She reached up to touch her hair and watched his gaze follow her hand. He raised the glass to his lips. Don’t fight it, my love, she pleaded silently. Please, please, kiss me. She watched the battle being waged between his obstinate will and the hot pleasure that burned between them. He closed his eyes, and she held her breath, thinking she’d lost again.
He set the drink down.
“Do you suppose the pins are in your chair?” She reached over and started to put her hand down the side of the chair, giving her head a shake so her hair fell over his hand.
He grabbed her wrist.
She smiled.
He didn’t.
Witchcraft should be so intense, she thought. She could feel the physical pull of this man as if an iron chain bound their hearts together. So powerful it was that she wondered for a brief instant if she had started something that even the strongest witchcraft couldn’t handle.
He rose, never letting go of her wrist. Kneeling before him, she raised her face and looked up at him. His other hand moved toward her face and traced her cheekbone, then her jaw. She felt as if he could see inside her, see her heart open and needing, see the love she felt for him, her quaking knees, her pounding heart, and see her fear—the weak part of her that was afraid he’d never love her.
He paused to touch the mole above her lip, then ran his fingertip along the seam of her mouth. Her lips parted. His finger slipped inside and touched her tongue. His eyes grew dark and hotter. They touched—hard male finger to soft and damp female mouth. They were two feet apart, Joy kneeling, Alec standing. Their breathing increased; they exhaled slowly. This force, this magical gift that existed between them, was everything.
Her body was damp, her blood flowing thick. Her heart drummed along to its own excited beat. The tip of his finger tasted salty, like the air off the wild Scottish sea. She was home.
He drew his fingertip back, turned away and dipped it into the brandy, then brought it back, letting the droplets fall like honey onto her lips. “You are a witch,” he said, then pulled her to her feet, and his mouth closed in, his tongue stroking out for a quick taste of her brandied lips. He groaned a deep growl of defeat into her mouth and drove his tongue inside, filling it thickly.
Her arms curled around his neck, and she pressed her body against him, needing his touch. She could taste the bitterness of the brandy, but it was sweetened by the flavor of Alec. Her Alec.
She breathed in his scent. His hand closed over a breast, and he grumbled another groan of male pleasure into her mouth, a deep primal sound that she could feel clear down to the heart of her womanhood.
He whispered something against her lips, then flicked open the front buttons on her gown, one by one by one. His hand dipped into her bodice and cupped her, his warm rough palm rubbing circles against the tip of her breast. She pearled in response, then threaded her fingers through his hair and moved down to touch his ear and trace the hard length of his strong neck. It was damp. She could feel the abrasive stubble of his beard, feel the hard lines of his jaw, the warmth of his skin—everything that proved he was real, that he was male.
Her hand slid downward and stopped over his heart, then she was lost in the thrusting rhythm of his deep kiss. His hand left her breast, the other hand left the back of her head, and he gripped her bottom and lifted her up off the floor and against him. He rocked his hips slowly.
“Now,” he said. “Here. Now.”
She nodded against his neck.
He walked her back against the closed doors and pinned her there with his hips. His hands slid to the backs of the thighs, and he placed her knees on either side of his rocking hips. His hand slid down the fabric of her skirt and then up underneath.
She moaned when his warm hands slid over her stockings and touched the bare skin of her thighs. The dress rose with his hands, with the tender touch and stroke of them.
His hips moved and she slipped down the door. He raised his hips, sliding her back up. “Tighten your legs around me.”
She pressed her knees against his hips, and his fingers found the heart of her and plied their magic. He touched her, stroked her, played with the core of her until her body seeped tears of response.
His hand left her to open his trousers. A moment later she felt his power, his strength, the thick fullness of him sliding into her as smoothly as if they were and always had been one.
She gave a ragged cry.
“Hush.” His voice was hoarse, his head bent, his breathing labored.
