Chapter 5

“Jazzy! Jasmine! Open this door. Open it now!”

The pound and bellow shook the cottage, awaking Cynthia from her uneasy sleep. She rolled over, the blanket tangling about her. The floor was hard and cold. She pulled the blanket tighter, blinking at the coals of the fire.

She needed to put on another log. She’d meant to add one before she fell asleep.

Why hadn’t the maid taken care of it?

And why was she sleeping on the floor?

Sitting up abruptly she blinked, trying to make sense of everything as all the pieces of the previous evening slowly came together.

More pounding on the door, heavy masculine pounding.

Oh God, how had she fallen asleep?

Why had she not left earlier, braved the storm?

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms about them, staring at the door. It wasn’t strong enough to hold for long and already she could see the chair beginning to slide and give. Would he be less mad if she let him in? Less likely to hurt her?

“Jasmine. Open. This. Door.”

Jasmine?

For the first time the name penetrated. Why was he calling her Jasmine? And who was he? There was something disturbingly familiar about the voice, something that throbbed deep in her belly.

“Jasmine, if I freeze to death out here, Mother will never forgive you.”

Jasmine. Mother. Her mind moved slowly, fitting together the pieces. One of Jasmine’s brothers? Could it be? Pushing to her feet, but keeping the blanket wrapped tight about her, Cynthia rose and slowly edged toward the door, trying to recognize the voice, needing to be sure.

“Jazzy, I swear…”

Jazzy. Only James called Jasmine Jazzy. But why would he be here? That could not be possible, could it? Had he found her, come to rescue her?

But that was his voice. As her mind cleared, she was certain. No other voice had ever caused her body to vibrate in such a way.

Another pound. “Jazzy!”

“I am coming,” she said loudly enough to be heard, her voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s about time,” James’s voice accused.

“I am sorry, I was asleep.” And perhaps she still was. None of this seemed quite real. Her mind filled with the image of the strong profile staring out Jasmine’s window.

She grabbed the chair and started to pull it out of the way, just as James gave a massive push on the door, causing it to fly open and sending her to her knees.

“So help me, Jazzy. The bridge has almost washed out. I barely made it across on the remaining beams. I am lucky I didn’t fall in and freeze. If I wasn’t worried about you, I’d—”

“You came to rescue me?” Cynthia could not help the quiver in her voice as she began to rise, as she stared up at the huge man who stood before her—the huge, wet, angry man with dark eyes glaring, sharp chin jutting, hands clenched in angry fists.

“Jas— Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

James could only stare in confusion at the barely clothed woman who knelt before him, russet hair half-undone, thin white chemise giving a peek at lush breasts above the rough wool of the coarse, brown blanket she had wrapped about her.

What on earth was she doing here? And where was Jasmine? A note of worry took hold in his chest. He’d sent his men for Jasmine and had been informed that all had gone exactly as planned; his stubborn sister was removed from any possibility of harm—or causing even greater scandal. He’d planned to wait until morning, to give his sister a chance to understand her situation, before coming to the rescue, but the storm had left him worried. The cottage was high enough that it shouldn’t flood, but with the water rising and the bridge damaged, it was cut off from all sides. He’d been forced to abandon his horse on the other side of the river, afraid to risk his mount on the old wooden bridge that had already lost most of its planking.

He was soaking wet and cold, worried about Jasmine—and now this. He set the heavy saddlebag he carried over his shoulder on the floor and stepped toward the woman. Again he asked, trying to hold on to his temper despite his exhaustion, “Who the hell are you?”

The woman stared up at him and blinked, long dark lashes opening and closing.

She didn’t answer, just continued staring up at him dumbly.

With a curse he shoved the door closed behind him and strode into the cottage, coming to a stop before the remains of the fire. With another muttered curse he began to pile logs on it. The cottage was warmer than outside, but not by much.

Sitting, he yanked off one soaking boot and then the other. Still no word from the woman.

