Your Wicked Heart (2 page)

No
.
She was a criminal. Her fear, her distress, were precisely calculated to elicit his sympathies.

Tightening his hold again, he took the handkerchief. “Come quietly,” he said to her, “and I will not use this.”

“The viscount is blond!” she burst out. “Blond and brown eyed! He is even taller than this man,
uncommonly
tall—he has a large mole on his left cheek—”

A horrible suspicion struck him. An
impossible
suspicion. “Stop,” he bit out. “It’s useless.”

But the concierge had heard her. “Blond and so tall? But—” Eyes narrowed, he turned toward Spence. “We
did
have a blond guest of unusual height. With such a mole. The gentleman only left us a few hours ago—bound for the port, he was. Madam, did he speak with a stutter?”

Dread pierced Spence suddenly and completely. “Enough! One minute you claim to know nothing, and now you’ve fingered the culprit? I begin to wonder if you’re also in on this fraud!”

That—paired with the sudden, marked interest of the governor’s men—silenced the hotelier.

Which was handy, since Spence suddenly felt certain that the man had been describing his cousin, Charles.

Charles, who had been traveling through Turkey a month ago when he’d stopped replying to the family’s telegrams—and whose silence had driven Spence’s aunt, Agatha, to distraction. Desperate with worry, she had begged Spence to find her son. And because Spence owed his aunt more than he could ever repay, he had shortly thereafter found himself on a ship bound for this godforsaken corner of the world.

By God. He’d worried that his cousin had come to some harm at the hand of the impersonator. It had never occurred to him that his cousin might
be
the impostor.

Ludicrous! Charles was a dilettante by nature. He lacked the enterprise—much less the creativity—to even
conceive
of such a sham.

The girl was trying to inch around him—very carefully, lest she break her own wrist. “Please,” she begged the concierge. “You
know
—you
know
—he was here—”

Spence spoke over her. “I will handle this business.” If Charles was involved in this farce—not, God knew, as the impostor, but as the victim of this girl and her confederate—then the knowledge could not become public. The scandal would wound Aunt Agatha terribly, and Spence would never allow that.

“But he knows!” The girl was wild now, desperate. “He knows I am telling the truth! Ask him,” she pleaded of the other men. “Ask—”

Nobody but Spence was going to ask anything. He would not even trust the consul’s discretion now—not when his cousin might be implicated in this mess.

Locking his arm around the girl’s waist, ignoring the scratchy weight of embroidery and pearls, Spence hauled her toward the stairs.

A wail broke from her. A group of guests, cresting the stairs, stopped to stare.

Oh, Christ.
“I will not harm you,” he bit out.

“My—my valise—”

He followed her look to the luggage tucked away by the concierge’s desk. “I’ll have someone fetch it.”

“No!”

Now the onlookers began to scowl and mutter amongst themselves. Shoulders squaring, two women started toward him.

He lifted a hand to stop them. “Hysteria,” he called. Through his teeth, he said to her, “Listen. You may go with the police, or you may go with me—to the port, to find this gentleman you spoke of.” The ships waited for the evening tide to sail. With some luck, he could catch his cousin—if it
was
his cousin—before Charles’s vessel departed. “And then, once we’ve found him, I will let you go.”

She took a choking breath. “And if we don’t find him?”

“Then I will still let you go.”
At my convenience.
Once he’d made certain she could not carry tales that would harm his family.

She shuddered again, violently. And then, slowly, she nodded, appearing to master herself.

His cynicism reawakened. Surely, innocent women did not conquer their tearful terror
quite
so easily. But a practiced charlatan might.

For her ears alone, he added: “And if you try to trick me, or oppose me in any way, I will throw you into the sea.”

That drew a very satisfying gasp from her.

“Yes,” he agreed. “In that gown, I do not think swimming is a possibility.”

CHAPTER TWO

Amanda sat in a cabin the size of a cell, on a sagging mattress that swayed with every crest of the waves. From her vantage, the single small porthole opened onto the cloudy darkness of night. Perhaps standing up would provide a revelation. Perhaps, if she did so, she would still see the port of Syra, the chalk promenade on the overlooking cliffs gleaming in the moonlight.

But although she made a practice of hoping for the best, she knew what it sounded and felt like when a ship lifted anchor. This vessel was no longer in Syra. She had been
kidnapped
.

The doorknob rattled. She knew what a brave woman would do. She forced herself to her feet to look for a weapon. The stool, perhaps? The chamber pot, she’d already found, was too heavy to throw.

A key scraped in the lock. The door opened. A sullen boy hurled her valise across the threshold, then stepped back.

“Wait!” she cried—but the door slammed, the lock scraping shut.

On a ragged breath, she sat back down on the mattress.
Keep your head.
Matters looked dire, but she would not let her imagination run away with her. Perhaps she was being kidnapped for . . . some other reason than her fevered brain suggested.

