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Authors: Beth Pattillo
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his scullery maid in a thin wrapping of rose satin almost deterred Nick from his foolhardy course, but some instinct, a self-destructive one most likely, compelled him to see his plan through as he snapped the other cuff around her delicate wrist. Her beguiling blue eyes snapped with fury—rightly so, he supposed, since she was the most fiercely independent wench he’d ever met—but she would capitulate to the inevitable. Women always did.
“You are a despicable cad. Release me.”
“Sorry, princess. As I said, there’s no key.” He nodded toward the bed. “Accept your fate, and we can both rest more easily.”
The look she gave him was hot enough to melt the wrist irons that bound them together, but she was intelligent enough to know he had won. With a sniff, she raised her chin and climbed onto the bed. He followed as the chain pulled at his wrist. In seconds, she had scooted as close to the opposite edge as she could without falling off and lay stiff as the poker she’d tossed him in the duchess’s kitchen. With a snort, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.
Nick settled into the mattress beside her and decided that of all the idiot notions he’d entertained in the past few hours, this one was the most harebrained of them all. He rubbed his temples with his free hand. Why was he so determined to rescue someone who obviously didn’t want his help? He was hopeless, it was true, when it came to this sort of thing. Just as some men could not pass by a bottle of brandy, Nick could not fail to come to someone’s aid. Yet never before had he foisted his help on such an unwilling soul. Something about this girl compelled him, even though she must have spent most every moment since they’d met wishing him to the devil.
Brief images flashed before him of another dark night, spent in the Santadorran mountains, huddled in a cave and afraid to cry. The fact that the kitchen maid and his sister would have been the same age meant nothing. Nick banished the thought. Besides, his attraction to the girl was anything but brotherly.
The sound of her breath from the pillow next to his should have relaxed him, assured him that she was safe for now, but instead his muscles tensed with anticipation. Not that he had anything to anticipate. Perhaps it was merely Madame St. Cloud’s establishment that set him on edge. Surely his restlessness stemmed from the sensuality that had seeped into the walls, not from the exasperating girl who lay next to him in the broad bed.
Nick shifted his weight against the mattress, careful not to rattle the slim chain that bound them together. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t he used the irons to secure her to the bedpost instead of to himself? Dash it, but she was warm. Invitingly so. Even though he wasn’t touching her, Nick could feel the heat radiating from her body. He tried not to look at her, tried to keep his eyes averted from the temptation he knew he’d find, but desire overcame will, and he turned his head.
Much to his surprise, he found that she truly was asleep. Framed by the lace-trimmed linens, she looked like a royal princess instead of a scullery maid. Masses of golden curls tangled about her face, her delicate features relaxed in slumber. The natural arch of her eyebrows suggested strong pride, but the softness of her mouth and fine shape of her nose rendered her beauty approachable. If he had not known better, he would have thought her the daughter of some titled aristocrat, for her appearance spoke of breeding and bloodlines. Perhaps that was what had led him to call her princess from the moment he’d seen her. What name had the duchess yelled when they’d fled the house? He closed his eyes and allowed the memory to come floating back. Lucy. The shrill screech of the dowager’s voice could not disguise the aptness of the name. Lucy. It suited her, at once both innocent and independent.
Nick lay motionless among the pillows, watching her sleep and trying to curb his
“You are a despicable cad. Release me.”
“Sorry, princess. As I said, there’s no key.” He nodded toward the bed. “Accept your fate, and we can both rest more easily.”
The look she gave him was hot enough to melt the wrist irons that bound them together, but she was intelligent enough to know he had won. With a sniff, she raised her chin and climbed onto the bed. He followed as the chain pulled at his wrist. In seconds, she had scooted as close to the opposite edge as she could without falling off and lay stiff as the poker she’d tossed him in the duchess’s kitchen. With a snort, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.
Nick settled into the mattress beside her and decided that of all the idiot notions he’d entertained in the past few hours, this one was the most harebrained of them all. He rubbed his temples with his free hand. Why was he so determined to rescue someone who obviously didn’t want his help? He was hopeless, it was true, when it came to this sort of thing. Just as some men could not pass by a bottle of brandy, Nick could not fail to come to someone’s aid. Yet never before had he foisted his help on such an unwilling soul. Something about this girl compelled him, even though she must have spent most every moment since they’d met wishing him to the devil.
Brief images flashed before him of another dark night, spent in the Santadorran mountains, huddled in a cave and afraid to cry. The fact that the kitchen maid and his sister would have been the same age meant nothing. Nick banished the thought. Besides, his attraction to the girl was anything but brotherly.
The sound of her breath from the pillow next to his should have relaxed him, assured him that she was safe for now, but instead his muscles tensed with anticipation. Not that he had anything to anticipate. Perhaps it was merely Madame St. Cloud’s establishment that set him on edge. Surely his restlessness stemmed from the sensuality that had seeped into the walls, not from the exasperating girl who lay next to him in the broad bed.
Nick shifted his weight against the mattress, careful not to rattle the slim chain that bound them together. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t he used the irons to secure her to the bedpost instead of to himself? Dash it, but she was warm. Invitingly so. Even though he wasn’t touching her, Nick could feel the heat radiating from her body. He tried not to look at her, tried to keep his eyes averted from the temptation he knew he’d find, but desire overcame will, and he turned his head.
Much to his surprise, he found that she truly was asleep. Framed by the lace-trimmed linens, she looked like a royal princess instead of a scullery maid. Masses of golden curls tangled about her face, her delicate features relaxed in slumber. The natural arch of her eyebrows suggested strong pride, but the softness of her mouth and fine shape of her nose rendered her beauty approachable. If he had not known better, he would have thought her the daughter of some titled aristocrat, for her appearance spoke of breeding and bloodlines. Perhaps that was what had led him to call her princess from the moment he’d seen her. What name had the duchess yelled when they’d fled the house? He closed his eyes and allowed the memory to come floating back. Lucy. The shrill screech of the dowager’s voice could not disguise the aptness of the name. Lucy. It suited her, at once both innocent and independent.
Nick lay motionless among the pillows, watching her sleep and trying to curb his
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