All Men Are Rogues (13 page)

She read long into the dark nights, her voice growing hoarse. At least it helped keep her sane, and perhaps Justin would find his way out of his dark warren of oblivion.

“I warrant Evelyn’s heart is larger than the great ship that brought us to this godforsaken place. Today she adopted four pitiful, motherless kittens despite the fact that the staff has not yet recovered from the mongrel she brought home last week. They mew all over the residence and smell worse than the Thames.” She grinned to herself, recalling her father’s feigned disgust; she had spied his lips bowing into a smile. Even though he’d hated to admit it, he’d found the little darlings just as adorable as she had. He had just liked to pretend to be gruff. Sighing, she read on, “All hell broke loose when she attempted to bathe the filthy pests. Yet, I cannot rebuke her. She is diverted and concurrently entertains the staff. No small blessing there.”

She turned the page. “The tension here is thicker than butter but my efforts are slowly but surely proving fruitful, and I know with half a chance—”

“Arife?” Shah entered. The lines of her face had deepened, and shadows fanned her dark eyes. “You must take a break.”

“I want to bathe him again.” Evelyn set aside the journal and rose. Stretching to get the blood back into her aching limbs, she added, “You sleep, I’ll do it.”

“I do not see the benefit, but I will get the water and cloth.”

“Then will you rest?”

Shah nodded. “As you say. But I have prayed much to Allah, and I fear our efforts are lost on this marquis. The man has gone to brighter places.”

“He’s a strong man and will fight back. He just needs a little prodding.”

“The kind of push we are powerless to give, I’m afraid.” Shaking her head, Shah left the room.

Sitting next to him on the small bed, Evelyn traced the cool cloth along Justin’s broad, bare shoulders and down his muscled arms. Even in ill health the man managed to appear virile. His limbs were long and strapping, his shoulders and chest brawny, his waist tapered and firm. Her gaze traveled to the blankets draped at his waist, and then moved back to his upper torso. No use thinking about what’s down there.

Despite the fine dusting of golden-brown hair, his skin was pale in the flickering candlelight. One could almost believe him a ghost, if not for the heat radiating from his skin like a hearth with dying embers. If he had a fever, it was low and intense, not blazing.

Brushing the damp cloth along his brow, she smoothed back his short honeyed-wheat hair, exposing his broad forehead. His face had been handsomely defined before, but now it was reminiscent of a stonechiseled masterpiece. His skin was like alabaster, highlighting the refined cheekbones, aristocratic nose bordered by hollowed cheeks, and dark beard with a cleft peeking through. The whiskers encircled his pink lips, which were open and chapped around the edges.

Molding the damp cloth about her finger, she leaned forward and traced his open lips, trying to chase the dryness from his mouth. A hand gently wrapped around her wrist. She gasped and her heart skipped a beat.

“Justin! Thank heavens!”

His thumb gently caressed the underside of her wrist, sending shivers racing up her arm.

She yanked her hand away as if burned and jumped far from the bed.

He mumbled something unintelligible. With her heart caught in her throat, she realized he must be in that hazy dream state floating haphazardly between the real and imagined. Still, this was an exciting development after days and nights of no progress.

Stepping back to the bed, she leaned over and gently shook his arm. “Justin?”

When he gave no response, she pressed her hand to his forehead. Was she imagining it, or was he warmer than he’d been just a moment before?

She sat down beside him, lifted the discarded cloth, and swept it across his brow.

His arm slowly coiled about her waist, heavy and locked.

“If this is your idea of a joke, Justin Barclay!” She shook his shoulder more forcefully, but he did not wake. His muscled arm lay heavily around her middle, not in an uncomfortable kind of way. Still, it was a bit too intimate to bear.

She pried her fingers below his forearm, only to have it tighten.

“Wake up, Justin.”

