A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  He turned and she shuffled back from the violence she saw in his haunted gaze. He stopped, disoriented, and peered at her, as though trying to place her. “Mercy?”

  “Yes. It’s me, Hart.”

  “God.” He laughed and her heart pitched at the bitter sound. He lifted his hand, groping for the mantel and, once finding it, leaning heavily forward. She stared at his naked back licked by the firelight, so broad and masculine and oddly vulnerable.

  “Go away.” His voice was muffled, strained. He made no move to face her.

  She couldn’t. Nothing could have made her leave him, could make her abandon him to whatever tormented him.

  “Hart, why are those blankets on the floor?” There were some terrible things associated with those bolts of wool tangled in the shadows.

  “Go away!”

  “No,” she said, apprehension making her voice quiver. His dangerousness—so vaunted, so valuable, so prized by her father, by everyone who’d used him—had never been more apparent. Some horrible inner tension coiled his body into an unnatural rigidity. His torso was cloaked in a sheath of glistening moisture and dark ribbons of sweat-drenched hair clung to the nape of his neck.

  “No.” Her voice gained strength. “Not until you talk to me.” She stepped forward and touched his shoulder. He was hot, on fire.

  He flinched away. No. He shuddered—as though her touch were exquisitely painful. But still, he would not turn to face her. He flung his head back, turned it up to the black vaulted ceiling above, his eyes clenched against the sight of her.

  “Hart,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  She tugged at his arm, trying to turn him, to force him to see her, to talk to her.

  “My God. Tell me. Why do you sleep on the floor?”

  He swung on her so quickly that she stumbled back. He snatched hold of her, keeping her from falling, and glared, furious she was pushing him, so angry he propelled her back against the wall. She stumbled and he grinned, feral and bitter.

  “You want to know?”

  God, how had she ever thought this man unemotional? His skin was dark with suffused blood, flushed a hot bronze in the molten light. Golden glints in the stubble of his beard sharpened the angle of his jaw and his eyes were starkly blazing.

  “Must you know?” There was an awful victory, an eagerness, in the demand.

  “Yes.”

  “I have slept there or on a floor like it for eight years.” The words, once started, tumbled out, self-violence rife in the low, choked monologue. “I am afraid to sleep in a bed.” He took one deep breath and exhaled, his gaze climbing over her, touching her throat, her hair, her mouth … anything but her eyes. “Amusing, isn’t it? The gunslinger, your daddy’s hired killer, the Earl of Perth, cowers in the shadows each night?”

  “My Lord.”

  “My Lord, indeed.” Another laugh, brief and corrupt. “No act goes unpaid, Mercy. Retribution comes in myriad guises. Sometimes no guise at all. That may be the worst.”

  “But why do you say ‘coward’?”

  “Not enough yet? You need everything? All right. I can only sleep with my back against a wall. I’ve been like this”—he lifted his hands in a despondent gesture—“ever since Africa.”

  “Africa?”

  “Yes, Africa! Those holes in the desert. They were the only safe place,” he said, as though she were being deliberately obtuse.

  “But this is England—” she began in stunned confusion.

  “I know! Damn you, do you think I haven’t tried to sleep in there?” He pointed at the four-poster, raised like an altar amid luxuriant tapestries. “And in any other bed …”

  His voice faded. He could no longer see clearly. The image of his childhood bed was superimposed over this one, and then, suddenly, he saw a lice-ridden blanket, bleached by the African sun. The past twined dizzyingly with the present and he moaned.

  He gripped Mercy’s arms more tightly. She was solid and real and supple in his grip and her fragility was a lie. He’d never felt anything more potently alive, more vital, stronger, than she. She was a lifeline tying him to the present and, God, he needed her.

  God, don’t let her leave. Not her.

  “I couldn’t. I can’t,” he choked out, hating himself for this recitation but discovering he’d do anything to keep her here, letting him touch her. “If I lie on that bed I can feel a bullet sever my spine, or explode my skull. In the pits, on the ground, they can’t shoot you. Even in your dreams.”

  She trembled, her expression pitying and understanding. Impossible. She couldn’t understand. She wouldn’t look like that if she did.

  “Don’t you understand? I’m a coward.”

  “Why do you punish yourself like this?” she cried.

  “I don’t. God has already seen to that. I have to live with my weakness. Sometimes months will pass and I think I’ve won. I think maybe I’ve been strong enough to beat this miserable cowardice. But then it happens again.

