Читать книгу Explosive - Charlotte Mede - Страница 10

Breath caught in her throat, Devon woke with a start, grasping for her small pistol secreted beneath the pillow. It was gone. Panicked, she shot up and, heart frozen, stared at the man sitting calmly at the side of her bed.

Blackburn, still marvelously turned out in evening attire, was leisurely examining her small silver-mounted revolver. A dark specter in the moonlight, he held the pistol in his large hands, removing the bullets from their chamber with seasoned expertise.

“A lovely piece.” He tossed the pistol onto the rumpled bed. “A gift from de Maupassant?”

She was scared and she had every right to be. His height, the breadth of his shoulders—he took over the entire room, a menacing threat that had formed out of the shadows. Refusing to cower, she let the bedclothes fall from her shoulders, quickly reappraising the situation.

“I insist you leave,” she challenged with an arrogance that, if he had been a man, would have given Blackburn pause. Vulnerability was not her strong suit despite threats of a hangman’s noose. Her expression was at odds with the luxurious spill of her hair and the revealing lace of her nightdress.

“That’s unfortunate.” He glanced at the rumpled covers and the dent in her pillow. “So where’s your lover? You have only a few hours left to secure the Eroica.”

She shot him a cold look without moving from under the heavily brocaded duvet. “I asked you to leave. This is neither the time nor place…”

“So you keep reminding me.” Blackburn made himself more comfortable on the edge of the bed. “As I recall, we have some unresolved business between us.”

“As I recall, I told you that I don’t have the Eroica. And in response you so generously gave me the evening to persuade my lover to relinquish the score to me, remember?” Her anger mounted, overriding her fear and the fact that only the fine silk of her night rail stood between them.

He shrugged off her comment easily, moonlight slanting across his face. “I had a feeling that you weren’t taking my exhortations seriously enough, Mademoiselle.”

“Your threats, you mean.”

His dark glance swept the room in response. “I don’t see Le Comte here.”

The words were intended to pierce her veneer. He had succeeded earlier that evening, and she wondered if he was as easily aroused as she was at the thought of that explosive intimacy. That clever mouth of his, his hands molding her breasts. She flushed at the memory. Her behavior was nothing to be proud of nor could she entirely account for it, as if her entire life’s experience, her faith in rationality and logic, simply melted away whenever he wanted it to.

Well, the battle of wills was just beginning. “I said I needed more time.”

“I no longer believe you, if I ever did. You are the man’s mistress and you have the opportunity to manipulate him sexually. And yet you are reluctant to do so. Why? My patience is wearing thin.”

“You were expecting me to run from your arms to his tonight?” Devon threw back the coverlet and rose boldly from the bed to slide into her slippers. Despite her all but transparent gown, Blackburn seemed unperturbed by her near nakedness.

“I’m certainly not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before,” he said with infuriating nonchalance. He had absolutely no idea that she was immobilized by the hideous choice that he was forcing her to make.

Furious, she stalked past him to the foot of the bed. “And you thought that the damn scenario you created in the ballroom this evening would somehow help. Did you think that Le Comte, maddened by jealousy, would calmly hand over the score to you in exchange for my undying devotion, once I came to his bed from yours?”

Two seconds passed and his dark gaze did a slow burn down the length of her body.

“You weren’t coming from my bed.”

The words were said in a barely audible growl and she felt an awareness as intense as a stroke of flesh on flesh. Her knees weakened as heat pooled between her legs.

In self-defense, she reached into a wardrobe and jerked out a satin robe.

“That garment is not suitable for where we’re going.”

“We, Blackburn, aren’t going anywhere,” she said with finality, shrugging into the robe and tying the narrow sash firmly around her waist. “All you have to do is give me more time and I’ll get the damn score.”

“I don’t see de Maupassant nestled between your sheets. So let’s just say your time has run out.” Blackburn lounged on the bed, watching his quarry frantically looking for ways out of her maze.

“I don’t need another ultimatum.” She firmed her jaw and motioned toward the door hoping to usher him from her room. “Tomorrow we’ll see if that public charade you orchestrated has had the desired effect on Le Comte. Maybe he’ll present us with the score on a silver platter. Though I doubt it,” she ended caustically.

“For once we’re in agreement.” Blackburn slipped her revolver neatly into his waistband. “And that’s why you’re coming with me.”

How could she have forgotten just how sleekly he moved, lethal and quiet, as he closed the distance between the bed and the door in the space of a held breath? She steeled herself for his touch, feeling like a ripe fruit about to burst. His scent, a faint hint of sandalwood. Then a strong hand enclosed her wrist like iron, convincingly stalling her escape.

His voice was rough, his breath soft on her ear. “I don’t like it when people renege on their promises, Mademoiselle. And I don’t make idle threats. You failed to produce the Eroica this evening—there are consequences.”

A heady combination of barely restrained desire, fear and mistrust scented the air. She tried to pull away, a jolt of streaming pleasure mixed with panic rising like a tide.

