A Prince Among Men (19 page)

Above them a bird ruffled its feathers.

"You're cold," he said. "Let me take you back to Searle House." Abruptly he opened the gate, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the lane.

They moved through the dreamy, unreal landscape, where they were free to join hands, toward the plain square of light cast by the stable lamp, where they must return to the differences that separated them. Ophelia regretted that she'd stopped him so soon. Maybe it would not have been so very foolish to linger a few minutes more in the garden.

Maybe there was some way that Alexander could become her equal. There were men lower in rank than Alexander who mixed freely with their betters, men like the champions of track and ring valued for their narrow, limited excellence. Alexander's excellence was general, his speech and ideas those of a gentleman. It was insulting to him to compare him to race touts, riders, boxers. Perhaps if he owned horses or bred them, he could move in society. She could buy him a horse. He should possess Raj, he already did in a way.

She was thinking of it when a rush of footsteps
broke the silence. Alexander spun, freeing her hand. Two black shapes hurtled toward them.

"Run, Ophelia
—"

The clash of bodies cut off his command. One black, burly figure shoved Ophelia hard and she went reeling. Her shoulder slammed into stone. She rolled groggily back against the wall, getting her breath, trying to clear her head.

From the writhing shadows in the lane came grunts and curses. The two shapes were wrestling Alexander up against the opposite wall. She heard a thud.

"Got 'im, Bill. Cut 'im! Cut 'im
!"
shouted a high, thin voice.

A third black shape emerged from a deeper shadow under an opposite eave, moving slowly toward the pants and grunts.

Ophelia glanced toward the stable. The little square of light seemed impossibly distant, but she began to edge toward it, hugging the wall, staying in the shadow. Damp weeds caught at her feet, and her ankle came up against the sharp edge of something.
Please, let it be a stick.

"Come on, Bill," said the thin voice. "Can't 'old 'im a bleedin' week."

The slow moving figure closed in on the others. "Where's yer fine 'orse, boyo? Not so 'igh now, are ye?" There was a sickening thud, followed by a tight rasp of breath. "Take my place. Use a 'orse against me."

"Cut 'im and ha' done w' it," said a third voice, flat and calm.

Ophelia slid down the wall, keeping her eyes on the dark mass opposite, groping with her fingers for the thing in the grass. She found the flat
edge of a stick, maybe an old barrel stave, as wide across as her palm. She tugged it free of the weeds and straightened.

She could see the black shape that was Bill stretch out an arm. At the end of it, a flash of metal gleamed in the moonlight. She braced herself, raising the stick, then made a swift dash from the concealing shadows. With a savage cry she brought her stick crashing down on the offending arm. Her stick landed with a crack, the force of the blow reverberating through her body. Bill shrieked and whirled, his arm flying, knocking her to the ground with a jarring impact.

She scooted back across the dirt, tangled as she was in her cloak, until she could get her feet under her and scramble into the shadows.

From across the lane came a hail of blows and a sickening thud. Then a sudden snarl and a keen whistle of breath. Ophelia pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a cry.

One of the black shapes staggered to the center of the lane, doubled over, wheezing.
"
Damn ye, Bill." It was the flat voice.
"
It's
me
ye've stuck."

The three shapes came together and passed down the lane, only the low rumble of their voices coming back.

Ophelia could hear Alexander's short, fast breaths.

"Alexander?" She crossed through the moonlight to the opposite shadows and reached for him against the wall. He grabbed her hand and pulled her tight against him.

"Are you all right?"

She bobbed her head against his chest, feeling
the pounding of his heart and his labored breathing. She could smell his blood, hot and coppery.

"Come into the light," she urged, lifting her head from his chest.

They stumbled into the stable, and she pushed him down on the bench. She could see at once that a cut above his eye had bled freely and his lower lip had been split. She pulled off her gloves.

"
I'll get Raj," she told him.

The stallion's eyes were rimmed with white, his nostrils flaring. He tossed his head, making her struggle to get a bridle on him.

"The smell of blood makes him nervous." Alexander's voice came from directly behind her.

