Desire kept her back straight and her head up, though she couldn’t bring herself to look in Jakob’s direction. She was grateful for the gathering twilight. It hid her humiliation. She wished she could curl up into a protective ball like a hedgehog or, better yet, return to the safe familiarity of her garden at Godwin House. She had never felt so alone. So far adrift from all the accustomed securities of her life.
As the small boat cut through the dark waters of the Thames, her thoughts skittered from one subject to another. The probable, heart-wrenching loss of her home. Jakob’s kiss. Her household’s worry when they discovered she was missing. Jakob’s kiss. Anxiety over what she would encounter at the end of this journey. Jakob’s kiss…
He’d kissed her. She slid a nervous glance in his direction. Her lips still tingled from the amazing feel of his mouth on hers.
He had wanted her. Desire still wasn’t quite able to credit the evidence of her own senses, but Jakob had bluntly admitted as much.
To her knowledge, no man had ever wanted her before—not like that, as a man wants a woman. So why did Jakob—so full of handsome male grace—want her? Desire was sure he could charm any woman he chose into his bed. Why did she arouse his lustful instincts?
It was confusing, disturbing—and a little exciting.
Desire threw another nervous glance at him. What would she do if he kissed her again? Or if he tried to do more than that?
She blushed with mortification at his scornful response when she’d claimed she was to marry Arscott. It was easy for Jakob to sneer. He did not understand the complications of her situation.
Even before the events of Saturday, Desire had known she needed a husband. At thirty she was well past the age of marriage. But it was hard to find an honourable husband when she had no one to negotiate on her behalf. Her father had not meant to leave her so unprotected. Unfortunately the man Lord Larksmere had appointed as Desire’s guardian had died in an accident less than a year after the Earl’s own death. By then Desire had already been over twenty-five and Arscott had been Lord Larksmere’s trusted steward for years. Life had continued in Godwin House much as usual. The only problem was Desire’s lack of a suitable husband.
If she’d had more knowledge of the world—or if she’d considered herself a more attractive bargain—she might have found it easier to tackle the difficulty herself. But she knew it was her wealth that possessed the greatest appeal and she lacked the experience to distinguish between a fortune-hunter and genuine suitor. If she made the wrong choice, the consequences would be devastating. Marriage to Arscott would be a practical solution to the problem, but she could not bring herself to take such a course.
So how was she to find a trustworthy husband, one who was not disgusted by her scars and who might even, as Jakob apparently did, find her in some limited way attractive? Perhaps a man who resembled Jakob in some other respects as well—she threw a swift glance at his broad shoulders as he plied the oars—but a man with a much more tractable nature. And definitely not a man who was both a mercenary and an escaped prisoner.
Despite her perilous situation, Jakob’s kiss had inspired her with a small flicker of unfamiliar optimism for her future. For years she had been convinced that no young man could ever find her personally attractive. Yet from virtually the first moment he’d appeared on her roof, Jakob had paid little heed to her disfigurement. He had argued with her, fought with her and kissed her without any reference to her appearance. She had been so certain—and so afraid—that all young men would be of the same opinion as the Duke of Kilverdale and his fashionable friends. What if she’d been wrong? What if she could find a man who would—?
The boat bumped gently against a landing stage.
A flare of anxiety jolted Desire from her musings. In only a few short minutes she would be face to face with the Duke. She lingered in the boat as Jakob tied it up, taking the opportunity to grope for the river-gate key in the dirty water at her feet.
‘Is there no one else you can call upon for assistance?’ she asked, hating the unsteadiness of her voice. ‘Does it have to be Kilverdale?’
‘I know very few people who live near London,’ Jakob replied. ‘And Kilverdale is the only one who won’t be disconcerted by our unconventional arrival. But he didn’t reply to the message I sent him from Newgate, so he probably isn’t here, and you won’t have to face him at all.’
Kilverdale’s failure to respond to Jakob’s message fitted perfectly with Desire’s opinion of the ramshackle Duke, but her mood marginally improved at discovering he might not be home.
