The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Then he was on top of her, his weight supported by both arms on each side of her, his slim hips fitted between her legs, his manhood heavy and tumid against her stomach. He kissed her again, deeply and passionately. He lowered his head to her breast to suckle, to tease and tighten her nipple with his clever tongue. She felt as though she were losing her mind, crazed by the sheer joy of lovemaking with Zach.

  Gabrielle’s muscles were bunching, tightening like little fists of tension, like bubbles of pleasure that were growing bigger and bigger till they’d certainly burst from the internal pressure. Heat coiled in that most sensitive part of her, and she instinctively rocked her hips against Zach, his manhood pushing against her tender stomach. It felt good, it felt right, and she wanted the rest.

  Zach knew she was ready, and he positioned himself to enter her. He pushed the hair away from her flushed and tortured face and kissed her mouth. “Open your eyes, Gabby, and look at me.” She did, and her look was full of trust. His heart flip-flopped with love. “This is going to hurt at first. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded, smiling faintly. “Yes, I know. But the pain goes away, doesn’t it?”

  Zach smiled back. “Yes, love. And then there’s only pleasure. Are you ready?”

  She nodded again and closed her eyes. Zach slowly entered her, waiting with each slight forward thrust for the tight channel of her womanhood to stretch and adapt to him. He watched her face and saw the tiny furrow of pain between her brows and the way she bit her lip. She was being brave and quiet, and he loved her all the more for trying to pretend that it didn’t hurt like bloody hell. “You can scream if you want to, Gabby,” he told her, but she shook her head. She opened her eyes, and he saw tears sheening there, but she smiled, saying, “I love you, Zach.”

  He smiled back. “I love you too, Gabby. Does it still hurt, sweeting?”

  “Just a little.” She lifted her hips and pushed him deeper inside her, her eyes fluttering shut and a little gasp of pleasure breaking from her parted lips. “But it feels much more good than bad.”

  Zach couldn’t agree more, and that last little lift of her hips had nearly sent him over the edge. He needed to love her. He couldn’t wait one minute more.

  Still tempering himself, he pushed into her, setting a slow, gentle tempo to their lovemaking. But she was as needful as he, as eager to consummate their love with all the pent-up passion of years of pretend and denial. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, her own innocent desire setting a much faster, much more forceful rhythm than he had planned on. It was devastating to the last shred of control he thought he owned. He was lost in Gabby, lost in her sweet, eager body, in the sound of her tiny mewls of pleasure, and in the womanly, orchid scent of her. He was coming, and he couldn’t stop it. He was lost in love for Gabby…

  Gabrielle felt the bubbles bursting like fireworks—bright sparks of euphoric pleasure against the black background of her spinning consciousness. Her muscles contracted and released with mind-rending intensity. She was lost, lost in a vortex of sated sensuality. Lost in love. Lost in Zach.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Ralph, are you quite sure you’ve told us everything?”

  Lying on his stomach on the striped damask sofa in the little morning room off the kitchen, with a snow-filled washcloth shaped into a pouch and pressed to the back of his head, Ralph lifted his eyes to Sir George and nodded glumly. “Aye, sir, that I have. 1 woke up ’neath the stairs with Mrs. Tuttle and her bairns hanging over me, worried-like. Whoever did this must’ve been waitin’ fer me outside the door when I went t’ fetch Miss Tavistock a hack. After ’e done ’is black deed, he drug me into the shadows so’s she’d not be suspicious of any foul play goin’ on.” A purse-lipped Flossie, the cook and self-declared foster mother of Ralph, rearranged the bulging snow-pack and Ralph winced. “Hit me hard, sir, and knocked me clean out, or I’d never have let Miss Tavistock out o’ me sight.”

  With an elbow cupped in one hand, Sir George pulled thoughtfully on his chin with the other. “I don’t blame you, Ralph. You couldn’t help being struck on the head any more than you could have said no to Miss Tavistock last night when she required you to escort her to Old Town, I suppose.”

  “It’s not me place t’ gainsay me betters, sir,” Ralph agreed, only too willing to exonerate himself, since he’d had misgivings about Miss Tavistock’s foray into Old

  Town from the beginning. “But what are ye goin’ t’ do, sir, if I might ask? In a bit I’ll be feelin’ as good as new and I’d be pleased t’ help ye look for the lass. I’m afeared she’ll come t’ no good in Auld Reekie.”

