Page 52 of To Hunt the Hunter

Matilda withdrew her hand.

“I’m going to bed,” she said, her voice unsteady. “At the very least you need to rest that shoulder, or you’ll be in terrible pain tomorrow, and I don’t doubt the rest of us will suffer for it too. It is up to you whether you wish to make these days we have been granted ones of misery and regret, or whether they will be memories we can cherish in years to come. I will not beg, Lucian. You will do as you think best.”

***

Lucian closed his eyes as Matilda walked out of the room. When a pretty maid poked her head around and batted her eyelids at him to ask if Mr Bennet required anything else… anything at all, he curtly ordered a bottle of brandy and demanded he not be disturbed again. His shoulder was throbbing like the devil himself was poking at it with his blasted pitchfork, he was tired and irritable, and the moment Matilda had said Pippin was not giving him leave to debauch her but she herself was, all that had disappeared and the only throbbing he was aware of was much farther south. He groaned and put his head in his hands. He was despicable and Matilda was doing her damndest to encourage him, confound her.

Utterly wretched, he stared at the bottle of brandy and contemplated getting foxed and sleeping in the carriage, but knew he could not face the reproach in Matilda’s eyes in the morning. He had to go up the stairs and into their room, and he knew damn well that she would not lie down and go to sleep without a murmur, though she certainly did not need to beg him. Hell, she didn’t need to open her mouth or so much as look in his direction. He’d do anything she wanted, anything, but the thought of taking her innocence and then marrying another woman was so obscene it made him want to do something violent and destructive, or crawl into a dark hole and weep.

Though it was inadvisable, his thoughts drifted back to the morning they’d spent in his bed. He remembered the heady scent of her, orange blossom and something uniquely feminine and utterly her. He closed his eyes and remembered the silk of her skin and the warm, taut nub of her nipple as he’d taken it in his mouth. Before he knew what he was doing he was on his feet, climbing the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest.

He did not have to take her innocence, said the devil on his shoulder. It was possible to bring them both pleasure without stealing her virtue, and he knew all the ways. He could show her, he could give her the memories she’d asked for, memories that would be all he had in the frozen landscape of the future that beckoned him. They could have this much. No one would know, she would still be a virgin, would still bleed when her husband….

Lucian stopped halfway up the stairs as pain lanced through his heart like a dagger had struck, up to the hilt. He leaned upon the wall to brace himself against the impact, looking down, almost puzzled when there was no sign of a blade, not a trace of blood when the wound had to be mortal, sucking the life from him.

Matilda would not be his. No matter what happened between them, she would one day belong to another man. He would marry a well-bred lady who didn’t give a damn for him past his title and his wealth, and the only woman he’d ever love would be lost to him. The thought was like dying. He would die. Not all at once. He would sire his heirs and see Phoebe married to a man who would cherish her as he ought… but every day a little more of him would wither and die without Matilda’s love to sustain him, until there was nothing left.

Lucian drew in an unsteady breath. Don’t think of it. He knew how to do that. He’d had plenty of practise. The pain was buried down deep and covered over in ice, freezing it and locking it away like he had always done with anything that was too painful to endure. But that was the trouble with Matilda, and with Phoebe too. They were warm and alive. They had thawed his heart and made him feel things, things that he could not afford, could not have.

He took another step, then another, moving forward because he could not go back. He was Montagu and he would endure. Matilda would survive the loss of him and, whilst he would not survive the loss of her, he would cast himself in ice and go through the motions of living until his title and Phoebe were safe.

Tonight, though, tonight and all the nights they had of this crackbrained scheme, those belonged to them both, and he would not waste them.

Chapter 15

Sir,

I have the information you sought, though I do not think it will please you any. I have tracked Mr Barrington down and may inform you that he is established in rooms in a small village outside of Loughborough. I followed him and took note of everyone he spoke to as you asked me to. He has met twice now with a man who could be nothing but a villain. On investigation I discover that he is known as Flash Jack and is a highwayman of some notoriety. Shortly after the meeting I discovered that this man immediately set off with three others of equal disrepute and the destination of Matlock Bath in mind. I believe he means to do Lord Montagu harm.

―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Gabriel Knight from an informant.

6th May 1815. The White Hart, St Albans.

Matilda readied herself for bed and tried her hardest not to listen out for every creak of the floorboards that might announce Lucian’s appearance. The White Hart was an ancient building, close to four hundred years old, and the blasted place groaned and protested every time anyone so much as breathed heavily.

So, naturally, she was a complete basket case.

She’d washed and changed into one of her own nightgowns. She saw no reason why she ought not. Her disguise—such as it was—was for public consumption. No one would know Mrs Bennet had a taste for lavish bed wear… not that it was in any way provocative. She had not packed to visit Dern with the idea of seducing Lucian in mind. A pity, as she might have been better prepared if she had. Still, the gown was a very fine cotton lawn and trimmed with delicate lace scallops around the neckline and sleeves. Matilda had let down her hair and now sat at the dressing table, brushing it out.

Her heart leapt to her throat as she heard the door open and the hum of background noise from the busy inn grow louder as Lucian stepped through. He closed the door, muting the sound once more, and leaned against it, staring at her, his expression unreadable.

Matilda swallowed and willed herself not to drop the heavy silver-backed hairbrush. With great care, she set it down on the dressing table and clasped her hands in her lap to stop them trembling.

“You ought to have locked the door,” he said, his tone gruff. “It’s not safe in a place like this.”

“I was waiting for you,” she replied, relieved her voice did not quaver.

Lucian didn’t reply, but there was something hot and agitated blazing in his eyes that made her pulse flutter.

He would not sleep in the chair tonight.

She watched as he dragged his gaze from her. It appeared to be an effort, which was reassuring. Instead, he looked around the tiny room and, though he did not react, she knew he was displeased with what he saw. It was small and cramped, and no doubt a great deal less luxurious than what he was used to. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“It’s the best Mr Bennet can afford,” she said lightly. “And Mrs Bennet is well pleased with it. The bed is comfortable.”

It was. It looked to be as old as the inn, too, and was heavily carved. Lucian moved to it and stood staring down at the dark red coverlet, one elegant hand curving around one of the ornate posts.

“You ought not be here at all, Matilda, but at the very least it ought to be the best room. You ought to be treated like a queen, not—”