Читать книгу Regency Seduction - Lucy Ashford - Страница 13

Alec had been up and about early, for he’d had appointments to keep. But he’d arrived back at Two Crows Castle to find the place in utter uproar, because of some sanctimonious lady do-gooder. Alec read those scribbled notes Garrett had handed him with dawning disbelief. ‘The scandalous practice of rackrenting … rapacious landlords … Two Crows Castle …’

Hell and damnation!

Well, the charity lady who’d penned this heap of lies had made one mighty bad mistake. She hadn’t run fast enough. Alec’s men were holding her tight; as he tried to scan her face, which was all but hidden by a truly hideous bonnet and veil, Alec began to feel sheer shock coursing through his veins.

‘Take off that bonnet,’ he grated at her.

‘No! I won’t!’ The slender captive was struggling again in Garrett and Ackroyd’s strong grip.

Alec walked up to her and pulled the repulsive thing off himself. Swathes of long, silver-blonde hair fell around her face. His men gasped. One or two of them whistled softly and clicked their tongues in lewd sounds of appreciation. ‘God’s blood, Captain, she’s a ripe little piece!’ ‘Take off her cloak, then we can all ‘ave a good look …’

‘Shut up,’ Alec told his men. And he grimly readjusted to this new reality.

Yesterday this do-gooder had been parading her delectable wares on stage at the Temple of Beauty. Last night the taste of her softly parted pink lips had disturbed his dreams. All through the hours of darkness he’d been haunted by images of her long fair hair cascading around her breasts, her naked limbs entwined with his between silken sheets … Yet this morning, she was dressed like a church mouse—a very defiant church mouse—and was in possession of some hideously insulting notes about himself and his men. Who the hell was she? What was she playing at?

He rapped out to her, ‘Who wrote this filth? And why is it in your possession?’

She tossed her lovely wild hair back from her face. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

He registered the swiftly concealed fear in those blue eyes, along with something else that was almost hatred. But then it was gone again, replaced by steadfast defiance. ‘Take her inside,’ he ordered Garrett. ‘We’ll keep her here until she changes her mind.’

‘No!’ She started struggling again. ‘You cannot do this!’

‘Try me,’ was Alec Stewart’s terse answer.

Two of his men led her down a stone staircase and locked her in the basement, where the only light came in through a high-up single window. Rosalie had fought them all the way, but now she simply stood and shivered with cold and fear as her faith in her own judgement came crashing down around her.

Alec Stewart. Last night, he’d seemed—different. He’d assumed she was a whore and that hurt, but otherwise he’d seemed totally unlike the rest of the men at that hateful Temple of Beauty—so much so that she, Rosalie, whose defences against men she’d considered bullet-proof, had let him kiss her. And had felt her insides melt with a strange, sweet sensation she’d never experienced before.

Could he be Linette’s seducer? Yet there must be many more men of that name! Wildly she clutched at straws. His name had not, after all, been listed in Dr Barnard’s secret book as having visited the Temple that fateful June nearly three years ago!

Her heart sank again. He might have given a false name to the doorman. And it might have taken only one night for him to cast his spell on Linette and whisk her away. For heaven’s sake, she, Rosalie, had submitted to his charms swiftly enough! Captain Alec Stewart. He has a castle, Rosalie. A wonderful castle …

Clearly he’d never brought her sister to this crumbling heap. Her stomach cramped in torment. If it was him, he probably didn’t know or care that Linette was dead. Probably didn’t even remember her.

Rosalie would never, ever have guessed. But then, neither had Linette. You idiot, Rosalie. You thought Linette was so stupid, thought yourself so clever … She paced the floor. She lacerated herself with reproach.

Suddenly she thought she heard low voices out in the passageway. She’d been in here how long? An hour? It felt like for ever. She heard a bolt being drawn back and, as the door opened, she sprang round to face it.

Alec Stewart walked slowly into the room, loosening his necktie with his right hand. There was an unreadable look in his hard dark eyes, and somehow the sheer physicality of him, the extremity of male power emanating from that rangy, muscular body, slammed the breath from her lungs. She was reminded, in a surge of excruciating emotion, of the sweet knowingness of his kiss. The melting ache of his fingers on her breasts.

Then she realised he was holding that piece of paper.

He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and just looked at her. Rosalie hitched up her chin. ‘Locking up women now,’ she declared with scorn. ‘What right have you to keep me here against my will—Captain Stewart?’

He ignored her question. ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ he said. ‘About who you are. You’re versatile, aren’t you, Athena?’ He stepped closer and pointed at the finger on which she wore the cheap little wedding band. ‘You weren’t wearing that last night. Does your husband know you were playing the whore at the Temple of Beauty?’

Fiddlesticks. She should have taken the stupid thing off. She jutted her chin. ‘I’m a widow, as it happens!’

‘My condolences.’ His sympathy was shortlived. ‘And your real name is …?’

‘R-Rosalie.’

