Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  It felt . . . good. He felt good. The massage he had given her had gentled her, made her once again familiar with his touch. He had taunted her with illicit passion until she could think of nothing else. Now they were moving together, panting together, joined as closely as man and woman should be.

  She wanted to moan and whimper. But no. Some distant, sensible piece of her mind told her no. When he heard the sounds, he would know she was out of control. It was a triumph she couldn’t bear to hand him.

  As if he realized she still resisted him, he reached between their bodies. He adjusted her, opened her so that with each thrust, he rubbed intimately against her.

  At his first thrust, a groan broke from her.

  She had lost that battle. The last battle, surely.

  “That’s right,” he said, his voice gloriously warm and completely sexual. “Tell me, my darling. Tell me how you like it.”

  A flush rose from her breasts to her face. Deep within her, the passion changed, becoming deeper than desire. An undercurrent of wildness ran through her body.

  She moved more rapidly, met him more eagerly. Her eyes half closed. Her fingernails dug into his skin. She concentrated on the way his thrusts increased, grew stronger, shook her body and forced her toward release . . . almost . . . she could almost . . .

  Inexplicably, he slowed.

  She tried to urge him onward.

  He stopped. He stopped!

  Stunned, incredulous, she groaned. “No. Don’t halt now!”

  He remained stubbornly still. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “What?” She could scarcely see him, hardly hear him. The pursuit of fulfillment chained her—a fulfillment that hovered just out of reach. If he would just move . . . She made an enticing circle with her hips.

  He repeated, “You don’t have to do this.” His face was close to hers. His eyes stared into hers. His voice was deep and serious. “I’ll win the tiara for you no matter what you decide. If you want me to stop, I will.”

  In her state of arousal, it took a moment to realize what he was saying. How he had manipulated her.

  He would stop? Now? He would win the tiara for her whether she gave him the gift of her body or not?

  This wasn’t about the tiara. Not anymore. This was about her. What she wanted. She needed. “You bastard.” Her voice vibrated with rage.

  He didn’t care what she called him, he only cared about winning. “Tell me what to do. Shall I stop . . . or shall I keep on?”

  How could he even ask? Wasn’t he as involved as she was?

  Then, as she watched, a bead of sweat started on his brow and trickled down the side of his face, down to his jaw.

  Oh, yes, he was involved. He wanted her—but he wanted her on his terms. He wanted her not as a purchase, not as a deal, but knowing full well she lusted as he lusted.

  If she didn’t admit to the passion that gnawed at her, he would withdraw. She didn’t have a doubt that he had the strength of will to deny his own desire—and he would live to torment her another day.

  Gabriel would never admit defeat.

  “Maddie?” Slowly, he pulled himself back from her.

  The sense of fullness faded, and she wanted, needed it back. Now.

  Completely, unconditionally, she surrendered. Catching his hips, she pulled at him. “I want you. Please, Gabriel, I want you.”

  This time, when he lifted her chin, he was a little rough. A little hurried. But what he saw there must have satisfied him, for he chuckled an odious chuckle, and thrust himself inside her, all the way to the hilt.

  It shook her, the forcefulness, the claim, but she didn’t care. She lifted her hips, embraced him with her legs and whispered, “Please. Please!”

  “I’ve got you, Maddie. Come with me.” His deep voice stroked inside her mind. His manhood stroked inside her body. He moved with swift, brilliant precision, holding her down on the mattress, piercing her with himself.

  The search for passion became a race. They moved together, the rhythm glorious, exhilarating. Her heart pounded as she answered each thrust. Each time, he touched the deepest place in her, and her control came that much closer to splintering. She moaned, over and over, beyond caring about anything but satisfaction.

  But the satisfaction, when it arrived, silenced her. Intense, pounding fever gripped all her senses, then wiped them clean. For a long, glorious moment there was no past, no future, only her body spasming in glorious climax. Only her body, captured and pleasured by Gabriel.

