Irresistible (7 page)

The trouble with servants who had been with a man from birth was that over the years they could be counted on to stop showing proper deference to him, Hugh reflected sourly, shooting James a quelling look. Having been the recipient of such a look on countless occasions in the past, James had no trouble interpreting it— or disregarding it. Giving an ostentatious sniff that expressed his feelings as clearly as any diatribe might have done, he abandoned what he would doubtless describe as his unappreciated efforts to make his master more comfortable and stood up, towel in hand.

"Very well, then, I'm going. Have a care what you're about."

Hugh didn't reply to this parting evidence that his henchman for life had little faith in his ability to function satisfactorily without him, and James, with a final expressive sniff that Hugh also chose to ignore, took himself off.

As the door shut behind James, Hugh's attention shifted back to the woman. She was huddled on her side, her face shrouded by long, tangled skeins of ink-black hair through which her eyes still gleamed at him like— not a siren's, perish the thought— a wild thing's. With her knees practically tucked beneath her chin, she was curled at the center of a spreading puddle. Her soaked skirts— they would, when dry, be a shade close to tobacco brown, he judged— lay about her like the limp petals of a wilted flower. Her gown appeared both stylish and surprisingly modest, given her profession. It was of fine wool, as he had noted before, with a high, close neckline and long mameluke-style sleeves trimmed with thin bands of what looked like dark velvet; he supposed the inclement weather must have played a factor in her choice of apparel because, under ordinary conditions, it would have been quite modest. These conditions, however, were far from ordinary, and her soaked bodice clung to firm round breasts sized to fill teacups very nicely, and revealed pert nipples, hardened by the cold, thrusting lewdly against the fabric; in addition, her skirts were in considerable disarray, rucked up and twisted so that they exposed slender, shapely calves as well as ankles so delicate and finely turned that they made the rope binding them look far thicker than he knew it was.

Had he encountered those ankles on the street, displayed by, say, a mischievous gust of wind, his reaction would have been head-turningly swift. Indeed, even knowing what he knew of her, his body displayed a disturbing tendency to react as any normal man's would to such enticements, and curbing that tendency required a considerable effort of will on his part.

If nothing else, he reflected caustically, he had to commend old Archer on his taste in ladybirds. Unless her hair concealed a face like a gargoyle's, this was a high-flyer indeed.

Having gotten himself well under control again, he completed the rest of his inspection swiftly, and in a detached, almost clinical manner for which he silently congratulated himself. Her feet were as fine-boned as the rest of her, with small toes curved like shells. What he could see of her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, with a blue cast that could, he knew, be attributed to the fact that she was as wet as seaweed and doubtless freezing. Her figure, just as he had earlier guessed from the feel of it, was that of a girl, slim and supple, with hips that were more slender than womanly and a tiny waist beneath those succulent breasts.

He found himself hoping that she was older than the girl she appeared, that the face that was still largely hidden from him was— oh, happy thought!— heavy-jowled and riddled with wrinkles or other marks of a lengthy life given over to dissipation.

Not that her age, whatever it might be, mattered a whit under the circumstances.

Standing abruptly— his ribs repaid him for the carelessness of his movement with a quick stab— he took the three strides necessary to reach the door. He had no real reason to distrust the
Nadine'
s crew, but it never hurt to be careful, so he bolted the door. Then he retraced his steps, unbuttoning his sodden shirt on the way. As he reached the table, he became aware that his prisoner was watching him as carefully as a cat at a mouse hole. The bright gleam widened as he abandoned the slippery buttons to pull the garment over his head, then was extinguished altogether seconds later as he dropped the sodden shirt onto the floor. Clearly she had closed her eyes. A modest doxy? The notion piqued his interest.

He could not afford to have his interest piqued by her.

"You're in a deal of trouble, you know."

Shucking his clammy breeches, he addressed the huddled form in a grim voice that was a pretty faithful echo of the way he felt.

"If this is about money, I'll pay you well to let me go."

