Redeeming the Rogue

by Donna MacMeans

  HAD HE NOT BEEN CONCENTRATING SO HEAVILY ON how to explain his concerns to Arianne in a controlled manner—and praying at the same time that she’d be asleep and thus spare him from a difficult conversation—he might have noticed that the light beneath the bedroom door shifted in a manner not conducive to gas lamps and the air had become infused with exotic floral notes. He opened the door to a room illuminated by flickering candles, on the mantel, on the writing desk, even on the floor by the paneled screen. Everything wavered in a soft, sensuous dance of light and shadow, including Arianne, who rose when he entered the room. She wore a fine lawn night rail, so sparse in decoration as to be common, but so thin as to render suggestions of the riches beneath, even in the candlelight.

  “I had a warm bath drawn for you,” she said. “Let me help you undress.”

  “Arianne—” he started to protest, but she silenced him with a finger on his lips.

  “I want to do this,” she said.

  She stood before him, unfastening the buttons on his vest.

  “About this afternoon . . .”

  “Let’s not argue tonight, Rafferty.” She stepped closer, then slid her arms up his shirt to his shoulders, pushing the fabric of both jacket and vest with the back of her hands to let them fall on the floor behind him. He pressed his cheek briefly against her scented hair, inhaling the rich, sensuous notes of patchouli and luscious florals.

  “Oh darlin’, I’m sorry.” He wasn’t certain what he was sorry for, but he had a compelling need to apologize. His John Henry expressed its desire to make an appearance and make amends as well, based on the urgency in his groin.

  Her talented fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons while he removed his cuff fasteners behind her back. His shirt soon joined the growing collection on the floor. He started to unfasten the buttons on his trousers, but she pushed his hands aside.

  “Let me,” she murmured. She finished the buttons and untied the string of his drawers.

  “Touch me, Rafferty. I want to know it’s you beside me in the dark.” Her hands slipped inside his drawers at the hip, leaving him little option but to grasp her upper arms. Suddenly, she sank to one knee, tugging his clothes with her.

  Sweet Jesus! His bobbing cock strained at the same level as her sweet lips. His fingers had progressed up her body as she slid down, and they now lingered on her head. He fought the urge to pull her face toward his cock, knowing that might scare her.

  She removed his shoes and socks, just as he had done for her before, then kissed his upper thigh. His cock jumped, begging for attention most likely. So she gave him some. She ran the pads of her fingertips up his shaft. Then rising from her knee, she cupped him in her hand. Lord, if she was planning to lead him around by the cock, he’d happily follow. But she released him to tug at his hand. She led him to the tub and watched him step in.

  He sank into the warm, scented water, feeling it rise and surround him. She knelt beside him and, soap in hand, smoothed it over his chest, across his shoulders, along his arms . . .

  “Why are you doing this, love?” he asked, somewhat uncomfortable in their reversed roles.

  She soaked a sponge in the water, following the same path as before. Droplets of the water splashed on her night rail, rendering visible what was before suggested. “I think you were right, Rafferty. I understand if I’ve been a disappointment to you.”

  “Not a disappointment,” he protested.

  She bade him to sit up so she could wash his back. Thus he couldn’t see her face. He could just listen to her voice. “I know you’re not like the Baron. You’re a better man than him, more kind, more honest. I’m . . . used goods, but I love you, Rafferty. I can understand if you don’t want—”

  He stood up in the bath, not allowing her to finish. One of the candles sputtered out from the droplets raining from his body. He pulled her up to stand before him and pressed her close. Her thin nightgown acted as a towel, soaking the moisture between them.

  “Say that again,” he commanded, his heart racing in his chest.

  “I love you, Rafferty. I—”

  He kissed her like he’d never kissed a woman before, giving her every bit of his aching heart. He stepped out of the tub and lifted her into his arms. She laughed lightly, but he doubted she could see the wide grin on his face. She loved him, and that could only mean that she’d marry him and be his own.

  He carried her to the bed, then laid her on the counterpane.

