by Anne Stuart
It wasn’t one kiss, it wasn’t twenty, it was a long series of unending kisses, leading one into another, so that she barely had time to begin to regain her sanity when he stripped it away once more. He kissed her eyelids, the side of her mouth, the beating pulse at the base of her neck. He kissed her nose and her chin, he bit her earlobe, and then he covered her mouth once more, kissing her with a devastating thoroughness that had her damp and trembling in his arms.
His hands were on her petticoats, slowly drawing them up her long legs, and her hips cradled him. He was hard against her, she belatedly recognized that fact, and the knowledge panicked her. He wanted her, his body wanted to claim hers, and there was no way she could stop him. No way, God help her, that she wanted to stop him.
He broke the kiss, rising up over her as she lay on the bed, staring down at her with a hooded expression in his eyes. His mouth was wet from hers, and his breathing was slightly labored. It would have been the only sign of his arousal, had it not been for the heat pressing against her hips.
“Do you want me, Emma?” he murmured, his voice low and insistent. “You don’t have to say a word. Just put your mouth against mine.
Oh, God she did want him, as terrifying as that notion was. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin against hers, and she felt a dark burning deep inside her that she knew only he could assuage. She wanted his mouth, she wanted his heart, she wanted his soul.
But he had no heart or soul to give her. And he would take hers without a second thought,
“No,” she said. Calmly, firmly, with a sureness she was far from feeling.
There was no hint of regret on his dark, dangerous face. No argument, or attempts at persuasion or force. “A wise choice, child,” he said.
And he rose from the bed, leaving her there in a tangle of clothing.
He was almost out the door when she called after him. “Did I really have a choice?”
He paused, considering. And then he smiled, a bleak, bitter smile. “You’ll never know, will you?”
“You buggered this up nicely.”
Miriam DeWinter stared at the elegant wastrel who sat sprawled in one of her straight-backed chairs. Her thin fingers curled into claws in her lap, but she didn’t move.
“You don’t like my language, do you, my gel?” he continued, slurring slightly. “That’s too damned bad, it is. You’ll have to get used to it, and a lot more. Like paying attention to who’s calling the shots around here. Those men were supposed to bring me the girl. Instead one lies dead, another won’t survive much longer, and the third’s long gone.”
“It’s hardly my fault if you hire inferior employees,” Miriam said in her icy voice.
“This kind of work doesn’t attract the finer elements of society, woman,” Darnley sneered. “And they would have done just fine if they’d obeyed orders.”
“What makes you think they didn’t?”
“Hendries had twice the amount of money I’d paid him tucked in his pocket when he managed to crawl back to my house. Had a devil of a time explaining him to my man.”
“Maybe he stole his partners’ share.”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone paid him double, to make certain things came out her way instead of mine. You want the girl dead, and well I know it.”
Miriam maintained her icy demeanor. “I really don’t care what happens to the girl as long as she ends up dead, and spectacularly so. She’s a whore, and you may use her as such if you wish. Just as long as you don’t let her go.”
“Kind of you,” Darnley muttered. “Killoran will be on his guard now. It’ll be twice as hard to get her away from him.”
“He was already on his guard,” Miriam said. “Why do you think your henchmen failed?”
“Damn it!” Darnley said bitterly. “They won’t fail again.”
She looked at her cohort with withering disdain. He was her superior in rank, in wealth in breeding, in gender. He filled her with contempt. “See that they don’t,” she said calmly. “Or I shall have to see to it myself.”
And she knew Darnley had no doubt she could do just that.
Chapter 13
“I love you.”
Lady Barbara looked up in surprise, the cards dropping from her hands. She’d been waiting for hours for the inevitable declaration, but now that the moment had come, she found herself uneasy.
