Perilous Pleasures (7 page)

She opened the first gate she found and began to run along the tall hedgerow that bordered it. Twigs caught in her shawl and snapped as she brushed against the bushes that formed the hedge. Soon her breath was coming in ragged gasps, but she pushed herself to keep going, feeling her heart pound. She must get far enough away from Lord Ramsay that he couldn't find her when he learned she'd fled.

Then her foot encountered an unexpected dip in the path and she tripped, falling onto the cold, damp ground. She lay there panting, clutching the leather-wrapped handle of her valise convulsively as the odor of the trampled grass assailed her nostrils. In the distance she heard a dog bark.

She resisted the impulse to leap up even as her arms broke out in gooseflesh. Was a farmer tracking her, thinking a poacher had come onto his land? She lay as still as possible, but that would mean nothing if the dog found her scent. She shivered, and not just because of the cold. The dog was getting closer. She could hear its snuffling and the scratching of its claws on the hard earth. If she were to run now, it would treat her as prey. Then, though no command had been given, it stopped, and she heard new footsteps approaching her, human footsteps. She stood up, holding the flimsy valise as if it could ward off whoever it was who'd tracked her down, knowing it was useless.

Her pursuer lumbered toward her, a short heavy man. His features were hidden by the night, but she could hear him panting with effort. She launched herself into a run but heard him gaining on her. Then, suddenly, there were more footsteps and the sound of a struggle. She heard her pursuer grunt as he hit the ground, and a wave of relief swept over her—until a voice called out, “Zoe.”

Ramsay.
She mustn't let
him
catch her.

She flung her valise at him, hoping to knock him down, but it fell short. With every bit of energy she had left, she scrambled away as fast as she could along the hedgerow. She heard his steps pounding behind her, louder than the sound of her own ragged breath as she raced along in the dark. Though she knew she couldn't outrun him, she couldn't stop. Her life had come down to this—that she dared not let him catch her. But he was gaining on her.

Another hedgerow loomed before her. The only way through it was a stile with a three-barred gate that glimmered in the moonlight. If she could climb over it, perhaps she might still elude him and the punishment that was sure to follow if he caught her. She threw herself at the gate with the last bit of breath she had left and set one foot onto the board that made up the lower crossbar. She was just lifting her other leg over the higher bar when the board she was standing on gave way.

Her ankle twisted and a searing pain slashed through her as her full weight fell on the gate's upper bar, cracking it and sending a long splinter of rotten wood ripping through her thigh. She fell headlong onto the ground and lay there quivering, overcome by pain, as the smell of the damp ground filled her nostrils.

Ramsay staggered toward her. He stopped, only a few feet from where she lay, looking around him like a hunting dog that had lost the scent. He sank to his haunches. Only then did he notice her lying on the cold earth where she'd fallen. As he leaned over her, the planes of his face were illuminated by the flickering moon. He was so beautiful even now. Damnably beautiful.

“Are you injured?” His voice held a note of fear.

When she made no reply, he reached for her wrist, taking it in his much larger hand with a grip that was surprisingly gentle. A thrill ran through her. Followed by confusion. How could she find such comfort in the touch of her worst enemy? And why was he, who hated her, holding her hand so tenderly? Then she remembered. He was a trained physician. He wasn't offering her comfort. He was looking for her pulse.

After finding it, his hands moved swiftly to her head where he checked the angle of her neck. Next he ran his hand along her spine. Only when his examination was complete did he gather her into his arms, pausing only to order someone following behind them to fetch her valise.

As he bore her away, she clung to him, though she hated herself for needing to. With her nose pressed against the rough wool of his shirt, she inhaled his pungent scent. She wanted to beg him to leave her here, even now, though there was no chance he would. But she couldn't make the words come out. She could barely cling to consciousness. Each jolting step he took drove more pain through her thigh.

Her last thought, as her awareness succumbed to the mist that overwhelmed her, was how strong he must be to carry her over so much ground. He looked so unworldly at times. She hadn't expected him to have such strength.

A
nd then—it seemed like a long time must have passed—she awoke in a narrow bed. For a moment she thought she was back in her small cubicle at Mrs. Endicott's school, but when she opened her eyes and saw the unfamiliar cracks on the smoke-darkened ceiling, the memories of her flight rushed back, and she knew she must be in a bedchamber at an inn.

Someone had tended her wounds and loosened her gown so that she could breathe after she had fainted. Her ankle was wrapped tightly with rags, and there was a dull throb where she had torn her thigh, but she couldn't determine the extent of the injury, for it, too, was bound. She struggled to sit up, only to meet Ramsay's luminous eyes.

