He surfaced in time to hear Henderson say, "Damn it all, this is a brand new suit."
*** *** ***
The Earl of Switton sat on his chair before the fire, his well-manicured feet in warm slippers pushed toward the hearth. His valet had left him alone to drink port and sulk. His deep velvet dressing gown caressed his body, and the port was almost as soft, but these comforts could not compensate for the loss of Switton's favorite exhibit.
Old Henderson's son had much to answer for. Switton should have seen that Raine was a ruffian, despite having an obviously well-bred wife, not to mention a viscount for a friend. Switton had admired Raine's physique at first, but when the Amazon had pulled Raine's shirt off, Switton had experienced stunned horror.
Ruffian, that was the only name for him.
Henderson's boy, now, he was a real English gentleman, with fair skin tanned by sun, and moon-blond hair. Henderson should have been paired with Raine's lovely American wife, in Switton's opinion. Raine was a common fighting man. A brute.
Depression trickled through him. Raine had stolen Switton's black Amazon, the tall, strong-limbed, beautiful woman who could fight better than any man Switton had ever known. He'd never find another like her.
A log fell into the grate, and flames shot upward. The fire ought to have been better laid. It needed to last until morning, and already, it was subsiding. Irritated, Switton reached for the poker.
Something cold pressed his cheek. Switton looked around and found himself staring at the open end of a pistol.
Christopher Raine stood beside his chair, the pistol in his bare hand. The man wore nothing but breeches and boots, letting Switton see the whole horror of him. Raine's gray eyes were ice-cold, and his long pale braid was damp.
Switton's attention riveted to the wreck of the man's side. While Raine's shoulders were superb, his pectorals square and honed, the entire left side of his abdomen degenerated into a concave mass of scars and white streaks, stark against his golden tan. It was as though someone had taken a statue of a perfect Hellenic athlete, hard marble and skillfully sculpted, and hacked a large, ragged piece from its side.
Someone had thoroughly ruined this man's body, and that defect, rather than the pistol, made Switton feel faint.
He tried to brave it out. "How dare you, sir? You came into my house and stole my property."
The pistol dug into Switton's cheek. "Manda is not a slave. She was a free woman you held in a cage."
"I paid her!"
"She says you refused to give her the money and laced her food with opium so she'd be too exhausted to run away."
"She's a liar, then."
The blow caught Switton on the temple and sent him reeling. He fell to the hearth, his knees banging the bricks. Switton choked in pain, and surreptitiously reached for the poker.
The poker clattered across the rug, kicked by Raine's muddy boot. "I am trying to decide whether or not to murder you," The man's voice was colder than an Arctic winter. "My wife worries about the consequences of killing an earl, but I don't much care."
Switton shook all over. "You will hang. You are a common criminal."
"I have already hanged. And I'm still alive."
Switton struggled for breath. "I'd have sold her to you if I'd known you wanted her so much."
Again the pistol dug into his face. "She is my sister."
Good Lord. Did the man have no civilized bone in his body? "That is nothing to boast about, sir."
Switton found himself being pulled upright by the hair. Raine's cold face and horrible eyes came close. "I raised her from the time she could walk. Do you know what I think of a man who'd put her in a cage?"
Switton wet his lips. "You will not kill me. If you'd come to murder me, you would have already."
To his amazement, Raine smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Were this a pirate ship, yes, you'd be dead. The sharks would already be tearing up your body. But I'm trying to be civilized."
Switton seized on the word. "Civilized. Yes, if you were civilized, you'd call me out, so we could settle this like gentlemen." His mind worked feverishly. If he could get the ruffian to make an appointment for a duel, Switton could find someone to stand in for him. Beg poor eyesight or something. Honor would be satisfied, Switton safe.
Raine's smile widened, making him look a bit like the sharks he'd mentioned. "Well then, we'll make this more sporting." He leaned down and took up the poker. Then, still smiling, he passed the gun to Switton.
