Games of Pleasure (3 page)

“A room.” Lord Ryderbourne vaulted to the cobbles. “A room, a hot bath, a meal. Take particularly good care of the gelding.”

The groom tugged at his forelock. “My lord!”

Ryderbourne spun a coin into the man's open palm, then turned to hold up both arms. Since there was no other immediate choice, Miracle slipped into them, put her arms about his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. Rain poured in a stream from the brim of his hat, but he turned so that his body sheltered her from the worst of the weather.

The groom took the horse's reins.

“A bran mash,” the duke's son said. “An especially thorough rubdown.”

“Very good, my lord!”

Miracle stared at the gelding as the man led it away. The magnificently muscled rump. The coat groomed to a coal-jet shine, in spite of its recent bath in saltwater. An animal obviously worth a fortune.

“You would trust that minikin with your horse?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” Lord Ryderbourne replied. “Until the landslide swept away the road, this place handled all the coach traffic passing along the coast. Though it's cut off to through traffic now, Jenkins still knows how to take care of a horse.”

“So no one comes here now but locals?”

She knew at once that her voice had betrayed her. He glanced down at her and smiled. A lovely, almost amused smile that said he was infinitely capable of laughter, infinitely quick-witted—not cold, not arrogant, at all.

“You wish for quiet, Miss Sanders?” he asked. “You want privacy? You need a place where no one will discover you? You'll find them all here.”

“And you can guarantee all of that,” she said, “because you are Lord Ryderbourne, heir to the glorious St. Georges. They say you might slay dragons with one raised eyebrow—”

“Do they?”

She tilted her head against his shoulder and stared up at the sodden sky as he carried her toward the inn doorway.

“They also say that you've been known to send ladies into either decline or climax—depending on the lady—with one haughty glance.”

The good humor fled his face. “So which kind of lady are you?”

Miracle wrapped her arms more tightly about his neck. “Which kind of lady would you like me to be?”

RYDER KICKED OPEN THE DOOR TO A BEDROOM AND CARRIED his captive inside, two maids scurrying at their heels. The room felt chill, unused.

“See to the fire, Mary,” he said to one of the maids. “Alice, bring hot soup, or tea, or mulled wine: anything hot that you have in the kitchen.”

“Yes, my lord.” Alice hurried away.

While Mary busied herself at the grate, Ryder set his burden down on the rug, then strode to the bed to fling back the covers. The sheets felt damp.

“As soon as you've finished with the fire, fetch clean, dry sheets,” he said to the maid. “And bring up a warming pan.”

Mary curtsied and scurried from the room. Flames leaped up the chimney. Warmth began to permeate the cold spaces.

Ryder felt supernaturally alive. His mystery stood like a sapling. Long wet hair snaked down over the sodden cloak. She met his gaze without blinking, a small, defiant quirk at one corner of her mouth.

Beneath the ugly bruises, beauty streamed from her dark brow to the proud column of her throat. Allure gamboled in the sweep of black lashes and kissed at sensuous red lips. A perfection of creation that struck him to the heart, like a jewel suddenly discovered among seaweed. He had rescued a woman who was more than beautiful. Her very bones were as dazzling as a diamond. No man would ever see her without wanting her.

The air almost sizzled as their eyes met. Yet it was not only her loveliness that made the blood run hot in his veins like spring sap; it was the splendid accident of having rescued her.

Had a similar heady recognition of random fate driven his brother Jack to travel to the ends of the earth?

His pulse rapid with new awareness, Ryder turned away as if to break an enchantment. He was used to facing problems with cool equanimity. He threw his hat into a corner, then shrugged out of his soaked jacket. As if similarly released, his captive walked up to the fire and crouched down to hold out her hands to its warmth. His cloak trailed out behind her like the train of a wedding gown.

Ryder strode to the window.
Which kind of lady would you like me to be?

Unlike Jack, he had responsibilities far beyond this woman and this incident, even though excitement still thrummed in his veins. Hands crossed behind his back, he stared out at the rain and faced the more uncomfortable realities, before he turned back to face her.

“I would prefer you to be an honest one,” he said. “My days are generally quite predictable. I'm not in the habit of saving young ladies from a watery grave. Perhaps it's the common thing to be lied to in such irregular circumstances. I wouldn't know.”

Her head jerked up, her skin ghostly beneath the rose pattern of bruises, her eyes dark, like those of a deer fearing danger. “How have I lied?”

“Elaine was certainly the name of the woman whom Sir Lancelot magically rescued from the boiling tub,” he said. “Yet I don't believe that it's yours. Your clothing—what remains of it—is costly, the finest quality. Your hands are smooth and unblemished, those of a lady. There are marks on your fingers where you've recently removed several rings. You're not Miss Sanders. You're married. Has your husband beaten you?”

She gazed back at the fire, leaving him nothing but the elegant curve of her spine and the steam rising gently about her bent head.

“I recognize my debt to you, my lord. I don't agree that it gives you any right to question me.”

“Why else would you be so afraid? No one but a husband could have such control over you.”

“My situation is no concern of yours.”

“I made it my concern when I dragged you from the ocean.” He stepped forward, driven by this intense new acuity. “Why hide the truth from me? I'm one of the few men in England who's in a position to help you, whatever your problem.”

“My only problem, my lord, is that I'm wet and cold and tired. You must be busy with affairs of your own. You should return to them.”

