Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3)

by Ava Archer Payne

  “Mrs. Wintress needs three dozen.”

  “Three—“

  “Dozen.”

  Oh, bollocks. This was too much. He was far more accustomed to reaching beneath a woman’s skirts than under a chicken’s arse. Determined to get the chore over with, he slid his hand beneath the nearest hen, only to have her squawk in protest and reel about, ferociously pecking at his hand. He jerked back. “That creature attacked me!”

  Mrs. Donnelly battled what looked suspiciously like a smile. “Of course she did. She’s protecting her eggs. Try it again, only this time pretend you’re in a position of authority.”

  Jonathon stiffened. Pretend he was in a position of authority? He employed a staff of twenty at his London home alone. And that number didn’t factor in his country estates, his groomsmen, gardeners, property managers, accountants, investment bankers, and the like. He was a lord of the realm. A peer. Educated at Eton and Kings College. Someone of his wealth and stature did not assist with the laundry. Walk to catch a coach. Or even think about entering a chicken coop.

  Unless a slight, auburn-haired angel pushed him in that direction.

  He moved to the nearest hen. Gently but firmly, he wrapped his hands around its center, lowered it to the ground, and removed its eggs. Ducking low, he continued his mission, darting from nest to nest. Aware they were under siege, the hens reacted with a wild flurry of flapping feathers and shrill squawking. They pecked his boots and attacked the strings on Mrs. Donnelly’s apron. Soon the entire coop was in an uproar, dust and feathers flying everywhere.

  Once they’d finished gathering the eggs, he pulled Mrs. Donnelly out of the coop and slammed the door shut behind them. They leaned against it, basking in their victory and the brilliant sunshine, filling their lungs with cool, clean air.

  Their eyes met. The absurdity of the situation was apparently too much for her. Laughter bubbled from her lips, as light and fluid as water streaming over rocks. Jonathon listened, smiling. The sound of it was deeply satisfying, as though this woman’s laughter was something he had been waiting his entire lifetime to hear.

  Last night he had thought that candlelight suited her. Now, as he watched the sunlight play across her features, he reversed that opinion. This was a woman who was born to bask in the sun. The gentle rays caressed her skin, giving it a fresh, dewy appearance. Steady determination filled her eyes, which today appeared as dark and rich as freshly brewed coffee. Her brows were delicately arched; her eyelashes were of the same dark hue, except for the very tips, which were flecked with copper. Her mouth was wide and generous, her lips the delectable coral of a ripe summer melon.

  “We won,” she gasped.

  “Won what?”

  “The egg war.” With her free hand, she gestured to her apron, which brimmed with eggs. “To the victor go the spoils.”

  A pale downy feather floated in the air. It drifted downward and landed in her hair, just above her right ear. He reached to brush it away. As he did, she tipped up her face, her head tilted slightly to one side, her lips parted. She looked at him with an air of innocent expectation.

  The kind of look that begged for a kiss. Jonathon studied her for a moment in silence. Brush off the feather and walk away, his brain commanded. Instead he shifted his weight toward her. “I had a different sort of prize in mind,” he said.

  Mrs. Donnelly’s eyes widened. Yet there was an unmistakable hint of both challenge and curiosity in her gaze. "Like what?" Her lips were ripe with invitation.

  The scent of her skin drifted around him, as heady as any fine Scotch and every bit as intoxicating. The air felt heavy between them, thick with sexual curiosity and erotic potential.

  Don't do it, his instincts warned. Find another woman. London ballrooms were full of sexual sophisticates just waiting for a tryst. Women who understood the rules of the game. The ones with sophistication, experience, and a strong sensual appetite. The ones who contented themselves after lovemaking with new gowns and diamond trinkets rather than promises of undying love and eternal devotion. Those were promises he had never given and doubted he ever would give.

  But Jonathon didn't want any other woman. The woman he wanted was standing right in front of him, just waiting to be kissed. A streak of dirt on her cheek, a feather in her hair, and an apron full of eggs. He slipped his arm around the small of her back and pulled her to him.

  "Like this," he said.

