Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “I don’t want that,” Lucas said. He didn’t want to lie back and be passive while Tom smoked his cheroot, or whatever that bloody colonel had called it. He wanted to be active. He wanted Tom straining against him, hips grinding together, mouths biting, cocks clashing.

  He clenched his fingers in Tom’s hair and hauled him closer and kissed him even harder than before, and then they were wrestling on the bed again, limbs tangling, mouths tangling, tongues tangling, and now Tom was on top, and now he was, and then they rolled right off the bed, and Tom said, “Oof,” when they hit the floor.

  “You hurt?” Lucas said.

  “No.”

  He rolled Tom onto his back, pinned him with the weight of his body, and bit the curve where Tom’s shoulder met his throat, dragging his teeth roughly over the skin, sinking them into the muscle.

  Tom gasped, and jolted convulsively.

  “Like that?” Lucas asked, and licked where he’d bitten.

  “God, yes.”

  Lucas bit him a second time, even harder, and Tom jolted again, his body bucking helplessly.

  Lucas bit his way down Tom’s torso, not gently, but roughly, his teeth leaving marks. He bit Tom’s pectorals, his nipples, bit the lean sheet of muscles that covered his ribs, and every time Tom tried to twist away, tried to sit up, he shoved him back down. He could smell Tom’s arousal, smell sweat and muskiness, and the smell made the drumbeat in his head even louder. Tom, Tom.

  He bit Tom’s taut belly, and licked where he’d bitten, and Tom’s cock was right there, inches from his mouth, and he could smell it, could feel its heat like a small furnace, and he almost turned his head and took it in his mouth—but panic fluttered in his chest, and he hesitated, and reached down and took Tom’s balls in his hand instead.

  Tom jerked at his touch, and hissed out a breath. “Careful.”

  He was careful—careful, but rough—handling Tom’s balls as he would his own, stroking, squeezing, tugging, while Tom breathed in short, fast gasps, almost whimpering, his body twitching helplessly and his cock—the Corinthian—straining, and leaking, and growing a deeper shade of red than Lucas had yet seen it.

  His own cock ached and throbbed in sympathy. He knew he couldn’t last much longer. Knew neither of them could.

  Lucas let go of Tom’s balls and captured the Corinthian instead. It was damp and desperately eager—and part of him wanted to bend his head and discover what that slick helmet felt like beneath his tongue, discover what it tasted like, and part of him shrank from doing so.

  He tightened his grip and pumped once, hard.

  Tom’s hips lifted off the floor. A guttural sound came from his throat.

  Lucas pumped again—and again—and again—rough and hard and fast—and Tom bucked and panted and uttered incoherent noises—and Lucas pumped again, even more roughly, and leaned over Tom and sank his teeth into the muscle where Tom’s shoulder met his neck.

  Tom jackknifed on the floor. His cock jerked in Lucas’s hand, hot semen spurting, and Lucas’s cock jerked in unison and his whole body spasmed, great jolts of pleasure that rolled through him repeatedly.

  When the jolts had faded to tingles, Lucas released Tom’s cock and stretched out alongside him.

  Neither of them said anything for a long time, and it felt good to be lying here on the floor with Tom, sated and weary.

  “Fuck,” Tom said finally, hoarsely. “I think you just about killed me.” He sat up with a groan, moving stiffly, as if every bone in his body ached.

  Lucas’s contentment vanished. Shame filled the space where it had been. He sat up, too. “Did I hurt you?”

  Tom looked down at his chest and abdomen. Lucas saw the sticky spattering of semen—and the red marks where he’d bitten him.

  “I’m going to have bruises,” Tom said ruefully.

  Lucas averted his gaze, too ashamed to look at him. I did that. Me. I fucked him on the floor and bit him until he almost bled. He felt sick, sick to the pit of his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What on earth for? That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Lucas’s gaze jerked back to him.

  “When you bit me that last time, my skull just about exploded.”

  “You . . . liked it?”

