Patrica Rice Read online

  The fingers biting into his arm weakened. Michael held them in place. With a curt nod, he bade the manager farewell and hurried Blanche down the path toward his horse. The driver of the carriage seemed to have the women and the injured well in hand.

  “Barnaby!” Blanche whispered. “Do you think there can be two of that name?”

  “I should think there could be hundreds of that name,” Michael answered soothingly.

  “But not with the same profession,” she returned with a scowl. “My Barnaby. My man of business. Do you think I own that mill?”

  Michael didn’t want to answer that. Unfortunately, she must have inherited Barnaby from her grandfather.

  She didn’t wait for his dilatory reply. “I’ll have to dismiss him. I cannot believe he would order this...this horror.”

  Michael said nothing as he lifted her onto his horse. Absentee owners and landlords were the scourge of any number of countries. He’d condemn them all, but then he must condemn people like Blanche. She had done her best, but only someone who lived with the locals and knew how the operation worked could possibly understand what it took to run a company like this, or a mine in Cornwall, or a farm in Ireland.

  “Is this what Fiona complained of?” Blanche whispered. “Have we become too removed from the people who work for us? Is that the problem?”

  Since that was exactly what he had been thinking, Michael couldn’t lie. “I don’t know Fiona’s complaints, but yes, that is much of the problem. Not all. I have seen factories run by local people who think human lives are expendable. The greed for gold is more important than their souls. They would work their employees all day and night if they could. We are not so terribly different from the slaveholders in the American South. We just don’t buy and sell our employees.”

  “But we work them and beat them and starve them. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  She said it casually enough, but then she bent double and gagged. Alarmed, Michael halted the horse and lifted her down. He watched helplessly as she bent over the muddy ground while she emptied the contents of her stomach. He dipped his handkerchief in a creek and wiped her lips when she shakily sat back, her arms clasped around her middle.

  He offered a sip of watered wine from the flask in his pocket. “There is only so much one person can do, my lady,” he said as she drank. “We will stop in Manchester and you may send letters to your solicitor asking that he find a replacement for Barnaby. Or would you prefer that I return you to London?”

  Michael held his breath against Blanche’s reply. He’d tried not to touch her, avoided spending too much time in her presence, and ignored her lively questions so he wouldn’t rely so much on her company. But it had happened anyway. He didn’t want to let her go.

  Still kneeling in the mud, Blanche returned the flask, and lifted her gaze to his.

  Michael felt the impact like a bullet to the chest. He read the plea in her eyes, the quiver of her pale lips, and he couldn’t resist. He never could. Terrified he would do it wrong and frighten her, he placed his lips on hers.

  Her breath tasted of wine, and despite the cold, heat enveloped them. Gasping at the intensity of his reaction, Michael caught Blanche’s waist with his hand, balancing their precarious position. Her lips parted and tentatively, she slid her arms around his shoulders. He held back a groan of pleasure and tasted of her again. Blanche responded with all the eagerness of his dreams.

  Michael closed his eyes and conjured private bowers and whispered words of love as their mouths clung and drew hungrily on one another. Pure bliss flooded through him as he brushed his hand upward, to the softness of her breast. She offered no protest. Instead, she opened her mouth, inviting further exploration.

  Michael nearly exploded with the need for that and more. Only the creak of a wagon returned him to his senses. Hastily, he stood and yanked Blanche to her feet.

  Ducking her head with embarrassment, she wiped at the mud on her skirt.

  “Night comes early. We’d best hurry into town.” Michael cursed himself for the awkwardness of this speech, but he didn’t possess a lover’s words. He merely helped her back to the saddle, ignoring the throbbing in his loins as he climbed up behind her. He might as well try to ignore a manacle around his heart.

  “I’ll not turn back,” she whispered.

  She didn’t say more, leaving Michael with the uneasy feeling that she spoke of more than the road to London.

  Fourteen

  “Michael, don’t leave me here alone.” Blanche caught Michael’s sleeve as he prepared to leave her in a private parlor.

