A Rogue’s Pleasure (2 page)

Perspiration gathered between her shoulder blades. She edged to the back of the sofa. “Please, release me.”

His eyes hardened. “I've waited a long time for you, Chelsea, but I've done with waiting.”

He shoved her down onto the cushions and hurled himself on top of her. Trapped between the sofa and his sprawling weight, panic paralyzed her. For a terrifying moment, she thought she would suffocate.

“Stop!” In vain, she pushed at his solid mass. “You were Father's friend. This isn't right.”

“Not right?” His eyes narrowed. “Not
right?
'Twas I who taught you the steps to the country dances so you'd not shame yourself at your first assembly. To ride astride even though your mama forbade it. 'Tis only right that I be the one to teach you…
this
.”

His mouth sought hers. She turned her head, and his slathering kiss fell on her cheek. Bile rose in her throat.

He covered her ear with his mouth, his tongue filling the canal. “No one need ever know. It would be our secret. You used to like secrets when you were little. Do you remember how you used to reach into my pockets to fish for sweetmeats? Reach inside now and feel what I have for you.”

He dragged her hand down to his trouser front and pressed her palm against the hard bulge. Shaking, she tried to yank free, but he held her. Helpless, she searched his face. Froth filmed his upper lip, and a stream of perspiration edged its way from forehead to temple. Obviously he was too much a prisoner of lust to respond to reason.
Reason
.

Cogito, ergo sum.

From the back of her brain, her father's voice urged her to chart a different course.

“Very well, then.” She grabbed the vulnerable flesh through the breeches and squeezed.
Hard
.

He howled. Chelsea sprang off the sofa and ran to the door. The knob slipped in her damp grasp.

“Fancy it rough, do you?”

He caught her from behind and slammed her against the paneling. Her forehead hit with a heavy thud. Black, spidery shapes darted before her eyes. She screamed.

“Let me go!”

He wrenched her arms behind her and clasped a hand about her joined wrists.

“You'll not be sorry, my girl, I promise you. Five hundred pounds is a pittance compared to all that shall be yours. Fine gowns, jewels, you shall have them all.” His grip slackened, and he shaped her buttocks with his free hand. “Now turn around and kiss me.”

No!” She whirled to face him.
God help me, not even to save Robert.

She lifted her knee and drove it between his thighs.

Dumfreys's legs buckled, and he sank to the floor. Cupping his groin, he rocked back and forth.

He looked up at her, his face contorted. “Bitch!”

Wrenching open the door, Chelsea fled down the corridor, through the foyer, and out the columned entrance. Dulcinea was tethered to a post in the front yard. Gasping, Chelsea untied her mare's reins and scrambled into the saddle.

The squire limped onto the portico.

“You'll pay Chelsea!” He shook a clenched fist. “I'll have you yet, and the next time I'll not be so gentle.”

Chelsea had no intention of giving him a chance to make good on his chilling promise. She urged Dulcinea into a full gallop and flew through the hedgerow-bordered lanes. Her loosened hair lashed at her face, but she didn't slow her pace until she passed through her own entrance gate and Oatlands's red brick facade came into view.

Riding into the stable, she dismounted on wobbly legs. Marcus, the stable boy, emerged from the tack room.

“Gooday, miss.”

Not trusting her voice, Chelsea responded with a nod. Limbs weak, she handed over the reins and stepped away from the horse.

He stroked the side of Dulcinea's lathered neck. “Ye've ridden 'er 'ard, I see. Cain't say as I blame ye. 'Tis a glorious day for it.”

Can it be that I don't look any different?
“Yes, well…please see that she gets water, a walk, and a rub down before you feed her.”

Chelsea caught the boy's puzzled stare and flushed. Ordinarily she cared for Dulcinea herself, but today was no ordinary day. Feeling as transparent as glass, she hurried from the stable. Outside, birds sang and sunshine warmed her face, but all she wanted was to be inside where it was silent and cool. And safe.

