The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (6 page)

Closing his eyes for a moment, Roark raised a hand to his pounding head. Sweat beaded his brow. He hated being confined. Opening his eyes, he stifled the growl of frustration rising to his lips.

Her expression shifted subtly. She pulled a vial from her vest pocket. She smiled, a graceful tilt of her full, rosy mouth and set the bottle on the floor outside his cell. “I brought you some laudanum for your head.”

He blinked rapidly several times.

Confound it,
he
was acting like the young misses who batted their moon-eyes at him. Egads, she was exquisite in the subtle lighting. How could he have thought she was a boy? What would she look like naked, candlelight caressing her ivory skin?

Good God, where did that come from
?

In one fluid motion, he shoved to his feet. She retreated a few steps. Wise wench. He had considered reaching between the battered bars and grabbing her.

“You do know,”—his gaze roved the tidy cell, noting the fat, black spider weaving a web in the corner above the cell’s door before returning to her—“you could go to prison for a very long time for abducting and imprisoning a peer of the realm.”

“Ah, but then you’re not a peer, are you?” She smiled again, her row of neat white teeth shining bright in the shadowy corridor. “In fact, I do believe I’ve done the Crown a tremendous favor. I’ve apprehended a known spy.”

Roark’s gaze captured hers. Her eyes appeared black in the meager light, except for those unusual jewel-like gold specks reflecting in her irises. He fisted his hands, the only outward manifestation of his fury.

“That’s twice you’ve accused me of being a traitor. If you were a man, I’d call you out for it.”

She raised a perfectly arched brow and grinned. “Swords or pistols?”

Roark raked his gaze over her, shaking his head in disapproval. “Don’t tell me you’re trained in weaponry?”

“Of course.” She struck a fencing pose. “
En garde
.”

He closed his eyes in a long blink. “Was there ever a more unladylike woman of refined breeding?”

Miss Ferguson dared to inch a bit closer. Bold as brass, she pointed at him and chuckled. “You did it again. Spoke your thoughts aloud. My, but that must be aggravating.”

She leaned in a fraction, seeming to assess him with her keen eyes. Her subtle fragrance wafted past his nostrils. Something with lilies? He resisted the urge to inhale deeply.

“Can you keep secrets at all, or does everything gush from your lips like milk from a teat?”

Roark’s mouth dropped open. He gawked at her. “Did she truly say teat? To a man she doesn’t know?”

Mischief danced in her eyes. “Yes, I did.
Teat
.”

Hounds teeth, he’d done it again, spoken his thoughts aloud. It only happened. . . Dammit. It hadn’t happened since he was five years out of short pants.

She laughed, pointing at him. “You should see your face,” she gasped holding her stomach.

She’s adorable when she laughs
.

His gaze fixed on her mouth.
And her mouth . . . perfect for kissing
.

Adorable? Kiss her?

What was wrong with him? He flexed his hands, itching to lay them on her tight
derrière
. “What an incorrigible, ill-mannered hellion. I’ll see to it she is turned over my knee for the spanking she deserves.”

Miss Ferguson flinched but met his eyes head on. “Rather difficult to do as you’re locked behind bars.”

Ah, hell.

My thoughts are rolling off my tongue like a man well in his cups.

She had courage. He’d allow her that. He stalked to the cell door. Toying with her necklace, she retreated a step.

Roark ran a finger the length of one rusty bar. “But,” he cast her a sideways glance and offered a benevolent smile, “I believe I know why you’ve made the error, and I’m in the mood to be charitable.”

Like hell he was. He’d say anything to get released from this accursed box
.

“Indeed?” She eyed him from his stockinged feet to his mussed hair. Was that self-satisfaction curving her full peach-tinted lips?

He smiled widely, relishing what was to come. He’d wipe the smug expression from her face. The little vixen was about to get what was due her. He could all but hear her groveling an apology. He’d decide her retribution later. Right now, he must get out of this tomb.

Roark nodded and gave her his most charming, seductive smile.

Her eyes widened. She swallowed and stumbled backward, her entranced gaze riveted on his mouth.

