CHAPTER FIVE

Carlyle Hall glittered like a jewel in the darkness of the crisp March evening, every window lit by glowing beeswax candles, strains of harpsichord spilling into the quiet of the night.

Built in the early part of the century, the house was Palladian in design and fashioned of Portland stone. With its lovely Venetian balustrades and stylish pedimented windows, it was a showplace in the surrounding West Sussex countryside.

Beneath the painted ceilings of the King James Room, Avery Sinclair paced in front of the gold brocade sofa where Bacilius Willard, a big, burly, ex-Bow Street Runner, stood with his tricorn hat gripped nervously in his hands.

“Where the devil is she?” Firelight played on the silver cadogan wig that covered the duke’s golden hair. “By God, we’ve only three days before the wedding. Guests are beginning to arrive. So far they haven’t realized the chit is missing, and even the old man forgets about half the time. But sooner or later they are bound to figure out that something is wrong.”

“We should ’ave found her by now,” the hulking man said. “We’ve set a dozen lads to tramping the roads betwixt ’ere and where the lass was taken. We’re bound to run across them sooner or later.”

“Well, it had bloody well better be sooner!”

Baccy nodded his big shaggy head. He had worked for Avery for more than six years, ever since he’d been caught in for petty thievery and been tossed into Newgate prison. “Coachy said the bloke took the lass for ransom, but nary the sign of a note ’as appeared.”

“She’s a comely little baggage. Mayhap the man’s cods overruled his senses.”

Baccy’s broad, pockmarked face turned red. “’E’s touches ’er and ’e’s a dead man. I’ll track the bastard down meself and slit ’is throat from ear to ear. You’ve me promise on that, yer grace.”

Avery waved the big man’s words away. “In the scheme of things, whether or not he tups her is hardly important.” Though the thought of being thwarted by a common thief sent a shot of fury through him. “What counts is that we find her—and soon. I can’t keep the old man stashed away forever. In the meanwhile, there is the wedding. Time is ticking away.”

Baccy turned his tricorn hat in his hands. “I won’t fail ye, yer grace.”

“I’m certain you won’t.” In truth, Avery believed the man’s promise. Baccy Willard was as loyal as a hound. Avery had saved him from the gibbet at Tyburn Hill, plucked him from the jaws of death, and in return there was nothing the huge man wouldn’t do for him.

It was exactly the result he had intended.

“Be gone with you now,” Avery said, slapping a hand over one meaty shoulder, a pat much like tossing a spaniel a bone. “Bring the chit back and you’ll find a nice fat pouch of golden guineas waiting for you.”

Baccy made no answer. Unlike Avery, money meant little to him. He worked for a kind word, a moment of praise, or a smile of thanks.

Avery watched him leave and felt a jolt of satisfaction, thinking it the best sort of bondage he could imagine to imprison a man.

*   *   *

Another day had passed. Jason brought the currycomb through his horse’s thick black mane, using the slight task to take his mind off the girl inside the cottage. His head still throbbed whenever he moved too quickly. Damn, he couldn’t believe he’d been gull enough to fall prey to her scheme.

Once, eight years ago, Celia Rollins had unmanned him in much the same manner. She had nearly been the death of him. God’s bones, he should have learned his lesson.

And yet the circumstances were nothing the same. Velvet Moran had not betrayed him, hadn’t pretended feelings for him she did not have. She wasn’t in league with the devil in the form of his conscienceless brother. She wasn’t after control of his fortune.

She was simply trying to escape. She was fighting to save herself from a man who posed an unknown threat, a man whose intentions she could not guess, nor what end for her he might have planned.

In the same set of circumstances, would he not react the same?

In truth, as he had said, he admired her for the courage to take action. Other women would have swooned at the sight of him riding full tilt toward the fancy Haversham carriage. Most of them would have dissolved into tears to see him firing his brace of pistols above their heads.

Velvet had done neither. She had sacrificed herself for the safety of the others, then fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

She was too much woman for his murderous half brother and in the past few hours he had determined the bastard would not have her. She deserved to make a decent marriage. Once she was free of the duke, she could find a respectable husband, a man befitting a woman of spirit and fire like Velvet Moran.

He glanced to the door of the house and a reluctant smile touched his lips. He wondered what, even now, she was planning, for he didn’t believe for an instant that she had given up trying to thwart him.

