The Cyprian toddled away, mincing along one of the many paths that converged in the grotto. The improbable gauze flounces of her gown beckoned in the breeze of her passing. She must be freezing out here. Brimstone staggered after her, disappearing in the twists of the path; the paste buckles of his breeches and shoes sparked in the darkness even after he’d merged with the shadows, then winked out.
George turned back to the waterfall, slid the hood of her domino off to settle about her shoulders. The column of her neck held him frozen in place. Pale, delicate, naked from the bone at its base to the nape of her neck. The coloured light thrown by the lantern caressed her skin, turning it blue and pink and yellow. It refracted a riot of colour in her hair, highlighting every strand that had escaped the powder.
He stole up to her, lost in the curls that twisted at her nape, the sweep of her shoulders, the angle of her head. He wanted to touch her. Needed to. Couldn’t control the desire to press a kiss between her shoulders, a sensual landscape of subtle hills and valleys.
He stepped close, caught her round the waist, and pulled her back to him. He pressed his lips to the spot that had been taunting him. ‘Petruchio’s taken, is it? What about Oberon?’
George stiffened then went slack as he spoke, sagging back against him. ‘Damn you, Dauntry. I thought you were him.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, love.’
‘You’re ruining everything. Go away.’
He was. And he didn’t give a damn. Suddenly he didn’t care so much for their scheme, for leaving George unprotected for even a moment. Anyone who wanted to get to her was going to have to go through him first. That was the way it ought to be. The way it would be.
He ducked his head, nose to the soft, bare patch of skin behind her ear. Jasmine filled his nostrils, flooded his senses, curled around him and held him as securely as a chain.
She was his, whether she was ready to admit it or not.
His.
The moment his grip relaxed she broke away and darted off, sparing him no more than a chastising glance. Ivo raced after her, chased her through the twists and turns of the path, nearly losing her in the dark. Only the occasional glint of the gold trimmings of her gown gave her away.
She spun around a corner and he lost her entirely as an amorous, giggling couple blundered into him, knocking him back.
Damnation!
By the time he rounded the corner she had disappeared entirely. The path forked around a large tree, gravel scattered all around its roots. Ivo dove down the right path, praying he was right, that George would have chosen the darker of the two, the one without lanterns bobbing welcomingly along it.
A startled exclamation—clearly feminine—sent him racing, heedless of branches, pebbles, roots. His domino snagged and he threw it off, leaving it hanging in his wake.
George stared wide-eyed at the man in the peacock blue domino who blocked her way. Her breath caught in her throat, choking her. Her eyes burnt with the need to blink, but she couldn’t look away.
Moonlight wove its way through the canopy, glinted off polished metal, outlining the deadly curves of the pistol gripped in his right hand. As long as she held his gaze he wouldn’t shoot. She was sure of it. He was savouring the moment. He’d make it last for as long as she allowed him to.
He wanted more than just her death. That much had been obvious all along.
After a moment his pistol wavered, dipping slightly, but not falling away. The lanterns high in the trees threw a strange crimson light over them both, casting shadows in odd places, making it impossible to see what little of his face was bare below his Venetian-style mask. His lips and jaw were eerily missing, but she knew those eyes.
Why couldn’t she place them?
Why was it so much more frightening to know she knew the man trying to kill her? She felt suddenly damp inside her clothes. Her shift clung to her legs, the night air turned her dewy skin to ice.
‘Time to go, my lady.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm as his tongue wrapped around the title and spat it out.
‘Go?’
He didn’t respond except to indicate with the pistol that she should move. George swallowed as the world around her refused to return to life. Like a clockwork toy that had wound down, it was stuck, motionless.
She took a step back, willing the world to continue. Her hands began to tingle. Her heart was clawing its way up her throat. Where were the boys? Where was Dauntry? He’d been right behind her…and here she was, the bait on the end of the hook, with the fish caught and ready to be reeled in.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, monsieur. I think you must have the wrong lady.’
He smiled at that, just a quick flash of teeth that glinted in the light. ‘I don’t think so. I have exactly the right whore, and I have her exactly where I want her. Or I will in just a few moments. There’s a carriage out the side gate, waiting just for you.’ He gestured again with the gun, stepped closer, anger radiating from him like heat from a forge.
George lifted her chin and placed one hand on her hip. All she had to do was reach into her petticoats, down into the pocket that rode against her hip. Her own pistol waited there, loaded, deadly. ‘You force me to repeat myself, sir. I do not know you. You have the wrong lady.’
He closed the space between them with swift angry strides, lowering his gun as he took hold of her arm with his free hand, exactly as she’d hoped he would. Delay. Delay. Delay. Dauntry couldn’t have been that far behind her. Gabe wouldn’t
