Enslaved (10 page)

Thanks to Gavin, for the first time in her life she might purchase whatever she wished without worry. As it turned out, there wasn’t a thing she could think of needing.

Restless, she meandered through the covered market building, divided into five sections: the Row area, the Flower Market, the Russell Street area, the Floral Hall, and the Charter Market. Harry hadn’t exaggerated. The place was enormous. Strolling along the aisles of stalls, she stopped to make a series of small purchases for her dear ones back in France—a package of dried figs, apricots, and pineapple for Freddie, a new pocket knife for Papa Lake, who’d taken to whittling now that he had to spend so much time resting, and a shiny copper kettle for Flora who, as far as Daisy knew, still made do with hers though the spout had been broken for nearly a year.

Wrapped purchases in hand, she was thinking of heading for home when from across the aisle an old gypsy woman hailed her. “How now, dearie, why so sad? Come over to Mother and let me read your future. With your pretty face, it’s sure to be rosy indeed.”

Daisy didn’t believe in divination and a gray-haired old woman in a loose fitting robe festooned with stars and wearing a great many odd-looking necklaces and rings didn’t strike her as a particularly exotic sight. There’d been fortune tellers aplenty who set up their tables on the banks of the Seine. One or two had even shared the tricks of their trade, and she’d discerned that more than reading tarot cards or the lines in a patron’s palm, a good fortune teller was adept at reading human nature.

Even so, Harry’s visit had left her feeling lonely as well as lost. She wanted Gavin but she wanted him on her terms. Why couldn’t he simply let go of his high-minded principles and be her lover as any other man would?

Giving in to impulse, she crossed the aisle to the old woman.

Seated behind the cloth-covered stall covered in pouches of dried herbs, mysterious vials of murky liquids, and decks of tarot cards for sale, the woman looked up at her through rheumy eyes. “What’s the trouble, dearie?”

Daisy hesitated and then thought,
Oh, bugger it, why not? It’s only a bit of fun, after all.
Leaning in, she confided, “There’s a friend of mine, a man, whom I’ve just met again after many years apart, fifteen years in fact.”

The crone whistled. “Fifteen years is a long time to be separated from the one you love.”

“I didn’t say I love him!” Realizing she’d all but shouted, Daisy dropped her voice and admitted, “But I do fancy him a lot and, well, I believe he feels the same about me. I’d like for us to be lovers.”

The crone shrugged her thin shoulders. Casting her gaze across the aisle as though searching for her next mark, she said, “It all sounds grand. What’s the trouble, then?”

“He’s very stubborn and he won’t let himself come near me for fear of seducing me which is absurd because … well, because I’ve been with other men.”

The woman shrugged her thin shoulders, and Daisy suspected there was little of life she hadn’t seen or heard. “A pretty piece like you can’t manage your man, pshaw on that.” The gypsy turned her head to the side and spat. “Now be a good girl and cross Mother’s palm with sixpence, and I’ll give you my failsafe charm for bringing your young man around to your bed.”

Daisy hesitated, heartily doubting that dousing herself or Gavin with some vile smelling love potion or wearing an amulet of toad piss about her throat would be of any help. She took a step back, thinking to make her excuses and move on.

As if sensing her imminent flight, the gypsy caught at her wrist. “You drive a hard bargain, dearie. Make it a groat, then, but be quick about it.”

Justifying the four pence expenditure as no more than she would have spent if she’d bought a bit of ribbon or lace for herself, Daisy opened her purse, picked out the silver piece, and dropped it into the crone’s outstretched claw.

The gypsy tucked the money in a leather pouch at her side. Settling back in her chair, she folded her bony arms about her chest and looked Daisy up and down for a long moment as if taking her measure. “The very next evening you have the chance to get him alone, serve him up a good strong drink and afterward a fine hot meal with some oysters to start. Rub his neck and his shoulders and ask after his day. If you can’t land him in your bed after that, come back here and find me, and I’ll give you your money back. I swear it on Hecate’s name.”

Daisy stared at her. “Are you saying all I need do is serve him supper?” Could it really be that simple?

