Winterblaze

by Kristen Callihan

  Her breath hitched, and she struggled to find another. “And I thought you were the most handsome madman I’d ever seen.”

  His voice rolled over her like fog. “Mad for you.”

  God, the things he could do to her. Just a few words and it was all she could do not to fling herself at him. She cleared her throat. “I’d just been appointed Mother. Lena fulfilled the duty while I completed my training. Actually, I thought she might keep the position, but she’s never liked the role.” Lena had always been strange in that regard, preferring to be a guardian of the SOS, rather than the leader of it. Poppy settled further into her pillow and continued her story. “There is an SOS tunnel exit at the station, and I’d used it to leave the ceremony.”

  “You were eighteen years old.” The shock in his voice was strong. “And they appointed you head of an entire organization?”

  “I’d been training for the position since I was six.” Pride prickled along her skin and she fought to tamp it down. “I am the seventh generation of first daughters to carry out the duty. My family, along with another, founded the SOS.”

  Letting out her secrets filled her with utter weariness, but it felt easier to say them in the dark. “In the early days, we were simply called the Regulators. It was actually when we began to work in conjunction with the King and the Prime Minister that we became more formally organized and called ourselves the Society for the Suppression of Supernaturals.”

  She shifted a bit, sinking further into the plump pillow. “That was in my great-grandmother’s time, though I can honestly say I’ve no fondness for the newer name as it stirred up trouble with certain supernatural factions.”

  “Because it made them sound like a problem to suppress,” Win said with a decisive clip to his voice.

  “Yes. At any rate,” she said, “the SOS has always been my life. You do not understand the will of Mary Margaret Ellis. Every day was a new lesson. Every day a reminder.” Poppy adopted the implacable tone of her mother. “Do not let the world know. Do not reveal your true purpose to anyone. Not even to family. Especially not to family.”

  “She had to suspect that your sisters had talents of their own.”

  “Oh, she knew. And she did not like it. Daisy was her little lamb, her sunshine. And Miranda was her rose, a delicate flower to be protected. She was adamant that neither of them be tainted by her dark world.”

  “And you?” Win’s voice was tight.

  A wobbly smile pulled at her lips as she blinked up at the dark ceiling. “I was the competent one. I never cried, nor fussed.”

  “Which meant that you should live a life in darkness?” He made a noise of annoyance. “I never thought I would say this, but I think I prefer your father.”

  Poppy could not help but smile a little. Even so, she needed him to understand. “She believed in me.” Poppy sighed. “And yes, at times it hurt that she did not seek to protect me as she did my sisters. But Win…” She licked her lips. Inside, she trembled. “I liked being useful. I liked what I was doing. I still do.”

  The bed creaked when he rolled onto his back, their shoulders touching as he did. “He beat me. My father.”

  She grew still. Enough to hear the roaring of her blood in her ears. How could it be? He never cowered, always stood so tall and proud. And yet shadows had always dwelled within his eyes at odd times. “Win—”

  “I never told you,” he said over her, his voice strong yet brittle, as if he were forcing himself to speak, “because I was ashamed of the way…” His arm brushed over hers as he shrugged, “Well, you can guess. I was weak when I ought to have been strong.”

  She tried to swallow and failed. “For how long, Win?”

  “As long as I have memory.” In the dark, she could make out the lines of his profile as he stared up at the ceiling. “Too long.”

  She wanted to kill his father. Her hand shook as she rested it on his forearm. He did not shrug her off, nor did he turn to her. “That is why I made the bargain with Jones.” His smoky voice was a living thing between them, making her heart bleed for him. “When I met you, I woke to life. You saw me for who I was. And in return, I wanted to live again. You gave my life flavor, color, texture, and I found myself willing to do anything to keep that.”

  She moved to embrace him, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Don’t.” His body was rigid. “Not now. Not because of what I said.”

