They were different, yet in many ways alike.
The introductions and exchanges complete, she moved forward to lead them into the house. “I’ll have rooms prepared for you.” She glanced back, met their eyes. “Your luggage?”
Jack looked at Charles. “We weren’t sure of your dispositions—we left our things at the Abbey.”
“I’ll have them brought here.” Charles waved them on.
Penny led them into the library. Crossing to the bellpull, she tugged, then moved to sink down on the chaise. The men gathered chairs about the fireplace, leaving the chaise to her and Charles. When they sat, she asked, “Tea and crumpets, or bread, cheese, and ale?”
They all opted for the cheese and ale. Guessing Jack and Gervase hadn’t eaten since morning, when Norris appeared, she ordered a substantial tray. Charles asked for the luggage left at the Abbey to be fetched.
“So,” Jack said as Norris departed, “what’s been going on down here?”
“All Dalziel told us,” Gervase said, “was that you’d fallen feetfirst into murder and mayhem, and could probably use a little support.”
“Murder certainly,” Charles said. “As for mayhem, that might yet come.” He proceeded to outline events as they’d unfolded, digressing to describe the Selbornes’ wild game. Like Charles, Jack and Gervase were intrigued; they, too, expressed ardent interest in meeting Nicholas’s incorrigible sire.
By the time Charles brought them up to date, the bread, cheese, and ale Norris had quietly supplied had been devoured. Even Nicholas had partaken. Penny thought he looked considerably better.
“The one thing I really don’t like is that business of him smashing the display cases.” Gervase looked at Nicholas. “You said he sounded enraged?”
Nicholas nodded. “He was swearing, and that was before he saw me.”
“Not the usual coolness one associates with a professional.” Jack looked at Charles.
Tight-lipped, Charles nodded; Penny was instantly certain the point had occurred to him previously, but he hadn’t deigned to mention it. “It fits with him being younger than we are, less experienced. Killing the maid, for instance, was an unnecessary act that called attention to his presence and alarmed and alerted the staff of the very house he needed to enter. He didn’t need to do it, but he did.”
“He’s vain,” Jack concluded. “He’s also a bully, thinking to frighten people, and sure he’ll get away with anything.”
“That sounds right,” Gervase said. “Which is where we step in to teach him otherwise.”
Charles and Jack murmured agreement.
After a moment, Gervase looked up; he raised his ale mug to Charles, Penny, and Nicholas. His smile dawning, he drawled, “We haven’t said so, but we’re deeply grateful to you for giving us a chance to quit London.”
Jack wholeheartedly agreed, and drank.
Eyes wide, Charles regarded them in mock-surprise. “I thought you both had plans?”
Jack and Gervase exchanged glances, then Gervase nodded. “We did.”
“Unfortunately,” Jack said, “the matchmaking mamas had even bigger plans.” He shuddered eloquently. “In reality we’re refugees seeking asylum.”
The day had flown; it was soon time to change for dinner. Penny had Norris show Jack and Gervase to their rooms, then headed for her chamber. Half an hour later, they fore-gathered in the drawing room, then went into the dining room. Taking the chair at one end of the table, she sat Gervase and Jack to either side of her and had them recount all they knew of the latest London events.
They proved excellent sources of information; like Charles, their powers of observation and recall were acute, even though it quickly became apparent they had little real interest in the entertainments of the ton. They’d expected to take an interest, or have such interest develop; instead, they’d been disappointed. The ton, even at its frenetic best, was not, she suspected, exciting enough—not at base real enough—to satisfy such men, not after their recent experiences.
She listened, encouraged them; Charles sat back, a smile playing about his lips, adding the occasional taunt or leading question. Nicholas watched, quietly amused; to Penny’s eyes, he was improving with every hour, although his wounds still clearly caused him pain.
Once the covers were removed, she remained while they passed the decanters, then at her suggestion they took their glasses and repaired to the drawing room to sit in comfort and talk. Inevitably, the discussion returned to the man they now referred to as “the French agent.”
