Masque of Betrayal (18 page)

His vow terrified her. For she suddenly realized, not only the enormity of her power over this commanding man … but the enormity of his power over her.

D
ANE KNEW SHE WAS
gone before he opened his eyes.

Jolted into wakefulness by some intangible instinct, Dane found himself alone on the carpet, the room cold and dark, the fire having died down to embers.

Cursing, he raced to the window, peering into the darkness. It was past midnight and the storm had subsided, leaving behind a clear night sky and a cool breeze … but no Jacqueline.

The emptiness Dane felt was so acute it was like a knife in his gut.
Damn her,
he fumed inwardly, heading for the stairs.
Damn her for being such a wretched, obstinate little coward. Damn her for running away.

She wouldn’t get far.

Dane took the steps two at a time, snatching a pair of breeches and a shirt from his drawers, determined to go after Jacqui and beat some sense into her stubborn, willful head.

It was then that he saw the traces of blood on his body. Jacqueline’s blood.

Dane closed his eyes, choked by a myriad of conflicting emotions: tenderness, anguish, rage. He wondered if Jacqui had discovered the bloodstains, and if they had frightened her. He wished he could have been there … to hold her, to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be all right, be as it was destined.

Tugging on his clothing, he tore out into the night. He had to find her, to assure himself of her safety.

After which, he planned to kill her himself.

He circled the Holts’ house quietly, knowing that knocking was out of the question at this hour. Still, he was determined to find evidence that Jacqui was safely abed.

He found the scrap of material on the tall oak beside the house. Following the height of the tree with his eyes, Dane saw a weak light coming from the second-floor bedroom; a room that could easily be reached by scaling the oak. Jacqueline’s room.

Weak with relief, Dane realized that it was the middle of the night and that their altercation could not take place here and now, much as he would have wished. But tomorrow morning he planned to march into Jacqueline’s sitting room and put an end to this ridiculous cat-and-mouse game. Tonight had sealed her fate. Whether she liked it or not, Jacqueline Holt was his.

“She won’t see you, Herr Westbrooke.”

Greta’s ample frame filled the doorway while something surprisingly akin to sympathy filled her voice.

“Yes, she will see me, damn it!” Dane raked his fingers through his hair, his silver eyes ablaze. “Because I’m not leaving until she does!” He slammed his fist so hard against the door frame that the wood vibrated. “Give your mistress a message for me, Greta,” he told the undaunted housekeeper, who was calmly smoothing her severe bun into place. “Tell her that I’ve put up with her childish nonsense for as long as I plan to. Tell her that my patience has run out. Tell her that I’ll stand here all bloody night if I have to. If that doesn’t work, I’ll break down the blasted door! But I
am
going to see her …
today
!”

“Very well, Herr Westbrooke.” Considering how formidable Dane was when he was angry, Greta sounded not at all intimidated by his wrath. She tucked a last stubborn strand of hair into place and took herself off to do his bidding, leaving behind a heavy trail of spicy perfume whose pungent smell made Dane’s eyes water.

To escape the irritating odor, Dane waited in the garden, pacing its length until he’d worn an indelible path in the grass. For the hundredth time since the night of the storm he lambasted himself for allowing Jacqui to escape him. He should have known that she would bolt at her first given opportunity … especially after the hurtling intensity of their lovemaking, which had doubtless left her feeling vulnerable and afraid. But he hadn’t been thinking clearly, his guard lowered, stripped away by the engulfing tenderness that had followed in the wake of their passion. With Jacqui still warm and soft in his arms, the fanning heat of the fire against his back, he had felt so peaceful, so utterly replete and sated, that he had dozed off, content in the knowledge that, at last, she was his.

What a stupid fool he’d been.

Knowing Jacqueline as he did, what had ever possessed him to believe that she would allow the giving of her body to represent anything more than a physical joining; that, despite their growing emotional involvement, she would surrender the one part of herself she guarded far more fiercely than her virtue?

Yet she
had
relinquished more than her lush innocence, Dane reflected with absolute conviction. During those dizzying minutes when they had been one, she had belonged to him. In every way. Dane knew it. And so did Jacqui. That was why she was running away.

