by Anne Stuart
Her knees were weak, her heart was pounding, her... her breasts were tight and hot, and she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t care. She wanted to die then and there from the sheer raw pleasure of his mouth on hers, his tongue touching hers. She heard a noise, a faint, hungry noise, and knew with a shock that it came from her.
He moved his mouth from hers, dragging in a deep breath of air, and she felt the scrape of his new beard against the softness of her cheek as he moved his lips against her jaw, down the side of her throat. She was trembling, her hands clinging so tightly to his coat, odd, silly tears of need filling her eyes as she swayed toward him, needing more, needing his strength, needing his power, needing his mouth and heaven only knew what else...
And just as suddenly as he’d kissed her, he released her. She didn’t fall back among the cabbages, though it was only by the grace of God her legs continued to hold her upright. He’d moved away from her, out of reach, and she could see the way his chest rose and fell in the frosty night as he struggled to control himself.
“Get back to the house, Miss Maitland,” he said in a harsh voice.
“But...”
“You’ve no business interfering with the help. If you’re looking for a quick tumble, I’m certain you’ll find one with the gentry. You’re a tasty morsel, and I don’t deny I’m tempted, but it would be worth my job if anyone were to find I’d bedded one of the guests.”
Fleur could feel the color rush into her face. She didn’t move, absorbing the words like the cruel blows that they were, staring at the stranger. “Go back to the house, miss,” he said again, cool and harsh. “If you’re wanting some rough sport, why don’t you ask her ladyship who she could suggest? I’m afraid I won’t be available.”
She didn’t say a word. She could feel the icy wind ripping at her hair, stinging her eyes, burning them. Reddening her cheeks. It was the weather, not shame and despair.
“I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mr. Brennan,” she said in a quiet, dignified voice. And then the effect was ruined by a choked sob, and she picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could, away from him.
He watched her go down the rows of cabbages, veering away from the kitchens and heading toward the main section of the house, where she belonged. Brennan stood still in the moonlight, staring after her. He could still taste her sweetness on his mouth. He could hear the soft sound of longing she’d made in the back of her throat, he could still feel the warm pillow of her breasts as they pressed against his chest, her nipples hard from the cold. A moment later and he would have had his hand down her bodice, or up under her skirts, and there would have been no stopping him. For some mad, wild reason she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and she wouldn’t have stopped him, despite the cold, despite the place and time. He would have taken her maidenhead in a bed of cabbage, and neither of them would have noticed.
“She’s a randy bitch, isn’t she?” Clegg strolled into sight, puffing on one of their host’s cigarillos. “Why didn’t you take her? She was begging for it.”
Brennan stared at his enemy out of hooded eyes. “I like a challenge.”
“Hell, we could have shared her. She wouldn’t have said anything even if she didn’t like it. Sometimes I think you’re too picky, m’lad.”
“I keep my distance from the quality,” Brennan said, controlling his fury with well-practiced effort. “They’re not worth the trouble they bring.”
“The virgins aren’t,” Clegg agreed thoughtfully. “Stiff as a board usually, and then they cry until you give them something to cry for. Ah, but the high-class whores—they’re something else.”
“Out of my league,” Brennan murmured.
“Well, if you’re not interested in the little slut, mebbe I’ll try my luck. If she’s got a taste for the rough and ready, I’ll be more than happy to oblige her. Always fancied her when I saw her around Spitalfields.”
Brennan’s hands clenched into fists, but he didn’t so much as blink. Clegg was wanting a reaction from him, and anything he said would only make things worse. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “You might think of waiting till she’s back in London. No one gives a damn what happens to a girl in Spitalfields. Around here there are all sorts of gentlemen who might feel called upon to look out for her.” He said it casually, in an offhand manner. He never made the mistake of underestimating Clegg’s intelligence.
Clegg grinned at him, that friendly man-to-man smile that always made Brennan’s skin crawl. “Sure and you’ve got a point there, me lad. You certain you’re not interested in crawling between her legs yourself?”
I won’t kill him, Brennan swore to himself. Not yet.
“I told you, she’s too much of a lady. Kisses like a cold fish. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
“So you keep telling me,” Clegg said. “I just wonder why I’m having such a difficult time believing you.”
“Probably because you wouldn’t believe your own mother if she told you the gospel truth,” Brennan drawled lazily. “You believe what you want to, Josiah. I’m going back to my pint.”
“And what was it that brought you out here on such a cold night? You sure you didn’t set up a meeting with the girl during your drive to Kent?”
“With that dragon of a sister watching? Don’t be daft, man. I looked outside and saw someone skulking about among the cabbages. We’re here to find the Cat, remember. I figured I’d better check on it. What brought you out here?”
“Why, you, Robert. I’m not about to let you or Samuel get the drop on me. That moiety’s mine, and I don’t intend to share.”
“Speaking of which, where is Welch?”
“Passed out. He won’t be getting in my way. What about you, Robert? Will you be getting in my way?”
“I’ll do my best, Josiah.” And neither of them had any doubts as to Brennan’s meaning.
