Perilous Pleasures (4 page)

“I find that hard to believe.” Such things happened only in fairy tales.

“Believe what you will. I saw with my own eyes how he restored life to the body of a dead man. That is why I chose him for my teacher.”

This was the man who'd bought her from her mother?
Zoe forced her tone to give no hint of her uneasiness. “Since you are his heir, are you, too, of his ancient lineage?”

He shook his head no. “The Dark Lord's title doesn't pass down through one family. Had it done so, it couldn't have survived the millennia. Bloodlines run out or weaken, so, in their wisdom, the ancients established a better way to transmit the power of the Dark Lord through the centuries, unchanged.”

“How?”

Ramsay's eyes flashed brightly, if only for a moment. “At the end of his life, each Dark Lord chooses one man from amidst his disciples. To that man is it given to descend into the Dragon's Cave and receive the Final Teaching.”

“And you are that man?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have powers, too?”

He shrugged. “A few—a bit of healing, a knowledge of how to read the stars, and a slight ability to hear the thoughts of others when I exert myself—nothing like the power that he wields. But if I can reach the island while my teacher still lives, I'll endure the Final Teaching, and then”—his eyes glowed—“I'll become the next Dark Lord, with
all
the Dark Lord's powers.”

This was no fairy tale to him. He believed it.

Perhaps she should leave it at that. But she could not. There was a question she must have answered before she could terminate this uncomfortable conversation. Best to get it over with. She cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, I'm still baffled as to why your master, having such great powers, would concern himself with my virginity.”

Ramsay tented his long fingers together in his lap and stared intently at them. His eyes had taken on a haunted look. When he looked up again and his gaze met hers, a shock ran through her.

“I don't know,” he replied. “Perhaps he thought I'd enjoy taking you from your mother, the way she took Charlotte from me. He knows how much I long for my revenge. Or perhaps he expected you to be as beautiful as she is and thought debauching you might please me.”

It was getting harder to keep him from seeing her fear. But if he noticed it he gave her no sign. He shrugged. “Or it may be nothing of that kind. He is your guardian, after all. Perhaps he has some match in mind for you and wanted to assure himself that you were worthy of it. I've no way of knowing. When we reach Iskeny you'll learn more. Until then, there is no point in idle speculation.”

Easy for him to say. She was no squeamish miss to go into hysterics at the thought of the loss of her maidenhead, but the brutal way he played with her fears was intolerable. Should she push open the carriage door and make a leap to safety?

No. The carriage was moving so swiftly such an attempt might end in her death. She was not such a fool as to prefer death to dishonor.

“Don't try it,” he said. “Death
is
much worse than dishonor.”

Had he read her thoughts
? Her stomach tensed. But even if he could, she wouldn't let him get the best of her. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You do,” he replied. “And you know it. But rest assured, whatever the Dark Lord's intentions might be,
I
have no intention of debauching you.”

“How very encouraging. Is that all you'll tell me?”

“Yes. The truth is, I don't know what's in store for you, only that the Dark Lord seems to have bought you from your harlot of a mother some years ago, and asked me to bring you with me to Iskeny—once I was certain you were still a virgin.”

He turned back to his book, and this time she knew he would answer no more questions. She'd have to take whatever comfort she could from what he'd told her, though it was cold comfort, indeed. How ironic to learn she'd have been better rewarded had she taken less care of her virtue.

Chapter 3

L
ate that night they stopped at an inn. After Lord Ramsay drew forth his purse and handed a golden guinea to the innkeeper to quiet any doubts their unconventional appearance might have raised, the man led them to a private parlor attached to a suite of rooms where he supplied them with an indifferent dinner: boiled mutton and a loaf of hard bread clearly left over from last week's baking.

Her new guardian ate sparely, leaving untouched the steel implements the inn had provided and cutting his meat, instead, with a bronze knife of curious design that he had brought with him. When she remarked that it appeared to be quite old, he replied tersely that it had once belonged to an ancient Briton. But after this brief exchange he lapsed back into icy politeness, studiously avoiding any further conversation.

As soon as the inn maid had cleared their plates, Lord Ramsay guided Zoe to the chambers the innkeeper had assigned them and deposited her in the small cubicle set behind a door at the far end of his own bedchamber where she would sleep. He left her there with a single candle. She waited to find out if he would lock her door and was relieved when he didn't. But any hope that his omission might allow her to escape vanished when she realized there was no need for him to lock her in. The only way she could leave her tiny closet was by going through his bedchamber, where she could hear him moving about. She couldn't escape without confronting him. She was trapped.

But she must escape. Lord Ramsay's hatred for her mother was bad enough, but the barbaric serpents that twined up his arm, his allegiance to the ancient religion, and even her mother's terror at hearing him mention his master's name all pointed toward another reason she mustn't let him take her to the Dark Lord. She knew her history. The ancient Britons had used their knives for more than just cutting their meat. Their gods were bloodthirsty. Nothing good could await her on the remote isle where the Dark Lord held sway—this Dark Lord who worshipped the Ancient Ones and had sent his minion to bring him a virgin.

