Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride (13 page)

‘Resist the temptation to giggle as you say it.'

‘I have never felt less like giggling in my life,' she assured him as the dinner gong reverberated from the hallway.

As Michael pulled out Lina's chair for her, Quinn went to the windows, unlocking each one. She saw him turn the handle of the door at the rear of the room as he passed it.
He is making sure we have escape routes
, she thought, a fresh pang of fear cramping her stomach.

 

The meal passed in a dream. Lina forced herself to keep eye contact with Quinn whenever possible, to react to everything he said with smiles and nods, to offer no opinions of her own and to let her hands flutter close to her scandalously plunging
décolletage
at every opportunity.

He responded by holding her gaze until she felt the colour stain her skin. His voice became deeper, slower, his lids heavier as he watched her. When she glanced away, and it was always she who could not hold the look, she found herself staring at his hands, the long fingers caressing his wine glass, or dextrous on the carving knife. The scratches left by her nails had healed, faster than she had feared, leaving red marks that she wanted to soothe with her fingertips.

Her breath became shorter and a strange, disturbing heat began to build low down in her belly. Lina tried not to shift restlessly on her chair, but her breasts felt full and tight and there was a disconcerting, intimate pulse between her thighs that made her flustered and uneasy.

The meal ended after what seemed an eternity and Lina began to rise, to leave Quinn to his port. ‘No, stay,' he said. ‘Our visitor will be here shortly. Michael.' The footman set the decanters on the table and waited, attentive. ‘That is all for the present. When Mr Inchbold calls, announce him at once.'

The man went out, leaving them alone, and she closed her eyes, seeking some relief from the intensity, the tension.

‘Come here,' Quinn said, taking a tiny jar from his pocket and unscrewing the top. He dipped his forefinger into it and it came out red. ‘Pout for me, Celina.'

Reluctant, she stood beside him while he touched colour
to her lips as though painting an intricate picture. The touch was assured and disturbing as the cream caressed her lips, lingering over the fullness of the lower, gliding across the upper. ‘There.'

Through the open window the sound of carriage wheels penetrated even the heavy curtains. Lina tried to step back to return to her seat, but Quinn took her hand and stood. ‘Just one finishing touch,' he murmured, bent his head and kissed her, right on her painted mouth.

L
ina gasped, pulled back, but found herself held tight in arms that gave her no freedom to do anything but arch her back, pressing her lower body intimately against Quinn's blatant arousal. His mouth roamed over hers, his tongue pushed between her painted lips and into her panting mouth with complete assurance. If he remembered that she bit, it did not appear to concern him now.

There was no possibility of struggling, hardly any air to breathe, only the heat of him, the thrust of his tongue into the quivering moistness that seemed to arouse him so much, the strength of his hands, flat against her spine, the fingers splayed on her bare skin of her shoulders.

She wanted him to stop, she was frightened of her own response, the torrent of utterly undisciplined, alien feeling that swept through her—and yet when Quinn did lift his mouth she put her hands up to pull his head down to her again.

‘Oh, no, my passionate little
virgin
,' he said, his voice husky even as his eyes mocked her. ‘There is no time for that now.' He took a napkin from the table, touched around
her lips with it, then dragged the back of his hand over his own mouth, leaving a betraying smudge on his cheek. Quinn turned her to face the overmantel mirror and Lina stared at the pair of them. Her mouth was swollen and pouting, red from rouge and kisses. Quinn's eyes under the heavy lids were bright, alert, aroused. ‘We'll do.'

He sat down in his chair again and pulled her back on to his lap. ‘Ready?'

‘After that?' Lina stared into the green eyes so close to hers and tried not to pant.

‘Pretend you want to wheedle the nice big diamond I've got in my room out of me,' Quinn suggested, low-voiced, as the door opened.

‘Mr Inchbold, my lord.' Lina did not dare look at Trimble, but she was sure that the butler's perfectly modulated tones faltered when he saw them.

‘Show him in, if you please.' Quinn raised his head from nuzzling her bare shoulder and pushed her to her feet. ‘Go and sit down, there's a good girl. You've had the pearls; I'm selling the diamond.'

Lina turned in a swish of silken skirts and sat down, thankful her chair was so close. Whether it was that kiss or the appearance of the Runner, she did not know, but her knees felt like jelly. She put her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, pouted her lips, and looked down the length of the table at the doorway.

Inchbold was a solid man, not tall, but broad across the chest. He had a face that looked as though it had been in many a fight and would be quite happy to engage in a few more. He was dressed like a countryman of the middling sort: neat in good cloth of a plain cut, but with pockets that bulged and boots that looked as though they had moulded themselves to his big feet.

‘My lord. Miss Celina.'

He was looking to see how she reacted to the name. Celina let her eyes stray over him in a leisurely assessment, then merely nodded.

