Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  She couldn’t move away. She was against the bedpost. “What?”

  “Make a choice. Pay the price I want, right now, and tomorrow I’ll win the tiara and give it back to you. Refuse me, and the tiara is forever beyond your reach.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Have you lost your mind?” Madeline thrust at Gabriel’s shoulders. “My father might arrive tomorrow.”

  “He might,” Gabriel readily acknowledged. “Then he’ll use the tiara as ante, and your family heirloom will be gone.”

  “Unless I can talk him out of it.” Which she would do.

  “Unless you can.” Clearly, Gabriel didn’t have faith in her persuasive powers.

  “When I do talk him out of playing, I still will have had you. An infamous bargain, Gabriel. Infamous!”

  “Yes.” He stroked his thumb around her nipple in a slow, gentle circle.

  Shoving his hand aside, she said, “Don’t.” But that familiar thrill raced up her spine. That reckless weakness attacked her knees. This was Gabriel, and as always, just being in his vicinity made her want more than was proper. Made her need . . . too much.

  He massaged the tense muscle above her collarbone. “Like any good gambler, you must weigh the odds and make your move.”

  Her chest rose and fell as she stared at him, considered him . . . weighed the odds. Would her father arrive in time? Perhaps. Probably. But if he didn’t . . . she could save the queen’s tiara with one simple act. “Infamous,” she muttered again. She could hear Mr. Rumbelow’s boots descending the stairs, and she almost hoped he would appear and rescue her . . . by shooting Gabriel. But that wouldn’t be a rescue. She wasn’t so far gone as to believe that. And they needed to get this settled before Rumbelow appeared. “Are we going to kiss? If we are, we need to proceed.”

  Gabriel leaned his body against hers, apparently at ease. “First you need to make a choice.”

  The man was insane! “We’re going to get caught.”

  “Choose.”

  She kept her voice low, but indignation vibrated from her very being. “You might not win.”

  “Even the best of gamblers have bad luck,” he conceded.

  But not Gabriel. He had more than luck. She was well acquainted with his wiliness and his razor-sharp brain.

  She tried to be sensible. In more ways than one, he had backed her into a corner.

  What did it matter, really? She’d slept with Gabriel before. She’d already seen his naked body, already taken him and been taken by him. It wasn’t as if she were a virgin. Just . . . almost a virgin.

  She turned her head away from him and stared at the partially opened door. A door that seemed miles and years away from her.

  But to sleep with . . . no, call it what it was, to fornicate with Gabriel, after she’d spent four long years getting over him. Four long years remembering the way he had grabbed her, kissed her, ignored her protestations. Remembering how she’d lost her temper with him. That temper had turned to passion. That passion had become a feral demand for satisfaction, and he had been happy to provide it. The pain of his penetration had been intense, but quickly over. The pleasure he forced her to experience had branded her, haunted her, revisited her time and again.

  And now he wanted her to experience that pleasure again? Would it be another four years before she forgot this night?

  “Choose.” He demanded an answer, unyielding in expression and stance.

  She had a choice . . . but not really. Because Gabriel was right. The only reliable characteristic her father exhibited was unreliability.

  “All right,” she snapped.

  “All right what?”

  Down the corridor, she could hear Rumbelow open the first door. “Gabriel, he’s coming!”

  With a lamentable lack of concern, he insisted, “Tell me what you’re agreeing to.”

  Show that she understood all the ramifications of her decision, he meant. In a disgruntled whisper, she said, “I’ll sleep with you, and if you have the chance—if my father doesn’t arrive—you will win back that tiara by fair means or foul.”

  “You’ll sleep with me for as long as I require? You’ll come to my bed of your own free will now, before I’ve won you the tiara, and after, for as long as I wish to hold you?”

  She straightened so fast, she almost smacked his chin with her head. “That wasn’t the bargain.”

  “It wasn’t the bargain I originally demanded, my darling.” His hands traveled up her back. “But you didn’t accept those terms.”

  She wanted to stomp her foot, but that would be immature—and Rumbelow stalked toward their door. “This isn’t fair!”

  “Life isn’t fair, and the man who holds the trump makes the conditions.” Kindly, Gabriel explained, “That would be me.”

  “I know who holds the trump! But what about my position in society? What about Mr. Knight? If I agree to this, I can never marry for fear you’ll invoke your wretched condition!” She pointed toward the door and reminded, “And that man has a gun.”

  “I promise to be discreet and safeguard your position in society. I promise that, if you don’t take care of Mr. Knight, I will. And I promise, when you have said your wedding vows, our bargain is ended.”

  He hid a trap among his promises, but look though she did, she couldn’t see it. She weighed the odds, she decided this was the right thing to do, so why should she cavil now because he wanted more than she expected? Ways existed to avoid him.

  Of course, she’d already fled to the continent once, and he would be on the alert for a trick. She looked at him, brown, strong, grim and watchful. He had a score to settle with her, and he wanted her. A fatal combination. So she would just have to think of another ploy to escape him. “All shall be as you command.”

  He failed to note her sarcasm. “Do you promise that all shall be as I command?”

  “You doubt my word—”

  “For good reason.”

