Tiger's Eye (8 page)

She would know that voice with its dry intonation anywhere. It belonged to Alec, and immediately, though for no solid reason that she knew, a great deal of her panic left her. Although his intentions toward her were most likely less than benign, she did not fear that he personally would murder her in cold blood. At least, not tonight. She hoped.

“What … what are you doing in here?” she whispered, staring at him. He was no more than a denser darkness against the gray-black of the room.

“You were whimpering like a kicked pup. I listened to you for a while, then decided I’d better check and see if ought was amiss. Obviously not, so I’ll return to bed.”

He made a movement as though to leave. The idea of being left alone in the dark suddenly frightened Isabella far more than he did.

“Wait!”

“What is it?” His voice was harsher, and she remembered that he, like she, had been confined to a sickbed the last time she had set eyes on him. Perhaps it was an ordeal for him to stand.

“Could … could you tell me where I am? And what’s happened? And what you intend to do with me? Please?” This last was said in a tiny voice as he made no response to her questions. There was a few moments’ silence, and then he moved again. Isabella thought he would leave without responding, but to her surprise he sank down on the end of her bed.

She squeaked, unable to help herself as Alec made himself at home on her bed, and hitched herself up higher against the headboard. Having him in her bedroom was bad enough, going against every tenet of decency Isabella had ever learned, but for him to actually sit on her bed…! Only a husband was accorded such privileges, and then only rarely.

“If you want to talk, I’m willing, because God knows you must be frightened to death and I hadn’t considered that, but if you let loose with one more squeal I’m likely to throttle you. My head aches like bloody hell.” The warning came grumpily out of the darkness.

His language in her presence was almost as unsettling as his presence on her bed. Certainly no gentleman would swear so in front of a lady. But since she had been kidnapped the proprieties had been flouted so many times in so many ways that bad language was a mere bagatelle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scream. But—you’re sitting on my bed.”

“It’s either sit on your bed or go back to my own. I’m not exactly in ruddy good health at the moment, you know. But I can bloody well leave if you wish.”

“No!”

From the satisfied quality of his silence, Isabella guessed that that was the response he had expected.

“All right then. If the idea of being ravished out of hand is what’s making you so nervous, pray dismiss it from your mind. Even if I wished to—which I don’t—and were capable—which I don’t think I am just at present—I don’t go in for forcing myself on unwilling females. There are too many willing ones.”

Isabella was both embarrassed at his plain speaking, and shocked at what she perceived as his uncanny ability to read her mind. Ever since she had become aware of his presence, a tiny part of her mind had been afraid that he had come into her room in the middle of the night for just such a purpose. After watching him disport himself so shockingly with Pearl, and remembering how his eyes had heated as they’d moved over her own body, she felt she had good reason to be wary. Alec obviously liked women, and she could rely on neither his morals (she was convinced he had none) nor his breeding (he had none of that either) to keep him in check. But he had said he did not force himself on women, and to her surprise, she discovered that she took him at his word. He might order her murder, but she believed him when he assured her that he didn’t indulge in rape.

“Now that we have that settled, what do you want to know?” His disembodied voice was curiously comforting. It was nice to know that there was someone with her, that she was no longer alone in the dark. She would be quite comfortable with him, if only she could be assured that he felt toward murder as he felt toward rape.

“What happened? How did I get here, and why are you … hiding … in the dressing room?”

Isabella could feel him looking at her. “I don’t much like the word ’hiding,’ “ he said finally. “Though I suppose it’s true enough. I was shot by a man who’s worked for me for years, someone I thought was totally loyal. From what he said before he died, he was paid by someone else within my organization to kill me. Hardy—that was his name, Rat-face Hardy—died before he could identify the man who hired him. With me half-dead, Paddy got his protective instincts up. Not knowing who the traitor was, he elected to trust nobody with my precious person but himself.

