Wicked Promise (16 page)

Pulling the counterpane tighter around her shoulders, she pressed herself deeper into the shadows, hoping no one would see her. She could hear the sound of voices coming from the taproom and an occasional burst of laughter. Outside the inn, a slight rain had begun to fall and a chill crept into the misty air. Her muscles ached and she was glad they had stopped for the night, but more than that she was grateful for the extra time she would be able to spend with the earl.

It was foolish, she knew. But the moment he had stepped into the clearing, her heart had swelled with joy, and reason seemed to fly out the window. He had come for her, as she had known he would, and the knowledge spun the last silken threads of the web that ensnared her.

It was useless to deny it—she was in love with Nicholas Warring. Desperately, futilely, completely in love with him and there was nothing she could do to change things.

She imagined his dark, handsome features, thought of her hopeless situation, and a memory of her mother, dead these past six years, arose in the eye of her mind. With the same dark auburn hair and slender figure, Elizabeth looked a good deal like her, but there the similarity ended. While Elizabeth loved life and tried to make the most of every day, Isabel had never been happy.

Her marriage to Henry Woolcot had been arranged. She had been forced to marry a man twenty years her senior. Isabel resented the marriage. From the age of sixteen, she'd been in love with another man.

"There is no one else for me," she told Elizabeth once. "I have always loved him. I always will."

Elizabeth remembered that day clearly, a warm summer afternoon on the banks of the small meandering stream behind their big stone house.

"Listen to your heart," her mother had said, staring down at the water with tear-filled eyes. "When you marry, do it for love. Life is not worth living if you cannot share it with the man you love."

It must have been true, at least for Isabel. She killed herself on a cool fall morning, the day she discovered her lover, Captain Eric Blackstone of the Fifth Dragoons, had died in the fighting on the Continent.

Isabel was dead, and Elizabeth alone had mourned her. Her father, feeling angry and betrayed, had died not long after, a lonely, bitter man.

Elizabeth sighed, thinking of the past, thinking that as much as she'd fought against it, she would be following in her mother's painful footsteps. She would have to marry and soon, and the man she would wed would not be Nicholas Warring.

Nick placed a small stack of coins on the counter in front of the innkeeper, a white-whiskered man with a leather apron tied around his waist.

"We'll have ye quarters ready in a thrice, milord." The man scooped up the coins and scurried away to see the task done.

Turning back toward the entry, Nick strode toward the place where Elizabeth's slender figure pressed into the shadows along the wall and a shot of guilt assailed him. She looked like a waif standing there in the darkness. Thanks to that whoreson, Bascomb, she had been dragged from her bed in the middle of the night and forced to endure two days of torture at the hands of Bascomb's men. Damn but he hated the bastard.

Nick ground his jaw. If he had his way, Bascomb would face the same fate as his no-account brother, and Elizabeth would be safe. Perhaps this time the authorities would intercede, he thought, and the earl's pursuit would end. Nick doubted it. As Sydney had said, Oliver Hampton was a force to be reckoned with. Odds were, the local justice would have little power against him.

He glanced to where Elizabeth stood and forced himself to smile. He tried not to think how lovely she looked even with her tousled hair, her cheeks smudged with dirt.

"The innkeeper has given us the last two rooms. Apparently they are above the kitchen. Nothing fancy, I gather, but at least we shall be warm." He caught her answering smile and something squeezed inside his chest.

"I'm sure the rooms will be fine."

The kitchen was in a separate brick building in back of the inn. Still dressed in her wrinkled, dirt-stained nightgown, the counterpane haphazardly wrapped around her shoulders and trailing in the dirt, Elizabeth preceded him up the stairs and he opened the door.

The rooms were adequate, but little more, just two chairs and a rough-hewn table set before a small fire burning in the hearth. A bedside table with a half-melted candle in a scratched pewter holder sat beside a bed fashioned of rope, covered by a lumpy corn-husk mattress, but over it had been placed a deep feather mattress. Clean muslin sheets encased it, topped by a colorful quilt. Apparently, the extra coin he had paid had been worth it.

"I believe the innkeeper has done his best to make us comfortable," he said. "On the morrow. I shall find you something more suitable to wear." The counterpane slipped just then, and his gaze followed the path of the pink mauve silk down over Elizabeth's breasts. Outlined by the thin white cotton fabric, two perfectly sculpted mounds pointed upward, the soft peaks forming shadowy circles beneath the cloth.

His throat went dry and he dragged his gaze away, but the size and shape remained etched in his mind.

"I am sick unto death of traipsing around the countryside in my nightgown," she said. "I should be grateful for anything you might be able to find."

Nick nodded. The unwelcome thought occurred that he would like nothing better than to see her out of her blasted night clothes, to have her naked and lying in his bed.

He pushed the thought away. A soft knock sounded and he was grateful for the diversion. "I ordered water for a bath," he said over his shoulder. "Apparently it has arrived." He strode to the door and pulled it open, and four young boys— stable lads and kitchen help—walked in with two steaming tubs filled with water. They trooped through the first room, depositing one tub there, and carried another tub into the second. The bedchambers were tandem, one in back of the other, making the most of the attic space above the kitchen.

Nick glanced uncomfortably toward the door adjoining the two rooms. "I'm sorry there isn't more privacy, but these were the only bedchambers left."

Elizabeth seemed unconcerned. "The rooms are fine, my lord."

The boys headed for the door leading downstairs, and Nick tossed them a coin as they passed. A kitchen maid appeared with a tray of food: cold boiled beef and potatoes, a slice of Wilton cheese, coarse rye bread, and two flagons of wine, which she divided into portions and set on a table in each room.

