Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride (10 page)

‘I said the
world
considered you ruined,' Quinn pointed out, refusing in the most aggravating manner to show anger in response to her tirade. ‘I did not say
I
thought you shocking or loose or wanton.'

‘I would be after one night with you.'
I feel wanton, just thinking about it.
Her mouth felt dry and there was the strangest sensation low down inside, a sort of hot, fluttering feeling that was not quite apprehension, an ache down the inside of her thighs.

‘I do hope so,' he said with a grin that was clear in the moon light.

‘Oh! You are impossible! I will not sleep with you.'
He is so certain he can have me just for the asking
, she thought, the strange feeling inside transmuting into anger.
I do not need him; no-one now can save me except myself.
Lina marched up until she was virtually standing on the toes of Quinn's soft boots. ‘I am in trouble enough as it is without becoming your mistress.'

‘We have not discussed terms yet,' he said, folding his arms and smiling down at her. Perhaps anger was the wrong tactic, for it seemed to stimulate him. Although most things appeared to do that. ‘You may change your mind.'

‘There is nothing to be discussed.'

‘I would be generous.'

‘If I had said
yes
, then we could discuss whether I would become a cheap whore or an expensive whore. As I am not about to become any kind of whore, the question is academic.'

‘Don't use that word, Celina.' Quinn frowned at her. Ah, she had succeeded in ruffling his feathers, had she? Perhaps he was a little hypocritical after all. ‘I asked you to be my mistress, not to share your favours around my male acquaintance.'

They were uncomfortably close, even though he remained still, arms folded. ‘So a financial arrangement, being kept, does not make me a whore?'

Lina did not know where she found the nerve to stand up and argue back at him like this. It was as though it was too important to back away from, a point of principle to be fought over. It was a completely different situation, for this man was not uttering threats, but she felt the same courage seeping into her as she had when she had confronted Makepeace.

Somewhere along the road on her panicky flight from the vicarage she had acquired the steel to stand her ground and fight. Lina caught her breath; she was so used to being the timid sister, the nervous one who would not say boo to a goose, that the discovery that she had changed without noticing was as stunning as Quinn's immoral proposal.

‘Marriage is a financial arrangement,' Quinn pointed out. Lina jerked her attention back to the man in front of her. ‘Or did you marry your husband out of love? It does not sound like it.'

‘I had no choice in what I did,' she said tightly.
But I had; I could have run away again. Yet I did not, I stayed and tried to do something for Aunt Clara and the girls. I am not a mouse any more…
‘I was forced into it by threats to other people. But marriage is—should be—permanent. It gives protection to children…'

She felt her voice trailing away as she thought of the sort of protection that her own mother's marriage had given her. ‘What am I supposed to do when you go abroad again, or tire of me? Find another man, presumably.'

‘You have an inheritance already. I will make sure that when we part you will never, unless you wish, have to give yourself to another man. I do not promise you luxury, Celina, but I will ensure you have independence, provided you are prudent.'

Why me?
The question came into her head like a bucket of cold water thrown over her disordered thoughts. Here was this attractive, experienced man taking the trouble to make her a thoughtful offer that took account of her circumstances, an offer that made her, despite her fears and her scruples, feel flustered and flattered and tempted.

Because I am convenient, that is why, not because I am special to him in any way. Quinn is tied by the need to deal
with his uncle's legacy, with the memoirs. He doesn't have time to spend just now to find a congenial mistress, sort out arrangements. But here I am, just along the corridor, a woman of some experience, so he thinks, and one in a position of weakness he can exploit.

‘Why me?' Lina asked, making her voice soft, hiding the anger that was not directed at him as much as it was at her own foolish fantasy that he was attracted to her.

The question threw him off balance, the first time she had seen Quinn Ashley at a loss. Women did not ask
why?
when a man like this picked them out; they were expected to smile gratefully and say
yes
. ‘You are a very attractive woman,' he said after a moment. ‘I like you, I thought you were…that you did not dislike me.'

‘And I am so convenient,' Lina said, sliding the comment in with a smile.

‘Yes—' Quinn must have seen the trap yawning at his feet for he sidestepped it with enviable ease ‘—if convenience is a factor in such things. Mutual attraction is, surely, what matters.'

‘Then how fortunate that you are so attractive and charming and sophisticated and experienced, my lord,' Lina murmured. Quinn narrowed his eyes and unfolded his arms. Something in her tone was obviously not convincing him. ‘However, I do not find that outweighs the fact that you find it acceptable to take advantage of my situation to gratify your own desires.'

