In Bed with the Duke (13 page)

“I won’t betray you. Come on.” She lifted the covers and indicated the feather mattress, depressed in her shape. “Get in. I’ll get in beside you, pile the blankets over you, and if anyone comes in, I promise I will save you.”

Doors down the corridor opened and shut. The shouts grew louder.

Frantic, she said, “Now!”

The Reaper leaped across and into the bed, getting as close to the wall as he could.

Stretched out straight, he filled the bed from top to bottom, but as she’d planned, he sank into the deep mound of feathers that stuffed the mattress. “On your side,” she said.

He turned to lie on his left side, facing her. In his right hand he held a knife, long and sharp-tipped.

All right. This was dangerous. She knew it was, but somehow, the sight of that knife made her realize what a perilous game she played.

After all the warnings she’d heard today—Brimley, Michael, and Lord Fanchere had all said to stay out of trouble—now she was helping a wanted man to evade the law. But nothing could change the fact that she owed him her life
.

Glancing around, she made sure he had tracked nothing in, that nothing about the room would betray his presence, then climbed in beside him. She pulled the sheet over them both, piled the feather comforter over him to conceal the lump he created, fluffed one pillow over his face and another behind her shoulders. She checked to make sure her buttons were fastened all the way to her throat, then arranged her braid over her shoulder and onto her chest. She picked up her book and, with an assumption of ease, began to read.

Up and down the corridor, she heard doors opening and closing. Most of the rooms were empty, she knew. Those were easily searched, so the men were moving quickly. Her heart beat faster as the sound of the boots got closer. The heat of the Reaper’s body pressed against hers from her toes to her spine. In a soft voice, she said, “Remain absolutely still and silent, and we’ll get through this.”

Right on cue, three men burst through the door, three men clad in riding clothes. Two held pistols. One she recognized—Prince Sandre, dark haired, blue eyed, trim and athletic, holding a long sword in his left hand and a knife in his right.

With a girlish scream, she dropped her book and sat straight up. The sheet fell to her waist, and she knew very well what she exposed.

Her nightgown covered everything, but the material was so worn, her breasts were clearly visible, and when a sudden breeze from the window brought a cool draft, her nipples sprang to attention. She blushed, but the men didn’t notice. They stared at her chest, and from their expressions they didn’t even know she had a face.

“Why are you here? What are you doing in my room?” She gazed at Prince Sandre, silently pleading to the man in charge, and she put her hands over her breastbone, playing peekaboo with her own nipples.

His eyes became the dark, intense blue of desire. Drawing in a hard breath, he pointed toward the door. “Out!” he roared at his men.

The two guards backed toward the door, still distracted by her revealing nightgown. Which was exactly what she intended, but to be alone with Prince Sandre . . . Belatedly, she realized this could be trouble, more than she could handle. Trouble for her, and trouble for the Reaper.

The prince’s men stepped into the corridor, and before the door shut behind them, she heard one laugh coarsely.

Sandre took a step toward her.

She gasped in panic and pulled the sheet up to her chin. “This isn’t proper!”

He halted in midstep. The intensity faded from his gaze, and confusion replaced it. “It isn’t?”

“You must know it is not! I pray you, please leave. I am Lady Fanchere’s companion, a gently bred female, and I dare not risk my reputation with this intimacy.”

“Lady Fanchere! You’re Lady Fanchere’s companion? That changes matters. Lady Fanchere’s companion must be above reproach.” Hastily he holstered his pistol, sheathed his sword, and bowed. “Don’t be alarmed. I am Prince Sandre of Moricadia.” He pronounced his name with a verbal flourish.

“Your Highness.” She inclined her head.

He paced away, then paced back. “Lady Fanchere is my cousin. I hadn’t heard she was visiting Aguas de Dioses.”

“We arrived today.”

“Still, I expect to be informed of these matters.”

“She has come to take the waters, and I beg you, sir, please leave at once!”

