Gabriel D'Arcy. Ann Lethbridge
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‘You underestimate your charms if you think such draconian measures are required.’
A brave player indeed. He tried to remember what that felt like. The belief. The commitment. The sureness of purpose. Risking all for the sake of an ideal. He stared into the past and with a faint sense of surprise realised he couldn’t do it. Could not recall even an ounce of the youthful zeal that had once burned so bright in his veins. First his father, then Marianne, had doused the flame, he supposed. But he had held on to his sense of duty. His knowledge of what was right kept him from falling entirely into darkness.
His eyelids drooped as if weighted. Sleep wanted to claim him. But he could not sleep yet. Not until they reached Meak and he could be sure he held her fast. Then and only then could he see to his arm properly and seek some rest.
He inclined his head. ‘You honour me,’ he said. ‘But with half the ton hanging about you, I fear I would be lost in the crowd.’
At that she laughed outright. ‘You, mon cher Lord Mooreshead, could never be lost in a crowd.’
Something inside him warmed at her words. It was as if she had touched him with a gentle caress. Nonsense. He was light-headed and she was playing her role as he played his. And so they would circle the truth, for a while at least.
He reached down. He was unable to prevent an exhalation at the unexpected sharp dart of pain from his arm.
‘Your wound bothers you?’ she asked.
Inwardly he cursed at having revealed so much. ‘Hardly at all. I had forgotten all about it until now.’ He drew forth a rectangular box from beneath the seat. ‘Since we have a good few miles to go, we might as well entertain ourselves. I assume you play chess?’ A woman of her supposed ilk would learn all the arts to entertain a man. It was their stock in trade.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘I choose white.’
‘Of course you do.’ He set the travelling set on its legs between them and set out the pieces. Chess would stop him from falling asleep and eliminate the need for conversation.
Conversation required too much careful attention to avoid falling into one of her traps.
* * *
To Nicky’s increasing concern the journey went on and on. They had changed horses twice now, at small inns along the road. Not posting inns or coaching houses, tiny village inns along narrow lanes off the main road. And at each inn it became quite obvious that the horses were his own. Kept ready should he need them. They were changed without comment or fuss. Food arrived on a tray within moments of their arrival. At one, when she stepped down to use the necessary and take stock of her whereabouts, she quickly discovered there was no possible route for escape. The places were too small, the gaze of her captor too sharp, too aware of her every movement, to give her the slightest opportunity to disappear.
Where was Meak exactly? West of London. Berkshire, if she recalled correctly. The property had been included in the document on his background as a place he rarely visited.
And regardless of where it was, during the course of their games of chess, in the silent moments while he weighed his next move, she had decided not to attempt an escape. Fate or his lust or something else had presented an unexpected opportunity to become more closely acquainted and she would follow wherever it led. Carpe diem. Seize the day. And there was no need to worry. Once Reggie reported to Mrs Featherstone, she would go to Paul and he would move heaven and earth to discover her whereabouts.
If Mooreshead had not been so good at hiding, she would know their ultimate destination. It could not be Meak. Or the family estate in Norfolk, where he had claimed to be these past few months. He had...disappeared over the summer. Perhaps to France on his yacht that came and went from port to port around the coast, doing what, no one knew. But their Parisian contacts had not seen him, according to Paul. Now the chance had presented itself to discover where he went and what he did, and, more importantly, to know for certain where his loyalties lay. A chance she would not pass up.
And if Paul was right and Mooreshead was a turncoat—for some reason she could not fathom, she felt slightly sick at the thought—then he would pay for his crimes. And she would have the satisfaction of knowing she had prevented him from doing further harm, as well as being one step closer to finding her sister.
‘Checkmate,’ he said, winning their third game.
She leaned back and began unbuttoning her remaining glove. ‘Two out of three to you. Your collection of gloves grows larger by the hour. I see I shall have to go shopping very soon.’
His eyes twinkled as he caught her gloved hand in his right hand and raised it to his lips. Tingles ran up her arm. Unruly heat warmed her blood. She cast him a sultry glance as he nipped the end of the glove’s forefinger between his teeth and tugged. A pleasurable shiver ran down her spine. With each nip of his teeth at her fingertips of leather, something darker and more dangerous tugged deep in her core. Desire.
It had been a long time since she had felt such a deep sensual pull of male allure. In the years of her marriage, she had learned how to turn male lust to her advantage, but her encounters were never about her desires. Vilandry had never appealed to her that way, though she’d done her wifely duty, and the other affairs had been reciprocal arrangements encouraged, if not arranged, by her husband. To keep Minette safe. She pushed the memories away. Now was not the time to remember the betrayal or the fear. The threats had come close to breaking her then and she could not let the recollection of them near the surface now.
She needed to seduce a man into trusting her. A man who wouldn’t simply fall beneath her spell, like some green youth, or an old man who needed firm young flesh to get him interested. Beneath Gabe’s charm lay a cold, hard man. A man full of suspicion and steely resolve. She would need to find out what drove him. Money? Ideals? Power? All things she could understand, though rarely in her previous life had ideals played much of a part. It would make her task easier if she understood his motives. For that she would need to get into his bed and under his skin.
Certainly a man of his calibre and experience would be a worthy adversary in the arena of amour. And any other arena, she admitted to herself. But seduction was her best weapon. She let her visceral pleasure at Gabe’s touch show on her face as she lifted her chin to meet his gaze.
The glove was loose now and an inexorable pull by strong long fingers drew it free in a slow slide. The fine hairs across the back of her hand stood to attention in the cooler air. She shivered and his smile widened. The teasing smile on his lips turned distinctly sensual.
Looking into her eyes, he turned her hand palm up, his thumb massaging the tender flesh. ‘Such a pretty hand,’ he murmured. ‘So white. As delicate as a bird’s wing.’
And as easily crushed by his superior strength. The comparison was not lost on her.
‘You mistake, my lord,’ she said her voice full of amusement. ‘The whiteness is clearly marred for such flights of fancy.’
He glanced down, his long gold-tipped lashes shielding the ice-blue of his gaze. He pressed his lips to the flesh brought to life by his thumb. Hot, dry lips. Softened by desire. And she ached to feel those lips on her own. Shocked by the strength of her carnal response, she curled her fingers, but if he noticed her protective reflex he did not react, but rather turned her hand knuckles up. ‘Freckles,’ he said as if making an extraordinary discovery.
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘Charming.’ He brought his gaze up to rest on her face. ‘You have been kissed by the sun.’
‘Everywhere, except my face.’
‘Everywhere,’ he repeated, his voice deepening with desire. It strummed a chord low in her belly. A flutter of inner muscles turned her limbs liquid with longing. ‘I looking forward to learning them all. One by one by one.’
‘And so we go to Meak,’ she whispered. And something inside her wished there was no other purpose.
The carriage turned and swayed, rocking on its springs,