Vanity Read Online Free PDF

given to extravagant language and distempered freaks, Miss Morgan.” So saying, he swept her off her feet. She yelled with the full force of her lungs, but the sound was snatched away on the wind, and she could do nothing to save herself from being carted unceremoniously back to the Royal Oak.
    He kicked the door closed behind him and headed for a flight of wooden stairs, calling, “Bessie, send Tabitha up with mulled sack and towels. And we’ll have dinner in half an hour, if you please.”
    Bessie appeared in the doorway, watching as Lord Nick ascended the stairs two at a time, seemingly unhampered by his still struggling and cursing burden. She pursed her lips disapprovingly and returned to her kitchen. “Tab, you heard Lord Nick. Mulled sack in his parlor.”
    “Aye, mistress.” Tabitha curtsied and hastened to the range, where a copper pot of mulled sack steamed fragrantly.
    Above stairs, a door banged resoundingly.
    “Lord of hell, woman, for such a slip of a thing, you’re no lightweight,” the highwayman declared, setting his captive on her feet with a sigh of relief. “Now, just stop cursing me and settle down. You can’t go anywhere at the moment, so you might as well accept my hospitality with a good grace.”
    There was an inexorable logic to this that even Octavia in her fury couldn’t deny. And at least they were private, away from the sea of grinning faces that had witnessed her embarrassment.
    She fell silent and looked around the chamber. It was warm and well lit with wax candles, a checkered carpet on the oak floor, a round table in the window, two upholstered chairs set on either side of the hearth, where a log fire blazed. The scent of lavender and beeswax mingled with the wood smoke; the andirons gleamed with polish, the pewter candlesticks shone, the wooden furniture had the rich patina of good housekeeping.
    Suddenly, she was very tired, and her hunger rose anew with the aromas wafting up the stairs. With a little shrug she tossed aside her sodden cloak and stepped over to the fire, bending to warm her frozen hands, wincing when her fingertips tingled with returning sensation. Her eyelashes and hair were white with snow, her feet numb in her wet boots. The hems of her skirt and petticoats were drenched, and an uncontrollable shiver ripped through her.
    The highwayman stood watching her, a speculative frown in his eyes. Her body was a graceful curve as she bent toward the flame, and now that she’d ceased her vilification and her struggles, he absorbed again the madonnalike beauty of her oval face, the innocent radiance of her tawny eyes.
    One couldn’t judge a package by its wrapping. His lips tautened at the bitter reminder, and he waited for the angelic image of his twin to fade with the violent surge of icy rage that always accompanied it. It was a familiar cycle, one he’d lived with for eighteen years. But one day very soon he’d be able to put the evil to rest, and he’d be free of the malignant chains of deceit and injustice. And Philip would know his twin again….
    A knock at the door cut into his reverie. He bade the knocker enter, and Tabitha came in, a tray with a jug and two tankards in her hands, a pile of towels under one arm.
    “’Ere y’are, sir. Will I set the table for dinner?”
    “In ten minutes, Tab.” He waved her away. She put her burdens on the table, curtsied, and left.
    Octavia turned from the fire. The highwayman tossed her a towel. “Dry your hair, Miss Morgan.”
    She caught it automatically and began to unpin her hair while he poured two pewter tankards of mulled sack. Bending once again to the fire, she rubbed her loosened hair vigorously, but she was still shivering in the thin, damp gown and her feet were still numb.
    “Drink this.” He handed her a mug. She cradled it between her hands, inhaling the heady, spicy fragrance. She could think of nothing to say to him and no reason for the moment to quibble with his curt commands.
    Abruptly, he left