Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard (6 page)

He raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance. She was beginning to sail a bit too close to the wind.

She flapped a hand under the blanket. “I understand why Sir Dominic would not use Runners, but why did he not come himself, with more men? Surely he would wish to apprehend the villains responsible for this outrage.”

“Which was exactly
why
he didn’t show up in force. It would have tipped his hand to the man who arranged for your abduction. We still don’t know his identity, but
he
will also not know who rescued you, either.”

She stilled, staring at him with dawning apprehension. He must make it clear to her that she was not yet safe.

“I know it’s an unpleasant thought,” he said gently. “But we must discover who was behind this plot and apprehend him. You will not be safe until we do.”

Her eyes grew wide and he could swear her pupils dilated with a stunning realization. What had she just remembered?

“Lady Vivien?” he prompted.

Her sapphire gaze refocused and she gave a slight shake of the head. The movement was tiny, but he sensed a barrier go up between them. She was hiding something from him, obviously something he needed to know.

“Why did Sir Dominic send you, a soldier, to find me?” She ran a swift, assessing gaze over his face and body. It swept over him, almost as real as the heated touch of her hand.

“Officers are not an unknown commodity in the
ton,
” she added. “You’re not like any soldier I’ve ever met.”

Lady Vivien possessed a sharp sense of discernment. There were capable men amongst the aristocratic corps of officers, but she was correct. Very few were like him. She’d surprised him once again, and Aden had to admit he was beginning to enjoy playing this game with her.

He affected an incredulous smile. “Why, Lady Vivien, whatever do you mean?”

Her pretty mouth thinned. Apparently, she wasn’t enjoying this as much as he was. “As I’ve already mentioned, most officers I know would make a point of
not
skulking around in dirty tunnels and acting with so much stealth. They would consider it . . .”

“Common?” he intoned in a haughty tone.

His amusement vanished with her words. She was right. Most aristocrats would curl their lips at his profession. God knows his stepfather had. That Aden had left his career in the military to be a spy had been the final degradation as far as Lord Thornbury was concerned. After all these years, he shouldn’t let it bother him, but it did. The pampered members of the
ton
would never know the risks and the filthy jobs he and his colleagues took on to keep them safe in their useless, spendthrift lives.

She seemed to consider the word. “Perhaps, but it’s more than that. Many of them are simply so . . . pampered. They couldn’t do what you did, especially with that man outside the tunnels. I think of my own brothers, and I cannot imagine them having the fortitude to take on such a desperate villain. In fact, Cyrus would faint dead-away if faced with so dire a necessity.”

Lady Vivien was beginning to look pale again, and rather queasy herself at the reminder of her ordeal. Aden’s flare of temper faded in the need to draw her mind away from that ugly scene.

He reached across the small space and found her hand under the blanket, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Startled, her eyes flew up to meet his, but then she gave him a tremor of a smile. A muscle constricted somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

“I saw a good deal of fighting in the Peninsula,” he said. “That experience allowed me to do what was necessary. I don’t enjoy killing, but Sir Dominic and I promised your mother we would return you safely home. I simply did what was necessary.”

She stared at him, her eyes big and round and vulnerable. The fear was gone, and in its place was something that looked disturbingly like hero worship.

Damn
. He hated that look. It always led to trouble. A good agent did his job because he had to do it. Glory and admiration didn’t enter into it. If it did, that man was a fool and was in the wrong profession.

“I’m very glad you did,” she whispered. “And I will never forget it.”

He nodded, giving her hand what he hoped was a fatherly pat before drawing it away. A few seconds later, he felt the horses beginning to slow.

“Mr. St. George, how was it that you—”

“Forgive me, my lady. We’re at the coaching inn. I must ask you to keep any further questions or comments to yourself. We’ll only be stopping for a few minutes, but I’d prefer we not draw any more attention to ourselves than necessary.”

