Gabriel D'Arcy. Ann Lethbridge
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A soft sound made her look up.
Naked desire carved itself on his face.
Heat flared in her cheeks as if she was an innocent schoolgirl when she realised the image she presented kneeling between the thighs of this virile male. But the light in the carriage was dim and hopefully hid her blushes. ‘Later,’ she said and tossed the small wooden pieces into the box. A promise made was a promise kept. And in truth, she was looking forward to keeping her promises for her own sake. Anger welled up at her traitorous thought. The man was her enemy. Passion was her blade, not her pleasure.
With a smile she returned to her seat on the opposite side of the carriage at the same moment it drew up. The coachman, as he had at all their stops, opened the door and let down the steps.
Gabe stepped down and helped her to alight.
While he turned to give instructions to his driver, she glanced up at the house. A square stone house. A house of good proportions, but modest without ornament or grandeur. She had heard much of Bagmorton in Norfolk. The seat of the marquessate. This was a poor secondary dwelling for a nobleman such as Mooreshead. Not a single window glimmered with light. Not even the lantern at the front door glowed a welcome, though dusk had the day well in retreat.
‘I see we are unexpected,’ she said.
‘You mistake the matter.’
The coachman returned to his box and the carriage pulled away, turning into a smaller drive at the side of the house.
He held out his arm and she placed a hand on his sleeve. Rock-solid strength. All virile male. Now the game would begin in earnest. A game she must win.
The front door opened as they reached the top step. A young man with tousled mouse-brown hair peered out. The candle in his hand flickered in the wind, casting shadows over his moon-round, pimply face. His eyes lit up when he saw Mooreshead and yet there was a slackness about his expression. Nicky instantly recognised the vagueness of an innocent soul.
‘Good evening, Walter,’ Gabe said. ‘Let us in, dear old chap.’
The boy, for she really couldn’t think of him as a man though she judged his age to be about thirty, grinned and stepped aside, his eyes growing wide and round as his gaze fell on her. He gave his master a puzzled look.
‘She’s a friend,’ Gabe said. He leaned closer and muttered a few words in the boy’s ear. He shot off, leaving them to enter the gloom of the hall. Gabe chuckled. ‘He’ll bring us something to eat. Nothing much, I’m afraid, since the house is mostly shut up.’
‘I thought you said we were expected?’
‘I was expected.’ His voice was as dry as dust. ‘I am always expected.’
It didn’t look much like it. She kept the thought behind her teeth. An Englishman’s house was, after all, his pride and joy. His castle.
Mooreshead’s movements were sure in the semi-dark and the sound of steel striking flint preceded the flare of light. Instinctively she closed her eyes and turned away, so as not to ruin her vision. And when she turned back, he was lighting a branch of candles set by the door.
The marbled entrance hall boasted a grand set of carved stairs leading up to the first-floor landing and...nothing else. No tables or chairs or pictures on the walls. Just a floor of marble in squares of pink and grey and walls of white.
‘This way,’ he said, holding the candelabra high. They passed an open door. A drawing room, she thought. It too was bare. Completely empty.
Her stomach sank. She knew what this place was. Not a home. Not a sink of iniquity where he brought his latest paramour as the gossips would have it. It was a halfway house. A halt on their journey, not their final destination.
He ushered her onwards with a press of his hand in the small of her back. Their footsteps echoed on the tile and on the bare wooden stairs as they made their way upwards. There was not a stick of furniture or floor covering anywhere. He flung open a door. This room contained a large bed sumptuously accoutred with bedding and pillows and hangings from a canopy of embroidered green silk. In the centre was a table with two chairs, and a cold hearth, laid ready for a fire.
‘Welcome to my abode,’ he said, his voice full of amusement and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a smidgeon of regret.
Gabe closed the door and turned the key.
The countess swung around, her eyes wide and suspicious. With a grin, he tucked the key into his fob pocket. ‘We wouldn’t want to be interrupted, now would we?’
Her gaze went back to the bed. ‘No,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘We wouldn’t.’
Incredibly, despite the ache in his arm, his body tightened at the velvety caress in her voice, causing his head to spin. No, it wasn’t her, it was lack of blood, even if she was the most enticing female he had encountered in a very long time. He had to keep his head here. She was a woman around whom he dare not lay down his guard. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy what she offered; he just wouldn’t let lust overcome reason. But right now there were other more practical matters requiring his attention.
He knelt at the hearth and touched a candle to the spills left ready. Poor Walter never let him down, no matter how long between visits. There was always a fire ready to be lit, and food to be had from his mother’s kitchen at the not-so-distant cottage he’d provided for them. A guest, though, was a novelty.
The back of his neck prickled. Awareness of her moving closer. He turned sideways to keep her in view at the edge of his vision. Her expression was calm, but resolute. She had come to some sort of decision. To flee? To murder him while he slept? She wouldn’t have the chance for either. He touched the flame to the spills laid neatly between the kindling. They caught at once. ‘Sit by the fire,’ he said. ‘Warm yourself.’
She sank onto the chaise and held her hands out to the blaze. She was taking it all much too calmly to be innocent. He’d made the right decision to bring her along. He certainly wasn’t going to leave her to Sceptre’s tender mercies.
A scratch came at the door. He unlocked it, then opened it to Walter carrying a tray. ‘Come in.’
Gabe carefully pocketed the length of rope curled around the beer mug while his back was to the countess, then took the tray and set it on a nearby chest.
‘You will bring the rest as I instructed?’ Gabe asked the lad. It was always best to deal with one thing at a time.
‘I will, my lord,’ Walter said, doing his best to look properly serious.
Gabe closed and once again locked the door behind him. The countess got up and went to the table, seating herself in one of the chairs. ‘I’m famished.’
He wasn’t surprised. She had eaten little on the road. Likely she feared he might drug or poison her. Or it might have been a case of nerves held under tight control. Whatever it was, she needed food. One-handed, he carried the tray to the table. In addition to beer, his usual tipple, Walter had thoughtfully provided a pot of tea. It was what the lad’s mother drank and therefore he thought all females would be the same.
‘I can ask for wine, if you prefer,’ Gabe said. ‘Or cognac.’
‘So your cellars are furnished better than your house,’ she said with a smile. ‘Tea suits me very well. I am practically English, n’est ce pas?’ She buttered a slice of bread the size of a doorstep, placed a hunk of cheese on top and bit delicately into it with small white even teeth. She had a lovely, generous mouth with lips of just the right lushness. Not too full or too red. Just right for kissing.
He dragged his gaze away and buttered his own slice, careful not to show the pain the movements caused.
‘Tiens, where do