She took a deep breath, her green eyes blazing with determination. “I’ll be but a moment, Your Grace.” With a swish of her skirts, she made for the stairs.
James watched as she ascended, her hips swaying with each step.
Magnificent.
Despite his anger at having to escort her to the Black Hound against his better judgment, her defiance was a challenge, a novel experience that drew him like a lodestone. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew just how much her rebelliousness attracted him.
James was waiting beside the carriage when Bella came out of the house. Satisfied with the demure cut of her black dress, he said, “I approve of the dress, but where is your cloak?”
As if on cue, Harriet came out of the house, a dark cloak draped across her arm.
“It’s too warm to wear it,” Bella said. “I thought to carry it with me until we arrive at the Black Hound.”
“I don’t suppose you can convince her to stay here?” James asked Harriet.
The old woman’s brows drew downward in a frown. “I’ve tried, Your Grace. But she has a stubborn streak.”
Stubborn streak indeed,
James mused.
Of all the women he had known, every one would have happily stayed in the safety of her home and allowed James to confront Sir Reeves at the Black Hound on his own. Further still, the women of his past would have gladly taken the money James offered for Wyndmoor Manor without a second thought and gone on to spend it lavishly on an opulent lifestyle.
But Bella Sinclair was different.
Despite the odds of feuding with a man, a barrister and duke to boot, she refused to be cowed. He should be annoyed, but as each day passed, he became more intrigued.
“Where’s your carriage?” Bella asked.
“The investigator lent me his in exchange for mine. I had no desire for the patrons of the Black Hound to get a look at the ducal crest on the side of my carriage.”
A footman opened the carriage door and the step was lowered. Bella climbed in, and James settled on the bench across from her. The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, and her auburn hair gleamed deep mahogany and rich red.
She shifted on the soft leather seat, watching out the window as Harriet went into the house and shut the door. Keeping her gaze averted, she sat straight and folded her hands in her lap, clearly determined to ignore him for the duration of the trip just as she had avoided him during the past three days.
Her behavior irked him. He wasn’t used to being ignored by a woman, especially one who had tantalized him after only one kiss. A devilish part of him wanted to upset her composure. He stretched his long legs, brushing her skirts.
She started, and the heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. Their eyes met, and she colored.
Ah, she wasn’t as immune as she would have him believe. Only now she appeared nervous, biting her bottom lip, and growing increasingly uneasy under the heat of his gaze. He didn’t want that either. Truth be told, he admired her bravery. She would never play the dreaded damsel in distress that many women had thought he would find attractive. A woman like Bella, if she allowed herself, would be full of passion in the bedroom. Where he’d thought he’d find satisfaction in her nervousness, instead he now longed to see her unwavering courage return.
What had addled his brains?
Annoyed with his thoughts, James banged on the roof. The horses set off with a jingle of harness and the carriage lurched, before settling into a steady pace across the graveled drive.
James leaned back on the bench. “When we get to the Black Hound and find Reeves, let me speak first.”
She regarded him with a speculative gaze. “Why?”
“I don’t know what type of criminals he’s consorting with.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You think Sir Reeves consorts with criminals?”
“Don’t be so naïve, Bella. Redmond Reeves
is
a criminal.”
“But still—”
“Is your safety of no concern to you?” his voice grated harshly. “There’s only one reason for a beautiful woman to be present in such an establishment.”
Her lips parted in surprise, and he suspected she was more shocked that he had called her beautiful than that he had suggested the Black Hound’s customers would think her a prostitute.
Had her husband never told her she was beautiful?
Not for the first time James sensed her marriage with the deceased Mr. Sinclair had been intimately unsatisfactory. Whether the man had been a simpleton or a selfish bastard, James could only guess. What James knew for certain was that Bella’s innocent yet sensual reaction to his kiss would forever be imprinted on his mind.
A foreign stab of protectiveness pierced his chest.
