I've Got My Duke to Keep Me Warm (The Lords of Worth) (2 page)

She pressed her lips together as she pushed herself up off the bench. “Very well. As we discussed?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” she replied unhappily.

“Then let’s not waste any more time. We need help from some quarter, and that man is the best chance we have of getting it.” Without missing a beat, he reached over and deftly plucked at the laces to Gisele’s simple bodice. The top fell open to reveal an alarming amount of cleavage. “Nice. Almost makes me wish I were so inclined.”

“Do shut up.” Gisele tried to pull the laces back together but had her hand swatted away. “I look like a whore,” she protested.

Sebastien tipped his head, then leaned forward again and pulled the tattered ribbon from her braid. Her hair slithered out of its confines to tumble over her shoulders. “But a very pretty one. It’s perfect.” He stood up, straightening his own jacket. “Trust me. He’s going to surprise you.”

She heaved one last sigh. “How drunk do you suppose he is?”

“Slurring his
s
’s. But sentence structure is still good. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

“Better make it twenty,” Gisele said slowly. “It will reduce the chances of you ending up on the wrong end of a cavalryman’s fists.”

Sebastien’s dark eyes slid back to the man in the corner in speculation. “You think?”

Giselle stood to join the shorter man. “You’re the one who told me he’s a hero. Let’s find out.”

Jamie Montcrief, known in another life as James Edward Anthony Montcrief, cavalry captain in the King’s Dragoon Guards of the British army and bastard son to the ninth Duke of Reddyck, stared deeply into the bottom of his ale pot and wondered fuzzily how it had come to be empty so quickly. He was sure he had just ordered a fresh drink. Perhaps the girl had spilled it on the way over and he hadn’t noticed. That happened a lot these days. Not noticing things. Which was fine. In fact, it was better than fine.

“You look thirsty.” As if by magic, a full cup of liquid sloshed to the table in front of him.

Startled, he looked up, only to be presented with a view of stunning breasts. They were full and firm, straining against the fabric of a poorly laced bodice, and despite the fact that they were not entirely in focus, his body reacted with reprehensible speed. He reached out, intending to caress the luscious perfection before him, only to snatch his hand back a moment later when sluggish honor demanded retreat. Mortified, he dragged his eyes up from the woman’s chest to her face, hoping against hope she might not have noticed.

He should have kept his eyes on her breasts.

For shimmering before him was a fantasy. His fantasy. The one he had carefully created in his imagination to chase away the reality of miserable marches, insufferable nights, unspeakable hunger, and bone-numbing dread. Everything he had hoped to possess in a woman was sliding onto the bench opposite him, a shy smile on her face. And it was a face that could start a war. High cheekbones, a full mouth, eyes almost exotic in their shape. Pale hair that fell in thick sheets carelessly around her head and over her shoulders.

He opened his mouth to say something clever, yet all his words seemed to have drowned themselves in the depths of his drink. He cursed inwardly, wishing for the first time in many months he weren’t drunk. She seemed not to notice. Instead she cheerfully raised her own full pot of ale in a silent toast and proceeded to drain it. At a loss for anything better to do, he followed suit.

“Thank you,” he finally managed, though he wasn’t sure she heard, as she had somehow procured two more pots of ale and slid another in front of him.

“What shall we toast to now?” she asked him, her brilliant gray-green eyes probing his own.

Frantically Jamie searched his liquor-soaked brain for an intelligent answer. “To beauty,” he croaked, cringing at such an amateurish and predictable reply.

She gave him a dazzling smile anyway, and he could feel his own mouth curling up in response. “To beauty then,” she said. “And those who are wise enough to realize what it may cost.” She drained her second pot.

Jamie allowed his mind to slog wearily through her cryptic words for a moment or two before he gave up trying to understand. Who cared, really? He had a
magnificent woman sitting across the table from him, and another pot of ale had already replaced the second one he had drained. This was by far the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was gentle.

“James. James Montcrief.” Thank the gods. At least he could remember that. Though maybe he should have made an effort at formality? Did one do that in such a setting?

“James.” His name was like honey on her tongue, and her own dismissal of formality was encouraging. Something stirred inside him. “I like it.” She gave him another blinding smile. “Why are you drinking all alone, James?” she asked.

He stared at her, unable, and more truthfully, unwilling to give her any sort of an answer. Instead he just shrugged.

“Never mind.” She tipped her head back, and another pot of ale disappeared. Idly he wondered how she still remained sober while the room he was sitting in was beginning to spin. She tilted her head, and her beautiful blond hair swung away from her neck, dizzying in its movement. “You have kind eyes.”

Her comment caught him off guard. He did not have kind eyes. He had eyes that had seen too much to ever allow any kindness in. “I am not kind.” He wasn’t sure if he mumbled it or just thought it. Inexplicably, a wave of sadness and loneliness washed over him.

