Andrea Kane (10 page)

Pierce went ominously still. “I would suggest you never breathe my mother’s name, Tragmore. Not if you want to live. As for the information your pathetically transparent investigators uncovered about my past, you can publish the details on the front page of the bloody
London Times
for all I care.” Pierce cocked a brow, enjoying the look of shock on Tragmore’s face. “Did you think I didn’t know of your men’s recent inquiries? I assure you, Tragmore, I know every arrangement you make, everything you do. As I said, I own you.” Pierce’s lips curved into a mocking smile. “You wasted your money, what little of it remains. I would have told you anything you wished to know, free of charge. I’ve never made a secret of my past—not my place of birth, nor my unknown parentage. You had only to ask.”

“Then I’ll keep searching until I find something else,” Tragmore roared, words of enraged impotence. “A lowlife such as yourself must have scores of reprehensible secrets. I won’t rest until I find—”

“Then you’ll expire from exhaustion and have nothing to show for it.” Pierce took a subtle, menacing step in Tragmore’s direction. “Drop your investigations. You’re squandering what is now
my
money. That angers me. Continue and I’ll be forced to call in my debts that much sooner.”

“Why are you doing this?” Tragmore exploded in frustration. “Why are you single-handedly purchasing all my notes? And why do you hate me so?”

“You’ll have your answers when I’m ready to supply them. Not one moment sooner. And Tragmore,” Pierce added with icy reserve, “if you ever attempt to blackmail me again, I’ll ruin you without a backward glance.”

The marquis drew a slow inward breath. “You’re obviously far more cunning than I realized.”

“One of the benefits of growing up on the streets.” With bitter finesse, Pierce set his glass on the desk and rose. “Good day, Tragmore. I’ll expect my first payment Friday.”

With deadly calm, he crossed the room and left.

Outside the manor, Pierce unclenched his fists and inhaled sharply, trying to dispel his tightly coiled enmity. There was no record of what the marquis sought, just as there was no measure for Pierce’s hatred. Tragmore didn’t even recall the skinny urchin of eighteen years before. But then, why should he? To him, all workhouse children looked alike,
were
alike, fit for naught but abuse. Pierce was just one of them; a nameless, faceless lowlife, common filth in the sea of riffraff that defined the House of Perpetual Hope. And, as the only witness to the marquis’s corrupt exchanges with Barrings, Pierce accepted that role gratefully, blending in, biding his time, anonymously plotting his vengeance.

At long last, Tragmore’s undoing loomed near.

Heading for his waiting carriage, Pierce wondered for the hundredth time if killing the son of a bitch would prove more satisfactory and infinitely quicker than draining his funds and driving him to his knees. But, no. For all Tragmore’s crimes; the blood money he’d stolen, the indignities he’d rendered, he deserved a prolonged agony far more heinous than death.

An unconscionable thought sprang from that reality.

How could Pierce destroy Tragmore without subjecting his family to the same devastating end?

Beside his carriage, Pierce came to a grinding halt. Averting his head, he scanned the woods instinctively for a sign of Daphne.

Suddenly, obsessively, he needed to see her.

“Ride to the main road,” he advised his driver, already walking away. “I shall meet you there shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver urged the horses into a trot, and disappeared around the curved drive.

Cautiously, Pierce made his way through the trees, along the leaf-strewn paths, searching for the enigma who’d haunted his memories since Newmarket.

He was just about to try a different direction when he heard the muted sound of a stick snap.

Shading his eyes from the late-afternoon sun, Pierce assessed the area until he saw a moving spot of color by a small pond. Noiselessly, he followed it, then stopped in rapt fascination to watch.

Across the pond, Daphne was creeping along, silent and careful, her attention riveted on a snake that was slithering forward, preparing to prey on an unsuspecting chipmunk. Slowly, Daphne approached, sidestepping sticks and leaves that might emit telltale sounds and reveal her presence.

Twenty feet away, she stopped.

Whipping a blade from beneath her skirts, she sent it sailing on ahead, watching as it landed directly between the predator and his prey. Startled, the chipmunk dropped the crumb of food it had been eating and darted off into the woods, leaving the snake and its threat far behind.

