River Of Fire (46 page)

"You quite mistake the matter," she said in her coolest, most ladylike tones. "I am not the sort of female you want."

The man holding her was momentarily nonplussed. Then one of his companions said with a coarse laugh, "Now, ain't she the little lady? But as my guv'nor always said, if it walks like a whore and dresses like a whore, it's a whore."

Encouraged by the comment, her captor pulled her into a revolting kiss, his hand clamping over her breast. Gagging from gin fumes, she shoved at him wildly. Her struggles had no effect at all. Near panic, she raised her hands and scratched his face, just missing one eye.

He howled and jerked his head back. "Damned little slut! I'll teach you manners."

He slammed her back against the wall and pinned her there, his hand tearing at her gown. She tried to scream, but he leaned forward, smothering her face against his coat. Fear such as she had never known blazed through her. She, Sir Anthony Seaton's daughter, could be casually raped by these beasts, and she was utterly helpless to stop it.

Then suddenly the devouring mouth and clawing hands were gone and her assailant was hurtling through the air. As he crashed to the ground, she sagged against the wall, struggling for breath. In front of her the powerful, unmistakable form of Kenneth loomed black against the night.

"Stay out of the way," he ordered. Then he spun to confront the two men who were charging forward to avenge their friend.

Making it look laughably easy, Kenneth knocked one down with a blow to the jaw and flattened the other with a kick in the belly. Undeterred, the first man rose with an angry shout and lurched into another attack. Kenneth smashed a fist into the middle of the drunk's face, breaking his nose. The man collapsed again, blood streaming down his shirt.

Kenneth turned to her. "Come on. We should leave before one of them produces a knife or pistol."

"Thank you for saving me." Rebecca stared at him, shaking violently. "But I still despise you."

"Understood." He peeled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders, then took her arm and hurried her away. "We're just around the corner from Oxford Street. We should be able to find a hackney there."

"It must be very comforting to know that you are more vicious than anything else that stalks the night," she said through chattering teeth.

"It is," he said imperturbably. "I assume you also learned that there is no joy in being a victim."

The fact that he was right made her even more angry. She would have given his coat back, but she needed the warmth. She pulled it tightly around her shoulders, loathing the intimacy of being enveloped by his lingering body heat and scent. Yet she could not deny that those qualities soothed her.

Despairingly she recognized how far she had allowed this man, her father's enemy, to penetrate her defenses. She was going to pay a bitter price for her weakness.

Rebecca didn't say a word as Kenneth found a hackney and gave the orders to take them home. Her face might have been carved from ice. He stayed as far away from her as was possible in the small vehicle.

Thank heaven he'd found her before she was injured.

But if it hadn't been for him, she would never have been in danger.

Bleakly he stared out the window at the empty streets. He had known that matters were going too smoothly. How could he have been stupid enough to believe he could painlessly extricate himself from his dilemma? Nothing in his life had ever come easily, and in the space of minutes, he had gone from happiness and hope to utter disaster.

He tried to remember exactly what he and Bowden had said. Enough to damn him in Rebecca's eyes forever.

At Seaton House, he paid off the hackney and followed her up the steps. She banged the knocker viciously against the door.

While waiting for a servant to admit them, she turned and snapped, "Collect your things and leave. If you aren't gone in fifteen minutes, I'll have the servants throw you out."

"There is no one on the staff capable of throwing me out," he said mildly. "Furthermore, the servants have been taking their orders from me for weeks. Don't put them in the position of having to decide whom to obey."

For a moment he thought she would strike him.

"I was hired by your father, and it is his place to discharge me," he said in a conciliatory tone. "I have every intention of making a full confession, and I'll go quietly when he tells me to leave. But first, I must talk with you."

Before she could reply, the butler opened the door. Rebecca swept into the house as if it were normal for her to be wearing a ruined gown and a man's coat. "Is my father home, Minton?"

"Not yet, Miss Rebecca." The butler's eyes widened at their appearance, but he asked no questions.

Her back like a ramrod, she turned and climbed the steps. Kenneth followed. As soon as they were out of Minton's earshot, he said, "I suppose your studio is the best place to talk."

"No!" She pulled off his coat and hurled it at him.

As he caught it reflexively, she tore off her left glove and wrenched the Wilding diamond ring from her finger. She threw that also. More by luck than skill, he caught the ring after it bounced off his chest.

Clamping down on the pain, he said, "It's either your studio, mine, or a bedroom. But we most assuredly will talk."

