A Lady Never Surrenders Part 21

A low laugh escaped him. "Desmond doesn't strike me as particularly bright."

"True." She gazed out the window at the dying light, and a s.h.i.+ver wracked her.

"You're cold," he murmured.

"No," she said, then realized that she was indeed cold, not only from the merciless truths. .h.i.tting her, but from the plain fact that it was winter and night was falling.

Jackson removed his surtout and laid it over her cloak. "I should start a fire before it gets too dark to see."

"Don't you need supplies for that?"

He smiled. "I've got gunpowder and a spare flint for the pistol. That, and some straw from that mattress over there, should be all I need." He glanced back at the hearth. "There's still logs by the fireplace."

"Aren't you worried our pursuers will see the smoke come out of the chimney?"

"We'll just have to pray that they're far enough away not to notice. Which reminds me..." He removed his coat and handed it to her. "After I get the fire started, hang this over the window. We don't want any light showing through."

When he walked to the fireplace, she realized she'd never seen him in s.h.i.+rtsleeves. He was always much too formal for that.

But he didn't look the least bit formal as he knelt to start the fire. He looked rough and disheveled and thoroughly capable of eluding murderers and taking care of her while hiding deep in the woods.

A thrill coursed through her. Being forced to survive in such primitive conditions was far beyond her experience, but she suspected that he felt perfectly comfortable with it. If she had to be in danger, she couldn't think of any man she trusted more to keep her safe.

She watched until he got the fire going. Then she covered the window before going to join him at the hearth, where he fed logs into the blaze. "Aren't you glad now that we had something to eat at Mrs. Duffett's?" she said, trying to lighten the mood.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "If we'd left earlier-"

"I know. We might have avoided this." She tipped up her chin. "Or we might not."

A chuckle escaped him, relieving her tension. "Have it your way." He rose and walked to the saddlebags to fish out a wrapped package. "Though I'm even gladder that your cook is fond of me." He tossed the package to her, then pulled out another. "She wouldn't let me leave this morning without loading me down with food for the day."

She tore open the paper to find a ham and cheese sandwich. "Oh, I do love Cook," she breathed as she fell on it with gusto. The tea and cake hadn't held her for long. "At least we won't starve," she said between bites.

He eyed her askance as he devoured his own sandwich. "I believe we can survive for one night without a sumptuous dinner at Halstead Hall, don't you?"

Noting his condescension, she asked, "Does it bother you that we eat so well?"

He blinked, then frowned. "Of course not," he clipped out. "Why shouldn't you, if you can afford it?" Finis.h.i.+ng off his sandwich, he picked up the pail. "I'm going to make sure the chimney is clear and see if I can't find some water while there's still light. The former residents must have had some source of it."

"You're leaving me alone?" she squeaked.

"You'll be fine." He handed her the pistol. "Shoot if you have to." His eyes gleamed at her. "I know you know how."

He headed for the door, and she cried, "Wait!"

When he paused to look at her questioningly, she hurried up to hand him his surtout. "You'll need this. It's freezing out there." As she helped him into it, she whispered, "Be careful."

He tipped his hat. "Always, my lady," he said in that husky rasp that never failed to make her heart turn over. Then he walked out.

After he was gone, she took off her bonnet and gloves and surveyed her surroundings. The fire wouldn't last long with so little wood. It would be difficult to keep warm all night when the wind blew through the cracks in the walls as if through an open window.

But perhaps she could do something about that. She searched the room and found a broken-down chair in one corner. She dragged it over to the fireplace, then examined the cupboard to see if she could break it up and use it for firewood, too. It was made of flimsy deal-it wouldn't burn long, but it was something.

Now if only there were some stones or bricks to heat in the fire and use to warm their feet ...

After a quick search, she found bricks under the bed that must have been used for that very purpose, and she put them in the fire to heat. In rummaging through the saddlebags, she discovered a flask of something pungent. She took a swig and nearly choked on the strong liquor. My, my, wasn't Jackson full of surprises?