‘Rosalie,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And do you by any chance pen scurrilous articles for a rag called The Scribbler?’

Oh, Lord. ‘I don’t see why you should—’

He waved the sheet at her. ‘Fellow about town. That’s how the journalist Ro Rowland describes himself—or should I say herself? I wasn’t born yesterday; I am acquainted with London’s gutter press.’

The colour drained from her face. That meant Helen was being dragged into this! This was just what Rosalie had wanted to avoid; this was one reason why Rosalie had never told Helen or anybody the name of Linette’s seducer, even though she’d realised it might have hastened her search … Helen, I’m so sorry.

She squared her slender shoulders. ‘Sometimes, I’ve written pieces for The Scribbler. But often I just make notes—like the ones your men stole from me!—for my own interest. And what I’m doing isn’t against the law!’

‘It is if you’re intending to print lies. Defame my reputation.’

‘Reputation! Oh, believe me, I could write so much more about you that you wouldn’t like, Captain Stewart!’

She saw the gleam in his steely eyes and dragged air into her tight lungs. Too far. Too dangerous, Rosalie. You cannot possibly tackle him right here in his stronghold.

He was still staring thoughtfully down at her. ‘Is that so? Might I suggest you can hardly afford to take the high moral ground, Mrs Rowland, since I could retaliate by asking—what the hell were you doing last night, parading on that stage half-naked?’

‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business!’

‘Unfortunately it is, since you’ve set yourself in judgement on my affairs. You were putting yourself up for sale at Dr Barnard’s—why? To dig up filth for your news rag? Is that why Dr Barnard was after you?’

Rather too close to the truth, that. ‘I was not for sale!’

‘All right, I correct myself.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘You were, in my case at least, offering it for free.’

She gasped and struck out at him. But he caught her hand in an iron-hard grip.

Blue eyes, turquoise-blue eyes, whose bed did you sleep in last night? Yesterday Alec Stewart had found himself rather hoping that there was some reason—and not the obvious one—for this girl to be appearing on stage at the Temple of Beauty.

Well, perhaps he’d found that reason and he didn’t like it one bit. She made money out of digging up prurient details of other people’s lives. Hence her appearance at Dr Barnard’s, hunting, he guessed, for lurid gossip about the visitors to that seedy place. Hence her temerity in coming here, to cast her blue eyes boldly over Two Crows Castle, while carrying in that bag of hers some nasty notes about the crimes of a so-called rackrenter. Yet—how stunned she’d looked when she realised he was the owner of Two Crows Castle! And why was it that everything she did, or said, challenged all his preconceptions of her?

He remembered the way she’d reacted to his kiss last night. Even now he caught his breath at the way her silvery-blonde hair tumbled like a silken waterfall around her shoulders, at the way her drab cloak had fallen apart to allow him a distracting glimpse of the small but ripe breasts that were prominent beneath her shabby gown.

Very pretty, and very professional. Get a grip, man. Not only is she a courtesan, but she writes for a news rag. She’s damned dangerous.

As if to confirm his every suspicion, she made a dart for the door. He grabbed her easily with one outstretched arm. Still she struggled, panting to get away. He pulled her closer and his physical desire reared inevitably at the sensation of her warm body agitating against his. ‘Little fool,’ he uttered. ‘Little fool, stop that. Or I won’t be held responsible for my actions, do you understand?’

That quietened her. Her turquoise eyes flew up to his in shock and she went very still. Then she tossed back her glorious hair. ‘You need not think, Captain Stewart,’ she shot up at him, ‘that I’m afraid of you and men like you!’

‘Then you damn well ought to be,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Though to be fair, you dealt with Dr Barnard’s customers—myself included—most professionally last night.’

She gasped. ‘Last night was a mistake! If I’d known everything about you …’

‘Known what, exactly?’ he drawled.

‘Do you deny that you pack this—this hideous old ruin with impoverished ex-soldiers?’

Frowning, he let her go. But now his broad shoulders and back were planted solidly against the door and he made a formidable barrier indeed to any thought of escape. ‘My friends know the truth.’ His eyes blazed danger. ‘Write what you like, Mrs Rowland, and be damned to you.’

‘I will, if I choose! And I could also write about the way you expect young women to just melt at your feet! How you promise them—promise them …’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Promise them what, exactly?’

‘Nothing,’ she muttered. Oh, Lord. She should not have said that.

He was drawing nearer. ‘Promise them what, Mrs Rowland? I want to know.’ Now a truly wicked smile was curving his lips. ‘Money? Pleasure? Perhaps you’re more tempted than you care to admit by what you think our encounter last night promised?’

She gazed up at him, speechless. It was impossible. It was incredible. Yet—desire, raw and primitive, flooded her veins. Her breasts ached traitorously for his knowing touch. Her eyes were locked with his as she wildly sought inspiration that didn’t come. And he was drawing nearer, a wicked light in his gaze. ‘Playing coy, are you, Mrs Rowland? Who knows—if you promise to be … generous, I might consider letting you go, with no more questions asked.’