Her eyes drifted closed, and she savored their joining, knowing this was the ultimate gift between man and woman. His lips moved across her face like light summer rain. Slowly he circled his hips and rocked, filling her, then pulling back.
“Too slow,” she murmured against his lips.
“Never too slow, Scottish. You’ll see. It’s never too slow.” His tongue stroked her ear, and he inhaled. Chills ran down her neck and over her arms and breasts.
She pulled at his shirt, opening it, wanting to feel his chest against hers.
He thrust deep, and she tightened her knees, gripping him. She pushed his shirt aside. He thrust again, agonizingly slow and deep. Their chests touched.
It was his turn to groan.
His hands slid higher and rubbed and gripped her bare bottom, then stroked her from the point where they joined backward, touching every bit of her private flesh with the tip of one male finger. Every time he moved into her he plied that stroke so privately that her need unfolded, spiraled, slowly with each penetration, with the stroke of that finger, and now the thick hair on his chest played havoc with her breasts, teasing and tickling and making her pucker with life.
His hands gripped her bottom tighter, and he moved in hard slow circles that pressed her nether lips even tighter around him. He groaned into her mouth, something private, earthy, and male.
And stopped moving.
“No! Don’t stop . . . please.”
He said something, but she couldn’t hear, couldn’t do anything but feel. He pulled back and thrust deep, again and again, suddenly moving with the speed she craved. Her pleasure spun upward with each thrust of his driving hips. Harder and harder he moved, faster, and the door thudded with each plunging stroke of him, over and over and over . . . .
The beat picked up more and more, deeper, stronger, rattling the door hinges. He bent his head again and kept on thrusting, the meter unchanging. It started then, the glimmer that grew and grew with each motion of him within her, that wonderful journey to ecstasy. Higher and higher she rose. He moved deeper and seemed to swell within her. The noise of door hinges, the deep thudding movements faded, and that delicious glimmer grew bright until she screamed into his mouth and pulsed so hard around his shaft that she almost ached with each throb.
A moment later she smelled roses.
“Damn, but this is good,” he growled in response and pulled her knees higher and sent her over the edge again and again until she could hardly tell one release from another. She opened her eyes and saw pink petals raining down, hundreds of them.
“The roses,” he rasped against her lips and circled his hips faster and faster.
The petals lit on his bent head, stuck to the dampness of his neck and back, where his muscles grew taut and bulged with the drive of his motions. Still he rocked inside her until finally he pulled almost out of her and drove inside with a shout of triumph. An instant later his life pulsed into her.
Then there was nothing but time, seconds and minutes that went by unnoticed. Her fingers loosened their grip on his damp shoulders. Crushed rose petals drifted down to join the layers on the floor around them. Her heart still sped, and her breath still came in panting gasps, and just as it had before, the air smelled spring-sweet and autumn-musky. She let her head fall back against the door and just breathed.
She felt Alec stir against her, for the first time in many minutes. His hands relaxed their tight grip on her bottom and moved to her hips; then he slid his palms down to her kne
es and tenderly lifted them from around him, and her legs fell free. He slowly lowered her to the floor, her cheek sliding from his damp shoulder to the center of his chest where his heart pounded a rhythm in her ear that was almost as hard and strong as their joining.
He finally raised his head. She saw his face. He seemed to be clinging to some desperate sense of isolation he found necessary to his being. Let it go, my love, please, she thought. He was quiet for a moment. Then he stared at her mouth with avid hunger in his eyes. He kissed her again, parting her lips and tasting her before he moved his mouth to her ear and told her what she felt like inside and how he wanted to feel that again.
She smiled, but it was hidden by his warm damp neck.
He lowered his head to kiss her.
The door resounded with a firm knock.
The kiss continued.
The next rap was harder.
He pulled back, then whispered against her mouth, “Our rooms must be ready.” He righted his clothing and stepped back, then helped her button her bodice and brushed the rose petals off both of them.
“My hairpins.” Joy pointed at the rug, which was layered with rose petals.
