Sins and Scandals Collection. Nicola Cornick
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Her tone was impassive.
“She works for me,” Tom said. “So you see …” He paused, smiled winningly. “I know a lot about her. I could tell people … a lot about her.”
“I see,” Tess said. She moved slightly, resting her hands on the top of the library table as though she suddenly needed to draw strength and support. Well, Tom thought, his news would have come as a shock. No doubt she was appalled, frightened and uncertain what to do next.
“So,” Tess said, “let me understand you clearly, Mr. Bradshaw. Merryn works for you. You know her present whereabouts, and you wish to discuss exchanging that information for hard cash.”
She did not sound shocked. She did not even sound upset. Lady Darent, Tom thought admiringly, revising his opinion, was nowhere near as stupid as people said she was.
“That’s right,” he said. “You might wish to consider how much my silence is worth.”
“One bullet, I would think,” Tess Darent said briskly. She stepped back from the library table and Tom saw that she had a tiny pearl-handled pistol in her hand. She used it to gesture him to a chair.
“I don’t like blackmailers, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said very sweetly, “so I suggest you reconsider.” She paused, head on one side, the pistol rock-steady in her hand. “I wonder which part of your anatomy you value the most?” she pondered. “I think I can guess.” Her gaze fell to his crotch. She took aim.
“Wait!” Tom said. He burst out into a sweat.
Tess paused. “Speak, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said. She smiled at him. “I am listening.”
CHAPTER TEN
AT SOME POINT Merryn woke, feeling cold and stiff. One of her arms was numb where she had been lying on it and when she shifted it hurt so excruciatingly that she could not help but cry out. The darkness was absolute and the night was silent. She felt as though she had woken alone in hell, the beer fumes pressing down on her like a blanket, smothering the life out of her.
A second later, Garrick was beside her, crossing the space between them, reaching for her.
“Are you hurt?” His hands were already moving over her, checking for any injury. She willed herself to accept his touch as impersonally as he offered it but somewhere deep inside she was shaking in response.
“I am a little stiff, that is all,” she said. “And cold.”
And so very lonely …
Garrick drew her into his arms. She could see nothing of him. He felt more familiar now, though, treacherously so, as though she had learned how to be in his arms. The brief rub of his cheek against hers was rough with a day’s growth of stubble now, all evidence of the elegant Duke extinguished. The smell of him—lime cologne and the scent of his skin—was reassuring. It soothed her senses.
Merryn was too tired now to try to distance herself from him either physically or mentally. Instead she tangled her fingers in Garrick’s shirt and drew him close, her head against his chest. She felt his breath stir her hair, then his body relaxed, his arms going about her more closely and holding her against him softly and protectively as though she were a child. Sleep crept around the corners of her mind again like mist. She let it claim her.
She woke again some unmeasured time later, her heart racing, the panic fluttering through her blood again as she gasped for breath. In her dream she had been thirteen years old, running through the meadow near her home at Fenners, the grass whipping her legs, her skirts tearing. She had to reach Stephen, had to get there in time because it was the only way to save him. Her heart was thumping with the effort of running but she knew it was already too late, knew Stephen was sliding away from her, dead, gone and it was all her fault … She gave a sob, coming fully awake, the tears choking her throat and the ghosts of the dream filling her mind.
Someone was holding her in a strong grip and for a moment she fought it, before she recognized his touch and all the fight went out of her.
“Hush,” Garrick said. His voice was a soft rumble in her ear and it soothed the frayed edges of her fear. “You are safe. All is well.”
Still dazed with sleep, her mind cloudy and dull, Merryn allowed herself to relax into his arms again. It was gentle and sweet and for a moment she clung to him. She was too exhausted to pretend to either of them. She wanted Garrick to comfort her, wanted his strength and his tenderness. For one long moment she allowed herself simply to hold him and be held and then she sat up, pushing the hair back from her face, made clumsy by both tiredness and acute physical awareness.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“I was honor bound not to, if you recall.” There was an undertone of humor in his voice. “So no, Lady Merryn, I did not sleep.”
“Thank you.” Suddenly Merryn wanted to see him. She was so tired of this darkness. Except when they were next face-to-face in the full light of day it would be the moment she walked away from him forever. Her heart lurched and she felt sick and torn.
“It must be past dawn.” Garrick had let her go and stood up. She heard him move a little away from her. She felt cold and repressed a shiver. “The quality of the light is different in here now,” he said. “You can see the chinks of daylight appearing. Soon we may be able to find a way out.”
Merryn scrambled to her feet, mad hope soaring within her. “Oh, let us try now!”
“Such haste!” Garrick sounded ruefully amused. She knew that he thought she was desperate to escape him and it was true; she was. Or perhaps it was herself she was trying to run from, and the persistent instinct that told her to seek comfort in his arms.
Garrick’s movements, too, were slow and stiff. She could see his outline now, a dark shape against the lighter blackness. He was right. The quality of the light had changed. Tiny specks of daylight were seeping into their prison, illuminating tumbled piles of brick and stone, and cold dark water lapping at her skirts. Merryn had almost forgotten how it felt to be warm and dry.
“Careful!” Garrick’s voice stopped her as she stumbled against a rough pile of brick. He caught her before she tripped and for a second he held her close again, a perfect fit against his side, as though she had been made specifically to lie within his arms, safe and secure. Then he put her from him with exemplary courtesy and for some reason Merryn’s heart tumbled into her soaking boots and she wanted to cry.
“I need to …” She paused delicately, unable to think of a way to express various urgent physical necessities to a man.
“I need to, too.” He sounded gentle and amused, easing her discomfort. “I will move a little away and turn my back. I undertake not to turn around.”
“Thank you.” Teeth chattering, cold, stiff and shaking, she hurried to do what she had to do.
“I hope you are not too hungry?” Garrick’s matter-of-fact tone as she rejoined him eased her embarrassment.
“I’m famished!” Merryn confessed.
Garrick laughed. “I am sorry that there is nothing we can do about that at present.” He held out a hand to her. “There is less danger of you falling if you hold on to me.”
After a second’s hesitation Merryn took his hand. It was warm, reassuring and slightly rough. She rubbed her fingers across his palm and felt the cuts and abrasions he must have suffered when the walls had first come down. She heard his sharp intake of breath and realized with a strange skip of the heart that it was a reaction to her touch. The thought made her feel confused, heady, powerful, a little in awe to be able to do such a thing to such a man with so small a gesture. For a moment she paused in the caress, then, unable to resist, stroked his palm again, aware this time of each tiny cut and chafe, sensitive to the tension she felt now in Garrick’s whole body and the way that the air between them seemed to shiver.
“Lady Merryn—”