Lady Scandal (6 page)

She said nothing, but he could feel her
bristling beside him.
Ah, why did he do this?
She brought out the
worst in him, made him want to bedevil her, to drive her until she
lost her control.
But he had never been able to make her forget
herself completely.
Was that not their tragedy?

He frowned at her now as he remembered
again.
He still had not forgiven her.
The old anger still burned.
She had condemned them both to this inadequate existence.
But, for
her, it seemed not so bad.
Yes, Lady Scandal's life went on rather
better.
Even in the gloom, he could see the jewels sparkle at her
ears and her throat.
The richness of her coach comforted him.

He could hate her.

He would have to—or go mad.

With a muffled curse, he untied the strings
at the throat of the black cloak he had taken from the wide-eyed
maid.
He had left his coat at the village, taking the maid's dress
so that he could step into it and hold it around his waist, letting
the skirts—not his boots and breeches—show under the cloak's hem as
he made for the coach.

Wincing now, he pulled the
matted, wet fabric of his shirt from his skin.
Blood-wetted
skin.
Merde
, he
was bleeding again.

Alexandria drew in a sharp breath.
"You need
a doctor."

"I need a large brandy and a stop in a soft
bed."

Alexandria's niece ripped off another strip
of fabric.
Soft hands pressed a pad of folded fabric against his
skin.
White dots danced before his eyes.
He leaned his head back
and shut his eyes, letting Alexandria's voice receded into the
distance.
"Drink will get you a fever.
And if you stop for long you
are like to be taken up for...just what did you do to...no, I do
not want to know what you did to be shot.
Please sit up so I can
bind this now."

It took focused effort to obey her, but he
managed to push himself up by bracing his left hand against the
seat.
Cool fingers brushed his skin as she wound the strip of gown
around him, and that scent of hers teased him again as she leaned
closer.
That light touch stirred his anger—and his desire.

He started talking nonsense
to distract himself from that touch.
"But,
ma chére
, I might have been shot for
something dashing and romantic—spying for England,
even."

Miss Edgcot stopped tearing fabric and
asked, awe and curiosity mixing in her voice, "Were you?"

He had to smile at that—so young, so
gullible.
As he had once been.
Alexandria's cool answer, however,
carried the weight of one far more jaded.
"Mr.
Marsett was ever too
idealistic for anything so politic as spy work."

Her words dug into
him.
Idealistic
—she said it as if it were a malady to hide in shame.
Well,
she had cured him of that ailment.
But it irritated him that she
thought she knew him so very well.
Ah, she knew nothing.
Not of him
at least.

"What makes you think I have not changed?"
he asked, his tone casual.

For a moment she held still.
Her cloak had
fallen open and he could see the white skin of her throat, and the
quick rise and fall of her breasts.
Lovely breasts, soft and pale
and delicious.

That insidious tug of attraction pulled him
to her.
After all these years, after the bitter parting, after all
she had done to him, he still wanted her.
Did she feel it, too?
Did
it coil inside her, this urge to touch, this need to taste, this
craving to possess?
Or had that aching desire long ago died in
her?

Voice as calm as ever, she asked, "Do any of
us ever really change all that much?"

His mouth crooked.
He had changed—she had
done that to him.
His eyes narrowed.
If he had been alone with her,
he might have taken her throat in his hands—or he might have done
other things to her.
His mouth lifted at one corner.
That assumed,
of course, that he actually could do anything given his present
condition.

Still, he wanted now to see if he could tear
open her heart as she had once done to him.
And this time, might
she be the one seduced only to be cast aside?
A sweet thought that
one.
He let it linger.

Hands fumbling, she finished knotting the
ends of the makeshift bandage.
"That will do."

"Yes, yes it will," he agreed.
Her chin
lifted and he felt her stare on him, searching in the darkness to
see him.

The carriage hit a rut in the road, jostling
him, throwing him back against the leather squabs.
It threw
Alexandria against him, and he caught her, partly so she would not
land against the gash in his side and partly because he ached to
have his hands on her.

His fingers tightened around her arms, and
he held her.
Long enough to feel her softness give under his grip.
Long enough to hear the ragged breath that trembled in her.
Long
enough for the heat from her face to warm his.

He smiled as the pulse fluttered in her
wrists.
So she still could not be honest with him.
While her voice
might lie with its scorn, her body could not.
She gave to him—gave
as he had dreamed of for far too many nights.
But it was not
enough.

This time he was no idealistic youth caught
with his heart in his first love.
This time he knew how to seduce a
woman—even a woman such as her.
This time he could use his skills
against her.

Pulling away from him, she fled to the other
side of the coach.
He let her go.
He had time yet.
And more than a
hundred miles to the coast of France.

Shutting his eyes, he relaxed.
"The world
always changes, and not always for the better, my Lady
Scandal."