She gave him a lusty smile as she walked out the door, her hips swaying seductively, but it garnered not the least bit of interest. Instead his eyes strayed again to the door between the bedchambers. "There is a lock, so you needn't be afraid."

Elizabeth turned, smiled at him softly. "I am not afraid of you, my lord. I told you that before."

Nick glanced from the door to the bed, then back to where she stood just a few feet away. His eyes skimmed from her tousled auburn hair to the toes of her bare feet peeping out from beneath the counterpane. He wanted to toss the damn thing away, to tear off her nightgown and stroke those beautiful breasts. He wanted to kiss the arches of her slender bare feet.

"Perhaps you are right," he said gruffly, hating himself for his lustful thoughts. "In truth it is I who am afraid." A last fierce glance and he turned away, his long strides carrying him back through the opening that led to the bedchamber he would occupy for the night.

It would be a long one, he knew. With Elizabeth so very close yet miles out of his reach, odds were he wouldn't get a minute of sleep.

Elizabeth watched Nicholas walk away, tall and lean, and incredibly handsome even in his dusty riding clothes. He disappeared behind the door and her heart felt suddenly leaden, crushed by the weight of her need of him. In a few short hours she had grown used to the feel of his arms around her, the comforting sound of his heartbeat, his solid strength when he held her. She was in love with him, irrationally perhaps, futilely for certain.

She knew her own feelings well, but she wondered—what did Nicholas feel for her?

Ignoring the food on the tray and the rumble in her stomach, Elizabeth turned toward the steaming tub of water. The counterpane fell to the floor, followed by her dirty white nightgown. A clean one sat next to a brush and comb on the bed, she saw, and was grateful for his care of her.

Care. That was something Nicholas felt for her. In some way he cared for her, at least a little.

She thought of his burning gaze in that instant before he left the room, fierce in its intensity, a scorching glance that seared from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

Desire was something he felt—he had made that perfectly clear. But the yearning in his eyes when he looked at her said there was a great deal more.

Elizabeth sighed as she sank into the water, allowing the warmth to rush over her, hoping some of her troubles would drift away. Instead she thought of Nicholas, of his lean, hard body and dark, long-fingered hands. She remembered the kiss they had shared, and a soft ache rose inside her. Nicholas wanted her. He did not deny it, yet she knew he would not take her. As Sydney Birdsall had said, Nicholas Warring was a man of honor. He had vowed to protect her and he would do so no matter the cost.

But what of the cost to her?

Elizabeth leaned back in the small leather bathing tub, letting the warmth of the water soothe the aches in her muscles and joints. In a few weeks' time, she would be leaving Ravenworth Hall for good, traveling to London in search of a husband. She would marry a man she barely knew while her heart yearned for another. It was the same fate her mother had suffered.

At least her mother had known love, she thought with a hint of bitterness. Elizabeth had only that one brief kiss, that one brief flare of passion to savor. She would never know what it felt like to lie with a man she desired, to touch him and let him touch her.

Not unless she did something about it.

The notion stayed with her as she washed her hair with a bar of strong lye soap, rinsed it as best she could, then climbed out and dried herself on a thin muslin towel.

Dressing in the clean white night rail on the bed, she sat in a chair before the fire to dry her hair and eat the supper that waited on the table. She poured herself a mug of wine and took a drink, but her mind strained toward the sounds on the opposite side of the wall. She could hear Nicholas moving about, splashing water from the tub as he climbed out and began to dry off. The thought of him naked, all smooth dark skin and hard, unyielding muscle, made her nipples peak beneath her gown.

She closed her eyes and remembered the feel of his mouth over hers, the sweep of his tongue and the pressure of his thigh where it had brushed against her leg. Long minutes passed. A quarter of an hour, then a half. It was quiet in the other room. Nicholas had gone to bed. She wondered if he was already sleeping. Or if perhaps he was thinking of her, as she was thinking of him.

She wondered what he might do if she were to go to him, offer herself to him, ask him to make love to her.

Her heart speeded up at the thought. The desire to go to him was overwhelming, so strong she rose to her feet without thinking. For a moment she stood there undecided, knowing the decision she was about to make would change the course of her life. But the urge was too great, the call too strong, and her bare feet started moving, padding silently toward the door.

Her fingers found the latch, but she didn't lift it. Her heart was thudding, pounding a tattoo much louder than the rain that had started to beat against the window. What would she do if he turned her away?

The thought made her mouth go cotton-dry and her hands start to tremble. How would she deal with his rejection? It would hurt, she knew. But missing this chance at love—perhaps the only one she would ever have—seemed far worse.

Her trembling hand found the latch. It made only a soft muted click as she lifted it and quietly pushed open the door. A single candle burned on the bedside table, dripping wax onto the scarred wooden top. Nicholas was awake, she saw, sitting up in bed, his chest bare, his shoulders propped against the rough-hewn headboard. He had tossed back the quilt, and the sheet rode low on his waist, covering his nakedness. For a moment she just stood there, admiring the incredibly mas-culine picture he made, her heart beating like a bird trapped in a cage, her breath caught in her throat.

Then those silvery eyes met hers, a muscle flexed in his jaw, and it was all she could do not to run.

N
ick stared at the woman in the open doorway. Long dark auburn hair streamed down to her waist, still damp from the bath she had taken. Backlit by the fire, it glowed with the same fiery hues as the coals in the grate. Through the thin white gown, her figure stood out in shadowy relief: slender, boyish hips, long, coltish legs, an im-possibly narrow waist, and high, upthrusting breasts.