Too Wicked to Marry (13 page)

"G'day, m'lord," the old man said before Martin could utter a word. "Yon carriage is waiting to take you to Mallaig." He gestured toward the door, and had it open a moment later.

Wind drove in a heavy spray of cold rain that hit Martin squarely in the face. Martin didn't remember requesting a carriage, but the idea of riding a horse through this weather, with a pounding head besides, did not seem a promising way of spending the day. He wiped cold water off his aching brow and said,

"Fine." He quickly settled his bill and went out through the downpour to the waiting carriage.

He'd taken his seat and closed the door behind him before he realized there was someone else occupying the dim interior. He should have noticed sooner, he supposed, as it was not a big conveyance, and the large bonnet and wide skirts of the woman seated opposite him took up a certain amount of space. A hatbox and carpetbag took up the rest of the woman's seat.

"I beg your pardon," he said, swiftly taking off his hat. "I had no idea this is a public coach."

"It's not." Harriet leaned forward, her lovely, smiling face framed by the curving arc of her bonnet brim. "Did you cut yourself shaving, Martin?" she inquired, all mild solicitation.

"You! What are you doing in my carriage?"

"It's not your carriage, it's my family's carriage."

Her words effectively stopped him from telling her to get out, and the carriage began moving before he could step out himself. "Harriet," he complained as he was jolted back into his seat.

"Miserable day, isn't it?" she asked, glancing out the window, then turning a pleasant look on him as though this was another start to one of their many journeys rather than an abduction by a woman who had betrayed all his trust and belief in her. "You could jump out if you like," she added. "But Gabriel's driving rather faster than conditions warrant, you might have noticed. You'd probably survive, but why spend weeks mending broken bones on a relatively remote Scottish island, when you can be enjoying the decadent pleasures of—say, Sir Anthony Strake's house party?"

So it hadn't been a dream. Martin rubbed his aching forehead and glanced out the window as the carriage rattled at a fast clip down a narrow road. There was sea on one side and hills on the other. "Perhaps I'll push you out," he suggested.

"That would not be a gentlemanly thing to do. And despite what you think of me, you would never harm a woman."

"More's the pity." He gave her a dark look from under lowered brows. "Why are you plaguing me, woman? Didn't I tell you that I never want to see you again?"

Harriet looked thoughtful for a few moments before answering, "No, I don't recall your actually using those exact words."

"Don't mince shades of meanings with me, woman. I am the diplomat here," he reminded her.

"You are a true and dutiful servant of the queen, my lord," Harriet said. "And your service to the queen is needed at this very moment." She managed to keep the smile on her face even though he sent her a look guaranteed to peel the skin off lesser beings than His Mighty Lordship Martin Kestrel.

He held up a hand. "I am not taking you to Strake's party. It is not in the cards, my dear. Not on the agenda."

"I'm glad you remember the conversation."

"Most of it," he admitted. "I hoped it was a dream. A nightmare," he added.

Harriet remembered too well his watching her as she paid him for the conversation with bit by bit of shed clothing. The memory of his heated gaze burned into her skin and memories and had kept her from getting any sleep at all the night before. Perhaps it had been fear of nightmares of her own that kept her from sleep, or fear that her dreams would have continued the erotic aspects of the visit far beyond her control.

The road was rough and the weather foul. The coach bounced along at breakneck speed, throwing up gouts of mud and water as the driver sped toward the ferry dock at the southern tip of the island. Harriet wanted to shout up to her younger brother to slow down before he killed them, but that would be a show of nerves. She refused to look anywhere but at Martin Kestrel, or to concentrate on anything but the task at hand. "It's a pity you fell asleep before we settled this last night."

He lifted an elegant eyebrow sarcastically. "What? You aren't going to tell me that I agreed to some mad scheme while I was drunk?"

She might have shaken her head, but nerves and the lurching of the carriage already had her quite queasy enough. Yet he looked worse than she felt. It was all she could do to keep from offering to soothe his aching brow, despite the fierce look he turned on her.

"I never have treated you like a fool, my lord, despite what you think. I won't start now."

"You're happy to treat me as a pawn."

"Not happy," she said. "Never happy. And I'm not asking you to be a pawn, but to be a shield. Not a passive role, but an active one. At least I
am
asking you this time. You are the one in control of the situation, my lord."

His attention focused with a sudden, frightening intensity that left her gasping for air. Something dark stirred in his eyes; his lips curved in a smile that was as cruel as it was compelling. "Really?"

His voice held a silky purr, one with steel behind it, and Harriet's heart began to race at the sight of the dissolute stranger suddenly seated across from her. Soon they would be at the ferry dock at Mallaig. She needed him to agree to help her before he could walk onto the boat and disappear from her life forever.

"I need your help, Martin," she pleaded. "I would rather you do so to serve your countryùthere are lives of innocent British citizens at stake if the information falls into the wrong hands—but if you would rather help me for the sake of revenge, so be it." He continued to glare at her. She could see that thunderstorm temper of his building behind the bitter look, and did not have time for pride. "Please help me. Name your price, and I will pay it."

