The Winter Wife (12 page)

He remembered how it felt to pretend courage while dread crippled the heart.

Relentlessly he mashed the unwelcome empathy down into the dank hollow where he caged all his old, evil memories.

“
I’m your payment, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice emerged with impressive coolness.
Brava, incognita.
“If you don’t collect your winnings from me, the debt becomes moot.”

“
Says Roberta.” “Honor forbids—”

He released a harsh crack of laughter and saw the girl quail at last, from his mockery, not his horror of a face. “Honor holds no sway in this house, Miss Forsythe. If your sister cannot pay with her body, she must pay in the more usual way.”

Her tone hardened. “You are well aware my sister cannot cover her losses.”

“
Your sister’s dilemma.”

“
I suspect you knew that when you lured her into such deep play.
You’re using Roberta to trump Lord Hillbrook.”

“
Oh, cruel accusation,” he said with theatrical dismay, however accurate her suspicions. He hadn’t set out that night to entrap Roberta into adultery, but the occasion would have tempted a much better man than Jonas Merrick. Especially as he’d always known that Roberta’s disdain for him included an unhealthy dollop of fascination. “Offering yourself as substitute is a devilish strong demonstration of sisterly devotion.”

The girl didn’t answer. He rose and prowled down the room. “If I’m to accept this exchange, I should see what I’m getting. Roberta may be a henwit, but she’s a deuced decorative henwit.”

“
She’s not a henwit.” Miss Forsythe edged away, then stopped to ask suspiciously, “What are you doing, Mr. Merrick?”

His advance didn’t falter. “Unwrapping my gift, Miss Forsythe.” “Unwr…?”
This time she didn’t bother hiding her retreat. “No.”

His lips curled in sardonic amusement. “You mean to wear your wet cloak all night?”

The color in her cheeks intensified.
She really was pretty with her creamy skin and full-lipped mouth. Now that he was close enough to look into her eyes, he saw they were a deep, velvety brown like pansies. Sexual interest stirred. Nothing quite so strong as arousal, but curiosity that could soon become hunger.

“
Yes. I mean, no.” She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. “You’re trying to intimidate me.”

He still smiled. “If I am, I’d say I’m succeeding.”

She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn’t come near to matching his more than six feet. “I told you why I’m here. I won’t fight
you.
There’s no need to play the villain from an

opera.”

“
You’ll endure my distasteful caresses but won’t let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly.”

She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared
gold with anger. “Don’t mock me.”

“
Why not?” he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.

_{She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. “I don
’
t like}

feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. “Before we’re done, you’ll get used to a great deal.”

Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. “I imagine you’re right.”

The amusement left his voice. “Roberta isn’t worth this, you know.” The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying

away. “Yes, she is.
You don’t understand.”

“I daresay I don’t.” If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelt agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman.
When he slid the cape

from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body

pleasingly curved to fit
his hands.

She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. “I’m ready.”

“I doubt you are,
bella
.” He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. “What on earth have you got on?”

The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. “What’s wrong with it?”

He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled
white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too… everything. “Nothing, if you’re dressing to play the virgin sacrifice.”

“Why not?” she said with a revival of spirit. “I am a virgin.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you are.
Which begs the question

why you’re presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess.”

“
You’re offensive, sir.”

He muffled
a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta.
At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn’t picture this grave goddess resorting to such. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta’s maneuvers, fading under the influence
of this lovely girl’s defiance, vanished.
Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin’s wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine
sport indeed.

“
It’s my best dress,” Miss Forsythe said huffily.

He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. “Perhaps when you were fifteen.”
His gaze sharpened. “Just how old are you?”

“
Twenty-four,” she muttered. “How old are you?”

“
Too old for you.”
At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn’t too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience.
And he hadn’t spent those million years wisely.

Sudden hope lit her expression. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?” This time he laughed openly. “Not on your life.”

Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy
bodice.
At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them.
When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.

“
What are you waiting for?” she forced through stiff lips.

He should be horsewhipped for tormenting her, but still curiosity was paramount. He raised his other hand to her jaw, angling her face. This close, he could make out each individual eyelash and the gold striations in her rich irises. Her nostrils flared
as though she took in his scent just as he took in hers.

Or perhaps she was so frightened, she struggled to breathe.

“
The question is whether debauching my enemy’s sister-in-law has quite the same cachet as debauching my enemy’s wife,” he murmured.

“
You bastard,” she hissed, her breath warm across his face. He smiled as dread lit her eyes. “Precisely,
belladonna
.”

Slowly he bent to place his mouth on hers. Her rain-fresh scent

flooded
his senses, made him giddy with anticipation. She didn’t move away and her lips remained sealed, but the satiny warmth intoxicated him.

He slid his lips against hers in what was more the hint of a kiss than an actual kiss. Even as arousal pounded through him, insisting that he take her, that she was here to be taken, he kept the contact light, teasing. Nor did he tighten his grip on her shoulder to keep her under his mouth.
The agony of suspense bordered on the delicious as

he waited for her to wrench free, to curse him for a scoundrel. But she remained still as a china figurine.
Except the subtle heat under his lips belonged to a woman, not unresponsive porcelain.

Before more than a second passed, he raised his head.
Astounding how reluctant he was to end the unsatisfying kiss. He dragged in an unsteady breath and struggled against the powerful urge to kiss her properly.
There mightn’t be much cachet in fucking Lord Hillbrook’s sister-in-law, but he had a grim feeling that wouldn’t stop him.

Her eyes were wide and dark with shock. Because he’d kissed her?

Or because for a fleeting
instant, she might have enjoyed it?

“
Why the hesitation?” Her tone was raw. “Get it over with.”

He tapped her cheek with a chiding index finger.
“I haven’t had my

dinner yet,” he said mildly and released her.

She staggered but found her balance with impressive speed. Breath escaped her parted lips in unsteady gasps. He preferred her outrage

to her vulnerability.
Against his will, her vulnerability ate at his ruthlessness like rust on iron. “Won’t you join me?”

She regarded him with well-deserved hatred. “I’m not hungry.” “Pity.
You’ll need your strength later.”

He let that sink in while he sat and rang the bell. Mrs. Bevan appeared with astonishing speed. She’d probably been listening at the door. Entertainment at Castle Craven was so lacking, he hardly blamed her.

“
You may serve dinner, Mrs. Bevan,” he said with a cheerfulness that earned him a puzzled glance from his housekeeper.

“
Aye, maister.
And for yon lady?”

Miss Forsythe remained standing where she had when he’d kissed her. She was back to looking like a marble statue, but now that he’d

touched her, he knew she was flesh
and blood, all right.

“
Two?”

The girl didn’t react. Good Lord, had that kiss silenced her

clever tongue? He hoped to coax her into using it again. Not for idle conversation.

He addressed Mrs. Bevan. “No, for one. Please show the lady to her room. Mr. Bevan can serve my meal.”

“
Aye, maister.”
The woman shuffled
out and after a brief hesitation,

the girl collected her meager luggage and followed.

Jonas wished he could be there when Miss Forsythe discovered that

in this ramshackle pile, her room also served as his.