The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

by Trisha Telep

  She tugged at the window, which gave with a rasping sound. Did none of the windows have locks in this forsaken inn? Holding her breath, Francis pushed the window up and hoisted herself through it. It was a struggle, but years of arduous travel had put a fair amount of strength in her wiry arms. She lowered herself to the floor. She had done it. She was actually inside.

  The crackling fire shed a dim light around the room. She darted an anxious glance at the man on the bed, wondering if all her noise had woken him. All she heard was the steady sound of snoring. Chuckling to herself, she crept towards him, imagining his look of chagrin when he woke and discovered his booty was gone. He lay under a white coverlet, and she looked him over with cautious interest. In sleep, he looked more like a boy than a man. The strong planes of his face had relaxed. His tousled blond hair gave him an innocent look. Mr White stirred, muttering to himself. Francis knew she had to act now, and quickly.

  Perching on the edge of the bed, she tugged down his coverlet to reveal his right hand. She was trembling when she reached out for the ring. He stirred, moving his hand out of reach. With a deep breath, Francis seized it in hers. His fingers were warm and the hair on the back of his hands felt rough against her palm. A flutter ran through her at the contact. Francis pulled at the ruby, and then sucked in her breath. The Panchamaabhuta seemed to be glued to Mr White’s index finger. She would have to use all her strength to take it off. Little goosebumps stood out on Francis’ arms. The smallest touch or sound might waken him. She darted a glance at Mr White’s face, but his expression was as peaceful as before. Francis curled her nails around the square-cut ruby, trying to advance it towards the tip of his finger. Suddenly, Mr White turned his head. His catlike eyes, awake and fiery, stared into hers.

  “So you’ve come back for more.” Throwing off his bedclothes, he dived for her.

  Francis scampered away with a frightened squeak. Moving with a speed born of sheer terror, she raced to the window.

  He reached it at the same time. Blocking her escape, he seized her wrist in a firm clasp. “We have a score to settle, you and I.” He loomed over her, and Francis stared at his hairy chest. He was standing before her, naked as God made him.

  Francis’ heart seemed to be jumping out of her bosom, but she was still able to think. Bringing her foot up, she came down with all her weight, crushing his bare toes beneath her boot. He let go of her with an agonized grunt. She leaped to the window, and pushed up on the pane of glass. As she started to hoist herself up, strong arms seized her from behind. She kicked at him, trying to free herself, but an irresistible force pulled her down to the floor. Francis writhed, kicking and panting, as they rolled across the floor. She landed on top and scratched viciously at his face. He cursed and slapped her. Francis hardly felt the stinging pain on her cheek. Her heart was pounding, and a surge of fierce triumph shot through her. After two years of slow, burning rage at Robert’s death, now she had a human target to wreak her vengeance on. It wasn’t some nameless French soldier who had taken Robert from her. It was Mr White, who had violated her bond with her husband by stealing the ring.

  “You bloody thieving bastard!” She hammered blows at his face. “How dare you? You miserable, mercenary wretch!” This time, her nail nicked the corner of his eye, drawing blood.

  Cursing, he seized her wrists together in one hand, gripping her so hard that she cried out in pain. She wriggled, but he held her arms fast and pinned her writhing body against his chest with his other hand.

  “Let me go!”

  His grip tightened on her. Francis panted against his naked chest, feeling a hard button press into her cheek. Turning her head, she bit viciously into his nipple.

  He gasped, and then seized her in an iron grip. A punishing hand pushed her head down, burying her face in his warm, muscular shoulder. Francis couldn’t move. She realized with a sinking feeling that she was in his power. She went limp against him, as the truth sank in. He wasn’t a French soldier; he was a common thief in a roadside inn. Even if she got the Panchamaabhuta back, Robert was lost for ever. Exhausted, she collapsed on to Mr White. Immediately, the painful pressure eased. He tilted her chin up, so that his luminous eyes bored into hers.