  “I’ve tried, Mercy.” He panted. “God, I’ve tried to tell myself it’s nothing more than a nightmare, a child’s terror of the dark. It doesn’t help. I can’t stop the sensation, no matter what I tell myself. I’m too damn weak to master my own thoughts.”

  “Weak?” she repeated in astonishment. “You’re the strongest man I know. I remember how you faced that man in the way station. You didn’t flinch. You were brave. Incredibly so.”

  “Killing isn’t hard, Mercy. Dying is even easier. It’s living that offers a unique challenge.” His insouciance was ruined by the hoarse timbre of his voice.

  “Why, Hart?” she asked quietly, intently. “What is the challenge?”

  “I wake sometimes without knowing where I am.” He wasn’t speaking to her now; the words, held back for nearly a decade came out low, harsh, confused. “My heart pounds so hard, I think it will burst out of my chest. My own breath chokes me. I want to run, but I don’t know from what. I don’t even know what it is I’m afraid of. There’s no image. No face, no memory. Sometimes I think it’s just my soul, afraid of its own blackness.”

  “No.” A tear slipped from beneath her lashes. He watched it follow the curve of her cheek, concentrated on its course, clung to it as an anchor against the internal panic still clamoring for release.

  “Yes,” he said tonelessly, staring. “Either that or … or I am nearer madness than sanity.”

  “You’re not mad, Hart. You’ve been wounded. In here.” She touched her cool fingertips over his heart. “Who wouldn’t be? Who couldn’t be?” Her sorrow was overwhelming.

  He wanted to believe as she believed. He could see it in her eyes. That belief nearly wrung a sob from him. He was undone by it.

  She lifted her hand and brushed her fingertips against his cheek and all he could do was stare at her, trying desperately to read what was in her mind.

  Her fingers drifted near his temple, hesitated and passed over his cheeks again, traced his jaw with gossamer delicacy. He watched intently as a flicker of surprise crept into her gaze; a hint of apprehension, but not fear. Not yet.

  She shifted and he became aware of how close she was, how his body hindered her escape. She was supple curves, scented skin, and glossy hair, so utterly feminine and thus so utterly mysterious that he felt suddenly clumsy, too big, too heavy.

  She moved and the jut of her hip brushed against the jointure of his thighs. He gasped at the chance contact, immediately becoming aroused. She looked at him, startled by his involuntary hiss of pleasure. Her hands fluttered past his mouth. He snapped his head around, capturing one tardy finger between his teeth, licking the salty tip. He heard her sharp, indrawn breath, felt her shiver translate itself to her fingers. She tugged her hand back, shocked at this intimacy, and he released her finger. She stared at him, transfixed by whatever it was she read in his expression.

  He took advantage.

  Slowly, he lifted his hands and bracketed the sides of her face, his thumbs resting near her parted lips, his forefingers grazing
the downy hair at her temples.

  Stop. Now, before you scare her. But he could not.

  Her eyes widened. The gold-ash irises glinted in the firelight. Her lashes fluttered, sweeping feathered silkiness against his fingertips. He moved closer, oblique and cautious, his breath shallow, trying not to alarm her, thief that he was.

  It was so easy.

  She tilted her head and he stooped over her and kissed her. It was as ravishing as he remembered. His lips touched a silken brow, each lid, the corner of her soft, trembling mouth. She sighed—sweet, sweet sound, delicious and erotic—and he grew rock hard and full with an urgency he’d never before known. He found her mouth, aware in some appalled recess of his consciousness that his restraint had vanished but unable to call himself back from the edge of the passion engulfing him.

  She was here and while he could hold her, devour her with hand and mouth and breath, she held back the night, her sweet body offered a sanctuary. His heart raced and his thoughts spun blackly, panic gibbering futilely in the corners of his mind while he felt her supple curves, tasted the salty tear, breathed the hot, excited scent of her. Panic couldn’t compete with this. It didn’t stand a bloody chance.

  She started to speak and he closed her mouth with his. He would not let her speak, would not let her breathe, would not let her say no. He kept his mouth over hers, molding her lips against his, tasting and moving and touching the plush softness, the yielding warmth, until he was light-headed.