It was infuriating that it was her cursed virginity that made her so valuable to his master. If only she hadn't guarded it so closely. She'd fought off more than one of her mother's drunken guests, so that when she finally found her father, the duke, she would be a daughter he would be proud to acknowledge. How ironic it was that by defying her mother and turning away from her decadent way of life, she'd put her own life in peril.

But no sooner had that thought passed through her mind than she stopped stock-still. The idea that had just occurred to her was pure madness. She dismissed it, appalled that she'd come up with something so uncalled for. But it wouldn't go away. Its logic was irrefutable.

The Dark Lord wanted her only if she was a virgin. So the path to her freedom couldn't be clearer. She need only stop being a virgin.

Ramsay must not have considered a woman capable of thinking in a rational manner or he wouldn't have given her this vital piece of information. But, of course, he must have assumed she was a milk-and-water miss who would die before she'd contemplate earning her freedom at such a price. If so, he'd made a fatal mistake. For she was no foolish schoolgirl but a courtesan's daughter and she valued her freedom above all else.

If earning her freedom meant giving up that little flap of skin men valued so highly, so be it. She'd be the same person without it, but free. It would cost her little. Ugly as she was, and bastard-born, she had no hope of ever making the kind of advantageous marriage that motivated gently raised young women to defend their chastity.

So the path to liberty was clear, though the whole thing would have to be managed very carefully. And it would have to be done tonight, too, while an unlocked door was all that separated her from her captor's bed. If she waited too long, she might not be handed another such opportunity.

But how to achieve her end? She remembered how Ramsay had shrunk away from her touch in the chaise. She couldn't just offer herself to him. Nor could she seduce him. Even if she'd been beautiful—and had paid more attention to her mother's lessons on the subject—she would still have to contend with the iron self-control she sensed at Ramsay's core. Nothing so blatant would work with him.

But there must be some other way—and within moments she saw how it could be done. One of her mother's favorite scandalous tales told of how an ugly girl from a poor but noble family had won herself a wealthy husband by slipping into his bed when he was sleeping and taking things to such a point that when he finally awakened, the man had no choice but to marry her. It had taken place in France, of course, where men were far easier to seduce. But still, a man was a man. Her mother had left her in no doubt about that. And she knew enough about men to know that if she could insinuate herself into Lord Ramsay's bed when his consciousness was disarmed, she might arouse him sufficiently that even if he were to waken, nature would take its course.

Though perhaps she was underestimating the difficulty. He was a Scot, after all, not a Frenchman. And he'd already displayed the most famous characteristic of his nation, a quick temper. What if her plan went awry and he became violent?

Such fears were unworthy of her. Hadn't her father, the duke, succeeded in an even more impossible situation? Her mother had often recounted how he'd escaped the siege of Louisbourg disguised as a peddler and come back with the reinforcements that saved the garrison. And hadn't he scaled a wall at Fort Brevard and challenged its commander to the duel that avoided a costly battle?
He
hadn't scrupled over whether his daring plans might fail.

She gave herself a moment to enjoy the feeling of her father's noble blood surging through her veins as she drew upon his courage. She would be as daring as he'd been. She had no choice. She wanted no part of the Ancient Ones and their dragon magic.

And if she roused Lord Ramsay's temper? She reached inside her bodice for the folding knife that Mrs. Endicott had given her, lifting its chain over her head. Though small, the knife was sharp, and its size, when folded, made it easy to conceal. If things went wrong, she wouldn't be entirely without protection.

But that thought led to another thought. She'd need more protection than a knife could afford her. She continued rummaging through her bag of sundries until she found the small package her mother had given her not long ago. Gratefully, she confirmed that the sponge and vinegar were still there. She didn't want Lord Ramsay's child. Once again she was glad to be a courtesan's daughter, not some innocent young miss. But of course, an innocent young miss was unlikely to have a mother who would sell her to a wizard.

That done, she stood up carefully, as the ceiling of the room in the old coaching inn was so low that her head almost touched the blackened beam sloping down the plastered wall. She wriggled out of her drab teacher's gown designed to give her the dignity needed to convince a roomful of giggling girls only a few years younger than herself that she was someone whose edicts must be obeyed. Then she unfastened her stays and slipped off her shift.

When she was finally naked, she took inventory of the tools she had to work with. Her body, illuminated by the light of the one tallow taper Lord Ramsay had left her with, was tall, yes—far too tall according to her mother and her friends. But Ramsay was taller still, so that wasn't a problem.

Her face was a ruin, of course, but it would be dark, and her mother had told her that, in bed, it wasn't women's faces men cared about. True, Zoe had no luscious curves, but though rangy, she was well-proportioned. She stroked one hand over her long thigh. The skin there was soft and unblemished, the muscles taut.

Then she went to her valise and pulled out the castoff dressing gown her mother had given her for her last birthday. It was of ivory satin, luxurious and flamboyant like her mother herself, but more importantly, it had a little pocket inside the lining where she could stash her knife. She struggled into the gown, pulling it against her long, spare body, and tied the sash, letting its luxuriant folds fall loosely around her.

