Ann Lethbridge - Gabriel D'Arcy

‘Where are we going?’ Nicky asked in tones of supreme indifference. She gazed calmly out of the window as if she wasn’t taking note of their direction, but her bright gaze missed nothing.

He had to admire her lethal calm.

‘Meak.’

She blinked. Naturally, she knew about Meak. She would not be a worthy opponent if she had not looked into every corner of his life.

‘Your house in the country?’

My, but she was clever. Instead of feigning puzzlement, she coolly announced her knowledge, because she knew her face had given it away. Never had he met a woman with such savoir faire . Careful, Gabe . Admiration was akin to liking. One slip and she’d have him at her mercy. The thought riled him, yet anger did not diminish his appreciation. Or the desire thrumming along to the beat of the pulse in his arm.

‘You have heard of Meak?’ he asked casually.

‘An inheritance from a distant relative, wasn’t it? Before you came into your title.’

Meak wasn’t any great secret if one cared to ask the right questions of the right people. He stretched out his legs. ‘A very small property.’

‘And quite convenient to town.’

‘I wonder what sort of convenience you imagine?’ Indeed, his body tightened at the thought of the kind of convenience a house in the country might offer to a single gentleman. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because her smile became more sensual.

‘Why bother to go such a distance?’

No doubt she’d been expecting him to take a room at the inn. But then she didn’t know the whole story. Didn’t know how badly he was wounded. The stakes had risen by leaps and bounds. Given a choice, the last place he would have taken her was Meak. He always stayed there on his way to Cornwall. There he took a breath, shed his man-about-town persona and became himself. A point of departure to the dangerous underhanded work that would ruin him completely if it became known. Meak served as his bastion. The line of defence between the reality of the life they were about to enter and his fictional existence as an idle rake. Hopefully, whoever had sent her had not breached that particular wall. If so, he was in trouble. Which was why he could not let her go. He needed to plumb the depths of her masters’ knowledge. ‘We can be entirely private there. Alone.’ He flashed her a wicked smile.

She laughed. The warm, sultry sound of it made his groin harden. He imagined her naked on his bed. ‘How intriguing,’ she said. ‘I was told you were a shameless devil, Gabe, but I did not realise the lengths to which you would go for an afternoon seduction.’ She gave a small chuckle. ‘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.