CHAPTER FOUR

Jason dumped the last heavy pail of hot water into the wooden tub he had set before the fire. In the tropics, he swam nearly every day. Bathing was a pleasure that over the years had somehow become a necessity. Already that morning, he had cleansed himself in the icy water outside. Now he figured, after her muddy attempt last night, the girl might appreciate a chance for some cleanliness, too.

And secretly he wanted to see what she looked like. She’d been lovely when he had first seen her, though his damnable eye patch had obstructed his view. How would she look with the heavy gray powder washed out of her hair, her pretty face freshly scrubbed, instead of smudged with dirt?

It was dangerous, he knew. He only had so much will and the lady tested it sorely. Last night, even muddy and bedraggled, he had wanted her. In the light of the fire, he had ached to caress her smooth skin, to bare her lush breasts and fill his palms with their pale, heavy weight.

It sickened him to think that his brother might have touched her, kissed her, perhaps even made love to her. His jaw clamped at the image even as he heard the sound of the door being opened at the top of the stairs.

Her head popped out. She surveyed him a moment before speaking. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”

“As good as could be expected … considering the circumstances.”

Jason ignored a twinge of guilt. “I brought you some clean clothes. I thought you might like a bath before you put them on.” Young Bennie had provided them, since the lady’s trunk had been too large to carry on the back of his horse, an oversight both he and Litchfield had made when planning the abduction. Fortunately, the lad’s sister was nearly the lady’s small size. Jason had paid the pair handsomely for a simple brown woolen skirt, white peasant blouse, and chemise, as well as a clean white night rail.

“A bath, did you say?” She glanced down at the tub and her face lit up with a smile that transformed her face. “I should quite love a bath.”

Jason smiled, too. He had thought she might believe as so many English did that bathing led to illness. Apparently, she was willing to take the risk.

“Are you hungry?” He tried not to stare at the bare skin above the blanket, to notice the bedraggled mass of her hair instead, but the image of smooth pale flesh remained.

“I’m starving. Apparently being abducted hasn’t affected my appetite.”

“There’s some cheese on the table, some bread and a mug of tea. I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished.”

Velvet said nothing, just stood on the stairs until he was gone and the door closed firmly behind him. An exhausted sigh escaped her. Her body ached from last night’s misadventures and she had slept only a little, tossing and turning before falling into a brief, drugging sleep. She had awakened just after dawn to the slanting of the sun through her boarded up window, the storm having passed as quickly as it had appeared.

For a moment she’d forgotten where she was. Then memory crept in. Her abduction. Her thwarted escape. The storm. The dangerous highwayman. She’d glanced at her surroundings, the bedchamber with its ruffled muslin curtains, the wooden dresser against the wall, the blue willow porcelain bowl and pitcher resting upon it. Oddly, a tiny bouquet of yellow daffodils bloomed from a cut crystal vase sitting beside it. Last night she hadn’t noticed, nor paid attention to the colorful blue quilt upon the bed.

As a prison the place wasn’t really so bad.

Still, she was hardly safe here. Her abductor was just that, and until she was free, she remained in danger. Her comfortable prison might wind up her tomb. Who was to say?

Descending the stairs, Velvet crossed to the window and peered outside. Spotting the highwayman splitting logs some distance away, she closed the curtains, then walked over to the small copper bathing tub. Nervously, she chewed her bottom lip. She was taking a chance, but the dirt and grit had to go, and the outlaw was so strong he could have ravished her already if that was his plan.

She tested the water, found the temperature to her liking, tossed aside the blanket, and stepped in.

A sigh of sheer pleasure whispered past her lips. Exactly warm enough. She settled herself as deeply as she could, enjoying the silky feel of the water against her skin, then leaned forward to wash her hair. A cake of lilac soap had been set out for just that purpose, and relaxing with contentment, she lathered the heavy strands to wash the mud and the last of the sticky powder away.

She scrubbed her face, recalling that the small heart-shaped patch she had placed near a corner of her mouth had been lost during her scuffle with the outlaw in the dirt.

