by Tracy Sumner
He dabbled with his paints, searching for the exact shade of purple for her to record in her research. It was the color she alleged signified pregnancy, which he found a fascinating discovery. “Someone has to think about the future.”
She dropped her head to the settee with a sigh. “Are we going to argue about this again? I don’t know if I have the strength to consider your subsequent apology. But I will certainly give it my best.”
He mixed the paint with more exuberance. Their arguments had led to one or two very intense encounters. “It’s a lovely manor. The gardens are beautiful. And it’s officially part of your trust. Nothing scandalous whatsoever.”
“The earl’s solicitor is awfully willing to take your money. I bet Freddie choked when told there is an asset, previously undiscovered, that is not legally his.”
Julian made a dismissive motion with the brush. “London runs on bribes. At least you can presume a solicitor will keep the details to himself.” He added white as the color needed to be closer to amethyst, not violet. “I’m only doing what your grandfather should have. Or better yet, your thoughtless father.”
“That’s part of the problem,” she whispered, but loudly enough for him to hear.
“Don’t push me, Yank.”
She scooted high against the settee, and he tried to ignore the memory of his lips pressed to her thigh in just that spot two evenings prior. “Please go on describing my life in the charming, unentailed country manor my dear grandpapa left to me. It’s near Viscount Beauchamp’s country estate. A close family friend, you see, as the departed earl was a prudent man.” She slapped the folio to the carpet. “Will you sneak in there every night as well?”
He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “You’ll be safe, you and your reputation. You and your gift. I’ll make it a goddamn fortress. And you’ll be close to the League, twenty minutes by carriage. We can even have people come to you for healing.” At her look, his shoulders dropped. “It’s not like I’m suggesting Gloucestershire.”
“And this summer?”
He tossed his spectacles atop a blank canvas at his side. “A traditional house party. Chaperones, power of levitation aside, aplenty. We even have a duke this summer showcasing my heightened success. Ashcroft can confirm, lying through his teeth, mind you, how proper the goings-on. It actually may give your rather unfortunate status a boost. But when the next season starts, you cannot be here. The wolves will rip you apart. I won’t let that happen.” He yanked his hand through his hair when she failed to concur. No way Piper Scott would immediately agree because the proposal was too sensible. “Remember the plan? To leave the door open for the bloody future, not slam it shut in society’s face.”
She rose to her knees, her finger drilling into his chest. It was pure helplessness on his part that even indignant contact sent a spike of longing drumming through his body. “What about what I want, Jules?”
“Ah, the narrative repeats itself.”
She laid her finger over his lips. Her heat seared him, and he just caught the swift inhalation before it started. He removed her hand but drew her close. “That’s not a fair fight.”
“I prefer this narrative repeat itself,” she whispered.
A hairsbreadth separated them. So close, her breath grazed his neck, the scent of lilac invading his senses and scattering the self-control he prized so much. He dove into the emerald pool of her eyes, fully submerged. “I know nothing of how to love,” he murmured, “only how to survive. You have to take what I’m able, all I know, to give.”
She swept her hand down his throat and along the path of hair trailing to his waistband. A part of his body she seemed overly fascinated by. During the slow, slow glide, his muscles contracted beneath her touch. He knew where she was headed, and although he should, he had no intention of stopping her. “I’m tempted to make you mine, no matter the cost,” he said, his voice thick. If he did, his gift could destroy her. She’d enter the otherworld the visions thrust him into, following him out of love, not as a healer, and she might never return.
If she could help him as only a healer, with some degree of detachment, he might be more willing. But love was leading them both down a dangerous path, he feared.
And he wondered if he would survive the hurt of leaving her.
When he felt sure she was strong enough to.
Her gaze steady, confidence born of his impassioned teachings, she unbuttoned his trousers with practiced efficiency. She understood how to wreck him and began to stroke with the perfect mix of speed and strength—slowing when his hips rose in a plea for her to go faster, a whisper touch when he needed her to squeeze the life from him. With a groan, he fell back, bracing himself on his elbows, his head hanging low. If he watched her do this, he would explode in seconds.
When the silken ends of her hair grazed his thighs, he grasped her wrist. “Piper,” he breathed between his teeth. She batted his hand aside and set her lips to his shaft, her tongue circling the tip hesitantly, then with more vigor when he moaned his devotion. He found the clawfoot of the settee and wrapped his fingers around it to keep from dragging her over him. Allow her, you fool. The bite of pitted wood against his palm only marginally dimmed the feel of her teeth skimming, her mouth closing, sucking. Brilliant lover that she was, she recorded each gasp, each groan, documenting what he liked until he lay utterly broken before her.
He jerked the settee as his hips rose from the carpet, her papers a snowy spill around them. “Stop, love, I—”
But Piper being Piper, she followed her own course, her wicked mouth and coming-into-experience fingers driving him to the brink. He was so close. His hand rose to sink in her hair and guide her when she needed no guide. His skin felt like it was being stripped from him and reattached. How to finish, he wondered while his body turned against him.