He mumbled something unfathomable, and the arm around her waist slowly pulled her on top of him, squashing her breasts against the bandages of his brawny chest. She lay frozen, not wanting to hurt him, yet not wanting to be in his power either. Should she call for Shah? She certainly wasn’t afraid he would harm her; for all his misdeeds, he would never laid a hand on her. She didn’t believe he would start now. Still, part of her was fearful of him.

Taking a shaky breath, she realized she wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but of the hodgepodge of emotions he stirred in her breast; hatred, pain, bitterness, longing, desperate hope mixed with fear. He had ripped out her heart in the worst kind of betrayal but then saved her from being assaulted. The blasted man had taken a bullet for her. She could almost hate him for it.

“Justin,” she whispered. Then clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you awake? Please wake up.”

With no response from him, she lay frozen, waiting for something, wondering what to do. His warmth radiated up her body, making her recall the pleasure of lying beside his hard-muscled form on a worn green couch not so very long ago. Everything had been so different then, yet her body still recognized her former lover. She closed her eyes, trying to force away the recollections, but Justin’s spicy-woodsy scent pervaded her senses, making the memories rush to the fore. Passionate, ardent kisses. Flesh rubbing against hot, wanting flesh. The heat, the ache to have him between her legs, filling her, sating her desire. Her body flamed, hungering for him still. It was appalling. She was mortified by her weakness, by the fever coursing through her flesh for him. She needed to get away from the bastard before he truly came to.

She wiggled slightly, praying he would think this was only a dream. A fiery, erotic fantasy of latent desires transforming into unbridled passion.

Dear Lord, she had to get away from him.

She decided to try sliding down his torso to the bottom of the bed, as his hold was firm, yet not painful. She squirmed, trying hard not to put pressure on his injury.

A small groan, barely more than a whisper, escaped his lips. She froze. Had she hurt him? His arm still held her locked against him, heavy and unmoving. With his eyes still closed, he slowly moved his free hand to her hair. Clutching a fistful of her tresses, he pressed them to his nose.

Heavens, was he smelling her hair? This was growing farcical!

“Uh, Justin, my lord—”

Suddenly he pulled her face to his, meeting her mouth with awkward precision. He pressed his smooth lips to hers, causing her squirming to escalate. She had to escape!

With a firm grasp on her hair, he tilted her head and opened his mouth, daring her to deny his kisses.

She checked all movement, terrified she might actually respond. With her heart hammering faster than any smithy, she decided to reason with him and pretend this was all a funny, horrid mistake.

“Justin?” she tried speaking into those silkily delicious lips. “Now that you’re awake, my—”

His hot, thick tongue slid inside her mouth, making speech impossible. Her body flamed and unconsciously pressed closer, hungry for more. Of its own accord, her tongue entwined with his, eager and wanting. He was on fire, and she wanted to jump into the flames. Blood rushed to her head, sending all thoughts of freedom from her mind. His scent, his touch, his fevered passion trapped her and she wanted him to throw away the key. Her hips reflexively pressed against his hard member; her body yearned for him.

She pressed fiery, wet kisses to his ear, along his handsome jaw, aiming downward.

“Oh, Rachel,” he breathed into her hair.

It was as if someone had dropped her into an icy pond. Her passion turned to frosty humiliation. Evelyn pushed out of his arms, uncaring of his injury. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she stood over him, stiff with mortification, horrified by her behavior, by the wanton reaction he had unknowingly ignited in her. She was pitiful beyond redemption.

A frown puckered his brow, but his eyes remained closed. “Mother? I thought you’d gone to see the queen.”

His head rolled from side to side. “George! You’re back. Good, we’ve missed you.”

She stepped closer and pressed her hand to his brow. The simmering heat had intensified into a raging conflagration. Fear clutched at her heart; she had more to worry about now than her lascivious behavior. The man was burning up with fever.

The words tumbled from his lips, weak and barely sensible, “Don’t go…hunting…. Please stay…with me.” His voice pitched in panic. “George!”

She grabbed the cloth, dunked it in the now tepid water, and squeezed it over his forehead.

