Read Online A Rose at Midnight by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Stuart
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the bed in the next room, neatly trussed and tied by Tavvy and him when the fight finally ran out of her.
She’d managed to inflict a fair amount of damage. He’d only said her name and she went wild, obviously wanting to kill him with those small, hard, painful hands since he’d deprived her of any weapon. He wouldn’t have thought such a tiny creature could be quite so dangerous, but it took all his compromised strength to subdue her. He ended up sitting on her in the middle of the room, hoping she wasn’t being cut by the shards of crockery she’d smashed earlier.
It was absurd to be concerned. She was determined to kill him—why he should worry about her well-being was beyond nonsensical.
If he had a decent bone in his body he’d simply decamp, leaving her in her ignominious position until one of the other servants found her. He’d overstayed his welcome, and since he’d had no word on Jason Hargrove he could pretty much assume the old dog was going to recover. He and Tavvy should head back to London and the opprobrium of their friends, head back to the gaming tables and the fine claret and the unpoisoned brandy.
But he wasn’t going to do that. If he simply left, Mademoiselle Ghislaine de Lorgny might very well count her blessings and behave herself. But he didn’t think so. He’d never seen hatred so intense before. She would follow him, and he’d end up with a knife between his shoulder blades when he least expected it.
No, he would leave Ainsley Hall, all right. But he wasn’t going to London and his warm, comfortable rooms. He was going to Scotland, to the tumbled-down hunting lodge that was part of his entailed inheritance, a place he hadn’t seen since he was ten years old. A place he’d once loved.
And he and Tavvy weren’t going alone.
Chapter 5
Ghislaine was cold. Miserably, achingly cold, her entire body trembling with it. She must have gotten soft in the last year, living in the fat English comfort of Ainsley Hall. She’d prided herself on being impervious to minor discomforts like the weather, and here she was, shivering.
Fear had nothing to do with it, she told herself, squirming around on the too-soft bed. She was afraid of nothing on this earth. She’d faced the worst, and survived, whether she’d wanted to or not. Fate couldn’t send her any more cruel blows.
He’d tied her wrists too tightly, but then she already knew he was a conscienceless bully. She’d been stronger than he was, a fact which gave her no small pleasure. She’d worked hard for a living, and her muscles were strong, while Nicholas Blackthorne was nothing more than an indolent fop, intent on dissipated pleasures. It was no wonder he was nearly bested by a woman half his size and weight.
His recent bout with rat poison might have something to do with his weakness, she admitted reluctantly. If he hadn’t spent the last two days near death, he could have defeated her a great deal more handily. It had been a long time since she’d had to use her limited strength to protect herself, and she’d gotten out of the habit. She was soft, dangerously soft.
She rolled over on her side, grimacing in the darkness. She could hear their voices drifting in from the other room, and she wondered with a kind of emotionless curiosity just what they had planned for her. Whether she was about to be handed over to the local magistrate, or whether Blackthorne had a more immediate, personal revenge in mind. The local authorities wouldn’t take kindly to her—for one thing, she was a foreigner, and she’d learned all too well the insular English distrust for foreigners. For another, she’d tried to kill a gentleman, an undisputed member of the upper classes. To be sure, he was the blackest, most disreputable gentleman ever to set foot on British soil, and he deserved to die a lingering, painful death, but she doubted the magistrate would agree.
She felt cold and sticky. The brandy had dried and stiffened on the front of
She’d managed to inflict a fair amount of damage. He’d only said her name and she went wild, obviously wanting to kill him with those small, hard, painful hands since he’d deprived her of any weapon. He wouldn’t have thought such a tiny creature could be quite so dangerous, but it took all his compromised strength to subdue her. He ended up sitting on her in the middle of the room, hoping she wasn’t being cut by the shards of crockery she’d smashed earlier.
It was absurd to be concerned. She was determined to kill him—why he should worry about her well-being was beyond nonsensical.
If he had a decent bone in his body he’d simply decamp, leaving her in her ignominious position until one of the other servants found her. He’d overstayed his welcome, and since he’d had no word on Jason Hargrove he could pretty much assume the old dog was going to recover. He and Tavvy should head back to London and the opprobrium of their friends, head back to the gaming tables and the fine claret and the unpoisoned brandy.
But he wasn’t going to do that. If he simply left, Mademoiselle Ghislaine de Lorgny might very well count her blessings and behave herself. But he didn’t think so. He’d never seen hatred so intense before. She would follow him, and he’d end up with a knife between his shoulder blades when he least expected it.
No, he would leave Ainsley Hall, all right. But he wasn’t going to London and his warm, comfortable rooms. He was going to Scotland, to the tumbled-down hunting lodge that was part of his entailed inheritance, a place he hadn’t seen since he was ten years old. A place he’d once loved.
And he and Tavvy weren’t going alone.
Chapter 5
Ghislaine was cold. Miserably, achingly cold, her entire body trembling with it. She must have gotten soft in the last year, living in the fat English comfort of Ainsley Hall. She’d prided herself on being impervious to minor discomforts like the weather, and here she was, shivering.
Fear had nothing to do with it, she told herself, squirming around on the too-soft bed. She was afraid of nothing on this earth. She’d faced the worst, and survived, whether she’d wanted to or not. Fate couldn’t send her any more cruel blows.
He’d tied her wrists too tightly, but then she already knew he was a conscienceless bully. She’d been stronger than he was, a fact which gave her no small pleasure. She’d worked hard for a living, and her muscles were strong, while Nicholas Blackthorne was nothing more than an indolent fop, intent on dissipated pleasures. It was no wonder he was nearly bested by a woman half his size and weight.
His recent bout with rat poison might have something to do with his weakness, she admitted reluctantly. If he hadn’t spent the last two days near death, he could have defeated her a great deal more handily. It had been a long time since she’d had to use her limited strength to protect herself, and she’d gotten out of the habit. She was soft, dangerously soft.
She rolled over on her side, grimacing in the darkness. She could hear their voices drifting in from the other room, and she wondered with a kind of emotionless curiosity just what they had planned for her. Whether she was about to be handed over to the local magistrate, or whether Blackthorne had a more immediate, personal revenge in mind. The local authorities wouldn’t take kindly to her—for one thing, she was a foreigner, and she’d learned all too well the insular English distrust for foreigners. For another, she’d tried to kill a gentleman, an undisputed member of the upper classes. To be sure, he was the blackest, most disreputable gentleman ever to set foot on British soil, and he deserved to die a lingering, painful death, but she doubted the magistrate would agree.
She felt cold and sticky. The brandy had dried and stiffened on the front of
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