  Tom laughed. “Lu, I’ve had sex hundreds of times. Hundreds and hundreds of times. And that was the best. Ever. Yes, I liked it.”

  “Oh,” Lucas said. He felt himself blush. The shame was gone. Instead, there was a warm feeling in his chest that he didn’t quite recognize, as if he was pleased and proud at the same time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tom sat on the floor, gathering the strength to stand. At least it was a clean floor. He felt half-drunk, a little dazed. Pleasure still reverberated in his bones, like a bell long after it had been struck. Who would have thought Lucas could make love like that? Fierce and dominant.

  It’s going to work between us. He knew it with certainty. Lucas had almost initiated the sex, and he’d certainly controlled what they’d done. It wouldn’t be too many days before he was asking for what he wanted, instead of diffidently suggesting card games.

  He turned his head and looked at Lucas, sitting on the floor alongside him, magnificent in his nudity. He reached over and hooked an arm around Lucas’s neck, pulled him close, kissed him high on the cheek. “I love you.”

  Lucas didn’t say the words back to him. He tensed, a flinch, almost a recoil.

  And just like that, Tom’s sense of half-drunk pleasure was gone. Hurt and anger came rushing in to take its place. He released Lucas and climbed stiffly to his feet.

  He kept his head turned away from Lucas, found his handkerchief, wiped his chest clean, started dressing. His ribcage was tight and his movements jerky and his eyes stung and he was so angry with Lucas, angry with him for having sex like that—unbridled and passionate on the floor—and then rejecting him. Because that’s what that stiffening had been: a rejection. It had been Lucas saying I don’t want your love.

  Lucas stood and began dressing, too, silently.

  Drawers, stockings, breeches. Shirt, waistcoat, neckcloth. Tom sat to pull on his boots, stood to shrug into his tailcoat, and still neither of them had spoken. The air in the bedchamber was brittle. They both knew he was angry, and they both knew why.

  Tom shoved his gloves in his pocket, picked up his hat, and crossed to the door. The key made a quiet snick as he turned it.

  “Tom?”

  Tom halted, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and blew out a short, sharp breath, and turned to face Lucas. “What?”

  Lucas hadn’t put on his boots or his tailcoat. He stood in stockinged feet, holding a piece of paper in both hands, and he was six foot two and built like a prizefighter, and yet somehow he managed to look uncertain and shy and awkward and unhappy.

  “What?” Tom said again.

  Lucas turned the paper over in his hands, hesitated, and then laid it on the table, pushing it towards Tom. “This is for you.”

  Whatever it was that Lucas had laid on the table was an apology; that was blindingly clear. Everything about Lucas was apologetic—the angle of his head, the set of his shoulders, even the way his hand pushed the paper—and it was clearest of all in Lucas’s voice. He’d said “This is for you,” but underneath that, clearly audible, was I’m sorry I upset you.

  Tom stayed where he was for several seconds, wrestling with his anger, with his hurt, and then he pressed his lips together and walked back to the table. “What is it?” He put down the hat, picked up the paper—and froze.

  For a moment his eyes refused to believe what they saw. It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. He’d misread it. It didn’t say—couldn’t possibly say—what it did.

  He read it three times. Four times. And each time it said the same thing.

  Thirty thousand pounds. Thirty thousand pounds.

  His brain stuttered to a halt for several seconds—and then leapt into action, galloping in several d
irections at once. Thirty thousand pounds. He could sell out. He could give half to Daniel, more than half—two thirds—and he’d still have a small fortune. He could afford to paint in oils. He could buy a curricle. Hell, he could buy a house.

  He looked at Lucas, now watching him warily, and then back down at the bank draft.

  He wanted it. God, he wanted it.

  His heart was beating fast, and his fingers trembled slightly, and he felt a little light-headed—and beneath those things, was hot, bitter rage.

  Tom put the bank draft carefully back on the table. “I told you I don’t want char—”

  “It’s not charity. It’s not my money. It’s Julia’s.”

  Tom stood with his mouth half-open while his rage collapsed inwards on itself and the rest of his sentence congealed on his tongue. Julia’s money.

