Louise Allen Historical Collection (80 page)

‘So where was the knife?’ Lina asked, determined not to be shocked. And, truth be told, she was as riveted as she ever had been when reading a sensation novel. His grip had shifted to open her hand again and his long fingers moved gently over the back.

‘In her hair.’ Quinn’s smile was rueful. ‘Now, you could be hiding a pair of duelling pistols in that bonnet.’

‘Perhaps I am.’ She let the silence drift on for a moment, full of unspoken words. ‘But I have no intention of removing it to show you, Quinn.’

His given name slipped out and Lina bit her lip as though to catch it, too late.

‘You keep secrets, Celina,’ he observed.

‘As many as your Romany, I have no doubt, my lord. But none so lethal.’
Although I killed a man...or
I
was the instrument of his own lust killing him.
‘Will you read my fortune? For, if not, I must ask for my hand back so I may go and make sure that luncheon has been set out.’ She was pleased with the light, amused tone of her voice.

‘Let me see.’ He lifted her hand to study it, the movement bringing them closer together. ‘A strong life line. Here.’ He touched a point and frowned. ‘Perhaps a moment of risk.’ His voice became puzzled for a moment. ‘Soon, I think. You must take care—if you believe such things. Your head line is straight—you are honest and intelligent, but perhaps too controlled by emotion. Ah, yes, see your heart line?’ He traced the line curving under her fingers. ‘Loving, intense—that is what overrules your head sometimes. And combined with this...’ he brushed his finger over the swell of flesh at the base of her thumb ‘...the Mount of Venus, I can tell you are passionate as well.’

Quinn lifted her hand to his lips and touched them to the soft mound, making her shiver.

‘Why, thank you, my lord, it lacked only a camp fire and some silver to cross your palm with! I see you sometimes wear an earring, which would complete the illusion. There was just such a lurid fortune-telling in a Minerva Press novel I was reading only the other day.’ He released her and she stood up.

‘I was Quinn a moment ago,’ he said, as he towered over her.

‘And I was careless,’ she murmured, glancing sideways under her lashes as she moved away. ‘I will see you at luncheon. My lord.’

S
he’s a married woman who has run away from her husband,
Quinn decided on Tuesday morning as he stripped off his sweaty clothes. He and Gregor had been wrestling and using singlesticks and his muscles tingled with the exercise. He ducked under the big pump in the stable yard with a gasp as the cold water hit his heated skin. That was the only explanation that appeared to make sense of all the puzzles the woman presented, he argued to himself, scrubbing soap into his chest.

Celina was wary of men and yet she possessed a number of knowing little tricks and was comfortable with dinner-table conversation. She was assured with the servants and with their few callers, competent with the household management. A husband who had beaten her, perhaps? Or forced himself on her.

‘Harder,’ he ordered the groom who was bent over the pump handle. The male staff were used to him and Gregor now, the audience for their morning training fights had shrunk and the work of the yard went on around them as if two large, naked, dripping men were a commonplace sight.

He frowned as Gregor turned and he saw the familiar pattern of white scars lacing his friend’s back. Cruelty to anyone, whether it was a woman, a child or a beaten Russian slave, made him coldly angry.

He brought his mind back to the mystery of Celina. He had been suspicious about the aunt from the start—she did not exist, he was fairly certain. Somehow Celina had known Simon and the cantankerous old devil had given her sanctuary. It had probably appealed to him, hiding another man’s wife. And it explained why she had not been referred to by name in the codicil to the will—to put a false name might invalidate it and a fugitive wife would certainly not be living under her real name.

‘We’re late,’ the Russian said as the stable clock struck noon. ‘The water will be getting cold.’

‘Come on, then.’ Quinn scooped up his clothes and padded off over the stone setts. The hot baths to be found throughout North Africa and the Middle East were a luxury he sorely missed, but a good soak in the great marble sarcophagus was a reasonable substitute after exercise.

The kitchen door was shut, in accordance with the routine that saved the blushes of the female staff, and he and Gregor climbed the service stairs to the first floor before opening the door on to the deserted bedroom corridor.

‘I’ve got a theory,’ he said, low voiced, as they strode along, leaving wet footmarks on the old chestnut boards. ‘I have come to the conclusion that Cel—’

The door in front of them opened and she came out as he spoke, her head bent over the pile of folded linens in her hands. She walked straight into Quinn and all three of them stopped dead. The linens went everywhere, a fluttering snowstorm of chemises, petticoats and nightgowns. Quinn lost his grip on his own clothes and dropped them, aware that Gregor had strategically clasped a shirt to his midriff, preserving essential decency if not much else.

Empty handed, he and Celina stared at each other for a frozen moment. He realised that he was trying to lock eyes with her to stop her looking down but, by instinct it seemed, she dropped to her knees to scramble after her scattered underthings. Quinn dropped, too; it was the safest thing to do, given that his body was reacting enthusiastically to the mental images feminine underwear conjured up. He seized the nearest item of clothing and clapped it over his loins.

Celina bundled up the rest of her things, got to her feet and backed through the door she had come out of, eyes wide, cheeks pink. The door slammed in their faces as Gregor doubled up laughing.

Quinn looked down; his modesty was being inadequately sheltered behind a flimsy piece of frivolity with fine lace and silk ribbons. Glowering at his friend, he tapped on the door, opened it a crack and tossed the chemise through before closing it again. They retreated down the corridor and into Quinn’s room.

Gregor mopped his streaming eyes. ‘Blue ribbons are not flattering to you,’ he choked.

