Hell's Belle

by Annabelle Anders

  Heat spread up her chest and into her face.

  Experiencing an odd sort of wonderment, she guiltily placed her own hand over her breast.

  It simply wasn’t the same. She kneaded a little, squeezed, and even pinched. Nope. Not the same. She wondered if she closed her eyes and imagined it being Marcus’ hand…

  The sliding door to the driver’s box opened, and Marcus’ voice jolted her out of her… experiment. “We’ll be stopping soon.” She could barely make out the fabric of his breeches through the small opening. She caught slivers of sky and flashes of sunlight. “There’s an inn just ahead.”

  Emily shoved her hands under her legs and bolted upward, spine straight, feet together.

  Thank heavens he couldn’t look inside at her. He’d have had to stand up on the box and tip himself upside down to peer through the slot, but it was not completely impossible. Dangerous, perhaps. But not impossible. She’d have to remember such a possibility in the future. Being caught touching herself like that would be even more embarrassing than earlier.

  “Uh… Very well!” She adjusted her dress a little more. She was going to have to face him again.

  She felt the carriage sway as they turned off the main road and then halted outside of a busy stable area. She quickly donned her bonnet. When the door swung open, Emily kept her head down and carefully climbed down the step.

  “I take it you slept well?” Marcus asked quietly beside her ear. His mouth was so close that she felt his hot breath against her skin.

  “I’m very well rested, my lord.”

  He merely chuckled at her response. Marcus was always finding humor in something she said, drat the man. Likely, he was laughing at her embarrassment.

  He led them through a crowded tap room and up to a long counter. “Two chambers, please.” He leaned his elbow casually along the well-worn rail. “One for me and one for my… sister.”

  She wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank him or swat him.

  “Heading north, I take it?” A weathered old man leered in her direction before turning to assess the keys hanging on the board behind him.

  Marcus placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Can’t miss my cousin’s wedding.” He winked. This man was outrageous. And yet she wanted to sidle up closer to him, feel his strength along her side.

  Except that wouldn’t be appropriate, even if they weren’t pretending to be siblings. “Elizabeth would never let us hear the end of it.” She glanced toward Marcus and finally met his eyes. She might as well participate in this little charade of theirs.

  Marcus watched her and then one corner of his mouth tilted up. “Good old Lizzie would have our hides for certain.” But as he held her gaze, she couldn’t help but imagine what he’d done with his mouth. What he’d seen with those thunder-gray eyes…

  “Right then.” The innkeeper obviously didn’t believe them. “All I have is the one room left, though. It has a trundle. I’m sure your brother won’t mind taking it.”

  Emily bit her lip, and her heart raced. “I’m smaller.” She knew Marcus would suggest they travel farther, but it had already been a very long day. “I’ll sleep on the trundle.” And she meant it.

  She would see if she could find something to read. He could take in a pint or two. And then she’d sleep.

  No problem.

  “If you’re sure, sis.” He raised his brows in her direction and she nodded.

  “We’ve managed before.”

  “We could have traveled farther,” Marcus practically growled as they climbed the stairs behind a small dining area.

  “I know,” she responded sharply. “But it isn’t necessary. John is tired and so are you. It’s not as though we’ll be sleeping in the same bed.”

  Marcus grunted. “You aren’t sleeping on the trundle.”

  Emily tried to imagine his large frame on the tiny bed most inns kept for servants and children. “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Antidotes for a Bad Dream

  Meggie smiled up at Marcus, her full lips and dazzling green eyes aglow. She then took hold of his hand and placed it over her flat belly. “Your child. Your child is inside of me.”

  He’d known a myriad of emotions at that moment. Dread, regret, fear, and overpowering them all, joy. He loved her. He’d figure something out. And if he didn’t, then, ah well. Even at seventeen, he knew the power of the barriers that existed between classes.

  He placed his hand on her abdomen, massaging her taut skin. And then, unable to help himself, he slid his hand lower until his fingers dipped into her silky heat.