He pulled off his heavy coat and, standing, laid it over the back of the chair, moving it so the fire would dry it.

His shirt came next. He spread it over the coat.

A strangled sound erupted from the woman.

He turned and found her still staring, her eyes sweeping over his now bare chest, focusing just above his heart at the sparse covering of hair.

She stood, keeping the blanket about her, although it slipped slightly, revealing the creamy curve of one breast, the chemise strap sliding down one shoulder. She pretended not to notice, but he’d known such tricks before.

Even cold and wet, however, his body didn’t care. Show him a naked breast, or even a partially naked one, and parts of him were bound to respond.

He returned her stare, letting his eyes focus just where they wished. She didn’t seem to notice.

He took a step forward. Her eyes jerked up to his face, startled.

He tried again. “Who are you and why are you here? Where is Jasmine?”

She blinked. Was she a mute? No, he was sure he’d heard her tell him she was coming before she unbarred the door.

Pulling in a deep breath, he searched for calm, setting aside the concern for his sister that hovered in his mind. “Why are you here?”

Her head shook, curls bobbing. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” That seemed a little far-fetched.

“No, I was just walking down the street, cursing the rain, and suddenly I was grabbed and tossed in a carriage. The next thing I knew I was here—and alone.”

Unfortunately that did sound possible, although how his men had made a mistake…At least it would mean Jasmine was safe—or as safe as she could be while working at that place. He glanced about the cottage, saw the white cloak hanging. He knew that cloak. He’d watched his sister heading out of Madame Blanche’s—God, he hated that name—several times as he plotted her removal. “Where did you get that cloak?”

Her eyes widened and then closed. Did she have some type of blinking disorder?

“I borrowed it from a friend. Why?”

“It is familiar, that is all.” A friend? Jasmine? Was she one of the girls from the house? His mind worked quickly. That made sense. Perhaps she’d borrowed the cloak because of the weather. Although who would choose white to wear out in the rain?

Her voice was cultured, but that had not been unusual at Madame Rouge’s. Ruby had always been good at finding the best girls. His eyes roamed over her again. Full lips, dark gray-green eyes, velvet skin—and those breasts. He could not prevent his eyes from dropping to them again. He couldn’t tell much about the rest of her under the blanket, but those breasts were more than enough.

And if she was a working girl…

A lonely cabin, cut off from the rest of civilization, nothing to do but…

His cock moved against his leg. It definitely had thoughts of its own.

Now it was his turn to shake his head. He didn’t have time for this. And he needed to be sure about his sister. “Where’s Jasmine—Madame Blanche?”

Her voice was calm now, still slightly husky with sleep. “How should I know? I imagine she’s back at the house, unless she was abducted as well. Was she?”

He highly doubted it, seeing as his men had only taken one woman—the wrong woman. A thousand curses ran through his head. All his careful planning and he’d ended up with this…this…God, he didn’t know what exactly she was, but he could certainly guess. His eyes ran down her once again, his cock jerking in response. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad being stranded with her for the night. “I wouldn’t think so, but I’d heard she was the one taken. Clearly the men saw your cloak and thought that you were she. I imagine that Madame Blanche is the friend you borrowed it from.”

Her eyes narrowed in thought and then settled. “Yes, that might make sense. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would abduct me—although why would anyone take Jasmine?” A moment’s pause. “Do you think they were after the diamonds?”

He hadn’t even considered that angle. It might be a persuasive explanation, only—

“Only why would anyone think she’d be taking the diamonds on a walk?” the woman said, finishing his thought. “Although perhaps they were hoping for ransom. The owner of a brothel would not be likely to call the constables—and your father would not be likely to want word spread.”

He let her finish and then said, “My father, Scarlett, has nothing to do with this. Perhaps she has enemies. I imagine that there is plenty of competition in such a business.”

She bit down on her lower lip, considering. “Jasmine did say something about how others had wanted to buy the house before her sister gave it to her.”