They rode in silence for the remainder of the journey until the swaying of the carriage slowed upon a section of the cobbled road that had fallen into disrepair. With a creak of the harness, the wheels of the carriage hit a rut with a teeth-jarring bounce, and Bella was jolted from her seat and thrown atop him. James grasped her about the waist at the same time she reached out to clutch his thigh, and they nearly bumped heads.
A glance down at her small hand on his upper thigh caused the temperature in the carriage to rise twenty degrees. An erotic image focused in his mind of Bella touching him without the barrier of clothing.
“Oh!” she cried out.
“Easy, Bella.”
Realizing where she grasped him, she pulled her hand back as if she had clutched a scalding hot poker. She leaped off him, reseated herself, and smoothed her skirts.
Just then, the carriage came to a full stop. James glanced out the window. His arousal instantly cooled, and his gaze narrowed on the inn across the street. “We’ve arrived.”
Chapter 10
The sign for the Black Hound creaked on its rusty chains above the door. The posting inn was at a crossroads, where travelers on their way to London or through the villages of Hertfordshire might be unfortunate enough to stop.
Bella had spent her married years in Plymouth and was aware of the many taverns the sailors, fishermen, dockworkers, and prostitutes frequented, but she had never set foot in one of those establishments.
Night had descended, and thick clouds obscured a hazy moon that seemed to hang precariously on a curtain of black velvet. Fog furled around the crumbling stone walls of what looked more like a dockside whorehouse than a frequented inn. One of the inn’s shutters hung askew on its hinges, and coarse male laughter spilled into the street. Two men leaned against the posts just outside the door smoking, their eyes red from too much gin, their jaws unshaven. They turned to stare at James and Bella as they passed, and she lifted the hem of her skirt to avoid the debris of broken bottles and horse dung.
James opened the door and ushered her inside. A thick cloud of smoke stung her eyes and swirled above to hang in the rafters in a heavy cloud. A long bar with stools ran the length of one wall, and an assortment of tables and chairs jammed the floor. The tavern was crowded with laborers, farmers, and local tradesmen, whose voices and laughter resounded in the small space. Barmaids scurried through the room, tankards of ale or cups of gin balanced on their trays. A handful of other women lingered at the occupied tables, and judging by their rouged lips, brazen smiles, and low-necked dresses, Bella suspected they earned their living selling their bodies to travelers who passed through the inn.
The door closed behind them, and Bella’s heart hammered in her chest. The pungent stench of sweat, boiled cabbage, and smoke made bile rise up in her throat.
James put her hand on his sleeve and wove his way to the bar. They passed a table of men holding cards, who eyed Bella with lascivious interest. One of the players, a drunken man with a bald head and a black patch covering one eye, leered at her, his lips twisting into a fearful grimace.
Repulsed, Bella inched closer to James and tightened her grip on his sleeve. He pulled out an empty bar stool. “Sit until I can spot Reeves.”
The bartender approached, and James ordered two cups of ale. Turning his back to the bar, he surveyed the room above the rim of his tankard.
“I don’t see him,” she said.
“I’ve no doubt he’s here.”
As Bella scanned the common room, the door opened and a group of eight men entered. Dressed in mended corduroy jackets and patched trousers, they looked like farmers passing through with their goods. They made their way to an empty table in the center of the room. One of them held back. He was dressed differently in simple trousers and a blue cotton shirt, which proclaimed he was not with the group of farmers, but nonetheless, his attire was nondescript enough to fit in with the other bar patrons. He wore a hat with its curled brim pulled down, but something about his mannerisms and stance was disturbingly familiar... .
“I see Reeves,” James said, interrupting her thoughts.
Bella’s head turned to follow his stare and all thoughts of the stranger were forgotten as she too spotted Reeves in the corner, his back to them. She slid from the stool and followed James closely as he elbowed his way through the crowd. He grasped the man firmly on the shoulder from behind.
