Ransom Redeemed Page 4

  This was certainly turning into a very lively morning, thought Mary as she stood at the window, watching through the grimy glass squares. Frenchwomen and escaped savage panthers on a Wednesday before ten o'clock. Whatever next? She wouldn't be surprised to see an elephant dressed in a jester's cap and bells coming down the passage.

  Her sister Violet would be very sorry she'd missed the parade. She might even have stopped complaining about their sadly reduced circumstances for five minutes, had she witnessed all this drama.

  Dr. Woodley, also on his way out of the shop then, stopped, took off his hat, and bowed again to Mary. "Good day to you, Miss Ashford. It is a delight to see you looking so well, despite the harsh winter weather, which is usually savage upon a lady's complexion. You have a comely glow about your cheeks today."

  "I probably sat too close to the fire this morning."

  He shook his head. "A very dangerous custom, young lady. It can take only a matter of moments for an unguarded skirt to catch flame."

  Only when Mary had reassured the fellow that she would take every precaution against stray sparks did he turn to depart. Of course the handle stuck fast again, but he, being a gentleman who knew everything, always insisted on trying to get it open himself. Mary waited a polite moment, discreetly pretending not to notice his struggle, and then she went to his aid.

  "Thaddeus really should mend this handle," he grumbled. "How many years has it been thus?"

  Mary smiled as she opened it for him. "I believe it has been mended several times, Dr. Woodley, but it resists the idea of change and stubbornly clings to its old ways."

  He looked askance. "It is a door handle, my dear lady. It cannot have sentient thoughts."

  She quickly straightened her lips. "Of course."

  Probably concerned for the state of her mental health now too, he finally left, venturing out into those dangerous streets that were filled with flea-ridden beggars, wild dogs, and lurking diseases. Sometimes she wondered how he ever got up the gumption to visit this part of town, but apparently the lure of a good book could not be resisted. Even by the eminently sensible Dr. Woodley.

  Once he too was gone, she looked back to see that Mr. Speedwell had retreated to his fire in the parlor, leaving her utterly alone with that French lady's lost panther.

  She wondered if he was, in fact, the same beast Dr. Woodley had observed running about the street, salivating at the mouth and ready to bite. More than likely.

  "It's safe to come out now, sir."

  He sidled into view, stopping before her in a shaft of misty, cool light. "Thank you." Since he wore no hat and had nothing to tip, the escapee was reduced to waving his fingers around his temple in an odd, theatrical flourish. Or did he simply have a headache? Now that she was between him and the window, Mary saw a mark on his brow, a nasty bruise. So he was capable of denting after all. "Thank you," he repeated, "Miss....?"

  "Ashford."

  "Ashford. Very good," he murmured, as if he'd already forgotten the name. Or, at least, had every intention of doing so. With a long stride he made to pass her, heading for the door.

  Quite suddenly she thought of that decadent chocolate-covered pastry again, the sides bulging with fresh cream. A chance she'd once forfeited and regretted ever since.

  Before he could take another step, Mary reached out, catching his coat sleeve in her fingers. "On the matter of that debt, sir?"

  His progress halted, he looked down at her hand and then at her face. He squinted.

  "You said you would be in my debt, if I saved you," she reminded him.

  "I did, did I?"

  "Oh, yes. I remember it distinctly."

  "Well...perhaps another day. I'm busy at this moment."

  She tightened her grip on his sleeve. "I thought, perhaps, you might like to buy a book. Or two. While you're here."

  There followed a pause while he assessed her with a more focused gaze. Finally he flung out his arms in a grand gesture of supplication to the heavens, dislodging her fingers at the same time. "How can I buy a book this morning? I'm quite without funds. As you observe, I do not even have a shirt on my back, Miss...what is it again?"

  "Ashford," she repeated steadily. "And we can send you the bill, if you find yourself currently insolvent." Mary did not believe for a minute that he was one of the poverty-stricken. Even half dressed he exuded an unmistakable air of privilege, and his clothes— the pieces in existence— were well made of very fine material, perfectly fitted. A fact she had tried her hardest not to notice. "It is the least you could do, sir, considering I saved your life this morning."

