“And a bath?” she murmured sleepily. “Or is that too much to ask for?”
“Nothing’s too much to ask for, my girl,” he said. If the innkeeper didn’t have the means to provide a hip bath for his patrons he’d scour the neighborhood until he found one.
Fortunately it didn’t have to come to that. The host most certainly did have a hip bath, and it wouldn’t take above ten minutes to get it up to the young miss, full of hot water.
Satisfied his job was momentarily done, he headed into the taproom and a morning mug of ale.
There were three young men there, toffs by the look of them. Old money, old blood—he knew the type well. He’d need to warn Jane to stay out of sight, just in case she knew these three young bucks, but the chances of that were so slim he stayed put.
The moment he entered the room they lowered their booming voices, talking amongst themselves like conspirators, and he smothered a snort of disgust. The fools didn’t realize their voices carried throughout the inn, or they would have kept their bloody voices down earlier and let him enjoy his first morning in bed with his heart’s love.
“We’d best be going,” the oldest of the three said, and he realized they must be brothers. Not so much by the look of them, though there was some similarity, but they way they held themselves. “But remember, if this is to be a killing matter then it’s on my head as the eldest. The grudge is against me, and it’s my responsibility to deal with it.”
Shit, Jacob thought, taking another lazy drink of ale. If they thought someone needed to be killed it was doubtless Scorpion—he had only to meet people to turn them murderous. The question was, how was he going to distract them without compromising his time with Jane.
“She was mad, Benedick,” the youngest one said. “She threatened you with a gun. She said she was going to kill our parents—you could scarcely be expected to marry a madwoman.”
“I should have seen to her, Charles. At least made certain she was no danger to herself and others. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
Damn it all to hell. Apparently his Jane wasn’t the only one bent on rescue. These could only be Lucien’s future brothers-in-law, and future family gatherings were not looking promising.
He was just trying to decide what to do when Jane came down the stairs, looking rumpled and decidedly well-tupped.
“Good God, Jane, what are you doing here?” The youngest of the three who addressed his Jane, his Jane, in a peremptory manner was running a very great risk, until Jane put a calming hand on his arm. He didn’t like that much better but he bided his time, rather than rip the lad’s arm off.
“I imagine the same thing you are, Brandon,” she replied calmly. “Trying to save your sister. Hullo, Benedick, Charles.”
The other two were staring at her in disbelief. The eldest one pulled himself together. “Surely you’re not out here alone, Janey?” he said, his voice a rumble of disapproval, and Jacob’s irritation spilled into possessive rage. Who was he to call Jane, his Jane, Janey? And to set himself up as protector? He heard a soft, growling noise and realized, to his astonishment, that it had come from his own throat as he pushed away from the bar.
But Jane, his Jane, smiled at him, her dear, sweet face mischievous. “I’m very well taken care of indeed. My dear Benedick, allow me to introduce you to my fiancé, Mr. Jacob Donnelly. Mr. Donnelly, these are Miranda’s brothers and my childhood friends. Benedick, Charles and Brandon Rohan.”
There was a dead silence as the three surveyed him, knowing from one glance that he wasn’t of their world. Finally the youngest spoke. “Your fiancé, Jane? That’s not Mr. Bore-well!”
“No, it isn’t, is it?” Jane said in a tranquil voice.
“Well, thank God for that,” the young one said. “Your servant, Mr. Donnelly.”
“King Donnelly?” the eldest, Benedick, inquired in an icy voice.
“The same.” Was he going to have to fight these three? Well, at least two of them. The youngest was looking at him with approval.
Lord Benedick was glaring at him. “And why, may I ask…?”
“No, you may not ask,” Jane said with more courage than he’d heard from her before. “We may have grown up like brother and sister but my marriage is none of your business.”
“I thought you said you were only engaged.”
“That won’t be for long,” Jacob said quietly. “Do you want to make something of it?”
Benedick appeared more than ready to, when Jane once more intervened. “Stop it, you two. I’m not some bone for you two to fight over. We need to be rescuing Miranda, not arguing. At least, I presume that’s why you’re here.”
“Lord, Janey, why else would we be at the back end of nowhere?” the middle one demanded, and Jacob decided he really didn’t like strange men, even if they’d grown up with her, calling her Janey. “It’s been more than ten days since she was taken, and I don’t know how long the family can keep it quiet.”
