Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (7 page)

He shrugged, picked up his candles, and strolled back to his room, his beautiful naked back constant temptation to change her mind. She could imagine the feel of his firm, round buttocks beneath her hands . . .

“By the way,” he said, presumably from his bed, “if you call me again, I’ll take it as a demand that I satisfy your all-too-obvious appetite no matter whether you shake your head or not.”

The candles were extinguished and silence fell.

Elf lay on her back, shaken by lust and consumed with embarrassment.

Vague hungers based on kisses and men’s clothed bodies had now taken concrete form. Her desires were no longer dreamy. They were firm, urgent, and centered on Fortitude Harleigh Ware, Earl of Walgrave, the least likely man to satisfy them if he discovered who she was.

Well, she tried to tell herself, she’d known she was feeling this restlessness, this dissatisfaction. Mere accident had thrown her in with her brother-in-law tonight. Her feelings would surely have been the same for any other handsome man who’d rescued her from death.

She wasn’t sure she believed it, and the temptation to take him at his word and call out again astonished her. He would strip off her clothes until she was as naked as he. Then he’d lie beside her and touch her as he’d touched her on the boat, but more so. He’d suckle her again, and stroke her.

And she would be able to touch him, to enjoy the rough and smooth of him, the hard and soft.

The taste.

The smell . . .

No!

Elf blew out a long breath and concentrated on lying still, on listening to the clocks in the house sound one, and then the quarter, then the half.

Then she began her escape before she did something impossibly wicked.

First, she reached up to work her dagger free. That was when she realized that the cunning man had tied her hands back to back so her fingers couldn’t work together.

She worked away with just her right hand, thankful that the dagger fit on the outside of the wooden stay down the front of her stomacher. At least she couldn’t stab herself in the heart. When she had it free of its sheath, she lost her grip so it tumbled onto the bed. In fumbling for it, she jabbed her hand and hissed at the pain. She hadn’t realized just how sharp it was!

But she had it at last.

Then she discovered that with it in the grasp of her right hand, she could not reach the garters binding her wrists. Blast the cunning man’s eyes! She could reach her ankles, however, and soon had her legs free.

She sat on the edge of the bed in almost pitch darkness, trying to find a way to cut through the garters binding her wrists. All she managed was to pierce her skin again and again so blood ran down her arms. She needed to get the blade between her hands to cut there.

It was impossible.

Then she had an inspiration. Gripping the hilt of the small dagger in her teeth, she brought her bound wrists up to work against the blade.

It was surprisingly difficult, and she could have screamed with frustration. Her teeth couldn’t hold the dagger steady, so she couldn’t apply much pressure. Saliva gathered, and she kept having to take the knife out to swallow. It was hard to find the right angle, and she nicked herself again and again.

Despite the mass of burning cuts, she would not, could not give up.

The silk parted so suddenly that she gasped and the knife tumbled to the floor. She froze, listening intently to the next room.

Only the ticking of clocks broke the silence.

With a deep shuddering breath she flexed her hands, pressing at the sore cuts with the sheet. In the dark, she couldn’t see the damage, but she didn’t think it was serious. Just painful.

Re-sheathing her dagger, she slipped off the bed. She considered leaving her hoops behind, but without their support her skirts hung perilously long, so she took the time to tie them on again. Then she put on her cloak, dark side out, pulling the hood up over her white-powdered hair.

Her stockings and garters were beyond hope, but she considered whether they might identify her. She couldn’t imagine how. She was dithering, so she picked up her shoes and faced her challenge. She had to leave this room and escape the house, then cross London in the middle of the night, with murderers quite likely lurking in the shadows.

She was tempted to go into the next room, Walgrave’s room, where she might find a pistol. She couldn’t take such a risk, however, even though she would have loved to have a weapon.

Shrugging, she reminded herself she was a Malloren.

As her brother often said, with a Malloren, all things are possible.