  Marcus knew his father would never approve of her, knew deep inside that she’d never be accepted into his world, but he didn’t care.

  Meggie had given him, a seventeen-year-old man, her voluptuous, amazingly responsive body. And she’d done things to his that he’d never even imagined. She’d brought his fantasies to life.

  Marcus kissed her, plunging his fingers in and out. He loved the smell of woman. He loved the taste of woman. Except as he drew his hand upward, the coppery scent of blood engulfed him. His entire arm glistened reddish black. The warm lips he’d been kissing turned cold and dry. Teeth sank into his lips and she snarled like a devil.

  When he drew back, the woman was no longer Meggie. Green eyes were now brown. Red hair now brown, with golden highlights. “I love you,” she said… but she was no longer Meggie.

  She was Emily.

  “Get off of her, Marcus,” his father demanded. Marcus didn’t want to move but he obeyed his father’s command. He stepped away and Emily sat up.

  “Why didn’t you enjoy it?” she asked him. She was covered in blood.

  Her father jerked her spectacles from her face and snapped them in two. Emily wrapped her arms around her middle. “Don’t hurt my baby.”

  Murmurs echoed behind him. She’s not worth it. She’s a whore. She’s a dowdy little bluestocking. Ugly mousy chit.

  His father lifted his arm with a menacing expression. And then Marcus saw the pistol—pointed directly at Emily. “Don’t hurt her, Father. I love her.”

  Bang!

  “No!” He wept. “Dear God, no!” More blood on his hands. Another child dead.

  “Marcus. Wake up.” Damn his father. Damn him to hell. A hand grasped his arm, and he shook it off. A crashing sound pierced his thoughts.

  His eyes flew open.

  Darkness. The inn. The elopement.

  “Emily?” She wasn’t on the bed. A whimpering sound in the corner nearly brought bile to his throat. What had he done?

  Springing from the bed, he found her curled up on the floor, a chair toppled over behind her.

  Marcus’ hands found her face, her throat, her shoulders. “God, Emily, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He scooped his arms beneath her knees and lifted her off the floor. The moonlight illuminated the room just enough that he could carry her to the large bed he’d insisted she take.

  She clung to him, her face tucked into his chest. “I’m all right, Marcus. I know you didn’t mean to.” But her body trembled. He’d scared her. Damn him.

  He set her on the mattress and went to pull back but was caught. Her arms held him like a vice. “Emily,” he whispered into her hair, but she just shook her head.

  “You frightened me.” Her voice wobbled.

  Marcus released a deep breath and then slid in beside her. Using his free hand, he tucked them both under the coverlet. “God, I’m sorry. You should hate me. I won’t blame you.” Hell, he hated himself. The hand he’d felt in his dream had been hers. He’d practically thrown her across the room. “I’m a menace.”

  “No,” she whispered. “When you cried out, I thought you were being attacked. I’m not hurt. Shaken a little. But that wasn’t what frightened me.” Her arms relaxed from around his neck, and he felt her fingertips fluttering over his face.

  “Nothing. A nightmare.” He pushed her hands away. The emotions from the nightmare had followed him into wakefulness. He’d ca
used Meggie’s death. She’d been carrying his child. He’d caused his own child’s death. By wanting her. By wanting them.

  His conscience warned him he might be putting Emily in danger now, too. Bile that had risen in his throat moments ago threatened again. He shook his head. It didn’t make sense.

  Emily climbed off the bed. She struck a flint and the light of one candle flickered in the room. Marcus watched her fumble in the shadows, pour a liquid into a glass, and then return to the bedside to hand him a drink.

  “It’s only water,” she apologized. “I realize you’d prefer something stronger but…” She shrugged as her voice trailed off.

  Marcus hadn’t even realized how dry his mouth had gone. He downed most of it in one swallow. When she sat on the bed facing him, she drew her knees to her chin and hugged them. “I used to have the most horrid dreams. It’s why I began to read so much. I needed to get through the nights thinking about something else.”