She soaked for a while, till the water turned cold, climbed out and dried off with a small linen towel. A clean chemise, a brown woolen skirt, and white muslin blouse, the neckline gathered above the breasts with a drawstring, rested on the arm of the sofa. She dressed in them quickly, surprised to find they fit, ate the bread and cheese, then sat on a stool in front of the fire to drink the tea and dry her hair.

She had just about finished when the highwayman pounded on the door.

“You had better be in there, Duchess, and you had better be dressed. I’m coming in.” The door slammed wide. Jack Kincaid stood in the opening.

Velvet tossed her dark auburn hair back over one shoulder, set down her mug of tea, and straightened to face him. “You didn’t tell me I needed to hurry.”

The outlaw said nothing.

“I-I’m sorry if I took too much time. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. I … I was simply enjoying myself.”

Jack Kincaid just stared.

“My lord?” she said.

He stepped into the room and closed the door. When he spoke, his voice sounded deep and a little bit rusty. “My apologies, Lady Velvet. I had begun to believe you had somehow gotten away. I—” He cleared his throat, one penetrating blue eye fixed on her face. “I can see I was mistaken.”

She moistened her lips. “Yes … yes you were. Thank you, sir, for the bath. It was much appreciated, I assure you.”

“Your hair…” he said. “It’s like fire … the most remarkable color I’ve ever seen.”

Something warm trickled through her. Why, she could not say. “Thank you, my lord.”

“There’s a brush and comb upstairs if you need them.”

“Yes … thank you.” The words sounded breathless, which was exactly the way she suddenly felt. He was looking at her strangely, making odd little flutters rise in her chest. “I was just on my way up to get them.”

He remained where he was. Taking a moment to steady herself, Velvet walked toward him, passing him on her way to the stairs, catching the smell of woodsmoke and leather. Her hands were trembling. Why was her heart pounding so hard?

By the time she returned downstairs, her hair pulled back in a tidy little bun at the nape of her neck, he was kneeling near the flames, cutting up freshly washed vegetables and dropping them into a heavy iron pot, adding bits of mutton to what appeared to be the makings of a stew.

She watched his dark head bent to the task, his wavy hair tied back as it usually was, and remembered how wild and untamed he had looked the night of the storm. He seemed slightly more civilized now, yet the undercurrent was there, the barely leashed power. The danger.

It forced her to remember her peril, the jeopardy she was in every moment she stayed there, the ruin she and her grandfather faced should she fail to marry the duke.

The weather was clear: cloudless blue skies, a cool, gentle breeze. In the long hours just before dawn, she had come up with another plan of escape. All she needed was a means to see it through.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from the duke.”

He turned to face her. “The duke? You mean your beloved future husband?”

“I mean his grace, the duke of Carlyle.”

“No.” He went back to seasoning the stew, but beneath his white shirt, the muscles across his back appeared to be drawn more tightly than they were before.

“I suppose there hasn’t been enough time—but you did send the ransom note.”

He looked at her and his bottom lip curved faintly. “Why would I not? That is the reason I brought you here, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. That is what you have said.” But he only glanced away. Why was it every time she mentioned the ransom, she got the feeling it had nothing to do with the reason she was there?

Morning passed into afternoon. The outlaw spent much of the day outside while she remained cooped up indoors. At least he had provided her with a stack of books, reading each title as he handed them over. The Works of Milton. Bunyon’s, Pilgrim’s Progress. A book of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and Defoe’s, Robinson Crusoe. Though he played the role of gentleman, might even be a peer, she was still a bit surprised that he could read.

The next several hours she spent leafing through the volumes, but the pages failed to hold her interest—she had more important things to do. When he finally came back inside the house, she was pacing, determined to get on with her plan.

“How much longer before dinner?”

He glared at her over a wide, muscled shoulder. “Take it easy, Duchess. I’m not one of your servants. I’d suggest you ask nicely or you’ll be doing the cooking yourself.”

