Explosive. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
garment is not suitable for where we’re going.”
“We, Blackburn, aren’t going anywhere,” she said with finality, shrugging into the robe and tying the narrow sash firmly around her waist. “All you have to do is give me more time and I’ll get the damn score.”
“I don’t see de Maupassant nestled between your sheets. So let’s just say your time has run out.” Blackburn lounged on the bed, watching his quarry frantically looking for ways out of her maze.
“I don’t need another ultimatum.” She firmed her jaw and motioned toward the door hoping to usher him from her room. “Tomorrow we’ll see if that public charade you orchestrated has had the desired effect on Le Comte. Maybe he’ll present us with the score on a silver platter. Though I doubt it,” she ended caustically.
“For once we’re in agreement.” Blackburn slipped her revolver neatly into his waistband. “And that’s why you’re coming with me.”
How could she have forgotten just how sleekly he moved, lethal and quiet, as he closed the distance between the bed and the door in the space of a held breath? She steeled herself for his touch, feeling like a ripe fruit about to burst. His scent, a faint hint of sandalwood. Then a strong hand enclosed her wrist like iron, convincingly stalling her escape.
His voice was rough, his breath soft on her ear. “I don’t like it when people renege on their promises, Mademoiselle. And I don’t make idle threats. You failed to produce the Eroica this evening—there are consequences.”
A heady combination of barely restrained desire, fear and mistrust scented the air. She tried to pull away, a jolt of streaming pleasure mixed with panic rising like a tide.
“Surely you don’t mean to hand me over to the authorities tonight.” She stared at him, barely comprehending. “What use would I be to you then? You’d be no further ahead, no closer to getting the score.”
“Didn’t you think I might have my own motives for participating in this drama of yours, Devon?” Blackburn continued, his question purely rhetorical. Her name fell from his lips and lingered tantalizingly in the hostile air between them.
She held her ground. “Your motives are of no interest to me.”
His smile was more taunting than comforting. “Probably your first mistake.” Without releasing her wrist, he quickly searched the cavern of her wardrobe and withdrew a dark green pelisse.
“So, go ahead—throw me to the authorities.” Despite the brave words, Devon now tried to shrug away from him. She watched in disbelief as he silently threw the garment over her shoulders and propelled them both toward the window. Opening the shutters and then the casements, he lifted and then deposited her effortlessly outside on the small balcony overlooking the interior courtyard twenty feet below.
The night was soft and she found herself pinned against a frame as hard and unyielding as granite. She waited, this time hanging on desperately and with a sinking in her stomach.
She couldn’t see his face but felt his mouth touch her temple, her ear. “I am the authorities, Devon—as you’ll soon learn.”
Her heart shuddered and then began a nervous staccato. Dear God. She pictured a dark, damp cell and worse, torture, the rack, bread and water…Her thoughts careened out of control. Hanging would be preferable.
“I shall scream,” she warned in a small voice, trying hard to ignore the rise and fall of his warm chest against her back.
“No you won’t. Somehow I don’t think you’d like to attract your lover’s attention at the moment.”
Damn. She hated it when Blackburn referred to Le Comte as her lover. Tamping down her anger and fear, she focused on what was sure to be a hard landing on the flagstones of the courtyard below. The Frenchman’s concert festivities had concluded and not a creature stirred in the almost preternatural silence of this wealthiest section of London.
Blackburn’s quiet, deadly calm was more terrifying than what could possibly wait beyond the courtyard and yet she fought the disconcerting urge to turn around and cling to him. He held her patiently as though expecting a struggle and then, taking advantage of her surprising docility, levered them both over the ironwork balustrade to dangle for a dizzying second ten feet over the flagstones below.
They landed soundlessly alongside clinging ivy.
Ready to run, she kicked backward and felt her slippered foot make contact with his shin.
“Not good enough.” His words caressed the nape of her neck, as sensuous as the inky air surrounding them, and she answered with a rebellious but hopelessly futile jerk in his arms. She could feel his smile in the dark.
Fury boiled to the surface. This escapade of his was going to cost. “This is positively medieval. Where are you taking me and why? Why even bother with a parody of justice? Why not just kill me here on the spot?” No answer except for his unyielding force, dragging her toward the back garden of Le Comte’s luxurious town house.
Slipping by the deserted servants’ entrance lit by a single torch, they rounded a corner where the fine gravel stone gave way to a meticulously manicured lawn. In the darkness and only for a moment, Devon thought they had stumbled upon a bronzed colossus, but with a flick of its proud head at the sight of its master, the horse came to life.
Blackburn was past listening to her. Instead he heaved her up into the saddle and mounted behind her while, as though accustomed to such nightly adventures, the huge steed, rooted to the spot, waited for its master’s signal. Enveloping them both in the caped greatcoat that had been secured in one of the saddle pouches, Blackburn pulled Devon firmly against him. She could feel the steady beat of his heart through the fine fabric of his evening clothes.
They rode hard, a half ton of steaming horseflesh devouring the miles as the moon-saturated night unfurled before them. Blackburn chose a bridle path through Hyde Park and then headed north to leave London behind in a thunder of hooves and flying mud. Devon had no choice but to cling to his waist, the friction of his greatcoat barely concealing the hard, moving muscles beneath. All she could do was fight her awareness of him, of his scent, the strong curve of his back shielding her from the night.
It must have been an hour before they slowed, the horse’s hard breathing the only noise in the night’s stillness. The animal skidded around a corner, slowing to a canter as a manor house appeared on the still-dark horizon, illuminated only by moonlight, a rustic stone pile surrounded by tall hedges and a curved driveway. Devon took a deep draught of the moist night air, calculating the hour to be three or four in the morning.
“Don’t move—trust me, you have nowhere to run,” Blackburn said as he reined up. The curve of his mouth indicated the futility of any escape plans she might entertain.
He would get nothing from her, Devon swore moments later, feeling vulnerable and ridiculous in her nightdress, robe, and cape in the chilled front hall of what was clearly, in centuries past, a hunting lodge. They were alone except for an ancient man who emerged from the darkness to light a fire in the cold grate of the front drawing room. In a few moments the kindling turned to flames, lighting up a simple paneled room lacking the florid carving of more sophisticated country manors. A curving staircase in the front hall and stone floors cut from local granite formed the backdrop for decidedly masculine furnishings. Only a dark red Aubusson carpet added any softness or warmth.
“Nothing as luxurious as what Le Comte has to offer, but you’ll find it comfortable enough,” said Blackburn, reading her thoughts. He joined her in the drawing room, incongruously formal in his white cravat, tailored cutaway jacket and breeches, his stark looks an unwelcome intrusion.
“I’m surprised you haven’t lowered me into a dungeon.”
“The night’s not over yet.”
The room was cold enough and Devon hunched further into her pelisse.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Blackburn asked neutrally, unconscionably vital and as if he’d