  Sir George did not reply, nor did any other of the occupants of the small room feel inclined to voice aloud their similar opinions on the subject. It was quite obvious from all their faces that Rory, Regina, Lady Grace, Aunt Clarissa, and even Flossie the cook, believed as forcefully as Ralph did that Gabrielle had once again flung herself headlong into the briars. Only this time there was some doubt about her getting out.

  “It’s nearly seven o’clock,” said Rory, who was standing with his back against the mantlepiece. “Zach hasn’t returned yet, either. He’s never missed dinner unless he’s sent word. I think it possible that Gabrielle’s with him.”

  Aunt Clarissa fluttered her hands in front of her and sprang up from the wing chair in a spasm of nervous movement. “You don’t know how very much I would like to believe that Gabrielle is with Zachary, as he’s certainly saved her from dire consequences more than once over the years. If only we knew for sure!”

  “Has anyone thought to ask Zach’s servants if they know anything?” Regina interposed, sitting on a footstool near Rory and holding his hand.

  Flossie spoke up. “Mr. Wickham’s carriage ’as been in the stable since early afternoon. I heard from one of the lads that he borrowed Sir George’s roan and went off again right after he come home without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  “He didn’t mention to his servants where he was going or when he’d be back?” Lady Grace inquired, perched anxiously on the edge of the settee.

  Sir George pulled the bell rope which hung near the fireplace. “I’ll summon his manservant, who, of all his men, might know the whereabouts of his master, though it is entirely possible and reasonable that Zachary didn’t tell anyone where he was going. After all, why should he? He’s a gentleman and completely free to do as he pleases without announcing his intentions. Like as not, he’s simply unable to get home through this blasted blizzard.” A footman appeared, and Sir George issued his order to fetch Mr. Wickham’s manservant. The footman immediately bowed himself out the door to do as he’d been told.

  “The weather makes it well nigh impossible to undertake a search for her, as well,” Sir George muttered gloomily. “Frankly I don’t know what to do. Anything could have happened to her, though abduction seems a likely possibility.”

  Rory and Regina exchanged glances. He could tell by Regina’s expression that she was wondering whether or not they ought to tell the Murrays about Gabrielle’s run-in with Mother Henn. He greatly feared that the madam from the brothel may have had a revengeful hand in Gabrielle’s sudden disappearance and Ralph’s goose-egg. But, since he wasn’t sure that that was the case, and it probably wouldn’t help a bit in finding her even if Mother Henn were indeed involved, Rory was unwilling to further upset the Murrays and Aunt Clarissa by detailing to them Gabrielle’s scandalous adventure of just two days before.

  Regina read his thoughts. He could tell she’d read them just as plainly as if they’d been inked on his forehead. Her keen brown eyes telegraphed quite ably her understanding of his logic and her perfect agreement with it. He’d been communicating with his childhood friend in this manner since they were both on leading strings. Why, he wondered now as he smiled tenderly down at her, why had he never realized she was in love with him and he with her? He’d been too puffed up with conceit, he suspected, and bent on engaging every lass’s heart from Edinburgh to Glasgow.
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br />   Thank God Zach had spoken up last night at the Garrisons’ party and awakened Rory to the realization of Regina’s great worth and her unwavering devotion to him! He’d gotten so used to her always being there that he’d become rather cavalier, enjoying her company as freely as he drank water, and taking it as much for granted. But when forced to think about the possibility of being without Regina—say, for example, if she married and moved away—he appreciated how dear she was to him, how necessary to his happiness. She was as essential to his well-being as his daily consumption of that cool water he’d thought of as a metaphor for Regina’s own particular brand of refreshment.

  He squeezed Regina’s hand, rejoicing in the gesture because he knew it would not be disapproved of by her parents. He’d confessed their guilt in the betrothal charade at the exact time he and Gabrielle had agreed to make the confession together—precisely at one, after nuncheon—even though she’d not been present. At the time, Rory simply thought she’d been delayed, or had even possibly been too frightened to face up to the Murrays and left the task to him.