In the past, its lush sensuality had disgusted her, for the gift was just another reminder of what a disappointment she'd been to her mother. But now she hoped the sensuous gown might make up for what she lacked in dimpled curves. She slipped her knife into the pocket, checking that she could get at it easily should the need arise.

Her preparations complete, she tiptoed to the partition that separated her room from Ramsay's and placed her ear against it. It was thinner than the rest of the old inn's plaster walls, and through it she could hear sounds as he moved about his chamber. At first, it sounded as if he was pacing, as restless as she was. Then he settled into a chair—she heard him dragging it along the creaking floorboards. Sometime later, he removed his boots, which clattered against the floor as they fell. After that, she heard only the faintest rustlings as he settled, at last, into bed. He coughed once, and there was silence.

She waited another quarter hour. Then, saying a silent prayer that she might find the courage that had saved her father, she opened the inner door that led to the adjoining chamber.

T
hough moonlight poured in from a window, Ramsay's face was hidden by the shadows cast by the curtain hanging over his bed. As Zoe approached him, the weight of her foot caused the floorboards to groan. She halted, terrified he would awaken, but his breathing remained steady and rhythmic. Cautiously, she took another step toward the bed. The rustle of her robe and the slight scrape of her foot against the floor seemed louder than the harsh cry of the owl that pierced the darkness outside.

Still Ramsay slept. Her plan was going as she had intended.

That should have reassured her, but it didn't. In fact, it terrified her. If nothing was going to stop her from doing what she planned to do, nothing was going to
save
her from what she planned to do—and it was so very risky. She tried to ignore the quiver of uneasiness that shot through her stomach as she crossed the last few paces toward his bedside and drew aside the hangings that protected him from the nighttime damp.

Moonlight glanced off his pale skin. He lay naked under the covers, curled into the position in which she had often seen younger children sleep. Bathed in the faint light, his face looked surprisingly gentle, as if with sleep the hauteur that usually filled it had melted away. But there was nothing childlike about the sleek muscles, tight as whipcord, that ran across his flank and broad chest.

She bent over him, fascinated by what she beheld, until he stirred fitfully in his sleep. She mustn't waste time gawking at him. There was no time to delay. She crept into the bed and stretched out her thin, spare body beside his much larger one. Then, taking courage, she nestled close to him. A jolt passed through her as her skin encountered his.

It was too late now to draw back. Come what may, this was her only path to freedom.

T
he woman in Adam's dream was irresistible, and beautiful, the way women always were in dreams. She had no face or features to distract him, but was just a cloud of warmth and invitation that engulfed him here where he floated in the otherworld, filling him with yearning and desire. He gave himself up to the sensation. Though he must remain chaste in the world of men, here in the dream realm passion was no sin.

The dream woman's fingers, light as faerie wings, traced the veins that carried his pounding blood toward his speeding heart. Her satin gown rustled as she moved, making the tiny hairs on his arms stand up, and waking every nerve. He took a deep breath, only to find himself enveloped in her clean scent. Life surged through him, and with it came strength and hunger.

Here in the safety of a dream he could meld with this faceless beauty. He could embrace her without reproach and find, enfolded in her phantom arms, respite from the solitary life his cursed nature had doomed him to. He gave himself up to the glory of it.

The dream woman's hand drifted to his chest. Her touch felt so real he marveled at the power of his imagination. She stroked his taut nipples until they sent jolts of pleasure through his abdomen. Then her spectral fingers drifted downward, dancing their way toward his stirring prick, which throbbed now with the craving she had evoked in him.

Never before had a dream been so lucid. He'd heard tales of adepts who could walk in dreams as they did on earth and work their magic there. But never until now had he found himself in the state they had described—asleep and yet aware. His nerves and sinews tingled with the joy of it.

There was magic aplenty working here, but it wasn't his, as the dream woman's hand brushed along his hip, sending sparkles of light flickering through the darkness. He lay with his eyelids shut, savoring as the way she gingerly explored the delicate hairs from which his shaft now jutted.

He was dreaming, yet the feel of her hand was too real to be a dream. A hint of uneasiness niggled at the edges of his consciousness. He should make himself wake up. It might be dangerous to give himself up so totally to the pleasures his succubus promised.

But the glorious waves of life that pulsed through him at her touch were too intoxicating. He couldn't banish her, nor leave this realm of dreams where she enchanted him. It felt so right to lie with her, enveloped in the comfort that surrounded her. She was all he'd ever wanted, all he'd ever need. His spirit burst with life as she roused his dreaming body. He couldn't resist her, but he didn't have to. A man wasn't responsible for what visited him in dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the irresistible dreaming to continue.

Z
oe marveled that Ramsay hadn't awakened despite what she'd already done to his naked body, but still he slept. She drew her hand away from the tuft of fur from which his rod projected, teetering on the brink of a decision.