Kidnapped!

She bit down hard on her knuckles to gag her whimper.

One heard countless tales of slavery—of young Englishwomen abducted and sold throughout the Orient. But she had thought them
fictions
!

Instead, it seemed
chivalry
was the fiction. So many men at that hotel, and all of them had watched silently as she was dragged away by a lunatic!

But the impostor viscount put on a good show, didn’t he? He did not
seem
a lunatic. Upon arriving at the quays, he had spoken quite calmly—and dispensed ungodly amounts of money—to the stevedores, asking them if they had seen “a blond man, fair and uncommonly tall—nearly as tall as I.”

“Taller,” she’d said once, but his black glare had silenced her.

His words of description echoed now, making her dread pitch higher. Uncommonly tall blonds stood out in this corner of the world. The viscount—
her
viscount—was the only one whom she had seen of that description on the entire island of Syra.

Had his lordship set sail when he should have been
marrying
her?

For two sailors and a publican
had
seen a very tall blond man boarding a ship bound for England—this very afternoon, as she’d waited in the church.

The news had shocked her into a daze. Just as quickly, the devil-rogue had invented a new plan: he, too, would find a place on a departing ship. And
she
would go with him. He’d dragged her up the gangplank—threatening to turn her over to the governor’s men otherwise. Dockhands from up and down the pier had watched, trading quips in various languages, mockery and malice on their faces.

She had begged for help from the captain and crew of this ratty, run-down ship, but they spoke little English, or desired to speak none; all of them had ignored her, merely watching as the devil locked her in this cabin.

She shifted her weight on the mattress, and the deck creaked alarmingly.

Was this ship even seaworthy?

She did not like sailing. Swimming was . . . not her strong suit.

Don’t think on that! You are brave now!

Yes, that was right. When she had left Mrs. Pennypacker’s house today, she had left behind the cowardice that had kept her trapped in the woman’s employ. She was brave now. Strong. Unwavering—

Footsteps sounded on the deck outside, and she shrank into herself.

The door opened.
He
stood on the threshold. The light of the lamp in his hand cast a warm glow over one sharp cheekbone, the full curve of his lower lip. Truly, he looked like the villain from some melodramatic novel, woven from shadows to corrupt a woman, to seduce her to her damnation—

Seduce?
Rubbish!

As he ducked into the compartment, she hurled herself off the bunk, as far away from him as possible. Retreat was not cowardly but
wise
.

Alas, it did put not much distance between them: the cabin was terribly small.

He hung the lamp on a hook set into the bulkhead, then straightened to study her, his expression cold.

“Let me go,” she said—and regretted it instantly, for there was nowhere to go but . . .

“Feel like swimming, do you?” He gave her a malicious half smile, then turned away, his movements measured as he relocked the door and pocketed the key.

Another whimper tickled her throat. She made herself swallow it.
You are strong, Amanda.

Drawing herself to her full height, she said, “Kidnapping is a crime. I
am
a British citizen, and I will see you prosecuted and hanged!”

This pronouncement caused him to rub his eyes. “Oh, excellent,” he muttered. Then, more briskly: “Look here. I’m grateful you don’t pretend at hysteria. In return, I won’t pretend at patience. Until we’re done, you’ll cooperate.”

“I most certainly will not!” Slavery was heinous enough; to willingly succumb to it would endanger her immortal soul!

He bared his teeth. It could not have been called a smile. “If you are
innocent,
” he said, “you will be glad to help me find this man who deluded you so sorely. And surely you must be innocent, to speak of the authorities. Otherwise I imagine they will be the
last
people to whom you wish to speak once we reach England—unless, of course, your threat is an empty one?”

She stared at him, thoughts spinning. “This ship is bound for
England
?”

“Where else?” he asked impatiently—and then destroyed her relief by slipping out of his coat.

In his shirtsleeves, he looked all the larger, the bulked strength of his upper arms undisguised by the thin lawn of his shirt. His dark waistcoat hugged a flat belly and lean waist before disappearing into trousers that outlined, too starkly, the taut musculature of his waist and thighs.

He was
clearly
not a viscount. Aristocrats had bellies. Their main duties were to eat and to . . . supervise.

“The blond man boarded a London-bound ship,” the fraud was saying. “The captain of this crew assures me we will catch up to them in Malta. You will identify him for me, if you know what’s good for you. And if not . . .”

England!
Not slavery, after all! She swallowed, cautioning herself not to betray her elation. “That is all you wish me to do? To identify the viscount for you?”

He flashed her a sardonic look. “
I
am the viscount.” Now he began to unbutton his waistcoat; her next step backward slammed her into the wall.

“
Why
are you undressing?” she demanded.

His hands paused. “We’re sharing this cabin,” he said. “There are no others.”

“If you lay one finger on me, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” He sat down on the bunk—the very
small
bunk, hardly big enough for two—and gave her a look, up and down, of frank interest. “I suppose I should have searched you. Have a weapon hidden away?”

