Scandal In Scotland Part 5

She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair, considering all the people she knew well enough for them to wish her either harm or true good, and realized that the list was short indeed. Over the years she'd become very private, only going to and from the theater, riding most mornings with Colchester to remind the world that they were supposedly a couple, and visiting Grandmamma. She simply didn't know anyone well enough to have an enemy.

She s.h.i.+fted restlessly. This whole situation reminded her of one of the mystery plays that the theater put on for the afternoon and early evening crowds for a penny ticket.

She rose to pull the script from her bag and then returned to her chair to read.

Two hours later, just as Marcail was beginning to doze, a knock sounded on the door, startling her. "Finally," she grumbled as she rose to her stockinged feet. She tossed her script on the bed, grabbed her boots, and stepped into them. Not bothering to lace them, she hurried to the dresser to repin her hair.

The knock sounded again, more insistent.

"One moment!" Miss Challoner certainly was anxious to get her hands on the artifact.

Marcail glanced at her portmanteau. What is the value of that thing, anyway? I wish I knew.

The knock sounded again, even louder this time, and she called out in an exasperated tone, "I'll be right there!"

She slipped in just enough hairpins to keep the hair off her shoulders and then went to the door. She undid the lock and swung it open. "Miss Challoner-"

William Hurst swooped her up like a sack of sand, tucking her under his arm, against his hip. Her hair immediately fell from its few pins as his drenched clothes soaked hers. "You're wet! d.a.m.n it, William, put me down!"

"Like h.e.l.l." He crossed the room while she squirmed and kicked. "Hold still or you'll hurt yourself."

That made her madder and she squirmed even harder, kicking with all of her might. Her toes slammed into the dresser, one unlaced boot flying off. "Owww!" she yelled.

"I warned you."

"Put me doooooooown! I swear to heaven, if you don't-"

He tightened his hold until she could only gasp, no other sound fleeing her lips. She fisted her hands and pummeled his thigh as hard as she could.

"Stop that at once."

William's voice cracked the order and Marcail instinctively stopped. Perhaps it was just as well, for her toes throbbed. There was a time to fight and a time to scheme. Now was a good Scheming Time.

He reached the bed and tossed her onto the mattress, then returned to the door and locked it.

Marcail took the moment to sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the portmanteau on the floor, by her feet.

She quickly spread her skirts as if to shake them back into their intended folds. Hidden by this gesture, she shoved the portmanteau under the bed with her heel. It went partway but then stopped, blocked by some unseen object.

She'd just have to keep her skirts over it.

William tucked the key into his waistcoat pocket and leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he regarded her with a self-satisfied smile. "Well, here we are. I'd offer you some drugged port, but unfortunately I don't have any."

She pushed her hair from her face and pulled it all to one side. "So ... here we are. We can't seem to stay away from each other lately."

"I'd be happy to stay away from you, if I could. I want that artifact."

"That's too bad. I already delivered it to its rightful owner."

"Who happens to be my brother. He purchased it in Egypt several months ago."

"He stole it, so he was not the rightful owner."

"Is that what you were told?"

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. "It's the truth ... isn't it?"

He sent her a look of such disgust that her face warmed. "You don't even know for certain, do you? What in the h.e.l.l is going on, Marcail?"

Her heart sank to her stomach as she read the truth in William's face. It was a lie. It was all a lie. She shouldn't have been surprised, for her blackmailer was anything but honorable. Feeling as if she might be ill, she smoothed her skirts and said in a tight voice, "I was told it was stolen and I should deliver it to the rightful owner."

"Who is that? Who is this 'rightful owner'?"

She shrugged, pretending indifference though she wondered the same. She'd accepted without question the story told to her simply because it had been easier not to ask questions.

William raked a hand through his wet hair, slicking it away from his face, his dark blue gaze locked upon her. Many men would look foolish with their hair plastered back, but the severe style worked for William, emphasizing the strong angles of his face.

He wasn't conventionally handsome like Colchester, who seemed soft compared to William. Bold lines drew William's jaw and brow, while his dark blue gaze, shadowed by a sensual sweep of lashes, was piercing and unflinching. He appeared exactly as he was-strong, determined, and indomitable. At one time, she'd loved to lie at his side in bed and trace his profile with the tip of her finger. Now he barely tolerated her presence.

"You're lying." His words were firm, spoken without question.

"I am not. I was told the artifact belonged to someone else."

"I don't think you believed that any more than I do."

"I believed it," she retorted. "I still do."

His gaze narrowed and he watched her for a long moment before he shook his head. "No. You're lying. You didn't believe it when you heard it, and you don't believe it now."

Marcail dropped her gaze to where her feet peeped out from beneath her skirts, one booted and one not as her heart tripped uncertainly. He can't tell if I'm lying or not. He must be bluffing, too.

Well, she knew how to deal with a bluffer. She raised her chin and met his gaze with calm certainty. "It doesn't matter what I think or don't think; the artifact is gone."

He looked around the room. "Where is it?"

She forced herself to laugh. "Still the same stubborn William."

"Still the same deceitful Marcail," he retorted, his gaze landing upon her trunk. He crossed to it and tried the lid. "It's locked?"

She shrugged.

His mouth tightened. "Fine. I'll open it in my own way." He lifted a foot and kicked the trunk.

She winced, biting back a protest.

He kicked again and again. Finally, the back hinges gave way and the trunk fell over on its side.

"That was a waste. Your artifact is not in there."

William reached down and upended the trunk. A rainbow of silk gowns and shoes tumbled onto the floor, twined about a handful of the finest lawn chemises.

