Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  He slid his hands to her hips. “Rub yourself up and down on me, Jane. Like this.” He lifted her hips, and then pressed them back down. Up and down. Up and down. “Ah.”

  “Find your own rhythm now.”

  “Yes.” She rose and fell, head back, hair streaming over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and her tight, wet passage felt wonderful sliding over his cock. He’d almost reached the point of release—but she hadn’t.

  “Ohh. I can’t…why won’t…”

  “Shh. Here, let me.” He grabbed her hips to stop her increasingly frantic motion. Then he touched the small, sensitive place just in front of her opening.

  “Oh!” She looked at him. She was panting, desperation yet hope in her eyes. “Oh.”

  He smiled and rubbed his thumb lightly, teasingly, over the hard little nub.

  She panted faster and squirmed, making little breathy, needy noises that got higher and higher. He thrust up sharply with his hips, pressed with his thumb—and she stiffened and screamed. He felt her body contract around his cock as he poured his seed into her.

  “Oh.” She collapsed, sweaty, boneless, into his arms.

  “Better?” He ran his hand down her back.

  “Mmm.” She kissed his jaw. “Much better.”

  They lay that way for a few moments. He listened to the clop of the horses’ hooves, the rattle of the carriage wheels. He should tell Jem to turn for home. He would in a minute.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t. Jane was fidgeting…

  “Again.” She sat up. “I need to do it all again.”

  Chapter 19

  Jane hunched over her teacup and breathed in the fragrant steam. Her head throbbed, her brain felt cloudy, and her mouth tasted evil, like cheese someone had forgotten and left sitting in the sun for days.

  Last night hadn’t really happened, had it?

  Ohh. She squeezed her eyes closed. It must have. The place between her legs was so sore. And the memories…Some were hazy, but many were startlingly clear. She’d begged him to take her again and again, and he had—on his lap, on her back, from behind, with his mouth, with his fingers.

  What must Edmund think of her? Thank God her mother and the other ladies were off visiting by the time she finally dragged herself out of her room and down to Edmund’s study. She must have “jezebel” written all over her.

  She took a sip of tea in the hopes it would quiet her stomach and help the pounding in her head. Where was Edmund? He’d told Lily he wished to see her, but he wasn’t here—something she was quite thankful for. How could she bear to face him? But she would have to face him—she was living in his house.

  Ohh. She put down her teacup and rubbed her temples. He had been so kind to her in the carriage; he could have been rough and demanding, but he’d been as thoughtful and gentle as possible in the circumstances. If she’d been forced to drink that nasty stuff in Lord Griffin’s ceremonial chamber—

  She swallowed quickly and pressed her hands over her eyes. No, she couldn’t think about what would have happened then. It was far too horrifying. She’d never have—

  “Are you all right?”

  “Eek!” Jane screamed and threw up her hands, almost knocking over her teacup and the teapot.

  “Sorry,” Edmund said. “I thought you heard me come in.”

  “No.” She glanced up at him and then dropped her head back into her hands. “I, ah, d—didn’t.”

  He’d never seen Jane so despondent. During this whole crazy situation, she’d been determined, optimistic, energetic.

  She’d certainly been energetic in the carriage last night. He grinned. He’d tried to rise to the occasion, but by the fourth time, he couldn’t rise at all. She’d worn him out.

  The damn aphrodisiac hadn’t made her ill, had it? “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head, keeping it buried in her hands. “I’m so m—mortified.” She sniffed twice and then burst into tears.

  “Jane.” He’d swear he felt his heart twist in his chest. The poor, sweet girl. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. “Don’t be embarrassed. No one knows what happened except me.” Well, he’d wager Jem had an excellent idea, given the knowing look the man had shot him when they’d finally stopped at Motton House and he’d carried Jane, sleeping and disheveled, out of the coach. And, truth to tell, he’d been more than a little disheveled himself.

  “But you do know. How can you bear to touch me?”

