Читать книгу The Rake's Bargain - Lucy Ashford - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Oh, no. He was formidable, Deb realised, and not just because of his pistol. Everything about him—his pride, his height and his muscle power—shouted danger, as he stood looking down at her with the clearest, most captivating male blue eyes she had ever seen. And those eyes were full of pure scorn, as he pointed that lethal-looking pistol at her heart.

Deb’s pulse bumped sickeningly. Why, oh, why hadn’t Luke and Francis searched him? But they weren’t the only ones to blame. She should have noticed the pistol’s bulk when she pulled out his watch; she should have gone through everything he carried, except that it felt like a gross insult to his privacy...

More of an insult to him than taking him prisoner, you mean? ‘Well,’ Deb said, tilting her chin so she could meet his hard gaze. ‘So much for your oath to let us go.’

A slow smile curved his arrogant mouth. ‘Your memory is failing you somewhat. I did indeed swear not to set the law on your friends, but you forgot something rather important. You see, you didn’t include yourself in the bargain.’

Deb stood very, very still. She concentrated on meeting his gaze without flinching. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. You must never let an enemy see you’re afraid...

‘Trickery with words,’ she scoffed. ‘Usually the last resort of a man who knows he’s in the wrong.’

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about who’s in the wrong here. Empty your pockets.’

‘I don’t see why I need to—’

‘I said, empty your pockets—Deborah.’

Deb breathed hard and deep. ‘Why? Unlike you, I don’t carry a gun. If I did, I assure you you’d have seen it by now.’

‘No doubt,’ he retorted calmly. ‘Nevertheless, I want you to empty your pockets. You see, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d been off on a thieving jaunt of your own while your friends were busy setting their trap for me.’ Mr Beaumaris nodded curtly at her little jacket. ‘What have you got in your pockets? I can see something. Stolen trinkets? Silver?’

Deb fought sheer panic. ‘I’ve just got some old books, that’s all. And I can’t imagine you’ll be in the least bit interested in them...’

‘Let me see them.’

‘What? No, they’re nothing of value, really...’

Her voice trailed away as he took two steps towards her—my, he was tall, he was big—and jerked that wretched pistol towards her head.

With his free hand, Mr Beaumaris began to explore her pockets. His cool blue eyes never once left her face, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the man. He’d been subjected to a dangerous fall from a speedy mount. He’d lain stunned and trussed up on the cold ground—and yet he could still have walked into a Whitehall club and not looked an inch out of place.

He could also, she thought rather wildly, have walked into a crowded ballroom and had every woman there falling at his feet. Handsome wasn’t an adequate word for him. She’d spent a large part of her life in the theatrical world of fantasy, and Mr Damian Beaumaris, if he weren’t so unpleasant, surely resembled every woman’s dream of a hero. But at that exact moment, her rambling thoughts stilled into an awful realisation of doom as he pulled out the first of Hugh Palfreyman’s books.

‘Take it.’ He shoved the book towards her.

She took the little volume without a word. He drew out the next one, and the next, handing them to her until she was holding all three.

‘Old books,’ he said softly, echoing her very words. ‘Now, you’ve already assured me that you’re not a thief. So what precisely is your occupation—Deborah?’

She stared up at him defiantly. ‘My friends and I put on—entertainments.’

‘Entertainments.’ He repeated the word almost with relish. ‘Well, I can only assume that these books are part of them, since you carry them with you all the time. Show them to me, will you?’

‘Oh, I assure you, you’ll find them very dull—’

‘Will I? Let’s see,’ he interrupted. ‘Open the top one—yes, that’s right—and let me judge for myself.’

He’d lifted his pistol so close to her face that she could almost smell the cold, deadly metal. Slowly she opened the first book. Please, let it be all writing. Please don’t let it be one of those dreadful pictures...

She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. She’d opened it, as luck would have it, at the most lurid illustration she had yet seen.

‘Turn the pages,’ he ordered.

She did, one by one, feeling his contemptuous blue eyes burning into her.

‘Part of the equipment of your trade, I assume?’ he said at last. ‘Intended, no doubt, to arouse the interest of any prospective client who might find your feminine charms rather less than—overwhelming, should I put it?’

‘No! I—’

He gestured with his pistol. ‘Show me the next book. Now.’

Deb felt her cheeks burn. Bastard. Bastard, to do this to me. She turned the pages of the second slim volume, hoping it might be marginally less shocking than the first—but it wasn’t. Oh, heavens. What on earth were those two in the picture doing? Yes. She saw exactly what they were doing. And so did Mr Beaumaris.

He regarded her with cool appraisal. ‘You don’t look like a whore,’ he said.

Oh, what would she give to insult him in equal measure? Her skin tingled with fury. But right at this minute, it was her absolute priority to keep this abominable man unaware of the fact that she had just robbed Hugh Palfreyman’s abode, so she gazed up at her captor and smiled sweetly. ‘Such things are a matter of taste, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware. And some men prefer to—vary their choice from time to time.’

