Too Wicked to Marry (11 page)

"We have an emergency," Hannah answered. "And we have to come up with a plan."

He was not drunk. Close, but not quite there yet. Martin stared into the taproom fire and wondered how much more of the fine local whisky it would take to reach the state of numbness he so greatly craved. Whatever it took, he was willing to go the distance. He was no quitter. Not Martin Kestrel.

"Only the biggest fool to have ever lived," he told the dancing flames in the grate. "But never let it be said I give up a project once it's started." Take his latest project for example; following a woman who'd walked out of his life and clearly didn't want to be found, all the way to an island in the Hebrides, so she could utterly, totally, completely crush him and destroy him in the space of the worst hour of his life. "And I've had a few bad hours in my time." He shook his head, drained the glass, and then refilled it from the bottle on the table beside him.

He held up the glass to look at the fire through the rich amber liquid. Flames danced before him, but behind him he thought he glimpsed the movement of a shadow reflected in the glass. Though it made his head spin, Martin leaned forward in the wing-back leather chair and turned to look behind him. Dark outlines of chairs and tables were discernible in the light from the fireplace and from an oil lamp the landlord had left sitting on the bar. Curtains were drawn across the window, letting in not a speck of moonlight. Outside the open taproom door was the inn's entry hall, where a lamp burned low on a shelf by the stairway that led to the guest quarters. It was not a large inn, but the best the coastal village of Portree had to offer.

If the reflection was anything but a drunken fancy, it was likely he'd only gotten an odd glimpse of another patron coming in for the night. Still, he'd heard no door open.

Of course I didn't
, he told himself.
I'm drunk and feeling sorry for myself. That sort of thing takes up a man's attention. Not blind drunk yet, though
.

The last thing in the world he wanted was to be capable of logic, or any thought at all. Feelings, feelings were another matter. He refused to acknowledge heartache, but he was willing to nurse fury, humiliation, resentment, indignation, betrayal, and hatred until he could forge them into a hard armor that he could place around his heart to protect him forever.

Martin finished his whisky and poured another. After he finished that he stood, picked up the bottle that was still a third full, and made his way up the staircase to his room. He did not stagger; he'd had far too much practice at debauchery. He was a gentleman, a nobleman, a member of the ruling class. He'd also had plenty of practice at being one thing and showing something else. In a way, he and AbigùHarriet the Harridan were alike. No, no, not a bit! He was an honorable man.
I do not prevaricate
—
I am a diplomat
.

He pushed open the door to his room.
She, on the other hand is
—

Here.

Martin did not know why he closed the door and put himself squarely in front of it as he said, "What the devil are you doing in my bedroom?"

"Martin, we need to talk."

He lifted his head proudly and looked down his long, straight nose at her. The room was a bit fuzzy around the edges, but he could see her clearly. "That is Lord Martin to you, madam. Unless you have come to apologize—"

"I haven't."

"Then we have nothing to discuss." He should tell her to get out. He should open the door and toss her out bodily if she refused to go. She did not deserve any better treatment. But he couldn't take his gaze from her, even though he had
not
missed her in the few hours since they'd parted.

She came nearer and peered at him closely, then gave a decisive nod. "Right. You're drunk."

"My state is no affair of yours." He knew he sounded clear and lucid, and looked sober as a judge. Abi—Harriet knew him too well. Damn her.

"Affairs of state are both of our affair."

He puzzled this out for a moment, but all he could manage to respond with was, "What?"

She was still lovely, viper though he knew her to be. Why was that? He knew her to be false, evil, cruel. Why did she have to be so, so… round in all the right places? The swelling of her breasts beneath the riding jacket and simple white shirtwaist she wore riveted his gaze. And her scent… So very… Was that lilacs? Being near her was like breathing in spring. Her dark hair shone in the lamplight and the hint of pink in her cheeks was so very lively, and how sweet it would be to run his thumbs over those bright spots and cup her jaw in his palm while he turned her face up for just one kiss. One long, delicious, forbidden taste of—

"Martin!"

At her sharp tone the bottle dropped from his numb fingers. He swore and she snatched it by the neck before it crashed to the floor. "Making a fool of me again, I see," he said coldly.

"Always cleaning up, more like."

"Get out." He spoke coldly, and none too quietly.

"Shh," she said. "Old man MacLeod's not that deaf. The point of having a secret meeting is that no one notices."

"Secret? What MacLeod?" It took him a moment to recall the name of the inn's owner. "Is everyone on this sheep-infested island named MacLeod?"

"If they're not named MacDonald, aye, mostly, but we're not all close clan relations. And cattle are the chief export of Skye, my lord. Every Englishman who likes his beef knows that."

"I'm not a child for you to be giving lessons to."

"You asked a question. But you're right, I've resigned the position of governess—"

"Been dismissed."

