Wicked With the Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Bright

  Happiness coursed through her with dizzying speed.

  He believed in her.

  And she would find a way for them to be together, treasure or no treasure.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Treasure hunting was dirty, dangerous work, and Lady Claire took to it like a hog to mud. Colin had tried to stop her from lifting and rolling small boulders in her search, but she would have none of it. An hour into their search, her dress was torn, her gloves muddy, and there was a scratch near her elbow that worried him. She had never looked worse, he would wager.

  Or happier.

  But they had not found the treasure. He had not expected to within the first hour of their search, of course. It would take several days at least to thoroughly explore. Perhaps longer. He wouldn’t mind. There was no urgency to return to Bath, and the next ship did not set sail for Egypt for another month.

  They had passed through the mouth of the cave, where cheesemakers stored large wheels for ripening, and ventured deeper into the tunnel, leaving bits of cloth as they went to form a trail. Now they entered a part where large formations of rock hung from the roof like icicles. The floor of the cave also was solid rock. Since Scipio could not have dug through it, they confined their search to crevices and cracks in the floor and wall. He watched Claire wrinkle her nose at a slug and grinned to himself.

  A few more days, or perhaps a fortnight. If he kissed her every day for a fortnight, that would be fourteen kisses. He wouldn’t mind if their search took yet another month longer, even if it meant delaying his departure. There would always be another ship to Egypt. There would never be another Lady Claire Harrison.

  There was a crack slightly larger than a breadbox just above his head. “This is exactly where I would hide my hoard,” he said cheerfully, “if I had a hoard to hide.” He was half joking, of course, but as he spoke his hand felt something remarkably like wood.

  He paused, then felt again. His fingertips grazed something soft and cloth-like.

  No. It couldn’t really be that easy.

  Could it?

  He leaned back to try for a better look, but the angle was wrong.

  “Claire?” His gaze found hers. She drew in a sharp breath, and her eyes widened. “Don’t get too excited yet,” he said. “It’s probably not what we are looking for, but it’s definitely something. Here, help me move this boulder.”

  She sprang forward, and together they rolled the rock until it rested under the wall. He stood upon it, using the wall to balance, and held the lantern so he could take a better look.

  There were shards of wood. Indiscernible metal shapes and fabric. Coins. A lump of something wrapped in cloth.

  He stepped down and took her trembling hands in his. “You can reach it yourself. I won’t let you fall.”

  It ought to be her. This was her adventure, after all.

  But she shook her head. “No. It has to be you.”

  Which was an odd thing to say, but then, it was just another odd moment in a very odd fortnight.

  “All right.”

  Very gently, he pulled out the remnants of what had once been a wooden chest. Not much was left, other than the iron hinges. Next came heaps of filthy coins that appeared to be gold. And then, finally, something hard wrapped in linen. He handed it to her.

  Slowly she unwrapped it, parts of the fabric crumbling to dust against her fingers, to reveal a pendant.

  In the center was an emerald the size of her fist.

  The Cleopatra Emerald.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Good God.

  Their time was up.

  The gem glowed darkly in the lantern’s light, mocking him. He instantly wished the damn thing was at the bottom of the Channel. It would take years before they ever thought to look there. Years of secret kisses and ridiculous lists and moments he couldn’t bear to forget.

  But he would forget. Already the details were fading from his memory. Damn him for not paying more attention! What was the very first thing she had said to him? Was it “Hello” or “Good day?”

  No, no. Nothing so common as that.

  It was, “Was it a very small goat?” and her voice had gone up on “small” and down on “goat.”

  He tried to focus on the memory, to bring it further to the surface, to catch the details before they were gone forever. How had she done her hair? Had she worn earbobs? He couldn’t remember. Damn it all, he couldn’t remember.

  And now it was too late. Their time was up.

  “Claire,” he said desperately.

  She looked at him.

  He reached for her, and she came willingly, falling into his lap with a breathless laugh.

  “Hush.” He sent his mouth roving over her face, pressing kiss after kiss to her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. It would take hundreds of kisses to cover every inch of her skin, and her beautiful brain would be forced to remember every last one of them.

  She could remember for both of them. Yes.

  She giggled again as his lips found her eyelids. “That tickles.”

  “Hush,” he repeated between kisses. “They’ll hear us.”

  “Who will hear us?” she asked. Her head tilted back to give him access to the line of her jaw.

  Anyone. Everyone. “The cheesemakers. Our friends.”

  “We are too deep for anyone at the cave’s mouth to hear us, and our friends won’t be back before dark. We have hours yet before Meg looks for us.”

  Hours! As though he could be satisfied with mere hours. She tossed him scraps while he hungered for a feast.

  “No one will know,” she whispered.

  Her voice was remarkably even. If she had been any other woman, he would have doubted his effect on her. But this was Claire, and Claire’s voice was never even. It swelled and rolled like the deepest ocean. She was trying very hard to remain controlled.

  He wanted to take her control and smash it to smithereens.

