Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

"This lock is worthless," he said, inserting the pin. "A child can pick it."

"You are not to—Esmond—Don't you even think of—"

The door shuddered as she hurled her weight against it. But he'd already released the lock. He pushed the door open, and she backed away.

"You bastard."

"Yes, I know you are vexed," he said. "I am not so tranquil myself." Gently he shut the door behind him. "That is a very bad lock. I will tell Gaspard to install a better one."

"If you don't leave this instant, I shall tell Gaspard to throw you out." She snatched up a poker. "I'm warning you, Esmond."

"I advise you not to strike me with the poker," he said. "There will be much blood, and it will make you sick. Also, if you kill me, there will be no one to help you deal with the police. There will be another inquest, more disagreeable than the last one."

He approached, extracted the poker from her stiff fingers, and returned it to the stand.

"I cannot believe you have the effrontery to come in here—to break into my room," she said in a choked voice. "I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to look at you. I cannot believe you can be so—so insensitive."

"I am not insensitive," he said. "I have feelings, and you have hurt them. What did I do that you thrust me from you, as though I were some filthy dog?"

"That's not what I did. I left."

"In a rage. What did I do that was so abominable?"

"It wasn't you!" She retreated, pressing her hands to her temples. "It's—I'm sorry. I know I gave you every reason to believe—Gad."

She stared at the carpet, her face crimson. "I know I behaved in a—I made an advance. I know it wasn't you. I'd told you no—and then I...succumbed. As they all do. Crawling over you like—like the rest of them. Just as he said. Like maggots. Just like every other wh-whore." Her voice broke.

"You are so crazy." He scooped her up in his arms and swiftly deposited her upon the bed. While she was still trying to catch her breath, he propped up the pillows behind her and nudged her back against them.

"You are not spending the night," she said shakily.

"That has become obvious," he said. "I am here because I wish to know how I distressed you. I do not know what I have done—whether I alarmed you or disgusted you—or how I did this."

She rubbed her eyes. "It has nothing to do with your curst technique."

"So I am discovering." He gave her his handkerchief. “This appears to be a question of character."

"And morals. Mine, that is. Since you haven't any."

He seated himself on the bed near her feet, and leaned against the bedpost. "I do have rules, though," he told her. "One of them is not to become romantically entangled during a delicate investigation. It is distracting, and distraction at best impedes efficiency. At worst, it is dangerous. The trouble, in your case, is that the effort to resist becomes a worse distraction."

She pushed her hair out of her face. "To resist? You've shown no signs of resisting. On the contrary—"

"Yes, I leave it to you and, worse, I try to make resisting as difficult for you as I can." He smiled. "I know. But I cannot resist, you see?"

She scowled down at the handkerchief. "It hardly matters what you resist or don't. I started it—and took my damned time about ending it."

"That does not make you a whore. And certainly not a maggot—'crawling' over me, you said."

"Well, I did throw myself at you, didn't I?"

"'Crawling...like maggots...just as he said.' Those were your words a moment ago. Just as who said? Your husband?"

She began to fold the handkerchief. "In Paris, before we left, Francis told me the tarts swarmed over you like maggots on a ripe cheese."

"A vivid image." He considered. "Calculated, very likely. It is an image you would find especially repellent, non? And one which I should have the greatest difficulty eradicating. It appears he made it so that any attraction you might feel for me would give you great self-disgust, for you would see yourself as another maggot. Very clever," he added softly, "the way in which he poisoned your mind against me." He wondered what other kinds of poison Beaumont had fed her, and whether it was simply the one revolting image which had driven her away.

"Was it poison?" she asked without looking up. She was folding the handkerchief into smaller and smaller squares. "Was he lying?"

"When could he have observed such a thing?" he returned. "At orgies, perhaps? Is that how you imagine I spend my time? Lying in some brothel or opium den, with naked females by the dozens, writhing in lust about me?"

Her rising color told him he'd guessed accurately.

"Why not?" she said. "I've certainly noted the debilitating effect you have on apparently respectable women at reputable gatherings."

"I have noticed you have a similar effect on men," he said. "Yet I do not imagine hosts of them crawling over your beautiful body. Only one. Me. And the image does not repel in any way. Au contraire," he said softly. "I find it most appealing."

She looked up. "Because you're a man. You've nothing to lose. As long as you keep within certain very wide boundaries, every conquest is marked to your credit."

By heaven, could she think nothing but ill of him? But this wasn't her fault, Ismal reminded himself. Her husband had poisoned her mind.

"Only if I flaunt them," he said, striving for patience. "And as to conquest—that is a matter of perspective. I told you my rules. And so, in our case, who has conquered whom, do you think?"

"I never cast lures!" she cried. "Even tonight. I only came to wake you up. And then..." She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple.

Just as she had done earlier, Ismal recalled. She'd made the same gesture a moment before she'd had the tantrum. Warily, he came off the bed

. "Your head aches?" he asked.

Her eyes ominously bright with unshed tears, she turned away.

And Ismal cursed himself for what he'd done, whatever it was. Many people had such vulnerable spots, he knew: places where all forms of trouble—shock, grief, guilt, fear—settled and became a chronic physical ailment. His own troubles sometimes settled upon the scar in his side. Though the wound had healed years ago, it could throb as though freshly opened.

So her head must throb, because he'd opened a wound, made trouble. Because he was trouble to her, he amended unhappily. Years before, he'd opened the door that let Beaumont into her life, to wound and scar her, and now Ismal, the cause, reaped the results. A fitting punishment, he thought as he moved to the head of the bed.

"I can make it go away," he said gently.

"Don't touch me."

The words hurt more than he could have imagined. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss and caress, and drive all the trouble away with sweet pleasure. He wanted to hold her, shield her from all that caused her pain. Yet he knew shame hurt her most at this moment, and he was the cause. The only way to ease her pain was to tell the truth.

"It was not your doing," he said. "I was a villain to let you think so. I pretended to be asleep, so that you would come to wake me."

Still she wouldn't look at him. "I didn't have to touch you."

The self-loathing he heard in her voice twisted like a blade in his heart.

"I invited it," he said. "I know very well how to invite—in ways you cannot begin to imagine. And whether you had touched me or not, it would have made no difference. All I needed was to have you within reach. The rest was...seduction. For which I have no small talent. And, since you are strongly opposed to being seduced, I exerted this talent to the utmost."

She turned a wary golden gaze upon him. "Talent," she said. "You're telling me it was all guile—planned, from the start?"

"I could not help it," he said. "I want you very much. I have wanted you...for a very long time. I do not know how to make it stop. It is unmanageable, this desire. And so, I am unmanageable. I cannot even apologize. I am not sorry, except that I have distressed you. But even that is selfish. The truth is, I am sorry because you were distressed enough to leave my arms." He paused. "The truth is, I came to lure you back."