“But as a flavoring it’s essential,” she replied, unwilling to be cowed.
“You’ll be my official taster. And trust me, even your hatred of me wouldn’t be worth going through the unpleasantness of poisoning. I know from recent experience.” He stroked his rough, stubbled cheek with his long fingers, surveying her thoughtfully. He leaned across the carriage, and despite her efforts to flinch away he touched her face. “I’ve marked you,” he said, his voice dreamy. “I promise to shave before I kiss you again.”
She jerked her head away from him. “Promise not to kiss me again,” she said, “and I might forego the rat poison.”
“Certainly,” he said easily, leaning back, and she released her pent-up breath.
She couldn’t quite believe her good luck. “You promise?” she asked, astonished.
“Of course.” His smile held a rueful sweetness. “The problem is, I always break my promises.”
It shocked her. “Have you no honor?”
“Not a trace.” He sounded astonishingly matter-of-fact about it. “I would have thought you knew that by now. An honorable man wouldn’t have left a fifteen-year-old girl behind in a dangerous country, particularly when that girl was most charmingly in love with him. An honorable man wouldn’t cuckold a man and then half-kill him in a duel. And an honorable man wouldn’t have absconded with his half-cousin’s female chef simply because she had the bad manners to try to kill him.” He shrugged. “It’s easier without honor,
ma petite.
You should try it.”
“You disgust me.”
“Don’t be tiresome,
ma belle.
I know you detest me, you don’t need to inform me of it constantly As long as you make me a decent omelet and brew me some coffee, you can hate me all you want.”
“Coffee?” She couldn’t keep the faint trace of hope out of her voice.
Nicholas was too discerning a man to miss even that tiny glimmering. “I always have Taverner carry my favorite beans. The inns I can afford to frequent are unreliable, and a day without coffee isn’t worth living.” He gave her an amiable smile. ‘If you’re very nice to me, I might even let you have a cup.”
“My price is a great deal higher than a cup of coffee,” she said sharply.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I might have just found your breaking point. Coffee, Ghislaine, and your promise not to run away again.”
She would have traded her body for a cup of coffee. But not what remained of her soul. “No,” she said, her voice flat with fresh despair.
“Put out your hands then.” He sounded bored.
“What?”
“I said put out your hands. Unless you want me to come over there and…”
She put out her hands.
The neckcloth was soft, silken, and very strong. He bound her wrists tightly, his fingers deft and cool, then dropped them back in her lap. “I’ll leave your ankles free,” he said, leaning back again. “At this point Tavvy would probably shoot you in the back if you decided to run. He’s not in charity with you this morning.”
She said nothing, fuming. She wouldn’t use her unbound feet to run. She’d use them to kick him.
“And if you smile at me,” he continued in a lazy voice, “I might still let you have some of my coffee.”
Ghislaine growled, low in her throat.
“Close enough,
ma belle,”
Nicholas murmured. And crossing his arms across his chest, he gave her a mocking smile as the carriage lumbered northward.
She was a most surprising female, Nicholas thought, a day and a night later, as his decrepit carriage continued its journey. No matter what he did to her, no matter what hardships she had to endure, she neither complained nor begged, bargained nor pleaded. They’d been traveling since the previous morning, when he’d plucked her from that damned tangle of passengers in the overturned mail coach. When he’d seen the mountainous creature who’d landed on top of her, he’d had very real doubts about her chances of survival. But she’d emerged, furious, unscathed, not even her formidable temper and determination squashed.
They’d stopped a number of times, to change horses, to eat, to relieve their bodies, and each time he’d kept her hands tied, allowing her only the briefest illusion of privacy. She’d sat huddled in the corner, knocked around by the ramshackle carriage, and she’d never said a word of complaint. He knew for a fact how uncomfortable she must be—every bone in his own body ached, and his muscles felt as if they’d been pulled in every direction. She had to be feeling worse, without even the dubious cushion of her hands to brace herself every time they hit a particularly onerous pothole.
But she’d said nothing, except to cast an occasional glare in his direction. She’d slept fitfully through the long night, the jostling of the carriage knocking her into wakefulness, and when he’d helped her down the next morning she’d almost collapsed in his arms.