She crept across the room and tried the door to the corridor. The knob turned in well-maintained silence, and the door opened without a sound into almost total darkness.

Feeling her way toward the stairs, she tried to convince herself that no one would leave an obstacle in the middle of the corridor. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure, however, and so crept along with tiny steps, hands extended. The last thing she wanted was to crash into anything.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, her heart was pounding and her nerves were in shreds. A fine adventurer she was turning out to be. If she had a way of calling for her brothers to come and protect her, she’d take it in a moment!

Sucking in a few deep, steadying breaths, she peeped over the stair rail. Some grand houses kept a night footman in the hall, for security and in case of unexpected callers. Such a footman, however, would have a lamp. The hall of Walgrave House lay dark beneath her, apart from a pale shaft of moonlight from the fanlight above the door.

Elf crept downstairs, testing each step for squeaks before putting her full weight upon it.

Each was solid as rock. Hardly surprising. Until six months ago, this house had belonged to the old earl—the Incorruptible. He’d been a stiff-rumped old tyrant who would no more let a stair squeak than he’d let his daughter marry against his wishes.

Even so, she sighed with relief to step onto the cool tiles of the hall floor. Now she could think clearly.

Outside, there might be waiting assassins. Before leaving the house, she must find a weapon.

Aided by the weak moonlight, she methodically checked rooms until she found the one she wanted—Walgrave’s study, where she had the best chance of finding pistols.

The curtains were drawn, so she had to take the risk of opening them, wincing at the rattle. That gave her light enough to search the room. In some drawers beneath a bookcase she found a pistol case containing two beautiful dueling pieces.

From his spot in the shadows in the lane between Walgrave House and its neighbor, Kenny watched the curtains in one window draw back. Unfortunately, his head was a few feet below the windowsill, so he couldn’t see into the room. A rum do, though. The servants were surely long since in bed, so it must be the earl.

Rum. Very rum.

If Kenny had that round-heeled wench in his power for the night, the earl wouldn’t be wandering around the house fiddling with curtains.

Kenny shared his leader’s suspicion of the haughty
earl, and this business didn’t seem right. He wished he had something to climb on so he could look into the room.

He hadn’t, though, so he shrugged and went back to picking his teeth, keeping even closer watch.

In the study, Elf thanked heaven for a twin who’d liked to teach her everything he knew. Taking up one pistol, she poured in the right amount of powder, dropped the prepared ball into the muzzle, and rammed it home. Then she filled the pan with fine priming powder. When it was ready, she settled it carefully in her right-hand pocket and prepared to face the outside world.

Peering through the window, she saw it looked out onto the narrow lane between the houses, a promisingly pitch-dark area. The sill was a good eight feet off the ground but she should be able to drop that far without injury.

She hesitated only because of the night doorman who surely sat outside the main doors. She didn’t give much for her chances of scrambling out and landing so silently that he didn’t hear. She also had the pistol to think about. In theory, it couldn’t go off until cocked, but gunpowder was chancy stuff.

No, she’d have to ignore the tempting lane and take her chances with the servants’ quarters.

Mack slouched against a wall in the lane leading to the mews. Lanterns glimmered outside the nearby stables whose lofts were full of sleeping grooms and coachmen, but the mews lane itself lay dark and silent.

Mack leaned back, watching the gardens of Walgrave House, but he was having a hard time staying awake. He’d been up all last night, dicing, then tumbling a wench or two, and he’d rather be in his bed asleep.

Waste of time anyway, this was. If the earl hadn’t wanted the titty, he’d have taken her somewhere else.
He wasn’t going to change his mind an hour later and throw her out.

In Mack’s opinion, Michael Murray worried too much.

Truth to tell, Mack didn’t have much feeling over this business. He was heart and soul for the Stuarts, who by God-given right should be kings of Scotland and England. He’d inherited that from his father and grandfather, who’d both fought for the cause.