  “—so what is the point of extracting my promise?”

  “I want to see what four years in exile has taught you. I want to know who you are.”

  That sounded more like a threat than anything else he had said. “You know who I am.”

  “I know who you were—a woman of passion and fire, too frightened by experience to give yourself to me. Is that still who you are, Madeline? Or have you grown into the woman you can be?”

  “That’s stupid.” That’s frightening. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “It would be true. I didn’t win myself that fortune out of love for you. I won it to salvage my pride, so I wouldn’t be your dependent. What a couple of cowards we were!”

  She didn’t like this. He seemed to have looked beyond the events of four years ago into the reasons behind them.

  To carry a grudge was easier. To cherish her anger kept her strong. She wouldn’t make another mistake so long as she concentrated on Gabriel’s sins and never, ever tried to look at matters from his perspective.

  She wanted this conversation to stop. Now. “For God’s sake, Gabriel, Rumbelow’s almost here!”

  “So he is.”

  Finally, she gave Gabriel what he wanted. “I promise to do all that you command—in bed.”

  “In bed is not the correct term.” He watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Sexually. You promise to do all that I command . . . sexually.”

  She nodded.

  “Say it.”

  She recognized what he was doing, making her say words that no lady should even know.

  And that was only the start. She would get through this ordeal with her dignity intact. She wouldn’t betray herself. Surely her uncertainties were buried deeply enough to remain undiscovered. “I promise to do all that you command . . . sexually.”

  Her gown fell forward around her shoulders. He’d been unbuttoning long before she’d agreed to his terms.

  Before she could do more than gasp and grab for the neckline, he’d wrapped his arm around her waist, lifted her skirt wit
h one hand and kissed her with the passion of a lover long denied. For all its suddenness, his ardor was real, and as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, she grappled with the overwhelming sense of intrusion. Grabbing at his hair, she tugged hard.

  He growled and, with his hand on her thigh, brought her leg up around his waist.

  From the door, she heard a triumphant chuckle. Mr. Rumbelow laughed at them! Mortified, she tried to push Gabriel away.

  His hunched shoulders blocked her face from Mr. Rumbelow’s gaze. His eyes burned as he turned his head toward the door. “Get out of here.” His voice was guttural, menacing—and, apparently convinced, Mr. Rumbelow laughed again. Then Madeline heard the rapid retreat of his footsteps.

  Gabriel leaned her back against the bedpost.

  She caught her gown as it tried to slither to her feet.

  Striding to the door, he slammed it so hard the wall shook.

  “Gabriel,” she choked.

  “They know we’re here.” As he turned to face her, his chest rose and fell. His mouth was slightly opened as he breathed powerfully. His hands flexed at his sides. He gave off an indefinable sense of menace and of arousal. “The blackguards might as well know I don’t give a damn about them and their guns and their threats.”

  She could almost see the shimmer of heat around him, and she would have sworn he was ready to attack. Them . . . or her.

  Well, not her. Not if she could help it. Without an ounce of inflection, she asked, “How do you want me?”

  His burst of reckless aggression faded . . . but not his arousal. Still breathing deeply, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin up. “You mean . . . tell you how long, how hard, how fast . . . how many times?”

  “Yes.” So she could arm herself with indifference and resignation.

  With a slow smile that expressed a very masculine contentment, he started at her toes and ran his gaze up to meet hers. “I want you in every way possible.”

  Her heart gave a thump. How did he do that? Turn his antagonism toward Mr. Rumbelow into an ardor that made her think of deep, dark, impetuous kisses that lasted all night and traveled to every part of her body? She should be braced, prepared to do her duty and think of England. Instead, between her legs, she grew damp, and she found herself clutching her bodice in a chemise-baring grip.

  Turning back to the door, he twisted the key, dragged a chair under the handle and stuffed his handkerchief into the keyhole. “We’re trapped in here. If I know Rumbelow, he has men patrolling the corridor with guns. We can’t leave.”

  Snared, and by more than a man and a promise. Snared by bad luck, by fate, by a host with no morals and a criminal past.

  Gabriel prowled toward her with a stride that seemed nothing less than pagan. “So the truth about what happens tonight is private, between you and me. I’ll never tell a soul.” His eyes glowed vividly, gloriously green with anticipation. “You have the utter freedom to do and say and be anything you want.”

  “I want to be gone.”

  He chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “No, you don’t.”

  He was right. She couldn’t have walked out of here if the door was wide open and the way spread with a red carpet. Her body felt heavy, weighted with desire so heavy it dragged at her every movement. She lifted her hand to her head, and the movement was slow, sensuous, too aware and yet uncontrolled by sense or wisdom. “Why are you doing this? Do you think I’ll like you for it?”

  “I don’t care whether you like me or not. I’m doing this for me. For my satisfaction.” His smile was a dark slash of amusement. “All you have to do is lie there.”

  “Yes.” Her whisper was uncertain.

  “But will you?” He towered over her, crowding her against the bedpost. “Can you? Lie there and let me have my way with you, then rise and go about your business as if the act meant nothing to you?”

  She took a long, shuddering breath. She hated him so much.