“You were felled by what I can only assume was a stray bullet, so Paddy had on his hands two badly bleeding bodies that he didn’t know quite what to do with. He bundled the pair of us up and brought us to Pearl, who is as shrewd as she can hold together. Paddy trusts Pearl, and so do I. She’s one of the few people that I absolve of a wish to harm me. Pearl came up with the idea of putting you and me into a single bedchamber, you quite openly as one of her girls taken ill, and me in secret. Whoever wants me dead had a taste of success, and he’s likely to try it again if he can. Until I’m up to full strength again we decided that it was best if I lay low. Paddy is playing bodyguard while my men try to ferret out the weasel who wants to take over the organization. With me out of the way, we figure he’s bound to get nervous and make his move. Then we’ll have him.”

“What kind of organization do you run?” He did not seem overly concerned that someone was trying to kill him. From her own experience, Isabella knew that facing one’s own prospective murder was terrifying. But perhaps killing was an everyday matter to him.

He hesitated. She could sense him mentally drawing rein on himself again, as he debated what to answer. Isabella realized suddenly just how little she knew of this man, and how misleading her earlier sense of familiarity might be.

“Are … are you going to kill me?” Her deepest fear came blurting out before she could stop herself. Isabella sat with her hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with horror at what she had said. She should have pretended to have no such notion, and waited for another chance to escape.…

Unexpectedly he chuckled. The sound was oddly engaging. “So, far from fearing rape, you thought I came in here to put a pillow over your face, eh? That’s not a bad idea, considering the noise you were making.”

Isabella sat mute. After a moment she could feel him peering at her through the darkness.

“That was a joke, you know. You don’t have to fear being murdered. At least, not by me.”

“What do you mean?” The last part of that statement was definitely sinister. Isabella stared at him through the darkness, feeling less than reassured.

“You and I are in the same boat, my dear. Someone wants you dead quite badly too.”

Isabella must have made a protesting sound, because he continued with a touch of impatience. “I’m assuming you know that the bastards who kidnapped you meant murder.”

It was a statement more than a question, but Isabella nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see her through the darkness. But apparently he sensed her movements as she sensed his.

“Aye, then. Well, somebody hired them—Cook Parren never took a step in his life unless there was somebody to pay him for it. He meant to kill you right enough, but it wasn’t his idea. Before we restore you to the bosom of your family, you should know that somebody in your life wants you dead.”

Isabella stared at him. “That’s impossible! Who?”

From a slight movement of the mattress she thought that he might have shrugged. “Now, that I don’t know. Not knowing you, or your family.”

“My family wouldn’t want me dead.”

Again she had the sense that he shrugged.

“They wouldn’t! You must be mistaken.”

“You know your family better than I do. But Parren was hired to kidnap you for ransom, which he did, and then paid more to kill you, which he would have. Somebody hired him, somebody with something to gain. Who stands to benefit from your death?”

“Benefit? You mean financially? No one. My husband got my dowry when we married. I have very little in my own name. And my father … my father wouldn’t do that. Besides, he certainly has nothing to gain. Sarah—my stepmother—doesn’t like me, but she wouldn’t hire someone to murder me. There’s no one. I’m sure of it. No one.”

“Believe me, there is someone, someone who wants you dead badly enough to pay a goodly sum to have it done. I can try to find out who for you, if you wish. One of the advantages of my position is that I can ferret out any amount of unsavory facts. If someone knows who hired Parren, and why, my men will find him sooner or later. And then you’ll know the worst. Of course, if you’d rather not know, that’s up to you. I can have you sent home to your family as soon as we no longer need you for cover, if that’s what you want. You’ll have to provide me with your name and direction, of course.”

“You don’t know who I am?” Isabella’s eyes widened as she realized that he didn’t even know her name. And here she’d been feeling more at ease with him than she had ever felt with a man. Certainly more comfortable than she ever felt with Bernard.

“We got word that Parren had contracted to kidnap a lady without going through the proper channels, so to speak. I’m the proper channel, so I moved to put an end to his insubordination. Your identity was incidental.” His voice was almost apologetic.

“Well, that’s very nice to know!” She was unaccountably nettled, and it showed in her voice.

“Are you going to tell me your name, or not?”