  “Say you’ll be mine, Arianne. That we’ll always be together.”

  “That sounds like a negotiation . . .” she said.

  “Say it.”

  “I’ve always been and will always be yours, Rafferty.”

  IT WAS HEAVEN, SHEER HEAVEN, THE THINGS HE MADE her feel. He followed her down to the bed, kissing her lips, her breasts. He tugged on her nipples, and she felt the flooding down below. She wanted him so desperately. She yearned to have him fill her inside, satisfy the craving that throbbed in her womb. He pulled the damp night rail from her body and just stood studying her in the flickering candlelight.

  “I’m ready,” she whispered.

  “Not yet,” he replied, sliding the length of his body between her parted legs. Dear Saint Christopher, she was near flooding with “readiness.” Why was he making her wait?

  He slid down the length of her, parting her legs even farther for his inspection. Her cheeks heated. It was one thing to be observed examining herself beneath the cover of a blanket and another for a man to actually inspect her there. She didn’t have much time to think about it though, as a finger, his finger, slipped inside her. Such an odd feeling to have someone else lodged inside her, and it hadn’t hurt. She was about to tell him exactly that when his tongue swept the cleft of her, ending at a spot of extreme sensation. She wiggled her body, trying to break free, but he continued his tender assault. A second finger joined the first, sliding up and down inside her. Her breasts lifted; her body arched. He used one of his talented fingers to massage the area where his tongue had laved, faster and faster. Suddenly a soothing calm, tingling in its intensity, silently exploded inside her. She thought she might have yelled, but she wasn’t sure.

  Rafferty worked his way back up her body. “Now, you’re ready,” he said.

  He filled her with a gentle thrust, then waited while her body accommodated him. His arms stiff by her shoulders, he searched her face. “Does that hurt?”

  She felt pressure and strain, but nothing like the scraping pain she’d remembered. She placed her fingertips on each side of his rib cage, feeling the power of him. This was Rafferty, her Rafferty, her protector and lover. She shook her head and smiled. “Not at all.”

  He started a slow pattern of thrusts before lowering to his elbows to quicken the pace. The tip of him reached deep inside her, pushing, stretching. She followed his rhythm with a thrust of her hips, helping him to reach some sought-after goal deep within her. Then he made a mighty thrust and held, his face twisted as if in agony. He laid his weight upon her, surrounding her with his body. It was a glorious sensation, touching so much of his skin with hers, hearing the sound of his heartbeat, and feeling the pulse of her own. Two people could not be closer, more intimate.

  Rolling to his side, he gathered her up in his arms as if to never let her go. He kissed her forehead. “Thank you,” he said.

  Her head rested on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the surge of his breath in and out of his lungs, feeling the throb of her cleft from her initiation into true intimacy between a man and a woman. Having experienced Rafferty, she knew that her experience with the Baron was similar to sticking one’s toe in the water and calling it a bath. She was Rafferty’s, for as long as he wanted her, for as long as he needed.

  “I love you,” she whispered, but she wasn’t certain that he heard. From the sound of his breathing, he was asleep. Sleeping with his arms around her and his lips to her forehead.

  Her brother was right. A little seduction could yield enormous ben
efits.

  Twenty-Four

  “PHINEAS. COME IN,” RAFFERTY GREETED WITH A wide smile. “I was expecting you.” Phineas paused in the doorway. “I don’t need to ask how you are. I haven’t seen you in such good humor in . . . a long time. I take it life with Lady Upper Crust is agreeable.”

  Rafferty’s brows lowered in a mild scold. “If you refer to my wife, Lady Arianne, life is more than agreeable.”

  Phineas grinned and extended his arm. “Congratulations, my friend.” They shook hands. “I take it Cupid’s Mistress made herself a match, and may I say she couldn’t have selected a better man on which to work her magic.”

  “Thank you.” Rafferty felt as if he were grinning like a schoolboy. He couldn’t help it. Every time he thought of Arianne, and he thought of Arianne often, his lips raised of their own accord. This morning, she proclaimed herself “ready,” but he could tell her nether lips were still swollen from last night. She should be much improved by tonight. “I believe I’ve convinced her that we suit so well in this pretend marriage that we should make it real.”