She pressed her lips firmly shut, looking slightly put out. He knew she had more questions, but he was done answering. In fact, as soon as they got back on the road, he had every intention of subjecting her to a little interrogation of his own. He was loath to upset her, but every one of his instincts was telling him that Lady Vivien knew something about her kidnapping that she had chosen not to share with him.

He’d let her get away with that a few minutes ago, allowing her to distract him, but there would be no more distractions. Very soon, the lady would be telling him everything he wanted to know.

Vivien stumbled over the brick paving of the inn’s courtyard, heavy-footed with exhaustion. If not for St. George’s firm grip on her arm, she would have pitched face-first onto the muddy stones. The clogs the innkeeper had found for her, excavated from some dusty cubbyhole, weren’t helping much either. They were at least two sizes too big and crudely made.

Still, she was grateful to have properly if clumsily shod feet. Not having shoes had been one of the worst parts of her ordeal. Her bare feet had made her feel intensely vulnerable, unable to fend for herself or attempt any kind of escape.

“Do you want me to carry you, my lady?” St. George asked as she righted herself.

She shook her head, barely able to make out his stern features in the flickering light of the torches in the inn’s courtyard. He returned his attention to their surroundings, his gaze sweeping the courtyard, looking for danger in every shadowed corner. In her addled state, he reminded her of the gigantic mastiff that used to roam the lands of her father’s estate, guarding her and Kit with a fierce, steadfast loyalty. St. George seemed invested with similar qualities—quiet but with hackles raised, ready to attack at the first sign of trouble.

Of course, he was the furthest thing from a drooling hound she could imagine, but that didn’t prevent a semi-hysterical giggle from bubbling past her lips.

St. George glanced down at her with a questioning, wary countenance.

“It’s nothing,” she managed, waving her hand. “I just thought of something very silly.”

“Oh, indeed,” he replied politely, looking even more mystified.

That struck her as funny, too, although this time she managed to hold back her inappropriate mirth. The poor man had enough problems to worry about without having to care for a woman who acted like a half-wit.

Vivien grasped the door frame of the coach, gathering the energy to pull herself in. Even that simple movement seemed beyond her as her weary limbs sought to drag her down. Without a word, St. George tucked one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted, carefully depositing her on the cushioned bench. His strength and stamina continued to astonish her. St. George had lugged her about for the better part of the night, killed one man, disabled another, effected her rescue with competence and skill, and still showed no signs of flagging.

She’d never met anyone like him.

And he unsettled her to a degree she’d never thought possible. He was so intensely
masculine
. Everything about him heightened her feminine awareness, and that wasn’t something that happened very often. Well, almost never, if she were truthful. Vivien liked men. She liked looking at the handsome ones and talking to the intelligent ones. But they did little to spark her romantic sensibilities, and she’d always found that rather depressing. As her friends had married, Vivien had wondered if something was wrong with her. She’d encountered many men over the years whom she’d quite liked, but she’d never known one whose bed she wanted to share. On the few occasions when a man had kissed her, she’d either found it only mildly enjoyable or downright unpleasant.

Tongues being thrust into one’s mouth was the worst thing of all. When Prince Ivan had done that just a few weeks ago, she’d almost retched, pushing him away with all her might. Actually sleeping with a man was beyond her imagination, since there would be a great deal more involved in that activity than just thrusting tongues. The very idea made her go weak behind the knees, and not in a good way.

But St. George had crashed into her life and was changing all that. Given that she’d been manhandled by the most disgusting villains, it seemed a bizarre and certainly unexpected reaction. And yet, when he’d been massaging her feet, her mind had drifted into a voluptuous lull. In that state it had been quite easy to imagine kissing St. George. That notion had presented such an attractive image she hadn’t even objected when his powerful hands slid over her ankles to massage her calves.

Proper conduct aside, it would be foolish beyond measure to grow attached to him. He was a soldier—or something rather more than that—and quite obviously avoided
ton
circles. After tonight, she doubted she would rarely see him again, if at all.