This, he decided, and pulled her atop him. They tangled as she struggled and swore, rolling them over. She laughed as he yanked her shift high and slipped inside her with gentle splendor that stole both their breaths.
“Yes,” she whispered against his nape.
He wanted to be tender, take it slow, make it last, but the feel of her mouth wrapped around him had left a fiery imprint that was only going to allow for modest sensation before pleasure overwhelmed him. Already, he was lightheaded and gasping for oxygen. All body, little mind.
He shifted his hips, and she moaned, curving into him. “That? Okay.” Good. She liked it. So, he did it again.
“There.” Her words were an urgent caress. “Right there.”
He complied, plunging as determinedly as he dared. In response, she ground against him, having learned, oh, God, what drove them both mad.
She whimpered, and he urged: “Come with me, Yank. I may not be…able to wait…for you.”
He gazed at her as she tossed her head, struggling to find her release. She was the most sensual vision he’d ever seen; her beauty astounded.
Her breath ripped from her, her cheeks flooding with color. “I can’t—”
Reaching between their pumping bodies, he found the sensitive bud of her sex. “You can.” One gentle manipulation, barely a touch really, and she shattered. Her cry reverberated as she clenched around him, ending any hope he had to prolong their pleasure. With a final, deep stroke, he ripped free and came in a wild gush in his hand.
Collapsing beside her, he groped for his shirt. With his vision graying at the edges and not enough air entering his lungs, he cleaned his hand, then turned to find her turning toward him, a rueful smile curving her lips. “You’re going to kill me with this pace. I fell asleep during a meeting with Humphrey today,” he said, drawing her to his side, where she fit like a piece of his puzzle. “Scrupulous opponent, Piper Scott is not.”
“Every chance I get,” she mumbled, gliding into slumber. Her lids drifted, lashes a dark sweep across her skin. His hand flexed around her hip, bringing her closer, the movement utterly possessive, conveying in action what he could not in word.
Then she slipped into sleep.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had been closed to her, fighting what they felt for each other. But they’d been so damn young, with so many impossible circumstances stacked against them. He could be persuaded by her clever hands, her winning smile, to refute his reservations and pitch his promise to the earl to hell.
But his gift had the power to destroy.
And not in the way of a broken love affair.
Even after all these years, he didn’t understand his ability well enough to determine his level of risk, much less hers. If something happened when she sought to heal him, he would lose his mind.
He buried his face in her hair and drew a breath of what smelled like sunshine.
To let their relationship continue in this manner denied the man he was, the man who, in the end, did the right thing. It was too late to find the middle ground. Already, her touch was unbounded confusion. Ridiculous, but it seemed a personal strike against his honor that he needed her to light the dark corners inside him. Another man, one without a curse to bear, could have her in one way but not the other. Leave a part of her for herself.
To stay was life and death.
To leave was only the death of his heart.
As Piper sighed and snuggled into him, Julian felt the salty sting of tears and questioned how he thought to leave her when he’d begun to like the man he was when he was with her.
Like him as never before.
But, someday, and someday soon, he must.
When she’d made Harbingdon feel like home.
Because Piper Scott was his.
As he’d known the moment he stepped from the earl’s carriage to find a locket on the ground and fallen in love the second he touched it.
Chapter 19
I hid my love to my despite, till I could not bear to look at light.
~John Clare
The collapse of her exquisite love affair began on an otherwise typical rainy English day.
After breakfast, she met with Edward, who had come along nicely in their weeks of working together. He still foretold the future, but he’d learned to manage his anxiety, in part, by keeping a journal. Some of his dreams were innocuous, the usual imaginings of a young man—a seamstress in the rookery he’d taken a fancy to—but some had more significant implications. Those she suggested he discuss with Julian and Humphrey. Only two instances made her breath catch. One, a dream about Finn as a grown man residing in a gaming hell.
The other about her.
In this one, Piper faced what Edward termed a challenger. A female with long, black hair. He compared the sight of them facing off to Finn and Julian fencing. A competition, charged and intense.
This dream she told Edward she would discuss with Julian.
Something she had yet to do.
Because, at certain times, the look on his face…
She might be winning the battle to secure his love.
If this woman was coming for her, Piper had a somewhat fatalistic view about her ability, anyone’s ability, to correct the course. Her destiny may well be to face this test, but Julian would explode in a fury were she ever to voice this notion. Therefore, she kept quiet about Edward’s intuition and docilely consented to having an armed guard shadow her every move.
She was only allowed to cut that protective cord while at the lodge. Where she and Julian had created an intimate domain separate from society, their responsibilities, the past or the future. They lived and loved in a world made of glass, a world capable of being shattered at any second.
Her mind was overflowing with thoughts of Julian that afternoon as she and Minnie left the Duke’s cottage, what everyone on the estate had come to call the stone fortress. Ashcroft had brought a modest army with him, former soldiers he’d commanded, increasing protection not only at the fortress but Harbingdon’s main gate and house. His Grace took training and weaponry seriously if the drills in the yard meant anything. She’d told Julian about the mock battles and glistening chests, and during her next visit, the men were buttoned-up like they were heading to a ball.
