To Rescue a Rogue (3 page)

Mara climbed the steps of the block, skirt clutched high. “Like in
Young Lochinvar
? How romantic.”

“‘So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung/So light to the saddle before her he sprung!'” he quoted. “Being bareback, in front, seems better.” He extended an arm. “Come on.”

Getting onto the horse was surprisingly tricky, but Dare put his arm around her waist to hoist her into place, making her breathless. Or perhaps it was the place—nestled between his thighs, that strong arm around her….

“Someone should revive this fashion of riding,” she said, as they headed out at a walk. “The croupe can't be nearly as much fun.”

“Mara, you're irrepressible.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I'd hate to be repressed.”

He'd sounded amused. She could do this. She could bring light into his shadowed world. Or better, lead him into the sunshine.

Any attempt at speed could draw attention, so they ambled down the back lane and along the quiet streets, the horse swaying beneath them like a cradle. Despite her need to be home, Mara didn't want this strange journey to end.

The hooves clopped noisily on cobblestones, but the few people they passed paid them little attention. Dare didn't seem to want to talk, and that gave Mara time to think.

It was nine months since Dare had been found, desperately frail from wounds and illness and addicted to opium. From Simon, she knew his physical recovery had been slow but steady. He was healthy now, which was doubtless why he'd finally emerged from seclusion. But he wasn't his old self. There was something missing.

For fleeting moments, however, she had amused him and brought the old Dare to life. She must do more of it. Simon would probably see it as interfering, but someone had to crack the walls.

Yes. Walls. For all his health and composure she sensed that Dare was imprisoned in some way. By opium, still? Did that explain everything, or were there other problems as well?

She was a St. Bride with the fiery hair and thus driven to heal wounds and fix problems. How better than by spending more time with Dare? Lady Ademara St. Bride was going to ride to the rescue of her prince in the dark tower.

No, her rogue.

At Harrow school, Simon and Dare had been part of a group who called themselves the Company of Rogues. Simon's stories had been such fun that she'd always wanted to be a Rogue. Rescuing one was the next best thing.

She would rescue her Rogue from his dungeon and bring him into the sunshine. It was a noble enterprise suited to the descendant of Black Ademar and Hereward the Wake, and even better, it should keep her out of boredom-induced disaster.

H
alf an hour later, Dare watched Mara St. Bride slip safely into her sister's Grosvenor Square house. Once he was sure all was well, he turned Normandy toward this Major Berkstead's address. Best to deal with the man now and without fuss. There must be no fuss, even though he'd like to disembowel him.

Terrorizing little Mara.

Not so terrorized, he reflected, and not so little anymore, for all that she bemoaned her lack of breasts. His lips twitched, but he was aware of a problem.

He'd thought himself dead to the appeal of women—perhaps something to do with the drug—but he'd felt a most inappropriate interest in Mara St. Bride's small breasts. And in her delicate neck, the fine dip of her spine, and her warm, indefinable perfume. Having her nestled against him during the ride had been a mistake.

He was used to thinking of Mara as Imp, as a child, but now he was aware of the difference four years made—the difference between the flat-chested tomboy of fourteen and the lovely young minx he'd encountered tonight. He even had a faint scrap of sympathy for her clumsy suitor.

She'd teased a promise from him to escort her around town.

Bad idea, Dare
.

And yet he wanted to do it, like a man in a dungeon longs for sunlight on his skin.

The final battle against opium was proving harder than he'd expected. He took very little now, but he'd failed twice in attempts to cut off the drug entirely. It was as if the beast knew it risked defeat and fought all the harder. Perhaps he shouldn't have left Long Chart, but he'd chafed at its safety and thought a taste of the world could spur him to victory.

Once—before—he'd loved the world, people, London.

His physical wounds were healed and he had his strength back. He'd stoically eaten nourishing food since the day of his rescue, and once he was able, he'd found that vigorous, even violent exercise helped when the beast gnawed at him. There had been days when he'd walked from dawn to dusk, and sleepless nights he'd passed the same way.

Then Nicholas had sent Feng Ruyuan, who had given him purpose and discipline and begun the true healing. He was stronger and fitter now than he'd ever been, in body, but especially in mind. Freedom was in reach, but for the first time he wondered who he would be when he crawled out of his prison.

The old Dare was dead—and yet something was stirring, was trying painfully to break free, searing him with forgotten emotions.

His fear over Mara had cut sharp as a saber.

Fury had scorched him.

The feel of her skin, the scent of her body, the look of her bright eyes had stirred parts of him he'd thought dead.

Had he ever reveled in a woman's charms before? He knew he had, but never like that. Never in a shivering, breathless insanity that had wanted to gobble every bite of the forbidden feast. It terrified him more than opium. On the horse, she'd rested against him so trustingly when lust had growled inside him like a beast.

What to do?

A mistress?

He couldn't face the fuss and demands of that, but a brothel, perhaps. A simple business proposition, and no repercussions if he failed to perform, which seemed likely enough.

How long was it since he bedded a woman?

Before Waterloo.

He didn't count The´re`se.

Yes, he should visit a whore. Otherwise, heaven alone knew what might happen. The cure, especially now, required him to live on the edge in almost constant need of opium.

His body needed the beast to function. It punished shortage with pain of mind and body and rewarded every dose with blissful ease. After each dose the beast whispered that without it, he'd never know such peace….

He jerked his mind away from that pit.

He'd chosen life—desire, distress, pain, and all. He couldn't wait to be free of the three small doses he took each day. Each night, he built his strength, forcing his body to accept that it could live without the beast as it had for most of his life.

Every night his mind and body screamed. Every morning he greeted the foul dose like a drowning man gasping for air.