That being the case, it behooved her to focus on her problems and not on handsome rescuers. Now that her head had cleared, her thinking process had also. Vivien now had her suspicions about who had ordered her kidnapping and why, and it wouldn’t do for
anyone
to discover the real culprit.

St. George rearranged the blanket around her and settled onto the opposite seat as the carriage rattled out of the courtyard and onto the road. Vivien sighed with relief. As grateful as she was for the stop—it had been a
very
long time since a visit to the necessary—she couldn’t wait to get back to London. The sooner she could put this entire experience behind her, the better.

Except, of course, that she couldn’t. Not until she eliminated the threat to herself and to her family.

St. George stirred across from her. “I wish you could have been allowed more time for a proper meal, but I couldn’t take the risk.”

An odd little ache pulled tight in her chest. Vivien wasn’t used to anyone taking care of her, besides her brother’s servants, that is. St. George, however, went out of his way to attend to her comfort despite the trying circumstances. And when he looked at her as he did now, his handsome face somber with concern, she felt almost . . . cherished.

“Actually, being able to stretch my legs and have a bit to eat felt like heaven,” she confessed. In her famished state, the hastily assembled plate of bread and cheese and the pot of tea had tasted like ambrosia.

St. George nodded, his eyes fixed on her face. He studied her with a steady intensity, as if he wanted something. That look made her wary and embarrassed—wary because of the questions she sensed hovering on his tongue, and embarrassed because she looked a positive wreck. That she should worry about her appearance told her something, and it was something she’d better stop thinking about immediately.

“My lady,” he finally said, “I must ask you a few questions while your memory of events is fresh.”

His face remained impassive, his demeanor calm and watchful. She, on the other hand, was vibrating with nerves, and had to resist the impulse to fidget. Answering what were likely to be very intrusive questions—especially when her defenses were down—was dangerous, indeed.

“You’re very tired, I know,” he said gently. “But it’s necessary. You must trust that I wouldn’t ask if that wasn’t so.”

Mentally, she sighed. Might as well get it over with. If he strayed too close to what she suspected was the truth, she could always burst into tears and hope that put him off. Not that Vivien found it easy to turn on the waterworks, but she thought she might be able to make a credible job of it tonight, and without much prompting.

“Of course, sir. I am entirely at your disposal,” she said in a hollow voice.

His brows slanted up in an incredulous lift, and she heaved another mental sigh. She’d always been adept at hiding her emotions—a lesson learned at the card table—but St. George had a way of seeing past that. She didn’t like it one bit.

“Very well. Let’s begin with the abduction itself.”

He led her through the sequence of events. Although he encouraged her to describe everything in as much detail as she could recall, he treated her gently, never pushing her too far and always sensing the levels of her anxiety. It struck her once again that he was very good at what he did, and she found it hard to believe that the average army officer was anything like Aden St. George.

Eventually, they reached her rescue itself. Nothing she’d recalled so far would lead St. George in any way back to her family or what she suspected were the true reasons for her abduction.

He gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ve done very well, my lady. I have only a few more questions and then you can rest for the remainder of our journey.”

She nodded, giving him permission to continue. Not that he needed it.

“From what I’ve been told, you have many admirers and suitors in the
ton.
”

Vivien fancied she heard a note of disapproval in his voice. Heat prickled at the back of her neck, and she couldn’t help feeling defensive. “I’m sure you exaggerate, sir. I’m no more or less admired than dozens of other women in our circles.”

Since her coming-out, she’d grown used to hearing herself described as one of the most eligible young ladies in society. But at age twenty-four she was perilously close to sitting firmly on the shelf. Add to that her decidedly unfeminine prowess at the card tables and the rumors that dogged her family, and Vivien found it safe to say that her star had long since started to fade.

“I commend your modesty, Lady Vivien, but it’s neither necessary nor helpful. I need truth from you, not missish protestations we both know aren’t true.”

