He clicked his tongue and Falcon put his head over the half-door of his stall, whickering a greeting. ‘Do you think I’m a bastard?’ he asked the horse as a soft muzzle was thrust into his hand. ‘A fat lot of use you are, you’ll tell me anything for food, won’t you?’ Falcon snorted, tossing his head and rolling a dark eye. ‘And if I tell him, Gregor will inform me I’m a fool and recommend the nearest whorehouse for the it
ch that needs scratching.’
‘My lord?’ It was Jenks, his shirt loose over his breeches, a shotgun in his hand. ‘Sorry, my lord, didn’t see it was you at first. That horse is a worry to me—he won’t let me shut the door and make all secure.’
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, Jenks. And I’m sorry about Falcon. He isn’t used to closed doors and not being able to run free.’ And neither am I. And I’m not used to having to consider anyone else, either. Damn it, the man’s probably got to be up before sunrise. ‘If it is any consolation, he would probably half-kill anyone foolish enough to try to steal him.’ He tugged the long forelock as the stallion butted against his arm. ‘I’ll take him out for an hour. Get back to your bed and don’t wait up.’
Lina sat up in bed, her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on top of her knees, and tried to sort out the thoughts and emotions that were assaulting her from all sides.
I want him and he’s an arrogant, insensitive rake. I’m not a scared little mouse any more. I’m brave…I think. He doesn’t care about me, only my body. Does that matter so much if I want him, too? But that makes me wanton. But why doesn’t it make him wanton? I can fight now. I stood up to Quinn. If I say yes I would risk ending up with my whole life defined by the fact that I’ve lain with a man. But have I got to spend the rest of it without ever knowing what love is?
Perhaps I will go to the gallows without ever knowing. ‘Oh, God, the gallows.’ That was the reality she should be worrying about, not the question of the equality of men and women or whether becoming one man’s mistress would be something she would regret for the rest of her life. Her life might be very short indeed, with little room for regrets. In which case, why not make love with Quinn?
And assume you are never going to prove your innocence? Lina asked herself, flopping back against the pillows. Just give up? Never.
Legally, Quinn had to allow her to stay, so stay she would, whether he liked it or not. His lordship could take himself off to Norwich if he wanted to find a sophisticated brothel to deal with whatever urges her refusal was leaving unsatisfied.
She reached out to snuff the candle. The room was lit now only by the moonlight from outside. It cast the old furniture in silver and laid eerie shadows over the strange objects that littered the room. The soft breeze flapped a curtain and sent the elaborate rope trimmings swinging. Gallows rope. Lina shut her eyes and made herself think of Bella and Meg. If she tried hard enough she could conjure up a dream of them all together again, of laughter, of happy endings. She felt her lids begin to droop.
Quinn gripped the great carved newel post at the head of the stairs with one hand and hauled off his boots with the other. The uncarpeted corridor creaked like a Chinese emperor’s nightingale floor and Gregor, every bit as alert for assassins as any emperor, had ears like a bat. He’d be out demanding to know what was going on when all Quinn wanted was to go to sleep.
He’d ridden hard and far, through the park, down to the coast road, out over the marshes to the sea. When it was daylight he’d bring Falcon down to the beach again to exercise him in the sea, but he wasn’t risking a strange coast and unknown currents at night, however bright the moon.
Now Falcon was dozing in his stable, the fidgets worked out of him, and Quinn was pleasantly tired, shoulders aching a little from holding the stallion in check and rubbing him down. His mind, finally, was clear. So, Celina did not want him, not for money, anyway, and he was not prepared to pay with any emotional commitment. It was going to be sticky, the next few days, with her bristling like a porcupine every time she encountered him.
Quinn grunted under his breath. Too bad. He was going to have to embrace celibacy for a while—somehow he could not find it in himself to ride into Norwich in search of a woman—and she was going to have to live with him watching her for any signs of weakening.