Her voice was low, husky, well-coached in the cadences of a lady. It was the first time he had heard it properly, and it surprised as well as disturbed him. Like the rest of her, her voice was too attractive, too feminine, too well-bred, for his liking, considering how their acquaintance was destined to end. Her eyes opened as she spoke and then widened. For the space of perhaps a couple of seconds she watched as, naked, he toweled himself off. Then her eyes had snapped shut again.

His lips compressed. He cast the towel aside and reached for the dry shirt that James had left for him on the table.

"Will you indeed? And have you money on you?"

If she was carrying money, it stood to reason that the letters would be in the same place. Perhaps concealed beneath her skirts, safe in an oilskin bag?

Her eyes flicked open again just as he reached for his drawers. "Not on me. But— I can get it."

Of course he had not expected the accomplishment of his mission to be that simple. In this business, nothing ever was.

"Pie in the sky," he said pulling on his breeches, serviceable ones of black stockinette that suited the station of the impecunious Frenchman who, while in Paris, he professed to be.

"It is not! I can get it! I can!"

Her eyes widened. As if in agitation, she raised her head a few inches off the puddled floor. She shook her head, flinging back the obscuring curtain of hair like a wet dog indulging in a shake, and incidentally showering the immediate area with water droplets. As his last pair of dry breeches got spattered, he glanced down with a grimace. Then his gaze lifted, and suddenly, to his horror, Hugh found himself looking into the face of one of the most ravishing beauties he had beheld in many a year.

Gargoyle, indeed. Even calling her a high-flyer failed to do her justice. What he was looking at was nothing less than a diamond of the first water. And to make matters worse, she looked to be scarcely older than a debutante.

Taken aback, he took his opponent's full measure and was suddenly transported to a grim area far beyond dismay. He'd been in the right of it when he'd termed the golden eyes that had been peeping at him siren's eyes, he thought. They were the color of candlelit honey, fringed by thick black lashes and set aslant below delicate black eyebrows that seemed to take wing toward her temples. Her face was a classic oval, with high cheekbones, a smooth, unlined brow, and a delicately molded jaw and chin. Her nose was small and straight and elegant; her lips had been carved by a master, the upper finished with an exquisite bow in the center, the lower with a lush curve. Even tinted faintly blue, as they were now, they were imminently kissable lips.

At the thought Hugh pulled himself up sharply. Beauty or no, it made no difference in the job he had to do.

"What if I told you that I have a price, but it isn't any amount of money?" he asked as he retrieved the knife he always kept concealed on his person from the table where he had placed it as he stripped. He slid it from its sheath and moved toward her, deliberately handling it so that its sharp-honed blade flashed silver in the light.

Wide-eyed, she focused on the knife, as he had intended. Fear clouded her eyes. Good, he told himself. He might well have need of her fear.

His bare feet encountered the outer edges of the cold water in which she lay, and he glanced down. Left as she was much longer, she just might succumb to exposure, in which case he would not have to involve himself any further in the process of ridding the world of a traitor.

Ah, but letting nature take its course wouldn't get him the information he needed, and was most chancy besides. She only looked fragile, he reminded himself. In his experience— and he had a large and varied experience in such matters— females of her stamp tended to be unexpectedly hardy.

"I— I would pay it." Her voice was tremulous; her eyes, wide with apprehension, were riveted on his face. Then her lashes flickered, and her lids dropped. He watched, unable to help himself, as she wetted her lips with the tip of a little pink tongue. Abruptly her lids lifted again so that those siren's eyes met his full on. "Anything."

He could not mistake her meaning. Still, that last word had a grim resolve to it that fell far short of the seductiveness such a proposal called for. Paradoxically, that she did not bill and coo at him made her offer that much more attractive.

That he found himself tempted, even momentarily, infuriated him.

"Would you indeed?" His voice had hardened along with his resolve. Still skirting the puddle, he walked behind her, the knife held purposefully in his hand.

"I— What are you doing?"

Sounding panicked now— he guessed by the knife— she tried to sit, all the while craning her neck to keep him in view. Hampered as she was by her bound limbs, her movements were clumsy flailings that, suddenly impatient, he put an end to by the simple expedient of placing a hand on her shoulder and pushing her back down against the floor. Without effort he held her there, on her side as she had been before she'd tried to sit up. After the briefest of struggles she subsided, although he could feel the tension in her muscles through the cold wet cloth that covered them.

