War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  “I want you on top of me this time.”

  “Do you not want to control what we do?” If she considered the act at all, it would be to assume the man would want to remain in control.

  “I want to give you a taste of it. Ready? Hold on to me, and we’ll see if we can’t perform miracles in this narrow bed.” He frowned. “Really, how do you sleep without falling out?”

  “Practice,” she said with a smile, amused at his lack of experience in this, at least.

  She did as he bade her, curled her legs around his and gripped his shoulders, clinging to him like a monkey as he reversed their positions. One long edge of the bed was pushed against the wall, that being the only position it could occupy in this small room. Marcus used that to brace himself as he turned them without leaving her body. When she landed on top of him, panting and breathlessly laughing, he was still inside her.

  He took her hands and laid them on his shoulders. “Sit up. I want to see you.”

  Ruth lost all sense of modesty. He showed no shame, so she followed his example. After tucking her legs under her, she rose up, pressing her body shamelessly against his groin.

  Marcus fixed his gaze on her breasts. They were glowing from his attentions, the nipples pointed in hard peaks. He cupped one, pushing it up, then lifted far enough to take one into his mouth. When he sucked, Ruth bit her lip, for fear she would scream. Everything he did to her shattered her, broke her into pinpoints of need, but he put her back together with his hands when he touched and stroked her.

  He leaned back once more, one hand playing with the nipple he had not sucked. “You’re a country girl, Ruth. You know how to ride.”

  She didn’t need telling twice. He was rigid inside her, an intrusion so welcome she never wanted him to leave. Resting the flat of her hands on his shoulders, watching his face as he’d watched hers earlier, she tightened her thighs around his flanks and rode him.

  Catching his breath in his throat, Marcus tilted his head back on the pillow, his spine arching when she sank on to him. He was the most powerful of steeds, the most responsive, too. “I only rode slugs before.”

  “None like this.”

  “No.” She said little after that, because she needed her breath for the exercise. She rode him to a gallop, each slide and rub eased by the juices they made and now created afresh, the lubrication almost too much. Never would she have enough of this, especially with this man, the one she wanted above all others.

  When she began to tire, he thrust up and into her, taking over much of the impetus, while he eased her away from him, to straighten her shoulders and take him. The new angle gave her fresh energy, and she committed herself with a will, grinding down against him, their intimate hair meshing, her sex fully open, the swollen lips wide, the sensitive inner parts pressing against him.

  So powerful he was that he brought her to another peak almost before she registered the fact. She sealed her lips together and swallowed her screams.

  His culmination began when his balls tightened, pushing against her, and then he released his seed in a series of spasms that racked his whole body. He held nothing back except his cry, letting her see exactly what she was doing to him. He gripped her hips so tightly she would have fingerprint bruises in the morning. She’d bear them like a trophy of war, proudly, even though none would know she had them.

  She had not realised tears were streaming down her face until he swiped them away with his thumbs, his touch gentle although he was still shaking in the aftermath. Gently, he drew her down to lie over him, her head on his shoulder, her hair swathing covering his chest. He cupped her skull gently and settled her, drawing the sheets over their rapidly cooling bodies.

  “Rest, sweetness. Give me the joy of holding you,” were the last words she heard before she tumbled into oblivion.

  * * * * *

  Marcus lay on the narrow, lumpy bed holding the woman he had just deflowered as if his life depended on keeping her safe. He wanted her to stay, but did he want it this much?

  Yes.

  Yes he wanted her, yes, he wanted to uncover her more than in body. Still angry with d’Argento when he had skimmed her mind as if she was just anyone, he realised the extent of his feelings for her. These things didn’t happen. He had enemies to fight, wars to wage. How could he do that and keep her safe?

  He could convert her.

  The thought came unbidden, but once it arrived, it stayed there, clinging burr-like to his mind. Converting was dangerous, but not if they did a test first. His blood was not blood at all, but ichor, a clear substance. One of his first lessons had been how to hide the appearance of the ichor, which marked him as different. To most people, it looked like blood. But it was poisonous to mortals. Most mortals, that was. To a few, given with intent, it could convert them into what the ancients called demigods. People who lived as long as the gods and gained some of their attributes, like resistance to disease. Nobody ever saw a pockmarked god, unless they wished it so.

  Was he so far gone he would consider that?

  Yes.

  The answers came despite his good intentions, the desire too strong to ignore, the truth like a beacon showing him the way forward. Marcus smoothed his hand down her silky skin, reminding himself of the joy of touching her. She murmured and snuggled closer to him. His heart warmed, his protective instincts roused.

  He could not do that for some time, though, even if she proved compatible. They would need to mingle drops of their blood first, to see if the joining would work. If it did not, the blood and ichor would remain separate. Otherwise, the ichor would absorb the red blood and the container would grow clear again. If the test didn’t work, ancients often chose to age and die with their loved ones. Before he’d met Ruth, Marcus considered that a foolish option, but he was beginning to understand it.

  No, he could not do that. She didn’t even know his true identity, the secret he’d agreed to keep from all but his fellow ancients and his loved ones. She would not believe him. Why should she, when ostensibly he was just a duke?

