You must have met our bastard brother, Robert Wilton. David is dead.”

“I know Wilton quite well. And Madeline, his wife.”

“You are willing to swear that David is back in England?” He still would not accept it.

“The duke accepts him. The others all call him brother.”

“Charlotte, I know I frightened you and threatened you in a way that diminishes me as a gentleman…” As he spoke he took a step away from her. It made his words no less intense. “To make this up as retribution, though, is beyond cruel. David was my dearest friend, my hero. I idolized him. I raged at my father when he had him declared officially dead.”