Reckless Desire Page 6

  He is as bad as the Count, she thought in dismay.

  She couldn’t quite believe that the events of the evening had actually happened, and to her nonetheless. She was just a clock-maker’s daughter. There was nothing appealing enough about her to warrant the attentions of such determined men. Yet both of them were fighting over her like two dogs over a juicy bone. It was alarming. It was disconcerting. It was shocking and worrying.

  In spite of her relief at getting rid of the Count, she was now faced with a renewed problem. Jeremy. The more she was around him the more she suspected that Jeremy wasn’t his real name. Neither was he a guest at the recital. She also suspected that he was no gentleman. He fought in a way she had never seen before and, if she was honest, never wanted to see ever again.

  “I can’t,” she protested when her legs began to wobble alarmingly.

  “God, don’t start that again,” Joe demanded. He tried to drag her with him but cursed bitterly when she just pulled the opposite way.

  Marguerite opened her mouth to demand to be released when sudden rustling in the bushes made her look over her shoulder. Her stomach dropped to her toes when she saw three dark shapes streaking across the gardens after them.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  “Come on. We don’t have time to squabble,” Joe snapped.

  Drained, Marguerite just didn’t have the energy left to run as fast as he could and looked helplessly at him.

  Joe cursed. He knew he was going to be embroiled in another fight if they didn’t get out of there and damned quickly, but Marguerite just wasn’t willing, or able, to co-operate. He knew that helpless look in her eye but had no idea if it was because she intended to go with the thugs when they finally caught up with them. Was she mentally apologising because she was with the Count?

  Well, I will be damned if I am just going to hand her over. She is a valuable source of information, Joe sighed.

  With that, he bent over at the waist and swept her over his shoulder.

  “What the Hell are you doing?” Marguerite demanded when she found herself hanging off one beefy shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  “Getting us out of here,” Joe muttered. He swore fluidly when he saw how close the thugs were and lengthened his stride as he ran toward Marcus.

  “Release me, now,” she demanded.

  “What? So you can go with your lover?” Joe snorted. “Not likely.”

  “Look, this might be the way you romance women in your world, mister, but dragging a woman off to your cave is just not done in these parts. This is London.”

  She began to hit his arms but was amazed that it made no difference to her new captor. She couldn’t quite make her mind up who was worse the Count, or Jeremy.

  “I wouldn’t be bloody stupid enough to drag you willingly anywhere,” he huffed breathlessly.

  “So put me down,” she snapped. “If you are so desperate for company, I can call the Count back for you if you want. He seems more of your type. You should get on well together.”

  “Shut up,” Joe snapped. “I am in no mood to be trading insults with some harpy so mind your mouth.”

  “Harpy?” she cried. “How dare you call me a harpy, you, you, heathen!”

  “Will-you-just stop-that,” Joe grunted as he dodged the wildly flailing hands, which occasionally slapped him. His flesh stung from the force of her fury where her dainty little hands actually hit him. He gritted his teeth and cursed with relief when he rounded the corner of the conservatory and saw Marcus waiting for him with the carriage.

  “Get that door open,” he ordered, ignoring the vociferous protests of the woman over his shoulder.

  Marcus yanked the door open and eyed the landscape gardens over his colleague’s shoulder.

  “Whatever happens, don’t stop for anything,” Joe ordered when he reached him.

  He dropped Marguerite into the darkened confines of the carriage and clambered aboard. His bottom had barely touched the seat when the door slammed shut and they were both encased in impenetrable blackness. If it hadn’t been for her heavy breathing, Joe would have checked to make sure she hadn’t climbed out of the other side.

  “Sit still and stay quiet,” he ordered.

  “Just tell me what is going on,” she demanded.

  “I will explain later,” he replied.

  Before she could demand something else from him, Joe slammed the window down and leaned outside. He cursed when a loud bang from outside created a shower of splinters inside the carriage, just inches from his face. Suddenly, the carriage picked up the pace and careered wildly around the corner at the end of the driveway.

  Marguerite grabbed hold of the straps and clung on for dear life.

  “Get down,” Joe snapped, brushing splinters off his shoulder.

  “Was that gunshot?” Marguerite demanded. Her voice was high-pitched and full the horrified confusion she felt. “Are they shooting at us?”

  Horrified, she watched Joe slide the window down and lean out of it. He had something in his hand, she dreaded to think what. But she had her answer soon enough when another loud bang echoed around the carriage. She clamped her hands over her ears to protect herself from the hideous noise, but it was of little use when a second, equally ferocious boom echoed around the interior of the now damaged conveyance.

  “I want to get out,” she moaned.

  “Shut up,” Joe snapped when he drew his head back in. He didn’t need much in the way of light to be able to reload his gun but then he didn’t need it. He had reloaded the weapon so many times he could do it blindfolded.

  Throwing one dark glare at the woman now cowering on the floor, Joe leaned out of the window again and took aim. He would talk to her later when the danger had passed, and they had managed to evade Sayers.

  “Marcus, head to Bentley,” Joe called.

  “Will do,” Marcus grunted before he braced himself for the tight right-hander up ahead that was taken on two wheels.