Swiftly the earl turned the pistol on Raine and fired. An explosion of sound rocketed through the room, but it could not drown out the deadly silence of the poker coming down.
*** *** ***
Honoria warmed her hands on the delicate porcelain cup of coffee, breathing the liquid's heady aroma. She sat curled in a shawl in Alexandra's London drawing room, listening to the others tell their part in the tale. Diana had arrived, children in tow, and now she too sipped coffee and listened, her red hair bright in the candlelit room.
Honoria had moved through her own story quickly. When she'd feared that Christopher and Manda would be set upon by too many, she'd decided that a dramatic swoon would be just the thing.
Alexandra and several helpful ladies had carried Honoria back to the house. Once left alone, Honoria and Alexandra had hastened to the front drive, where Grayson had herded them into their carriage. Because those chasing Manda and Christopher had gone through the gardens, the lane had been deserted, and the carriage departed without mishap.
Honoria, Alexandra, and Grayson had rendezvoused with the rather wet rescuers on the other side of the lake. Manda had returned with them and Mr. Henderson in the carriage, while Christopher had explained that he'd meet them in London after he spoke with Switton.
Manda Raine had been absolutely astonished when Christopher had said to her casually, "By the way, Manda, the dark-haired one is my wife." Manda had studied Honoria in shock all the way to London.
Grayson raised his glass of spirits in Honoria's direction. "You are a fine actress, Honoria. I commend you."
Honoria thanked him, but she felt far from clever. Christopher had not said much to her since his return from Switton's, and she'd been able to think of little else but the horrific wound in his side.
Christopher had never once removed his shirt in her presence, Honoria realized, since he'd found her in London. Back in Charleston, on their wedding day, his body had been strong and whole. Something had happened to him between then and now, and he had not wanted to tell her about it.
He sat casually on a straight-backed chair across the room from Honoria, his arms on his knees, listening while Manda related her story. He'd dressed again in his pirating clothes--breeches and boots, with a coat and loose shirt hiding his scars.
Manda told them she'd come to London six months ago looking for work, and had met one of the Lord Switton's lackeys. She was offered pay to pretend to be a wild woman of the Amazon for a gathering of Switton's friends in his country house. She'd thought it sounded a good lark and accepted. Switton displayed her in a cage then wagered that none of the gentlemen present could take her, and Manda had proved him right.
Switton had decided that the performance had gone over so well that he wanted Manda to remain a permanent part of his household. When Manda declined and asked for her money, Switton refused to pay her and would not let her go. When she tried to fight, Switton's six footmen overpowered her then locked her in a room, where she was either starved or given food laced with opium.
Manda seemed none the worse for wear for this adventure. She sat with her legs folded under her on Alexandra's sofa, wearing a shirt and pantaloons, having refused Alexandra's offer of a gown. Her black hair hung down her back in loose and wonderfully ropy curls. Her sable eyes swung to observe each of them in turn with avid curiosity. Her wide mouth smiled or frowned openly, a young woman who did not bother to hide her feelings.
"He is disgusting," Mr. Henderson said. He drank claret rather than coffee, candle
light dancing on the facets of his glass. "I'll see to it that the Hendersons cut him dead from now on."
Manda snorted. "Well, I'm sure that will terrify him."
Alexandra nodded decidedly, "Oh, it will, Miss Raine. The worst thing that can happen to a gentleman of the ton is to be shunned by other gentlemen. He'll be cut by anyone who matters. When Grayson has a word with the Duke of St. Clair and others at White's, the Earl of Switton will find all doors closed to him."
Manda studied Alexandra, brows raised, then addressed Christopher. "Are they real?"
Christopher nodded. "Finley's become an honest-to-God peer."
Manda turned to Grayson. "Honest to God?"
"I'm afraid so," Grayson said.
"I meant to ask, Miss Raine," Henderson said. "Why did you not try to get away from Switton?"
Manda's frown reappeared when she looked at him. The tension between the two was thick. "What do you mean, I didn't try?"