She would bed him, she had decided that afternoon after she’d run from Killoran’s house. The hell with Killoran, and with Nathaniel. She would take Nathaniel into her bed and let him hunch and groan and sweat on her, and she would put her arms around him and make the requisite sounds, all guaranteed to convince him of her sublime pleasure. And then she would dismiss him. She’d gone back and enticed Nathaniel away with her, planning to end this farce quickly and efficiently. But for the past two hours they’d simply played piquet in her small, exquisitely decorated withdrawing room, while Nathaniel had watched her.
She picked up her hand and smiled at him, resorting the cards. “You’re very young, aren’t you?” she murmured.
“I’m twenty-three. Older than you are.”
“I doubt it. I was older than you when I was twelve,” she said idly, laying a card on the green baize table. “Pique.”
He tossed his own cards down. “I don’t want to game with you, Lady Barbara.”
She smiled at him, not fooled for a moment. “I’m certain you don’t,” she murmured. “You want to bed me.”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t want to bed me?” she interrupted his protest, sourly amused. “How very unflattering, Nathaniel. Are you telling me you don’t find me desirable?”
“Of course I do. You are the most beautiful, desirable woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“But then, you’ve spent most of your life in the wilds of Northumberland, have you not?” she said.
“Don’t toy with me. Lady Barbara,” he said, frustration and anger beginning to creep into his voice. “Don’t mock my devotion.”
“Devotion, is it? I thought it was lust, pure and simple.” She leaned back in her chair, stretching slightly, arching her back like a cat. It showed her well-formed, partially exposed bosom to advantage, and she knew his eyes would glaze over and his noble protestations would vanish.
Except that he wasn’t playing the game properly. He kept his expression glued to her face, as if the look in her eyes were somehow more important than her perfect curves.
“Barbara,” he said, his voice gentle, irritatingly so. She wasn’t used to men being gentle with her. She didn’t like it.
“If you want me, you have only to say so, Nathaniel,” she murmured, pushing back from the green baize table. “I’ve been waiting for you to evince some interest. Don’t you listen to gossip? Don’t you know that I make myself available to any man who appeals to me? I’ve been thinking about you ever since you kissed me. You’re a very handsome young man. I imagine you’ll be an energetic lover, and I’ve grown tired of jaded, older men. A little enthusiasm wouldn’t come amiss.” She reached behind her and unfastened the diamond necklace, setting it on the table in front of her. “Will you help me with my dress, or shall I call Clothilde?”
“Barbara...” he said, rising, and there was anger and denial in his beautiful blue eyes.
She came up to him. He was a great deal taller than she was, and strong. He smelled clean and fresh, like soap and wool and candlelight. She put her small hands up to his shoulders and smiled at him. “Don’t be afraid, Nathaniel,” she mocked him gently. “Surely you’ve bedded women before. You know the pleasure I can offer you.” She began to remove the plain gold studs that fastened his white linen shirt.
He brought his hands up and covered hers. “No, Barbara,” he said, very gently.
“No?” she echoed, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Then it will be my pleasure to be your first. I can teach you a great deal, Nathaniel. I have endless experience.”
She tugged at her hands, but he wouldn’t re
lease them.
“No, Barbara,” he said again. “I don’t want to bed you. Not now. Not this way.”
She heard the words, and for a moment refused to believe them. Stunned, she yanked herself away from him. “Then why are you here, Nathaniel?”
“Because I love you.”
“Don’t be absurd. Men don’t love me. They lust after me. And I assuage their lust. It’s what I do, boy. If you want me, I’ll lift my skirts for you. If you don’t, go away.”
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Stop saying that!” Fury swept over her. “You’re a child, with a child’s emotions. How many women have you fancied yourself in love with? There’s Miss Pottle—Killoran told me about her. And you’ve shown a strong protective streak toward Emma—perhaps you’re in love with her as well. And now me, your cousin’s mistress. Whom else do you fancy yourself in love with?”
“You’re not his mistress,” Nathaniel said. “No matter how hard you try to convince me of it.”