  His lips descended on hers, barely touching, teasing her mouth with his own. He wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, stroking it sensually, while his other hand gently traced the length of her arm. He forced himself to go slowly, to let her adjust to the feel of his hands on her body, to the pressure of his lips against hers.

  She brought up her arms, whether to protect the eggs, or to protect herself, he couldn’t guess. But she didn’t pull back—thank God—and that was all that mattered.

  The light, tender kiss left him far from satisfied. He wanted more from her than just a soft sweetheart's kiss. He wanted the hot, pulsing thrill of a lover's kiss. He wanted to peel her clothing off piece by piece and touch her, kiss her, stroke her body. He wanted the explosion of pleasure and need that would leave them both breathless and trembling. He knew he could achieve that with her. He could feel it in her touch. She was the kind of woman who would know instinctively when to be wild in her lovemaking and when, on the nights when the weight of the world seemed to rest oppressively on a man's shoulders, to be gentle.

  Jonathon wanted to find that part of her, the fire that was just waiting to be lit. He increased the pressure of his jaw, coaxing her lips apart. Once he did, he swept his tongue inside her mouth, tasting and probing. He felt a tremor of shock sweep through her as their tongues met. He rubbed his hands along her back in soft, soothing circles, giving her time to adjust to the feeling of the kiss.

  But to his amazement, she did more than simply adjust to the feel of his kiss. She melted into him, meeting his tongue with her own. Her mouth moved against his with such raw urgency and naked desire that Jonathon nearly groaned out loud. She rocked against him, matching the rhythm of his kiss.

  Jonathon let out a low growl as a rush of pulsating desire swept over him. He knew that if he didn't stop now, he wouldn't be able to stop at all. Summoning a self-control he hadn't known he possessed, he reluctantly ended the embrace and stepped back a pace.

  She looked up at him with eyes that were bright with desire, lips that were rosy and swollen from their kiss. She showed neither embarrassment or shame, just the soft, satisfied flush of a woman who had been properly kissed.

  As he watched in fascination, she ran her lithe, delicate fingers over her mouth, a look of wonder in her dark eyes.

  “I should take these inside,” she said, gesturing to her apron. She brushed past him and moved toward the inn, then stopped. “I nearly forgot. There’s wood to be split. Mrs. Wintress left her ax over there, by the woodpile.”

  He nodded. This time he had no objection to the menial chore. In fact, he was glad of it. He needed a physical release, any physical release, to drive the desire from his veins.

  It was beyond strange. He’d kissed women before. Too many to count. But this time the world felt strangely different. As though it had tipped sideways, and then righted itself. He still felt spun.

  She stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Oh, Mr. Brooks?”

  “Yes?”

  “That kiss...”

  “Yes?”

  He braced itself. Here it came. The rebuttal, the rebuke. The censure he so rightfully deserved. Instead, her dark eyes sparkled with something that looked remarkably like triumph.

  “That is how all Grand Adventures begin.”

  Oh, dear Lord. He was doomed.

  Chapter Ten

  “…so she threw herself forward, plunging headlong into the great, yawning abyss—”

  “What a minute. Stop right there,” Mr. Brook’s voice commanded, interrupting her. “She leapt from a cliff onto a speedin
g train?”

  Brianna blinked. “Of course.”

  “And you continue to read this drivel?”

  “Drivel? What choice did Philomena have? That was the only way to save Prince Harold.”

  Brianna set down her book and turned to pack up the remains of their meal. They had left the Mrs. Wintress and the Olmsby Inn behind hours ago, but their former landlady had been generous in keeping her part of the bargain. In return for the chores they’d performed, she’d supplied them lovely, meaty cottage pies—the crust folded in half so they could eat it with their hands—accompanied by a jug of dark ale. Brianna doled out flaky biscuits dusted with cinnamon sugar for their dessert, but packed up a loaf a bread, a generous chunk of cheese, and a pair of crisp apples, deciding that would suffice for their evening supper.