She wouldn’t succeed. Of that he was certain. He had too much at stake to succumb to a slip of a girl.

The smile on his face grew broader. Considering the lump he carried on the side of his head, he found himself oddly eager to see where next her reckless courage might lead him. He began to think of finishing his self-imposed currying task and heading back to the house.

*   *   *

Velvet peered through the slats of the boarded up window in her bedchamber. The highwayman remained yet in the stable. The highwayman. That was how she still thought of him, though with his two good eyes he was definitely not Jack Kincaid. And he was even more handsome than she could have imagined. So tall and imposing he took her breath away.

Velvet sighed. Whoever he was, he was still her opponent, a man she must somehow outwit. It wouldn’t be easy, as she had already discovered, but if it could be done, she was determined to find a way.

Bearing that in mind, she eased the bottom drawer of the dresser closed, disgruntled that she hadn’t found anything useful inside.

An old wooden chest sat along one wall. She crossed the room and knelt before it. She wasn’t afraid he would catch her. She could hear him if he returned to the house, and even if he came upstairs, he had made no effort thus far to invade the privacy of her bedchamber.

The chest creaked as she lifted the lid. A tray of sewing items: a ball of wool not yet spun to thread, needles fashioned from the antlers of a deer, a skein of colorful embroidery thread, several lengths of simple undyed woolen cloth. Nothing there to aid her. She lifted off the tray and searched a portion of the chest below. Medicinal supplies: strips of bleached muslin for bandages, a hartshorn of ammonia for swoons, several jars of salve. She pried the lid off one of the jars, then wrinkled her nose at the smell of rancid lard mixed with horseradish and dark flecks of nameless herbs.

Several more packets of herbs lay in the bottom. She opened one of them, recognized the smell of dried nettles, opened another packet and frowned. It was a type of fungus found in the woods, a narcotic plant that was often crushed into powder and mixed with mulled wine as a sleeping potion. Cook had shown her how to fashion such a draught for her grandfather, when the occasional need arose.

A shadowy thought teased the back of her mind. She tried to shake it, but it wouldn’t let go, mushrooming instead into a full-fledged notion. She had vowed not to hurt him, but how hurtful would it be if he simply fell into a deep and relaxing slumber?

In time he would awaken.

By then she would be gone.

Velvet grinned and clutched the packet to her chest. They took their main meal midafternoon. Earlier, the stable lad had brought cold pigeon pie, mutton pasties, some Stilton cheese, and a flagon of wine. Wrapped in a cloth, the food and wine sat on a table beside the hearth.

She glanced once more out the window. No sign of the outlaw. Placing the packet of herbs on the floor, she crushed them to powder with a slippered foot, then pounded them even finer with a heavy pewter mug that sat beside the water bowl and pitcher on the dresser.

As soon as she had finished, she headed downstairs. The flagon of wine sat exactly where the boy had left it. She pulled the stopper from the flask and started to pour in the powder, but her hand stilled at the top of the jug.

How much to put in?

He was a big man. It would take a goodly portion, but he never consumed more than a goblet or two of wine. As far as she knew, the powder wasn’t deadly. She closed her eyes and dumped in the entire contents of the packet, then restoppered the jug and shook it until she figured the mixture had dissolved.

Footsteps sounded just as she finished. She whirled away from the hearth and rushed to the sofa, grabbed up the book she was supposed to have been reading, and buried her nose in the pages, hoping the guilty flush in her cheeks would fade before the highwayman—whoever he was—had time to notice.

The outlaw paused in the doorway, eyeing her a moment longer than he should have, then he stepped into the room and closed the door. She forced herself not to glance up at his approach, though his long, predatory strides never failed to capture her attention.

“Shakespeare’s Sonnets.” His dark brows pulled together. “I thought you were reading Defoe.”

Her heart began racing. Sweet Jesu, how could she have forgotten? She feigned a weary sigh. “In truth, not a one of them holds my attention. All I can think of is how much longer must I stay locked up inside?” The testy remark seemed to satisfy his suspicions.

“Sorry, Duchess.” A corner of his mouth curved up. “Think of it as respite from the heavy responsibilities you’ll be facing as the wife of a duke.”

Velvet tossed back her hair, growing a little too fond of wearing it loosely tied back and completely devoid of powder. “La, I’ll have a hundred servants at my beck and call. I imagine I shall be able to suffer along.”

The outlaw scowled.

