My Scandalous Bride

by Christina Dodd

  The man was an expert at whatever he did. If he were the smuggler, he would be the best. If he were

  the Seamaster, he would catch his man. If he were her lover, she would be satiated when they finished.

  "Trust in me," he crooned.

  "You'll stop if I tell you?"

  "I'll do whatever you wish."

  After making her wish for him. Slowly, she agreed, "I will trust you—for now."

  "That's a start." Loosening his hands, he used them to strip the gown off her hips. Her white pantalettes, tied at her waist, reached below her knees and were so sheer he could see the color between her thighs. She burned when he gazed at her and tried to cover herself with her hands.

  "Don't." He took her wrists. "I've fantasized about your body, and it's better than I've dreamed."

  Astonished and vaguely offended, she asked, "You thought about this?"

  "Of course." He looked right into her eyes. "Didn't you?"

  She wanted to refute it. She hadn't thought about it, had she? She'd never imagined what it would feel

  like if he kissed her. She hadn't thrilled to the thought of his body against her. Yet she couldn't speak

  the words to tell him so.

  His eyes grew brilliant and his nostrils flared like a great cat detecting the eminent collapse of its prey.

  The scent of the savage filled her nostrils, and she declared, "I don't think I like you."

  "I don't want you to like me. I want no part of such a paltry emotion from you." Her pantalettes loosened under his hands. He stripped them and her stockings from her in one efficient motion.

  Her own nudity left her gasping.

  His nudity silenced her completely.

  In all her life she'd never seen a naked man. Now she knew why. If men like Leighton walked the streets wearing nothing but a smile, women like her would have to join him in the most basic manner. The sight of him made her forget her embarrassment. Fascinated, she touched his chest. Broad, covered with coarse hair that crinkled and rolled, it undulated from the broad, smooth muscles above to the frequent ripple of his ribs. His abdomen rippled, too, strength implicit in the structure beneath the skin.

  How did a nobleman build such a body?

  She snatched her hand away. By moving barrels of brandy on moonless nights.

  He sighed in what sounded like disgust. "You think too much." And he kissed her.

  The time for games was over. His intent was clear. He wanted her, wanted her wanting him, wanted her clinging, panting, ecstatic and mindless. He kissed her softly at first, barely lapping at her lips. Then his tongue sought hers while his hands wandered to her breasts, her stomach, and finally between her legs.

  This wasn't like before when he touched her and her gown and petticoats remained between them. Now his fingers tugged at her curls, then intruded between the folds of flesh.

  Horrified, she pulled her mouth from his. "Stop that," she hissed.

  He didn't answer and he didn't stop. He touched her delicately, using little dabs of rapture.

  The weight of her eyelids grew too great, and they half closed. "Please."

  "Please what?"

  She couldn't remember what, so she just repeated it. "Please."

  "Stop?"

  Her hesitation amazed her. "Yes!"

  "As you wish."

  He obeyed her so easily, she should have been suspicious. Instead she breathed a sigh of relief—or was

  it disappointment?—as he took his hand away.

  Then he moved his body over hers and pressed his knee between her legs to separate them. That wasn't what she planned, wasn't what she wanted. It was too intimate, too sexual, too soon.

  She couldn't believe this was happening to her. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She dared not struggle, yet everything about it was alien.

  She tried to clamp her legs shut. He moved his knee up and spread them wider. The hard muscles of his thigh rocked against her, and she woke to an incredible fact. The subtle probe of his finger had aroused her, but she had feared to move. When he touched her so sensitively, it was as if he were the master and she the painting. But this broad thrust of his thigh encouraged her to find her own pleasure. She left delicacy behind and rode his leg, at first hesitantly, then with increasing assurance, and he encouraged

  her with just the right pressure.

  "That's it," he whispered. "Take what you want. Give all you've got."

  Self-conscious, she bit off the whimpers before they could escape her throat.

  He didn't like that, and opened her mouth with the thrust of his tongue. "Let me hear everything. I want to know what you feel."

  How could he know what she felt, when she didn't even know? She was bursting, ripe, wanting more

  yet not knowing what more she should desire. She moved ever more quickly, and at last the dampness

  he spoke of moistened his thigh.

  "There it is." He sounded satisfied as he moved his thigh away.

  She used a word she'd never admitted to knowing.

  "I'll take care of it," he promised, easing himself down onto her. "Hold onto me, and I'll take care

  of you."

  Now his pelvis met hers and renewed the pressure. "Better," she moaned.

  "Better yet." He arranged himself and when she thrust, she thrust herself on him.

  Her breath caught in her throat. That wasn't better. That was odd, intrusive.

  "Do it again," he said.

  "What?"

  "Like you did before. Take all of me. You're ready. Can't you feel it?"

  She could feel nothing else. Grabbing his shoulders, she dug her nails in. She had to stop this madness, but at the same time she throbbed all around him. He didn't stir, although little shudders of strain ran through him. He wanted her to do it all. Like the devil himself, he wanted her to take responsibility for

  her own downfall.

