The Courtship Dance (24 page)

With his arms tightly around her, carrying her as one would a child, he was able to keep the cloak tightly in place, thus hindering her movements. The cloak also hid the bindings around her ankles and wrists, and the hood, pulled far forward, effectively concealed her gagged face. She would look, she supposed, just like someone asleep or ill.

Still, she did her best to move, hoping that she might throw him off balance or arouse attention, and she screamed against the gag. But the sound was almost entirely muffled, and she doubted that anyone would notice the little wriggling movements she was able to make—if, of course, there was even anyone about to see.

They must be at an inn, given his words, but it was probably still too early in the morning for the other guests to be around. Though it was no longer the black of night, it was only pale dawn. Only the servants would be up, and they would be working in the kitchens, not waiting in the halls watching guests go up to their rooms.

She had no chance, she knew, but she struggled anyway.

It must have had some effect, for she could hear Perkins’ ragged breath as he climbed the stairs, and once he grunted and nearly dropped her. He set her down to open the door, keeping one arm tightly around her. Then he jerked her inside and closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock.

Letting loose a string of curses, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, then turned away and went to the small chest of drawers across the room, where a decanter of liquor and glasses stood on a tray. He poured himself a drink, quickly downed it, and poured another.

Francesca managed to wriggle to the edge of the bed. If he got drunk enough, perhaps she would be able to escape him. She knew the likely futility of trying to get away, even from a drunk, with her ankles tied. Still, she had to try. Otherwise, her only choice was to give in to defeat and despair.

He watched her as he drank the second glass. She lay still, not looking directly at him, but watching him from the corner of her eye. When he turned away to pour himself a third drink, she brought up her hands and hooked her fingers beneath the gag, tugging it down. It was tight and hard to move, but she felt it give, and she pulled harder.

Perkins let out an oath, and the glass crashed back down on the tray. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and clamped his hand down across her mouth just as Francesca drew a breath to scream. He jerked the
gag back in place. She swung her legs off the bed, but he grabbed her and threw her back onto it, pushing her so far up on the mattress that the back of her head cracked against the wooden headboard.

The blow stunned her for a moment, sending pain lancing through her head. Perkins took the end of the sash dangling from her wrists and wound it around one of the bedposts, tying it firmly, then stepped back, panting, and surveyed her.

“There! You won’t be getting away now, will you? Trussed like a pig for slaughter, aren’t you?” He grinned, the imagery obviously pleasing to him. “I’ll have you squealing like one soon enough, as well.” He chuckled and returned to the decanter, pouring himself another drink.

He lifted the glass to her in a mocking toast and drank it. “How’d the duke like seeing you now, I wonder. How you think he’ll like getting my leavings?” He grinned. “Won’t be so full of himself then, will he?”

Pouring another drink, he sat down in the chair. His movements were growing increasingly clumsy as he drank, so that he plopped down more than sat, the whiskey splashing over the side of the glass. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Arrogant bastard—telling me to get out of the country. Like I’d bow down to him like everybody else.” He let out a noise of disgust. “Doesn’t know Galen Perkins, though, I’ll tell you that. No man’s my master, least of all him.”

After finishing his drink, he set the glass on the chest
and stood up. He made his way over to the bed, staggering a little as he walked. When he reached her, he leaned against the bedpost, gazing down at her, his eyes glittering with malice. Then he hooked his hand in the neckline of her nightgown and jerked downward, ripping it down to her waist.

Francesca shrieked behind the gag and lashed out at him with her feet, managing to slam her shins into him. The blow unbalanced him, and he staggered to the side and went crashing into the washstand.

The malice in his eyes changed in a flash to pure hatred, and he managed to right himself and charged toward her, his hand raised to strike her.

At that moment something slammed against the door. Perkins whirled, startled, to face the door as another blow hit it and it crashed open, sending Rochford bursting into the room.