“Not for want of trying,” she shot back. “And if he won’t bed me, I’m more than willing to settle for second best. Namely you. But if you don’t get on with it, I’ll withdraw the offer. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Reaching up, she yanked at the far-from-demure neckline of her dress. The delicate material ripped, and she pulled it down her arms, exposing her breasts in their lacy chemise.
He didn’t move. Didn’t look at her breasts, a fact which terrified her. Was she losing her beauty? Would men cease to want her? Cease to spend their futile desires in her well-trained body? What, then, would she do with herself?
The silence grew between them, long and harsh, and she was suddenly ashamed. She pulled the torn material back up around her, covering herself. “Get out,” she said, enraged.
If only he weren’t quite so handsome. If only he didn’t look at her with that damnable compassion, the kind of look that made her want to scratch his eyes out. He started past her, slowly, and she wanted to fight, to goad him.
“What were you planning to do with me, Nathaniel?” she called after him in her most shrill voice. “Rescue me from my evil ways? Immure me in a convent? Pray for my soul? It’s too late—my soul’s long gone. Which is why Killoran and I deal so well together.”
He turned to look at her. “I want to save you,” he said.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment. And then she smiled brightly. “Don’t you know people can’t be saved? They each go to hell by their own choosing, and neither you nor anyone else can stop them. You can’t save me, you can’t save Killoran, and I doubt you can save Miss Emma Brown, either. The best you can do is to save yourself. And the way you do that is very simple. Keep away from me. Keep away from all of us. Go back to Northumberland, find yourself another Miss Pottle, marry her, and have fat, healthy babies.”
“I want to marry you,” he said. “I want you to be the one who gives me fat, healthy babies.”
Something inside her snapped. She didn’t know how she moved so swiftly, but she was beside him, slapping him again and again, pounding at him, furious, fighting, fighting Nathaniel, fighting the insidious seduction of what was impossible for a woman like her.
He let her hit him. He stood absolutely motionless as she pounded at him, beat at him, at his chest and his face, until finally his arms came up around her, pressing her close against him, entrapping her with a terrifying tenderness.
“Barbara,” he said, his voice suddenly weary and old before his time.
She heard the sound, but she couldn’t recognize it at first. The great, tearing sobs had to come from somewhere, but she couldn’t pinpoint their source. Nathaniel wasn’t weeping, he was holding her tightly. It must be a maid somewhere, suffering from the toothache. But Lord, that hideous weeping noise seemed to fill the quiet room!
He stroked her hair, pushing it away from her face, and his hand felt damp. She had no idea why. She was cold, so very cold, and her body was trembling. But he was warm, he was strong, he was all that was decent and good. He was not for her.
She pushed him away, suddenly, abruptly, using all her strength, and he released her. “I want you to go,” she said in a raw, cold voice, shaky with some confused emotion. Her face was wet, and she backhanded the moisture from her cheeks. “I want you to leave me alone. Clearly you’re not interested in what I have to offer, and I’m not interested in what you would give me in return. Go back to Killoran; go back to Northumberland. Go.” Her voice was rising, and she was powerless to stop it. Rage and despair had taken hold of her, and she was desperately afraid the wetness on her face could only come from her own tears. Impossible, when she never cried. “Get out of here,” she cried. “Get out, get out, get out...!”
He silenced her, catching her in his arms and putting his hand over her mouth. “Hush, now, darling,” he said, achingly gentle. “I know you’re frightened. But you have to know I’d never hurt you. You can trust me, I promise. You’ll believe that, sooner or later.”
She looked up at him mutely over his silencing hand. She could bite him. She could seize the flesh of his palm between her strong white teeth and tear at him until she drew blood. When he finally released her, she could call for her servants and have him thrown from her house.
She stood stock still in the circle of his arms, waiting. He looked down at her, and there was tenderness in his blue, blue eyes. He bent down, and pressed his mouth against her eyelids, one at a time. And then he released her.
