Part 10 (1/2)
”Slowly, take your time.”
The amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice served to rile her. Defiantly, she drained the gla.s.s. ”What does it matter if I'm drunk? You've already made me penniless.”
”It was your choice to play so high, not mine,” he said pointedly. ”If you are now penniless, you have no-one but yourself to blame.”
The truth of the remark hit her like a deluge of ice-cold water. Isabella slumped back in the chair. What had seemed, when she started out tonight, like an inspired solution to her problems, had left her worse off than before, for now she did not even have her pearls.
”You are right. I beg your pardon,” she said, shakily placing the empty gla.s.s down on a side table. ”You are the winner, and I the loser.” She rose to leave.
”You don't have to be.” It was a crazy notion, but he felt fate had sent her to him. He could see his own concealed desperation reflected in her beautiful eyes. And something else. Defiance in the face of defeat. He recognised that, too, from the battlefield. Unusual in a woman. Admirable. And very, very desirable. Like a call to arms.
Isabella eyed him uncertainly. ”I've already given you all my winnings. I have nothing else to offer.”
He towered over her. There was an animal grace in the way he moved. She was conscious of the palpable maleness of him. His laugh was like a low growl of pleasure. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ”The sum you've lost means nothing to me. In any event, I'll wager you have much more need of it than I.”
Her smile was twisted. ”You can have no idea.”
A long finger under her chin. Amber eyes looked deep into her own. ”You can have it back if you agree to my terms.”
She held his gaze proudly, her heart thumping. ”I am not a courtesan. I won't be bought.”
Ewan placed the money casually in front of her. ”I don't want to buy you. All I ask is that you agree to take part in another, different sort of wager.”
Isabella tore her eyes from the money to his face. ”What kind?”
Aware he was behaving outlandishly, conscious that his mind was excited from brandy, Ewan eyed her speculatively. Her lovely countenance was flushed. Excitement there was in her striking eyes, in the rapid rise and fall of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Defiance and daring, too. Beautiful. And highly alluring.
It was an impulse, nothing more. He wanted to see how far she could be pushed. Had no real intention of seeing it through, though he knew deep down even then, that whatever it took he could not let her go. ”You spend three nights with me. The outcome each night will be dependant upon the fall of the dice. The winner to decide what happens between us. Anything...” he heard himself say, unable quite to believe he was uttering the words ”...or nothing at all, if your luck holds. What do you say?”
Ewan's smile entreated trust, but Isabella was not fooled. He had the look of a lion confronted with a wary prey. She swallowed her instinctive flat refusal and forced herself to think rationally. The money would allow her to fulfil the plan which brought her here in the first place. This was her last chance, and she knew it. In the past three months she had exhausted all other avenues. But what price might she pay in the three nights which lay between now and then?
The man in front of her was a complete stranger, known to her only by reputation, and a disreputable one at that. If he won, and the odds were that he would on at least one occasion, she would have to give herself to him. Shocking to even consider it. Scandalous. No lady in her right mind would. And yet were not the circ.u.mstances so extreme as to justify the gamble? Would it not be more scandalous still to let this unexpected final opportunity to provide desperately needed salvation slip through her fingers?
In any event, the fates might favour her and allow her to win all three throws of the dice. She had been lucky tonight, until the last. She might be again. And if she was not? She probed deep, but could find only a strange quiver of excitement at the prospect. What was convention after all, when the stakes were so high?
”Why not, Captain Dalgleish?” she finally said, with a shaky laugh. ”I agree to your wager.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips, soft against her skin. ”Ewan,” he said, ”my name is Ewan. And what might yours be, my fair opponent?”
”Belle,” she replied instinctively.
”Belle,” he whispered. ”I would not have had you for a Belle, but it describes you well enough.” Now was the time to laugh, to pa.s.s it off as a jest. Now was the time to step back. Instead, he kissed her, and in doing so hurtled both of them irretrievably beyond the point of no return.
Gently, he kissed her, his lips cool against her own, his fingers tangling in her elaborate coiffure to tilt her head up. Isabella stood compliant, her mind numbed, conscious only of his mouth, his fingertips, the nearness and heat of his body. She was alarmed by the power she sensed there, yet rea.s.sured by the gentleness of his touch. Strangely, detachedly, exhilarated by the sensations he was arousing in her. A craving for more awoke in her but he stepped abruptly back.
”One thing you must know,” he said, taking her hand, ”I will neither harm you nor hurt you. I have already seen enough cruelty to last me a lifetime. Come then, I'll have them call my carriage.”
What had she done? What on earth had she let herself in for?
Chapter Two.
