Taken by the Wicked Rake
- -
- 100%
- +
She lay still, sure that any movement would draw dangerous attention from him. She should have thrown herself out of the wagon—to her death if necessary—instead of listening to his bitter childhood stories. Now, he was standing between her and the door, fumbling to light a candle. If she tried to push past him, she could not help but touch him. And if she touched him …
She was shaking, now. She told herself that it was only because she was cold and wet from her struggles in the bog. But she knew it was more than that. He was reaching for her.
And she closed her eyes and trembled with anticipation.
She felt his hands at her waist, untying the rope that was still attached there, drawing it out from under her body, and casting it away.
When she looked up at him, he was staring down at her, his own face devoid of emotion. ‘Strip.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She scooted away from him on the bed.
‘Remove your clothing. To the last stitch. And then wash yourself.’
‘I will do no such thing.’
‘You will do as I say.’ He rubbed his thumb across his own dark skin, and then held it out to show her that is was clean. ‘You think me a dirty Gypsy? This does not wash off. But you?’
He reached for her, and she flinched away from him. But he caught her under the jaw and held her face still, running his other thumb slowly along her cheek. Then he held it out to show her the mud. ‘You are filthy. And you are sitting on my bed. Your fancy dress is ruined, and as useless in a Gypsy camp as the woman it covers. Remove your clothing and wash yourself, or I will do it for you.’
Then he turned away from her, going to a trunk in the corner. He began removing his own clothes, stripping off coat and waistcoat, cravat and shirt, brushing away the dried mud from them and folding each piece and putting it on a chair in front of him. When he stood bare to the waist, he splashed himself with water from the basin, and towelled dry.
Although she tried not to stare, it was almost impossible to look away. His body was lithe and his dark skin marked with a crisscross of scars. His shoulders were wide and strong, and she shivered as she saw the sinewy arms that had held her. The silver bracelet on his wrist almost seemed to glow against the darkness of his skin.
Then he pulled off his boots and trousers, and continued to wash. She could see the long line of his well-muscled flank. The curves and planes of his body were as well defined as a Greek statue—and every bit as bare. And he was as casual in his nakedness as the statue might have been, for he paid no more attention to her, as if he was alone in the room.
As she watched him, her insides gave a funny lurch and her heart beat unsteadily in her chest. It must be the result of too much fear and not enough food or sleep, and the stress of not knowing what might happen to her in the coming hours. If he was not watching, and she could not manage the strength to escape, she should at least gather the energy to protest this most recent threat to her honour. She should not be sitting on the bed in a daze, thinking things that did not match with what she ought to be feeling, in her current and extremely precarious condition.
She should not be staring.
Perhaps it was the disinterest he was showing her, at the moment when she expected him to be the most threatening. But she was overcome with a languor, and the desire to lie back on the bed and continue to gaze upon him. For he was beautiful in his nakedness, and totally alien from anything or anyone she had known.
He began to dress again, pulling on a pair of loose wool trousers, low boots, and a shirt of striped silk. Then he reached into a pouch at his waist and removed a gold hoop, fixing it in the hole in his ear. When he turned back to her, the English gentleman she had danced with might as well have never existed. This man was every bit a Gypsy.
As he stared at her, his cold expression was softening into a seductive smile. Though he had not been bothered by it, he must have known that she had been watching him change, and known the affect the sight of him would have on her. ‘Well? Do not sit gawking at me, woman. Do as I say. Give me your clothing.’
And for a moment, the idea beckoned to her. To be wild and carefree, and cast off her old life as easily as she had her clothes. Then the truth of the situation rushed back like cold rain, and she found her voice again. ‘Certainly not. Perhaps you have no shame and no sense. But I have no intention of removing my clothes for your entertainment.’
‘My entertainment?’ He laughed. ‘If I wished a naked woman in my vardo, I could have a new one every night, each more beautiful than the last. I do not need to take by force what will be freely given if I but ask. I have need of your clothing, and considerably less interest in the sight of your body than you had in mine.’
