The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (44 page)

When the fire had dimmed to a dull glow, Francis climbed, shivering, into bed. But she was too cold to sleep. She lay in the darkness, wondering what she would do if the announcement in
The Times
turned out to be a prank. One trouble after another had followed since Robert’s death. Without him, Francis felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the centre of her life, leaving it as dark and oppressive as her unlit room. In the adventurous years she had spent following the drum, accompanying a ragtag army of men through Spain and France, Francis hadn’t minded lodging in flea-infested quarters and living on scraps. But then she had had Robert at her side. Without him, the dark English winter pressed in on her until she longed for her own release.

“Please come for me,” she whispered into the darkness, running her fingers along the square-cut ruby.

Francis dreamed she was trying to cross a frozen lake. She strained to move her legs, but they had frozen into blocks of ice. Her body was getting colder and colder. Soon the falling blizzard would cover her entirely. “Help!” she shouted, but the words came out in a pathetic whisper.

There was a slight sound, and she felt warm breath on her face. Suddenly, she could move her limbs. She reached up and felt the silken texture of fine hair beneath her fingers. The teasing currents of his breath tickled her face. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

He didn’t move. She looked up, surprised, but the fire had almost died out, making it difficult for her to see Robert’s face. “I need you,” she said, her voice throaty with longing.

He bent towards her, and she could hear his breathing quicken. When their lips met, she let out a moan of surprise. His mouth was warm, his lips surprisingly soft. She opened her mouth to him. The kiss was tender. The velvet tip of his tongue brushed hers. He traced her lips, and then plunged his tongue into her mouth. The intensity of his heated kisses sent a jolt straight to her core. Francis gasped and reached for him, pulling him down on top of her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, devouring her. She panted beneath him, lost in sensation. His heavy body pressed her down into the mattress, his weight solid and arousing. Francis massaged his firm buttocks, and he groaned. When he thrust against her, she felt a hard ridge press into her stomach. His mouth tasted deliciously of brandy. Arching up, Francis bit into his neck. He tasted of curry and sandalwood. Francis shivered, confused. His smell reminded her of something. She tried to speak, but his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking her through the thin muslin of her nightgown. Francis cried out in pleasure, sinking her nails into his back. “Oh, yes, please!” she cried, thrashing underneath this delicious assault.

A door slammed, somewhere down the hall, bringing Francis fully awake. She stiffened, realizing with the suddenness of a lightning bolt that the man in her bed was not her husband. “Who? What … what are you doing?” she cried.

The man jumped up from the bed and darted to the window. She heard a rasping sound, and realized that the intruder was escaping.

“Stop!” Francis jumped out of bed, her mind reeling. The window closed with a rattle, and then she heard a slamming sound farther off. She dived for the candle and ran to light it in the dying embers of the fire. The flickering taper revealed the bare fingers of her right hand. The Panchamaabhuta was gone.

Francis wailed, a low, keening note that seemed to rise up from the depths of her being. The deep, guttural lament went on and on. Iron bands squeezed her lungs. It wasn’t just her hope that had gone; the ring was all she had left of Robert. The finality of her loss struck Francis with full force. “No, no, no, no!” She pounded her fists against the mantelpiece. “Oh, God, Robert, Robert.” She crumpled over, racked with sobs. After some time, the blackness receded. Her stomach growled, forcing her back to the present. If she didn’t get the Panchamaabhuta back, she would starve.

She lifted her head, thinking. What did she know about the man who had stolen her jewel? He had the same smell of buckskin and spices as the stranger from the public room. Mr White had been eyeing her ring, hadn’t he? Francis remembered his teasing look when he had wished her pleasant dreams. Suddenly the words took on a sinister meaning.

Francis ground her teeth. Whoever he was, the thief had leaned over her bed because he was trying to steal her ruby. She was the one who had, inadvertently, offered him another prize. She remembered the intruder’s searing touch, and shivered. It had felt so right, being held in his arms, but he had only been taking advantage of her. She touched her swollen lips, remembering the hungry way Mr White had stared at her mouth when they stood together at the tap. He had pressed his thigh against her leg beneath the counter. It must have been him. The blackguard had misused her and robbed her into the bargain.

