Kitabı oku: «Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle», sayfa 10

Chapter Eleven

Nora flung herself across the door.

Stockport laughed. ‘You might as well admit to the hiding place if you’re going to be so obvious. Step aside.’

She didn’t mind him finding the costume. He knew already. But she did mind him finding other items like the list of investors and the small amount of loot she had hidden there, waiting for a chance to change it into pounds.

‘I will not step aside, Stockport. However, I will admit that The Cat’s costume is inside. No gentleman would force his way into a lady’s closet.’ She hoped the appeal to his sense of propriety and honour would work. She looked up at him with a gaze of wide-eyed innocence known to have been the undoing of other men before him.

‘Touché, madame.’ Stockport put a hand over his heart. ‘Your appeal to my honour has me at a disadvantage.’

Nora dropped her pose, all business again. ‘Now that’s settled, tell me your bargain, Stockport.’

He had the gall to smile grandly as if he were enjoying this nocturnal visit far too much for his own good. ‘Call me Brandon. Since we are to be accomplices of sorts, we should be on first-name basis, Eleanor.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Nora snapped.

Brandon raised his eyebrows in query. ‘What shall I call you? I can’t call you Cat.’ He tapped a long finger against his chin. ‘I know, I shall call you Ermentraude. Yes, that’s precisely the name that comes to mind when I think of you, white flannel and all.’

‘Stop your teasing. This isn’t a game, Brandon. I have no wish to hang.’ Nora brought up the dagger once more, tensing.

‘Tell me your name,’ Brandon demanded.

‘It’s Nora,’ she ground out through her teeth. She stepped close to him so that the blade pressed against his white shirt. ‘I will thank you to take me seriously.’

Something akin to mischief flickered in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you will thank me to take you—preferably horizontally over seriously, but we can work with that. I’m told I am quite skilled at a variety of positions.’

Nora’s free hand shot up and slapped him with resounding force across the planes of his gorgeous face. ‘If that was the deal you were coming to negotiate, you can climb back out of the window right now.’ She gave an expert jab with her blade, slicing off an onyx stud from his shirt front to emphasise her point.

‘Ouch, that pricked, you vixen!’ Lightning quick, he grabbed her wrist holding the knife. Nora kicked him hard in the shins, succeeding only in raising his ire.

Instantly, she felt herself lifted off the ground and slung over his shoulder. He took two long strides and she was tossed on to her bed. Stockport followed her down, imprisoning her with the sheer size of his looming frame and forcing her to meet his impossibly azure eyes.

Her breath came in pants, her anger quickly turning to something more lethal than the blade limp in her hand. By all the saints, he was gorgeous and at close range he was nigh on irresistible.

‘How dare you?’ Nora berated. ‘I don’t like fast men.’

‘I don’t like conniving women.’ He was nearly as breathless as she.

She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You do too. You like the way I do things, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’ She twined her arms about his neck and brought his lips to hers in a searing kiss.

Nora could feel the pressure of his erection hard against the juncture of her thighs and felt her body thrill to it. She wanted him. Negotiations and deceptions suddenly seemed secondary in light of the primal need surging through her.

He drew back, resting on his knees, straddling her at the thighs. Nora cast him a questioning glance at his retreat.

‘I want you, Brandon,’ she said bluntly in case he had somehow misunderstood her body’s invitation.

‘I want you too, but not at knife point.’ He jerked his head towards her right hand. ‘Drop the dagger.’

‘Deal. Drop your trousers.’

‘Deal.’

The dagger clattered to the floor, followed shortly by the softer shush of trousers.

Negotiations were complete.

‘Say it again, Nora. Say you want me,’ Brandon murmured quietly as he resumed his position over her, hands on either side of her head, his lips flicking fire-hot kisses along the column of her neck.

She could barely think, let alone speak, but somehow she found the wherewithal to whisper it again. ‘I want you, Brandon.’

‘No games?’ His hand gently kneaded a breast through the flannel. His body might be ready, but his mind was sceptical, no doubt recalling the last time they’d played along these lines. He’d ended up tied to the bed.

Hungry for his full commitment, Nora offered the reassurance he sought. ‘It’s no game, not tonight.’ She leaned up to kiss him again. ‘Tonight, it’s just you and me, no politics between us.’