She set the book away and looked into his handsome features. “You have two good eyes, not just one. I don’t believe you are really Jack Kincaid. At least will you tell me your name?”

For a moment he said nothing and she didn’t think he would answer. Her heartbeat quickened as he moved toward the table where the wine sat, unwrapped the food and began to set it out. He looked at her over his shoulder.

“Jason,” he said. “My name is Jason.”

Velvet smiled. “Jason,” she repeated, letting the name roll off her tongue. It had a softness to it at odds with the man, a veneer of civility that didn’t fit his dangerous persona. “Not an outlaw’s name, yet in a way it suits you.”

Jason said nothing, just stacked two pewter plates with food and poured them each a goblet of wine. Velvet accepted the food and drink, carried them over to the sofa and sat down. She nibbled at the cold pigeon pie, but her stomach rumbled with nerves and she couldn’t really eat. Instead, she pretended to sip the wine, careful not to swallow a single drop.

Jason polished off his plate and downed his wine, poured a second gobletful and drank it down. When he refilled his glass a third time, she went tense.

“My, you’re certainly thirsty today.”

He looked down at the glass then at her, caught the way she unconsciously nibbled her lip.

“You fear I’ll get drunk and ravish you? You may trust that I will not.” He finished the contents of the goblet. “Rest assured, my lady, a few glasses of wine will not turn me into a ravening beast.” But he blinked even as he said the words and the glass came sluggishly back to rest on the table.

Velvet watched him from beneath her lashes, saw his tall frame sag down in the chair beside the low-burning fire. He stared into the embers, the wine forgotten, her presence seemingly forgotten as well. Sweet God, it was actually working!

The minutes slipped past. Little by little, his eyes began to close and Velvet’s speeding pulse began to hammer even faster. It was going to work. Dear sweet Lord—her plan was actually going to work! His head slumped forward, sagging slowly toward his chest. Lower and lower, he sank in the chair, his body growing limp, the heavy muscles relaxing, his eyelids now completely closed.

Only a little while longer, Velvet thought, her nerves stretched taut with excitement and the urge to run. Only a few minutes more and she could be away.

His head tipped forward, eased down until his chin came to rest on his chest. Velvet leaned forward as well, poised on the edge of the sofa, her heart pounding, waiting … waiting …

She was almost on her feet when the outlaw made a heavy lurch sideways then jerked upright. He blinked, blinked again, ran a hand over his face, then groggily turned in her direction.

The minute he did, those fierce blue eyes read the guilt in her expression and he knew in an instant she was somehow responsible for his state.

“What did you do!” he roared, bolting to his feet. “Forgodsakes, did you poison me?” Two long strides and he had her, his big hand clamping around her wrist.

She tried to break free, but his hold was like iron. “Sweet Jesu—no! I would not do such a thing! You are not going to die—’tis simply a sleeping draught. It isn’t going to hurt you—you will merely fall asleep!”

He staggered and nearly fell, but he didn’t let go of her wrist. “Vixen!” he shouted. “Bloody little vixen!” He dragged her a few steps closer to the fire, then his hand shot out and he grasped the leather thong that had held the cloth tied around the food.

“Wh-what are you doing? What—” She shrieked as he jerked her against him, wrapped the thong around her wrist and his own, and tied it tight, clumsily poured a measure of wine over the knot to soak the leather then jerked it even tighter.

“I may be sleeping, Duchess, but you may rest assured that while I am, you will not be leaving.” He staggered toward the sofa, meaning to lie down before he fell, but he didn’t make it that far. He caught her against him as his eyes rolled up. His knees buckled, and the two of them crashed to the floor, landing in a tangle of arms and legs, the highwayman’s crushing weight atop her.

“Oh, dear God.” She could hardly catch her breath. It took considerable effort to move him the necessary inch to allow her lungs to fill with air. It took a moment more to get her bearings. Once she did, her face went hot with embarrassment. Her cheek was pinned against his shoulder, his thigh wedged intimately between her legs, and a big callused hand lay on her breast. Long fingers curved around it, saved only from touching her skin by the barrier of her thin muslin blouse.

The tip of a finger brushed her nipple.

The moment she felt it, the soft peak tightened and a strange, soft heat slid into her belly. Good sweet God! She shifted but she could not move, and only succeeded in pressing her feminine parts more closely against his leg. She was riding the long hard muscles in his thigh, and with the knowledge, a burning heat began in the core of her.