"I saw you walking in the house yesterday with Switton's wife. I will not believe that you could not escape from one small woman armed with nothing more than a reticule."
Manda's scowl turned dangerous. "I was only allowed out of my room when Lady Switton had pumped me full of opium. I was too disoriented to run anywhere."
The room stilled. Christopher said quietly, "I'm sorry now that I didn't kill him."
Grayson nodded, eyes grave. "Leave Switton to me. We'll get him, and I don't care if he is a peer. I'll make it my personal mission."
Honoria had not asked Christopher what he'd done to the earl. When Christopher had parted from them at the lake, his face had been so grim, she'd not wanted to ask what he meant to do. If Christopher had left Lord Switton alive, the man was luckier than he deserved.
Manda shrugged. "I would have got away from him eventually. I never dreamed you'd come back to life and rescue me, Chris." She turned a smile on her brother that would have melted the hardest heart.
They looked much alike, Honoria decided, Manda's high forehead and firm jaw womanly versions of Christopher's. Their eyes were a different color but of similar shape, and both pairs held a glint that proclaimed they were people who feared little in the world. Rather, the world needed to worry when it saw Christopher and Manda coming.
Brother and sister sat across the drawing room from each other, neither having betrayed joy or excitement at their reunion. Still, Honoria sensed the bond between them, one very much like the one she'd had with her brother Paul.
Christopher and Manda fell into easy conversation right away, as though they'd been parted only days rather than years. Sometimes they finished each other's sentences without noticing they'd done it.
Honoria's limbs were heavy now that the excitement was over. Christopher had said they'd rest here for what remained of the night and take ship the following morning.
The day had been long and grueling, but Honoria did not want to sleep yet. She'd had an interesting conversation with Alexandra while Christopher had been out, and she wanted to try tonight some of the ideas she'd gained from that conversation.
It was already past two. Christopher abruptly told Honoria that she looked tired and should go to bed.
Honoria gave up. She said her goodnights and returned to the chamber Alexandra had given them. After she undressed, brushed her hair, and cleaned her teeth, she climbed into the heavy tester bed, where she tried to remain awake, but her treacherous eyes kept closing.
Christopher would not come upstairs tonight, of course. He'd stay and talk with Manda, probably all night. Despite Manda's apparent resilience, Christopher would want to ensure that she was well. That, and they had four years of conversation on which to catch up.
Honoria woke when Christopher entered the room. His warmth covered her, and his scent of spice as he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her hair.
*** *** ***
Christopher had supposed Honoria would be asleep, but his wife opened her eyes as he kissed her.
Downstairs in the drawing room, she'd looked exhausted, her face flushed, her eyelids drooping, but Christopher was just as happy to find her still awake.
He kissed her softly parted lips, shifting his grasp on the decanter of whiskey Finley had pressed on him on the way upstairs. Finley had said that Christopher had the look of a man who needed to get drunk if ever he saw one.
"Mmm," Honoria said sleepily. She flicked her gaze to the glass decanter and gave it a tiny frown.
Christopher straightened from the bed and crossed to the writing table where crystal glasses had been left for guests' convenience. Christopher sloshed liquid into a glass and held it up. "Want some?"
Honoria sat up with a rustle of bedclothes and gave him a ladylike look that was adorable when she was half asleep. "Ladies do not drink spirits."
Christopher did. He silently downed the whiskey and filled the glass again. He took a deep drink of that too, then carried glass and decanter back to the bed with him.
Honoria drew her knees to her chest. "Why are you trying to get drunk?"
Christopher sat down next to her, breathing the heady fragrance of her warmth under the bedclothes. "I want to."
"How is Manda?"
Christopher drained the glass, chasing the last droplets with his tongue. "Fine. Alexandra has her bedded down . . ." He moved the glass vaguely. "Somewhere."
"You should talk to her."
Christopher dribbled more whiskey into the glass. "What about?"