He studied her face, a sudden tenderness present on his own countenance that startled Nora. ‘Truly?’ he asked in near-reverent tones, indicating this was no game for him either.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, reaching for him once more and growing tired of the delays. With her two hands she reached up and rent the fabric of his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Then she began tugging at her nightgown.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, turnabout’s fair play.’ Brandon gave a sensual laugh and reached for the gown himself. ‘Do you have many like this?’

‘Two others.’

‘Good. Then you won’t miss this one.’ He grabbed up the fabric at the hem in both hands and ripped. Slowly. Revealing her to him inch by aching inch.

He was a torturer of the highest order. Nora closed her eyes against the onslaught of desire that took her the moment his lips caressed her exposed calf and moved their way up to her thighs. Never had she been so thoroughly or successfully wooed. His skill had not been exaggerated.

Nora tried to keep a part of her mind detached, focused on something else so that she would not be wholly consumed by the act she and Brandon were engaged in. She tried to think of her next robbery, tried to visualise the floor plan of the St John house, tried to remember Brandon was her enemy, and while there could be an objective moment of shared pleasure between them, there could be nothing more.

She failed utterly.

Her mental exercises were no match for the musky scent of his maleness and the clean spicy smell of his soap. His hands caressed and his kisses worshipped as he made his way up her body, laving and revering by turn until she was at last bare to his gaze.

With a lazy finger, he traced a circle about the aureole of her breast. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said simply.

Her heart sang at the plain compliment. It meant all the more for its lack of adornment and her desire mounted. She could feel her own slickness welling and she prayed it wouldn’t be long before Brandon brought his sweet brand of agony to an end. Nora writhed against him in encouragement.

‘Patience, Nora.’ He laughed softly before calming her mouth with a kiss. ‘I would not rush this and have it over so quickly.’ He tested her with a gentle finger and even that small, intimate invasion left her gasping.

His erection prodded the entrance to her soft core and she opened to it, spreading her legs wide to accommodate him between them. His heat was contagious and she was seized with an urgency to have him inside.

The sooner this exquisite distress was over, the sooner she could find her balance. She was fighting futilely and frantically now to save herself from complete capitulation.

He entered her with a sharp push that caused her to gasp and then he sighed, sliding home the rest of the distance. She found his rhythm and raised her hips to join him. Had anything ever felt so divine? Her body pulsed around his shaft, faster and faster until she knew she’d burst from the ecstasy of it. Desperately she strove to hold on to a piece of herself, to not give him everything.

‘Let it happen, Nora. We’ve been moving towards this since we met,’ Brandon coaxed hoarsely. ‘There, now, let it go. Come soar with me.’

And she did.

Nora exploded. Her senses were raw and vulnerable. She could feel Brandon’s weight as it sagged in satiation against her, having found his release as well. She could smell the musk of their lovemaking. She could taste the sweat of their efforts on her skin. Had she ever been more alive than she was right now?

Brandon rolled to his side and pulled her to him so that her backside lay tucked against him. Not for all the sterling in Britain would she have moved from that position, even if she could have willed her languid bones to do so. Overcome with an odd sense of completion, Nora fell asleep for the first time in years not wondering about tomorrow.

This was not what he had come here for, Brandon mused in the dark, watching Nora sleep beside him. He wished he could rest that easily. He idly fingered a long curl and let it fall against her exposed shoulder. He had come to strike a deal with her. He would warn her about the trap at St John’s in exchange for her promise that she would stop the raids. He wouldn’t expose her identity. She could move on. Then she would be someone else’s problem.

He didn’t want her to be someone else’s problem. He wanted her to be his problem, and his alone; not Witherspoon’s or St John’s, just his.

Tonight had complicated matters. He had not come here with any intention to bed her, but, having done so, he was forced to recognise that his attraction to Nora was more than easily slaked lust.

He would be severely compromised if the investors discovered this little liaison. Hell, the investors were the least of his worries. He was the local magistrate and he was bedfellows with the local underworld. Literally. Being with Nora could not happen again.

Nora, Nora, Nora, his mind chanted. At last, his passion had a name and visage beyond the alias and the mask of The Cat. They had made love twice more and each time had served to heighten his desire for her.