  He hesitated. The knowledge that she owned a mill that worked people like slaves had shaken her, he understood. She had spent hours composing letters after they arrived at the inn. But the memory of the kiss obliged him to leave.

  “I am tired of eating alone, Michael, and deserting me like this is ungentlemanly. What is the purpose, after all? Can’t we cry friends?”

  “And is it friends you’re being with a penniless Irishman?” he asked mockingly. “’Tis not a puppy dog I am. I’ll be off on the morrow or the next day, and you’ll be returnin’ to your real friends. Nay, ’tis better this way all around.”

  She jerked his coat sleeve again and gave him a look of exasperation. “Were I given to violence, I’d smack you, O’Toole, or whoever you are tonight. Your monetary status has no relevance to me, although admittedly, your tendency to disappear at will annoys me abominably. One of these days you’ll do that to someone who will come after you with a big stick. But that’s no matter now. I merely want some company besides my own tonight.”

  Only Gavin had ever cared enough to threaten him with a stick for disappearing. Michael kneaded his brow and closed the door. “Did you have something in particular you wished to discuss? Have you changed your mind about tracing Fiona? It’s a long journey just to trace one little girl.”

  He strolled the planked floor rather than take the seat Blanche offered.

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” she answered. “I do worry about what the Runner may have found by now. Perhaps we should have let someone else know what is happening.” She took a seat at the polished table and adjusted her skirts around her.

  “I told the Runner to go to Gavin if need be. He’ll know what to do as well or better than we. With any luck, if any of my friends actually see Fiona, they’ll most likely abduct her and drop her on Gavin’s doorstep. You don’t want to be there if that happens,” Michael said wryly.

  “Probably not, but I still worry. If she fears someone who is dangerous, and it involves Parliament, then we must find out more. Perhaps we should have notified government authorities.”

  Michael snorted impolitely. “Gavin and Neville are government authorities. How do you think they would react should we present them with our story?”

  The dinner tray arrived, and Blanche didn’t reply as the maid set their food upon the table. Michael had never eaten so well in his memory. He’d spent the better part of his life arbitrarily redistributing other people’s wealth. It had never occurred to him to partake of it himself. But Blanche watched him expectantly, and he took the seat offered.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed reluctantly. “We know very little about her. I just hope she is all right somewhere.”

  Pouring the contents of a pitcher into his glass and discovering it was ale and not cider, Michael frowned. “Until she is found, there is nothing else we can do in London. I still think the problem lies where she comes from.”

  Blanche watched as he set aside his glass of ale. “Do you not drink ale? Should I have ordered brandy?”

  “I’ll have coffee later.”

  Blanche’s brow pleated at his declaration but she did not press the issue. It was one of the things he liked about her. She accepted his idiosyncrasies. Thanking her for that, Michael produced a silk rose from an inner pocket and lay it across the table in front of her.

  She blinked, then gave him one of those blinding smiles
that had the impact of a sunrise at midnight. He had taught her some of his sleight of hand tricks when he’d kept her entertained after the fire. She understood the mechanics, but she’d never caught on to the swiftness of the illusion. He could still surprise her upon occasion.

  She stroked the petals and tucked the flower into her sash. “Do you carry a supply of such things for special occasions?”

  Michael grinned. “And you’re not after believin’ I pulled it from thin air? I’m that destroyed, I am.”

  “So, don’t tell me. Tell me how I can find a man of business who will listen to me and not Neville or his peers. All men think women are fools. How will I ever know what is happening at places like the mill?”

  “You cannot travel around the country like Barnaby. There is only so much you can do,” Michael reminded her. “By getting rid of your grandfather’s man, you are off to a new start. The next one should answer to you and not act by your grandfather’s beliefs. Question every applicant carefully and see if he is willing to accept new ideas. Perhaps you could ask if they believe local management is preferable to absentee ownership. An honest answer to that question will tell you a great deal.”

