He shifted on his feet, his temper held tightly in check. "I'm surprised you kept your position for four years, Miss Blythe," he crisply said. "You're very outspoken."
"It appears you're only familiar with women saying yes to you, milord. However, you have no authority over my life. As for my position at the Tothams', I wasn't halfway to Florence at the time, nor so full in the pockets." Her smile was oversweet. "For both of which I thank you."
A muscle twitched along his clenched jaw. "You could thank me with some obedience."
Her brows rose. "Is that what you want in a woman? I'm surprised. I rather thought you liked more spirit."
"Jesus, Serena," he murmured, exhaling in a long, low sigh. "We're getting way the hell off tangent here. The man's a brute. Let's not argue about this."
"I should simply acquiesce, you mean." Her voice was equally soft. "Even if I disagree."
"It's only a precaution."
"Then maybe it's not necessary."
"This is senseless." Each word was staccato blunt. "I don't know why I'm even discussing this with you."
"If it bothers you to have a woman not utterly docile to your will, I could book passage on some other vessel now that we're in port," she rashly said.
"Really," he murmured.
Claspin
g
her hands in her lap, she straightened her shoulders and looked up at him with an uncompromising gaze. "You doubt it?"
"Yes:"
"You certainly are plain, Rochefort," she coolly said. "Am I your prisoner until Naples?"
"At
least
until Naples," he drawled.
"I think not," she snapped, thin-skinned and touchy, not inclined to take orders from anyone now that her independence was restored. "This very polite harbormaster will no doubt grant me asylum from your unwelcome designs."
He stood very still, his dark eyes half-shuttered. "I doubt it, but you could try."
"How ominous that sounds. What exactly would you do to keep me?" she sardonically inquired. "Tie me to your bed?"
"That won't be necessary." He smiled faintly. "My uncle heads the embassy here."
"I see." Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. She knew the British embassy was one of preeminent power in an economy dominated by British trade. "In that case," she went on, forcing herself to speak in a normal tone, "maybe I should tell him you kidnapped me."
"I think Re
m
y might dispute that. He was witness to your, ah, willing involvement," Beau silkily murmured.
"Damn you!" she hotly exclaimed, glaring at him. "Maybe I'm no longer willing."
"Give me a minute," he softly said, "and I'm sure I can change your mind."
She drew in a deep breath, his words, the small underlying heat in his voice, triggering delectable memory. And her voice when she spoke trembled slightly. "Would you keep me against my will?"
"Never." Shameless impudence shone in his eyes.
"Bloody go to hell," she breathed, rankled by such brazen assurance.
"Give it up, darling. You don't really want the notoriety anyway, do you?"
He was right, of course. Any publicity would be disastrous to her reputation. "You needn't feel smug, Rochefort," she fiercely declared. "I intend to pay you back for this coercion."
"I never doubted you would," he serenely replied. "Just remember to stay in the carriage."
******************
When the coffee arrived a few moments later, he politely offered her some, for a second cup had been thoughtfully included on the tray.
"I'd rather break bread with the devil," she snapped.
"I'll make it up to you," he soothed, well schooled in dealing with irate females. "We'll go shopping afterward."
"Does that calm all your doxies' temper tantrums?"
Always, he wished to say, but gracious in his victory, he said instead, "I'll beg your pardon in any way you please once this is over."
"And the cost is incidental," she sarcastically murmured, "because your family owns half of England."
"I'm sorry," he quietly said, not about to argue the merits of his wealth. "I don't suppose you'd like some ginja?" he offered, pouring himself a liberal draft of the Portuguese liqueur made from Morello cherries. And when she didn't answer, he casually lifted his glass to her in salute before drinking it down. He didn't speak to her again but waited silently at the window overlooking the harbor, sipping his coffee, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
She maintained a studied indifference that took its toll on her willpower, for the fragrant aroma of steaming coffee filled the room. She was dying to pour herself a cup and take a cake from the tray. The fruity cakes, heavy with citron and cher
ri
es, were steaming too in the coolish temperature of the harbormaster's office, the sugar glaze melting down their fluted sides giving off little tendrils of heat. Beau hadn't even glanced at them, damn his black soul, while the delicious scent and sight of them were torturing her.
By the time the carriage and guard arrived she was in a decidedly pettish mood, feeling ill used and starved. Even the harbormaster noticed and gallantly directed his conversation to Beau during the drive to the eastern reaches of the port where the
Betty Lee
was berthed. The men were engaged in a discussion of river currents as they stepped from the carriage and took leave of her with a minimum of words. But as the harbormaster gave last orders to his men who had arrived in a second conveyance, Beau paused at the carriage door. "Now don't move," he gently reminde
d
her, "and once this is over, you can take out your temper on me with my blessing."
"You may regret such generosity, Rochefort," she irritably said.
A small smile curved his f
i
ne mouth; her raw, restless nerve was reminiscent of her untrammeled sexuality. "I'll take my chances," he softly replied.
She watched him stride away, his long, dark redingote stamping him with a sinister air, the silhouette of his ta
l
l form limned against the pale water like a darkly forbidding apparition from some
s
tygian gloom. His black hair was spiked by the wind into a wild disheveled nimbus; the caped folds of his black coat, caught up by errant gusts, billowed out like fiendish wings.
He suddenly looked a stranger moving down the quay; dangerous, menacing, phantomlike, towering above the phalanx of guardsmen. An unnerving shiver fluttered down her spine. How well did she know him beyond the narrow confines of their heated passions? Could she truly assert herself against such ominous power?