“There’s no need for you all to go racing up to Ripton Waters,” Jacob said in a calm voice. “Jane and I were headed there ourselves. But I don’t think we’re going to be needed. I expect they’ll be happily married by now and not wanting their honeymoon interrupted.”
Benedick Rohan cast him a long, speculative look. “Ripton Waters, is it? And how do we get there?”
“Oh, Christ,” his Janey said. “Jacob is right. And I don’t imagine Miranda wants you three great loobies bursting in on them. We could send word…”
“We’re not going anywhere until we’re certain our sister is all right,” Benedick said, still eyeing Jacob with profound distrust.
There was a reason he’d spent his adult life robbing the peerage. They were a royal pain in his backside. “I can take you to Ripton Waters. I’m the only one around here who knows where the house is.” He smiled politely. “If you promise to leave them alone once you’ve satisfied yourself that she’s happy.”
“I find that unlikely. Our sister has a profound distrust of men, for very good reason. She’s hardly likely to relax her guard with someone known as the Scorpion,” Benedick said.
“Will you leave her be if she tells you to?” Jacob said.
Benedick glanced at his brothers for agreement, then nodded. “Agreed.” He started for the door, turned back and gave them all a peremptory look. “Well? What are we waiting for?”
The quality, Jacob thought wryly. If this was the price he had to pay for Jane, then he’d do it. But he didn’t have to like it.
Jacob sighed, glancing down at Jane. “We’ll be with you in a moment.”
He waited until they were alone, and then he pulled her to him and kissed her, full on the mouth, not caring if any of the Rohans came storming back into the inn. “She’s all right, you know? Scorpion wouldn’t hurt her. He might come close, but in the end he’s not nearly as bad as he likes to think he is.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said doubtfully.
“I’ve known him for more than twenty years, love. I know what he will and will not do. They’ll be happily romping in their marriage bed and he won’t thank me for dragging her three brothers up there to interfere.”
“I need to see her as well,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s not that I don’t take your word for it. But I want to say good-bye before we head for Scotland. I want her to meet you.”
“Then we’ll go,” he said, kissing her again. And he only hoped his faith in his old friend wasn’t misplaced.
He could see her walking out there, the sun gilding her rich brown hair he’d once thought quite ordinary. She was walking toward the dock, and he knew a moment’s disquiet. She wouldn’t make the mistake of walking out there again, would she? Not when she’d almost fallen through.
But no, she walked on, her arms filled with daffodils, down to the old boat that had been pulled up on the shore, and sat. Waiting for him.
His relief was so strong he was almost weak with it. He should have known a leech like St. John would be easy enough to deal with. The kind of money he’d asked for was merely a pittance in the scheme of things, and he’d happily pay ten times that amount to know that Miranda need never discovered the depths of his perfidy.
Sooner or later he’d probably have to have the man killed. Once a blackmailer started he never stopped, and it went against Lucien’s grain to let a little worm like St. John think he’d gotten the better of him. But for now he was gone, and when the time came Jacob would know someone who could handle it, neatly and quietly. It wasn’t as if St. John was any boon to this world.
No, everything was going to be fine after all. Whether he liked it or not he was tied to the woman who was waiting for him down by the lake. The Rohans had gotten their revenge instead of the other way around, and he no longer cared. As long as he had Miranda, then nothing else mattered.
There were daffodils everywhere, and she began to pick them for lack of something better to do. She’d dressed once he left her, and gone looking for him. He wasn’t in his very pink rooms, and she’d been half tempted to take off her clothes and climb into his bed to await him. He’d find her soon enough.
But she didn’t have the patience for it. So instead she went looking for him, finding him closed up in the green parlor, in low conversation with someone. She was about to push open the doors when she recognized the second voice, and she froze.
Silly, of course, she was imagining things. She put her hand on the doorknob, about to push it open, and then she heard the word “blackmail” in the voice she’d once hated most in the world.
No, Christopher St. John’s voice wasn’t the one she hated most. It was the drawling, mocking voice of the man who lay in her bed just hours ago and told her he loved her. The man she had every intention of killing.
Stabbing was too good for him. She’d done a frenzied search for pistols among the walls of weapons that made the gloomy old house so cozy, but apparently the de Malheurs gave up war when guns were introduced. And no wonder. They were much better at stabbing people in the back.
