LITMIR.BIZ

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in the shadows, she wondered where the stern, authoritarian man had vanished to.

      Then, as Lucian turned, he froze, his attention on a vehicle on the far side of the yard. He asked a question, his voice sharp in the almost deserted space. Then he strode towards her, all trace of that tired smile wiped from his face. ‘They are here.’

      ‘Thank goodness.’ The relief was heartfelt until she realised what might happen now. As Lucian turned to reach into the back of the curricle for the valises—or his pistols, she did not stop to see which—Sara ran across the yard and through the door of the inn. A sleepy waiter in the hallway jerked awake as she shook him by the shoulder. ‘The young couple who arrived earlier. Which room are they in?’

      He gaped at her clothing, seeming not to comprehend the educated English combined with such exotic garb, but when she repeated the question he pointed at the stairs. ‘Number six, on the left...’

      Sara took the stairs two at a time, blessing her trousers, and skidded to a halt in front of a door with a faded number six painted on it. She knocked, then, as the front door banged open again, turned the handle and went in. There was a gasp and a scuffle from the shadow that must be the bed, then she knocked against a chair, spun it round and jammed it under the door handle. ‘Marguerite?’

      ‘Sara? Gregory, it is Sara.’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, light a candle,’ she snapped as footsteps came closer along the uncarpeted landing. There was a scrabbling, a scraping and then a flicker of light that grew as the man in the bed touched it to the candle wick.

      ‘Open this door.’ Lucian kept his voice low, but the tone was enough to have Marguerite turn white.

      ‘In a moment,’ Sara said, then glanced at the bed. ‘I suggest you both get into something less likely to inflame the Marquess than your bare skins.’ She turned her back as the door latch rattled, but kept talking. ‘Do you want to marry him, Marguerite? Be very certain.’

      ‘Oh, it is you in those clothes! I didn’t... Yes, oh, yes, of course I want to marry Gregory. But Lucian will kill—’

      ‘No, he will not.’ Sara realised she was standing on a pair of breeches and tossed them behind her on to the bed as a fist thudded into the door. ‘Hurry up! It will only enrage him further if he finds you in bed together—’

      The lock broke and the chair went flying. Lucian stalked into the room, kicking pieces of wood aside. His hands, Sara saw with a gulp of relief, were empty.

      ‘Lucian, she wants to marry him, you can’t kill him now.’

      He brushed past her as though she wasn’t there. Sara spun round to find that the young man with the scarred face was on his feet wearing nothing but breeches and his eyepatch. With a courage that Sara could only marvel at he moved round the bed until he was face to face with Lucian who was four inches taller and far broader in the shoulders. ‘I am at your disposal, my lord.’

      The right hook sent him sprawling on the floor. Lucian grimaced and blew on his knuckles. ‘Get up. I can’t talk to you down there.’ Gregory got unsteadily to his feet, lifted his chin until he could look Lucian in the eye and stood there swaying.

      ‘It did not occur to you to come to me and tell me what had happened in Lyons?’

      ‘I begged him not to.’ Marguerite, her nightrobe half off her shoulders, scrambled across the bed and clutched Gregory’s arm.

      ‘And you still want to marry this fluff-headed chit?’ Lucian asked, his tone verging on friendly curiosity.

      ‘I... Yes, my lord. I love her.’ Gregory’s face reflected complete surprise at the question.

      ‘You will give me your word that you will both stay here tonight. In the morning we will discuss what is to be done. Yes? What is it? Don’t you knock on your guests’ doors?’ He turned on the unfortunate landlord who stood on the threshold, nightcap askew, a truncheon in one hand.

      ‘There is no door! You broke it open!’

      ‘I broke the lock and a chair. And I will pay for the damage,’ Lucian said coolly. ‘I want two decent bedchambers for myself and my valet.’

      Sara stepped back into deeper shadow as Lucian advanced on the landlord, making him step back on to the landing. ‘Give me your word you will not run away again,’ she said to the young couple, low-voiced and urgent. ‘I promise you he will allow you to marry.’

      ‘My word on it,’ Gregory said, his voice shaking. Marguerite burst into tears and Sara, her head spinning with tiredness, looked round the door, saw the landlord in full retreat and joined Lucian. ‘They will stay there,’ she told him, closing the damaged door behind her as best she could.

      ‘That is the good news,’ Lucian said. ‘The bad news is that a severe storm two days ago took most of the tiles off the back of the roof. There are only two habitable bedchambers and that—’ he jerked a thumb to the room she had just left ‘—is one of them. I’ll sleep in the bar.’

      As he spoke the landlord came up the stairs, dumped their luggage at the top with a glare and stomped back down again.

      ‘No, you will not.’ Sara scooped up her valise. ‘We will both sleep in the remaining bedchamber.’

      ‘Sara, we agreed about this.’

      ‘We agreed that you would not want your lover befriending your little sister. Well, your little sister is in there in bed with a man she is not married to and you need a good night’s sleep because you have a lot of thinking to do in the morning.’ She blinked at him, almost too weary to focus. ‘Please, Lucian. I will only lose sleep worrying about you otherwise.’

      Lucian picked up the pistol and sword cases. ‘Anything to keep you from worrying.’ His smile was wry as he added, ‘I really do not think I am a threat to any woman’s virtue tonight.’ He led the way down the passage and pushed open a door. ‘This is the one, I think. Yes, it does appear to have a ceiling.’

      Sara stumbled into the room. She was beyond tiredness, she realised hazily, and hardly aware of what he was saying. She tugged her turban loose with one hand and began to unbutton her coat with the other. On the far side of the bed Lucian was dragging off his clothes in just as random a manner. When she fell into bed dressed only in her shirt she was barely conscious of the covers being pulled over her shoulders or of Lucian’s breath warm on her ear as he murmured goodnight.

       Chapter Eleven

      Fingers drifted across his chest, encountered a nipple, sifted through hair, then drifted on, downwards. Lucian woke slowly, coming up through layers of sleep to the awareness of that erotic touch, to the realisation that this was not a dream, that this was not his bed, that his shoulders ached dully and that something was lurking that he did not want to deal with. But just now, at this moment, there was nothing but pleasure. Sara.

      He opened his eyes, savouring the sensations, unwilling, yet, to hurry anything. The weak light filtering through thin cotton curtains at the window showed it was early, not much past five. He turned his head on the pillow, his cheek touching the rough silk tumble of Sara’s unbound hair and realised that she was still no more than half-awake.

      The fan of her lashes fascinated him, thick and long and much darker than her hair. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing light and fast, her cheeks faintly flushed. She was aroused, he realised, even though she was still virtually asleep.

      Her wandering hand slipped down, making the skin tighten beneath its warmth, then the tip of one finger found his navel, dipped inside, and Lucian doubled up with a snort of laughter.

      ‘Mmm—?’ Sara blinked awake.

      ‘I am ticklish there.’ Lucian came up on one elbow so he could kiss her. ‘But do not let me stop you exploring,’ he murmured against her lips.

      Sara

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