As his vision adjusted to the dimness, he could make out large gray eyes fringed with dark lashes gracing a face that was as unusual as it was lovely. His practiced look took in the defined cheekbones, the translucent skin that was a perfect foil for richly hued tresses and a mouth whose soft fullness suggested an ardent sensuality. And she had the enviable good sense not to scream. He could snap her neck in a heartbeat and she knew it.
He said in infuriatingly measured tones, “Now back to choices. You mentioned earlier that I have two. But let me amend your proposition by adding a third.”
“I shall scream for help.” Her eyes glittered in the darkness.
“No you won’t. You know that I can silence you and manage those two fellows hovering outside. Besides which, you wouldn’t get what you want. And neither would I.”
Blackburn knew she could feel his hard thighs and hips outlined by his tailored breeches. Deliberately, he moved even closer, enjoying her barely contained panic in the darkness—and something else. He was adept at recognizing a sensual response. His large hand held her two wrists as easily as a child’s. Her eyes moved to his wide mouth, his lips curved in a knowing smile.
“Let me go this instant,” she snapped, rigid as a washboard. “Get your hands off me.”
He smiled tauntingly. “I’m no longer holding on to you, Mademoiselle.” He offered strong beautifully shaped hands for her view. She flushed under his gaze, unable to move away, still blocked by his body and considerable height.
“Let me tell you about that third option,” he said looming ever closer, dispassionately aware of his own reaction, the swelling in his breeches that started the moment she’d walked into his cell.
Her full lips parted in expectation, agitation, or passion, he couldn’t tell. Devon Caravelle’s breaths came in shallow gasps as she was clearly unnerved by his nearness and the danger he represented. Blackburn didn’t envy her—positioned as she was between himself and Le Comte.
He said, “You get me the Eroica. We work on the score together. I decide what to do with the contents.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“Why should I? You’re Le Comte’s newest bauble. It stands to reason your loyalty rests with him. No doubt he’s compensating you handsomely. And no doubt he sent you to secure my cooperation,” Blackburn said brutally, wondering what securing that cooperation might entail. His erection lengthened at the thought, primed as a pistol. “I will quadruple whatever he’s offered you.” It seemed to him that she flinched.
But she maintained a mutinous silence, thick lashes at half-mast over her spectacular eyes.
“While I find your antics charmingly cloak and dagger,” he continued, forcing himself to ignore the heaviness in his groin, “I have neither the time nor the patience to work under your direction, as you charmingly suggested earlier. Now you’re the one who hasn’t a choice.”
Her face paled from cream to alabaster. “Look, you don’t understand.”
“Of course I do, Mademoiselle,” he said callously. For some reason he didn’t fight the urge to touch her and flicked a careless finger along the smoothness of her cheek. Her breaths came even faster. “It’s quite simple. You work for me against Le Comte.”
“And if I refuse?” She suppressed a shiver as she felt his caress.
In response, he forced her against the door, resting one hand casually over her head and effectively caging her with his body. One fraction closer and she would feel another kind of physical threat. “I don’t think you will, Mademoiselle. I’m sure a damp prison cell is as much to your liking as it is to my liking, wouldn’t you say?”
“You mean to throw me to the magistrates?” She was so close he felt the warmth of her breath in the dark.
“Yes, I would—tonight, as a matter of fact. They’d be more than pleased to stretch your neck. Capturing the daughter of an infamous traitor; moreover, a daughter who was involved in her father’s rather important work? And of course, I would be available to testify that you had me abducted in order to help you with your treasonous plans.”
It was as if he had cracked her veneer, hit a nerve. “Get away from me.” Her voice filled with pain and an odd undertone of protectiveness. “Don’t dare ever mention my father again.”
“As you wish.” He turned to block the door with his back, arms crossed over his chest. “But I believe I have your answer. And don’t worry, Mademoiselle. De Maupassant will never know you’re working against him, rather than for him—as long as you cooperate with me, of course. And for this deception you will be reimbursed handsomely. Don’t look so shocked,” he added, watching her rooted to her spot in the gloom. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to treachery for the right price. So—you will have the score for me tomorrow evening at the recital your generous benefactor is hosting to showcase your considerable charms.”
Devon Caravelle took a breath and raised her chin. “What if he refuses to relinquish it to me?”
Blackburn’s expression was derisive as he deliberately surveyed her form, from her glorious hair and mobile mouth to the slender body alluringly hidden beneath swatches of brown wool.
His voice was rough, his breath soft on her ear. “Seduce him—what else? Return to your lover tonight and beguile, captivate, and lie as fluently as I’m sure you can. Simply pretend all is going according to plan.”
His smile was distinctly unpleasant as he pulled himself away from her. “Now go—because I’m sure he’s expecting you.”
It was as though the impossible had occurred and he had shocked her, her profile frozen ivory. “You disgust me,” she whispered, gathering her cloak and grabbing the latch of the door to pull it open.
“Don’t forget your pistol.” He picked it up from the floor and held it out to her. She quickly snapped up the weapon with a gloved hand, afraid to touch him. But Devon Caravelle didn’t call for the guards.
“Tomorrow evening,” said the Marquess of Blackburn throwing her an indifferent glance, as though getting ready to depart from an unexpectedly tedious reception rather than walk out of a prison.
For the briefest of seconds he wondered whether he should let her go back to Le Comte. The thought of their being lovers did more than usual to fuel his natural cynicism. Bloody hell, he wanted a drink, wanted to sit by himself and cool his response toward a woman who could easily destroy him. It was time for his exit as he obviously needed a brandy to clear the pounding in his head.
He stepped over the threshold into a narrow hallway, consciously leaving the shadow of Devon Caravelle’s disturbing presence behind him.
“And do whatever you have to do to get the score—to keep the magistrates and the hangman at bay, of course,” he said by way of a parting shot. “I’m sure you know how, Mademoiselle. All too well.”
Chapter 3
Devon Caravelle’s hands shook as she shrugged out of her cloak. Her suite