She looked at the lake. The old rowboat sat there, no longer seaworthy but with a good solid seat, and she headed toward it, her arms filled with daffodils. She dumped them on the ground, crushing them beneath her feet as she climbed into the beached boat and picked up the oar. It was still solid and heavy, and she climbed out, carrying it up and onto the dock. The sun had dried some of the slime, but she could see the broken board where she’d nearly gone through. He’d saved her then. She almost wished he hadn’t.
She was halfway down the length of the dock when he began shouting at her, but she kept her back to him, pretending she couldn’t hear. Her face was set in stone. Swill-sucking bastard. To think that she’d loved him. After all the things he’d done, he’d threatened to do, and she’d forgiven him.
Not anymore. She gripped the oar more tightly, keeping her back to him, and waited.
The weak old dock bounced when he climbed up, and he was starting toward her. She turned, and she knew her face was cold and terrible.
Unfortunately he didn’t. He was too busy haranguing her for being foolish enough to put her life at risk by going out on the dock again, after the close call last time. She didn’t move, waiting as he negotiated the missing plank. He hadn’t brought a cane with him. Good thing—it would make his balance even more precarious. It wouldn’t take much to make him go over.
She waited until he was almost in reach. Not close enough to grab her, but close enough for the old oar. “Stay there, my darling,” she said in a silken voice.
Finally he caught on. He jerked his head up, looking at her. “What are you doing out here?” he asked in a steady voice.
“Waiting for you. The water is ice-cold, you said.”
He watched her warily. “Yes.”
“And very, very deep?”
“Yes.” She could see the tension radiating through him, the same tension that ran through her. “You must have run into St. John.”
“Not exactly. I listened at the door.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said lightly.
“No, it didn’t. It killed you.”
And she swung the old oar at him with all her strength.
It hit with a great thwack, splintering in two, and he went over the side, into the dark, cold waters of the lake, sinking like a stone.
It took her two seconds. And then she let out a scream for help, tossing the broken oar away from her, and jumped into the water after him.
It was very cold, numbingly so, and as it closed over her head she grabbed for him, wrapping her arms around his body, ready to sink to the bottom with him.
Instead he kicked, pushing them up so that they broke the surface, his arm clamped around hers as she struggled. “Jesus, woman!” he snapped. “When did we have to become Romeo and Juliet?”
“You liar!” she screamed, hitting him. “You filthy, evil, degenerate piece of garbage, you slimy, unspeakable pile of offal, you worm-ridden dung heap of a human being, I hate you I hate you I hate you.” Her struggles were pulling them down again, and water filled her mouth, stopping her mid-tirade.
Unfortunately, even with a bleeding head he was still stronger than she was, and it seemed to take him no effort at all to disable her, clamping her arms together as he dragged her toward shore, doubtless helped by her angry kicks. By the time it was shallow enough for them to walk he released her, collapsing on the stone beach.
She followed him a moment later, her sodden dress clinging to her heavily. She looked down at him, then started looking around for another weapon. There was another abandoned oar in the weeds, and she started toward it, but he rolled over and caught her ankle and she went sprawling. A moment later he covered her, holding her down as she fought him, fury in every inch of her body.
He let her fight, doing nothing to shield himself from her blows, simply pinning her with his weight so she couldn’t get away. It seemed like hours later when she finally grew too tired. Her arms ached, her hands were sore and he seemed to realize she was spent. He let her shove him off her, and she rolled onto her stomach in the dirt, sobbing.
They stayed like that for a long time. The sun was sinking lower, and finally she looked up at him. “Your head is bleeding,” she said in a raw voice. Indeed, it was bleeding a great deal, pouring down the side of his face and staining his shirt bright red. Maybe she’d killed him after all.
“I know.”
She got to her feet slowly, slapping away his hand when he tried to help her. “Come back to the house,” she said wearily. “I may as well bandage you. It will bring me little enough satisfaction if you die of blood poisoning.”
He very wisely said nothing, following her up to the house. She gave orders for clean rags and warm water as well as bandages and lint, and then ordered him into the salon. “Not the green one,” she snapped, as he started toward it.
The red one was on the other side of the hall. He paused, looking at her. “Why did you jump in after me?”
“I wanted to make sure you’d stay down and wouldn’t bob up again.”
