Too Wicked To Kiss Part 30

She rounded on him as if discovering he kept an army of circus performers hidden behind the chaise. "No snakes. No snakes upon the paper, no trolls grinning from the wood, no dark flickering shadows. There's a window in here. A bay window. With a yellow cus.h.i.+on. Gorgeous ivy-colored furniture. And yellow walls. Bright, bright yellow, like daffodils in sunlight."

He glanced around the familiar room. "Yes. That's why it's called the Yellow Salon."

Her hands jutted forward as if about to shove him in the middle of his chest. But when her gaze flickered to his bloodstained side, her palms turned skyward then slapped down against her hips. "What in heaven's name is the matter with you?"

Gavin took a subtle step backward. "You don't like yellow?"

"I love yellow!" She glared at him. "I love yellow, and green and blue and pink and white and-"

He reached behind her to shut the door. His servants did not need to overhear Miss Pemberton's spontaneous recital of her favorite colors. "You sound like my niece."

Her jaw clenched. "I sound like a woman forced to sleep in a bedchamber occupied by snake-inhabited walls and a troll-infested bed."

Ah. That. He tried for a slow, sensual smile. "You can sleep in mine, if you like."

Her lips pursed. Pursed lips couldn't be a good sign. "I would like to know why we weren't shown in here when we arrived, if this is the proper receiving room. It's beautiful."

"Because it's beautiful." it's beautiful."

He strode past her to the window and pulled the curtains closed. When he turned back around to face her, she hadn't moved. If anything, her pursed lips had gotten pursier.

"You don't like beautiful things?" Miss Pemberton asked at last.

Since she seemed content to stand there squinting at him as though he were the strangest specimen of male she'd ever encountered, Gavin crossed over to a sofa and eased onto the cus.h.i.+on, careful not to b.u.mp his injured side against the armrest.

"I like you," he reminded Miss Pemberton once he'd arranged himself as comfortably as he could, "and you're beautiful. But I was angry about having unexpected guests. I wanted everyone to leave as quickly as they came, and they wouldn't hurry off if they enjoyed their stay." He flashed his most devilish smile. "So I didn't show anybody into any receiving rooms."

Her arms crossed below her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, plumping them above the dipping neckline. "And the guest quarters?"

"Have not been renovated since I purchased the house. I haven't had guests in over a decade." He widened the spread of his relaxed legs, lounged one arm along the back of the sofa, gazed up to find Miss Pemberton staring at him as if he exuded more danger injured than uninjured. "A few weeks notice was hardly enough time to commission new suites, should I have had the inclination to do so."

She bit her lower lip, suckled it, freed it. Gavin would've liked to do the same.

Her gaze dipped from his eyes, to his mouth, to his ruined clothing. "Why didn't you do it?"

"Do what? Die?"

She came closer, first one tentative halting step, then another. "No. Why didn't you hand me over to my stepfather?"

"Hand you over to that cretin? Why would I?"

"You had to."

"Yet I didn't."

"But he's my stepfather." She paled, s.h.i.+vered, swallowed. "He owns me."

For now, Gavin almost added. Where had that come from? He was in no position to change her legal status. Even if he wished to marry her-which he neither admitted nor denied-he couldn't protect his own neck, let alone hers, too. Plenty could happen between now and whenever he might have the opportunity to pet.i.tion for a license. If he couldn't promise to stay alive for the wedding, then he could promise her nothing. Gavin almost added. Where had that come from? He was in no position to change her legal status. Even if he wished to marry her-which he neither admitted nor denied-he couldn't protect his own neck, let alone hers, too. Plenty could happen between now and whenever he might have the opportunity to pet.i.tion for a license. If he couldn't promise to stay alive for the wedding, then he could promise her nothing.

"I don't care if he owns you," Gavin said instead. "I sent him away."

"He'll be back."

"Not until he recovers from those black eyes," Gavin a.s.sured her with as much flippancy as he could muster. How long would a blackguard like her stepfather stay away, when she was right-he was her legal guardian. How long before he did write his letters, make good on his threats, summon the magistrate? A month? A week? "We'll make sure you're gone by then," he said, hoping she couldn't detect the bleakness in his tone. Not because he feared her worthless scab of a stepfather, but because in order to rid herself from one man, she'd have to rid herself of them both. "Shall I summon you a carriage?"

She started, as if a.s.sailed by the same thoughts. "Now?"

He forced himself to say the words. "It's yours when you wish it."

She fairly leapt the distance between them until she was but an arm's breadth before him, his boots on either side of hers. "But I haven't determined the murderer's ident.i.ty."