  "Saved my life?"

  "Save me. Those were your words, sir. Since I'm not in a position to save your soul, I assume you referred to your life. Or, at the very least, some necessary parts of your anatomy."

  He exhaled a blustery sigh and folded his arms. Like a tall, slowly falling tree, he tipped to one side, resting a shoulder against the door. "But I don't need any books."

  To Mary, that was like saying one did not need air. "Everybody needs books," she exclaimed.

  "Had my fill of 'em in the schoolroom and at university." He shuddered and brushed dust from his sleeves. "Ugh. Quite put me off opening another dull tome as long as I live."

  "Then you're missing out and I pity you. But I suppose not every man wishes to enlarge his mind to fit the size of his head."

  The stranger's eyes sparked, spidery cracks in the ice of their practiced indifference suddenly letting the light through. "Just because you've got a ton of the blasted things you're trying to be rid of—"

  "And most men, in my experience, do not keep their promises, so I shouldn't be surprised that you now intend to renege on yours."

  "Well, I don't make promises, so if you heard one from me it was a mistake."

  "Mine or yours?"

  Still leaning against the door, he glowered at her for a long moment.

  "Fate can lead a fool to a bookshop," she added with a sigh, hands clasped before her, "but it cannot make him read."

  Eventually a low groan rumbled out of his bare chest. "Very well. I'll take some of these dratted books off your hands." But despite this weary tone, a cunning, wicked amusement had come into his eyes and stayed there, slowly thawing the ice. "I'll say this for you, you're determined. Don't give up easily, do you?"

  "It's a vexing quality that comes to women in advanced age."

  He pushed himself upright and perused her more carefully this time, scouring her person inch by inch. Feet apart and arms still folded he reminded her again of a genie come to grant somebody three wishes. Not hers though. Surely.

  "The books, sir?" she prompted.

  "You choose them. Something to entertain me, Miss... Ashford."

  He lingered over her name as if tasting it on his tongue, and Mary felt another shiver the entire length of her body. It was a deliberate attempt to unsettle her and get the upper hand, of course. She remained unimpressed.

  There was a time when arrogant, good-looking scoundrels like this one were two or three a penny in Mary's life. They were men who rose late and went to bed even later; they had a never ending supply of vitality and saw no cause to slow down. Back then she was an eligible debutante, someone with whom these men teased and tried to flirt. But that was before her brothers went away to war and never returned, and when the Ashford family still had an estate of their own. Before their fortunes were severely reduced and her bereaved father had to sell it all to settle his debts. Before her uncle died in prison, having confessed to murder by oyster fork. Before the Ashford name was, in the minds of a great many, utterly ruined.

  That naive, sheltered youth seemed so long ago now. Another era, a sunshine-glazed past that belonged to somebody else.

  Once again the grey wretchedness closed in. It made her angry with everybody and everything, including herself, for Mary did not like to waste her time fussing over events in the past and situations that were unchangeable. Yet she had caught herself doing it too often latel
y.

  "You must give me an idea, sir, of what you like to read," she managed tightly.

  "But I don't know what I like, do I? I told you I never read for pleasure. I'm a very busy man." One hand to his bare chest, unshaven chin proudly raised, he added, "My mind is always off in several directions at once."

  "Yes," she muttered. "My uncle had a pet monkey like that once."

  Immediately his gaze hardened, but didn't lose its heat.

  "Your mode of dress is somewhat similar to his too," she added. "The monkey's that is— not Uncle Hugo's."

  Quizzical lines deepened across his brow, and he slowly lifted his hand to rasp fingers across the stubble of his jaw. He seemed to be sniffing her out, weighing the danger. His eyelids lowered slyly, but she could still make out the devilish gleam of a beast accustomed to getting his own way— of never being corralled or tamed into doing anything he didn't want to do. A very clever beast. Possibly more intelligent and calculating than he liked people to know.

  But he had just walked into that shop and encountered a woman as stubborn as he.

