His Abductor's Desire (2 page)

Chapter Two

Charity was unprepared for the rush of emotions that swamped her as she watched Brent sleep. Trussed up like any good captive should be, he slept awkwardly on his side with his hands tied behind him and secured to his bound feet with a rope. As much as she wanted to hate him, she could only think that his arm must be asleep and how badly it would pain him when he woke up.

The three of them had ridden through most of the night to reach Two Mile and had only met up with Dew a couple of hours ago. Charity had offered to keep watch while everyone rested, in part as penance for taking a captive without getting their agreement but also because she knew sleep would elude her. Who knew that seeing Brent again would overwhelm her so? For crying out loud, she was sitting six feet away from him and the scent that was uniquely his, clean with a hint of sandalwood and spice, was driving her crazy and making her remember their first kiss.

It happened the night at the theater, after he had given her the tulip. She had stood to follow her father out of their box after the show, but he had been waylaid by a group of acquaintances and drawn into a political discussion, leaving her to daydream about the blue-eyed man who had sent the flower. In her memory, she saw herself smiling like a fool as she idly twirled the stem. And then Brent had appeared before her and there, partially shielded in her father’s box by the black coats of the group casually discussing politics, he had smiled and said hello. But his eyes had said so much more and before she could make her clumsy tongue offer a reply, his lips were on hers. It was a brief brush of his mouth on hers, nothing more, but enough to make her knees weak and her blood thicken.

Her father had turned then, as if the first hint of arousal in his only child had summoned his censure, but he only saw Brent, composed and ready to offer a greeting. Charity had stood with her face aflame, unable to think coherently and thankful the conversation had not required her participation.

Which led her to think of their second kiss, the last one, the one that haunted her. Brent and his friends had arrived late to the house party, long after any suitable chaperones had either left or become drunk and loose in their supervision. Had it been a normal party in town, Charity would have gone home herself hours before, but it was in the country, more than an hour from town and she was sleeping over. Brent found her on the terrace, alone and only slightly inebriated with champagne. The passionate look in his eyes had been unmistakable. Her friend Lydia had later told her he had looked like a man possessed when he arrived.

“Can I join you?” he had asked—a cursory question; they both knew the answer.

Charity had nodded, too enamored with him to speak or even turn from where she stood holding the balustrade in a white-knuckled grip. He stopped just behind her and after a pause she felt his arms go around her and pull her close. Without hesitation she melted against his chest and knew the months of flirtation had been building to this. The moist heat of his mouth caressed the column of her neck while his hands roamed her torso before one settled nicely on her breast. That should have alarmed her but it didn’t. Even when it slipped inside her bodice to cup the bare, puckered nipple, she wasn’t alarmed. It felt too right.

And when his long, graceful fingers stroked up her neck to caress her cheek, she instinctively turned her head to find him. His mouth captured hers in an instant, his tongue brushing hers in a deep kiss of possession. It wasn’t until she heard voices around the corner coming closer that she begged him stop.

Brent had moved to stand beside her, breath haggard, clearly unsettled. “Can I come to you tonight, darling?”

Charity could hardly believe what she heard, what he was asking. She hesitated a moment too long and then the moment was gone. He removed himself back to the salon because the other guests were just rounding the corner. What she would have said she didn’t know and was afraid to know. She didn’t see him the rest of the night and the next morning he was gone.

Days later she heard that Brent had gone to visit his mother’s relatives in France before beginning an extended tour of Europe. He had not returned by the time her father’s fortune had been stolen and Charity had assumed him lost to her. She realized now in a moment of startling clarity that ransom, and even the thought of revenge, had been a convenient excuse for taking him. But it wasn’t her true motive.

* * *

As the first rays of dawn began to light the horizon, Charity’s gaze caressed Brent’s handsome face. His features were tranquil in sleep, making him appear younger and less intimidating. The wave of sable hair that normally fell so artfully over his ear had fallen to shield the left side of his face and she wanted nothing more than to reach out and run her fingers through the silk as she pushed it back. She actually curled her fingers into a fist to resist the urge.

“How is he?” Elle’s voice startled her.