‘I don’t suppose he’d be disconcerted if you turned up with a band of minstrels, a dancing bear, and half a dozen whores and declared you were going to have an orgy,’ she said, allowing Jakob to help her out of the boat.
Then she became aware of his startled appraisal, and wished her impetuous words unsaid.
‘I think he would,’ Jakob said after a considered pause. ‘I’m not generally known for travelling with musicians and dancing bears.’
He paused again, leaving Desire rather sick at the implications of what he hadn’t denied.
‘As to holding an orgy,’ he added, a few heartbeats later, amusement in his voice, ‘it would be damned inconvenient hauling half a dozen wenches with me everywhere I go. One is quite enough trouble!’
‘Oh.’ Desire flushed in the darkness. She wondered if she was the one who caused him trouble or…was he talking about another woman? Was he married? The idea had never occurred to her before. She faltered, then rallied. ‘It wasn’t your conduct I was commenting on!’ she said pertly.
‘I know.’
Before she realised what he was doing, Jakob slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer to him.
‘What did he do to you?’ he murmured against her temple.
Desire was too shaken by his action to reply. She didn’t understand Jakob, or what he wanted with her. It was foolish to find his gentle embrace and quiet question comforting. He was her abductor! An escaped prisoner who had forcibly removed her from her own house. So why did she have an almost irresistible urge to lean against his tall, powerful body? And why did she have the strangest feeling that, if she did so, he would support her? It was only a silly fantasy. With an effort she gathered her composure and stepped away from him.
‘It’s not important,’ she said, her voice sounding spiky to her own ears.
‘Very well.’ Jakob took her hand and drew it through his arm. ‘Then let us go and beard the lion in his den,’ he said.
‘It’s you that’s the lion,’ Desire replied, with forced brightness. ‘Your mane is real.’
Jakob laughed, and she sensed him shake his head in the darkness. ‘My mane, like the rest of me, is in a disreputable state,’ he declared. ‘I need a bath.’
Their arrival at Kilverdale House caused consternation. The porter clearly didn’t recognise Jakob. He was all for having the disreputable, soot-grimed—and, in Jakob’s case, half-naked—visitors thrown off the property. Desire hovered behind Jakob’s broad back, fearing at any moment to hear the Duke’s arrogant voice. Instead it was the Duke’s steward who appeared.
‘Colonel Balston!’ he exclaimed, after staring at Jakob for a few seconds. ‘You’re safe! I heard the commotion, I thought his Grace had returned. Stand aside, Dawson,’ he added peremptorily to the porter. ‘Come in, sir! Come in! His Grace has been looking for you all over.’
‘Is he here?’ Jakob asked.
‘No, sir. He arrived earlier this afternoon—briefly. Demanding to know if you were here. Then he read a message that had been delivered in his absence. It was from you. His Grace expressed…er…agitation.’ The steward cleared his throat. ‘And left again.’
Desire took note of only one thing the steward said—the Duke was not present. Her relief was so profound her legs turned to water. She clung to Jakob’s arm, only half listening as she regathered her composure.
‘För bövelen! Why the hell can’t he stay in one place for more than five minutes at a time?’
‘His Grace was very anxious about your welfare,’ said the steward, looking disapprovingly at Jakob’s naked torso.
‘He would have contributed far more to my comfort if he’d been at home on Sunday,’ Jakob grumbled. ‘Well, never mind. I dare say he’ll turn up eventually. He usually does.’
‘Colonel Balston?’ said Desire suspiciously, finally catching up with the conversation.
‘My lady?’ Jakob swivelled on his heel to look at her. A flicker of concern replaced the impatient expression in his eyes.
‘Henderson,’ he addressed the steward. ‘Send for the housekeeper at once. Her ladyship must be waited upon immediately.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Henderson sent a hurrying minion to perform the errand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. My lady, please come this way.’ He led them into a large room leading off the hallway. ‘Your arrival took me by surprise. I apologise for my lack of hospitality. Please.’ He gestured for Desire to sit in a high-backed chair, carved with Kilverdale’s coat of arms. ‘His Grace would wish you to have everything needful for your comfort.’