  “You fight like a Bengal tiger,” he said. To her surprise, there was a chuckle in his voice.

  “Give me my ruby,” Francis said.

  “If you want it, you’ll have to give me something in return.” He gave her a hot look.

  Francis was suddenly aware that although she was wearing a shawl over her nightgown, she had nothing on underneath. She could feel the heat of his limbs coiled beneath hers.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  He flicked his hand at her, showing off the ruby. “I’m not asking for much. Just one kiss, willingly given.” His smouldering gaze raked her, and Francis realized that the position he held her in, sprawled on top of him, had been deliberate. He had let her take the superior position, giving him access to the most vulnerable parts of her.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  His lips stretched in a devilish grin. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He moved so she could feel his breath against her cheek, ruffling her hair. The gentle caress made her shiver.

  He must have felt it, for he chuckled again. The low, purring sound, so close to her ear, only added to her giddy sense of danger.

  “You’re actually enjoying this.” She glared at him.

  In answer, he pushed down her hips, shifting her until she felt his erection press between her thighs. Trembling with a mixture of arousal and fear, Francis sat motionless astride him. His hungry jade eyes bored into hers with hypnotizing effect. Some part of her began to give in to his silent invitation, and then she forced herself to look away. She struggled to lift herself off his body, but he only let her move so far away before he pulled her astride him again. Their rocking motion, as she wriggled back and forth against his erection was highly arousing. Francis felt a betraying moisture dampen her nightgown, even as she struggled to get away. This time, when he thrust her down on top of him, he nipped at her ear, and then sucked her ear lobe into his mouth. It sent a tingle straight to her belly. Panting, Francis scratched his naked chest. He gave a deep moan. Then his mouth was on hers, fierce and hot. He plunged his tongue inside, sending currents of giddying sensation through her belly. Giving in to the pleasure, Francis surrendered to the hard pressure of his embrace. His heady taste, a mixture of man and brandy, made her senses swim.

  He grunted, a low, guttural noise, then tangled his tongue with hers. Unwilling to relinquish all of her power, Francis pulled back and then stabbed her tongue between his lips, ravishing him as he had ravished her. She plundered his mouth until he twisted and panted beneath her. Enjoying her new sense of power, Francis scratched the buds of his nipples with her fingernails. He shuddered and she could feel the urgency of his arousal. He pushed her off him, panting, and then took her by surprise by flipping her on to her back. Before she knew what was happening, he had removed her shawl and then he ripped her nightgown, exposing her round, firm breasts to the cold. She gasped, and her nipples puckered in the slap of frigid air. He knelt over her, and she felt his hot breath on her sensitive skin.

  “Say yes.” His voice was harsh against her ear.

  Francis nodded, and he just barely touched her nipple with the tip of his tongue. She whimpered, but he hovered over her, teasing.

  “I want to hear the words.”

  The flickering movement of his warm breath against her skin made her wild. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He lifted her up into him so that his knee was pressed into her groin. Francis gave a choked cry and dug her nails into his shoulders. Supporting her in his arms, he buried his face in her bosom. She moaned as he caressed her soft flesh with the fan of his cropped hair. Then, with a hungry look, he took one of her nipples into his mouth.

  Francis cried out. He suckled her, his tongue circling the tight bud. She whimpered and moaned, waves of intense pleasure e
ngulfing her. His tongue was warm and its teasing pressure sent shock waves to her core. Quivering, Francis tossed her head from side to side, giving in to the white-hot sensations building in her groin. The fire exploded and she bucked against him, screaming.

  “Oh, God, yes, please. Oh, God,” she moaned. Her sex contracted against his knee, swamping her in blinding volleys of sensation. Then she collapsed, panting, against him.

  “The name’s Jared,” he murmured in her ear, “but you can call me anything you like.”