He knew how he affected young misses. Older ones too. Hadn’t they been throwing themselves at him since he’d come into his title? And even before? Long before. He was scarcely past three and ten when a buxom upstairs maid introduced him to the pleasures of the flesh.

He wasn’t vain. He had nothing to do with his physical features. That was God’s hand. However, the mirror he looked into daily was objective. He was an attractive man. Even the scar on his forehead didn’t deter the matchmaking mamas or their moon-eyed daughters.

“You’ve mistaken me for my younger brother.”

Edgar, the scapegrace. One of the reasons Roark was intent on restoring the family’s honor was Edgar’s treasonous behavior.

Recovered, Miss Ferguson crossed her arms. The keys clanked against each other with her movement. She arched a brow and smirked at him. “Indeed?”

There it was again. Cynicism.

“
Indeed
.” Roark swept her a mocking bow. “I’m Roark Vance Philippe Marquardt, the Earl of Clarendon.”

Miss Ferguson’s incandescent smile faltered. She fingered the topaz cross at her neck, a look of uncertainty on her face. She studied him for a long assessing moment. A grin spread across her lovely features.

He stared entranced again. She was exquisite when she smiled.

“Of course, you are,” she quipped, dipping a half curtsy. “And I’m the notorious Countess Lieven.”

He narrowed his eyes, struggling to control his temper. “No, you are not. I’ve met the countess.”

This wasn’t going at all as he’d anticipated. “I, however,
am
the Earl of Clarendon.”

“Do you think I believe you’re the earl?” She snickered. “No, in the hamlet you gave yourself away. You said you were
Mister
Marquardt.”

“I sometimes leave off my title when traveling.”

She shook her head, sable hair billowing about her shoulders. It gave her an exotic appearance, an untamed beauty. Delia had been a perfectly coiffed, never-a-hair-out-of-place, blonde. At no time had Roark seen her hair loose. Not even during their intimate encounters. Delia’s hair had always been in a tidy braid.

Miss Ferguson was the type of woman one took in full daylight, splayed atop his emerald-green counterpane, the sun and his hands stroking her naked, ivory limbs.

Ye Gods, man
.
Enough of the lurid imaginings.

He itched to get his hands on her all right, but it wasn’t to enjoy the sweetness he’d no doubt her body could provide. He shifted uncomfortably. He’d be paying Helene a visit immediately upon returning to his estate.

Miss Ferguson stood with her hands on her hips, tapping the toes of one foot. She paused and wrinkled her forehead. What was she thinking? Her gaze dropped to the ground, then met his.

“
Yvette’s not mentioned anything about a visit from you.”

“And she apprises you of all her business?” He wiped his damp palms on his coat. He couldn’t take much more of this.

“Miss Ferguson, I’m warning you. Release me, immediately.”

He’d go mad if she left him in here.

She cocked her head.
“
That, I cannot do.”

Had he given himself away? Could she sense the terror building in him? Hear it in his voice? See it etched on his face and simmering in his eyes?

“I do hope you find your accommodations comfortable,
my lord
.” Her emphasis on the last two words clearly revealed her skepticism.

She looked past him. “There’s food, wine, and wash water on the table.”

He followed her gaze to a small table nestled in the corner. “What, no caviar? Truffles? Champagne?”

A stack of rat-chewed books were piled atop the table, along with a bulging linen cloth. A worn skirted armchair and two buckets were the only other items in the chamber.

His mouth twisted into a sneer. “No tooth powder, shaving brush, or razor strap?”

“No. You’re not on holiday.” She lifted the torch from its bracket before turning to leave.

“Wait! You’re taking the torch? What am I to do for light?” Could she hear the fear in his voice? He couldn’t bear confinement, especially in the dark.

It conjured memories of his sire beating him nearly senseless, and then locking him in a small wardrobe throughout the night. If Roark was fortunate, Maman would sneak in and let him out. That ceased when the old earl caught her one night.

