One Night with a Scoundrel

by Shelly Thacker

  “Oh, Saxon. That is so kind, but I…I don’t wish to be any more trouble than I already have been.”

  And it won’t matter because I’m going home soon. As soon as I’m back in the Andaman Islands, I will be healthy and…

  She couldn’t bring herself to add “happy.” Or to say any of it out loud. But as Saxon settled more comfortably against the hearth, leaning back and studying her, she could tell by his expression that he knew what she was thinking.

  It unnerved her, the way he seemed to be so attuned to her that he could guess her thoughts.

  She looked away from his penetrating gray eyes. “You said you were going to explain about Captain Greyslake?”

  “I’ll talk,” he agreed, “but only if you eat.”

  Ashiana finished her soup as she looked over the platter. He had brought cheese, bread, a sliced apple, a bowl of something made with rice and sprinkled with cinnamon, and a mound of plump little sugar-dusted rounds of bread, “What are these?”

  “Pastries. Try one.”

  Ashiana took off her gloves, picked up one of the odd little spheres, and bit into it. It was sweet and rich, filled with a creamy paste in the center. She polished it off in three bites.

  Saxon smiled. “You see,” he said lightly, “you can’t judge all of England by kippers and roast beef. Just as you can’t judge all of our weather by November and December.”

  She picked up another pastry. “I am eating,” she pointed out, trying to persuade him to begin his explanation.

  Sighing heavily, he drew up one knee and rested his arm across it. “John Summers—the man who is now the Earl of Greyslake—was once my best friend,” he began. “Since we were lads. Until those damned sapphires came into my life. My father, on the night he died, gave me the jewel he had stolen.”

  “And asked you to reunite all nine?”

  “Yes. He would have preferred to entrust it to my older brother Dalton, but Dalton wasn’t here. So he had to settle for me.”

  Ashiana heard the resentment in Saxon’s voice and almost asked about it, but didn’t wish to distract him from the story at hand. She remained silent, remembering what Paige had told her about dealing with D’Avenant men.

  Patience.

  “Naturally, I told Greyslake everything,” Saxon continued. “He wanted to help. He wasn’t an earl then. He was just a second son, like me, with no lands and little money to his name. We set off together for India aboard the ship that had been my father’s, the Silver Viking. Thought it would be a grand adventure.”

  Saxon raked a hand through his hair. “Greyslake’s older brother the earl and his sister went with us. We were all friends. The two of them were escorting her to Bombay, hoping to find her a suitable marriage among the newly wealthy set at the English settlement there.”

  “But could she not find a husband here? There are so many people in London.”

  “Eligible gentlemen in London generally seek either beauty or wealth in a wife, and unfortunately Faith…had not been blessed in either way. The Greyslakes never had much of a family fortune. Many young ladies in her situation go to India each year, hoping to use their titles to catch husbands. They’re collectively known as ‘the fishing fleet.’”

  Ashiana let her expression show what she thought of that unkind term. Rather than interrupting him, she ate some apple slices and let him continue.

  But he didn’t.

  He remained silent for a long time, his gaze on the polished leather of his boots, the crackle of flames the only sound in the room.

  Finally, he started again, his voice low and taut. “There was an accident, when we were less than a week out of port. A fire. Fires are common enough aboard ships, but I should have been paying more attention to my command and less attention to thoughts of sapphires and adventure. The Silver Viking didn’t go down, but both Greyslake’s brother and sister were killed. Trapped by the flames.”

  “Oh, Saxon, by all the gods,” she whispered, horrified.

  “Greyslake almost killed himself trying to save them. They were the only two remaining members of his family.”

  “And he blamed you for their deaths?”

  Saxon kept staring at the floor. She could tell that he blamed himself, even now, after all these years.

  “Saxon,” she said gently, “fires do happen all the time aboard ships. Andrew told me that is the most dangerous thing about sailing, that we were very lucky to survive the fire that sank the Valor.”

