Worth Any Price (3 page)

“Sit,” the stranger told Lottie, his huge hands closing around her shoulders and pushing her down. She obeyed carefully, lowering herself to the wall with her legs dangling. The man swung to the ground, landing lightly from the six-foot drop. He held up his arms for her. Lottie hesitated as a cold fist seemed to squeeze around her heart. Every instinct warned her not to jump into his arms. He looked like a predator waiting to snatch her.

“Come,” he murmured. The moon struck glints of jolting blue in his eyes.

Reluctantly Lottie leaned forward with her arms outstretched. As she repelled from the stone surface, her hands settled on his shoulders, and he took hold of her waist. He tempered her descent with an ease that betrayed immense physical strength. His hands
lingered at her waist, assuring her balance before he released her.

Standing with him on the ground, Lottie was struck by his size. The stranger was unusually tall, with broad shoulders, and big feet and hands. Although he was well dressed, wearing the new cut of coat with long lapels, and loose-tailored trousers, his dark hair had been cut unfashionably short, and his face was clean shaven. That was unusual among the elegant crowd at Stony Cross Park. Stylish gentlemen let their hair grow over their collars, and sported side-whiskers and moustaches. This man didn’t even have a wisp of a goatee to soften the obdurate line of his jaw.

He indicated the wall with a jerk of his head. “Why were you standing up there?”

For a moment Lottie couldn’t speak as she stared up into his handsome face. Nature had been spendthrift with this man, bestowing him with bold, princely features and eyes as blue and intense as the heart of midnight. The cynicism in those eyes was a fascinating contrast to the touch of humor that lurked at the corners of his wide mouth. He looked to be about thirty—the time in a man’s life when he surrendered the last vestiges of callowness and came fully into his maturity. No doubt women of all ages were instantly enthralled by him.

Gathering her wits, she managed to answer him. “I enjoy the view.”

“You could obtain the same view from the safety of a window.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “The view is far more rewarding when there is some risk involved.”

He grinned suddenly, as if he understood exactly what she meant. His roguish smile was dazzling, nearly causing her heart to stop. Lottie couldn’t stop staring at him. It seemed that there was something important and unspoken in the air, as if they had once met but she had forgotten the occasion.

“Who are you, sir?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Perhaps I’m your guardian angel.”

“You don’t look very angelic to me,” she replied skeptically, making him laugh.

He bowed and introduced himself. “Lord Sydney, at your service.”

Lottie responded with a curtsy. “Miss Miller. I am employed as a companion to the dowager countess.” She gave him an openly speculative glance. “The guest list for Lord Westcliff’s house parties is quite exclusive. How did you manage to get an invitation?”

“The earl was kind enough to offer his hospitality on the recommendation of a mutual friend.”

“Have you come to hunt?” she asked. “Is that why you are here?”

“Yes,” he said with a puzzling, ironic edge to his tone. “I hunt.”

A burst of music came from the direction of the al fresco party, and they both glanced toward the back
gardens. “I came to have a look at the horses,” Sydney said. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy.”

“Do you intend to return to the party now?”

His dark brows lifted in teasing challenge. “Are you going to climb back onto that wall if I do?”

Good Lord, it was preposterous for one man to possess so much charm! Her lips quirked with an irrepressible smile. “Not tonight, my lord.”

“Allow me to accompany you back to the house, then.”

Lottie made no protest as he fell into step beside her.

It was hardly unusual to encounter his sort at Stony Cross Park. Most days, one couldn’t throw a coin without hitting some brawny male in search of sport. In the past two years Lottie had been approached by many of them. But there was something different about this one. He did not have the sense of ease, the aimlessness of the other aristocrats who frequented this place. She sensed the ruthlessness that lurked just beneath his facade. She did not feel quite safe around him. And yet at the same time, she felt oddly compelled to lure him closer, to make him smile again.

“You seem to have no fear of heights, Miss Miller,” he commented.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said confidently.

“Everyone is afraid of something.”

“Oh?” She sent him a provocative glance. “What could a man like you possibly fear?”

To her surprise, he answered seriously. “I’m not fond of enclosed places.”

