“Brat!” He gave her bottom a sound swat with the flat of his sword as she danced past him.
She repaid him by turning his cravat into a handkerchief. Ren’s eyes narrowed. She’d been going for the hood!
Damn it. She was going to get past his defenses. He could not manage a full frontal assault with his shoulder damaged and she wasn’t holding back in the slightest. Indeed, she seemed to be relishing it.
He needed to tire her out, or make her careless, distract her … he grinned beneath his shadowed covering.
Whish. The other sleeve of her gown parted. With no buttons to hold the bodice high, she was now fighting half exposed, her left hand clutching her shredded gown to her bare bosom.
She looked like a goddess on the run. He wanted her so fiercely he could scarcely take a step for the ache in his groin. She noted his arousal, her glance widening as she understood just how the stakes were rising.
“Calliope,” he growled. “Drop your sword … or drop your gown.”
She regarded him with a cocked head for a moment, then boldly released the bodice of her gown, letting it fall. It slipped down, past her waist, leaving her standing topless, wielding a sword, wearing only a sheer pair of pantalets.
She looked like a pirate’s dream.
Ren’s coat fell off in three pieces. Damn. She’d distracted him with all that luminous ivory flesh. God, didn’t she look delicious against the setting sun, naked in his library—surely he’d suffered some sort of fever dream. Surely he did not have this nimble creature, eyes flashing, sword swishing through the air … oh, hell. Quick!
He disarmed her with a twist of his wrist and some bloody good luck, though he would never admit it. It was quite validating, the way her sword spun away to imbed its point into the opposite wall. Startled, her eyes wide, she held out both hands. “I surrender, Mr. Porter. That was well…”
Snick. Whish.
The ties of her pantalets were no more. Her undergarment fell to the floor to tangle about her ankles. She gasped and stumbled back, falling on her bottom on the carpet.
Ren advanced upon her. She tried to scramble away. He went down upon one knee, planting it upon her ruined pantalets, pinning her in place, with the fabric tight about her ankles. Looming over her, he put the point of the sword just below her chin.
“Say it.”
She gazed at him through wide eyes. “I … I surrender.”
He lifted the sword away, then used his wrists to part her knees wide. Then wider still. “Say it.”
Her breath began to come fast. She lay back upon the floor. “I surrender,” she said softly.
“Close your eyes and reach your hands above your head.”
She did so, crossing her wrists and immediately becoming his maddest, wettest fantasy come to light.
He traced the cold flat of his blade down between her breasts so gently there wasn’t even the hint of a mark left behind. “Do you grant the field?”
She inhaled sharply, her breath a shiver, her breasts quivering. The cold steel touched her belly. She sucked another shuddering breath. “I grant the field,” she whispered.
Ren laid the sword aside and covered her labia with his hands. “This field. Is it mine?”
Callie lay trembling, her eyes closed, her hands clasped tight above her head, her ankles tethered by his weight. She felt open, helpless, conquered. “Oh, yes.”
There came the familiar rustle of his hood being removed. Then his mouth—hot, seeking, unerring—
She cried aloud at the pleasure. It was mad, wicked, outrageous to taste her there … she’d never known. Never …
In an instant she was his, aroused, swollen with lust, damp with it, and he took it. He spared her nothing. Lips, tongue, teeth, nibbling, licking, oh, sweet heaven, licking and teasing and delving deep to taste the inside of her …
She cried out recklessly, in total abandon, spread before him on the carpet like a madman’s drunken feast. There was no end to his mouth, it was everywhere, she could not bear it.
“Screaming will not aid you,” he growled into her wet, throbbing flesh. “Although you should feel free to try.”
She screamed. She howled, she begged, not knowing what she begged for …
He thrust a large finger deep into her and she came apart, shuddering as great wicked waves of pleasure stole her breath. He thrust his finger again and again as he used his mouth on her like a well-wrought weapon. She gave way before him, laying down arms, surrendering completely. She writhed, she bucked, she undulated at his every motion, yet it was not enough for him. He took her again and again with his mouth. He made her rise and come again and yet again, relentless, turning her into a shivering, sweat-soaked shell of a being, with nothing to say but hoarse moans and helpless whimpers.
After her third orgasm, she lay limp and exhausted. Her mind slipped sideways. Her only coherent thought, Will he take me now? Will he make me his at last?
He did not. Instead, he withdrew his wet hand from her and gently urged her parted knees together. She rolled to her side, gasping and dizzy. She wasn’t truly aware of him walking away from her. She merely felt chilled and abruptly alone. She opened her eyes.
On the carpet a few inches from her nose lay a single pearl.
And there were hundreds to go …
I shall not survive this.
* * *
Ren left the library at a near-run, lurching down the hall to the stairs. He leaned on the newel post for a long moment, fighting back the impulse to take his wife hard and fast on the carpet, plowing her in the library like a couple of randy servants. Calliope. She was delicious, so sweet and abandoned and willing, and he was a bastard, making a twisted game out of her first adventures in lovemaking.