Not only had he known she was watching, but there was something in his smile that made her believe he had taken more time than he’d needed to change, to pique her interest. If so, then his shamelessness knew no bounds. She shuddered in disgust. ‘Your desires in the matter are of little concern to me. I am here against my will. You may think and say and do what you will, but I do not intend to cooperate in your plans for me.’
He stared at her, with the relaxed, almost lazy smile that a cat might give to a mouse. ‘Very well, then. If you will not remove your clothes, I must resort to force after all.’ He took a single step in her direction before she lost her nerve.
‘Leave me alone in the wagon, and I will do what you ask,’ she said hurriedly. ‘But if you remain …’
What would she do? She had best not offer any suggestions, or he might remain and take the clothing himself.
After what seemed like an infinity, he said, ‘I will wait outside. When you are finished, you will knock on the door and place your clothing on the step.’
She nodded, and watched as he took himself out of her presence. As the door shut, she stared at it. She was rid of the Gypsy, for now, at least. And with his absence, sanity returned, and with it, her desire to escape.
She glanced around the little room. The windows were too small for her to pass through. The only way out was through the door in front of her, and Stephano stood just on the other side. She reached for the handle and opened the door a crack.
He stood facing her, just as she had suspected, arms folded across his chest. ‘I am waiting.’
She shut the door in defeat. To disobey him might mean disaster. And he was right in one thing, at least. She was tired and dirty, and her clothing was cold and wet. The beautiful gown of white net that she had worn to the ball was little better than a rag. She was even more miserable than she might be if she removed it.
She glanced around the wagon. What was she to wear instead? Did he mean to bring her replacements? Or was it just an elaborate ruse to make her bare herself? She was shivering as she fumbled with the closures on her ball gown. She dropped it and the muddy, torn petticoats into a heap on the floor, and then bundled them up, and opened the door a crack, pushing them out toward the Gypsy.
His hand appeared in the crack in the door, and he opened it wider, but did not look in. ‘The rest, as well.’
‘Most certainly not.’
‘The stays, the shift. Stockings and shoes—’ he paused ‘—shoe, rather. You left one behind already. Remove them, or I shall.’
She slammed the door, and shouted through the wood. ‘Bastard!’ And was surprised by the sound of her own voice.
He laughed in response. ‘An accurate assessment of my parentage. But unusual to hear it from such ladylike lips. Perhaps it was the gown alone that gave you the air of gentility. Who knows what you shall be like, when you wear nothing but skin?’
‘You certainly shall not.’
He laughed again. ‘You are right in that. I must leave you alone for the day. And I will not have you thinking that, when I am gone, you can turn my people against me or make a daring escape cross country. You will find it difficult to do, if you must walk through the camp dressed as nature intended, with not even shoes for protection.’
‘You mean to leave me.’ She swallowed.
‘Better than not leaving you alone, while in that condition. Unless you prefer …’
For the second time in her life, she cursed aloud.
He laughed again. ‘I thought not. You will be perfectly safe, shut up in the wagon. No one will trouble you. No one would dare.’ There was a darkness in his tone that made her sure of the truth. And then, the smile was back in his voice. ‘And if you are good, and behave yourself in my absence? Then I shall return some of your clothing to you this evening.’
‘You will return my own things to me as a reward?’ She cursed him again.
He laughed again. ‘Not if you act in that way. Now, remove the rest. Or.’ He let the last word hang in the air, and she reached for the laces. When she had another small pile of clothes before her, she hid herself behind the door, opened it a crack and forced the things out of the wagon, then quickly slammed the door again.
There was a moment of silence, and then the Gypsy said, ‘All seems to be in order. My bed might not be to your liking, but it is the best I mean to offer. I suggest you avail yourself of it. I will return later in the day.’
And then, she heard no more.