But she’d managed to right herself almost immediately, swaying slightly in her determination, and he had to admire her. Not enough to unfasten one of his best neckcloths from around those dangerous wrists of hers, but enough to charge Tavvy to make more stops than he would have considered strictly necessary.
It was dark once more, and from the tension around her mouth, the paleness of her skin, he thought she’d probably inured herself to the notion of spending another night on the road. She wouldn’t know that they’d crossed the border into Scotland hours ago, and that they weren’t far from his hunting lodge. Not far from a fire, and a bed, and an end to this incessantly rocking carriage.
He had no intention of telling her either. To tell her would be to give her hope, give her more reason to keep fighting, and she already had too much fight in her. He’d done what he could to demoralize her, but she’d refused to be cowed. Once they reached the hunting lodge he’d finish the job, thoroughly, efficiently, but part of him was loath to do so. He didn’t really want to see her shattered, abased. He wasn’t sure why not. It couldn’t be any tender emotion such as pity or mercy. He didn’t possess either.
Actually, he couldn’t even imagine her humbled. But he knew that was nonsense on his part. There wasn’t a man alive he couldn’t break, if he put his mind to it, and a woman, even one as fierce and determined as Ghislaine de Lorgny, would be child’s play. As soon as he rid himself of any lingering, foolish scruples.
He’d take her to bed, of course. She’d probably fight like a wildcat—she did every time he touched her. But she also purred. He’d seen that look in the back of her magnificent dark brown eyes, half-aroused, half-startled, and he knew he could take her. And knew in the end that the fight would leave her, panting and breathless in his arms.
He liked the idea, liked it very much. He hadn’t been so interested in a woman, so interested in anything, even the fall of the cards, in longer than he cared to remember. His murderous little Ghislaine was arousing his temper, his interest, his body, in a truly memorable fashion. He almost regretted that he was going to turn her into one more forgettable female.
Almost
was the operative word. For thirteen years she’d haunted him; her fate, his guilt. With one ill-advised act of revenge she’d manage to wipe out his guilt. Once he finished with her, she’d be gone from his consciousness, for the first time in those long years. He wondered if he’d miss her.
It was about twenty-five years since he’d ventured to Scotland—not since he was a young boy, still possessed of dreams for the future. He’d kept away since then—there was no room in his life for country sojourns or fishing trips. But during the endless, uncomfortable trip north he found he was looking forward to being in Scotland again, even in such an unpredictable season as spring. Rustication was good for anyone—his Uncle Teasdale used to swear by it at regular intervals. Maybe he’d settle in, take his time with the rebellious Ghislaine, not return to the city until autumn. He used to like the country around his father’s seat in the Lake District. The glory of the apple blossoms, the taste of fresh cream and honey, the green of the hills, and the clear blue of the lakes. He’d fish this time—didn’t people come to Scotland to fish? He hadn’t indulged in the sport since his last trip there, but he could still remember the thrill of catching a five-pound salmon. And how good that salmon had tasted, cooked over an open fire, just him and old Ben, the hostler who’d been his bodyguard, his keeper, his boon companion until a fever had carried him off.
“How are you at cooking salmon? Have you ever cooked it before?” he asked abruptly.
She lifted her head, surprise lighting the darkness in her eyes. “Of course. I can cook anything.” It wasn’t a boast—she was too weary and miserable to boast. It was a simple statement of fact.
“I’ll catch a salmon for us in the morning,” he said. “If you promise not to poison it. It would be too great a crime, to poison a Scots salmon.”
“The morning?” she echoed wearily.
The carriage was slowing in the twilight, and Nicholas glanced out the window at the familiar countryside. He could see the hunting lodge up ahead, and even in the shadows he could see that it hadn’t fared well in the intervening years. Part of the roof had caved in, and he had little doubt that various forms of wildlife had taken up residence in the derelict old building. He only hoped that they were edible forms. Tavvy was an excellent trapper, and he was famished.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,
ma belle,”
he murmured, “we’re here. The journey is over.”