Her chin went up. “I’ve never cooked a meal in my life.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Are you really a lord?” The change of topic caught him unawares. “I have a feeling you’re used to the title.”

He shrugged those powerful shoulders. “Perhaps I was … once. Now it has an odd sort of ring.”

“But you are a member of the peerage?”

A dark brow went up. “Why? Does it make a difference? But then of course it would—to a woman who’s supposed to marry a duke.”

The phrasing struck her oddly. “What do you mean, supposed to marry? I am going to marry him. Neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me.”

He dropped the spoon into the stew pot with a clatter. “That determined are you?” His jaw went tight. “I didn’t realize you fancied the man quite that much.” He rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. “I suppose there are times he can be charming. And I guess he is handsome enough. Are you telling me this is a love match?”

Velvet moistened her lips. In love with Avery Sinclair? Avery was hardly a man to love. He was too much in love with himself. Velvet sighed and stared into the flames. “No. I’m not in love with Avery. I wish I were. The marriage was arranged by my grandfather.” More or less. “It suits both of us and it suits our families.”

Some of the tension eased from his body. She wondered why he cared.

“The stew is ready.” He filled a pewter bowl and handed it over, then filled one for himself. They said nothing during the meal and as soon as they had finished, he gathered up the bowls and carried them outside to wash them.

The time had come. Her heart skipped several beats then started thrumming. Scrambling up from her seat, Velvet reached toward the fire, grabbed the heavy iron poker he had used to stoke the flames, and raced upstairs. She couldn’t afford to wait any longer. She should have acted first thing this morning, but something had held her back.

She glanced toward the boarded up window, noted the bright rays slanting in through the cracks. The sun remained high; there would still be plenty of light before nightfall. This time she was taking his horse, and if all went as planned, he wouldn’t be in any shape to follow.

Her hand felt sweaty around the long iron poker she carried. She wiped her palm against her brown wool skirt and pressed an ear to the door, listening for his return downstairs.

It wasn’t long before she heard him moving about. She had already removed the bright yellow daffodils from the vase on the dresser and poured the water into the chamber pot below the bed. Now, holding the poker in one hand, she knocked the vase to the floor, unleashing what she hoped would pass for a shriek of pain as the glass crashed into splintery shards.

“Duchess?”

She made a weak little sobbing sound that was supposed to sound like crying, then quickly climbed up on the chair she had dragged behind the door. Her stomach felt tied in knots, her mouth cotton-dry, but her resolve remained strong.

“Duchess, are you all right?” His heavy boots took the stairs two at a time.

Velvet sucked in a breath for courage, raised the poker with shaking hands, held it aloft and waited till he burst through the door. Her stomach felt leaden—dear God she didn’t want to hurt him—but she tightened her hold and the poker swung down toward his head.

A blazing blue eye caught the movement, went wide with astonishment. At the last possible moment he twisted. The poker caught the side of his head and glanced off his shoulder. Still the blow did its job and he went crashing to the floor.

“Oh, dear Lord.” Scrambling down from the chair, her legs weak and trembly, Velvet tossed the heavy length of iron away, knelt down and touched his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to ignore his pitiful groan of pain. “I had to do it. I have to get away.” His skin felt warm. She hadn’t killed him, thank God. Hopefully he wasn’t hurt too badly.

Trembling all over, she raced down the stairs, stopping only long enough to snatch up his heavy cloak and the bread and cheese she had managed to stash away. Then she was out the door and running toward the stable. The big black horse was there but thankfully the stableboy was gone. She had prayed he wouldn’t try to stop her.

“Come on, Blackie,” she whispered, remembering the name the highwayman had called the horse, leading the animal from the stall by his halter, fastening the lead rope around his head to use for reins. The saddle pad was all she had time for. Pulling the horse through the door of the barn, she climbed up on the fence and dropped down on its back, adjusting her skirt around her, ignoring the stockinged legs she exposed below the hem of her skirt.

