Nearly anything could be used as a weapon. But there was nothing around for her.

He rose, and she realized he’d left his walking stick behind. He favored one leg, but he still managed to move with a sinuous grace that belied his usual appearance.

“Just how bad is your leg? You’re scarcely as crippled as you pretend.”

“You’ll find, my sweet, that little about me is as it appears. I broke my leg when I was younger and it was set badly. I don’t let it trouble me.”

“Then why don’t you continue the journey on horseback?”

“Because I don’t wish to,” he said in the softest, sweetest voice. “Accept it, Miranda. You lost the wager, and you’re wasting time fighting me.”

“It’s not in my nature to give up.”

He had come even with her, and he paused, looking down at her. “And that’s why you’re so irresistible,” he said.

Lucien walked out into the cool night air, breathing deeply. It was astonishing how much Miranda Rohan aroused him. His hands were shaking with the need to touch her, and controlling himself a few minutes ago had required more strength than he knew he had.

He should have just taken her. She was no shy virgin—he could thank Christopher St. John for his bungled part in that. She had rubbed against him, instinctively, helplessly, as he kissed her, and she was wet with longing. It would have taken a moment to release himself, and he could have plunged up into her, burying himself in her welcoming heat, holding her hips as he bucked and fucked and lost himself.

Bloody hell, he had to stop thinking about it. He couldn’t walk around with a perpetual hard-on. And yet, there was something wickedly enjoyable about being physically aroused and anticipating Miranda’s eventual surrender. Tonight had been a delicious taste of it.

There was an old saying: revenge is a dish that is best served cold. Who would have thought his revenge would be so deliciously hot and yielding?

Jane Pagett was a complication, but one he could deal with. Right now he was bone tired and ready to sleep in his expensive carriage. It was a long way to go, up into the Lake District to his secluded home by Ripton Waters, but once they reached it he could count on time to complete the coup de grace of this particular revenge. For now, he was ready to rest.

Miranda climbed back into the carriage, stifling her instinctive moan. No matter how comfortable a carriage, how gifted and smooth a driver, being cramped up in a small space for so long made her bones ache. Jane was already curled up in one corner, her sweet face creased with misery, her nose and eyes red. She’d finally realized just what a mess she was in, and there was nothing Miranda could do to reassure her. She took her hand and squeezed it as she took the seat beside her, and Jane managed a weak smile in return. Until the carriage dipped slightly and Lucien climbed in, taking the seat opposite them and stretching out his long legs with a sigh.

The door was closed, plunging them into darkness, and a moment later they were moving once more.

“Miranda, my love,” his voice came through the darkness like a seductive snake. “Come join me and give your dear friend more room.”

“I’m quite fine where I am.”

“But I’m not.” With luck Jane wouldn’t recognize the hint of steel in his voice. She wanted to continue the charade that this was a voluntary elopement for as long as possible, and refusing would be to call his bluff.

With an audible sigh she rose, just as the carriage hit a stone, tossing her against Lucien. He caught her easily, and even in the darkness she could see a glint of his smile. “That’s one of the many things I love about you, my darling. Your reluctance and your enthusiasm.” He settled her onto the seat next to him, his arm around her shoulder, clamping her body against his, his heat pouring through her. “That’s right,” he whispered in her ear. And then, to her shock, he bit it, not hard, catching the lobe between his teeth lightly, and she jerked in reaction.

Thank God Jane couldn’t see what he’d done. “Miss Pagett, are you comfortable?” he asked, all solicitude, as he pulled the capacious fur throw over them.

“Yes, thank you,” Jane said sleepily. Jane was looking decidedly unwell, and Miranda had the uncharitable wish that Jane’s stomach would erupt, as well. Please, Jane, cast up your accounts all over his elegant Hessian boots.

Jane sniffled, coughing a little, but the ride was smooth enough to keep nausea at bay. She would be asleep in moments, Miranda thought, and that was all for the best.

Perhaps she could induce nausea on her own. She could think back to Christopher’s hands on her, the ugliness of his member, the pain of his penetration, the sheer awfulness of lying beneath his naked, hairy, sweating body as he pumped away at her.

But unbidden came the memory of Lucien’s erection, planted at the juncture of her thighs, and even through the layers of clothes he seemed substantially bigger than her erstwhile lover. Christopher had hurt her—Lucien would tear her apart. What in God’s name was she going to do?