He looked at her through heated eyes and reached out to lift a long hank of her hair. A stray petal fell, drifting down to the floor in the utter silence of the room. Now that he’d given in, it was as if he didn’t care about anything but the two of them. It was a beginning.
The knock sounded again.
“Yes, yes! In a minute!” He dropped her hair. “Leave the pins and the petals. We’ll finish this upstairs.” Grabbing her hand, he jerked open the door and started to pull her along behind him.
Somewhat red-faced, Henson cleared his throat loudly. “Your Grace, the Earl of Downe and the Viscount Seymour.”
Joy bumped into Alec as he ground to a halt. He muttered a swearword.
Stunned, she glanced up at him and followed his gaze to Neil’s embarrassed face. Hers must have flooded just as red.
“Welcome to London,” Richard drawled, leaning against one wall of the long entry hall, a knowing look on his cocky face.
Mortified, Joy glanced to Alec for help.
He stood as straight as a Highland pine. “How long have you been here?” Richard turned to Neil, whose sheepish stance told her exactly how long they’d been there, and he pulled out his pocket watch and gave it a cursory glance. “Ten minutes or so. Long enough.”
No embarrassment showed on Alec’s face, only arrogance and displeasure. He turned, blocking her from their view. “Go on upstairs.”
“Where?” she whispered. She had no idea where their rooms were, but was almost willing to chance getting lost again just so she could get away.
“Fifth door on the right. I’ll join you later.”
Richard said something about his use of the word “join” that made Alec’s hand tense on hers. She sucked in a breath. He released her hand. “Go.”
She hurried up the stairs. Just as she made the first landing, she heard the earl’s sardonic voice.
“That’s fifty pounds you owe me, Seymour. That was definitely a door banger.”
Chapter Nineteen
The morning of the hiring fair dawned crisp and cold and icy. The ice prevented the physician from arriving at Belmore House until almost noon—the ice and the measles epidemic. He departed an hour later, leaving instructions for poor Carstairs and two of the maids—the ones who could cook—to remain in bed until the spots faded. Since the duke had left even earlier, fate had given the new duchess her first duty.
Wedged between Fishmongers’ Hall and the Wharf House was a small and drafty brown brick building where a straggly group of misfits stood upon a platform, each holding a sign proclaiming his or her occupation. Amid the prospective employers stood the Duchess of Belmore, her chin high, her small shoulders back, and her green-gloved finger pointing at a black man at the end of the line.
A bewigged Henson leaned toward Joy and said, “Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but I don’t believe that . . . uh . . . one”—he took a second look, frowning for a moment before he continued—“is exactly whatHis Grace has in mind.”
“You don’t?” Joy eyed the huge man who dwarfed the scruffy and pitiful men and women standing on a platform before them. She tapped a finger against her lips. Except for the one man, the prospects did not look promising. If the truth be told, most of them were frightening. The men appeared hard-edged and dirty, and many looked at her as though they were intent on mayhem and murder. There were only two women, both slovenly, and they had eyed poor Henson with the same ferity with which Beezle eyed his hair.
She felt a gentle tug on her skirt and turned to her maid.
The girl looked at her in wide-eyed horror. “Oh, ma’am, you cannot hire that man! He’s . . . he’s—”
“The sign he’s holding states he can cook,” Joy said, trying to judge exactly how tall the man actually was. Despite the short black beard that framed his wide lips and covered his chin, the man was clean, and there was something about him that belied his massive size, something that said he wouldn’t harm a soul.
Polly leaned over and whispered, “He looks like a pirate, ma’am, a huge black pirate. I read a book about pirates, and they’re cruel. They drink rum and make people walk the plank—even womenfolk. And they kidnap orphans, they do.”
Joy had to agree that the billowing white shirt, black breeches, and high black boots made him look dangerous, but she sensed this man had a good heart. “There haven’t been any pirates in England for years, Polly. It’s just the big gold earring that makes him look like one.”