He’d whipped her and Roark too. From that day onward, his father kept the key, so she couldn’t release Roark. She’d risked further thrashings by creeping in and staying beside the wardrobe until dawn. She sang to him, prayed with him, and told him in her soft French accent how brave and strong he was, how much she loved him.

Pain wrenched his gut. She and his stepfather had died this past December after attending a soiree. The doctor suspected food poisoning, although none of the other guests became ill. Not even Yvette or Edgar.

“I need the torch to return above stairs.” Miss Ferguson’s light brogue jerked him back to the present.

Roark stared in disbelief. She wouldn’t dare leave him here in the dark. Would she? This far below ground, not an iota of natural light penetrated the blackness

She quirked a brow at him, then turned her mouth down in exasperation. “There are candles, a holder, and matches in the bundle.”

With that, she abruptly spun away and hurried from his sight taking the meager light with her.

Seizing the bars before him, Roark shook them, unleashing his rage on the unyielding iron.

“Curse you, Adaira Ferguson. You cannot keep me locked in here! You will live to regret this, so help me God. When I get out of here, I’ll send you to prison!”

CHAPTER 6

Adaira’s heart knocked so violently against her ribs, the organ threatened to burst from its confines.

Prison.

The notion was terrifying.

She’d seen vengeance on Marquardt’s striking face, burning in his wintry eyes. He’d bring charges. Not that she believed the cur’s claim he was the earl. Even with his mahogany hair neatly combed, chiseled jaw shaven, his hunting jacket unsoiled, and his long, manicured fingers grime free—when he’d looked the part of an attractive nobleman—she’d not believed him.

Now, rumpled and unkempt, he resembled the cull she knew him to be.

She snorted. She lied to herself.

He was still deucedly attractive. Yet, there’d been something else deep within his gaze, something vulnerable that tore at her, washing her in guilt and remorse.

Adaira began to run, though she suspected she ran from her thoughts rather than Marquardt’s outraged curses and threats echoing eerily in the keep’s bowels.

Though he’d tried to hide it, she’d seen his dread. Her heart twinged with regret. How could she feel pity for him? He was the monster, not her. She was preventing him from wreaking more havoc.

Climbing the slick stairs, she muttered sourly to herself. “How dare he make me feel guilty, the sinful wretch? He brought this on himself. As God is my judge, I’m only doing this to protect Yvette until Ewan comes home.”

Her conscience chastised her.

And to punish Marquardt in your quest for revenge.

In her bedchamber the next evening, Adaira slipped a new gown over her head, and then angled her arms into its sleeves. She sighed, enjoying the sensation of the cherry silk softly caressing her body as it slid to her ankles. She smoothed the fabric over her hips, frowning at her lack of curves.

She’d inherited Grandmother’s slender shape. Adaira grimaced as she turned this way and that before the full-length oval mirror. It was no wonder Marquardt mistook her for a boy. She’d not the height or the curvy hips and bosoms of her sisters. Isobel and Seonaid had Mother’s womanly figure, all rounded softness to tempt a man. Ewan and Dugall were tall and thickly built too.

Only she was petite and
willowy
. That’s what Father called her, a lissome willow. To her mind, the comparison wasn’t altogether flattering. The singular benefit Adaira garnered from being slim was less male attention than her more curvaceous sisters.

That pleased her no end. “Maisey, please help me with the sash.”

“Aye, Miss Adaira.” The maid gathered the ends of the ribbons. “Ye be wantin’ the gold silk slippers tonight?”

“Yes, and the ruby combs.” Next to her topaz necklace, the combs were Adaira’s most cherished possessions, excluding Fionn, of course. They’d been a gift from her parents for her eighteenth birthday.

Maisey finished tying the bow, then retrieved Adaira’s embroidered slippers. Holding onto the maid’s arm, Adaira tucked her feet into the shoes.

She wore gowns for dinner or celebrations. Mother forbade her to wear breeches for either. Adaira knew her mother didn’t understand her eldest daughter. She accepted Adaira’s peculiarities just the same. Every now and again she’d see Mother studying her, a frown gathering between her fine brows, as if she sought to see into her daughter’s mind.