  When she subsided, he was there, moving on her still . . . observing her with a kind of awful triumph.

  Then he threw his head back, the muscles in his neck corded and as he reached his own orgasm, his hips pounded her into the mattress.

  His frenzy dragged her along, back into ecstasy. The waves of pleasure washed over them, around them and finally, gradually, they subsided onto the bed.

  He crushed her beneath him as he relaxed.

  They stared at each other still, lust, spent passion, simmering anger, old betrayals in their gazes . . . and like a candle extinguished, she went to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gabriel’s chest heaved as he looked at Madeline sprawled beneath him. They were still joined. She still cradled him inside her body. And she was asleep.

  How did she do that? Slip away every time he got close to her?

  But this time she hadn’t gone far, and if he were being fair—which he wished to be right now—he would admit she’d had little sleep and that he’d worn her out.

  He’d worked hard to wear her out. To wear her down. To make her surrender.

  Because it had been surrender.

  Unfortunately, he now knew a complete surrender from Maddie equaled nothing but the beginning of the war. For her own safety, he wanted her gone from this place, but she insisted on staying. And tonight—what a piece of bad luck to be caught with her. Rumbelow could just as easily have decided to kill them both. Instead he’d laughed, imagining how he would discomfit them when he revealed the truth about his hapless guests.

  So Gabriel had turned bad luck to good. He had taken advantage of their forced proximity to prove to her he still owned her body. That was why, tonight, he’d massaged her, gentled her to his touch, and brought her close to orgasm again and again. That was why he’d gritted his teeth and made the offer to get her the tiara without fully possessing her—and he’d been prepared to leave her body if she’d agreed. She needed to realize he was the only man for her. He would make her realize he was the only man for her.

  As he withdrew from her body, his cock sliding from the tender tissues, she moaned in her sleep.

  He wanted to moan, too. She held heaven between her legs, a heaven he’d made his own. Would she remember his claim tomorrow?

  No. Of course not. With her flight to the continent, his darling had demonstrated how frequently and ruthlessly she needed to be reminded that she was his. And tonight—my God, when he’d seen her sneaking across the lawn toward the dowager’s house, he’d been enraged with her—and with himself. It had never occurred to him she would try to circumvent him by stealing the tiara.

  But it should have. He should have known she wouldn’t tamely submit to his blackmail. Madeline never tamely submitted to anything in her life—blast her.

  Rising from the bed, he smoothed the covers over her and went to the door. It was still locked, the chair tucked under the handle, the handkerchief he’d stuffed in the lock in place.

  Drawing on his trousers, he contemplated their situation. Here they would remain until Rumbelow chose to let them escape. Gabriel hoped that would be before the other guests were stirring, but with Rumbelow, the timing would have to fit into his plans.

  Tomorrow, the Game of the Century would start.

  Today, Rumbelow had gone out of his way to make sure his guests were relaxed, convivial, unsuspicious. He’d showed the gamblers the gaming room, the safe and the wooden box that held the crown. He’d taken the key from his
pocket, turned the ornate lock and showed them the crown nestled within. Gabriel had held the queen’s tiara and felt the weight of the gold and the jewels. Seductive things, gold and jewels. They distracted a man from crucial matters. Matters of life and death.

  Rumbelow had invited the gamblers to examine the tables, to make sure they were made for honest gaming. After a few laughing protestations, everyone had done so, and no one with more interest than Gabriel. Everything appeared to be on the up and up, and Rumbelow had assured them they would be required to look again before sitting down for each hand.

  Tomorrow, at noon, everyone would take their ante and put it in the safe. They would play for the tiara. And after a meal with the families, the game would start at nine in the evening.

  So what was Rumbelow’s plan this time?

  Gabriel examined the dowager’s bedchamber more closely than he had in his first, hurried survey. Rumbelow had gone through a great deal of trouble to make this room appealing. Surely he harbored more than a desire to give his gamblers a place to rest should it become necessary. What could it be?