R
OCHFORD CROSSED THE
room in two long strides and plowed his fist into the other man’s jaw. Perkins reeled back and crashed into the wall beside the bed. As he struggled dazedly to right himself, the duke grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. He wheeled and, grasping the back of Perkins’ jacket, propelled him with all his force forward, so that Perkins slammed into the wall beside the door. Perkins bounced off that wall and staggered back, falling in a heap on the floor.

Rochford turned to Francesca. “My God. Are you all right?”

Gently he pulled the sides of her nightgown together, covering her nakedness, then reached up to unfasten the gag that was wrapped around her mouth.

“Sinclair! Oh, Sinclair!” She fought back the tears of relief that threatened to flood her eyes. “Thank God you came! But…how did you get here?”

He bent to kiss her forehead, then turned to unfasten the knot that bound her to the post of the bed. Behind them, Perkins thrashed about on the floor and pulled himself up on all fours, then to his feet. Weaving drunk
enly, he reached behind him, beneath his jacket, and pulled out a knife.

“No! Sinclair! Watch out!” Francesca cried.

Rochford whirled and saw the man lurching toward him, knife in hand. Dodging to the side, he grasped Perkins’ arm in both hands and slammed it against the footpost of the bed. There was an audible crack, and Perkins shrieked as the knife tumbled harmlessly out of his hand. Bunching his fist into the front of Perkins’ shirt to hold him in place, Rochford jabbed the other man twice in the face.

Only his hold kept the other man upright. Rochford spun him around, and, seizing his unbroken arm and twisting it behind his back, once again propelled Perkins into the wall beside the door.

Perkins let out a moan of pain, protesting, “No! No! Leave off! You’ve broken my arm!”

“You’ll be lucky if that’s the only thing I break,” Rochford retorted coldly. “For daring to touch Lady Haughston, I am tempted to smash every bone in your body.” For emphasis, he pulled back and shoved Perkins into the wall again. “You’re a worthless piece of scum, and I wish to God I had dispatched you the other night.”

“I didn’t do anything! Ask her!
Ask her!
I haven’t taken her. I swear it.”

“Sinclair! Don’t kill him,” Francesca put in quickly. “It’s true. He hadn’t quite gotten to it yet.”

Rochford’s jaw clenched. After a long moment, he
growled, “Be glad for that, then, for if you had hurt her, I would make sure you died a very slow death. As it is, you are going to gaol, and I plan to devote myself to making sure that you stand trial for shooting Avery Bagshaw.”

Perkins began to babble in protest, but Rochford ignored him, shoving him out into the hallway, where a small crowd had gathered and were watching the scene with avid interest.

“Here, innkeeper, take this man and tie him up.” Rochford thrust Perkins into the hands of the large man who stood at the front of the crowd.

When the innkeeper began to protest, Rochford fixed him with the stare for which he was justifiably famous and told him, “Unless you plan to spend the night in gaol for aiding and abetting this criminal, I suggest that you tie him up and send for the magistrate.”

His statement was followed by a goggling silence, and Rochford stepped back inside, closing the door after him. As the latch no longer worked, he shoved the chair in front of it to keep out any prying eyes and hurried back to the bed.

He snatched up Perkins’ knife from where it had fallen on the mattress and cut Francesca free from the bedpost. Then he sliced the sash just below the knot at her wrists and turned to sawing through the rope that bound her ankles while she unwound the sash from her hands.

Her hands and feet began to tingle madly as the
blood rushed back into them, and she had to press her lips together at the sudden pain. Tossing the knife onto the table beside the bed, Rochford chafed her feet in an effort to return warmth to them. After a moment, he released her feet and reached up to gently brush her hair from her face.

“Are you all right? Truly? Did he hurt you in any way?”

For answer, Francesca only threw her arms around him and clung tightly. His arms went around her with equal fervor, and for a long moment they simply clung together, as if that would somehow drive the previous night from their minds.

“I was so scared,” Francesca whispered. “He didn’t hurt me—well, apart from some bumps and bruises. But I was so afraid. I was certain no one would come after me quickly enough.”