  Suddenly he moved those fingers to his temple, where an angry, red mark blossomed. He winced, heaving his shoulders, drawing a quick, pained breath. Although he tried to hide it in the shadow of his palm, the gleam of willful naughtiness was evident in his eyes.

  He was looking for her sympathy. Expecting it.

  Mary was unmoved. "I suppose that is the handiwork of your French lady." She pointed to the mark on his brow.

  "No," he conceded glumly. "A lamp post."

  "Combined with that scattered attention of which you are so proud."

  He uttered a low groan as his fingers tentatively felt the little bump. "I daresay it's the end of me. I am feeling rather weak and...and dizzy."

  "Has it knocked your brain loose?"

  From between his fingers another glimmer sparked, those wilting eyelids unable to hide it. "I could be at death's door. I've been there before, and it felt something like this." He grumbled, "There was a fearsome creature like you at my shoulder then too."

  As he put his hand down, she stepped forward to inspect the wound. Without getting too close, of course. "Goodness it's a mere scratch. What a lot of fuss, but that is what men do best."

  "How do you know it's a mere anything?" he snapped.

  "I grew up with brothers, sir. I tended all their wounds, of which there were many. Mostly self-inflicted. But then women are the smarter sex and I have, in my latter years, concluded that men are here solely for our amusement." She paused, swallowing the urge to laugh at his confused expression. "Have your housekeeper prepare a saline wash for your headache, a conserve of red roses and rotten apple for the bruise... and I'm sure she has some Godfrey's Cordial for any other complaint you might suffer."

  "Isn't that for colicky babies?"

  She shrugged. "Six of one and half a dozen of the other. In any case, you'll live."

  His eyes narrowed. "It's bloody well lucky for you that I did hit my head, isn't it, since it lured another customer into your trap?"

  "Indeed. I'm sure we'll talk about it for years to come— the curious incident of a man who doesn't read books walking into a bookshop. Shirtless. The start of a wonderful story in itself."

  "Yes it is." He advanced a step toward her, his shadow looming over Mary, his eyes darkly devouring her as if he was indeed an escaped panther and she a lost lamb. "If not for that lamp post, we may never have met. We might have dashed by — me and my shirtless chest—and never encountered those saucy lips of yours." He spoke in a low voice, not many tones removed from a growl. Or a very wicked purr. "Those delectable, rosy lips, ready to greet a hard-working fellow when he comes home in the evening. Like two soft, full pillows..."

  "Pillows? Is that the best you can do?"

  "...waiting on his bed after a long, dreary day."

  She sighed. "And where is this hard-working fellow of whom you speak?"

  "There is a man somewhere, I assume."

  "Why would you assume that? Because every little woman needs a man?"

  "Don't you?" He smirked. "Little woman?"

  "If I need a book from the top shelf I have a wonderfully efficient ladder. What else would I need a man for?"

  He was the only man she'd ever seen who could scowl and quirk an eyebrow at the same time. It made him look quizzical, amused and frustrated all at once. "If that's the only thing you imagine I'd be good for," he said, "then it would seem as if those ravishable lips are going to waste, madam."

  "And yet, somehow, they endure the neglect."

  His eyes darkened even further. Apparently there was a color beyond black and it was very, very hot. He took another stride toward her and Mary, unaware until then of her own backward motion, suddenly felt the edge of a shelf against her shoulder.

  "May we return to the subject of books, sir?"

  "You're damnably persistent."

  "As you are deliberately evasive, an habitual flirt who uses that skill to get out of anything he doesn't want to do."

  He exploded with hearty laughter that surrounded Mary in a shockingly intimate embrace. It caused a vibration that seemed to shake up all the dust around her. She imagined the many rows of books rustling their pages, as if they were very stiffly starched matrons who, suddenly aware of their dignified presence being invaded by this dangerous rogue, shook out their skirts and petticoats in ladylike anxiety.

  "Make haste then, truculent wench, if you wish for me to purchase these books. I haven't all day to stand about idle." He tugged on the cuffs of his evening jacket. "Like I said, I'm a very busy fellow."