  “Jane.” He led her over to the settee and sat down with her, gathering her back into his arms once they were settled. “You’re not making sense. Why wouldn’t I want to touch you?” He kissed her forehead. “I very much enjoyed touching you last night. I thought you were magnificent.”

  She had been magnificent. Their time in the carriage had been a fantasy he hadn’t had the imagination to conceive before—but now he could. “I’d be delighted to do it all again”—he chuckled—“though perhaps not all at once again. I was quite exhausted by the time you fell asleep.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder. “I was so wanton.”

  “You weren’t.” He grinned, remembering in vivid detail exactly how she’d behaved. The thought was reenergizing his poor, tired cock. “Well, perhaps you were.”

  “Ohh.” She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Jane. It was the drink you swallowed when the vat got dumped on you. It must have contained a powerful aphrodisiac. Once it took hold of you, you no longer had control of your, er, urges.”

  She relaxed a little. “No?”

  “No.” He stroked her back. Last night in the carriage, her skin had been so soft. His cock stirred again. He’d so like to have her now, but slowly this time. Fast and frantic had its place, but slow and thorough…mmm. He would definitely enjoy that.

  But it was out of the question. She must ache from all their activity last night, especially as she’d only just got over losing her maidenhead. And they did have other, more pressing matters to attend to. Satan must be furious his ceremony at Griffin’s had been ruined; he would be out for blood and likely be happy to take theirs, whether he knew they were responsible for the mêlée or not. They’d best solve this puzzle immediately before he dealt with them in an unpleasantly permanent fashion.

  Motton would like to keep Jane out of it, but she was in too deep now. “Let me get the sketch pieces out of my safe, and we’ll see what the completed picture looks like.”

  Jane took out her handkerchief, blew her nose, and raised her chin. “Yes, of course. I’m very eager to solve Clarence’s puzzle.”

  Edmund arranged all four pieces of the drawing on his desk, while Jane took a steadying breath. She could do this. She would focus on the puzzle and not last night. Once her body stopped aching, it would be easier.

  She was so aware of Edmund. Perhaps it was a residual effect of the wretched brew she’d ingested. When he’d held her just now, she’d wanted to rub her body against his. If she hadn’t been so sore, she might even have done so.

  The moan escaped before she could clamp her teeth on it.

  “Is something hurting you, Jane?” Edmund laid his hand on her upper arm, and she felt the imprint of each of his fingers as if she were as naked as she’d been in the coach. If he moved just a little, he’d graze her breast.

  She would not moan again. And she would not tell him what was hurting—her breasts now as well as the place between her legs. She stepped a little away from him, pretending to get a slightly different angle on the sketch, but mostly just so he had to drop his hand. “I think I’m still feeling a little ill from that nasty drink.”

  “Would you like more tea?”

  “No, thank you.” She’d like him to be quiet. His voice was torturing her, too. And his scent. Damn. If she didn’t stop being so sensitive, she would go mad.

  She tried to concentrate on the sketch. It was disappointing, to say the least. The last piece hadn’t added much at all. It compl
eted the shadowy figure, but kept his—or her—identity secret, hidden behind a grotesque mask. “Oh, blast it all. Why didn’t Clarence draw Satan’s face?”

  “That would be too simple, wouldn’t it?” Edmund leaned over to look at the sketch more closely. “I wonder if Clarence even knew Satan’s identity.”

  Jane’s stomach lurched. She pressed her hand to her mouth and swallowed to be sure the tea she’d just drunk stayed down. They couldn’t have been on a wild-goose chase these last few days—especially last night.

  Had Clarence merely sketched another bawdy picture to hang in print shop windows, giving the ton something else to laugh and gossip about?

  No, it had to be more than that. Why would he have torn it up and hidden the pieces? “He must have known who Satan is.”

  “Maybe not. Very few people can know Satan’s identity—and many people know of this sketch. Ardley, Mousingly, Lady Lenden, and Lady Tarkington are all looking for it. Likely Satan knows of it, too—and he’d never have allowed Clarence to draw an identifiable portrait.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Maybe there’s no point to this. Clarence was known to be an odd bird. He could have designed this all as a game—or a joke—and maybe one he thought he’d be here to see. If he’s in a position to observe our efforts now, I’m sure he’s completely delighted at how he’s forced us to go all over London, searching out his ridiculous Pans.”