He could feel the need now. A shiver of discomfort, an awareness that all was not well, as if he'd eaten something rotten and would soon vomit.

It should be worse at this hour, but when he'd gone to find clothes for Mara, he'd coaxed a little more of the drug from Salter, arguing that he needed it in order to see Mara safely home and then deal with Berkstead. Salter hadn't balked him, so his reasoning must have made sense, but deep inside the beast had purred in victory.

Salter was his chosen guardian of the door to hell. From the day he'd been able to leave his bed, burly Salter had doled out his allowed amount of opium and accompanied him everywhere to prevent him from obtaining extra. He'd recently started to go out alone, testing his ability to resist the temptation available for pennies in every druggist's shop.

Laudanum for the headache and the toothache, or for calming a fretful baby. For the agony that came after being kicked in the head by a horse, then charged over by an army of others. He'd be dead if so many corpses hadn't cushioned him.

One day he'd be able to sit in a room with opium on the table and ignore it. One day. That was his Holy Grail. Now he shivered at the very thought. Any benefit from the extra dose was fading fast, but when he returned, he'd tell Salter never to let him change the pattern again, no matter what the circumstances.

No retreat. No surrender.

The horse stopped and he realized that he was back at the stables instead of in nearby Rennie Street.

Dare let Adam take the horse and then walked back down the lane, hoping the groom didn't notice he hadn't gone directly into the house. It was ridiculous to be worried about what a groom thought, especially when all the servants knew about Lord Darius's little problem.

As he walked to Rennie Street he focused his fragmenting mind on his quarry. He burned to hurt or kill this Berkstead but Ruyuan wouldn't approve. Ruyuan's Taoist philosophy said to achieve action through minimal action. Hardly the English gentleman's way of dealing with a villain, but he'd promised Mara the cur would live. If Oriental disciplines couldn't restrain him, that would.

He arrived in Rennie Street and considered the unbroken terraces of tall houses. He didn't know the number. He made out an arched tunnel built through two houses to the back and entered its pitch-dark maw. The exit looked lighter by contrast, and when he emerged, moonlight shone on something white. Mara's dangling rope of sheets.

A flicker of something stirred and he recognized the temptation to mischief.

He made his way to the rope and tugged it. Strong enough. He climbed up and then pulled himself over the sill into a dark room. It could be a coal cellar for all he could tell, but smells of dirty linen, snuff, and pomade spoke of a man's room. He pulled in the sheets, then picked his way to the facing wall to feel for the door, aware, as if of an old wound beginning to ache, of anticipation.

He found the latch. Hoping Berkstead wasn't passed out drunk, he rattled it, then tapped with his knuckles. Quick, nervous taps.

Something scraped in the next room. “What is it, my queen?” a well-bred voice slurred. The man had apparently been drowning his sorrows, or celebrating what he thought was victory all this time.

Closer, on the other side of the door, Berkstead added, “You won't do anything stupid like try to hit me over the head with the chamber pot, will you, my fiery-haired sweetheart?”

“No! Oh, no!” Dare gasped, as weakly and breathily as he could manage.

The key turned and the door opened into candlelight.

The broad-shouldered man in pantaloons and an open-necked shirt took a second to adjust. He had to raise his blinking eyes from where he'd expected his prisoner's face to be to Dare's. They bugged out with complete befuddlement.

“Lord Darius Debenham,” Dare said and slapped him so hard the drunken man stumbled sideways and sat down. “The lady in question forbids a duel, so you'll have to eat that insult. Stay there!” he snapped, when Berkstead made to move.

The man probably was handsome—well built, bold featured, dark eyed—but he was presently slack with shock.

“You are a louse, sir,” Dare said, banked fury roaring free and finding a target. “A cur. A slug. The events of this night never happened. If any hint of them ever escapes, I will destroy you.”

Berkstead was wriggling back, but he stopped and a sneering smile curled his lip. “Debenham. I know all about you.”

It stung, but Dare hid it. “I doubt it, but if you don't fear me, fear her brother.”

“A St. Bride of Brideswell?” Berkstead stopped trying to rise but looked more comfortable by the moment. “A bunch of country mice. Not one of them a soldier.”

“There are St. Brides and St. Brides. Simon St. Bride will kill you by inches, but the list lining up behind him will include some of the most powerful men in England, none of them squeamish about crushing lice. I could start with the Duke of St. Raven and the Marquess of Arden.”

The sneer died. Apart from being the most high-ranking of the Rogues' set, the two men Dare had named were known for being hard-riding, hard-fighting, and hot-tempered.

“I want to marry her!” Berkstead protested. “She wants to marry me. She's afraid of her family. They won't let her marry out of Lincolnshire.”

Pity began to taint Dare's fury. “If Mara St. Bride wanted to marry a Hottentot, she would probably do so.”

“I'll buy a house in Lincolnshire.”

Mara was right. The man didn't listen.

“She considers you too old,” Dare said, looking around for Mara's clothing.

A table still held scattered cards, two glasses, and an empty decanter. On a chair he saw white gloves, a pretty pink dress and a light pelerine of pale cloth. He picked them up, and the slippers from the floor, then took a candle back to the bedroom and found the turban.

When he returned Berkstead said, “Too
old
?”

“Is there anything else of hers here?”

Berkstead's mouth opened and shut but nothing came out. He pointed. Dare picked up a pale silk reticule from the floor by the table.

Behind him, Berkstead muttered, “Too
old
? I'm only forty.”

Dare headed for the one other door that must lead to the stairs. Hand on handle, he looked back at the crumpled man. “Remember. None of this happened. That, sir, is your only hope of salvation.”