  Perhaps he had hidden something in this furniture. Something that would help him win the game. One by one, Gabriel examined each piece. The bed, the clothes cupboard, the desk, the bedside table . . . all were fine pieces of furniture, with no unusual marks or hidden cubbyholes. Nothing was under the bed except Madeline’s pistol in its custom-made black velvet holster, and he grinned at that as he placed it beside his knives on the bedside table.

  Again he looked at the room, trying to think with the mind of a cheater, a swindler. He lifted the rugs, scrutinizing the backing and the floors beneath. Nothing.

  He walked the perimeter. The walls looked freshly painted, with a marbling effect that bedazzled the eye. Rumbelow had hired an expert, and all for a room that wasn’t his in a house that wasn’t the main house. Only a lady, and perhaps Mr. Darnel, would appreciate this kind of workmanship, and no ladies would be viewing these walls. Unless Rumbelow planned a seduction, too? Perhaps he, too, wished to win a wife in the manner of Mr. Knight. . . .

  Gabriel shook his head. No. Rumbelow took pride in his originality. And Gabriel had hopes that Rumbelow’s ever-increasing sense of invulnerability would help lead to his downfall.

  Again Gabriel walked the perimeter, looking at the walls, trying to see . . . There. He moved closer to the wall that separated this room from the next. Or . . . should separate this room from the next. Here the marbling took on a uniform swirl unmatched anywhere else in the chamber, and the desk had been placed before that spot. Lifting a candelabra, he held it close. A slight bulge lifted the wall in a long, thin crease. It had been papered over, the marbling had been created over that, but—Gabriel pressed his hand to the line—there was a door under here. A door that led . . . where?

  How old was this house? Two hundred years, give or take? Cromwell’s time had led to the construction of a great many priest’s holes, so perhaps this was nothing more than a hiding place. Or . . . perhaps it led to a secret passage. A secret passage that led far away from the house. Toward the stables. Or the coast. Toward escape.

  No wonder Rumbelow had rented this monstrosity of a house. It was perfect for his plan, which was to . . . By damn, Rumbelow wasn’t going to pull a swindle and stay in society. Not this time. He was going to make it easy for himself. He was going to steal. Steal all of their antes, walk the hidden passage, board a ship and make his escape with a guaranteed one hundred thousand pounds.

  The audacity of it took Gabriel’s breath away. Of course. Gabriel had been assuming he wished to remain in England, to set up more games like this one, reveling in his triumphs until he’d worn out his welcome. But Rumbelow didn’t care if he stayed in England. With one hundred thousand pounds, he could go anywhere in the world and live like a king for years. Forever, if he was careful.

  So why hadn’t he already done it? Why hadn’t he taken the money by force and disappeared?

  Because he wanted to gloat, to polish his legend as the Master.

  Satisfied with his explanation of Rumbelow and his motivations, Gabriel walked back to the bed and stared down at Madeline. He could do nothing to get them out of here. His hands were tied.

  So . . . he discarded his trousers and climbed into bed beside her.

  Before this was over between them, he would make her fall so deeply in love with him she would have to have him—no matter how much he challenged her. No matter how much she hated what he did.

  No matter what.

  Just before dawn, Gabriel woke Madeline with a whisper in her ear. “One more time.”

  She was cuddled into his naked body, her back against his front. He was warm and strong and, in her sleepy state, irresistible. His manhood pressed against her bottom, and she reached behind her and caressed the shaft.

  He caught her hand. “Not like that. Face-to-face.” Rolling her onto her back, he leaned over her.

  In the candlelight, with his hair rumpled and his eyes heavy-lidded with slumber and passion, he made her mouth water.

  Just before he kissed her, he said, “I want you to know who you’re giving yourself to. I want you to see my face.”

  Tying the bow of Madeline’s bonnet beneath her chin, Gabriel said, “It’s dawn. We’ll sneak back into the main house and no one will ever know what happened.”