"As you wish, Martin. It's a different position I've come to discuss with you altogether."

He smirked, looking her over boldly from head to toe, then gestured toward the bed. "I can think of several positions to start with."

She put the bottle down on the washstand while he wished his wits were clearer. He'd worked hard to become drunk because of her, but needed his senses sharp in her presence. It was not just his thoughts she affected; oh, no. His body was not under such tight-leashed control, either. She was not a governess anymore, not a pure and shining example of modest womanhood up on a pedestal to be wooed and won. She was on the ground now, had shown herself to be a woman of the world. That made her available, an object of lust, rightful prey for a man's baser instincts. How lovely it would be to take his revenge by living out all his fantasies with that lovely, lush body of hers.

"It's not safe to be alone with me," he warned.

Harriet carried a gun and several knives about her person, but she did not mention to Martin that she was also dangerous to be alone with. She knew what he meant, and he was absolutely right. His hair was tousled, he was coatless, his vest was unbuttoned, and the collar of his white shirt was undone, revealing his strong throat and curls of dark chest hair. His cheeks and square jaw were outlined by a day's growth of blue-black beard. There was a languidness to his movements, a loose sensuality about his mouth, and a hungry glint had replaced the usual cool assessment in his eyes. Whisky and the day's turmoil had wiped away much of his inhibitions. He looked thoroughly disreputable and dangerous, and to a woman of her background this rascal's guise was far more appealing than the carefully groomed, controlled charm of Martin Kestrel the diplomat.

She could easily have moved into those lithe, muscular arms, succumbed to the urge to touch and be touched. She was quite aware that they were alone together in a bedroom, and was not unaffected by his reference to sexual positions. She had a vivid imagination, and wasn't made of stone. She drew on her years of practice to hide the flesh-and-blood woman's earthy cravings behind her usual mask of self-possession.

Martin was a person of masks as much as she was, he simply didn't acknowledge it. Perhaps everyone was. She didn't bring it up for philosophical debate. Of course, she was here to discuss roleplaying with him. Not in a context that had anything to do with soul searching, but in a far more practical way. She really wished there was another way to do this.

"I should tell you why I'm here," she said.

"You said we needed to talk. We've talked. Now get out." His words were laced with grim anger, but he didn't move away from the door.

She did not show how his words pricked small wounds in her soul. She folded her gloved hands in front of her and restrained the sigh that threatened to escape her lips. "I need your help," she told him.

"Why don't you say you need me?" His lips formed a smirk, but the expression in his eyes was darker and more intense. "I know it would be a lie, of course, but I'd like to hear it."

"I did not expect this conversation to be easy, Martin."

"My lord."

She nodded. "As you wish, my lord."

His smirk turned into a very wicked smile. "I'd love to hear you say that as well, to everything I want."

For some reason, she had not expected sexual innuendo from him. At least not until after she posed her proposition to him, and then what she expected was bitter, caustic teasing that she'd told herself she could live with.

"You are going to give me a very hard time aren't you, my lord?"

His answering laugh was low and sinister. "Very hard indeed."

Her cheeks burned bright red, and redder still when a quick glance below his belt buckle confirmed that the man was not joking. "Martin, are you drunker than you look?"

"Probably."

Harriet supposed she should have waited until tomorrow morning to ask him for help, instead of rushing off right after her mother suggested the plan. What had she been thinking? The man needed, deserved, time to calm down, to regain rationality and equilibriumùjust as she did. She wasn't at the top of her form either, or she wouldn't have rashly slipped into his room for a midnight
tΩte-α-tΩte.

But tomorrow he would take the ferry back to the mainland, and from there who knew where he'd head? To his parents, to be with Patricia? She couldn't confront him there. To his London home? Back to the house party he'd left on the Isle of Wight? To the continent? She could trace him, of course, but that would waste precious time.

The window of opportunity was right now. She didn't want to think that her hieing after him so rapidly was the result of not being able to bear never seeing him again. No, her heart could not be so foolish and impulsive. This was business. She had to concentrate, and make Martin do the same.

"Martin. My lord," she amended at his crooked eyebrow. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Ah." He smiled, and he reminded Harriet of a large, black, stalking cat, a panther to be exact. "You need me."

"Yes."

He threw back his head and laughed.

"I could kick you," Harriet vented her exasperation.

"And scratch and bite and claw, I hope. From flat on your back."

"Martin!"

He put his finger over his lips. "Shh. Remember old man MacLeod."

Harriet fumed in silence for a few moments. She had to admit that she'd left herself open for every jab he'd delivered. The man had the right to give her a certain amount of grief; she accepted that. What was disturbing was how his suggestions dovetailed so succinctly with what she needed to discuss. "I've come to grovel for a favor. Will you please let me get on with it?"