Satisfied with her work, Daphne rearranged her skirts and walked over to reclaim her blade. “That was beneath you,” she informed the snake. “In the future, please choose targets that can adequately defend themselves. Else you’ll answer to me.

“I don’t know about the snake, but I’m certainly convinced.”

Daphne started, dropping her knife and spinning about as Pierce approached her.

“Mr. Thornton!” She flushed, regaining her composure with great difficulty. “You startled me.”

Pierce grinned, gazing down into her beautiful, flustered face. “I could say the same. That was the most admirable display of skill, execution, and approach I’ve seen in ages.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

“Where on earth did you learn to throw a knife so adeptly?”

“I wasn’t taught, if that’s what you’re asking,” Daphne replied warily.

“An innate skill.” Pierce nodded his understanding. “I’m impressed. Am I to assume you exercise this ability frequently?”

Her smile faded. “You’re mocking me.”

“Never. I’m just curious why a well-bred young lady would need to carry a weapon when strolling the grounds of her estate.”

“I—” She averted her gaze, obviously uncomfortable with the question. “I walked a bit beyond Tragmore. I generally do.”

“Really? To where?”

“To the village.” Impulsively, she leaned forward, clutching Pierce’s coat as she went on in a rush. “No one but Mama knows of my visits there. Please, sir, I ask that you—”

“I won’t mention a word to anyone, especially your father.” Pierce covered her hands with his, strangely moved by her trust. “Why do you go to the village? To shop?”

“No. I visit a friend.”

“A friend,” Pierce repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Can’t this friend come to Tragmore?”

“Unfortunately not. Father detests him.”

“Him?” A surge of jealousy coursed through Pierce’s blood. “Your friend is a man?”

“A vicar. Mr. Chambers. He’s known Mama since she was a girl, and he’s been my dearest friend for as long as I can remember.”

“I see.” Jealousy vanished, supplanted by keen interest. “Why does your father hate the vicar?”

Sadness clouded Daphne’s lovely face. “Many reasons. Too many to enumerate.”

“So you travel to the church to see him. Alone.”

“Not entirely alone,” Daphne corrected. “I have my blade. Not that I’ve ever had occasion to use it. But the vicar worries incessantly about me. So I carry it to ease his mind.”

“Your vicar sounds like a fine man.” Pierce caressed Daphne’s fingers gently. “Should you ever decide you need an escort to the village, I’d be happy to stand in for your knife.”

Clearly moved, Daphne swallowed, staring at their joined hands. “Thank you, Mr. Thornton. I shan’t forget your kind offer.”

Lord, she was beautiful. More so each time he saw her.

Clad in a simple beige day dress, her tawny hair was adorably disheveled, insistently falling free of its pins. Like Daphne herself, it appeared unwilling to be bound by either ribbons or convention, and Pierce wondered if she knew how enchanting she looked, how badly he wanted to haul her into his arms.

He seriously doubted she suspected either.

“Are you on your way to meet with my father?” Daphne inquired, turning those mesmerizing eyes up to his.

“Actually, the marquis and I have concluded our business. I was on my way home.”

“You walked to Tragmore?”

“No. But I asked my driver to await me by the main road.”

“Why?”

“Your father mentioned you were strolling the grounds. I wanted to find you.”

“Oh. I see.” Her eyes twinkled. “Your forthrightness again, Mr. Thornton?”

“Definitely.” Pierce hooked a finger beneath her chin, caressing her lower lip with his thumb. “Your naiveté again, Daphne?”

She smiled, her lips curving against his thumb. “Evidently, yes.”

“Do you know you have the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen?” Pierce’s voice grew husky, his gaze fixed on her mouth. “And lips that are even softer than I imagined?”

That faint pulse began beating in her neck.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Should I be?”

Pierce shook his head slowly. “No.” He smoothed his knuckles across her cheek. “Your skin feels like silk.”

“Mr. Thornton—”

“Hmm?”

“What business do you have with my father?” Daphne blurted out.

“Various dealings.” Pierce freed his other hand, looping his arm about her waist and urging her against him. “Do you know how badly I want to kiss you, Daphne?”

Her eyes grew wide with an intoxicating combination of fascination and uncertainty. “I—I don’t—”

“Very badly. So badly it’s unendurable.” He brushed her lips lightly with his. “I need to taste you. Will you let me?”

