Fanning the Flame (10 page)

He thought about the battle of Aboukir and the men in his command who had died there. He had done his duty at Aboukir, fought side by side with the soldiers who were killed. He had nothing to be ashamed of, yet the nightmares persisted, forcing him to fight the gruesome battle again and again.

But Jillian was different. Unlike the turmoil that raged inside him, with every breath, every smile, she exuded an inner peace that seemed to radiate out through her skin.

"I'll be glad when all of this is over." She looked into his face and he thought that her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen.

"What happened after your father died?"

"I had very little family, just a few distant cousins. I moved in with my great aunt Gertie. She hadn't much money so I tutored some of the village children and tried to make what little my father had left last as long as I could. But one of my students went off to boarding school and the other moved away. Then Aunt Gertie died. I couldn't stay in the cottage alone."

"That's when you came to London?"

She nodded. "My father always told me that if I ever needed help I should go to the Earl of Fenwick, as they had been best chums in school. I was desperate. I went to the earl and he was kind enough to take me in."

His muscles went tense. He didn't want to talk about Fenwick. Not now. Not here in the peacefulness of the garden.

"It looks like a storm's blowing in." He gazed up at the clouds drifting across the moon, beginning to stack up over the city.

Jillian's gaze followed his. "I've always loved storms. The sky seems to come alive and the next day everything looks fresh and clean."

She would see it that way, he supposed, but to him, the thunder sounded like the rumble of cannon, the lightning sparked like the muzzle flashes of a gun.

The truth must have shown in his face.

"Does the storm . . . ? Do the nightmares come with the wind and the rain?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. He felt her fingers like a brand against his cheek and something shifted in the air between them. He didn't know exactly how it happened, only that one instant she was there beside him and the next he had pulled her into his arms.

He kissed her harder than he meant to, taking what he had wanted from the start.  Like the storm she spoke of, his body came to life, and for an instant, he nearly lost control. He forced himself to soften the kiss, to taste her, savor the sweetness of her lips. He battled the heat but it was there, simmering beneath the surface, ready any second to explode into his blood.

He felt her tremble, felt her hands slide up to his shoulders, and held on to his control by force of will. His tongue teased her lips, urging her to open for him, and invaded the dark, moist cavern of her mouth. She stiffened a little, a faint tension invading her body. Vaguely he realized she had never been kissed this way before.

Perhaps the aging earl had simply crept into her bed, lifted her night rail, and taken his pleasure in the darkness. Adam's pulse leapt to think that, though she had been desperate enough to share the old man's bed, much of her innocence remained.

He kissed her again and this time she kissed him back, swaying toward him, unconsciously pressing her soft curves into his arousal. Fire ripped into his groin and he heard himself groan.

The kiss grew more fierce. He took her deeply with his tongue and some of his control slipped. He wanted her and he meant to have her, but he wasn't ready for this to go further. Not yet. He had to be sure she was innocent of the murder but his body seemed to have a will of its own.

His palm found her breast, cupped it, tested the softness, the weight. His thumb rubbed over her nipple, and a faint moan rose in her throat. He kissed her deeply one last time, his shaft so hard it hurt. Damn, he wanted her. Wanted to feel her softness all around him, wanted to be inside her.

Jillian must have sensed his growing desire. He felt her stiffen, then she pulled away. She stood there trembling, looking dazed and shaken and wary.

"That . . . that shouldn't have happened."

He surveyed the lovely blush in her cheeks. "There is little doubt of that."

"I-I realize some of the blame lies with me, but it shan't happen again."

His mouth edged up, but he made no reply. It would happen again—he intended to ensure that it did.

Jillian seemed to have regained her composure, though her cheeks still carried the faint blush of embarrassment.

" ’Tis past time I went in," she said. "Good night, my lord."

She started walking away and though his body still throbbed with need, he made no move to stop her. He refused to be duped again, and Jillian's soft kisses and seemingly innocent responses warned him to beware.

He watched her escape back into the house, walking a little faster than she usually did. From the corner of his eye, he caught the distant flash of lightning, heard the roar of thunder, and knew that for him the night would be a long one.

Instead of retiring to his room, he strode through the house to the entry. Grabbing his greatcoat from its hook on the wall, he opened the heavy front door and stepped out into the darkness. Perhaps a walk would help him sleep. Perhaps if he were tired enough, he could forget the tantalizing sweetness of Jillian's lips, forget that she lay sleeping just beyond his bedchamber door.

Perhaps, if he were lucky, he might dream of her small, lithe body and surprisingly full breasts instead of the long-ago battle that still raged inside his head.

Chapter Seven

A harsh spring wind rattled through the branches of the trees the following day. A dense rain had fallen overnight, and a sullen sky hung above the London streets.

Standing beside the rose silk draperies in her bedchamber, Jillian watched a coal cart roll past on the street below, the vendor calling out as he pushed his heavy load. She watched him disappear, then closed the window she left partially open each night, wishing it wasn't too cold to be out of doors.

Dressed in peach muslin, the bodice and hem heavily embroidered in a Grecian design, Jillian crossed the bedchamber, catching sight of her reflection in the looking glass. Peach was usually one of her best colors but today it did nothing to improve the pallor of her face. Though her dark copper hair, braided and wound in a coronet atop her head, looked shiny and well cared for, shadows lingered beneath her eyes and her cheeks were sunken in.

She hadn't slept well. She wondered if she'd ever have a peaceful night's sleep again. But it wasn't her nebulous future, it was Blackwood who had plundered her restless thoughts last night.