He had spoken in French.
Hands folded tight
in her lap, Alexandria listened to Paxten's soft mutter.
She
understood only a little of it—he had used that much-hated name for
her.

However, it was his tone that chilled her.
So empty.
So hard.
So very unlike the man she had once known.
She
turned away to stare out the coach window at nothing but darkness.
The gentleman she had known had never had such harsh words.
She
shivered and began to smooth on her gloves again.
She traveled, it
seemed, with a stranger.
Her heart tightened.

This was not wise to even consider traveling
with him.
Yet, she had to think of Diana.
Paxten could pass himself
off as a native—his father had been one, after all.
That might well
speed their journey home.
But she also remembered him as a man who
put himself and his pleasures first.
He never had given any thought
to consequences or duty.
Did that argue well for Diana's
safety?

Putting a hand up, she rubbed her forehead.
She did not have to decide anything at this instant.
She could
think better in the morning when they stopped again for food and
fresh horses.
Yes, that would do.
After all, she could not very
well put him down on the road in the middle of the night, though
that might be wise.

She had never been very wise with him.

After taking off her bonnet, she closed her
eyes and leaned her head against the corner of the coach, hoping
for sleep.
But her fingertips tingled—how good it had been even to
skim her fingers across his skin.
She kept seeing his shirt fall
open to show that broad muscular chest.
Her mouth dried.
And her
chest tightened.
Shifting in her seat, she thought of what he'd
said and what she had seen.

He had made light of the
injury, but she had seen the blood on his side.
What if infection
set in?
Or...
oh, stop cosseting the
man!
If he said he needed only a soft bed
and drink, she ought to see him to some locale where he could get
them.
They could part ways again.
That would no doubt be best for
everyone.

Only she could not bear the thought of
it.

Opening her eyes, she stared into the
darkness again.

Why must their paths cross now?
And why must
they part again so soon?
But she knew the answer.
Knew it because
she had felt it shimmering around him—he hated her.
And, God
forgive her, perhaps she deserved it.

#

Sunlight brushed her eyelids, and the
slowing of the coach pulled Alexandria awake.
Straightening, she
touched a hand to an aching neck.
Her hair must look frightful.
She
glanced at her niece to see if she still slept.

Diana had not taken off her bonnet and now
she lay with it pushed to one side.
In the pale dawn, she looked
lovely, her skin soft, dark lashes resting against her cheeks, her
golden curls tumbled and loose.
Alexandria ran a hand over her
face, certain she had added new lines to it last night.
Well, that
could not be helped.

Quietly, she stretched and avoided looking
at Paxten.
The dawn lay pale on the green countryside.
Heads down,
black and white cows grazed in a pasture.
A flock of dark birds
winged across the sky.
The peaceful scenery made last night—with
its ruined house and soldiers and hasty flight—seem unreal.

But a booted foot brushed against hers,
drawing her stare to the boot and upwards to the man seated across
from her.

He lay on his side, his long, muscular legs
spilling off the seat.
His shirt had twisted and pulled open to
show enough of him above the bandage that her pulse quickened.
She
ought to look away and not stare at the corded muscles of his neck
or at the glimpse of broad chest visible over those crooked
bandages.

Face warm, she looked away only to glance
back, telling herself that she had to ensure he was not still
bleeding.

Her bandages seemed to have held, for only
his shirt showed the dark brown of dried blood.
The ragged blue
strips of fabric wound around his middle looked untidy.

How could a man be so disheveled and so
attractive?

His foot brushed hers again as the coach
slowed.
And his eyes opened and his dark stare locked on hers.

Heat washed up her chest and into her
cheeks.
Still, she stared back.
Rude of her.
Rude of him to watch
her in return, those liquid brown eyes so devastating with their
unnerving intensity.

She parted her lips to say
something—something trivial and polite.
Only the words lodged in
her chest in a sharp ache.
If she uttered anything it would be
something foolish, such as,
Why did you
not come back?

She did not voice the question.
He might
answer with a truth that she did not want to hear.

Mastering herself, she gave him a slight
nod.
He continued to stare, and she remembered the first time they
had met.
He had stared at her then; stared at her from across a
table at which a hundred dined, making her feel foolish, and
ridiculously feminine for being so fascinating.
Thankfully, she was
beyond wanting such attention from him now.

She turned away, making the movement
deliberate.
She had to straighten her shoulders to keep from
looking back at him.

The driver had turned off the main road and
the carriage now rolled down a narrow lane towards a small village.
Smoke rose from the chimneys of a dozen buildings.
She would think
of hot bread.
Yes, and of tea.
What would she not give for a hot
cup of Bohea?
She would not think of him.
And of those dark,
knowing eyes.
Nor of the rush of pleasure it gave her to look into
them again.

Twisting in her seat, she decided that when
she did reach home again, she would have a proper traveling chaise
built.
That was a better thing to think about.
She would plan such
a carriage.
One with seats that folded out to a bed.