Rake Beyond Redemption (15 page)

‘What’s your name, miss?’

‘None of your concern,’ she snapped.

‘Oh, ho. A high-spirited filly. I warrant you gave Ellerdine a run for his money. Perhaps you’ll like me better after all. I can be very—kind—with the right incentive.’

D’Acre yanked her even closer as he rose to his feet. Every muscle in her body tensed as he took her chin in his hand to force her to look into his face. For a little time he studied her and his smile grew. Marie-Claude held her breath, then exhaled slowly at a little reprieve when D’Acre dropped his hand and walked round her, inspecting her as if she were a mare for sale. She forced herself to stand straight and tall.

‘Not a village girl, then. Staying hereabouts?’

‘Yes.’

‘And where would that be, miss?’

‘Lydyard’s Pride.’ She turned her head, looked him in the eye.

‘The Pride?’ He seemed surprised. ‘Now I’d thought that to be empty apart from old Wiggins. One of the Hallastons, are you?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘She’s the widow of the Earl’s brother.’ Zan’s information curtly delivered, totally dispassionate.

‘Staying at the Pride. Interesting. Useful, perhaps.’ Again D’Acre made a circuit of her, brushing too close for comfort. It was as if he couldn’t keep his hands from her. ‘You could certainly be of use to me.’ The odious grin again flashed on his face, breath hot on her cheek. ‘You could be of use to all of us. Couldn’t she, Ellerdine?’

‘You’ll not get my help in any of your disgusting schemes,’ Marie-Claude stated, deliberately misunderstanding the obvious innuendo.

‘And French by your accent. Well now, how charming. Why did you think I was referring to one of my
schemes
? I had my mind on something far more—personal.’

His hand was back on her shoulder, over her breast, and down to the dip of her waist. Marie-Claude read lust in his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, determined not to cry out. No possibility of flight—she was surrounded. No one to cry out
to.
She would not look at Zan again. Was he enjoying this? Was he just going to stand there and watch whilst D’Acre continued to humiliate and degrade her? Since she had been manhandled before them like a piece of contraband merchandise, he had only made one move—to push himself from the table’s edge to stand balanced on both feet. He looked tense, his face stern and remote, yet every muscle held in check, primed for action. But not on her behalf, she thought bitterly before terror took its hold once more as D’Acre began to drag her towards the open doorway of the inn.

‘Don’t struggle.’ D’Acre spoke softly. ‘See how thoughtful I can be. If you’re shy, pretty girl, I’ll seek a quieter room for us.’

‘No! I will not.’ But however much she dug in her heels on the wooden planking, she was pulled inexorably forwards. Despair made her beg. ‘Let me go! Please…’ she begged.

D’Acre’s rough hands were hard and impatient.

‘Now why would I do that? You might bring the authorities down on our heads. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’

‘No. No…’ To her horror Marie-Claude felt the dampness of tears on her cheeks.

Then Zan was at her side, one hand curled around her forearm, gently enough.

‘Let her go, D’Acre.’ His voice was soft, but deadly serious.

D’Acre cocked his head. ‘I don’t think I will.’

‘Let her go, I said.’

‘As I recall,
I
am Captain of this League of Gentlemen. ’ D’Acre’s warning was dangerously clear.

Zan did not hesitate. ‘She’s not yours, D’Acre. She’s mine. And I don’t give my permission for you or your men to touch her. She’s out of bounds, d’you hear me?’ Marie-Claude felt his hand tighten, and she froze, waiting. ‘She’s mine. If she spends time with anyone in a quiet room, it’s with me. Now let her go!’

Zan waited for whatever outburst his challenge precipitated, his body superbly balanced for D’Acre’s reply. He’d found himself faced with little choice. No choice at all, in fact. Completely innocent in all this, completely unaware, Marie-Claude had dug a possible grave for him. His gut had roiled as he watched D’Acre touch her with such intimacy, and his hands had clenched into fists. Fury beat in his brain. He couldn’t allow D’Acre to use her as some bar-room slut. But unless he could step cleverly, the outcome could be bloody, and if it came to violence, he was outnumbered. They might both end up paying the highest price. He set his mind to dictate the pattern of this nasty little situation, using all the authority of his birth and local standing as an Ellerdine and a Lydyard. D’Acre would not be open to persuasion, of that he was certain. So he must force the issue. Never had it been as necessary for him to fall back on the weight of his name as it was now, if he were to salvage anything from the possible wreck of his plans and the degradation of Marie-Claude.

