Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners 3)

"You seem to have no fear of heights, Miss Miller," he commented.

"I'm not afraid of anything," she said confidently.

"Everyone is afraid of something."

"Oh?" She sent him a provocative glance. "What could a man like you possibly fear?"

To her surprise, he answered seriously. "I'm not fond of enclosed places."

The gravity in his tone made her heart thump heavily. What a voice he had, deep with a tantalizing raspiness, as if he had just awakened from a heavy sleep. The sound seemed to gather at the top of her spine and slide downward like heated honey. "Neither am I," she admitted.

They stopped at the door of the south tower, where many of the upper servants, including herself, were housed. Light streamed from the glittering windows and pooled onto the graveled paths. Now Lottie saw that his hair was not black but brown. A rich, dark shade of brown, the short glossy strands containing every shade between maple and sable. She wanted to touch his hair and feel it slide through her fingers. The immediacy of the urge confounded her.

Stepping backward, she gave him a regretful smile. "Good-bye, my lord. And thank you for being a most agreeable escort."

"Wait," he said, with an urgent note in his voice. "Will I see you again, Miss Miller?"

"No, my lord. I fear my time is fully occupied by the dowager countess."

The words did not dissuade him-she saw it in his eyes. "Miss Miller-"

"Good-bye," she repeated warmly. "I wish you a very pleasant stay, my lord." She left swiftly, conscious of his unnerving regard.

As soon as Lottie reached her room, she locked the door and sighed. Since she had come to Stony Cross Park, she had often been approached by male guests who had made overtures to her. Until tonight she had never been tempted by any of them, no matter how handsome or accomplished. After her experience with Lord Radnor, she wanted nothing to do with men.

Had Radnor been kind instead of calculating, gentle instead of dominating, Lottie would have been able to reconcile herself to the prospect of marrying him. However, Radnor's intentions had been clear from the beginning. He wanted to control every aspect of her existence. He planned to destroy every facet of the person she was and replace her with a being of his own creation. Marriage to him would have literally been worse than death.

Her parents had refused to acknowledge the obvious, as they desperately needed Radnor's financial patronage. And it had grieved Lottie to leave them, as she was well aware of the repercussions they would face. She was often haunted by guilt, knowing that she should have sacrificed herself to Radnor for their benefit. However, the instinct of self-preservation had been too strong. In the end, she couldn't keep from bolting, and somehow providence had led her to Hampshire.

As Lottie had expected, her freedom had come with a price. She often awakened sweat-soaked and cold from nightmares of being dragged back to Radnor. It was impossible to forget-even for a moment-that he had sent people to look for her. Any perception of safety was illusory. Although her life at Stony Cross Park was pleasant, she was trapped here as surely as the birds in the aviary, their wings clipped to make them into animals neither of the ground nor of the air. She could not go anywhere, or do anything, without knowing that she would be found someday. And that had made her doomed and defiant, and unable to trust anyone. Even a handsome young man with haunting blue eyes.

Rather than return to the al fresco party, Nick went to his own room. His trunk and traveling case had already been unpacked by the servants. His clothes were neatly stacked in the mahogany gentleman's chest and hung in the armoire, which was redolent with the scent of cloves.

Impatiently Nick shed his coat, waistcoat, and his gray silk cravat. Stripping off his shirt, he bunched it in one hand and used it to blot the sheen of sweat on his face, neck, and chest. After dropping the wadded-up linen to the floor, he sat on the bed, which had been fitted into an alcove opposite the door. He removed his shoes and stockings, and lay back clad in only his black trousers, his gaze directed at the wood-paneled ceiling of the alcove.

He finally understood Radnor's obsession.

Charlotte Howard was the most bewitching woman he had ever met. She radiated a remarkable force of will that somehow conveyed the impression of movement even when she stood still. Her body, her face, every part of her was a perfect amalgam of delicacy and strength. He wanted to sink inside that vibrant warmth, ride her to peacefulness, and bury his face amid the silky curves of her breasts. He imagined her relaxed and smiling, her skin flushed from his caresses as they lay together in bed.

No wonder Radnor wanted her. And yet in his attempts to possess her, the earl would soon extinguish everything that made her so desirable.