The gypsy broke into a broad grin of broken and missing teeth. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, dearie. That trick’s as old as Eve.”

“We that are true lovers run into strange capers;
but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature
in love mortal in folly.
—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
, Touchstone,
As You Like It

T
he mantel clock struck its ninth note when Gavin walked through the door of the flat later that evening. Earlier Daisy had sent a message by way of his secretary asking for the pleasure of his company and saying she had something she wished to show him. Assuming she wanted help running through her lines or perhaps to recite her monologue for him, he’d made a special point of coming home. In truth, he was too tired and dispirited to bother with dining at his club. He felt like a physician who’d just pronounced his patient dead, only Jem Baker wasn’t past his pain but at the very start of it. As much as he tried telling himself he’d done everything legally and humanly possible by the boy, he couldn’t help wondering if he might have done more or, barring more, better certainly.

The evidence against Jem was irrefutable as he’d not only been caught in the act of housebreaking but confessed to the crime. Gavin had appealed to the judge for leniency based on the lad’s tender age of fourteen and the fact he’d been forced into thievery by his father, a career criminal. Even so, the sentence had been harsh: one year of solitary confinement followed by three years of hard labor in an adult prison. When Jem emerged, he would almost certainly do so as a hardened criminal. There would be no William Gladstone and no sojourn at Roxbury House to save him.

Daisy emerged from the library as he was setting his briefcase down by the door. “I was practicing Jacques’ monologue from
As You Like It.
I heard footsteps outside in the hallway and thought it might be you. At least I hoped so,” she added. Slanting him a warm-eyed gaze, she looked the slightest bit flushed.

“Where is Jamison? It’s not a Wednesday, is it?” On Wednesdays the manservant took the day off to visit his elderly mother.

“No, but I gave him the evening off. I hope you don’t mind.”

He started to ask why but stopped himself when he realized he truly didn’t care. Daisy was there, that was all that mattered. For the time being, everyone else in the world seemed unnecessary somehow, superfluous. Wearing a simple but lovely pale green silk gown that brought out the deep emerald of her eyes and her pretty hair pinned into a loose knot at her nape, she was like a drink of water to a thirst-parched man.

“How lovely you look,” he said both because it was true and because he desperately needed to say something, anything, to break the tense silence that invariably fell between them at moments such as this. Moments when the shadows and the stillness and the silence seemed to swirl about them like an Avalonian mist, whispering all sorts of forbidden possibilities for how the evening might play out.

Her sympathetic gaze settled over his face. “You look tired. Was it a trying day?”

“Indeed.” In the midst of shucking off his coat, he briefly recounted the day’s tragic turn of events.

When he finished, she said, “Knowing you, you did everything humanly possible and beyond to save him.”

She stepped behind him, her scent filling his head with fantasies of all the ways it could be good between them. Her hands settled over his shoulders and then slid slowly downward, taking his coat sleeves with her, chiseling away at his self-control as surely as if she wielded a sculptor’s tools. He knew he’d only to lean back a little, and he would feel her breasts brush against his back, a bittersweet temptation.
God, Daisy.

Her deft touch quickly freed him of the garment, but her hands felt so wonderful he found himself wishing it might take longer. Just a handful of seconds, and yet it was the closest to paradise he’d come in such a very long time.

She moved back, and though the spell wasn’t entirely broken, he could breathe again. “There, that has to be better?”

He started to answer then realizing it wasn’t really a question, settled on a mute nod. It seemed to satisfy her. Smiling, she turned away to hang the garment on the hall tree, and he indulged in the silent pleasure of watching her, the elegant curve of her spine, the trim waist that cinched in just so, the perfectly proportioned hips and lush bottom that didn’t require a bustle’s padding.

She swung around so swiftly it took him off guard. “Fancy a drink before dinner?”

Ordinarily he didn’t partake at home, but it had been a bloody bad day, and even though he’d left work behind him until the morrow at least, the tension and the damnable sense of failure stayed with him, weighing heavily on his shoulders, his soul, his mind. If nothing else, a stiff drink would purchase him the release of sleep and on a night such as this, when his body was exhausted but his mind was racing with “what ifs,” somnolence was as close to peace as he might come.