Francis’ gaze flew to the window. He had escaped that way, and then she had heard a muffled thud. Her chamber was located in the back corner of the inn, and there was nothing but wood beams to her right. The sound had seemed to come from the chamber to her other side. Perhaps the thief had deliberately taken a room next to hers. There was only one way to find out.

Stumbling in her haste, Francis pulled a thick woollen shawl over her nightgown and slipped on her kid half-boots. She strode to the window and pushed it upwards with a grating sound. Stealthily, she lowered herself on to the balcony on the other side. A board creaked beneath her feet. The wooden planks of the balcony seemed to connect all the rooms along the back of the inn. Moving on tiptoe, Francis crept slowly towards the next room. The window of the chamber was bare of curtains. She stood back, in the shadow of the wall, where she thought she could look through the pane of glass without being seen.

Standing up on tiptoe, Francis craned her neck. The room was glowing with candlelight and a crackling fire. A tall man with clipped blond hair stood barefoot on the rug. Francis drew her breath in on a hiss. There was no mistaking his powerful build — Mr White had dwarfed the other men in the public room. She flattened herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. She was suddenly aware of how exposed she was, alone on the dark balcony with only a pane of glass separating her from a man who could very well be a dangerous criminal. He stood with his back turned. At first, she thought he was hugging himself. Then he lifted his arms, and pulled the white linen shirt over his head. The broad expanse of his bare back, rippling with muscles, was revealed. Francis bit her lip. Mr White was very well made. His golden-toned body tapered from powerful shoulders to a trim waist, and his tight buckskins were moulded to his firm buttocks. He bent forwards, tugging at his waistband, and Francis realized that he was unfastening his trousers. Embarrassed, she was about to retreat, when she saw a glint of red on his right hand. Was it the Panchamaabhuta?

Francis squinted, but his hands were on his trousers, making it difficult to see. Mr White was inching his buckskins down, revealing a tempting expanse of smooth golden skin. Francis held her breath when the round globes of his buttocks came into view. She felt a tingling sensation in her belly, and she pressed her cheek against the glass, trying to cool her heated face. Mr White had powerful thighs, furred over lightly with golden brown hair. His long, muscular legs revealed his prowess in sporting pursuits. When he turned towards her, she saw his pendulous sex swinging between his legs, cushioned in a nest of dark curls. Francis swallowed convulsively. Heavens, but he was a beautiful man. She felt little prickles along her skin as she looked at the broad expanse of his naked chest. He scratched his mat of golden-brown hair luxuriously, and Francis’ teeth clicked together. She had seen the glint of red on his right hand. She couldn’t mistake the golden setting of the ring. It was the Panchamaabhuta. Francis gave a fierce snort, and the sound seemed to catch his ears. Mr White looked up towards the window.

Francis ducked down, huddling in the shadows. She waited in fear for some time, scolding herself for her carelessness. A vault of darkness and silence enclosed her. When the tumult of her beating heart slowed, she straightened up and looked through the window again. Mr White had walked over to his bed. The light in the room dimmed, as if the candles had been blown out, one after the other.

Francis chewed her lip, twisting the ends of her shawl in her hands. Her fingers clenched around a tassel, and she tugged at it so hard that it broke off. The gloating look on Mr White’s face had incited her beyond bearing. Robert had left her the ring as his parting gift. She would rather die than let his precious keepsake end in the hands of a cutpurse.

Francis waited, crouching in the shadows, until she thought she heard the sound of snoring. Her joints were stiff when she stood upright again. Moving out of the shadows, she peered into the darkened room. The fire was still blazing in the grate, and she saw Mr White lying, with his eyes closed, in his bed. She trembled at the thought of what she would have to do. She was going to break into the room of a strange gentleman, risking her reputation, even her safety, to steal back her jewel. But Mr White had left her no choice. Francis dug her nails into her palms. She wasn’t going to let the Panchamaabhuta go without a fight.