  What on earth scared Miss Goodnight?

  As though he’d vocalized his question, she spoke up again. “I’d dream I was locked in a small room—a closet—only there wasn’t a door. My mother had put me there. If she locked me away, she could pretend I didn’t exist. I had to light a candle when I’d awaken, otherwise, it felt like I was still locked in the darkness. And then I’d fear laying in the darkness.” She fidgeted with her hands. “So, I started reading.”

  Outrage nearly erupted from him. “Did your mother actually—”

  “Oh, no! It was only a dream.” She pushed a few strands of hair away from her face. “It was a stupid, stupid dream… but it terrified me. Dreams can seem so real.”

  Marcus relaxed back against the pillow. His dream had been reoccurring for years. It seemed so real to him now—less of a dream and more of a memory. He’d never seen Meggie grow large with child. He’d never seen her at all, after being informed of her father’s death. But it all felt so real…

  Emily tilted her head, watching him in concern.

  How had he come to be lying in the large bed with her comforting him?

  He reached up and cradled her cheek in his palm. “Are you injured? I’m horrid.”

  She laughed, a little weak, a little brittle. He guessed that she’d feigned it.

  “No. I’m fine.” She covered his hand with both of hers. “We can wait to put out the light. And I’m a good listener, if you want to tell me about it.”

  He couldn’t tell her about the dream. Except… she did already know about Meggie.

  “Was it about… her?” She winced a little as she mentioned the woman he’d once loved.

  How could he talk about Meggie with his future wife? How could he talk about this hole in his heart? This hole that wondered if he had a child in the world somewhere. A hole that wondered if Meggie yet lived.

  A hole put there by his own father.

  Except this was Emily.

  He nodded. The vision of her—not Meggie—covered in blood, intruded into his memory. He wiped his eyes in an attempt to rub away the images.

  “How did you meet her?” She sounded genuinely interested. Since the question was not about the dream, he didn’t mind answering.

  “Her father was one of the tenants at Candlewood Park. My father sent me around to discuss a raise in their rents. God, she was beautiful. And she didn’t play coy like the other ladies of my acquaintance.” He’d fallen fast and hard. He’d been a young fool.

  What was it about Meggie that had felt so magical? The fact that she ran barefoot through the woods, her hair flowing freely behind her. The unchecked words she let fly randomly. She’d been so completely uninhibited with him. He’d never met anybody like her.

  She’d awakened him to a world outside of the aristocracy. She’d introduced him to freedoms he’d never have for himself.

  Or was it that he’d been only seventeen and she’d allowed him an abundance of liberties?

  Emily listened to the awe in Marcus’ voice. He must have loved her very much indeed. Perhaps he still did.

  No wonder he’d cried out in agony. He’d lost the love of his life, along with their child, and he believed his father was to blame. Emily had thought that if he talked about the woman, he wouldn’t dwell on the darkness of his dream.

  She’d not expected his words to land like daggers.

  “You were young,” she reminded him. Emily remembered her own foolishness at that age. At seventeen, she’d believed she would someday earn her mother’s approval. She’d believed she’d find herself a kind husband. She’d assumed the Seasons in London would advance her life into marriage and motherhood.

  She’d quickly learned herself to be incapable of attracting any suitable offers, and her mother had given up and turned her attention elsewhere. If Emily hadn’t befriended Rhoda, she wouldn’t have had anyone to attend all those endless balls with. She’d never have met Sophia or Cecily.

  Where would she be today if not for her friends? In Wales already?

  “She haunts me, Emily.” Marcus’ words brought her back to the present. Again, with the pinching near her heart. This made no sense. They’d shared some embraces. Embraces that weren’t supposed to mean anything.

