Nicole Jordan: The Passion

Aurora was aware her voice had dropped and knew he must have heard the bleak note of reluctance she couldn't hide. The last thing she wanted was to return to England and face the fate that awaited her there.

Nicholas Sabine was still studying her, as if trying to determine her veracity. "You don't seem particularly eager to go home, my lady. I should think you would be impatient after all this time away."

Her smile was pained. "I suppose my lack of enthusiasm stems from the marriage my father has arranged for me."

"Ah," he said knowingly. "A cold-blooded contract. The British upper class are so very fond of selling their daughters into marriage."

Aurora stiffened at his presumption. She had not meant to share personal confidences with Mr. Sabine, nor did she care for the intimacy of this conversation. "I am not being sold , I assure you. It is more a matter of social expedience. And my father wishes to see me well settled."

"But you are not exactly willing, either?"

"His would not be my choice for a husband, no," she admitted quietly.

"I wonder that you haven't considered rebelling. You don't strike me as the meek type. On the quay this morning you were a veritable tigress."

"Those circumstances were hardly ordinary," Aurora said, flushing. "I am not in the habit of challenging convention."

"No? And yet you are here. It was rather unwise to risk your reputation like this, you must admit. Where I come from, ladies don't visit convicts in prison."

"They don't in England, either," Aurora replied, forcing a wry smile. "I am entirely aware of the impropriety… and normally I am quite sensible. But my maid accompanied me, at least. She is waiting outside in the corridor… along with the guard."

The pointed reminder of the guard seemed to have no effect on Mr. Sabine. He buttoned his shirt slowly, regarding her from under long dark lashes.

When he stood, she took a wary step back. She was tall enough that he didn't dwarf her with his broad-shouldered, long-limbed body, but this close his masculinity was almost overwhelming, his nearness threatening.

"You aren't afraid of me?" he asked, his silken tone sending shivers down her spine.

Unsettled, Aurora fought for control of her rioting senses as she stood her ground. She was afraid of him. Of his intensity. Of the way his raw virility made her heart pound. "You don't seem the sort of man who would hurt a woman," she replied uncertainly.

"I could take you hostage – had you thought of that?"

Her eyes widened as her uneasiness rose. "No, I hadn't Percy says you are a gentleman," she added, suddenly doubtful.

His smile flickered as he closed the distance between them. "Someone should have taught you not to be so trusting."

Reaching out, he captured her wrist in a light grasp. His fingers seemed to burn her skin, yet she was determined not to show how unnerved she was by his touch.

"Someone should have taught you better manners," she retorted coolly, adopting her most regal air. When he didn't release her, she stared him down. "I did not necessarily expect gratitude, Mr. Sabine, but neither did I expect to be manhandled in this fashion."

The hardness in his dark eyes abated a degree as he let go of her hand. Several heartbeats later he lowered that taunting gaze. "Pardon me. I do seem to have misplaced my manners."

Absently she rubbed her wrist, where his touch had branded her. "I understand you have had a difficult time. And you are an American, after all."

His smile was mocking. "Ah, yes, a heathen Colonial."

"You must admit you are very… direct."

"And you must realize condemned men are given to desperate acts."

Her expression sobered as she remembered he was to be hanged. "Percy means to exert his influence on your behalf, but he might very well lose his post were he to demand your release. He is already suspect for sympathizing with the American cause. He believes the war is absurd, and that we British are more at fault than you Americans."

Nicholas stared down at her beautiful upturned face. If she was innocent of duplicity, he had greatly wronged her. He felt a savage anger toward many of her countrymen, but he should never have taken his fury and resentment out on her.

"Forgive me," he said grudgingly. "I am indeed in your debt. If I can ever repay the favor…" He let the comment slide, knowing he was unlikely now to be in a position to repay her kindness.

A sudden sadness filled her eyes. "I wish there were more I could do."

"You've done enough already."

She bit her lip. "I suppose I should be going."

Nicholas found himself staring at her mouth. "Yes."

"Is there something else you need?"

He flashed a wry smile that held grim amusement.

"Aside from a key to my cell door and a fast ship to make my getaway? A bottle of rum wouldn't go amiss."

"I… shall try."

"No, don't. I was jesting."

He reached up to brush her cheek lightly with the back of his knuckles. Her lips parted and he heard her soft intake of breath. Nicholas felt his loins stir.

"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly. "For your own good, you should stay away."

She nodded and took a step back, her blue eyes misting. As if unable to speak, she turned without another word and fled the gloomy cell.

With a clang the door swung closed behind her, no doubt drawn shut by the prison guard. Nick bit back a curse at the grim reminder of his imprisonment.

For a moment he stood there, breathing in the faint scent of lilacs she'd left behind and wanting to hit something. He wished to hell she hadn't come. Whether intentionally or not, she had set his blood on fire.

Amazing, considering the sort of woman she was – blue-blooded, proper, straitlaced. The exact opposite of the women he was usually drawn to. Yet if he were free, he might very well have pursued her.

If he were free…

His jaw clenching at the reminder, Nicholas glanced up at the high, barred window of his cell. Damn it to hell, he had to get out of here – or at the very least find a solution to his crisis.

Turning, he began to pace the narrow confines of his cell, his thoughts once again caught up in turmoil. What would happen to his sister once he was dead? He'd sworn a solemn oath to his father to see to her welfare, but because of his blundering miscalculation, he'd been taken prisoner and rendered powerless to help her.

His unaccustomed helplessness left him seething, filled with a furious need to take action, no matter how futile. His pacing became more agitated… until suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt. Nicholas stared unseeing, a wild notion invading the back of his mind.

He had never feared death, although he'd always taken immense pleasure in living his life to the fullest. If he were hanged, his chief regret would be his failure to honor his promise. There might still be a way, however, for him to discharge his responsibilities, albeit from beyond the grave.

Lady Aurora Demming.

She could be the answer.

Or was he insane?

He started to rake a hand through his hair but stopped when he encountered the bandage – a bandage that had been her doing. He'd been mistaken about her, obviously. She was kindhearted, caring; her concern for him was evidence of that. She wasn't in league with Gerrod, or anyone else for that matter. She was indeed an angel of mercy.

Angel and siren, Nicholas thought, remembering her eyes that were the color of sapphires. She was also younger than her regal, aristocratic manner suggested, perhaps barely twenty. Yet despite her recklessness in first coming to his rescue and then visiting him in prison, she was no doubt well bred and virtuous… and high ranking enough to command respect, if not awe, among the beau monde. As a duke's daughter, she would have entry into the loftiest echelons of British society.