Midnight's Wild Passion

She didn’t sound outraged. She sounded as though she expected nothing better of him. She almost sounded . . . fond.

Silly girl. One shouldn’t be fond of a hungry tiger. One should be terrified.

Right now, he didn’t feel like a tiger. He felt like a man incapable of offering aid to the woman he . . . desired. He felt left out and bereft and furious that the brief moment of her company was almost over.

Her company? Good God, get him a gun. He needed to shoot himself before he started writing poetry praising the arch of the wench’s eyebrow.

He trailed her inside and set the pails on the bare floorboards. The air was redolent of Antonia’s scent, reminding him of holding her in his arms. The room was tiny, with one mean little window high over the bed. Compared to her luxurious London bedchamber, this was a hovel. Small and stuffy. Shabby and spartan.

Mess was everywhere. But of course she’d had her hands full the last five days nursing Cassie. This disorder was mute testament to how frantic she’d been.

She’d tossed clothes willy-nilly across the narrow bed. He noticed a virginal white night rail among the browns, grays, and rusty blacks. Ridiculous really, but the sight of her nightwear made his heart beat faster.

He’d sworn to show no hesitation when he got her to himself. He had her to himself now, but grimly recognized this was neither time nor place. Even in a house turned upside down, if he was caught in Antonia’s bedroom, there would be hell to pay.

And she, given the world they lived in, would pay it.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice, staring at him with a blankness he found discomfiting.

Hell, don’t let her cry. He couldn’t bear it if she cried.

“Oh, for God’s sake, sit down,” he growled, folding his arms and glaring at her. He kept his voice low, aware they could be overheard. “You’re safe enough.”

She was too dispirited to argue. Instead she slumped onto the bed amid the drab chaos of what looked like her complete wardrobe.

Frustration swirled in his belly, along with the desire and curiosity and unwelcome admiration that Antonia always aroused. He guessed she meant to race in to check on Cassie the minute he left. He wanted to demand she seize a moment’s respite, but he couldn’t find the heart to say it. The misery and anxiety in her expression were indications that she loved the girl. A woman of her stubborn nature would fight to the death to save anyone she loved.

Lucky Cassie. . .

He smothered the thought before it stuck its claws into him. Love was a tiresome emotion. He wanted none of it. He never had. His experience indicated that any profession of love masked a million selfish demands. But even so, Antonia’s unstinting devotion to her charge touched something deep inside him.

The moment extended. Became uncomfortable.

“I should go.” He turned toward the door but didn’t take the two steps across the room.

“Yes.” She bent her head and stared down at the hands she twined in her lap.

Chapter Ten

Ranelaw had every intention of leaving. This was no place for a heartless devil like him. With Cassie next door, he couldn’t seduce Antonia. Anyway, even desperate as he was, he rebelled at taking her for the first time on that narrow cot.

His feet seemed nailed to the floor.

Antonia looked fragile. A word he’d never before associated with the gallant Miss Smith. His eyes dwelled on the graceful droop of her slender neck under what seemed an impossible weight of silvery hair. She’d caught it up in a loose style Miss Smith would usually disdain but which was infernally becoming. Her shoulders rounded and the graceful hands twisting in her lap were distressingly thin.

Clearly she hadn’t been eating. Clearly she’d hardly slept. Even before Cassie fell ill, Ranelaw had tormented her nights. Cur that he was, he’d been proud of his ability to disturb her peace. He didn’t feel proud now.

He should go. She was tired and distracted. She wanted to be alone.

He shifted. And ended up sitting beside her.

“Ranelaw?” she whispered, shooting him a nervous glance.

She seemed so young, not at all the dragon chaperone from Millicent Wreston’s ballroom. Ridiculous now to think her disguise had fooled him even briefly.

“Shh,” he said softly, feeling awkward himself.

He wasn’t used to entering a lady’s bedroom with any purpose other than fornication. Right now, he had no intention of dragging her under him, much as he desired her.