  Saxon seemed trapped in his memories; he didn’t even react to Andrew’s name. “A Company board of inquiry found me innocent of any wrongdoing, but Greyslake…the loss was too much for him. It twisted him inside. He got it into his head that I had purposely murdered them. He knew my—” He gave Ashiana a pained glance. “—my reputation with women, and convinced himself that I had seduced Faith, then murdered her to keep her quiet.”

  “No.” Ashiana shook her head, unable to imagine that Saxon’s best friend could have believed that of him.

  “That fire killed the man I knew as John Summers, just as surely as it killed his brother and sister. He vowed to take the sapphires—so that my family would be left cursed forever—and then take my life.”

  Ashiana gasped at the depth of Greyslake’s hatred, anguished that good friends could turn into such bitter enemies. She understood now why Saxon considered Greyslake so dangerous…but she sensed there was even more to all of this.

  “Is there no chance for forgiveness between you?” she asked softly.

  “No,” he choked out. “Not after he…” Saxon closed his eyes, as if each breath caused him pain.

  Ashiana felt fresh tears in her eyes, not for herself, but for him. She wasn’t even touching him, but she could feel the hurt that wracked him. Greyslake had done something so terrible, hurt him so badly that it was beyond all forgiving.

  She leaned forward, the blankets and the fur sliding from her shoulders. “Sometimes it is very hard to speak of the past. You do not have to tell me. Not now. I cannot bear to see you in pain, mere pyaar.”

  She lay her hand over his. His gaze swept up to meet hers, anguish and longing swirling in his silver eyes…along with something softer and deeper. He pulled her into his arms, holding her, breathing hard.

  “God, Julian was right about you.”

  She wrapped her arms around his back. “Right?”

  “You are an angel.”

  Ashiana meant to ask what an angel was, but never had the chance. Saxon kissed her, slowly, tenderly, until the tension and pain seeped out of him and into her and she accepted it all and soothed it away. She felt the need in him, the yearning that matched her own. Her heartbeat quickened as he swept her into his arms and stood up. She parted her lips beneath his and curled her arms around his neck.

  He started to carry her toward the bed, then stopped as if reconsidering. He turned back toward the hearth. Ashiana was surprised to find herself settled into one of the padded brocade armchairs beside the fire.

  “Saxon?” She blinked at him curiously as he knelt before her, took off his steel-gray frock coat and tossed it aside. “What are you doing?”

  “Worshiping at the feet of my angel,” he replied in a husky murmur, his gaze intense and smoky as he looked up at her. “As a gentleman should.” He slipped off her satin shoes, his hands caressing her feet, her ankles, his touch warm against the silk of her stockings.

  Heat unfurled in Ashiana’s middle as his fingertips glided up her legs. He paused just above her knees, lingering to play with the ribbons that fastened her stockings in place. Her breathing deepened, her eyes never leaving his. She waited for him to begin undressing her.

  Instead, he flashed her a wicked grin, reached for the hem of her gown, and began to slide her skirt and petticoats upward. The heavy fabrics rustled as he bared her shins, her knees, her thighs…

  Her breath caught as she realized his intention. “I-I do not think that…gentlemen do this sort of thing.” Her pulse raced with excitement and
anticipation. “Only scoundrels.”

  That wicked grin widened. “I won’t even muss your coiffure, my lady, I promise.” When he had pushed her skirts up to her hips, he went still. “You aren’t wearing any drawers.”

  “The lace was so scratchy and uncomfortable, I decided—”

  She lost the rest of her explanation as he stroked the delicate folds of her sex with one fingertip. “Scandalous,” he said in a husky tone of approval, finding the sensitive bud at the center of her dark curls and circling it, slowly. “You might want to hold tight to the arms of the chair.”

  That was the last warning he offered before he bent his head and tasted her, his tongue flicking over that swollen nub. Her fingers dug into the arms of the chair and her head tilted back. She bit her lip, scarcely able to stop a moan as he teased and explored, brushing his mouth over her soft petals. Sampling her wetness, he pleasured her with the most intimate of kisses. It felt so good. Goddesses bless him, it felt so good.