"Nor will you be able to help under your stepfather's captivity. I prefer you safe somewhere unknown than unsafe somewhere known." He rubbed his face with one hand, cursed himself for its smoothness. Had he the slightest inkling she preferred his kisses the way he'd been giving them, forceful, scratchy, rough, he'd never have put razor to chin before the picnic. Now their farewell kiss-for surely she would allow him a farewell kiss?-would be inadequate, disappointing, unsatisfying. And, oh, how he longed to satisfy her. Her safety, however, was his primary concern. "Given the choice, I admit to disliking the thought of you going anywhere at dusk. Twilight is a dangerous time to begin a journey. Can you wait until morning?"

She edged closer, her gown brus.h.i.+ng against the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs. "But...but I haven't determined the murderer's ident.i.ty."

"So you've reminded me."

"If I fail to help before I go, will-will you hang?"

Probably. Then again, he might hang even if she stayed. Gavin lifted a shoulder as if the thought held no sway. "Would you miss me either way?"

Her breath hitched. Her palms cupped his face. Her forehead touched his. "I would. You know I would. I miss you already."

As did he. Knowing she felt the same seemed to worsen the feeling of dread, to tighten his already tight muscles, to speed up his already racing heart. Gavin pulled her into his lap, clutched her to him, breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. Her hip curved against his uninjured side. Her knees tucked between his legs. The side of one silk-covered breast pressed against his chest.

She would have to leave him.

He would have to let her.

But not yet.

She tilted her face up at the exact moment his slanted down. Their breath came together first, then their mouths, then their tongues. She tasted like fear, like loneliness, like desire. Or maybe that was him. Maybe that was both of them. She, the woman who couldn't risk touching, who couldn't risk loving, who couldn't outrun her past.

And Gavin, the man who...what? Was he any different? He either didn't know or didn't want to know, just like he didn't want to stop kissing her, just like he didn't want to let her go, to put her in a carriage and send her away where he'd never see her again, smell her hair, taste her mouth and tongue and skin. But what else was he to do? What else was she to do? Her stepfather would be back, and the law would side with him.

Gavin wrenched his mouth from Miss Pemberton's.

"Tell me," he said, brus.h.i.+ng his lips across the soft skin of her forehead. "Why did you run from him?"

She shuddered, but remained silent.

At first, he thought she wasn't going to answer. But then she leaned the side of her head against his shoulder and let out a long, slow exhale.

"First," she said, "I'll tell you why my mother didn't run. Me. A woman of her position-which is to say, none-can't even aspire to become the lowliest of scullery maids or the cheapest of prost.i.tutes. Not without suffering visions and their consequences. Add to that limitation a child who showed every sign of the same affliction, and she was trapped."

He hated the pain in her voice, the anger, the self-loathing. "You didn't trap her. You didn't. She married that dilberry maker of her own free will."

"No." Her head fell against his shoulder, her forehead against his neck. "She did so because of me. Had she not been with child, she would've taken her chances as a beggar on the street rather than be wife to Neal Pemberton. But she wouldn't have had to. She had education, if not family; beauty, if not money. She had been a lady. She could've been a fine governess or companion. She would have been. Had it not been for me."

He cradled her in his arms. "Had it not been for the visions, you mean."

"Had it not been for me me. Even without visions, what could a woman in her position do, but marry? She was to be a mother. Her child needed a father. She took the first man to offer and regretted it ever since."

"Marrying a blackguard like Pemberton?"

"Having to." to."

He hated the unshed tears choking her voice.

"Nonetheless," Gavin insisted, "it was hardly your fault. Surely she didn't blame you for a situation outside anyone's control."

"How could she not?" Miss Pemberton lifted her head to fix him with her steady, bloodshot gaze. "Can you say you've never resented someone for something outside their control?"

"No," he admitted. "I cannot make that claim. But I try to focus my energies on that which I can control."

"I can't control anything. Not even my own skin. The visions come, regardless. Not even myself. I belong to my stepfather. He will come after me, as well. What did he say? He would drag me home and chain me there."

"A figure of speech."

"Hardly."

His grip on her waist tightened. "He would chain you?"

"He would do anything." She paused, s.h.i.+vered. "Everything."

Something in her tone chilled his blood. "He's your stepfather," Gavin heard himself protest lamely. "Your guardian. Surely he would not-"

"My mother's presence protected me from his baser desires, if not from his fist. She couldn't even protect herself from the latter. She couldn't sew a straight enough seam, he said. Neither...neither can I." Miss Pemberton's voice cracked. "When he shoved her down the stairs, he meant to hurt her, not kill her. But it was too late."