‘Damn it, Celina.' He straightened up, frowning, and reached for her.

‘Call me a dreamer, my lord,' she said, sidestepping, ‘but I really could not care less if a man has looks, charm and experience. Or money. All I want from a man is some
one who holds me in affection, thinks of me as a person, not as a commodity.'

She remembered some of the girls at The Blue Door talking about their clients.
It isn't that he is unkind
, one said of a particular man,
but he doesn't think of
me
at all, just what I give him. He looks right through me.

‘You want me to say I love you? Is that what you want?' Quinn demanded. ‘If lies smooth the path, then lies you can have, Celina. But I thought you more honest than that.'

‘Now you are insulting my intelligence, and my emotions,' she said between stiff lips. ‘Nothing you could say would make me believe that you loved me, and nothing you can do will bring me to your bed. Is that clear enough?'

‘Are you not afraid I will seek out your husband and hold that over your head?' he enquired. ‘You seem to be attributing the worst of motives to me.'

‘No, I do not,' Lina said. ‘To behave like that would offend your sense of honour and you would not want to do anything to lower yourself in your own esteem, would you?'

She turned on her heel and walked away, heart pounding, hardly able to breathe with tension. Behind her the silence was more frightening than an explosion of wrath would have been.

Q
uinn stared after Celina's retreating form, incredulity and anger fighting for supremacy. Of all the infuriating, sanctimonious, unreasonable females it had been his misfortune to encounter, she was the worst. She wasn't repelled by him—she wasn't that good an actress. She was in a situation where he would have expected her to welcome any help she could get and instead she stuck her self-righteous little nose in the air and carried on as though he was some ancient lecher attempting to corrupt a virgin.

What were her alternatives? Creep back to her husband and hope to be forgiven? Well, no, not if the man was unkind to her. But she had made her bed and if she was not prepared to lie on it—or his—then her options were severely limited.

She had as good as told him she would only sleep with him if he professed an emotional attachment, then snubbed him when he refused to go along with such nonsense and, to cap it all, she sneered at his sense of honour.

What Mrs Celina Whatever deserves is for me to find out exactly who she is
, Quinn thought, striking off across
the lawn towards the stables. That would bring her to an understanding of just how lucky she was to have a generous offer made to her by a man of principle who was capable of protecting her.

No, it wouldn't
, he told himself a minute later, kicking a dandy brush clear across the stable yard.
It would confirm all the things she thinks of me.

He clicked his tongue and Falcon put his head over the half-door of his stall, whickering a greeting. ‘Do you think I'm a bastard?' he asked the horse as a soft muzzle was thrust into his hand. ‘A fat lot of use you are, you'll tell me anything for food, won't you?' Falcon snorted, tossing his head and rolling a dark eye. ‘And if I tell him, Gregor will inform me I'm a fool and recommend the nearest whorehouse for the itch that needs scratching.'

‘My lord?' It was Jenks, his shirt loose over his breeches, a shotgun in his hand. ‘Sorry, my lord, didn't see it was you at first. That horse is a worry to me—he won't let me shut the door and make all secure.'

‘I didn't mean to disturb you, Jenks. And I'm sorry about Falcon. He isn't used to closed doors and not being able to run free.'
And neither am I. And I'm not used to having to consider anyone else, either. Damn it, the man's probably got to be up before sunrise.
‘If it is any consolation, he would probably half-kill anyone foolish enough to try to steal him.' He tugged the long forelock as the stallion butted against his arm. ‘I'll take him out for an hour. Get back to your bed and don't wait up.'

 

Lina sat up in bed, her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on top of her knees, and tried to sort out the thoughts and emotions that were assaulting her from all sides.

I want him and he's an arrogant, insensitive rake. I'm not a scared little mouse any more. I'm brave…I think. He doesn't care about me, only my body. Does that matter so much if I want him, too? But that makes me wanton. But why doesn't it make
him
wanton? I can fight now. I stood up to Quinn. If I say
yes
I would risk ending up with my whole life defined by the fact that I've lain with a man. But have I got to spend the rest of it without ever knowing what love is?

Perhaps I will go to the gallows without ever knowing.
‘Oh, God, the gallows.' That was the reality she should be worrying about, not the question of the equality of men and women or whether becoming one man's mistress would be something she would regret for the rest of her life. Her life might be very short indeed, with little room for regrets. In which case, why not make love with Quinn?