  “There’s another problem,” said Mr. Brooks. “Wouldn’t he be far more likely to save her? He’s the hero. The Prince of Thorncastle and all that blather. Besides, that’s the man’s job. As the physically superior sex, it’s up to the man to save the woman.”

  “Right…hmm…” She cocked her head, assumed a pose of quiet thoughtfulness, and tapped her finger against her chin. “Let’s see… You mean the way I leapt into that alleyway and saved your life back in Liverpool?”

  An expression of pure disgruntlement darkened his features. “Oh. Well, that…”

  “Yes?” She waited a beat, then prompted, “Do go on, Mr. Brooks. This should be fascinating.”

  “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. If I hadn’t been drugged—” H e stopped abruptly and shook his head, as though catching himself. “You’re right,” he said. His gaze sobered. “If it hadn’t been for you, I doubt I would be alive today. I owe you my life.”

  Brianna’s breath caught. She had somewhat accustomed herself to the man’s breezy charm, his striking good looks, his bold, sexual appeal. But she had no defenses against the thrill of his gaze, particularly when it was leveled upon her with an expression of such naked sincerity. Her insides puddled.

  “Nonsense,” she managed, her voice reed thin. “You owe me what we agreed upon: in return for my fronting all necessary expenditures, you shall repay me three times the cost of getting ourselves to London.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve forgotten I’m traveling with a woman of business.”

  “You are, indeed.”

  A dairy cow detached itself from the herd that had been grazing in the meadow to their north. The beast wandered closer and studied Mr. Brooks with a blank, bovine stare. In a gesture worthy of a grand London salon, he doffed his hat to the cow and gracefully bowed his head. “Your ladyship.”

  The beast snorted and turned away, flicking her tail as she went.

  Brianna laughed. “Your skills with barnyard animals are sorely lacking. Attacked by hens, then receiving a direct cut from a dairy cow. I think next I’d like to see you practice your ballroom dancing with a goat.”

  “The way this journey of ours is going, I wouldn’t be surprised.” He took a swig of ale, then eyed her curiously. “So how are our funds holding up? Will we have enough to make it all the way to London, or shall I expect to sweep chimneys along the way?”

  “Hardly.” She named the sum she’d spent so far, and what she projected he would owe her once their journey ended. He nodded briefly, as though the matter were of little consequence. Or perhaps the opposite was true, Brianna thought. Had she taken advantage of his injured and destitute state? A pang of guilt assaulted her. Surely a valet’s wages had limits, even if his employer was wealthy and generous. “As to the money, if you don’t have enough to—”

  “We stuck a bargain, Mrs. Donnelly. I accepted your terms. Do not go soft on me now.”

  “I wasn’t considering it,” she lied.

  “Excellent.”

  Well. So the man wasn’t to be coddled. Fair enough. She cast a glance his way. Evidently he was in no hurry to resume their walk, for he stretched out his long legs and propped his back against the towering maple under which they’d spread a blanket to enjoy their lunch. Deciding to follow his lead and enjoy the peacefulness of the moment, Brianna removed her bonnet and tilted her face upward, contentedly basking in the brisk autumn sunshine.

  “The way I see it,” she said, “we can have anything we want, we just can’t have it all at once. Take our journey, for instance. We have enough for coach fare, enough for food, and enough for shelter—as long as we don’t expect all three on the same day.”

  “A novel approach to travel.”

  “Just a practical one. Successful, as well. Look at us now. We’ve eaten like kings, we have a glorious day to enjoy the vigor of a brisk walk, and this evening we’ll be able to afford a roof over our heads.”

  “An attitude worthy of Philomena herself.”

  Brianna smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She paused for a moment, thinking, “Life is like that, isn’t it? We can have anything we want, as long as we don’t want too much, or expect it all at once.”

  A mood of relaxed contemplation settled between them, as palpable to her as a shift in the light or a change in the temperature. She felt as though they were cocooned from the rest of the world, enveloped in the contentment of the meal they’d shared and the brilliance of the autumn afternoon.

  “Tell me your name,” he said.

  Their eyes met. A simple question, innocent really, yet it struck her as oddly provocative.