“Oh, yes. I’m Isabella St. Just, Lady Blakely.”

“Oh, my, a lady! Just what kind of lady are you?”

“My husband is the Earl of Blakely.”

“You’re married to Bernard St. Just?” His voice was fractionally sharper.

Forgetting again that he couldn’t see, Isabella nodded.

“Well?” He was impatient.

“Yes.”

There was a silence. Then, “How in hell did you end up married to him? You’re not much more than a just-hatched chick!”

“I am three-and-twenty!” Isabella retorted. “Bernard is forty-five. My father says ’tis the prime of life.”

“And just who is your father?”

“The Duke of Portland.”

“Ahhh. So you Ye a very juicy plum for the picking, indeed.”

“I beg your pardon?” His cant went over her head.

“Never mind. Is your marriage happy?”

“Whether it is or not is certainly none of your concern!” Isabella replied, taken aback.

“I’m simply attempting to determine who would want you dead. If your marriage is unhappy, then that needs to be considered along with everything else.”

“I told you, none of my family would want me dead.”

“St. Just dropped a packet at the tables a few months back.” It sounded like an idle observation, but in the context of the conversation it was sinister. Isabella blinked.

“How do you know that?”

“Let’s just say that it’s my business to know what goes on in London.”

“Who are you, anyway? You don’t sound like a—a …” Her voice trailed away as she recollected that what she had been going to call him might just possibly be considered an insult.

“A …?” he prompted. She thought he might be amused again.

“A ruffian,” she came up with, and this time he laughed aloud.

“Oh, I’m very definitely a ’ruffian,’ my lady, believe me. Although I’ve never thought of myself in exactly that way.”

“I beg your pardon if I offended you.”

“Not in the least. I’ve never been one to quibble at calling a spade a spade—or a ruffian a ruffian.”

He was grinning; she could tell he was. Her eyes narrowed. She was providing him with a great deal of amusement, it seemed!

“Besides ’ruffian,’ do you have another name?”

“Indeed I do, my lady. Alec Tyron, at your service.”

“How do you do, Mr. Tyron?”

“Very well, thank you, my lady. And now that the formalities have been observed, and your fears of imminent murder have been laid to rest, may I suggest that we light a candle? If we are to continue this fascinating conversation, that is.”

“Oh, no!” His suggestion brought home all the hideous impropriety of the situation. Clad in another of the diaphanous nightdresses, she was the next thing to naked—and he was a (probably dangerous, and certainly wicked) stranger, for all he was sitting so companionably on the end of her bed, and for all the unaccountable feeling of security he gave her in doing so.

“Why not?” The question was reasonable.

“I am not … dressed.”

“Are you trying to tell me you’re sitting there talking to me stark naked? Dear me, I’m shocked!” From the mock-horrified tone of his voice, Isabella knew that he was teasing her. But the image his words conjured up was vivid, and caused a queer little tightening in her belly. Mortified at both the conversation and her response, she struggled for words.

“No, I am not na—completely unclothed! Of course I am not! I have on a nightrail, but it is—it is not …”He knew perfectly well what she was trying to say, she thought. After all, he had seen her nightrail—and what lay beneath it—for himself. The memory made her flush.

“You relieve my mind. For a minute there I thought that I was to be subjected to the sight of a naked—no, I beg your pardon, the word was ‘unclothed,’ wasn’t it?—an unclothed lady.”

“You are not to be subjected to the sight of a lady at all, for I refuse to allow the candle lit!”

“And if I insist?”

That silenced her. For all his good-humored bantering, he had the upper hand here, not she. If he chose to light the candle, she had not the means to prevent him.

He must have sensed the uneasy quality of her silence, because after a moment he sighed.

“Nay, I was but teasing you. I forgot you’re just a chick, not yet up to snuff. You’ve naught to fear from me, I give you my word. If you do not wish the candle lit, why, then it will stay unlit. Never let it be said that I failed to honor a lady’s wishes.”

“I wish you will let me go home.” The plea, born of her confusion, the growing flame of liking she felt for him and the dying embers of fear, sounded heartfelt.