Jessamine awoke with a start. She had no idea how long she’d dozed, and she cursed herself as she scrambled to her feet. The house was silent, and she could only presume that the other guests had eventually found their beds. All but Fleur.
The noises were faint as she made her way down the dimly lit hall. A muffled laugh from behind one door, a snore from another. And from still another, an odd, rhythmic creaking accompanied by a strange, gasping sound, as if someone were quite ill. For a moment she paused, concerned, wondering if she should ascertain whether someone was in trouble.
But her sister came first. If someone in that bedroom were having a fit, it would doubtless pass sooner or later. They could always ring for a servant. Besides, Jessamine realized belatedly, it was Ermintrude’s bedroom. If she were to intrude, she would scarce be thanked for it.
Most of the candles were doused, but enough were left burning that Jessamine could find her way down the winding stairs. She wasn’t quite certain where she was going—she had no idea where Fleur could have run off to.
She would check the obvious places first. The library. The music room, though Fleur’s talents lay more in appreciating music than in creating it. If all else failed, she would make her way to the kitchen, where if she didn’t find her sister, she still might very well find Robert Brennan, the one person who could help her.
That is, if he hadn’t arranged an assignation with Fleur.
No, he wouldn’t do such a thing, and neither would Fleur.
She trusted her sister, and she trusted her judgment. Robert Brennan was a good man, not the sort to debauch innocent young ladies.
The library was empty, the candles guttered. The music room was harder to find, and she almost discarded the notion. She came across it almost by accident—it was tucked into a corner near the stairs, as if no one in the house had much interest in the arts. The glass doors at the far end looked out over a broad expanse of lawn, and Jessamine crossed the moonlit room, drawn by the cool silver light.
The door closed behind her with a quiet, definite thunk that echoed icily in Jessamine’s heart. She could feel him move toward her sil
ently, and she forced herself to stay still, to wait until the last minute to break for it. She wouldn’t let Clegg put his hands on her again, she wouldn’t...
“Found your sister?” Alistair murmured in a soft voice.
Twelve
For a moment Jessamine thought she might have preferred Clegg. After all, she had already encountered him once that night, and managed her escape. But the Earl of Glenshiel was a different matter entirely.
He had an almost unearthly beauty in the silver moonlight. She’d done her best to avoid him earlier that evening, not even glancing in his direction, but now she had no choice. His hair was unpowdered, black, his face narrow and pale, and in the shifting shadows he seemed a creature of night, of extremes, of pale and dark, life and death. Extremes that he seemed to view with detached amusement. A card began to form in her mind, but she banished it in sudden fear. She didn’t want to see his life, his cards, in her mind or anywhere else.
“How did you know I was looking for my sister?” She made her voice deliberately mundane. “Have you seen her?”
“What else would draw you out, alone and unprotected, at this hour of the night?” he murmured, venturing closer. His gracefulness unnerved her. She was used to men being big, rough, clumsy creatures. Glenshiel was none of that. He was tall, but with a lean, wiry strength very different from the brute force she was used to. His very elegance, his mocking airs and graces, were unlike anything she had ever known, and his movements were sleek and silent, stealthy, like a prideful cat.
It wasn’t the first time she’d thought of him in terms of a cat, and she forced herself to look at him with new eyes, considering the unimaginable before discarding the notion. He couldn’t possibly be the Cat. What in heaven’s name would a peer of the realm be doing stealing jewels? The notion was patently absurd.
“Why should I worry about being alone and unprotected?” she countered. “This isn’t a London street. There’s no one in this house who wishes me ill. No one who could do me harm.”
As he moved closer he disappeared into the shadows, his voice cool and disembodied. For some reason that seemed almost more intimate than facing him in the moonlit dark, and she turned back toward the silvered landscape, doing her best to ignore him.
“For someone who’s been forced to rely on herself for so long, you’re remarkably naive,” he said softly. “I suspect you’re in more danger here than you are in that depressing little house. First you have your hostess, who resents treating you as anything more than a servant and would most likely put you over the kitchens if she thought she could get away with it. Then there’s the unpleasant Ermintrude, who’s eaten up with jealousy over you and your sister. They’re not dangerous per se, more of an irritation. But I’m certain you wouldn’t be too happy to run afoul of Mr. Clegg.”
Jessamine froze. “Mr. Clegg?” she echoed after a moment in a marvelous semblance of confusion. “I have no idea who you’re talking about. Who’s Mr. Clegg?”
“The Bow Street runner you’ve been assisting with your card readings. Not a wise choice on your part, by the way. His reputation is beyond unsavory. You would have been far better off working with someone like the thief-taker who accompanied you here. He seems possessed of slightly higher values.”
“I don’t number Bow Street runners among my acquaintance,” she said, keeping her face turned out into the moonlight. “And I assure you, I haven’t been reading the cards for anyone outside polite society.”
He was closer, though still in the shadows. “Really? Then perhaps you’re conducting a liaison with him. I can’t say much for your taste though.”
She turned back to glare at him. He was close enough to touch her now, half in, half out of the shadows. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well that I’m not!” she snapped, turning away.
