Perilous Pleasures (6 page)

She sat frozen, waiting, as the seconds ticked by, each one more agonizing than the one before it.

And then he laughed.

The sound of it echoed through the room. His shoulders shook, and what looked like tears sprang at the corner of his eyes. “What a strange girl you are,” he sputtered. “You've made me believe you, crazy as it sounds. If you'd meant to harm me, you'd be bragging about it now, not lying to me. You're too honest to do anything else.”

Her rigid muscles relaxed. He wasn't going to strike her.

But then his voice lost its edge of humor and once again took on its customary tone of command. “Still, I'll keep your knife. Though you've been so kind as to leave me with my manhood intact, your blade can still harm me. The Dark Lord's heir must not touch iron. Not in the weeks before the Final Teaching. It destroys the ability to draw upon the powers of the earth.” He gestured toward where her knife lay on the floor. “I'll dispose of it later.”

He sank back onto the bed, exhausted. “Now leave me. And don't try any more of your tricks. From now on, I'll be on my guard. You may be sure of that. Whatever your scheme might have been, it failed. The power of the Dark Lord isn't mocked.”

Chapter 4

T
he next morning, when he led Zoe down to the inn's common room, where they were served an indifferent breakfast, Adam found perverse pleasure in the discovery that his companion looked no better than he felt. Her eyes were suspiciously puffy and her usually bright features bore the heavy look that told of a sleepless night. He greeted her with a slight nod, hoping to avoid further confrontation, but the dull look of despair with which she met his eye showed she feared him even more than she had the previous day—as she should, after failing at whatever it was she'd been up to the past night.

Even so, she made a brave show of eating the leathery bacon they had been given for their breakfast. She cut it into ladylike portions and lifted each forkful slowly to her mouth, though her hand shook as she did so. He should have taken pleasure from observing her misery, but strangely, he could not. Instead, he found himself fighting the urge to reassure her. He couldn't imagine why. Her behavior had been preposterous. By behaving like a harlot, she'd proven herself to be her mother's daughter, despite the demure face she'd hitherto shown him.

And what
had
she intended with her knife? His insides contracted just thinking of it. Had he stayed asleep, she could have easily unmanned him. He had only her word for it that she'd meant him no harm. So why was he still haunted by the feeling that he'd been wrong to transfer his hatred of Isabelle to her daughter? Zoe's behavior should have strengthened his anger, not weakened it. But it hadn't.

He'd been haunted all night by the vision of her face as he had swum up into consciousness to find himself in her embrace. And he was haunted still by the memory of her touch, which had awakened such longing in his body—and in his heart. Was it to reassure
her
that he wanted to reach out and stroke her narrow shoulder? Or himself?

He
should
hate her. She was alive only because her mother had ensured his sister would die in her place. But over the years he had cultivated the ability to listen for what was unsaid, until it seemed to him sometimes that he could hear even the sound of the worms slithering in the earth beneath his feet. Now, with that trained facility sharpened by their tryst the previous night, he could hear her thoughts. He could sense what it cost her to maintain the pose of cool unconcern with which she had faced down every insult he had given her. And her courage amazed him.

She was alone, abandoned by the mother who should have protected her and helpless in the hands of her enemy—himself. But still she radiated defiance, despite the fear he felt thrumming beneath her carefully maintained façade of self-sufficiency—which he felt as strongly as if it had been his own. In the face of such courage, how wrong it would be if his revenge was to be directed at
her
.

He left his breakfast untouched and called for the chaise to be brought round. The sooner they reached Iskeny, the better. As the carriage jolted down the rutted road, he struggled to keep his leg from touching the thick fabric of Zoe's skirt, lest he remember about what lay hidden beneath it. But avoid her as he might, his flesh still tingled where her gentle hands had stroked him the night before.

If only he
had
truly been asleep. If only it had been the touch of a dream woman he'd responded to. But he hadn't been asleep, not the whole time. He'd awakened as Zoe had been going about her business, and that was what he couldn't forgive himself for. Even when he'd known she was not some phantom summoned by his loneliness, he'd allowed her to continue—nay, he'd done far worse than that—he'd
ensured
that she continue, by using his rusty lover's skills to make her want him more. The memory appalled him.