Nick knew it would be relatively easy to whisk Charlotte away to London before the Westcliffs were fully aware of what was happening. He supposed he should do it in the morning, using the element of surprise to his advantage. Deeply troubled, he laced his fingers behind his head."I'm not afraid of anything," Charlotte had told him. Although he didn't believe that, he admired her for saying it. Of course Charlotte was afraid-she knew what Radnor would do to her when she returned. However, that was not Nick's concern. His only responsibility was to do what he had been paid for.

On the other hand...

There was no need for haste. Why not stay at Stony Cross Park for a few days? He would not be required to report at Bow Street for another two weeks, and the woods of Hampshire were far preferable to the soggy, ill-smelling mess of London. If he remained here for an extra day or two, he would be able to learn more about Charlotte. He needed to find out if she was all that she seemed to be.

Rolling to his side, Nick considered the idea. He had never broken his own rules before, one of them being that he never allowed himself to develop personal familiarity with his prey. However, he had never been one to respect rules, even his own.

The thought of Charlotte made him hot and irritable and thoroughly aroused. Gemma had ended their arrangement six months ago, and he had been celibate ever since. It wasn't that he lacked desire...in fact, he was burning with unspent passion. And he had met many willing women. But he was not interested in the ordinary or the mundane. He wanted a woman who could provide the sexual intensity he needed. Such a woman would either be inordinately experienced in the bedroom...or not experienced at all.

Reaching over the side of the bed, Nick searched in the discarded heap of his clothes and found the miniature. With an expertise born of habit, he pressed the catch of the enameled case and flipped it open. Settling on his back, he stared into Charlotte's exquisite little face.

Is it you?he thought, tracing the line of her cheek with his fingertip. Desire filled his c**k and caused it to stiffen unmercifully. His lashes lowered slightly as he continued to watch the tiny painted face, and his hand slid down to the aching jut of his arousal.

As was her daily habit, Lottie took an early-morning walk across the landscape of Stony Cross, over steep hills covered in heather or forest, past bogs and ponds and glades that teemed with life. Most of the guests at the manor, including Lady Westcliff, slept late and took breakfast at the hour of ten. However, Lottie had never been able to adapt to such a schedule. She needed some form of exercise to rid herself of an excess of nervous energy. On the days when it was too cold or stormy to walk, she fidgeted inside until Lady Westcliff erupted in exasperation.

Lottie had devised three or four different walks, each lasting approximately an hour. This morning she chose the one that began along Hill Road, crossed through a medieval oak and hazel forest, and passed the source of a local spring called the Wishing Well. It was a cool, damp morning typical of the beginning of May, and Lottie drew in deep breaths of the earth-scented air. Dressed in a gown with loose ankle-length skirts, her feet shod in sturdy mid-calf boots, Lottie trod energetically away from Westcliff Manor. She followed a sandy track that led into the forest, while natterjack toads hopped out of the path of her oncoming boots. The trees rustled overhead, the wind carrying the cries of nuthatches and whitethroats. A huge, ungainly buzzard flapped its way toward the nearby bogs in search of breakfast.

Suddenly Lottie caught sight of a dark shape ahead. It was a man, roaming through the forest, his outline partially obscured in the mist. A poacher, perhaps. Although Lottie stopped at some distance, he had unusually sharp hearing. His head turned as a twig snapped beneath her boot.

Lottie held her ground as he approached. She recognized him at once, the fluid, almost catlike grace of his movements. He was casually dressed in shirt-sleeves and a black waistcoat, with boots and decidedly ancient breeches. Lord Sydney...looking disreputable and indecently handsome. She was surprised to see him there, when all the other guests at Westcliff Manor were still abed. Even more surprising was her own reaction to him, a surge of excitement and gladness.

"Good morning," Lord Sydney said, a faint smile playing on his lips. His dark hair was disheveled, and his cravat had been carelessly tied.

"I wouldn't have expected you to be out at this hour," she said cheerfully.

"I never sleep past sunrise."

Lottie nodded toward the path he had been contemplating. "Were you planning to go that way? I wouldn't advise it."

"Why not?"

"That path leads to marshy ponds and very deep bogs. One unfortunate step, and you could find yourself drowning in mud-that is, if you haven't been done in by raft spiders or snakes." She shook her head in feigned regret. "We've lost some very nice guests that way."

He smiled lazily. "I don't suppose you would care to recommend an alternate route?"

