Fortune's Lady (15 page)

He grasped her around the middle in what would otherwise have been an embrace and easily lifted her to her feet. Afterward he kept his hands on her for a little longer than was necessary. She put her weight on her good foot and sent him a dizzying smile of gratitude. Close up, he was older than she'd thought, much older. His face was at the stage in which one could simultaneously see the youth he'd been and the middle-aged man he was becoming. The skin around his eyes looked dry and not quite healthy; an early hint of jowl had begun to show beneath his classically shaped jaw.

He took both her hands and turned the palms up, examining the scraped skin. “You're hurt,” he said, frowning down in concern.

“It's nothing.” She pretended to lose herself in his cinnamon gaze, her lips slightly parted, breath coming shallowly. She thought for a second he was going to kiss her, and something inside rose up to rebel, but instead he took her by the arm and led her a few steps away to a fallen tree trunk. Biting back a groan, she made herself walk without limping, and sank down on the log gratefully.

“Where's Riordan?” He sat beside her and took her hands again.

“He got down from his horse to—take care of a private matter,” she said softly, blushing prettily. “I was annoyed and started to ride away. Then a rabbit dashed through my horse's legs, and before I knew it I was lying on the ground! Thank heavens you were here, Mr. Wade, or I don't know what might have happened.”

“Call me Colin,” he told her in his silky, languid voice. “Tell me, is it true that he's always drunk?”

She bristled at his impudence, but turned her face away as if in confusion. “Very nearly,” she admitted. “But not today. At least, I don't think so.”

“Then why do you—I beg your pardon. Forgive me for intruding on your private business.”

She turned back. She opened her mouth and then closed it. She searched his face for a long, intimate moment, then spoke quietly. “A woman in my position can't always choose with whom she associates, Mr. Wade.” She took a breath. “Colin.” Their eyes held, and this time she was certain he would kiss her. But at that moment she heard a rider approaching and snatched her hands away. “It's Philip!” she said in dismay.

“Are you afraid of him? Shall I send him away?”

“Oh, no! Oh, please, you mustn't!” She let an edge of panic into her tone.

“Very well, but I must see you again. Tell me I may call on you.”

Riordan was almost upon them. “Yes, yes,” she said distractedly. “I should like that ever so much. But you don't know where I live!”

“I'll find you.” He took her hands again and touched his lips to the injured palms in a feather-light kiss. Cass sighed blissfully.

“Now, there's a sight to make a fellow want to puke.” Riordan climbed off his horse clumsily; in the process his silver flask fell to the ground with a clatter. “Balls!” he roared, watching the brownish liquid seep into the ground. He advanced on the seated pair menacingly. “Why don't you get your prissy arse out of here, Wade, before I lodge my boot in it?”

Wade came off the log slowly. “Riordan, you're a drunken pig.”

Cass caught his sleeve in alarm. “Please!” she implored softly. “Thank you for helping me, but truly, it's better if you go.”

Wade turned to her uncertainly. “Are you sure? I don't like leaving you with him.”

Riordan observed the touching exchange in mounting frustration. Everything was going well, better than he'd hoped, but all he wanted to do was knock their heads together like a couple of pumpkins.

“Very well, then, if you're sure you'll be all right.” Wade straightened. “But I'd better not hear that this lady's been abused in any way, Riordan. If I do, I promise you'll regret it.”

“This
lady
is none of your business, you pastel fop. Take yourself off.”

“Just remember what I said,” Wade warned, curling his lip with distaste. He went to his white mare and mounted. “
Au revoir
, Miss Merlin,” he said with a bow and a melting smile that made Riordan want to spit. He gave her a slow, somehow suggestive little salute and rode away.

Cass leaned back on her hands and frowned. “You came too soon. And you were much too harsh with him. What if you've scared him away for good?”

“Not bloody likely. The bastard knows a sure thing when he sees it. He'll come sniffing around tomorrow or the next day, like a hound after a bitch in heat,” he snarled, glaring down at her. He felt like wiping the feel of Wade's lips from her hands. And then kissing her until she couldn't stand up.