“First I must inform you of my mission here. I’m chasing a most desperate scoundrel who calls himself the Reaper.” As Prince Sandre spoke the name, his blue eyes grew as cold as the glacier far above on the mountain.

She glanced around her small room, then back at him, and lifted her eyebrows as if to invite him to tell her where the Reaper could be hiding . . . and all the while, she was aware of the warm, long form pressed against her hip.

What had seemed like a brilliant idea five minutes ago now seemed likely to get her killed.

But Prince Sandre was oblivious to the man-shaped lump in her bed. He was too focused on her face and form to notice any discrepancies. “You haven’t seen him, then? He is a very dangerous criminal, a murderer and a traitor. He would not hesitate to hurt you. To . . . have his way with you.”

Beside her, the Reaper tensed. She could almost feel him projecting scorn at Prince Sandre, and reassurance to her.

“I haven’t seen him,” she said.

“By pursuing the Reaper, I risk my life for the safety of others.”

“That is good of you.” Her voice quavered without artifice. “But, Your Highness, men aren’t permitted on this level.” Fear brought tears to her eyes. “Please, Your Highness. You must leave at once!”

“I will.” A smile slashed his handsome face. “As soon as you tell me your name.”

“Miss Emma Chegwidden of England.”

Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed.

She jumped nervously.

“Miss Emma Chegwidden of England, are you frightened of the storm?” He seemed amused by the idea, and worse, interested in her thoughts.

“Yes.” Of the storm, and of him.

The tempest came closer. The lightning grew more frequent. The thunder was a tumult, and wind gusted through the window. Her candle sputtered, almost went out, but Emma didn’t dare reach out to cradle it. If she moved too much, might not Prince Sandre observe what was so obvious to her—the unmoving lump in her bed?

As if the swirl of fresh air brought an idea to his mind, Prince Sandre strode to the window and looked out, from one side to the other and up above, using the flickering lightning that revealed . . . nothing.

So for all his chivalry, he didn’t believe her when she said she hadn’t seen the Reaper. Not really.

If he didn’t leave pretty soon, she would faint from tension.

He bowed again, and in a voice infused with romantic meaning, he said, “Miss Chegwidden, I will see you . . . again.” Backing out the door, he shut it gently behind him.

She heard him shout in a snarling tone, “Keep searching, you scum, keep searching!” She heard doors open and shut down the corridor, heard boots moving away from her. She waited a few minutes to make sure they were really gone, then leaped from her bed and ran on tiptoe to the door and turned the key.

As soon as the lock clicked, the Reaper threw back the covers and rose. He sheathed the knife. Going to the window, he opened it again and, like Prince Sandre, looked out. As he did, a torrential rain started, cool and wet, driven on the wind.

From below, she heard men shout about getting out of the storm.

Of course. Prince Sandre had stationed guards below. They were abandoning their posts, slipping back under the eaves or into the lobby. If the Reaper could get out of her room, down the stairs, and out a window undetected, he could possibly escape.

He turned.

She smiled at him.

He stared hard at her, examining her as if he did not understand her at all . . . and behind his mask, and in his stance, she saw something more—desire.

“I’m fine.” Her pulse was settling down to a steady, rapid beat . . . rapid because, once again, she was aware of herself in the flimsy nightgown, and of being alone with a man . . . a man who was very much attracted to her.

She knew nothing of this emotion. She had never desired a man, and there had never been a man who desired her. But logic told her his appearance here was no coincidence, and instinct told her he had sought her out not to put her in danger, but to warn her.

So she wasn’t worried or offended. For all Prince Sandre’s ominous warning, she knew she could trust the Reaper. He had proved himself to her.

He strode to her side, took her hand, and bowed over it, touching it lightly with his lips.

“Are you leaving?”

He nodded and went to the door, listening with his head pressed to the panel. He pointed up.

The boots had moved up to the narrow attic that ran the length of the hotel. She could hear the prince’s men overhead.

The Reaper began to turn the lock—

And she knew that if she let him go like this, she would regret it forever.

“W
ait!” Emma called.