She looked over her shoulder and let go of the bridle. Her stomach plunged wildly. He'd stripped off his gloves and removed his upper garments and was wrapping his cravat around a long gash on his arm. Ophelia looked away from the fair smoothness of his shoulders and the dark golden "V" of hair on his chest.

He came up beside her, calming the horse with his voice and hands until Raj accepted the saddle.

"Let's get you to Searle House," he told Ophelia.

She watched helplessly while he slipped into his coat, easing the sleeve over his makeshift bandage. He was showing calm sense and judgment. But to part now with the sickening thuds of the attack still in her ears, her own throat raw from the cry she had uttered, his wounds untended, seemed to give the victory to their attackers.

"Not there, somewhere else," she pleaded.

His eyes burned, making her think the impossible—that there could be hot blue seas.

"I have a room above a sh
op, where I go sometimes to…
think.''

"Take me there."

Chapter 14

O
phelia didn't recognize the streets or the turnings. The moonlight made an unreal city where black shadows wavered as if they might break loose at any moment and rush forward to attack. At a rickety gate off an alley, Alexander swung down and led Raj into a small enclosure.

When he had taken care of the horse, he led Ophelia through a back entrance into a plain brick building. She waited impatiently in the dark, deprived of the peculiar pleasures of his nearness, the scent of his skin, the rhythms of his pulse and breathing. He returned with a candle and a decanter of spirits.

"Who lives here?" she whispered.

"Just a shopkeeper."

The candle lit their way up two narrow flights of stairs to a small, neat room with moonlight spilling through an uncurtained casement window over a desk and a bed.

His room. His things. Ophelia stopped in the doorway, aware that he was offering her a glimpse of his secrets. His circumstances were
not as hopeless as she'd thought. She could see the dull gleam of metal on the dresser, the faint pink of the moonlight-blanched counterpane on the bed, and stacks of books on the desk, their titles hidden in the shadows. The quiet, bookish room suited him, revealed the simplicity and dignity of his taste. Like her, he had found an escape in the midst of London. Here there was no one to order him about. Even her pretense of commanding him would be a mockery. She kept her gaze on the books and crossed to the desk, a safe object of scrutiny.

"Your father's library?"

"A bit of it," he said.

The door clicked shut behind her, and a current of anticipation passed through her. The privacy of the place and the late hour conferred new freedoms. There would be more than kisses. William's attack had pushed them past the careful boundaries she had drawn around all their previous encounters.

He came to her side and set the candle and the decanter on the edge of the desk. Gold lettering gleamed on the spines of the books. She lifted her gaze to his. The first freedom of the room was this—to look openly at each other.

Under his regard she felt herself transformed. How odd to feel lovely in ruined slippers and a muddied cloak, with soiled gloves, her curls wild! A quivering started deep inside her, and she clenched her fists to keep the trembling concealed.

His fingers tugged the strings at her throat, and the silken cloak slid down her back with the lightest whisper of sound.

"I like you in evening wear," he said in an altered voice.

Ophelia stared helplessly at his absorbed face. Even with a cut on his brow, a split lip, and a fierce red welt on his cheek, his face had a rare sort of perfection, an elegant sensuality that was not jaded, like the faces of other men she knew. Her awareness narrowed to the expression of unmistakable longing in his blue eyes, dreamer's eyes, with golden lashes, like bars of sunlight. In this room he dared to dream things she could only guess at, while she schemed merely to break society's rules. She felt petty and imperfect and retreated into talk.

"This is a snug room," she whispered, her throat dry.

He smiled. "It must seem small and plain to you.
"

"Not at all. You have your desk, your books
…
it's like a safe hiding place." She ran her hand along the edge of the desk, observing the fine wood. "Does one of these books contain the rules of love?"

"I remember all the rules we need."

"Do we need rules?"

"We do," he said firmly. "Because you're afraid of the bed in the corner."

Her gaze flew up. "You have some conceit to think your bed interests me."

"I am a conceited fellow where you're concerned. There's a permanent print of your cheek right here." He tapped his chest. Candlelight burnished the
golden brown hair where his torn
shirt gaped open.

