A Wedding by Dawn (9 page)

Did I hurt you?
His soft question whispered through her mind and lodged somewhere behind her heart. Did he really care if he hurt her?

Good God—of course he didn’t care. Her hands and feet were
tied,
for heaven’s sake. He’d held a pistol on her in Marseille!

You’ll not shame Taggart, Lady India. I’ll not allow it.
Those were the words she needed to remember, every moment of every day if that’s what it took. She must remain in control because his desire would lead to her freedom.

When he returned, she would take full advantage of that desire to regain the upper hand. And then she would finally give away her virginity—and receive Nicholas Warre’s slavish attention in return.

* * *

N
ICK
SHUT
THE
door behind him, and in the tiny corridor, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

Holy God. Holy
God.

Tight need filled his breeches. Pure lust like he hadn’t felt since school days.

His plan was working. Oh, yes, it bloody well was, but at a very high cost.

Because hers was working, as well.

He wanted to kick the door open and tumble Lady India on the bed beneath him. Yank those damned ribbons off her so she could put her arms around him and do everything he imagined she might do.

But he wouldn’t. Not even if it killed him, which it bloody well might.

He had the advantage, and he would use it to the fullest. He would tease her until she became a whimpering putty of need in his hands.

He thought of those huge blue eyes, full of desire and questions and budding comprehension, looking at him—at
him,
Nicholas Warre, sworn enemy and scourge of the earth—for satisfaction.

But he would
not
satisfy her.

Absolutely not.

He inhaled. Exhaled. Pushed away from the wall and went downstairs to find the innkeeper.

He would think of Taggart, of the money and he would leave her burning and begging for more.

* * *

I
NDIA
HADN
’
T
BEEN
waiting five minutes when a knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

“Oui?”

A maid came in with an armload of wood. “For tonight’s fire, madame.”

Not him. Her breath left in a shaky exhale.
“Merci.”

They would need a warm fire. Because they would be nude. Wouldn’t they? She felt her cheeks flame, as if the maid might read her thoughts.

“Oh!” The maid cried out, losing her balance as she bent forward to fill the wood bin. The wood tumbled from her arms into a pile at India’s feet. India started forward to help, forgetting her bonds, and immediately fell to the floor.

“Madame! Are you all right?
Oh, là—
your hands. Your feet!” The maid scrambled forward to help, and clutched India’s bound ankles.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
she cried, horrified.

“
C’est rien.
I merely—” Nicholas Warre could return any moment. “It is nothing,” she repeated, trying to tuck her ankles beneath her skirts. “I am fine.”

“Nothing!
Mais, non!
” Already the maid was yanking at the knot in the ribbon that bound India’s feet. “There is nothing to fear, madame. I will help you.”

“No, please— This isn’t—”

The maid dismissed her protests with a hiss just as the knot came loose. “Your hands—quickly!”

“But I can’t—” Another moment, and her hands were free.

If Nicholas Warre walked in and found her untied, he would be in no mood for seduction. It could ruin her entire plan. But the maid wasn’t listening.

“
Venez!
Quickly! The servant’s stairs will take you out. I know a place you can stay—do not fear!”

It could never work. Could it?

Did she really have a choice now? What about Millie?

“Madame!” The maid grabbed her arm and pulled.

“
Mon amie,
I can’t leave her behind.”

“I will tell her where you have gone. Now quickly. Quickly!”

They hurried into the hallway. India glanced over her shoulder, but Nicholas Warre did not appear. The corridor was empty. They flew down the servants’ stairs and she half expected him to be magically waiting at the bottom, but there was only an empty hallway leading out a side door. “Here,” the maid said, untying her cap and apron. “Put these on.” She covered India’s hair with the cap, tied the ends beneath India’s chin and tied the apron around her waist. “Go to the abbey. You saw it on your journey here, yes?”

The abbey—yes. Yes, she’d seen an abbey.

“You will be safe there. Come—
Vite!
” The maid pulled her out a side door and into the carriage yard, where they skirted the edge of the building in plain view.

Oh, God. Oh,
God.
They could be seen at any moment.

They hurried to the road.

