Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride (9 page)

‘A very few, close friends. We lived near each other. And my sisters, of course.' Her world had become bounded by the walls of The Blue Door and her memories and dreams of her sisters. Now she was a friendless, fugitive virgin and utterly in Lord Dreycott's power. Did he realise how vulnerable she was? Was he titillated by it? Perhaps he thought she was too innocent to see her own danger.

‘You want to go back to them, I assume, when you have the money?' Quinn asked, reaching for her hand. Lina made herself relax and let him take it. If she began to struggle, she thought she would panic and that, perhaps, would excite him more. But all he did was turn it over so he could study her palm.

Flirt, a little
, an inner voice said.
Be confident and lighthearted. Do not let him sense your anxiety or see how he affects you. If he is stimulated by stalking a virgin, confuse him.
‘Do you so wish to be rid of me, my lord?' she asked, pouting a little. His eyes fixed on her mouth and Lina ran her tongue nervously between her lips.

‘Why, no, you are a charming addition to the household,' Quinn said, his attention once more on her palm. He traced the crease that curved around the base of her thumb and she quivered, fighting not to close her fingers around his, trapping them. ‘Such a long life line. Look at all the adventures.' His fingertip touched here and there where other, shorter, lines braided into the main one.

‘You read palms?' It was curiously difficult to speak normally with his shoulder touching hers and the heat of his hand cradling her fingers.

‘A beautiful Romany taught me.' Quinn hesitated, then opened his left hand, palm up. ‘You see the break in my life line? I am sure she would tell you that was where she knifed me in the back and left me for dead.'

‘What happened?' Lina's hand closed around Quinn's in a startled grip.

‘Gregor happened. We were in Constantinople and he had gone off for a few days trading to leave me to my new inamorata. He strolled back in to find me ruining a particularly fine kelim rug, stopped the bleeding and went to retrieve my gold.'

‘And the Romany? What did he do to her?'

‘I did not ask him,' Quinn said. ‘It taught me never to trust a woman, even a naked one.'

‘So where was the knife?' Lina asked, determined not to be shocked. And, truth be told, she was as riveted as she ever had been when reading a sensation novel. His grip had shifted to open her hand again and his long fingers moved gently over the back.

‘In her hair.' Quinn's smile was rueful. ‘Now, you could be hiding a pair of duelling pistols in that bonnet.'

‘Perhaps I am.' She let the silence drift on for a moment, full of unspoken words. ‘But I have no intention of removing it to show you, Quinn.'

His given name slipped out and Lina bit her lip as though to catch it, too late.

‘You keep secrets, Celina,' he observed.

‘As many as your Romany, I have no doubt, my lord. But none so lethal.'
Although I killed a man…or I was the instrument of his own lust killing him.
‘Will you read my fortune? For, if not, I must ask for my hand back so I may go and make sure that luncheon has been set out.' She was pleased with the light, amused tone of her voice.

‘Let me see.' He lifted her hand to study it, the movement bringing them closer together. ‘A strong life line. Here.' He touched a point and frowned. ‘Perhaps a moment of risk.' His voice became puzzled for a moment. ‘Soon, I think. You must take care—if you believe such things. Your head line is straight—you are honest and intelligent, but perhaps too controlled by emotion. Ah, yes, see your heart line?' He traced the line curving under her fingers. ‘Loving, intense—that is what overrules your head sometimes. And combined with this…' he brushed his finger
over the swell of flesh at the base of her thumb ‘…the Mount of Venus, I can tell you are passionate as well.'

Quinn lifted her hand to his lips and touched them to the soft mound, making her shiver.

‘Why, thank you, my lord, it lacked only a camp fire and some silver to cross your palm with! I see you sometimes wear an earring, which would complete the illusion. There was just such a lurid fortune-telling in a Minerva Press novel I was reading only the other day.' He released her and she stood up.

‘I was Quinn a moment ago,' he said, as he towered over her.

‘And I was careless,' she murmured, glancing sideways under her lashes as she moved away. ‘I will see you at luncheon. My lord.'

