Authors: Beth Pattillo
She plucked a piece of rose satin from a peg and slipped it over her head. A matching wrapper followed, which she cinched tightly at her waist. There. They were the most conventional of the lot. Lucy drew a deep breath and emerged from behind the screen.
The gardener turned, clad only in his breeches, his chest shockingly bare. From one hand dangled a shiny piece of metal—a pair of lightweight manacles he must have found in the trunk at the foot of the bed. As Lucy watched in disbelief, he clasped one of the irons around his wrist and snapped it tight. With a determined look on his face, he stepped toward her. Lucy shrieked and bolted for the door, but he was too quick. He caught her around the waist and snatched her tight against his chest.
“Sorry, princess. I said you were safe, not trustworthy. It’s the only way I’m going to get any sleep.” She struggled against him as he placed the other cuff around her wrist and snapped it shut. The metal gave a soft click.
“Where’s the key?” she demanded, afraid of the sudden weakness in her limbs. She pulled against the restraint. Her eyes flew over him, ignoring his bare chest as she looked for a possible hiding place.
“The key? I have no idea where it is,” he said with a smile, and Lucy’s knees trembled even more. “Now, shall we get some rest before we make our daring escape in the morning?”
Lucy strained again at the metal cuffs that bound them. “You are a fiend, and I would not share that bed with you if my life depended upon it.”
His eyes turned molten with a combination of amusement and challenge. “Princess, you should know better than to throw down the gauntlet in front of me.”
Lucy shivered at the intensity of his gaze, for she recognized determination when she saw it. Her stomach lurched, and she knew without a doubt that she should have chosen Sidmouth’s thugs after all.
THE MERE SIGHT of his scullery maid in a thin wrapping of rose satin almost deterred Nick from his foolhardy course, but some instinct, a self-destructive one most likely, compelled him to see his plan through as
he snapped the other cuff around her delicate wrist. Her beguiling blue eyes snapped with fury—rightly so, he supposed, since she was the most fiercely independent wench he’d ever met—but she would capitulate to the inevitable. Women always did.
“You are a despicable cad. Release me.”
“Sorry, princess. As I said, there’s no key.” He nodded toward the bed. “Accept your fate, and we can both rest more easily.”
The look she gave him was hot enough to melt the wrist irons that bound them together, but she was intelligent enough to know he had won. With a sniff, she raised her chin and climbed onto the bed. He followed as the chain pulled at his wrist. In seconds, she had scooted as close to the opposite edge as she could without falling off and lay stiff as the poker she’d tossed him in the duchess’s kitchen. With a snort, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.
Nick settled into the mattress beside her and decided that of all the idiot notions he’d entertained in the past few hours, this one was the most harebrained of them all. He rubbed his temples with his free hand. Why was he so determined to rescue someone who obviously didn’t want his help? He was hopeless, it was true, when it came to this sort of thing. Just as some men could not pass by a bottle of brandy, Nick could not fail to come to someone’s aid. Yet never before had he foisted his help on such an unwilling soul. Something about this girl compelled him, even though she must have spent most every moment since they’d met wishing him to the devil.
Brief images flashed before him of another dark night, spent in the Santadorran mountains, huddled in a cave and afraid to cry. The fact that the kitchen maid and his sister would have been the same age meant nothing. Nick banished the thought. Besides, his attraction to the girl was anything but brotherly.
The sound of her breath from the pillow next to his should have relaxed him, assured him that she was safe for now, but instead his muscles tensed with anticipation. Not that he had anything to anticipate. Perhaps it was merely Madame St. Cloud’s establishment that set him on edge. Surely his restlessness stemmed from the sensuality that had seeped into the walls, not from the exasperating girl who lay next to him in the broad bed.
Nick shifted his weight against the mattress, careful not to rattle the slim chain that bound them together. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t he used the irons to secure her to the bedpost instead of to himself? Dash it, but she was warm. Invitingly so. Even though he wasn’t touching her, Nick could feel the heat radiating from her body. He tried not to look at her, tried to keep his eyes averted from the temptation he knew he’d find, but desire overcame will, and he turned his head.
Much to his surprise, he found that she truly was asleep. Framed by the lace-trimmed linens, she looked like a royal princess instead of a scullery maid. Masses of golden curls tangled about her face, her delicate features relaxed in slumber. The natural arch of her eyebrows suggested strong pride, but the softness of her mouth and fine shape of her nose rendered her beauty approachable. If he had not known better, he would have thought her the daughter of some titled aristocrat, for her appearance spoke of breeding and bloodlines. Perhaps that was what had led him to call her princess from the moment he’d seen her. What name had the duchess yelled when they’d fled the house? He closed his eyes and allowed the memory to come floating back.
Lucy.
The shrill screech of the dowager’s voice could not disguise the aptness of the name.
Lucy.
It suited her, at once both innocent and independent.
Nick lay motionless among the pillows, watching her sleep and trying to curb his unwelcome desire for the hoyden at the other end of the wrist irons.
HE WAS AWAKENED at the crack of dawn by the faint rap of the front door knocker. His muscles tensed. While gentlemen might depart Madame St. Cloud’s in the predawn hours, very few arrived then. He heard the murmur of voices but could not quite make out the words. Nick knew that the odds were good, though, that whoever the hunter was, he and Lucy were the prey.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs sent his protective instincts into action. With one quick turn, he moved to cover the girl’s body with his own. He chose the position deliberately, so that all that would be visible from the door was his back. Perhaps the appearance of intimacy would be enough to send whomever it was on their way.