Adaira had been terrified Seonaid, with her gift of second sight, would do exactly that. It had been four years, and her sister had never hinted she knew anything about the attack. To Adaira’s recollection, no one had ever been able to keep a significant secret from Seonaid. Her second sight made it nearly impossible.

Adaira straightened a turned-up ruffle on her sleeve. She shook her skirt. The flounces shifted into place with a soft swish. It was a lovely gown. She’d have to be sure to thank her parents again. Truthfully, she enjoyed wearing the exquisite garments more than breeches. The gowns were the very latest fashions from London, and she quite liked the fripperies, fallalls, and jewelry Mother and Father provided her.

Adaira never explained to anyone why she’d started wearing breeches around the same time she’d started the horse breeding venture. Many had hinted it was because of her new unladylike interests or a rebellious phase she was going through. She never set them right on their inaccurate assumptions.

She couldn’t, lest her secret be revealed.

As the maid twisted and pinned a curl in place, Adaira flinched. She wasn’t fond of this part of her
toilette
, or the pulling and tugging involved in acquiring the latest Grecian coiffeur. Maisey was sensitive to criticism, so Adaira bore her maid’s ministrations with good grace.

Fastening her pendant around her neck, Adaira scrutinized herself in the floor length oval mirror. The necklace’s stones were an exact match to the golden ruffles edging her dress. The transformation in her appearance when she cast off boy’s attire and donned the trappings of a lady of quality still unnerved her. She didn’t want to be attractive to men. She had all she could handle fighting off Brayan’s unwanted attentions.

She dabbed a drop of iris and lily perfume behind each ear. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy her favorite scent.

Thank God she’d been spared the ordeal of a coming out, although Ewan and Mother tried to persuade her to at least venture to London once. That was one advantage of being a Scot. There was no pressing need to present oneself at court before being put on display on the Marriage Mart, much like prime cattle at Tattersall’s.

Donning a pair of ruby and topaz earrings, she smiled imagining the ridiculous scene. The marriageable misses assembled side-by-side, simpering and preening, as the eligible gentlemen lifted their quizzing glasses and inspected each eager damsel in turn.

I say, Lord Nincumpoop, Miss Birdwit appears delightfully healthy overall. Her breathing is normal, not the least exerted. Her eyes are clear, bright, and free of discharge. Her hair is thick and shiny, and her complexion is free of blemishes too.

Except for that wart on the tip of her nose.

I suppose for five thousand pounds annually, I could be persuaded to overlook the blemish.

My dear Miss Rattlepate, may I have a look at your teeth?

Oh, would you look at that, Lord Falderal!

Not a tooth missing. Nice and straight too, though the garlic and onions you ate at dinner are lingering overlong, my dear. I advise nibbling some parsley.

What about her disposition? Is she obedient and compliant? Does she kick or strike? Nip or bite?

Adaira grinned. If only the misses had to hoist their skirts to have their hips, legs, and feet inspected like her horses did before she sold them. What a sight that would be.

Maisey stepped back, eyeing her handiwork. Her blue-gray eyes beamed with approval. “Miss Adaira, ye be right bonnie tonight.”

Adaira smiled. “Thank you.” She started for the door. “You needn’t wait up for me.”

Maisey face puckered into a confused frown. “Again?” Her gaze sank to the floor. “Have I displeased ye in some way?”

Adaira hurried back to the crestfallen maid. Laying a hand on Maisey’s arm, Adaira reassured her. “No, not at all. It will be another late evening, and I know you’re helping your sister with her bairn.”

A look of relief settled on the maid’s plump face. “Aye, he’s still not sleeping through the night. The laddie wants the teat all the time.”

An image of Marquardt popped into Adaira’s mind. She firmly shoved it aside. “He’ll be a fine strapping lad like Niall, then.” Adaira grinned. “Perhaps, he’s another blacksmith in the making.”