“George!”

Her mouth had dried to dust; she was fearful for him and yet mindful of her own role in this mummery. “Shh,” she soothed. “George is dining at his club. He’ll be back shortly.”

His brow relaxed. “George,” he sighed. A small tear trickled out the corner of his eye and rolled down his chiseled cheek. She brushed it away with the cloth. Her heart twisted over his pain for his brother. For all the lies and betrayal, the grief of his brother’s loss was very real.

She brushed the damp rag over his neck. “George is at his club having the lamb with mint jelly. And crème brûlée for dessert.”

The tension fled his body. His head rolled to one side, and he appeared to doze.

Raising her hand to her mouth, she let out a long, shuddering breath. Swallowing hard, she gathered the bowl and cloth, intent on getting more cold water from the stream. And getting away from Justin Barclay. She felt raw, her insides glaringly exposed during the awful incident.

Not wanting to rouse Shah, Evelyn quietly donned her cloak and left through the kitchen door. Crickets chirped merrily in the brush, and the birds began their morning song. The first golden rays of dawn gave the hint of a glorious day to come. Evelyn barely took it in as she stumbled toward the stream.

Inhaling the woodsy scent of oak trees and green shrubs, she tried to ignore what had just happened in the cabin, instead focusing on the fact that Justin had finally wakened. Well, not quite wakened, but certainly showed some signs of life. An ostensible miracle, one for which she needed to be thankful. Yet, the memory of Justin’s passionate embrace and her wanton response made her belly turn over with mortification.

She rubbed her hand over her eyes. She must be well and truly exhausted. Drained to the point of losing her sense of reality. That must have been it. She’d been so tired, unable to help herself. It had been a natural response to a virile male. She was not to blame, nor was he. He had been out of his mind, and, in some sense, so had she.

The air was crisp and damp with the dew shimmering off the mossy ground. As her shoes crunched along the rocky path, she tried to make sense of her world and exactly how to deal with the mystifying marquis and her traitorous body. All business, that was the ticket. He was her prisoner…well, her patient, and needed to answer all of her questions. Answers. They would finally have the answers they needed to help Sully. To help her and those she cherished out of this horrid mess. The thought reignited her sense of purpose.

“In my business, clear thinking, keeping your eye on the prize, that’s the way we win,”
her father had explained.
“Emotions muddle one’s perceptions and are a luxury a good emissary cannot afford.”

She needed to keep her mission foremost in her mind. To take the passion and emotion Justin evoked in her and set it aside forever. Well, perhaps not forever, but as something to ponder on in her dotage, if she ever made it that far. For all her protestations about wanting to be free of her father’s world, it looked as if becoming part of it was necessary in order to survive. She needed to be like her father—coolheaded and willing to do whatever was required.

Feeling back on track, she paused to watch two russet-bellied birds playfully circle and dive. They twittered with cheer. She felt as if the dark clouds hanging overhead had split and a ray of sunlight had pierced through the gloom. A small glimmer of hope, but a glimmer nonetheless.

“But there’s a problem with hope,” she whispered to the wind. “With it comes the distinct possibility of disappointment.”

A crow squawked in the distance in apparent agreement.

S
hah raced in from Justin’s chamber, a hunk of cheese and a knife still in her hands. “I heard him. Allah be praised. He’s awake.”

Evelyn rushed into the room, praying he would not recall anything about the prior night.

She and Shah clutched hands as they stood over him, waiting breathlessly for another sign.

He licked his dry lips.

Evelyn sat beside him. “Bring me some water, Shah.”

The trusty maid raced from the room to return a moment later with a pitcher and a cup of water.

“Drink, my lord.” Evelyn and Shah gently propped him up, and he sipped from the mug she held for him.

He shuddered and slowly opened his eyes a red-rimmed slit. He looked at her and then Shah, speaking slowly, “Who are you?” His voice was thick and scratchy.