Reeves jumped and whirled around. “What the hell—”
Clearly deep into his cups, it took him several seconds before his eyes widened in recognition. His attire was slovenly, his shirtfront stained, with missing buttons. His bloodshot eyes traveled from James to Bella before returning to James. Bella couldn’t fathom he was the same man who had sold her Wyndmoor Manor. Sir Redmond Reeves had presented himself with a dapper top hat and cane accompanied by a sense of snobbery so frequently associated with a man of his rank. This Sir Reeves before her looked like a criminal drunkard from the rookeries.
“Your Grace,” Reeves said. “What an unexpected surprise.”
James led Bella around and held a chair for her, taking for himself the one across from Reeves.
“Did you honestly believe you could get away with such a scheme?” James asked.
“Whatever do you mean?” Reeves asked.
“Apologize to the lady.” James’s voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality.
Bella spoke up. “Why would you do such a thing as to sell the same property twice?”
“I fell upon bad times,” Reeves whined.
“That’s your excuse?” James said.
“You must understand,” Reeves pleaded. “I had a solid streak of luck at the gaming tables when I was last in London. I was at the same table as the old Duke of Blackwood when he said that he wanted to sell a property in Hertfordshire. I was up a bloody fortune at the time, and I thought it a good investment. Afterwards, my luck at the tables changed, and I was hounded by a bloodthirsty moneylender. Rather than lose an arm, I sold Wyndmoor Manor to the widow here.”
“Then what possessed you to sell it to Blackwood, too?” Bella asked.
“I thought it would be sufficient to cover my debts, but the damned moneylender demanded so much in interest! Then you came around,” Reeves said, pointing to James. “You wanted the place so badly and quickly too ... and, well, the idea came to me to sell it again, and I prepared another deed. I figured the lady would leave when confronted by a duke.”
“You thought wrong!” Bella cried out.
“Where’s the money?” James asked.
“I don’t have it!”
James’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I swear to it. I had to pay the moneylender,” Reeves said.
“You’re coming with me to be tried for fraud. But first you owe the lady an apology,” James said tersely.
Reeves’s beady eyes shifted to Bella. “A female that looks like her can work off her debt. I can’t!”
A low growl erupted from James’s throat. He stood and dragged Reeves up by his shirtfront. “I’ll personally see to it that you rot in jail.”
Panicking, Reeves grasped his tankard of ale, and drew back his arm, but James ducked and it sailed through the air, hitting a burly man with a torn jacket at the next table.
The man jumped to his feet, his face a menacing mask of rage. “You son of a bitch!” Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried perhaps twice Reeves’s weight. In one powerful move, he overturned his table and lunged for the smaller man.
Within seconds, the crowded room burst into pandemonium. Chairs scraped across the wooden floor, and fists flew in a blur. Bella was swallowed up by the crowd as prostitutes shrieked, glass bottles shattered, and the sounds of flesh pummeling flesh surrounded her. A man reached out to grasp her waist. She kicked his shins and he released her with a grunt.
“James!” Bella shouted.
She lost sight of James amongst the throng, and panic welled in her throat.
A solid hand like a steel band clasped her arm. She whirled, intent on landing another kick, when a deep, powerful voice stopped her. “This way, Bella!”
James’s eyes were fierce as he led her toward a back door. He fought his way as they went, dodging fists and landing punches. She spotted Sir Reeves sprawled on the floor, his nose bloody. James pushed through the rear door onto a cobbled lane.
She gulped in the fresh night air. It was dim, without torches or gas lamps, and her eyes had to adjust from the bright, smoky interior of the inn to the dark back alley. Bella bent forward at the waist, breathing heavily.
She heard the scrape of booted feet and jerked around to make out a shadow of a man smoking a cheroot, leaning against the building. The smoke wafted to her like a slithering snake. The distinctive acrid odor of the tobacco triggered a sickening memory of Roger circling her, a cheroot in his hand, as she had stood shivering and naked in her bedchamber.
The stranger did not approach, and in the dim light she could make out the hat with its curled brim. Without a doubt she knew he was the same man she had spotted inside the bar. The clouds parted and a faint shaft of moonlight illuminated the side of his face, revealing a glimmer of fair hair.
