by Shana Galen
“I want you,” he said, ripping the little white ruffle away from her neck and chest. “Tell me you want me, too.”
He bent to savage her neck, kissing it, finding the tender places that made her moan. She brushed her hand over the hand length of him, and he reared back again. “Tell me you want me.”
“Armand, I don’t think we should—”
“Lies. Your words are lies. Your body does not lie.” He pulled at her sleeves, pushing them down until the roundness of her breasts was exposed. He lowered his mouth, ran his tongue over the swell, dipped into the valley.
“Tell me you want me.” His hand was loosening the fastenings at the back of her gown, shoving it down so he could push her undergarments aside. There was the sound of material ripping, and then she was once again bare before him. In the light of day, he could see she was as pale as cream. Her nipples were dark and stood out like hard berries. He touched them, rubbing his thumbs over them, and her head fell back in pleasure.
He moved her backward, toward the bed, and eased her onto it. Pausing for only a second, he ripped his shirt over his head then freed his erection. She watched him through lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling, and he pressed bare skin to skin and put his mouth on hers again.
Her mouth was so sweet. He could not get enough of it, and she met his kisses with feverish ones of her own. His hand was under her skirts, trailing up her leg, past the knee, touching her thigh until he reached the vee he sought.
She was hot and wet, and his fingers slid easily inside her. “Tell me you want me.” He looked down at her, her cheeks red, her eyes dark blue, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breaths. He did now know if he felt this love she spoke of, but at this moment, it was the closest thing he could understand to it.
“I want you,” she murmured. “I want you, Armand.” He slid his finger in and out, and she bucked against him. “I need you. I love you. Oh, hurry!”
And then he was inside her, and he forgot all about winning, because she was his.
***
Every part of her was on fire with need. She needed his mouth on her mouth. She needed his hands on her breasts—they ached for his touch—and she needed him inside her. Blissfully, he was inside her. She realized now she was still slightly sore from the night before, but her need was so great she could forget the slight discomfort. He was moving within her, his chest grazing hers, his mouth against her ear, and she wanted to scream more. She did not think she could ever get enough of this—of him.
“Felicity,” he whispered, and she pulled him closer even as the pleasure began to crest. He moved again, sending her crashing over, and she called out and rose to meet him. She could feel his release, as well, feel him swell inside her, and then go still. She dug her fingers into his back and pulled him close.
“Armand.”
There was nothing but the two of them in that moment. No Charles, no one hundred pounds, no looming scandal and prison. It was just the two of them, and she wished she could stop this moment, so it would always be this way. But gradually, the fog of pleasure subsided, and the world intruded once again.
Armand levered himself on his elbows and looked down at her, his cobalt eyes so impossibly dark she thought she could lose herself in them. And the look he gave her. No man had ever looked at her that way—probably no man would again. “You’re mine,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “Mine.”
She sighed and struggled to get out from under him. He rolled to one side, and she shoved her skirts down and tugged her bodice up. Outside the room, she heard the footsteps of a passing maid. Curses! She could only imagine her embarrassment if anyone should find them now. Had she even locked the door?
“Armand,” she said, turning to him. She had to draw a breath quickly. He was so impossibly alluring. He sat naked and unashamed, his body surprisingly muscular for someone who had been imprisoned for so long. His hair was down about his shoulders. She longed to run a hand through the tangles and put them to rights. But that would ruin the dissipated look of him. And with his smoky eyes, his full lips, and the stubble on his jaw, he made quite the picture. Any woman would swoon.
She must be strong.
“Armand,” she said more firmly this time. He looked at her and smiled lazily. It was the kind of smile that made her want to fly right back into his arms.
But she would not do that.
“I understand you want to marry me.”
“Julien will arrange it. Then you’ll go to Southampton. You will be safe there.”
But she wouldn’t be safe in Southampton. Charles could find her there. His accusations could find her there. She had never been a coward, but her every instinct told her to run from Charles, to hide somewhere he would never find her.
And that meant leaving Armand. “I can’t think about marriage right now,” she told Armand. But the more she looked at him, the more she wished it were possible. What would it be like to wake up every morning beside this man? To have those cobalt eyes look at her like that every night? To touch that body whenever she wanted…
Best not to think of that.
He was scowling at her. “Are you telling me no?”
“Yes.”
He rose, put his hands on his hips.
“Really, you should put some clothes on,” she said, turning away so she would not be distracted. “I’m not saying no, I’m saying I need time to think. So much has happened, and so soon. I need time to gather my thoughts and consider my options.” She needed to think of a way to escape Charles, a way out of this mess. She would not allow him to hurt Armand. Charles could hurt her, but she would protect Armand.
Armand was behind her, his hands on her arms. Was he still naked? Of course he was! How was she supposed to have this conversation with him if he was naked? “You think too much, Felicity. You talk too much. You want me. Admit it, and we will be married.”