“I agree it’s unwise to guess his identity when any day Dalziel will likely find enough to point an unerring finger at him.” Jack drained his glass, glanced at Gervase, then looked at Charles. “But can’t we work out some trap? One that will work regardless of which of the three he is?”
Charles leaned forward, his glass cradled between his hands. “Now you’re both here, that would be my choice. He doesn’t know you, or of you; there’s no reason he’ll know you’re here. Quite aside from any Selbornes, he’s after the pillboxes, but now knows they aren’t easily accessible.”
He sipped, then went on, “Tomorrow I’ll show you the priest hole—it’s the perfect hiding place, obvious once you know of its existence. Our first hurdle will be getting details of the priest hole to him in a way he’ll believe.”
“There are ways and means.” Gervase grinned. “He’d believe a priest, wouldn’t he? I do quite a good impersonation—how about as a clerical scholar come to study the priest holes of the district? Give a minor social event, get the suspects together, and let me expound on my fascinating studies.”
Charles stared at him, then smiled and saluted him with his glass. “That would work.”
The clock chimed eleven. Penny glanced at Nicholas. He was wilting again. She caught Charles’s eyes.
He nodded almost imperceptibly, stood, and stretched. “We can develop our approach tomorrow, after you’ve viewed the hiding place itself.”
They all got to their feet. Penny led the way upstairs, paused at the stair head to bid them all good night, then sailed—alone—down the corridor to her room.
Charles joined her ten minutes later, entering the room a mere minute after Ellie had left. Seated at her dressing table brushing out her hair, Penny glanced at him in the mirror, a warning on her lips, simultaneously realized how silly any such warning would be. Given the state of her bed every morning for the past week, Ellie would long ago have realized she was no longer spending her nights alone.
The thought sent a small, self-seductive shiver through her. She studied Charles’s face as he walked farther into the room, shrugging off his coat, then starting to unknot his cravat; from his expression, he was already formulating, rejecting, and developing elements of a possible plan.
Refocusing on her reflection, she fell to more vigorously brushing her hair while she considered, absorbed, how relieved she felt now Jack and Gervase were there. She knew beyond question that Charles would stand between her, Nicholas, and everyone else who was innocent, and the murderer, like a human shield protecting them. It wasn’t that she’d thought, not even entertained the thought, that he’d fail.
But he was no longer facing the murderer alone.
Gervase had said he and Jack were grateful for the opportunity to leave London. She in turn was grateful they’d come.
Rising, she snuffed the candles in the dressing table sconces, leaving the candle on the table beside the bed to cast a soft glow. She’d donned a long white nightgown, purely on Ellie’s account. Charles, in shirtsleeves and breeches, sat on the bed to ease off his boots. Drifting to the open window, she leaned against the frame and looked out at the courtyard, a sea of moon-washed shadows. “Jack and Gervase are members of your club, aren’t they?”
When Charles didn’t immediately reply, she glanced back to see him standing, barefoot, stripping off his shirt. She sensed his hesitation, and softly laughed. “You needn’t think you’re giving anything away. It’s rather obvious—
you’re all very much alike.”
“Alike?” He tossed the shirt over a chair, slowly walked toward her. “How?”
She watched him draw near, considered the excitement that licked down her nerves, that slowly tightened them. “There’s a scent of danger about each of you. Beneath your glossy veneer, you’re all dangerous men.”
He halted before her, studied her face. “I’m not dangerous to you.”
She reserved judgment on that; she let her lips curve, her brows quirk teasingly. “It’s rather…fascinating.”
He stepped closer, backing her against the window frame. “I’m not sure I approve of your being fascinated by them.”
Latent jealousy roughened his drawl. She laughed, relaxing against the wood at her back, sliding her arms around his neck. She looked into his dark eyes, black as the midnight sky. “I’m hardly likely to exchange your attentions for theirs.”
