by Lucy Ashford
He broke off. Outside in the corridor he could hear more footsteps. There were several people this time, and men’s voices; over them all he could hear Lord Franklin’s, growing louder. ‘Someone has been inside my library,’ he was saying angrily. ‘An intruder. And he must still be here, somewhere, because all the outside doors are locked and the dogs are loose in the grounds. You must find him, do you understand?’
The footsteps came closer and stopped right outside Ellie’s room. There was a sharp knock at her door—and Lord Franklin’s harsh voice filled the silence that followed. ‘Elise. Are you in there?’
‘Hide,’ she hissed to Luke. Luke hesitated, then headed for the adjoining bedroom. They wouldn’t be kind to him if they took him. He knew that. But—Ellie, he was thinking. What would they do to Ellie?
He heard her open the door and say with incredible calmness, ‘My lord. This is a surprise. Is anything wrong?’
Lord Franklin’s voice was curt. ‘I didn’t realise you’d retired for the night.’
‘I was very tired.’ She sounded, thought Luke in amazement, as if she was merely mildly annoyed that Lord Franklin was troubling her at this hour. ‘I was preparing for bed. I didn’t expect to be disturbed.’
‘And I apologise,’ said Lord Franklin stiffly. ‘But we believe intruders may have got into the house. You’ve not seen any sign of them, have you, or heard anything unusual?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Then she added, ‘Beyond, of course, the noise of your guests.’
He sounded still uncertain. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been disturbed. I wish you a peaceful night’s rest.’
And he left.
She closed the door and locked it. Turned round to face Luke as he stepped out of the shadows. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely. ‘And now, it’s best if I go.’
Her eyes flew wide open at that. ‘Go? But even if you get out of the house without being seen, you know that the dogs are loose...’
‘I’ll manage,’ he said quietly. He’d drawn a step closer. ‘I have no right to put you through any more of this ordeal. Ellie, it’s time for me to leave.’
She flung herself in front of him as he made for the door. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘You cannot risk it! And I don’t want you to leave!’
He stopped. ‘Oh, Ellie.’ His eyes burned into hers, dark with a need she suddenly recognised all too well, because it was the same need that burned in her, setting light to places she hardly knew existed. ‘Oh, Ellie. Don’t you realise just how dangerous it is—if I stay?’
It took just a moment for her to realise what he’d said. To feel his warning words scorching through her veins until she knew, with a sharp burst of utter clarity, that there was only one way this would end. Only one way she wanted it to end.
If she told him to go, he would leave instantly, she knew. He would shrug those broad shoulders of his, smile that sardonic smile and set off into the night, regardless of dogs, soldiers, guns, everything.
She said, in a voice that was so soft as to be barely audible, ‘Stay with me, Luke. Please.’
She took the first step towards him and watched the blue of his amazing eyes burn brighter the closer she came. She lifted her hands—tentatively at first, then firmer—to press them against his chest, feeling something shake inside her as she recognised the heat of his body beneath his shirt. Felt the sheer strength of him.
For a moment, he stood very still. She heard his sharp intake of breath, was aware of him clenching his hands at his sides. Please, she found herself thinking. Please don’t cast me aside now. Not now.
And then his arms came round her, pulling her against him. He kissed her.
And she was lost.
* * *
Almost reverently, Luke tasted the magic of her lips; they were so full and warm, and opened so sweetly to him, that he could do nothing but pull her ever closer, needing to feel the curve of her breasts against his chest, the softness of her abdomen against his loins.
He kissed her again and felt her hands twine around his neck, her mouth moving against his with the same urgency, the same demand he himself was feeling, and he thought, with a rasping surge of delight, that he heard her whisper his name in the French way. Luc. Luc. Mon amour.
He lifted his hands to her hair, exulting in the feel of it, the scent of it; revelling in that mass of raven curls that fell loosely now around her shoulders, the pins and the pink ribbon quite gone. He kissed the line of her cheekbones, the tip of her nose, the sweep of her lashes; then he took her hand in his, marvelling at how delicate it was, how perfect, as he led her towards the bed. All the time he was kissing her, then he was taking her again in his arms, reaching round to take off the wrapper and to start unbuttoning that beautiful rose-silk gown before sliding it down over her breasts.
He saw her gasp and cover her breasts with her hands.
‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered. He kissed her lips again, then leaned down to press his mouth against the crest of one breast, sliding his tongue across it gently. She gasped again, closing her eyes until he licked its tip anew and drew the nipple into his mouth.
She cried aloud, pulling him to her. You should stop, a harsh inner voice was telling him. But he didn’t stop. He pulled that rose-silk gown all the way down her body and the other scraps of satin and lace she wore, and gathered her up in his arms and lay on her bed beside her, thinking that this was all he’d ever wanted since he first saw her on the road to Bircham Hall.
Her dark hair was spread out in rippling waves across the pillows. Her skin was milky-white, iridescent; her lips, like her nipples, were dusky pink. He arched himself over her to kiss her mouth, but with his good hand he traced circles around her breasts, toying with their peaks, hearing her soft moan of need. Then he let his hand trace down the gentle swell of her abdomen, to finally rest between her parted thighs.
