Chapter 7
Martin’s eyes were fixed on Kit as she hurriedly spoke to her companions then headed out of the ballroom—to, Martin assumed, the exit. Her quick strides and fluid movement caused her silver gown to shimmer as she hastened through the crowded room.
Rutledge’s head rose above those of his companions. Spotting Kit, he narrowed his eyes.
Martin took no time to excuse himself, he simply bolted after her. Over his shoulder he saw Rutledge moving in the same direction, but Martin was faster and closer. He intercepted Kit just as she reached the corridor. Seizing her wrist, he spoke in an urgent voice that told her there was no time to explain.
“Lady Egerton, come with me.”
She turned in panic and opened her mouth as if to object, then her blue eyes flared with recognition.
“Yes,” Martin said, “it is I. Come. I will get you away from him.”
Grateful for his habit of noting places to hide, cubbyholes hidden from obvious view, Martin pulled Kit along toward an alcove he’d earlier committed to memory. They entered the small space only moments before Rutledge stomped past, his heels a pounding thunder on the wooden floor.
The alcove was clothed in darkness, the only light from one small candle, that seeping in below a heavy velvet curtain. Martin held Kit close. Her breathing was rapid as her breasts pressed into his chest. Relieved to have her finally back in his arms, it was all Martin could do to not to give his passion free rein. Her familiar scent of roses swirled about his head. God, he’d missed this woman. But when he felt her shiver, the need to protect was the only emotion he allowed himself and he tightened his arms around her in comfort.
“Not dead,” she murmured, her forehead nearly touching his lips.
“No, Kit. You did not kill him. And though I certainly want to see the man dead for what he did to you, I thought it best for your reputation he not be confronted here.”
“You know?” She tilted her head up, her lips within an inch of his. It was all he could do not to claim them.
“Yes. Miss Abby.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Her body tensed. “I must leave.”
She began to pull away, but he held her firmly against his chest.
“But he will be after me.” Even in the dim light he could see the desperation in her eyes.
“No, my kitten.”
She pushed hard against his chest. “I’m not your kitten! I’m not anyone’s…anything.”
He allowed her to step back. Her voice reflected unshed tears and a vulnerability that pulled at his heartstrings. A feeling of tenderness swept over him. Damnation, she was his kitten, and he was not giving her up.
“Shh,” he said, pulling her gently back into his arms. She came without protest, rested her head on his shoulder. The alcove had taken on an eerie light.
“I must leave here,” she whispered as Martin held her, content to have her close but wanting so much more. She seemed calmer now.
“No, Kit. Not yet. For weeks I’ve been combing the streets of London looking for you, and now that I’ve found you, you’ll not be escaping me only to risk being caught by an enraged Rutledge. We must wait a few minutes at least.”
“But I cannot stay here.” Her voice was soft, almost a whimper, and it made him want to hold her, to protect her. To have, once again, these soft curves and warm skin pressed against his flesh. God, he was hungry for her.
“You will come with me,” he said.
“No! I cannot.”
“Yes, you can and you will.” He bent his head to look directly into her eyes, hoping she would see his desire to protect her, his resolve. She would not be getting away.
“But I don’t know you. Not even your name.”
Martin would have been amused under other circumstances. She knew him quite well. They had made beautiful, passionate love together, and held each other through the night. But he would remind her of that later.
“If you must have a name, it is Martin Powell.”
She raised her head, studying him in the pale light of the alcove. It reminded Martin of the night at Willow House when the only light they shared came from the moon and the dying fire. It was enough.
“Martin Powell,” she said aloud, as if trying the name out to see how it fit.
“We will wait just a bit longer and then I’ll get you to safety.”
“Where?”
“Trust me.”
The look on her face said she far from trusted him, but he knew she would come nonetheless. She had few options if she wanted to escape the earl. Martin could not protect her if she returned to her friends or left on her own. He had survived the years in France by his wits and the cloak of stealth he could wrap around himself in an instant. Surely he could do the same for her. But into his mind came the unbidden memory of a night when he failed to safeguard another woman, a woman who had even greater claim to his protection.
