Prince of Swords

by Anne Stuart

  It was too late to call back that final damning phrase, but he could only hope she hadn’t noticed. She’d stopped trying to free her hand, and instead she cupped him loosely, her fingers curling gently around him.

  He slid his other hand behind her neck, beneath the heavy sheath of hair, tilting her face toward his. “What’s the answer, Jessamine?”

  She licked her lips, and he could feel himself surge against her hand. “What was the question?”

  “Do I let you go?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to feel the flames,” she said. “And I need you, too.” And she leaned forward and put her mouth against his.

  For a first real kiss it was off center and awkward, and so unexpectedly erotic, he nearly came in her hand. Her lips were soft, pliant, seeking against his mouth, and he angled his head, letting her taste him, letting her learn the contours of his mouth before he opened it, luring her inside.

  The touch of his tongue against hers startled her, as it always did. But this time she didn’t pull back, she moved closer, and her tongue touched his in shy flirtation.

  He groaned, back in his throat. So much for his intention of stretching this into an all-night seduction. At the rate she was going, it would be over in a matter of minutes. And he was a man who never, ever lost control.

  The bed was behind them, high, large, rumpled. Too far away, but the floor would be hard, and she’d be lying beneath him. He pulled back just slightly, and he felt as if he’d been running for miles. “I’ll burn you alive,” he said, kissing the side of her neck. And he caught her up in his arms, ignoring the pain from his wound, and carried her toward the bed.

  She wasn’t frightened, Jessamine told herself, trembling as he laid her down on the soft mattress. The bedhangings were dark and smothering, the faint glow from the fire barely penetrated the cavernous recesses of the bed, and Alistair was silhouetted in darkness, standing over her.

  He was right, the time for running was past. He would break her heart and he would die, and she would stand at his scaffold and watch him, weep for him. But at that moment nothing mattered. It was too late, the cards had been read. She lay there and waited for her lover to claim her.

  His hands were gentle at the loose neckline of her shift, loosening the drawstring. He pulled it off her, tossing it away with his usual elegant disdain, and she lay, naked and vulnerable, beneath his gaze, hoping the darkness would spare her modesty.

  But she had forgotten that cats can see in the dark. Alistair climbed on the bed, straddling her, his hands resting on either side of her body, and he leaned over her, his long hair brushing against her face. And then he purred, low and deep in his throat, as he rubbed his face against hers.

  She lifted her hands to touch him, to slide up the length of his warm, bare chest. She could feel the bone and sinew and lean, muscled strength of him. The faint, crinkly texture of hair on his chest that she hadn’t even seen. The tension in his muscles as he held himself above her. And her hands trembled.

  She pushed him gently. He fell back on the bed beside her, reaching for his breeches, but she was already up on her elbows leaning over him in the darkness. She felt wicked and wanton, a wild, magical creature, naked in the darkness. No one could see her, she was free to do what she wanted.

  She kissed his mouth slowly, tasting the contours of his lips, biting him lightly. He tried to reach for her, but she put his hands back on the bed. “Let me,” she said, kneeling over him.

  And he did.

  She nuzzled his neck, letting her long hair drift across him. She rubbed against his neck, and his hand came up under her hair, kneading her scalp in a slow, delicious caress. And she moved her mouth down to his chest and put her tongue against his flat nipple, tasting him.

  His reaction was so intense, she thought for a moment she’d hurt him. He growled, a deep, groaning sound, and his hand tightened on the back of her head. But he held her against him, and she swirled her tongue around him as he had done to her in the carriage, a lifetime ago.

  He was reaching for his breeches, freeing himself into the night air, and for a moment she faltered, suddenly unsure. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and he was nothing like her limited experience in male anatomy.

  He must have sensed her uncertainty. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks, and she sank back onto the bed, closing her eyes and bracing herself for what she knew would happen.

  It didn’t. Eventually she opened her eyes, to see him leaning over her, watching her, an amused expression on his dark face. She glanced downward to see whether he might have lost interest, but he was still as noticeably aroused as before. Perhaps even more so.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. “You had that holy martyr look on your face again.”

  “I don’t think this is going to work,” she said in a doubtful little voice.

  “Trust me,” he said. “Just lie back and think of absolutely nothing at all. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

  She looked at him doubtfully, certain he was mocking her. But she did as she was told, closing her eyes, thinking of clear blue skies and green fields and lovely summer...

  His mouth was between her legs. She let out a shriek of outrage, trying to sit up, to push him away, but he was too strong, holding her hips still as he put his lips against her most private part. She tried to kick at him, but he simply pinched her, and all her struggles were a waste of time. She sank back against the bed, panting, furious, horrified at the depraved thing he was doing to her with his mouth, his tongue. His long hair was spread out over her thighs, and she reached down to pull at it, to try to stop him. But instead, her fingers slid through the long strands, stroking him as his head moved.

  It was unimaginable sin. It was torment of the most wicked kind, and she deserved the frightening, fiery ache that was building within her, sending shivers of unknown longings racing down her body. He no longer had to hold her hips captive—she couldn’t escape even if she’d wanted to. She was hot and cold, trembling, afraid she might fly apart in a thousand different directions, afraid she might go to some dark place and never return. The dark, burning emptiness grew, possessing her body, and she thrashed back and forth in a mindless effort to loosen it.

