tossed her lovely wild hair back from her face. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’
He registered the swiftly concealed fear in those blue eyes, along with something else that was almost hatred. But then it was gone again, replaced by steadfast defiance. ‘Take her inside,’ he ordered Garrett. ‘We’ll keep her here until she changes her mind.’
‘No!’ She started struggling again. ‘You cannot do this!’
‘Try me,’ was Alec Stewart’s terse answer.
Two of his men led her down a stone staircase and locked her in the basement, where the only light came in through a high-up single window. Rosalie had fought them all the way, but now she simply stood and shivered with cold and fear as her faith in her own judgement came crashing down around her.
Alec Stewart. Last night, he’d seemed—different. He’d assumed she was a whore and that hurt, but otherwise he’d seemed totally unlike the rest of the men at that hateful Temple of Beauty—so much so that she, Rosalie, whose defences against men she’d considered bullet-proof, had let him kiss her. And had felt her insides melt with a strange, sweet sensation she’d never experienced before.
Could he be Linette’s seducer? Yet there must be many more men of that name! Wildly she clutched at straws. His name had not, after all, been listed in Dr Barnard’s secret book as having visited the Temple that fateful June nearly three years ago!
Her heart sank again. He might have given a false name to the doorman. And it might have taken only one night for him to cast his spell on Linette and whisk her away. For heaven’s sake, she, Rosalie, had submitted to his charms swiftly enough! Captain Alec Stewart. He has a castle, Rosalie. A wonderful castle …
Clearly he’d never brought her sister to this crumbling heap. Her stomach cramped in torment. If it was him, he probably didn’t know or care that Linette was dead. Probably didn’t even remember her.
Rosalie would never, ever have guessed. But then, neither had Linette. You idiot, Rosalie. You thought Linette was so stupid, thought yourself so clever … She paced the floor. She lacerated herself with reproach.
Suddenly she thought she heard low voices out in the passageway. She’d been in here how long? An hour? It felt like for ever. She heard a bolt being drawn back and, as the door opened, she sprang round to face it.
Alec Stewart walked slowly into the room, loosening his necktie with his right hand. There was an unreadable look in his hard dark eyes, and somehow the sheer physicality of him, the extremity of male power emanating from that rangy, muscular body, slammed the breath from her lungs. She was reminded, in a surge of excruciating emotion, of the sweet knowingness of his kiss. The melting ache of his fingers on her breasts.
Then she realised he was holding that piece of paper.
He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and just looked at her. Rosalie hitched up her chin. ‘Locking up women now,’ she declared with scorn. ‘What right have you to keep me here against my will—Captain Stewart?’
He ignored her question. ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ he said. ‘About who you are. You’re versatile, aren’t you, Athena?’ He stepped closer and pointed at the finger on which she wore the cheap little wedding band. ‘You weren’t wearing that last night. Does your husband know you were playing the whore at the Temple of Beauty?’
Fiddlesticks. She should have taken the stupid thing off. She jutted her chin. ‘I’m a widow, as it happens!’
‘My condolences.’ His sympathy was shortlived. ‘And your real name is …?’
‘R-Rosalie.’
‘Rosalie,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And do you by any chance pen scurrilous articles for a rag called The Scribbler?’
Oh, Lord. ‘I don’t see why you should—’
He waved the sheet at her. ‘Fellow about town. That’s how the journalist Ro Rowland describes himself—or should I say herself? I wasn’t born yesterday; I am acquainted with London’s gutter press.’
The colour drained from her face. That meant Helen was being dragged into this! This was just what Rosalie had wanted to avoid; this was one reason why Rosalie had never told Helen or anybody the name of Linette’s seducer, even though she’d realised it might have hastened her search … Helen, I’m so sorry.
She squared her slender shoulders. ‘Sometimes, I’ve written pieces for The Scribbler. But often I just make notes—like the ones your men stole from me!—for my own interest. And what I’m doing isn’t against the law!’
‘It is if you’re intending to print lies. Defame my reputation.’
‘Reputation! Oh, believe me, I could write so much more about you that you wouldn’t like, Captain Stewart!’
She saw the gleam in his steely eyes and dragged air into her tight lungs. Too far. Too dangerous, Rosalie. You cannot possibly tackle him right here in his stronghold.
He was still staring thoughtfully down at her. ‘Is that so? Might I suggest you can hardly afford to take the high moral ground, Mrs Rowland, since I could retaliate by asking—what the hell were you doing last night, parading on that stage half-naked?’
‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business!’
‘Unfortunately it is, since you’ve set yourself in judgement on my affairs. You were putting yourself up for sale at Dr Barnard’s—why? To dig up filth for your news rag? Is that why Dr Barnard was after you?’
Rather too close to the truth, that. ‘I was not for sale!’
‘All right, I correct myself.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘You were, in my case at least, offering it for free.’
She gasped and struck out at him. But he caught her hand in an iron-hard grip.
Blue eyes, turquoise-blue eyes, whose bed did you sleep in last night? Yesterday Alec Stewart had found himself rather hoping that there was some reason—and not the obvious one—for this girl to be appearing on stage at the Temple of Beauty.
Well, perhaps he’d found that reason and he didn’t like it one bit. She made money out of digging up prurient details of other people’s lives. Hence her appearance at Dr Barnard’s, hunting, he guessed, for lurid gossip about the visitors to that seedy place. Hence her temerity in coming here, to cast her blue eyes boldly over Two Crows Castle, while carrying in that bag of hers some nasty notes about the crimes of a so-called rackrenter. Yet—how stunned she’d looked when she realised he was the owner of Two Crows Castle! And why was it that everything she did, or said, challenged all his preconceptions of her?
He remembered the way she’d reacted to his kiss last night. Even now he caught his breath at the way her silvery-blonde hair tumbled like a silken waterfall around her shoulders, at the way her drab cloak had fallen apart to allow him a distracting glimpse of the small but ripe breasts that were prominent beneath her shabby gown.
Very pretty, and very professional. Get a grip, man. Not only is she a courtesan, but she writes for a news rag. She’s damned dangerous.
As