“Good boy, just take it easy.” He was a spirited horse, but she was a passable rider. Better than most women, when she was properly mounted. Surely she could manage the big black gelding well enough riding astride to make it to some sort of town.

At least that’s what she told herself as she dug her heels into the animal’s ribs and leaned forward, but at the first leap the tall horse made, big hands seized her waist and jerked her roughly off its back. Velvet screamed as One-Eyed Jack Kincaid swung her to the ground in front of him, his face a dark mask of rage. Her breath caught. She whirled to flee, but his fingers caught her arms, dug into the tops, and halted any possible movement. A trickle of blood ran from his hairline, and as much as she wanted to escape, her insides clenched to see how badly she had hurt him.

“Going somewhere, my lady?”

Fear pumped through her at the cruel set of his jaw. Sweet God, mayhap now he would kill her. She bit down on her trembling lips. “I-I’m sorry. I had to get away.”

His mouth twisted cruelly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Her fear increased, a chilling tingle that slid down her spine and settled like cold steel in her belly. She stared into his features and for the first time it occurred to her that instead of a single blue eye glaring down at her with menace, this time there were two.

“Sweet Jesu,” she whispered, suddenly transfixed. “Who are you?” Certainly not One-Eyed Jack Kincaid.

His features turned even more harsh. “Your nemesis, my lady. A man who has underestimated your will for the very last time.” A shrill whistle brought the return of the horse. With a death grip on her arm, he led the animal back to its stall, dragging her along in his wake. He jerked off the pad and unfastened her makeshift reins, then dragged her back toward the house, his big rough fingers digging into her flesh all the way.

She tried not to cry, but his painful hold combined with her failure had her cheeks wet with tears by the time they reached the door.

The highwayman saw them, cursed, and surprisingly his hold on her gentled. “Get inside,” he said gruffly.

She did as he commanded, taking several wary steps out of his reach.

He rounded on her with the full force of those penetrating eyes. “Dammit, woman. Can’t you understand? I’ll let you go when it’s time and not before then. Make it easy on us both and resign yourself—you aren’t leaving until I say!”

She sniffed and wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

“Bloody hell!” He stalked back outside, slamming the door so hard it rang into the smoke-darkened rafters. Through the window she saw him heading for the watering trough. He ducked his head beneath the surface, then shook the water from his wavy dark hair like a dog emerging from a chilly stream. Streaks of pink ran along his cheek, and guilt sifted through her.

Good Lord, she had never hurt another human being. She hated herself for it, yet couldn’t deny she’d had good cause. She retreated several paces as he strode back in, but he made no move to approach her, only sank down on the sofa, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the back.

Velvet eyed him warily. A bruise was beginning to form on the side of his face, and another spasm of guilt lanced through her. She moved a little closer.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she said softly.

Two blue eyes cracked open. She felt them on her face as if he touched her. “You’re a woman. I should have known better than to trust you.”

Velvet sighed. “If you would tell me the truth, tell me what this is about, perhaps I could help you. I don’t believe you are really Jack Kincaid. I’m not even sure you’re after the ransom. Please … if you would just—”

“Lady, if you would just keep quiet, maybe my head would stop hurting.”

Velvet bit down on her lip. The man was in pain and she was the cause. Making her way to the bucket of water by the fire, she dampened a cloth then returned to the sofa, carefully placing it across his injured head.

Those piercing blue eyes slid open. Something dark and turbulent swirled in their depths, something of hurt and betrayal. Something that made her wish she could change what she had done.

“I had to do it,” she whispered. “I wish you could understand.”

They drifted closed again. “Perhaps I do,” he said without looking at her. “Perhaps I even admire you for it. I still can’t let you leave.”

Velvet said nothing more. She had never met a man like this one. She couldn’t begin to understand him, and yet she was drawn to him. Fascinated by the danger that seemed to surround him. Touched by the gentleness she had glimpsed in him more than once.

She would continue to fight him. She had no other choice. But she knew no matter what happened, she would never hurt him again.