And assume you are never going to prove your innocence?
Lina asked herself, flopping back against the pillows.
Just give up? Never.

Legally, Quinn had to allow her to stay, so stay she would, whether he liked it or not. His lordship could take himself off to Norwich if he wanted to find a sophisticated brothel to deal with whatever urges her refusal was leaving unsatisfied.

She reached out to snuff the candle. The room was lit now only by the moonlight from outside. It cast the old furniture in silver and laid eerie shadows over the strange objects that littered the room. The soft breeze flapped a curtain and sent the elaborate rope trimmings swinging.
Gallows rope.
Lina shut her eyes and made herself think of Bella and Meg. If she tried hard enough she could conjure up a dream of them all together again, of laughter, of happy endings. She felt her lids begin to droop.

 

Quinn gripped the great carved newel post at the head of the stairs with one hand and hauled off his boots with the other. The uncarpeted corridor creaked like a Chinese emperor's nightingale floor and Gregor, every bit as alert for assassins as any emperor, had ears like a bat. He'd be out demanding to know what was going on when all Quinn wanted was to go to sleep.

He'd ridden hard and far, through the park, down to the coast road, out over the marshes to the sea. When it was daylight he'd bring Falcon down to the beach again to exercise him in the sea, but he wasn't risking a strange coast and unknown currents at night, however bright the moon.

Now Falcon was dozing in his stable, the fidgets worked out of him, and Quinn was pleasantly tired, shoulders aching a little from holding the stallion in check and rubbing him down. His mind, finally, was clear. So, Celina did not want him, not for money, anyway, and he was not prepared to pay with any emotional commitment. It was going to be sticky, the next few days, with her bristling like a porcupine every time she encountered him.

Quinn grunted under his breath.
Too bad.
He was going to have to embrace celibacy for a while—somehow he could not find it in himself to ride into Norwich in search of a woman—and she was going to have to live with him watching her for any signs of weakening.

He padded down the corridor, boots in one hand, past Gregor's room, grinned at the sound of snores rumbling inside, past Celina's chamber door. And froze.

There were no snores coming from inside, but there was a thud, a choking gasp, the sound of a struggle. Quinn put
down his boots, drew the thin blade from the sheath inside the left one and cracked open the door.

The moonlight flooded across the bed and for a moment he could not make out what he was looking at. Then he saw it was Celina, tangled in the sheet, her hands clawing at her throat, her bare legs kicking. He strode to the bed and caught at her hands, realising as he did so that the sheet had wound itself around her throat, choking her.

‘Easy, easy, let me.' He tossed the blade on to the bedside table and took hold of the sheet, trying to get past her frantic hands to find the corner. She was fighting desperately, her eyes screwed up, deep in her nightmare. Her fingernails tore bloody tracks down the back of his hands and forced a hiss of pain from him.

Quinn dragged at the linen, pulled it away from her windpipe, found the end and yanked it free. Celina fell back, gasping for breath, her hands locked around his wrists. ‘No! You can't… I am innocent…innocent… No!'

‘Celina.' He shook her, harder than he meant to, control hampered by her clinging hands. ‘Wake up, you are having a nightmare.'

Her eyes opened, wide and dark in her pale face. Her mouth opened in a scream and, with his hands trapped, Quinn did the only thing he could think of to silence her. He kissed her.

Under him he felt Celina's body tense, arch up to throw him off; he felt the desperate heaving of her breast against his and then, suddenly, she went limp. Quinn lifted his head and stared down at the sprawled figure. The faint was no ruse, she was unconscious and the bed looked as though…as though he had ravished her on it.

Quinn fought back the feeling of nausea, got to his feet and struck a flame. When he had a pair of candles lit he
assessed the damage. His hands, raked by her nails, were already stiffening and her nightgown was marked with his blood. When he lifted the candlestick he could see red grooves where the sheet had wound tight around her throat. The bedding was churned into chaos by her struggles and her legs were bare from mid-thigh down.

He could not call for a maid, not and hope to explain this, but he could not leave her, either. Quinn pulled off his neckcloth, ripped it into strips and bound his hands to keep the blood from staining anything else, then he lifted Celina's limp form off the bed and on to the
chaise
. He smoothed the nightgown down over her legs and found the blanket, tossed to the floor, and put it over her. Then he made the bed. There was no blood on that, thankfully.