  “But—”

  His voice grew emphatic, stern in that way of his that brooked no argument. “When I take you to bed, Poppy Ann, it will not be under the auspices of sentimentality.” He turned his head and, in the dark, she could see his eyes looking at her with clear, direct heat. “It will be because you’re wound up so tight with need that you fear you will break if you don’t have me.” He moved an inch closer, and his warm breath gusted over her neck. “And then we will be in perfect accord, sweeting.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Winston lay in the slumberous warmth of the bed he shared with his wife and contemplated her. Bright morning light gilded her sleeping form, highlighting the paleness of her arms and the dusting of copper freckles upon them. Those freckles had been one of many delights he’d uncovered when he’d first undressed her on their wedding night, for she hadn’t a one on her face. Stardust, he’d called them, those glorious freckles that were sprinkled over her arms and shoulders. He’d made it his mission to kiss every one of them. It’d had taken him an hour, and she’d quivered beneath him, her voice husky with need as she pled for him to take her now.

  He’d meant what he’d said to her last night; he did not want her back from pity. And he knew she feared he wanted her solely because of the child—a ridiculous notion—but if he could acknowledge his fears, he’d acknowledge hers too.

  It seemed such an easy solution to simply call pax, to say I am sorry, now let’s be done with this. Yet when Win tried to do just that, a wall reared up within, holding him back. He suspected the same wall rose within Poppy too, for shadows inevitably crept into her eyes when they shared unguarded moments. The ugly truth was that, deep down, they still distrusted each other, and he could not figure out how to fix this.

  It wasn’t as if he did not want his wife. Sweet Christ he did. Lying next to her now, with the scent of her sleep-warmed body filling the air, and the sight of her long length spilled out before him, was the veriest of tortures. Every nerve ending along his body thrummed with an impatient need to thrust into that snug, wet cove whose embrace he knew so well. He shifted slightly, his hips rocking his cock a little farther into the mattress. A sweet pain bolted through his lower gut at the action.

  Poppy was a deep sleeper, which went directly against the alert way in which she conducted her waking hours. Right now, he didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse, because he could look his fill without her noticing.

  She appeared younger in sleep, lying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her pillow and the other resting before her, her hand curled into a loose fist. Her pink lips parted just enough to let a soft breath out. Red rivers of her hair streamed over her shoulders and ran along the small slopes of her breasts.

  Breasts that moved with the steady cadence of her breath. Up. Down. And his blasted nightshirt she insisted on wearing hid nothing. The shabby shirt was gossamer thin now. Holes grew along the seam where it buttoned down the front. Those holes held his attention, for each breath she took revealed a tantalizing glimpse of the curve of her breast.

  His body grew hard and heavy, a languid sort of ache that had him both wanting to move and to remain utterly still. She moved on a sigh, the sheets rustling as her body canted back just a touch. His breath stilled. The wretched nightshirt had moved too, one of those damnable holes slipping just over the tip of her nipple. For one tight, hot moment, the pink nub was revealed, then a thick lock of copper hair slid over it and clung, hiding his prize.

  Win gritted his teeth. His fists curled into his pillow as he willed that tendril of hair to slip away. But it was stub
born, clinging lovingly to the pert tip. In, out, she breathed, her breast moving beneath the thin gown. A strand of hair fell, revealing just a touch of pink. He was going to lose his mind. His cock throbbed against the mattress, and the sunlight burned hot against his bare back. But he remained transfixed. Like a randy schoolboy, he stared. It became essential that the nipple be revealed to him.

  Another few strands drifted down. A quarter moon of rosy areola winked at him. He licked his lips, his breath growing ragged. From a nipple. He might have laughed if he wasn’t fighting a groan. Bloody hell, it was only a nipple. He’d seen it a thousand times before. He knew its taste, how it would stiffen against his tongue. Which was the entirely wrong thing to think. His blood thrummed through his veins. He could not stand it any longer.

  Heart pounding in his ears and his body wound like a coil, he reached out. His fingers shook. Just one more inch. Her breath remained even, the coy little nipple still hiding from him. The tip of his finger grazed the tenacious tresses, careful not to get too close to his target, lest he be tempted to touch.