He looked down at her; in a flash of insight, she realized he was sure of her, that he knew he no longer needed to ask, but could be his true self, that he could demand and be certain of her response. His gaze lowered to her lips; one palm cruised the side of her waist and made her shiver.
His dangerousness hung in the air, shimmered, alive, around them. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice deep and low, “I ought to convince you.”
She licked her lips, felt her pulse accelerate, her body respond. “Perhaps,” she replied, locking her gaze on his lips, “you should.”
He didn’t wait for further encouragement; his hands gripped her waist, his lips covered hers, and the danger closed in.
She gave herself up to it, caught her breath when he ravaged her mouth, then stepped into her, trapping her against the wall beside the window. Excitement flared and raced down her veins. The hard wall was cool, her skin screened only by the fine fabric of her nightgown, no real protection. Not from the elements, not from his hands. They roughly searched as if learning her anew, as if he’d never had her naked beneath him before.
His lips and tongue commanded, held her senses captive, riveted on the dizzyingly potent threat he represented. Even though she knew it wasn’t real, that it was perception, not reality, her senses remained mesmerized, tensing, reacting, as if it were. As if she truly were his prey, and he was dangerous, as unrestrained and sexually powerful as she knew he had it in him to be.
Shivers of anticipation coursed her spine. She was dimly aware he’d pushed a hand between them, unfastening her nightgown, then he raised that hand and pushed the gown off her left shoulder, baring her breast.
He broke from the kiss and looked down, with deliberation cupped the lightly swollen mound, smiled as her flesh firmed. He closed his hand, then with his fingers caressed, slowly drawing sensation to the peak before closing his fingertips about it.
Head back against the wall, she sucked in a tight breath, tried to steady her whirling head. Watched his face as he possessed, for it was definitely that, a claiming. “Did you ever imagine…make up stories…?” Her voice was a breathless thread, but he heard.
After a moment, he consented to reply, “My youthful fantasies ran more to pirates and the sirens they captured. Who then captured them.”
His gaze flicked briefly to her face, then returned to her breast, now aching and tight. He shifted, pressing down the other side of her gown, transferring his attentions to her other breast. His face, chiseled and hard, looked unbearably male, unbearably beautiful in the moonlight.
She licked her lips. “Those sirens…what were they like?”
He glanced again at her face, then reached up and caught her wrist, lifted her limp hand from his shoulder, drew it down, and pressed her palm, closed her hand, about his erection.
She heard the sharp intake of his breath, sensed the sudden leaping tension as she boldly obeyed and caressed him.
From beneath heavy lids, eyes gleaming, he watched her, shifting his hips, thrusting languidly into her hand. “Strange to tell, those sirens were like you.”
He bent his head and found her lips, teased, taunted, while his hands ministered to her breasts, fracturing her senses.
She drew back, gasped weakly, “Like me?”
Beneath her hand, his erection felt like iron—heavy, hard, and rigid.
“They looked like you.” Releasing her breasts, he framed her face, tipped it up, searched her face, her eyes, then bent his head and took her mouth in a searing kiss that abruptly plunged them back into dangerous waters. Into the dark, swirling promise of what might be.
Into the realm where fantasy and reality wove one into the other and back again.
His hands drifted from her face, gripped her hips; he shifted into her, pressing her to the wall, impressing his hard, flagrantly masculine body on hers. Insinuating one hard thigh between hers, he lifted her until she rode the steely muscle, potent threat and promise combined.
Brusquely, he pulled back from the kiss, murmured against her lips, “Like you, they were always wild.”
His lips returned to hers, dominant and commanding, rapaciously plundering; she met him, matched him, and refused to yield. Boldly challenged him instead, then shuddered under the onslaught, the undisguised, unrestrained, elemental passion he unleashed.
Abruptly her wits were spinning beyond her control, her senses dragged down, immersed in the greedy heat pouring from him, in the furious clash of desire and need. Her limbs weakened, her flesh softened, waiting, wanting, yet still daring to hold against him; with every passing second, the empty ache burgeoned and grew, and drove her to surrender.
