The Passionate One (8 page)

It was rare that
Carr was thwarted. Ash would enjoy each moment to its fullest. And finally,
with the familiar and poisoning vitriol singing in his blood, Ash fell asleep.

The black stone
walls oozed cold, inky sweat. Chill seeped into the murky corridors. Ash
slumped in the middle of the slanted stone floor beneath his prized rag of a
blanket, capturing what warmth he could from his own breath, past shivering,
merely enduring.

Behind him the
cries and mutterings of the other prisoners faded. He tensed, waiting for the
inevitable attack, the latest test of his waning strength, the newest contender
for the stinking rag he himself had fought over. Animal and base, he strained
to hear the muted approach.

There. A touch.
Experimental and wary.

With a thick oath,
Ash grabbed his assailant’s shoulders and pitched him to his back. He threw
himself on the prone figure. Snarling, he throttled him, meeting—

—Rhiannon Russell’s
panicked eyes.

With a gasp, he
jerked his hands from her throat.

“My God.” He’d
nearly killed her. What had he become that even in his sleep he could kill? He
struggled to clear his thoughts. He needed to say something, do something. He
closed his eyes, dazed and sickened.

Cool fingers
touched his cheek. Shocked, his eyelids flew open. She raised her other hand
and with her fingertips brushed his mouth. Then gently, soothingly, she
bracketed his face between her palms.

“It’s all right,”
she whispered.

No fear. No
indignation. No reproach.

Astounded, he
realized she was
comforting
him. Comforting him with the marks of his
hands still red around her throat. With his body heavy and penalizing on hers.

“It’s all right, Merrick,” she whispered.

She could not have
done more or worse to him. With those simple words she robbed him of his
half-formed apology, the explanation and excuse. She cut his soul from him,
leaving him mute and exposed beneath her tender, pitying gaze.

She’d recognized
him. Not his ruthlessness or the debauchery he’d so willingly embraced—those
were still hidden from her. No. She knew something more profound: his
vulnerability. His fear. Because she shared it.

She, too, had
walked through nightmares. There was no other explanation for her immediate
recognition, her spontaneous understanding... the succor she offered. She had
mapped that same terror-filled geography.

He swallowed,
breathing too hard, pressing his eyes closed against her pity. He didn’t want
this. He didn’t want the connection. He wanted her body. Nothing more. And
Lord, was it not enough?

Robbed of sight, he
could only feel. She lay beneath him, supple and light-boned, locked into a
parody of mating, her hips nested into his own. The image tormented him with
its immediacy and impossibility. Blood surged through him, hardening him.

“It’s all right,”
she repeated softly. “I have nightmares, too.”

He opened his eyes
and stared unseeing at her. She didn’t understand. He didn’t give a damn about
nightmares. He wanted to press his bare flesh against hers, to feel her moving
beneath him.

“Merrick!” Fear
now. Clear, cold, recalling him. He couldn’t have her afraid. It wasn’t part of
his plan.

“Merrick?”

“Aye.” He rose
unsteadily to his feet, attempting a smile, failing. “Aye. A dream.”

He offered his hand
and trustingly—damn her—she took it. He helped her up. She should have leapt
back, but she didn’t. She studied him worriedly while he averted his eyes from
her loosened neckline. It dipped too low over her breasts, her nipples inches
from being exposed. Would they be pink and rosy or tawny and dark? Large or
small? Would they pucker against his tongue—?

“I didn’t mean to
disturb you,” she said. “I only... I saw you sleeping and”—her gaze fell to a
hitherto unnoticed buttercup wilting in the grass at their feet—“Mrs. Fraiser
used to wake me by brushing a flower across my face. She said the scent
promised a pleasant waking.”

“A pretty conceit,”
he said, finally producing an inane smile. She had no idea what he’d wanted. He
fought to find the mild persona he’d adopted in this little rural community. He
found it. “But I assure you, ’tis I who must humbly beg your pardon. Believe it
or not, I’m not in the habit of throttling lovely young women who wake me.”

“You were having—”

“There’s no excuse
for my behavior. Even in one’s sleep manners are important and I believe
strangling a woman would definitely be considered a breach of such. Don’t you
agree?”

A small frown
puckered her brow. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose.”

“Where’s your
fiancé?” He looked away from the trap of her green eyes.

“He left.” She
began brushing the grass and twigs from her skirts as blithely as if nothing
had happened.

“Without seeing you
back to Mrs. Fraiser?”

“Phillip knew you
were here,” she said. “And some of his friends were to meet at The Ploughman.
He didn’t want to keep them waiting.”

Only a fool, he
thought, would leave such as her for the company of fatuous, overindulged young
men.

“Oh?” The sight of
her long tanned finger combing bits of leaf from her hair captivated him. It
had come free of its coil and fell in waves about her shoulders. Had his hands
undone it? Had Phillip’s?

“They were going to
play cards,” she said. “Oh, yes. He related an invitation to you to join them.”

Cards
?
Fiercely, Ash forced his thoughts to the matter at hand. Rich, bored
young men were meeting to game away their allowances. They wanted his company.
Isn’t that what he’d been maneuvering for? They could easily be induced to play
for higher stakes and he could gain something from this trip... besides an
unwanted passion.

Chapter Seven

“I miss London terribly,” drawled Edward St. John. “I don’t doubt I shall go back for the season.
A year seems a long time in the country. You’ve had a season, Phillip. Cut
quite a swathe, I believe.” His manner, though mild, hid a barb.

Phillip flushed
slightly and quaffed the rest of his ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of
his sleeve and motioned the innkeeper’s son, Andrew, over to refill his cup.
“Yes.”

Edward turned to
Ash. “I’ve met your father, you know,” he said. “In fact, I spent two weeks at
Wanton’s Blush a few years back. Quite a fascinating man, your father.”