  “He is going to get us killed,” Marguerite cried as she clung on and winced when the carriage bounced wildly before it righted itself.

  “He is keeping us alive,” Joe replied as he reloaded his gun again. “Stay inside and on the floor.”

  He ducked instinctively when another shower of splinters cascaded over them.

  Marguerite had no choice in the matter. She couldn’t get out given the speed they were going, and she knew if she sat on one of the seats the next bullet that struck them might hit her. At the moment, she was completely at Jeremy’s mercy, and that maniac of his who was driving the carriage.

  Joe steadied his arm on the window frame and took aim. His shot went wide of the outrider trying to catch them up but was enough to make his target panic and lower his own weapon. It gave them the time they needed to put some more distance between them and the black carriage giving chase. Joe half expected the Count to lean out of his own window and trade shots, but the longer the carriage rolled and nobody appeared the more he suspected that the Count was more of a fraudster than any of the Star Elite had ever anticipated. He was a weakling. A man who didn’t get his hands dirty at all; but paid thugs stolen money, a lot of it, to do his dirty work for him.

  “Coward,” Joe snorted with a shake of his head.

  Once back in the carriage, he looked at Marguerite.

  “Are you firing back at them?” Marguerite asked only to wince at such a stupid question. Her horrified gaze was locked on the wicked looking weapon Jeremy held as casually as if it was a bunch of flowers. She shuddered with revulsion.

  “What do you expect me to do? Poke my head out and ask them nicely if they would stop shooting at me? I don’t think that informing them that it isn’t good sport to shoot at anybody is going to work, do you?” he snorted in disgust.

  “You don’t have to be so rude,” Marguerite huffed. “I was only asking.”

  As if to prove just how nonsensical her question was, a loud crack sounded directly over their heads. She instinctively screame
d and ducked.

  Joe shook his head in disgust.

  What in Hell’s name is it about women that makes them want to scream so damned much?

  Disgusted, he poked his head back out of the carriage window in search of someone to shoot. If he didn’t there was no telling what he might do because his patience was wearing thin with the woman behind him. She screeched like a banshee, argued far too much for any sane man to comprehend, and asked stupid questions even a blind man would be able to see the answer too. As far as he was concerned, the quicker he could off-load her, the better it would be for both of them.

  He fervently ignored a slightly worrying voice in the back of his mind that warned him he wanted-needed-to off-load her because she was starting to matter to him. It was ridiculous because he had only met her a couple of hours ago. Still, he couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that handing her over to one of his colleagues to babysit was more of a benefit to him than her.

  “Maybe I should have left her to Sayers,” he muttered.

  “I heard that,” she snapped.

  “Who is Sayers?” she demanded after a momentary pause.

  Joe sighed and leaned back to look at her. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  Marguerite frowned at him, desperately relieved now that the booms had stopped.

  “I have no idea who you are talking about,” she snapped.

  She felt as though she had been dropped into someone else’s life, and had no idea what she should be doing, or what the rules were. It was odd because Jeremy seemed to know what to expect, but didn’t seem inclined to want to tell her. He appeared her to know instinctively who he was talking about, and what everybody was doing. It was odd. It was frightening. It made her realise just how vulnerable she was, and that while Jeremy had, sort of, saved her, she was not really any better off than she had been back at the Carmichael’s house.

  Joe looked at her slumped on the floor. Her hair was a tangled mess. There were dark smudges on her face. Her eyes were wide with fear, yet she still looked beautiful.

  “How long have you known him?” He demanded.

  While he knew he should wait until they reached the safe house, with Sayers still giving chase he knew they might not even get there. He had to find out as much as he could from her now while the opportunity was still there.

  “Who? The Count?” She frowned.

  “The Count. Sayers. Call him whatever you want to call him. I will call him Sayers,” Joe replied.

  “Why?”

  “Because that is his name,” he replied dryly.

  “The Count is called Sayers?” She thought about that and recalled the Count’s accidental slip earlier. “I think he is from the East End.”

  Joe’s gaze sharpened. Something deep inside him he didn’t want to acknowledge suddenly felt disheartened when he heard that.

  “You met him in the East End?”

  “Who?” Marguerite put aside her memories of the bizarre encounter in the Carmichael’s study and turned her attention back to the man seated opposite.

  Even though she was sitting on the floor with him towering over her, he was a powerful force indeed. Just being pinned beneath that penetrating stare made her feel uneasy, as though she was being inspected, assessed, judged, and deemed wanting. She wanted to poke at her hair. She wanted to sit on the seat, but she daren’t move. Not least because he still had his gun dangling from his fingertips.

  “Can you put that away?” she whispered.

  Joe shook his head. “I need it in case your lover arrives.”

  “He isn’t my lover,” she whispered. “I don’t know why you keep saying that he is. If this Sayers is truly this Count person, then I have only met the man this evening. I have no idea who he is.”

  Joe snorted. “Yet you know he is from the East End.”

  “It is a guess,” Marguerite replied.

  Joe made no attempt to hide his disbelief. “Oh, so it is a rough guess.”

  “Yes, my father has a shop which borders the East End,” she replied. “Everyone around those parts has the same accent.”