  Rather than continue to appreciate exactly how pleasing he was upon the eye— 'orribly 'andsome, as the French whirlwind had exclaimed— Mary turned sharply and walked toward the back of the shop, stopping only to pluck a few books from the shelf as she went. Without showing him the titles, she took them quickly to the counter and began wrapping them in paper. And while she did all this, the panther prowled along in her wake.

  For every three of her steps he required only one and still seemed to be catching up with her. Mary felt every advance he made as if it was the caress of his fingertip along her spine.

  How did he do it, she wondered darkly— how did he keep touching her without using his hands?

  "To whom should I make out the bill?" she asked, her gaze fixed upon the parcel as she wrapped it.

  "Deverell. Ransom Deverell. You can send it to Deverell's Club, St. James Street."

  Ah.

  So that was why his features seemed familiar. She took a deep breath of relief. It was not some mystical sense of having met him before then, but a reasonable recognition, plain and simple. Because she knew his sister.

  Mary had become acquainted with Raven Deverell— the only girl in the notorious Deverell litter— more than ten years ago, when they shared the same tutor for dancing and piano lessons. They had remained close friends ever since, despite the Ashford's reduced circumstances and a necessary financial retrenchment which had meant no further lessons for Mary. When Raven's marriage took her away into Oxfordshire, Mary had also taken on the duty of visiting the matriarch of the Deverell family, Lady Charlotte, on her absent daughter's behalf.

  But she had never met any of the Deverell males. Raven always took care to keep her friend away from those infamous brothers. Now, having met this one, she understood her friend's concern— not that Raven should have worried on her account. Foolish flirting no more impressed her now than it had when she was sixteen, and a thin, hopeful, but terribly sappy young man named Lionel Winchester tried serenading her one evening with a song outside her bedroom window.

  Poor Lionel. But was it her fault that she mistook the noise for two cats fighting and tipped her washbasin of cold water over the ledge?

  Irritated, she realized that one of her fingers had somehow managed to get caught inside the loop of string. She tugged hard to free herself, but the string only tightened around her finger and threatened the bl
ood supply. The tip began to go numb. Where on earth had she put the scissors? Now she was all at sixes and sevens. Panic mounted.

  Suddenly a flash of silver gleamed in the corner of her eye and in the next instant she was freed. Ransom Deverell proudly flourished the small, deadly-looking blade with which he had cut the string and exclaimed, "See how blessed you are that I'm here."

  Although released from the parcel, she still had the knot around her finger like a ring. He grabbed her wrist.

  "Hold still, woman."

  She looked up, ready to tell him it didn't matter, that she could manage by herself, but he was intent on the exceedingly perilous business of sliding that blade between her finger and the merciless tourniquet she'd accidentally made around it. Perhaps not a good idea to argue with him at that moment.

  It was said that he'd killed a woman. Although it was never proved. She knew he'd shot at his father, the notorious True Deverell, some years ago. Raven had once mentioned the difficult relationship between her brother and their father, how they were always at war, Ransom being too much like his father in many ways.

  And everybody knew that True Deverell was once named the wickedest rake in all England.

  "There." The knot dropped away from her finger and yet she had barely felt the cool blade brush her skin. "All done." With a swift flick of his hand he hid the knife away again inside his evening coat.

  "Put your pout away, Miss Ashford," he muttered. "I shan't say that we are now equal, one favor for another. I could, of course. But since you're such a persistent creature I wouldn't dare leave without those books. You might tackle me to the ground if I tried."

  Mary somehow managed a smile— at least she thought she did, but her mind was spinning and she really had no idea what her face did. Her heartbeat had quickened until it must have rivaled the pace of a fox about to be torn apart by hounds.

  She'd never seen a man use a knife in her presence for anything more physical than carving a roasted goose. Certainly no one had ever put a sharp blade against her skin. And this man had taken possession of her hand— and of her for those few seconds— as if it was a mere trivial matter. As if he had no fear of drawing blood. As if she ought to have no fear likewise, but trust him completely.