Chapter Three
Stephano stood perfectly still in the bedroom of his London home on Bloomsbury Square, undergoing the transformation from Gypsy back to gentleman. His valet, Munch, cast aside a wrinkled strip of linen and started with a fresh cravat. ‘If you insist on starting again.’ Stephano muttered, eager to be getting on to his appointment. He had wasted hours in the night, traipsing around the countryside to befuddle the Carlow girl as to their location. And now, the delivery of the ransom demand had been complicated by Robert Veryan’s unexpected flight to London.
‘If you are going to Keddinton’s office, then the knot must be perfect.’ Munch’s flat voice came out of an equally flat face, and often left people expecting a man of limited dexterity or intelligence. But his thick fingers did not fumble as he tied the fresh knot, nor did his perception of the situation. ‘You cannot expect the man to take you seriously, if you treat him otherwise. And you cannot afford to show weakness, even something as small as a wilted cravat.’
‘True, I suppose. But damn the man for spoiling my morning. I had hoped to be done with this business before breakfast, so that I might have a decent meal and a little sleep. Now, it will take the better part of the day. It is easier to appear strong when I am rested.’
His friend and butler, Akshat, waited patiently at his right hand. ‘How are you feeling this morning, Stephen Sahib?’
In truth, he felt better than he had expected, after a sleepless night and several hours in the saddle. ‘The headache is not so bad today. After a cup of your special tea, I shall feel almost normal.’
Akshat had anticipated his request, and was stirring the special herbs that were the closest thing to a remedy for the incessant pounding in his skull. If it could keep him clear-headed for just a few more days, he had hopes that the curse would be ended, and the headache would go with it.
He drank the proffered tea, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a new man. Or his old self, perhaps. He was no longer sure. But he knew it was Stephen Hebden the jewel merchant who was reflected in the cheval glass, as he brushed at an imaginary speck of lint on the flawless black wool. When a member of the gentry needed someone to dispose of the family diamonds, or find a jeweller to produce a paste copy of something that had been lost at hazard—or forgotten in a mistress’s bed—there was none better than Mr Hebden to handle the thing. He was discreet, scrupulously honest, and always seemed to be where he was needed, when he was needed. It said much to his knowledge of the lives of his customers.
He grinned at himself in the mirror. And if one had business of a less scrupulous nature, Mr Hebden could always count on Salterton. And then, of course, there was the Gypsy, Beshaley. Robert Veryan had dealt with all three, at one time or another. And while the servants at Bloomsbury Square were quite used to Mr Stephen’s unusual ways, Veryan found it quite upsetting to get visits from a man who could not be filed easily for future reference. Today, he would use the old man’s unease to good advantage.
Stephano glanced again at the cut of his coat. What do you think, Munch? Sombre enough to visit a viscount?’
The Indian grinned at him, and Munch said, ‘Sombre enough to attend the funeral of one.’
‘Very good. When one means to be as serious as death, one might as well dress the part.’ And the severity of the tailoring did much to clear his head of distractions for the difficult day ahead. Although he had not expected to make a trip to London for his interview with Keddinton, he would almost have deemed the kidnap a success. But he had underestimated his captive, and his reaction to her.
He resisted the urge to pull apart Munch’s carefully tied cravat while attempting to cool the heat in his blood. He had been watching the girl from a distance for weeks, convinced she was no different from a dozen other Society misses. She was lovely, of course. But a trifle less outgoing than her peers. And more malleable of opinion, if her reaction to the people around her was any indication. She seemed to follow more than she led, and she did it with so little complaint that he wondered if she was perhaps a bit slow of wit.
A deficiency of that sort would explain her tepid reaction to the gentlemen who courted her. When the men she had spurned were away from female company and felt ungentlemanly enough to comment on her, they shook their heads in disgust and announced that, although her pedigree was excellent, the girl was not quite right. Though their suits had met with approval from her father, Earl of Narborough, and her brother, Viscount Stanegate, they had been received by the lady with blank disinterest and a polite ‘No, thank you.’ It was almost as if the girl did not understand the need to marry, or the obligation to marry well.
When he had planned her abduction, Stephano had expected to have little trouble with her. Either she would go willingly into the garden because she lacked the sense not to, or she would retreat to the retiring room and he would take her in the back hall.