  Manfully, he’d faced the Murrays alone. Then, while they frowned in disapproval and disappointment, he risked his future on their merciful goodness and lifelong affections by confessing something more. He was in love with Regina, and would they mind terribly much if he requested her hand in marriage?

  The Murrays were left speechless, too surprised and delighted by Rory’s second confession to be inclined to scold him for the wrongfulness of his behavior as revealed by his first confession. Despite his frivolous ways over the years, the Murrays had always been fond of Rory and knew there were merits beneath his rakish facade. Furthermore, they had always suspected Regina’s love for Rory and they had been amazed by her seeming unconcern when the engagement between Gabrielle and Rory was announced.

  Now all made sense. Even though they had wrung out of Regina an admission that she, too, had been part of the betrothal charade, they were now very glad to make their daughter happy by bestowing her hand on the Marquess of Lome. They were also ready to forgive Rory and Gabrielle their sins against themselves, and indeed against all of Edinburgh and half of Cornwall. Later, basking in the glow of Regina’s happiness, they felt most indulgent and almost eager for Gabrielle’s return from whatever mischief was keeping her away.

  Later they discovered that the lass had probably coerced Ralph, one of their footmen, into an errand they’d strictly disapproved of. According to the scullery maids’ descriptions of the bundles of food and blankets and other creature comforts Ralph had been toting, Gabrielle had apparently disobeyed Lady Grace and gone off to personally administer to the poor. When Ralph showed up in a hack with his goose-egg this afternoon, they realized that that was exactly what Gabrielle had done. But her secret philanthropy had proved to be an even more dangerous undertaking than they thought it might be. She was missing in the sometimes sinister streets of Old Town.

  “You summoned me, sir?” Bleader’s arrival prodded everyone from their grim thoughts. His hair was slicked down as if by a hasty spit-bath, his large ears seeming to stick out all the more by the relative flatness of his scalp. Rory thought he looked worried. There were puckers of concern between the manservant’s brows.

  “You’re Mr. Wickham’s valet?” queried Sir George, making quite sure he’d got the right man.

  “Yes, sir.” Bleader bowed respectfully.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” Bleader replied, the puckers deepening. Then came the validation of Rory’s suspicions. “And I’m right worried about ’im, sir. ’Tisn’t like the master t’ not tell ’is servants what he’s about. At least not fer such a long spell.”

  “I suppose you’re aware that Miss Tavistock is missing, too?”

  “Yes, sir. Hard not t’ know what’s goin’ on when everybody’s in such a pucker.”

  “Er… yes. Do you think they’re together?”

  Bleader paused, pursing his lips consideringly. “Could be, sir. Indeed, sir, ’tis more’n likely that if Miss Tavistock is in the briars, so t’ speak, Mr. Wickham is tryin’t’ pluck ’er out. Happened all the time back home. She’s prone t’ flndin’ trouble, that one, and Mr. Wickham has what ye could call a knack fer knowin’ when she’s found some.”

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Lady Grace. “You make it sound as though he’s fey! It seems extremely fantastic to me that Zachary would know when Gabrielle is in trouble and somehow make himself available to save her.”

  “Fantastic, indeed, Lady Grace,” agreed Aunt Clarissa with a self-important nod of her head, “but I can tell you from personal experience that what Bleader is saying is true. While I cannot believe that Zachary was involved in Ralph’s injury, I can readily believe that he is somehow involved in Gabrielle’s disappearance. I would be much more concerned about her safety if Zach were standing in this room with us right now. Since he isn’t, I can only hope they’re together somewhere.” She nodded decisively. “In fact, I firmly believe they are!”

  Unlike Aunt Clarissa, Rory couldn’t be made comfortable by what he considered mere wishful thinking. It was late and dark, and the streets were piled with snow, the air full of the blinding snowflakes that could look so beautiful and harmless as they drifted lightly down in the still air, yet turn so hazardous when caught up and tossed around by the stiff wind from the firth. It was not a night for a female to be missing, but only a fool—or a hero—would venture forth in this weather to find her. As Rory reached for the bell rope to summon the servant to fetch his redingote and hat, his stoutest boots, and thickest woolen scarf, he thought he knew which of the two he was!