With a deep sigh and a resolution that belied his fear for Kit’s safety, he silently stepped toward the curtain. “Come.”
He would get her out of Claremont House unseen.
It was after midnight, and rain had begun to fall when the carriage stopped in front of a house in the area of London known as Adelphi Terrace. Just south of Somerset House on the Thames, the neighborhood was familiar to Kit as one of her tutors had lived near there. Though more of the ton lived in Mayfair and Albany, Adelphi was home to many prominent people, and she knew the homes to be costly. Whatever this man Martin’s status in London society, he had to be a man of means. But then, had not Abby promised Willow House catered only to the wellborn and their friends?
The silver fabric of her gown was thin, but her rescuer had given her his coat to protect her from the cold. There had been no time to gather her cloak, no time even to bid the de Courtenays goodbye before she fled. It seemed to Kit she was always saying goodbye to someone she held dear. Now all she had was a man she considered a stranger.
The warm superfine wool wrapped around Kit retained the heat of her rescuer’s body, and it was much appreciated. Drawing the warm coat around her, she inhaled the scent of him. Martin Powell, he’d called himself. The coat was almost like having his body next to her again, for it brought back the memory of that night she lay in his arms.
“This is my family’s residence,” Mr. Powell explained as they reached the door. “I have not returned in more than a year, even for a visit, so we’ll be finding out together who is at home tonight.” He must have seen the concern on her face because he added, “Not to worry, you will be welcome.”
He took a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. As the door opened, he whispered to her, “Just as well it is late. The servants will be asleep.”
Tiptoeing across the threshold, he took her hand and guided her into the entrance hall. Kit could see it was beautiful, even in the faint light. A brass chandelier above reflected a crackling fire from a room off to the right.
Someone is awake .
A thick rug cushioned her slippers as she took a few steps. Ahead, a wide stairway curved up to the next floor. Mr. Powell tugged her toward it. Kit wasn’t certain she wanted to go upstairs, where she knew the bedrooms would be located, but she had come this far so she followed. Could she trust this man whom she did not know? He was a man whose very presence, she reminded herself, made her heart flutter like the wings of a bird.
As they climbed the first steps, heavy footfalls sounded behind them. A deep voice very much like her rescuer’s asked gruffly, “Martin, is that you?”
Mr. Powell backed down the staircase, pulling her along. His quick reaction protectively thrust her behind him, but his posture was relaxed. He recognized the voice.
“Ah…Nick. Thank God it’s you. I thought perhaps Mother and Father would be gone, as they usually are, but I’d rather not deal with servants or our younger brothers tonight.”
Kit peeked around Mr. Powell’s shoulder to see the man named Nick staring intently at her. It was obvious to Kit he had not been expecting company. He resembled Martin Powell though his disheveled hair was more ebony, and he might be a bit older, a bit taller. His face, even in the dim light, was bronzed and weathered as if he spent a great deal of time in the sun. She could not discern his eye color.
She had never seen a pirate, but this man surely looked the part; the only thing missing was the golden earring. He wore a linen shirt, open at the neck, and black breeches tucked into tall boots. There was something of the gypsy about him, too, a suggestion of another place and another time.
“You’ll not be facing the family soon, brother,” Mr. Powell’s kin said as he leaned against the doorpost to what had to be a study, the source of the firelight. Crossing his arms over his chest, he casually slipped one booted foot over the other. “Mother has sailed with Father, and our two younger siblings have tagged along as crew. The great run to the east for tea, you know. They will be gone for months. The only ones here tonight are Cook, a new maid, and our old butler Morris. All of them retired for the night. It’s a skeleton crew with the parents at sea.”
“Just as well. I’ll deal with the servants in the morning,” said Mr. Powell.
Glancing at Kit, the brother said, “I’ll be gone when you greet the day. I’m taking the Raven out.”
“Oh? Where?”