  He trailed his fingers down the nape of her neck to the top hook of her dress. “May I? I want to see you and kiss you. That’s all. Nothing more than kisses.” He heard the neediness in his own voice, knew he sounded like he was begging, and he didn’t care. He didn’t care.

  Her eyes widened. “All right.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. He could have this much of her, at least.

  But then she stopped him, clasping his hands in her own to still their movement. He snapped his gaze to her face and raised his eyebrows in question.

  She smiled. “You first.”

  Yes. Yes, he wanted that, too.

  “Are you quite certain?” He searched her face for any sign of doubt. “It’s a dangerous game we’re playing, Claire. Skin against skin is a powerful thing. I won’t want to stop, and you won’t want me to.”

  “Hmm,” she said and slipped the first button free.

  Very well, then.

  He raised his arms, allowing her to pull the shirt over his head. The air was chilly, and gooseflesh broke out along his back. He burrowed closer to her, seeking her warmth. His mouth found the juncture of her throat and shoulder, and he kissed her there. She made a sound that reminded him he ought to be removing her dress now.

  The hooks were of simple construct, yet they easily thwarted his shaking hands. He swore under his breath. But then the last hook was undone. All it took was a triumphant tug of fabric to reveal…her stays and chemise.

  God. There were so many layers.

  He gave her a frustrated look, to which she responded with a low laugh. She kissed him lightly. “It’s a simple knot.”

  He went back to work, and soon the thing was done. She was—finally! Dear God, finally—bare to him, or at least her breasts were, and that would have to be enough. She gleamed warmly in the lantern light, and he wanted to look at her for hours, or years, but there wasn’t time for that. He admired her with his eyes for only a moment before dipping his head to admire her with his mouth.

  Perhaps he ought to have gone slowly at first, and se
duced away her modesty and fear with gentle kisses. But there wasn’t time for that, and anyway, his Claire was never afraid. So, he simply fastened his lips on her nipple and sucked.

  She gasped, arching, and her hands went to his head. But she didn’t push him away. She held him there, encouraging him to continue.

  She was still on his lap, with both her legs going one way and her torso twisted to face him. The position wasn’t conducive to what he wanted most, but it did have the benefit of making certain parts more accessible. His mouth switched to her other breast, and his hand slid up her stockinged leg.

  Hurry, hurry. He felt a desperate, despairing urgency to complete this with her before she was taken from him.

  Still, he paused at the place where silk stocking became soft skin. His head lifted. “Look at me, love.”

  She did, and he slowly trailed his fingers farther up her thigh, his gaze never leaving hers. Her eyes widened as she understood what he meant to do.

  “Shall I stop?” He forced his hand to lie completely still, just to prove to them both that he could.

  “No,” she said, and thank God, thank God, she did not sound the least bit uncertain.

  His hand continued its journey, past where her thigh widened slightly, and into the curly thatch of maidenhair. He stroked gently, watching her carefully for any sign of unhappiness. Her gaze was riveted to the lump of fabric that concealed where his hand played with her. He stroked again, her skirts bunching and tightening at the movement.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Wait a moment.”

  He waited.

  She tugged at her skirts while arching her hips upward. When her dress was wrapped around her waist like a child’s hoop, she lowered again. “There, now. You may continue,” she said with all the superciliousness of a queen addressing a servant from her throne.

  He couldn’t help grinning. “Oh, yes?” he teased.

  Her gaze met his own. “I wanted to see,” she explained.

  It was difficult to speak past the sudden dryness of his throat. “You wonderful woman,” he rasped.

  His fingers began to move again, stroking through her wet softness, finding the place that brought her the most pleasure.

  And she watched.

  And she watched.

  Until she couldn’t any longer. Her eyes closed, and her body drew tight as a bow string. She threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, and her hips surged up to meet his hand.

  Glorious, glorious woman.

  He held her, until her body loosened and finally went slack against him. She looked at him with drowsy, half-shut eyes.

  “Claire,” he whispered.

  Her gaze focused. “I see now what you meant, about skin against skin. I don’t want to stop.”

  “We can’t continue this.” The words sounded wrong to his ears, and his body protested mightily. Why couldn’t they? Perhaps because she was the daughter of a marquess and he was the bastard son of a lady’s maid. But his cock deemed those reasons inconsequential. “I cannot lie you down on the floor of a cave. It is…dirty…and cold…and…”

  His voice trailed off, for she had solved the problem herself by rearranging her body as he spoke. Now when she sat on his lap, her bent legs straddled either side of him, so that her knees hugged his waist.

  “Couldn’t we…like this?” she asked.

  He gave up. He was going to take her, consequences be damned. It would be worth it. Even being banished to Australia as an indentured servant would be worth having her just this one time.

  “It will hurt,” he warned. He touched his forehead to hers and tried to slow his rapid breathing.

  “Only for a moment. A lifetime is filled with millions of moments, you realize, and I spend most of them quite bored. I don’t mind a moment of pain now and then.”

  He gave a gasping laugh. “I’ll try not to bore you, then.”