  “I can’t just stand here, warm and dry and safe, and wait while something dreadful could be happening to Gabrielle,” he announced. “I have to do something, go somewhere.”

  Regina stood up and squeezed Rory’s arm. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, and—”

  “If’n ye’re wantin’t’ go somewhere, sir,” Bleader interrupted in a different voice, but with a determined look, “I know a good place fer ye t’ start.”

  Rory, desperate to have somewhere to start, some hope to grasp onto, was all attention. “Where’s that?”

  Bleader shifted from foot to foot. “Mr. Wickham doesn’t like people to know about it, but he’s got a charitable institution in Old Town he runs fer unfortunate woman, so t’ speak. He could be there … that is, if’n he ain’t with Miss Gabrielle. Maybe she’s there, too. Or if nothin’ else, maybe the folks there know where Zach was headed this afternoon.”

  Ignoring the astonished gasps from the others at Bleader’s revelation concerning the women’s shelter, Rory asked, “Will you go with me, Bleader, show me the way?”

  Bleader nodded, the puckers between his brows smoothing somewhat. “’Twould be a pleasure, sir. It’s makin’ me twitchy-like just waitin’ ’round t’ see what happens.”

  “Good,” said Rory, nodding his thanks. Then he turned to Sir George. “Do you approve, sir?”

  Sir George looked sober. “I don’t know if I approve, so much as I understand your need to do something. I ought to go myself.”

  Lady Grace put her hand to her heart, saying, “My dear, you couldn’t possibly go! I’d be sick with worry if you went out on such a night. You’re much too old for such heroics!”

  “Thank you, my dear,” Sir George murmured wryly. “I suspect you’re right, but ’tis rather unflattering to be thought too old for anything.”

  When the footman came, Rory ordered his winter outerwear and once more firmly but kindly refused Ralph’s offer to come along. He also ordered that his horse be saddled, and another for Bleader, since it would be impossible for a carriage to get through the snow-clogged streets.

  “We’re off,” Rory announced, kissing Regina soundly on the mouth under the benevolent watchfulness of her parents. Regina blushed, then grew teary-eyed as she watched Rory and Bleader step out into the blasting, blinding snowstorm. Love was cruel, she decided, loo
king out the window after Rory even though it was impossible to see anything but a blur of white. Love was cruel because it made one so happy, and then sometimes so very sad and anxious…

  Douglas woke from his stuporous slumber with a start. He had no idea where he was. Everything was black. He wasn’t cold, which was an unusual happenstance. He was always cold in that dreadful garret he lived in with the rats. Then he realized he wasn’t home at all, and he was warm because he had a blanket over him and two heavy wool wraps, one smelling of orchids. Then he remembered.

  He was in McSwain’s stable, in the loft. Wickham had tricked him and then neatly clipped him in the jaw. Like a babe he’d gone right to sleep. Douglas rubbed his jaw. It ached a bit, but not nearly as much as his head did. Then he realized something else. He ought to still be asleep. He’d finished a goodly amount of whiskey that day, and it usually took him all night to sleep it off.

  Douglas felt for his pocket watch, then remembered for the umpteenth time that he’d sold it, and even if he hadn’t sold it, it was too dark to read the time. It was night, that was all he knew, but he suspected that he hadn’t been asleep very long.

  Why was he awake? Douglas sat there, thinking. The wind was howling like a banshee, so maybe that’s what woke him. But he’d been known to sleep while inebriated through gunshots and screams and every other sort of sound that might be expected to wake the dead. No, the wind wasn’t the reason he was awake.

  Douglas sat very still, listening. Then he knew. In his heart, something was aching. Distantly, someone was … calling. Yes, Kate was calling. Kate needed him, wanted him. He stood up, flinging off the blanket and the good-smelling wraps. He reeled for a minute, then steadied himself and groped for the door.

  He didn’t understand why, but Wickham hadn’t locked him in, and he was in too great a hurry to puzzle it out. He didn’t know why he’d bothered to cover him up with the blanket and redingotes off their own backs, either, or how the two of them had ridden back to New Town without freezing. He thought of the cottage then, and the storm, and realized that they were probably holed up there for the night, or at least till the storm blew over.