Her heart pumped with maddening force, yet an odd curiosity began to swell inside her. One of her hands was solidly bound, but she could move the other. She lifted it a tentative inch then another. She could feel his linen shirt beneath the tips of her fingers, which skimmed across a wide, powerful, vee-shaped back down to a waist that was narrow and also swathed in muscle. With a will of its own, the hand moved lower, over a rounded buttock, testing the curve and the firmness. Guiltily, she jerked it back to his waist, but the memory of his solid flesh lingered.

Velvet gritted her teeth. A worse torture for herself she could not have devised. Hours of lying beneath him while his warm breath fanned her cheek and his hard body held her immobile. Hours of these strange, tingly sensations coursing through her blood and pooling low in her belly. As the long minutes passed, a soft ache arose, one in her breast, tempting her to press herself more fully into his hand, one in a place lower down.

Sweet Jesu—what was the matter with her? The man was a highwayman, a robber, perhaps even worse. Still the ache persisted, and as the hours crept past, she cursed him. She also cursed herself. How had she let this happen?

By the time darkness descended, his heavy weight had begun to take its toll. She was exhausted from straining away from him, from fighting to get free. From trying to ignore the heat of his big body and the soft tingly aching in her own. Uncertain how much longer she would be trapped beneath him, she welcomed her fatigue and eventually drifted to sleep.

Though the fire had long died, she didn’t get cold, and in her sleep she felt oddly protected.

*   *   *

Jason stirred. His head was pounding as if a dozen andirons were banging inside it and his body felt strangely lethargic. All but one part.

He was hard as a stone, throbbing with the same pulsing rhythm that pounded inside his head.

God’s breath, what the devil was the matter? He shook his head, trying to clear his muddled thoughts, opening his eyes with a Herculean effort. Christ’s bones, he was lying on the floor! The room was dark and cold and he was starting to shiver. His head snapped up, his thoughts careening toward the woman, frantic to think she might have escaped and if she had, where she might have gone.

Then events came rushing in. Even before he moved, he felt her soft body beneath him, saw that her skirt was hiked up and her legs splayed by his, saw that one of his hands cupped a breast.

Jason groaned, his arousal going stiffer, pressing into the warm vee between her legs. Flame dark hair brushed his cheek and long soft tendrils curled around his neck and shoulders. He moved instinctively and the nipple beneath his palm crested against his hand.

His body throbbed in response and Jason swore a silent oath. Swiftly, he came up on his knees, rousing her with the movement, causing her to blink and stare into his face.

He gave her a reckless smile. “Enjoying your slumber, my lady? I should have thought you would prefer your nice, comfortable bed.”

“Bastard!” she shouted, rolling away from him, only to be brought up short by the coil of leather around her wrist.

“Easy, Duchess. This was your little misadventure, not mine.”

“Y-you are saying this is my fault? You are blaming me? Nothing that has happened is my fault! You are the one who abducted me!”

“And I am the one who grows weary of your attempts to thwart me.” He came unsteadily to his feet and helped her climb to hers. “Hear me well, Duchess—try another reckless stunt like this and I will not be held accountable for my actions.” He forced her chin up with his hand. “I can promise you, however, next time I will not be nearly so forgiving.” He looked at her hard. “Do I make myself clear?”

For a moment she said nothing and he released his hold on her chin.

“There is a simple way to end this,” she finally replied, easing herself away. “You could simply just let me leave.”

“When the time is right, I will.”

“And, pray, when will that be? After it is time for my wedding?”

He glowered down at her. “Exactly so.”

“What!”

“Believe it or not, someday you will thank me.”

“Thank you! Have you gone insane?”

But he simply ignored her. “’Tis cold in here.” He bent and pulled the knife from his boot, brought the blade up and used it to slice through the thong binding their wrists. She looked as if she would like to sink the blade between his ribs.

Foraging through the logs beside the fire, he stacked them carefully atop the coals, then used the bellows to rekindle the last of the nearly dead embers into flame. “A blaze will be welcome.”

“You … you are insufferable!” Turning away, she marched toward the stairs. Jason tried not to notice the way her long reddish hair floated down her back, to ignore the trim stockinged ankles beneath her raised skirts. He tried most of all not to think of how her breast had felt cupped in his hand.

