Page 77 of The Courtship Dance

Perkins let out a moan of pain, protesting, “No! No! Leave off! You’ve broken my arm!”

“You’ll be lucky if that’s the only thing I break,” Rochford retorted coldly. “For daring to touch Lady Haughston, I am tempted to smash every bone in your body.” For emphasis, he pulled back and shoved Perkins into the wall again. “You’re a worthless piece of scum, and I wish to God I had dispatched you the other night.”

“I didn’t do anything! Ask her! Ask her! I haven’t taken her. I swear it.”

“Sinclair! Don’t kill him,” Francesca put in quickly. “It’s true. He hadn’t quite gotten to it yet.”

Rochford’s jaw clenched. After a long moment, he growled, “Be glad for that, then, for if you had hurt her, I would make sure you died a very slow death. As it is, you are going to gaol, and I plan to devote myself to making sure that you stand trial for shooting Avery Bagshaw.”

Perkins began to babble in protest, but Rochford ignored him, shoving him out into the hallway, where a small crowd had gathered and were watching the scene with avid interest.

“Here, innkeeper, take this man and tie him up.” Rochford thrust Perkins into the hands of the large man who stood at the front of the crowd.

When the innkeeper began to protest, Rochford fixed him with the stare for which he was justifiably famous and told him, “Unless you plan to spend the night in gaol for aiding and abetting this criminal, I suggest that you tie him up and send for the magistrate.”

His statement was followed by a goggling silence, and Rochford stepped back inside, closing the door after him. As the latch no longer worked, he shoved the chair in front of it to keep out any prying eyes and hurried back to the bed.

He snatched up Perkins’ knife from where it had fallen on the mattress and cut Francesca free from the bedpost. Then he sliced the sash just below the knot at her wrists and turned to sawing through the rope that bound her ankles while she unwound the sash from her hands.

Her hands and feet began to tingle madly as the blood rushed back into them, and she had to press her lips together at the sudden pain. Tossing the knife onto the table beside the bed, Rochford chafed her feet in an effort to return warmth to them. After a moment, he released her feet and reached up to gently brush her hair from her face.

“Are you all right? Truly? Did he hurt you in any way?”

For answer, Francesca only threw her arms around him and clung tightly. His arms went around her with equal fervor, and for a long moment they simply clung together, as if that would somehow drive the previous night from their minds.

“I was so scared,” Francesca whispered. “He didn’t hurt me—well, apart from some bumps and bruises. But I was so afraid. I was certain no one would come after me quickly enough.”

“Thank heavens your butler and maid came running to me the instant they saw him carry you out of the house. And I went straight to his lodgings, hoping he had taken you there. His valet was there, packing up his things, and it did not take me much time to find out where Perkins was headed.”

He pressed his lips to her temple and murmured, “I died a thousand deaths tonight, thinking I would not reach you in time. Afraid the valet had been more foolish than I thought and had led me astray. When I think of him hurting you—”

“I’m all right,” she assured him, turning to kiss him lightly.

Then she kissed him again, her lips lingering on his this time. When she pulled away, he took her head between his hands and leaned in, his mouth seizing hers in a long, fierce kiss. All the roiling fear and rage that had eaten at him as he chased Perkins and Francesca now burst out of him in white-hot desire.

A long shudder shook Francesca, and she threw her arms around his neck. They kissed frantically, desperately, as if at any moment they might be pulled apart. They rolled across the bed, hands and mouths touching, tasting, exploring, in a maelstrom of passion.

They pulled and tugged at their clothing as they kissed, pausing only for him to wrench off his boots and throw them on the floor. Her nightgown, torn as it was, was easy to slide out of. His clothes were less so, and there was the sound of buttons popping, and even a tear as he yanked off his shirt and skinned out of his breeches.

But then, at last, they were naked and open to each other. He drove into her hard and fast, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging, almost sobbing in her need. There was no world outside of them, no thought or emotion but the desire pounding through them, so close together that they could not tell where one ended and the other began. And so they rode the storm of their passion until at last they crashed through into an explosion of pleasure that left them drained and floating blissfully.

Finally, he rolled from her and wrapped his arm around her, reaching out with the other to pull the counterpane over them. Francesca snuggled into him, too spent and exhausted to speak, and in the delicious warmth of his arms, she drifted off to sleep.

THE NOISES OF THE INN woke her. She had slept dreamlessly, never moving from the position in which she had fallen asleep. Sinclair was still draped around her, though the cover had long since slid from their bodies. She smiled a little to think what a picture they would have presented had someone entered the room.

She must have moved, for he came awake instantly beside her. She felt the sudden tension in his arms, and he raised his head, then settled back down, relaxing.

“How do you feel?” he asked, kissing the point of her shoulder.

“Wonderful—and a trifle sore.”

She felt his fingers trail down her spine, pausing at a tender spot low on her back and another on her side.

“I should have killed the filthy bastard,” he growled. “Did he hit you?”

“Once, when he first captured me.” She reached up to her hairline to touch a tender spot.

He gently kissed the place her fingers had found. “Perhaps I will advise the magistrate to release him after all, and then I’ll make sure he’s never seen again.”