  She hovered for one moment between resentment and amazement. Then her body made its demands. She had to finish it. She had to know.

  Bracing her heels, she eased her hips off the bed. He pressed down with the same tension. He met something in her; she retreated, but he caught her hips and held her still and her maidenhead tore before his steady advance. She wanted to rail at him, to tell him of the pain, but she was beyond speech now. She could only meet his gaze with a glare of her own, and when he rested fully against her and all of

  him was inside her, she bit his collarbone, hard.

  He jumped and some of the strain which held him faded. "You are a wild one, and you're all mine."

  He grinned, his teeth white against the tan of his face. "I'm going to make you very happy."

  He started slowly, moving his hips back and forth, bringing himself in and out with a deliberate pace that allowed her to accustom herself to the movement. Excitement returned, building low in her belly. She wanted to move like she had before, but he restricted her, maintaining the pace he had set.

  She needed more. She'd thought the effort to speak beyond her, but frustration made her beg,

  "Leighton, please. Move a little ... just faster ... Leighton?"

  His pace never changed. "Keefe."

  He was killing her. Slowly, with great deliberation, he was killing her. He kept the weapon with him always. He could utilize it at any time. If he didn't win all he wished this time, he'd bring it to bear again, and again, and again.

  Still defiant, seeking sensation, she twisted beneath him.

  He plunged once, hastily, then stopped and held himself so that they touched in only one place.

  "Keefe," he said.

  Her frustration burst its bounds. "Keefe," she shouted.

  The rhythm changed, grew. She lifted her hips to his thrust.

  "Keefe," he repeated.

  She moaned. "Not again."

  "Until you know me. Until I know you'll never forget."

  She lifted her head and scowled. "Keefe. Keefe, Keefe, Keefe."

  With each repetit
ion, he increased the pace. It didn't help. She only wanted more, seeking relief from

  the pressure.

  "Keep watching me," he said. "Don't look away. I want to see you. I want you to see me."

  "Now?"

  "Almost."

  "Now?"

  "Can you feel it?"

  The explosive sensation knocked her head back. She arched her spine. She brought her hips up tight against him and fought for every smidgen of pleasure. And when she had finished and rested, panting, against the pillows, he said, "I'm Keefe Leighton. You're my woman now. And I think I'll show you again."

  CHAPTER 4

  Laura woke with a start and knew she was alone in the bed. Her eyes popped open. Where was he,

  this nobleman who claimed to be the Seamaster? Who was her lover? She didn't see him, and her heart began to pound in a slow and steady rhythm. Had he seduced her, then abandoned her? Worse, had he got what he wanted from her and even now sought the means to dispose of her? Obviously, her faith in him was a flimsy thing, while her distrust blossomed in the dark.

  Then she heard someone prod the fire and saw the tongs and the sturdy brown hand which held them. Leighton was there, sitting on the settle wrapped in his greatcoat. The relief she experienced clearly told her the level of her anxiety, and she put her hand to her chest to still the racing of her heart. Slipping

  from the bed, she pulled on the robe that hung on the bedpost. The cold floor made her toes curl, but

  she sneaked toward him, ugly misgivings keeping her silent.

  Cautiously she peeked around the high back of the settle and saw him leafing through Ronald's diary.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice cracking like a whip.

  Leighton turned his head calmly. He'd known she stood there, she realized. The man was aware of everything around him, with senses heightened by the danger he courted. But did the danger exist

  because the government sought him, or because he sought the smugglers?

  "Why did you keep this from me?" He tapped the diary with his large forefinger. "This contains information Ronald acquired before his last fatal trip, and if I had known..."

  "If you had known, what would you have done?"

  "Jean would not have escaped me." His mouth was a tight line, his brow furrowed, and he sounded sincerely distressed. "This Jean has caused England more trouble than any French rat has the right

  to cause."

  "The smuggling, you mean."

  "Smuggling, yes, and . . ." He laughed, short and sharp. "Well. The diary says Jean chose this location

  to land his contraband not because it is my manor and he knew my identity, but because he has an accomplice in the village." Lifting one brow, he asked, "Do you know who it is?"

  "How would I know that?"

  "By eavesdropping," he shot back at her.

  She widened her eyes at him.

  "Don't pretend artlessness," he said. "You're not good at it, to start with, and you revealed too much

  of yourself when you came to me in London and demanded justice for Ronald. I would have known

  you were his sister if I had never heard your name, for he talked about your intelligence and bravery,

  and you have proved to have both."

  "So you think it was intelligent for me to have come here to help capture Jean?"

  "No! Not that." His hands squeezed the leather binding of the book, then relaxed. "But brave."

  "I trembled every moment," she answered honestly.

  "But you did it anyway. All my best operatives recognize the dangers, then proceed anyway. If you weren't a lady, I would be hard pressed not to recruit you for our forces."

