My Runaway Heart (7 page)

"No, no, I'll use the point of my sword to cut out
the affected part—Dr. Foote? Dr. Foote?"

Lindsay felt a pang for the poor man as he fled from
his company, a pudgy hand pressed to his cheek, his pitiful complaints drowned
out as revelers all around burst into another bawdy song.

"I'm sorry. I pointed them out to you only because
I thought you would be amused."

Lindsay turned to find Jared studying her, and she
quickly smiled, although she didn't feel quite as enthusiastic about Tom's
Cellar as she had a few moments ago. "It was amusing, in a way . . ."

She fell silent, a flicker of something in Jared's eyes
making her stop.

Oh, dear, she didn't want him to think she was having a
dreadful time, and she wasn't, truly. Her outing thus far had been so much more
interesting than another insufferable ball, and, of course, she wouldn't rather
be anywhere else than with him.

"Actually, I found their prank very clever,
although I'm sure that unlucky doctor doesn't think so." A delicious
thought struck her, making her grin. "I could see using such a ruse on my
stepmother, but with a bit of a twist—perhaps someone claiming to be her
bastard son or daughter. Now,
that
would straighten her sausage curls."

Jared found himself chuckling, mesmerized by the
mischievous glint in Lindsay's eyes. Yet in the next instant he felt his
exasperation return, for nothing seemed to be upsetting her.

He had thought that he'd seen some measure of distress
on her face a moment ago, which had made him hopeful that she might wish to
return home, having stomached enough of Tom's Cellar. But now she couldn't
appear
more merry
, as if being in such a raucous place
was as common as teatime in the afternoon. Obviously a more drastic course of
action was needed;
dammit
, the chit was having too
much fun. He lifted his mug and drained it, which gave him a sudden idea.

"Drink up and I'll order us another."

Chapter 6

"Drink up?" Lindsay glanced at her mug, still
brimming with dark amber ale, as she had taken only a few sips.

"You said you liked it, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, it's quite good," she fibbed, not
wanting to offend. Lifting her mug, she took a healthy swallow just to prove
how much she enjoyed it and, surprisingly enough, found she had grown slightly
more accustomed to the tangy, somewhat bitter taste. She took another deep
swallow, a pleasant warmth working all the way down to her toes even before she
had set the half-empty mug upon the table.

Either that or it was the disconcerting sensation of Jared
sitting so close to her, Lindsay thought, his hard thigh still pressed against
her leg. Yet he stood in the next instant to beckon a serving woman and the
warmth remained, making her reach for the embroidered silk frogs of her cloak.
It was growing quite stuffy down here, so many people, the smelly tobacco
smoke, the noise, her cheeks feeling as flushed as the rest of her.

Lindsay started as strong fingers covered hers, gently
pulling her hands from the frog at her throat. She met Jared's eyes, not aware
until now that he had sat back down beside her.

"I'm sorry, Lindsay, you'll have to keep your
cloak on, remember? We can't risk anyone recognizing—"

"Oh, please, it's grown so warm. I just want to
loosen it a bit, not take it off."

She smiled with sheer gratitude as he nodded, but once
more he caught her hands when she started to lift them.

"Let me."

The rich baritone of his voice catching her breath,
Lindsay could only stare at him. She tilted her chin a notch as his hands moved
to the fastening at her throat; when his fingers grazed her flesh, she began to
tremble.

He undid the first frog and slid his hand along the
inside of her cloak to the next, his fingers skimming the curve of her breast
and making her wonder if he could feel how wildly her heart was beating. By the
third she was more than ready for the fresh mug of ale plunked down in front of
her, anything to cool the searing flame in her cheeks.

"That's fine—thank you," she somehow managed
to whisper when Jared unfastened the fourth and last frog, certain he couldn't
have heard her for the thunderous voices raised in song. It seemed in the past
moments that Tom's Cellar had grown even rowdier. Patrons slammed their mugs
upon tables to keep time with the bawdy tumble of verses. Women squealed as they
were drawn by drunken gentlemen into the center of the room to dance.