He was seated on a spindle-backed chair by the side of the bed. His long hair was matted with sweat, and a deep scratch slashed through the tattooed serpents on one arm. A wave of relief swept through her at the sight of him, until she remembered that relief was the last thing she should feel, now that she was once again back in his power.

“I told you not to run away from me,” he whispered. The long planes beneath his cheekbones made him look stern.

“You gave me no choice. Why didn't you let me go? If you had, you wouldn't be troubled by me anymore.”

“You don't trouble me.”

He was lying. She did trouble him, immensely. She could feel him resonate with her pain and with something else—something she couldn't understand.

“I pollute you,” she protested. “My touch disgusts you. Why can't you let me go? You don't want me.”

“Oh, I may not want you,” he said, so softly she could barely hear him. “But I need you. You must come with me. The Dark Lord is waiting.”

He looked away. A pang of longing filled her as he broke the connection, followed by despair. He felt no echo of the yearning that filled her. He loathed her and would be glad to see the last of her. He kept her beside him now only to do the Dark Lord's bidding. What was wrong with her that she couldn't keep her eyes off him, when he had made his distaste for her so clear?

She pushed herself up to a sitting position and pulled one leg out from beneath the gray sheets of the dirty bed, but the searing pain that tore through her ankle forced her to sink back onto the mattress, defeated.

“You've probably sprained your ankle.” He spoke in the distant tone he must use when tending all his patients. “If so, it'll be uncomfortable for a day or two, then it'll heal. But for now, you must rest. I'll stay here with you until you fall asleep.”

He stood up and fumbled in his pocket for something. A key?

She demanded, “Will you lock me in? Now that I'm your prisoner again?”

“No.” He drew out his small, red, leather-bound book. Under his long, lustrous lashes, his gray eyes held something that she might have called warmth, had she not known that he hated her. “You won't be running anywhere tonight. Not with that ankle. But I'll watch over you, lest a fever develop.”

She wanted to protest, to rail against him, so that he'd know he hadn't got the best of her, but she didn't have the energy. She watched as he settled himself in the spindle-backed chair, picked up his book, and began to read serenely, once again the cool aristocrat who had taken her from her mother.

She gave up the struggle. She'd had enough for one day. She'd done what she could to escape and lived up to the noble blood that ran into her veins. But, even so, she'd failed. Ramsay had caught up with her, and he'd done it so quickly, too. Perhaps he
could
read minds. Perhaps he could even control them. There was no other explanation for the relief she'd felt when she'd woken to find him watching by her bedside, even though she knew she should hate him. Perhaps his magic
was
real.

Chapter 5

S
he looked a lot better this morning, Adam observed with relief. Her color had improved, and she showed no sign of fever. He shook himself awake, stiff after spending the night sleeping in the uncomfortable chair by her bedside, noting with relief as he did so that his emotions were far calmer than they'd been the evening before. As they should be.

It was unlikely the previous night's misadventure had caused any lasting damage. Zoe's ankle appeared to be sprained rather than broken, and though the wound she'd taken in her thigh had caused him some concern, he'd instructed the innkeeper's wife how to clean and bandage it, and when she'd finished, she'd assured him it was nothing to worry about.

He wished he could have examined it himself, but propriety forbade that a male physician should minister to a wound in such a delicate part of any woman's anatomy. Though in the past he'd ignored such constraints, believing the patient's welfare was more important than the prejudices of small minds, after what had gone on between
this
patient and himself, he had no wish to test the bounds of propriety. The innkeeper's wife had assured him she was well versed in doctoring and had said nothing to suggest Zoe's wound was serious.

So Zoe would be fine. Indeed, in the bright light of morning, the dread that had swept over him the previous night when he'd seen her fall from the rotten stile seemed foolish. There'd been no need to stay up all night by her bedside. The exhaustion he felt now told him he'd be paying for his folly all day. A wave of annoyance swept over him. She'd had no business running from him like that. He'd been severe with her, yes, but to act with such desperation—what could she be thinking of? He was a gentleman. Surely she knew that a gentleman would not harm a young girl placed under his care.

But it struck him almost immediately that gentlemen like him hurt girls like her all the time. The gentleman's code applied only to young ladies, and though Zoe might have attended Mrs. Endicott's elegant school, she was no lady, just the daughter of a woman of the town. Hadn't he bargained with her mother for her virginity? If he‘d been in earnest, he might have completed that bargain and done with her as he pleased. She had good reason to fear him.

But still, he mustn't let himself be swayed by undeserved pity. The way she'd comported herself made it all too clear what she owed to her origins. Had she not of her own free will crawled into his bed?

He beat down the surge of desire that rose unbidden at that memory.
Even after all these years he still couldn't control the lust that had already caused such havoc.
How unfit he was to accept the honor the Dark Lord had chosen to confer on him. If only he
could
send Zoe away, as she'd begged him to do. Her absence would put an end to the lustful sensations he felt in her presence. But the Dark Lord awaited them at Iskeny. They'd already lost valuable hours of travel. He could afford no more delay.

