The Abducted Heiress

‘It is you who will be making an unnecessary fuss if you do not let me tend to them,’ Desire retorted. ‘Are you afraid the salve will sting? I will be very gentle, sir.’

Jakob exchanged a speaking glance with the steward as they followed Desire into the hall. By now the housekeeper had appeared on the scene, but Desire made it clear she would do nothing to improve her own comfort until she had found the appropriate plants and made a salve for Jakob’s hands.

Jakob had little option but to follow her into the garden, along with a small cavalcade of light-bearing servants. It was soon apparent that Desire was used to running her own household. Even covered in grime, with her hair hanging around her shoulders and her skirt in tatters, she inspired respectful—if somewhat bewildered—service from the Duke’s servants.

When Desire had located the plant she needed she retired to the kitchens. She ground up the roots herself and mixed the paste with butter to make a salve for Jakob’s burnt hands. She gave it to him, and only then allowed herself to be escorted to a more suitable chamber to seek her own comfort.

An hour later, Desire emerged from her guest chamber, dressed in the housekeeper’s best clothes, to discover Kilverdale’s steward hovering in the gallery.

‘The Colonel is waiting for you in the Great Parlour,’ he said. ‘May I show you the way?’

‘Yes.’ Desire followed him, her nerves on edge. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face Jakob again so quickly, but she was hungry—and he had promised to feed her. She focussed on that mundane thought to keep the worst of her apprehension at bay.

Jakob stood as she entered the room. She took one look at him and her breath caught in her throat. He was magnificent. He wore a coat of black brocade which fell halfway down his thighs. A flamboyant knot of black satin ribbon at the top of his right sleeve emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. On his legs he wore black breeches trimmed with more ribbon and black silk hose. His coat sleeves were fashionably short to reveal an abundant fall of snowy lace to his wrists. At his throat folds of crisp white lace contrasted dramatically with the dark grandeur of his coat. There were silver buckles on his shoes and an impressive row of silver buttons on his coat. He wore his own hair, despite the current fashion for extravagantly long, curled wigs—but Desire could hardly blame him for that vanity. Many country maids who grew and sold their hair to the wigmakers would be jealous of Jakob’s glorious locks. Even now, when his hair was still damp from the thorough washing he had given it, it fell around his shoulders in shimmering waves of gold.

He looked the very image of a rich nobleman. Only the red rims of his eyes—still suffering the effects of too much exposure to heat and smoke—suggested he hadn’t spent the day lounging at his ease.

Desire stared at him, overwhelmed by his magnificent, aristocratic appearance. Despite his luxurious attire and handsome face, only the very unobservant would mistake him for a fop. He moved with the controlled power and virile grace of a male in the prime of his life. She swallowed, remembering all too easily the sleek, powerful muscles hidden beneath the lace and brocade.

He smiled a little quizzically and she realised, too late, that she’d been gawping at him like an awestruck serving wench.

She flushed and bent her head, instinctively turning her scarred cheek away from him. Her fingers locked nervously in her borrowed skirt. For once in her life she yearned to wear the silks and satins suitable to her rank. It was one thing to opt for comfort and practicality when she was working in her garden—but to present herself to the most handsome man she’d ever met in the over-large, dowdy clothes of the Duke’s housekeeper was excruciating. The maid had laced the bodice as tightly as possible, but it was still far too large.

Jakob looked like a prince. She—as he had so aptly pointed out when they were still in the boat—looked like a badly dressed washerwoman. An ugly one to boot.

She heard the soft rustle of expensive fabric as he came to stand in front of her. She stared down at his row of silver buttons and those shiny oval buckles on his shoes, incidentally giving herself another good look at her ugly brown woollen skirt. She hated brown. Brown was so dingy. She wished the housekeeper had a taste for blue—or even red. Anything but this sad colour.

‘Look at me,’ said Jakob.

She started at his soft command. He was very close to her. Her embarrassment mingled with strange nervousness. She couldn’t swallow. Her throat was too dry and tight.

‘Desire, look at me,’ he repeated compellingly.