Desire hung back, disconcerted by the steward’s effusiveness. Jakob had not introduced her by name—perhaps deliberately to protect her reputation. Her morale had already begun to lift when she’d discovered that the Duke wasn’t at home, and improved even more when she hadn’t recognised Henderson. It seemed likely that Kilverdale kept entirely separate staff in his houses in Putney and Sussex. As long as none of the other servants recognised her, and she managed to leave before the Duke returned, there was a good chance no one would ever need to know of her ignominious adventure. Especially since Jakob seemed willing to be discreet.
‘Comfort,’ she said suddenly, recalling the last thing Henderson had said. ‘We must tend to your hands,’ she told Jakob, deciding for the moment to set aside the peculiar matter of his changed name. ‘Do you have any salves for burns?’ She turned back to the steward. ‘Are any of your household skilled in the care of wounds?’
‘N-no, my lady,’ Henderson stammered, obviously disconcerted at being addressed so briskly by his unknown and tattered guest.
‘Then I need lights,’ Desire announced, heading for the door. After all the upsets of the day it was reassuring to feel once more in control. ‘At once, if you please,’ she added, when the steward simply stared at her. ‘There are a number of plants which can be beneficial to burns. I must see if any of them grow in the gardens here. I need light!’ she repeated firmly, when Henderson still didn’t respond.
‘Light! Yes, my lady, of course.’ He finally stirred into action, calling for the porters to provide illumination for her. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I did not realise you had been hurt,’ he apologised to Jakob.
‘There’s no need to make such a fuss,’ Jakob growled. ‘My hands will do very well without any plants.’
‘It is you who will be making an unnecessary fuss if you do not let me tend to them,’ Desire retorted. ‘Are you afraid the salve will sting? I will be very gentle, sir.’
Jakob exchanged a speaking glance with the steward as they followed Desire into the hall. By now the housekeeper had appeared on the scene, but Desire made it clear she would do nothing to improve her own comfort until she had found the appropriate plants and made a salve for Jakob’s hands.
Jakob had little option but to follow her into the garden, along with a small cavalcade of light-bearing servants. It was soon apparent that Desire was used to running her own household. Even covered in grime, with her hair hanging around her shoulders and her skirt in tatters, she inspired respectful—if somewhat bewildered—service from the Duke’s servants.
When Desire had located the plant she needed she retired to the kitchens. She ground up the roots herself and mixed the paste with butter to make a salve for Jakob’s burnt hands. She gave it to him, and only then allowed herself to be escorted to a more suitable chamber to seek her own comfort.
An hour later, Desire emerged from her guest chamber, dressed in the housekeeper’s best clothes, to discover Kilverdale’s steward hovering in the gallery.
‘The Colonel is waiting for you in the Great Parlour,’ he said. ‘May I show you the way?’
‘Yes.’ Desire followed him, her nerves on edge. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face Jakob again so quickly, but she was hungry—and he had promised to feed her. She focussed on that mundane thought to keep the worst of her apprehension at bay.
Jakob stood as she entered the room. She took one look at him and her breath caught in her throat. He was magnificent. He wore a coat of black brocade which fell halfway down his thighs. A flamboyant knot of black satin ribbon at the top of his right sleeve emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. On his legs he wore black breeches trimmed with more ribbon and black silk hose. His coat sleeves were fashionably short to reveal an abundant fall of snowy lace to his wrists. At his throat folds of crisp white lace contrasted dramatically with the dark grandeur of his coat. There were silver buckles on his shoes and an impressive row of silver buttons on his coat. He wore his own hair, despite the current fashion for extravagantly long, curled wigs—but Desire could hardly blame him for that vanity. Many country maids who grew and sold their hair to the wigmakers would be jealous of Jakob’s glorious locks. Even now, when his hair was still damp from the thorough washing he had given it, it fell around his shoulders in shimmering waves of gold.
He looked the very image of a rich nobleman. Only the red rims of his eyes—still suffering the effects of too much exposure to heat and smoke—suggested he hadn’t spent the day lounging at his ease.