"That's because you crushed my ribs as we rode."

He smiled, a slow curve of his mouth, warm and amused. "Even if you admit you like me, Ophelia, you don't have to fear the bed. We haven't reached that stage."

"You make it sound as if we're lumbering along like an antique post chaise." She drew a circle on the polished surface of the desk. "What stage have we not reached?"

"The fourth stage of a lady's love. First, there's giving hope, then granting a kiss." He swallowed. "Then allowing the enjoyment of an embrace
…
"

Ophelia's throat was dry. "That's three."

"I'll tell you about four when you're willing to consider three."

She lifted her chin and tried for a light tone. "Why should I?"

The answer flickered in his blue gaze.

He took the stopper from the decanter of spirits, releasing the fiery scent of brandy in the air, and poured a measure of the amber liquid in a glass, offering it to Ophelia.

"To dispel the shock."

"Oh, I'm quite over it, I assure you."

"Really?" He caught her unresisting left hand and folded her fingers round the glass. Then he took her right hand, turned it over in his, and brushed his fingers across the dirt-streaked palm of her glove. She gasped as a thread of sensation uncurled up her arm even to her breast. He seemed not to hear her as he popped the tiny wrist button free of its loop and peeled the glove
down her arm. He freed her hand and lifted her scraped palm to his mouth.

"Drink your brandy."

She raised the glass, and he broke away and ste
pped into the shadows of the corn
er. There was a splash of water and a clink of porcelain. Then she heard the rustle of his jacket as he shed it. She turned to offer her help, felt a peculiar weakening of her limbs, and told herself it was the brandy.

Moonlight melted on the smooth curve of his shoulder. Shadows defined the long hollow of his back and the ridges of his ribs. She was used to the padded elegance of fashionable men, the layers of wool and silk and cambric, the frills on cuffs and shirts. Here was elegance of line.

"Let me see to your injuries," she said, tugging at her remaining glove. He glanced at her over his shoulder and went still. The heavy rhythmic beating of her heart marked off the pause before he moved, bringing a basin and towel to the desk.

"We'll need more light." She laid her gloves on the desk.

"This is good," he said. He pulled out the desk chair and waited for her to sit. Then he sat, angling his knees opposite hers and offering his arm. Permission to touch.

Ophelia's stomach did a queer flip at the thought of touching him freely, because she wanted to, with no disguise of accident or purpose to hide behind. In Searle House, maids and valets helped mistresses and masters with hair and clothes, a mockery of intimacy, a professional touch, like bakers frosting cakes. Only
Lady Searle touched anyone with affection, and then only the dog.

She began unwrapping the makeshift bandage. A single long gash, sticky with blood, marred the curve of muscle that tapered to his strong wrist. The swift, ugly violence of their attackers came back to her.

"You need a surgeon," she said with certainty.

"Just you," he said calmly.

She took his wrist in her shaking fingers. "My vast nursing experience consists of putting a poultice on Shadow's hock."

He laughed. "Shadow survived, and so will I."

Fresh blood welled up, and she pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured spirits on a clean corner of the towel she held. A little spasm shook his arm as the alcohol made contact with the wound.

"You like this, don't you?" he asked through his teeth.

"I like you humble and obedient." She gave him a wry smile. "For a change."

"When have I ever been otherwise?"

"Only when you've been cheeky, proud, arrogant, utterly assured." She reached for a piece of linen and began wrapping his arm, binding the edges of the wound together. He was watching her closely, a new tension in him.

"The day we met, from your manner with the horses, I thought you owned Raj. The first time we went to Hetty's you explained Prinny's failings as if you were above everyone in the room."

He lowered his gaze. "I've always obeyed your commands."

"Some more willingly than others." It was a
provocative thing to say, and she took refuge in tying the ends of the new bandage and rinsing out the soiled cloth, wringing it dry, the dripping of the water the only sound between them. "Let me see your hand."

She spread his fingers, washing away the blood, and discovered the scraped knuckles. She wanted to kiss them, an impulse so compelling she froze, his fingertips resting lightly against her palm. He sucked in a breath and his fingers curled, stroking her palm. When she looked up, his eyes blazed into hers and he withdrew his hand.