By the time she realized he was gone, it was too late to go after him. She sagged against the sofa, stunned, shaken. Her eyes were swollen, stinging, from the tears she wouldn’t admit to. Her body was shaking, from the cold, she thought, even though her flesh felt as if it were on fire. Damn him, she thought furiously.
She’d underestimated him. She usually avoided innocent young men. They were tiresomely passionate, and far too easily entrapped. She preferred to keep her assignations with old men, roués, rakes, dissolute men who cared for nothing. Killoran was going to be her greatest conquest, a man who had absolutely no redeeming morality and was decadently handsome as well.
But Killoran had proved oddly resistant to even her most blatant overtures. And now she had his hopeless puppy dog of a cousin declaring his ridiculous love for her.
But he wasn’t the hopeless puppy she’d imagined. And the look in his eyes, the touch of his lips against her eyelids, had shaken her more than a score of encounters with more experienced men.
She would have to keep away from him. Keep his strong, gentle hands away from her. Keep his mouth away from her, keep his tender, compassionate love out of her sight.
“Damn him,” she whispered out loud, rubbing the back of her hand across her tear-streaked face. “Damn him, damn him, damn him.”
And in the quiet room there was no answer, but the latent, muffled sob that she couldn’t quite control.
It was just past dawn. Jasper Darnley had been abed for less than an hour when the noise intruded, tearing him from a drugged sleep. He sat up, bleary-eyed, and stared around him in the murky darkness. It must have been a hell of a noise to have roused him—he’d taken more than enough laudanum to ensure that he’d sleep like the dead.
“Who’s there?” he demanded sharply.
A ghostly figure began to materialize out of the shadows, and a sudden superstitious horror filled him. “Maude?” he whispered in a choked voice. “Is that you?”
The figure came into view, solidified into a sight not much more welcome than the shade of his dead sister. “Not likely,” Killoran said coolly. “Don’t tell me you’ve been plagued by ghosts, Darnley?”
“What are you doing here?” He didn’t bother to disguise the panic in his slurred voice. He usually slept with a pistol, but he hadn’t been in any condition to check on it when he finally collapsed onto his bed and allowed his long-suffering manservant to divest him of his clothes. It had been a hellish night, with the abortive attempt to kidnap Killoran’s sister almost t
urning into her demise. Before he’d had her. The very notion had sent him into such a sick rage that he’d almost strangled the life out of that evil harridan who’d unhappily become his partner in crime.
It had wanted only the appearance of Killoran to make the night a total disaster.
Killoran was dressed in his usual black and white. His lace cuffs drifted down around his hands, his cravat was gone, and his jet-black hair hung loose around his face. Untidy without a wig, Darnley thought absently, fingering his own closely shaved head. But what could you expect from the Irish?
Killoran said nothing, moving closer. He didn’t seem to be armed, but Darnley wasn’t fool enough to discount his own danger. Perhaps Killoran was tired of the waiting game he’d been playing.
“Are you going to kill me?” Darnley demanded hoarsely.
“Oh, most definitely,” Killoran responded. “That’s never been in any question. But if you’re asking me if I’m going to kill you now, I’m afraid not. I haven’t yet derived my full pleasure from tormenting you.”
“You don’t torment me,” Jasper said, his rasping voice making clear the lie. Killoran only smiled in response. “If you haven’t come to murder me in my bed, then go away. I’m tired.”
“You do need your beauty sleep, don’t you, Darnley? You haven’t been feeling well lately, have you?” The concern was maliciously mocking. “Very well, I’ll get to the business at hand. Someone tried to murder my sister tonight.”
“Are you blaming me?” Darnley’s voice rose a couple of notches in pitch. “Why in God’s name would I want to kill your sister?”
“Why would you want to kill your own? You have a diseased mind, Darnley, brought about by inherent evil and aggravated by your lust for everything forbidden. You are to keep away from Emma.”
“Of course.” Darnley managed to summon a mocking smile.
“And you are to tell me what you know about her.”