  This was the man she had dreamed about, longed for, cried over. Now he was here, forcing her to do his bidding, and she wanted to be glad. Glad because later, she could lie to herself about how she had suffered his touch for the good of her family honor.

  But he knew her too well. Knew exactly how to undermine her defenses and make her face the truth.

  With a single finger, he stroked the line of her neck from her chin, over her pulse point, to the tip of her breast. “You’re more exquisite than I remembered. The satin glow of your skin. Your magnificent figure.” He slid his fingers through a lock of her hair. “The way you watch me so warily. I shall enjoy vanquishing that wariness. I shall enjoy you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I am not a dish served for your delectation.” Brave words meaning nothing.

  “You are, and of your own free will, you’ve placed yourself on my serving plate.”

  Madeline didn’t want to look at Gabriel, to acknowledge him in any way, but somehow her gaze got tangled in his. He touched her mind as surely as he touched her body, and she knew perfectly well he was testing her, waiting to hear her deny him. She wanted to: to protect herself, her hard-won serenity and her moral position.

  But that was her mind speaking. Her body had no morals and no sense. Without a care to her future peace of mind or her position in society, her body wanted him.

  Right now, she could hear only her body.

  Gabriel withdrew his finger. “So silent. You usually have plenty to say.”

  “I’m a lady. I don’t use that kind of language, even to a scoundrel who so soundly deserves it.”

  “You have.” Walking to the dresser, he picked up the glass bottles and one by one sniffed them. “Used unladylike language on me. So it’s a little late to be taking the high road. Say what you like. I can bear it.” He poured a little of the contents of one bottle into his hand, then nodded as if satisfied and placed the glittering green bottle on the table beside the bed. He turned down the bedclothes, revealing the sheets, clean, ironed and tucked tightly around the mattress.

  “I couldn’t have found a better place for seduction if I tried. But even you have to acquit me of premeditation in this situation.” His already low voice dropped to a whisper. “Not even I imagined you would attempt such a piece of madness as stealing the tiara from professional thieves.”

  “If I hadn’t, you’d have been caught out here alone. What would have happened then?”

  Matter-of-factly, he said, “They would have killed me.”

  She hated him—but she wanted him alive so she could continue hating him. To think of all his gleaming virility still and cold sent a chill through her.

  He saw her horror. “You should have left this afternoon while you had the chance. These men are cheaters, blackmailers, thieves who have killed and will kill again to protect their scam. Rumbelow won’t let you go now. Now that he’s seen you with me. He now knows—or thinks he knows—that we’re desperately in love.”

  “Or in lust,” she said in a cold, clear voice.

  “Definitely in lust.” Gabriel removed a narrow, shiny blade from his sleeve and the longer, handled knife from his boot and placed them carefully on the table beside the bed. They were long and wickedly bright, and he handled them as if he knew how to use them.

  Sitting down on the chair, he pulled off his boots.

  She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Undress? Watch him? Contemplate her life and wonder how she had come to this moment?

  Heavens no, not that last. That would be too dreadful and lead to self-recrimination, an activity she always sought to avoid.

  But the last time they’d been alone in a bedchamber hadn’t been like this. Then the action had been frenzied, and she hadn’t had to worry about what to say. Words had spilled from her mouth at a rate and volume that still stunned her when she thought about it. He was right. Then she had used stable language on him. Now she had time to think, to get embarrassed, to grow uncomfortable.

  Not that Gabriel appeared uncomfortable. H
e stripped off his black shirt with an insouciance that made her blush.

  Yet she didn’t stop staring.

  She’d seen his chest all those years ago, and now she noted the changes. Where before he’d had a whipcord strength, he sported heavier muscles, muscles more sharply delineated on his chest and muscles that bulged in his upper arms. He looked as if he’d worked in the fields or constructing shelters . . . perhaps the time he’d spent organizing the coastal defense had required hard, physical labor, and knowing him as she did, he would have thrown himself into it.

  The last vestiges of boyhood had vanished, and now he was . . . too much. Too strong, too masculine, too hairy . . . the mat of brown hair covered his upper chest, then thinned and slid in a line down toward his trousers.

  There her gaze lingered, waiting in a sort of nervous anticipation as he unbuttoned his trousers. He appeared so carefree and at ease; obviously, it bothered him not a whit if they indulged in lovemaking. He gave the appearance of a man inured to passion.

  Then he lowered his trousers, and she saw she was wrong. He might behave coolly, but his manhood strained and pointed. Although she’d not seen his male parts for four years, and hadn’t taken the time to truly examine them then, she thought the size of his tumescence must indicate a great deal of interest in her—and in their mating.

  His thighs bulged in much the same manner as his arms; the muscles there made her think he would ride her ruthlessly, tirelessly . . . oh, God, she wanted him so much her fingers were shaking. She wanted the past to be forgotten, so she could go to him and . . . and lick him, bite him, demand from him like a woman who had a right to. Like his wife.

  Ridding himself of the last of his garments, he seated himself on the chair and gestured toward her. “Undress for me.” He looked into her eyes again. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve done most of the work for you.”

  That was true. All the buttons were unbuttoned, all the ties untied. She had only to lower her arms, loosen her grip and everything would fall away.