But
a
second later she shook away her apprehensions. She wasn't a fainthearted, timid young girl; she was capable of taking care of hersel
f
—
t
he way she always had, not only in the years following her father's death, but long before as well.
Which brought to mind her immediate circumstances and her guard. Sliding the window up, she leaned out to check the position of the soldier left to protect her. Turning at the sound of the window rising, he broke off his conversation with the driver and when she smiled at him, he smiled back and wished her good-day. The Portuguese phrase was one of the few familiar to her.
Resting back against the seat a moment later, she drummed her fingers against the worn leather, hoping she wouldn't have to be shut away too long in the carriage. She detested waiting, as she disliked being ordered to play the
m
issah lady, protected and coddled like some simpleton. She knew how to shoot as well as any man and if the old harbormaster hadn't been so gracious, she wouldn't have felt the need to acquiesce so readily. On the other hand, perhaps salvaging her luggage was worth a politic show of submission.
She restlessly flicked a dust mote from her skirt, leaned over to brush a smudge from the toe of her shoe, impatiently restraightened the hem of her pelisse as she sat upright again.
Twenty seconds had passed.
Fidgety, she wondered what would happen if she stepped from the carriage and looked around. Beau was well away by now. How would he know? She briefly debated, not sure how hindered she was by her coerced agreement or Beau's orders to stay inside the carriage. Perhaps he only meant she was to stay out of danger, she conveniently rationalized. How could it hurt if she strolled around the immediate vicinity?
Pursing her lips, she gazed out the window, contemplating the possible consequence
s
—
w
hen a gunshot exploded.
She had the door open before the second shot resounded and at the third shot she was halfway to the ground, only to be faced with the young guardsman ordering her back inside in a rush of Portuguese. Slamming the door shut once again, he stationed himself directly in front, barring her exit. Which meant she could only peer out the window to try to catch a glimpse of the disturbance. Leaning way back, she could see down the extremity of the quay. A tall, burly man was racing for the shore well ahead of his pursuers.
She suspected he was Horton; who else would flee from the
Betty Lee}
Her guard, panicking at the continued sound of gunfire, was trying to load his rifle. "Not like that," she murmured, her fingers twitching as she helplessly watched him fumble with the cartridge. Careful, don't jam the barrel, she silently commanded. "Oh, god . . ." she groaned, his clumsy operation of the ramrod excruciating to observe.
Quickly glancing out the window, she took note of Horton's progress. Beau, who was within her range of vision now, led the chase, his long stride closing the distance between himself and the sprinting man. Bullets whined around Horton as the guards shot at him. But he had an enormous advantage in distance and once he reached the street bordering the quay, he could lose himself in any of the labyrinthine alleyways winding up the hillside.
Tense and agitated with her confinement, she longed for one of her fine Manton pistols that had been auctioned off with their household goods. There had to be horse pistols somewhere in the carriages, she decided; everyone carried them. Shifting onto her knees, she quickly lifted the seat, searching the storage area beneath. "Eureka," she softly exclaimed, catching sight of an old relic of a weapon resting on a coil of rope. Pulling out the dusty pistol, she ripped away the small cartridge pouch attached to the handle and found three paper-wrapped cartridges inside. Hopefully one would be enough, she thought, swiftly loading the pistol. Horton had almost reached the end of the quay.
Her guard, well away from the carriage, had positioned himself in the middle of the empty street, the townspeople having scattered for shelter at the first gunshots. His musket was raised, braced against his shoulder, sighted in on his target. But he was shaking with nerves, apparently not blooded yet in combat. Slipping from the carriage unnoticed, Serena brought up her weapon and carefully aimed it at the man running directly toward them.
He was only twenty yards distant, his muscular legs pumping like pistons, his face set with grim determination, his speed accelerating as he caught sight of the musket pointed at him. Horton swerved just as the guardsman fired and the shot went wide. While the soldier struggled to reload, Horton bore down on him, charging headlong, the drumming of his boots on the cobblestones like thundering hoofbeats signaling the apocalypse. Steadying her pistol hand at the wrist she brought her sights up. Horton's face was fully visible no
w
—
-
terrifyingly clos
e
—
a
villainous face, heavily bearded, scarred, his eyes deep-sunk and malevolent.
She squeezed the trigger.
A feeble puff of smoke erupted from the powder pan. Swearing at the old damp powder that ha
d
misfired, she threw the heavy pistol with all her strength, hitting Horton full across his bushy black brows. But he kept coming, ignoring a blow that would have dropped an ordinary man and before Serena could gather air into her lungs to scream, he smashed headlong into the soldier, knocking him over. As the guard lay stunned on the ground, Horton savagely kicked him in the head before turning with quicksilver speed to grab Serena's arm. With a rough jerk he pulled her close, positioning her before him like a shield, his knife to her throat.
"Don't move or I'll kill her," he snarled at the carriage driver, not realizing the man had all he could do to hold the horses from bolting with the smell of blood in the air. "And now, dearie," he panted, his rancid breath repulsive in Serena's nostrils, "you're going to get me out
o
here." Drawing much-needed air into his lungs, he squinted into the sun, gauging the speed of his pursuers.
Serena scarcely dared breathe for fear the knife would slice into her throat. His arm was like a vise across her waist, his knife hand hard against her chin, the blade hovering dangerously close. She recalled the bludgeoned corpse of the captain at Dover lying dead white on the table. The soldier at her feet oozed blood from his mouth and nose as his spirit slowly left his body, another victim of this man's brutality and, paralyzed with fear, she was utterly nonplussed for the first time in her life. It seemed a nightmare too horrible to contemplate. And then she heard a familiar voice calmly say, "Let her go."