Seductive Wager
Authors: Leigh Greenwood
“Leigh Greenwood continues to be a shining star of the genre!”
—
The Literary Times
SWEET ANTICIPATION
Kate put on her nightgown and sat down to brush her hair, but she had completed no more than half a dozen strokes when Brett entered the cabin quietly. She heard a click as he turned the key in the lock and her heart nearly stopped beating. Now there was no hope of escape.
You’re a fool,
she told herself.
There never was.
Brett came to stand behind her; without a word he took the brush from her hands and began to stroke her hair expertly. He’s probably brushed more hair than half the ladies’ maids in London, Kate thought. There’s no telling
what
this man has done.
Kate started to tie up her hair, but Brett pulled it loose again. “I don’t want it in a knot. I want to be able to run my fingers through it,” he said softly.
For one moment, she thought wildly of throwing herself on the captain’s mercy or leaping into the sea, but she couldn’t even get out of the cabin. She trembled inside. She could think of nothing to do, so she got up and walked over to the narrow bed. “Which side do you prefer?” she asked in what she hoped was a calm voice.
“It doesn’t matter tonight,” he said with a smile that promised pleasures she could not even imagine …or resist….
Other books by Leigh Greenwood:
THE RELUCTANT BRIDE
THE INDEPENDENT BRIDE
COLORADO BRIDE
REBEL ENCHANTRESS
SCARLET SUNSET, SILVER NIGHTS
THE CAPTAIN’S CARESS
ARIZONA EMBRACE
SWEET TEMPTATION
WICKED WYOMING NIGHTS
WYOMING WILDFIRE
| The Cowboys series: JAKE WARD BUCK DREW SEAN CHET MATT PETE LUKE THE MAVERICKS A TEXAN’S HONOR TEXAS TENDER TEXAS LOVING | | The Seven Brides series: ROSE FERN IRIS LAUREL DAISY VIOLET LILY The Night Riders series: TEXAS HOMECOMING TEXAS BRIDE BORN TO LOVE |
Seductive
Wager
Leigh Greenwood
Copyright © 1990, 2011 Leigh Greenwood
Contents
ENGLAND
Ryehill Castle, Hampshire
March, 1830
The large room lay shrouded in shadows except for two points of feeble light coming from near-guttered candles, their pale glow casting into relief the motionless figures seated at opposite ends of a massive oaken table strewn with scraps of paper and empty glasses. Black with age and use, the table so dominated the room it threatened to reduce its inhabitants to mere trappings.
“I’m ruined,” Martin Vareyan declared with a sharp eruption of contained breath that fell into the silence of the room like drops of water into a hot fire. “You’ve won everything.” He stared with a fixed gaze at his antagonist, his blazing eyes a window to the turbulence raging within him; he longed to spring up and close his hands around Brett Westbrook’s throat, to crush the beautifully tied cravat until those masterful eyes were filled with fear, a sensation Brett had never experienced.
“You shouldn’t have raised the stakes when the cards were against you,” Brett said, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Shut up, dammit!” Martin shouted, unable to contain a spurting flame of wild anger. “I don’t need anybody to tell me how to play cards.”
“I suppose your game tonight is proof?” Brett questioned, bald contempt in his nearly black eyes.
Martin choked back an intemperate reply as his rapt gaze focused on a single scrap of paper, larger than all the rest, whereon was listed his house, his lands, his money, his
entire inheritance!
Now it belonged to Brett Westbrook. There was no question but that he had to get it back. What taxed his mind was how.
Martin looked around at the other players, desperately seeking a way out, but they had come to the end of their luck long ago and were scattered about the room like pieces of discarded clothing. Edward Hunglesby slept upright in his chair without sound or motion; Peter Feathers, too drunk to know he was near suffocation, lay with his head hanging over the arm of his chair; Barnaby Rudge, sprawled half on and half off the sofa where he lay, snored with huge, gusty sobs that rasped Martin’s badly frayed nerves. A small water spaniel lying on a grimy rug underneath her owner’s chair shifted position then was quiet once more.
Martin’s hooded gaze returned to his opponent for a long moment. Unmoved by the scrutiny, Brett leaned back in his chair and returned Martin’s stare with unflinching
sang-froid;
he had lost interest in this interminable game long ago, but his sable eyes were watchful and his mind alert.
