had no choice but to cling to his waist, the friction of his greatcoat barely concealing the hard, moving muscles beneath. All she could do was fight her awareness of him, of his scent, the strong curve of his back shielding her from the night.
It must have been an hour before they slowed, the horse’s hard breathing the only noise in the night’s stillness. The animal skidded around a corner, slowing to a canter as a manor house appeared on the still-dark horizon, illuminated only by moonlight, a rustic stone pile surrounded by tall hedges and a curved driveway. Devon took a deep draught of the moist night air, calculating the hour to be three or four in the morning.
“Don’t move—trust me, you have nowhere to run,” Blackburn said as he reined up. The curve of his mouth indicated the futility of any escape plans she might entertain.
He would get nothing from her, Devon swore moments later, feeling vulnerable and ridiculous in her nightdress, robe, and cape in the chilled front hall of what was clearly, in centuries past, a hunting lodge. They were alone except for an ancient man who emerged from the darkness to light a fire in the cold grate of the front drawing room. In a few moments the kindling turned to flames, lighting up a simple paneled room lacking the florid carving of more sophisticated country manors. A curving staircase in the front hall and stone floors cut from local granite formed the backdrop for decidedly masculine furnishings. Only a dark red Aubusson carpet added any softness or warmth.
“Nothing as luxurious as what Le Comte has to offer, but you’ll find it comfortable enough,” said Blackburn, reading her thoughts. He joined her in the drawing room, incongruously formal in his white cravat, tailored cutaway jacket and breeches, his stark looks an unwelcome intrusion.
“I’m surprised you haven’t lowered me into a dungeon.”
“The night’s not over yet.”
The room was cold enough and Devon hunched further into her pelisse.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Blackburn asked neutrally, unconscionably vital and as if he’d not just spent the last twenty-four hours without sleep. “And you may as well rest.”
Before what? An interrogation or worse?
Devon turned to sit on the proffered divan, determined not to let the man detect her fear which sat like a heavy stone in her chest. “I don’t know where all this is going,” she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “Neither of us has the score, so what do you hope to accomplish here? Or is this simply your idea of revenge, a salve for your wounded male pride at having been abducted by Le Comte’s men and dragged into this affair?”
He dropped into a wingback chair opposite her, his expression inscrutable. “When you come to know me better you’ll realize that I seldom allow pride to get in the way of anything I do.”
“I don’t intend to get to know you better,” she answered huffily. “I shall return this instant to Le Comte and insist that we proceed without you.”
It was a feeble bluff. The best she could do at the moment up against cold-blooded reality.
“Somehow I doubt it,” he said, reading her mind again. He stretched out his long legs and sank further into the chair. “Instead, I think de Maupassant will come for you. As a matter of fact, I’m counting on it.”
She sucked in a startled breath. His dark blue eyes met her own. “You believe Le Comte will want me back badly enough to give you the score? That’s ridiculous!”
He leaned forward in the chair, his gaze predatory. “You underestimate your value to him, Devon. Of course mistresses are plentiful, that’s not what I’m referring to.”
“What are you referring to?”
“Access to what you know—he wants what’s in your head.”
Devon catapulted to her feet, nearly stumbling over her pelisse. She was overtired and on the brink of overplaying her hand, ready to shout at him that she was not the Frenchman’s paramour.
She stopped just in time when she noticed how he searched her face, his dark eyes almost black in the firelight. He was thinking, calculating, manipulating—and it infuriated her.
“I would rather hang.”
The look he shot her was skeptical. “That can be arranged, all too easily. So sit down, I’m not finished.”
Her eyes blazed fury.
“It’s your knowledge that de Maupassant is interested in and your relationship with your late father.”
Of course, her father. The traitor. The man whose work and reputation she was trying to vindicate. If it killed her.
She made a small sound of contempt, perching herself at the edge of the divan. “Do you intend to hold me hostage then?” She made herself fold her hands calmly on her lap while drawing from her rapidly dwindling resources.
Blackburn gave her a considering look. “It’s your doing. You failed to secure the score from the Frenchman as required. This is simply another way of forcing de Maupassant’s hand—he needs the two of us. And I need the Eroica—now.”
Bloody hell, the man was high-handed. Devon’s resolve hardened like stone against his arrogant stance. “And I’m simply to acquiesce to either your or Le Comte’s request, just like that?” She snapped her fingers in his face. “And as I said to you before, don’t bother offering me money.”
Devon braced herself as Blackburn rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace. He leaned against the mantel and folded his arms over his chest. “What would you have me believe, Devon? That you failed in your bid to charm the Eroica from the Frenchman’s grasp? I’m beginning to think that you’re playing me false. As a matter of fact, I wonder whether you’re as politically neutral as you pretend to be. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if your sympathies lay with Bonaparte, given your familial history.”
The implication of his words sank into her bones. In order to manipulate, to subdue—Blackburn had to trust her. “My only interest is in my music,” she equivocated, raising her chin aggressively. “De Maupassant was the only avenue open to me, the only opportunity to continue my study. In exchange, Le Comte forced me into securing your cooperation.”
Gaze pinning her, he stalked forward. She felt his hard fingers tip up her chin. “You’re lying,” he said simply.
Devon held herself perfectly still, afraid she’d fall apart if she moved a single muscle, her silence the only answer. She hated him. She hated the situation they found themselves in. And she hated the fine trembling suffusing her body as he wrapped one large hand around the back of her neck.
“You’re very beautiful.” He stared at her hard and she couldn’t look away.
Her breath came faster.
He tilted her head, exposing the vulnerable column of her neck, holding her immobile between his warm hands. Very quietly, he murmured, “I know what you want, Devon, and I can give it to you.”
The air left her lungs in an instant and she felt herself retreating into herself, away from that touch that managed to obliterate all thought. She wanted to close her eyes, shutting him out, but she couldn’t. He shook his head and the world came to a standstill.
“I