"If you go the other way, you'll come to a bridle path that leads to a sunken lane. Follow it to the gatehouse garden, go through the opening in the hedge, and you'll find a path that takes you to the top of a hill. From there you can see lakes, villages, forests, all spread before you...the view is breathtaking."

"Is that where you're headed?"

She shook her head and replied impudently, "No, I am going in the opposite direction."

"But who will save me from the bogs?"

She laughed. "You can't accompany me, my lord. It would neither be seemly nor wise."

If they were seen together, it would cause gossip. And it would most certainly displease Lady Westcliff, who had warned her never to take a "follower," as it was politely called.

"Do you wish to be alone?" Lord Sydney asked. A new expression crossed his face, so quick and subtle that hardly anyone would have noticed it. "Forgive me. Once again I have trespassed on your solitude."

Lottie wondered at what she had seen in his eyes for that fragment of a second...a desolation so vast and impenetrable that it shocked her. What could have caused it? He had everything a person required to be content...freedom, wealth, looks, social position. There was no reason for him to be anything other than ecstatic over his lot in life. But he was unhappy, and everything in her nature compelled her to offer him comfort. "I am rather too accustomed to solitude," she said softly. "Perhaps some company would be a pleasant change."

"If you're certain-"

"Yes, come along." She gave his athletic form a deliberately challenging glance. "I only hope that you'll be able to keep pace with me."

"I'll try," he assured her wryly, falling into step beside her as she continued her walk.

They approached the trunk of a huge oak that had fallen across the path. Insects buzzed lazily through the rays of strengthening sunlight that streamed in from above. "Look," Lottie said, gesturing to a dragonfly as it flew and dipped before them. "There are more than a dozen varieties of dragonfly in this forest, and at least a hundred different moths. If you come at dusk, you can see purple hairstreak butterflies-they gather right there at the tops of the tr-"

"Miss Miller," he interrupted, "I'm a Londoner. We don't care about insects, except to consider how they may best be exterminated."

Lottie heaved a theatrical sigh, as if vexed by his lack of interest in the subject. "All right, then. I will refrain from describing the many varieties of aquatic beetle we have here."

"Thank you," came his fervent reply. "Here, allow me to help you over that oak-"

"No need."

Lottie hopped onto the fallen trunk and walked along the gnarled surface, showing off her physical coordination with no trace of modesty. When her efforts were greeted with silence, she glanced over her shoulder and discovered Sydney walking right behind her, his footing as sure and easy as a cat's. A startled laugh escaped her as she made her way to the end of the trunk. "You are quite agile for a gentleman of your size."

Lord Sydney let the comment pass, his mouth twisting to indicate that his agility was of no consequence. "Why did you become a lady's companion?" he asked as Lottie jumped to the ground, her feet rustling through the brittle layer of leaves. He followed her, landing in the same spot she had. Curiously, he did not make nearly as much noise as she had, despite the fact that he was easily twice her weight.

Lottie chose her words with great care. She disliked talking about her past-not only was it dangerous but the subject filled her with melancholy. "My family is poor. There was no other choice for me."

"You could have married."

"I've never met anyone that I wanted to marry."

"Not even Lord Westcliff?"

"Lord Westcliff?" she repeated in surprise. "Why would I have designs on him?"

"He's wealthy and titled, and you've resided beneath his roof for two years," came Sydney's sardonic reply. "Why wouldn't you?"

Lottie frowned thoughtfully. It wasn't as if the earl was unappealing-quite the opposite, in fact. Westcliff was an attractive man who shouldered his responsibilities and considered it unmanly to complain about them. In addition to his own strict morality, Lord Westcliff possessed a dry wit and a carefully concealed sense of compassion, and as Lottie had discreetly observed, he employed his courteous manners as skillfully as a weapon. Women were drawn to him, although Lottie was not one of them. She sensed that she did not have the key to unlock his innate reserve...nor had she ever been tempted to trust him with the reason for her uncompromising solitude.

"Naturally a man of Westcliff's position would never entertainthat kind of interest in a lady's companion," she said in reply to Lord Sydney's question. "But even if we were on the same social footing, I am certain that the earl would never regard me in that way, nor I him. Our relationship-if one could call it that-does not possess that particular..." She paused, searching for an appropriate word. "Alchemy."