Damn. He had to see her, to convince her that she had nothing to fear.

“He is still out there, Fräulein.”

Jacqui let her bedroom curtain fall back into place, turning to where her housekeeper loomed in the doorway, an accusatory look on her face. “I know he is, Greta. I can see him.”

“What do you plan to
do
about it?”

Jacqui rubbed her eyes, which burned from a week of sleepless nights. “I shall deal with Mr. Westbrooke.”

“When?” Greta persisted. “It is nearly dark and Herr Westbrooke hasn’t strayed a step from the garden all day! Nor does he intend to. Eventually, Fräulein, you must resolve this misunderstanding. …”

“Enough!” Jacqui had reached her emotional breaking point. “This misunderstanding, as you put it, is between Dane and myself … so stay out of it, Greta!” Jacqui heard the housekeeper’s shocked gasp, but was not deterred. This time Greta had definitely overstepped her bounds. “Please go and see to your duties now. I do not need a lecture on my behavior, no matter how well-meaning. Although,” she added pointedly, “I ofttimes wonder who your sympathy is
truly
with, me … or Dane.”

Greta’s lips were pressed so tightly together that her mouth nearly disappeared. “You’ve made your point, Fräulein. If you will excuse me, I shall see to the duties you referred to.” With her spine so rigid Jacqui feared it might snap, Greta marched out of the room, closing the door—a little too loudly—behind her.

Sighing, Jacqui turned back to the window and gazed out, standing to one side so she could not be seen from below. The final rays of sunlight were cloaking the city in a fiery orange glow, illuminating the garden … and its imposing occupant.

Dane looked no closer to departure than he had ten hours ago when he had begun his vigil. And Jacqui felt no readier to deal with her careening emotions than she had this morning … or last week in Dane’s arms.

She closed her eyes, struggling again for the control she never lost; control, not only of her thoughts, but of her life and its components. What happened between her and Dane during the thunderstorm should have been so simple … learning the mysteries of passion, exploring the forbidden, exciting yearnings of her body, satisfying the relentless cravings that consumed her. Well, she had done all that.

Only it had been replaced by something even more incomprehensible and far more threatening.

So she cared for him, her logic countered. That was to be expected. After all, she wasn’t a prostitute … it was only natural that she should have feelings for the man she chose to share her body with. But, a small voice acknowledged, it was the intensity of her feelings that terrified her. They were deep, eddying, making her breath catch and her throat constrict each time she relived those moments by the fire, creating a never-before-known longing that welled up inside her, slid easily beneath the protective wall that sheltered her from the world.

She sat down heavily upon the bed, uncertain and afraid and alone.
Mother, if only you were alive,
she mused wistfully,
you would know what I ought to do; you’d make some sense out of what I am feeling. …
Jacqui gave her head a hard shake … forced the painful reflection away. For beneath it, she knew, lay too many repressed emotions that she had never been strong enough to face, much less conquer.

Gathering Whiskey against her, she stroked her cheek against his soft fur. “Whiskey, there is only one answer. I cannot allow this relationship to continue … for many reasons. It is just too dangerous. I must end it … now.”

Whiskey purred his agreement and swatted at a sheet of paper on the bed.

Idly, Jacqui watched him, feeling the emptiness of loss well up inside her at the course of action she must take, to protect herself … and her secret. Giving up Dane would be the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, but …

Suddenly, Jacqui tensed, focusing on the paper that Whiskey was now raking with his claws. “Lord … it’s Monday!” She dumped Whiskey onto the floor and snatched up the page of writing. “I must deliver the column!”

One glance out the window told her that darkness had fallen. It also told her that Dane was still maintaining his post … but not without assistance. Reinforcements were in the process of being provided by Greta, who was handing Dane a tray laden with roast mutton garnished with horse radish, boiled potatoes, and cauliflower. It was obvious to Jacqui that, with her traitorous housekeeper’s help, Dane was settling in for the evening.