Yet, he wanted her so badly that the thought simply pounded through him like his own pulse. He ached for her, ached for release, ached to be touched, to be held, to be … to be loved. The answer should have been to fill her with such lust that she’d be willing to tolerate him, but now he wanted more. He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. Not for pearls and not for wealth, not even for pity.
If only he were still a man.
As he was, he might be able to make her cry out at his touch. He might be able to ignite her body, but there was more … so much more … to sweet Calliope than simply her lovely body.
Damn it to hell, he wanted it all.
He ran a shaking hand over his face. His beard scratched at his palm. He’d scraped her skin with it, as well. Her thighs had been afire with the abrasiveness of his beard. He’d only grown it out of indifference. What did it matter if he shaved, when no one saw him without the hood?
Now he had a reason to return to a smooth face. It wasn’t as though the beard did much to hide the scars anyway. Surely it only made him look wilder and less human.
When he’d stood in the doorway of the library he’d realized that he liked her. Could it … would it ever be possible for her to like him?
Yet, why should she? What had he ever done to deserve her good favor?
It was a strange and chilling realization, to understand how restricted he’d become, how selfish. His thoughts scarcely ever left his own doom.
Callie baked him cake and washed windows and wrapped up bloody ginger for the village, disastrous though it might be for them. Callie took care of her ridiculous parents and her outrageous siblings and now she took care of him.
The gears of giving were rusty with disuse, but Ren resolved to think about what he might do for Callie, not simply to make her like him, but because it was high time someone did!
* * *
Callie spent the first part of the next morning repairing her damaged gown. Sitting in the sun-drenched window seat of the library, she painstakingly stitched up the torn sleeves and replaced the buttons. The search for those had cost her many minutes of crawling about the carpet.
She’d done that already once, when he’d startled her in her room the other night. By all rights, she ought to ha
ve been furious at the damage, but even as she bent over her sewing, she could not keep a small smile of remembered pleasure from tracing her lips. What a ridiculously wicked night it had been. At the thought of cold steel on her skin she shivered.
I’d certainly like to do that again sometime.
It wasn’t the sword fight or the way he’d sliced her gown from her—although that had been exciting indeed, like something from a very naughty pirate story!—it was him, Mr. Porter, and the way he made her feel when his hot hands shook with longing and his voice dropped low with need.
I wonder if it is possible to love someone you’ve never seen?
The sunlight made her feel sleepy and the thoughts of pleasure and sewing and wonder began to mingle in her mind.
There was more to the act, she knew it. Which meant he’d fled her again, just when she’d been quite willing to welcome him into her body to slake his own desire. He’d given her so much bliss, she was beginning to feel a bit guilty about having the lion’s share of the fun.
Yet, was she truly ready? She had no sentimental attachment to her virginity, other than the need to remain respectable for the sake of her family. What could be more respectable than to consummate her marriage with her husband? Yet in so many ways, Mr. Porter was still a stranger to her. How could she give herself to someone when he would not even show her his face?
She leaned her head against the window glass, her hands dropping to her lap, her sewing nearly forgotten as she gazed dreamily out at the vivid landscape. Who was he? How had he come to be the way he was? What sort of man was he? He wasn’t unkind … yet neither was he precisely kind. He lived in this fine house, yet he did nothing to improve it. He had the eye and ear of the village, yet he did nothing to benefit his people. His family awaited his attention, yet he barely spoke to them. Could that be a good man?
Yes, he’d rescued her, risking himself to keep her from breaking on the cobbles of the yard, yet he’d been perfectly willing to die at Dade’s hand. Perhaps it hadn’t been a risk of anything he hadn’t been willing to lose.
Mr. Porter was indeed a puzzle.
A dark flutter at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She turned her head to catch it, idly sharpening her empty gaze a little. What she saw so jolted her that she sat upright and pressed one hand upon the glass. There, at the end of the lawn, between two shady trees, stood a man.
Callie had explored that area only a few days ago, so she knew the true size of those trees and that they seemed much smaller at a distance. The man, therefore, must be a giant.
Callie held very still, wishing she hadn’t moved so abruptly, hoping he hadn’t caught the motion, hoping that he couldn’t see her in her pale gown, sitting in the sun … it was worth wishing for at any rate. The man’s features were hidden beneath his shapeless hat … she cast a glance about the library over her shoulder, wondering if there might be a telescopic viewer somewhere about.
When she turned back to the window, the figure was gone. Though she strained her eyes searching the shadows, there was nothing where he’d stood but two majestic trees.
Tap, tap.
Callie’s heart thudded in her chest, but it was only the front door knocker. When she answered, she found that Betrice and Henry had sent over the mare they’d promised to loan her. The pretty red-coated creature danced at the end of the groom’s lead, already wearing a lady’s sidesaddle and bridle, ready for a ride.
The groom promised to prepare a stall for her in Mr. Porter’s stables so that all Callie would have to do was to unsaddle her and shut her in after her ride.
Hesitantly, Callie agreed. She knew how to ride, of course, but there was a bit of difference between posting sedately down Rotten Row in London with her brothers at her side and spending all day on horseback in the countryside.