“Still asleep. Are you sure he’s going to be all right?”

“I haven’t lost a patient yet.”

“Chloroform, Elle? I don’t understand how you even have that.” Charity turned her gaze to the woman who had been with her since she was thirteen, when her father had hired her as a lady’s companion. With her mother long dead and no female relatives to guide her, he had thought she needed a distinguished lady to do the job and had erroneously assumed Elle was a lady. She had certainly acted the part, but since her father’s downfall and Charity and Elle had started their journey west, Charity had become aware that Elle was brilliantly capable of playing any part put before her.

“Don’t worry, he’s fine. I’ve used it before.”

Charity had no doubt that she had. In fact, Brent woke up before they had even finished breaking camp. The intensity of his stare alerted her and she looked over to find him still lying on his side watching her adjust her saddle. Her earlier bravado deserted her and, suddenly, she didn’t want to face him as Charity Blake. But it was too late to worry about that.

“Breakfast is jerky today,” she proclaimed as she pulled out a few strips of dried venison from a saddlebag and walked over to him. “Not your usual fare, I’m sure.”

She knelt at his side and offered him a drink from her canteen of water. He continued to stare at her; if he recognized her he didn’t show it. Then he finally put his mouth to the canteen and took a long drink, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Oh, surely we can untie him long enough for him to eat and do his business.” Elle smiled, the model of hospitality.

Obviously she didn’t see the raw fury on Brent’s face. Or maybe it didn’t bother her since it appeared to be reserved solely for Charity. Charity, on the other hand, had strong reservations about untying him and wondered if he might risk death by Elle’s gun or Dew’s knives just to get his hands around her throat.

But before she could argue, Dew was at his back cutting him loose. “Remember my blades, white eyes,” she hissed.

Brent seemed to heed her words because in moments he had finished his meager breakfast and was perfectly tame as Dew and Elle tied him to his horse. Charity rode over and put a blindfold on him. He never uttered a word, but his eyes had been violent as she covered them and a muscle ticked in his strong jaw. If he ever escaped Charity knew there would be no question of his running for cover. He would retaliate.

It wasn’t right. As the cold light of the mountain morning spread across the sky, she knew what she had done was awful. Their life here could and would be over the moment Brent was found or released. Even with the blindfold precaution, his family had the means to search the mountains as long as it took. He was a Davenport. There was no way his family would back down. Dew, who had joined Charity and Elle’s little group a couple of years ago, would lose the only home she had ever known and Charity and Elle would lose their sanctuary.

* * *

“Having second thoughts?” Brent’s serrated voice cut through the silence.

Charity was startled to have her thoughts read so blatantly, especially by a blind man. Dew rode yards ahead of them on the narrow trail and Elle brought up the rear. The reins of Brent’s horse were tied to Charity’s saddle, forcing them into dangerously close proximity, except this time he was secured to the saddle and his legs were bound. She debated not answering, but figured it would appear the cowardly act it was.

“About keeping you alive? Yes.”

“If you really wanted to kill me you would have done it earlier in the trip to save yourself the trouble.”

“In hindsight that may have been the better option,” she quipped.

“It’s nice to hear you’ve lost the phony accent.”

Charity’s heart stopped for a moment. “You know who I am.” It was a statement more than a question. Of course he knew.

“I remember you, Miss Blake.”

Her hand automatically went to her honey-colored hair in an utterly feminine, self-conscious move. In Boston it had always been impeccably styled and pinned up, not flowing long and secured only by a rawhide thong at her nape like it was now. But then he couldn’t see it anyway. Oh, would she never get over him!

She jerked her hand down in frustration and noticed Brent’s lips twitching. Had he seen? She would have checked the blindfold if it didn’t mean touching him again but since it did, she resolved not to move her hands from her reins or even look at him again.

“You talk too much for a captive.”

“You’re angry with me. Is that what this is about? The kidnapping, the rope?” He held up his wrists as far as they would go.

“It’s no less than you deserve. But no, this is about the money your uncle stole from me and my father.”

“So you robbed our bank to recoup your father’s investment losses?” He sounded slightly incredulous. “You do realize that’s insane?”