As she stepped inside her bedchamber and slammed the door, he was suddenly glad he had slept so long and so soundly. With memories of the woman’s soft body plaguing him for the balance of the evening, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep.

Jason glanced toward her door at the top of the stairs. Of that he could be certain.

*   *   *

The duke smiled effusively at the Viscount Landreth and his fleshy wife, Serena, who topped the broad granite stairs and sashayed into the entry.

“Good of you to come, Landreth. Devilish journey, what with the roads so blessed muddy.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it, what?” He winked broadly, causing the quizzing glass to fall from the thick folds of skin around his eye. “Tempting little morsel you’ve snared. Hoped for a match between her and my son, but I daresay he hadn’t much chance against a man of your standing.”

Avery smiled politely. “I’m a fortunate man, indeed.” He turned to the butler, standing a few feet away. “Show his lordship and his lady up to their suite of rooms, Cummings. Lord Landreth and his wife must be tired. I imagine they will wish to refresh themselves after their journey.”

“Quite right,” said the viscount. “Gout’s paining me a bit and all that.”

Avery smiled. “I look forward to seeing you both at supper.”

The butler inclined his graying head toward the guests, and the viscount and his entourage of servants were ushered away, affording Avery the chance to escape.

He headed straight for his study, where Baccy Willard stood waiting like an errant schoolboy in front of the duke’s carved rosewood desk. Avery closed the door with an edge of force and saw him cringe.

“All right, where is she? You said that you would find her. You promised me that, and yet you have failed.”

Baccy hung his head. “We’ve scoured the bleedin’ ’ills, yer grace, but we ’aven’t found nary a sign of ’er.”

Anger surged but Avery forced it down. “He must have ridden farther than any of you imagined.”

“Aye, yer grace. We believed ’e would stay close by to pursue the ransom.”

“Well, obviously he didn’t.”

“No, yer grace.”

Avery clamped his jaw. “Day after the morrow is the day of the wedding. By eventide, the house will be swarming with guests. What do you suggest I tell them?”

Baccy shrugged his massive shoulders. “The truth?” he suggested lamely.

“The truth! What truth? That the girl was abducted, or that if this marriage does not take place I shall be ruined?”

His thick head hung slack at the top of his stout neck. “I didn’t mean that truth, yer grace.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Now I suggest you get back out there and find her. Her grandfather is becoming a problem, and a note arrived just this morning from the solicitor in London who represents the holder of the note on Carlyle Hall. If we don’t act soon, the mortgage will be foreclosed. I will be facing poverty, and you, my dear man, will be well on your way back to a life on the streets.”

Baccy shivered. “I’ll find ’er, yer grace.”

Avery picked up a heavy glass paperweight on his desk and stared into it with icy eyes that mirrored the cold crystal depths of the glass. “Then do so.” When Avery said nothing more, the burly man turned away from the threat he had seen in the duke’s hard features and loped toward the door.

Avery watched him go. For reasons even he didn’t quite understand, Baccy Willard was the one man he confided in. Though the man’s intellect was barely above that of a child, Avery said things to him he said to no one else. Mayhap he knew the man didn’t really understand. Or perhaps it was the knowledge Baccy’s tongue could be cut out before he would breathe a word of anything Avery said.

Mayhap it was merely that every man needed someone to talk to and there was simply no one else.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t concern himself about it. Not the way he was worried about the disappearance of the Haversham heiress. He needed Velvet Moran. He needed her bulging dowry to save his skin.

Where the devil was she?

Avery paced back and forth, cursing the highwayman who had taken her, cursing Baccy Willard for his failure to return her, cursing the twist of fortune that had forced him to mortgage the house and the merciless holder of the note, whoever he might be.

“God’s teeth!” He shook his fisted hand, wishing the outlaw to bloody perdition, wishing he didn’t have to face his growing stream of guests. By day after the morrow, the wealthiest members of the ton would be ensconced at Carlyle Hall. He had spared no expense to impress them, his creditors more than eager to assist, his debts held at bay by rumors of the fortune that would soon fall into his hands.

And Velvet Moran, what of her? Sullied or not, as long as she was breathing, he would marry her. He would redeem Carlyle Hall, get a brat on her, and leave her to repine in the country. He would spend his time in the city, use her fortune to rebuild his own, and his power would be as strong as it was when his father was the duke of Carlyle.

Until then, he simply had to persist. Avery pasted on a smile and returned to his guests.