“You're disgusting,” she flared, red-faced. “You don't even need to act this part, do you? Because Wade was right—you
are
a pig!”

Growling, he grabbed her hand and yanked her to her feet. She yelped in pain and clutched at his lapels for balance, lurching against him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, alarm causing his voice to sound even angrier.

“My ankle, damn you!”

“You fell off your horse?”

She refused to answer. She pushed at him and started to hobble away.

“You idiot!” He grabbed her in mid-limp and picked her up. “How could you be so bleeding clumsy? I told you not to let the horse—”

“Stop shouting at me and put me down! I don't want your help.”

Their loud voices had spooked her horse; every time he got near enough to put her up, it skittered sideways, ears back. When he finally stopped swearing, the animal quieted. He stood beside it, Cass in his arms, their irate faces inches apart.

“Take your hands off me, Riordan. You make my skin crawl.”

He smiled evilly. “That's good, Cass, because you'll need the practice. Pretty soon Wade's going to put his soft white hands all over you, and then your skin will really crawl.”

“I'd a thousand times rather he touched me than you!”

“Really? Let's see.”

She pushed backward as far as she could, but he had her against her horse; her head touched the saddle and went no farther. He kissed her thoroughly, expertly, using all the skills he'd acquired over a lifetime of kissing women. Her anger was her shield, but if he'd kept it up half a second longer, it would have crumbled. She knew it. When he drew away, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, turned her head, and spat on the ground.

Riordan's face went as still as a stone carving and Cass felt a flutter of fear. For a moment his anger consumed him, and he was glad; the bright flames burned hotter than the sick, dangerous disappointment he felt inside. “Which ankle?” he ground out.

“Right.” His eyes were blazing blue pools of enmity; for an insane moment she imagined him throwing her to the ground and stamping on her hurt foot.

“Can you ride?” She nodded. He sensed her fear with satisfaction—then shame, realizing that on some level he'd wanted to frighten her if he couldn't seduce her.

Cass gathered her courage. “I don't want you to touch me again, do you understand? Ever. If you do, I'm through helping you and Quinn.” Her neck and shoulders were trembling from the effort to hold herself upright without hanging onto him.

He wanted to tell her that was fine with him, that was perfect. His lips curled in a sneer. “I'll touch you any damn time I want, Cass. Do you know why?” His eyes moved over her insultingly. “Because that's what you're being paid for.”

The blood drained from her face. Her body was like a tight sack of sticks and stones in his arms, not flesh and blood. He felt a wave of contrition, knowing full well he was only taunting her because she'd committed the unforgivable sin of rejecting him.

Speechless, tears only a blink away, Cass let him seat her on her horse, left foot in the stirrup, right knee cocked around the pommel. She felt nothing now but numbness and fatigue. In a flat voice he asked if she was in pain, and she said no. He mounted his stallion and they began to walk, slowly and sedately, out of the park. Neither spoke, both thinking what it would be like if he never touched her again.

Cassandra watched the fog-shrouded street lamps drift past the window with diminishing frequency as the carriage rolled eastward, until they were driving in almost total darkness. Wade's arm pressed against hers with an intimacy she didn't welcome, and she had to will her body to relax, not tense away from him.

The evening had gone well. They'd dined at his club, then strolled in Oxford Street for an hour before he'd hailed a hackney to take her home. She'd done a convincing job, she knew, of conveying to him her antipathy to the English and her bitterness over her father's execution. She'd also managed to persuade him that she found him irresistibly attractive and that she despised Philip Riordan—the double lie that had always seemed to Cass the most incredible of all the lies she would have to tell him. But to her relief, the notion that she would endure the intimate company of a wealthy gentleman for whom she felt nothing but contempt hadn't seemed peculiar to Wade at all; in fact, he'd taken it as a matter of course. She'd feared he would offer, then and there, to become her new protector, and she hadn't known how she would respond if he did. What excuse could she make after sounding so eager to give up Riordan? That he was richer? But he had not offered, so she was safe for now. Her relief was enormous.