She fired his blood like no other. She was not interested in him for his title or his vote like the powdered women of the ton. She wanted him as a man and only as a man. The thought was stimulating and highly complimentary if he didn’t realise the reality behind it. She could not have him any other way. As a man and a woman, there were no barriers between them. Acknowledging him as an Earl and a mill owner erected plenty of obstacles.

Nora stirred beside him, reminding him that the night was passing and that he could not be caught at The Grange when the sun rose. He doubted his ability to resist another coupling if she awoke.

Brandon reluctantly rose from the bed, careful not to disturb her. He dressed in the dark, the lamp having gone out hours ago. He shrugged into the sleeves of his greatcoat and felt the imprint of the small notebook he carried in his inside pocket. Inspiration struck.

Kneeling by the sill, he took out the small lead pencil and notebook and wrote. He left the paper on the table next to her bed and said a silent farewell before exiting through the window.

He was gone. Nora knew it before she opened her eyes. The bed felt empty. A brush of her hand over cold sheets where he had lain confirmed it. Well, what had she expected? He could have not stayed. He couldn’t very well have walked downstairs and declared his presence to Hattie and Alfred or risk being seen leaving the Grange by anyone who happened to be taking a morning ride. It simply wasn’t practical.

Of course, ‘practical’ was merely a rationalisation to salve her wounded pride. He probably woke up and realised how foolhardy their passionate foray had been, just as she was doing now. And it was that—it was the most foolhardy thing she’d done since her brief marriage.

Nora rolled over on her back and moaned. What was it with her and handsome men? They were her Achilles’ heel. Her first husband had been handsome, conceited and lazy. She hadn’t discovered the last two traits until it was too late. Now it seemed she was on the brink of falling for another handsome face, this one entirely out of her league. A thief had no business giving her heart or her body to a peer of the realm. It would only serve to complicate things between them.

‘Hah!’ Nora snorted out loud to the empty room. ‘It was only sex.’ Perhaps saying it out loud would help her put everything into perspective. It wasn’t as if she was expecting him to offer for her after their night together—their incredible, exceptional night together.

It didn’t help. No matter how many times she said it, she could not convince herself it was only sex. She had wanted Brandon on a higher plane. She’d wanted him body and soul. And last night, he’d wanted her too, all politics aside.

Unless he’d been pretending. Doubt gnawed at her innards. Oh, please, no. Was it possible to fake the way he had looked at her? The way he’d seduced her with such reverence as if she were a goddess? Remembering made the doubt worse. Perhaps he thought to ensnare her, lure her close with protestations of love and undying devotion. She remembered his simple words: ‘You’re so beautiful.’

Nora cringed. Someone trying too hard would have made the mistake of using flowery language, comparing her lips to roses or some other body part to some other ridiculous commodity. Not Brandon Wycroft. He was a master at his craft.

Nora reprimanded herself. She’d willingly eaten from the proverbial tree of knowledge last night. She and Brandon had made love and now there was doubt, slinking like a serpent between them. Before last night, everything had been clearly defined; she wanted to see the mill fail and he wanted to see it succeed. It had all been so uncomplicated.

Nora’s eyes lit on the table beside her bed. A note. She reached for it. Nora, do not go to St. John’s on Wednesday night. It is a trap. B.

Nora crumpled the small sheet in her hand. The note was short, concise and, after last night, positively deadly. Was he telling the truth and wished to protect her from harm? Was it a lie? Maybe he hoped she would believe the note and forgo the raid. It might be nothing more than a ploy to get The Cat to stop the robberies. If the robberies stopped, the investors would stay. The mill would go forward. He would get what he wanted. He would win.

She hated herself. He had her right where he wanted her—between doubt and disaster.

‘She’s got you right where she wants you—panting like a stallion around a mare in season,’ Jack drawled, sprawled in a chair before the fire in Brandon’s library, a glass of brandy in one hand. His growing familiarity with that position was starting to irritate Brandon.

Brandon shot Jack a ferocious glare. ‘Don’t be crass. That’s not funny. I brought you here to help me, not to make jokes at my expense. So far, you’ve done nothing but drink my whisky and abuse my hospitality.’ Looking for insight into his problem, Brandon had confessed his night with Nora to Jack, daggers and all.