There was nothing to be done about her marked throat and bloodstained nightgown. Quinn eased Celina up into his arms again and turned back to the bed before he realised he could not simply tuck her in and leave her to wake in the morning to find herself in that state. He was going to have to stay until she woke. As he lowered her towards the bed she stirred, murmured and her arms tightened around his neck.

Now what? He could hardly lie down with her; it would be enough to send her into hysterics, waking up to find him in her bed. She burrowed her head snugly into his shoulder and clung, limp and trusting and deep in an exhausted sleep.
Hell.
Quinn sat down on the
chaise
, leaned back, swung up his legs and settled Celina as best he could against himself. It was going to be a long night.

 

Quinn woke to the sound of a faint scratching. He reached out a hand for his knife, then found he was entangled with a body.
Celina?
The memory of the night before
came back with horrible precision as the door opened and an arm appeared, the hand clutching his boots. They were lowered to the floor just inside.
Gregor.
He whistled softly and the Russian's head appeared, his expression comical as he took in bed and
chaise
. Then he frowned, his eyes focused on Quinn's bandaged hands.

Go away
, Quinn mouthed.

The other man's eyebrows shot up, then he grinned.
Goodbye
, he mouthed back and the door closed as silently as it had opened.

Quinn let his head sink back against the curved rail of the
chaise
and stared up at the ceiling in the dawn light. Gregor was off to London now, thinking heavens knew what, but Celina would wake soon. She was already stirring, her lips moving against his throat where his shirt had come open when he took off his neckcloth.

He eased his cramped limbs as best he could, wincing as he flexed his hands.
Damn, but that hurt.
And he had to find an explanation for the injuries too. As he thought it, Celina woke, her first gentle movements stiffening into awareness as she found herself in his arms. Was she going to believe him?

 

Celina came out of a dream of being safe and protected.
Blissful
, she thought, as she dreamed of arms holding her against a large male body. Then she woke fully and found that there
was
a man and his arms were around her, holding her to his chest, and her hips were curved into a definitely male lap and this was not a dream. She tightened every muscle, tried to wrench free even as she opened her mouth to scream, and her voice croaked out of a throat that felt sore and bruised.

‘Let me go!' She hit the man's chest with a clenched
fist and he released her, one arm still steadying her as she lurched upright. ‘Quinn,' she said flatly. ‘I might have known. Can't you take
no
for an answer?'

‘You had a nightmare,' he said, his face stark. There was no amusement in it, no lust, only tension and dark shadows under his eyes. ‘The sheet was round your throat and you were choking, struggling—' He broke off to touch her neck lightly. ‘There are marks.'

She looked down and saw her nightgown, streaked in blood. ‘Oh, my God—'

‘It is mine.' He held up his hands, the makeshift bandages stained, too. ‘You fought me.'

He did not resist when she pushed herself away, took the few steps to the edge of the bed and sank down on it. Her hands were stained, too, she saw, all around the nails. She had clawed at him. ‘A dream?'

‘You must have thought someone was trying to strangle you,' Quinn said, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his bandaged hands held away from contact with his body.

Lina put her hands to her throat.
No, not strangling, hanging.
She had dreamed she was in Newgate, in the condemned cell. They were leading her out, taking off the shackles, taking her to the scaffold, pushing her off into space to jerk and dangle…

‘Celina!' He launched himself at her, caught her by the shoulders and held her as the room spun sickeningly.

‘I'm sorry, I am all right.' He let her go, the absence of his strength a wrench. ‘Yes, I remember. Did I call out?' She must have screamed if Quinn had heard her from his own room.

‘I was coming back from a ride. I found I was not sleepy,' he said without emphasis, but she felt herself colouring. ‘I heard noises from your room and thought
someone was attacking you. But you were entangled in the sheet, clawing at your throat. I tried to free you. You—' He looked uncomfortable. ‘You came round and then fainted. I tried to put you back to bed, but you clung on, so we ended up on the couch instead. I did not think you would want to wake in bed with me.'

In the fog of the fading nightmare she remembered another dream. It had slid into the first in the weird way dreams had: a man. Was it Tolhurst? Only this time he was holding her, kissing her, his weight was on her and she could not get free. And yet it was not all unpleasant. There was something sweet, something she could not quite grasp as the wisps of memory faded.

‘Your hands,' Lina said, her voice rasping sore in her throat. ‘Let me see.'