In Search of Scandal (London Explorers #1)

by Susanne Lord

  His back was slick with sweat and his muscles had never been this slack or heavy, even in sleep. The beat of their hearts drummed in time as if they had summited some great mountaintop and were at last finding their rest together.

  He was still inside her, warm and pulsing, and his body so heavy and slumberous that she let the perfection of the moment alone.

  But just for a moment.

  “Will?” Unable to see him, she tapped his shoulder. “Oh goodness. Will, are you listening?”

  He stirred but before he looked at her, he wiped his eyes. He looked confused again.

  “I—” Her throat tightened and she felt…she felt…

  Later. She’d know what she felt later. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll not forget one moment, not one second and—”

  He lurched upward, interrupting her with a hard kiss that subdued her like nothing and no one had ever done, and when he raised his head a long while later, it was the intense look in his eyes keeping her silent. “I can’t promise, but I’ll try to come back. Every day I’ll try.”

  His words darkened the room. Her heart was already raw with emotion. Why did he have to bring this up now? The voyage could kill him. Or a fall, a fever. Anything at all and he was so precious.

  “Of course you will,” she blurted. “You are strong and healthy and you will return a hero. And then you will have the longest, most wonderful life and fall in love and have a wife and family. You shouldn’t even think such things. Honestly.” To even suggest dying. “As few words as you speak, Will Repton, you might parcel out the more sensible ones.”

  He searched her eyes, looking more his usual self—perplexed. His usual countenance with her, anyway. He cupped her cheek and a small smile curled his lips. “God…I don’t want to leave you.”

  The wonderment on his face pinched her heart, and then she had to smile. “Oh. Those words are all right. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  He blinked. “That can’t be true.”

  “But it is.”

  “I’m sure it’s not. I just asked you to be my wife.”

  Her smile collapsed and for several seconds, her brain did not function at all. “You did? When?”

  “Didn’t I?” He was looking panicked again. “I thought I—I mean, I meant to. We made love, Charlotte. For God’s sake, I’m still inside—”

  “Will?” She waited for his eyes to focus on hers. “Only the sensible words…please? I don’t understand. Would you really? Would you really ask me?”

  He wet his lips and parted them. But no words came. His gaze drifted to her bruised cheek and stalled there.

  She tipped her head so he was looking into her eyes. “Would you?”

  He lowered his head to kiss her, his lips light, barely grazing hers, but warm and soothing and familiar. Her heart strengthened. Of course familiar. He was her husband, he always had been, and she had recognized him from the first.

  He raised his head to look at her, his eyes brilliant and steady. “Marry me. Be my wife.” He rested his forehead on hers. “And…and wait for me.”

  Joy, wild and boundless, crashed through her. She wrapped her arms around his hard neck and cinched tight—which was likely not pleasant for him but she could not help it. “Yes! Oh, yes! I will.” She pushed him a little so she could look into his face. “That was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Will shook his head. “You’re happy again, aren’t you?”

  Tears spilled onto her cheeks, but she laughed. “Yes.”

  “Thank God.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her laughing mouth. And in one of the lovelier kisses he’d ever given her, he kissed her heart and rested his forehead on her breast.

  He was so still, he could almost be praying.

  “My wife,” he whispered under his breath. “God forgive me.”

  * * *

  The rain drumming the window grew louder. A midnight storm. The raindrops beaded the glass and merged and raced to the sill. Deeper, the glass mirrored the glow of the fire in the hearth and deeper still, the pale reflection of Will and a sleeping Charlotte in bed.

  How long had it been since they’d become man and wife? Six hours? Seven?

  Seven hours since learning Charlotte loved him.

  He pulled the blanket high to cover her, and the perfume of peonies wafted between them, blended with the more elemental scent of her skin, his sweat, their couplings. He settled his arm on her waist, careful not to wake her after their strenuous night.

  Once should have been enough. But he’d loved her twice more, and each time came harder and longer than the last. And damn him, he was hard again.

  Enough. He rolled away, his body tight with some nameless annoyance.

  He thought he’d understood the pleasure to be had in a woman’s body. He thought he’d been satisfied with the encounters he’d had. Yet what he felt with her, what she made him feel, how deep it went…

  He hadn’t understood a thing.

  He arched his back, feeling the little-used muscles that ached from the restraint of loving her as gently as he could. He’d never been more aware how large and heavy he must be atop her. She was so delicate. Every touch of her hands and slender limbs wrapping to hold him, trying to somehow guide and contain him, reminded him how delicate.

  And yet Charlotte—being Charlotte—opened herself to him with all the reckless trust she’d always granted him. Each time, she strained for him to love her with more force. But her body was precious, adored, known. Making love could only be tender—eyes locked, lips hovering, words whispered.

  Charlotte rolled toward him, cuddling him in her usual position. He held her and tried to ignore how sweet the familiar weight was.

  No. He’d not hurt her. Not ever. This happy, innocent woman wouldn’t worry over him any more than she already did. There was no reason to tell her of the massacre, the return to Tibet…

  What if he gave back the money? If he went only to find the child? He could return in a year.

  Return to Charlotte.

