Bound By Temptation

Her wrist was very firmly bound, the fabric soft but with little give. She tugged her other arm. It was caught also—the fabric was silkier, more elastic. She tried to twist her wrist, slipping it sideways. The tie moved with it.

Double drat.

Clara did not want to open her eyes. The thick down of the pillow curled against her cheek, and she rubbed her face into it, hiding from the cold. The rough nub of the fabric abraded her skin. This was no China silk or soft linen. She shoved her face deeper.

Triple drat.

It was not her pillow.

She closed her eyes tighter. Dawn was not yet welcome. Waking up felt more painful than usual, her eyes positively blurred with sleep, her mouth dry, her brains still fogged with dreams and possibility—that magical world of possibility that surrounded her just before waking. The bed was cozy. The covers, thick and heavy, were wrapped tightly about her legs. The first rays of sunlight weres beaming across the pillow. Clara could feel their heat and glow beating down upon her hair. Turning away, she refused to welcome the morning radiance.

Strange pillows, bound arms, and all that they meant, could be suppressed for another few moments. Clara had thought these times were far in her past. It had been years since she’d indulged in such game playing, and then it had been only briefly.

At least there was no heavy, warm weight curled against her.

Hopefully, her judgment had not led her too far astray. Her lovers had always been men whom she liked and respected, and she could only pray that this had not changed, that her lapse had not been too great.

She sighed, fighting reality for one last breath.

There was bacon cooking. The smoky, salty smell nipped at the edge of her consciousness. Bacon was almost reason enough to start the day—even a day such as this promised to be. Her nose twitched. She moved to scratch it.

Or, at least, would have moved, if her hand had been free. Unwillingly, she opened one eye.

A white linen neck cloth bound her left wrist tightly to the rough wooden headboard. The frame of the bed rose heavy and dark, not at all like her own delicate mahogany furnishings.

She opened the other eye. The blue wool sleeve of her gown met her eye. She followed the fabric from the fitted shoulder to the small froth of lace at her bound wrist. She wiggled her legs, feeling the warm weight of her skirts wrap around them beneath the covers. The toes of one foot wiggled free, while the toes of her other foot remained snug inside her thin silk stocking.

The villain had tied her with her own stocking! She forced her eyes to focus as she stared about the unfamiliar room.

Bloody hell. Understanding began to descend.

It was not the first time Lady Westington had awakened tied to a bed. It was, however, the first time she had awakened fully dressed, without recollection of how she had gotten there.

An edge of fear fought to hold her, but she pushed it back. There was no time for that now. Lying back, she closed her eyes and took slow, measured breaths. This was not good.

At thirty, she was no foolish girl. There had to be an explanation—she’d been prepared to waken tied to an unknown man’s bed, worn from a night of pleasure. She had not looked forward to it, but she’d been prepared to face that consequence.

Why should this be worse? Another slow breath, and it seemed almost possible that this would not be as bad as she feared. Maybe they’d merely fallen asleep before anything had a chance to happen.

Opening her eyes again, Clara considered. Where was she? She tried to sit, but the ties held her tight, limiting her view. The ceiling had once been white plaster, but was now marked with the brownish stain of water and the soft gray markings of candle smoke and soot.

There was a window to her right. An unfinished wooden frame surrounded unwashed glass. The sun shone through it, unblocked by shutter or drape. But constrained as she was, she could see no other furniture or ornamentation. There was the impression of a door beyond the foot of the bed, but she could not be sure.

A horse whinnied. Another knocked its hooves against cobblestones. A boy’s high, unchanged voice called out. He’d need another moment to fetch the mash. A maid whistled as a door slammed shut.

If Clara screamed, she’d be heard. She took reassurance in that small fact. Whoever had done this to her had not bothered with a gag.

She drew in a deep breath. She needed to pause and think, to be reasonable. If she screamed, she would be rescued. One layer of worry vanished. Her imminent danger was not of a physical nature. She could be found whenever she wished.

But did she want to be found, lying here, bound
to the bed? The scenes that filled her imagination were not pleasant. The promises she had made to Robert and to herself preoccupied her. Her stepson was engaged to the daughter of the greatest prig in the county, and any hint of impropriety on her part would ruin everything.

Given her history, she could not think of a single explanation that would excuse her circumstances. Countesses, particularly soon-to-be dowager ones, were not supposed to be tied to beds, much less discovered in such circumstances.

Screaming could only be a last resort.

Damnation. Powerlessness was an unaccustomed position for her. She let her head fall back against the pillow and closed her eyes against the bright light of the window.

What had happened last night? Worry worked at her again, and this time it was harder to suppress. Trouble was not unfamiliar, but this blur of memory and thought allowed an edge of panic to creep in.

She’d had Mr. Green to the Abbey for dinner. Upon that point, she was clear. Robert had been out. There’d been roast duck. Cook had surpassed herself, the skin so crisp it crackled like parchment.

And Mr. Green. She shut her eyes tight at the thought. He’d been so young, so hopeful, so completely inappropriate. If she ever chose another lover, it would not be one whom she needed to train.

Clara yanked hard at her bindings again. She
did not think Mr. Green could ever have conceived of strapping a woman to a bed. She doubted he’d even heard of such a thing.

She had let him down gently—she hoped. How he’d ever gotten the idea that she might welcome him to her bed she didn’t know, but she’d done her best to let him know it wasn’t going to happen. And certainly not in Norfolk. She had never indulged herself here. She had too much respect for Robert.

Robert mustn’t find her like this, or even hear of it. Lord Darnell would force Jennie to cry off the moment even a whisper of scandal graced her name again. She had to get free before that happened. She pulled hard again. Leaving your partner trapped had never been part of her play. Equal control was essential in all games.