“That way,” the maid said, pointing in the direction they’d come this afternoon. “It should take you— Oh!” The maid stopped short and waved to a man driving a hay wagon.
“Là!”
She pulled India forward, speaking to the man so quickly India could only snatch bits and pieces. Young woman—terrible cruelty—sister—bed—abbey—

“C’est mon cousin, Jervase,”
she explained quickly, while drops of rain soaked her cap.
“Vite!”

Jervase—there was no time to assess him beyond his dark eyes and quick smile before the maid was pulling her, pushing her toward the wagon, practically shoving her up on the seat.
“Vite!”
the maid hissed. “He will take you where you can hide.”

Jervase gripped her hand and pulled India up and into the shelter of his arm beneath a bulky brown overcoat. The wagon lurched forward, the maid ran back to the carriage yard and just that quickly India was free.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“D
O
NOT
BE
afraid, mademoiselle. Martine is forever rescuing things, and we shall rescue you, as well—from a tyrant of a husband, perhaps?” Tucked beneath Jervase’s greatcoat, India jolted against both the man and the wooden seat while a steady rain pattered and the donkeys plodded through the mud.

“No.” And then, when his brow rose in interest, “
Oui.
Yes, my
husband.
He is a terrible tyrant.”

He only laughed, easily guessing which was the truth and which the lie. “I shall take you safely to the abbey...mademoiselle.”

“
Non—
not the abbey.” She realized now it was the first place Nicholas Warre would look.

“Non?”

“He will surely look there. My brother’s man of business.” Jervase didn’t believe she was married anyhow, so she reached for a story more likely to win sympathy. “He will not be easy to hide from. He will search everywhere.”

He raised a dark, interested brow. “Your brother’s man of business.”

“My sister and I have been living in Marseille with our aunt. But my brother doesn’t approve—he sent his man of business to find us and force us home. We only just left Marseille this afternoon. My sister is still with him at the inn. I tried to tell your cousin I could not leave without her, but then it was too late. If he finds me, he will be furious. There is no telling what he will do.”

Jervase made a noise, but it was impossible to tell whether he believed her story. If Nicholas Warre could not find her after a day or two, or three, or five...a week...how long would he pursue her before giving up?

If he did give up, he would certainly abandon Millie here in this village. Which meant if it really was possible to hide, all she needed to do was wait.

Except that in a valley this small, it would be impossible to hide. And for fifty thousand pounds, he was not likely to give up the hunt.

“Do not be afraid, mademoiselle,” Jervase murmured, scooting a little closer—as if that were possible. “I shall take you to my sister’s. She will not like it, but...” He shrugged. “She will have a place for you, and possibly some work—” he grinned “—if you do not mind milking cows.”

Already India’s mind whirled with the possibility: hiding on a farm in disguise as a milkmaid while she waited for Nicholas Warre to admit she had indeed escaped...or while she figured out a way to get Millie away from the inn.

“Of course, there is plenty of room at my house,” Jervase went on. His dark eyes skimmed over her nose, her lips. “But I fear you would take offense if I offered you shelter there.”

And suddenly India realized exactly what kind of opportunity she now had.

She should leap at the opportunity. It would turn Nicholas Warre off her permanently, wouldn’t it? What greater shame could there be than to be cuckolded by the woman one intended to marry? The problem was...

She didn’t
want
to throw her virtue away to this stranger. She wanted—

Everything inside her stilled.

No. She
couldn’t
want that.

Giving her virtue to Nicholas Warre would be a sacrifice for strategic purposes only. Not because she
wanted
to.

Except that half an hour earlier, she’d awaited his return while her body ached and tingled, and she
had
wanted to. Give her virtue. To him. Nicholas Warre.

She swallowed. “I will be fine at your sister’s.”

He reached out and touched a raindrop that slid down her nose. “Too bad.”

Twenty minutes later they slopped into a muddy farmyard, where a squat, ruddy-faced woman came out to meet them.

“Oh, c’est pas vrai!”
the woman exclaimed, looking angrily at India. “Another of your
putains?
”

“Non, non!”
Jervase practically shouted with an angry gesture, already on the ground and pulling India from the wagon seat while he explained. “I told Martine I would find her a safe place to stay.”

“
Ici?
What kind of place do you think this is?” The woman looked India up and down, narrowing her eyes at India’s wet décolletage.

