by Anne Stuart
Lizzie, he thought to himself, closing his eyes and listening to the crackle of the fire. She’d tasted cool and sweet and damp from the heavy rain. She’d tasted like heaven. He’d forgotten that kisses could be quite so sweet, so disruptive to one’s peace of mind. He’d long ago moved past the kissing stage, but there was something about Lizzie’s soft, untutored mouth that made him think it was an occupation well worth pursuing.
He wanted to kiss her again, in the rain, in the darkness. He wanted to lick the raindrops from her eyelids, he wanted to taste the warm skin of her throat. He wanted to take her hands and pull her, laughing and dancing, into the rain-drenched forest, he wanted to strip off her clothes and lay her down in the wet mossy grass and take her in every way he could think of, sacred and profane. He wanted her with such a force that even the bottles of wine hadn’t put a dent in his wild, irrational need.
Peter saw him too well, damn him. Not content with mucking up his own life, he thought he’d mess with Gabriel’s as well. There was a world of difference in their situations, one which Peter was unlikely to admit. Peter and Jane belonged together, and they could manage to forge a very happy life with each other if Peter would stop worrying about station and concentrate on what was right.
But there was no happy future for Gabriel. No sweet future in the arms of a loved one. He was infinitely unlovable, and he knew it. Not that Jane realized it—she was blind where he was concerned, firmly convinced that beneath his indifference he was a good man.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was, but good certainly didn’t suit him. He wasn’t an evil man—if he were, he’d have deflowered Miss Elizabeth Penshurst without a second thought. He’d still be in London, on that tedious round of empty pleasures, instead of living in solitude in the wilds of Yorkshire, trying to make some sense of his life.
But then, his past had followed him, and the wicked deeds had come back to haunt him. The Chiltons were there, along with numerous other dilettantes and halfwits eager to trade their immortal souls for more power. And he knew, to his sorrow, that they weren’t going to stop at the slaughter of a few helpless animals.
He could stop them. He hadn’t made much of an effort yet, too lazy and too self-absorbed to waste his time on them. But the arrival of Lizzie in the neighborhood made it suddenly imperative for him to find distraction, and the Chiltons provided a powerful one. As long as he could count on his family to keep Elizabeth Penshurst at bay, he’d be just fine.
She was a young woman with a reasonable amount of common sense beneath that glorious mane of flaming hair. She’d keep out of his way if she could possibly help it, wouldn’t she? And he was more than capable of avoiding her.
The question was, did he really want to? Or did he want to tempt fate just one more time? One more taste of that full, luscious mouth surely couldn’t do any more harm. If he believed in hell, he was already damned for past sins. He could take one small taste of wickedness and survive.
As for Miss Elizabeth Penshurst, she’d be fine. He wasn’t about to ruin a properly brought-up young lady, no matter how tempting she was. Besides, she didn’t strike him as the type to let herself be ruined. She was much too strong-minded to be led astray by a ruthless seducer.
No, he could kiss her. Tempt her. Maybe even ruin her for any other man just by showing her the possibilities. He should regret such a notion, but he couldn’t. He wanted her to remember him. In her dotage, with fat grandchildren at her knee, he wanted her to remember the man in the woods who’d kissed her to distraction and know that nothing in her life had ever equaled it.
Yes, he was hardly a good man, no matter what his sister Jane thought. But he didn’t care. He’d rid the area of the Chiltons and their nasty ilk, he’d come as close as he dared to seducing Miss Elizabeth Penshurst. And then maybe he’d take off on a grand tour and not return until he was old enough not to care.
Maybe he’d never come back.
It seemed as unlikely as any of his fancies. He was tied to this place, to the land, to the people. He always came back here, whether he wanted to or not, and it wasn’t the call of family that lured him. He belonged here, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t escape for long.
In the meantime, he could dream about what he could never have. Lizzie, lying in a pile of velvet and furs on the massive bed in his tumbledown house, her clothes scattered on the floor, her beautiful eyes looking up at him in complete surrender.