Her sister? What on earth was the woman talking about now? Jasmine was his only sister. Perhaps sister was a term used casually among such women. “I think you must be confused.”

“I don’t think so. I am sure Jasmine said something about some lord not being happy with how things turned out. Lord Thomas? No. Lord Morton? Is there even a Lord Morton? No. I do think it’s a T. Lord Templeton. What was that name? I remember that I could see she wished she had not said it the moment it passed her lips. It was vaguely familiar. I remember thinking I must have met him at some time. Jasmine is still working on learning to be discreet. She always did tend to speak without thought.” The woman paused and her features clouded over as she tried to remember the name.

Lord Thorton. He knew exactly whom she was talking about, but didn’t fill in the name. He had never had trouble with being indiscreet. And besides, he knew very well that Thorton had not been involved in this abduction—even if rumor had it he’d been involved in at least one other and perhaps more. And he was well-known to take an inexplicable interest in the brothel. “You act as if you’ve known Madame Blanche for a while.” He refused to think of her as Jasmine when talking about her in her professional capacity.

“Oh, I have.” She gave him a strange look.

She had? He supposed that she meant several months at most. Jasmine had not been missing for long, although perhaps she’d visited Madame Rouge before deciding to seek refuge, if one could call it that, there. He smiled, trying to win her over. “That’s nice. It must be a comfort to work with friends.”

She blinked—again.

He had an urge to lean forward and place a kiss upon each eyelid, holding them closed. He shook it off. Ridiculous.

“Did you come to rescue Jasmine? Is that why you’re here? You said you’d heard she’d been taken. It would make sense for her brother to attempt to get her back before any harm could come to her.”

Her sudden change of subject caught him off guard. Should he just be honest? She knew he was Jasmine’s brother, although he supposed that if she worked for Jasmine she probably knew who she really was and he’d been about the brothel long enough that it was not surprising he’d be recognized. It was surprising he did not know her if she was a regular girl.

He looked her over again, carefully.

There was something familiar about her, particularly the eyes.

He had a sudden image of them staring up at him, filled with adoration.

Had he fucked her? That might explain the memory. He wasn’t sure that he normally inspired adoration but it wasn’t impossible. He did like to leave a partner well pleased.

He gathered his thoughts, ignoring the promise of her full lips. “I did come for Jasmine. I hated to think of her stranded here for the night.” Well, that was honest. Although it seemed more than likely they were both stranded now.

“That does make sense. She has never been good at being alone.” Again she spoke as if she’d known his sister for years instead of months. He was tempted to correct her, but what was the point. And besides, if they were going to be stranded here for the night or more, why not make it as pleasant as possible. Jasmine was safe for the moment; he did not need to worry about her.

He shifted his stance, turned away from the woman, glancing at the pile of blankets before the hearth. “Was the bed uncomfortable?”

“I never tried it. I fell asleep by the fire when I was trying to get warm. I planned to leave before daybreak, before the men returned, but I fell asleep.”

He glanced at the half-full bottle of wine. He could understand that. “I might take a drink myself.” He walked to the bottle and took a deep swig. It wasn’t half-bad.

“Do you think you should be doing that? Don’t you think that we should be leaving before the men come back?”

He smiled bitterly. “We won’t be going anywhere tonight. Even if the bridge is still there, or mostly there, it wouldn’t be safe trying to cross it in the dark. Once was enough. I am not willing to risk my life again—or yours.”

“Won’t you be risking it if the men return?” She moved nearer, drawing his attention.

He lifted his head. Damn, he knew those eyes. He definitely knew those eyes, dark and green, far darker than green eyes should be, despite a hint of gray, and deep and looking for his very soul. “If we can’t cross neither can they. We should be safe at least until daybreak—and probably longer. The water was rising fast when I crossed. I doubt it will be possible to cross again for a day or two at least.”

She crossed her arms across her chest, not liking his answer. “Can we be sure they’re gone? Perhaps they’re just hiding out.”