Crouching behind her, he was treated to a view of her profile as she strained to look back over her shoulder at him: It was as perfect as a cameo. The realization had him swallowing enough curses to shock an abbess.

That his quarry had turned out to be a woman was cosmic joke enough. Making her a chit of a girl and a raving beauty to boot was overkill.

Sticking his knife into the waistband of his breeches, Hugh flipped her onto her belly without further ado.

"What are you doing?" she asked again, still watching him over her shoulder and sounding almost pitiful as he secured her by the simple measure of placing one knee in the small of her back, just below her bound hands.

"Lie still."

Careful not to let too much of his weight rest on her slight form— and thoroughly annoyed with himself for being so careful— he conducted a comprehensive search of her person, running his hands down her arms, along the insides and outsides of her thighs, around her slender waist, and over the fetching curve of her bottom. The saturated cloth kept no secrets; through it he could feel every toothsome inch. She sucked in her breath and went very still when first he touched her, but offered no resistance. When his weight shifted and his hands slid beneath her to feel their way up her rib cage, she shuddered once and seemed to shrink, but still made no protest.

Her cheek rested against the wet floor with her face turned to the wall. Her eyes were closed, and he was treated to a view of long sooty lashes curling against her cheeks, and soft parted lips trembling slightly as his hands went about their business. She looked helpless, and frightened, and about eighteen.

If Hildebrand didn't rot in hell for eternity, there was no justice in the world.

The soft roundness of her breasts under his hands and the feel of her firm little nipples thrusting into his palm were almost his undoing.

Gritting his teeth, all too aware of his quickened pulse and swelling loins despite valiant attempts to ignore both, he finally acknowledged himself outgunned even as his hands ascertained that there was nothing concealed in the near vicinity of her breasts. Silently cursing, he withdrew his hands more quickly than he would have done with any other suspect and mentally declared the search, imperfect as it was, ended.

If she was hiding the packet of letters he sought, or a weapon, or anything else about her person, it was too well-concealed for him to find this way.

He pulled his knife from his waistband.

Her breath caught in an audible gasp. Clearly she'd been watching him from beneath her lashes.

He'd forgotten that doxy's trick of hers. Forgotten everything for a moment except the feel of her under his hands.

And that, damn it to bloody hell, was enough to dazzle any man breathing.

It would, he reflected bitterly, behoove him to be careful what he was about, just as James had suggested. Of course, James hadn't realized that the person Hugh had to be most wary of was himself.

"What are you going to do with that knife?"

"What do you imagine I'm going to do with it, I wonder?"

The harsh note in his voice was deliberate. Contrary to her obvious fears, he had already realized that using his knife on any part of her save the rope that bound her hands and feet was beyond him.

"I— don't know. Please— don't hurt me."

Her voice had dropped until it was no more than a shaky whisper. Hugh swallowed another curse. His impulse was to reassure her, but he ruthlessly suppressed it. That was the one thing he could not do.

"Don't move," he said, even more harshly than before, and shifted so that he was crouching beside her, knife in hand. She drew in a ragged breath, but lay still, watching him from the corner of her eye. She was breathing too fast; he could see that from the rapid rise and fall of her slender back.

"Your name is Hugh, isn't it?"

Uttered in that soft, throaty voice of hers, his name took on a whole new dimension. As she finished speaking, her tongue came out to moisten her lips again. Watching, Hugh felt another fierce burst of heat shoot through his loins, and steeled himself to resist her wiles and his own base impulses alike.

It was very possible, he reminded himself grimly, that she was enticing him deliberately.

"Yes."

A long shudder racked her, probably from the cold, although fear or a conscious attempt to win sympathy were other possibilities. The thought that she should be bundled in blankets and set before a roaring fire forthwith occurred to him, only to be sternly dismissed. Try though she might to seem so, she was not some small defenseless creature that required his gentle care.