Bride for a Night(108)

“Then why are you packing your bags?” he asked.

She tossed her head as she moved to the lacquered dresser and pulled out a handful of lacy undergarments.

“I should think it obvious.”

“Perhaps to you, but I will admit to being baffled.” His gaze followed her path back to the bed, her hands unsteady as she dropped her belongings on the growing pile. “Explain yourself.”

The dark gaze lifted to stab him with a smoldering glare. “You have the woman you want, do you not?”

It was a question he had not allowed himself to consider. After all, Talia was perfect for him. She possessed precisely the sort of qualities that he desired in a female. She was spirited and courageous and yet, so sweetly vulnerable that he longed to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe. And of course, only a dead man would not find her curvaceous body a source of constant enticement.

But that did not lessen his desire for Sophia. Or his fury at the thought of her packing her bags and leaving him.

“I assume that you refer to Lady Ashcombe?”

“I do,” she snapped. “Unless you have yet another female hidden in your rooms?”

He shrugged. “For the moment she is my prisoner.”

She folded her arms beneath her lovely bosom that was emphasized by the low cut of her rose-and-silver striped gown.

“Please do not treat me as if I am an idiot, Jacques.”

A delectable hunger shivered through him, making him wonder if she would spit and scratch if he tumbled her onto the wide bed or welcome him with the raw passion that always shimmered between them.

He ruefully squashed the urge to discover which she might choose, instead moving forward to block her path to the dresser.


“I was not aware that was what I was doing,” he murmured, grasping her arms and pressing her back toward the bed. “Cease this nonsense and sit down.”

Perching stiffly on the edge of the mattress, Sophia regarded him in defiance. “Now what?”

“How did you discover that Talia was here?”

She shrugged. “The entire household is whispering that you have not only captured Lord Ashcombe but his wife and friend, Lord Rothwell, as well.”

Jacques snapped his teeth together, damning loose tongues that could spread gossip faster than wildfire.

It was not that he was idiotic enough to believe he could keep his prisoners a secret, but he had hoped to be rid of Ashcombe and Rothwell before the word of their presence began to spread through the streets of Calais.

Not only was it going to be a difficult enough task to haul two corpses and a petulant Harry Richardson onto a ship that he had commanded be docked just north of the town without attracting undue attention, but he had not lied to Harry when he’d said there were several hundred French soldiers outside the city walls. It would take very little to provoke them into a frenzied thirst for English blood.

Especially if that blood happened to be that of an English aristocrat.

“My household should concentrate on their duties and not on gossiping about matters that do not concern them,” he growled.

“You cannot fault them for their interest,” she sniffed, her eyes flashing fury. “It is, after all, believed that you intend to slay Lord Ashcombe in order to make the lovely Talia a widow and mistress of your household.”

He dropped her hands, his spine stiffening at the implication in her low words.

Certainly he had taken pleasure in taunting Ashcombe with the threat of making Talia a widow, but he would never murder a man simply to acquire a wife. No matter how much he might desire her.