Lindsay barely waited for Jared to move away from her
before she lifted her full mug and drank deeply, hoping the ale might calm her
reeling senses. He seemed to be studying her again, and she noticed he wasn't
touching his fresh mug, while she had nearly emptied hers. Chagrin overwhelmed
her. At once she lowered the mug from her mouth, and so quickly that ale
dribbled down her chin. It made her giggle—how ridiculous she must look—and she
lifted her hand to swipe the stuff away.

"Let me, Lindsay."

His warm fingers were cupping her chin before she could
blink, his thumb caressing away the spill.

He leaned closer. She sucked in her breath, mesmerized
by the indescribable blue of his eyes.

Mesmerized by his angular features, any one of them
enough to call a man handsome . . . broad cheekbones; a straight, almost
hawkish nose; a boldly curved mouth . . . all combined to forge a countenance
of devastating masculinity unlike any she'd seen.

Oh, Lord, mesmerized by the wondrous sensation of his
thumb gliding from her chin to gently trace her lower lip, then the curve of
her cheek. His hand cradling her face, she inclined her head as if fitting
herself to his palm, not a smooth, aristocrat's palm, but one roughened and
callused as a working man's might be.

And he
was
a
working man after all, a spy who had no doubt risked his life countless times
for his country—the thought suddenly hitting her like a bolt that she really
knew so little about him. And she so desperately wanted to know him, to know
everything about him . . .

"Oh, Jared, tell me—" Her eyes widened, a
most unladylike belch bursting from her throat that shattered the breathless
spell that gripped her. Mortified to her toes she looked away, but Jared's
gentle fingers at her chin drew her gaze back to his face, his eyes, to her
relief, filled with studied humor.

"It's the ale, Lindsay, nothing more. And do you
know the best way to stop it from happening again?"

She shook her head, the crowded room around her still
moving when she grew still and tried to focus upon his face.

"You must drink some more."

"More?" This time a loud hiccup erupted,
Lindsay clapping her hand over her mouth to repeat in a muffled voice, "Truly,
Jared? More?"

"Truly. Finish your ale; then you must have mine."

"Yours, too?"

In answer he placed his brimming mug in Lindsay's hand;
she looked doubtfully at the frothy brew, but another noisy hiccup made her
take a long draught, so long and deep that it was Jared who finally coaxed the
mug away from her.

"I think that should do it."

"Really?" Suddenly feeling quite woozy,
Lindsay gripped the edge of the table, which seemed to be moving as well. She
held very still for a moment, waiting, waiting, a self-satisfied smirk breaking
over her face when no further hiccups were heard. "Ha! You were right! I
feel so much—"

Lindsay gaped at Jared, her second belch so loud that
he broke into a laugh. She giggled, too, shrugging her shoulders and spreading
her hands wide, which proved a grave mistake as she let go of the table.

Suddenly she felt herself falling backward and she
would have tumbled altogether from the bench if Jared hadn't caught her around
the waist. Throwing her arms around his neck as he drew her back up beside him,
Lindsay couldn't seem to stop giggling even as she fought to catch her breath.

"I . . . I guess I'll just have to drink some more
ale—"

"No, I think instead it's time I take you home."

"Home?" She shook her head vigorously, so
vigorously that the cellar spun around
her
and she
held onto Jared for dear life. "Oh, dear, why is everything moving?"

"Yes, Miss Somerset, I'd say it's well past your
bedtime."

Lindsay gasped as she felt herself being lifted in the
air, a fresh burst of giggles overwhelming her. "Oh, Jared, let's waltz,
shall we? Just like last night—it was so wonderful, like a dream—whoops!"

The world had suddenly become topsy-turvy. Lindsay was
aware in a foggy corner of her mind that she had been thrown over Jared's
shoulder, but she couldn't see a thing, her ample hood covering her face.
Hiccuping
in between giggles, she began to swing her
dangling arms in time with the ribald song resonating around her, doing her
best to sing along with the lively tune:

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

What shall we do with a drunken sailor?

What shall we do with a drunken
sailor,

Early in the morning?