  The red locks slithered away. Triumph surged though him, base yet undeniably glorious. The sweet pink bud, perfectly framed by the hole in the nightshirt, was his at last. The thought coalesced then froze like slush in his veins as he realized she’d gone still. Every muscle in his body tensed. Caught. Her gaze was a living thing that burned his skin. Slowly, he lifted his eyes.

  Their gazes collided, hers so very dark and wondering, and waiting. They stared at each other. Never before had he been so aware of his body, of the tense quiver of his muscles, of the tendons in his outstretched hand, holding him there, just above her warm breast.

  Something flickered in her eyes. A dare. One that sent rivers of heat through him with each sharp breath he took. Christ, she infuriated him. Making him want, making him regret and yearn. The ropey network of muscles along his arms were iron hard. Then he moved, slowly, deliberatively, not looking away from her. Her lips parted, her breath growing uneven. Her soft, pink nipple pointed upward, straining to meet him, yet she did not move. He felt the heat of her skin before he touched her. So close. His cods pulled tight and sore, his cock an aching thing pressed against the bed. The tip of his forefinger brushed over her budding nipple, and his gut clenched.

  Her breath caught, her mouth opening further. He held her dark gaze, swimming in it, even as he watched his own finger skim across that sweet little nipple. It stiffened, rising up to his touch, and he made a sound close to pain. The areola was darker now, almost raspberry in color. Larger too. He traced the circumference. Was it because she was expecting? His throat closed. His child. In her. So still she was as he stroked her, only the gentle pants of her breath giving witness to her agitation. Feeling fiendish, he lightly flicked the tip. A whimper sounded deep within her throat, and her lashes fluttered as if she were fighting not to close her eyes. It sent a wash of want through him, so dark and hot that it was all he could do not to fall on her and suck that succulent breast until she screamed his name.

  His hand began to shake as he fondled her, reveling in that one small point of contact. A flush worked over her ivory skin as she fought to keep still, and his breath sawed in and out. His cock pulsed, and his heart slammed against his ribs. Jesus, but he was on the verge of spilling like a lad who’d just discovered his pizzle and what it could do. He had to move, do something. He could no longer stand it. He held her gaze, and then very deliberately, yet very gently, pinched her nipple. A helpless cry tore from her lips, and she arched her back, thrusting into his touch. And then he was moving over her, his mouth latching onto the poor, tormented bud.

  “Shh,” he whispered around her flesh, “I’ll make it better. I’ll make it better…” Words were lost to the luscious nipple filling his mouth, the ragged edges of the nightshirt growing wet against the lave of his tongue. Her cool palms framed his face, holding him there as he sucked her in deep and pressed against her soft body. They moved against each other, her murmuring words of encouragement, pleas. He would give it to her. Anything she needed.

  Her thigh was endless, so smooth and strong. His fingers traversed its length as his mouth travelled down her body, lost in the billowing softness of her gown and the subtle flesh hiding beneath. The linen whispered against her skin as he slid it high. Sweet honey greeted him, glistening in the morning light. He nipped her hip, loving the way she squirmed, how her legs glided apart for his touch.

  “That’s it, sweet.” His mouth wandered along the hot crease of her upper thigh. “Let me give it a kiss.”

  The sweet taste of Poppy. Poppy writhing against the flat of his tongue. Heaven. Another kiss. I’ll make it better. He would make it better.

  It was his last thought before a terrorized scream from somewhere down the hall rent through the air.

  Lost in the fevered mists of need, Win had almost missed the scream. Whoever the lady was with her inconvenient fit of vapors, she could go to the devil. Only his core maintained a policeman’s soul. It did not matter if he no longer carried a badge, he could not ignore a cry for help. And so he’d untangled himself from his luscious wife, grabbed some clothes as she struggled to find hers, and was now striding down the hall, which was rapidly filling with other guests, most of whom wore dressing gowns and frightened expressions.

  “Pardon.” He slipped through the crowd. Oddly, people stepped aside as they always had, never once questioning his right to take charge. Christ, what was he to do without the CID?

  The commotion stemmed from a guest room at the end of the hall. Win’s blood chilled when he caught a familiar scent in the air. Death. It was going to be bad.

