The Duke and the Lady in Red (33 page)

Silent as a grave, Joseph sat in a nearby chair, his knees nearly touching his chest.

“I told her he was about,” Merrick said. “She should have been looking for him.”

“She knew?” Avendale asked.

Merrick nodded. “That first night we ate dinner at your fancy house. We weren't there to check on Harry but to let her know that we'd spied Tinsdale.”

“We did want to see Harry as well, though,” Sally said, but Avendale was still processing Merrick's revelation.

“Are the whole lot of you swindlers?” he asked.

“Liars, more like,” Merrick said. “When the need arises, I suspect you lie, too.”

“We're not discussing me,” Avendale ground out.

“But we should,” Sally said. “You're a duke. Get Rose out of there.”

“While it might seem otherwise, I'm not immune to the law,” he admitted.

“Then what good are you?” Merrick asked.

“Merrick!” Sally scolded. “Don't take that attitude. He's done plenty for us, but his hands are tied—­”

“I didn't say that,” Avendale said.

Merrick took two steps forward. “Then what did you say?”

Avendale removed the paper from within a jacket pocket. “I have the names of four men who have brought charges against her. I need to know the names of any others she may have swindled.”

Merrick crossed his arms over his chest. “Why? So they can tell the authorities everything and she can spend the rest of her life in prison?”

Avendale briefly wondered what made Merrick so distrustful of every blasted word that came out of his mouth. “So I can offer them restitution, pay them what is owed to them, so they can bring no charges against her.”

“Oh.” Merrick offered a mulish expression that Avendale thought he might think passed for contrition.

“How many?” Avendale asked.

“Think you was number nine.”

Not as bad as he'd thought. He arched a brow. “Names?”

“Don't know that I know them all or even where you'd find them. She didn't always share everything if she could find the information herself.”

“I know them,” the giant said in his deep voice. “And where to find them all.”

Eyes wide, Merrick swung around. “Why would she share everything with you and not with me?”

“Because I was the one driving her about.” He lifted a bony shoulder until it nearly touched his ear. “Had to know where I was going. I also know all the merchants she said we'd pay but never did.”

“You can't remember all of it,” Merrick said. “It's been years.”

Joseph touched his finger to his temple. “Remember everything. Everything. It's a blasted curse.”

“Well, then, between the two of you, perhaps we can get an accounting of everyone and where I might find them,” Avendale said. Sitting, he withdrew a pencil from his pocket. “Shall we get started?”

T
wenty-­seven days. As she sat on the terribly uncomfortable cot in her cell, Rose wished the days would roll one into another until she could claim to have lost count of them, but despite the monotony, each one stuck in her mind like a sore thumb that throbbed and ached and would never be forgotten.

Daniel Beckwith had visited with her twice to assure her that his oldest brother would handle the trial “if it came to that.” She wasn't quite certain why it wouldn't and when she questioned him on it, his response was “You never know.”

Perhaps his cryptic words were his attempt to get even with her for deceiving him when they originally met. The first time he'd visited, he'd brought her Harry's story and she had spent her time reliving their life through his eyes. Perhaps she hadn't done so badly by her brother after all. The price she would now pay was worth it.

She heard the clatter of a key turning in the lock. Slowly she rose to her feet. The door opened to reveal a matronly woman dressed in blue.

“Gather up your things. It's time to go,” she barked.

Into a cloth bag, Rose placed a towel, her brush, and a blanket. Beckwith had offered to bring her more to make her stay comfortable, but she had asked him not to. She knew anything he brought would have been at Avendale's expense and the man had spent enough on her. She picked up Harry's book. “Is it time for my trial?”

“You're going elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. I was just told to fetch you.”

Rose followed her out into the hallway. “Is Mr. Beckwith here?”

“I seen a gent, but I don't know who he is.”

“What does he look—­”

“No more questions.”

Rose pressed her lips tightly together. She'd learned fairly quickly that she had absolutely no power here. She ate when they brought her food, washed when they brought her a bowl of water. But she would not complain because her transgressions had led her to this. She'd known they would.

The woman opened the door. Rose followed her through into a larger room.

And there was Avendale. She wanted to chastise him, yell at him, tell him to go away, even as she wanted to run to him, fling her arms around him, and beg him to take her away from this. But she just stood there as though she had turned to stone, was a statue that he could place in a fountain in his garden.

He looked as though he'd lost weight. Lines in his face were deeper. She hated that she might be responsible for his weariness.

Self-­consciously, she patted her hair, wishing it was pinned up instead of braided. That absurd thought almost made her laugh hysterically. She hadn't had a proper bath since she arrived. Her dress was filthy. She was filthy.