She had to fight the urge to jump up and collect her belongings, but she couldn't do so without revealing the portmanteau. She was forced to settle for a tight, "You're going to pay for those."

"I already have." He stirred the clothes with one foot, his wet boot marring the silks.

"Oh, for the love of-William! Get your muddy boots out of my clothes! You're ruining them!"

He bent down and picked up an especially sheer lawn chemise. "Very nice. I suppose Colchester bought this for you."

"No, I bought it for myself. The gaslights are very hot in the theater and a lighter chemise is much cooler."

He threw it back on the floor and picked up a long silk night rail. He held it aloft, his blue eyes locked with hers. "Since when did you start wearing a night rail to bed?"

Her cheeks burned. "A gentleman wouldn't speak of the delicate details of a past relations.h.i.+p."

"And a lady wouldn't have such details in her past," he retorted.

She supposed she deserved that. He was right, anyway. She didn't used to wear a night rail to bed, but after she'd left him all those years ago, she'd been achingly lonely, especially at night. Wearing a night rail had made her feel less exposed and vulnerable. She shrugged. "A lot has changed since then."

He dropped the night rail beside the chemise. "I'm sure it has." He glanced around. "Did you bring any other luggage?"

"No, just the trunk."

He went to the dresser, and methodically removed each drawer, looking under and behind them as well as inside.

"You're wasting your time, Hurst."

He ignored her, searching the entire room before finally coming to stand before her with a frown.

While he'd been busy, so had she. Behind her skirts, she'd used her one booted heel to press hard against the portmanteau. It had s.h.i.+fted a tiny bit, then slid out of sight.

She shot a glance at the door. What if Miss Challoner arrived now? Both of them were intent on getting the onyx box. She had to get William out of here as soon as possible. Somehow, some way, she had to. "As you have seen for yourself, the artifact is gone."

He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels as if readying himself for a gale. "I know you, Marcail Beauchamp, and I know you are lying."

The quiet, certain way he spoke gave her pause. She regarded him from beneath her lashes, annoyed by how he so easily dominated the room. He was so large and so present.

His gaze suddenly narrowed. "Stand."

She gripped the bedclothes on each side. "William, I don't-"

"Get up now."

"Why? You can see that I'm-"

"If you don't stand up I shall lift you-and there will be a price to pay."

She was so d.a.m.ned frustrated with being ordered about by everyone! The unknown blackmailer, the mysterious Miss Challoner, and now William. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I am staying right where I am. You forced your way in here, tossed me about like a rag doll, threw all of my clothing upon the floor and stepped on it with your nasty boots, and now you think you can tell me what to do? I'm done with having no say in the matter. You can see that I don't have the artifact so there's nothing more to be said." She lifted her chin.

He watched her with a deadly calm. "Don't push me."

Her temper hot, she said haughtily, "Didn't you hear me? There is no reason for you to stay. You will leave now."

To her surprise and unease, he turned and grasped the chair she'd been sitting in earlier, and placed it beside the bed. He sat in it and gave it a not very gentle shake. "Seems firm enough."

"Firm enough for what?"

"For this." With that, he leaned forward and grasped her wrist. With a hard yank, he pulled her off the bed and toward him.

She wore only one boot and that one unlaced. She tried to keep her one shoe on, but as he propelled her forward, she stepped on her own lace, tripped, and fell toward him.

His other hand shot out as quickly as a snake, and he caught her easily, pulling her across his lap, facedown, her hair spilling over her so that her vision was obscured. In that instant, she knew what he intended to do and her hands went to cover her bottom, but he was too quick. He caught her wrists, gathered them in his hand, and easily held them to one side. "Oh no, my little liar. There is no getting out of this. You've deserved to be spanked since I first met you, and now I shall finally have my wish."

A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William from old Alexandria.

While looking among some ancient texts located in the private library of a sulfi with whom she's become very familiar, Miss Smythe-Haughton found something very interesting last night. She has a tendency to become a "favorite" of men of power. While it has opened some doors, it is most annoying.

My a.s.sistant seems to think she's found a reference to an amulet that might be the Hurst Amulet. If she's right, it could mean that I've been looking for the blasted thing in the wrong country. Perhaps even the wrong continent.

It is very exasperating to expend so much effort trying to find something and then be told bluntly that you were "wrong, wrong, wrong." Why do I put up with that woman?

CHAPTER 6.

For a moment, Marcail tried to catch her breath, intensely embarra.s.sed by the way she'd landed. She put her hands on the edge of the chair and tried to right herself, but William's arms came to rest on her, one just below her bottom and the other over her back.

Marcail grasped William's calf and tried to push herself upright, but he held her tight. Had any other man held her thusly, she would be concerned for her safety, but while angry, no flicker of fear touched her. He would never purposefully hurt her. He was far too protective of his own sisters to ever cross that line.

Still, she wouldn't tamely accept being held in such a ridiculous position. She twisted so she could see him.

"Let me up!" she demanded, pus.h.i.+ng with all of her strength, but to no avail.

"I warned you there would be a cost if you made this difficult."

"William, don't you dare-"

His hand rested on her bottom, warm through her skirts.

She stilled, her heart beating an odd rhythm against her breastbone. She was a mish mosh of emotions, frightened by the ease with which he wielded power over her, angry with her own inability to dismiss him, and infused by an odd yearning at the feel of his hands on her.

At one time, she'd felt she would never get enough of his touch, an illness she thought she'd cured. But had she?

His hand cupped her bottom through her skirts, and then slid gently down her legs.