There was a demon seated on Martin Kestrel's shoulder, whispering,
Go on, man, do it. You know what she's offering. Take it. Take her
! Exquisite images of satiating every lustful fantasy danced in his head, and stroked a fever through his blood.
Use her. Think of those long legs wrapped around you, of those ripe breasts in you hands
.

She'd betrayed him. She'd made a fool of him. He wanted revenge. Most important, he still desperately wanted her. He had four years of secretly wanting her and trying
not
to want her to make up for. She was under his skin and in his blood. How could he go on with his life until he had her out of his system? The idea of having power over her was more intoxicating than last night's whisky.

Martin leaned back. It was not a large carriage, so there was not much room on the upholstered bench beside him. He patted the narrow space and said, "Come sit beside me and ask me nicely."

"And change the balance of the coach with Gabriel driving like a fiend?" she answered. "I think not."

She glanced quickly to her left, out the small window that showed a view of the sea. His eyes had adjusted to the faint light enough to recognize that she was frightened of the drive through the storm. He remembered driving a coach through the night on an icy mountain road with a stoic young woman who showed not a hint of nerves. But Harriet… Harriet was not so well armored.

He patted the seat again. "Come here."

"Do you want to tip us over?"

"Do you want my help?"

Harriet said a very unsuitable word, bunched her skirts out of her way, and moved out of her seat just as the carriage came to a sharp curve in the road. She gasped and swayed toward the door. Martin caught her around the waist and dragged her down beside him. He put his arm around her, pulled her as close as possible in the tight space, and said, "Isn't this nice?"

After a significant hesitation, Harriet answered, "Yes, my lord."

He liked her like this, warm and pliant in the crook of his arm. Martin put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. "Now," he said, lips close to hers. "What is it you want to be to me?"

Harriet opened her lips to speak, but his mouth covered hers before she could make a sound. After a while she did make a sound, a small, helpless one that sent a sharp pang of desire through him. He very much wanted to go further but made himself lift his head and look her in the eyes. They were still in the negotiating stage, after all. It was going to be ever so much more a victory if she capitulated to his terms of her own free will.

"Sorry for the interruption," he said. "I believe you were about to answer my question."

"You look as smug as the cat who caught the canary," she replied.

He gave a faint, one-shoulder shrug. "Your technique needs work, my dear, but with practice I'm sure you'll learn to make kissing a more pleasurable experience for me. You've ever been a quick study." She looked outraged. He smiled. "What was that question?"

She stiffened, her green eyes flashed with fury, but she kept to the point and asked, "Will you take me to Sir Anthony Strake's house party?"

"As?" he coaxed.

"I would be there under the pretense that I
am your mistress. I would be acting the role of—"

"Acting?" He shook his head. "I don't see why there should be any acting involved."

"Martin…"

"Do you need my help?"

"Do you think I'd be debasing myself this way if the need wasn't desperate?"

"Debasing." He smiled slowly. He stroked her cheek. "What a lovely word."

Her fingers closed around his wrist, but she did not try to push his hand away from her face. She said, "I see you're going to be unreasonable."

"I've had enough games from you," he answered. "First a false governess, now you want to play at being a lover. It will not do."

Her grip grew tighter around his wrist. "Why not?"

"Because, my dear harlot, someone needs to make an honest woman of you."

"The name is Harriet, not—"

"I know what I meant." He stroked his fingers down her throat and flattened his palm over her heart. "Honesty is a relative thing; you've taught me that. If you want to go to
Strake's as my mistress, you have to
be
my mistress."

She went very still, and very pale. Green fire blazed in her eyes when they met his. "You want my virtue in exchange for your cooperation?"

"I want your body. I'm sure you gave up your virtue years ago." He was not sure of that at all; she did not kiss like a woman skilled in the art of love. Then again, perhaps her lovers had not been interested in skill. He required it in his.

Anger and indignation crackled from Harriet as Martin waited for her reply. The rattle and sway of the coach began to lessen. Martin caught a glimpse of scattered houses along the roadside out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his attention focused on his beautiful adversary. Bright spots of color had appeared on her pale cheeks. Embarrassment? Fury that he would not be swayed into letting her have her own way, by talk of loyalty and duty to the Empire, was more likely.

Finally Harriet said, "This is the point where I should slap your face and call you a cad."

"If we were following a standard scenario, I suppose that would be the appropriate response to such a vile suggestion," he agreed.

"The only reason I would slap a man's face would be to challenge him to a duel, my lord. Of course, if I were to challenge you, you would choose foils or sabres—and you'd end up winning anyway, because you're much better with edged weapons than I'll ever be."

"I don't see how I can lose this match with you at all," he told her. His head still pounded, and the wound from her betrayal was still too open and fresh for him to be anything but cruel. "You see," he went on, with a very cold smile, "if you say no, then we part company, and good riddance to you. If you say yes, then I'll take my pleasure with your pretty body for a few days, and then say good riddance to you. I have nothing to lose."

"Martin, how long do you plan to act like a bastard over this?"

"How long do you have, my dear?"

"As long as it takes to get what I need."

"I take it your answer is yes, then?"

She looked away as the carriage came to a stop. "We're here," she said. "I'll think about it," she added, and slipped from his grasp and out of the coach before he had a chance to stop her.