The Naked King (25 page)

Perhaps she would have more luck in the kitchen. There must be a door there.

“Tally-ho!” The cry rang through the hall. Brentwood must have untangled himself from his clothing.

She fled to the back of the house. Yes, here was the kitchen with . . . a securely locked door. Damnation. Where was the key? Could it be hidden in one of these drawers? She pulled them out randomly. Knives, forks, spoons, ladles—no keys.

Was that the crack of a whip she heard?

She shot out of the kitchen and through the breakfast room. It looked like the library lay ahead. Perhaps she’d find French windows to a terrace there.

Behind her she heard a slap, slap, slap against the kitchen floor. Was that the sound of bare feet? Surely the man had pulled his clothing on, not off?

She darted into the library. Yes, there were French windows. She tugged on them, but they refused to budge even an inch.

“I’ve got you now!”

She looked over her shoulder. Brentwood, stark naked, was running toward her, snapping a long coach whip. She slammed the library door. She needed a weapon of some kind. What?

A heavy book would have to do. It was all she had at hand. She grabbed the largest one she could reach as Brentwood burst in. She swung it below his huge belly at his puny private parts. Desperation gave her strength. He howled with pain and doubled over, dropping the whip and stumbling toward the French windows.

She followed and swung the book at his head. It was too heavy for her to lift high enough to hit him squarely on the crown, so she smacked him on the ear. He lost his balance and crashed into the windows.

Glass shattered, wood splintered, and then Brentwood lay naked on the floor, still as death.

Chapter 21

Anne held the book ready to bash the bounder if he moved. He didn’t. In fact, he looked most unwell. All the color had drained from his face.

Frankly, he closely resembled a corpse.

Dear God, had she killed him?

She dropped the book and backed away, horrified. She’d never killed anything in her life. Not that she’d had a choice in this instance nor did she wish Brentwood alive, but to be the one who had . . .

She slapped her hands over her eyes so as not to see the body and started to shake uncontrollably.

“Anne.”

Someone touched her; she screamed. She would run; she’d find a place to hide; she’d—

“Anne, it’s me, Stephen.”

Stephen? She swallowed, fighting down her panic. Could it really be Stephen? She forced herself to look.

It
was
Stephen.

She threw herself into his arms and burst into tears.

“Did he hurt you, Anne?” Stephen tried to rein in his panic. He’d ridden as fast as his horse would carry him, his fear for Anne’s safety constantly urging him to go faster. When he’d arrived and found the door locked and the house apparently deserted, he’d tasted bitter despair. He’d had no idea where to look next, and even if he’d had a plan, he knew he’d arrive too late to save Anne. Thank God he’d decided to search the house’s perimeter. He’d just been turning the corner when he’d heard the glass shatter. “Are you all right?”

“Y-yes, I’m f-fine.”

She didn’t sound at all fine. She was stiff and trembling.

“Is . . . is he d-dead?” she asked, keeping her face buried in his chest.

“It looks so.” He didn’t want to let go of her, but he should ascertain whether the bloody bastard still breathed. “I’ll check—wait, here’s Kenderly . . . and Knightsdale as well.”

He’d been hoping Damian would arrive soon, but how the devil had Knightsdale got word? Surely Emma couldn’t divine his location by studying her tea leaves or something?

“Hallo, Stephen.” Damian, followed by Knightsdale, stepped through the French window Stephen had forced open. “Hope you don’t mind I brought Knightsdale along. Actually, he brought himself. He was with me when I got your note and insisted on coming.” He looked down at Brentwood and gave a long, low whistle. “Here’s a bit of a mess.”

Knightsdale stooped to examine the body, using his handkerchief to lift the head. “Definitely dead. Piece of glass cut right through the jugular.”

“Indeed,” Damian said. “Look at all that blood.”

Anne moaned and pressed her face farther into Stephen’s waistcoat.

Knightsdale laid the head back down and frowned up at Anne’s back. “I’m sorry to cause you pain, Lady Anne, but could you tell us what happened here?”

“No one blames you, of course,” Damian said. “You were clearly defending yourself from Brentwood’s advances, but we need to know a few details, such as how Brentwood found himself hurtling through the window. Did he trip or”—Damian cleared his throat—“did you, er, assist his progress in some way?”

While Damian was talking, Knightsdale pulled a Holland cover off one of the chairs and draped it over Brentwood’s body, leaving only his large, ugly feet exposed.

“Tell us, Anne.” Stephen massaged the back of her neck. She was so tense. “And then I’ll take you away.”

Knightsdale nodded. “Yes. Kenderly and I will stay and handle all the odds and ends.”