  “Don’t fight it, Jess,” he whispered against her belly. “Come for me.”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about. She tried to pull away, but he set his mouth against her once more, and she clutched the tangled bedsheet, digging her heels into the mattress, desperate, lost, wanting only to escape.

  And then she did. He touched her with his hand and his mouth, and the combination shattered her, tearing away her last tenuous hold on safety, flinging her into that dark void that frightened her so much. Her entire body seemed to convulse, ignite, as the world stopped for a desperate eternity.

  She was drenched with sweat, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain it might explode, and every nerve and fiber in her body shivered and trembled as he rose up over her, between her legs, resting against her.

  He cupped her face and kissed her. “Are you still in there?” he whispered with a strained smile.

  “I’m not sure,” she said in a weak voice.

  “I’ll find out.”

  She was too benumbed to realize what he was doing until he’d already started, sliding into her slowly, careful not to force her, not to hurt her. She was right, it was never going to work, he was far too big, she was far too small.

  He was right, it worked very well indeed. Until he suddenly halted, and she wanted more. Needed more.

  “This is the part you’re not going to like,” he murmured, but she was past paying attention. She wasn’t convinced she liked any of this. She wasn’t convinced she hadn’t died and gone to heaven.

  He withdrew, then thrust again, a little more forcefully, coming to a halt once more. She whimpered, raising her hips, clutching at his shoulders, uncertain what
she wanted, knowing only that she wanted it more than life.

  He withdrew again, and his hands reached up and caught hers, pushing them down against the bed, twining his fingers with hers. And when he thrust this time, he didn’t stop, breaking through the frail barrier of her virginity until he rested deep inside her.

  It hurt. It tore at her, and she reveled in the pain. It was part of the claiming, it made her belong to him just as he belonged to her. For however long he kept alive.

  He stayed very still inside her, letting her grow accustomed to the size of him, the fierce invasion of her body and soul, and his hands stroked the sides of her face gently, a silent comfort and question. She turned her head and caught his hand with her mouth, kissing him.

  He groaned, starting to pull away from her, and for a moment she panicked, afraid that he was leaving her, afraid he was disgusted with her virginity, with her pain, with her need.

  But instead he thrust again, deeper now, past the shattered barrier of her innocence, filling her so deeply, she thought she would dissolve from the joy of it.

  “Again,” she whispered into his shoulder, and she felt his body shake with silent laughter.

  “Hold on,” he said, a promise and a warning. He took her hands and placed them on his sweat-slick shoulders. He was iron hard, every muscle in his body taut, and she wanted to engulf him, devour him. She wanted to go up in flames and take him with her.

  He began to thrust deep inside her, a slow, decadent rhythm that almost lulled her into a peacefulness. Except that she found she wanted more from him, found she was arching her hips to meet his thrusts, and they were faster now, harder, pushing her against the bed, and her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she tried to hold on, but she was slipping, slipping away, and he was thrusting, thrusting, so deep inside her. She didn’t want to lose it, she didn’t want to let go, but the storm hit her with sudden violence, wrenching her away from any safety she had ever known, and she was aflame, burning, a tight spasm of pure sensation that sent her spinning into darkness.

  And he was with her, suddenly rigid, and she heard a muffled cry as he buried his face in her hair, flooding her with heat and life and endless desire.

  She wasn’t quite sure what happened next. How he managed to pull himself free from her clinging body, from the bed, only to return moments later with a wet cloth. He washed her tear-stained cheeks, he washed between her legs, and she trembled with longing again. And then he caught her in his arms and pulled her up tight against him, pushing her tangled hair back from her tear-streaked face.

  “You were right,” she whispered, half astonished that her voice hadn’t left her entirely.

  “I’m always right,” he said. “Which moment of wisdom were you referring to? When I told you it would work?”

  She shook her head, knocking against his chin. “You said virgins were tediously weepy and unimaginative,” she said with a watery little sob. “You must hate me.”

  “I find you utterly charming, my Jess,” he said, stroking her. “You may weep all over me if you wish.”

  She looked up at him, mindful of how completely pathetic she must appear. “Why?”

  “Because I love—” He seemed to catch himself. “Because I love making young women cry. It’s my mean streak, I suppose. I can’t resist the urge to torment them.”

  She managed a faint smile. “And I thought you reserved your worst behavior just for my benefit.”

  “Oh, but I do, my Jess. You inspire me to new heights of wickedness.” He touched her face lightly, then grimaced. “I think my arm is bleeding again.”

  Jess shot up. “I’ll find the bandages...”

  He shoved her back down again. “You’ll stay put. It’ll be fine. It wasn’t much more than a scratch. A little more blood will cleanse it.”

  “You should have been resting!” she said, aghast. “You shouldn’t have exerted yourself...”

  “If you don’t stop wiggling, I’m going to exert myself again, and I think you’d be better off with a rest.”