Barely a week after receiving the letter that told him he'd been chosen to be the Dark Lord's heir, he'd betrayed his master's trust and come within a hairsbreadth of violating the vow of chastity he'd maintained for nine long years, that vow whose fulfillment had made him fit, finally, to avenge his sister. No, he must be honest, he
had
violated it. That he hadn't gone on to orgasm under the girl's ministrations was unimportant. He had opened himself up to her, blended his energy with hers, and given her something that couldn't be recalled.

And the most damnable thing about it was that even now, when he knew how serious his lapse had been, the sight of her ankle peeking from behind the thin edging of her gown was causing his indomitable manhood to stir again. He still lusted for her, though he knew full well that his cursed lust was the reason he'd failed his sister. He still wanted what Zoe had offered. He, who had sanctified his manhood to earn his absolution.

Zoe stirred on the carriage seat beside him, heaving a small but poignant sigh. He wanted to be angry at her. Her behavior last night had been more than shocking. What kind of young virgin seduced her guardian in a country inn?

But his conscience had an answer for him: the frightened daughter of a woman with no morals, a woman who had sold her daughter to some stranger, a woman who had demonstrated, thanks to him, that she'd cheerfully sell that daughter once again.

He wanted to tell her not to fret. He wanted to hold her and soothe her fears—then, shocked at the direction his mind was turning, he squelched that thought. Damn him, it wasn't comfort he wanted to give her. He wanted to embrace her again, to finish off what they'd begun. His body throbbed with desire for her.

He rapped on the roof of the compartment to attract the postilion's attention and when the chaise stopped, he threw open the carriage door and lunged out into the waiting dampness. He'd ride outside. The abominable English climate would soon cool his ardor.

But even riding on one of the lead horses beside the postilion, with the rain dripping from the brim of his hat and his lust beaten back, he was haunted by the memory of the sadness he'd seen in her eyes just now, which he hadn't observed before the events of the past night. His rejection had wounded her. She couldn't know that the revulsion he'd felt had been toward himself, for the weakness that made him crave what she'd offered—and he'd take pains to ensure she never knew.

If only the journey that stretched out before them weren't so long. Once they arrived at Iskeny, it would be easier to remember what he was and what he must become: there, where the energies of the Old Ones still flowed through the standing stones, where he would become, in truth, the Dark Lord's heir, and she would become—but that thought brought him even less comfort.

He didn't want to think of what awaited her on the island. The Dark Lord knew, better than anyone, how deeply he'd yearned for revenge and he'd promised Adam would attain it soon—in the very same paragraph where he'd commanded Adam to bring him back the virgin.

No, the thought of reaching the island brought him precious little comfort at all.

T
hank God Lord Ramsay had left the compartment! It had been torture to have to sit beside him in its cramped confines. Zoe doubted she could have borne it for another moment. Why did he have to look so painfully handsome in that brooding way of his, when he'd made it clear he loathed her, body and soul? And even worse, now that she knew how he felt about her, why couldn't she stop wanting him?

It must be what her mother called
maladie de la vierge
, the virgin's sickness. She'd warned Zoe about it—explaining how a first sexual encounter with an attractive man could cause a dangerous state of mental instability that made young girls long for proposals of marriage where none were possible and kept them from accepting more profitable arrangements that were.

Zoe had thought her good sense would render her immune to it. She had no romantic expectations—she'd never had them—and she'd known exactly what she was getting into when she'd entered Lord Ramsay's chamber. She hadn't dreamed the virgin's sickness would afflict her. But apparently she'd been wrong. For her body burned now with the yearnings the sleeping lord had awakened in her—though all she had awakened in
him
was disgust.

She told herself there was no point in dwelling on what she couldn't change and forced herself to stare through the raindrops that drizzled down the coach window at the monotonous moor that stretched away in all directions. But it was no use.

Why had his eyes looked so unexpectedly kind this morning? Why had he made her feel as if he could sympathize with the pain she felt—the very pain that he himself had caused?

She forced her attention back to the window just in time to see a circling raven swoop down on some invisible prey. It seemed like an omen. Could Ramsay really be a wizard? She recalled those odd words that had burst out of him when he had discovered her fallen knife:
The Dark Lord's heir must not touch iron
.