  Waves of sensation rose and rushed through her until her breathing became ragged. He returned his attention to that delicate bud, tugging at with his lips, stroking it with his tongue. She shivered, panting, swept away by the rising ecstasy that whipped through her. Helplessly, she moved beneath him, her hips lifting off the chair—which only brought her more firmly against his mouth.

  He slid his hands under her naked bottom and held her there, lashing her with more intense strokes of his tongue. She was shuddering, whimpering, her fingers grasping the chair so fiercely, she feared she must be leaving marks.

  Then he took that sensitive pearl deep into the heat of his mouth, suckling hard, and the waves of sensation broke all at once, ecstasy flashing through her, a storm of sweet release. Hot rain flowed from the feminine center of her being and Saxon groaned with her, as if he enjoyed her climax as much as she did. He kept his mouth pressed against her until the last flickers ebbed.

  Astonished, drenched in pleasure, she felt languid and light, as if she might slide to the floor in boneless bliss. Before she had entirely returned to her senses, Saxon rose up on his knees and scooped her into his arms—and again, he surprised her.

  Instead of standing and heading for the bed, he let himself fall backward onto the rug, carrying her with him.

  “Arey!” she gasped in surprise at finding herself on top of him, her thighs spread wide on either side of his legs. Both of them were still fully clothed, but he showed her with his hands on her hips what he had in mind…and then he let go, allowing her to take charge.

  She balanced herself with both hands on his chest for a moment, aroused and intrigued by the possibilities of this position. She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palms. Stroking her hands left and right, she let herself enjoy the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles beneath the tailored steel-gray waistcoat and white shirt he wore. The strength and maleness of him intoxicated her.

  Giving him a teasing smile, she trailed one hand down over his ribs, the ridged muscles of his stomach…lower.

  Groaning, he held still, allowing her to explore, tremors shuddering through him. She unfastened his breeches and gasped when his hard arousal filled her hand. He clenched fistfuls of her velvet skirts, as if struggling to keep himself in check, fighting the instinct to take control. She experimentally curved her fingers around his hard length and he arched his head back, the muscles of his neck and jaw going taut as she began to stroke him, slowly at first.

  Feeling bolder, she tightened her grasp and felt him growing iron-hard, thrusting helplessly against her fingers. She brushed her thumb over the sensitive tip, back and forth.

  A string of oaths tumbled from him. “Ashiana.” His voice was a low growl of warning.

  Smiling down at him, she released him, pleased in a deeply feminine way that she had the power to make this strong, commanding man tremble at her touch.

  Her gaze burning into his, she shifted position above him, lowering herself over him…so slowly. He groaned when she allowed just the tip of his arousal to touch her wetness, the swollen, velvety head pressing into her, separating her soft cleft.

  And then she claimed him, taking him inside her until they were fully joined, two made one, so smoothly, so perfectly.

  Nothing had ever felt so exquisite.

  Saxon gazed up at her with an expression that made her breath catch and her heart race. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of his head, and kissed him, slow and deep. Their voices blended in a low moan as their tongues met and dueled. She began to move her hips, feeling daring as she stroked along his hard length, captivated by the sensation of hot, pulsing fullness…and the exhilarating feeling of power.

  Tension built from deep inside her with every arc of their bodies moving together, an unfurling bloom of bright fire that swept through her, burning her with tendrils of flame and pleasure.

  She broke the kiss and stretched above him, arching her back, her fingers clutching at the cloth of his shirt, the taut muscles of his shoulders. She closed her eyes and held on as that bright bloom stretched its fire-tipped petals inside her. Aching with need, she began to move faster.

  Her excitement sharpened his, driving them both to wild abandon. His hips lifted to meet her downward thrusts, leaving them gasping as they strained together, harder, higher. She moaned at the sensation of his male muscle and strength and hardness sinking into her soft depths again and again. Breath, thought, emotion, movement all merged and joined, becoming one, until it was no longer possible to tell which was hers and which his.