But he had imagined her frightened to passivity, not fighting him each step of the way. He had not expected her to work free of her bonds, nor thought her capable of tearing her virginal white ball gown to shreds in her attempt to escape.
Nor had he expected the lusciousness of the body that the dress had hidden. Or how her eyes had turned from green to golden brown as he’d held her. Or the way those changeable eyes had watched him undress. When he had planned the abduction, he had not expected to want her.
He looked again at his sober reflection in the mirror, and put aside his thoughts of sins of the flesh. While the lust that she inspired in him might have been a pleasant surprise, he did not have the time or inclination to act on it. It was an unnecessary complication if the plan was to hold her honour hostage to gain her family’s cooperation.
When he arrived at Lord Keddinton’s London home a short time later, he pushed his way past the butler, assuring the poor man that an appointment was unnecessary: Robert Veryan was always at home to him.
Keddinton sat at the desk in his office, a look of alarm on his pasty face. ‘Hebden. Is it wise to visit in daylight?’
Stephano stared down at the cowardly little man. ‘Was it wise to run back to London so soon after the disappearance of your guest? You should have taken the time to look for the girl, before declaring her irretrievable.’
‘I—I—I felt that the family must be told, in person, of what had occurred.’ The man’s eyes shifted nervously along with his story.
‘You thought to outrun me, more like. By coming here, you deviated from the instructions I set out for you. You were to await my message to you, and then you were to deliver it. It was most inconvenient for me to have to follow you here. Inconvenient, but by no means difficult.’
When Keddinton offered no further explanation, Stephano dropped the package he had brought onto the desk in front of him. ‘You will take this to Carlow.’
The man ignored his order and said, ‘The girl. Is she still safe? Because you took her from my house.’
‘Exactly as you knew I would,’ Stephano reminded him calmly. ‘We agreed on the method and location, before I took any action.’
Keddinton’s breathing was shallow, as though now that the deed was done, he was a scant inch from panic. ‘She was supposed to be in my care. And if the Carlows realize that it was I who recommended Lord Salterton to my wife …’
‘You will tell them you had no idea that the man was a problem, and that you are not even sure he was the one who took her. Her absence was not discovered until late in the evening, was it? And others had departed by that time, as well. I took care that no one saw me leaving. The corridor and the grounds were empty, as you’d promised they would be.’
‘But still …’ Keddinton seemed to be searching for a problem where none existed.
‘Thinking of your own skin, are you?’ Stephen wondered who the bigger villain might be, George Carlow, or Veryan for his easy betrayal of his old friend.
And worse, that it would happen at the expense of an innocent girl. It had been difficult for Stephano to reconcile himself to his own part in the crime. He had not stuck at kidnapping women before. But it had never ended well for him. He was almost guaranteed a headache so strong that he would be too sick to move for several days. His late mother might still want her vengeance, but it was as though she punished him for the dishonourable acts she pushed him to commit.
But though his head might feel better today, it turned his stomach at how easy it had been to persuade Verity Carlow’s godfather to help in her abduction.
Keddinton opened the package in front of him, and went even paler when he recognized the contents. It was a chemise, embroidered at the throat with the initials V C, and tied tightly about the waist with red silk rope. He looked up at Stephen with alarm. ‘My God, Hebden. You didn’t …’
‘Touch the girl?’ Stephano laughed in response. ‘Certainly not. She is worth more to me as a virgin hostage, than she is as some temporary plaything.’ But the image of the girl sprang to his mind, sprawled upon his bed with her skirts ripped near to the waist to give a tantalizing glimpse of her silk-covered legs. ‘Since you are so quick to search the package I intended for another, then you had best read the attached note.’ He quoted from memory. ‘Your daughter is safe, for now. If you wish her to return the same, then admit in public what you have done.’
‘But is this—’ he poked at the chemise and shuddered in distaste ‘—is this necessary? Surely you did not need to be quite so theatrical.’