‘Generous?’ Her heart shrivelled. ‘Exactly what—?’

‘You were only too happy,’ he silkily prompt ed, ‘to allow me a sample of your wares last night. Now, what’s the price of your freedom, I wonder?’ He’d reached out, to touch her cheek. This woman, thought Alec grimly, was testing his self-control with her dangerous games. Desire was licking hungrily at his loins; his manhood was thickening, and though he had no desire to lower himself to her level of trickery, he most certainly wanted to teach her a lesson.

The realisation of what he was suggesting hit Rosalie like a hammer blow. The brush of his hand across her delicate cheek scorched her. ‘You wouldn’t. You can’t …’

‘I really cannot think of a more enjoyable way of bargaining,’ he said softly. ‘Can you?’

Her world spun. All she could feel were his hands, splayed across her back, his fingertips firm and warm through her clothing. All she could see, when she jerked her head up, was his hard face, lit with an emotion she could not name as he drew her relentlessly into his arms.

His dark eyes raked her. ‘I think the price of your freedom, Athena,’ he breathed, ‘should be—this.’ He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

She meant to resist. She had no intention of letting him do this. But as he clasped her close, heat uncoiled from deep within and flooded her veins, awakening each and every pleasure point in her body. This time there was no gentleness whatsoever in his touch, but his mouth was wildly sensual as he took hard possession, parting her lips with ruthlessness. His tongue was thrusting, at the same time caressing; she felt her legs giving way, felt herself longing to surrender to more, much more, as he hauled her against him and she felt the lean length of his muscular body, felt the hard intrusion of his arousal pressing against her abdomen.

Her breasts were peaking painfully, demanding his touch; between her thighs was liquid longing. His kiss was slow, erotic and powerful, tasting faintly of brandy and the very essence of male domination. She’d thought she hated men and their ways. Yet she was powerless to resist this one.

Linette. Her sister’s name tore through her. With all her strength she thrust him away. ‘You are—you are vile to treat me in this way!’

He stepped back, his hard face bleached of every emotion. ‘I thought it was maybe what you wanted. You are, it strikes me, a deceptive and muddle-headed young woman, Mrs Rowland. This gossip sheet you write for—if anything at all should appear in it about Two Crows Castle, then I warn you, I’ll take strong action. Because there are people who depend on me and I won’t let them suffer for the sake of your cheap scandal-raking, do you understand?’

Just then there was a knock on the door, which opened to reveal Eyepatch. Rosalie found herself shuddering at the scornful look he cast her way. He said, ‘A word, Captain?’

Alec joined him in the doorway, bending his dark head to the other’s in a brief exchange. Eyepatch left and Alec Stewart came back in, slowly.

Alec had to admit that this woman—Rosalie—confounded him at every turn. What was she? Who was she? A whore at the Temple of Beauty, who knew rather a lot about art? A pretty little widow and a digger-up of scandals, who had no idea of the effect she had on men?

And now Garrett brought still more news about his treacherous captive. Alec folded his arms and gazed down at her. ‘Well, Mrs Rowland, investigative reporter amongst other things, it seems you’ve got certain obligations that you’ve neglected in order to come on your little jaunt this morning.’ He pointed to the open door. ‘You’d better be on your way.’

Obligations? What …? She glared up at him. ‘You mean I’m free to go?’

‘We made a bargain, remember?’ He shrugged. ‘That kiss was payment for your freedom. I’ve no desire to hold you captive.’

‘You already have!’ she flared. ‘I’ve been here against my will for at least an hour! I could press charges on you.’

‘That’s a novel idea.’ His dark eyes gleamed. ‘Though I would, of course, be forced to press charges in return. Of robbery, perhaps.’

‘I—impossible!’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Think about it, Mrs Rowland. It would be more than easy for me to say there are valuables missing from this place. After all …’ he looked at his pocket watch coolly ‘… you’ve been here for quite a while on your own.’

‘But I’ve been locked in a bare room!’

Again he shrugged those wide, powerful shoulders. ‘Your word against mine. And I could produce plenty of witnesses who’d remember you from the Temple of Beauty. Do you really think you’d be taken seriously at the magistrates’ court?’

She tilted her stubborn chin. ‘Would you be taken seriously, Captain Stewart?’

‘I’m a war hero,’ he responded tonelessly. ‘Though it means little in financial terms, my word would carry more weight than that of a courtesan who writes for a gossip rag.’

He saw the colour stinging her creamy cheeks. Saw her fighting to find words of resistance and failing.

He was almost disappointed. Almost felt his heart softening for the defiant little widow. But he clamped down hard on any errant feeling like pity. His face as stone, he went to open the door and pointed the way. ‘As I was saying, you’ve clearly been missed. There are three people outside, looking for you. Including—’ his eyes narrowed ‘—your daughter.’