‘Celina was not shocked,’ Quinn said, clambering into the cooling bath and sinking up to his chin. ‘She was surprised to bump into us, she was flustered, but she was not shocked. Not as a sheltered virgin walking slap bang into two nude men ought to be.’

‘You are right,’ Gregor agreed, sobering up and climbing into the other end. ‘You were saying just as the door opened—’

‘I think she is a married woman who has run away from her husband,’ Quinn said. ‘She does not react to men like an innocent, but neither does she behave like a wanton.’

‘You will tell Havers?’ The Russian scrubbed at his chin in contemplation.

‘No.’ Quinn submerged completely and resurfaced streaming water. ‘By English law a married woman’s money is her husband’s. If she has run from some bastard who beats her, then the last person Simon would have wanted to give money to would be him.’

‘What are you going to do with her, then?’

‘I’m thinking on it.’ But he already knew what he would do. He would offer Celina a
carte blanche
and make her his mistress. It would save him the bother of finding a
chère amie
in London. She’d agree to it, she’d be a fool not to; it was an attractive, convenient arrangement for both of them and when he left he would add to Simon’s legacy, make sure she had enough to keep clear of her husband for ever. He just needed to find the right moment to put it to her.

Lina sat on the end of her bed and regarded her scattered laundry.
Well!
It was not as though she had never seen a naked man before—they could occasionally be found wandering the corridors of The Blue Door, usually somewhat the worse for drink and pursued by one or more of the girls, giggling as they tried to shoo them back into the bedchamber.

But the effect of those two large men at close quarters was... She searched for a word.
Overwhelming.
They were both magnificent, although she found herself strangely unmoved by Gregor’s solid bulk. She had seen him first, seen the white lacing of whip scars over his torso, and recoiled to find her eyes locked with Quinn’s.

It had not been until she had ducked down to scoop up her underwear that she realised just why he was holding her gaze so intently—he had not wanted her looking down. She fanned herself with a folded corset. There was absolutely no escaping the fact that she wanted to touch Quinn, to run her hands over those sculpted muscles, the broad shoulders, the lean hips. What did his skin feel like? And the crisp dark hair? Stripped, he was so unlike Tolhurst that they might have been separate species.

Now she had another secret to hide from him, she realised.
Desire.
How would she have reacted if Makepeace had tried to sell her to Quinn? she wondered. But Quinn would have no need to buy virgins from a villain like Makepeace and he would not force a girl, either, she sincerely hoped. He did not need to. He would use seduction, deploy his charm and his body and his skill to lure a woman into his bed.

‘Dangerous,’ she said to herself as she began to gather up the scattered clothes. ‘That is a primrose path to perdition if ever I saw one.’ How easy it had been to be good when she had never been tempted to be sinful.

‘It is a beautiful evening,’ Quinn remarked as the dessert plates were cleared. Lina paused, her napkin in her hand. She had been about to rise and leave them to their port or the strange oily clear liquor that Michael fetched every evening from the ice house and which was never offered to her.

‘The moon is full, the wind has dropped and I think I can hear nightingales. Would you like to walk in the garden, Celina?’

She glanced at Gregor. ‘All of us?’ By mutual, unspoken consent not a word had been exchanged about the contretemps outside her bedchamber and, after a somewhat stilted start to the meal, they had all relaxed into the normal polite exchange of conversation.

‘No, not me,’ the big Russian said. ‘I go and pack now. I leave for London tomorrow.’

Oh.
She knew he had been planning to, but the realisation that tomorrow she would be alone with Quinn was disturbing. ‘I am not sure.’ She did not trust Quinn not to tempt her, she did not trust herself to resist, and yet the thought of wandering in the moonlight with nightingales singing was powerfully romantic. Her life, Lina thought with a sudden flare of rebellion, had been very short of romance.

Quinn just smiled at her with his eyes, the first unguarded expression he had allowed to cross his features since his somewhat unsuccessful attempt to shield both their blushes with the aid of her camisole.

Temptation again. If she was careful, very careful, perhaps it would be safe to take that enchanted stroll. He would not force kisses on her, she was certain...
almost
certain—and she was on the alert. It was just a matter of will-power, Lina thought, feeling her resistance swirling away like water down a hole.

‘It would be very pleasant,’ she said, her voice sounding prim to her own ears. ‘Just for a little while.’

Quinn draped her shawl around her shoulders, his fingers barely touching her, and opened the long window onto the terrace. The breeze was soft and held the scents of green leaves, not the sea. The liquid birdsong seemed to pour over her senses like warm oil as they stepped out.

‘How lovely,’ Lina murmured as Quinn drew her arm through his and strolled out on to the lawn. They walked in silence for a while. It was easy to be with him, she realised, jerking her head upright as it tilted treacherously sideways, drawn to his shoulder like iron to a magnet.

But even the beauty of the silvered moonlit scene was not able to soothe her worries for long.
Gregor is going to London. Would he hear something about the Tolhurst Sapphire? Would he read about the hunt for a blonde young woman called Celina? Why have I not heard anything from Aunt Clara?

‘What did he do to you?’ Quinn asked, his tone matter of fact, as though he was discussing the temperature.

‘Who?’ Lina knew she had started in alarm.

‘Your husband.’

‘My—’
He thinks I am
married? ‘My husband?’

‘Yes. I assume that is who you are running away from.’ Quinn drew her arm tighter through his. ‘I could not understand you at first, you see, Celina. Not an innocent, certainly not a wanton. Then I realised, you must be married.’