Gently, he reached out toward the narrow bed and touched the sleeping girl lightly on the shoulder to awaken her so they could prepare to resume their journey. Her eyes twitched and then shut more tightly against the morning light. Fighting against wakefulness, she arched her back, making the long, graceful arc of her body more visible under the dingy sheet, which fell back, exposing her shoulder. Adam's eye drifted to the hollow above her collarbone. It looked so vulnerable and inviting. He turned away, lest she stir again and reveal some even more tempting part of her body.

Was she merely pretending to sleep, as he'd been doing when she'd come to his bed that night? Had she shown him her naked shoulder on purpose, to inflame him? Surely she couldn't be ignorant of the effect the slightest contact with her body had upon him. She was the daughter of a woman of pleasure. Who was to say what tricks her mother had taught her?

And yet her face looked so innocent.

He jogged her shoulder to force her awake, more roughly than he'd intended. At his touch, her eyes fluttered open. As soon as she became aware of him watching her, she clutched at her bodice and pulled it closed with what looked like true modesty.

He suppressed the urge to pat her arm to reassure her all was well. He must not touch her. Not here, where she lay alone with him, half clad, in bed—in an anonymous inn chamber where so many strangers before them must have coupled.

They must continue their journey. He couldn't take much more of this.

“How do you feel this morning?” Tension made his voice sound severe, despite his desire not to frighten her.

“I don't know.” She winced as she sat up in the bed, and swung her legs around so that they hung over the side. But when she attempted to put weight on her injured ankle, her face twisted in pain.

“Let me examine it,” he said. “There is a small chance it could be broken.”

With a look of concern, she sat back on the bed and lifted her ankle toward him, letting her skirt fall back to reveal a long sweep of naked leg.

He sucked in his breath. Her leg was smooth, pale, and muscular, rounded as only a woman's flesh could be—and disastrously arousing. He hoped she couldn't tell how strongly the sight of her naked limb affected him, but that was too much to hope. Proof of her effect on him strained against his breeches.

Struggling to regain his professional objectivity, he motioned for her to show him her other ankle, so that he could compare it with the injured one. As she lifted it up, he caught another glimpse of naked flesh.

His groin throbbed. Disgusted, he forced himself to ignore it. What was wrong with him? He was a trained physician. Hundreds of women had revealed their bodies to him when he'd examined them.

But those women had not been this woman. They hadn't crawled into his bed and caressed him into a state of near insanity. Breathing slowly to calm himself, he took her injured ankle in his hand and gently explored it with his fingers. But as he pressed against the soft swollen flesh, he couldn't help but remember another fleshy swelling and the way Zoe had rubbed it against him two nights before, when she'd come so close to becoming one with him.

He jerked his hand away. She gave a sharp cry.

He'd hurt her.
He must get a grip on himself.

“It isn't broken.” He controlled his voice as best he could. “It will heal in a few days. I've rung for some food, and we'll resume our journey as soon as you finish breaking your fast.” He forced himself to look stern. “Your foolishness last night cost us much time. We'll be hard-pressed to make up for it, but we must if we're to arrive at the island while the Dark Lord still lives. I'll send someone to help you down to the carriage.”

Half an hour later, she joined him in the inn's courtyard, leaning heavily on the shoulder of the innkeeper's burly wife who'd dressed her wound the night before. He wished it had been possible to have the woman take another look at it, but there wasn't time. They'd already dawdled enough.

As they took their places in the post chaise, he drew away as far from her as he could on the narrow seat, taking refuge in the tiny print of the book of meditations he always carried in his pocket. But though he tried to immerse himself in reading, he kept picturing her ankle, and her leg, so pale and firm, and as he remembered the leg, he couldn't help but imagine the thigh above it, so soft and yet so muscular, and from there his mind leapt to what that thigh would feel like wrapped around him as he plunged himself into her.

Chaste he might still be by the letter of the law, but if it was the spirit of the thing that mattered, he might as well turn the carriage around and return to London. How could he face the Final Teaching when he'd failed so miserably at maintaining the chastity that was so essential to surviving it?

He forced his attention back to his book, but he had barely turned the page when Zoe stretched out her injured ankle to rest it against the far corner of the chaise. As she did so, her bare arm gently brushed his hand.

An electric spark shot through him and before he could stop himself he cried out, “Don't do that!”

“Do what? Stretch out my leg?” She pulled the offending limb back, wincing. “It was throbbing with the motion of the carriage. I'd hoped that if I could straighten it, it might hurt less.”

Abashed at his own brutality, he replied, “Of course. If it pains you, you must stretch it out.”

