the bush, even if the declaration did make her blush a fiery red from head to toe.
For a moment, he did not respond. Whatever he was thinking, he did not allow his features to reveal his thoughts. They stood mere inches apart, both as unbending as two bars of iron.
“You needn’t worry,” he said, his dark eyes unreadable. “You may be the most exasperating female I’ve ever met, but you’re perfectly safe, despite our rather . . . unusual circumstances.”
Lucy hesitated. “On your honor?” It seemed a rather foolish promise to extract from a man who was not a gentleman, but he was right. She had nowhere else to go, and even greater danger lurked outside Madame St. Cloud’s house.
“On my honor. Now, let us prepare for bed. We’ll need to rise with the dawn if we want to slip out of here among the servants going about their morning rounds.” He reached for her shoulders and spun her about. With a little push, he propelled her toward the screen in the corner. “Do whatever you like about the night-rails, but shed those wet things. I don’t fancy playing nursemaid if you contract pneumonia.”
Lucy trembled at the image of this man cradling her in his arms and trying to tempt her with a cup of broth. She had always wondered about the secret world of men and women, a world she had not explored beyond a few kisses. The most dangerous quality about her gardener was that he made her want to explore the feelings between them in a way forbidden to young women of good birth.
Lucy refused to entertain temptation, though. Instead, she squared her shoulders and ducked behind the screen, thankful for its protection. She shed her wet dress, and her ablutions took only a few moments. Several thin night-rails of satin and lace hung on pegs behind the screen, and Lucy considered them, each more revealing than the one before. She heard the sound of Nick’s boots falling to the floor, and apprehension knotted her belly. Was she ten kinds of a fool to think that she was safer in this room than in trying to escape on her own?
She plucked a piece of rose satin from a peg and slipped it over her head. A matching wrapper followed, which she cinched tightly at her waist. There. They were the most conventional of the lot. Lucy drew a deep breath and emerged from behind the screen.
The gardener turned, clad only in his breeches, his chest shockingly bare. From one hand dangled a shiny piece of metal—a pair of lightweight manacles he must have found in the trunk at the foot of the bed. As Lucy watched in disbelief, he clasped one of the irons around his wrist and snapped it tight. With a determined look on his face, he stepped toward her. Lucy shrieked and bolted for the door, but he was too quick. He caught her around the waist and snatched her tight against his chest.
“Sorry, princess. I said you were safe, not trustworthy. It’s the only way I’m going to get any sleep.” She struggled against him as he placed the other cuff around her wrist and snapped it shut. The metal gave a soft click.
“Where’s the key?” she demanded, afraid of the sudden weakness in her limbs. She pulled against the restraint. Her eyes flew over him, ignoring his bare chest as she looked for a possible hiding place.
“The key? I have no idea where it is,” he said with a smile, and Lucy’s knees trembled even more. “Now, shall we get some rest before we make our daring escape in the morning?”
Lucy strained again at the metal cuffs that bound them. “You are a fiend, and I would not share that bed with you if my life depended upon it.”
His eyes turned molten with a combination of amusement and challenge. “Princess, you should know better than to throw down the gauntlet in front of me.”
Lucy shivered at the intensity of his gaze, for she recognized determination when she saw it. Her stomach lurched, and she knew without a doubt that she should have chosen Sidmouth’s thugs after all.
Chapter Four
THE MERE SIGHT of
For a moment, he did not respond. Whatever he was thinking, he did not allow his features to reveal his thoughts. They stood mere inches apart, both as unbending as two bars of iron.
“You needn’t worry,” he said, his dark eyes unreadable. “You may be the most exasperating female I’ve ever met, but you’re perfectly safe, despite our rather . . . unusual circumstances.”
Lucy hesitated. “On your honor?” It seemed a rather foolish promise to extract from a man who was not a gentleman, but he was right. She had nowhere else to go, and even greater danger lurked outside Madame St. Cloud’s house.
“On my honor. Now, let us prepare for bed. We’ll need to rise with the dawn if we want to slip out of here among the servants going about their morning rounds.” He reached for her shoulders and spun her about. With a little push, he propelled her toward the screen in the corner. “Do whatever you like about the night-rails, but shed those wet things. I don’t fancy playing nursemaid if you contract pneumonia.”
Lucy trembled at the image of this man cradling her in his arms and trying to tempt her with a cup of broth. She had always wondered about the secret world of men and women, a world she had not explored beyond a few kisses. The most dangerous quality about her gardener was that he made her want to explore the feelings between them in a way forbidden to young women of good birth.
Lucy refused to entertain temptation, though. Instead, she squared her shoulders and ducked behind the screen, thankful for its protection. She shed her wet dress, and her ablutions took only a few moments. Several thin night-rails of satin and lace hung on pegs behind the screen, and Lucy considered them, each more revealing than the one before. She heard the sound of Nick’s boots falling to the floor, and apprehension knotted her belly. Was she ten kinds of a fool to think that she was safer in this room than in trying to escape on her own?
She plucked a piece of rose satin from a peg and slipped it over her head. A matching wrapper followed, which she cinched tightly at her waist. There. They were the most conventional of the lot. Lucy drew a deep breath and emerged from behind the screen.
The gardener turned, clad only in his breeches, his chest shockingly bare. From one hand dangled a shiny piece of metal—a pair of lightweight manacles he must have found in the trunk at the foot of the bed. As Lucy watched in disbelief, he clasped one of the irons around his wrist and snapped it tight. With a determined look on his face, he stepped toward her. Lucy shrieked and bolted for the door, but he was too quick. He caught her around the waist and snatched her tight against his chest.
“Sorry, princess. I said you were safe, not trustworthy. It’s the only way I’m going to get any sleep.” She struggled against him as he placed the other cuff around her wrist and snapped it shut. The metal gave a soft click.
“Where’s the key?” she demanded, afraid of the sudden weakness in her limbs. She pulled against the restraint. Her eyes flew over him, ignoring his bare chest as she looked for a possible hiding place.
“The key? I have no idea where it is,” he said with a smile, and Lucy’s knees trembled even more. “Now, shall we get some rest before we make our daring escape in the morning?”
Lucy strained again at the metal cuffs that bound them. “You are a fiend, and I would not share that bed with you if my life depended upon it.”
His eyes turned molten with a combination of amusement and challenge. “Princess, you should know better than to throw down the gauntlet in front of me.”
Lucy shivered at the intensity of his gaze, for she recognized determination when she saw it. Her stomach lurched, and she knew without a doubt that she should have chosen Sidmouth’s thugs after all.
Chapter Four
THE MERE SIGHT of
Similar Books