‘Luke...’ she began. Her arms were reaching round his waist to under his shirt; she was running her hands across the taut muscles of his back and her voice was so full of passion, so full of want, that his hardness ached in response.
He eased closer to her, dealing at the same time with the placket of his breeches. Saw her eyes fluttering wide in shock as she felt the strength and heat of his maleness pressing against her abdomen. He eased his hips between her thighs and he pressed himself against the core of her.
She was hot and silken, and he wanted her so badly his desire was shaking him. He slid his hands beneath her hips and drove himself into her, seeing how her eyes darkened, her lips parted. He heard her catch her breath and murmur something; he was worried in case he was hurting her and he stopped, ready to retreat; but with a small sighing out of his name—Luc—she lifted her arms and flung them around his shoulders to pull him even closer, until her tender breasts were pressed against his chest.
She was supple and sweet and scented, and in that moment of madness she enfolded all of his being. He began to move harder, kissing her lips and her breasts; then he let his hand drift down to find that place, that tiny treasured place where his fingers set to work, and he felt her tighten herself around him and begin to sob out her pleasure. He started to move his hips again, driving his phallus deeper inside her; saw her squeeze her eyes shut and throw back her head, gasping his name again and other endearments—endearments he could scarcely make out, but he longed for them to mean what he hoped they meant.
She started to shudder wildly and he continued to pleasure her strongly, surely, until she lay limp and sated in his arms. And then he pulled out of her, at last, to find his own almost savage release.
Perfect. She was perfect.
* * *
Ellie lay tangled with him in the bed and slowly opened her eyes. The bedside candle had almost burned down, but there was light enough to see that Luke’s eyes were closed, although his arms were still wrapped tightly around her. She mar
velled at the strength of his hard shoulder beneath her cheek, the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Then he opened his eyes. For a moment he gazed at her and she felt such a sense of belonging, of not wanting him to leave, that she could scarcely bear it.
He was drawing his hand—his gloved hand—up her side to her face, touching the curve of her cheek and the line of her throat as if to memorise them.
She closed her eyes. She had known from the start that this man was dangerous. She guessed he was also honourable and brave and true, which made things worse, not better. If she’d been able to tell herself he was a rogue and was just using her, then she could have dismissed everything she felt in his arms and told herself, He’s nothing to you, nor you to him.
But she couldn’t.
There would never be anyone else like Luke. She’d been a fool to think she could order herself not to feel how she felt. That this man could, and now would always, she guessed, mean everything to her.
He’d loved someone else, and after being rejected he’d turned his back on respectable society. Now he was
obsessed—understandably—with the task he’d set himself of proving his brother’s innocence. He’d made love to her passionately just now, but only because she’d begged him to. Heaven help her, she’d ordered him to her room and put him in a position where he couldn’t refuse. Colour rushed to her cheeks and pain flooded her heart.
Suddenly she realised he was drawing her closer again.
‘Ellie?’ he was saying softly. ‘Tears, Ellie? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’
Still holding her in his arms, he was leaning back and looking at her in the shadows, and she didn’t know how to prevent him seeing everything that was in her face—all her hopes and fears and longing.
So she reached out for his damaged hand and started to remove the black glove. She heard his sharp intake of breath—but she didn’t stop.
Tenderly, like a caress, she peeled away the leather and pressed her mouth to his palm; then she kissed the two stumps that marked his cruel injury. Caressing them with her lips; unable to stop herself loving him. Because she did love him, she realised, with a sudden sense of her own enormous vulnerability.
‘Ellie...’ he breathed. He cupped her face, and he kissed her. He kissed her eyes and cheeks and lips, and he began making love to her again—slow and strong and devastating—until she stopped caring about her future or his past. Until all that mattered was how she felt, now, in this precious moment in time. She ran her hand deliciously over his powerful chest and arms, feeling how his smooth skin was stretched taut over warm, rock-hard muscle, until once more he was deep inside her and she felt the fire burning, felt his lips on her taut breasts, his fingers at the heart of her need.
And soon she was sobbing out his name again, and breaking into a thousand pieces all around him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She woke hours later to realise it was still dark, but he was moving purposefully around the room and she realised he was already dressed in shirt and boots and breeches.
‘Luke,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘What time is it?’
He turned to her, his hair tousled, his jaw rough with stubble. ‘It’s almost five,’ he said softly. ‘And I have to go.’
He probably hoped to be gone before she woke. And even as the thought ran coldly through her veins she sat up, quickly pulling on her silk wrapper. ‘But will you be safe? Getting out of the house and the grounds, I mean.’
He was easing on his long coat, every movement of his conveying the lithe power of his body. ‘The dogs have been locked up,’ he said. ‘The guards and the soldiers are at the main gates still, but I can get over the wall.’
She was aware that something hard and tight was knotting like a ball in her stomach. Luke, she wanted to ask. Luke, will I see you again? She stifled her sudden cold fear and said calmly. ‘How do you know about the dogs and the guards?’