  “It was Robert’s idea. Not mine. But he asked me about it. He wanted to know what Julia would have thought.”

  Tom closed his mouth.

  “I told him she’d want you to have it. Because I know she would.”

  Tom swallowed. Christ. Thirty thousand pounds. He picked the bank draft up again. His fingers trembled more strongly than they had before.

  “You can sell out,” Lucas said, his voice diffident, as if afraid of giving offense.

  Tom glanced at him. “You want me to?”

  Lucas hesitated, and then said, “It’s safer.”

  Safer. That wasn’t what he’d wanted Lucas to say. He wanted him to say Yes, please, because I love you and I can’t be without you. Which was stupid, because Lucas would never say that. Lucas would rather cut out his tongue than say that.

  He looked at the bank draft. Julia’s money. Robert’s idea. And then he looked at Lucas standing awkwardly on the other side of the table. “You’d prefer it if I didn’t sell out, wouldn’t you?”

  Lucas hesitated again. “No.”

  The hesitation lasted less than a second, but it hurt even more than the flinch had. Tom’s anger flamed to life again. “You’d prefer it if I went away and never came back, wouldn’t you? If we never did that again.” He gestured at the bed, at the floor. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Again, Lucas hesitated.

  “Fuck you,” Tom said fiercely. “And fuck your money.” He threw the bank draft down on the table, wrenched the door open, and flung himself out into the corridor.

  He went down the stairs fast, so angry he was crying. Or maybe the tears weren’t from anger, maybe they were because Lucas had hesitated, and that had been like a kick in the chest and it damned well hurt.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tom walked half a mile down a hedged-in Devon lane, striding fast, propelled by rage, dashing tears from his eyes, furious with himself for crying, furious with Lucas for making love on the floor and then flinching, for giving him that bank draft and then hesitating. Thirty thousand pounds.

  And then the rage drained away, leaving a bitter ache in his chest, and he just felt tired and sad.

  He halted, and looked around, and saw a spinney with tangled brambles and a dark-leaved holly and the trunk of a fallen oak.

  He crossed to the oak and sat, his elbows on his knees, and stared at the ground, at rotting leaves and winter-dead grass and withered twigs.

  The more he stared at the leaves and grass and twigs, the more certain he became that he’d overreacted.

  Yes, Lucas had flinched, and yes, Lucas had hesitated—but he’d also made love on the floor, and he’d given him thirty thousand pounds, and he wanted him to sell out because it was safer.

  I shouldn’t have told Lucas I love him. Tom closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. God, what a stupid thing to do.

  Lucas didn’t want his love. Lucas would much rather not have his love, because Lucas thought that a man loving another man was something to be ashamed of—and that was never going to change, because that was who Lucas was.

  He opened his eyes and stared down at the dead leaves. I want too much from him. I want more than he can ever give me.

  The leaves were a dozen different shades of brown, like swatches at a tailor’s: drab and tan and nankeen, snuff and cinnamon, Dust of Ruins and Paris mud. He watched a millipede crawl over a dark brown leaf that a tailor would call carmelite and thought about the bank draft, about Lucas wanting him to sell out because it was safer.

  And then he thought about Daniel and Hetty and what twenty thousand pounds would mean to them.

  And then he stopped thinking about the bank draft and just thought about Lucas. Lucas punching him two months ago—Lucas sleeping in his arms last night—Lucas rolling him off the bed today. He’s given me his trust and his body. It’s not fair of me to want more from him. He’s doing the best that he can.

  But he did want more. He wanted Lucas not to flinch when he told him he loved him. He wanted Lucas to say the words back to him.

  And he knew it was never going to happen.

  Tom sighed, and rubbed his face, and climbed wearily to his feet. He owed Lucas an apology.

  * * *

  Dusk was gathering in the sky by the time he reached the inn. He halted, and took a moment to think through what he was going to say to Lucas.