There was only one kind of creature that feared cold iron—a witch. She was too good a student of science to believe in witchcraft, but still, he
had
read her thoughts, more than once. And though he was an educated man—far better educated than she was—
he
obviously believed in wizardry. She couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps what he believed in was more than just a fantasy.

Men had been hanged for witchcraft in Scotland within living memory. There must still be some there who practiced the ancient ways, and if they did, where better to practice their grim rites than on a remote island far from the reach of the authorities? Whatever she might believe, what had taken place the past night in Lord Ramsay's darkened chamber left no room for doubt about the power
he
attributed to sexual purity—which made all the more worrisome the Dark Lord's insistence she be a virgin.

In spite of herself, she shuddered.

She couldn't allow him to take her to the island. She must flee before he brought her to his master. She would do it tonight, when they stopped at the next inn. She would have to.

At least she need not fear that when she was out on the road alone some brigand would ravish her. Lord Ramsay had made it clear that, as her mother had always told her, no man would ever want her in that way.

B
ut that night they didn't stop at an inn. They barely stopped at all, and when they did it was only to change horses. Though Ramsay was soaked to the skin from the dreary mizzling rain that had been falling much of the day, he seemed possessed by some fury that drove him to keep on traveling.

When they did stop to change horses, he ordered hampers of food to be brought out to them, but except when she went to answer the call of nature, he didn't let her out of his sight. At their last stop before nightfall he informed her that they would ride all night. The skies had cleared and he wanted to take advantage of the full moon to make more progress on their journey.

Zoe's despair grew as the horses clattered each lengthening mile from the city. How would she ever get away?

It was close to midnight when they stopped yet again to change horses at an inn that stood in the center of a tiny village. Zoe had fallen asleep, but woke at the sound of Ramsay's voice calling out an order to the postilion. By the time she was fully roused, he was gone. Through the window of the chaise she saw him striding into the inn to make his arrangements. This was the first time all day he'd left her alone. He must have thought her still dozing.

She waited until she was sure he wouldn't immediately return. Then she made her way out of the chaise, acting as if she were merely stretching her legs in case he should be observing her. But he didn't return. She was really alone. This was the opportunity she'd been waiting for.

Their post chaise stood at one side of the moonlit inn courtyard. A lone postilion was wearily unharnessing the team. As casually as she could, she hailed him.

“It's so cold. Would you fetch my box from the chaise so I can get my shawl?”

She pointed to where it lay, atop the pile of luggage lashed to the boot of the post chaise. When the postilion handed it down to her, she reached into her purse and gave him a sixpence for his pains, which he tossed into the air, where it spun brightly in the moonlight. Then he slapped it into his pocket and headed into the taproom to exchange it for a hearty draught that would provide warmth for the long night's journey ahead.

She was alone now. There would be no cheering warmth for her for many hours to come, but if she was lucky there would be freedom. After a swift look to make sure Ramsay was still inside the inn, she rooted through her box for the things she couldn't leave behind and transferred them to the small valise she'd packed into the larger trunk. She took only a change of dress, some stockings, and a pair of sturdy shoes—she'd need those for the long walk ahead of her.

Then she picked up the old doll MacMinn had given her and gave it a furtive hug before laying it back in the box, warmed by the memory of how her mother's coachman had hugged her when she was small and sheltered her with his long, gangling body as if she, too, were a beloved doll. But this was no time for sentiment. She must make her escape.

Zoe made a bundle of the clothing she must leave behind and grabbed her old bonnet. With every sense on high alert, she reentered the chaise and heaped up the bundled garments in the corner she'd previously occupied. When that was done, she set her bonnet on top of the pile, closed the door, and stepped away.

In the gloom, the mass of cloth did look like a woman sleeping in the chaise. With Ramsay so eager to avoid any contact with her, it was unlikely he'd venture close enough to the huddled form to realize it wasn't hers. She hoisted her valise and hurried away from the center of the tiny village. Her father, the duke, would be so proud if he could see the job she'd made of her escape.

She took a path leading away from the inn, looking for some place where she could hide until the post chaise had gone. But the countryside around her was one of open fields and hedgerows offering no shelter. She didn't dare take refuge in one of the stone barns that stood behind the village houses, for if she disturbed the animals, their cries would give her away. There was no alternative but to head out into the fields.