He followed her into the parlor. “A glass of scotch would be most welcome.”

She walked over to the decanter on the sideboard and poured three-fingers into a glass. Crossing back over to him, she handed him the drink with a soft smile.

He took it from her, their fingertips brushing ever so briefly, making him imagine what a simple thing it would be to press her pretty pink palm to his lips. “Thank you.” He hesitated and then asked, “Are you joining me?”

The image of her swigging gin from the bottle in her dressing room still haunted him, but over the past week he’d seen no evidence that she was a closet drinker or much of a drinker at all. If he didn’t know better, he could almost believe she staged the scene on purpose to shock him.

She shook her head. “I found a lovely Cote du Rhone in the market today. The wine seller recommended it as an accompaniment to the rack of lamb. I’ll wait for dinner.”

Taking a seat in the armchair, he snapped up his head. “We’re having rack of lamb?”

Looking pleased with herself, she nodded. “Indeed we are and roasted potatoes and braised beans with almonds—and lemon tart for desert if you’ve room left. Oh, and we’re starting with oysters, but don’t worry, they’re fresh. I just bought them from the market this afternoon.”

“I’m not worried.” He glanced into the dining room where the table was set for two, a brace of candles and a centerpiece of fresh field flowers occupying the center. “You’ve been busy.”

She nodded. “I went to Covent Garden Market, the one Harry was always regaling us with stories of, remember?”

He did. “You didn’t encounter any pickpockets, I hope,” he asked with a wink, feeling better by the moment.

She shook her head. “No pickpockets, only an old gypsy woman.”

“Did she tell you anything interesting?”

She hesitated and then shrugged. “Not really. The usual rubbish about fame, fortune … true love.”

At her casual dismissal of the latter, Gavin felt his mood dip, a dull sadness that had nothing to do with Jem tugging at his heart. Daisy wasn’t a marrying woman, she’d made that abundantly clear, and even if she were to change her mind, how the devil might matters ever work out between them, a charismatic actress and a stodgy barrister? Could there possibly be a more star-crossed pair in all of London?

She hesitated, smile slipping. “I should confess that though I did shop at the market, I used some of the money you left me and sent out for the supper. I hope that’s all right.”

“Even better. I’d much rather spend the evening talking with you than watching you slave over a hot stove.”

That seemed to amuse her. Gaze sliding over him, she said, “You never know, Gavin. You just might enjoy watching me …
slave
.” Before he could think how to answer that, she added, “Oh, look, you’re empty.”

He followed her glance down to the glass in his hand. Damn, if he hadn’t drained it. Rourke had been bringing him scotch whiskey for two years now, but he couldn’t recall it ever slipping down quite so smoothly. Before he could answer yes or no, she was drawing the glass from his grasp.

A minute or so later, he had a fresh drink in his hand. “I’ll see about setting out dinner,” she said, slipping into the other room.

An hour later, the remains of the meal and the half-finished bottle of wine sat between them. Gavin set his cutlery on the side of his plate and looked up, a sleepy sense of satisfaction settling over him.

“That was delicious, far better than anything served up at my club. Thank you.” As a matter of fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d supped at his own table. Excellent though the food had been, it was his charming dinner companion who made the evening special.

Daisy smiled, the candlelight casting a soft glow over her face, making her eyes seem even larger, her lips more lush. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I enjoyed serving you.”

She pushed back from the table and rose. He started to follow her up, but she motioned for him to stay seated. Stepping behind his chair, she laid her hands on his shoulders. “You need a massage.”

He started to refuse but the firm pressure of her hands felt wonderful, his will woefully weak. His stiffened muscles had loosened considerably, the alcohol a pleasant warmth coursing through his veins, the meal a satisfying weight filling his belly, and Daisy’s slender, capable hands kneading the knots from his neck and shoulders a slice of heaven on earth.