“To the Caribbean, then up to Baltimore.” Nick’s eyes darted from Kit back to his brother, lips twitching up at the ends. “You will have the place to yourself.” The light was dim, but Kit didn’t miss his white teeth and wolfish grin. “I see you brought home another stray—a beautiful one.”
“Stray?” Kit repeated, her eyes narrowing.
“Oh, he’s always bringing home strays,” the man explained. Then, to his brother, “Remember the time you rescued the cabin boy? The one who had fleas?”
Annoyed at being compared to a boy with fleas, Kit returned the pirate a glare.
He just laughed. “Mother never let you forget that escapade.”
Martin Powell gritted out, “The boy would have been beaten if he’d returned to his ship. I could not allow that to happen.”
His brother flashed white teeth in another smile, this one aimed at Kit. “I say, brother, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“I’d rather not, but I suppose I must. And, please keep this encounter to yourself. These are unusual circumstances.” Mr. Powell reached back to pull Kit next to him, but he kept his arm protectively around her waist, the intimacy of the posture making her uncomfortable. “My lady, may I present my older brother, Captain Jean Nicholas Powell. Nick, the Dowager Baroness of Egerton.”
Nick stepped away from the doorway and came toward her. Though there was nothing proper about being alone with two men in near darkness, Kit held out her hand in proper fashion. The sides of the coat she wore fell away to reveal a slice of her expensive silver gown.
Nick bowed over her hand. Glancing up to see the scowl on his brother’s face, Nick gave his brother a teasing smirk and refrained from touching his lips to her fingers, which Kit was certain had been his intention. He rose and said, “My pleasure, Lady Egerton, and please forgive my comment about the stray. It was aimed at my brother, not you.”
“I forgive you, Captain Powell,” she said, as graciously as she could under the circumstances.
When it appeared his brother might continue the conversation, Mr. Powell said, “Ask no questions, Nick. Just tell me if the far guest room is unoccupied. ”
Captain Powell nodded. “’Tis. And, of course, your room is always kept waiting for you, though you do not live here any longer. Our mother will have it no other way, though Father keeps insisting you’re gone for good.”
“Thank God for Mother.”
“A frequent saying of our sire,” the captain offered Kit as an aside.
“If I don’t see you before you sail, have a safe voyage,” Martin Powell said. “Oh, and I’m home to stay.”
Captain Powell reached out a hand, which his brother clasped with both of his own. “Happy to hear it, brother. Truly. Our mother will be pleased to know you’ve managed to survive the Corsican. She worries, you see.”
Kit had no idea what Mr. Powell’s brother referred to, but she suspected it was the war with France. She did know the Corsican was Napoleon. So, Martin Powell had been on the Continent? Had he fought with Wellington at Waterloo? He did not seem a soldier, more quick and lithe than strong and sturdy. There was nothing military in his bearing. But a long sojourn in France would explain his accent, which she’d noticed that first night they spent together. Then there were the French words he’d whispered as he made love to her. Yes, he was quite comfortable with the French language. Her body quivered at the memory.
As they left the entry hall and Martin Powell pulled her up the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder to see his brother once again leaning against the doorpost, still watching, smiling like he had a great secret. She hoped he would not share it. She could only imagine what he would say. But hope stirred when she recalled he was leaving in the morning for the Caribbean. And their parents had sailed east.
Martin Powell never let go of her hand, entwining his fingers with hers as his long strides ate up the corridor. Though she rather liked the feel, and remembered well that same hand caressing her body, she was becoming concerned about their destination and was tired of being treated like an errant child.
“You needn’t pull me so. I can walk.”
Ignoring her plea, he tugged her behind him. “Perhaps, but I am anxious to be alone with you.”
A feeling of nervous anticipation gripped her stomach. What was he planning? Then her thinking strayed again to the man they had left at the bottom of the staircase. Would he hear this exchange? “Your brother is a man of the sea?”
“Aye, my whole family. Merchant seamen.”