  Francis blinked at him, as if she were waking from a long sleep. Her entire body felt intensely alive. She saw Jared in sharp focus now: the beads of sweat on his upper lip, his leaf-coloured pupils, rimmed by darker green, the tawny hair of his clipped sideburns that framed his face. The intent look in his eyes was almost too much for her to bear. She rested her head against his chest, and the muffled sound of his heartbeat tugged at her senses. Absently, she put her hand on her bosom, and felt her heart contract beneath her palm. Something powerful had taken possession of her. Francis opened her mouth to ask him why he had stolen the Panchamaabhuta, but the words came out in a sob.

  “Shhh.” He stroked her hair, and, at his gentle touch, Francis buried her face in his chest. Sobs racked her as if a dam of pent-up grief had broken open. She wept and wept, feeling a leaden weight in her chest pressing her down, overwhelming her. Little by little, as she cried herself out, the heavy feeling began to fade. For the first time in two years, the black time in Brussels had receded. Francis hiccoughed and coughed, then raised her head, suddenly aware of how much time had passed.

  “That’s better.” He had been rocking her gently against his shoulder, his voice a soothing murmur. Francis felt delicious warmth spread through her at his gentle touch. He lifted her in his arms and carried her, a limp armful, to his bed. She collapsed like a rag doll, looking up at him, wide-eyed. Suddenly she felt painfully exposed. Her stolen encounter had borne in on her that her bitter loss in Brussels hadn’t happened at all as she had imagined. She had thought that Robert’s death had taken everything from her. Instead, she had discovered a passionate, living force inside that she had never known until now. Francis straightened up, feeling strangely light and yet filled with wanting. And what she wanted, most of all now, was the stranger who stood naked before her.

  For the first time, Francis smiled at him. His answering grin was brilliant even in the semi-darkness. He strode towards her and pulled her nightgown, which had pooled at her waist, down over her feet and threw it on to the floor. Then he took a step backwards. She watched him stand there motionless, his hands on his hips, studying her. His pupils were so dilated that his irises looked black. Francis lay trembling on the bed, waiting for him to come to her. But he stayed still.

  She felt a surge of anxiety. She had never felt such raw desire for a man before. The carnal need to taste his hot mouth, to feel him deep inside her, was overwhelming. What if he didn’t feel the same way? “Jared.” She held out her hand.

  He didn’t move. Francis frowned and sat up against the pillows, covering herself with her crossed arms.

  “No, don’t,” he said in a husky voice. “Let me look at you.” His heated gaze assuaged a little of her uncertainty. He took a branch of candles to the fire, lit them, and then placed the light on the table next to the bed. He moved to stand at the foot of the bed. “Let me look at you,” he repeated, his voice harsh with command.

  As if under a spell, Francis let her arms fall to her side, and then she relaxed against the coverlet, exposing her naked body to him.

  He made a low, rumbling noise in his throat. “Put your arms behind your head.”

  She did as he commanded, aware that she was thrusting her breasts forwards for his hungry gaze.

  Jared licked his lips. The question of whether he wanted her was more than answered by the angle of his rigid sex, jutting out from his body. “For ten years I’ve been away from England, keeping company with women different from my kind. You are more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

  His heated examination of her sent little shivers travelling up and down her spine. She knew that her arms and legs were too thin, but somehow he found her beautiful. The realization sent a fluttering sensation into her core. “Come.”

  He didn’t move. “This is too good to be true,” he murmured, a rapt look in his eyes. He seemed to devour every bit of her white skin and long, wheat-coloured hair. Francis felt a stirring of pride at his evident admiration of her slender body. His eyes lingered on her flat belly, and the pink tips of her nipples, which jutted in response to the cold air. His possessive gaze was only feeding the flames of her impatience. He licked his lips again, and she realized he was examining the golden patch of curls above her sex. Inspired with a naughty idea, Francis spread her legs apart. He made a low, guttural noise in his throat. Encouraged, Francis raised a hand to her breast and traced lazy circles around her nipple. He sucked in his breath. She let her other hand drift down between her legs. Fixing him with a wanton look, she traced her folds with one fingertip.