  “Again?” she said, astonished.

  “Again,” he said firmly. “But you’re going to need your strength. Go to sleep, Jess.”

  “But your arm... ?”

  “Bugger my arm. Go to sleep, or I’ll do something that’ll make it bleed even more.”

  She could see him quite clearly in the darkness. Translucent amber eyes, so guarded against everything and everyone. His wide, wicked mouth. His beautiful, lost face.

  “You’ll die,” she said hopelessly.

  He didn’t even blink. “Not before I have you every way I can think of. By then you’ll be glad to see me go.”

  Dark, wicked thoughts danced through her sleepy brain, fantasies and visions and half-remembered stories told among giggling schoolgirls. “Every way?” she whispered sleepily, curling up against him with more trust than she had any sense in showing.

  “And more.”

  She slid her hand up his chest, covering his heart. It beat steadily, slowed down from the desperate pace that had matched her own. Steady and true, as if death weren’t waiting to claim him.

  She closed her eyes, drifting. And in her dreams the cards danced, and the Prince of Swords lay cold and bleeding beneath her feet.

  Twenty-One

  When she awoke she was alone, as she’d always known she would be. She guessed it was late morning, from the angle of the sunlight coming in the window, and the banked fire sent out waves of delicious heat. His clothes were gone. So, in fact, were hers.

  Jessamine sat up in bed, pulling the thick linen sheet around her. She was aching all over, in places she never expected to ache. She was exhausted, sticky, and bereft. And in desperate need of a necessary.

  She climbed down from the bed, draping the sheet around her like a Roman toga. The house was absolutely silent—from the street beyond she could hear the usual city noises, but inside all was still. She had no doubt at all that the building was completely empty.

  In a small closet several doors down from Alistair’s bedroom she found a bath waiting for her, still steaming, and new clothes laid out. Frilly underclothing, with costly enough lace to feed her family for a week. A rose-colored dress that was so pretty she wanted to weep. But she was past weeping.

  She dropped the sheet onto the floor and stepped in the gloriously scented warmth of the tub, sinking down in the water’s comforting embrace. Years ago Marilla had told her stories of fairies and magical beings, and she remembered a tale of an enchanted castle, where unseen servants fed the fires, drew the baths, and cooked elaborate meals. But this was no enchantment, and far from a happy ending.

  She dressed by the fire slowly, willing Alistair to return and face her when she knew he wouldn’t. Her hair was still damp when she pinned it up, and even the rose slippers fit her feet. And then she descended the stairs to find her true love, to find a meal cooked by fairies, to find the answer to her future.

  What she found was Nicodemus Bottom.

  “Don’t you look a sight!” he said admiringly, hopping down from the kitchen table, where he’d perched himself. “I outdid myself this time. His lordship told me to find you something pretty, and I bloody well did. You’re a real treat for these peepers.”

  “I should have known you’d be my fairy godmother,” she said. “Did you carry the water upstairs and heat my bath as well?”

  “I’m no servant!” he protested. “There’s a limit to what his lordship can expect from me.”

  “Where are the servants?”

  “Not back yet. Won’t be either, according to his lordship. He said he didn’t expect to be spending much time here.”

  “I see.” The kitchen was cold and dark. So was her heart. “Do you know where my sister is?”

  “Lord love you, miss, she’s back home. Which is where I’m to take you. And no arguments about it,” he said, forestalling her. “Glenshiel said I was to takes you home, and this time I’ll do me duty. He’ll have my head if I fail him.”
/>   “What if I don’t want to go?” she asked very quietly.

  There was sorrow and pity on Nicodemus’s face. “Ah, miss, you don’t want to be saying that. He don’t want you here. It’s a cruel fact, but the way of the world, and you’ve lived in Spitalfields long enough to know it. He’s had you, and now he’s on to other things that interest him more. Such as thievery. There wouldn’t be any happiness with a man like that, and you know it. Be thankful he’s sending you on your way before too much harm’s been done.”

  “Sending me on my way?” Jessamine echoed in a hollow voice. She closed her eyes, trying to force the cards into her mind, to call forth some guidance, some explanation. But there was nothing. They were gone, as vanished as her innocence. She opened her eyes again. “I’m going to murder him myself,” she said pleasantly.

  Nicodemus had been watching her anxiously, pity on his face. At her words, he beamed. “That’s me girl,” he said. “He ain’t worth your tears, bless you. He’s a worthless blackguard who’ll end his days on the scaffold, and you’re far better off without him.”

  “Of course I am, Nicodemus,” she said. “Now take me home, if you please. My family must be worried about me.”

  He must have hit his head when he fell, Alistair thought coolly, sitting back and sipping at the rich coffee that Freddie Arbuthnot thoughtfully provided. Something that knocked the sense out of him entirely, and it hadn’t yet returned.

  He never should have touched her. Never should have bedded her. For that matter, he never should have taken her thieving, but that was before his fall, so he couldn’t blame that particular insanity on a head injury.

  Laying eyes on Jessamine Maitland had been far more dangerous than any tumble off a balcony, any bullet hole in the arm. And he was a man who’d reveled in danger.