After another gulp that burned all the way down, she began to feel quite a bit warmer. Removing her wool cloak, she hung it on a hook by the fire to heat so they could use it as a cover. She tossed the moth-eaten blanket aside and thumped the mattress to make sure there weren't any nasty creatures nesting inside it, then put the blanket back on. But she was not going to sleep with that next to her skin.

Her petticoats! She removed one, ripped it in half and spread it over the moth-eaten blanket. That was better. Not that anybody could sleep well on a straw mattress anyway, but- That's when it hit her that there was only one bed. She caught her breath. It was only logical that they would share it. It was also only logical that sharing a bed could lead to sharing other things...

Her cheeks heated. If that happened, there would be no going back. She'd be irrevocably ruined.

Oh, what was she thinking? She'd be ruined either way, even if they spent the entire night here as chaste as nuns.

Of course, it was possible that Jackson wouldn't want to share her bed or anything else. They'd been together all day, and he hadn't once tried to kiss her. And even if he did desire her, he might balk at seducing her, with him being so honorable and all.

On the other hand, if he were interested in her fortune, he might take this chance to secure her.

But she couldn't believe that. He didn't seem the sort. And even if he were, it hardly mattered anymore. Once they returned home after a night spent in the woods together, Gran would almost certainly insist that they marry. And if Gran didn't, Oliver would.

So if she had to marry him anyway, they might as well...

She blushed again. Oh, she truly was brazen. But why not? If for some reason he refused to marry her tomorrow, she'd be ruined all the same, so why not take this chance to see what it was like to experience lovemaking with a man she cared for? Mama had taken a lover, blast it-why shouldn't she?

A little fluttering started in her belly that wouldn't be quelled, even after she took another swig of Jackson's liquor.

At that moment the door opened, making her start. She glanced about her for the pistol, which she must have laid somewhere, but it was only Jackson.

"Looks like you've been busy," he said as he set down the pail to survey the room.

"You found water!"

"There was a stream close by." His gaze fixed on what she held in her hand. "I see you found my brandy."

Refusing to be embarra.s.sed, she walked over to hand the flask to him. "I did indeed." She shot him a mischievous glance as he drank some. "Who would guess that the estimable Mr. Pinter, so high in the instep, drinks strong spirits?"

He scowled at her. "A little brandy on a cold day never hurt anyone. And I'm not high in the instep."

"Oh? Didn't you tell Gabe only last week that most lords were only good for redistributing funds from their estates into all the gaming h.e.l.ls and brothels in London, and ignoring their duty to G.o.d and country?"

When he flushed, she felt a twinge of conscience, but only a twinge. He looked so charming when he was fl.u.s.tered.

"I wasn't implying that your family..."

"It's all right," she said, taking pity on him. He had saved her life, after all. "You have good reason to be high in the instep. And you're not far wrong, in any case-there are many lords who are a blight upon society."

He was quiet a long moment. "I hope you realize that I don't think that of your brothers. Or your brother-in-law. They're fine men."

"Thank you."

Removing his surtout, he walked over to hang it on top of her cloak, then stood there warming his hands at the fire. "I wish I could say the same about your cousins."

Oh dear. That was the last thing in the world she wanted to talk about, especially after what Nurse had told him today.

She busied herself with hunting through his saddlebags for more food. "Desmond and Ned have always been ... difficult."

"Yet you were infatuated with Ned when you were a girl." He continued to sip the brandy, his gaze steady on her.

Seizing a pear, she took a couple of bites as she wondered how to answer. "It didn't last long."

"I figured that." When she shot him a startled glance, he added, "I saw your reaction to him at the ball last night."

Had she been that obvious?

"What did he do to you?" Jackson prodded as he capped the flask and tucked it into a pocket of his surtout.

She ate the rest of the pear. How much should she tell him? What would Proper Pinter think of her if she revealed everything?

Oh, she could easily guess, and she couldn't bear it.

"Did he hurt you?" Jackson asked in a harsher voice. "I swear, if he laid a hand on you-"

"It wasn't like that," she murmured.

With a darkening expression, Jackson approached her. "Then tell me what it was like."