Somehow he couldn’t see it. Even as he took her, even as he made her come, she’d be fighting him. She would put her arms around him and kiss him, and her eyes would be flashing fire.
He could love a woman like that. God help him.
“You’re being maudlin, young man.” Brother Septimus’s disapproving tones echoed in his ear. He didn’t bother turning to look—the monks seldom revealed themselves in the daylight, they simply whispered unpleasant reminders of his duty when he didn’t want to hear them.
“He’s not being maudlin, Brother Septimus,” said gentle Brother Paul. “Can’t you see the boy’s in love?”
At that, Gabriel swiveled around, driven past endurance. He could vaguely see their outlines within the dust motes, and he glared in their general direction. “I’m not a young man. I’m not a boy, and I’m most certainly not in love. I drank too much last night, and I’m suffering the consequences.”
“So you say, my boy.” Brother Paul’s voice was annoyingly smug. “So you say.”
And Gabriel picked up one of the logs that Peter had brought and heaved it at the shifting shadows.
FEVER DREAMS. Elizabeth knew it, even as she fought against the constricting covers. She was burning up, her small room blazing hot, and some distant part of her consciousness found perverse annoyance in the fact that the ungracious Durhams had finally chosen to be generous with their fires when she no longer had need of additional heat.
They came and went, looking down at her from their long, elegant noses. They all had the same nose, she thought, blinking drowsily. Sir Richard and Lady Durham, Edwina and Edward had matching, slightly hooked noses, giving the four of them a faintly hawkish look. Jane and Gabriel didn’t look the slightest bit like them.
“She’ll die,” Sir Richard pronounced, looking down at her without pity. “We’d best be off in case she’s contagious.”
“It’s only an inflammation,” Jane’s stalwart reply came, though she was out of Elizabeth’s limited view. “She’ll be fine.”
“I won’t have my darling children exposed to it!” Lady Durham proclaimed.
“I’m not leaving her,” said Jane.
“I hadn’t supposed you would. Make her comfortable, and let us know when it’s safe to return.”
Safe to return, Elizabeth thought hazily, as the room grew still and quiet. There is nothing safe about Hernewood. Ghosts roamed the woods, bloodthirsty pagans performed horrid acts upon helpless animals, and worst of all, Gabriel was there, like a huge spider awaiting his prey.
Her faint laugh turned into another coughing spasm. Gabriel wasn’t the slightest bit like a spider. He wasn’t dark and hairy; he was smooth and golden. In fact, all she could think of was the silken expanse of skin he had no qualms about displaying. And nipples. She hadn’t realized men had flat, dark nipples. There was no earthly reason for them. They seemed to exist merely to distract her.
Another coughing spasm ensued, and when she finally stopped, exhausted, she uttered a small, wicked curse beneath her breath. She hated getting sick. It happened so seldom but then with such ferocity that she made a miserable patient. She had always found she could court illness with a reckless abandon and emerge unscathed, but a midnight romp in bare feet, followed by a thorough soaking, had done its evil worst, and now she lay in her bed, wracked with chills and fever, coughing and miserable and unable to distract her mind from her illness by anything other than t
he insidious vision of Gabriel Durham.
At least she knew her illness wouldn’t be of long duration. These things never were. The woods wouldn’t kill her—they would make her stronger. She simply had to suffer through this miserable ague for another day, and she’d be well on the mend.
He came to her in the night. The house was still and silent, and Jane dozed in an uncomfortable chair by her bedside. Elizabeth could have told her such efforts were unnecessary. She certainly felt as if she might die, but she had no intention of truly doing so. She had what amounted to a monstrous cold, and nothing but time and rest would rout it.
But Gabriel was there, shimmering in the firelight, dressed as he’d been when she’d last seen him in that open white shirt, his hair loose around his shoulders, his eyes dark and glowing. He moved toward her bed, and she was burning up. She couldn’t kick her covers free, but then, Jane was right there, and Gabriel certainly wasn’t. He was a fever dream, and any impropriety was negligible.