“I do want you,” she said because it was so obviously the truth. “But I must have time to deal with Charles and our betrothal.”
He nodded stiffly, his jaw tight. “I’m not going to beg you.”
“I would never ask you to. All I am asking is for time.” Time to think of a plan, a way out.
“And what if we don’t have time? Marius and his son will be back. They know I am the key to the treasure. They will not stop until they have it.”
“Marius? Is that the small man’s name?”
He looked momentarily surprised, as though the information was new to him. Perhaps it was. “Yes. I-I just remembered. The son… I cannot think—”
“That’s all right. You’ll remember, given time. And if you have their names, you can go to the magistrate. Those men can be locked away.”
He shook his head, and the look on his face made her feel as though she were a child. “Do you think it’s so easy?”
“I don’t know, but I do know your brother is a powerful man. Perhaps there is something he can do.”
“There is something we will do. We will face these men and kill them.”
She blinked and took a step back. “I don’t think—”
“It’s the only way for me to be free. When they return, Julien and I will kill them. But I want you and ma mère and Sarah far away.”
Felicity looked down and noted her hands were twisted together, and she was wringing them. “Have you told the dowager and the duchesse you want us to leave?”
“No. But I’ve made my decision.”
Of course he had. Why worry about consulting others? That was just a social grace he had no use for. “Then I suppose I had better make up my mind soon, as well.”
But her mind had been made up. She stayed in her room all night, grateful the family left her alone. She paced the floors until the wee hours, trying to think of a way out of her predicament. Neither of Charles’s ultimatums was agreeable to her: accuse Arma
nd of rape or face Newgate and a murder charge.
She might run, but would she have to hide forever?
What if she could acquire the one hundred pounds without accusing Armand? She could ask the duc. He would give her the money. But if she were able to acquire funds, wouldn’t Charles simply want more? This nightmare would never be over unless…
Unless she were no longer available to blackmail. She did not want to face murder charges, but it was the only way. She would turn herself into the authorities and tell them the truth. She would tell them what Charles had said, his plan to trap her, and if she were not believed or if she were implicated, as well, then so be it. It would not leave Armand out of the scandal completely. After all, the two of them were linked, but it would keep him from being charged with murder. It might not save her.
The idea of prison scared her; the idea of hanging terrified her. But Armand had faced years of prison and survived. She might have to do the same.
What other choice did she have?
When morning came, she went over her plan once more then walked resolutely to the duc’s study. She wanted to speak with him and Armand, tell them her plan, ask for their support. She wanted to explain all before Charles came for her.
But the butler informed her all but the duchesse were away from the house, and the duchesse was feeling ill this morning. Felicity cursed her indecision. Now she would have to wait until they returned to go to the magistrate. She hoped Charles did not come first. She gave the butler strict instructions not to admit Mr. St. John then went to the garden to wait for Armand. She knew he would go there immediately upon returning.
Outside the weather was cold and windy. The sky loomed gray and rain threatened. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and paced. Finally, she made her way to the gazebo. The memories she shared with Armand there warmed her.
She heard steps and turned, expecting Armand. But her breath caught in her throat.
Charles smiled. “You thought you could avoid me.”
“No. I—”
“You had the butler turn me away.”
“I—” Think, Felicity. “I don’t have the money yet. I was waiting for the duc to return with the funds.”
He pointed his walking stick at her, and she couldn’t help but think of the blade concealed beneath it. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“The weather is not conducive to walking.” Indeed a cold drizzle had begun to fall. “Why don’t we wait for the duc inside? You could have a cup of tea.” She cursed herself for straying as far as the gazebo. She couldn’t even see the house from here.
“I don’t care about the weather.” The wind whipped his greatcoat around his ankles. “You are coming with me.”
She thought about screaming but feared he would hurt her before anyone could reach her. But once they were on the street, others would see her. She could run, beg for assistance.
She made her way out of the garden, Charles following. They took the side gate, but when they reached the street, Felicity did not see anyone about. The rain had kept many inside today, but she knew someone would be along. She needed to distract Charles for only a few minutes.
Charles turned to face her. “Where is the money?”
Her heart pounded, and she tried to steady her voice and breathing. “I-I told you. The duc has it. If we could wait inside—”
“It’s too late for that,” he said, and she stiffened in alarm. She had her back to the street, and now she glanced from side to side, hoping to spot someone, anyone who might help.
“What do you mean?” she asked. Another moment or two. Surely a carriage would come along…
She waited for Charles to say something, anything, but he was silent. Eerily silent. He didn’t look at her, seemed distracted by something.
“Charles?” she said when he still didn’t speak.
He glanced at her briefly then away again. She didn’t know what response she expected, but certainly not this one. Why did he not explode? Why did he not threaten her?