Evelyn blinked. This was the last thing she’d expected. “You don’t recognize me?” she asked, uncertainly.

“What happened to me?” he asked slowly. “My head’s pounding and my chest is on fire.” His glassy eyes traveled the stark room, then locked with hers. His gaze filled with alarm.

Suspicion kept her voice flat. “We’ve been praying for your recovery, my lord.” Her answered prayers did not mean that she was about to fall for another of his ploys.

Slowly raising his hand to his bandaged head, he watched the women warily. “Who are you?”

“I’m hard-pressed to believe you so conveniently lost your memory when it’s finally time for you to speak the plain and naked truth.” Her cheeks warmed as she realized what she’d said.

Something flickered in those gray-green eyes. Awareness, perhaps? Fear of being forced to spill the ugly facts? She hoped he was not remembering anything about the night before.

“Tell me who you are, at once!” he demanded hoarsely, but he winced in pain, seemingly from his own raised voice.

If he kept up this nonsense she was going to tear every hair from her head. Or better yet, from his.

Ignoring him, she held out the cup. “Here, drink more,” she urged.

Licking his lips, he accepted more water from the cup and then dropped his hand palm upward, seemingly exhausted from the limited exchange. His lids lowered, and in a moment he appeared to be asleep.

Evelyn watched him for long moments. Was it her imagination, or was there more color in his sculpted cheeks? His golden-brown beard blanketed his jaw and dimpled chin, and with his head bandaged, he appeared almost like a dashing pirate. She mentally shook herself. Coolheaded business. Answers. That was his only role in her life. She forced herself to recall that this was the man who had given her the taste of forbidden pleasures, granted her the dream of a saner future, only to dash her hopes against the jagged shards of his betrayal. She needed to keep that in the forefront of her mind.

She turned to Shah. “Let’s cook him some soup. He’ll be hungry when he wakes again.”

The twittering of birds nagged at Justin’s consciousness, along with the undeniable scent of…cooked onions? Raising his hand to his aching temple, he eased off the bandage and gently traced his fingertips over the egg-sized bump adorning his head. It was tender to the touch. What the hell had happened to him?

He peeled open his eyes, but the bright light of an afternoon sun glaring through a small window caused him to cover his face with his hand. Lord, just moving hurt like the dickens. His breath caught at the searing pain that felt like a heated poker jamming into his chest. He repressed a groan; he felt so bad he’d have thought he was ready for the undertaker.

Trying to force his memory to resurface, he could only recall the hazy specter of George eating lamb with mint jelly. Now he knew he was going daft. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were really true? He pushed away the pathetic musing, focusing instead on determining how he had been injured and come to this forsaken place.

The room was sparse, with his single bed, two side tables, and a rickety wooden chair against the unadorned wall. The floorboards were swept clean, and a straw broom sat in the corner by the door. He listened but heard no voices, just the clattering of dishes and the movement of people. How many were they, and were they friend or foe? Even with the door and the small window as possible means of escape, he doubted his wretched body would be able to get the job done.

His belly growled, and he chastised it to silence. Food would have to wait. He swallowed, feeling more parched than any desert. A jug sat on the table beside him, adjacent to a ceramic cup. Out of the shadow of his recollection formed the memory of a stout, dark-skinned woman and her blond-haired, blue-eyed companion. They had given him water to drink. Were they the servants of his enemies?

He was loath to make a sound, but the water beckoned. First, he needed to assess his injuries. Taking a deep breath, with his fingertips he felt the wraps around his torso. They were neatly done. He could smell linseed and mint. Likely a concoction for treating a gunshot wound. He’d been shot and had had his head banged in. But by whom? A memory beckoned but drifted out of his grasp. The lovely miss golden hair and her companion? It seemed as if they’d been treating him, but appearances could be deceiving.

