Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(14)

“Apparently not,” Derek said darkly, his hands dropping from Sara. “Showing the place without asking my permission? You’re bloody certain of yourself these days, Worthy.”

“It was my fault,” Sara said, trying to protect the factotum. “I-I insisted on having my way. The blame is all mine.”

Derek’s mouth twisted. “No one can make Worthy do anything he doesn’t want to do, mouse. No one except me.”

At the sound of Sara’s voice, Worthy looked anxiously in her direction. “Miss Fielding? Are you all right?”

Derek dragged Sara out and pushed her, blinking, into the bright light. “Here’s your little novelist. We were just having a discussion.”

Sara stared through her spectacles at her captor, who seemed even larger and more imposing than he had last night. Craven was exquisitely dressed in charcoal-gray trousers and a snow-white shirt that emphasized his swarthiness. His tan waistcoat was made without pockets, fitted to his lean midriff with no hint of a wrinkle. She had never seen such elegant garments on anyone in the village, not even Perry Kingswood, the pride of Greenwood Corners.

But in spite of his expensive attire, no one would ever mistake Derek Craven for a gentleman. The jagged line of stitches on his face gave him a battered, rough appearance. His hard green eyes seemed to look right through her. He was a powerful man with street swagger and absolute confidence, a man who could no more conceal his appetite for the finer things of life than he could keep the sun from rising.

“I hadn’t intended to show Miss Fielding the hidden passageways,” Worthy commented, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. He turned to Sara. “However, now that you know about them, I might tell you that the club is riddled with secret corridors and peepholes by which you may observe the action on the floor.”

Sara slid a questioning glance to Craven, and he read her thoughts easily.

“Nothing happens here that I don’t know about,” Craven said. “It’s safer that way—for the club members and for me.”

“Is it really,” she murmured. There was only the tiniest hint of skepticism in her voice, but it didn’t escape his notice.

“You might find some of the passageways useful,” he said smoothly, “since you won’t be allowed to approach any of the guests.”

“But Mr. Craven—”

“If you want to stay here, you’ll abide by my rules. No talking to guests. No interference at the tables.” He glanced at her reticule, which bulged with a suspiciously heavy lump. “Still carrying the pistol?” he asked, casually amused.

“I try to be prepared for any situation.”

“Well,” Derek mocked, “the next time things get tight around here, I’ll know who to come to.”

Sara was silent, her face averted. Unconsciously she had wrapped her fingers around the place on her arm he had gripped. Her hand moved gently, as if to rub the memory away.

So his touch repelled her, Derek thought, and smiled grimly. If she only knew the sins his hands had committed, she would never feel clean again.

Worthy cleared his throat and spoke in his official no-nonsense factotum’s voice. “Very well, Miss Fielding. Shall we resume our tour?”

Sara nodded, looking back into the dark corridor. “I would like to see where this leads.”

Derek watched with a reluctant smile as the two of them ventured into the passageway. He called after the factotum, “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her shoot anyone.”

Worthy’s reply was muffled. “Yes, Mr. Craven.”

Derek closed the panelled door so that it blended seamlessly into the wall. He paused and steadied himself against a touch of dizziness. His bruised ribs had begun to ache. Slowly he made his way to his apartments and sought his opulent bedchamber. The head-board and posts of his bed were carved with cherubs bearing trumpets and dolphins rising on crests of waves. All of it was thickly covered with gold, which gleamed richly against the embroidered velvet bed hangings. Although Derek knew it was in bad taste, he didn’t care. “A bed fit for a king” was what he had told the furniture maker, and the expensive design appealed to him. As a boy he had spent too many nights curled up in doorways and under rickety wooden stairs, dreaming of sleeping in his own bed someday. Now he had built a palace…only to discover that thousands of nights reclining amid gold and velvet would never take away the sense of deprivation. He still hungered for a nameless something that had nothing to do with fine linen and luxury.

Closing his eyes, he slept lightly, drifting into a troubling dream filled with images of Joyce Ashby and her glittering golden hair, her white feet splashing among rivers of blood…

Suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone. He jerked awake with a slight gasp, his nerves clamoring in alarm. There was a woman by his bed. His green eyes focused on her, and his dark head dropped back to the pillow. “God, it’s you.”

Chapter 3

Lily, Lady Raiford, leaned over him, her dark eyes vibrant with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been hurt?”

“It’s not that bad.” Although he wore an expression of annoyance, he accepted the little attentions she gave him; her soft ducking, the touch of her fingertips on his wound. Their relationship was that of amicable, bickering friends. They rarely saw each other alone, for Lily’s husband, the earl of Raiford, possessed a jealous nature. “You’d better leave before Raiford finds us together,” Derek muttered. “I’m in no mood for a duel today.”