  The memory of their kiss rose in her mind, leaving her breathless and yearning for more. Just one more kiss. One more touch. Ridiculous. But no matter how badly she attempted to project an outward air of cool poise, she was certain Jonathon Brooks could see right through her. Her physical awareness of the man was simply too great to ignore. She recalled her first sip of French champagne, the bubbly excitement of the drink, how it had made her feel giddy and alive, as though the world itself was sparkling and new. She’d felt exactly the same way when he’d wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.

  “Brianna,” she said.

  He repeated her name softly, as though testing it, and then gave a single nod of approval. “And what would you want, Brianna? If you could wish for anything?” His deep baritone was softly coaxing. “Aside from a castle, that is.”

  “I don’t want to own a castle. I merely want to see one.”

  “Duly noted.” He inclined his head. “But you didn’t answer my question. What would you want, if you could wish for anything?”

  “Oh, the usual, I suppose. What most women want.”

  “Hmmm.” He picked up a twig and absently twirled it between his fingers, reciting as he did, “Necklaces studded with diamonds, satin slippers, a different evening gown for every day of the month, earbobs made of—”

  “Nothing of the sort,” she protested with a laugh. “I want work that is worthwhile and a pleasant home in which to live. I want good food to eat, good books to read, and good friends with whom I can share a laugh.”

  “A worthy list,” he said. “Very well. No satin slippers for you, though I understand they were all the rage in London last season.”

  Brianna paused. Her gaze traveled over Mr. Brooks. How was it possible for a man to exude such supreme confidence, even while at rest? How could he appear so unbearably handsome, without even the slightest effort?

  She imagined him in London, dressed in finery and attending some posh event. Money did not seem to be a concern, so once he finished his duties as a valet, he would want to enjoy himself. A thrilling day at the races, perhaps. Strolling through Coventry Gardens, shopping in Piccadilly, or enjoying an afternoon tea. She’d never seen any of these things firsthand, but she had read about them in the newspapers and travelogues that landed on Canton’s shores.

  She let the fantasy play itself out. Naturally, Mr. Brooks would not be alone. From a purely analytical point of view, he was too potent a male specimen to be ignored. He would be accompanied by some equally elegant woman. A woman who clung ferociously to his arm. A tall,
slender, beautiful, sophisticated woman with long golden hair and ridiculously large bosoms. A woman who would never ask him to gather eggs, help hang the laundry, or chop wood. And who would never, ever use the word pecker in mixed company, or any company at all. A woman who was nothing like her. Best she keep that in mind.

  Turning away from him, she packed up their impromptu meal and deposited the remains in the basket Mrs. Wintress had provided them.

  “I’m not the type of woman to wear satin slippers,” she said.

  He arched a dark blond brow in surprise. “There’s a type of woman who wears satin slippers?”

  “Yes. Women whose toes don’t get cold.” She rose and brushed a crushed leaf from her skirt. “Speaking of feet, we should put ours to use, or we’ll never make it to the next inn by nightfall.”

  * * *

  The scenery, Jonathon thought, had grown a bit monotonous. He and Brianna—a lovely name, that—strolled along a rutted dirt road framed by split-rail fences and rolling pastures, farms and barns. He should have enjoyed the walk. Instead, faced with the gentle monotony of the vista, his mind had begun to direct itself in a more stimulating direction. Clouds in the shape of breasts drifted through the sky. The fence was testicle high. Roosters released orgasmic crows. He found it perversely difficult to maintain a clean train of thought. His traveling companion had that effect on him.

  “What sort of name is Brianna?” he asked, endeavoring to pull his thoughts out of the gutter.

  “Welsh, actually.”

  “I thought you said your father was English.”

  “He was. But the midwife who attended my birth was Welsh.” Her lopsided smile returned. “It means strong, fearless fighter. I was very small when I was born. Apparently the midwife was astonished that I lived at all. She’s the one who christened me.”

  The name suited her, Jonathon thought. Of course she would fight. From what he’d seen of Mrs. Brianna Donnelly, she’d been a warrior princess from the moment she entered the world.