Controlling Ashcroft’s gift was a challenge, as he wasn’t sure of the trigger behind starting fires. To gain any jurisdiction, he had to understand where the impulse derived from. It was a peculiar healing experience as she didn’t feel the heat, but an image of flames popped in her head every time she grasped his hands. Also, he and Piper had begun reviewing the detailed notes in his journals, the ones she and Julian had uncovered in Ashcroft House. It was tedious work, grueling at times, but he seemed comforted that he could, for the first time in his life, be honest about his situation.
As Julian advocated daily, there was strength in numbers.
If the Duke seemed lost in this strange world he’d stepped into, it was expected. Traveling from Mayfair to an Oxfordshire estate harboring orphans of the occult did take some getting used to. There was a new arrival each week, sometimes two, befuddled beings promptly placed in a position they were unsuited for. Consequently, Harbingdon operated like a carriage missing a wheel, with many bumps and spills. However, loyalty to Julian was absolute, as his compassion, protection, and dedication were unrelenting.
When she reached the main house, instead of going to freshen up for dinner, Piper went directly to Julian’s study. She hadn’t seen him in two agonizing days. A roof in the village had collapsed, and a group of men had volunteered to not only complete the repair but move the family to a new home.
His study door was open, but she hesitated to disturb as he stood lost in thought before the window, recording the night as it tilted from grey to black. He’d dressed in riding boots and breeches; waistcoat hanging loosely about his hips; shirtsleeves rolled high on his forearms. His hat and coat sat in a haphazard pile on the chair pulled close to his desk. Piper took him in, skin flushing as it always did when he was near.
She’d expected to quench her passion with repeated effort, but this hadn’t occurred.
She only wanted more.
Foolishly, she wanted everything.
“Are you coming in?” he asked and lifted a glass to his lips. Crystal glinted in the half-light from the sconce, reflecting off the pane and landing on the Aubusson at his feet. Across the short distance, she noted the tension holding his posture rigid. Her heart began to pound, and the words he’d whispered in bed the night before circled her mind.
You will lose this need for me. It will fade.
Making her want to weep with bewilderment. When she’d asked if his need for her would fade, he’d replied only by making love to her in a frenzy, as if it were the last time he’d be allowed to do so.
“Ashcroft?” he asked without turning, his gaze still fixed on the somber scene outside the window.
She stepped into the room, leaving the door ajar. “Nothing burned to a crisp yet.” Her skirt did have a scorched hem, but Minnie had stamped the blaze out with her capable foot before it raced out of control.
He sipped, nodded. “Brilliant.”
She halted at his desk, bracing her fingers on polished mahogany. His aura glowed the color of the blooming daffodils in her garden, measured caution. He stood only two paces from her, yet he seemed leagues away. Her gaze circled the room, seeking answers and finding them in the leather portmanteau sitting by the desk, packed and ready for travel. “Preparing for a journey?” Her query slid out without revealing a hint of the angst knotting her stomach, though she had to curl her hands in fists to keep them from shaking.
Julian turned, wedging his shoulder against the window frame, his steely gaze raking the length of her body in a blistering perusal. His eyes were shuttered behind his spectacle lenses.
He’s foxed, was her first thought.
And already gone, was her second.
His aura sparked like one of Ashcroft’s blazes, and she released t
he desk, taking a stumbling step back.
His hand flexed around the crystal tumbler as he brought it to his lips and polished off the amber liquid. “I would claim you,” he finally said in a voice offering no opening to step inside and break the comment apart. “Take every part of you if I could.” He thumped the glass to the desk and bracing his hands, leaned over it until he came so close his scent—citrus, sweat, brandy—circled her like she wished his arms would.
She swallowed, her throat clicking.
“Don’t look so surprised. You’ve been a bloody obsession since I first laid eyes on you.”
“You say that like that’s my fault.”
He laughed without a trace of humor. “Your persistence is not only legendary, Yank, it’s also killing me.”
“Remember our dance? You run”—she nodded to the portmanteau—“I chase.” Sliding her hands next to his but not touching him, she added, “But I’m not going to chase forever.”
She had not Finn’s gift, but she read Julian’s mind as easily as she could his flowing script on a page. Stepped straight through those astounding eyes and into his soul. Something had happened, and he was done with this, with her. A chill brought goosebumps to her skin, and she fought back the sting of tears. His bloody righteousness was going to win. From the grave, her grandfather was going to win. She’d be left adrift, brushed aside by the only man she would ever love.
A man who did not love her enough to keep her.
Julian’s lids drifted low as he tilted his head. He was going to kiss her, that bastard. Thinking to leave her, but, no, he still wanted her. Men, she raged.
Could he not make up his blasted mind?
All at once, she wanted to consume him. Sweep everything from his desk and lay him upon it. Use her hands, lips, and teeth to drive him crazy while he did the same to her.