“What brings you here?” she asked, waving a hand in the general direction of the tavern.

Jamie blinked, trying to remember where
here
was, then snorted at the futility of the question.

“Nowhere else to go,” he mumbled. The accuracy of
his statement echoed in his mind. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be. No one who cared. Least of all him.

“Would you like to go somewhere else, James? With me?” Her words seemed to come from a distance, and with a frantic suddenness, he needed to get out. Out from the tavern walls that were pressing down on him, away from the smells of grease and bodies and smoke and alcohol that were suffocating.

“Yes.” He shoved away from the table, swaying on his feet. In an instant she was there, at his side, her arm tucked into his elbow as though he really were a duke escorting her across the ballroom of a royal palace. He could feel the warmth of her body as it pressed against his and the cool silk of her hair as it slid across his bicep. Again he wished desperately he weren’t so drunk. His body was dragging him in one direction while his mind flailed helplessly against the haze.

“Come,” she whispered, guiding him out into the cool night breeze.

He went willingly with his beautiful vision into the darkness, dragging in huge lungfuls of air in an attempt to clear his head. He pressed a hand against his temple.

“Are you unwell?” She was still right beside him, and he was horrified to realize he was leaning on her as he might a crutch. He straightened abruptly.

“No.” He concentrated hard on his next words. “I don’t even know your name.”

She stared at him a long moment as if debating something within her mind. “Gisele,” she finally said.

He was regretting those last pots of ale. Thinking was becoming almost impossible. “And why were
you
drinkin’ alone, Gisele?” he asked slowly.

The sparkle dimmed abruptly in her face, and she turned away. “Will you take me away from here, James?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?” His mind was struggling to keep up with his ears.

She turned back. “Take me somewhere. Anywhere. Just not here.”

“I don’t understand.” Blade-sharp instincts long suppressed fought to make themselves heard through the fog in his brain. Something was all wrong with this situation, though he was damned if he could determine what it might be. “I can’t just—”

Jamie was suddenly knocked back, tripping over his feet and falling gracelessly, unable to overcome gravity and the last three pots of ale. Gisele was yanked from his side, and she gave a slight yelp as a man slammed her back up against the tavern wall.

“Where the hell have you been, whore?” the man snarled. “Like a damn bitch in heat, aren’t you?”

Jamie struggled to his feet, fighting the dizziness that was making his surroundings swim. He reached for the weapon at his side before realizing he couldn’t recall where he’d left it. He turned just in time to see the man pull back his arm to slug Gisele. With a roar of rage, Jamie launched himself at her attacker, hitting him square in the back. The man was barely half his size, and the force of Jamie’s weight knocked both men into the mud. A fist caught the side of his head in a series of short, sharp jabs, only increasing the din resonating through his brain. Jamie tried to stagger to his feet again, but the ground shifted underneath him and he fell heavily on his side.

“Don’t touch her,” he managed, wrestling with the
darkness crowding the edge of his vision. Usually he welcomed this part of the night, when reality ceased to exist. But not now. This couldn’t happen now. He had to fight it. Fight for her. Fight for something again. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees. He looked up at the figures looming over him. Strangely, Gisele and her attacker were standing side by side as if nothing had happened. The buzzing was getting louder as Gisele crouched down beside him, and he felt her cool hand on his forehead.

“So sorry,” he mumbled, his arms collapsing beneath him. “I couldn’t do—”

“You did just fine, James,” she said. And then he heard no more.

Chapter 2

G
isele shifted in her chair, tapping the floor gently with her toe. James Montcrief still lay sprawled across the bed, mouth open slightly, his breathing deep and steady. Sebastien had been right. James had indeed surprised her. Her experience with nobility—or those who had been raised as such—had taught her to expect little from men of Mr. Montcrief’s stock. But his actions last night had left her with a newfound sense of hope.

She wondered what had made him leap to her defense the previous evening. Perhaps he had a sister he adored. Or some other woman he either respected or was fond of. Somewhere in the journey of his life, he had come to the determination that a man should not be allowed to beat a woman senseless. Even a woman dressed and acting as she had been, a lowborn peasant or worse.

Regardless, Gisele didn’t much care how he had come to posses the moral fortitude he had shown in the tavern yard, only that it existed.

She had no sooner finished her thought than the door of the inn’s room creaked open and Sebastien sauntered in, taking in the still-snoring heap on the bed.

“Dear God, it smells like a distillery in here.” He sniffed
as he approached the bed, bending over in critical examination. “He’ll need to be cleaned up and—
erk
!”

A hand had shot out from beneath the cover and grabbed Sebastien by the front of his shirt.