“Damn!” she exclaimed, frustration replacing sentiment in the blink of an eye. Her thoughts raced over her choices; She could miss tonight’s meeting … which would result in her column’s absence from this week’s
General Advertiser.
That possibility was ruled out before it had even been considered. One choice remained. She
had
to get to her messenger, which meant slipping by Dane without being seen. And there was but one means for that accomplishment. The back entrance.

Jacqui tucked the damp tendrils of hair behind her ears, trudging the last steps home. It was after ten and quite dark, for there was no moon at all tonight. Not that she needed the light to guide her. After making the same weekly excursion for over a year, she could find her way blindfolded.

Glancing surreptitiously about, she saw that her garden was deserted. Acute disappointment mingled with vast relief when she realized that Dane had finally gone. Following her customary ritual, she rounded the corner of Spruce Street to the side of her house. She ran the last few steps, lifting her skirts as she sped to the old oak … and collided with a solid wall of muscle.

Hard arms wrapped around her. She opened her mouth to scream, fighting to free herself, but a strong hand smothered the sound of her startled cry.

“Jacqueline. At last.”

She knew it was Dane even before he spoke. How well she remembered the feel of his powerful body, the heady masculine scent that made her senses throb … the infuriating arrogance that made her blood boil. She forced herself to go completely still.

When Dane felt Jacqui’s struggles cease, he released her … a mistake.

She shoved herself away from him, venom in her eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

“Waiting for you.” He was livid, enraged at her continued refusals to see him, more so at her mysterious disappearances. But right now, as he came face to face with the exasperating woman he loved for the first time since the night of the storm, all Dane could feel was a rush of emotion that obliterated all else. “Are you all right?” His voice was thick with memories, his eyes a blanket of tenderness.

“I’m fine.” She stared past him to the old oak. Then her speculative gaze returned to Dane, realizing that he had obviously been awaiting her arrival. “How did you know …” Abruptly, she broke off.

“How did I know your special ‘route’ to and from your house?” he finished for her. “I followed you home last week. After we’d made love.” The rich timbre of his voice was a tangible caress.

Hot color flooded Jacqui’s cheeks. “Why are you still waiting here?”

“Why did you leave me?” Dane responded, ignoring her ludicrous question.

Jacqui’s flush deepened and she lowered her head to hide the telltale reaction. “You know why I left.”

He raised her chin with his forefinger. “Yes,
I
know,” he said softly. “But I wonder if you do.”

She refused to look at him. “We were finished.”

“We had barely begun. And if you really think that’s the reason why you left, then you’re lying … to me and to yourself.”

Jacqui stepped away. “Dane, I must go in now.”

“Where were you tonight?”

She swallowed. “Please … leave me alone.”

“Jacqueline, do you really believe you can pretend nothing is changed, that your life can go on as it was?” He tugged her back into his arms, rubbing his chin, his lips against the satiny tresses of her mahogany hair. “I burn for you,” he whispered, stroking his hands up and down her spine. “I lie awake and relive every moment of the night we were together. I can see you, taste you, smell your perfume. I can remember every whimper you made, every plea for me not to stop, and, at the last, the way you cried out my name … again and again. I can feel the velvety heat of your body tightening all around me, driving me over the edge. I can feel your harsh little pants against my skin, the rake of your nails across my back, your beautiful, silky legs wrapped around my waist.”

Jacqui closed her eyes, unknowingly gripping the cool linen of his shirt in tight, trembling fists. “Stop.”

“No.”

“It can never happen again.”

“You won’t be able to prevent it.”

“Damn you,” she said in a tortured whisper, unable to cope with the staggering emotions storming her senses.

Dane tightened his embrace possessively. He felt her resistance … and her vulnerability. “Come home with me,” he murmured into her hair. “Fill the void inside me that you created … and only you can fill.”

She stiffened. “I can’t. I must go inside before I am missed.”

“Where is it that you are coming from at this hour of the night?” he asked again, this time more insistently. When Jacqui refused to answer, Dane frowned, renewed doubt, repressed but ever present, forcing its way to the forefront of his mind. “Why is it that you never want to discuss your comings and goings with me,
chaton
? Is it merely stubborn pride … or is it more?”