Then she felt her nightgown shift, realized he was raising it. Without conscious thought she eased her grip on him, drew her palm slowly, tauntingly, up his length, then searched for the buttons at his waist. She found them, flicked them free, pushed aside the folds of his clothing, and found him.
Closed her hand and slid it down his length, hot, hard, burning. Clasped, lightly scored. Deliberately incited him.
He dragged his lips from hers, dragged in a labored breath. Muscles bunched; he yanked her gown to her waist.
“Like you”—his words were almost too deep to make out, gravelly, grating, dark with forceful menace—“they were always in need of claiming.”
He reached down, gripped her naked thighs, and lifted her.
Excitement, flaring anticipation and relief rushed through her; giddy, she closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, grabbed his shoulders for balance. Head back, braced against the wall, she felt him nudge into her softness, ease in just a fraction—then he stopped.
Held them both on the brink, nerves coiled, clenched, waiting…
She raised her lids, through the dimness found the dark glint of his eyes. Held them for a pregnant second, then provocatively murmured, “And did you claim them?”
He thrust into her, and filled her, not slowly, not fast, but powerfully, forging in, the latent strength in his body, so much greater than hers, blatantly evident. She couldn’t have prevented him, denied him her body, held him out had she wanted to, not by any physical means.
He thrust deep, impaled her fully, then leaned close, and whispered against her lips, “I tried.”
Her lips curved in response.
Physically, she was his. Emotionally, he was hers.
As if in acknowledgment of that truth, his gaze lowered to her lips. “I was never sure I succeeded.”
He kissed her rapaciously, and their ride began. More forceful, less civilized, more real than before. The sense of being a figment of the other’s fantasy released what little inhibitions they possessed, unlocked and let fall the last restraints.
Let them both be as they dreamed of being, a revelation deeper, more intimate, more telling.
He held her against the wall, supporting her weight, and thrust heavily into her. She gasped, clung to his shoulders, gripped his hips with her knees, and rode every deep penetration.
When she broke from the kiss on a sob, he bent his head and feasted on her breasts. Took all he wished without qu
arter.
Ravished her, body, mind, and soul.
Even while her body shuddered, racked by a superbly gauged intimate assault wholly focused on bringing about her surrender, the elements of desire their roles revealed spun around her, through her.
Slowly coalesced even while he drove her to the brink, and over.
Until she screamed his name on a breathless cry, and shattered.
He withdrew from her and carried her to the bed, tossed her across it, stripped her nightgown away, stripped off his breeches, and joined her. Trapped her beneath him, with his thighs spread hers wide, settled between, caught her hands one in each of his, raised them level with her head, then pressed them to the coverlet as he braced his arms and rose over her, held her down as with one powerful surge he joined with her.
And took more. Demanded more, every last gasp, every last sob of helpless desire she had it in her to give.
Heat poured from him, turned their skins slick, burned through their veins, and still she met him, matched him, stayed with him. Gave all he asked, took all he gave in return. Exulted as from under weighted lids she watched him above her.
Hot, relentless, unforgivingly hard—and hers.
He drove her ruthlessly up and over the peak; her awareness fractured into slivers of glowing gold. She felt him follow hard on her heels into physical oblivion; he slumped atop her and she freed her hands, slid her arms around him and held him close—and that power that had grown immeasurably in the last weeks rose up and engulfed them.
In that moment of blessed peace, a sense of certainty bloomed and burgeoned within her.
Long moments passed before they eventually moved, just enough to find the pillows and slip under the covers, not enough to disturb the heavy pleasure that lay upon them, that had sunk to their bones, and deeper.
Curled within his arms, her head on his shoulder, she felt her lips curve as, borne on the cusp of sated slumber, the truth gleamed, clear, in her mind. Her fantasy had been an extension of their real lives—lord and lady—that was who they were. His fantasy, however…in it was embedded the real truth of what they were, what they meant to each other.
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