Stephen felt Anne take a deep breath; then she straightened and turned to face Damian and Knightsdale, averting her eyes from Brentwood’s draped corpse. He kept his arm around her waist, hugging her to his side.

“Lord Brentwood was ch-chasing me. When I got to this room, I was t-trapped. I grabbed a book and when h-he came in, I h-hit him—twice—as hard as I could. He f-fell.”

“And the book?” Damian asked.

Anne pointed. “It’s on the f-floor there.”

Damian picked up the tome. “It’s certainly heavy enough to do the job.” He glanced inside and his eyebrows shot up. “Very interesting.” He turned the book sideways and examined one of the pages intently. “The illustrations are extremely educational”—he slammed the book closed—“and obscene.”

Stephen didn’t care if the book were Satan’s diary, he just wanted to get Anne away from there. “Are you done with Anne now?” She was trembling again.

“Yes,” Knightsdale said. He got up and took one of Anne’s hands in his. “I will tell you what I told many soldiers who were under my command, Lady Anne. Don’t let Brentwood’s death bedevil you. It wasn’t your intention to kill him, but to save yourself.”

“I-I know,” she said quietly. “Th-thank you.”

Stephen ushered Anne out the French window, being careful to give Brentwood’s body a wide berth. The sky was still threatening rain.

“Damian, Knightsdale,” he called back.

Damian glanced up from the corpse. “Yes? What is it?”

“I’ll have to take Anne up on my horse, so we’ll be traveling slowly. If it starts to rain, we’ll seek shelter. Could you send word to Crane House to let them know we’re all right in case we’re delayed?”

“Of course—don’t worry about that.”

Knightsdale looked up at the sky. “You’d best be off if you want to have any chance of beating the rain.”

Stephen led Anne around to the front of the house. She looked straight ahead and didn’t speak. She was so tense, he feared even one word would shatter her. He lifted her onto his horse and then swung up behind her, encircling her with his arm.

They rode slowly, Anne sitting stiff as a rod before him. She was obviously not ready to talk about what had happened, but he would encourage her to do so soon. The first time he’d killed anyone—another plant hunter who’d spent too long alone in the jungle and had greeted him with a knife—he’d been haunted by nightmares for weeks. They still occasionally returned—the remembered feel of sliding a blade through human flesh, blood spraying—

The wound crusted over; it never healed completely.

A fat raindrop plopped onto his glove. Fortunately, there was a small inn just up ahead. The storm restrained itself long enough for him to help Anne dismount and give his horse to a stable boy, but as soon they stepped in the inn’s front door, the heavens opened.

“We were lucky,” he said. Anne only nodded. The sooner he got her private, the better.

“Have you a room for me and my wife?” he asked the innkeeper, a fubsy fellow, almost as fat as he was tall, with a genial expression. “It’s started storming; I don’t believe the rain will let up any time soon.”

“Right ye are, sir,” the innkeeper said. “I can feel it in my bones—it’ll be raining cats and dogs all night.” He picked up his keys. “Happen I do have a room, but only one, if that’ll do. I’ve had a rash of business just in the last hour—lots of travelers decided to put up for the night when they saw how threatening the sky be.”

“One room will be perfectly adequate.” Better, even. Anne shouldn’t be alone with her thoughts.

“This way, then.” The innkeeper led them up the steep, narrow stairs to a small but clean room. “Here ye be.”

“Thank you—and please send up a light repast with a pot of tea as soon as possible”—Stephen looked at Anne—“and a bottle of brandy immediately.”

“Very good, sir.” The man bowed, making his corset creak rather alarmingly, and closed the door behind him.

“I do hope he makes it safely down the stairs,” Stephen said, watching Anne closely. “I was afraid he’d suffer an apoplexy on the way up. You’d think a man who must climb those stairs many times a day wouldn’t be so fat, but perhaps his size in an endorsement of the quality of the establishment’s food. I hope so. I missed nuncheon, so I’m famished. Aren’t you?”

Anne blinked at him. “What?”

At least she’d said something. “The boys told me you bit the fellow who abducted you.”

“Yes.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

Thank God for that. “The twins were very alert; if it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t have been certain to go after Brentwood. They heard the man who took you mention his name.”

“Oh.” Anne was hugging herself and staring at the floor.

Someone scratched at the door, and then a servant entered with the brandy and two glasses. “A cold collation and tea will be up in just a moment, sir.”

“Splendid.” Stephen poured Anne a glass of brandy as the servant left. “Drink a little of this, Anne.”

She shook her head.

“It will help.”

She shook her head again. It broke his heart. Where was his passionate, prickly love?

“Then come sit with me before the fire.” He led her to the settee and drew her down beside him, holding her close. He offered her the brandy again. “Take one sip at least.”

“No, I don’t—”

“Trust me.”