“Thank heavens your butler and maid came running to me the instant they saw him carry you out of the house. And I went straight to his lodgings, hoping he had taken you there. His valet was there, packing up his things, and it did not take me much time to find out where Perkins was headed.”

He pressed his lips to her temple and murmured, “I died a thousand deaths tonight, thinking I would not reach you in time. Afraid the valet had been more foolish than I thought and had led me astray. When I think of him hurting you—”

“I’m all right,” she assured him, turning to kiss him lightly.

Then she kissed him again, her lips lingering on his this time. When she pulled away, he took her head between his hands and leaned in, his mouth seizing hers in a long, fierce kiss. All the roiling fear and rage that had eaten at him as he chased Perkins and Francesca now burst out of him in white-hot desire.

A long shudder shook Francesca, and she threw her arms around his neck. They kissed frantically, desperately, as if at any moment they might be pulled apart. They rolled across the bed, hands and mouths touching, tasting, exploring, in a maelstrom of passion.

They pulled and tugged at their clothing as they kissed, pausing only for him to wrench off his boots and throw them on the floor. Her nightgown, torn as it was, was easy to slide out of. His clothes were less so, and there was the sound of buttons popping, and even a tear as he yanked off his shirt and skinned out of his breeches.

But then, at last, they were naked and open to each other. He drove into her hard and fast, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging, almost sobbing in her need. There was no world outside of them, no thought or emotion but the desire pounding through them, so close together that they could not tell where one ended and the other began. And so they rode the storm of their passion until at last they crashed through into an explosion of pleasure that left them drained and floating blissfully.

Finally, he rolled from her and wrapped his arm
around her, reaching out with the other to pull the counterpane over them. Francesca snuggled into him, too spent and exhausted to speak, and in the delicious warmth of his arms, she drifted off to sleep.

T
HE NOISES OF THE INN
woke her. She had slept dreamlessly, never moving from the position in which she had fallen asleep. Sinclair was still draped around her, though the cover had long since slid from their bodies. She smiled a little to think what a picture they would have presented had someone entered the room.

She must have moved, for he came awake instantly beside her. She felt the sudden tension in his arms, and he raised his head, then settled back down, relaxing.

“How do you feel?” he asked, kissing the point of her shoulder.

“Wonderful—and a trifle sore.”

She felt his fingers trail down her spine, pausing at a tender spot low on her back and another on her side.

“I should have killed the filthy bastard,” he growled. “Did he hit you?”

“Once, when he first captured me.” She reached up to her hairline to touch a tender spot.

He gently kissed the place her fingers had found. “Perhaps I will advise the magistrate to release him after all, and then I’ll make sure he’s never seen again.”

Francesca smiled. “Thank you for the thought, but I would not have you do that. It would cause you guilt in the end.”

“I think not.”

“Well, I do not wish it.” She linked her fingers through his. “The rest of the bruises came from our struggling in the carriage—oh, and when I landed in the grocer’s stand.”

“The what?”

She giggled, finding humor in the incident in retrospect. “The grocer’s stand. We drove through the market area when he first took me. There were vendors all about, beginning to set up their wares. We had slowed down, so I jumped from the carriage—that was before he had bound my legs, you see—and I landed among the fruits and vegetables. It made for a softer landing, I suppose, but it doubtless gave me bruises.”

“So you led the blackguard on a chase.” He let out a bark of laughter. “I should have known that you would make it hard on him.”

“I fear I was reaching the end, though,” she told him, then lifted his hand and kissed his palm. “Thank you for coming after me.”

“Always.” He kissed her neck where it joined her shoulder.

“You must get very tired of rescuing me,” she went on softly.

“I would never tire of rescuing you,” he assured her, going up on his elbow and turning her onto her back, so that he looked down into her face. “I hope that I am always there when you need me. But you know, it was you who rescued yourself. Had you not fought as you
did—screamed and struggled and jumped into the fruits and vegetables—I could not possibly have reached you in time.
You
delayed him—your courage…your strength.”

Emotion swelled Francesca’s throat, and she smiled up at him. He bent to kiss her, then pulled back with a sigh.