His eyes glittered—blue, dangerous eyes—and they were so transfixing that she couldn’t tell whether he was amused or madly angry at her gibe. ‘Men might vary their choice of women, yes. But you look more like a boy,’ he said, quite calmly.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard that’s what some gentlemen prefer.’

‘You think so? Not me.’ He briefly took his eyes from her as he checked his pistol and eased it back into his pocket. ‘I can, of course, have the gun out again no time at all if you try to run. But now—tell me your favourite.’

‘What?’ Deb’s heart hammered.

‘Tell me which illustration is your favourite.’ His brows tilted wickedly. ‘Since you must know the contents of these books rather well.’

Oh, heavens. ‘Well, of course,’ she said, ‘it all depends on what mood I’m in.’

‘And what kind of mood are you in?’ he asked in an interested way.

I just wish I had that damned pistol of yours in my hand, she muttered under her breath. ‘Of course, I always endeavour to match my clients’ inclinations rather than my own,’ she responded sweetly. ‘But my time costs money, Mr Beaumaris.’

‘And I’m not usually in the habit of paying,’ he replied smoothly, ‘least of all for a travelling slut—’

He broke off when she flung out her hand to slap his cheek. Which was more than foolish of her, because before she’d time to reach her target, Beau had knocked aside her raised hand, cupped her chin and tipped her face up to his, while his hard blue eyes scoured her. He felt her go very still as he let his fingertips slowly caress the warm silken skin of her cheek. She was so like—so very like—the other one...

He was aware of the books dropping from her hand, one by one. And the idea—the idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind since he first set eyes on her—took firmer shape.

He said softly, ‘Well, Deborah. How do you fancy a trip to Hardgate Hall—with me?’

He thought he saw a flicker almost of horror cross her face. But then she smiled up at him. She reached to touch his cheek with her fingertip. And gently, almost mischievously, she murmured, ‘So you’ve a notion to take our acquaintance further, have you, sir? But first—why not try me here, for yourself?’

Beau gripped her tight and let his mouth come down on hers. Hard, relentless and demanding.

He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to show her that her charms left him cold. He planned to kiss her briefly, than thrust her away with some icy insult.

But instead it was he who was being taught a lesson—that her kiss was sweet, sweeter than he could have believed possible. He found himself holding her closer, prising her lips apart, forcing his tongue inside her mouth to take sure possession, and he was mystified, because there was something totally unexpected about her. In spite of those outrageous books, she somehow carried the allure of innocence, and at the first touch of her lips desire had hit him like a punch in the stomach, momentarily winding him.

And now her arms were tightly around his waist; her lovely face was lifted expectantly to his and he was unable to resist caressing her lips with his again, feeling arousal thud through his loins as he drew her closer, thinking in wonder, Her kiss is soft and sweet. She’s not like the other one, even though she’s the exact image. Not like her at all...

In almost the very same instant, he heard two sets of footsteps pounding up behind him.

Before he could do a thing, the girl was already plunging her hand into his pocket to snatch out his pistol, and both his arms had been seized from behind.

Her two colleagues had returned.

You fool, he told himself bitterly. You stupid fool. To fall for her tricks...

The girl had retreated a few yards, but was pointing the gun at him steadily. ‘Best not to struggle, Mr Beaumaris,’ she called out. ‘I’m not altogether sure that I won’t fire this fine pistol of yours by mistake, you see.’

Beau stood there raging as Deb’s friends searched every single one of his pockets. ‘There’s no other weapon,’ they called out to her. Then they started swiftly binding his hands behind his back.

Damn it. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ Beau breathed.

Those were his last words, before he found himself blindfolded—again—and wrestled to the ground. One of them—he guessed it was the younger one, Luke—practically sat on his legs in order to lash some twine around his ankles, and Beau began on a catalogue of prime insults, until the girl said thoughtfully to her colleagues, ‘Oh, dear. You’d better gag him as well.’

So his insults were at an end, more was the pity. But most of all Beau regretted being blindfolded; because if she’d been able to see his eyes, she would have realised that the expression in them was one of pure and utter contempt.

* * *

First round to the Lambeth Players, Deb’s stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would have said. But Deb didn’t feel the slightest sense of triumph. That kiss. Oh, that kiss. It was with only the greatest difficulty that she managed to keep her voice calm as she guided Luke and Francis away from their captive. ‘Well done, both of you,’ she said, ‘for timing your rescue to perfection.’

Francis looked stunned. ‘He had a gun. And he was molesting you. Kissing you. As far as I’m concerned that decides it. We’ll leave him here.’ Francis picked up his hat, which had fallen off during the struggle. ‘Luke and I spotted some woodcutters at work further along the track. They’re bound to come this way once they’ve finished for the day, and find our fancy gentleman—so let him fume in his bonds for a while. He deserves no pity from us.’