‘Are you standing in my way, boy?’ D’Acre asked, smooth as old French brandy.

‘Yes, I am. The woman’s mine.’

‘I could fight you for her.’

‘And would you fight fair, D’Acre? If you did it would be the first time in your life.’ Zan knew that in the resulting mêlée he would die with a knife between his ribs. He deliberately sneered at his rival. ‘Since when were you short of a cosy armful, Captain, to have an interest in another man’s woman? Have you lost your touch?’

Still D’Acre kept his grip around Marie-Claude’s wrist. Zan was conscious of nothing but her stillness under his hand, her tense watchfulness, poised to run if chance allowed.

She wouldn’t get ten feet unless he took a hand.

‘The Ellerdine and Lydyard names stand for authority in Old Wincomlee,’ he stated, leaning towards D’Acre, an overt threat. ‘If you don’t accept that, then go back to Rottingdean and take your henchmen with you. If I say I want the woman, then she’s mine. My word’s law hereabouts.’ Would the Captain back down? Marie-Claude shuddered against him. ‘And if you want my co-operation in your plans, then you’ve the sense to see where your best interests lie…’

He left the threat open. Felt the sear of Marie-Claude’s disgusted glance.

D’Acre’s eyes slid away, the first sign of retreat. ‘She’s yours, you say,’ he observed mildly enough. ‘She doesn’t look overjoyed to see you.’

‘We’ve had our differences in the past. Nothing that can’t be put right with a short…conversation, shall we say.’

‘Want me to teach her a lesson first, in respect?’

‘I can teach my own lessons,’ Zan growled, eyes
fierce and predatory on the smuggler Captain. ‘Do you deny me that right?’

The outcome still tottered on a knife edge. No better than two fighting cocks, circling, threatening, intimidating. Who would be the first to bow to the vicious spurs of the other? Zan was conscious of the smugglers at his back, intent on the outcome of this show of force.

‘No, I’ll not deny you.’ The Captain suddenly guffawed. ‘Let’s see you in action, boy.’

‘My pleasure,’ Zan snarled. ‘She was less than amenable when we last met. She deserves a lesson in obedience…’

And Marie-Claude found herself summarily released by D’Acre, thrust into Zan’s arms that banded around her to plaster her against him. Despite her shocked cry of disgust, he lowered his head to take her mouth in a kiss, hard and fierce. She instantly stiffened against him, refusing to comply, but his arms were like steel, his mouth ruthlessly possessive. As if she were truly his woman who must be taught a lesson. It was as if a black cloak enveloped her. She could do nothing but ignore the humiliation even as her senses recognised the taste and scent of the man who held her and kissed her so furiously. As at a distance, Marie-Claude heard the appreciative drunken cheer. And D’Acre’s voice.

‘When you’ve finished, we can reap the benefits. Break her spirit. A filly always responds better when she knows who’s master.’ D’Acre threw himself back into his chair, obviously intent on watching her being brought to her knees.

Zan raised his head. ‘Oh, I will, never fear.’ With her still firmly held against him, he stepped a little apart.
‘Give me some space here. I may need to take a riding crop to her sides if she remains recalcitrant.’

‘You wouldn’t
dare
!’ Marie-Claude could not find the words to express what she felt for him.

‘Would I not?’ Zan grinned. And kissed her again with savage thoroughness. She could feel every taut muscle in his body moulded to hers. Was aware of his arousal even in these dire circumstances. When she struggled to gain some freedom of movement, he simply set those muscles to resist. She could not escape him. Would he drag her off into the inn as D’Acre had threatened? She feared that he would.

Suddenly, without releasing her or relaxing his hold, Zan pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet, snatched the pretty straw and cast it away before burying his face in her hair, turning as if he would savage her throat below the ear as his hand tightened in her curls.

Zan cursed silently and fluently in his mind. Hell and damnation! This was the moment, he decided, the one moment. Now or never. He prayed she would keep her wits about her and obey even when her instinct was to fight him.

Well, he supposed on the ghost of a laugh, this was her one chance to do him some damage.