‘Theatrical?’ He laughed again. ‘I have made both the Carlows and the Wardales shake in their beds for months, each one worrying that they would get a bit of rope in the mail. All because of a curse that would have no hold over them, if they did not secretly believe that they were deserving of punishment. And now, because I have sent you a lady’s undergarment, you think that I am developing a taste for the theatrical?’ He could still feel the softness of the garment, as he’d tied it up, and the softness of the girl that had worn it. He felt the pounding in his head begin again, as he thought of the girl, naked in the wagon, waiting for his return. If he truly wanted revenge, it would be so very easy. And so very pleasurable. He laughed louder. But the sound did nothing to stop the lurid thoughts in his head or the agony they brought with them.
Then, as if one pain would stop another, he grabbed the letter opener from Keddinton’s desk, and dragged the blade of it along his palm until a line of red appeared there. He held his hand out over the shift, watching the drops of crimson fall onto the muslin. He made a fist, and squeezed it shut, until his mind cared about nothing but its own pain and the sharp sting of the open cut.
Then he looked up at Robert Veryan, as the blood continued to drip from his hand. ‘This, you snivelling coward, is what a taste for the dramatic looks like. Tell your friend, the murderer Carlow, that for now it is my own blood that was spilled. But if he does not accede to my demands, then the next package will be soaked in his daughter’s blood. Can you manage that, without running away again?’ He leaned over the desk and watched the older man shrink away from him. It was as easy as it had ever been to intimidate him into obedience.
Keddinton gave a shaky nod. ‘If they agree to your demands, how shall I reach you?’
Stephano reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to bandage his still-bleeding hand. ‘You do not reach me, Veryan. I am unreachable. Invisible. Unfindable. As is the girl, until this is over.’
In fact, she was hidden on Veryan’s own property, less than six miles from his house. If the man had been the expert spy catcher everyone thought him, such a simple deception should have been impossible. But the profound ignorance he displayed over small things was more than a match for the intelligence he displayed in others. ‘I will return to you in a week’s time, and expect to hear George Carlow’s answer. Should you, through disobedience or incompetence, give me reason to come back here before then, it will go hard for you. Do not run, for I will have no trouble finding you, no matter where you might hide. And I will punish you. Is that understood?’
He gave Veryan a moment to remember their first meeting. He had recognized the man as a weak link in the chain that would lead him to his father’s killer. He had broken into Veryan’s private rooms, in the night. And then he had shaken the man once, as a terrier might shake a rat, and left him weeping on the floor. It had not taken a single blow to convince him to turn traitor to his friends and serve as Stephano’s right hand in vengeance.
It was just one more proof of the falseness of the honour that supposed English gentlemen held so high.
‘As long as there is nothing to lead them back to me in this,’ Veryan muttered.
‘Is that all that concerns you?’ Stephano sneered. ‘This will be over soon, Veryan, and you will be safe. Now that I have the girl, it will not take long for Carlow to reveal his part in the murder.’ Because he could not imagine the man would be so casual with the safety of his youngest daughter. ‘But it does my heart good to see your very belated care for Verity Carlow’s safety.’
‘When you asked me to help you, you promised you would not hurt her,’ Veryan said the words with a whine, as though they were a defence of his betrayal.
So Stephano leered at him and said, ‘Perhaps I regret my promise. She is a most lovely girl, and as a Gypsy, I have no honour, and am used to taking whatever I desire.’ The headache grew. And for a moment, his sight dimmed as though the pain behind his eyes was an impenetrable fog.
When his vision cleared, Veryan was gaping like a fish, eyes goggling with shock as though he were sharing an office with a fiend from hell.
Stephano sighed and took a moment to compose his features, hiding his weakness from the spymaster. Then he said, ‘If they do not tell the world of her disappearance, then no one shall know of it. Once they give me what I want, I will bring her back as quickly and secretly as I took her. She will be back in her home before anyone knows that she is missing, reputation intact and none the worse for the experience.’ And with that vaguely honourable promise, the agony diminished.
Veryan grinned at him, the sweat beading on his forehead. ‘That is good. And they will never know it was me.’