Chapter Four
Trapped.Adrian wastrapped.
His hands throbbed from beating the door. No one had come to secure his release, no matter how loudly he’d called.
He closed his eyes and curled his fingers into fists. His nails bit into his palms. The sensation is not real. There aren’t bugs or mites or things that slither in the dark covering my thighs.
He growled and shifted, pacing the room and focusing on the click of his heels against the floor. Repetitive sound sometimes helped. This time, the unpleasant, maddening need to scratch only muted.
Unfair, to have been given a few, brief moments of transport—transport so intoxicating his body still begged for the succor of the Blackbird’s touch—only to have the promise of relief snatched away. Not just relief, either. His body had recognized hers. He’d been drawn to her, drawn to the promise of something more. Something deeper.
Then, she’d recognized him. Called him by his title.
Anonymity was a comfort, a shield she’d stripped away. In the past, he’d always been able to trust Bessie to choose women who would preserve his privacy.
He didn’t know who—or what—he should trust at present.
He felt the click of the lock in the door like a tap against his back. He shuddered. The widow paused in the doorway and perused him up, then down, and then back up again.
“Quite the fuss you’ve been making.” She set a tray with a cup down onto the bed. “You’re disturbing the other guests.”
“I don’t give a damn about your other guests. Who did you send up here to meet me? And, this time, I’ll have none of your half-truths!”
The Black Widow absorbed his verbal blows with unruffled calm. “Sit down. I’ve brought you a tisane I told you about earlier. Eases pain. Soothes the spirit. Have some, and we’ll discuss the matter like the civilized people we choose to be.”
“I’d suffer a great deal from you, Bessie, but should I discover you have purposely placed me in peril, I will not hesitate to—”
“Stop right there,” she interrupted. “You know I don’t take kindly to threats.”
He leaned forward. “She recognized me.”
“I daresay you’d be recognized by half of London. With the privilege of your position comes public scrutiny.”
“Don’t you think I know as much? She not only recognized me, but she alsoknewme.” Had that been the reason that being in her arms had felt so right, so natural? “She had a lady’s accent. I should have been on my guard.” He threaded his fingers through his hair. “At first, I allowed myself to assume she’d been educated to speak that way.”
Foolish.
He scratched hard at his thigh, even though he knew the action would bring him no relief.
“Redver—”
“You mentioned marriage. Then a young lady, one quite perfect for me, appears in my room. Swear to me that you aren’t trying to ensnare me.”
“If I wanted to set a parson’s trap for you, my extraordinarily private upper rooms would hardly be ideal.” She turned aside, forcing him to take a step back. She lifted a cup from the tray. “The young lady was brought to this room by mistake.”
“Mistake?” he queried.
“Drink.” She plucked his hand from his neck and then wrapped his fingers around the mug. “You’re suffering.”
“Thoughtful of you to notice,” he replied wryly and then glanced down. “What’s in here?”
“Willow bark. Chamomile.” She shrugged. “A few other herbs.”
What did he have to lose at this point? Maybe the brew would ease his skin’s irritation. He took a drink—bitter, but warm. “Bessie, can we please come to the point?”
“The point?”
“The woman,” he replied. “Who is she?”