‘Because I’ve been downstairs.’ He came a little closer, so she could see the gravity of his expression. ‘And I’ve put that letter back.’
She must have made a low exclamation of shock. ‘But your brother. You need the letter to prove the truth.’
‘I know the truth,’ he said quietly. ‘And some day I’ll find a way to tell the world exactly what happened to my brother and Les Braves. But, Ellie, I can’t produce the letter without you being implicated.’
‘That’s not necessarily true. And anyway, I don’t care...’
‘I do. And, Ellie, there’s something else you must know. Tom sent over a message to Joseph early this morning. Jacques arrived last night at Higham House, and he says that Anthony has been found alive in France.’
She let out a low exclamation.
‘I have to go to my brother,’ he went on. ‘I have to find him. You understand?’
‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘Of course...’
He was pressing a brief kiss to her forehead. ‘The servants will be up and about shortly—Ellie, I must leave. But I’ll be in touch very soon. I swear it to you.’
He was already standing, fastening up his coat.
‘Luke?’
He turned to her. ‘Yes?’
There were a thousand things she wanted to say. A thousand things she wanted to tell him. I love you. I will always love you. ‘Luke,’ she said quietly, ‘take care.’
‘I will,’ he answered. ‘For you, I will.’ Then he left, closing the door almost silently after himself.
* * *
She gazed out of her window after he’d gone. The garden was still in pitch blackness and she saw no lanterns or flaring torches, heard no sounds of dogs or men in pursuit of a lone, shadowy figure.
She went slowly back to her bed and lay there, aching with missing him. She remembered his mouth on hers, his body in hers, and the sweet, searing pleasure that had sent her senses soaring. She’d never guessed. Never dreamed it could be like that. She’d moved now into a forbidden, unknown world, and her life could never be the same.
* * *
The morning passed for her in a daze of thinking about Luke—of missing Luke. I have to go to my brother, he’d said. I have to find him. She didn’t see Lady Charlotte until the early afternoon, when her ladyship joined Ellie and Miss Pringle in the dining room for a late lunch. Ellie was dressed in her plain grey gown today, but she could tell that Lady Charlotte was recollecting every detail of the shocking pink dress last night.
Poor Miss Pringle’s eyes darted nervously between one and the other, as Lady Charlotte consumed soup and dry toast and explained in a tight voice that her son and his guests had been closeted in Lord Franklin’s private suite all morning, continuing their important business. ‘You are to stay out of their way, Elise. They must on no account be disturbed by your wayward behaviour, as they were last night.’
Ellie struggled to concentrate. What would Luke be doing now? How was he going to reach his brother? Would he sail to France with Jacques? Wouldn’t it be dangerous?
There was a knock at the door of the dining room and Mr Huffley came in. Lady Charlotte looked displeased. ‘Well, Huffley?’
‘My lady. Lord Franklin and his guests are taking a temporary break in their business—and Lord Franklin wishes to see Miss Duchamp in his library.’
‘In his library? Now?’
‘Now, my lady. If it is not inconvenient.’
Ellie felt her mind whirling. What could he want with her? Lady Charlotte was ready with an answer. ‘No doubt,’ she said, ‘my son wants to reprimand you for the way you dressed and behaved last night. For the way you attempted to shame him in front of his distinguished guests. No doubt—’
‘Excuse me, your ladyship.’ Ellie rose abruptly from her chair
and followed Mr Huffley out of the room. Could Lord Franklin know that Luke had seen those papers of his? Could he somehow know that Luke had spent the night in her room? One thing was for certain—she would soon find out.
* * *
She knocked on the door of the library and entered, to see that Lord Franklin was on his feet and looked as if he had been pacing to and fro. She curtseyed. ‘My lord.’
‘Elise.’ His voice was cold. He beckoned her to sit, then sat also, behind his desk to face her. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Last night, we found no trace of the supposed intruder. No trace at all.’
She gazed back at him steadily. ‘No doubt your security arrangements are excellent, my lord.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ he replied softly.
He’d been tapping a finger on his desk, but suddenly he reached out for a thick diary that lay nearby, pulled it towards him and began to flick through it. Ellie glanced towards the open box sitting on the floor by his desk. In it was the file in which she’d found the papers about Luke’s brother and his friends. In it was the letter ordering the abandonment of Les Braves on the coast of France; which Luke had put back for her sake, giving up all hope of justice for his brother.
She wanted to say to Lord Franklin, I know what you’ve done. I know you recommended that brave men be abandoned to the enemy and labelled as traitors for your government’s convenience...
Suddenly she realised Lord Franklin was talking again. ‘London,’ he was repeating. ‘I said, Elise, that I’m taking you back to London with me. Did you hear me? I’ll be returning there early tomorrow. So I wish you to pack your things—’
‘No.’ She half-rose from her chair. ‘My lord, I have no wish whatsoever to go to London. I assure you that I’m perfectly content to stay here—’
‘So I’ve heard,’ he broke in. His voice hardened. ‘In fact, I’ve heard that you like to consort with low-life wastrels, down by the harbourside in Bircham Staithe.’