She pushed with her feet against the mattress, trying to inch her way up the bed. If she couldn’t pull free, maybe she could work enough give into the bindings to loosen them. The fine knit of the stocking moved with her, but the cravat might be gaping some.

She worked toward it. Maybe she could get it with her teeth. A good tug and she’d be free.

Damn, she couldn’t reach. The other arm held her fast. She twisted and turned, straining hard—

And collapsed backward on the pillows. Whoever had tied her knew what he was doing. She assumed it was a he. This didn’t seem like a woman’s work.

Stay calm
. She repeated it over and over again. At worst this would be a prank—not a kind one, but surely one without real evil intent.

Think logically. Do not give in to desperation.

So what had happened? How did a fine duck dinner and a man who still had fuzz on his chin translate into her current situation?

Mr. Johnson had come by to visit with Robert after Mr. Green left. She had the sudden image of his craggy, old face lit by the dying embers of her fire. Robert hadn’t been home. Had she suggested cards? She rather thought they’d played a few hands.

An image of a lively game and the sound of a whistle playing in the background flitted through her mind. It wasn’t her home. She could feel the smoothness of cards in her hands and taste the bitter bite of ale on her lips.

The Dog and Ferret.

She’d persuaded Mr. Johnson to take her to The Dog and Ferret. The whys escaped her. She lifted her head and let it fall back into the pillow with a thud. She’d never done such a thing before. Why had she last night?

It wasn’t impossible to imagine. It wasn’t even out of character. She’d stopped at The Dog for refreshment on many a hot afternoon; why shouldn’t she have stopped by for an evening of cards with the local lads?

Well, she knew the whys very well, but it still didn’t mean she wouldn’t have done it. She’d been Clara Bartom, squire’s daughter and local
hoyden, long before she’d been the Countess of Westington.

Respectability could only be taken so far.

She lifted her head and pounded it back into the pillows again. She had to get free before she was caught. It took everything she had not to press a futile struggle against her bonds. It was not strength that would free her, but her mind.

She began to recite curses under her breath. A fish caught on the line—that’s what she was.

Now if only she knew whose line.

She tried to distract herself by thinking on her life. Her wants were simple: to stay in Aylsham until Robert was wed, and then to return to London and her life—her new life. It was time to begin pursuing the quiet, graceful life she desired, a life with love and a family, a life far different from the one of the past years. It was time.

Only, bloody hell, it was hard to think of a peaceful life when she was flat on her back tied to a bed. There was no distraction from that reality.

Who the hell had done this to her?

As if in answer, she heard the click of a key in a lock, and the door creaked open.

He’d been gone longer than he planned. Jonathan Masters balanced the tray carefully as he turned the key and maneuvered the door open. Luckily, the woman was surely still asleep. He was not much experienced with drunks, but he understood enough to know that it would take hours to
waken from a stupor such as hers, and probably longer before she’d admit to being alive. He’d only overindulged on one occasion himself, but that had been enough to know that she was not in for an easy time of it.

She’d probably wish she’d been dead before he even entered the picture.

He pushed at the door with one hip, the tea on the breakfast tray sloshing in the pot. He should have let the maid bring it. The services of a butler were not in his repertoire.

But then, that was the least of his should-haves. He was not a man prone to regret his actions, but last evening there had been plenty to rue. He should not have stopped at this badly managed inn. It wasn’t even a proper inn; it was more of a tavern.

He should not have spent six months trapped in a bloody carriage, chasing his youngest sister from one corner of the kingdom to the other and back again. He had responsibilities of his own, and trying to find Isabella interfered with all of them. No sane man would have attempted it. He should let his hired agent act in his stead. And he certainly shouldn’t have attempted it over the winter. Even these bloody muds of early spring weren’t an improvement.

He should never have allowed his valet to stay behind in Ipswich. Who cared that the man sounded like a frog and was running a fever high enough to heat the carriage to a toasty warmth? It was his valet’s place to stay with him, no matter
what. He should not have insisted the poor man stay to be coddled by that overly familiar innkeeper’s wife.

And he certainly should never have partaken of his evening repast in the public taproom. As they didn’t have a private parlor, he should have taken his meal in his room.

And to top his list, he should never have looked at the bloody woman—he allowed himself to curse a second time, a rare indulgence—it didn’t matter that she might be the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. She’d been like a porcelain doll on a shelf of—that was much too feminine a metaphor. He should be thinking of toy soldiers or alabaster marbles, but the thought of comparing her creamy skin and dark locks to anything less than feminine was inconceivable.

He should have resisted temptation.

And he certainly shouldn’t have been persuaded to pull up a chair in the tavern and play a hand. He had great reason to avoid gambling. It was true that on occasion he might make up a fourth when needed, but he did so only to fulfill social obligation. He knew too well the price of such a vice.

Procrastination was only delaying the inevitable. He had to face her. Tension tightened his shoulders, drawing them up. He stopped, the door halfway open, and considered. He could still call the authorities.

Last night, he’d decided that giving her a good fright was a more fitting punishment than actual
imprisonment. It went against his basic beliefs to imprison a barely conscious woman for unsuccessful petty theft. He’d once been given another chance, and had promised to try and do the same.

He was the most sensible of men. How had he ended up with a woman tied to his bed? It was a most undesirable situation.

He should yell for the landlord and be done with it.

He desperately needed to be on the road again, needed to find his sister. The rains might begin again at any time, making his way impassable. He’d heard his sister had found employment in North Walsham near Norwich and he didn’t want to miss her again. Too much of the last year had been spent tracking Isabella. He’d only returned to his estates for the final harvesting last fall, and he refused to let this year follow a similar path. He was already missing some of the early planting.

He pushed the thought away.

Instead, he shoved the door fully open and stepped in. He would deal with one problem at a time. Piece by piece was the way to build a tower or solve a puzzle.

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