  Resentfully, she ran her gaze over him, fully dressed and confident. “Except Mr. Rumbelow.”

  “Not even in his wildest imaginings can he know what really happened.” Gabriel slid his thumb along her lower lip. “Don’t frown, Maddie. I’ll never tell what you gave me last night.”

  “Mr. Rumbelow will know.” Taking the black velvet holster, she tied the long ribbons into shorter lengths and made it look like a reticule.

  “Rumbelow’s not going to be a problem. There’s no one in the corridor. We can go.”

  “But you’ll know.” And she was wretched with knowing that.

  “That I will.” As always, Gabriel stepped too close and stared right into her eyes, engaging her when she wanted nothing so much as to be away from him. “I’m not some inveterate gambler, trapped by the game. I only play for a cause I believe in, and I always play to win.”

  She was desolate and limp with exhaustion. With too little sleep and too much upheaval. “What are you trying to say?”

  “You decide.” From the pocket of his jacket, he pulled a lady’s glove. “Do you recognize this?”

  With a shock, she did recognize it. Limp, yellowed with age, a symbol of one exquisite moment in time.

  “It’s your glove. You gave it to me. You said that until you could give me your hand, I should keep your glove as a token of your love.” He weighed the glove in his palm. “I have kept it ever since.”

  She gave a silent whimper of anguish. Gabriel reminded her of a perfidy she would prefer to pretend had never happened. A vow she had broken.

  “That night, when I took your virginity, I told you I wouldn’t come to you again, that you would come to me.”

  What was he saying? What did he mean?

  “Tonight was . . . tonight was serendipity. It doesn’t count for us or against us. But from this moment on, I’ll be waiting for you to come to me.”

  “To pay my debt?”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me last night. There is no debt.” Pressing his finger to her chin, he said, “I want you to come to me. Because you want to. Because you need to. Because you love me.” With a slow stroke of his hand on her cheek, he stepped away from her. “Come to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The next afternoon, tray in hand, MacAllister paused and observed Madeline. “I see why ye’re na’ a gambler.”

  She stopped her pacing. “I don’t know what you mean.” Unable to remain still, she started again. Up and down the sitting room, wearing a path in the carpet, her mind swerving between what was happening in the gaming room of the dowager’s house right now—and what had happened in the bedroom there
last night.

  “Ye’ve na’ got what we call a player face,” MacAllister said.

  Muttering to herself, desperate and uncertain . . . Glancing at the tray, she realized the plates were dirty and the silverware used. She looked out the window where the dowager’s house was clearly visible. “You were in there, weren’t you? Is he winning?”

  “I dunna know. He dinna talk t’ me.”

  She strode up to MacAllister, taking large steps. He scurried backward like a crab, but he was shorter and older, and she easily trapped him against the wall. “You know how piquet is played. Did matters appear hopeful?”

  He squinted up at her. “Aye, they did.”

  Hand on her heart, she breathed, “Thank heavens.” Of course Gabriel would be successful. For what had he said? I only play for a cause I believe in, and I always play to win. He hadn’t been talking about cards, though. He’d been talking about her.

  Come to me.

  Resentfully, MacAllister added, “Although why he’s wasting his luck on ye and yer tiara when he needs it for the real game, I dunna know.”

  It occurred to her MacAllister would know all about Gabriel’s plan to discredit Mr. Rumbelow. With guile or force, she could pry the information from him. In a lowered voice, she asked, “If he loses the real game, what will happen?”

  His gaze shifted toward the corner of the room. “I dunna know.”

  Convinced he was lying, she moved close enough to make him break a sweat. “Yes, you do. Why did Gabriel come here? I don’t understand what motivates him.”

  Apparently, she’d hit a nerve, for MacAllister straightened, his dread of her falling away. Placing the tray on an end table, he glowered at her. “Dunna ye? Nay, of course na’. Ye dunna understand anything. Ye never did.”