Desire stared at him, overwhelmed by his magnificent, aristocratic appearance. Despite his luxurious attire and handsome face, only the very unobservant would mistake him for a fop. He moved with the controlled power and virile grace of a male in the prime of his life. She swallowed, remembering all too easily the sleek, powerful muscles hidden beneath the lace and brocade.
He smiled a little quizzically and she realised, too late, that she’d been gawping at him like an awestruck serving wench.
She flushed and bent her head, instinctively turning her scarred cheek away from him. Her fingers locked nervously in her borrowed skirt. For once in her life she yearned to wear the silks and satins suitable to her rank. It was one thing to opt for comfort and practicality when she was working in her garden—but to present herself to the most handsome man she’d ever met in the over-large, dowdy clothes of the Duke’s housekeeper was excruciating. The maid had laced the bodice as tightly as possible, but it was still far too large.
Jakob looked like a prince. She—as he had so aptly pointed out when they were still in the boat—looked like a badly dressed washerwoman. An ugly one to boot.
She heard the soft rustle of expensive fabric as he came to stand in front of her. She stared down at his row of silver buttons and those shiny oval buckles on his shoes, incidentally giving herself another good look at her ugly brown woollen skirt. She hated brown. Brown was so dingy. She wished the housekeeper had a taste for blue—or even red. Anything but this sad colour.
‘Look at me,’ said Jakob.
She started at his soft command. He was very close to her. Her embarrassment mingled with strange nervousness. She couldn’t swallow. Her throat was too dry and tight.
‘Desire, look at me,’ he repeated compellingly.
She flinched at the sound of her name—and the echo of cruel words spoken years earlier. She still didn’t raise her head.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t…’ she whispered, swallowed and tried again. ‘Don’t call me that.’ She finally lifted her chin, but only to stare at the lace of his cravat. She had not yet found the courage to meet his eyes.
‘Desire? Does my impertinent use of your name offend you?’ He sounded mildly amused. ‘After all we’ve shared, your ladyship, such formality seems a little redundant.’
‘No—’ Desire broke off, unable to explain why it disturbed her when he used her given name.
‘Or perhaps you’re offended that a lowly soldier should gaze with desirous eyes upon a lady of quality,’ he murmured provocatively.
Desire jerked away from him, but he seized her shoulders in his hands and turned her back to face him.
‘You may curse me and kick me and try to browbeat me into obeying your orders—but don’t turn your face from me in shame,’ he said.
‘I am not ashamed!’ Desire cried, finally lifting her head to meet his eyes.
It was a shock to look into his face at such close proximity. He had shaved and washed away all the grime of the fire. Now he reminded her of the impossibly handsome man who’d first appeared on her roof.
‘Then don’t hide from me,’ he growled. ‘Damn me to hell for inconveniencing you—but don’t hide!’
‘Inconveniencing me?’ Desire gasped. ‘You abducted me!’
‘I rescued you. A little gratitude would not go amiss.’
‘Gratitude? You expect me to thank you for tying me up, manhandling me—’
Jakob kissed her.
His firm mouth stifled the rest of her indignant outburst. This time Desire hadn’t seen it coming. She was startled into complete immobility. Before she’d had time to react he lifted his lips from hers.
‘Half the household is probably listening at the keyhole,’ he murmured, briefly resting his forehead against hers. ‘I’m sure you don’t want everyone to know I dragged your skirts up to your—’
Desire made a high-pitched, closed-mouth hum of protest in the back of her throat.
Jakob grinned and lifted his forehead away from hers.
She glared at him, and turned her head to give a pointed glance at one of his hands, still gripping her shoulder. Then she frowned. He grasped her firmly between his long, strong fingers and his thumb, but he held his palm clear of contact with the fabric of her bodice.
‘Why are your hands not bandaged?’ she demanded. ‘Have you applied the salve?’
‘Not yet. I thought you would prefer to tend to me yourself,’ he replied. ‘So that you could assure yourself it had been done properly,’ he added blandly.
Desire grabbed one of his arms and turned his palm up towards her. He’d cleaned away the soot and dried blood, but it still looked raw. She was sure he was in considerable discomfort.