  “I thought when I saw you fell that addle-pate last night, I’d find you in an improved mood, but this far surpasses my expectations,” Phineas said.

  “You were in Finnegans last night?”

  He nodded. “I wasn’t alone. I was with some professionals in the funeral industry.”

  Gravediggers, Rafferty translated. That made sense. They knew more about what occurred in the darkest of shadows than most. “Did you happen to notice a man sitting in some pleasant finery with a cocky stare?”

  “Saw him straight off, though his finery was no finer than yours,” Phineas teased. “His name is Charles Guiteau, according to one of the girls. He’s not one of the Irish but likes the camaraderie. Anyone who stands a round in Finnegans finds he has friends.”

  “I thought I saw him here last night,” Rafferty said. “Not here in the legation, but just up the street. Evans said he was asking directions.”

  “He was a long way from Finnegans, then.”

  “Did you discover who was to be Eva’s contact there?” Rafferty asked.

  “Likely the entire place would assist Eva if she walked in. The desire for home rule runs strong there. But I’d bet money it was one of the ladies. I’m guessing Constance, the one who tried to fleece your pocket.”

  Rafferty nodded. He pulled a scrap of paper from the desk blotter. “I have a company for you to investigate. They purport to pay for the transport of coffins back to Ireland.”

  “The Irish Trust and Funeral Fund?”

  “How did you know?” Sometimes Phineas’s ability to ferret out information amazed Rafferty, and he was somewhat used to it.

  “I followed the money from the harbor. All those coffins have a stamp from the Irish Trust and Funeral Fund. The fund started in New York, but there’s an office in Baltimore and another here. They aren’t the sort of places with large sums of money to pay shipping rates, at least not from the looks of them. I think the one here in Washington does most of its business from a table in the back of Finnegans.”

  “Good work! Have you managed to look inside any of the coffins?”

  “Not yet, but the Irish Rose is scheduled to take that load on the harbor to Ireland. I thought once they were loaded on board, we could have a look-see without interference from the guards.”

  “Briggs sent me a telegram that they’ll be loading cargo for the trip home next Tuesday. The repairs were done earlier, but I think he decided to use a week for a honeymoon,” Rafferty said. “Seems the magic of Cupid’s Mistress has sprinkled on everyone but you, Phineas. I bet Arianne can rectify that.”

  “No, thank you,” Phineas said with a laugh.

  Arianne interrupted with a knock on the door. One glance to her red-rimmed eyes had him by her side in a heartbeat. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Rosalie. She was found dead this morning. Her throat slit. I think it might be my fault.”

  Rafferty pulled her into his arms. “It’s no one’s fault but the one with the knife. She came to you for money and she received it. You’re not to blame.” But his mind was already making connections. Rosalie wasn’t attacked until after she had visited the legation. That would imply someone here was responsible. “Didn’t Ben take her home yesterday? We need to know who else knew of her address. Has your brother gathered the recommendations?” He hugged her close once more and soothed a tear from her delicate cheek. “We’ll find the one who did this, I promise you.”

  She smiled weakly at Phineas. “I only met her once, yet I feel responsible.”

  “Don’t,” Phineas advised. “Most likely her fate was sealed the day she sought an audience with Lord Weston to give him Mary’s letter. You bear no portion of the blame.”

  She sighed and swiped her cheeks. “I’ll go find William, but then I’ll need to prepare for tonight.”

  Rafferty kissed her cheek before she left the room.

  “This legation is a dangerous place,” Phineas observed. “Hearts and bodies alike dropping left and right. Perhaps I’ll pass the night elsewhere this evening.”

  Rafferty nodded. “It’s a good thing this dance tonight is elsewhere. Had Washington’s elite come here, we might have endangered America’s entire political structure.”

  Phineas laughed. Rafferty, however, wondered if that could be the motive. Toppling the political structure would certainly merit a few dead bodies, but how could the Fenians do anything in America that would impact England’s structure? It just didn’t make sense.

