Wicked Loving Lies - Rosemary Rogers MIRA

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stretched, blinking her eyes, and noticed that faint sunlight filtered through a crack in the worn velvet draperies covering the window. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked, and she remembered seeing one on the mantelpiece last night, just before she had locked the door.

      Memory came flooding back, and she sat up, alarmed, but the door was still closed, and she was alone, shivering with cold and apprehension, in a sparsely furnished room. What time was it? Had he returned yet? She must get away!

      Marisa leaped out of bed and ran to the door, testing it to make sure it was locked. A glance at the ormolu clock told her it was already past twelve—she had slept far too long!

      Her teeth chattering now, she quickly splashed icy cold water over her face and arms, performing her ablutions as quickly and as best she could. Her crumpled clothes still lay carelessly slung over the chair she had thrown them on last night, and now she began to dress hastily, one eye on the door.

      The remorseless ticking of the clock hurried her shaking, numb fingers as she fastened her gown, trying to smooth some of the wrinkles out of it by running her hands down the skirt. Now her stockings and shoes. She pushed the little purse as far down the bosom of her dress as it would go, snatched up her straw bonnet, and with a last glance around the room crept to the door and drew back the bolt, praying it would not make too much noise. Had someone locked it from the outside? No, thank God. It opened without too much squeaking, and she tiptoed out onto the narrow landing she remembered from last night, still without seeing another soul.

      Marisa did not quite understand why she suddenly felt so panic-stricken. But she did not want to see him again, her instincts told her that much, and she was following them blindly, intent only upon escape.

      Cautiously, she started down the worn stairs, clinging to the thin railing. One careful step at a time, testing each one to make sure it would not creak. There was still no one to be seen, but halfway down she heard the murmur of voices and froze, until she realized that they came through the half-open door of a room to the left of the stairwell.

      Her heart began to pound suddenly when she recognized Dominic Challenger’s harsh, exasperated voice.

      “Dammit! She’s worth a lot more than that, and you know it! If I didn’t need the money right now I’d keep her for a while longer; she’s trim and easy to handle once you’ve mastered her, but I’m in a hurry to get back home and must be rid of her.”

      Still clutching at the stair rail, Marisa felt sick with horror and humiliation. She swayed, her heartbeats sounding like pounding drums in her ears, and hardly heard the other man reply. “You drive a hard bargain, my friend, but I’ll consider meeting your price after I’ve seen her and decide if she’s worth what you’re asking.”

      Without waiting to hear more, she began to run, as silently as she could. No and no and no! He would not sell her off so callously as if she were a piece of merchandise to be bargained for! How could even he be so heartless and depraved? Had he planned to send the man into her bedroom while she still slept to take her by force as he had? No wonder all her instincts had warned her!

      She ran down the hallway, past the room where the two men still argued, and tugged desperately at the front door. To her surprised relief, it opened without a struggle. Obviously he had forgotten to lock it behind his visitor.

      In a flash, she was outside. Running down the steps, through the open iron gate, and out into the street at last where she continued to run and run until she was out of breath.

      9

      Philip Sinclair, trying out his new pair of matched bays behind a smart racing curricle, had to swerve sharply to avoid the young woman who came running around the corner into the street. He swore angrily as he barely managed to avert being overturned or losing a wheel. Damn the female! What was the matter with her? She had been fleeing as if pursued by all the demons of hell, and now she lay in a sobbing, crumpled heap on the cobblestones. Surely she wasn’t hurt! Although if she was, it was her own fault. Damned French! He supposed, however, that he’d better go and make sure she was all right. The Peace of Amiens was an uneasy one, and he was a visitor in Paris. He didn’t want any trouble….

      Marisa was not sobbing with fear—she was past that—but with sheer exhaustion. It had not yet occurred to her how narrowly she had escaped death.

      She lay there unable to move, and suddenly there was a pair of highly polished, tasseled boots standing before her eyes, and she heard a voice inquiring in stilted, accented French if she were hurt or needed any assistance.

      “I must say, mademoiselle,” he continued severely, “that you should take more care to look where you are going! I almost ran you over.”

      She looked up slowly, first seeing fashionable nankeen breeches of pale yellow, then a gold watch fob dangling from a striped silk waistcoat, and finally a high white cravat, intricately tied. Marisa blinked, hardly able to believe that such a handsome young man could exist. His blond hair, cut à la Brutus, fell over his forehead which was creased at the moment by a worried frown.

      “Mademoiselle?” he repeated inquiringly, and when she struggled to rise, he automatically put out his gloved hand to help her up.

      Philip Sinclair saw a flushed tear-stained face framed by dark gold curls that clung damply to her temples. He could feel her trembling, whether from shock or fear he could not tell, and his voice sharpened with concern. “I say—are you sure you’re all right? Can you stand?” She looked like a child, her thin figure encased in a poorly cut gown of a most unbecoming shade of brown, and he took her for some poor shopkeeper’s daughter until she spoke to him in perfect English, her voice husky with emotion.

      “You—you are English, sir? Oh, then would you please, please be good enough to take me with you? You need not take me far—but I—I must leave this street before they discover me gone and come after me! Oh, please, I beg you!”

      He stared at her in dismay, obviously hesitant, and then when fresh tears sprang into her eyes and began to trickle forlornly down her face he decided that a scene was to be avoided at all costs. Besides, there was something deucedly intriguing about her and the way she spoke such flawless English. What on earth could a young woman of obvious education be doing here, shabbily dressed, all alone and terrified out of her wits?

      “Come on then,” he said shortly, and to her relief he asked no more questions but bundled her up beside him, driving off at a fast clip that delighted her and brought a flush to her cheeks.

      Mr. Sinclair, already regretting his impulsive decision, could not help glancing doubtfully at the girl—she could really be no more than a child!—who sat beside him, leaning slightly forward. She had a delightful little profile, with a slightly retroussé nose and tiny chin, but, my God, suppose some of his friends were to see him now! He would become a laughingstock. Then a rather unpleasant thought came into his mind, causing him to frown slightly. Suppose she was not what she seemed, but a little adventuress who had deliberately run out into the street before a smart curricle so that her family could blackmail him? He had been warned to be careful in Paris, and especially now, when all Englishmen were held in suspicion. Dash it! What should he do now?

      He had been driving aimlessly, still wondering what his next course of action should be when his companion, who had been silent hitherto as if trying to compose herself, suddenly clutched his arm.

      “Oh, stop!” He gave her a look of surprise, and the next minute she blushed at her own boldness, saying in a softer, apologetic voice, “That is—if you would please stop for just a moment, sir? That building there, you see, I recognize it.”

      The building stretched for half the length of the street. It was huge and forbidding looking, with grey turrets and a bell tower; high walls surrounded it.

      Philip, obediently reining up his spirited horses, looked puzzled. What the devil did she mean? He had heard that this building had been used as a prison during the revolution, but surely she was too young to remember that?

      “It—it was once

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