‘You are a fool. Where is the salve?’ she demanded, channelling the nervous excitement aroused by his unexpected kiss into her exasperation with his foolish behaviour.
‘There.’ He nodded in the direction of a small table. Desire saw the small pot of salve she had prepared as well as several strips of clean linen. She was slightly mollified by the sight. And a little flattered that he had waited for her to care for his hurts.
She pushed that sweetly insidious thought aside and dragged Jakob over to the table by her hold on his sleeve. When he was safely seated in a high-backed chair she fetched a stool and planted it on the floor in front of him.
‘By rights, lady, you should have the chair and I the stool,’ he observed.
‘It’s a little late to worry about protocol, don’t you think?’ she retorted. ‘Give me your right hand.’
He held it out to her and she gently folded the lace ruffles out of the way.
‘You should not have worn such fine lace,’ she scolded him. ‘I’m going to tie it back with a couple of bandages—otherwise the butter may spoil it.’
‘You are thoughtfulness personified,’ he said lightly. ‘But it’s not my lace—so I’m not much bothered by its fate.’
‘Whose?’ Desire looked up from tying a strip of linen round his forearm. ‘The Duke’s!’ she gasped, realisation coming to her. ‘You’re wearing the Duke’s clothes? Take them off at once! If he comes back and finds you in them—!’
Jakob laughed. ‘Are you afraid he’ll have me hanged for a thieving rogue?’ he teased her.
Desire’s initial panic subsided. She stared at Jakob through narrow, assessing eyes, once more reminded of how little real knowledge she had of her abductor and his dealings with the Duke of Kilverdale.
‘What is your connection to the Duke?’ she asked.
Jakob smiled, a little crookedly. ‘Not one that will recommend me to you, I fear,’ he said ruefully.
‘What?’
‘He’s my cousin,’ said Jakob.
‘Cousin?’ Desire stared at him blankly. ‘How can that be? I never heard his Grace had such a cousin as you. How…?’
‘His mother was sister to my father,’ Jakob explained, watching Desire’s face for her reaction.
‘His mother…’ Desire frowned, mentally recreating the Duke’s family tree. There had been a time when she had been quite familiar with it. ‘She was the daughter of Viscount Balston…Balston?’ She stared at Jakob as she made the connection. ‘The Viscount was created Earl of Swiftbourne for his part in King Charles’s restoration to the throne,’ she said slowly. ‘But, as I recall, Swiftbourne’s oldest son and his son both died during the wars, leaving the new Earl without heirs. Who are you, sir?’
‘Your knowledge of my family is extensive.’ Jakob sounded surprised. ‘Not complete but…how come you to know so much about it?’
‘I don’t,’ Desire denied quickly. ‘It was Kilverdale’s family I was interested in, not…well, never mind.’ She bent her head over her task, carefully tying back the lace from Jakob’s hands.
She reached for the salve and began to stroke it delicately over his sore palms. She heard his slight intake of breath and caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on touching him even more gently. At last the task was done and she wrapped the protective strips of linen around his hands and fingers.
She sat up straight and looked at Jakob. She saw he was watching her intently and instinctively lowered her eyes. Then she hastily looked up again in case he should accuse her of hiding.
He smiled briefly, but his gaze remained strangely intent.
‘Swiftbourne had two sons,’ he said quietly. ‘The oldest remained in England, but his second son—my father, James—forged a career for himself in Sweden. Like Kilverdale, I am one of Swiftbourne’s grandsons.’
‘One of them?’ Desire said thoughtfully. ‘Is your father still alive?’
‘No.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ she said, briefly but sincerely. ‘Do you have brothers?’
‘One. He’s younger than me,’ Jakob replied, pre-empting her next question.
‘Ah.’ Desire stared at him. ‘If everything you have said is true,’ she said slowly, ‘then it would appear you are not only a soldier, an abductor, an escaped prisoner—and God knows what else!—you will also be the next Earl of Swiftbourne.’
‘If I outlive my grandfather,’ Jakob agreed.