  “When did you hear it from Sayers?” Joe demanded.

  “If you mean the Count, just earlier this evening,” Marguerite replied honestly. “He got angry with me when I refused to marry him and lost his Russian accent. I don’t even know if it is a Russian accent, but for a few moments, there was a definite East End twang to his voice. It made me wonder. He got terribly angry when I dropped a hint that I knew he was a fraudster. Since then, he has been determined to chase me.”

  Joe closed his eyes and sighed. Was that why Sayers wanted to spirit her away? He knew she could tell all and sundry that he was neither Russian nor a Count? However, that didn’t explain what had happened between them in the study.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joe leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees.

  “You say he is not your lover,” he murmured softly, far too softly to be reassuring. His deep voice turned sinister. “So why were you kissing him in the study?”

  “I-I wasn’t,” Marguerite protested but knew it was a lie. “He kissed me. I didn’t meet up with him if that is what you are thinking.”

  “I think you are lying to me,” Joe replied.

  “Well, you can think what you like,” Marguerite protested flatly. “I don’t consider you are being honest with me either.”

  “What?” Joe’s blood began to boil. “How so?”

  “Well, first I catch you hiding in a darkened room all by yourself watching people. Then you have a clear dislike to the Count who, as far as I can tell, you have never met before this evening. Then those men attack you and you fight like, like, that,” she finished weakly.

  Joe held his hand up. “No. No. No. I rescued you when they tried to hunt you down across the lawn, remember?”

  “They know you,” she argued. “They have to know you.”

  “Why would they?” Joe fired back. “It is you they are determined to get their hands on. It is you they are trying to recapture at any cost, even if that means me and my friend up top die.”

  Marguerite lapsed into silence. “So why don’t you go straight to the magistrate?”

  Joe sighed. “I can’t do that.”

  Marguerite felt a wave of disappointment unlike any other she had ever felt in her life. She had wanted, hoped, prayed, that he was a decent and respectable citizen. His words said it all, really. She could hope, but it wasn’t to be. He was a scoundrel, just like the Count. He was a fraudster of the worst kind.

  “What do you want with me?” she whispered.

  She eyed the door but suspected she wouldn’t get anywhere near it before she was thwarted by the blackguard now seated opposite. There was something in his gaze when his eyes met hers. Even through the gloom, she read the calculation there. She felt as though she had been weighed, measured, and assessed before she had even opened her mouth. She didn’t like it.

  “I want the truth,” Joe replied.

  “I have told you the truth. You, however, haven’t told me the truth.” She looked at him pointedly. “Have you?”

  A heavy silence settled over the carriage. She took it as her answer.

  “Stop the carriage,” Marguerite demanded wearily. “I don’t care who you think I am, I am not going anywhere with any of you. You are all mad. Out of your minds, the lot of you, if you think for one second I have any idea what silly game you are playing. Whatever it is I want none of it. I have done nothing wrong. You are kidnapping me!”

  “He clearly cares a lot about you,” Joe murmured thoughtfully. “He must, to be so willing to go to such lengths to get you back.”

  “I don’t know who the man is,” she argued forcibly. “Or you for that matter. Why, you could be just as insane as he is.”

  Joe winced at the fervency in his words and shook his head while he tried to work out if she was telling the truth or not. He took a moment to assess the situation from her point of view. If she was an innocent by
stander, a woman whom the Count had set his sights on, and she had been dragged through all of this then she would feel as though the world had gone mad. If she was connected with Sayers and was his lover, his cohort, or anything else, then she had to be an incredibly good actress willing to play her part right to the bitter end.

  His natural instinct was to err on the side of her being an innocent bystander but Sayers hadn’t managed to forge his little empire by doing everything above board. He had also adopted a false persona, right under the noses of the upper echelons of London’s aristocracy, and nobody had noticed a thing wrong with him. There was nothing to say that the woman seated opposite, if she was connected with Sayers, wasn’t capable of playing her part just as well-the part of a victim, especially if it secured her release and she was free to go back to Sayers.

  “Just tell me the facts. How long have you and Sayers been-associates?”

  Marguerite knew from his slight hesitation that he really meant ‘lovers’. She had no idea why he was so convinced she was that type of woman and was at a complete loss to know how to convince him she wasn’t.

  “I don’t have a lover,” she bit out. “As I have already told you, several times before, I have no idea who this Sayers is. He has nothing to do with me. I don’t care if he is Sayers, the Count, or anyone else. I have never met the man before tonight.”

  “Do you know something? If I hadn’t seen you with him with my own eyes, I would be apt to believe you. However, you and I both know you are lying so you are wasting your time trying to deny you are involved with him. You were in a passionate clinch with him not but an hour ago.”

  Unsurprisingly, Marguerite fell silent for a few moments. It gave Joe the time he needed to get his impatience under control, and her the time she needed to realise there was no way out of this difficult situation. It was best that she co-operated with him, and told him what he wanted to know.

  “You still haven’t answered me,” Marguerite replied.

  Joe’s brows lifted.

  “What were you doing in that room all by yourself, listening at doors?”