  Jane scowled at the sketch. Damn it, it was possible Clarence was laughing his arse off in heaven—or, more likely, hell. Even Mama had thought the man exceedingly peculiar, which was saying a lot coming from a fellow artist.

  No, she was not ready to—she could not—accept that all her and Edmund’s efforts had been for naught. “Satan must be worried we might learn something or he wouldn’t have devised our disaster on Oxford Street.”

  Edmund shrugged. “I suppose that could have been a bizarre confluence of coincidence.”

  She was far too stubborn to accept that. She’d scrambled in the greenery, hidden on a closet floor, been tossed into a bush, lost her virginity, and attended a shocking party with even more shocking results, all because of Clarence’s bizarre sense of humor? No. She would never swallow that willingly—she’d have to have the evidence that it was true shoved down her throat.

  “Clarence was just being devious. I’m sure if we look closely, we’ll find more clues to Satan’s identity.” She jabbed her finger at the picture. “Why would Clarence have drawn Satan holding this peculiar staff? It has the same pattern as the robe.” A pattern that still looked maddeningly familiar. It was like having a word on the tip of her tongue—she could almost remember where she’d seen it before…almost, but not quite. “And why did he draw this dog by Satan’s feet? It’s just sitting there. All the other animals are—” She flushed. She wasn’t about to say what activity the other animals were engaged in. “Doing something.”

  “Hmm.” Edmund nodded and leaned closer. “It is a rather large and unpleasant-looking animal.”

  “I’m sure Satan would only have a vicious dog. Do you suppose that’s a clue?”

  “Perhaps. We’ll have to ask Aunt Louisa. She’s certain to have identified every London pet.” He pulled a magnifying glass from his desk and examined the right lower corner. “Hmm. Poor Clarence apparently suffered from an attack of Gothic fantasy.”

  He passed the glass to Jane and she peered through it. This little part of the sketch was rather grisly. A skeleton dangled from a wall, and in the skeleton’s bony fingers was a quill. Next to the quill was a book.

  “See? The book has the same pattern as the robe and the staff,” Edmund said. “Clarence has added what looks to be some sort of stone in the center. It would help if he’d used color—”

  “A ruby.” Jane sucked in her breath. No, it couldn’t be, but it looked like—

  “What?”

  “I think the stone is a ruby.” She stared at the picture. “But it can’t mean anything. It’s too unbelievable.”

  “What can’t mean anything?” Edmund sounded exceedingly exasperated. “What’s unbelievable?”

  “The pattern. It must be something Clarence saw once and duplicated by accident. Or perhaps it’s just a decorative touch.”

  “Jane.” Edmund leaned on the desk and pinned her with a very pointed look. “I sincerely doubt Clarence was aimlessly drawing a pretty pattern. He included everything else in this sketch for a purpose. Why do you think when we get to this crucial detail Clarence went on a mental holiday?”

  “Er…” It did sound ridiculous when Edmund put it that way.

  “So do you recognize this pattern?”

  “I—I think so. But I’m probably misremembering. I must be. It can’t—”

  “Jane!”

  “You don’t have to shout.”

  “My apologies.” Edmund took a deep breath, obviously trying to hold on to his temper. “Why don’t you tell me where you think you might have seen it?”

  “Very well.” She wished she hadn’t said anything; she had to be wrong, but clearly Edmund was going to insist she tell him her nonsensical notion. “In Baron Wolfson’s cravat.”

  “What?”

  “You’re shouting again.”

  “Sorry.” He straightened and ran his hand through his hair. “So you saw this pattern on Baron Wolfson?”

  “Yes. In his cravat pin. It’s very distinctive. A ruby surrounded by gold filigree in this pattern. But it can’t mean anything. Lord Wolfson is old—he must have at least sixty years in his dish. He couldn’t be involved in anything like what we saw at Lord Griffin’s last night.”