She ran across the lawn to the path. Tall grass and weeds had overtaken the stones, and she hiked her skirts to keep from tripping. Ahead lay the house. With its fanlight-surmounted doorway, ionic columns, and fleet of symmetrically arranged sash windows, Oatlands had been the envy of the neighborhood when her great-grandfather had built it fewer than a hundred years before. It was as one drew near that the signs of neglect—cracked stone facings, a broken windowpane stuffed with a cloth, a column missing its capital—became apparent. But it was still home. Her home. The one place where she felt truly safe.

She gained the portico, turned the brass doorknob, and stepped inside. Teeth gritted against the yawning creak, she gently released the handle. The front hall was deserted, as she'd hoped it would be. She tiptoed toward the back of the house, the heels of her half-boots nearly soundless on the threadbare carpet.

The library had been her father's sanctuary. Now it was hers. Crossing its threshold, the scent of sandalwood—her father's scent—enveloped her like a hug. Throat knotted, she closed the oak door and moved to the mahogany desk. She could almost see her father seated behind it, head bent, spectacles slipping toward the tip of his nose, big hands cradling one of his precious books. Tears misting her eyes, she touched the back of the cracked leather chair. It looked so big, so
empty
.

Papa, what shall I do?
Her gaze fell on the brandy decanter. Denuded of its silver tray
and crystal goblets, it set at one lonely corner of the desk along with a single chipped glass. Hands shaking, she lifted the stopper and poured out three fingers' worth of brandy. Her father had permitted her the occasional “nip,” reasoning that, in these modern times, a young woman should learn to hold her drink in case some young man attempted to ply her with it. “But 'tis our little secret,” he'd say with a wink and a significant look toward the closed door, a reminder that what Mama didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Papa had been full of such delightfully liberal notions, including disengaging Chelsea's governess—a tight-lipped scold whom she'd detested—and taking over her education himself.

To the best of fathers
. Facing his empty chair, Chelsea raised her glass and downed the drink. Eyes watering—this time from the brandy, she told herself—she set the glass aside, stepped behind the desk, and settled into the sheltering depths of the chair. Leaning back, she felt the knot in her stomach start to unfurl. Later she'd take a bath—a scalding one—to wash away Dumfreys's cologne and ease the achiness creeping into her upper arms and wrists. For the present, all she wanted was to pretend that the afternoon—the nightmare—had never happened. Closing her eyes and tucking her feet beneath her, she could almost believe.

She must have slept. The hallway clock struck a second chord, then a third. She sat up and stretched. The inside of her mouth felt fuzzy from the brandy and her head still ached, yet she felt better. More in control. A bath would be perfect.

She started up, but the brisk knock stayed her. Her heart caromed. The squire? No, it must be Jack, punctilious as ever, with her tea. Chelsea sucked in her breath, marshaled her calm, and gave the call to enter.

The butler shambled in. Gaze fixed on her face, he set the tray in front of her.

“Why, Miss Chelsea, ye look a fright.”

Stooped with rheumatism, Jack sported only one working eye, but anyone could see he'd been a splendid Goliath in his day. When Chelsea was a child, he'd regaled her with tales of his bygone days as the notorious highwayman, One-Eyed Jack.

She suspected his exploits were greatly exaggerated, but Jack had indeed been an outlaw. Fortunately her father was the magistrate when Jack was apprehended. The penalty for highway robbery was hanging, but Sir Richard argued that since Jack had never killed anyone, leniency was warranted. He presented the highwayman with a choice—he could either go into service in the Bellamy household or to prison. Jack submitted to gainful employment as the lesser of two evils. Under his watchful eye, not so much as a spoon had gone missing in well nigh thirty years.

Until, that is, Chelsea pawned the family silver to make ends meet. Her mother's tea service was the last to go. She'd sold it to Mrs. Pettigrew the month before for a fraction of its value.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Her father had placed his faith—and the last of the family money—in one of the hundred private banks that failed in 1810. That left only the estate, which was entailed. The adjacent properties had been parceled off one by one over the years to settle debts, and the few farms that remained were heavily mortgaged. Her eyes swept over the library. Other than the frayed furnishings and the dusty tomes lining the bookshelves, there was nothing left to sell. Nothing that would fetch anywhere near the sum she needed.

A loan from Dumfreys had been her last—her only—hope.

Oh, God, what am I to do?