  He could crew on a tea clipper. The passage was harder, the bunks so short he’d be folded in half, and the waves pounding the hull ensured no man slept. Let alone a man plagued with nightmares. What did that matter if he couldn’t sleep without her anyway?

  He could find a ship on a route via Australia. Those ships always lost men secretly emigrating there. He was lame but he was strong, and they’d need men to finish the route to India. Where he would jump ship himself.

  But if he gave all the money back, would he have enough to find Aimee?

  Exhausted, he closed his eyes. He wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight.

  He pressed his head back into the pillow, confused by the rubbery smile on his lips. Damn me, she loves me. She said she’d wait, she said she loved him—damn it, why didn’t he say it back? Hell, he probably loved her, didn’t he? If he had a heart left to love with. And if he left her with child—

  The bed seemed to tilt and his heart plunged to his guts as if he were teetering on the edge of a cliff.

  A child. How could he be a father, a husband? There was a voyage to make to a hostile country. A voyage he wasn’t sure he’d survive. What had he done?

  More importantly, what had he done to Charlotte now that she was his wife?

  * * *

  “The herbs are potent, my lord. I must caution again the importance of the dosage.”

  Hugh Swift, Viscount Spencer, next Earl of Harlowe, fixed the apothecary with a stare. The old man’s warnings were beginning to rankle. All Hugh required was the glass vial gleaming atop the counter between them.

  “In truth,” the elderly man continued, “I strongly advise against your administering the tincture yourself, my lord. Could I not be present to—?”

  “That is impossible, sir.”

  The apothecary’s hand stole an inch closer to the vial. “If I may be so bold, could you not reason with the lady? The bleeding will undoubtedly distress her, the pain—�
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  “My mistress is quite willful, I’m afraid.” His lips thinned with a fresh anger at Charlotte and Repton. Never had he imagined being troubled with this unsavory business. He swept the vial into his waistcoat pocket. “I told them I would not condone a child and I am a man of my word.”

  “There is my point. Surely she will understand a gentleman of your circumstances cannot suffer a bastard—”

  “Your caution is noted, sir.”

  The gray-haired man diverted his gaze. So be it. He had no use for the man’s approval. Not when his own father had laughed. A cuckold, he’d called him. How else had Repton blighted his good name? If he would steal his bride, let his seed rot inside her.

  “At the least, take this.” The apothecary handed him a tiny spoon.

  “It looks like it was made for a doll.”

  “I assure you it is no toy, my lord. No more than a spoonful is needed for the abortifacient to do its work. Any more and her muscles may relax to an extreme degree, her heart—”

  “Capital.” Hugh slipped the spoon into his pocket with the vial. He would pass along that instruction to the girl he had successfully installed at Charlotte’s house. Though he wondered if the chit understood fractions—no, she worked somewhat about a kitchen. Surely she’d know measurements. “I am in your debt, sir, for delivering me of this complication.”

  The apothecary said nothing as Hugh slid the coins onto the counter. For this particular transaction, there would be no name on any account. The physic’s expression was still troubled. A pang of conscience, perhaps. “What sort of plants are these, anyway?”

  “Mugwort has long been in use. The other is a stalklike herb, my lord. With pale violet blossoms.”

  “Indeed?”

  “In the language of flowers, it has a most apt meaning,” the apothecary said.

  The viscount paused at the door to tug on his gloves. “And what would that be?”

  “Malevolence, my lord. Lobelia is the flower of malevolence.”

  Twenty-three

  “But once you reach Hong Kong, how will you get to Guangi?” Charlotte studied the map before her on the table in Ben’s study.

  Will stood behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. He pointed to an area of the map, marked with a series of triangles and waving lines. “The mules will pull the wagons northwest through Huangpu. The crew follows and makes camp here.”

  Charlotte leaned back against the solid wall of Will’s body. The past month living as man and wife had been the happiest of her life—and the most worrying. Now that she had persuaded Will to share his planning with her, she couldn’t stop imagining the treacherous paths up the mountainsides, the drenching rains, the cold winds and muddy ground denying Will rest and comfort.

  “It’s an easy enough trek,” he said in her silence.

  She wasn’t fooled. It would be a brutal passage. Knowing had to be better. At least this way she would know approximately where he was as the weeks progressed.

  The weeks. The years.

  And if she were with child as she suspected—

  “I was thinking,” she started slowly, “if the post office in Hong Kong will hold my letter only two months, I ought to send a letter every month, oughtn’t I? And I have heard rumor there may be two mail steamers a month soon, even an overland route, delivering our letters with more speed.”

  Will said nothing.

  “That is good news,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  “I’ll write as often as I can—”

  “Every fortnight.”

  “Yes, every fortnight,” Will said, a small smile in his voice. “Even if they are all bundled and sent in the same post.”

  The map was large, covering the table. Will’s neat lettering marking the twisting rivers, villages, mountains. But that meandering line, the breadth of a hair, was an endless river and those green Vs were impenetrable jungles.

  “Charlotte…you understand not every letter you write will reach me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And every letter I write to you—”

  “Yes,” she blurted before her lungs choked off the words. There was a growing pain in her chest like her heart turning inside out because she did know. He could fall ill or shipwreck or lose his way. And he might die somewhere and she might never, ever learn exactly how.