  Movement caught his eye: the pretty chambermaid hurrying across the stableyard, her skirts gathered in one hand. Her hair was disheveled beneath her mobcap, her bodice askew, and she had an exultant little smile on her face. She looked exactly like a young woman who’d just indulged in a quick and enjoyable swive. Tom watched her slip back into the inn, and then looked down at himself. He spent a minute checking his buttons, straightening his cuffs, smoothing his lapels, and half a minute combing his hair with his fingers. Thank God the neckcloth hid the bite marks on his throat. When he was certain he didn’t look like a man who’d recently had bedsport with his lover, he took a deep breath, crossed the yard, and pushed open the door.

  The sound of an argument echoed in the Golden Hind.

  “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” The voice was the chambermaid’s, high-pitched and tearful.

  Caught by her employer, Tom guessed, and trying to lie her way out of it. He didn’t like her chances, not with that crooked bodice and her hair falling out from underneath the mobcap.

  He grimaced, and headed for the stairs. Good luck, love.

  “He made me do it! I didn’t want to!” She was crying now, noisily.

  Tom set his foot on the first step, and glanced into the taproom. Yes, as he’d suspected: a weeping chambermaid and a grizzled Goliath of a landlord, fury on his face, a fist the size of a blacksmith’s sledgehammer half-raised.

  Tom hesitated. He’s not going to hit her, is he?

  “He made me!” the chambermaid cried, and she looked wildly round, and pointed at Tom. “It were him! He made me do it!”

  Tom took his foot off the step. “What?”

  The landlord swung round. His head hunched slightly into his shoulders. He looked like a bull about to charge.

  Tom held his hands up, placatingly. “I can assure you that—”

  The landlord came at him, fist raised.

  “I didn’t—”

  He tried to duck, but the landlord was faster than he was. He heard his nose break. Crack.

  Everything went black for a moment, and then awareness came rushing back, and along with it, the most agonizing pain Tom had ever experienced in his life. He was on the floor again. Second time today. Through watering eyes, he saw the landlord standing over him, and behind him the chambermaid, tear-streaked and horrified. Her mouth was open—she was screaming—but he couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing too loudly.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Blood poured from his nose, choking him, and he couldn’t say Wait a minute, or It wasn’t me, couldn’t say anything at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lucas pounded heavily on the door to Woodhuish House. When the butler opened it, he almost fell inside.

  “Tish—Miss Trentham—Mrs. Reid—where is she?
I need to see her!”

  The butler took a step backwards.

  “It’s an emergency, man. Where is she?”

  “Mrs. Reid is in the blue salon—”

  Blue salon? Wasn’t that where he and Tom had sat with Tish? Lucas pushed past the butler and half-ran down the corridor to the right. This door? No, this door. He burst into the room. “Tish!”

  Six people were in the blue salon, and they all started at his entrance.

  “Tish, I need your help. You have to come! Now!”

  Tish stood. “Lucas? What’s wrong?”

  “Now!” he said frantically, almost crying.

  Major Reid stood, too, and so did everyone else, and if it wasn’t so urgent he’d be mortified.

  Tish took his hand. “Lucas, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Tom,” he said, and now he was crying. “The landlord’s half-killed him, and he’s in the roundhouse, and they said he attacked the maid, but he didn’t—he wouldn’t—and I need you to do that thing with the lies—I need you to tell them that he’s innocent!”

  “Of course he’s innocent,” Tish said, gripping his hand tightly. “I’ll come.”

  “Strike hit him?”

  Lucas looked at the man who’d asked the question, and his brain identified him: the Earl of Cosgrove. “Yes. Tish, you have to come now.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Major Reid said, and Lucas didn’t really care, as long as Tish came now.

  “And I,” said Cosgrove. “The constable knows me. Is your friend hurt badly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m coming, too,” said pretty, pregnant Lady Ware.

  “No,” Sir Barnaby said.

  “No,” Cosgrove said, too. “We’ll bring him to you.” And it made no sense to Lucas, but he didn’t care, as long as Tish came.

  “Hurry,” he said urgently. And everyone hurried.

  * * *