The Price of Pleasure Read Free Page A

were wed or betrothed.
    Fleur half rose from her chair and leaned close when Reed opened his eyes. They shone like pure silver in the candlelight.
    Full consciousness returned slowly to Reed. With great effort, he opened his eyes a crack and feared he was dreaming. Gone were the rough stone walls, the foul straw upon which he had lain more days than he cared to count. It was too quiet. There was no moaning, no sobbing, no pleading. All Reed heard was blessed silence.
    The overwhelming stench of death and decay was gone. He had lived with the smell for weeks, months. He sniffed the air, recognizing the scent of flowers, sweet clean linen and . . .
he was lying naked on clean sheets!
    Reed tried to speak, but no sound came forth. His throat was raw and his mouth filled with cotton.
    “Would you like some water?”
    Ross turned his head toward the dulcet female voice and wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Nothing this side of paradise could sound so sweet. Reed nodded, praying his dream would go on forever.
    He watched the woman tip up the pitcher on the bedside table and pour water into a glass. Then she slipped an arm under his shoulders to lift his head while she held the glass to his lips. Reed realized this was no dream when he felt her soft breasts pressing against his cheek. The water tasted sweet and pure, unlike the dark, murky liquid that passed for water in prison. And the woman smelled of . . . flowers.
    “More?” the woman asked when Reed drained the glass.
    Reed shook his head. “You . . . speak . . . English.”
    “I was born in England. How do you feel?”
    “I . . . hurt, but I can’t recall when I
didn’t
hurt. Am I dreaming?”
    “No, this is real. The doctor has already seen you and left you in my hands. If you’re in pain, I can give you some laudanum.”
    “Later. Who are you? Where am I?”
    “What do you remember?”
    “Being in a dark pit and wishing for death.”
    “Is that all?”
    Reed frowned, searching his memory. Suddenly it came to him.
The Black Widow.
He searched her face. She wasn’t wearing a veil now, and what he saw stunned him. Flickering candlelight revealed the Black Widow to be young and lovely. Pale skin, ebony hair falling in curls around her face, long sooty eyelashes and full lips. She was a raving beauty.
    “Are you the Black Widow?” She nodded. “I don’t understand. Why would you want a dying man? What good am I to you? If pleasure is the price you demand for my freedom, I fear the price is too high. I’m in no condition to please either of us.”
    “It’s good to know the persona I fabricated is working. My name is Fleur Fontaine. I am English by birth. My late husband was a French count; he went to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror. He arranged for my escape but was unable to save himself.”
    “I’m sorry,” Reed said softly. “Why are you doing this? Why me? I understand none of this.”
    “I don’t expect you to, not yet. Enough questions for now. You’re in pain. Let me give you some laudanum. When you awaken, I will feed you some broth that Lisette is preparing as we speak. You are dangerously malnourished. And if you are to return to England, your broken bones must heal properly.”
    Reed watched as she mixed laudanum with water in a glass and held it to his lips. He drank, grimaced and at her urging drank some more. After a few minutes, Reed’s eyes grew heavy. “Fleur,” he murmured. “Flower. It fits. You smell like flowers.”
    Fleur’s smile bathed him in sunshine despite the darkness closing in on him. “And you, my lord earl, need to rest.”
    Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Reed wanted to tell her he wasn’t an earl and that the title belonged to his brother, but his mind had shut down.
    Fleur bent to brush a lock of hair away from Reed’s forehead, then quietly tiptoed from the chamber. He had spoken, which was a good sign. He’d also expressed curiosity, another good sign.
    Fleur made her way to the