She threw off the covers, but Jane slept on, unaware of her patient’s restlessness. “Lizzie,” he said, but his mouth didn’t move, the sound of his voice echoing in her head.
It seemed as if she hadn’t left the bed in days. She rose effortlessly, only vaguely conscious of the thin chemise that covered her body. She was never allowed to sleep in such light clothing—it must have been in deference to her fever. It didn’t matter—he wasn’t really there, and any sins would be sins of her imagination, not her body. Surely the punishment would be mild.
He stood in front of the fire, and she thought she could see the flames flickering through his white-gold body. She came up to him, closer than she would have ever dared, marveling at her boldness. She liked the freedom of this dream. He was watching her, his face still, silent, oddly solemn.
“Am I going to die?” she asked him. Her voice was soft, hoarse from coughing, a mere whisper of sound in the silent room.
He laughed. “You think I’m an angel, ready to take you to heaven?”
“No.”
“I could take you to heaven, Lizzie. I could show you paradise on earth.”
In such a lovely dream she should have swooned into his arms. But even in a fever dream she was still herself, doubting and pragmatic even as he called to her soul. “I can imagine,” she said dryly.
“No,” he said. “You can’t. Touch me.”
She didn’t move, stunned by the heat, the need in his voice.
“Touch me,” he said again, and she lifted her hand, slowly, tentatively.
His chest was smooth, sleek, warm in the firelight. She let her fingertips graze the surface, and she could feel the muscle beneath the silken skin. She flattened her palm against him, and his heart was beating, steady, fast, against it.
He reached up and put his own hand between her breasts, against the thin cloth of her chemise, and she knew her heart was pounding as well, in rapid counterpoint to his. She was sick, she told herself. She was dreaming. Perhaps she was even dying. None of it mattered.
All that mattered was his hand on her flesh, the warmth of it spreading outward to her breasts, spreading downward between her legs so that her knees felt weak and she wanted him to touch her, everywhere. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
His heart was beating more quickly now, pounding against her hand. She wanted, needed to get closer to him. She was suddenly cold again, wracked with shivers, and she knew the only way she could get warm was to press her chilled, almost naked body against him. He was so strong, so warm, that he would drive the chill from her body. She was encased in a block of ice, and he was the only one who could melt it.
He put his hand on her waist and drew her toward him, and she came, slowly, letting the heat from his body flow over her like a thick warm blanket. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t need to. His flesh against hers was a brand, a blanket of ownership and belonging that sank into her bones and claimed her.
He held her tight against him, and her body convulsed in a tiny spasm of reaction that shocked her. For a moment she tried to pull away from him, but his voice was low and hypnotic in her ear.
“You need more,” he whispered. “You need me.” And the truth of it was so profound, so painful that her eyes flew open, and she was alone, lying in bed, covered with piles of blankets and a thin film of sweat, with Jane sound asleep beside her.
Chapter Nine
DELILAH, COUNTESS of Chilton, surveyed her reflection in the huge mirror that hung over her bed. She’d had it brought with her from London during their unwilling exile—she found she never enjoyed sex as much when she couldn’t watch herself being pleasured by the partner of the moment. And on the rare occasions when she chose to sleep alone, there was nothing more comforting than waking up to the glorious reflection of exquisite beauty. Namely her own.
Of course, it had been her addiction to beauty that caused her unfortunate attachment to Francis. He was quite the loveliest human being she knew, apart from herself, and she had been blinded, smitten by the absolute perfection of face and form. She’d never had any illusions about his nature, of course. He was wicked, small, and venal, which made him a perfect consort for her.
He was also particularly interested in bedding other men, but Delilah had assumed with regal certainty that no man could ever resist her. No man could prefer a pretty young boy to her own impressive charms.