“Who the hell are you?” The voice sounded like gravel.

Sebastien glowered. “
Tsk
. Manners. Language. Perhaps I erred in—”

“Let him go, Mr. Montcrief.” Gisele rose from her chair and came to stand near the foot of the bed, leaning casually against the wall.

The hand faltered enough for Sebastien to jerk himself free, fussing over the new and offending wrinkles in his linen. “Barbarian,” he muttered, smoothing both his clothes and his hair.

A pair of gritty brown eyes focused on Gisele in confusion, probably wondering how she knew his name. She could see him searching his leaky memory in despair.

“Gisele,” she offered. She wasn’t in the mood to play games. She had business to discuss, and time was of the essence. “You tried to rescue me last night.”

“Um…” He was flailing. “I was…”

“Drunk,” she supplied.

“Er… right.” He struggled to sit up, and the sheet fell to his waist. Suddenly aware of his nakedness, he yanked the edge of the sheet back up. “Where are my clothes?” he demanded.

“In the hearth.” She crossed her arms, watching as his eyes flew to the far wall.

“There’s a fire in the hearth,” he said dumbly.

“Thank God for small miracles.”

“I’m naked!” His tone was one of total disbelief. His eyes widened as he turned back to Gisele. “Who—when—did we…”

“I think he’s blushing,” Sebastien stage-whispered nastily, still miffed at having been assaulted.

“Oh, God.” James dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t remember.”

Gisele pushed herself off the wall and sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to allow her eyes to drop too far down. Even though she had seen it all last night when they had stripped him of his foul garments, it had been rather dim, and in the light of morning, the man’s broad expanse of muscle was an unwelcome distraction.

“We were not intimate, if that is what you are asking,” she said, deciding to put him out of his misery. “Believe me, if we had been, you’d remember.” She couldn’t resist the last comment. No man should ever lose that much control to drink.

His head snapped up, and his jaw dropped open.

“Now he is blushing,” Sebastien sniffed. “Perhaps you should try him out?”

Gisele shot her friend a black look, though she suspected Sebastien was provoking James on purpose.

“What?” Sebastien groused. “There’s no call to look at me like that, Gisele. You don’t buy a horse without taking him for a bit of a gallop first, do you? Though by the looks of Mr. Montcrief this morning, I’m not sure he’d manage much more than a slow trot.” When Sebastien’s crude joke was met with utter silence, he raised his voice and continued. “Iain would encourage you to do the same, I assure you—”

“Stop,” Gisele interrupted her friend before he could go any further. Goading Montcrief was one thing. But she had no intention of discussing Iain in front of him, nor did she think it wise to bait a muscle-bound behemoth with
innuendo. She could tell by the man’s rising color that his confusion was rapidly giving way to anger.

“Yes, do stop,” James ordered from the bed, flinging the sheet away from him in sudden fury. “I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you want, but if you wish to rob me, go ahead. For the only things I own you just burned in the fire. If you wish to ransom me, you’ll be dead of old age before anyone comes looking.” He turned flashing eyes on Gisele. “And you. If you want to try me out, I’ll have you every way you can think of and some you can’t.” He staggered to his feet and drew himself up to his full height, pinning Gisele motionless with his eyes. “Though I don’t like an audience. And I won’t share.”

Jamie stood with a heaving chest, roiling stomach, pounding head, and a throbbing erection to top it all off. He tried to stare the ice queen called Gisele down, but she seemed utterly unfazed by his outburst.

Perhaps he was still drunk. Perhaps this was a terrible hallucination and soon he would wake up and the world would make sense again. Bits and pieces of last night were starting to come back to him in measured doses.

She had said kind words to him, he thought. Before she took him outside. Before she was attacked. His eyes flew to the man standing on the far side of the room.

“You,” he ground out. “You hit her.” Another wave of anger surged through him, and he welcomed it as an emotion not felt in a very long time. In fact, emotion of any sort seemed to have become somewhat alien to him.

“I did no such thing,” the man sniffed. “She’d beat me bloody if I tried.”

Jamie eyed the man suspiciously. He was older, short and slight and, in truth, did not look capable of swatting a fly, much less a woman. Was he this woman’s husband? Her lover? Brother? Did it matter? The pounding in Jamie’s head increased, and he abandoned his useless speculation.

“Why would you care if he hit me?” The question was deceptively quiet.

He turned back to Gisele and faltered. Her eyes bored directly into his and robbed him of breath. Flustered, he grabbed the abandoned sheet and wrapped it around his waist. His attempt at bluster and bravado had failed, so he opted to sound the retreat and try to salvage the tiny shreds of dignity still remaining.

“It’s not honorable.”

She frowned. “Even if I were his wife? His property?”