She leaned in and laid cool lips against his nape. “I want you, Gavin. I want us to make love. Is that so very bad of me? Can’t you set aside those high-minded scruples of yours for once and give in? You might even find you like it. I know I will.”

Like it, indeed. He was more than half mad for her. Even so, he shook his head. “This will never work.”

“It will if only you’ll let it.”

She slid a warm hand down the front of him and settled her palm on the inside of his thigh. He’d been hard for her since he sat down to supper and relied on the table to hide him, but there was no hiding now.

“Switch off that famous brain of yours, and let me show you how good it can between us?” She rolled her hand over the bulge of his erection, the heat from her palm searing through his trouser wool.

He was on his feet, whipping about, sending the chair crashing onto its side. “Oh, God, Daisy, you feel so good, so bloody good against me.”

“Don’t tell me, Gav. Show me.”

Sliding his hands into her soft hair, he bent his head and took her beautiful upside-down mouth in the kiss he’d been fantasizing about for the past week. She tasted of mint from the jelly she served with the lamb intermingled with the spiciness of the wine they’d drunk. Moaning, she shifted beneath his hands, his erection pressing into her soft belly.

She lifted her right leg and braced her foot on the table’s edge, her inner thigh sliding over his hip. She didn’t need to ask. He knew exactly what she wanted from him.

He slid his hand up her limb from ankle to thigh, marveling at how her flesh could be at once so firm and so silken. She wasn’t wearing panties. Between her thighs, damp curls brushed his palm. Her slit was wet and warm and fragrant with musk. For a split second, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in that sweet, fragrant spot and tongue her until she was no longer the one in control, until he was the master rather than her all too willing slave. He sank one finger inside her and drank in her answering moan.

She wrenched her mouth away and looked up at him, eyes feral and expression stark with need. Her beautiful, bruised mouth opened on a single word. “Please.”

It had been a long time since Gavin had been with a woman, but he fancied he still remembered what to do. He slipped his finger inside her again at the same time he slid his tongue between her parted lips. Imagining how later he would bury his face between her open thighs and tongue her until she came, he kissed the corners of her mouth, the dimple at the side, the pulse point behind her ear. He lifted his head and looked down at her. Seeing the raw desire written on her face, her passion-drugged eyes, he felt a heady rush of masculine pride.

He drew his hand away, and she let out a whimper of protest. Her frantic fingers found the flap of his trousers. “Oh, Gavin, I can’t wait any longer. I have to have you this once if never again.”

This once if never again.

The remark snapped Gavin back to the present as surely as a dousing of cold water. He dropped his hands to his sides and backed away from her. “Daisy, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” She looked as though he’d slapped her. “Don’t you want me?”

He saw the hurt shadowing her face and hastened to reassure her. “Want you, Daisy? I’m on fire for you. You’re the embodiment of every fantasy I’ve ever had as well as those I dared not consciously entertain—until now. Be that as it may, I won’t take you like this. I want you for always, not just for the night.”

Hearing how he wanted her must have made her feel on firmer footing because she summoned her Delilah smile and took a step toward him. “We can do it as many times and as many ways as can be fit into the next three weeks, how’s that?” She reached for his waistband.

He pushed her hand away. “Stop it.”

In the dim light of candles, he saw the flare of anger in her eyes. “And if I don’t care to stop, why should I? Why should either of us? We’re not children any more. We’re adults. We can please ourselves as we like.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “We’re friends, good friends. I brought you here to help you, not to make you my mistress.”

She shrugged as though it was all merely semantics. “Whether you call me your mistress or your friend, you want me, Gavin. I know you do.”

He knew better than to deny it. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is. You make things too hard by half for yourself and for me. I want you, Gavin. I’ve wanted you ever since I was old enough to understand what wanting someone, a man, meant. Life is bloody short, or at least it can be, and if it’s in our power to grasp a little happiness while we may, then why the bloody hell not? There’s no one we need answer to and afterward, well, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

He’d come close, so very close to giving in, but her last statement reminded him why it was so very important he stay strong. Daisy had to learn that sex was neither a weapon nor a bartering tool but a gift—a precious gift.