‘And he won’t get it,’ said Deb swiftly. ‘But I’m afraid we have to keep him under guard for a little while longer.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a friend of Palfreyman’s.’

Francis stared; Luke let out a small yelp of horror.

‘That’s right.’ And that’s not the least of it. Our prisoner has seen those awful, awful books, and once he’s set free, he might recount the whole incident to Palfreyman. My plan to save the Players could be wrecked...

‘Mr Beaumaris was actually on his way to Hardgate Hall,’ she went on. ‘And you were right—that is Palfreyman’s bay that he was riding. So you have to keep him a prisoner, I’m afraid, until I receive Palfreyman’s written promise to drop all charges against the Players.’

‘But that’s not till...’

‘I know. Not until tomorrow.’

‘But he’ll need feeding.’ This was Luke speaking. ‘He’ll need somewhere to sleep, Miss Deb. He’ll need—’

‘We can do it if we have to,’ interrupted Francis. ‘But what about you, Deborah?’

‘I’ve got to go back to Oxford, to the Angel, Francis.’ Somehow she managed to sound calm. ‘I’m booked to entertain the inn’s customers for an hour, tomorrow at noon. Don’t you remember?’

Francis looked gloomy. ‘But the rest of the Players have gone on to Gloucester. Can’t we just leave, now, and join them?’

‘No! We’ve put posters up all around town for my show, and you know as well as I do that if we let our customers down, they won’t turn up the next time we’re here! Also, I have to stay in Oxford to get Palfreyman’s reply tomorrow morning!’

‘Do you really believe he’ll write to say he’s going to lift those charges against us?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Deb replied confidently. Francis would be confident, too, if he knew what she’d stolen from Palfreyman’s house. ‘I’ve told him that I’ll expect his reply by ten tomorrow.’ From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed their prisoner stirring slightly; her spirits plummeted again. ‘I don’t think Palfreyman will dare to be late. But it does mean that you and Luke are going to have to keep our prisoner here until I get back to you, early in the afternoon.’

Both men looked appalled. Clearly she wasn’t the only one to realise that they had a truly formidable opponent in Mr Beaumaris. ‘If there was an alternative I’d use it, believe me,’ she continued earnestly. ‘But I’m afraid we’ve really no choice.’

Francis still looked deeply unhappy. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘I noticed there’s a charcoal-burner’s hut off the track back there, and it doesn’t look like it’s been used for years. If we get him inside it, he wouldn’t have to lie out in the cold and wet all night.’

Deb remembered the insults that Mr Beaumaris had paid her and replied thoughtfully, ‘Francis, do you know, I don’t think I care very much if our prisoner does have to lie out in the cold and wet all night. But you’re right, I suppose. Luke, you must ride over to Hardgate village and pick up a few provisions—it will all work out, you’ll see. As an extra precaution, Francis, I’ll give you Mr Beaumaris’s gun.’ She spoke with forced cheerfulness as she handed him the pistol. ‘As soon as Luke rejoins you, you can take our prisoner to the charcoal-burner’s hut for the night. By the time I’ve done my performance at the Angel, I’ll have received Palfreyman’s written promise not to prosecute us—then I can ride back here and we’ll let Mr Beaumaris go free.’

‘But then Mr Beaumaris will ride on to Palfreyman’s, and he’ll tell Palfreyman all about us!’

‘By which time we’ll be well out of the way, believe me.’

Francis glanced at their furious prisoner. ‘I’d say that the more miles we put between ourselves and Mr Beaumaris, the better.’

Deb couldn’t have agreed more. As she mounted her old pony, Ned, she tried to keep up her optimism, but she felt more and more afraid of the consequences of this ill-fated encounter. And yet it was hard to describe the almost crushing disappointment she’d felt when she realised that Mr Beaumaris was a friend of Palfreyman’s.

Something about Mr Beaumaris disturbed her in a quite alarming manner. There was no denying that he was absolutely, compellingly male, with his brilliant blue eyes and his unruly dark hair and hard, lean jaw. Gorgeous, Peggy Daniels would say. Mouthwateringly gorgeous. But shouldn’t Deb have been immune to that?

Instead, what his kiss had done to her just terrified her. Yes, she’d lured him into the kiss because she knew that Luke and Francis would arrive any minute, and it had been the obvious way to distract him. She’d been prepared to feel revulsion and fresh fear. Instead, she’d been completely stunned by her own reaction to the touch of his lips on hers.

Damian Beaumaris was the kind of man she absolutely detested. He was arrogant. He was hatefully insulting. But as soon as his mouth came down on hers she’d felt shock flooding every nerve and her world had slowed. She’d wanted—no, she needed to be closer to him; she even heard her own little moan of longing. She still felt as though her world had turned upside down.

Deb drew a deep breath, and urged her ambling steed onwards.