Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  Her body shifted lower and released its warm hold on his flesh, but before he could protest, she closed her lips around the dark velvet of his nipples, using her teeth and tongue to elicit a startled hiss of breath from his throat.

  “The same time I was calling out your name, ’Tyrone,’ you were calling me innocent. Do you remember that?”

  “You thought you were dying.”

  “I am French, you know.”

  “Yes?” His voice was wary. “And?”

  “And”—she slid lower on his body and paused to admire the solid bands of muscle that sculpted his waist and belly—“the French call it la petite morte, the little death.”

  “An authority on the subject, are you?”

  “I am not as innocent as you might think. I read books. I listened to court gossip. The French Court, you know, was very … mmm … liberal. The women spoke of many things, of men and pleasure, and ways of insuring a lover did not grow bored. Of course, I have always been curious to know if they truly worked.” She curled her lip between her teeth as she continued to stroke her hands down his belly and over the tops of his thighs. “Jean-Louis was very sweet and attentive, but I think he would have been too easily shocked.”

  She sat back on her heels a moment, and while Tyrone was wondering what she was leading up to, she let her hands trail along his outer thighs and inner thighs, just as he had done, then curled her fingers around the various shapes of his flesh, lingering if she saw a response, smiling if she heard a soft oath or saw him tense himself against a particularly creative pattern of strokes.

  “Tyrone?”

  “Yes?” The word came out through the grate of his teeth and she smiled as she bent over him again.

  “You will tell me, s’il vous plaît, if you are feeling bored?”

  Tyrone sucked in a lungful of air and looked everywhere, at everything but the slow, deliberate movements of her mouth and hands. He gripped the wooden slats that formed the sides of the bed and curled his toes so hard they started to cramp. Beads of moisture broke out across his brow and his entire body flushed as if in the grips of another fever. If she wanted to know if he could be shocked she had succeeded, but not for the reasons she supposed. He was stunned because this, definitely, was never supposed to have happened. He was never supposed to have been the one reduced to whimpering volleys of sensations, never the one to writhe and arch and plead for a release that was promised, then withdrawn, promised and withheld.

  Far past any limit he had achieved in his most robust moments, he growled and reached down, twining his fingers into her hair, dragging her back by gleaming fistfuls until it was his mouth she was suckling with such splendid enthusiasm and her body that was stroking his flesh with such explosive vigor. They strained into the oblivion of ecstasy together and this time, when the fever of their passion was spent, it was Tyrone who lay immobile and completely bereft of the strength it would have taken to open his eyes. He lay spread-eagled like a starfish, his feet and arms hanging over the edge of the bed, his head lolled to one side obscured by locks of damp black hair.

  Renée fetched blankets and covered him, then tucked his limbs into the warmth without rousing so much as a sigh of thanks. She smoothed the hair back off his face and kissed his temple and his cheek, and after insuring the candle was fresh enough to last out the night, she drew on her night rail and robe and lit a taper to take her down the stairs.

  She hesitated one last time at the door, but there was nothing else to be said or done. She had made her farewells and he had made his and this was the end of it. He would be gone by morning and she would never see him again.

  “Au revoir, mon Capitaine d’Etoile” she whispered. “And thank you for making me feel warm again, even if it was just for a little while.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was six o’clock the following evening when the knock came on her bedroom door. Renée had been dressed for over an hour; her hair was curled and pinned, woven with thin strips of ribbon. She had chosen to wear a plain white round gown, made of watered silk, with a fitted upper bodice, a loosely flowing skirt and train. The neck was cut low, the sleeves were long with delicately puffed caps at the shoulders. Jenny had taken extra care with her hair, piling the curls at the crown and leaving just the right number of golden spirals trailing down her neck to emphasize the whiteness of her skin, the smoothness of her shoulders.