“Surely you don’t mean to hand me over to the authorities tonight.” She stared at him, barely comprehending. “What use would I be to you then? You’d be no further ahead, no closer to getting the score.”

“Didn’t you think I might have my own motives for participating in this drama of yours, Devon?” Blackburn continued, his question purely rhetorical. Her name fell from his lips and lingered tantalizingly in the hostile air between them.

She held her ground. “Your motives are of no interest to me.”

His smile was more taunting than comforting. “Probably your first mistake.” Without releasing her wrist, he quickly searched the cavern of her wardrobe and withdrew a dark green pelisse.

“So, go ahead—throw me to the authorities.” Despite the brave words, Devon now tried to shrug away from him. She watched in disbelief as he silently threw the garment over her shoulders and propelled them both toward the window. Opening the shutters and then the casements, he lifted and then deposited her effortlessly outside on the small balcony overlooking the interior courtyard twenty feet below.

The night was soft and she found herself pinned against a frame as hard and unyielding as granite. She waited, this time hanging on desperately and with a sinking in her stomach.

She couldn’t see his face but felt his mouth touch her temple, her ear. “I am the authorities, Devon—as you’ll soon learn.”

Her heart shuddered and then began a nervous staccato. Dear God. She pictured a dark, damp cell and worse, torture, the rack, bread and water…Her thoughts careened out of control. Hanging would be preferable.

“I shall scream,” she warned in a small voice, trying hard to ignore the rise and fall of his warm chest against her back.

“No you won’t. Somehow I don’t think you’d like to attract your lover’s attention at the moment.”

Damn. She hated it when Blackburn referred to Le Comte as her lover. Tamping down her anger and fear, she focused on what was sure to be a hard landing on the flagstones of the courtyard below. The Frenchman’s concert festivities had concluded and not a creature stirred in the almost preternatural silence of this wealthiest section of London.

Blackburn’s quiet, deadly calm was more terrifying than what could possibly wait beyond the courtyard and yet she fought the disconcerting urge to turn around and cling to him. He held her patiently as though expecting a struggle and then, taking advantage of her surprising docility, levered them both over the ironwork balustrade to dangle for a dizzying second ten feet over the flagstones below.

They landed soundlessly alongside clinging ivy.

Ready to run, she kicked backward and felt her slippered foot make contact with his shin.

“Not good enough.” His words caressed the nape of her neck, as sensuous as the inky air surrounding them, and she answered with a rebellious but hopelessly futile jerk in his arms. She could feel his smile in the dark.

Fury boiled to the surface. This escapade of his was going to cost. “This is positively medieval. Where are you taking me and why? Why even bother with a parody of justice? Why not just kill me here on the spot?” No answer except for his unyielding force, dragging her toward the back garden of Le Comte’s luxurious town house.

Slipping by the deserted servants’ entrance lit by a single torch, they rounded a corner where the fine gravel stone gave way to a meticulously manicured lawn. In the darkness and only for a moment, Devon thought they had stumbled upon a bronzed colossus, but with a flick of its proud head at the sight of its master, the horse came to life.

Blackburn was past listening to her. Instead he heaved her up into the saddle and mounted behind her while, as though accustomed to such nightly adventures, the huge steed, rooted to the spot, waited for its master’s signal. Enveloping them both in the caped greatcoat that had been secured in one of the saddle pouches, Blackburn pulled Devon firmly against him. She could feel the steady beat of his heart through the fine fabric of his evening clothes.

They rode hard, a half ton of steaming horseflesh devouring the miles as the moon-saturated night unfurled before them. Blackburn chose a bridle path through Hyde Park and then headed north to leave London behind in a thunder of hooves and flying mud. Devon had no choice but to cling to his waist, the friction of his greatcoat barely concealing the hard, moving muscles beneath. All she could do was fight her awareness of him, of his scent, the strong curve of his back shielding her from the night.

It must have been an hour before they slowed, the horse’s hard breathing the only noise in the night’s stillness. The animal skidded around a corner, slowing to a canter as a manor house appeared on the still-dark horizon, illuminated only by moonlight, a rustic stone pile surrounded by tall hedges and a curved driveway. Devon took a deep draught of the moist night air, calculating the hour to be three or four in the morning.

“Don’t move—trust me, you have nowhere to run,” Blackburn said as he reined up. The curve of his mouth indicated the futility of any escape plans she might entertain.

He would get nothing from her, Devon swore moments later, feeling vulnerable and ridiculous in her nightdress, robe, and cape in the chilled front hall of what was clearly, in centuries past, a hunting lodge. They were alone except for an ancient man who emerged from the darkness to light a fire in the cold grate of the front drawing room. In a few moments the kindling turned to flames, lighting up a simple paneled room lacking the florid carving of more sophisticated country manors. A curving staircase in the front hall and stone floors cut from local granite formed the backdrop for decidedly masculine furnishings. Only a dark red Aubusson carpet added any softness or warmth.