“You’re asking me?” Her breath was tantalizingly warm against his lips, but Pierce could feel her tremble as she balanced on this new yet exhilarating threshold.

“Yes, I’m asking you. I’d never take what you didn’t willingly offer.”

Wonder and something painfully akin to relief flashed in her eyes, softening Pierce’s hunger into something achingly tender as it melded with a wave of blind protectiveness. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, shield her from anything or anyone who tried to harm her.

“Kiss me, Daphne,” he whispered. “Let me show you how safe you can be.”

A soft moan escaped her, and she nodded, lifting her mouth to offer him what he sought.

She had no idea how much he sought and how much he found in that kiss.

Rich, deep, more profound than the mere act itself, the kiss ignited slowly, exquisitely, like the growing embers of a fire newly kindled, radiantly aglow.

A hard shudder racked Pierce’s body, and he wrapped Daphne closer, opening his mouth over hers in a poignant conveyance of desire, possessiveness, pain, and tenderness.

She was heaven.

That was his first coherent thought as the fire caught, spread, causing Daphne to lean into him, shyly pressing her palms to his chest, and kissing him back with an enticing blend of innocence and ardor more seductive than the intimate acts of the most practiced courtesans.

Pierce heard himself groan, capturing Daphne’s hands to bring them around his neck, deepening the kiss until she opened her mouth to his seeking tongue, whimpering as it stroked hers.

“Daphne.” He said her name reverently, lifting her small, delicate frame up and into him until there was nothing between them but the hindering layers of their clothes.

Even those could not hide the hardening contours of Pierce’s body.

Daphne tensed, tearing her mouth away and staring bewilderedly at Pierce.

He relaxed his grip, but didn’t release her. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I told you, you’re safe. I just—” He swallowed convulsively, his vulnerability as unique and frightening as it was unsurprising.

As if sensing his raw emotions, Daphne lay her hand tenderly on his jaw. “I’m not afraid. Not really. I’ve just never felt such—done such—”

“There’s a powerful pull between us,” Pierce replied soberly. “I feel it. And so do you.”

“I don’t deny it.” She lowered her eyes to his coat.

“Have you ever been kissed, Daphne?”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she hesitated for so long that Pierce began to seethe, planning the demise of any other man who’d tasted her lips.

“No,” she admitted at last, her voice tiny. “Not kissed.”

She was remembering last night with the Tin Cup Bandit. Pierce knew it, just as surely as he knew he wanted to wipe that memory from her mind, replace it with burning memories of him. Only him.

“Not kissed? What does that mean? What intimacies
have
you shared with a man?”

“None.” Daphne started at the fervor of his tone. Misunderstanding its cause, she gave him a look of heartbreaking apology. “I suppose I’m even more naive than you imagined.”

“You’re perfect,” Pierce informed her fiercely, livid at himself for inciting her self-doubt. He lowered her feet to the ground, his hands tightly gripping her waist. “What you’re hearing is not disapproval. It’s jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” She gave him a quizzical look. “Why?”

“I don’t want anyone’s arms around you but mine.”

Daphne blinked. “Surely you’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking?”

“Because you’re handsome, wealthy, charming, and very accomplished—er, experienced.” Her cheeks flamed. “You must have dozens of women eager for your attentions.”

Pierce’s chuckle vibrated through her. “Only dozens?”

“Are there more?”

“Daphne.” He caressed the soft material of her gown. “I really don’t give a damn about other women. As for your description of my assets—” His smile grew wicked. “Thank you. I think. Now let me return the compliment, with the exception of the last item you mentioned. You’re enchanting and sensitive and beautiful in every way, some of which are more important than the mere physical.”

“So are you,” she blurted out. “I’ll never forget the way you rescued me at Newmarket. I was so absorbed in watching those desperate, hungry people, the bitter futility I could see on their faces, that I never heard Father’s introduction. Thank you.”

So that was what had preoccupied her at Newmarket. Compassion for the poor.

Tenderness unfurled inside Pierce like warm wisps of smoke. “I don’t want thanks, Daphne. I want you.” He saw panic invade her eyes, and read her thoughts easily. “I’m not afraid of your father.”

“I know you’re not. My guess is he’s afraid of you.”