He laughed, and something inside her, some cold hard rock of fury split and melted. She turned her back on him, placing more orders so he wouldn’t see. He knew her too well.
His head wound was hardly serious, and she dabbed at it with enthusiasm, hoping to inflict a little more pain, but he bore it stoically enough, saying nothing as she continued a muttered litany of his many character defects. She’d almost finished when she heard a huge commotion in the front hall, and she looked up from her ministrations, in no very charitable mood.
“What the bloody hell is going on out there?” she shouted.
The door burst open, and she groaned. In came her three brothers with swords and pistols drawn, accompanied by a panic-stricken Jane and a tall stranger. A man, she decided, who looked like a jewel thief prone to midnight kisses. He had a protective arm around Jane’s shoulder, and then her brothers started shouting.
She was used to them. “Be quiet!” she thundered, and Lucien, who probably had a monumental headache, winced.
“Damn it, Miranda,” Brandon began in a plaintive voice.
“Brandon!” Benedick said in a shocked voice. “Remember there are ladies present.”
“She’s got the mouth of a sailor and always has had,” Brandon muttered. “And it’s your fault—you taught her those words.”
“Just be quiet, all of you,” she snapped. “Can’t you see I have a wounded man here?”
“What happened to him?” her quiet brother Charles asked curiously.
“I hit him with an oar.”
“Good,” Benedick said.
Miranda rinsed out the rag, then dabbed it a little too enthusiastically at the wound. Lucien looked at her sideways, cursing beneath his breath, but had the good sense not to say anything out loud.
“Why’d you do that?” Jane asked, curious.
“He probably deserved it,” the strange man.
“I was trying to kill him.”
“Oh, he definitely deserved that,” said the man.
“I can take care of that,” Benedick said in a threatening voice.
She glanced down at Lucien’s impassive face. “It’s tempting,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “But first let me stop the bleeding.”
“But why bother if Benedick’s just going to kill him?” Brandon demanded.
“You idiot,” Jane said. “She’s not letting Benedick anywhere near him.”
“I’m calling you out, Rochdale,” her oldest brother snarled. “You may choose your weapons. I know you’re a dead shot, but you’ll find…”
“Oh, go away, Benedick. I’ll let you have him after I finish bandaging him.” Miranda poked Lucien again, just for good measure, and he muttered “vixen” under his breath.
“I’ll have your bags packed,” her brother suddenly announced. “Our horses need to rest, or otherwise I’d take you out of here immediately.”
Jane put a gentle hand on the pugnacious brother’s arm. “Let’s leave them for a bit, Benedick,” she said soothingly to her childhood friend. “I’m sure she’s perfectly safe.”
Benedick made a disgusted noise, but Jane was undeniable, and a moment later all was quiet with their departure.
“Is that the one who was going to marry my sister?” Lucien said after a moment.
“It is.”
“She’s better off dead,” he said morosely.
She almost wanted to laugh. “He’s a bit high-handed. So are you.” She took a clean cloth, dipped it in the second bowl of water and finished washing the rest of the blood off, making sure to be as rough as possible.
“Are you going with them?”
She’d found some gauze, and she was busy concentrating on wrapping it around his head. “You’ll likely get blood poisoning or a fever and die a painful, miserable death,” she muttered.
“You can only hope. However, I think with such gentle nursing I’m bound to survive,” he said. He caught her hand, forcing her to look at him. “I’m…”
“Don’t you dare say it. Don’t even try,” she warned him in a fierce voice.
“I’m everything you’ve said I am. A worthless, pig-sucking bastard. You can go if you want. I wouldn’t blame you.”
She stared at him in furious disbelief. “You stupid, fatheaded, pig-livered, mutton-larded pond scum. I didn’t put up with all this for nothing. Do you love me?”
His pale eyes were like ice. “I love no one.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can be very tedious, you know that? Do you love me?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to see me when I get really mad. Do you love me?”
He looked at her warily. “Yes, damn it.”
“A good thing,” she said. And she bent over to kiss him.
A moment later she was beneath him on the sofa, his bandaged head giving him no trouble whatsoever, as he kissed her, pressing her down into the cushions, and she could feel him growing hard against her.
“You can get an erection less than an hour after I’ve tried to kill you?” she said in disbelief. “Just how perverse are you?”
“Let me show you.”