She had known he was attractive, that the harsh, almost ruthless angles of his face gave him an uncommon appeal few men possessed. Still, a lot of men were handsome. It was the self-confidence, the air of command accompanying those attractive features that set the earl apart from other men. And the carefully hidden need she sensed in him, the restlessness he couldn't quite contain.

Last night, she had discovered how powerful a force it could be.

Jillian trembled to think of it. She could still feel the heat of his palm on her breast, muted by the fabric of her gown, the pleasure that swept through her when his fingers stroked over her nipple. His mouth wasn't hard, as it often appeared, but soft and warm and encompassing, like heated silk moving over her lips.

She didn't even know people kissed the way he did, his slick, hot tongue finding its way into her mouth. She'd felt invaded, plundered—and on fire. In those few brief moments, she had completely lost the power to think. It was beyond disconcerting—it was terrifying to imagine what might have occurred.

Fortunately, at the very last instant, her senses had returned and she had ended the kiss. Though his eyes remained hot, Blackwood had returned to his role as gentleman and ended his pursuit. She couldn't help a certain curiosity as to what might have occurred if he hadn't played the gentleman quite so well.

At any rate, the encounter was over and she had other, more pressing matters to consider than her first and only, very brief experience with desire.

Turning toward the door, preparing herself to face the earl and determined not to blush when she saw him, Jillian left the room and made her way to the head of the stairs. A commotion stirred in the entry.

Jillian froze in horror as two uniformed watchmen caught sight of her standing at the railing and bolted toward her up the stairs.

Oh, dear God!

They reached her before she could think to run. "Jillian Alistair Whitney?" the taller man said, taking a firm grip on her arm.

She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out.

"In the name of the Crown," said the second man, thick-shouldered, with badly scarred hands. He captured her other arm. "You are under arrest for the murder of the Earl of Fenwick."

"Nooo!" The plaintive wail erupted from deep in her throat. She wanted to break free, wanted to run, but she could see how useless it would be.

"Ye'd best come peacefully, Miss," the first man said.

" ’Twill only go the worse for ye if ye don't."

Two more watchmen waited at the bottom of the stairs. Maude stood a few feet away, her eyes red-rimmed with tears. Straight-backed, like the soldier he once was, Reggie let his bulldog face betray little emotion, but his chin thrust forward at a belligerent angle and she thought that he had done his best not to let the men in.

As they started down the stairs, one on each side, boxing her in, she glanced frantically around for the earl. "Wh-where is Lord Blackwood?"

"Gone out, Miss," Reggie said. "Soon as he comes back, I'll tell 'im what's happened. He'll come for ye, Miss. The major stands by his friends."

So they knew she wasn't his cousin. She wondered if they had known from the start, wondered if one of them had turned her in for the reward. She didn't think it was Reggie or Maude.

As they started across the entry, her legs shaking nearly uncontrollably, she realized someone was knocking on the door. Reggie hurriedly yanked it open, clearly hoping that it was the earl. Instead, a small, red-haired woman swept in.

"Good morning. Please tell Lord Blackwood that the Duchess of Rathmore is here to see him." She was petite but not slim, with lovely green eyes that widened as she took in the scene in the entry. "For heaven's sake—what on earth is going on?"

One of the watchmen stepped forward. "Official business, Your Grace. We've just apprehended a fugitive. This woman—Jillian Whitney—is wanted for the murder of Oswald Telford, the late Earl of Fenwick."

Jillian wildly shook her head. "It isn't true! I didn't do it! I didn't kill him!"

"Where is Lord Blackwood?" the duchess asked, glancing around for the earl, her pretty face filled with concern.

"Gone out, Your Grace," Reggie answered. "He won't like the turn of this. Not one bit."

"I see. In fact, I'm beginning to understand quite a lot of things." She turned to Jillian, who stood a few feet away, trembling in the grip of the watchmen.

The duchess approached and Jillian felt the woman's small hand on her arm. "Take heart, Miss Whitney. Apparently Lord Blackwood believes in your innocence or you wouldn't be here. My husband, I believe, though he's done everything in his power to keep silent on the matter, has been helping in the earl's campaign to clear your name."

Jillian swallowed. "Tell him I am grateful for all he has done." The watchmen started hauling her toward the door and the duchess followed them down the front porch steps.

"Blackwood is loyal to his friends," the duchess said. "He won't abandon you. And he isn't a man to fail at what he sets out to do."

They were the last words Jillian heard as the watchmen shoved her into their waiting carriage and two of them followed her in. The tall man and the one with scarred hands climbed up on the driver's seat. One of them released the brake and the horses set off at a clatter down the cobbled street.

Dear God, they were taking her to prison, just as the earl had said.

Inside the airless, bad-smelling carriage, Jillian shivered.
Dear Lord,
she prayed,
please let him come for me.

But she wasn't all that certain that he would.

Kitt Barclay, Duchess of Rathmore, paced the entry of Lord Blackwood's town house, waiting for his return. Dammit, where was he? It had been two very long hours. She was saying something of that nature to Reggie when she heard the doorknob turn and Blackwood finally strode in.

His head came up when he saw her, sensing from her face that something was wrong. "Kassandra. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Originally, I came here to discover what you and my husband were up to with your mysterious visits, but finding four watchmen in your entry with a very lovely, very frightened young woman in tow, I believe I've found the answer to that."

Beneath his high cheekbones, his face went utterly pale. He turned to the butler, who hovered just a few feet away. "They took Jillian? How long ago were they here?"

"About two hours, Major. There weren't a thing we could do. I told 'em if they harmed a hair on her pretty head, they'd have to answer to you."