Bella’s breath stalled in her throat.
It couldn’t be!
Roger arisen from the grave?
Impossible. She was hallucinating after the violent experience of her first bar brawl. She took a deep breath, forcing the panic at bay. It had been months since Roger’s death; she refused to allow his foul memory to haunt her.
“Are you all right?” James asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s get back to the carriage.”
She couldn’t agree more. He led her across the street to where the carriage awaited. The driver hopped down when he saw them and opened the door.
“Hurry and let’s be on our way,” James told the driver. “The lady isn’t well.”
James lifted her into the carriage and settled beside her. It was only after the carriage started on their journey home that she realized she was shivering. He gathered her into his arms, and her cheek rested against his broad shoulder. For several long minutes, he simply held her.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered in her ear. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She would have sold her soul to have a man speak such words to her months ago, to take away the constant fear and worry she had experienced both before and after Roger’s death. Then she remembered who held her and why she was where she was.
“I’m fine now,” she said, trying to sound calm.
He didn’t release her, and she didn’t push away. His linen shirt caressed her soft cheek, and the protectiveness of his strong arms felt blessedly good. His spicy, masculine scent was exhilarating, unlike the foul odor of smoke and unwashed, perspiring bodies that permeated the Black Hound.
“I’m sorry about Reeves,” he said. “I had hoped he hadn’t spent all of the money.”
Lifting her face from his shoulder, she looked up at him. “Were you serious about seeking his arrest?”
James’s eyes held a sheen of purpose. “I still am. I intend to contact the local magistrate. If by some miracle Reeves is not imprisoned, then I’ll go after him myself. He won’t get away unscathed.”
Despite the warmth of his arms, a cold wave entered the carriage, and she actually felt a ribbon of sympathy for Sir Reeves.
Blackwood’s unaccustomed to losing, and he’s never been swindled before.
He was a confident man, used to getting his way once he set his mind to a task. She did not doubt that he was a successful barrister, shrewd and determined. Hadn’t he escaped a life of dependency on his family? If James Devlin hadn’t been in such a hurry to purchase Wyndmoor Manor, Bella suspected he would have caught on to Sir Reeves’s ruse.
“I would never have forgiven myself if you were hurt,” he said.
“I insisted on coming, remember?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m responsible.”
“No man is responsible for me.”
“I beg to differ,” he said. “You placed yourself in my care the moment you agreed to share a residence with me.”
She studied him beneath lowered lashes. Light from the lamps on the sides of the carriage illuminated his incredible blue eyes. His look was intense, as if she were one of the many beautiful ladies that must have flocked around him in London.
“Do you always get what you want, Your Grace?”
“It’s James, and yes.”
“How boring.”
“Indeed.”
Reaching out, he traced the edge of her cloak, where the tie rested against her throat. Then with his hand, he caressed her cheek and ran the pad of his thumb across her full bottom lip.
Her hand rested on his muscular chest, and she could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart through his shirt. The longing to slip her fingers beneath the fine linen and caress his skin simmered in her blood. Breathlessly, she watched him lower his head to capture her lips.
His kiss was swift and passionate. She unfurled for him, like an eager flower at the first touch of dawn. She parted her lips and his tongue swept inside, tasting and touching all she offered. She nestled closer to the blissful warmth and hardness of his body in wonder as desire flooded her limbs. So this was passion, what all the silly young girls had tittered about at the garden parties she had attended as an innocent seventeen-year-old. This was what she had never experienced during her marriage.
He lifted his head and trailed his lips along the slope of her neck, then licked the shell of her ear. She gasped, her fingers curling in his shirt.
“You taste of strawberries and woman,” he murmured, “and I have a strong weakness for strawberries. What am I going to do with you?”
You can keep kissing me,
she thought. Then she stretched up and kissed him instead. Her fingers speared through his thick, dark hair, and he moaned.