S
he's a married woman who has run away from her husband
, Quinn decided on Tuesday morning as he stripped off his sweaty clothes. He and Gregor had been wrestling and using singlesticks and his muscles tingled with the exercise. He ducked under the big pump in the stable yard with a gasp as the cold water hit his heated skin. That was the only explanation that appeared to make sense of all the puzzles the woman presented, he argued to himself, scrubbing soap into his chest.

Celina was wary of men and yet she possessed a number of knowing little tricks and was comfortable with dinner-table conversation. She was assured with the servants and with their few callers, competent with the household management. A husband who had beaten her, perhaps? Or forced himself on her.

‘Harder,' he ordered the groom who was bent over the pump handle. The male staff were used to him and Gregor now, the audience for their morning training fights had shrunk and the work of the yard went on around them as
if two large, naked, dripping men were a commonplace sight.

He frowned as Gregor turned and he saw the familiar pattern of white scars lacing his friend's back. Cruelty to anyone, whether it was a woman, a child or a beaten Russian slave, made him coldly angry.

He brought his mind back to the mystery of Celina. He had been suspicious about the aunt from the start—she did not exist, he was fairly certain. Somehow Celina had known Simon and the cantankerous old devil had given her sanctuary. It had probably appealed to him, hiding another man's wife. And it explained why she had not been referred to by name in the codicil to the will—to put a false name might invalidate it and a fugitive wife would certainly not be living under her real name.

‘We're late,' the Russian said as the stable clock struck noon. ‘The water will be getting cold.'

‘Come on, then.' Quinn scooped up his clothes and padded off over the stone setts. The hot baths to be found throughout North Africa and the Middle East were a luxury he sorely missed, but a good soak in the great marble sarcophagus was a reasonable substitute after exercise.

The kitchen door was shut, in accordance with the routine that saved the blushes of the female staff, and he and Gregor climbed the service stairs to the first floor before opening the door on to the deserted bedroom corridor.

‘I've got a theory,' he said, low voiced, as they strode along, leaving wet footmarks on the old chestnut boards. ‘I have come to the conclusion that Cel—'

The door in front of them opened and she came out as he spoke, her head bent over the pile of folded linens in her hands. She walked straight into Quinn and all three of them stopped dead. The linens went everywhere, a flut
tering snowstorm of chemises, petticoats and nightgowns. Quinn lost his grip on his own clothes and dropped them, aware that Gregor had strategically clasped a shirt to his midriff, preserving essential decency if not much else.

Empty handed, he and Celina stared at each other for a frozen moment. He realised that he was trying to lock eyes with her to stop her looking down but, by instinct it seemed, she dropped to her knees to scramble after her scattered underthings. Quinn dropped, too; it was the safest thing to do, given that his body was reacting enthusiastically to the mental images feminine underwear conjured up. He seized the nearest item of clothing and clapped it over his loins.

Celina bundled up the rest of her things, got to her feet and backed through the door she had come out of, eyes wide, cheeks pink. The door slammed in their faces as Gregor doubled up laughing.

Quinn looked down; his modesty was being inadequately sheltered behind a flimsy piece of frivolity with fine lace and silk ribbons. Glowering at his friend, he tapped on the door, opened it a crack and tossed the chemise through before closing it again. They retreated down the corridor and into Quinn's room.

Gregor mopped his streaming eyes. ‘Blue ribbons are not flattering to you,' he choked.

‘Celina was not shocked,' Quinn said, clambering into the cooling bath and sinking up to his chin. ‘She was surprised to bump into us, she was flustered, but she was not shocked. Not as a sheltered virgin walking slap bang into two nude men ought to be.'

‘You are right,' Gregor agreed, sobering up and climbing into the other end. ‘You were saying just as the door opened—'

‘I think she is a married woman who has run away from her husband,' Quinn said. ‘She does not react to men like an innocent, but neither does she behave like a wanton.'

‘You will tell Havers?' The Russian scrubbed at his chin in contemplation.