Jamie barked out what might have passed as a laugh. “Forgive me, madam, but you don’t seem the type to be anyone’s property.”

Her lips pressed into a wan smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Why did you stop him?”

He shrugged carelessly. “If a man wants to fight, he should damn well do it against a worthy opponent.”

He watched her expression shift.

“Not that you wouldn’t be worthy,” he added hastily, realizing his last comment hadn’t come out quite right. “I’m sure you’re plenty worthy. Brave. For a woman, that is.”
Stop talking, Jamie
. “You look strong, I mean. But not too strong. Not man-strong. You’re still very pretty, of course.” He clamped his mouth shut and wished desperately for another drink. “No one should be treated as such.”

“Even if I were just a streetwalker? Not even a wife?”

A new fury flooded Jamie’s chest. “I’ve seen a woman of little means crawl out onto a battlefield with nothing but her courage and a handful of shredded skirts to save the life of an officer who lay dying under his horse—and all the while soldiers with titles and fortunes and weapons pretended not to notice. You can’t measure a person’s worth based on a label society has assigned.” He clenched his fists at his side, struggling for control.

A long moment passed, Gisele’s eyes not leaving his face. Finally she glanced over at the dark-haired man and gave an imperceptible nod.

“I’ll see to the details of our departure.” Her companion strode across the room and vanished through the doorway, leaving Jamie alone with Gisele.

“I need you to work for me,” she said the moment the slight gentleman had disappeared.

“I beg your pardon?” Jamie was startled out of the remnants of his hostility.

“You heard me.”

He pulled the sheet a little tighter around him. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“You have another offer of employment?” she asked.

Jamie frowned. Of course he didn’t have another offer. He had nothing. No job, no family, no woman, no money, no weapons, no hope. And no clothes. He was a broke, unemployed, naked cavalry officer without even a horse to his name.

“You’ll have a horse.”

Jamie’s head snapped up.

“I heard yours was lost at Waterloo. Given your current state of… er, affairs, I will assume it has yet to be replaced.”

Jamie opened his mouth to reply and then reconsidered.

“I can offer you immediate employment. Fair pay, regular meals, decent lodging, and replacement weapons if you wish. And, of course, something to wear other than a bedsheet.”

He thought she might be laughing at him. “Is this a joke?” he demanded, feeling foolish.

Her beautiful face was grim. “I can assure you, this is not a joke.”

“I’ll take your offer under consideration.” He wasn’t sure what else to say.

Gisele leaned back against the bedpost but remained maddeningly silent.

“Who the hell was the man who just left?”

The woman inclined her head. “Fair enough. That’s Sebastien. A friend.”

“Then why did he try to hit you last night?”

“To see how you would react.”

Jamie frowned.

“Relax, Mr. Montcrief. I have my answer on that score already.” Gisele tilted her head. “May I assume you’ve been tutored? Sebastien said you’re the son of a duke.”

“Wha—tutored?” He’d never been so damned confused in his entire life.

“Greek, Latin, history, politics, arithmetic, what fork to use, the steps to a waltz?” she prompted.

“Yes.” And how the hell did she know his father was a duke?

“Excellent. That will save us some time.”

“And you?” he demanded. “Have you been tutored?” Belligerence was always a good substitute for bewilderment.

She looked at him thoughtfully. “I have, actually. You’re the first to ask me that.”

It suddenly dawned on Jamie that her speech in no way matched her clothes. While she wore the simple dress of a peasant, her deportment suggested a woman to the manor born. “Who’s Iain?”

Gisele had the grace to look startled before her expression softened. “A… friend also.”

Jamie fought what felt suspiciously like jealousy. “A friend you took for a wee gallop from time to time? Or was it a slow trot?” He wanted the words back the moment they were out. Where had his control gone?

Gisele’s beautiful eyes narrowed before she smirked. “It was
never
a trot.”

Well, shit. He deserved that. “Who
are
you?”

She smiled at him, the first genuine smile he had seen, and it did strange things to his chest.

“I am… just Gisele.”

That was helpful. He knew nothing more about her than he’d known last night. Annoyance bubbled up again. “Very well then, Just-Gisele, since you won’t tell me anything useful about yourself, would you be so kind as to enlighten me as to what it is you’d like me to do should I accept your generous offer of employment?”

Her smile turned brittle. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Jamie’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “How the hell am I supposed to make a decision based on
not yet
?”

The ice queen shrugged. “You’ll have to trust me.”

Jamie closed his eyes, fighting for patience. “Will I need to steal something?”

“Unlikely.”

“Kill someone?”

“Hopefully not.”

“Blow something up?”

“You’re familiar with explosives?”

His eyes popped open at the undisguised interest in her last question. What the hell kind of woman used the word
explosives
the way most used the word
marmalade
? Or
teapot
?