The sounds of the city filled the silence—a vendor calling out his wares on another street, church bells ringing, and the clop of horses’ hooves as a carriage neared.
Thank God!
She turned to call out for assistance, but her cry died on her lips. The carriage had stopped and the small man—Armand’s Marius—was coming toward her. She tried to scream, to run, but Charles grabbed her an instant before the holland cover was thrown over her head and her world went dark.
Eighteen
“We thank you for your service, monsieur. You are free to go now.”
“Thank you, but I want to make sure she’s unharmed.”
Felicity blinked, still wrapped in darkness. She was lying on something hard and cold. Oh, how her head ached. The darkness spun, and she realized she must have hit her head in her fall. She tried to draw a deep breath and felt the stifling material suck in around her.
“You were not as concerned about that when we made our agreement. You have been paid. Your part, monsieur, is complete.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
She recognized Charles’s voice and knew he was talking about her. With some effort, she tried to sit, to scream, but the blackness just spun faster.
“That information was not part of our arrangement.” That voice she did not recognize, but it was heavily tinged with French. “Now, say au revoir. You do not want me to get nasty.”
Felicity shivered as the pieces began to come together. The small man, Marius, and his son. Charles had given her to them, and now he was going to leave her, abandon her to whatever scheme they had concocted to get to Armand and the treasure. Perhaps they thought she knew something about the treasure.
Or perhaps they were just going to kill her. What had the brick said? We will crush you?
“You should have paid me, Felicity,” she heard Charles say. His voice grew softer, and Felicity knew he was being led away. Led where? Where was she? She was no longer outside. They had taken her inside. She was lying on a floor of some sort.
“I didn’t want it to come to this,” Charles said.
She hated him, and at the same time she wanted to call out, to beg him not to leave her alone with these two men. How could he do this to her? This was far beyond asking for money. Had he sold her? Charles would not do that, would he?
“Chérie…” The voice was soft and close to her ear. Through the holland cover, she could feel the warm breath, smell its rankness.
She stilled completely, pretending to be unconscious. “I know you are awake, chérie. Your friend is gone.”
Felicity squeezed her eyes shut. She had to think of a plan to escape. Charles was gone and would not have helped her if he’d been there. She had not seen this coming. But now that she was in this predicament, she had to find a way to return to Berkeley Square. She could tell Armand and his brother where Marius was hiding. Together they could go to the magistrate.
Suddenly, the holland cover was whipped away, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. The world spun again, but gradually everything came into focus. Marius held a candle and squatted beside her, his son behind him, holding the holland cover.
“Ah, yes. You’re a pretty one. I can see why he likes you. What is your name?”
She stared at him, keeping her mouth firmly closed. She was not going to speak to these criminals. She would not give them any information. She looked past the son, looked about her surroundings.
She was in a house, in a parlor of some sort. The place looked to be abandoned. What furnishings there were lay covered in white, and heavy drapes blocked out the windows. But she noted immediately the door to the parlor was open. If she could dash past her captors and reach the front door, she could make it on to the street. She didn’t know her way back to the Valères’ town house, but if she were away, she could hail a cab.
She prayed she was still in London. She must be. She couldn’t have been unconscious long…
“No answer?” Marius leaned closer, his fetid breath feathering over her cheek. “Ah, of course. How rude of me. I have not introduced myself.” He gave her a short, mock bow. “I am Marius, and this is my son Claude. We are old friends of your lover, the comte de Valère. Perhaps he mentioned us to you?”
She stared past him at the door. Claude was so large that if she could move quickly enough, she might be able to evade him. Marius was small and possibly more agile, but he was not young.
“Are you thinking you can escape, chérie?”
She flicked her eyes to his and saw his knowing smile. His teeth were jagged, almost as though they had been filed to sharp points.
“You will not escape. We have plans for you.” He signaled to Claude, who lumbered forward and, with no more strength than it would take her to lift a kitten, picked her up off the floor and set her on her feet. “Now, are you going to tell me your name, or does Claude need to ask you?”
She glanced at Claude, who clasped his hands and cracked his knuckles. She had the feeling she did not want Claude to ask her any questions.
“Felicity Bennett.” Her voice was raspy and hoarse, but at least it did not tremble as her body insisted upon doing.
“Merci, Mademoiselle Bennett. And might I ask why you are living with the duc de Valère and his family?”
A dozen answers ran through her brain. Should she tell the truth? If she did, would that hurt Armand? But what if Marius knew she was lying? She looked at Claude again. He was studying his knuckles, which were the size of small plums. “I’m a servant. I was employed as the comte de Valère’s tutor.”
“Is that what they call it these days?” Marius smiled and glanced at his son. They seemed to share a private joke. “We saw you in the garden the other night. That was an interesting lesson.”
Felicity shivered now in disgust. The idea that these two had witnessed something as private and intimate as her lovemaking with Armand made her ill.