But Francis had proven annoyingly difficult. He was perverse enough to resist her simply because he knew it annoyed her. When he could be persuaded to perform, he was quite gloriously inventive, and if some of his particular talents involved pain, Delilah was more than happy to cooperate. There was nothing more tedious than unimaginative sexual congress, and two willing partners tended to be one willing partner too many.
But in the end subjugating Francis was turning out to be both too difficult and not worth the effort. He was very pretty, to be sure. But Gabriel Durham was, in his own way, even more devastating, and he had the added piquancy of disliking her intensely.
He was also quite strong, almost disgustingly so. She’d been watching him, covertly and at times quite openly, and he had the body of a laborer. Skin colored by the sun instead of the milky white of Francis’s flesh. Sinew and muscle that left the most entrancing pattern under that tanned, golden skin. He was probably more than capable of breaking a weakling like Francis in half. He could probably crush her with no effort at all.
The idea excited her. She’d had sex with so many men she’d long ago lost count, and for a while she’d gone through a stage where she preferred the lower classes. She started with the indoor servants, then went to the stables, then had those servants prowl the streets for her. She’d sampled chimney sweeps barely half her size and age, she’d tried thieves and soldiers and even the occasional female. She liked strength in a partner. Almost as much as she liked weakness.
If only Francis had learned to control himself, they wouldn’t be in exile right now. If that wretched boy hadn’t died, they would still be in London, enjoying the fruits of civilization instead of stuck out here in the wilds of Yorkshire.
It wasn’t as if children didn’t die all the time, anyway. But there was a great difference between a homeless ragamuffin and the adolescent son of a shopkeeper. Shopkeepers were so tiresomely bourgeois. It wasn’t as if the man didn’t have other children, for heaven’s sake. And Francis had offered him positively indecent sums of money to compensate him for the loss of one of his extraneous offspring.
There was, however, a silver lining to this dark cloud of boredom. Gabriel Durham had left London more than a year earlier, before either of the Chiltons could form a more than casual acquaintance with him. Getting as far away from London as possible had seemed an excellent choice for the Chiltons, and Hernewood, in North Yorkshire, was very far indeed. They could wait out their penance and renew their brief acquaintance with th
e world’s foremost expert on arcane religions. If it weren’t for Gabriel Durham’s treatise on the ancient Druids of the British Isles, Francis and Delilah might never have found true meaning in their lives.
Gabriel had proven deliciously resistant to all their efforts at neighborliness, but Delilah thrived on challenge. The only question was, which Chilton would bed him first.
The rumors in London had been fascinating—Gabriel Durham was a man of powerful appetites and terrifying intellect, a man unburdened by conventional morality. It was little wonder, if the rumors about his parentage were true. He had the charming, arrogant disregard one found in the true nobility.
But overnight he had disappeared, leaving his companions, his mistresses, his gaming partners, and his creditors in the dark about his whereabouts. It was sheer luck that Francis discovered he’d returned home to Yorkshire, the one place he’d vowed never to go again.
And it was sheer luck that there was a suitable establishment just waiting for Francis and Delilah when circumstances forced them from their Hyde Park manor. A sign from the gods, Francis had said, though neither of them were particularly clear which gods they happened to worship.
Whatever god it was, he had a fierce appetite for blood and obedience. Not unlike the Chiltons themselves, Delilah thought with a lovely smirk. Perhaps, in their rituals, they were only worshiping themselves. She laughed out loud at the notion.
“That’s an early sign of madness, darling,” Francis drawled. He was lounging in her doorway, dressed in the palest of pink satins, his blond curls cascading over his shoulders.
She smiled winningly at him. “You know, dearest, that particular ensemble would be overdressed at Court. In the country, it goes beyond absurd to comical.”
He sketched a bow. “Always glad to amuse you, my darling, though I suspect that wasn’t what you were giggling at when I arrived. Such a lovely, girlish giggle from such a wizened old soul.”