  “Mary told Rosalie some foul deed was to occur in Washington,” Rafferty mused. “Mary was desperate, as if the timing were close at hand, according to Rosalie.”

  “It’s been several weeks since Lord Weston was murdered. Nothing of a foul nature has transpired yet . . . unless you consider that pile of coffins in the Baltimore Harbor.”

  “No. There’s something else afoot.” Rafferty suspected the murders dealt with more than a potential smuggling operation. From the sound of it, that operation had been going for some time but had increased volume recently. That would indicate preparation for another event, an event he suspected was to take place in Washington. He just didn’t know the why, the who, or the when of the thing. “I feel as if I’m overlooking some critical clue. It’s hovering just out of sight.”

  It was so frustrating. If he were back on the London streets where he knew the layout, the people to touch, the people to avoid, he imagined he would have this solved by now. So much had changed, though. He wasn’t certain he’d be as effective in the streets and alleys as he had been before. His experience at Finnegans had shown him that.

  “Tomorrow,” Rafferty said, rising from behind his desk. “We’ll sort through everything we have tomorrow. At the moment, I need to prepare for a ball.” His lips pulled in a lopsided grin. “Had you ever imagined such a thing? Michael Rafferty at some fancy ball . . . invited no less.”

  Phineas just smiled. “I suspected it was only a matter of time.”

  NEWS OF ROSALIE’S MURDER DID NOT PROVIDE THE best base from which to prepare for a ball. Even the soothing lavender scents Arianne had added to the bathwater failed to ease her spirits.

  “These cucumber slices should help relax you,” Kathleen said, placing wet rounds on Arianne’s closed eyelids.

  “Perhaps you should try some too,” Arianne said. “I know you were affected by the news.”

  “No one wants to hear of someone dying that way,” Kathleen said solemnly. “I heard her family found enough money in her pockets to give her a decent burial. That was good fortune.” More likely it was what caused her death, Arianne thought beneath the slices.

  “Your gown is all pressed and ready. It’s so beautiful; you’ll look like a bride in all that white.”

  It would be her only opportunity to look like a bride, Arianne mused. No one would ever see her promenade down a church aisle draped in the white veiling of innocence. “The Americans
celebrate the Fourth of July in grandiose fashion. As that is only three days away, the hostess decreed everyone should wear red, white, or blue, the colors of the American flag, tonight.”

  “You’ll look lovely,” Kathleen said.

  “Even with swollen red eyes?”

  Kathleen laughed. “When you stand next to Mr. Rafferty, your face lights up like a candle. No one will notice any different.”

  She should be surprised, but she wasn’t. Just thinking about what she and Rafferty did last night certainly made her face heat like a flame. How naïve to think that what the Baron did to her was a statement of love. She knew now what passion entailed. What it meant to give and receive. And if this meant she was ruined, at least now she’d been ruined well. There was no reason not to continue this pretend marriage. She loved Rafferty with all her heart, even though he hadn’t repeated those words back to her. Should he grow tired of her, she’d still have her Sanctuary, but she dearly hoped Rafferty wouldn’t tire of her for a long, long, long time.

  KATHLEEN PINNED TINY BOUQUETS OF BLUE HYACINTHS to the pouf of embroidered gauze that swept about Arianne’s hips before gathering in a delicate cascade down her backside. Arianne added a bouquet of blue to the lowest point of the neckline, hoping to draw Rafferty’s interest there. Just the thought of him caused her breasts to push against the top of her constricting corset, while a familiar tingling began at the bottom. Not now! she scolded herself. Ever since Rafferty had taught her the value of “readiness,” she discovered her body was prepared at the most inconvenient moments.

  Tiers of white lace defined her skirt, much like a wedding cake. She was the bride Rafferty never got to see but still taught to love. Kathleen added bits of lace and hyacinth bouquets to her hair while Arianne pulled on her long white gloves. Selecting a blue fan for contrast, she was ready to go.