She stared at Stephen and then sighed and took the glass, obediently putting it to her lips. The brandy burned a fiery trail over her tongue down her throat to her stomach where it bloomed into sudden warmth.

“Better?” Stephen asked, taking the glass and putting it on the table by his elbow.

“A little.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and watched the orange and yellow flames play in the fireplace while his hand slid comfortingly up and down her arm. She heard the servants come in again, deposit the food and tea, and leave.

He had said he was hungry; she should let him go. “You wanted to eat.”

“Later.”

He gave her another sip of brandy. He was so large, so solid. Slowly, slowly, she relaxed against him. The heat of the fire and the warmth of the brandy and Stephen’s body cracked the ice encasing her heart. Painful feeling leaked out.

She covered her face with her hands. She was shaking again and crying.

Oh, God. She’d been so afraid in the carriage. And when Brentwood had grabbed her . . .

“Anne, Anne.” Stephen turned her so her body was tangled up with his, both his arms around her now. “Let it go.” She felt his lips brush her forehead. “It’s over.”

The tears kept coming. She cried because of the horrible events of the last few hours, but she cried also for the young girl who’d lived so long with shame and broken dreams.

Finally, after Stephen’s shirtfront was thoroughly soaked, the tears ran dry. She wiped her face on her sleeve and rested her cheek on his chest. She listened to the comforting beat of his heart. His hand stroked her hair.

She felt safe, warm and safe at last.

Brentwood was gone. She could put him firmly in her past. She was free.

And what would she do with her freedom? Where would she go—where would she
choose
to go—now?

The answer was obvious.

“Take me to bed, Stephen.”

He frowned slightly. “To sleep?”

It felt odd after crying so much, but she smiled. “Eventually.”

That made him smile a little, too, but didn’t chase away his frown. “Are you certain? You’ve had a very upsetting time of it. Perhaps it would be better if we just sit here quietly.”

She loved the warmth of his arms around her, but she wanted more. She wanted him around, above, and in her. She was still partly frozen. She needed his love, hot and real, to thaw her completely.

“I’m certain.”

He kissed her then gently, cradling her head in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Very well. We’ll do it slowly this time, shall we?” he said. “There’s no hurry. Hear the rain beating on the windows? We shall have to stay the night.”

“Mmm. That sounds wonderful.”

“Relax, then, and let me love you.”

He pulled her forward, resting her against his chest while he worked on the tiny buttons at the back of her dress. In short order, he had her bared to the waist. Her nipples tightened in the room’s cool air—and Stephen’s intent interest. The heat of his gaze—and the fire’s heat—flickered over her skin. Longing throbbed in her heart and in the place still hidden beneath her skirts.

His hands smoothed the sides of her breasts, cupping them, lifting them . . .

“To bed, Stephen. Please?”

“Patience, love. Remember we are doing this slowly.” He touched one of her nipples and sensation shot directly to that hidden place, increasing its ache. “I shall not be hurried.”

He leaned her back and settled her so she rested comfortably, half sitting, half reclining against the settee’s arm. Then he bent his head and kissed her breasts, first one and then the other, teasing her, coming close but never quite touching her nipples. She wove her hand through his hair. She would not force him where she wanted him to go. She would relax as he had told her to. He would take care of her.

He did. His tongue flicked out and she moaned. She was empty—all of her was empty—and she needed him to fill her.

“Stephen, I can’t wait any longer.”

He stood then and pulled her up, freeing her from the rest of her clothes. He carried her to the bed.

She stretched out on the mattress, completely naked and feeling pleasantly wanton, and watched him slowly remove his waistcoat. How different he was from Brentwood in all things. “You are so beautiful.”

He laughed, pulling his breeches off so she could see just how beautiful he was. “You are mistaken, my love; it is you who are beautiful.”

She wouldn’t argue with him; she was too happy. She couldn’t believe she would have the pleasure of him every day . . . every night . . . Well, whenever he was in England.

She pushed that thought away. “Are we really to wed?”

He grinned. “I think it best, and the sooner the better. I’m planning to make another attempt to get you with child—in case my first try was unsuccessful, that is.”

She spread her legs a little. She was very hot. “Brentwood wanted to r-rape me, so if I did increase, I’d never know for certain the father of my baby.”

Stephen climbed into bed and gathered her close. “Don’t think about him, Anne. He’ll never trouble you again.”

“I killed him.” She was growing cold once more, even in Stephen’s arms.

“As Knightsdale said, you did not mean to; you were defending yourself.” He put a hand on her breast and the warmth came back. “And you saved me the trouble of doing it myself. If he hadn’t died by your hand, I would have dispatched him to hell with pleasure as soon as I arrived.”