‘It’s not crass, it’s true.’ Jack twirled the snifter’s stem carelessly. ‘She beds you…’

‘She did not bed me,’ Brandon retorted, his pride stinging.

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Correction. You bedded her. That’s what she’s convinced you to think anyway. In return, you spilled the beans and told her everything.’

Brandon stared into the fire. He was mad at Jack for making his time with Nora into something manipulative and tainted. He was mad at himself for partially believing his friend might be right. There was nothing like a little disgust and self-loathing to queer his pitch with Nora.

He was conscious of Jack rising from his chair. Jack gained the door and turned back. ‘Tell me, did you ever get a look in that wardrobe she so zealously defended?’

Brandon met his question with stoic silence. No, he hadn’t and, worse, he hadn’t thought anything of it until Jack brought it up. Whatever she was hiding in there, she had successfully defended. So successfully, in fact, he hadn’t even realised she had diverted him until a day later.

‘That’s what I thought. Now, explain to me again how she doesn’t have you where she wants you?’

Brandon sighed and slumped down in his chair. By Lucifer’s stones, sleeping with Nora was the worst best thing he’d ever done.

Chapter Twelve

Wednesday night found Nora guiding her horse up the dark Cheetham Hill Road towards the wealthy neighborhood where Magnus St John lived.

She was glad she had chosen to come. She couldn’t stand hypocrisy in any form. It irked her endlessly that men like St John and Witherspoon made money off the grime of industry, but wouldn’t dare to dirty themselves by living amid the squalor they wrought.

They might think twice about their fortunes if they couldn’t look down on the factories of Manchester from their lofty mansions on Cheetham Hill, but instead had to live in Ardmore, a once-elegant, but quickly succumbing, suburb of Manchester or some other such neighbourhood.

The decision to carry out her plans at St John’s had been a classic prisoner’s dilemma and she’d spent the better part of the week debating her decision.

Go or stay? There appeared no way she could win. If she went and there was no trap, it would mean that Brandon had used their intimate encounter to manipulate her plans. If not, it would mean Brandon held some modicum of feeling for her, but going would put her in significant danger.

Nora knew she should hope the first option was true, but part of her didn’t want to believe Brandon could fake such an intense encounter or, even if he could, that he would have done so with her. After all, she’d been honest with him from the start about who and what she was.

While Nora, the woman on the brink of catapulting into love, was tempted to play the coward and renege on her Wednesday raid, The Cat knew her duty. The Cat did not shirk her responsibilities.

Despite the hiccup of her interlude with Brandon, The Cat was succeeding; the investors were scared; word in the village had it that two were asking to pull out. The mill was short on funds. Everything was going according to plan.

Experience taught her that was when the bottom usually fell out of the bucket. Just not tonight, she prayed, please, just don’t let it be tonight. Still, in spite of her responsibilities, she might have opted for remaining at home this evening if it hadn’t been for the note that arrived Monday afternoon.

The regular food supplies had not improved Mary Malone’s health. She desperately needed a doctor and expensive medicines. Nora was her only hope. That Mary had written to ask for help indicated how dire her situation must be.

The street on which St John lived in his palatial townhouse was near. Nora turned off and followed the lane behind the fine homes leading to the mews where the residents stabled their cattle. She found a quiet corner behind St John’s home, not far from the gate leading to his small city garden where she could discreetly leave her horse.

She’d been here twice before and knew the gardens and house well. The dining room, with its imported Venetian crystal chandelier, was St John’s pride. The elegant room could be accessed from the outside by French doors that opened into the room so guests could be entertained by the burbling fountain in the spring. In the winter, the doors were kept shut and the gardens dark.

It would be the perfect entrance as long as the undercook had done her job and slipped the sleeping potion Nora’s network had provided into the staff’s afternoon tea, the last meal they would have before serving St John’s guests. The powder would induce a sound eight hours of sleep before wearing off.

If the potion worked as planned, all the non-essential staff would be asleep, leaving her to deal only with the footmen in the dining room serving the meal. She wasn’t worried overmuch. Many of them were hired just for the evening and already had sympathies with The Cat. The others didn’t care much for St John and his blustering ways. She was counting on them enjoying the sight of their arrogant master being brought to heel too much to pose any real problem.