Sitting beside Ewan in the carriage as they rattled their way along the cobblestones towards the imposing, recently-built mansions of Cavendish Square, Isabella tried to quell her jangling nerves. Whatever happened now, she reminded herself, she had secured the funds she needed. But it was not this, the much longed for achievement, which caused the fluttering in her stomach.
The carriage lurched over a hole in the road surface, throwing her against Ewan. A strong arm righted her. She could see his eyes glowing in the soft light. Nervousness turned to antic.i.p.ation. Guiltily, she realised that the prospect of winning was not the only option which held allure. She had the sense to realise she had best keep such thoughts to herself.
An impa.s.sive servant opened the door to them. Handing over his hat and sword stick, Ewan gave him his instructions in a soft undertone before leading the way to a small saloon upstairs. Long curtains of heavy green damask were drawn against the night. A fire crackled in the grate, the light from the many candles reflected in the two long mirrors hung on the walls between the windows.
The reality of her situation struck Isabella with the force of a hammer. Whatever happened now, it was irrevocable. She was not sure she could go through with it. She knew she should not.
Something of her panic showed in her face. ”You do not have to do this,” Ewan said abruptly. ”I will understand if you want to reconsider now, before it is too late.”
”No,” she said with a defiant tilt of her chin, throwing the last seeds of caution to the wind. ”I will not renege on our terms-you need have no fear of that.”
”I don't,” Ewan replied, confident now that the rules of engagement were understood between them.
His touch sent a s.h.i.+ver up her arm. His extraordinary amber eyes glinted down at her. Desire. Confidence. Knowledge. As his gaze flickered over her face down to the neckline of her dress, Isabella flushed. Her breathing quickened.
”Shall we,” he said seductively. ”You may have the honour.”
Isabella picked up the dice, running her tongue over her full bottom lip, where traces of rouge lingered. ”Five,” she called, throwing a six and a three. Ewan was watching her, catlike. Devoured. She would be devoured, she thought with shocking relish.
”Six,” Ewan called with a.s.surance before he threw. A five and one rolled obligingly onto the table.
Expressing neither surprise nor disappointment Isabella turned towards him, her eyes almost navy blue, dark with the rush of antic.i.p.ation. ”You win.”
Without a word he led her from the room, along the corridor and through a doorway at the end into another room. Candles were lit on the mantel, another branch on the large inlaid chest which stood in the corner. A bottle of champagne and two gla.s.ses sat waiting atop a small table as Ewan had requested, so confident had he been of victory. A chair and a chaise-longue sat at right angles to each other in front of the grate. Crimson hangings covered the windows. The polished floor was strewn with rugs, soft silk and rich wool. The room was dominated by a large four-poster bed, the hangings of silk damask the same colour as the curtains, the counterpane of velvet strewn with ta.s.selled cus.h.i.+ons.
Isabella sat on the chaise and took the gla.s.s of champagne he poured, her hands trembling.
”Wait here,” Ewan said, opening a door in the panelled wall which presumably led to his dressing room.
She sipped on the ice-cold drink, feeling the bubbles sparkle and burst in her mouth. The unaccustomed alcohol relaxed her. She felt as if she was in a dream, observing herself from a distance. Disconnected. Isabella waiting in the background to see what Belle would do in the fore. She poured herself another gla.s.s of champagne, drinking it quickly down.
Ewan returned clad in an exotic banyan of Chinese silk tied loosely around the waist. As he sat down on the chair beside her, she eyed him cautiously. A long muscular leg emerged from the folds. A well-shaped calf. A glimpse of thigh. He was clearly quite naked underneath his robe. Isabella dragged her eyes upwards. A sprinkling of hair at his throat, a darker copper than that on his head. A strong neck. His hair, unfas.h.i.+onably untied, reached his shoulders. It suited him. Like a mane. She tilted back her gla.s.s, surprised to find it empty.
Long fingers relieved her of it. ”You have a debt of honour to pay. I would have you sober enough to deliver it properly.”
Beneath the cool tones his rich Scottish timbre served to threaten and entice at the same time. She glared defiantly at him. She was his prey, but she would not be his victim. ”I am perfectly aware of my obligations sir. You have me at your disposal.”
Ewan reached out to clasp her hand. Long fingers. Pink nails. Pulse fluttering visibly on her wrist. He kissed it, his tongue touching her flesh. Inhaled the light flowery scent there, feeling his own pulse pick up a beat in response. ”Not at my disposal, Belle. At my command.”
For a fleeting moment he thought he detected fear in her expression, then it was gone. ”And what would you command me do?” she asked somewhat breathlessly, rising to the challenge as he had known she would.