‘Take a seat, Inchbold.' Quinn waved a hand at the chair opposite Lina. It was a considerable concession to a man like Inchbold to offer him a chair at table. Lina wondered if Quinn intended to disconcert the other man, but he merely nodded his thanks and sat stolidly on the broad satin seat.
Experienced and not easily intimidated
, she thought, her stomach churning.

Quinn poured two glasses of port and pushed one across. ‘Now then, this is my Miss Haddon. Are you going to tell me she is a witch who is able to be in two places at once?'

Inchbold reached into the breast of his coat and produced a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and spread out on the table, flattening it under one meaty hand. ‘The footman who let the Shelley woman in is reckoned to be a bit of an artist,' he said. ‘Seems this is a good likeness, by all accounts.'

Lina glanced at the sketch that had been strongly done in charcoal and pastels. The man had caught her perfectly: wide-eyed with fear, her mouth a thin line as she pressed her lips together to stop them trembling. Now she maintained her sultry pout and let her lids droop. As she tipped her head on one side a loose ringlet brushed her cheek, quite unlike the simple arrangement she had worn at Sir Humphrey's.

‘Who says that's me?' she demanded petulantly, copying as nearly as she could the London tones overlain with gentility that Dorinda, one of the girls at The Blue Door, used.

‘Information laid locally as a result of the notice in the
Morning Chronicle
,' Inchbold said, continuing to look at the drawing and then back up at Lina.
Mrs Willets
, she thought.
Mrs Willets and not my letter to Mrs Golding after all
. ‘We knew you—' Quinn cleared his throat ominously ‘—this Shelley female was seen at the Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, so it seemed likely she caught the Norwich coach—'

‘Or Bath or Bristol or Cambridge or…'

‘Yes, miss. Quite.' The Runner glowered at her. ‘It was
possible
she caught the Norwich coach, so a respectable source local to here saying that a mysterious female had turned up aroused our interest.'

‘Who are you calling a mysterious female?' Lina demanded.

‘You, my dear, are as mysterious as Woman always is,' Quinn said, reaching out a hand and running one finger possessively down her cheek.

Lina nuzzled against his hand like a cat seeking caresses and Inchbold's scowl deepened. ‘You know London, do you, miss?'

‘Course I do.' She tipped up her chin and gave him a saucy look. Goodness, but this was scary—and exhilarating. She would not think about Quinn, not yet.

‘Know the house of The Blue Door do you?'

‘All the girls know that one. Class place, that is. Not that I need a house, I like to be independent. You know, have my own gentleman, exclusive.'

‘And what were you doing in France?'

‘My last gentleman fancied seeing Paris, now we're at peace with them again. Lost all his money in the Palais Royale at
vingt-et-un
, didn't he? So he dumped me.'

‘And I picked her up,' Quinn said. ‘I don't believe in
leaving a gaming house except with money in my pocket and a pretty girl on my arm.' He reached out and picked up the sketch, looking from it to Lina and back again. ‘Inchbold, she's blonde, she's blue-eyed—as so many blondes are—and she's a young lady of an accommodating disposition. But otherwise, where's the resemblance? And delightful as it is to share a glass of port with you, I have to confess there are things I would rather be doing with my evening.'

The Runner frowned. ‘Looks like I've been led on a wild goose chase.'

Don't show relief, don't faint, don't laugh…
‘Looks like you have,' Lina said with a sniff. ‘And I know who sent you on it, too. That sour-faced old bat, Squire Willets's wife.'

‘Taken against you, has she?'

‘Thinks I'm not respectable,' Lina said.

‘Actually, she's taken against me,' Quinn interjected. ‘I have a certain reputation and Miss Haddon here does not take kindly to being given the cold shoulder. The ladies have had a set-to and one of them appears to be of a vindictive disposition.'

The Runner eyed Quinn's exotic evening attire and cleared his throat, then tossed back his port and got to his feet. ‘Aye, well, I'm sorry to have troubled you, my lord. Miss. And I thank you for your co-operation. There are those who would have taken umbrage.'

‘You're just doing your job,' Quinn said, his eyes cold and steady on the other man. ‘I have no quarrel with that. Just so long as you don't exceed your authority and you know when a trail's gone dead.'

Inchbold nodded, clearly understanding the message he was being sent. ‘I'll be off back to London tomorrow, my lord. You'll not be troubled by us again.'

Quinn waited until the front door shut, then rang for Trimble. ‘Trimble, send Jenks to me, would you? And, if you could intimate to the staff that Miss Haddon's state of dress and behaviour is in the nature of a masque? The Runner was on a false trail, but it was hard to prove it without some subterfuge. There will be gossip.'

‘We do not listen to gossip, my lord,' Trimble said loftily. ‘I'll send for Jenks.'

‘Thank you—' Lina began, but Quinn held up one hand for silence. ‘Not here.' He began to walk around closing windows until the groom knocked and came in.