Nora dismounted and continued the short distance to St John’s on foot. She deftly scaled the garden wall and dropped silently to the ground. Her first task was to unlock the gate. There was no sense in scaling the wall on her way out too.

When she left, she had only to run to the gate, push it open and she’d be in the street with only a short distance between her and the horse. Better yet, should Brandon be telling the truth about the party, the guests would have their carriages and horses hidden from common view. By the time they retrieved their horses to give pursuit, she would be long gone into the night.

Her escape route secured, Nora turned her attention to the house. Customarily, on Wednesday nights the St Johns played cards. She scanned the exterior. Her eyes lit on the dining-room window. The room was dark, the exquisite chandelier dim. Her spirits sank.

She supposed a part of her had hoped to see the chandelier blazing, but that was ridiculous. Witherspoon and St John wouldn’t overlook that obvious detail. A lit chandelier would warn off a burglar, a sure sign that someone was dining at home.

She pulled a small watch out from beneath her cloak and consulted its face. Five minutes before nine. St John and company were to have sat for dinner at a quarter past seven. By now they would be finishing their third course, the fowl course, and have had plenty to drink. It was well known that St John served drinks before dinner and kept an excellent wine cellar for his entertainments.

Nora did quick calculations in her head. Her information indicated St John served his meals à la Russe. That meant there would be ten footmen in attendance, one for each guest.

Her tallies totalled twenty people in all. Unless Brandon was in the room—then that made twenty-two, Brandon and the footman serving him. The thought drew a shiver from her that she did not dare to contemplate. She had not seen him since their night together. She could not stop to dwell on him now. She had a performance to give—if not to the group quietly waiting for her in the dark house, then for Brandon when she finished here.

She neared the panes and her breath caught. She glanced again and was sure. Candle flames, invisible at a distance, flickered on the dining-room table. Elation surged through her. Brandon hadn’t lied. Do not think on him! she cautioned herself, breathing deeply to center her thoughts.

She checked the two pistols and knife she carried at her waist—three weapons, not counting the hidden dagger in her sleeve sheath, the one she’d pulled on Brandon. She thought of Mary’s three children and shoved fears for her own safety aside and bravely plunged ahead.

The glass-paned doors that gave out on to the terrace from the St Johns’ dining room shattered the polite tones of supper conversation. Women screamed. Men bit off barely restrained expletives at the interruption of their well-ordered evening. A dark form vaulted on to the white-clothed table. In each hand, two deadly, long-nosed pistols gleamed in the dim candlelight.

‘I say!’ St John half-rose in his seat to protest the intrusion.

‘You’ll say nothing more until I command it!’ came the reply.

Sitting to the right of St John, Brandon felt the tension he’d been carrying between his shoulder blades all evening dissipate in anticipation of what was to come. The Cat had arrived. The trap—laying in wait for The Cat to come—had been sprung, only now it seemed more to her advantage than to theirs.

The investors’ plan seemed silly in the wake of the reality playing out before him. They’d thought to catch her by changing the St Johns’ weekly schedule and being at home when The Cat came calling. They had not planned for the contingency of The Cat confronting them directly. The servants were supposed to have subdued the intruder.

That worried him. What would she do when the servants stormed the dining room? She couldn’t hold off the entire staff. But then, The Cat wouldn’t leave such a detail uncovered. Perhaps there would be no staff. Looking covertly around the room, it became clear that the footmen were not going to leap to St John’s aid. Maybe no one else would either. Brandon relaxed. The odds were looking up.

Now, the investors’ very nemesis danced on the table and held them at gunpoint against the odds of ten to one. Silently Brandon applauded her tenacity but he didn’t want to see her hurt and he’d prefer not to be compromised by coming to her defence. Although, at the moment it didn’t look like she needed much protection.

His conscience mocked him. It was a bit late in the game to be worrying about compromising situations now. Besides, he’d chosen to put himself in this predicament by coming to dinner at all. His curiosity had gotten the better of him; had Nora believed him and used the information he had given her to protect herself or had she been filled with the same doubts that plagued him and come anyway, thinking he had lied for his own benefit?