Chelsea lifted the earthenware pot and poured tea through the strainer. Without warning,
a year's worth of pent-up tears broke free. Suddenly she was seeing the tray of chipped and mismatched crockery through a veil of water. Her cup overflowed, splashing tea onto the saucer.

Jack took the teapot from her and set it down. “Blue devils got ye, lass?”

Blast, I'm crying
. Head bowed, Chelsea nodded.

“I'll 'ave Cook make ye one o' her possets. Ye'll be right as rain in no time.”

Weary, she picked up a napkin and wiped her eyes. “I'm afraid even Mrs. Potter's expertise with herbs will not remedy this.”

She pulled the ransom letter from her pocket and held it out to him. Then she remembered that Jack couldn't read. Unfolding the hated missive, she read the message aloud.

When she looked up from the paper, Jack wore a mask of bulldog fury.

“The filthy, yaller-bellied dog. To snaffle young Master Robin for a measly five hundred quid.”

“Really, Jack, the amount is hardly the issue.” The blackmailer might as well have asked for the crown jewels for all the hope she had of raising the sum.

Expression softening, he laid a gnarled paw on her shoulder. “Now, now, don't ye worry yer pretty head, Miss Chelsea. Ole Jack'll think o' something. As One-Eye, I come through worse fixes than this.”

Cogito, ergo sum
. Chelsea peered over Jack's broad, lopsided shoulders, an idea taking shape in her mind. But no, it was too fantastic, too desperate. She didn't dare set such a scheme into motion. Or did she?

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Telling herself she was merely thinking aloud, she cleared her throat. “As it happens, a solution of sorts has just occurred to me.”

Jack's bushy eyebrows bolted upright. He straightened and folded his arms across his barrel chest.

“I knowed ye since ye was born, Miss Chelsea.” He wagged a thick finger. “I seen that look enough to know it spells mischief. What kind o' plan?”

Her gaze floated to the ceiling.
Can I really do this?
“I was just thinking that perhaps the time has come to resurrect One-Eyed Jack.”

Jack's square jaw dropped. “Lord luv ye, Miss Chelsea, 'tis the shock. It's addled your brain.”

Nervous energy thrummed through her. She shot to her feet and rounded the desk. “Nonsense. With the proper clothing—and an eye patch—I think I might make for a passable One-Eyed Jack, Junior, don't you?” Shoving her hands into her pockets, she swaggered across the room.

“Now wait one blasted minute. I 'ope ye b'aint suggestin' what I think.”

“And what if I am? Robert isn't much taller than I am. I used to dress in his clothing when we were children. Remember?” Giddy from brandy and nerves, she pivoted, submitting all of her five feet seven inches to his inspection. “He left some clothes behind. I can borrow a pair of breeches and a coat. No one would ever guess it's me.”

He shook his head. “Are ye sure ye won't be wantin' one o' Cook's brews?” He started toward the door.

Chelsea twirled once more. “I may have had a brief attack of nerves, but I assure you that all my faculties are intact.”
More or less
. Dizzy, she ground to a halt in the center of the worn carpet. “It's not as though I'm proposing to make a career of it.”

He pressed a palm to his forehead. “But, Miss Chelsea, if ye was to be caught…They might not hang ye but, child, think o' yer reputation. Ye'd be a ruined woman.”

She lifted her chin. “As if I give a fig for that.”

It was not as though being branded an outcast would be a drastic departure from the ordinary. With Jack as her nursemaid, Chelsea had grown up more interested in picking locks than in playing with dolls, in riding her pony than in stitching her sampler, in climbing trees and fences with Robert and his friends than in practicing her pianoforte. A “strange, unnatural creature,” she'd overheard the vicar's wife call her on more than one occasion. Not that she cared…much.

Jack folded his arms and glared. “Well,
I
care. I b'aint raised ye only to see ye die an ole maid.”

She shrugged. “I might as well. There's no one in Upper Uckfield I care to marry.”

That was only too true. Mired as she was in the country and with no money for a London Season, the only men she ever met were farmers' sons. Nice boys, most of them, but a far cry from the Sir Lancelots, Childe Harolds, and sundry Greek gods she encountered in the pages of books.