Frustration brimmed forth. He was useless without his memory or a weapon. He was alarmed by how weak he felt and how little he recalled. He could remember nothing of a pistol confrontation or of the women ministering to him. He closed his eyes, trying to force his memory to return. The horrific pounding in his head intensified, clamoring to a crescendo loud enough to make his teeth clench.

“Are you alright?” came a melodic voice.

He slowly opened his eyes. A robin’s egg blue gaze met his own. A recollection brushed the edges of his vision. Moonlight on golden hair. The sounds of a waltz in the distance. Small pebbles underfoot. And a deliciously sweet kiss.

“I kissed you,” he murmured.

Her porcelain cheeks reddened, and she eyed the door nervously. “Nonsense. You must have been dreaming.”

“It was at a ball. You were wearing…black.” His gaze traversed her dark, tattered gown.

Relief flooded her features. “Oh, yes, that. At the Coventry Ball. But that was ages and
ages
ago.”

A faint bouquet of lavender reached his senses, and sudden insight flashed through his mind. “You’re Evelyn.” He smiled, quite proud of himself.

Crossing her arms, she asked dubiously, “So now you remember?”

This was not exactly the welcome he’d hoped for. “You are Evelyn Amherst?”

“Yes.”

“And where are we?”

“Reading is the closest town.” She met his eyes. “How far is your estate in Bedford from Reading?”

“Two days’ ride.” With a change of horses and no bullet wound.

“We’ve made you some soup. I’ll be back in a thrice.” Frowning, she turned and abruptly left the room.

We. He took a deep breath, letting the images come to him. He was remembering, and it was not at all pleasing. Not by half.

Squaring her shoulders, Evelyn carried the soup and bread into Justin’s chamber. He was wrestling with the covers, and the covers were winning.

“Lie still or you will loosen your bandages,” she chastised. “Or worse yet, injure yourself further.”

He inched himself up on the bed, exposing the white wrappings encircling his broad chest. A small oval of red stained the snowy bandages. He fell back into his pillows, seemingly exhausted. But peach colored his chiseled cheeks, and his gray-green eyes sparkled. The man was unquestionably on the mend. He demanded testily, “How about telling me how the hell we got here?” Recovering indeed.

She placed his soup bowl and bread plate in his lap, careful not to touch him. “My, aren’t we snippy upon awakening.” She sent a cynical prayer of thanks that she’d never had the opportunity to slumber with the bastard.

“Sorry,” he replied, scowling. “But between the aches in my body and what I am finally recalling, I’m feeling a bit put out.”

The floorboards creaked as Shah entered and moved to the corner. Wringing her hands in her stained apron, her eyes flew from Justin to Evelyn and back again, concern warming her dark brown gaze.

Between bites he motioned to her. “You are Shah? Turkish, right?”

Shah beamed at him. “We have prayed for your recovery, and Allah has answered.” She nodded. “Can I get you anything else, Sahip? More water?”

Evelyn waved her off. “He seems fine for now. Certainly well enough to eat and answer some questions.”

“He only just woke,” Shah countered, eyeing her reprovingly.

“We’ve waited long enough for this lying turncoat to tell us everything he knows.”

He grumbled, “I’m no turncoat and I’d appreciate a bit of water.” He nodded to Shah. “Yes, please.”

Shah poured him a cupful, and he drank it down like a man who’d just traveled the desert. He helped himself to two more cupfuls before consuming every drop of the soup.

“Are you ready to talk now?” Evelyn asked evenly, standing at the foot of his bed with her arms crossed. She was chomping at the bit to get down to business. The sooner she exposed the facts and got away from Justin Barclay, the better off she would be.

He nodded and set down the empty bowl on the side table. His spoon clattered loudly in the tense silence.

Leaning back against the covers with a sigh, he stated, “I was not lying, Evelyn. And I will answer any of your questions. Although I have a few of my own.” Shifting the bedclothes around his bare waist, he looked up, saying, “If I recall correctly, I was shot and the bookcases fell on top of me. I assume a doctor examined me. I’d like to know what he said about my injuries.”

