Always a Temptress by Eileen Dreyer Page A

couldn’t breathe. Her skin crawled; the blood drained from her face, leaving her unpardonably dizzy and clammy. “Thank you, Harry,” she managed to say, holding perfectly still. “You’ve finally made me glad I didn’t run off with you.”
    Harry reared back, as if she’d slapped him. “Just now?” he demanded. “Hell, Kate, I was glad the day I left.”
    Stalking out, he slammed the door behind him. Kate dropped into her chair, her knees giving out. The only thing that made her feel better was the knowledge that his hand had been shaking as he reached for the door on his way out.
    For a long moment, she just sat there, her stomach somersaulting and her head swimming. He was right. She’d gone too far, and she’d been paid back for it. She lifted her hands to see that she was shaking, too, but she really wasn’t sure what from. Anger? Fear? Desire? How was she supposed to separate them?
    She had to get away. This insane contest between Harry and her would only escalate, which would solve nothing. She had no answers for him, nor did he, it seemed, for her. He certainly couldn’t tell her why anyone would think she belonged to the bloody Lions. He would just keep sparking her temper and rousing her body until something very bad happened. And Kate had had quite enough of very bad in her life.
    Taking an unsteady breath, she leaned her elbows on the table and dropped her head in her hands. She’d been allowing Harry to take the lead up till now. She had to change that. She needed to get out, and she was the only one who could do it.
    First she took the time to hide her candles and flint. Like a starving child with her first meal, she couldn’t assume more was coming. Pulling up a floorboard near the grayish rug, she slipped her stash beneath and moved the table over it. Then she scoured the room for tools, for weapons, for weaknesses.
    Harry had prepared well. The bed was suspended on ropes, and the chest of drawers emptied of everything but dust. And although a hit over the head with a wooden drawer might surprise or even cut, it would not stop. There weren’t any sheets on the bed, nothing but a tattered pea-green brocade that would probably rip from no more than a look. There wasn’t even a mirror to smash.
    She went over the room inch by inch. She didn’t expect success; Harry had been too thorough. So she was even more surprised when only half an hour later, she found her answer.
    The shutters. They had been nailed closed, but the hinges were within a good yank of pulling from the wall. All she had to do was pry them loose and she could sneak out that way. She just had to hope that Harry hadn’t already cut away the ivy that had once climbed up the old stone walls.
    Now for a plan. She needed to wait until deep night, when her guards were at their most lax. What Harry didn’t know was that her own country home, Eastcourt Hall, was no more than ten miles away. If she could get as far as Marlborough, she could catch the Bath coach and be there in no time. If worse came to worst, she would just walk.
    But until then, what?
    Brushing down her gown, she settled into her rickety little chair and thought, absently picking the soft wax from the battered old table. She would have to let herself be searched. She’d known it all along. But at first she’d been too panicked to think clearly, and then too furious. She’d even entertained the idea of making Harry do it.
    Why not? she thought, savoring the sharp taste of righteous indignation. Why not hold out so long that she would force him to strip her? Why not stand before him, dignified and silent, as the shame grew on him? Let him be the villain. Let him have to face other people’s condemnation for what he did. The minute they caught sight of his cockstand, they’d know just how altruistic his actions were.
    She wasted far too much time on the idea. But she just couldn’t seem to turn away from the fantasy of Major Sir Harry Lidge, the hero of the