Shave him on the belly with a rusty razor,

Shave him on the belly with a rusty razor,

Shave him on the belly with a rusty razor,

Early in the morning!

She even went so far as to drum upon something lean and
hard until a gentleman's voice startled her.

"I say, man, will you look at that? There's a
fellow due for some spirited sport tonight, the lucky bastard."

"Oh, yes, the lucky bastard!" she roared,
sputtering at the blond hair in her mouth. In the next moment she was jounced
so soundly that she lost her breath, Jared's shoulder digging into her stomach.

"
Dammit
, woman, be
still!"

"
Shhh
, Lindsay, he says
be still," she admonished herself, inhaling deeply of the clear, cool air
seeping under her hood.

It had grown very dark, too, the boisterous singing
becoming dim, other sounds cutting through the blurry cobwebs cluttering her
mind. The sharp clip-clop of hooves, the clatter of carriage wheels, Jared's
deep voice calling out for a coach to be brought 'round. Then she felt herself
being dumped gently onto something soft and velvet, Lindsay grinning as a
strong hiccup rocked her.

"You better . . . order more ale for me, Jared. I
can't . . . stop."

"So I see," Jared muttered, wondering how he
was ever going to get Lindsay tucked into her bed without her waking the entire
household.

It appeared his idea to get her soused had worked too
well; he could imagine the wretched headache she would suffer come morning. But
if that would keep the reckless chit from venturing out again late at night,
then it had been worth it, and he hoped she would be so sick, she wouldn't wish
to see him again, either. Not when she realized he had
lied
to her, encouraging her to drink to quiet her hiccups, no less.

Jared drew Lindsay under his arm as the coach jolted
around a corner, a pang of regret hitting him as she snuggled blearily against
him, her cheek pressed against his overcoat, her breath smelling like a drunken
sailor's
. But he suppressed the rare feeling and drew
back her hood, that stifling black hood which she had endured without complaint
and which had so completely hidden the exquisite riot of blond hair that
spilled out over his lap.

He fingered a silken strand, the unusual shade a
striking mix of platinum and spun silver. He hadn't realized how long it was
until tonight, down to her waist; she had worn it wound in a fashionable
chignon last evening. She had looked so lovely, as brilliant as a sunny day in
her yellow gown, her magnificent hair coiled by a creamy strand of seed pearls.
But he much preferred it streaming loose around her as it was now—

Jared cursed. "Blast it, man, what the hell does
it matter if the stuff is loose or the wench is bald?" he bit out, turning
to stare through the window.

"Jared? Did you say something?"

Her voice was as silky-soft as her hair; nonetheless,
he steeled himself against its bewitching effect and ignored her. Yet that did
not prevent him from recalling how smooth her skin had been beneath his fingers
when he'd unfastened her cloak, his hand grazing the tender ripeness of her
breasts, her heart beating crazily beneath his fingertips, the delicate scent
of her perfume—lily of the valley—growing headier from the warmth of her body.

Dammit
, his own physical
reaction at that moment had been anything but
gentlemanly,
his thoughts straying now as with a will of their own to how close he had come
earlier that night to ravaging her. Even knowing of her innocence did not ease
the sudden tightness in his lower body and he groaned, dropping his head back
against the cushion and shutting his eyes.

At least her hiccups had ceased, which would aid him in
getting her into the house. But if she—by God, had a woman ever looked so
beautiful even in belching?

"Jared?"

He glanced down to find her staring up at him, her
sleepy eyes luminous in the glow from passing lamplights. If she had been dizzy
before, he imagined now she was simply exhausted, the ale having taken its
toll. But still she gazed at him as if waiting for him to speak.

"Go to sleep, Lindsay," he bade her, but she
stubbornly shook her head.

"No, no, tell me things."

"Things?"

She snuggled closer, one hand dropping into his lap,
making Jared groan again.

"Places . . . where you've been . . . so lucky . .
."

He threw his head back, his jaw growing tight. Lucky?
If the chit only knew. Yet he couldn't blame her for an innocent request, or
for the tension coiling like a poisonous snake in his gut. Why not indulge her?
She wouldn't remember a thing come morning.