“But, ma’am, what about his hair?”
“Different, isn’t it?” She raised a finger to her lips again and inspected him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with a braid that long.”
“But the rest of his head is bald.”
“Quite possibly he’s been with Her Grace’s pet weasel.” Henson eyed the man’s shiny head, then fingered his own white periwig.
“I am so sorry about your hair, Henson.”
“Quite all right, madam. I have always preferred a wig. Gives the livery more distinction.”
Joy had wanted to conjure up some more hair for Henson, but Alec had loudly forbidden it. She turned toward Polly. “Didn’t you tell me that at Belmore Park the cook was always complaining about not being able to reach the tall shelves? This cook won’t have that problem. Besides, he’s the only one whose sign says he can cook. So we have no choice.” Joy turned to Henson. “Do any of the others claim they can cook?”
“I believe Her Grace is correct.” Henson tugged on the curled queue of his wig.
“And look!” Joy pointed. “See there? He’s even got his own chicken. Do you suppose it’s dead?”
A choked gasp came from her maid.
“Don’t those look like chicken feathers to you, Polly?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I don’t see a chicken—just the feathers, I do.”
“There, you see. Let’s go speak with him before someone else snaps him up.”
“Somehow I doubt that will be a problem,” Henson said, but Joy was already moving forward, leaving her two servants no choice but to follow. She reached the platform and turned back just in time to see Polly genuflect, mutter something, and cross herself.
“I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” she said when Polly joined her.
“I’m surely not, ma’am, but from the likes of him I’d say the Lord’s Prayer isn’t enough.” She leaned closer to Joy and whispered, “What do you suppose he does with those feathers?”
Joy shrugged, then looked up at the man. Judging from the lack of lines in his face skin, she was positive he wasn’t old, and he certainly looked able-bodied. He was even broader and taller than Alec. A yard-long braid dangled like a tail from high on his shiny black head. In addition to his pirate clothes, he wore a wide thick belt studded with metal. Small beaded gourds, a hank of hair, and a clump of feathers swung from one side
of the belt. If she hadn’t known that the world’s last genie was tightly corked in a bottle somewhere in North America, she’d have guessed this man was he.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Belmore,” Henson said to the agent who stood next to the platform. “She would like to speak with that one.” He nodded toward the black giant.
Joy shook out her skirt, raised her chin so as to look appropriately duchessy, and tried to make her mouth haughty, but it was difficult to purse one’s lips when one’s neck was so strained. Somehow she didn’t feel like a duchess at all; she felt like a trout surfacing for flies.
The agent called out a number, and the man nodded, then stepped forward, the gourds rattling at his side.
Joy craned her head back to look up at him, and her attempts at haughtiness, lip pursing, and nose elevating were lost to the sheer wonder she felt when she took in his size. One deep breath and she found her voice. “The sign says you can cook.”
The man nodded, pinning Joy with a stare that was serious but held no malice. “I cook with the ship Black Magic five year.” His voice was as deep as a barrel and heavily accented.
“Where are you from?”
“The Caribbees.”
“You need to address the duchess as Your Grace,” Henson informed the man.
The pirate turned his black eyes toward Henson, then looked back at her. He smiled then, showing his white teeth. “The Caribbees, You Grace.”
Joy knew then and there she would hire this man. His smile was real. “What are you called?”
“Kallaloo. John Kallaloo.”
“Well, Mr. John Kallaloo, what can you cook?”
“You Grace, call me Hungan John. Hungan John can cook anyting.” He stood even taller, his face as proud as Alec’s. “You Grace like langosta . . . lobster? Crab? Cocido de riñones?”
She nodded, sure that the duke and the ton would like lobster and crab. “What is cocido de riñones?”
“You say kidney stew.”
Polly chanted a prayer to Mary, the mother of God.
Joy nodded. It sounded good to her, and she remembered the English liked kidneys.
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