“And why would they do that? The only other building is a leaky old shed and I doubt they’d lodge there. If they were going to stay, they’d have stayed in the cabin with you.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, her voice doubtful, before turning and walking to her pile of blankets, pulling the one she was wearing tighter. “There is only one bed and it is a narrow one.”

“Yes.”

“You will have to sleep in a chair.” She said it calmly and with certainty.

Before her statement he would have insisted that she take the bed. He was after all a gentleman. Her words caused his dander to rise, however. Some girl, some employee of Madame Blanche, some whore, was telling him to sleep in a chair. He didn’t think so. “It will be warmer if we sleep together.”

“I don’t think so,” she echoed his thought. A delicate flush rose up her neck.

He let his eyes roam over her. He most certainly did think so. Ideas that had been playing at the edge of his mind began to take form. Should he offer to pay her? He didn’t have much coin, but there should be enough in the pocket of his coat, and since she knew who he was she must know he was good for it, should he not have enough.

God, what was he thinking? He’d spent a good part of the day riding hard and then crossed a rising creek to save his sister. He didn’t need to be thinking about some woman—even if she was standing half-naked before him, lips plump and breasts barely hidden. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. “Well, I don’t particularly care, but given the day I’ve had I am not giving up the bed and there aren’t enough blankets to share, given the temperature in here. I personally just want to sleep and the sooner the better.” He took another draw on the bottle. “Now, I would recommend that we spread the blankets and settle down in front of the fire and deal with this all in the morning. Do you truly object?”

He could see that she wanted to, see the words rising to her lips. Her chest rose and fell, hard and heavy. Was that a rosy-tipped nipple he spied over the edge of the blanket? If he weren’t so tired, he’d more seriously consider pursuing the matter.

Forcing his gaze back to her eyes, he waited.

“Fruitcake.” The mild curse left her lips. Thin white fingers rose to cover her mouth.

Was she so shocked by the word? Far, far coarser language was often used at Madame Blanche’s.

“Fine,” she continued, “but I don’t want you to touch me in my sleep. You will have to stay on your side of the blankets.”

He almost laughed. Has she never actually slept with a man? Surely she knew how little starting positions had to do with ending positions. Well, perhaps she hadn’t. He’d never actually slept at Madame Blanche’s—well, once on a settee in the parlor after a drunken card game, but never in bed with one of the girls. And he imagined that his case was not uncommon. “I will do my best, my lady.” He said the last with a slight drawl, but she did not seem to notice, only nodded as if it were her due.

She stared at him for a moment as if waiting for him to do something, then with a slight mumble, she turned, and using one hand to hold the blanket tight she bent to spread the remaining two across the floor.

The woman certainly did have a nice ass, judging by the curves that pushed against the blanket. Her breasts were quite nice, but her ass might actually be spectacular. Perhaps in the morning he’d put the trouble into finding out.

When she had the two blankets spread, he said, “I think we’ll need the third as well. I don’t believe it’s going to be getting any warmer than it is now.”

She turned and glared at him, both hands clasped at her bosom, holding the blanket tight. “I think, somehow, that you will survive.”

He tried to glare back, but couldn’t help the corner of his mouth from twitching. “I was hoping for more than survival.” He let his fingers drop to the buttons of his breeches.

“What do think you are doing?”

God, she sounded like some maiden aunt. “I don’t sleep in my clothing, and the breeches are damp. They would chill us both. I am sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” He let them drop to the floor. “I will keep my smallclothes on. They should dry quickly.”

Her gaze moved up and down his legs, pausing on the muscles of his thighs. He forced himself not to tighten them.

Her eyes moved slightly higher.

And that he could not control. He felt himself swell more.

Color rose on her cheeks and she turned away, bending down and then slipping between the blankets on the floor. She lay there stiffly, her back to him.

Blowing out the near-guttered candle on the table, he slid in, careful not to touch her. He let out a lone sigh. It had already been a long night and it was going to get longer. He could not imagine ever falling asleep on the hard floor.