Martin swallowed convulsively several times, causing the muscles around his mouth to tighten. “No,” his hissed reply came at last. “Not tonight.”
“I didn’t think so,” Brett returned in icy affirmation. His own temper had flared dangerously; he was a proud man who rarely suffered even his best friends to speak to him as Martin had just done. “What you needed was better cards and more luck. You were completely out of both.”
“I suppose you’ll be willing to wait longer than the usual fortnight?” Martin temporized, trying to gain time, trying to think. “There’s a good deal more than can be done in two weeks.” He reached for the brandy, poured the remaining drops into his glass, and drained them off in a single gulp. He then looked around for more, but there was nothing left save empty bottles; he would have to summon Ned. His legs threatened to buckle under him as he rose to his feet, but by concentrating with savage intensity, he forced them to bear him across the room. Even three-parts drunk, his pride wouldn’t allow him to stagger in front of Brett.
Martin gave the bell rope a sharp jerk. “That ought to raise the old miscreant from his slumbers,” he announced morosely, but Brett ignored his remark and Martin was forced to turn on Barnaby Rudge to vent his fury. “Lawyers take forever to do a thing and then make a mystery about it. Don’t know why I invited the bloodsucker,” he growled, giving Barnaby such a vicious kick he awoke, cursing and bellowing, with a startled howl.
“Who in the bloody hell kicked me?”
“I did,” Martin snarled. “You’ve been snoring all night.”
“That’s no reason to kick a man in his sleep,” Barnaby groaned, still only half awake. “If you wanted me to stop, all you had to do was ask.”
“Ask!” Martin snorted indignantly. “I might as well talk to this bitch spaniel,” he stormed, pointing to the dog still slumbering under his chair. “I never heard such a filthy racket. I don’t know how
you
can sleep through it.” He stomped back to his chair, forgetting to conceal the drunken lurch in his stride, and sank down, cold rage threatening to destroy the last remnants of his restraint.
He was losing control of the situation, and now Brett was smiling at him. Damn the supercilious bastard! He would be revenged on him if it took every cent he possessed, but first he had to think of some way to win back his fortune. If only his head didn’t feel like solid wood.
“Gawd!” Peter Feathers groaned piteously as he raised his head and opened his bloodshot eyes. “How much brandy did I drink?” Putting his fingers to his temples, he shut his eyes with a grimace. “Never had such a head in my life. Your wine merchant must be cheating you, old man. Couldn’t be so burnt in the socket otherwise.”
“Bloody hell,” Martin cursed. “Now well have the whole room up.”
Feathers attempted to sit up, but that was beyond him, and he slumped forward on the table. He was very drunk, but he didn’t care; he had lost a great deal of money, but he didn’t care about that, either. All he could think of now was how to get more brandy. “The hair of the dog that bites you,” he muttered obscurely. He picked up the bottle Martin had just emptied, peered at it closely, then rolled it from side to side.
“It’s empty,” he said in the voice of one making a surprising discovery. “Must get more. Tell your man to bustle about, Martin. Can’t have your guests going thirsty.”
“You ought to have your head shoved under a pump,” Brett snapped, glowering coldly at Peter. He wasn’t in the habit of consorting with green boys, and he resented having to put up with a stripling who should have been in bed hours ago.
It was a badly mismatched party. There was only one guest for whom Brett felt any liking, and that one had just opened his eyes. Edward Hunglesby didn’t move at first but allowed his gaze, clear and unclouded by sleep or alcoholic fumes, to slowly inventory the room and its occupants. Then, with a quintessential sigh of world-weariness, he sat up.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I don’t take myself off to bed rather than loll about in the middle of your game,” he said, directing his remarks to no one in particular. “Actually, I don’t know myself. My cards didn’t offer me sufficient reason. And as I remember it, if I
must
remember it,” he said, staring accusingly at Feathers’s vacuous face, “the conversation didn’t, either. Considering the service in this ill-run establishment has rendered my stay as close to a sojourn in purgatory as I ever hope to experience, I’m surprised I haven’t removed to the nearest inn, no matter how bucolic its proprietor.” These remarks caused Martin to swell with fury, but Edward felt so much better for having rid himself of some of his spleen, he actually smiled at his host.