“A—
No!
I most certainly do—”

Too late! In two strides he was up and by her side, pinning her immobile with a forearm that felt like iron. His broad, hot palm traveled roughly over her body, delving beneath her neckline to skim the tops of her breasts, then digging beneath her skirts to chart the lines of her legs.

A curious numbness settled over her, and she was grateful for it—
grateful
—until his hand brushed the back of her knee. Their eyes met then, and a weird thickness gathered in the silence between them.

His hand was hot and rough on her bare skin.

She sucked in a breath. She was not so perverse as to find this man attractive! She
couldn’t
be!

His mouth tightened. He stepped slowly away from her, his hand lingering as it slipped off her skin, the touch very nearly a caress.

She wanted to curse him. But her mouth had gone dry, and his eyes distracted her. They were not black, after all, but a very dark brown, the shade of Turkish coffee. His lashes were long, thick, ridiculously curled. They should have looked effeminate.

But not when they framed such a cold, merciless gaze.

“You seem unarmed,” he said quietly. “But if I’m mistaken, have a care with your aim. A quick death is easier than gangrene.”

Her jaw dropped as she registered his meaning. “You think I would stab you? Good heavens, sir, what do you take me for?”

A strange little smile curled his mouth. “An artist of your craft,” he said. “At the very least.”

She frowned.
What craft is that?
But now he had turned away to retake his seat on the bed, and it seemed wiser not to engage him.

A minute passed, in which she calmed her pulse with several long breaths. With every second in which he showed no further interest in her, she felt slightly better.

Her destination was not slavery, after all—not Tripoli or the deserts of Africa, but
England
.

Why . . . in one (admittedly, very perverse) view, this was a fine piece of luck. He was paying for her ticket home! Once in London, she would go straight to the police to report his crimes—kidnapping, impersonation, and now, after groping her, assault! Besides, if
her
viscount truly
was
bound for home, then she could enlist
him
in the effort to destroy this rogue—

Only . . . if her viscount was bound for home, that meant he had jilted her.

So she would have no support at home, either.

Her knees weakened. She slid down the wall, skirts crunching, bustle stabbing into her hips, until she came to rest amidst a puddle of ivory skirts—the very skirts which she had donned today in the hopes of becoming a wife . . .

She had not allowed herself to dwell on it till now. But no matter
this
villain’s intent, it did not alter her betrothed’s foul actions. He had enticed her to quit her employment, and then he had abandoned her.

She lowered her face into her hands, pressing her eyes hard enough to see sparks. She had
known
it was too good to be true. Handsome viscounts did not
really
fall in love with nameless secretaries. And if they did . . . it was not marriage that they sought.

Her hitching breath felt damp against her palms.
You are too naïve.
Wasn’t that what her friends from typing school had always told her?
It’s all very well to look on the bright side,
Olivia Mather liked to caution,
so long as one doesn’t forget to inspect the dark side for all the other possibilities.

But the dark side was so very
grim
. And life was depressing enough without forcing oneself to dwell on the many ways it could grow even grimmer.

Nevertheless, she feared Olivia’s point was now proved. In
her
shoes, Olivia would have demanded that the marriage be carried out
before
she quit her paid position.

No. Olivia would have been smart enough to never take the position. Or to have given notice on the first occasion that Mrs. Pennypacker grew abusive. Amanda had still been safely on English soil that first time. But she had so wanted to travel . . .

The quality of the silence dawned on her, total and somehow unnerving. She looked up to discover her captor watching her with narrow intensity.

A chill crept through her. Her fiancé had tried to make love to her, but she had held him off through flustered demurrals. This man, on the other hand . . . words might not dissuade him.

But she had nails and knees, and she knew how to use them. “Do you mean to ravish me?” she whispered. “I will not make it easy for you.”

Perhaps it was only in her imagination that shock briefly showed in his face. But his disgust was clear enough. “I mean to have a night’s sleep,” he said, “if you’ll quit flouncing and sliding and crawling and whatnot.”

She had no reason to believe him. Yet . . . what cause did he have to lie? The door was locked, the crew indifferent to her fate.

Hope strengthening, she pushed herself up. “Let us be clear. And all you ask is that I . . . help you find the”—not the viscount; this villain was very intent on his own claims—“blond man?”

“Precisely,” said the villain.

She frowned, cautioning herself against trust. His proposition made no sense. Why should he wish so much to find the viscount? To do so would only expose
him
as a fraud.

But if this villain was . . . telling the truth . . . his motives would be perfectly logical.

What if her viscount had never been a viscount at all?

Her heart skipped. The truth looked fearsome: either this man who had kidnapped her was a very cunning fraud bent on revenge against her fiancé—and armed with the money to effect it—or he was telling the truth . . . and
her
viscount was the impostor.

No. Impossible!