“Why should I know that?”
“Because you... er...” Why in God’s name had she ever brought the subject up? She stiffened her resolve, refusing to be embarrassed. “Because whether I like it or not, you happen to be in a position to know that I am entirely unused to kisses.”
She could feel his breath on the side of her neck, warm, sweet, smelling faintly of mint and brandy. “Dear child,” he murmured, “one can conduct a most licentious affair without ever kissing anyone.”
She made the mistake of turning again, but this time he was so close, she didn’t have the option of turning back. She was effectively trapped between the glass doors and his lean, powerful body. She wondered if she could shove him out of the way. But that would necessitate putting her hands on him, and she had the illogical, melancholy suspicion that if she were to touch him, she would be far more likely to draw him close.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, knowing that to continue the discussion was dangerous, a small, secret part of her reveling in that danger. “What’s the good of a liaison without kissing?”
She amused him. She could see it clearly in his fascinating eyes, and her annoyance should have put a dent in her obsession. It didn’t.
He smiled. “Some people don’t like to kiss,” he said, letting his golden eyes shimmer down over her slender body.
“I can’t imagine it,” she said flatly.
“That’s because you’ve only been well kissed,” Alistair said without false modesty. “I’m very good at it when the spirit moves me. And there seems to be something about you that arouses my... er... spirit quite effectively.”
She tried to back away from him, but the glass was up against her back, and there was nowhere she could run. “I have to find my sister,” she said breathlessly.
“Your sister is perfectly safe. She’s back in your bedroom, none the worse for her midnight walk in the gardens.”
“Is that what she was doing?”
Alistair smiled. It was a singularly wicked smile promising all sorts of dangerous delights. “She was alone on the stairs, her clothing and hair were still in order, and while she’d been crying, she seemed reasonably intact.”
“Crying?” Jessamine said, galvanized. “I must go to her.” And without thinking she moved forward, expecting Glenshiel to move out of the way.
He didn’t. She came flat up against his solid chest, and his arms came around her, loosely imprisoning, but she had no doubt she’d be hard put to escape. “No, you don’t,” he said. “She’s safe and alone and she’ll likely cry herself to sleep more easily without you fussing over her.”
He was warm in the cool night air, dangerously so. His eyes glittered with malice and desire, and his mouth was too close. “Don’t,” she said in a small, soft voice that was damnably close to a plea.
“Don’t?” he echoed, mocking. “Don’t, kind sir! Pray, spare my maiden blushes. Unhand me, sirrah, or I’ll—what is it exactly that you would do to stop me, Jessamine? Scream for help?”
“If I must,” she said, standing very still in the lightly capturing circle of his arms.
“Ah, but you don’t really want to.” He dropped his voice lower still. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re as fascinated by me as I am by you.”
“You have an inflated sense of self-worth,” she shot back.
“You watch me,” he said, pressing closer. “You watch me as I watch you, and you think about when I kissed you. And you wonder if I’m going to kiss you again.”
She was having trouble controlling her breathing. “You’re absolutely mad,” she said.
“And you look at the other men, and you wonder whether you’d like their kisses as well,” he continued. “You think that perhaps only my kisses will please you, and that thought terrifies you.”
“Why should it do that?” she whispered.
“Because you know I’m a wicked, conscienceless rake who’ll seduce you, take my pleasure of you, and then go on to other things, other women, when I grow bored.”
Jessamine swallowed. “That seems about the truth of it. Or do you deny it?”
“I don’t deny that I’m not cut out for faithfulness, lo
yalty, or any of those tedious noble virtues. But I could show you things that you never imagined existed. A riot of sensation no other man could ever show you.”
“That’s hardly an incentive,” she said in a flat voice. “You’re promising me a lifetime of disappointment after a few nights of enjoyable debauchery. I think I’d be far better off never knowing what I was missing.”
“How paltry of you,” he murmured.
“Sorry to disappoint you. You seem to have some image of me as a brave, adventurous soul. I’m actually quite ordinary, with ordinary wants and needs. I want to see my family settled, I want a quiet place in the country where I can live in relative solitude. I’m not the sort for wildness and passion.”
“Are you not?” he said, a faint smile playing around his mouth. “I could convince you otherwise.”
“You would be doing me a grave disservice,” she warned him.
“Do you think that would bear any weight with me?”
If only he’d release her. The longer he held her, the more she felt her stern resolve slipping away. It was all well and good to insist herself uninterested in the tawdry emotions of mankind. She truly thought she might be able to convince him if only she weren’t feeling the press of his legs against her full skirts.
She just didn’t think she’d be able to convince herself.
“Please,” she said in a small, desperate voice that held a distressing quaver. “If you have any kindness or decency left within you, you’ll release me.”
He appeared to consider the notion for a moment, his head tipped to one side as he surveyed her out of half-closed eyes. And then he shook his head. “I’m afraid kindness and decency have long since fled, Jessamine,” he said softly. “All that’s left is mindless lust. A most diverting pastime, I assure you. Shall I demonstrate?”