  He’d come close to telling her when she’d discovered his footsteps. His lips twisted in a wry smile. He touched a kiss to her hair. He would not let her go, not for a minute.

  He felt different towards Ruth. He saw her weaknesses, he did not see her as perfect. He knew she would never be a raving beauty, but he blessed the powers that be for that. She would not like it, and neither would he. But she was perfect for him, because of the person she was. The miracle of her soft, silky skin, which he would never tire of touching. Talking to her was a delight that would never fade. At first she’d brought him peace from the endless restlessness that plagued him, but she had come to give him so much more.

  Even her maidenhead, which women were supposed to prize. Breaching her had been easier than he’d thought, but not all women were made the same. She was a country girl—perhaps she rode astride from time to time. He didn’t care, only that he had not hurt her too much. They made love twice, he got to see her falling apart twice, and he was there to catch her.

  Ruth was tall and elegant. The chances were the people around her had tried to make her into the fashionable ideal of beauty. She was not petite, plump and well-endowed. She was the opposite. Marcus was not one for fashion and folderols, but even he could see that. D’Argento was more in that line, although Marcus was convinced he only did it to tease certain people. Him, for example.

  It wasn’t hard to find one. He could not make love to her a third time. Not tonight. But if he left her, she might take it into her head to leave. That was unacceptable.

  If he stayed here, they would be discovered and her reputation destroyed. That was unacceptable too.

  He would make this right.

  Dawn was creeping up, slinking into the rooms. The maids would be rousing and now that he’d employed more of them, he’d need to leave, lest anyone found him leaving her room
.

  Inch by inch, shifting as carefully as he could, Marcus began extricating himself from Ruth’s warm body. She moved. It was useless, he would never get out of here without waking her.

  He did not want to do it, but he feared he would not get away unless he helped her slip into a more profound slumber. Slipping into her mind, blocking his more tender emotions, he cast a light haze on her senses, encouraging her to slide deeper into sleep and stay that way for longer than usual.

  That would work. After that, he found the task of sliding away from her difficult in only one respect—he didn’t want to leave her.

  At least he had kept her from getting pregnant.

  Chapter Ten

  When Marcus tried to slip out of Ruth’s room and return to his own, he’d found his way blocked. Not only was d’Argento lying in wait, he’d guessed what they’d done. There he stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded, grimly glaring at Marcus, his long dark blue robe giving him the appearance of a wizard, his fair hair curling around his head. He appeared less like the d’Argento of fashion and more like the Mercury of legend. Marcus ground his teeth, but he did it quietly.

  He spoke to Marcus in the way of the Olympians, mind to mind.

  Where are you going?

  That is no business of yours, Marcus answered angrily.

  Of course it is my business.

  Turning around, d’Argento led the way to one of the small rooms nearby. Unlike the state rooms, this one was of no significance, an antechamber that led nowhere. Marcus plunked down on a wide-seated chair. “What makes it your business?”

  “She is a mortal. That alone gives us pause.” D’Argento spread a fog of confusion around them, which would also serve to muffle any sound in case the maids were up early. “I bring you your bride, and you chase after the nursery maid?”

  “Ruth is much more than that. You will take that back or leave the house!”

  D’Argento stayed on his feet. “Don’t put blocks of anger in our way. Ruth is not the first Simpson who proved your undoing. Does this family possess an unholy attraction for you? Do I investigate her to discover if she’s been enchanted as bait for you?”

  “No!” Marcus didn’t care who heard him. A red tide of anger rose to half-blind him. D’Argento’s “investigations” were invasive and extremely painful. No part of Ruth’s mind would remain unexplored, and no part of her would be unscathed. D’Argento could kill her if he didn’t take care. “She is not enchanted. Only enchanting.” What in hell did he think he was doing, allowing even that part of his thoughts about her into the open?

  D’Argento spun around, kicking the long skirts of his robe out of the way, pacing the small space restlessly. “She is a distraction. Get rid of her.”

  “No.”

  “If I thought for one minute you would go to her, or she would allow it, I would have made arrangements for her.” A sneer flattened his upper lip when he saw Marcus’s reaction. “Oh, don’t look at me in that way. I’m not an ogre. I’m sure I could have found something for her that suited her perfectly.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain you are completely free of any enchantment?”

  Marcus folded his arms and glared at him. “Perfectly sure. You examined me yourself. You will not examine her. Ruth is a private person.”

  “Not to say secretive.” D’Argento tilted his head back and heaved a sigh into the air, as if exasperated. “She is also the sister of the woman society believes you debauched and abandoned pregnant. If you had fought the case, society may have thought otherwise, but as it is…?”

  “I know. That could be difficult. I did not debauch Rhea, someone else got there first. But I did try to do the honourable thing when she said I was the father of her two babies. Society would never have believed me at the time, so I had little choice.” He shrugged. “I did not procure her death. I was not there when it happened. So my chivalrous instincts were misguided?”