“I cannot abandon you. You must see that.”

“I may appreciate your noble impulses without agreeing that they're necessary.” With clear defiance she stood and turned to look up at him. “If Elaine doesn't please you, by all means choose some other name.”

“Then you admit it's not your own?”

“Does it matter? We're only chance-met strangers, after all. If I might ask for the loan of a few shillings, enough for some clothes and the hire of a horse, you need concern yourself with me no longer. That's not beyond your means, surely? Once I'm safely away from here, I shall be happy to send you repayment.”

He felt almost incredulous that she should so cavalierly dismiss him. “You're offering to
reimburse
me?”

“Of course.” A wry note crept into her voice. “You won't be hard to find. Everyone in England has heard of Wyldshay Castle, the magical fortress afloat in its lake.”

“Nothing magical about it,” he said. “Simply a large and anachronistic pile of stone.”

“Only the heir to infinite privilege could say that.”

“And only a man of such privilege can promise to take care of any difficulty and mean it.”

She stepped forward, clutching the cloak to her throat with both hands. “Then you will make me a small loan?”

“No,” he said. “I will not.”

Color drained from her face, as if she faced a sudden rush of panic. “Why not?”

The door latch rattled.

“Come!” Ryder said.

His mystery walked away, cloak trailing, to sit on a chest at the side of the room.

Mary and Alice entered, one with a pile of fresh sheets balanced on top of a warming pan, the other carrying a tray. Darting shy glances at Ryder, Alice set down the tray on a small table near the hearth, then went to help her companion make up the bed.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Mary asked when they were done.

“A tub and cans of hot water,” he said. “Bring toiletries, as well—everything a lady might need.”

“The water's heating now, my lord. Jenkins will bring up the tub.” The maids bobbed their heads and left.

Ryder examined the tray. “Ah! Mulled wine! Our landlord has provided his best. The Merry Monarch kept excellent enough cellars, until the landslide plunged it into disaster.”

Hugging the cloak, his mystery stared at him. “Why won't you help me?”

“I am helping you.”

“I cannot be found here. I must leave!”

“Not until you've rested and eaten.” He filled two glasses. “Have some wine! You'll feel better.”

She looked away as if exasperated. “They all know you here, don't they?”

“I've spent my entire life riding over this part of Dorset. Wyldshay dominates the countryside hereabouts like a mailed fist hammered down onto velvet.”

“And that,” she said, standing to face him again, her eyes flashing, “is a splendidly apt description of my situation, also, don't you think?”

She was wet and hurt and bedraggled. She was magnificent. Ryder held out a glass, the wine warm and scented. She took it as a lady might take a posy from a child, with a gracious little nod of the head, then sat down in a chair near the fire. He leaned both hands on the rail of the opposite seat, the table with the tray at his elbow.

“What's so apt?” he asked.

“The delights of being at the mercy of the heir to a dukedom,” she said. “The mailed fist keeps me pinned in this room. The velvet pretends an elaborate courtesy, as if no overwhelming force is involved, then accuses
me
of deceit. If you weren't raised to all that entitlement, you would allow me to leave.”

Droplets sparkled in her hair and among the folds of his draped cloak. Like a princess abducted by pirates, as if he saw her through glass, she glimmered with desire and dishevelment. His heart turned an odd little somersault. Had he seen her somewhere before, somewhere glittering and bright, with her hair swept up and diamonds at her throat?

“No gentleman worth the name would allow you to leave without insisting on offering further help,” he said.

“You obviously know very little about men, my lord.”

“You're afraid,” he insisted. “Why?”

She shook her head and leaned toward the flames as she peeled away her ruined stockings. A naked foot curved. Blue shadows lurked in the hollow of her anklebone and in the tiny trace of veins beneath the white skin. His attention riveted on the erotic, haughty sweep of the arch.

“You need to hide from your husband?”

“I cannot remain here.”

“I shall not let you leave—”

“Oh, God!” She tossed her head up. “You're still wallowing in a nicely superior sense of responsibility? You think you must be chivalrous and gentlemanly? Or you think I'm frantic enough to do myself an injury—is that it?”

She pulled her bare feet back beneath the hem. Ryder swallowed hard. Yes, he was afraid for her, that she was more desperate than she knew. “It might be.”

“Then rest assured, my lord, I've survived far worse than this. I promise you I will not take my own life without good cause.”

“That's supposed to reassure me?”

“Why not? I'm nothing to you. Lend me a few coins, and your duty as a gentleman is fulfilled!”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “The truth might convince me to agree. Nothing else will.”

She trembled as if with fear or anger, or both. “You cannot keep me imprisoned here.”

“No, but you can hardly leave in your present state of undress, however delightful that prospect might be to the villagers.”

A clanging sound echoed from the hallway. Ryder strode to the door and flung it open to reveal Jenkins with the tub, followed by a string of servants carrying cans of hot water.

“Take a bath,” he said. “Worry about nothing. No one will find you here. I'll take care of everything.”

Without a backward glance, he stalked from the room.

MIRACLE wrapped his cloak about her body and watched the servants prepare the hot bath. She was—against all expectations—still alive, though she felt weary enough to die. She had been rescued by a man with the natural power of a god, and an earthly power not far from that. But not even the son of the Duke of Blackdown could save her, once the truth came out. The only answer was to flee as far from Dorset as possible. The Americas, perhaps?