“I have limited options, Mr. Davenport,” she snapped.

“Oh, I’m sure you have plenty of options open to you, Charity.” That annoying smirk was in his voice. “If it’s money you’re after, I’m positive
we
could come to a certain, more agreeable arrangement.”

She was completely unprepared for the physical response that insinuation caused. It made her angry, yes, but it also further awakened the girl buried in her subconscious. “A proposition? Well, as charming as the position of mistress sounds, I’m unclear how that will help me recover my stolen fortune.”

“If I take care of you, you won’t need your fortune.” Brent’s voice had lowered so as not to carry to the other two, but had lost the mocking tone present throughout their exchange.

The apparent sincerity of that statement made Charity look at him. Coupled with the complete and sudden lack of mirth on his handsome face, it gave her a moment of pause. Could he still want her? But then she remembered that he was her captive. He was likely to say or do anything to get out of the situation.

“False words coming from a captive, Mr. Davenport. I’m not seventeen anymore and I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“But you do want me, don’t you, Charity?”

He looked so smug she wanted to knock him off his horse.

“Not another word or I’ll add a gag to your restraints.”

His beautiful lips curved into a smile but he was mercifully quiet.

The brief conversation with him had shaken her to her core. In the five years since she’d seen him nothing had changed on her part. He could still invoke that tempestuous heat within her without exerting the least amount of effort. Taking him had been a very bad, very dangerous decision.

* * *

Brent didn’t know what demon inspired him to provoke Charity so much. If he wanted freedom, tormenting her wasn’t the way to go about it, but he couldn’t stop himself. He needed to hear her admit that she still wanted him. Because he knew she did. When their eyes had met back at camp for the first time with no camouflage between them, she had looked at him almost like she had that night on the terrace. Like he was the only man in the world.

Not once before or after that night had another woman made him feel the way Charity did when she looked at him. She had a way of doing it that made him feel like she could see right through the practiced smile to the man beneath. It had both intrigued him and scared the hell out of him.

Even as a young man of twenty-two, he’d recognized it as rare and something worth savoring and exploring. But its very preciousness had caused him to bolt. He’d been too restless and arrogant to accept the responsibility it inevitably carried in its wake.

Now he wasn’t sure it would ever happen again. Of course, he knew what had happened to her father. The Blakes’ demise had been no secret in Boston, but the catalyst—his uncle—
had
been a secret until recently. Still was to most of Boston, but Brent knew the truth. He’d hoped that Charity didn’t, but that hope had died a swift death with her coarse accusation.

It went a long way in explaining the hostility and hatred she felt toward him. Apparently, she thought he was just as much to blame as his uncle, and the knowledge rubbed him raw. Didn’t she remember the way things had been between them?

Brent thought back to the night of the house party; the only time he’d held her in his arms. Even now he could feel the warmth of her body under his hands and could unfailingly recall the faint scent of jasmine on her skin. That scent still haunted him. When his mouth had claimed her, he’d felt such a rush of emotions—possession, lust, exhilaration, tenderness—that he’d made that utterly inappropriate proposal. Yet even as her innocent, wide-eyed gaze had looked into his, he’d prayed that she would say yes.

Later that night he’d stood outside, underneath the window where Charity slept, and imagined her lying in bed. Imagined himself there, joining his body with hers. But he’d left instead of going to her. He’d been too afraid that one night wouldn’t be enough and he hadn’t been ready to give up the life he knew. As he walked away, he’d decided to accept his mother’s previously rejected offer to accompany her to Paris. The decision of a coward.

She had a right to be angry about that. Fine. Her anger he could accept. But not the cold hatred and her assumption that because his name was Davenport he was as much to blame as his bastard uncle. Honestly, he ached for what had happened to her, for the hell she had undoubtedly gone through that had made her turn to something as outlandish as bank robbery. And his anguish somehow served to amplify the pain and anger of her rejection now. While he would have come to Charity, repentant for something he had no part in, she trussed him like a criminal. While he had spent the past few years missing her, she had spent that time harboring vengeance and hatred.