Honoria gave him her most earnest, green-eyed stare, her round cheeks pink from sleep. "She's been through an awful ordeal. She will need to talk about it."
Christopher shook his head, the whiskey at last loosening his limbs. "The last thing Manda will want is to talk about it."
Honoria looked unconvinced. "Just what a man would say."
"Manda deals with things in her own way, usually by herself." Christopher pointed the glass at her. "So don't try to have a heart-to-heart with her. She won't like it."
Honoria said nothing, but a stubborn light entered her eye.
The neckline of her nightdress was trimmed in lace, which moved with her breathing. Christopher thunked the whiskey decanter to the bedside table. "You should be asleep," he said thickly.
"I wanted to wait for you." A blush spread across her cheeks. "I wanted to show you something. It might soothe you to sleep, better than the whiskey."
Christopher slid his hand over her nightdress, then withdrew before he touched her skin. The whiskey was beginning to cool his shaking rage, but he still did not trust himself. Not yet.
"Honoria," he said, "if I take you tonight, it will not be the pleasant journey we had before." Christopher's cock was already stiffening from the memory of that pleasant journey. "I'll take you hard, and I might not be able to stop, even if you don't like it. And you are far too innocent for the ways in which I want to take you."
Honoria studied him, eyes luminescent. "I am not innocent."
"You are. You let me take you before, but that does not mean you're ready for all the things I can do."
"All what things?"
"I'll tell you when you're ready."
Honoria touched her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. She smelled of lavender, as though she'd scented the water with it when she'd bathed. Christopher's arousal grew tighter. She was his wife after all, and she had to do what he told her.
"Then you will not seduce me tonight?" she asked in a near whisper.
Christopher deliberately put the glass to his lips and forced the whiskey into his mouth. "Not tonight, darling. I'm getting drunk."
"Good," she said decidedly. She pushed the covers aside and crawled out of bed.
Disappointment smacked him. "Good? What do you mean, good?"
Honoria rummaged in the cupboard next to the bed. "If you are not busy seducing me, then I can do something for you."
Christopher stopped the glass of whiskey halfway to his mouth. His head had been buzzing pleasantly, but now he came alert. "What?"
/>
She came up with a small glass bottle. "I want to rub oil on your body. You will have to take off your clothes and lie down."
*****
Chapter Thirteen
If Christopher had taken another sip of whiskey, he'd have choked on it. He stared into his glass, looking for enlightenment in the amber depths, then he very carefully set the glass on the bedside table. "Why?"
Honoria shrugged, but she stood poised like a bird who waited to see whether he would stroke its head or knock it aside.
Christopher slowly slid off his coat and tossed it to a chair, then he moved to the edge of the bed to tug off his boots. One irregular oval of dried mud, missed by Grayson's man's hasty cleaning, fell from the heel to the red and gold carpet.
Still seated, Christopher popped open the buttons of the breeches, one by one, while Honoria watched with flattering scrutiny.
Christopher rose to his feet to slide off the breeches. His underbreeches followed, even now a bit damp from his swim.
He turned around to face her, still in his shirt, the hem lifting a little with his erection.
Honoria gestured to the shirt. "That too." She held the bottle tightly. "I already saw what happened to you."
Christopher hesitated. The whiskey had warmed him, but he still felt a faint chill in his heart. Was he ashamed? He'd barely thought of the ruin of his body while he'd worked his way back from the other side of the world, until he'd at last seen Honoria again. She was still beautiful, whole, unchanged.
Before self-pity could establish its hold, Christopher stripped off the shirt and stood naked before her.
Honoria looked her fill. Her darkening gaze roved his shoulders, his abdomen, his legs, his very aroused cock. She examined every part of him that was still tight and whole, before letting herself look at his scarred side. Her gaze rested there, her expression blank, as though she didn't want him to see her horror or pity.
Christopher turned his back and walked away. He heard her draw a breath to call out, then she fell silent as he stopped at the door and turned the key in the lock.