  “Jane, he’s old—he’s not dead.”

  “Yes, but…Lord Wolfson?”

  “If Satan walked around with horns and a tail, he wouldn’t be hard to spot, would he?” Edmund tapped his finger on the sketch. “I’ll wager this animal isn’t a dog, but a wolf.”

  “Oh.” The creature did look rather wolfish.

  Edmund gathered up the sketch pieces and put them back in his safe. “It was at Wolfson’s estate Clarence met his unfortunate end, remember. And there have been vague rumors about the man for years.”

  “But he’s so…boring.” Perhaps Satan wouldn’t wear horns, but surely he should appear at least a little dangerous. “And he’s accepted everywhere. I was dancing with him at Lord Easthaven’s just the other night.”

  “You were?” Edmund frowned as he closed the safe’s door. “I thought Wolfson was as wedded to the refreshment table as Spindel. Have you ever danced with him before?”

  “N—no, I don’t believe I have. I’m not sure I’ve ever even spoken to him before.”

  “And what did you talk about?”

  What had they talked about? She’d been more focused on his breath than his words. Eew. She could almost smell the garlic again. And then she’d been studying his pin…he’d been somewhat perturbed that she’d not been listening to him…“He wanted a tour of Clarence’s house.”

  “Hmm. Amazing how the ton have become so fascinated with Widmore House, isn’t it?”

  “Y—yes.” Jane pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. Her face was pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. The poor girl looked almost burnt to the socket.

  He gathered her into his arms. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed against him. She felt so good. He rubbed his hand up and down her back, and then cupped her jaw so he could study her face. “You should rest today. Tomorrow we’ll brave Lord Wolfson’s weekly soiree along with your mama and my aunts and see what we can discover, all right?”

  “All right.” He watched her swallow. “Yes. I—I think that is a good idea. I am still rather tired.”

  He frowned. “Are you certain you have no lasting effects from that dose you swallowed last night?”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Y—Yes. I am completely recovered. I will never behave that way again.”

  He grinned. “Oh, don’t say that. I liked the way you behaved last night.” He laughed
. “Though I’ll admit, it was slightly too much of a good thing.”

  She groaned and tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go. He kissed her. She tasted so good. Like home—a home he actually wished to have, not the home he’d grown up in. With Jane, he would never have his parents’ cold disdain. He’d have love and passion and laughter. And arguing, too—Jane was not a namby-pamby miss—but they’d always make up afterward, perhaps with a few of the activities they’d engaged in last night.

  He whispered by her ear, “Wantonness is a good thing between husband and wife, Jane.”

  “But we aren’t husband and wife,” she said.

  “We will be. As soon as this mystery with Clarence and Satan is resolved, I’ll get a special license.”

  She pushed away from him to look him in the eye. “You don’t have to marry me.”

  He almost laughed. “Of course I do. I’ve compromised you beyond redemption.”

  “No one need know—”

  “People are going to suspect something when your belly swells with my child.”

  Jane shoved harder, and he let her go. “I—I don’t know that I’m ah, er…you know.”

  “True, but it is certainly a strong possibility. Lord knows I sowed my seed in you enough times to have fathered an heir and a few spares.” He hoped she was increasing. The thought of her, round and heavy with his babe, was surprisingly satisfying.

  Jane’s face was now beet red. “I will let you know if I am in the family way—”

  The door swung open. “What did you say?” Aunt Winifred actually looked startled.

  “In the family way. In an interesting condition.” Theo flapped his wings. “Breeding.”

  Jane’s face was now ghostly white, and her mouth hung uselessly open. Aunt Winifred’s gaze moved to him.

  “Miss Parker-Roth was urging me to let her know if she were in my family’s way—and I was about to assure her she wasn’t. She and her mother are welcome to stay here as long as they wish. Don’t you agree, Aunt Winifred?”

  “Yes, of course.” Winifred looked skeptical, but wasn’t certain enough to call him on his lie—though she did keep throwing glances at Jane’s middle.