  Tyrone Hart had told her she was as beautiful as moonlight, and last night, she had believed it with all her heart. The look in his eyes, the tremors in his body and hands had made her proud of her beauty for the first time in longer than she could remember. She had wanted him to lust after her, wanted him to touch her, kiss her, hold her. She had wanted to be the moonlight for him, and for a little while, she was.

  Tonight there was no one she wanted to impress. The man she was dressing for was brutish and crude, and the company she was preparing for was ugly and hostile and cruel. She wanted no hungry eyes watching her, following her every move. She wanted no one’s hands to touch her, no one’s body to press next to her, no one’s heated breath to scald her cheek. She did not want to have to smile and dance and talk about foolish, inconsequential things when her heart was breaking and her body was aching in places she never thought would preoccupy nearly every one of her senses. Her breasts were tender, her thighs seemed to chafe at every step, and no matter how many times she washed, how long she soaked in the bath, his scent was on her skin. His heat was inside her body, making her slippery with despair.

  What had her mother said? That one day a complete stranger would look at her from across the room; they would dance one dance and her heart would be lost forever?

  Tyrone Hart may not have danced with her, but she was lost all the same.

  He was gone. Finn had reported the tower room was empty and dark when he had gone up just after dawn. The bedding was neatly folded, ready for the next captive, and there were already colonies of spiders busy at work attaching the table and chairs to the walls.

  “Miss?”

  Renée’s eyes flicked to Jenny’s reflection in the mirror.

  “Shall I answer the door, miss?”

  “Yes. Yes, answer it.” She had not even heard the knock, and she busied herself now, quickly picking up a comb and fussing with an obstinate curl. She heard Edgar Vincent’s voice scrape along her spine and her heart sank another few inches into her belly.

  Not surprisingly, it was the first time he had visited her room and the look on his face suggested he was not overly impressed with the sparse accommodations. Renée was seated in front of the small vanity and did not get up when he entered. To do so would have accorded him a measure of respect and here, in the privacy of her bedroom, she did not have to accord the fishmonger anything at all. Instead, she nodded at Jenny to go and fetch Antoine while she put the finishing touches of rouge on her cheeks.

  “Ready and waiting, I see,” Vincent observed. “Promptness is a quality I admire in a woman.”

  Renée refrained from remarking that the same did not hold true with regard to his own habits. He was an hour later than the time originally designated.

  Like a great ugly bull, he strode into the center of the room and gazed openly at the bed. Renée, following his progress in the mirror, would not have been overly shocked to see him lean his hands on the mattress and test the firmness. But he came up behind her instead, stopping close enough for her to feel his body heat against her back.

  He just stood there, staring at her, watching her fingers manipulate a curl, seeming to be intrigued by the way the candlelight played over her skin.

  “You are one hell of a beautiful woman,” he murmured, giving into the temptation to take up another of the slippery gold spirals and run it through his fingers. “Even if you weren’t nobility, I would marry you just to keep another man from having you. And while I might not be a count or a duke or an earl and I may not have the right pedigree or color of blood in my veins, you will not be disappointed,
my dear. You will be dressed like a queen and draped head to toe in the most exquisite jewels money can buy. Jewels like these”—he popped the clasp on the velvet case he was carrying—“that barely do you justice anyway.”

  Renée had not seen the Dragon’s Blood rubies since her hasty departure from London and despite everything that had happened between then and now, her breath still caught at the sight of them. They were darkly magnificent, as compelling and mesmerizing as the first time she had seen them worn by the Duchesse de Blois.

  “Exquisite, are they not? They’re just the thing to remove the … virginal temperament of your gown. May I?”

  She set the comb on the vanity table and folded her hands in her lap. Vincent took the necklace out of the case and draped it around her neck, bending down as he did so. It brought the heat of his breath brushing against her cheek and with it the smell of strong spirits and stale smoke. Judging by the amount of redness in his eyes, he had been drinking heavily for most of the afternoon, and while he appeared to be steady enough on his feet, his hands, when the clasp was fastened, remained on her throat, cradling either side as he inspected her reflection in the mirror.