  If you weren't a lady ... Leighton's words made her realize that he did no more than pay lip service to

  her. He really didn't consider her anything more than an ornament, a thing to be manipulated. He would discard her when he'd depleted her usefulness, of that she had no doubt.

  "You have to understand how important this is to me to capture Jean," he said.

  "Will you be commended for your willingness to do anything to bring the enemy to justice?"

  It was an insult, but he took the blow without flinching, only returning it in kind. "Jean killed one of the best and bravest assistants I've ever had, and I'm interested in revenge. I would think you would be, too, and willing to cooperate toward that end."

  It struck her then, the thing that had niggled at her earlier. If Leighton was the Seamaster, he'd sent Ronald to his death. Of course it was worse if he were Jean, the man who'd actually ordered Ronald's death, but surely the Seamaster had known the danger Ronald had courted. He had to have recognized that Ronald could be brutally murdered and his sister left alone, desolate, broken-hearted.

  And all for a smuggler. All to stop the flow of French brandy into the country. Rage rose in her. Her cheeks flushed, her hands clenched into fists. Somehow, she wanted Leighton to pay. Somehow, she needed to get out of this room and away from him before he stole her indignation and her heart and left her with nothing but dust and memories.

  Intelligent. Ronald had told Leighton she was intelligent, and she needed to prove it now. Leighton was a clever man with no visible chinks in his armor ... but she guessed he had neglected his duty to tarry with her. True, he suspected she was a source of information and he wanted it, but once he'd seen the diary

  he could have taken it from her by force. If he hadn't been a tiger, hungry for her...

  Loosening her fists, she smiled at him. Her lips trembled; he'd said she didn't dissemble well, but this

  time she hoped to distract him with the promise of another sample of her.

  Leighton's eyes narrowed and he considered her as if she were a defendant before the court.

  So he was wary. What did loose women do when faced with a dangerous customer? She'd seen enough wenches on her walks from the small shop where she worked to her even smaller living quarters, so she imitated them and shrugged her shoulders in a rotary motion. The movement loosened the front of her robe and Leighton's gaze followed the light material as it slipped back off her chest and opened a narrow gap around her waist.

  He said something; it sounded like, "Geminy." A most fervent exclamation for one so dispassionate.

  "Come here." Taking Ronald's diary, he put it to the side and held out his hand. "Sit with me and be warm. I don't know what I was thinking, bringing this up when we just now finished with our wedding night."

  She wanted to slap him for patronizing her. Instead she bent her head in a parody of obedience and went to him. He brought his knee—his bare knee—out of his greatcoat and she perched there. The worn wool of her robe didn't protect her from his heat, and she feared to melt like a candle exposed to the flame.

  But she wouldn't. This was for Ronald.

  Tucking his arm around her, Leighton said, "One of my men should be waiting for me in the stable. I'll tell him about the accomplice, and we'll organize a search, but in truth I doubt we have a chance of finding Jean. He's long gone. He'll not remain in the area with so many of my agents here, so I'll have to seek him another way." Reaching his hand inside her robe, he slid his fingers along her ribs until he'd encircled her with his arm and the robe's protection was but a memory. "You'll be safe here. I'll be back for you in the morning, and we'll finish this thing we've started."

  Did he plan to kill her, or take her back to bed and teach her how to be an even more satisfactory mistress?

  No matter, she was ruined, and she had no intention of remaining when she could escape.

  "Oh, Leighton."

  "Keefe."

  She didn't want to repeat his name, but she did. "Keefe." The word tasted bitter on her tongue. Flinging her arms around him, she pressed her face into his neck to hide her distaste. "You'll be in danger."

  His fingers crept along until they rested over the cleft at the base of her spine. Her motion had exposed even more of her, and when she kissed his ear, then outlined it wit
h her tongue, his body shuddered to life.

  Sounding both stifled and pleased, he said, "I'll be fine, my dear. I've performed many of these missions and scarcely received a scratch."

  "What about this?" Sitting up straight, she pushed his greatcoat off his shoulder and outlined the bare, white scar by his nipple. "You call this nothing?" Her palm grazed him until goosebumps started on his flesh. "You might have been killed."

  "Youthful stupidity," he said. "I'm neither so young nor so stupid anymore."

  But he was. He had to be. Her plan depended on it, and when she nudged closer into his lap with her hip, she discovered how his truthful body made a falsehood of his words. She tried to hide her triumph and gaze soulfully into his eyes, but he looked suddenly mistrustful and she remembered his claim she didn't lie well. So she mashed her lips on his. He didn't respond at first, but tried to push her away. Not cruelly or emphatically—that he could have done easily. But like a man who feared to hurt her feelings, yet surmised something was wrong. She didn't let go of his neck, and she opened her mouth on his with as much insistence as he'd shown earlier. The hand that she'd used to caress his nipple she slid down his body, opening his greatcoat as he had opened her robe, until she touched the hollow of his thigh just below his stomach. There her fingers hovered, almost in contact with his shaft.