  She’d not allow herself to fall in love with him. She could not. That would be… idiotic of her. “Why, Marcus?” She licked her lips. She wasn’t the sort of lady who fell in love. Science, math, and the arts must be the focus of her passion. She’d never have to worry about them loving her back.

  “Because I never had the chance to come to know myself. I never had the chance to act honorably. And a part of me wonders… a part of me knows… that I might not have done the right thing. Given the choice, I might have—”

  “Even so,” Emily interrupted. “You’d have given her security. You’d have paid for your child’s education.” And then because she was coming to know him, to know his heart, she added, “You never wished her dead.”

  He swallowed hard. “I might as well have.”

  “Because your father took care of matters?” She hated that he blamed himself. Meggie had been an older woman, older by perhaps more than he knew. Emily had a feeling about this. But what if she was wrong? She ought to have waited until Prescott unearthed all of the facts before sending Marcus off to marry anybody.

  She ought to tell him about Mr. Thistlebum.

  “Because I did not,” he answered her harshly and then drew his hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter that I was seventeen. I was man enough to…” His eyes drifted away from her. “I’ll not speak of it in front of you. Despite your blasted curiosity, I’ll not.”

  Emily nodded in understanding. Her blasted curiosity indeed! She’d already pushed him to show her some of what she craved. Today, when he’d done those things to her. She swallowed hard at the memory of his mouth on her. Of the spectacular explosion of feeling she’d experienced. Burning ecstasy. Cascading inhibitions.

  “I never knew such a sensation existed,” she said without thought. “Today, in the carriage. I thought that could only happen with—”

  “Some women,” Marcus interrupted before she could finish, “a very small percentage of women—are able to achieve their pleasure as you did today.”

  “Huh.”

  So, what did that make her?

  “What?” His eyes studied her.

  “Pleasure is such a tame word for it,” she commented. “I thought I might die. It was like waves were crashing inside my brain. So many feelings. I understand why it has been termed le petite mort.”

  “The little death,” Marcus murmured. That intensity she’d seen in his eyes earlier today had returned. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But did you like it? Did you enjoy it?”

  Emily shook her head. “No, Marcus.” Upon seeing his brows furrow, she added, “I found it to be the most phenomenal, spectacularly invigorating experience of my life. Is it only possible to achieve with another person?” She wondered yet again if she could achieve a similar experience with her own hands. O
bviously, she couldn’t use her mouth…

  And she wondered, “Is it the same for you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Mentula

  Marcus was suddenly keenly aware that he lay in her bed wearing nothing but his breeches, which felt tighter than they had a few minutes earlier. For such a learned girl, she had an abundance of questions.

  As her calm and quiet questions echoed around in his brain, he envisioned her small hands, touching herself, pleasing herself. His throat went dry again, this time for an entirely different reason. She certainly knew how to draw his mind away from his nightmares.

  Emily had been raised a lady. She’d attended more balls than he could imagine, sitting on the fringes, watching her peers dancing, flirting. The poor girl had known she was missing out on something, and she’d attempted to discover it in books.

  “I don’t know if it’s the same for me,” he answered honestly in a raspy sounding voice. The darkness invited intimacies he’d never thought to discuss with a woman, let alone the woman he was about to marry. “And, yes. You can experience it on your own. But I warn you…” He watched her closely. He wanted to see her eyes when he said his next words. “It’s considered to be very, very wicked.”

  Ah, yes. Her pupils flared and a flush crept into her face. “I…” She turned her head away. “I tried it… but I think I was doing something wrong. It wasn’t the same.”

  How was it possible she could charm him so easily? Marcus lay back again and folded his hands behind his head. In doing so, he noticed her gaze fall to his chest. She licked her lips, and he couldn’t help but remember the feel of her mouth on him earlier today.

  The counterpane and sheets hid the result of that memory.

  “Show me what you did.” Only a bastard would dare a lady this way. Would she? He never quite knew what to expect from her. The rapid pounding of his heart surprised him. The room seemed much smaller as he anticipated her response.