  The necklace was heavy and felt like a wide, cold yolk around her neck. Against the whiteness of her skin, the rubies looked like fresh blood, dark and glittering, spilling in a deep vee to the edge of her bodice. They were far too gaudy to wear on an evening when there was not even to be any dancing, but she had not offered any objection when Vincent suggested it. Perhaps, because they were all under the same roof now, he would not be so diligent about taking them back at the end of the night.

  Vincent’s fingers were digging so tightly into her shoulders, the gold filigree was cutting into her skin. His gaze was fixed on the large tear-shaped ruby that sat between the press of her breasts, and she could almost see the spittle filling his mouth.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. “I never thought I would ever have the chance to own something as beautiful as you.”

  Renée moved slightly, hoping to ease the pressure from his hands. He took a breath and turned his attention to the bracelet, waiting until it was fastened around her wrist before he sought another opportunity for intimacy. He kept her slender fingers hostage in his larger, hairy fist, raising her hand to his lips, planting a long, wet kiss on her wrist. His breath was starting to rasp in his throat and his tongue was beginning to lick her like a salt lick when she pulled her hand away and—not knowing what else to do to keep from wiping it frantically on her skirt— reached for the earrings.

  Her fingers were shaking so badly she had difficulty threading the loops through her lobes, but she managed to only stab herself twice before the pendants were hanging, red and white fire, against her neck. Before he found another reason to touch her, she stood up and waited expectantly for him to move out of her way.

  He crowded closer instead. “In two days’ time we will be man and wife.”

  “I am well aware of that, m’sieur.”

  “Since you will have to thaw to me then, mademoiselle, might it not be … advantageous … to show a little warmth, possibly even a little gratitude, sooner, rather than later?”

  Some small spark of defiance caused her to raise her eyes above the level of his cravat. “Advantageous to whom, m’sieur: you or me?”

  He leered and blew another hot, stinking breath into her face. “To both of us, of course. You won’t have to spend another cold night alone in this big bed, and I won’t have to wear myself raw thinking about you up here all alone.”

  “But I am not alone, m’sieur. As you can see”—she glanced pointedly at the door where Antoine and Jenny stood rooted to the spot—“I have all the company I care to have for the time being.”

  She started to brush past him but his fist closed around her arm and twisted her back around to face him.

  “You might think your blood is better than mine,” he said in a snarl, “but it’s all the same color when it comes out of the vein, and if you don’t want to see proof of that, you won’t ever turn your back or push me away again.”

  His face was mottled and his eyes were blazing and Renée had but a moment to realize it would be foolish— stupid, in fact—to anger Vincent or Roth or anyone in the house tonight. She bit down hard on her lip and lowered her lashes before she turned her face shamefully to the side.

  “You must forgive me, m’sieur,” she whispered. “Everything has happened so quickly, and I have had no one to turn to for help. The highwayman almost raped me. I was very nearly shot by mistake. Colonel Roth acts as if it was my fault his trap failed, and my uncle still refuses to believe it was not Antoine who shot him.” She looked up and her eyes swam with silvery tears. “Believe me, m’sieur, when I am your wife and you have taken me away from this terrible place, I will not push you away. I will not want to push you away. I will want your strong arms to hold me close and make me feel safe and protected again. You will … keep me safe, will you not?”

  The anger in his eyes wavered a moment, then mellowed completely when he saw the single bright teardrop that trickled down her cheek. “Do you really mean that?”

  “I swear it. As soon as we are wed—”

  “We don’t have to wait,” he said huskily, leaning closer. “I will gladly hold you now, by God, and if Roth or anybody else so much as looks at you sideways, I’ll rip his lungs out through his throat.”

  “No. No, we must wait, m’sieur,” she countered with a piteous sob, as much for the lie as for the sudden, eager look on Vincent’s face. “We must have the blessing of the church. I am … am Catholic, and a—a virgin, and … it would be a sin before God.”