The gravity in his tone made her heart thump heavily. What a voice he had, deep with a tantalizing raspiness, as if he had just awakened from a heavy sleep. The sound seemed to gather at the top of her spine and slide downward like heated honey. “Neither am I,” she admitted.

They stopped at the door of the south tower, where many of the upper servants, including herself, were housed. Light streamed from the glittering windows and pooled onto the graveled paths. Now Lottie saw that his hair was not black but brown. A rich, dark shade of brown, the short glossy strands containing every shade between maple and sable. She wanted to touch his hair and feel it slide through her fingers. The immediacy of the urge confounded her.

Stepping backward, she gave him a regretful smile. “Good-bye, my lord. And thank you for being a most agreeable escort.”

“Wait,” he said, with an urgent note in his voice. “Will I see you again, Miss Miller?”

“No, my lord. I fear my time is fully occupied by the dowager countess.”

The words did not dissuade him—she saw it in his eyes. “Miss Miller—”

“Good-bye,” she repeated warmly. “I wish you a very pleasant stay, my lord.” She left swiftly, conscious of his unnerving regard.

As soon as Lottie reached her room, she locked the door and sighed. Since she had come to Stony Cross Park, she had often been approached by male guests who had made overtures to her. Until tonight she had never been tempted by any of them, no matter how handsome or accomplished. After her experience with Lord Radnor, she wanted nothing to do with men.

Had Radnor been kind instead of calculating, gentle instead of dominating, Lottie would have been able to reconcile herself to the prospect of marrying him. However, Radnor’s intentions had been clear from the beginning. He wanted to control every aspect of her existence. He planned to destroy every facet of the person she was and replace her with a being of his own creation. Marriage to him would have literally been worse than death.

Her parents had refused to acknowledge the obvious, as they desperately needed Radnor’s financial patronage. And it had grieved Lottie to leave them, as she was well aware of the repercussions they would face. She was often haunted by guilt, knowing that she should have sacrificed herself to Radnor for their benefit. However, the instinct of self-preservation had been too strong. In the end, she couldn’t keep from bolting, and somehow providence had led her to Hampshire.

As Lottie had expected, her freedom had come with a price. She often awakened sweat-soaked and cold from nightmares of being dragged back to Radnor.
It was impossible to forget—even for a moment—that he had sent people to look for her. Any perception of safety was illusory. Although her life at Stony Cross Park was pleasant, she was trapped here as surely as the birds in the aviary, their wings clipped to make them into animals neither of the ground nor of the air. She could not go anywhere, or do anything, without knowing that she would be found someday. And that had made her doomed and defiant, and unable to trust anyone. Even a handsome young man with haunting blue eyes.

Rather than return to the al fresco party, Nick went to his own room. His trunk and traveling case had already been unpacked by the servants. His clothes were neatly stacked in the mahogany gentleman’s chest and hung in the armoire, which was redolent with the scent of cloves.

Impatiently Nick shed his coat, waistcoat, and his gray silk cravat. Stripping off his shirt, he bunched it in one hand and used it to blot the sheen of sweat on his face, neck, and chest. After dropping the wadded-up linen to the floor, he sat on the bed, which had been fitted into an alcove opposite the door. He removed his shoes and stockings, and lay back clad in only his black trousers, his gaze directed at the wood-paneled ceiling of the alcove.

He finally understood Radnor’s obsession.

Charlotte Howard was the most bewitching woman he had ever met. She radiated a remarkable
force of will that somehow conveyed the impression of movement even when she stood still. Her body, her face, every part of her was a perfect amalgam of delicacy and strength. He wanted to sink inside that vibrant warmth, ride her to peacefulness, and bury his face amid the silky curves of her breasts. He imagined her relaxed and smiling, her skin flushed from his caresses as they lay together in bed.

No wonder Radnor wanted her. And yet in his attempts to possess her, the earl would soon extinguish everything that made her so desirable.