“Don’t be stupid, Collette,” Jervase snapped. “Give the girl a meal and a bed in the barn.”

India stepped back, only to run into Jervase. “Perhaps it would be better if—”

“Non, non!”
Jervase said, hushing her. “You will stay here.” He pushed her toward his sister. “Since when have you denied anyone your hospitality? Anyone can see the poor girl needs help. A meal,” he repeated. “And a place in the barn.”

The woman pursed her lips. “One night,” she snapped.
“Une seule. Et après—c’est fini!”

Jervase grabbed his sister by the shoulders and planted smacking kisses on both her round cheeks. “
Merci,
Collette.”

“Va t’en!”
She shooed him away. “Go on with you!”

Jervase gave India a triumphant smile.

“And you,” she said, turning on India. “If you steal so much as a single blade of straw, I’ll have you charged as a thief.”

“Perhaps you will change your mind, now that you have seen where you are to spend the night?” Jervase grinned at India.

Yes, I have changed my mind.
Why not? It was no less than she’d planned all along, and it would solve any number of problems. But instead, “This will do perfectly. Thank you.”

Ninny!

Jervase’s sister looked as though she were on the verge of changing
her
mind.

“Mademoiselle, you are killing me.” Jervase’s dark eyes roamed over her. “But I shall check on you later to make sure you are indeed comfortable.”

His sister threw her hands into the air.
“Mais, non! Non!”
she cried, shooing him away. “None of your playing here.
Va-t-en! Va-t-en!
”

Jervase winked at India and left.

* * *

N
ICK
MIGHT
HAVE
described Lady India as mad, but in fact
he
was the madman. Riding through the valley, asking everyone he could find if they’d seen a young woman traveling alone...he was likely creating the biggest stir this part of France had seen in years. He stopped at one farmhouse after the next—not that there were very many—looking for her.

Knowing Lady India, she could be tucked away in a wood somewhere curled up inside a hollow log.

It was almost dark, and it had been an extremely long day. And to top it off, it began to rain. One more try, and he would quit for the night—but not for good. If Lady India thought she would escape this valley and return to Marseille, she was extremely mistaken.

He turned his horse down a muddy lane off the road, where a small stone house sat nestled against the side of a hill at the edge of an olive grove, barely detectable in the fading light. Nearby, an empty hay wagon sat in front of an asymmetrical stone barn.

After two knocks, a tall, dark-haired man answered the door.

“Bonsoir,” Nick said. “Forgive my intrusion, but I am looking for my sister who has run off. I fear for her safety, alone on a rainy night. Perhaps you’ve seen her?” He held his hand up to his shoulder. “She is about this tall. Blond hair.”

The man gestured him inside.
“Venez, venez.”

Impatiently Nick ducked in from the rain. Droplets from his greatcoat fell to the rough-hewn floor.

“A young woman alone?” the man repeated, rubbing his jaw.
“Non. Non, je n’ai rien vu.”

Nick didn’t miss the man’s eyes giving him a quick once-over. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“I would have noticed a woman such as you describe. Please—sit.” He gestured Nick toward an immense pocked table near a giant hearth that yawned at the side of the main room. “Your sister, you say?” he asked, stabbing at the fire with an iron poker.

“Yes. You can imagine my concern.”

“
Mais oui.
A grave situation indeed. I am lucky that I do not have any sisters. They are nothing but trouble—one is forever getting into fights keeping the men away.”

Nick imagined how his sister Honoria would laugh at the idea of him fighting off a man.
La, Nicholas, one flick of my finger and he will be off like a pesky gnat.

Lady India, on the other hand... Even now she could be tucked into a cottage bestowing her virtue on a French vintner.

Bloody hell.

“You are distressed,” the man observed, glancing at Nick’s hands. Nick forced them to uncurl. “Sit—I will pour us some wine.”

“No. Thank you. I must—” What? Return to the inn? Continue the search, never mind the dark and the rain and the slim likelihood of finding her before morning?

“Sit,” the man said again. Already he was pouring a pungent, dark red wine into two heavy glasses. He pushed one toward Nick.

A moment’s more hesitation, and Nick finally sat. At this point, a few minutes drying out by the fire wasn’t going to change anything. The wine was rich on his tongue, and he rested his forearms on the table and sighed.
“Merci,”
he told the man. “I think this was exactly what I needed.”