Sally was the name of the horse. “Hello, Sally. You have very nice … ears. Very delicate and, ah, pointy,” Callie told her. Perhaps it was silly to compliment an animal, but Callie had learned long ago that being nice never did any harm.
The aforementioned ears swiveled forward at her voice and Callie felt herself quite thoroughly inspected by the creature.
Female, not heavy, and not particularly strong. No problem.
Callie lifted her chin. “Do not underestimate me, Sally. I raised four younger brothers. Worthington boys, yet. I can handle you.”
Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw a little of the smugness fade from Sally’s limpid brown eye.
The groom had left to see to his duties in the stable, so Callie tethered Sally to the iron circle imbedded into the post out front and ran lightly back into the house to fetch her drawing supplies. With Sally, it would only take minutes to ride into the village to consult with Mr. Button about the ball. That would leave the rest of the day free to explore the valley and add to her collected specimens!
She donned her spencer quickly and changed into her walking boots. With no proper riding habit, she would make a silly show riding in her gown, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least the saddle was not astride!
Chapter 17
Calliope left the house so swiftly that it was all Ren could do to saddle his own horse and gallop down the lane after her. Henry’s groom simply nodded respectfully when Ren rode by him in a rush, as if hooded madmen were an everyday occurrence. Ren spared a thought to wonder if Henry would lend him the fellow. Calliope was quite correct. They truly did need a staff about the place.
Once into the rhythm of the ride—once upon a time he could stay in the saddle for hours, even days if required—inevitably his thoughts turned back to his night with her … sword fighting in the library … Calliope on the floor before him, conquered and helpless … her shameless cries of lust and longing …
It wasn’t long before he spotted Calliope on Henry’s new filly, far before him. She slowed as she turned into the village lane, so Ren pulled the reins just past the bridge. It was just in time. Riding astride with an erection was ill-advised. He would linger out of sight until she finished her business in Amberdell.
He felt oddly alive … alive and lusty and prone to daydreaming about hot, wet, sweet places. And yards of pale ivory legs. And creamy breasts topped with raspberry nipples.
And long, honey-mead hair spilling across his chest. And a gamine grin. And teasing hazel eyes that looked directly at him …
He shifted restlessly on his mount, making the gelding sidle and snort. God, now he was infecting his horse with his agitation.
Would she never finish her business in Amberdell?
He cast an impatient gaze about the area. She could not have passed him, could she? No, he was being rid—
A chill went through him. There, on the crest of a small hill, as still as the great limestone boulders that had hidden him, there was the silhouette of a man—a giant.
Ren had known a giant once … a killer, the most dangerous man Ren had ever encountered. Once they had been on the same side, and Ren had even felt a wary camaraderie with the fellow.
But he had been betrayed and had turned his back on that man and all his kind.
Surely that man was still safely in London, where he could do no harm to Ren and what he held as his. Surely.
Yet, there were not so many giants in the world. When the man turned away, disappearing over the crest of the hill, Ren nudged his gelding into a trot, heading for the mound of boulders. He simply had to be sure.
* * *
As she neared the village, Callie dismounted. Leading Sally would perhaps lessen the impact of her incorrect riding attire. Oh, where were her clothes?
Dade, I am going to eviscerate you.
There was a horse post outside the smithy. Callie left Sally there, where the smith’s young son stared adoringly at the bay filly. “She’s a right one!”
With her borrowed mount in caring hands, Callie knew she could take her time in the village … whether she liked it or not. Still, there was business to be done. First, sh
e posted a letter home, relating a great deal about the house and village and nothing at all about Mr. Porter—and nagging, er, reminding her family to send her things on.
When she entered the post office, dead silence fell upon the half-dozen people within. They parted before her, mostly women and a few elder men—for of course the able-bodied men would be doing something farmish on such a fine spring day—and allowed her passage directly to the postmistress.
Callie smiled and handed over her letter, trying for some harmless commentary on the fine weather.
“Naught but too dry, it is, missus.”
Callie translated the woman’s thick Gloucestershire as, “Good weather is bad in the spring when we need the rain.”
Her smile faltering slightly, Callie nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I was only admiring the wildflowers.”
The woman slid her eyes to the others waiting behind Callie. Someone grunted. “Weeds.”
“Yes, well … Good day.”
She fled.
Outside, she felt resentful gazes following her like vengeful wasps. It was only a few steps past the church and school, yet to Callie it felt like miles. In truth, the entire village wasn’t much more than a collection of smithy, church, shops, and, down closer to the river, a mill. Callie had yet to see the place on market day, when everyone from the surrounding farms would come in to trade, but on a day like this the village almost seemed oppressive, as if occupied by nothing but pessimists and naysayers.
If ever a place needed a ball, it was this one.
At last Callie entered Mr. Button’s shop—or rather, Madame Longett’s shop where Mr. Button seemed to have taken over. She was dismayed to find herself at the end of a long queue of customers. There was no parting of the seas for her this time. Even in the country, fashion was a deadly serious matter.
However, Mr. Button spotted her at once and waved an assistant over to take his place serving a stout matron who seemed to be dithering over a selection of lace. Callie was distracted by the highly ornamental fellow. Goodness, he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen! Elektra would be beside herself.
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