Chapter Seven

B elle woke to a muted crash. Leaping out of bed, she threw on her wrapper and slid her feet into slippers. On her way out of her bedroom, she swiped the iron poker from the hearth.

The sound had seemed to come from directly below her. She ran downstairs, thankful for the runner keeping her footfalls quiet, then slowed as she approached the kitchen door. Going on tiptoe to avoid the heels of her slippers announcing her presence, she crept closer to the foot-wide opening where the door stood ajar.

“Blast,” Luke’s voice muttered in between quiet clanks.

She peered around the portal.

He attempted to restack pots and pans he’d upset. His shirt was open, his breeches only half-fastened.

She should have known he would try this. Self-control was not something mastered in a day when one had been dependent on spirits for that long. Fear turned to annoyance, but then quickly to titillation as he turned and his shirt swung open. She swallowed the saliva that pooled in her mouth, the poker hanging forgotten by her side. It had been months since her last client, and she’d always enjoyed sex. Not to mention, Luke was sinfully handsome when not drunk, taller than her by several inches with lean muscles peeking between his hanging shirttails.

She sighed. Of all the men to tempt her, it had to be this drunken boy in a man’s body.

“There must be sherry or port or something around here somewhere for cooking.” Still talking to himself under his breath, he abandoned the cookware and moved toward the larder.

“Did you really think I’d sleep through that crash?” She stifled a grin when he jumped a foot and spun, almost falling over. Part of her still seethed, but goodness, the view distracted her enough to delay her glower. A pale freckled chest with a smattering T of hair a few shades darker than his head led to a mouthwatering bulge just hidden by breeches.

He groaned, clutching his stomach and rounding over it, hiding his delicious skin.

She frowned finally. “In case you did not learn this as a boy, this is inappropriate behavior for a guest.”

He flinched, surprising her, but she was too angry to stop and question it.

“I need my sleep. ’Twas difficult enough dealing with you when I was well rested. I won’t be accountable for my actions if I have to do it when exhausted.”

“I am sorry to have woken you.” His head rose from his half-crouch, his gaze roving over her silk-clad form.

She became aware of her scarlet night rail edged in ecru lace covered by a matching wrapper and her dainty heeled slippers with faux fur over the bridge. Clothes bought for seduction.

A spark of interest lit his eyes.

She needed to quash that. Pretty or not, a whiny, privileged, directionless young man was the last person she needed to dally with. Besides, she should be able to wear what she liked in her own home. Lifting her chin, she said, “Not as sorry as you will be. Come along. If you are going to act like a poorly trained pet, you shall be treated as one. Now, heel.”

“If I could just—”

She spun to face him. “No. We’ve been over this. Need I remind you of your choice? ’Tis this or your father. For whatever reason, you think this is the better choice. I am done asking or arguing with you. I am going to bed, and you’re coming with me.”

“Oh?” His voice rose in interest and he straightened, raking her head to toe with hot eyes.

Ignoring him, she trudged up the stairs. Her leather restraints from two benefactors ago would do. In her room, she crossed to the trunk where she kept such gifts and dug down in the corners to grope for leather straps.

He hovered in the doorway, one arm braced on the top of the door frame. His open shirt gaped away from his side, giving her a delicious glimpse of pale skin and muscle. She’d prefer him to look less enticing.

“Go get the bedding from your room and bring it here.”

“But yours has bedding.”

“Do not question me, Clodpate. I told you I am finished arguing with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The doorway cleared of temptation.

She pulled the two pairs of cuffs, each on a long strap, from her trunk. The cuffs were removable, so she removed one pair and strung the two straps together. One cuff she placed around the foot of one bedpost, tightening it and turning it so the fastenings faced beneath the bed.

She took the bedding he returned with and made a pallet on the floor, then gestured for him to lie down.

“You’re not serious?” he asked, gaping like a fish.

“Perhaps I’ll write a letter to your father myself, to have ready for the next time you question me.”

He swallowed and stepped forward to lay down. Before he could draw the coverlet over himself, she leaned down and snapped the other cuff around his wrist closest to the bed.

He sat up, staring at it, then her. “You’re—”

She arched a brow, and he stopped. Stomping around to the other side of the bed, she shed her wrapper and climbed in.

After a few minutes of sheets rustling and mumbles about the tether, he quieted. His breathing evened out as he succumbed to sleep.

She lay with jaw clenched, blinking in the dark. A fortnight more, at least, to earn her freedom. One last entitled man-boy to pander to. She hoped her future husband was worth this. Ever since the Black Widow had asked her to describe what she was looking for, she’d conjured images of her desired spousal attributes. Tonight, though, only a hard chest and stomach, a few ribs showing around the auburn trail of hair, and an ample breeches-covered protuberance came to mind. Stifling a sigh, she turned to face away from him, as though that would help remove him from her thoughts.