‘There's two of them, my lord. The other's been in the village and up along as far as Cromer. Interested in comings and goings here, by all accounts. I'll have a word with Tomkin and get him and the underkeepers to keep an eye out round the house, shall I, my lord?'

‘Yes, do that. If anyone asks, it is a case of mistaken identity, but there is no need to go out of your way to volunteer anything. Thank you, Jenks, goodnight.'

Quinn was looking at her, Lina realised, pulling herself together. Inchbold had gone, her letter to Aunt Clara had not been intercepted, she could breathe again.

But not, it seemed, for very long. ‘Upstairs, I think,' Quinn said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘I do not want to be overheard.'

He held the door for her, allowed her to precede him up the stairs with perfect courtesy and then took her firmly by the elbow, steered her into his bedchamber and turned the key in the look.

‘Now then…' Quinn put the key in his pocket ‘…did you take that sapphire?'

‘No!'

‘Did you have anything to do with the man's death?'
He began to undo the knotted-silk buttons down the front of his long tunic.

‘No—I—' Lina broke off, honesty warring with the desire to just forget every detail. ‘He got very excited. I think he had a stroke. Or a heart seizure.'

‘Did he, indeed?' Quinn threw the tunic on the chair and began on the shirt buttons. ‘You lied to me.' His eyes slid over her, cold and detached. ‘I do not like being lied to. You told me you were married and hiding from a husband who abused you.'

‘You guessed that, I did not correct you. I did not think you would believe me if I told you the truth.'

The shirt joined the tunic and Quinn sat down on the end of the bed and began to tug off his boots. ‘Yes, you were in a state, that first night, weren't you, Celina? Trying on roles until you found the one that fitted. Efficient housekeeper, meek young lady, flirtatious demi-rep.'

She bit her lip. It was difficult to look away from the muscled, bare torso. She had seen him naked, she reminded herself, but that did not help; in fact; it merely inflamed the confused feelings of fear and desire.

‘I must admit, when you settled down to fugitive wife, you did it very well,' he said with the air of a man awarding praise for style. ‘You chose something that you realised would gain my sympathy. What lies did you tell Simon?'

‘None. I told him the whole truth. He knew my aunt, a long time ago. I think he may have loved her in his way.'

‘And who is your aunt?' Clad only in his trousers, Quinn stood watching her, his hands on his lean hips, his bare feet flexing slightly in the deep pile of the carpet. She dragged her eyes away from them and up to his face.

‘She is Madam Deverill, the owner of The Blue Door.'

‘Not a pious spinster sewing hassocks, then.' His face
was so expressionless that Lina knew he was furiously angry. ‘She has imprisoned you there? You want to escape from her cruelty?'

‘No, she has been everything that is kind to me, I love her—' She could not make Aunt Clara out to be the villain of this, even though that would perhaps win his sympathy. But if she could just get a word in, explain about Makepeace—

‘You were under my roof, enjoying my protection. I do not like being made an unwitting accessory to a crime, Celina. Especially not a capital crime. Do I look like a man who would tolerate being lied to? Being forced to lie?'

No, he does not. No wonder he hates lies—look what that girl did to him with her falsehoods. Honesty in a woman must have become a very sensitive thing for him.
‘I told you, I haven't committed a capital—what are you doing?' His hands were at the fastenings of his loose trousers.

‘Undressing. We are going to bed.'

‘
We
? I am not going to bed with you, Quinn.' She backed towards the door, realised too late it was locked and began to edge towards the pile of discarded clothes.
Which pocket did he put the key in?

‘You want to make even more of a liar of me? I told Inchbold that you were my mistress.' The heavy black silk fell to the floor and Quinn stepped away from it. Naked. Lina closed her eyes, but not before she saw just how aroused he was. This was no overweight middle-aged man, red in the face and groping for her. This was what she had been pretending to herself for days that she did not desire: a fit, handsome, athletic man in his prime. Liquid heat coiled in her belly.
Simple, instinctive lust
, Lina thought, dizzy with desire.

‘I am sorry,' she protested. ‘I do not want to be your mistress, I told you.'
Liar, liar.

‘Oh, yes, I recall now. You do not want to be bought, you want to be loved for yourself. Money is so sordid, is it not?' He had not moved, she realised, listening to his voice, fighting the urge to simply open her arms and give in. And she wanted to give in. Why? Because she desired Quinn, or because she wanted him to go on protecting her and if she became his mistress she was buying that protection?

That was an uncomfortable thought, that she could barter her virginity for a bodyguard.
And if I am not a virgin I have no value to Makepeace.
Another reason to give in to what she so desired.

Then I will be ruined. But I am ruined now. Or I might get with child—I could ask him to be careful…

‘Tell me, Celina. When I kissed you after dinner, were you hating it? Did you want me to stop? Was I forcing you?'