  She kissed him. He reached between them and undid the fall of his breeches. His cock, hard and aching, sprang free. He squeezed her hips, urging her to rise. When she lifted, he took his cock in hand and guided it to her. He rubbed the head against her wetness in slow circles before settling at her entrance.

  “Do as you want,” he said. “Nothing else.”

  She braced her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself, and lowered. Tight, slick heat engulfed him. And then she stopped. Her brows knit in a frown.

  “I think I am…stuck.”

  He gritted his teeth and managed to restrain himself from forcing her hips down until they met his own. “Try again.”

  She rose and glided down again, taking a little more of him this time. She repeated the motion a third time. On the fourth, her lips pressed together, and she looked at him. He knew what she meant to do by the determined glint in her eyes.

  And then she did. She rose up and slid down, and down, and down.

  And she didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed within her.

  He groaned, shuddered, dug his fingers into her hips. Her eyes turned hazy, and she held very still. The moment stretched and deepened. There was nothing but the splendid feeling of being inside her, the scent of their mingled arousal, the soft inhale and exhale of their breath.

  Then she blinked. “You’re right. That does hurt.”

  “Oh, God, for me it feels good,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

  The corners of her mouth tugged upward. “Quite all right.”

  She began to move again, in unskilled and somewhat clumsy motions, and it still felt so damned good. Her breath had changed to short pants. Was it pain or pleasure? Both, he thought.

  It was the last thought he had because then his own pleasure was upon him. He gripped her hips, guiding her rhythm, and spent with a ragged bellow.

  He collapsed backward, taking her with him. The cold ground was an unpleasant shock to his bare back. But her body was warm against his chest, and her lips were smiling against his throat.

  He wouldn’t have moved for all the emeralds in Africa.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It was rather shocking to have one’s life change so completely in the space of an hour. She was happy. Of course she was happy. But to find a buried treasure and lose one’s virginity all at the same time was a bit much. It wasn’t unpleasant, especially with Colin’s delightfully muscled chest to cushion her fall. It was merely…uncomfortable.

  And Claire was rather accustomed to comfort.

  She had been lying atop Colin for the past quarter hour, half dozing while they both recovered from their lovemaking. Now her knees ached from being pressed against the cold stone floor. There was a soreness between her legs and—

  Good heavens. Was she leaking?

  She scrambled off him in panic. He lurched upright, his hands reaching for her moments too late, his gaze disoriented in the lantern’s dim light.

  “Claire?” His voice was rough. “What is the matter?”

  She took a step back, clinging to the bodice of her dress to keep it from sliding off. Something trickled down her thigh. She shut her eyes and crossed her legs tightly together, wincing at the throb of pain. “Nothing.”

  There was a pause.

  Then, “Claire, love. What are you doing?”

  She heard the baffled laughter in his tone and swallowed hard. Damn Adelaide for not preparing her for this. One’s mother couldn’t be expected to give proper guidance, but one’s friends, at least, should provide a word of warning. But no, Adelaide had spoken in rapturous tones of ecstasy and moonlight. She had said nothing of humiliation and leaking.

  “I don’t wish to alarm you,” she said primly. “But liquid is— Well. It is. Do you have a handkerchief?”

  She had said all this without looking at him, but now she chanced a peek. He did, indeed, look alarmed despite her wishes to the contrary.

  He swore under his breath. “Bloody hell. I had meant to withdraw.”

  He buttoned the fall of his breeches and rummaged through his sack. After locating a handkerc
hief, he dipped it in the stream, wringing out the excess water. She watched him warily as he came toward her.

  She reached for the cloth, but he evaded her grasp and sank to his knees before her. “Can you lift your skirt for me, love?” he asked.

  She could, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to. She looked down at him. He returned her gaze steadily. He did not leer or mock. His blue-gray eyes surveyed her with such attentive warmth that she felt a catch in her chest, a twisting of pleasure with the pain. She drew in a breath and raised her skirt.

  The coldness of the damp handkerchief startled her at first, but then it eased the ache. He wiped through her delicate folds and then between her thighs, cleaning away all traces of moisture and stickiness. It was oddly intimate, perhaps even more intimate than the act that had made the cleaning necessary.

  When he withdrew the cloth, she glimpsed traces of red against the white cotton. He didn’t seem the least bit disgusted and instead simply folded it into a square and tossed it back into his sack. Then he helped her set herself to rights, tying her stays and fastening the buttons of her bodice.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She had expected he would be eager to leave the cave—bringing the treasure with them, naturally—and prepare immediately for their return to Bath. But he seemed in no hurry as he removed a parcel from his sack.

  “I’m famished,” she admitted.

  “Good.” His teeth flashed in the dim light. “I have food.”

  She sat down upon her pelisse, waiting while he broke off a hunk of cheese and bread. He offered it to her and tore off another piece for himself. She devoured it with eager bites. The cheese was sharp and creamy, the bread soft. All in all, it was a perfect meal.

  With food in her belly and the ache between her legs subsiding, she felt quite restored. Almost entirely herself again. The course of her life now balanced delicately on the precipice of complete upheaval, true, but she remained the same.