  Jared surged forwards, as if he could no longer contain himself. Climbing on to the bed, he lowered himself on top of her and entered her in one thrust. They both cried out when he sank into her. Francis thrashed beneath him, meeting his every thrust with fierce energy. He possessed her. But the more she surrendered to the sweet invasion, the more pleasure she felt. The warmth of his mouth, the fullness inside her, took her to a state entirely out of herself. His fingers, teasing her at the place of their joining, sent waves of heat through her. He stiffened, increasing his movements, and she felt the tingling sensation of a violent climax approaching. She arched up, lifting her hips to take him deeper inside her, and then she shattered against him with a breathless sob. He bit into her shoulder, muffling the hoarse sound of his own release.

  He collapsed on top of her. Francis held on to him for dear life, hugging him so close that she could hardly breathe. Her nails dug into his back, as she felt his heavy weight squeeze the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t bear to let go of him, of the radiant sense of pleasure and release Jared had given her. He claimed her mouth in a fierce kiss, and then rolled off on to his side. He pulled her into his chest, and Francis rested her cheek against the soft mat of curls on his chest. It felt strangely, terrifyingly right, lying in his arms. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she sighed at his soothing touch. Soon she fell into a deep sleep.

  Francis was aware of an elbow digging into her side. She winced, and tried to push it away. A loud snore resonated in her ears. Her eyes blinked open to find the early morning light streaming through the bare window. Jared was tangled in the coverlet, asleep, his back to her. She looked in admiration at the taut muscles of his back. Feeling rather shy, she traced her fingers along his smooth, golden skin. It was warm and silky to the touch. She felt a stir of desire at the sight of his naked body, lying so temptingly close to her. She was free of shame about the unexpected night she had spent with Jared. Making love to him had been entirely different to her decorous couplings with her husband. She had discovered some hidden part of herself, passionate and alive, which made her see everything in a different light. Francis had discovered that she had invested all that had been good of herself in Robert, and believed that it had died with him. Now, she seemed to have taken some of it back. Looking at her lover’s sleeping form, she spied the dull red glow of the Panchamaabhuta on his finger.

  Francis wriggled out of bed and stood up, careful not to make any noise. Jared’s long, muscular limbs were intertwined with the white coverlet, and, in her fancy, he resembled a sculpture of Apollo. His arm was crossed over his chest, elevating the ruby into a ray of morning light. Francis knew her only chance to steal it back was while Jared was defenceless in sleep. His body was limp, his chest rising and falling with the sounds of his hearty snores. She bent over him. “Jared?” she murmured in his ear, testing him.

  He didn’t move. His breathing was deep and regular.
r />   Holding her breath, Francis took his hand in hers. This time the ring gave when she tugged it. Her heart was pounding in her chest when she slid the Panchamaabhuta off his finger. Slipping it on, she snatched up her woollen shawl and then struggled into her boots. The window groaned when she eased it open, and Jared stirred. Francis waited, her heart in her mouth, but he didn’t move. The sonorous sound of his snoring began again. Francis clambered through the window and hurried across the balcony to her room. She dressed in frantic haste and then ran down the stairs. Collaring the innkeeper Francis paid for her room, looking over her shoulder all the while. Her fellow travellers from the stagecoach had already gathered on the front step.

  Francis ran out to them. She found the burly farmer with the woollen vest who had sat next to her in the coach the day before. He was shifting from foot to foot, balancing two great baskets of apples on his meaty hips. “How long until the coach comes?” Francis asked. “It’s just on for seven. It should be any minute now,” he said, creasing his round face into a friendly smile.

  “If it ever comes at all. Look over there,” said the slender curate, pulling a long face.

  The driver was riding towards them on one of the horses from the carriage.

  “That’s not a good sign,” the farmer murmured. The coachman pulled his horse up in front of them and said, “Look here, now. I’ve just spoken to the carter, and the wheel is split more badly then he thought. It’s going to have to be replaced, and that won’t be until tomorrow.”