Nick knew it would be relatively easy to whisk Charlotte away to London before the Westcliffs were fully aware of what was happening. He supposed he should do it in the morning, using the element of surprise to his advantage. Deeply troubled, he laced his fingers behind his head.
“I’m not afraid of anything,”
Charlotte had told him. Although he didn’t believe that, he admired her for saying it. Of course Charlotte was afraid—she knew what Radnor would do to her when she returned. However, that was not Nick’s concern. His only responsibility was to do what he had been paid for.

On the other hand…

There was no need for haste. Why not stay at Stony Cross Park for a few days? He would not be required to report at Bow Street for another two weeks, and the woods of Hampshire were far preferable to the soggy, ill-smelling mess of London. If he remained here for an extra day or two, he would be
able to learn more about Charlotte. He needed to find out if she was all that she seemed to be.

Rolling to his side, Nick considered the idea. He had never broken his own rules before, one of them being that he never allowed himself to develop personal familiarity with his prey. However, he had never been one to respect rules, even his own.

The thought of Charlotte made him hot and irritable and thoroughly aroused. Gemma had ended their arrangement six months ago, and he had been celibate ever since. It wasn’t that he lacked desire…in fact, he was burning with unspent passion. And he had met many willing women. But he was not interested in the ordinary or the mundane. He wanted a woman who could provide the sexual intensity he needed. Such a woman would either be inordinately experienced in the bedroom…or not experienced at all.

Reaching over the side of the bed, Nick searched in the discarded heap of his clothes and found the miniature. With an expertise born of habit, he pressed the catch of the enameled case and flipped it open. Settling on his back, he stared into Charlotte’s exquisite little face.

Is it you?
he thought, tracing the line of her cheek with his fingertip. Desire filled his cock and caused it to stiffen unmercifully. His lashes lowered slightly as he continued to watch the tiny painted face, and his hand slid down to the aching jut of his arousal.

As was her daily habit, Lottie took an early-morning walk across the landscape of Stony Cross,
over steep hills covered in heather or forest, past bogs and ponds and glades that teemed with life. Most of the guests at the manor, including Lady Westcliff, slept late and took breakfast at the hour of ten. However, Lottie had never been able to adapt to such a schedule. She needed some form of exercise to rid herself of an excess of nervous energy. On the days when it was too cold or stormy to walk, she fidgeted inside until Lady Westcliff erupted in exasperation.

Lottie had devised three or four different walks, each lasting approximately an hour. This morning she chose the one that began along Hill Road, crossed through a medieval oak and hazel forest, and passed the source of a local spring called the Wishing Well. It was a cool, damp morning typical of the beginning of May, and Lottie drew in deep breaths of the earth-scented air. Dressed in a gown with loose ankle-length skirts, her feet shod in sturdy mid-calf boots, Lottie trod energetically away from Westcliff Manor. She followed a sandy track that led into the forest, while natterjack toads hopped out of the path of her oncoming boots. The trees rustled overhead, the wind carrying the cries of nuthatches and whitethroats. A huge, ungainly buzzard flapped its way toward the nearby bogs in search of breakfast.

Suddenly Lottie caught sight of a dark shape ahead. It was a man, roaming through the forest, his outline partially obscured in the mist. A poacher, perhaps. Although Lottie stopped at some distance,
he had unusually sharp hearing. His head turned as a twig snapped beneath her boot.

Lottie held her ground as he approached. She recognized him at once, the fluid, almost catlike grace of his movements. He was casually dressed in shirt-sleeves and a black waistcoat, with boots and decidedly ancient breeches. Lord Sydney…looking disreputable and indecently handsome. She was surprised to see him there, when all the other guests at Westcliff Manor were still abed. Even more surprising was her own reaction to him, a surge of excitement and gladness.

“Good morning,” Lord Sydney said, a faint smile playing on his lips. His dark hair was disheveled, and his cravat had been carelessly tied.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be out at this hour,” she said cheerfully.

“I never sleep past sunrise.”

Lottie nodded toward the path he had been contemplating. “Were you planning to go that way? I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?”

“That path leads to marshy ponds and very deep bogs. One unfortunate step, and you could find yourself drowning in mud—that is, if you haven’t been done in by raft spiders or snakes.” She shook her head in feigned regret. “We’ve lost some very nice guests that way.”