She had to begrudgingly admit that it was not an unreasonable inquiry. “He said it was fortunate we got the bullet out. He said you’d be weak. That if we were lucky you’d avoid infection. And it looks like you have, so far. But you did have a fever and were a bit delirious.” She tried to stop her faithless cheeks from heating.

“Did I say anything terrible?”

She couldn’t help herself. “Who is Rachel?”

He chuckled. “I really must have been fevered.”

“Well, who is she? An agent? Mistress?”

Shah slipped out the door. “I go cook.”

“My old governess.” Shaking his head, he commented wistfully, “I haven’t seen her in years. She was my very first—” His words abruptly stopped and his brow puckered. Tilting his head, he studied Evelyn.

Suddenly a loose thread that needed snipping on her sleeve drew all of her focused attention. She rolled its end in her fingers and pressed it down. “Well, no matter then.” She cleared her throat. “So how are you feeling now?”

He seemed to consider her a long moment, finally speaking slowly. “Well, there’s the carriage rolling over my head. And the gaping hole in my chest.” He licked his lips. “But they are nothing compared to the ache in my heart.”

“You can stop pretending now.” Her hands clenched. “You’ve accomplished your goal; Sully was taken, I am completely alone.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I know I’ve wronged you, Evelyn. But if you only knew how much I care—”

Ignoring his declaration, she let out a long breath. Making certain to stay at arm’s reach away from him, she turned and dragged the wooden chair from the corner to the side of the bed.

“Does my remorse count for nothing with you?” he asked roughly.

She adjusted her black skirts, noticing how dirty and drab they had become. She was having trouble looking at him. You would think he’d at least want to don a shirt. “We need to know why you trapped Sully. Why do you want him?” Sudden insight dawned on her. “For that matter, why did you have my father murdered?”

“I did not kill your father, Evelyn. How can you believe that?”

She met his gaze levelly. “I don’t know what to believe where you are concerned.”

“Well, let me tell you the truth.” He implored with his eyes. “For all of the convoluted plotting and scheming to entrap you and Sullivan, you cannot understand how much you’ve come to mean to me.”

She set the information aside as one would a trivial letter. “Your feelings are neither here nor there. I need to know who you work for and what is your intent. That is your only usefulness.” The words sounded harsh even to her own ears, but her anger made them feel justified.

He pursed his lips. “Do you have any feelings for me at all, Evelyn?”

“Emotions are immaterial. Sully is in trouble and that is my only concern.”

He nodded slowly. “So you claim.” He said it as if he did not believe it or was unwilling to. Well, it was not her problem. Getting answers was.

“Who do you work for?”

“The Foreign Office.”

“What is your immediate mission?”

“To stop a conspiracy targeting our monetary system.”

“Connived by whom?”

“Supposedly Napoleon,” he paused, “and your father.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Father would have rather slit his own throat than bring harm to his country.”

“What was he working on when he died?”

“When he was
murdered
”—she let the word hang in the air—“Spain was firmly committed to the alliance. So he was bolstering the bonds with Prussia, Russia, and Sweden. Napoleon’s spies were everywhere, trying to ignite discord. We were based in Sweden, and he traveled frequently between the three countries, keeping everyone steadfast, unswervingly devoted to the campaign.”

“You are certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“What about Sullivan?”

“You are barking up the wrong tree, I tell you!” Her patience was growing thin. “My father would’ve given up his life a thousand times for his king! The fault lies with your masters, not my family!”

“I fear you might be correct,” he stated quietly.

She hid her surprise; she’d finally gotten through to him. Rubbing her hands over her eyes, she asked quietly, “So what do they want from us?”

“I don’t know. I was supposed to get you to spill your father’s secrets. Or get Sullivan to come out of hiding.”

“You se—” She swallowed hard, ignoring the pain perilously near her heart. “Seduced me to get my defenses down so I would tell you…what? What secrets could I possibly hold?”