  She knew that—she did.

  Will nuzzled the sensitive hollow behind her ear. “Turn around and kiss me, sweetheart.”

  She turned her head to smile at him, but he watched her mouth. It had been two days since he’d really looked at her, yet he’d barely let her sleep, as often as he wanted to make love. And again, his hands were growing possessive.

  He angled for her mouth but she dodged his lips and curled her hands under his, twining their fingers together. “After your time in Zhaoqing, you must return to deliver the plants to the river docks in…Zhenhai?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Will…it’s two in the afternoon.”

  “Is it?” he murmured. “You’ve never confined me to a schedule. Or to one room, or position, or climax. In fact, you’ve grown accustomed to multiple—”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  His smile stretched across her cheek. “I’m not teasing, sweetheart.”

  But he had accused her of lust before. And normally she was the one to deepen their kisses and lure him to bed. But then…she was the one in love.

  His arms slid lower.

  “Are you avoiding my question?” she asked.

  He sighed, planting his chin on her shoulder in surrender. “Which one, sweetheart?”

  “The docks in Zhenhai. How many days will you spend there? Will you have time to restore yourself?”

  He swirled a finger beneath her breast. “You mean here by the Chenwan Bay?”

  The tickling sent tremors down her back, and lower, that she did her best to ignore. “Yes.”

  “We’ll need a week to restock supplies and see the cases off to England.” His finger traveled down her stomach. “Then we make camp in Xinxing.” Lower to her hip. “Then to Yunfu.” His fingers walked to between her breasts. “Then south to Luoding.”

  “You moved north.”

  “So I did. The terrain here is magnificent.”

  She pulled at his hands cupping her breasts but he continued to knead her gently, his erection prodding her through her skirts.

  “Come upstairs, sweetheart,” he crooned. “I need you.”

  She slipped from his heated hold and put space between them. Presumptuous as ever when it came to her accord, he followed, loosening his necktie en route. Pivoting to the door, he turned the lock.

  “I am in earnest. I want to know,” she said, allowing her frustration to color her words.

  “I know you are, sweetheart.”

  “Then why lock the door?”

  “I don’t want us to be interrupted.” He moved to the curtains and tugged the heavy silk from the tiebacks to close off the view to the street. “Now, where did we leave off?” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her body.

  Her traitorous body tightened in anticipation but as he neared, his eyes bright, her heart raced as if stalked. A lightning-fast hand caught her wrist and he slid behind her, maneuvering her to face the table. Gripping the edge on either side of her arms, he pressed against her bottom.

  She wanted this—she did. She loved him and he made her feel loved.

  Even if he never said the words.

  She turned and wrapped her arms about his neck, forcing him to kiss her. And he let her. But only for a moment.

  To her surprise, Will spun her around and pressed her over the table. Hot breath steamed her neck as he aligned their hips, his weight pinning her to the table. Warm hands lifted the back of her skirt and his fingers found the seam of her pantalets and moved the fabric aside.

  “Will? What are you doing?”

  The blunt tip of him stroked her, parting her from back to front, teasing her relentlessly, liquefying her
where she wanted him most, till she dropped onto her elbows, limp with desire.

  “Will?” she breathed. “I—”

  “Say you want me,” he murmured in her ear.

  She moaned softly at the command. There were no words she could utter. Not with the shallow strokes he teased her with, the small movement tormenting her until she was arching back against him, desperate for release.

  “Not till you say it,” he crooned, his long, thick fingers delving between her legs to circle the sensitive bud.

  She reached for him but he caught her arms and stretched them over her head. Dazed, the dusting of gold hair on his strong wrists riveted her. Involuntarily, her body tightened around him and he groaned. He clamped down, aggressive and dominating, until she was denied all movement under his body. “Will…please…”

  He trapped both her wrists in one hand and swept her hair back to rub his cheek against hers and nibble her lips. His breath steamed the table surface beneath them. “I like when you talk.” His body shuddered. “Ah, Christ, tell me what you want.”

  Want…she wanted—

  “Tell me how good this feels,” he whispered. “Tell me—”

  “I love you.”

  The hand in her hair seized in a tight grip and she cried out. Instantly his fingers released, but a growl tore from his throat and he pushed into her hard. Only when he was fully seated did he thread his arms beneath her so she wouldn’t be crushed flat on the table.

  The deep claiming shocked her, paralyzed her. Their joining had never been like this. He pistoned into her, faster and faster, until the friction of their bodies heated and she was mindless with pleasure, moaning with each return. The growls vibrating from his chest coursed through her and she kept her eyes open to remind herself this was her husband mounting her like an animal. She could see his whiskered jaw from the corner of her eye, the thick, gold hair bobbing as he surged forward.

  Powerful hands gripped her hips and lifted her bottom to grind against him and she cried out, her body bucking in ecstasy. But he ratcheted tight, plunging again and again until he collapsed on her, holding himself deep within her, his shaft jerking and spilling its seed. “Ah God…God.” He lowered her to the table, resting on her until he mastered himself, and dazed by the frenzied taking, she lay still.