  The passion between them shone with a light unmatched by flame or sun, with a power like the lightning and thunder of a storm.

  And then the waves all broke and crashed over her at once in a shimmering rush. He matched her low groan as the pleasure swept over them both, like a wave of sun-warmed water, rising and flowing with the power and force of the entire sea.

  Saxon reached up and drew her down to his chest, his arms closing tight around her. Draped over him, she lay in his embrace, shivering, shattered, yet utterly whole and replete. Breathing hard, still joined together, they did not speak, did not move for a long while.

  Then he murmured endearments in Hindi, in English. “Meree mahila veer,” he whispered. “My daring lady.”

  Ashiana sat up and gently pulled free of him, her cheeks aflame at what they had just done. Fully clothed. On the floor.

  He sat up next to her, reaching out to cup her cheek in one broad hand, drawing her close for a kiss. “I will never again be able to look at this rug without grinning like an idiot.” Chuckling, he kissed her again. “Or the chair.” He fastened his breeches. “I’ll have to have them both moved into my room. I mean, our room.”

  “Our…” She shook her head. “Saxon, I…I cannot stay here in England.”

  He went still. “What are you saying?” His eyes widened. “You still want to go home? To them? To him?”

  Ashiana looked down at her rumpled green velvet skirt, unable to bear the pain in his expression—pain that she was causing. But she needed to be completely honest with him. She couldn’t allow any more lies between them. Never again. Not for any reason.

  “What I want,” she whispered, trying to keep from sobbing, “what I need, is to feel the sun on my face and the sand beneath my feet, to feel the winds that come from the Bay of Bengal. To never again feel crushed by noise and people and customs that make no sense to me. To be with my family, and to know their love and respect because I have done what I promised I would do. For all the rest of my days.”

  When she reluctantly looked at him again, the anguish on Saxon’s face almost broke her heart into pieces.

  “And what I want most of all,” she finished passionately, “is to have you beside me for every minute of every one of those days. And nights.”

  Relief replaced the pain in his expression. He reached for her. “Ashiana—”

  “But I cannot have that!” She pulled away before he could draw her back into his arms. �
��You cannot come with me. The Ajmir would kill you!”

  “Then we have to stay here,” he said adamantly.

  “You would ask me to stay here with you in England—as your mistress?”

  He choked out a curse. “That word does not begin to describe what you are to me!”

  “But that is the word the women of London use to describe me. I have been introduced to ladies who are someone’s mother or sister or aunt or grandmother or wife or cousin—but I don’t fit any of those. I am a mistress.” She evaded him again when he tried to pull her into his embrace. “And when those ladies whisper it about me behind my back, what they truly mean is—”

  “Don’t,” Saxon said tightly. “Don’t say it.”

  Ashiana couldn’t stop herself. “Whore.” She wrapped her arms around her middle as a rush of other painful words followed, memories from her childhood: feringi. Outsider. Foreigner. Different.

  She had worked all her life to stop those whispers, the reminders that she didn’t fit in, wasn’t accepted, didn’t belong. No matter how much she loved Saxon, no matter how kind his family was, she was an outsider here, just as she had been that first night in the foyer. She had no place among them.

  There was only one way to silence those whispers forever: return home, complete her sacred mission, and become a heroine to her clan.

  An Ajmir princess, forever.

  “I do not belong here.” A single tear slid down her cheek. “I cannot…” She said it all in one breath. “I cannot bear to be with you this way, to love you this way, and know that I must leave you, Saxon. It hurts too much!”

  “God in heaven, Ashiana, you are so much more to me than—”

  A knock at the door interrupted him. Saxon got to his feet, muttering a curse.

  Ashiana quickly straightened her gown and her hair, cheeks burning as she realized just how inappropriate it was for Saxon to be here in her room, alone with her like this. A proper English lady would have known that.

  A proper Hindu girl would have known it, too.

  She wasn’t a proper anything. Except perhaps a proper mistress.