  “You let me worry about God,” Vincent stated flatly. He started to lean forward to mash his lips over hers, when Antoine nudged his foot against the door, causing it to bang on the wall behind him.

  “We should not keep our guests waiting any longer,” Renée gasped. “My aunt has gone to a great deal of effort to make this a special evening.”

  She dashed away the wetness on her cheeks and hurried to the door. Antoine’s face was chalk white as he fell into step beside her.

  “Mon dieu” she whispered, “the man is a cochon. A pig. I feel the need for another bath.”

  We will be free of him soon. Then Finn and I will protect you.

  She attempted a smile. “I know you will, mon coeur.”

  They followed the main hallway to the central staircase and Renée was forced to wait at the top for Vincent. His eyes were still hard and cold as he extended his arm, and she tried to look calm as she descended the stairs at his side, but her stomach was in her throat and her skin was crawling everywhere he touched her. The sounds of noise and laughter were coming from the main drawing room and a couple of the guests were standing out on the landing, enjoying a glass of punch and quiet conversation. One of those guests, who could barely contain his excess of emotion, stood frozen in place, his cheeks inflamed with ardor. Renée, in dire need of a friendly face, saw Corporal Chase Marlborough and smiled, hoping he would take it as an invitation to approach.

  He did so with such pathetic eagerness, she suffered a small pang of guilt for the torment she had been putting him through the past few days. Since he and his dragoons had been ordered to Harwood to “guard” her, she had treated him to little more than cold stares and icy silence. Her mind, of course, had been too preoccupied with her own troubles to sympathize with those of a lovesick soldier. Now, however, she used the excuse of his approach to disengage her hand from Edgar Vincent’s arm and extend it in a friendly greeting to the corporal.

  “Miss d’Anton. May I say … may I be permitted to say how extremely lovely you look tonight.”

  “Of course you may,” she said with a small, forced laugh. “I am happy you could be here in an unofficial capacity.”

  He blushed and while it appeared obvious he would have liked to keep her fingers pressed against his lips the entire night, he was forced to give way as a small commotion in the lower landing,
followed by quick and angry bootsteps ascending the stairs to the second floor, announced Colonel Roth’s arrival. He was in full uniform, with ropes of gold braid at his shoulders and trimming the wide lapels of his jacket. He wore his own flame red hair dressed in precise curls above his ears, with short wings brushed forward in an effort to conceal or at least lessen the ugliness of the wound on his cheek. Much like the damage he inflicted on the torn and savaged flesh around his fingernails, he had obviously been picking at the scab and there were spots of fresh red-raw skin showing through gaps in the dried crust.

  “There you are,” Vincent scowled. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to join us at all.”

  “Forgive my tardy arrival.” Roth offered a polite bow to Renée, his tawny eyes glittering as he admired the rubies against the shimmering white silk. “We took a man into custody early this morning and have been attempting all day to question him.”

  “Attempting?”

  Roth nodded at Vincent. “He was gravely wounded when my men brought him in and has had only brief periods of lucidity.”

  “And?”

  “And”—Roth let out a small huff of air—“it was another false alarm. I am seriously contemplating declaring it a crime in itself to possess a greatcoat and tricorn. At least this one had the height and breadth for it, though, as it turned out, he was a Scotsman on his way home to Glasgow and so blind he could barely see a candle held in front of his nose.”

  “A blind Scotsman from Glasgow, y’ say?” The high-pitched query came from another guest leaning casually against the banister behind them. “And y’ thought he might be masquerading as the rogue Starlight?”

  Renée could barely believe her ears or her eyes as she turned and saw Tyrone Hart strolling over to join their group. He was the image of startling elegance in buff and green striped satin. The collar of his jacket rose incredibly high around his neck, framing a cravat knotted in a bow as wide as the foolish grin he was wearing as he addressed the colonel.