“But if it wasn't my leg you were referring to, what is it I mustn't do?”

Did she really not know? It seemed impossible she shouldn't. But if
that
was her game—to pretend that she didn't understand him so she could tempt him further—he'd put a stop to it. He took a deep breath. “You mustn't touch me, Zoe, or show me any part of your body unclothed. There's plain speaking for you. Do you understand me?”

Her face fell. “I disgust you that much?”

All the effort he'd been making to control himself imploded. What was wrong with her? Why did she persist in this pretense that he didn't want her? She was the harlot's daughter, not some innocent miss. She knew how he'd responded when she'd crawled into his bed and stroked his member with that lily white hand of hers. Hadn't she worked him up to such a pitch that it was a miracle he hadn't ravished her?

He gestured toward his crotch where the fabric strained against his hindered passion. “Does this look like disgust?” He gave her no chance to reply. “Don't play the innocent with me. You're a courtesan's daughter. You know what this means. You know that I want you. Admit it.”

She shrank back against the side of the chaise, but even as she huddled at the farthest corner of the small compartment, he could still smell the faint, musky, intoxicating scent of her. “My body wants you, you little fool,” he growled. “Why wouldn't it? You're an enticing minx.”

“But I'm ugly, I've no seductive curves.”

“You have curves enough even if you aren't rounded in the current fashion—and whether or not they're seductive—” He gestured at his crotch. “I beg to differ.”

He'd shocked himself with the crudeness with which he had addressed her. There was no excuse for such behavior, not for a man who prided himself on being a gentleman. Shamefaced, he buried his nose in his book, but when he finally got up the courage to steal a glance at her, he was surprised to see that an impish look had replaced her formerly downcast expression.

“If I'm enticing as you say, why didn't you make me your mistress?”

“Because I'm the Dark Lord's heir.” He didn't bother to hide his exasperation.

“So you've said. Repeatedly. As if it explained anything. But it doesn't. Why should being any man's heir make you jump away from me as if I had the pox?”

“The Dark Lord's heir must be chaste,” he replied softly. “He mustn't know the touch of woman. It drains away the strength he will need to receive the Final Teaching.”

“So this Teaching of yours is so great that you would unman yourself to receive it?”

“Quite the opposite. When I receive the Teaching I'll have abilities unknown to mortal men.”

Her expression made it clear she didn't believe him. Struggling to find some way to convince her, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his bronze knife, and drew it from its sheath. “Perhaps
this
will help you understand it better.”

He held it out toward her with the crescent-shaped blade pointing downward. It glistened with the golden shine that contrasted so sharply with the dark green patina that covered the handle.

“The Dark Lord gave me this knife when he took me on as his disciple. How old do you think it is?”

“Very old, indeed. It looks like one Mrs. Endicott found near a Roman tomb. But her knife was green with age, and its blade was almost corroded away.”

He twisted his knife in the bright morning sunshine that flooded into the compartment, making the rays glance off the blade. “This knife was old when the Romans came to Britain. But it's still sharp because, unlike your teacher's knife, it was never discarded or buried in the earth. It's been passed down from each Dark Lord to his heir in an unbroken chain since the time when your Romans lived like barbarians in huts by the Tiber. Even then a Dark Lord ruled in Iskeny.”

He slid it back into its sheath. “Can you imagine the wisdom that has been transmitted along with this knife?”

She said nothing, but nodded, her intelligent eyes thoughtful.

He was glad she hadn't replied with some sarcastic remark. He'd taken a risk in letting her know what he truly valued. The Dark Lord had told him once that to know what someone valued was to have him in your power, and Zoe had already gained far too much power over him.

At last she spoke. “Perhaps that
is
worth the sacrifice of your manhood.” But her tone made it clear she wasn't convinced. She pressed on. “For how long have you been chaste?”

“Nine years.” Nine painful years, ever since the day his cursed lust had left Charlotte unprotected from her enemies.

“That shows admirable devotion to your master.”

“I didn't do it to please him.”

“I'd always heard it was almost impossible for a man to deny himself release.”

He shrugged, unwilling to reveal any more of his secrets than he already had. “It becomes easier with practice.”

“Did your teacher tell you
why
you must be chaste?”

He had. But Adam had told her enough already. If she persisted in questioning him, he would have to ride once more outside with the postilion.

But to his relief, she said nothing more but merely folded her hands in her lap and sat quietly, awaiting whatever answer he might choose to give her.

Relenting, he rewarded her patience with an explanation. “By being chaste I retain the body's energy. It builds up over time until it's transformed into the power I use to heal. I will need it, too, to survive the ordeal that awaits me in the Dragon's Cave. Would you have me squander it, just to soothe your vanity?”