“If I stay here much longer, I won’t be able to leave at all.”

“Leave?” Francesca watched as he rolled away and got out of bed. She sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover her chest, feeling suddenly modest now that he had left the bed. “Why? Where are you going?”

He pulled on his breeches and continued to dress as he explained. “To visit the magistrate about Perkins. To order you food and a bath brought up, if you’d like.”

“Oh, yes!” A bath sounded heavenly, but the empty rumbling in her stomach was almost as compelling.

Rochford flashed her a quick smile and leaned over the bed, resting his fists on the mattress, to kiss her lightly on the nose. “And I thought I might find you some clothing to wear. Much as I would enjoy the trip home with you wearing only that nightrail, I imagine you would rather have a dress.”

“I would indeed,” she agreed. However, she could not help but feel a trifle bereft as he pulled the chair from the door and left.

It was all very well for him to tell her how brave and resourceful she had been last night in fighting off Perkins, but she knew how scared she had been the
whole time—and that some of the anxiety still lingered in her now, even though she knew that Perkins was safely locked up.

Two maids brought up a long metal tub. It was a far cry from Francesca’s own porcelain slipper tub at home, but the maids filled it with warm water, and it was such a wonderful feeling to sink down into the heat that she did not mind that it was a trifle cramped and anything but elegant.

Somehow the maids’ chatter relaxed her and helped ease the anxiety inside her. Even their rampant curiosity and sidelong gazes were so normal that Francesca felt more herself again.

After they left, she lay back and relaxed, her lids drooping in exhaustion, but her eyes flew open when the door was shoved back. Then she saw that it was Rochford who stood framed in the doorway, and she relaxed. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his eyes drifting slowly down her body. A smile hovered at the edges of his lips.

“You look very inviting, I must say,” he told her, tossing the bundle in his hand onto the bed.

“Perhaps you would care to join me,” she suggested boldly, leaning back in the tub and making no move to cover herself.

The twitch became a grin. “I think there might not be enough room in there for both of us.” He sat down on the chair and pulled off his boots. “However, I would be happy to offer my services in drying you off.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and went to work on the buttons of his shirt as he walked toward her, then leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of the tub, and kissed her.

His lips moved slowly, deliciously, savoring the kiss, and by the time he pulled back, Francesca felt as warm and liquid as the water around her. She smiled up at him, the somnolent heat in her eyes beckoning him. He reached down and grasped her arms, pulling her up, and wrapped his arms around her.

She giggled. “You’re getting all wet.”

“I don’t care,” he assured her as his mouth sank into hers.

They made love unhurriedly this time, moving without haste in a counterpoint to their lovemaking of the night before. Caressing, kissing, making their way with almost agonizing slowness, they heightened their pleasure almost to the breaking point. Time and again they retreated from the intense peaks, until their bodies were slick with sweat and their breathing ragged, their flesh searing with desire. Then, at last, they came together, soaring on a wave of passion so strong that their bodies shook from it.

Afterwards, they lay curled together, lazily drifting in a state of golden, loose-limbed warmth. Sinclair brushed his hand down her arm and nuzzled into her hair.

“Francesca…”

“Mmm?”

“Whatever I missaid yesterday, I am sorry.”

Francesca stiffened, suddenly wary. “Sinclair, no—”

“Please, let me finish. I want to marry you. However you say, whenever it pleases you. I want you to be my wife.”

“Pray do not spoil this.” She rolled away from him, but he reached out and wrapped his hand around her arm, holding her in place.

“No, I will not let you do this. You are not running away from me again.”

“I am not running.” She turned back. She felt suddenly naked and exposed before him, and she pulled the sheet up over her chest and sat up to face him.

“What else would you call it?” He sat up, too, releasing her arm. “I am not a fool, Francesca, no matter how much I may have acted one yesterday. That was my pride speaking, my hurt over what happened fifteen years ago. But once I let myself look at it cleanly and clearly, I knew…” He doubled his fist and tapped it against his chest. “I
know
that you love me. Do not tell me that you do not.”