With another encouraging smile, she quit the room. Brayan would be at dinner tonight. Her smile faded. Although he’d made several attempts to see her, she’d managed to avoid him until this afternoon. Thank goodness Marquardt didn’t know who’d helped her. She’d never reveal her accomplice, especially with Marquardt’s continued threats of imprisonment.

Unfortunately, Ewan had yet to return home. Two days she’d dealt with that lout in the dungeon. Days of Marquardt ranting about her inadequacies as a gentle-bred woman. Days of doubting her ill-conceived decision to abduct and imprison him. Days of allowing her imagination to run wild about prison.

The horrors of Newgate’s conditions were infamous. Would Marquardt have the power to demand she be taken there? Even more alarming was an unbidden thought yesterday morning which sent her head spinning.

Have I committed an offense punishable by hanging?

Roark prowled his cell. Ten irate paces to the wall. Ten fuming paces back. The lone candle flickered but valiantly continued to burn despite being scarcely more than a nub.

His last one.

The weak flame cast meandering shadows across the rustic walls. On a stone above the table, he’d discovered one hundred and seventeen etched marks. Some pitiable sot had spent almost four months locked in this cell.

What time was it? Miss Ferguson promised to return after dinner. Where was she? He shot a glance to the candle before returning his gaze to the sooty darkness beyond his cell. At most, it would burn another hour.

He tried to conserve the tapers. His fear of the dark, particularly the inkiness caused by being a good twenty feet beneath the keep, had him burning a light constantly. Roark wrinkled his nose. They stunk too, worse than he did. Likely they were made of mutton fat. He sniffed. The whole place reeked of mildew and dank, musty dampness.

He slept little. He’d only been able to do so by repeating in his head the scriptures Maman had recited to him. They’d not brought him much comfort. However, despite his vow to never strike a woman, daydreams of paddling Miss Ferguson’s backside brought him a sense of satisfaction,

When he did nod off, the squeaks and squeals of rats and mice fighting over the remnants of his meal woke him. He’d taken to resting with his food tucked near him, throwing crumbs or leftovers outside the cell. Still, the more daring of the rodents ventured within.

He shuddered. He’d dozed off a bit ago and woke with a grayish-brown rat the size of his three-legged cat, Achilles, perched on his chest, grooming itself.

Roark had remained stock-still. He’d no desire to be bitten by the brazen rat or the fleas it no doubt hosted. In the medical books he’d studied, he’d read of numerous incidences of humans contracting typhus, cholera, and the plague due to exposure or bites by infected vermin.

Another black mark against Miss Ferguson.

No doubt she hadn’t considered the dangers of close association with rats. Likely, the addlepate was unaware of the hazards, not that she’d care. She was obsessed. No matter how many times he told her his name, she adamantly insisted he was Edgar and, therefore, posed a risk to Yvette.

Instead of scampering off, the rodent had reared onto its haunches and wiped at his nose and ears with his front paws. Grizzled whiskers twitching, the bugger stared at Roark with his black-button eyes.

Then casually, as if it were an everyday occurrence to bathe on a human, the scraggy rat had ambled across Roark’s abdomen and down the length of his leg. After giving him a cursory look, the little beast hopped onto the pallet, and sauntered from the cell.

Roark cocked his head. Were those muffled footsteps in the distance? She was coming—at last. And none too soon. The candle would last scant minutes more.

The glow announcing her progress grew in size and intensity as Miss Ferguson neared. She was moving rapidly. Where was the familiar click of her boot heels?

Then, she was there.

Roark gaped awestruck at the vision before him. Her coffee-colored hair piled into an intricate Grecian knot atop her head displayed her slender ivory neck exquisitely. The deep scarlet gown clung to her slim figure. Jewels in her hair, earlobes, and around her neck sparkled in the lantern’s light.

Petite perfection.

He glimpsed the creamy swell of her bosom as she struggled to slide on a slipper. Her subtle perfume filled the air. Desire speared him.

Blister and damn.

His groin tightened involuntary. Roark cursed inwardly at his body’s betrayal. Adaira Ferguson was the last woman on earth he wanted to be attracted to.