But he wished he’d been born in a time when a man could prove it with sword and blood. Instead, here he was, sneaking around London spying and pilfering, and yawning against a rough wall in the dead hours of the night.

Elf eased open a paneled oak door at the back of the hall and found herself, as she expected, in the much plainer servants’ quarters. She made herself wait and listen, but when she heard no trace of movement, she went through and closed the door gently behind her.

With the door open, she had seen a corridor. With it shut, she stood in pitch darkness. Again, she moved forward cautiously, trying to use other senses to guide her. The darkness pressed, and she began to imagine the walls closing in to smother her.

She stopped and sucked in a deep breath, forcing control.

There. A ticking clock! That had to be the kitchen. She groped toward the sound, feeling along the wall until she found a door. She should have paused. She should have been careful, but her need to escape the suffocating darkness drove her. She turned the knob and went in.

Light.

It was only the glow of the banked fire, but it seemed like bright sunlight after such blackness. She gasped for breath, trying to do it silently, for she’d already seen the humped shapes of at least three servants on mattresses on the floor.

A shape stirred.

Her calming heart scurried again.

A cat meowed.

It came over to weave around her ankles, threatening to trip her. She scooped it up and stroked it, making subdued soothing noises.

None of the servants seemed to have woken. Working morn till night, they’d not rouse easily from their rest. She just had to be careful not to bang anything, and here that wasn’t so easy. Certainly she had the firelight to help her, but the room was full of furniture and utensils.

She didn’t dare put down the cat, which lay heavily contented in her arms, so she couldn’t manage her wide skirts and cloak.

Oh well, she could see a small window and a door beside it. More than likely that door led to the outside. If she woke anyone, she’d make a run for it.

She began to thread her way between bodies and furniture, forcing herself to go very slowly. Three-quarters of the way to the doorway, a servant heaved over with a mumble.

She froze.

The man settled to sleep again, still muttering.

Elf risked putting the cat down, and ignored its brushing warmth against her ankles as she went the last few steps and turned the knob.

The door didn’t move!

It took a few moments for common sense to overrule panic. Of course they’d keep the house locked.

Grasping the heavy iron key, she tried to turn it gently, but the lock was too stiff. In the end, she had to use all her strength and the
click-clunk
of the lock echoed through the room.

She froze again, pointlessly holding her breath.

One servant half sat up, muttering, “Wha—?”

Elf stayed statue-still, though she felt her thundering heart must be audible.

After a moment, the man settled down again, but she couldn’t be sure he’d returned to deep sleep. She made
herself count slowly to two hundred before she risked turning the knob again and easing open the door.

For a blessing, the door didn’t squeak but opened silently into a small yard. She went through, eased the door shut again, then leaned against the high stone wall, shaking.

Oh, how she wished for a magic wand to waft her out of this situation.

Adventure was actually no fun at all!

She wanted to be safe in her luxurious bedchamber, with servants to attend to every wish. She wanted her brothers, and their protection solidly around her. Instead, she had escaped an imprisoning house only to be out alone in the middle of the night with murderers quite likely hovering nearby.

Her teeth were chattering, surely loud enough to be heard if anyone was nearby.

But then she managed to control the panic. She didn’t have a choice, and as the old saying went, “What can’t be changed, must be endured.”

And she was a Malloren.

With a Malloren, all things are possible.

She’d come to think that the bane of her life, being a Malloren. It meant every act was of interest to society. It meant having four brothers determined to protect her from every hurt, and well able to do so. It meant she stepped with care through life because she didn’t want men out at dawn trying to kill one another.

She’d learned that lesson at eighteen when she’d foolishly encouraged a dashing young rake, underestimating his intentions. When she’d resisted his seduction, he’d tried to force her. He’d been lucky. Rothgar’s sword had merely disabled his right arm.

Permanently.

Though Scottsdale had deserved his punishment, Elf had learned her lesson. She’d put no more men in danger, especially her brothers. After all, there must be swordsmen in the world even more skilled than the Mallorens.