In long, confident strides, he marched over to her, slid his arm around her, and began propelling her forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting you out of here.”

“My trial—­”

“There's not going to be one.”

Planting her feet, she managed to stop them both just shy of the front door that would lead them out of here, that would take her away from this madness. “What have you done?”

He faced her. “What I told you I was going to do. I paid them all off.”

“All?”

“All. Merrick, Joseph, and Sally helped me to find them. Took longer than I'd hoped but it's done now. We had struck a bargain, you and I. How the devil did you think you were going to keep your part of it from within prison walls?”

She studied his beloved face, the seriousness in his eyes, perhaps even a spark of anger. “I told you the bargain was a lie.”

“I told you that I didn't believe you.”

And he had declared that he loved her. “Avendale—­”

“We'll discuss everything later, Rose. Right now, let's get the bloody hell out of here.”

She sighed. “Yes, please.”

 

Chapter 23

T
he first thing she did was strip out of her clothes to luxuriate in a steaming hot bath. The water could not be too hot for her. If Avendale hadn't cautioned her that anything hotter would peel the skin from her bones, she would have gone hotter still.

“Burn them,” she told him now as he sat on a stool beside the tub. “The clothes. Have them burned.”

He rang for Edith, who took them away. When he returned, in one hand he held a glass of dark red wine, and in the other a plate with an assortment of cheeses and fruits arranged on it.

Taking the goblet, she held it aloft. “To freedom and to you for giving it to me.”

“Was it so awful in there?” he asked.

“Lonely. Cold, harsh. Unpleasant. But I deserved all of it.” She took a sip of the wine, moaned low. “We should let Merrick know I'm here.”

“He knows. You'll see all of them tomorrow.” He tapped a red, ripe strawberry against her lips. She took a bite of the succulent fruit, moaned again.

“Everything tastes so marvelous, so much richer than it ever did before. I shall never take anything for granted again.”

“I don't think you did before.”

“Not often, but now I shall never take
anything
for granted.” Especially not him.

Pineapple was next, then cheese, more wine.

“As grateful as I am for what you did,” she began, “I never meant for you to pay for my misdeeds.”

“I paid for them with money, Rose. What good is money if it is not spent?”

“But you had to spend so much. I know what I owed. It must have nearly cost you your last farthing.”

“You underestimate how heavy my pockets are.”

“I will make it up to you. Anything you want—­”

He touched his thumb to her lips. “Tonight you can make it up to me by not mentioning what you owe me.”

She nodded. She would never be in debt to anyone more than she would be to him. “I'll return the five thousand—­”

“That was a different bargain. It's yours.”

“I so misjudged you, Avendale.”

“I doubt it. Let's get your hair washed, shall we?”

She'd expected him to call for Edith. Instead he set the plate aside, moved in behind her and washed it himself, slowly massaging her scalp as he did so. She wished she could eliminate the guilt she felt for all he had spent on her behalf. Perhaps it would help if she told him that she loved him, but would he believe her? Knowing how much she owed him, that her debt to him was now one that could never be repaid, would he think she was merely spouting words, striving to flatter him, to bestow upon him a false gift?

Did he truly love her, or had the words been spoken in haste? Did he regret saying them, especially when she'd said such cruel things to him?

“I didn't mean it,” she said quietly.

His fingers stilled, and he moved around until she could look into his eyes, and waited.

“When I said it had all been a swindle,” she continued. “That I'd been running from you. It was a lie. As I was stepping out of the coach, I saw Tinsdale. I was running from him.”

“Why didn't you tell me about him?”

She shook her head. “Embarrassment. Shame. I never talked about my past because I didn't want you to know the awful things I'd done. But now you know. I don't know why you didn't leave me to rot.”

He cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb along the soft edge. “You know why.”

“You said you loved me and I threw it in your face. Yet still you saved me. You have no reason to trust me, no reason to believe me, not after all the lies. But I've fallen madly in love with you, and that's why—­”

His mouth, his wonderful luscious mouth claimed hers with a fierceness that should have frightened her, but only served to fan the flames of her desire. She wanted him, every inch of him. She wanted to touch and taste, stroke and lick. So many nights she had tossed and turned, thinking of him. From the moment she'd fleeced her first gent, she'd known she'd eventually pay for her crimes, but having known Avendale, the harshness of her punishment had seemed to increase tenfold. Knowing him had turned into a blessing and then a curse . . . and ended as a blessing.