Recognizing his determination, she pivoted and marched up the stairs to the attic, picking up a candle along the way. When they reached her studio, he built up a fire while she lit the lamps. He didn't waste time planning what to say; he had already decided that nothing less than the whole truth would do.

When Kenneth finished with the fire, he stood and saw that she had found a worn shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. She looked like a small and very dangerous child.

"Do you think anything can mitigate your deceit?" she said in a low, furious voice.

"Probably not, but I must try." Praying that he could make her understand, he continued, "I want you to believe that I didn't like coming here under false pretenses, but I had little choice. It was investigation or ruin. I've hated the deception more with every day that passed."

"Which is why you seduced me—because you hate deception," she said bitterly.

He caught her gaze. "I seduced you? Think back on what happened, then see if you can honestly say that."

Her face turned a deep, humiliated red. "Very well, I seduced you. But no honorable man would lie with me when he was here to destroy my father's life."

"I told myself that, repeatedly," he said quietly. "The simple truth, Rebecca, is that I couldn't help myself."

Her mouth twisted. "What a convenient answer. You're a good enough actor to live a lie day and night for weeks, but lack the self-control to resist the pathetic advances of a spinster."

"It was Bowden who made that stupid remark about aging heiresses. Believe me, you are not pathetic," he said wryly. "I think you are the most formidable woman I've ever met. And the most desirable."

Again she looked as if she wanted to hit him. "Don't try to flatter your way out of this! Your mind was in control of your body, and it decided that I was rich and available."

He experienced a flare of anger that equaled hers. With one step, he was beside her. He caught her shoulders in his hands and kissed her fiercely. Her mouth crushed under his. For an instant, she resisted violently.

Then the passion that was anger's blood twin flared between them. She gasped and her mouth opened under his. As her body became pliant, he had a nearly overwhelming desire to continue, to seduce her in truth and let passion bridge the chasm between them. After they made love, she would be more open to reason.

Then he recognized his insanity. Rebecca's body might be willing, but if he bedded her while she despised him, it would be emotional rape. She would hate him forever.

He released her and stepped away. "Do you still think that the mind always controls the body?" he said hoarsely.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and stark. "You've made your point, Captain." She took a chair by the fire and wrapped the shawl tightly around her. "What the devil are you supposed to be investigating? My father is no criminal. He isn't interested enough in money to steal it."

So she had not heard everything. Bluntly he replied, "Bowden believes your father murdered your mother."

Her jaw dropped in utter shock. "That's insane. Either Bowden is mad or you're a liar. Probably both."

"Bowden is obsessed, but I don't think he's mad." Tersely Kenneth explained the financial proposition that Bowden had made, and the thinking that lay behind it.

When he finished, she said, "You've found nothing because there is nothing to find. It's inconceivable that my father would injure anyone."

Kenneth arched his brows. "Have you forgotten his tantrums? His tendency to throw things when enraged?"

She bit her lip. "That means nothing. He would never hurt any woman, much less my mother."

"Can you really say that for certain?" He sank onto the familiar sofa, wishing fervently that he did not have to discuss such things with her. "I agree that Sir Anthony is unlikely to be a cold-blooded killer. But he could have caused your mother's death without intending it. By all reports, they both had fierce tempers. A fight, an angry shove, or a misstep as she tried to get way from him—it would explain a great deal."

"No!" she cried in anguish. "That wouldn't have happened. Yes, they argued, but not violently. Why can't you accept that my mother's death was an accident?"

"Accident is still the most likely explanation," he agreed. "Yet no one can come up with a good reason for her falling off a familiar cliff in broad daylight, and I find it damned suspicious that everyone close to your mother is evasive about her death. You, Lavinia, Frazier, Hampton, Tom Morley—every single one of you tightens up in a way that seems to be more than simple grief. It makes me suspect that there is something to hide. Do you all fear that Sir Anthony was involved?"

"No!"

"If not that, then what?" he said implacably.

Rebecca got to her feet and paced across the room in agitation. Then, as if reaching a decision, she swung around to face him.

"Very well, if you must know," she said savagely. "The secret fear that no one will discuss is not foul play, but suicide. If my mother did not fall accidentally, she must have killed herself. If that became known, she would have been condemned by church and man, forbidden a grave in holy ground."

She closed her eyes and said in a raw whisper, "Do you blame us for not wanting to talk about her death?"