Lydia’s struggles ceased, and she settled more deeply into his hold. He removed his hands from beneath her skirts and pulled her even closer to him.
“I . . .” She paused and tried again. “I’ve never felt . . . Was that . . . ?”
“Passion,” he answered. “You’ve truly never felt it before?” That stunned him. The woman had professed her knowledge of passion. Had it all been bravado and lies? Was she truly an innocent? Completely untouched by a man? He supposed he would have his answer soon enough.
“Do men feel the same?” Her wide, guileless gaze should have been familiar. He dimly, drunkenly recalled she’d given him a wide-eyed, guileless look before, but this one seemed truer somehow than what his memory recalled.
“Of course we do. ’Tis what makes tupping so pleasurable.”
“Tupping?”
He couldn’t resist laughing. “Yes, lass, tupping, coupling, making love, fu—”
“Oh please, no more.” She covered his mouth with one of her hands.
He caught her wrist and placed a kiss to her open palm before he drew her hand away from his mouth.
“You really mustn’t say such things, Mr. Kincade.”
“Brodie,” he corrected. “If you’re going to be my mistress, Brodie will do.”
“Yes . . . Your mistress,” she said, looking away from him, her expression suddenly distracted. She then turned back to him and squared her shoulders. “Well, if that is to be my fate, shall we settle upon some rules?”
“Rules?” He cocked his head. “We have no need of rules.”
“I must insist.” Lydia crossed her arms, no doubt an attempt to look in control, but all it did was render the lass more adorable. He kept having to remind himself that he should despise her for what she had done to him.
“Very well, name your rules. I’ll decide if I agree.”
“You must act respectable toward me in public. Do not mistreat me in the presence of others. I know you will not treat me as a wife, but a little respect is all I ask.”
He blinked in surprise. He’d never intended to mistreat her. “I agree to that. What else?”
“If you must continue to hold me against my will, allow me to have food, suitable clothes, and decent accommodations.”
“Ach, so you thought my plans were to leave you naked, starving, and sleeping in the stables? I may not think highly of you, lass, but I certainly never thought of treating you that low.” He couldn’t help his sharp reply, but she was insulting him by assuming he’d subject her to such wretched treatment. His only intent from the beginning was to ruin her reputation, not her life.
Lydia blushed but continued. “And please do not hurt me, if you understand my meaning.”
He was no longer in the mood to tease her. Brodie held her gaze evenly. “I willna force you, lass.” He kept his tone gentle as he addressed the deepest fear she seemed to have about him. “But be warned, I canna help it if you decide you want me. There are only so many times I will be able to resist you.”
“You think I would try to seduce you?”
He chuckled. “I think in time you will be begging me to bed you, lass. You willna be able to help wanting me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think far too highly of yourself if you assume I would ever beg you for anything.”
“You just did, lass. You begged me to touch you, and I surrendered to your pretty plea.”
She stared at him, lips trembling, and he felt like a cad.
“Rest, lass. We have a while to go before we stop again to rest. I’ll not touch you again . . . for now. You may sleep without fear.” He moved back to his seat across from her, and she began to relax. In a few moments, she fell asleep, and he simply watched her.
That sense of something being off continued to bother him. He had every reason to believe that this was the woman who’d ordered his abduction. It had to be pity he felt. She was reaping the consequences of her actions, and she was terrified, as she should be.
His instincts rarely failed him, yet right now those same instincts warned him that there was something wrong about Miss Hunt. Something he was missing and couldn’t understand. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
Jane Russell hurried up the steps of the townhouse that Lysandra said was being rented by Rafe Lennox. They’d only just left Lydia Hunt’s townhouse. No one had been at home, but Lysandra had begged the butler, Mr. Annis, to tell them what he knew about Lydia. A horrifying story had been related in whispers.
“I wouldn’t tell a soul, Miss Russell, but as you are a close friend of my lady, and I know you have her best interests at heart, I must tell you the whole affair,” the butler had said to Lysandra.
Jane could barely believe what she’d heard. Mr. Kincade’s drugging and abduction. Lydia’s discovery of Kincade and her attempt to rescue him. The drugged Scotsman stealing Lydia away into the night at knifepoint. It was almost too incredible to believe.
The crucial bit of information lay in that Kincade had taken Lydia to Rafe Lennox’s residence. The driver had, after being questioned by Jane, admitted that he had lied about where the coach had taken Lydia and Kincade.
“Oh, Mama, I hope she is here,” Lysandra said as Jane tapped the knocker under the door.
“As do I.” Jane didn’t want her daughter to know how truly worried she was about Lydia Hunt. Abducted. Held at knifepoint. Taken away in the night. The child was ruined if word ever came out about this, and she was in grave danger. Jane was determined to help her.
The door to Mr. Lennox’s house opened.
“We are here to pay a call on Mr. Kincade,” Jane said to the butler.
“I’m terribly sorry, madam, but Mr. Kincade is not home at present.”
“When shall he return?” she asked quickly. Time was of the essence if she was to bring Lydia home. She might then be able to concoct a story that would explain Lydia’s disappearance and thereby save her reputation.
“He has left Bath, madam,” the butler replied uncertainly.
“And Mr. Lennox? Is he at home?”
“No, the master is also abroad.”
“Abroad?” Jane asked. “What the devil do you mean, abroad? Did they run for France? Did they take that poor girl with them?”
The butler held up his hands. “Madam, please calm yourself. Please, do not upset yourself. The master would not wish anyone to suffer a fit of hysterics.”
“Hysterics?” Jane pushed her way past the butler and into the foyer. “You would perish on the spot if I ever succumbed to hysterics. Bah!” She spun and jabbed a gloved finger into the butler’s chest. “Where have they gone, and do they have that poor girl with them?” Jane narrowed her eyes. “And should you even contemplate trying to deceive me, know this—my son is Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, dearest friend to Ashton Lennox, the older brother of your master and the person who pays to keep this house running and staffed. Think wisely about your next words.”
The butler’s face was ashen. “I have no intention of deception, my lady. The master and Mr. Kincade, along with their female guest, departed for Scotland.”
“Scotland?” Lysandra gasped. “Do you think they’ve gone to Gretna Green? Is Lydia to be married to Mr. Kincade?”