They were ensconced
in the only private room The Ploughman boasted. The others of their party had
left. Only Phillip Watt, John Fortnum, St. John, and Ash remained.

“Isn’t he,” Ash
murmured noncommittally. He was not surprised that St. John had found his way
to Wanton’s Blush. He wagered incautiously and ostentatiously. A plump little
pigeon like St. John would certainly have attracted Carr’s far-ranging notice.

“It made quite an
end to what was a grand season.” St. John looked around to make certain that
his audience was suitably impressed. When no one responded, he finished
scooping the small ante from the center of the table into his pocket.

Ash stretched out
his leg, mentally tallying the wealth of jewels bedecking St. John’s exquisite
persimmon-colored silk jacket. It was amazing St. John had escaped Wanton’s
Blush apparently unscathed. Few did.

“You were
regrettably absent, however.” The little spark of malice in his eyes told Ash
that St. John was well aware Ash had spent that season in a French gaol.

“I had prior
commitments. Or rather, I was committed previously.”

St. John
burst out laughing and Phillip frowned, disliking being excluded from
the joke. Men like St. John always enjoyed excluding others. Wearily, Ash
waited for St. John to relate the amusing story of his incarceration.

How would Rhiannon
react when the tale reached her? Would she find it vastly diverting to know
she’d nearly been throttled by a gaol rat? Or horrifying? He was curious, he
told himself, no more.

He glanced up to
find St. John regarding him with a bland smile. Apparently he’d decided to keep
the matter their little secret. Doubtless because as men of the world they
understood the humor in his having been a prisoner while these country louts
could never appreciate the jest.

Not that Ash
appreciated it himself. But he appreciated men like St. John. They were so easy
to anticipate. Ash nodded at him, promising himself that St. John would pay for
his sport... and for reminding Ash of Rhiannon when he’d almost excised her
from his thoughts.

“Your father, now
there’s a gaming man,” St. John went on. “Unhappily for you, you don’t seem to
have inherited his luck with the cards. Happily for me, however.”

“Yes,” said Ash,
“he’s a rare devil all right.” He plucked a wrinkled brown apple from the bowl
at his side and began paring the soft skin with his stiletto. He was in no
hurry; he had nowhere to go.

Today he’d primed
the pump for his future gambling by establishing himself in the others’ eyes as
a fellow with questionable skill and no great luck. When he eventually left
Fair Badden, his newfound companions would shake their heads over his belated
good fortune, never bothering to tally the slow but steady stream of money that
had made its way into his purse. No one would be the wiser. No one would be
hurt.

He had to stay
focused on that, on his hidden talents, on maintaining his persona as an
entertaining companion, a bon vivant who tarried amongst them for a few short
weeks.

“Exactly, sir,” St. John said, “devilish.”

“How did you meet
Carr?” Fortnum asked.

“I was in Scotland staying at the home of some mutual acquaintances. He was there and invited me to
stay at Wanton’s Blush. How could I resist?” St. John held up his hands. “It’s
magnificent. A miniature London with all its varied pleasures.”

“I didn’t like London,” Phillip Watt suddenly put in.

“Oh?” St. John asked, openly amused. “Pray tell, why?”

“Why should I go
elsewhere for what I already have here?” Phillip leaned his great blond head
back and beamed like some Adonis. “Fair Badden has everything I want.”

Ash glanced at him.
Doubtless within five years Watt and Rhiannon would have littered the rural
landscape with little golden godlings and goddesses. Ash looked away. He’d
always hated mythology.

“I have fine wine
to drink,” Phillip went on, winking at Ash in a friendly manner, “when the tide
is right. Prime horseflesh to ride as well. Fine fellows to be my companions.
And damn pretty girls.”

“To ride?” St. John snickered.

“Aye!” Watt
laughed, a shade too loudly.

Ash’s wandering
attention abruptly sharpened on Watt. The bloody fool would probably give
Rhiannon a case of the pox on their wedding night.

“I agree with
Phillip,” John Fortnum put in. “Not about the ladies.” His ears turned pink.
“About the other thingies. I hear London is a dangerous place these days. Packs
of young aristos roving the streets like mad dogs, assaulting good people.
Damned impertinent.”

St. John
shrugged. “It’s not as though violence hasn’t found its way here.
Watt’s own bride-to-be was nearly killed not long ago.”

Ah, yes, Ash
remembered. The shallow furrow across her cheek. Another inch and the eye
socket would have shattered, the clear hazel green eye rendered sightless.

“They never
apprehended the man who did it?” he asked.

“No. He hasn’t been
caught,” Phillip answered tersely.

“Shouldn’t wonder
that he will be soon,” Fortnum said. “Stupid bugger.”

“How so?” Ash
asked.

“Well, look at who
he picked to rob.” Fortnum’s face was alive with disgust. “An open carriage
carrying two ladies on a fine afternoon. What did he hope to get? Tiaras?”

“I thought Mrs.
Fraiser was well-to-do,” Ash said.

“Aye,” Fortnum
answered, “she is. But she wouldn’t be sporting what finery she owns in the
afternoon. Maybe they do so in London, but in Fair Badden we keep out glitter
for candlelight.”

St. John
, openly bored with the turn of conversation, picked at a hangnail.

“Perhaps he thought
they carried deep purses,” Ash suggested, his thoughts whirring.

“Why would he think
that?” Fortnum asked. “Simple carriage. Unescorted ladies. What raises my
hackles is that even after the driver whipped up the horses, the bastard shot
at the ladies. He needn’t have done that.”

Ash allowed that he
had a point.

“The blackguard had
a mask on,” Fortnum continued. “He wasn’t going to be identified. If me and my
dad hadn’t been on the road and heard the pistol shot...” He trailed off,
shaking his head.