"It's a mistake for you to be here," he said tightly. "I'll take you home."

"Let me finish," she said briskly, holding up her rag. "Your face."

As she pressed the damp cloth to the cut on his brow, her fingers brushed against his hair. His eyes closed, and a barely perceptible tremor shook his limbs, passing to her hands so that she dropped her rag. It was silly to think she could continue any useful tending of his wounds. "Kiss me.

The whispered plea hit Alexander like a breath of air coming up from the coast on a summer's day, scattering the winnower's chaff. Just so, a dozen reasons he should not kiss her were blown out of his mind.

He'd meant no more when they'd set out than to spend another evening pushing her acceptance of him as friend a little further. He had not come to any conclusions about when to stop his deception. It had been instinctive to go on spinning out their time, a fragile, glittering web of
moments. Never mind that it could be dashed apart in an instant. A few more days of her company, a few more kisses, had not seemed so wrong until this night.

In the garden she had censured Solomon Gray for keeping a secret from his daughter, and Alexander had meant to take her home after that. Then she'd commanded that he kiss her. She was impossible to refuse, and obeying her command stirred him more than he'd expected. Still he was resolved to take her home until they'd been attacked. For a few minutes he'd been overpowered by the thugs, pinned to the wall, half mad with helplessness and fear for her. When she'd flung herself into his arms afterward, he had been unable to let her go, as he was unable to let her go now.

With slow, deliberate motions, he rose and pinched the candle out. Moonlight took over the room, seeping into t
he corn
ers, transforming Ophelia's pale gown into something glowing. Winking gleams of brightness sparkled from the threads, the jewels at her throat, her eyes. She was as delicate and elusive as a night fairy.

He pulled her up into his arms and brushed his lips over hers. T
h
en he moved his head, dragging his mouth across hers, feeling a pull like a tide, drawing him deep as dreams, his caution slipping away. A few more minutes were all he asked. He let his hands skim up and down her back, feeling her shudder beneath his fingertips. Her elbows, pressed against his chest, kept him from her breasts, a deliberate shyness.

He liked that. She didn't know how to calculate the effect of a look or a touch. She guessed
some, for her wit was sharp, but there were things he could teach her.

He drew back, taking her hands and flattening them against his chest, letting her feel the heat of his skin, the tautness of his nipples, and the beating of his heart. Hesitantly she moved her hands, her palms arching in slow circles across his chest, her expression soft as it had been when she'd gazed at his battered knuckles.

A low, inarticulate sound came from his throat. He had to touch her in return. His conscience made extravagant promises of self-denial if he could have just one taste of her sweetness.

He pulled her hands from his chest and led her to the bed. She sank down on the edge of the mattress, looking up at him uncertain, defiant, and caught as he was by longing. In a flash that showed the full extent of his desire for her, he saw himself pressing her down into the mattress, covering her as he had in the grass of the park, free to kiss and touch and join his body to hers.

To block the image, he dropped to his knees, encircling her waist with his arms, laying his head in her lap. After a minute she moved, skimming her hands across his shoulders and threading her fingers through his hair.

"I want to touch you," he confessed.

Ophelia paused, on the edge between restraint and abandon. Her body felt strangely divided, weak and powerful at once. The slightest friction of the silk bodice against her breasts sent hot spikes of sensation through her. If he touched her, he would know. He would feel the tiny peaks with their stiff readiness.

But he was her friend, his head in her lap, his
bandaged arm about her, smelling of blood and brandy. They had shared each other's escapes. Now he confessed a weakness to equal hers, and she could not turn away.

He lifted his head, giving her a look of hot reverence.

"Touch me," she whispered.

Moonlight made him a glowing figure. His hands closed around her back, releasing tiny buttons. He rubbed his cheek against hers, his lips tasting her ear, making her shiver. Then he drew back, absorbed in his task. His fingers worked the tiny puffed sleeves of her dress down her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides. He kissed the places he'd exposed, transformed by moonlight and by him. The tiny bodice flattened and freed her breasts above the stiff support of her stays.