  A gaggle of lords clogged the doorway, but they too parted ranks as he edged closer. He caught the eye of Osmond, who stood guard next to the door. Bloody perfect. “Your Grace, what has happened?”

  His brother nodded grimly. “Chambermaid found the body. Looks like strangulation. I’ve called for the local magistrate. However, the butler tells me the man is away on holiday.”

  Yes, and where was the lovely Amy Noble, now that her house had fallen into disorder and a guest murdered? One thing at a time.

  Win eyed the door again. He itched to get inside. “As my wife said last night, I am an inspector. Let me have a look.”

  Oz frowned. He obviously did not like superseding his ducal authority to a mere tradesman, inspector or not. It was all Win could do not to say, get your knickers out of a twist, Oz, and shove off. It might have worked when they were twelve and fourteen, and still brothers, but he rather thought it’d earn him a punch to the nose now.

  “We need a guard for the door,” Winston added. Nothing mucked up a crime scene better than well-intentioned “helpers”, be they houseguests or the bobbies who often found the corpses in London. “Mrs. Noble’s guests ought not see this.” He tossed a worried look over his shoulder at the crowd. A look that invited camaraderie between conspirators. “I think they would be more inclined to listen to you, sir.”

  Thankfully, Oz took Win’s bait. He straightened in a move that reminded Win of their father. “I will take care of them.”

  Oz’s ensuing orders to go back to bed and the shuffle in the hall faded to the background as Win fully entered the room and took in the scene. A man lay in a slump on the floor by the foot of the bed. Colonel Alden. A bluish tinge colored his broad face, growing darker about the eyes and his mouth, from which his tongue hung out blue and thick. His fine linen nightshirt had a rent along the collar and was ruched up about his waist as if he’d been kicking about in a struggle. Win glanced away from his pale, spindly legs and the flaccid fall of his penis. Damned undignified, death was.

  He stepped around the drying puddle of urine and offal that had spread about the colonel. He was used to the stench of death, but suddenly that smell and the strange, almost sweet odor of a dying body hit him hard. His pulse raced, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out over his skin. Blackness dotted before his eyes. He saw not the room, but that alleyway,
with that scent. The thing coming for him, and the sharp bite of pain on his face. He couldn’t breathe. Run. Run away. Shaking, he lifted an ice-cold hand to his brow. No, not now. Do not fall into it. He forced himself to stare at the body and drew in a lungful of the foul smell. He was here, in a manor house. Not there, in hell.

  “Was he strangled?”

  Win jumped at the sound of Poppy’s voice. She stood just inside, no longer his panting, blushing temptress, but covered up by sensible brown worsted, respectable attire, unlike his dinner trousers and mismatched day shirt he’d snatched from the chair arm. Her gaze fell on the body with clinical detachment. How many bodies had she seen? He swallowed several times, trying to find his voice. He didn’t want her to see this, didn’t want her to see him like this. She drifted closer and, not really looking at him, handed over a thin flask. Win didn’t ask what was in it but took a deep drink. Fine, warm scotch smoothed down his throat.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever become used to you Ellis sisters’ penchant for whisky.”

  She waved an idle hand as she surveyed the room. “We’re half Scottish. I think there might be a law against us not liking it.”

  He laughed shortly, and the pain in his chest eased enough for him to move again. “Strangulation appears to be the cause.” He didn’t ask how she’d got past Oz—a duke was no match for her—but knelt down to inspect the body. The fingers were soft. “Rigor mortis has passed. Death most likely occurred last night.”

  “After dinner?”

  “I’d say a few hours later. Decay hasn’t set in very far. I ought to have…” Unable to say more, he met Poppy’s eyes and saw the worry in them. And the anger.

  “This is not your fault, Win.”

  “Mmm.” It felt very much like it was.

  Poppy stood a bit closer to him, as though she were somehow shielding him. “Isley’s doing?”

  “Mmm.” Win wasn’t ready to formulate a theory. He bent closer to the swollen neck. Five puncture wounds were evenly spaced in the shape of a hand.