She tugged at the window, which gave with a rasping sound. Did none of the windows have locks in this forsaken inn? Holding her breath, Francis pushed the window up and hoisted herself through it. It was a struggle, but years of arduous travel had put a fair amount of strength in her wiry arms. She lowered herself to the floor. She had done it. She was actually inside.

The crackling fire shed a dim light around the room. She darted an anxious glance at the man on the bed, wondering if all her noise had woken him. All she heard was the steady sound of snoring. Chuckling to herself, she crept towards him, imagining his look of chagrin when he woke and discovered his booty was gone. He lay under a white coverlet, and she looked him over with cautious interest. In sleep, he looked more like a boy than a man. The strong planes of his face had relaxed. His tousled blond hair gave him an innocent look. Mr White stirred, muttering to himself. Francis knew she had to act now, and quickly.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she tugged down his coverlet to reveal his right hand. She was trembling when she reached out for the ring. He stirred, moving his hand out of reach. With a deep breath, Francis seized it in hers. His fingers were warm and the hair on the back of his hands felt rough against her palm. A flutter ran through her at the contact. Francis pulled at the ruby, and then sucked in her breath. The Panchamaabhuta seemed to be glued to Mr White’s index finger. She would have to use all her strength to take it off. Little goosebumps stood out on Francis’ arms. The smallest touch or sound might waken him. She darted a glance at Mr White’s face, but his expression was as peaceful as before. Francis curled her nails around the square-cut ruby, trying to advance it towards the tip of his finger. Suddenly, Mr White turned his head. His catlike eyes, awake and fiery, stared into hers.

“So you’ve come back for more.” Throwing off his bedclothes, he dived for her.

Francis scampered away with a frightened squeak. Moving with a speed born of sheer terror, she raced to the window.

He reached it at the same time. Blocking her escape, he seized her wrist in a firm clasp. “We have a score to settle, you and I.” He loomed over her, and Francis stared at his hairy chest. He was standing before her, naked as God made him.

Francis’ heart seemed to be jumping out of her bosom, but she was still able to think. Bringing her foot up, she came down with all her weight, crushing his bare toes beneath her boot. He let go of her with an agonized grunt. She leaped to the window, and pushed up on the pane of glass. As she started to hoist herself up, strong arms seized her from behind. She kicked at him, trying to free herself, but an irresistible force pulled her down to the floor. Francis writhed, kicking and panting, as they rolled across the floor. She landed on top and scratched viciously at his face. He cursed and slapped her. Francis hardly felt the stinging pain on her cheek. Her heart was pounding, and a surge of fierce triumph shot through her. After two years of slow, burning rage at Robert’s death, now she had a human target to wreak her vengeance on. It wasn’t some nameless French soldier who had taken Robert from her. It was Mr White, who had violated her bond with her husband by stealing the ring.

“You bloody thieving bastard!” She hammered blows at his face. “How dare you? You miserable, mercenary wretch!” This time, her nail nicked the corner of his eye, drawing blood.

Cursing, he seized her wrists together in one hand, gripping her so hard that she cried out in pain. She wriggled, but he held her arms fast and pinned her writhing body against his chest with his other hand.

“Let me go!”

His grip tightened on her. Francis panted against his naked chest, feeling a hard button press into her cheek. Turning her head, she bit viciously into his nipple.

He gasped, and then seized her in an iron grip. A punishing hand pushed her head down, burying her face in his warm, muscular shoulder. Francis couldn’t move. She realized with a sinking feeling that she was in his power. She went limp against him, as the truth sank in. He wasn’t a French soldier; he was a common thief in a roadside inn. Even if she got the Panchamaabhuta back, Robert was lost for ever. Exhausted, she collapsed on to Mr White. Immediately, the painful pressure eased. He tilted her chin up, so that his luminous eyes bored into hers.

“You fight like a Bengal tiger,” he said. To her surprise, there was a chuckle in his voice.

“Give me my ruby,” Francis said.

“If you want it, you’ll have to give me something in return.” He gave her a hot look.

Francis was suddenly aware that although she was wearing a shawl over her nightgown, she had nothing on underneath. She could feel the heat of his limbs coiled beneath hers.