“Cassandra,” he murmured, breaking the short silence. “What are you thinking about?”

She understood now what Riordan meant about the man's slow, languid movements; they'd begun to get on her nerves. Sometimes his voice was so honeyed and unhurried, she wanted to shake him. “I was thinking of my father,” she improvised, making her tone wistful. “And how much I miss him.”

He seemed to hesitate. “I knew him.” At her look, he added hurriedly, “Only slightly. He was a good man, Cassandra. You have nothing to feel ashamed of, you know.”

“Oh, Colin, I know that.”

“As a matter of fact,” he went on after a moment, “I was one of the small number of people who supported him after he was arrested.”

“Publicly?” she couldn't resist asking.

“No, no. That was impossible. Try to understand, my dear, these are dangerous times; to admit that one favors a revolution in Britain could be disastrous.”

“And do you?” When he didn't answer, she finished the question. “Favor a revolution in Britain?” She held her breath. The carriage came to a stop in front of her house, but neither of them moved.

“Do you?” he countered.

She too seemed to hesitate. “With all my heart!” she exclaimed finally, as if unable to control herself. “I wish my father had succeeded, Colin! How I should love to see this monarchy toppled, and men like Philip Riordan brought down with it. And then forced to struggle for their very existence like everyone else!”

She was afraid that she had sounded too dramatic, but her intensity had called up an answering glitter in Wade's reddish-brown eyes. He seized her hand and opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it. He kissed her fingers fervently instead. “I think you and I will do well together, Cassandra Merlin,” he whispered fiercely. Then he opened the carriage door and jumped down.

In the dim glow cast by the lamp near her front door, he asked when they would see each other again.

“I'm not sure,” she answered slowly. “I want to see you, Colin, but I must be cautious.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“It's not that I'm afraid of him. I can see anyone I want. He doesn't own me.…” But she let a silent “yet” sound between them. She knew it was wrong; she was supposed to be encouraging him, not using Riordan as a shield. But something about Wade frightened her and she couldn't help it. She wanted to go slowly.

“If you really mean that, then come out with me tomorrow night.”

Her heart sank; she forced a smile. “Yes, all right. I will.” Instead of smiling back or looking pleased, he stared at her with an odd, unreadable expression. Now he's going to kiss me, she thought, bracing herself. Relax, or he'll know.

Then something happened that she'd never foreseen. He made a clumsy grab for her shoulders and kissed her hard, without preliminaries. Her head struck the brick wall behind her with a thud and she gave a little muffled cry. Instead of releasing her, he only pressed harder. She tried to make her lips soften, but he was mashing his mouth against her so hurtfully it was impossible. He didn't use his tongue, but his teeth clashed against hers repeatedly, until she thought she could taste her own blood. When he pulled back to look at her, she didn't have time to disguise her distress at his rough treatment. “This is how I like it, Cassandra,” he told her in a curiously detached voice. “Like this.”

He kissed her again in the same manner, but this time he reached both hands around and began to knead her buttocks with cruel, biting fingers, squeezing and pinching until she almost cried out from the pain. She endured it without moving, her mind a dark blur of shame and confusion.

Finally, he drew away. He put his hands around her neck and flexed his fingers lightly. “You like it that way, too. Don't you, Cassandra?”

She nodded mutely, shuddering.

His thin lips, red from mauling her, widened in a pleased smile. When he reached behind her she almost leapt away, but he was only opening the door. “Good night, my dear. I'll count the hours until tomorrow.” He guided her inside solicitously and pulled the door closed in her white, stricken face.

Inside, Cass rested her back against the door in pitch darkness and listened to the carriage drive away. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can't, I can't,” she whispered, fumbling for her handkerchief. All at once three violent knocks exploded in her ears, and she came away from the door as if she'd been knifed in the back. Her hand went to her throat and her breath caught painfully. Oh God, don't let it be him, please, please. Three more knocks, like a clenched fist smashing against the wood. She dashed at her eyes and put her hand on the knob. “Who is it?” Her voice sounded ludicrously casual.