She flinched at the dry, almost scornful note in his voice. It didn’t make sense given his careful consideration of her up to this point. But he’d obviously heard something about her that had given him a bad impression, and that stung her more than it should.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared back at him. “What do you wish to know, sir?” she said in a clipped tone.

He held her gaze, his hard-cut jaw darkened by masculine stubble that made him look dangerous and rather wild. The look suited him, she was sorry to say.

“Who are your most persistent suitors?” he asked. “Are there any whose conduct unsettles you, or gives you pause for any reason?”

She was about to return an automatic denial when she paused. The suspicions that had floated through her mind while still a captive resurfaced. She’d discarded them almost immediately, simply because they didn’t make any sense.

St. George leaned forward, coming to alert. Vivien could practically sense the change in the atmosphere, and it made her shiver.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. I thought perhaps—”

“Someone made you nervous,” he said in a milder voice. “Who was it?”

This time she did fidget with the ruffle on her mantle. “It’s nothing, really. In fact, it would be ridiculous to suspect him of anything.”

“I understand, but it’s necessary that you tell me. For your own safety,” he finished on a warning note.

He was obviously trying to scare her into revealing something useful. Blast him, it just might work.

Unexpectedly, he smiled. She had to admit it was a
very
charming smile.

“Yes, I am trying to scare you, my lady. Just a little. I don’t enjoy doing so, in case you were wondering.”

She nervously licked her lips, once more discomposed by his ability to see past her defenses. Vivien had spent years perfecting an impervious façade, but he took it apart with uncanny ease. Nor did it help her equanimity to see his gaze go suddenly dark and smoky, drifting down to study her mouth.

“Yes, well, I’m sure,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. Easier said than done, since her temples were starting to pound from exhaustion and her ears were ringing.

“You can trust me, you know.” His warm, easy tone wrapped around her like a comfy blanket. “I will only share what you tell me with Sir Dominic.” A slight smile lifted the corners of his hard, handsome mouth. “I will not break the seal of the confessional, I promise.”

She blushed. He’d risked his life for her. Of
course
she trusted him.

Up to a point.

“Very well. I did think of someone, but it’s too ridiculous. He’s very rich and very important, and I can’t imagine him behaving in so outrageous a fashion.”

“You’d be surprised at the acts carried out by rich, important men.”

His cynical tone sounded a warning bell in her weary brain.

“You’re right of course, Mr. St. George,” she replied cautiously.

He again flashed that unexpected grin. “There’s no need to keep calling me
Mister
St. George will do nicely. Now, why don’t you tell me who ruffled your nerves?”

She grimaced. “I thought at first that Prince Ivan Khovansky might have been behind my abduction. But of course that’s ridiculous.” She sat back, waiting for him to scoff at her suspicions.

He didn’t. Instead, he sat back, stroking his beard-shadowed jaw.

“Really,” she insisted, “it’s ridiculous. He’s a Russian prince, for heaven’s sake. Besides, the Russian ambassador and his wife are his friends, and are seen with him everywhere.”

In fact, it had been Countess Lieven who introduced them in the first place. The prince had begun courting Vivien immediately, much to her dismay, and it wasn’t because he looked like a squat toad. She liked a handsome man as much as any girl, but it was his oily, arrogant demeanor and his aggressive pursuit that made her bristle. She’d turned him down three times already in the past six weeks, but the man wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“What has he done to offend you?”

“Have you met Prince Ivan?”

“I know of him, but I’ve never met him.”

“If you had, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replied dryly.

He gave her a faint smile. “Tell me anyway.”

“He’s arrogant and extremely forward, and quite certain that any woman who is the object of his attentions should be bowing down before him with gratitude.” It would be a frosty day in hell before she bowed to any man, much less Khovansky.

“Go on.”

“He refuses to take no for an answer. In fact, he—” She stopped, too embarrassed and angry to recount the last episode when he’d backed her up behind a column at the DeLancey ball and forced his tongue halfway down her throat.