“Stop twitching,” he murmured sleepily in the ear he’d just nipped. “We’ve got a long way to go, and I, for one, would like to pass some of it in sleep.”

“What about Jane?” she fretted.

“She’s already asleep, and it’s clearly nothing more than a slight cold. I’ve sent word to her family that she’s accompanying you on a visit to a dear friend and will return in a few days. It should set their minds at ease, at least for a time.”

“They’ll be terrified. Jane and I always had the capacity for getting into trouble.”

“Then when the truth comes out they won’t be that surprised.” He pressed her head against his shoulder, and while she wanted to pull away she knew he’d simply force her, and in truth it settled there quite comfortably. “Go to sleep, my angel. It will give you strength to fight me in the morning.”

And with that sage advice, she did.

11

She dreamed, of course. Curled up beside her enemy, she dreamed of Christopher St. John, his handsome face with its weak chin and his ugly hands. He was chasing her through a forest, and she was naked, nothing but her hip-length hair as covering. And as she ran she tried to pick leaves to hide her nakedness, but they fell off, and she kept running, toward some mysterious safety in the distance. She could feel Christopher gaining on her, smell the ugly sweat-smell of his body, and she knew his thick hands were reaching out for her, catching her hair with a painful yank, and then suddenly she was free, hurtling forward against safety, a warm body with arms that enclosed her. He smelled of leather and spices and warm male skin that was a far cry from Christopher’s foul odor, and she looked up with love into Lucien’s scarred face.

Her eyes flew open in shock, wide-awake. He was asleep beside her, thankfully unaware of her insane dreams, and his arm was loose around her. She tried to edge away, certain he slept on, but his short, sharp “don’t” disabused her of that notion.

“I need to stretch,” she whispered. “And I want to check on Jane.”

He moved his arm then, releasing her, but she had no illusions that it would be more than a brief respite.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and Jane was curled up on the opposite seat, a lump in the shadows. She reached over and touched her forehead, careful not to wake her. It was blessedly cool—she had no fever, despite her sniffles.

She glanced instinctively toward the door. She couldn’t leave Jane, and they were traveling too fast for her to attempt a leap to freedom. She sat back on the seat, reluctantly accepting her fate. For now.

“Why do you think I brought your friend along and didn’t send her straight back to town?” Lucien said in a soft voice that wouldn’t disturb Jane. “You can hardly try to escape as long as she’s with me. Indeed, I’m aware of the closeness of your two families. If you ran off and left her with me I suppose I could make do with her. It might serve as an adequate revenge.”

“If you touch her I’ll cut off your hands,” Miranda said fiercely.

He laughed. “In truth, it’s you I want to touch, my precious. I’m simply a practical man who’ll make do what I have to in order to attain my ends. You have no idea just how ruthless I can be. I suggest you don’t force me to show you.”

He wouldn’t be able to see the hatred on her face. Which was just as well. What did they say—revenge is a dish best served cold? If she let the heat of her rage take hold she’d be helpless. She needed to be cool and calculating if there was any chance of besting him.

No, she thought. Besting the Scorpion was unlikely. Holding her own, refusing to let him win, was a more reasonable goal.

Why had she dreamed of him as safety? Safety from Christopher St. John? What madness was that? Lucien’s kiss, his hands on her body, had brought back all sorts of memories of Christopher’s assault on her body, all of them unpleasant. She had survived that, and survived it well, left with nothing but an aversion to that intimate act between men and women, that thing she didn’t even like to name.

So why had Lucien won? Why had she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back? Why had her body, that most intimate part betrayed her to his knowing hands?

He was even more devious than she’d given him credit for. He was no scorpion; he was a snake, a lying, treacherous …

“And what lovely thoughts are you thinking, my darling?” he murmured softly, pulling her back against him, where she settled easily enough. Damnably easy. “Looking forward to your wedding night?”

She let him feel her instinctive shudder, but he simply laughed. “I was thinking you were more a snake in the grass than a scorpion.”

“Then you know little of scorpions, my precious. Scorpions are deceptively lethal. They avoid sunlight, and they poison their prey before the victims realize what’s going on.”

“So why are you called the Scorpion? Are you a poisoner?”

“Oh, there’s little I won’t do if the need arises. But in fact the name came from the pet scorpion I brought with me from Jamaica when I finally returned to England. I brought it as a pet, and my traveling companion took to calling me Scorpion as a term of affection.”