Ah. If Mr. Powell’s father and brothers were seamen, it explained why they lived so close to the Thames. From the Adelphi Terrace, one could easily travel by small boat to the ships docked further down the river. “And you?”
“Not for a long time. But yes, I once captained one of my father’s ships.”
Finally they arrived at the end of the corridor. He pushed down on the door handle and waved Kit inside. With some trepidation, she went. Stepping over the threshold into a large bedchamber, she could see soft tones of subdued elegance even in the pale light from the windows. A large canopy bed with pale gold and blue bed curtains stood prominently before her. Her anxiety increased.
Mr. Powell walked to the small table next to the bed and lit a candle. “I’ll find you something to wear.” He looked back at her. “My mother is of a size with you. You can borrow some of her things.”
“But that would not be proper.”
“Do not be silly. You heard Nick. She is gone for months, and if she were here, I assure you, she would insist upon it.”
“What are you planning to do with me? ”
“That”—he faced her with a wry smile—“is yet to be decided.”
He walked to the fireplace and, crouching, struck a match to a well-laid fire. Then he rose, took off his cravat and tossed it aside before loosening the neck of his shirt. The light of the growing fire was reflected on the skin of his throat and the dark chest hair now displayed. Kit remembered the feel of that hair on her breasts, and her nipples tingled. What would it feel like to have her mouth once again on his naked flesh? She felt a sudden craving for the pleasure they had shared.
“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, breathless.
“Here, of course.” He slowly walked toward her, his eyes dark with desire.
She stepped back, though something deep within her urged her forward. And, there was that smile again. Kit was unnerved. Did he think just because she’d given herself to him once he could have her again? She had simply taken refuge in his arms and he had made her feel safe for the night, safe from Rutledge. No. Without the brandy, and thinking more clearly than she had the last time they were together, she had no intention of sleeping with a man to whom she was not wed. She perhaps wanted to feel safe again with him, but she was not willing to pay the price.
“You told your brother the guest room…?”
“Yes, well, that was for Nick—and for your honor.” He stopped a foot in front of her.
“You cannot stay here .” Even as Kit said the words, she realized how absurd they sounded. It was his home after all, so she added, “With me.”
“Why not, Kitten?” He stepped closer. “We have already shared a bed. We have made love.” A faint smile crossed his lips. “And I am hungry for you. ”
Kit felt her cheeks warm. A shiver ran down her spine, and she backed up. “That should not have happened.” She twisted her hands together at her waist and stared down at the floor, reminded of their passion and also of her shame. How could she have made love with him that night knowing how wrong it was? Worse, how could she want him again?
He closed the distance between them, his blue eyes staring into hers. She was suddenly very aware of him as a man. Tall, handsome and lithe, he smelled of brandy and that masculine scent that was his own, perhaps exotic sandalwood. It was the same scent she’d smelled on his coat, and it brought back more memories of their night together. Standing so near, she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
Taking his coat from her shoulders and tossing it on the bed, he lifted her chin with his curved finger. “Perhaps it shouldn’t have happened, Kitten, but it did. And there is something between us you cannot ignore.”
His voice was low, a seductive lure drawing her in, reminding her of how she had come to him so willingly once before.
“No,” she said, shaking her head as if saying the word could make it true, could erase their night of passion. She was not that woman. But she could not deny the things she had done with this man. The things she wanted to do again.
“Is making love something you do not wish to do?” he asked. “As I recall, you seemed to enjoy it as much as I.” Then, more tenderly: “Besides, I have missed you, Kitten.”
“No, I cannot. I am not your…your…” She could not bring herself to say the word. Their one night together had been a wonderful, amazing and, yes, passionate experience, but it could never happen again. She had escaped one dreadful night into a dream. Into his arms. As much as she wanted his arms around her agai n, wanted to lie with him, she could not allow it. This was not who she was. Not who she was raised to be.
Placing his hands on her waist, he pulled her against him. The heat from his broad chest overwhelmed her as she tilted her head up to look into those stormy indigo eyes now dark with desire.
“You opened a door, Kitten, I’m unwilling to close.”