He had saved her from more than prison. He had delivered her from a lifetime of regret where Harry was concerned. All the lovely moments they'd shared, all the experiences she would never have given him. Avendale had rescued her from a lonely existence. Life with him would never be dull. They would make passionate love often, wildly and madly. They would visit gaming hells and play cards. They would gamble, wager with each other, laugh, and talk.

For as long as he wanted. Unfortunately, she also knew that as long as he wanted would never be long enough for her. She would never want to leave him, never want to let him go. She would relish each day, but she would also end each with the bittersweet knowledge that it might be her last. That any morning he could awaken and decide he no longer loved her. Another had claimed love for her and turned away. Avendale might as well, someday.

But for tonight she was here. His wet hands were caressing her slick skin. The sensations began to build and she latched her mouth back onto his. His tongue delved deeply, claimed and conquered. He could conquer her so easily, and yet each time he did felt like her own victory.

He tore his mouth from hers. “Your skin is covered in chill bumps.”

When had the water gone cold? “Doesn't matter.”

“It matters. I've been without you for twenty-­seven days—­”

“You counted,” she stated, both surprised and pleased.

He grinned. “It seems you did as well.” He skimmed his fingers over her face. “I don't intend for us to spend our time together tonight with you shivering and catching your death.”

He helped her out of the water. Her heart nearly broke with his gentleness as he patted the towel over her body. Then he lifted her into his arms, carried her into the bedchamber, and set her on the bed in a manner that barely stirred the sheets. So unlike the first time he'd tossed her there.

“I won't break,” she said as he removed his clothes. So many times she had tortured herself with images of his nude body. It was comforting now as she realized that she had been able to recall him exactly as he was: every perfection, every imperfection. The corded sinewy muscles of his arms and legs. A small blemish on his left shoulder. A mole resting just below his right rib. His broad chest, his firm back. His taut buttocks.

“I'm well aware,” he murmured as he stretched out beside her. “I've never known a woman as strong as you. I wanted to shake you when you wouldn't give me the names.”

She combed her fingers through his hair. “But you went after them anyway. I don't know if I've ever known a man as singular in purpose as you. Even that first night when we met, I knew you would not give up easily.”

“I had no plans to give up at all. I wanted you then, and if it's at all possible I want you more now.”

“Yet you're being so careful with me.”

“I want to savor every moment.” He lowered his lips to her throat, peppering kisses over the length and width of it, before moving his mouth to the valley between her breasts. She scraped her fingers along his scalp, relishing the feel of his thick hair curling around her fingers.

He shifted his attention to one of her nipples, his tongue outlining it before he closed his lips around it and drew it into his mouth. Sensations shot through her, curled her toes. She might have never had this again for the remainder of her life. But she had it now. She'd never take it for granted.

She was acutely aware of every kiss he bestowed, every flick of his tongue, every suckle, every soothing stroke, every press of his fingers. Slowly he went while her body mapped out the touches.

Pressing on his shoulders, urging him to roll over, she took hold of his wrists, carried his hands over his head, and proceeded to torment him as he had her. With kisses, strokes of her tongue, caresses of her fingers. Now she was mapping out his body. The long length of his torso, the firmness in his arms, the hardness of his thighs. The heated hardness of other parts. She stroked the last, her fingers closing around the hard length of him. Magnificent, bold, strong.

Lowering her mouth, she took in as much as she was able.

“Ah, Christ,” he groaned, his hands cradling her face.

She lifted her eyes to his face, a mixture of agony and rapture. Feeling powerful, she swirled her tongue, watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his head back. She suckled, kissed, tormented. While she was away, she'd had moments when she'd thought of this, had regretted that she'd never given him this when he had so often brought her pleasure with his mouth pressed to her most intimately. She'd wondered at his taste, at how it would feel to have her way with him as he had with her.

Taking her arms, he brought her up. “It's been too long,” he said. “I can't go another moment without having you.”

Lifting her hips, he lowered them, and her body took him deep, closed around him. A shudder of delicious pleasure went through her. It felt so good, so very good to have him there, to be one with him. Almost too good.

He raised her, slammed her down, and she began to ride him fast and furiously, while he cupped her breasts, kneading them with expert fingers. She leaned over him, her hair forming a curtain around them. She took his mouth, thrusting her tongue inside as he was thrusting into her lower. Sensations spiraled, curled, unfurled.

She kissed the dew from his throat. “I love you.”

Pleasure ratcheted through her, carried her higher, burst forth. He growled as he bucked beneath her. He closed his arms around her, held her tightly. She lowered her head to his chest, could hear the rhythmic pounding of his heart.

Lethargic, she was vaguely aware of his kissing her crown as she drifted off to sleep.