  Blanche rewarded him with another heart-melting smile. “You’re right! I have ordered my solicitor to find a list of applicants. I shall see how they respond to that question.” She glanced at his untouched glass with concern. “Shall I order some wine?”

  “Coffee or cider is fine.” In truth, after that smile, he could drink turpentine and not know it. He could not look upon her face for long either, for fear his gaze would fall lower where his rose snuggled in the sash beneath her breasts. She wore no scarf to conceal the devil’s own temptations curving her bodice. He had the urge to sit on his hands to prevent their straying.

  She rang for the serving girl, and Michael was distracted by the soft curve of Blanche’s bare arm, The maid returned with a heated bowl of punch. It wasn’t coffee, but Michael took the cup. It was sweet with the taste of apples, not the usual potent grog, and it gave him something else to do with his hands. He’d already carved the entire leg of lamb into tiny slices.

  “I have never been to Ireland,” Blanche said.

  Michael dragged his attention away from her physical assets. He had done himself no favors by avoiding the physical pleasures of women so long. He stretched his legs and sipped at the hot punch as he listened.

  “If our road leads there, will we travel by ship? What will the weather be like?”

  The aroma of roasted lamb in mint sauce blended with the herbal spices of Blanche’s sachet. The fire crackled and popped, providing a musical rhythm to accompany a fiddle singing in the neighboring tavern. Lamplight flickered, casting mysterious and seductive shadows.

  Desperately, Michael grasped the thread of conversation. “The journey across the Irish Sea is short in mild weather. ’Tis April now and the worst of the winter’s storms have passed. Have you never traveled by water?”

  Her eyes seemed luminous behind lashes too long for safety. Michael drank thirstily and poured more.

  “I’ve never been on a ship of any kind,” she said wistfully. “I grew up at Anglesey, completely land-locked. My grandfather never traveled, and it did not occur to him that I might like to try.”

  He’d spent his entire life on the road, while she’d never left home. If nothing else illustrated the chasm between them, this did.

  “I think I would enjoy traveling,” she said tentatively.

  Michael shook his head. He was behaving like a complete oaf, not even keeping up his end of the conversation. “Travel does widen one’s experience,” he agreed. Having some difficulty persuading the words from his tongue, he glared at his nearly empty mug. “Now if you will excuse me, I think I had best retire. Let me escort you to your room.”

  She pouted, but when he staggered to his feet, she reluctantly followed. Michael thought his head might spin off his shoulders, and he cursed the punch and his own blindness in drinking it.

  “They never brought your coffee,” Blanche murmured near his ear. Michael glanced down, surprised to find her clinging to his arm, her small breasts nearly brushing his coat. “Shall I have them send it to your room?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he responded thickly, aware that her hair smelled of lemons. He inhaled the fresh scent amidst the odors of pipe smoke and stale ale in the inn corridor.

  Somehow, he kept his head from falling off his shoulders as they climbed the stairs. All too aware of the sway of Blanche’s hips and the scent of her hair, Michael counted himself fortunate to remain standing.

  They halted before her door, and she stood on tip-toe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You are too much a gentleman,” she whispered.

  He could have grabbed her then, but years of training and the effect of drink prevented his hastiness. She smiled sadly, then disappeared into her room and closed the door.

  Michael stared at the rough oak panel for a while before staggering down the corridor. In his current state, she was in far more danger of being disturbed by him than strangers.

  Shutting his door, Michael removed his coat and splashed cold water on his face. Perhaps, as in the case of women, he should have partaken of more liquor during his lifetime and developed a better resistance. He didn’t dislike either alcohol or women. He just deemed it wiser not to indulge in them.

  He tore off his cravat, dropped to the bed, and sprawled against the pillows. Dimly, he registered a knock at his door. Unaware that he’d offered an invitation, Michael watched the serving girl enter with a tray of coffee. He grabbed the cup as the maid bobbed a curtsy and departed. He should lock the door after her, he mused. He’d never tasted better coffee in his life. Leaning back against the headboard, he could see how one would grow accustomed to a life of wealth.