Tonight would be a litmus test. If she stayed away, it meant she trusted him. If she came…Well, then he’d owe Jack twenty quid and Nora would owe him an explanation about what exactly she thought had transpired between them.

Oh, indeed, his curiosity had led him to St John’s dining room. Inarguably it certainly had gotten the best of him. Now, as he watched Nora hold court on St John’s damask cloth, he hoped curiosity wouldn’t kill The Cat.

With nimble steps, Nora stepped towards St John and presented him with a black bag. ‘Pass the bag about the table and deposit your jewellery and effects into it,’ she snapped, giving one of the guns an ominous wave.

St John was too flustered to do anything but comply. He fumbled with the ruby cravat pin he wore and put it in the bag. Mister Flack on his left had no such compunction.

‘Now see here, you insolent bastard, you cannot commandeer us in such a fashion!’

She cocked the pistol, an unmistakeable sound. ‘Can I not?’

‘Damn it all, man,’ Flack beseeched the host. ‘Call for your servants.’

Eyes blazing at the man’s insistent mutiny, Nora kicked over his crystal goblet of red wine and let the burgundy stain seep into the pristine cloth. ‘Better wine than blood, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Flack? At the next interruption, I shoot. Don’t take any notions about servants coming to your rescue. They have been effectively subdued thanks to a wee potion in their afternoon tea.’ She hoped that sufficiently cowed Mr Flack. She would rather not shoot anyone although, if it came to it, a flesh wound to the shoulder might do some of them good.

The women put up no resistance as she trained the pistols on each guest in turn, causing them to make their donations quickly so that the pistols might be turned on their neighbour instead. The bag came to Brandon last. Her eyes locked on his, compelling him to keep her secret. Don’t make me have to try to shoot you.

His gaze was riveting and demanded her attention, which almost cost her. In order to keep the bag and Brandon in sight, she turned her attention slightly away from the other half of the table. Brandon’s face saved her at the last moment. His sharp eyes slid to the left and she whirled with his gaze, hearing the noise as she did so.

Stinging from the loss of his diamond cravat pin, Mr Witherspoon tried to play the hero. A gentleman’s derringer flashed in his hand. Only his penchant for the dramatic bought her the needed extra seconds. If he had shot first and talked later, the outcome might have been vastly different.

‘Drop your weapons!’ Witherspoon bellowed.

Nora laughed fearlessly. ‘Drop your weapons, sir!’

‘I am not afraid. I don’t think you’ll shoot,’ Witherspoon retorted.

‘How willing are you to risk your companions on that bet? For instance, would you be willing to risk the Earl?’ She turned one of her pistols on Brandon. Damn the seating arrangement. She had no choice. The shattered door lay to his right—her escape and he was in the way. She wished it was anyone but him. This was the very scenario she wanted to avoid. If she couldn’t shoot him, she would have to take him with her.

She started barking instructions while the table erupted into muffled shrieks of horror at the possibility of a murdered Earl. ‘My lord, take the bag and start backing towards the door. Do not try to run. I will use my second pistol to shoot you down in your tracks. To the rest of you, I command you to stay seated in your chairs for ten minutes. Do not follow me. My lord is my hostage. It will go poorly for him if you attempt any more heroics.’

To her relief, Brandon moved towards the door. She backed up, using a careful sidestepping motion to keep both him and the table in her line of vision. It wouldn’t do for Brandon to play the traitor now. For good measure, Nora fired a shot at the chain holding the chandelier, sending the Venetian crystal confection crashing on to the table, scattering china.

‘What do we do now?’ Brandon asked once they cleared the house and were out in the street.

‘I’ve a horse hidden down the street. I don’t expect those idiots in there to actually wait ten minutes before they come hunting.’ She stuffed the guns into her belt. ‘Now we run.’ Nora sprinted down the street, leaving Brandon to follow, although it never occurred to her that he might not.

Her assumption that he would blindly follow orders and play the hostage-cum-accomplice galled Brandon beyond the point of good sense. The tumult of emotions that had roiled within him all night rose to the fore while he ran after her; all the anxiety of waiting for her to show or not—did she trust him or not?—and the awkward mixture of fear and pride at watching her perform her antics on St John’s white-clothed table. It angered him that she would risk her own life to test him.