The Reaper turned to face her, query clear in his form and movement.

She stepped up to him. “You found me in the woods. You saved my life. And I want to thank you . . . thank you. . . .” Gathering her nerve, she took his face between her hands, rose on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.

She had no experience, but she put all her appreciation in that one kiss. His lips were warm and surprised, and then warm and . . . ardent. His breath touched her, quickening as she slanted her face to his, yet he held back, not touching her, waiting for her to make a move.

But she didn’t know what move to make.

So she listened to the instinct that crept up from the quiet place within her where it had been hiding, repressed and afraid. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned against him. Not her whole body, not the lower part; she didn’t have the nerve for that. But her breasts and shoulders. That was . . . very nice.

He radiated heat and strength, smelled of hard riding and horse, and towered over her. She took a breath, delighting in the differences between them, then kissed him harder, mashing her lips to his.

The thought had just occurred to her that kissing was not as exciting as she’d hoped, when everything changed. Something—her eagerness, perhaps?—drove him beyond control.

He swept her up, one arm around her waist, one arm cradling her spine and head. He tilted her backward. And he
kissed
her.

This wasn’t some tentative, inexperienced press of lips to lips.

This was a swashbuckling kiss. This was a passionate kiss. This kiss was running through an exotic jungle, splashing into a warm, tempestuous sea, stepping into the storm outside and inviting the lightning to strike and set her ablaze.

The wind from the open window swirled around them, wet and cool, lifting the hem of her nightgown and tangling it around his boots.

Emma strained against him, absorbing this man’s love of adventure, of justice, and of . . . her? His lips parted hers; his tongue swept into her mouth. He tasted her and wordlessly invited her to taste him, his soul, his being. He supported her and wanted nothing more than for her to allow him the privilege.

For the first time in her life, she
yearned
, her nipples pressed against his chest, hard and tight, her heart thumping with a ferocious rhythm. Foolish with longing, she skimmed her hands up his arms and over his chest. There she found strong muscle and tough sinew, and against her open palm, his heart beat with a fervor to match her own.

With a soft, wordless murmur, he lifted his lips from hers.

She rested in his arms, breathing heavily, recovering from the brief, brilliant tempest. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him, bewildered and embarrassed. “Oh, my heavens. Oh, my heavens. We just . . . I just . . .”

His eyes beneath the mask scrutinized her, not critically, but as if he wanted to reassure her. He nodded and touched her cheek, then pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket. Carefully, he dabbed at her lips, then showed her the folded linen.

Sometime during that turbulent kiss, he’d transferred the white powder on his face to hers. Now his skin, touched by sun, peeped forth from beneath his disguise, reassuring her that he was, indeed, a man.

Holding his gloved hands at the ready to catch her, he gradually stepped back. When he was sure she was steady on her feet, he bowed, his face solemn, turned, and opened the door as if sure he would pass through the corridors without incident.

Would he? Above them, she could still hear the boots of his pursuers thumping on the floorboards. But perhaps Prince Sandre had left a guard. . . .

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He turned, his shroud swirling like a cloak, placed his hand on his chest, and bowed again.

Like a silly girl at her first ball, she bobbed a curtsy in return.

His eyes warmed. He shut the door. And he was gone from her sight.

Never once had he said a word or made a sound.

She stood staring, wide-eyed, hands loose, breathing hard, with no thought in her mind except desire. Then lightning struck, outside and in, and she realized he was somewhere, racing through the hotel, dodging the prince’s pursuit. She ran to the door and listened, then ran to the window, opened it all the way, and stuck her head out.

The rain washed across her face. The wind whipped her hair. Lightning flashed, giving her brief glimpses of the courtyard below.

Nothing moved.

Nothing moved. Then . . . there he was, sprinting across the cobblestones, a dark cloak covering his disguise. She held her breath, terrified she would hear a shout of discovery.

All was silent.

He reached the tree line undetected. At the last moment, he turned and faced the hotel. She thought he raised a hand to her.