"It was a long time ago, really. Nothing to speak of."

"I saw your face last night," he said softly. "For one moment, you were afraid of him, and I want to know why."

"I wasn't afraid-"

"d.a.m.n it, Celia, tell me what he did!"

She swallowed hard, then turned her back to him. "I-I think he tried to deflower me."

Chapter Seventeen.

Red-hot rage seized Jackson. "Deflower you!" he choked out. "You mean he tried to rape you?"

"No!" She whirled on him with a look of alarm. "I-I told you, it wasn't like that! I mean, it wasn't..." She dropped her gaze to her hands. "Oh, I should never have said anything."

He struggled to restrain his anger. He was an investigator, for G.o.d's sake-he ought to know by now that you didn't get the truth out of someone by overreacting. Taking her gently by the arm, he led her over to the bed.

"Start at the beginning." He urged her to sit, then took a seat next to her, though not too close. She needed some distance just now. "Tell me what happened. I promise, I'll just sit here and listen." Even if it killed him, and it very well might.

With a nod, she stared off across the room. "It was all my fault, really."

"It was not your fault," he snapped.

She eyed him askance. "I thought you were going to sit and listen."

He sucked in a steadying breath. "Right. Go on."

"I'd fancied Ned for years, you see. The summer after I turned fourteen, he was seventeen and on holiday from school, so his family came to visit us at Gran's town house. They stayed a couple of weeks." She pleated her skirt nervously. "He was quite the das.h.i.+ng fellow back then. He rode well-he and Gabe used to race down Rotten Row all the time-and he was a very good dancer. So when he noticed me..."

Her voice grew choked. "You have to understand-boys never noticed me, not next to Minerva. She'd just had her come-out, and there were men after her everywhere. She said they were all fortune hunters, but it didn't seem that way to me. Of course, I wasn't out yet so I didn't get to witness much of her success firsthand. But at the few events I attended, she was always the belle of the ball, and I was just the scrawny sister."

It took some doing for him to keep his mouth shut at that, but somehow he managed it.

"Then Ned started flirting with me," she went on, "and I was terribly flattered. All of us children would go to Hyde Park, and he would escort me as if I were already grown. He ... he paid me compliments and picked me flowers-" Her voice hardened. "His attentions were all a lie, but I didn't find that out until later."

All a lie? Did she mean because the a.r.s.e was trying to get under her skirts?

"Anyway, Gran held a large party one summer day, and after everyone else went inside for supper, Ned convinced me to go into the garden shed with him."

The troubled expression that crossed her face made Jackson want to find Ned Plumtree and beat him to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp. He curled his hands into fists so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms.

"At first it was everything I wanted," she said. "He ... He kissed me. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't as nice as I'd expected. He was so, well, clumsy at it." She sighed. "I didn't like it much. But I figured it was what happened when a boy kissed a girl, you know?"

No, he didn't know, though he could well imagine a sweet young Celia eager for her first kiss. As his mother had probably been.

But his mother had been old enough to realize what she was doing. Celia had only been fourteen.

He choked back his anger. "You didn't have anything to compare it to."

"Exactly." Her voice lowered. "But when he ... put his hands on my bosom ... I knew that wasn't right."

The urge to kill ripped through him again.

"I told him he shouldn't do that," she went on, "and he just kept ... squeezing, so hard that it hurt." The words tumbled out of her now, one after another, in rapid succession. "And then he started dragging up my skirts with his other hand, and I told him to stop it, and he shoved me down on the floor and got on top of me and his hands were all over me, so-" She scowled. "So I hit him with a brick."

The abrupt cessation of her tale made him blink. "You ... you what?"

She cast him a furtive glance from beneath her lowered lashes. "Hit him on the head with a brick. I hit him pretty hard. He started cursing and rolled off of me, and I jumped up and ran out the shed door."

"Sweet G.o.d," he muttered, his heart leaping into his throat as he realized how close she'd come to being violated.

"He caught up to me in the garden and said some vile things, but I still had the brick, so I threw it at him and ran into the house."