He heard doors open and shut down the length of the hallway, each time with a mumbled apology and angry words from a disturbed gentleman or a screech from one of Madame St. Cloud’s irate girls. Nick waited, arms aching with the demands of holding himself close enough for illusion and yet keeping some semblance of distance from the enticing body beneath him. His chest ached as well, oddly enough, but that feeling bore no connection to his physical efforts. He heard Madame St. Cloud’s softly accented voice, and as the footsteps moved closer, he recognized the second voice.
Crispin.
The key rattled in the lock. Briefly he wondered if any of the locks on Madame’s doors were ever respected, but he had no time for further thought. The door swung open, and a familiar chuckle traveled across the room.
“Good morning, Nick,” Crispin said from the doorway.
At that moment, he felt the girl move beneath him. She gasped, and her body went still. Nick looked down. Her blue eyes were awash with fear, and then, in an instant, recognition. The brief flash of sensual awareness almost made him forget the presence of Crispin and Madame, but her words snapped him back to reality.
“Get off me, you great oaf.”
WARM MALE FLESH. Muscles and sinew and heat, and the smell of bay rum and something smoky. Lucy had never been this close to a man before in her life, and for one long moment, she couldn’t breathe. Trapped between Nick’s body and the soft mattress, she fought against the seductive lure of both.
“Cheri!”
A soft, disembodied voice, promising and sensual, came from beyond Nick’s shoulder. “You naughty boy. I did not know you were here. Which of my girls hid this information from me?”
Lucy heard the woman move closer, and then her face appeared over Nick’s shoulder. She was beautiful in the elegant way of mature French women. Even at this hour of the morning, a perfect coiffure complemented her classic features, and the strands of gray at her temples did not mar the allure of her amethyst eyes and generous mouth. Nick rolled away, and Lucy gulped in air.
“Good morning, Madame,” he said, smiling disarmingly at the woman. “Privacy seems to be in short supply today.”
Lucy flushed. “Please, Madame.” She held up their wrists, displaying the lightweight iron cuffs. “Is there a key?” She thought she might die of embarrassment, but distancing herself from the tempting gardener was worth every bit of humiliation. The Frenchwoman’s eyes lit with delight, and the gardener, despite his bravado, actually flushed a dim red beneath his olive complexion.
“Nick,
cheri,
how foolish of you! I may indulge men’s pleasures, but I do not put my girls in danger.” The woman stepped forward, and with a quick movement of her long fingers, she sprang open the cuff. “All of my girls know how to work the irons. You could have been free at any moment.”
Lucy rubbed her wrist where the iron had scraped a raw place. The gardener’s eyes met hers, and in their brown depths, Lucy saw the truth. He had known all along how to release them, the rat!
“You lied.”
“Not quite.” He reached over to undo the cuff that held his wrist, the movement bringing him uncomfortably close once more. “I said I had no idea where the key was.”
“You wretch!” Hot color flooded her cheeks. Lucy grabbed a pillow from behind her and swung it at him, but he scrambled away. He climbed from the bed and off the dais. Lucy felt another blush stain her cheeks at the sight of Nick in nothing but his breeches.
The gardener crossed to the middle of the room and then stood immobile, as if uncertain what to do next. “This is not what either of you are supposing.” He frowned at the Frenchwoman and looked toward the door, and at that moment, Lucy realized that a second person had entered the room.
Her heart sank when Lord Wellstone’s eyes met hers. His grin was amused, not lewd, but Lucy pulled the sheet up to her nose. That action did nothing, however, to hide her embarrassment. She glanced at Nick, who was regarding the viscount’s perusal of her with some consternation. Nick propped his hands on his hips. Heaven preserve her, but her rescuer’s protective instincts were riled again. Why did his response have to trigger that strange fluttering in her stomach?
“It’s not what it appears,” Nick repeated. His stance sent some sort of unspoken message to the other man, much like a tomcat staking his territory. Only she wasn’t territory. And with the dawn, it was time to face the tangled mess her life had become, to reassert her independence and move on. Alone.
“But Nicky, I do not understand,” the Frenchwoman said. “You know it is against the rules to bring a companion from outside.”
Lucy grew hot at the implication, especially when Nick made no move to defend her reputation.
“
Oui,
Madame.”
He dropped the wrist irons onto a low table. “I would never have thought to impose upon your hospitality if we had not been in dire need of help.”
“Help?” The woman looked amused. “Pray, Nicky, what help have you ever needed in one of my boudoirs?”
The woman’s words confirmed Lucy’s worst suspicions about Nick’s familiarity with the house.
“Yes, Nicky, do tell us,” Lord Wellstone said. “I, too, should like to know.” He leaned against the door frame, one boot crossed over the other as if he might stand chatting all day.
Nick sank down on the small sofa to pull on his boots. “Go to the devil, Wellstone.”
Lucy gasped at the gardener’s effrontery, and Madame chuckled. “My girls would be most disappointed if word of your defection were to spread.”
Nick slid on his second boot. “If you’re both finished amusing yourselves at my expense, we have serious matters to discuss.”
Lucy felt the Frenchwoman cast her a questioning glance before she frowned at Nick. “
Cheri,
should you not allow the young woman a moment of privacy? And you, too, my lord.” She arched an eyebrow at both of the men. “I think something is not right here. This girl is no
femme de la nuit.
”
Finally, someone with a clear head. Lucy could only hope that Madame would send her along her way as soon as possible, and she could be free of her self-appointed hero. Although at the moment the prospect of such freedom was a bit daunting, for to her mortification she’d fallen asleep almost as soon as
her head hit the pillow, as if she’d believed herself safe and protected. She was no nearer contriving a plan than she’d been the night before.
“I’m not letting the girl out of my sight.” Nick’s tone brooked no argument. “Why do you think I used the manacles?” He rose from the settee. “I appreciate your concern, Madame, but it will be sufficient if you and Lord Wellstone allow us a moment alone.”