Perhaps he would be fortunate if he never found Lady India. Perhaps fate had intervened just in time.

“De rien, de rien.”
The man recorked the bottle and sat across from Nick. “My apologies—I have not introduced myself.” He extended his hand. “My name is Jervase Favreau.”

* * *

I
NDIA
SAT
IN
the dark hayloft with rain hitting the roof and the night still young, huddled inside a smelly old blanket that did little to keep out the draft. A cup of tea would have been just the thing, but imagining it would only make her want it more. The barley soup and dark crusty bread Jervase’s sister had reluctantly given her may as well have been ambrosia—but that was at least two hours ago. Now all she could do was wait for morning.

An occasional skitter in the hay told her she wasn’t alone. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her and bit her lip.

I shall check on you later to make sure you are indeed comfortable.

A mad urge to laugh bubbled up to her lips. Comfortable? There was straw stabbing her in places she’d never even—

A noise came from outside, and she stilled. Held her breath. Listened, fearing Jervase’s return.

After a long moment, she exhaled.

By now Nicholas Warre had discovered her missing. She imagined him returning to the room, expecting to find her there waiting to finish what they’d begun. He would be furious. He might even blame Millie and tie her up while he rode the countryside looking for India. Except...

He wouldn’t hurt Millie. And the fact that he wouldn’t—and she knew it with near certainty—only made her think of
why
he wouldn’t. And that, at least where Millie was concerned, he wasn’t quite as ruthless as she expected. He’d brought Millie with them when he hadn’t needed to. He’d even bought her dresses. India could have hugged him for that, except that the only reason he was doing any of this was to force India into a prison of wedlock.

Rain pattered on the roof. If not for that maid, she would be in his room right now giving him her virtue. And what would it have mattered if she’d wanted to? If she desired him?

Desiring him would only make the entire business more pleasant. Nobody wanted to give their virtue to someone hideous.

It didn’t mean she had to soften her opinion of him.

It was all beside the point now, anyway. She’d escaped, and first thing in the morning she would figure out how to attract Millie’s attention, and before long they would be making their way quickly back to Marseille.

* * *

A
FEW
MORE
minutes, and he would go. It turned out a glass of wine was just what he’d needed. Two glasses, rather. Or...well, damn. He’d lost count.

“Encore?”
Jervase asked, holding a bottle—the third bottle?—over Nick’s glass.

Nick nodded. Yes, exactly what he needed, and no bloody harridan driving him mad. “She’s insane,” he declared.

“All women are insane, are they not? As are we, for loving them.”

“Love!” Nick swallowed more wine.

“Oui.”
Jervase grinned. “We love their breasts, their hips.” He drained his glass. “Their welcoming thighs.”

“God, yes.” No. An image of India with welcoming thighs had him draining half his glass. “What I wouldn’t give to part those thighs.”

“The thighs of your sister?”

His sister? Nick grunted, shook his head. Drank more wine. “I lied,” he confessed, while images of what those thighs might look like danced in his head.

“Eh?” His host wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The girl is not my sister.”

Jervase laughed and leaned across the table. “I lied as well,” he said, and took another swallow of the wicked juice he called wine. “She is in
my
sister’s hayloft at this very moment.”

“Your sister’s!” Nick tried to stand up but banged his knee against the table. God’s teeth, they were drunk. “Hayloft?” The thought of India sleeping in a pile of hay struck him as unbearably funny, and he began to laugh. Jervase laughed, too, and soon Nick was gasping for breath. “Good God, it’s less than she deserves.”

“Beautiful girl,” Jervase slurred a little. “I plan to pay her a visit tonight.”

“You must take me there at once.” But then Jervase’s meaning sank in. “A visit?”

The man grinned. “She was not as encouraging as I might have hoped, but I feel confident I can convince her.”

“Do you.” The implication swam around in his brain, trying to settle somewhere. No doubt Lady India would welcome the encouragement. Had she not been trying to cast off her virtue from the moment he met her?

“But if you are already her lover...” Jervase trailed off, awaiting confirmation.

Nick grunted, imagining making the truth out of it—tonight, in Jervase’s sister’s hayloft.

“A quarrel, perhaps?” Jervase prompted.