"I won't let him touch you," Gavin snarled.

He hoped.

After claiming her mouth in the briefest of kisses, Mr. Lioncroft gently eased Evangeline from his lap and rose to stand beside her. She would've preferred to remain wrapped in his arms all evening.

"We can't stay hidden any longer," he explained softly, as if her reluctance to leave him shone on her face. "They'll be looking for someone to explain why the porch is a shambles of blood and splintered wood."

"Hmmm," Evangeline murmured. "I can see how that might catch their attention. As might you, Mr. Lioncroft, dressed as you are in ripped and ruined clothing."

"Mr. Lioncroft?" he repeated with an arched brow. "What happened to Gavin?"

"My stepfather stuck a knife in his side," she answered. "For protecting me."

"I'd do it again." His eyes flashed down at her. "Let him stick me with a thousand knives."

"Let us hope not." She couldn't suppress a s.h.i.+ver at the thought. The idea was not as far-fetched as Mr. Lioncroft might believe. "What do we do now?"

"Now? I don't know." His head c.o.c.ked to one side as he gazed down at her. "Supper will be ready soon. I'll change into something a little less b.l.o.o.d.y and then join you in the dining room. Can you avoid the others until then?"

"I don't wish to avoid them," Evangeline said grimly. "I wish to determine which of them is callous enough to let you hang in his place."

He dipped his head in a quick nod before striding to the opposite side of the room. The tilting of a vase triggered an access panel to the pa.s.sageway between the walls. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sober. "If you should save me from the noose, I would be in your debt."

"Not 'if,'" she informed him, but he'd already disappeared into the shadows. The panel eased shut behind him. "When I save him," she announced to the empty room, her words more confident than both her tone and her posture. "I'll unmask the true villain. Tonight. At supper." I save him," she announced to the empty room, her words more confident than both her tone and her posture. "I'll unmask the true villain. Tonight. At supper."

For the cost of failure was Mr. Lioncroft's death.

Unacceptable.

Evangeline turned on her heel and headed to her bedchamber to prepare for battle. She emerged bathed and pressed and somewhat coiffed, but did not reach the dining room before engaging in the first skirmish.

Edmund Rutherford and Mr. Teasdale fell into step beside her as she made her way to the dining room. Much as she despised being in Edmund's company, it would be rude to rush ahead of the elderly Mr. Teasdale. And based on the sluggishness of the latter's ponderous gait, it would be all but impossible to slow her pace enough to lag behind to study them.

Before the silence stretched on for more than a few seconds, Edmund turned his sly gaze upon her.

"Miss Pemberton," he said, his words spraying forth on a gust of fermented breath. "I had no idea you were a trainer of pets."

"A what?" She cast him a suspicious glance. "I've never had a pet."

He laughed delightedly. "Come now. We all saw Lioncroft trailing after you like a gelded lapdog. Mooning after you from his tragically distant picnic blanket, trying to please you with his enormous skill at kite-flying, paying more attention to your bodice than his ball when the rest of us were playing pall-mall...Don't be coy, Miss Pemberton. It appears you've managed to break the untamable beast."

Evangeline's fingers clenched. "I've done nothing of the sort."

"I agree," came Mr. Teasdale's quavering voice.

She gave him a grateful look. An ally. At last.

"He's neither tamed nor trained," Mr. Teasdale continued, "but he's certainly following your scent around with the single-minded intensity of a panther after its prey. He's too busy stalking one step behind you to mind propriety. Shameful behavior. Both of you."

Evangeline tripped mid-step. "What?" "What?"

"I don't mind a spot of shameful behavior every now and again." Edmund fumbled in his coat pocket. "I'd love to see the lovelorn devil and his darling angel perform a public mating ritual for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the house party guests."

"How unfortunate," came a low voice from around the corner. Mr. Lioncroft strode from a connected hallway, a warning glint in his eyes. "I do my mating in private. That is, unless you meant some other devil?"

"No. I meant you." Edmund took a quick swallow from his flask and edged backward. "Are you planning to keep her?"

Although he made no verbal response, Mr. Lioncroft's fixed gaze never broke eye contact with Edmund's.

"Because if you're not making a mistress of her until you hang," Edmund continued, "let me know when you're through. I wouldn't mind a tup or two before handing her off to the next gent."

Mr. Lioncroft was across the narrow hall so fast Edmund barely had time to gasp before his shoulders flattened against the wall. His flask fell from his fingers. His feet dangled inches from the floor. His face paled, then purpled, held aloft by Mr. Lioncroft's arm anchoring him across the throat.

"Touch her," Mr. Lioncroft growled, "and die."