“Nothing as luxurious as what Le Comte has to offer, but you’ll find it comfortable enough,” said Blackburn, reading her thoughts. He joined her in the drawing room, incongruously formal in his white cravat, tailored cutaway jacket and breeches, his stark looks an unwelcome intrusion.

“I’m surprised you haven’t lowered me into a dungeon.”

“The night’s not over yet.”

The room was cold enough and Devon hunched further into her pelisse.

“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Blackburn asked neutrally, unconscionably vital and as if he’d not just spent the last twenty-four hours without sleep. “And you may as well rest.”

Before what? An interrogation or worse?

Devon turned to sit on the proffered divan, determined not to let the man detect her fear which sat like a heavy stone in her chest. “I don’t know where all this is going,” she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “Neither of us has the score, so what do you hope to accomplish here? Or is this simply your idea of revenge, a salve for your wounded male pride at having been abducted by Le Comte’s men and dragged into this affair?”

He dropped into a wingback chair opposite her, his expression inscrutable. “When you come to know me better you’ll realize that I seldom allow pride to get in the way of anything I do.”

“I don’t intend to get to know you better,” she answered huffily. “I shall return this instant to Le Comte and insist that we proceed without you.”

It was a feeble bluff. The best she could do at the moment up against cold-blooded reality.

“Somehow I doubt it,” he said, reading her mind again. He stretched out his long legs and sank further into the chair. “Instead, I think de Maupassant will come for you. As a matter of fact, I’m counting on it.”

She sucked in a startled breath. His dark blue eyes met her own. “You believe Le Comte will want me back badly enough to give you the score? That’s ridiculous!”

He leaned forward in the chair, his gaze predatory. “You underestimate your value to him, Devon. Of course mistresses are plentiful, that’s not what I’m referring to.”

“What are you referring to?”

“Access to what you know—he wants what’s in your head.”

Devon catapulted to her feet, nearly stumbling over her pelisse. She was overtired and on the brink of overplaying her hand, ready to shout at him that she was not the Frenchman’s paramour.

She stopped just in time when she noticed how he searched her face, his dark eyes almost black in the firelight. He was thinking, calculating, manipulating—and it infuriated her.

“I would rather hang.”

The look he shot her was skeptical. “That can be arranged, all too easily. So sit down, I’m not finished.”

Her eyes blazed fury.

“It’s your knowledge that de Maupassant is interested in and your relationship with your late father.”

Of course, her father. The traitor. The man whose work and reputation she was trying to vindicate. If it killed her.

She made a small sound of contempt, perching herself at the edge of the divan. “Do you intend to hold me hostage then?” She made herself fold her hands calmly on her lap while drawing from her rapidly dwindling resources.

Blackburn gave her a considering look. “It’s your doing. You failed to secure the score from the Frenchman as required. This is simply another way of forcing de Maupassant’s hand—he needs the two of us. And I need the Eroica—now.”

Bloody hell, the man was high-handed. Devon’s resolve hardened like stone against his arrogant stance. “And I’m simply to acquiesce to either your or Le Comte’s request, just like that?” She snapped her fingers in his face. “And as I said to you before, don’t bother offering me money.”

Devon braced herself as Blackburn rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace. He leaned against the mantel and folded his arms over his chest. “What would you have me believe, Devon? That you failed in your bid to charm the Eroica from the Frenchman’s grasp? I’m beginning to think that you’re playing me false. As a matter of fact, I wonder whether you’re as politically neutral as you pretend to be. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if your sympathies lay with Bonaparte, given your familial history.”

The implication of his words sank into her bones. In order to manipulate, to subdue—Blackburn had to trust her. “My only interest is in my music,” she equivocated, raising her chin aggressively. “De Maupassant was the only avenue open to me, the only opportunity to continue my study. In exchange, Le Comte forced me into securing your cooperation.”

Gaze pinning her, he stalked forward. She felt his hard fingers tip up her chin. “You’re lying,” he said simply.

Devon held herself perfectly still, afraid she’d fall apart if she moved a single muscle, her silence the only answer. She hated him. She hated the situation they found themselves in. And she hated the fine trembling suffusing her body as he wrapped one large hand around the back of her neck.

“You’re very beautiful.” He stared at her hard and she couldn’t look away.

Her breath came faster.

He tilted her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her neck, holding her immobile between his warm hands. Very quietly, he murmured, “I know what you want, Devon, and I can give it to you.”

The air left her lungs in an instant and she felt herself retreating into herself, away from that touch that managed to obliterate all thought. She wanted to close her eyes, shutting him out, but she couldn’t. He shook his head and the world came to a standstill.

“I can make this easy for you. If you let me.”

“That’s impossible. You don’t know.” Her voice broke. “You can’t know.”

His gaze hooded, he watched the emotional struggle reflected in her eyes. As if he had all the time in the world to bend her to his will. It was worse than any threat, hearing that velvet voice saying the words she so desperately needed to hear.

“It’s your father, Devon. You want to discover who murdered him and why, don’t you?”