At the Highwayman's Pleasure(22)

She considered. ‘I would like to believe it was the gentleman,' she  said at last. ‘Although I do not like to think that you are really quite  so sombre. You never laugh.'

‘I find little to amuse me. Your father has seen to that.'

Her hands tightened on the glass. Somehow it did not surprise her that  Phineas was involved in this. Dear heaven, would she never be free of  him?

She said quietly, ‘Will you tell me why?'

His mouth thinned. ‘It need not concern you.'

‘I think it must, since I am your hostage. I have a right-'

‘Hostages have no rights, Mrs Weston.' He drained his glass and reached  out to pluck her empty one from her hands. ‘You should sleep now.'

His tone brooked no argument. She went to rise, but he stopped her with  a hand on her shoulder. It was quite gentle, but there was sufficient  strength for her to know it would be useless to resist him.

‘First let me warm the sheets for you.'

He scooped hot coals from the fire into the warming pan and slipped it  beneath the bedcovers. He looked up and caught her watching him.

‘I hope this is the correct way to go about it. It is not something I have done before.'

Despite her exhaustion she felt a smile tugging at her lips. He was certainly an odd sort of villain.

‘It looks correct to me.' She pushed herself to her feet. Heavens, how  weary she was. ‘I shall need to relieve myself before I retire....'

‘We do not yet run to an indoor water closet here, Mrs Weston.'

His answer made her look towards the window, where despite the thick curtains the howling wind could still be heard.

‘However, I would not ask you to step outside again tonight. There is a chamber pot in the cupboard beside the bed.'                       
       
           



       

‘You appear to have thought of everything.'

‘I hope so.' He emptied the coals back onto the fire and stood the  warming pan on the hearth before picking up his boots. ‘Oh, I ordered  Jed to nail the window shut. My room is only next door and I am a very  light sleeper, madam. You may be sure that I shall hear it if you  attempt to break the glass and escape.'

She said, with a last tiny spurt of energy, ‘Much as I object to being  held prisoner, Mr Durden, you may be sure that the most pressing matter  for me at this moment is sleep!'

With a short laugh he went out, and she heard the key turn in the lock,  but this time it did not rouse her to fury and frustration. She was too  exhausted for that. Besides, he had said he had no intention of hurting  her and strangely enough she believed him, although she wondered what  he would do when Phineas refused to pay a ransom for her. She gave her  head a little shake; she was far too tired to think about that now.

She pottered around the room, collecting up her clothes and arranging  them over the chairs before the fire so they would dry. Whatever was in  store for her tomorrow, she would face it when it came, and did not  intend to do so wearing Ross Durden's garishly coloured banyan.

* * *

Charity had no idea how long she slept, but when she heard the key in  the lock she was instantly on the alert. The line of light around the  edges of the thick window curtains told her it was morning, but she kept  the bedclothes pulled tight to her chin as the door opened.

‘Good morning. It is ten o'clock and time you were out of bed,' Ross  Durden greeted her cheerfully as he strode across to the room and threw  back the curtains. The dazzling light made her put one arm across her  eyes and she heard him chuckle.

‘It is a fine morning, but it snowed again in the night and is now  knee-deep everywhere, so I would not advise you to go out of doors. I  have brought you a jug of hot water so you may wash. Get dressed and  come down to the kitchen. Breakfast is waiting for you.'

She bridled at his tone, but he did not notice, for he was reviving the  fire that had burned itself down to a dull glow. She noted he was not  wearing a jacket and the full sleeves of his white shirt billowed from  the waistcoat, accentuating the width of his shoulders and tapered  waist. Tight buckskins stretched over his hips and thighs. She found her  mouth going dry at the sight of him hunkered down before the hearth,  and an unfamiliar yearning gripped her. He exuded a disturbing amount of  strength and energy, which in her present sleepy state put her at a  disadvantage and made her assume a haughtiness that would have had her  friends staring in astonishment.

‘I am not accustomed to breaking my fast in the servants' quarters.'

That brought forth nothing more than another deep chuckle.

‘Oh, you'll find no servants there, Mrs Weston. We must fend for  ourselves. And you must dress yourself, too.' He picked up her stays and  dangled them from one finger. ‘Unless you would like me to help  you....'

Colour flooded over her neck and face, not just from embarrassment but  she was also aware of a delicious curl of desire winding through her at  the thought of his doing just that.

‘I shall manage perfectly well, thank you.'

‘Good. Then I shall wait for you downstairs. When you reach the hall you will see the kitchen door behind the stairs.'

‘What, you trust me not to run away?'

He was at the door, but her words made him stop.

‘If you are not there in twenty minutes, I shall come in search of you.  You would be very unwise to try running off. Your tracks would soon  give you away. But I don't think you will put me to the trouble of  coming after you again.'

He said no more, but the stern look in his eyes promised terrible retribution if she disobeyed him.

It took most of the allotted twenty minutes for Charity to make herself  presentable. Her petticoats had dried overnight, although her gown was  sadly watermarked, as were the satin dancing slippers. However, they  were all she had to wear, so she wasted no time in regretting what could  not be changed. She opened the bedroom door, but quickly retreated and  only came out again once she had folded a blanket into a shawl to  protect her against the icy air of the passage.

She was relieved to find the kitchen comfortably warm, and as she  entered Samson came over to give her a friendly sniff, his black tail  waving slowly. Absently she put a hand on his head before making her way  towards the range, drawn by the cheerful glow of the coals.

* * *

Ross was filling the coffee pot from the kettle, but he looked round  when Charity Weston entered the room. She had one of the blankets from  the bed wrapped about her shoulders, the dull brown wool only enhancing  the lustre of the golden curls that cascaded from a simple topknot. Her  beauty was quite startling and his eyes were drawn to her lips. They  were full and red, as if she had been nervously biting them. His heart  lurched and he wished he was welcoming her here as his guest rather than  his prisoner.                       
       
           



       

Pull yourself together, man!

Sternly quelling the urge to apologise, he greeted her cheerfully.

‘So there you are. I'm afraid there is no bread as you might know it,  for Mrs Cummings has not been here to make it. However, there are  these.' He gestured towards the ceiling and a rack, which had a number  of large, very thin oatcakes thrown over it. ‘They are very fresh and  still soft, which is the way I like them best. But even when they are  crisp they are quite palatable, you know, spread with butter and jam.'

‘I am not so high and mighty that I do not know that,' she replied  warily. ‘My mother used to make them. I suppose your servant prepared  these.'

He held out a chair for her.

‘No, madam, I did. I used to help Cook make them in this very kitchen  when I was very young, and when I went to sea I took her recipe with me.  It proved extremely popular to men accustomed to ship's biscuit.' He  reached up and pulled down one of the oatcakes and put it on a plate  before her. ‘Here, try it and I will pour you some coffee.'

He pulled another oatcake off the rack for himself and sat down.

She said, as if making light conversation, ‘There is no doubt that I  will have been missed by now. I should like to let my friends know I am  safe.'

‘Impossible. You seem to have forgotten, Mrs Weston, that I have kidnapped you.'

‘If you are truly a villain, why did you take such care of me last night?'

He tried not to think of the shock of finding her gone, the fear that  had consumed him at the idea of her perishing in the snow. He had been  horrified when she'd told him she had run away because she was afraid  for her life. He was a villain, indeed, to put her through this. A  villain with a conscience, but he could hardly tell her that.

‘I need you in good health,' he said coolly.