  “Probably. But I see your point. There was little else you could do at the time.” D’Argento grimaced. “Still, it could put you in a difficult situation.”

  Why should he suffer for the rest of his life because of something he did out of chivalry? He could hardly remember what Rhea looked like. He felt sorry for the woman, and would always respect her memory, but because she was Ruth’s sister.

  “So you have no objection if I remove Ruth from this house?” d’Argento continued.

  “I have every objection.” Ruth was his to care for, his to protect.

  Considering the discussion over, he made to get to his feet before he recalled a word he had not thought to hear from d’Argento. “You said my bride? What on earth are you talking about? You can’t be referring to that foolish contract?”

  “Not only that.” D’Argento showed the kind of patience a man might demonstrate when the person he was talking to was slow on the uptake. “Think, man. Who did Mars marry?”

  Shock rocked Marcus to his feet. “That depends which legend you decide to believe. Nerine was Mars’ wife, or his sister, or even his daughter in one legend.”

  “She was his wife and consort,” d’Argento said firmly, as if he’d been there. For all Marcus knew, he could have been. D’Argento had survived the massacre of thirty years before. He was one of the true ancients, with the years to prove it, but nobody knew precisely how old he was. Or if they did, they weren’t telling.

  “That does not mean she is his wife for all time, that every incarnation is fated.” Marcus might have lived quietly, but he’d done his share of reading the ancient legends, and he knew his way around them. He also knew what the people currently holding the attributes of the gods were doing. He had good reason to. “History does not repeat itself so closely. Otherwise Jupiter would have married Juno, not the woman he is currently sharing domestic bliss with.”

  D’Argento shrugged. “Others are sharing domestic bliss with their counterparts. This is yours. She’s a sweet, biddable girl. She will keep you out of trouble. God knows I have enough trouble in other quarters.” He rolled his shoulders. “I need to get back to London. The sooner I see this business brought to a conclusion, the better. The contract was only a token of intent.”

  Marcus grimaced. “I don’t consider it binding in any way. My parents and Nerine’s parents have no right to dictate our lives. Particularly now that they are dead. That contract has no legal standing.”

  He swallowed. He had best make perfectly sure the agreement had absolutely no legality. For all his assertions, he was not entirely certain, and any dispute would prolong the agony. He had only mentioned to his man of business in passing and had never attempted to negate it or try it in court.

  It had been a foolish agreement. A parcel of land had changed hands to mark it. He would gladly return the land to Nerine’s family in return for breaking the terms and keeping peace with them. How could the marriage of minors be legal and enforceable, especially after the recent marriage reform laws? But a court could be persuaded, it could take an opinion.

  It could affect what he wanted.

  Until he assured himself the contract was nonsense, he would stay away from Ruth’s bed, but he would also ensure her presence in the house. She would not easily bear more notoriety, and if the case came to court, he did not want her impugned in that way. His honour demanded it. He would go to her freely, in charge of his own destiny, or not at all. She deserved better than half a man.

  His lawyer lived in York, not too far away, so the task would not take long.

  With renewed energy, he sprang to his feet. At the door, he turned back, his hand resting on the knob. “Do not encourage Nerine or her sister. I don’t care who they are, I will not marry anyone because of a decision by my mother, may she rot in hell.”

  “Appropriate,” d’Argento murmured as Marcus left the room. “However, don’t let that blind you to her excellent qualities. They were as much victim
s of their parents as you were of yours.”

  “I am nobody’s victim,” Marcus growled, and did not stay to hear any more.

  * * * * *

  Ruth woke to broad daylight. Cursing under her breath, she washed in cold water and dressed before trying the door to the nursery. It opened at her touch. Glancing at the clock above the mantelpiece, she sighed when she saw the time. How had she slept until nine? The morning was half gone.

  She’d never experienced a night like that before. Perhaps intimate relations exhausted one? Certainly a dull ache throbbed between her thighs, but she resolutely ignored it, other than to cleanse herself. No longer a virgin, but looking exactly the same as yesterday, Ruth forced a smile of greeting to her face.

  The twins were playing on the floor, something Ruth approved of as a way for them to develop their limbs. They were crawling now, or shuffling on their backsides. Andrea must stop what she was doing and lift them back to the centre of the room and the rug Ruth discovered for them in the attic. After having it cleaned it proved perfect for her purpose, but she suspected it might be somewhat more valuable than she originally supposed. However, it sported threadbare patches, which was probably why it was put in the attics in the first place.

  A full breakfast lay on the table. Cold viands, but much more than she or Andrea usually indulged in up here. Andrea, engaged in gathering the laundry, of which there was much, stopped to smile. “It’s laundry day. Do you have your sheets ready?”

  A flush rose to Ruth’s cheeks. “I’ll go and strip my bed.” She hurried back into her room and threw back the covers.

  The evidence of her lost virginity was there for all to see. Too wise to try to hand wash it, she bundled the bloody part inside and thanked her lucky stars that today the maids collected the laundry. If they saw the marks, they might think the stains were for a different reason. She had not long finished her courses, after all. She dumped the sheets outside the room.