‘No.' Quinn submerged completely and resurfaced streaming water. ‘By English law a married woman's money is her husband's. If she has run from some bastard who beats her, then the last person Simon would have wanted to give money to would be him.'

‘What are you going to do with her, then?'

‘I'm thinking on it.' But he already knew what he would do. He would offer Celina a
carte blanche
and make her his mistress. It would save him the bother of finding a
chère amie
in London. She'd agree to it, she'd be a fool not to; it was an attractive, convenient arrangement for both of them and when he left he would add to Simon's legacy, make sure she had enough to keep clear of her husband for ever. He just needed to find the right moment to put it to her.

 

Lina sat on the end of her bed and regarded her scattered laundry.
Well!
It was not as though she had never seen a naked man before—they could occasionally be found wandering the corridors of The Blue Door, usually somewhat the worse for drink and pursued by one or more of the girls, giggling as they tried to shoo them back into the bedchamber.

But the effect of those two large men at close quarters was… She searched for a word.
Overwhelming.
They were both magnificent, although she found herself strangely unmoved by Gregor's solid bulk. She had seen him first,
seen the white lacing of whip scars over his torso, and recoiled to find her eyes locked with Quinn's.

It had not been until she had ducked down to scoop up her underwear that she realised just why he was holding her gaze so intently—he had not wanted her looking down. She fanned herself with a folded corset. There was absolutely no escaping the fact that she wanted to touch Quinn, to run her hands over those sculpted muscles, the broad shoulders, the lean hips. What did his skin feel like? And the crisp dark hair? Stripped, he was so unlike Tolhurst that they might have been separate species.

Now she had another secret to hide from him, she realised.
Desire.
How would she have reacted if Makepeace had tried to sell her to Quinn? she wondered. But Quinn would have no need to buy virgins from a villain like Makepeace and he would not force a girl, either, she sincerely hoped. He did not need to. He would use seduction, deploy his charm and his body and his skill to lure a woman into his bed.

‘Dangerous,' she said to herself as she began to gather up the scattered clothes. ‘That is a primrose path to perdition if ever I saw one.' How easy it had been to be good when she had never been tempted to be sinful.

 

‘It is a beautiful evening,' Quinn remarked as the dessert plates were cleared. Lina paused, her napkin in her hand. She had been about to rise and leave them to their port or the strange oily clear liquor that Michael fetched every evening from the ice house and which was never offered to her.

‘The moon is full, the wind has dropped and I think I can hear nightingales. Would you like to walk in the garden, Celina?'

She glanced at Gregor. ‘All of us?' By mutual, unspoken consent not a word had been exchanged about the contretemps outside her bedchamber and, after a somewhat stilted start to the meal, they had all relaxed into the normal polite exchange of conversation.

‘No, not me,' the big Russian said. ‘I go and pack now. I leave for London tomorrow.'

Oh.
She knew he had been planning to, but the realisation that tomorrow she would be alone with Quinn was disturbing. ‘I am not sure.' She did not trust Quinn not to tempt her, she did not trust herself to resist, and yet the thought of wandering in the moonlight with nightingales singing was powerfully romantic. Her life, Lina thought with a sudden flare of rebellion, had been very short of romance.

Quinn just smiled at her with his eyes, the first unguarded expression he had allowed to cross his features since his somewhat unsuccessful attempt to shield both their blushes with the aid of her camisole.

Temptation again. If she was careful, very careful, perhaps it would be safe to take that enchanted stroll. He would not force kisses on her, she was certain…
almost
certain—and she was on the alert. It was just a matter of will-power, Lina thought, feeling her resistance swirling away like water down a hole.

‘It would be very pleasant,' she said, her voice sounding prim to her own ears. ‘Just for a little while.'

Quinn draped her shawl around her shoulders, his fingers barely touching her, and opened the long window onto the terrace. The breeze was soft and held the scents of green leaves, not the sea. The liquid birdsong seemed to pour over her senses like warm oil as they stepped out.