She flinched at the sound of her name—and the echo of cruel words spoken years earlier. She still didn’t raise her head.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t…’ she whispered, swallowed and tried again. ‘Don’t call me that.’ She finally lifted her chin, but only to stare at the lace of his cravat. She had not yet found the courage to meet his eyes.

‘Desire? Does my impertinent use of your name offend you?’ He sounded mildly amused. ‘After all we’ve shared, your ladyship, such formality seems a little redundant.’

‘No—’ Desire broke off, unable to explain why it disturbed her when he used her given name.

‘Or perhaps you’re offended that a lowly soldier should gaze with desirous eyes upon a lady of quality,’ he murmured provocatively.

Desire jerked away from him, but he seized her shoulders in his hands and turned her back to face him.

‘You may curse me and kick me and try to browbeat me into obeying your orders—but don’t turn your face from me in shame,’ he said.

‘I am not ashamed!’ Desire cried, finally lifting her head to meet his eyes.

It was a shock to look into his face at such close proximity. He had shaved and washed away all the grime of the fire. Now he reminded her of the impossibly handsome man who’d first appeared on her roof.

‘Then don’t hide from me,’ he growled. ‘Damn me to hell for inconveniencing you—but don’t hide!’

‘Inconveniencing me?’ Desire gasped. ‘You abducted me!’

‘I rescued you. A little gratitude would not go amiss.’

‘Gratitude? You expect me to thank you for tying me up, manhandling me—’

Jakob kissed her.

His firm mouth stifled the rest of her indignant outburst. This time Desire hadn’t seen it coming. She was startled into complete immobility. Before she’d had time to react he lifted his lips from hers.

‘Half the household is probably listening at the keyhole,’ he murmured, briefly resting his forehead against hers. ‘I’m sure you don’t want everyone to know I dragged your skirts up to your—’

Desire made a high-pitched, closed-mouth hum of protest in the back of her throat.

Jakob grinned and lifted his forehead away from hers.

She glared at him, and turned her head to give a pointed glance at one of his hands, still gripping her shoulder. Then she frowned. He grasped her firmly between his long, strong fingers and his thumb, but he held his palm clear of contact with the fabric of her bodice.

‘Why are your hands not bandaged?’ she demanded. ‘Have you applied the salve?’

‘Not yet. I thought you would prefer to tend to me yourself,’ he replied. ‘So that you could assure yourself it had been done properly,’ he added blandly.

Desire grabbed one of his arms and turned his palm up towards her. He’d cleaned away the soot and dried blood, but it still looked raw. She was sure he was in considerable discomfort.

‘You are a fool. Where is the salve?’ she demanded, channelling the nervous excitement aroused by his unexpected kiss into her exasperation with his foolish behaviour.

‘There.’ He nodded in the direction of a small table. Desire saw the small pot of salve she had prepared as well as several strips of clean linen. She was slightly mollified by the sight. And a little flattered that he had waited for her to care for his hurts.

She pushed that sweetly insidious thought aside and dragged Jakob over to the table by her hold on his sleeve. When he was safely seated in a high-backed chair she fetched a stool and planted it on the floor in front of him.

‘By rights, lady, you should have the chair and I the stool,’ he observed.

‘It’s a little late to worry about protocol, don’t you think?’ she retorted. ‘Give me your right hand.’

He held it out to her and she gently folded the lace ruffles out of the way.

‘You should not have worn such fine lace,’ she scolded him. ‘I’m going to tie it back with a couple of bandages—otherwise the butter may spoil it.’

‘You are thoughtfulness personified,’ he said lightly. ‘But it’s not my lace—so I’m not much bothered by its fate.’

‘Whose?’ Desire looked up from tying a strip of linen round his forearm. ‘The Duke’s!’ she gasped, realisation coming to her. ‘You’re wearing the Duke’s clothes? Take them off at once! If he comes back and finds you in them—!’

Jakob laughed. ‘Are you afraid he’ll have me hanged for a thieving rogue?’ he teased her.