‘Run!’ he whispered, his mouth against her skin. Felt her tense against him. ‘Kick hard—and run.’ He applied his teeth gently to her throat. ‘Understand? Run!’ A sigh of a breath that he prayed would be inaudible to any but her. He felt with relief the stiffening response in her, then the slightest nod of her head.

‘You’re not very compliant, mistress,’ he said aloud, splaying a hand over her hip to pull her hard against him. ‘Perhaps my lesson needs to be—more graphic!’ He bent his head as if to take her mouth again, and said, ‘Now!’

And Marie-Claude reacted instinctively. She did not altogether know why he would do this, or if she would be successful, but she did as she was ordered, seeing a glimmer of hope. It was not easy because there was no space between them, but she did what she could as she felt the slightest lessening of Zan’s hold on her. Raising her foot, she brought the heel of her shoe down on to Zan’s instep as hard as she could. And then again, at the same time beating her fist against his chest.

He flinched magnificently, pulled away with an oath. When he stretched out as if to grasp her hair, she swung round, grabbed his wrist and sank her teeth into the soft flesh of the side of his hand.

‘Curse you!’ He lifted his hand as if to strike her.

Without compunction Marie-Claude raised her knee with all the force of her body to connect with his groin, grateful for the first time in her life for her experiences in the seamy stews she’d inhabited under Jean-Jacques Noir’s control, where she’d learned a thing or two about self-preservation from the whores who offered themselves outside the inns and along the quayside.

Zan doubled up in a roar of agony. Genuine or part of the charade she had no idea, but that didn’t matter. In that moment she was free and running.

‘Vixen! You’ll pay for that!’ Zan lunged to recapture her, his co-ordination impeded. ‘The sly cat! She’s too quick for me. And too much ale, by God!’

Marie-Claude did not stop, did not look back, but simply ran. Behind her shouts and cat-calls echoed, cruel mockery at Zan’s failure. Crude laughter. Zan’s voice, ragged at the edges.

‘Farewell, mistress. I’ll make sure I see you later. You owe me a bitten hand and a ruined boot!’ His voice rose
to a raw shout. ‘Not to mention a strike against my manhood. I’ll make you wish you’d never learnt that trick!’

She fled, not stopping until she was well on the way to the Pride, where lack of breath caused her to slow. Even then she did not allow herself to stop. Only on the cliff top with the Pride well in her sights and no sign of pursuit, she let herself to sink to the short grass and catch her breath, where her thoughts raced in an impossible turmoil of uncertainties and tumbled sensations.

What should she make of the events of the past hour?

Captain D’Acre had some reason for being in Old Wincomlee, and Zan was involved in it. How could he allow himself to be inveigled into joining such a vicious gang as the Fly-By-Nights? But then she knew he was without principle. If the price was right, he would make a pact with the devil himself. It merely consolidated all she had discovered about him to his detriment.

She shuddered in the warm sun as she recalled the overt threats, the slide of D’Acre’s obnoxious hands over her. Sudden nausea churned in her belly when she realised what the outcome could have been. And Zan had sat and watched without raising a voice in her defence.

But then he had saved her from their assault. His methods might be rough and entirely too intimate, but he had secured her release in the only way possible, using his possession of her as a screen to get her out of there. Even she could see that. And at what cost to him? He’d been reluctant to take any initiative. Would there be a price to pay for his losing the object of their torments? As if a cat had allowed a mouse to escape.

What would be the price for Zan at D’Acre’s hands?

Nothing more than coarse mockery, she decided. She had no sympathy for him at all.

But her heart still beat fast. From the fright and the run up the cliff path, of course. She’d had no pleasure in his kisses, had she? Marie-Claude surveyed her feelings with brutal honesty. Fear, abject terror had robbed her of clear decisions, but even when she resisted him, still she felt the attraction that refused to die. The thrust of his body against hers and the demands of his mouth had relit the flame so that desire had mingled with the dread.

There had been a tension in him, almost a fear that had required a deep inner control. She had felt it in every muscle of his body, the strain of every tendon when his arms had held her. What did that mean? She had no idea, but what she did know was that Zan was now one of D’Acre’s gang, a despicable brotherhood of rogues capable, if George Gadie’s tales were true, of severing a hand from one of their number.

Alexander Ellerdine was not worthy of one moment of her time. Not of one thought. Not of one regret. He was everything as bad as she had thought. Yet she fought against a shocking welling of tears.