He padded down the corridor, boots in one hand, past Gregor’s room, grinned at the sound of snores rumbling inside, past Celina’s chamber door. And froze.
There were no snores coming from inside, but there was a thud, a choking gasp, the sound of a struggle. Quinn put down his boots, drew the thin blade from the sheath inside the left one and cracked open the door.
The moonlight flooded across the bed and for a moment he could not make out what he was looking at. Then he saw it was Celina, tangled in the sheet, her hands clawing at her throat, her bare legs kicking. He strode to the bed and caught at her hands, realising as he did so that the sheet had wound itself around her throat, choking her.
‘Easy, easy, let me.’ He tossed the blade on to the bedside table and took hold of the sheet, trying to get past her frantic hands to find the corner. She was fighting desperately, her eyes screwed up, deep in her nightmare. Her fingernails tore bloody tracks down the back of his hands and forced a hiss of pain from him.
Quinn dragged at the linen, pulled it away from her windpipe, found the end and yanked it free. Celina fell back, gasping for breath, her hands locked around his wrists. ‘No! You can’t… I am innocent…innocent… No!’
‘Celina.’ He shook her, harder than he meant to, control hampered by her clinging hands. ‘Wake up, you are having a nightmare.’
Her eyes opened, wide and dark in her pale face. Her mouth opened in a scream and, with his hands trapped, Quinn did the only thing he could think of to silence her. He kissed her.
Under him he felt Celina’s body tense, arch up to throw him off; he felt the desperate heaving of her breast against his and then, suddenly, she went limp. Quinn lifted his head and stared down at the sprawled figure. The faint was no ruse, she was unconscious and the bed looked as though…as though he had ravished her on it.
Quinn fought back the feeling of nausea, got to his feet and struck a flame. When he had a pair of candles lit he assessed the damage. His hands, raked by her nails, were already stiffening and her nightgown was marked with his blood. When he lifted the candlestick he could see red grooves where the sheet had wound tight around her throat. The bedding was churned into chaos by her struggles and her legs were bare from mid-thigh down.
He could not call for a maid, not and hope to explain this, but he could not leave her, either. Quinn pulled off his neckcloth, ripped it into strips and bound his hands to keep the blood from staining anything else, then he lifted Celina’s limp form off the bed and on to the chaise. He smoothed the nightgown down over her legs and found the blanket, tossed to the floor, and put it over her. Then he made the bed. There was no blood on that, thankfully.
There was nothing to be done about her marked throat and bloodstained nightgown. Quinn eased Celina up into his arms again and turned back to the bed before he realised he could not simply tuck her in and leave her to wake in the morning to find herself in that state. He was going to have to stay until she woke. As he lowered her towards the bed she stirred, murmured and her arms tightened around his neck.
Now what? He could hardly lie down with her; it would be enough to send her into hysterics, waking up to find him in her bed. She burrowed her head snugly into his shoulder and clung, limp and trusting and deep in an exhausted sleep. Hell. Quinn sat down on the chaise, leaned back, swung up his legs and settled Celina as best he could against himself. It was going to be a long night.
Quinn woke to the sound of a faint scratching. He reached out a hand for his knife, then found he was entangled with a body. Celina? The memory of the night before came back with horrible precision as the door opened and an arm appeared, the hand clutching his boots. They were lowered to the floor just inside. Gregor. He whistled softly and the Russian’s head appeared, his expression comical as he took in bed and chaise. Then he frowned, his eyes focused on Quinn’s bandaged hands.
Go away, Quinn mouthed.
The other man’s eyebrows shot up, then he grinned. Goodbye, he mouthed back and the door closed as silently as it had opened.
Quinn let his head sink back against the curved rail of the chaise and stared up at the ceiling in the dawn light. Gregor was off to London now, thinking heavens knew what, but Celina would wake soon. She was already stirring, her lips moving against his throat where his shirt had come open when he took off his neckcloth.