He expected some sign of enthusiasm. He got none, only increased wariness. Probably with some justification, he admitted to himself. She had to know that his plans for her were not of the noble sort.
“What next?” she asked, her voice flat and emotionless, and he wondered what had happened to her during those lost years, when she said she’d been in a convent. What had taught her to bury her feelings, her reactions, to face the world with blind, accepting eyes.
“Next?” he echoed. “Next,
ma mie,
you cook dinner for me. Something sumptuous—I’m absolutely starving.”
“What about your cook?”
“Peer out the window at our destination, Ghislaine. You will find that my hunting lodge doesn’t come equipped with an intact roof, much less a retinue of servants. If we’re to eat tonight, you’re going to have to concoct something. I think I’d probably even prefer poison to Tavvy’s culinary attempts. At least your food doesn’t taste as if it would kill you, even if it’s more immediately effective.”
She did look out the window at the derelict building as Taverner pulled the hired horses to a weary halt, but if she felt dismay she managed to hide it. As she managed to hide most things. “And how am I supposed to come up with dinner?” she asked sharply, and he knew with sudden relief that she’d actually do it.
“We have a few basics with us. Sugar, flour, coffee, and brandy. Tavvy can probably forage something fresh. I’m counting on you to do the rest—you French are endlessly resourceful.”
“Aren’t we, though?” she replied, eyeing his throat with a fondness that he knew signified dangerous intentions.
He didn’t wait for Tavvy, leaping down from the carriage with an exhausted sigh. The air was damp and cold—he could see the icy vapor of his breath in front of him, and he realized absently that he’d been chilled for the last few hours. He hadn’t even noticed.
He turned to Ghislaine. She stood in the doorway of the carriage, her hands still bound in front of her, and she looked past him at the tumbled-down building. “Just what I would have expected you to live in,” she said sharply.
He’d hoped she’d stumble when she climbed down, but she didn’t. He knew he could put his hands on her anyway—there was no one to stop him except himself. But he wanted to wait. To savor the anticipation.
The lodge had belonged to his father, the last remnant of a squandered inheritance. None of the Blackthornes had been particularly fond of Scotland, with Nicholas being the sole exception, and for a moment he felt real grief at the state of the beloved old building. And then he banished it. Tavvy could make it habitable—Tavvy could make any squalid hole habitable.
The inside of the lodge was even worse than the exterior had led him to expect. The main hall was roofless—filled with debris from the forest surrounding them, and he could see that a fire had been partially responsible for its swift decay. The back of the building was in better shape, with two rooms untouched by the fire, though there was no guarantee what condition the huge fireplace would be in. One room had been used for storage, the other was a bedroom. Tavvy and Ghislaine stood on either side of him, surveying the disarray.
“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Nicholas announced briskly. “First things first. Tavvy, you find us something to eat. Rabbit, quail, anything that’ll fill our empty bellies. There’s a farm just over the next rise—you might be able to find some eggs, milk, even butter. There’s no telling what Ghislaine could do with such wonders.”
“I’m gone,” Tavvy said with a nod. “Once I unload the coach. You’ll be wanting your things in this room?”
“It looks the most promising,” Nicholas said, glancing around him at the sagging bed frame, the littered fireplace.
“And Mamzelle’s?”
Nicholas gave him a bland smile. “In here as well.”
If his reply disturbed Ghislaine she refused to show it. “If you’d untie my hands,” she said evenly, “I’ll see what I can find of the kitchens.”
“The kitchens were on the west side of the house, and they’ve caved in completely. You’ll have to make do with this fireplace. Assuming it’s not stuffed with birds’ nests or the like.”
“Very well,” she said, holding out her wrists with utmost patience.
Tavvy had already quit the room, leaving the two of them there in the murky light. “Now why do I think untying you might be a very dangerous thing to do?” he mused, making no move to release her.
“I can’t be your servant with my hands bound,” she said, tension creeping into her voice.
“But you can’t stab me in the back either,” he pointed out.
She growled, low in her throat. “Very well,” she said, dropping her arms against her long skirts.