  The bed had towering mahogany posts draped in dark blue damask that he could pull closed against drafts. A down-filled satin counterpane provided warmth to keep a winter’s night at bay. Michael yanked back the cover and admired the fine linen sheets. He felt too unclean for such finery.

  He should have ordered a bath. He would make do with the cold water in the stand and the kettle over the fire.

  Head still spinning, he struggled from his clothes. The coffee hadn’t helped, but perhaps a bath would. Mixing the water in the bowl and sudsing a cloth with a French milled soap that smelled better than anything he’d encountered in a long time, he lathered all over.

  The unaccustomed luxury of soap, warmth, and a full meal, aroused him despite his weariness. Or perhaps the unruly image of Blanche caressing where the towel touched unlocked his control. Whatever, he would have a devil of a time sleeping tonight.

  After toweling himself in front of the fire, Michael sipped his coffee. Draining the dregs and with his member still standing at full attention, he staggered to the bed and slid naked between the cold sheets, but his loins burned hotter than ever. Damn the woman.

  He doused the lamp, leaving only the fire’s light for illumination. Now, if only he had a warm body to join with. He rubbed the cold empty place at his side and tried to imagine what it would be like having a woman like Blanche in bed with him, talking softly of the day past or the morrow’s dawn. To feel her cuddle close and fit her flesh to his.

  A cold draft doused those warm thoughts, and Michael sought a more comfortable position for his aching loins. The click of a door reminded him he hadn’t turned the key in the lock. He tried dragging himself awake enough to rise to the task, but the bliss of too much alcohol wrapped around him, and the thought wandered off.

  The bed creaked and sagged to one side, shifting the warm feathers of the mattress. Michael tossed again, seeking the warm spot. Instead, his hand encountered hot flesh, and he groaned with delight at the vividness of his dream.

  He might wake to spilled seed upon the sheets, but for now, he needed the release of his dreams. His palm sought the soft haven he had desired for so long, and with an exhalation from deep in his sou
l, Michael hugged his dream closer. If naught else, he might conjure up the bliss of Blanche’s kiss all over again.

  Fifteen

  Michael’s hand gripped her waist and dragged her deeper into the bed. If she meant to turn back on her bold course, now was the time. The magnetism of his touch, however, possessed a pull stronger than fear or doubt. She slipped toward him at his urging.

  Murmuring incoherently, he slid his hand down her side, grazing her breast, lovingly tracing the dip of her waist, and the rise of her hip, all covered by her nightshift. She caught her breath at the wave of sensation.

  She knew her willfulness for what it was. She had wanted Michael’s kisses again. She’d hoped ale would break down his resistance, and when it hadn’t, she’d ordered the liquor-laced punch. She thought the heady brew must have stolen her own wits.

  As Michael’s hand explored more fully, caressing her curves, urging her closer, Blanche’s senses reacted to the effects of alcohol, desire, and fear. Bliss, heady bliss swept through her as his lips finally reached her own. For weeks, years, she had coveted this tender exchange. Michael’s mouth nibbled along hers. The heat and moisture stirred primitive responses. Daringly, she stroked his jaw while his kisses wandered from the corners of her lips and settled fully in the center. Blanche concentrated on the increasing urgency of his lips crushing hers, absorbing each new sensation, each caress, each moment as it came. She didn’t want to give in to doubt or fear. Not now. Not with Michael.

  The gentle stroke of his hand through her hair relaxed her. His lips turned soft, beseeching as he pulled her closer and plied her mouth more thoroughly. She felt protected, cherished while he fed her lips with sweet-flavored kisses.

  Only when his hands strayed to her shoulders and held her more firmly, as his kisses deepened and his mouth parted over hers did Blanche recognize the depth of her danger. She hadn’t expected the heated thrust of Michael’s tongue between her teeth. His kiss deepened enticingly, their breaths mingled, and Blanche dug her fingers into his arm to prevent drowning in the tides of desire.