‘How lovely,' Lina murmured as Quinn drew her arm
through his and strolled out on to the lawn. They walked in silence for a while. It was easy to be with him, she realised, jerking her head upright as it tilted treacherously sideways, drawn to his shoulder like iron to a magnet.

But even the beauty of the silvered moonlit scene was not able to soothe her worries for long.
Gregor is going to London. Would he hear something about the Tolhurst Sapphire? Would he read about the hunt for a blonde young woman called Celina? Why have I not heard anything from Aunt Clara?

‘What did he do to you?' Quinn asked, his tone matter of fact, as though he was discussing the temperature.

‘Who?' Lina knew she had started in alarm.

‘Your husband.'

‘My—'
He thinks I am
married? ‘My husband?'

‘Yes. I assume that is who you are running away from.' Quinn drew her arm tighter through his. ‘I could not understand you at first, you see, Celina. Not an innocent, certainly not a wanton. Then I realised, you must be married.'

‘Oh.' Her brain struggled to make sense of the implications of that assumption. Then she rallied; this could be a way to disguise her real fears. She was certainly in hiding, so now she could cease to pretend about that. ‘What makes you think I am running away from anyone?'

‘Instinct. I have been in hiding, eluding capture, often enough to sense when someone else is.' He did not wait for a response from her, which was fortunate because Lina could think of nothing to say. ‘Did he beat you? Or force you?' Quinn's voice was controlled, but she could hear the anger under it and her heart warmed.

‘Forced me,' she said, clinging to as much of the truth as she could. ‘He was twice my age and…' She could not control the shudder.

‘So old Simon gave you refuge.'

‘Yes. He knew my aunt, and she is unwell. I could not stay with her, so she wrote to him.'

‘Haddon is not your real name?' She shook her head. ‘What is?' She shook it again. ‘You'll not trust me? No, I suppose not; that is asking a lot if you are frightened of the man. But I am hoping for a
little
trust, Celina.' They had reached the end of the lawn where a bench had been set under a sweeping oak tree. ‘Will you sit a while?'

Mutely she let herself be led to the bench, wondering where this was going. Quinn sat beside her and took her hand. ‘I thought perhaps you might like to become my mistress.'

Distracted by talk of her problem, Lina had forgotten the immediate danger. ‘No!' She stood up, dragging her hand free. She had expected Quinn to try subtle seduction; the blunt question was shocking. ‘How dare you? Do you want to ruin me?' She took several agitated steps away and then swung round to face him as he rose to his feet. ‘Foolish question! Yes, of course you do.'

‘You ruined yourself most effectively when you ran away from your husband,' Quinn pointed out.

‘It was not my fault,' Lina retorted.

Quinn shrugged. ‘The world does not see it that way, I'm afraid.'

‘And neither do you, I suppose.' Oh, yes, he was kind, when it suited him, but he was also quite ruthless. Cruelty and abuse made women like her vulnerable and Quinn Ashley had no scruples about exploiting that vulnerability, it seemed. She was quite sure he was generous to his mistresses, treated them well, in just the same way as he was good to his horses and would never beat or overface them. Not a cruel man, nor a vicious one.
Just a man
, she
supposed with an inward sigh, shaken by how disappointed she felt in him.

‘I take the world as I find it.' He leaned one shoulder against the support of the rose arbour, a safe yard or so away from her. In the moonlight, with the nightingales and his exotic Eastern clothing, he was a character from the
One Hundred and One Nights
. He had even put a diamond stud in his ear, a teasing reference to the fortune-telling incident, she supposed. A creature of mystery and romance and…
And smoke and mirrors
, Lina told herself.
He is not what he seems. I see the glamour, but there is shame and ruin behind it.

‘No, you do not,' she contradicted. ‘You bend the world to suit yourself. You refused to bow to conventional expectations and marry Lord Sheringham's daughter; you create scandal and gossip wherever you go; you have no sense of responsibility to anything or anyone, except Gregor, as far as I can see.

‘Men can carry on like that and are considered romantic and dashing. Women show even one-hundredth as much independence and we are condemned as shocking, loose, wanton.'