  He dipped and caught her behind the knees, swinging her up into his arms. She was light and tensile and her breasts, covered in that ridiculous boy’s shirt, were unbound. He could feel the voluptuous mounds crushed against his chest. She whimpered and lust careened through him. She clung to him, overpowered by his insistence, her ardor, his passion.

  He strode with her to the great, dark-curtained bed and laid her upon the dark, shimmering counterpane and followed her down. For an instant he hung above her braced on his arms, his stiff sex against her belly, the last vestiges of restraint shredded upon the ever-sharpening edge of his need.

  He bent his head, nuzzling open her collar, his mouth prowling the forbidden flesh of her neck. He fumbled between them, finding her breast. It was soft and lush and he cupped the swell, lifting it and kneading it and stroking it and, God, oh God, her nipple beaded against his palm.

  He wrenched the shirt away, exposing her young, supple body. Her round, pale breast jiggled ripely. He moaned, dipping his head and taking the dark nipple into his mouth and wetting it with his tongue. She gasped, arching, and the flexion thrust her breast deeper into his hungry mouth. Her hands flew to his chest, his throat, his face, seeking a bastion on which to cling.

  He suckled harder, holding her shoulders down, pinning her beneath him. She panted, surprised passion in each staggered exhalation. He could taste pleasure on her skin, scent hot excitement on her. His body quaked with an uncoilable skein of shame and exultation as her hips lifted fractionally in a tense, instinctive response to passion.

  With a harsh, triumphant sound, he rocked back on his knees, settling between her legs, and jerked her breeches open. She gave a startled mewl. He ignored the sound, the blood ran thick and insistent in his body. He was only here now. With her. The night terror was a spectator, waiting without as the predator within took precedence.

  He yanked her breeches off as she stared at him with moon-dark eyes, her breasts pale and clean in the shadowed corridors of the bed, her lips parted, her hands curled into fists on either side of her face.

  He fumbled with his own trousers until he felt himself spring free. With a low growl he sank onto her, hissing when he felt the crisp, silky curls against his sex. His forehead fell against her throat, his head spinning with the sheer pleasure of it. She was so damn small. He’d never been more conscious of his own weight, his size. He must crush her and yet, and yet, God help him, he only wanted to sink deeper onto her, into her, to absorb her. Take her. Bind her to him.

  She moved and every conscious thought was devoured by instinct. He was nearly there. His hardness was shoved against the jointure of her thighs, a slick, warm sheath enveloped the very tip him—exquisite sensation. So close.

  Her legs tumbled wider, nestling him, opening to him. He tangled his fists in her hair and found her mouth again, thrusting his tongue in, desirous, willing her to catch fire, to want him and … and God! … he was in her, gripped in a velvety fist, pressing against some smooth, hot barrier.

  She arched, whimpering, and he shoved his hands beneath her buttocks—pleasure too intense, softness filling his palms. And then, God help him, he felt it. Despair and fury pulsed in equal parts through him as he held her still, realizing what he pushed against. Her maidenhead.

  She moved, clutched his shoulders, squirmed beneath him. He swore. He was going to explode.

  He tried to withdraw. God, he would swear he tried. But she surrounded him, tight, hot, and each small movement she made rippled through her body, ending in a contraction about him, wringing tears of effort from him. He strained above her, teeth clenched, jaw knotted, and lust rode him even as he rode her, spurring him with killing blades. Nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever been so compelling. And he would have it.

  With a thick moan he thrust deep into her, past the thin web, drinking the startled gasp from her lips and giving back his own hoarse cry. He moved, closing his eyes, his hips convulsing with the unbearable pleasure of each thrust.

  Breath no longer mattered. The blood pounded in his temples, pounded in his loins, surging through him, and he could feel her own blood coursing, feel the frantic rhythm of her pulse, feel the tightening of her body. His senses exploded, burst upon him, engulfing him, shattering him with sheer intensity, washing through him and leaving him eviscerated.

  When it was over, he laid his forehead against hers, spent and exhausted. Slowly he became aware of her heartbeats, still a rapid staccato. Her breath came in tiny pants. Her skin was damp and hot. Beneath him her body felt terrifyingly vulnerable and slight. He rolled away from her, awareness of what he had done banishing the lethargy, remorse cutting as sharply as passion had but seconds before.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m not sure.” Her voice sounded stunned and faint.

  “Jesus.” He stared at where her pretty breasts were chaffed by his beard, pink where they should still be virginal pale. Her nipples were swollen and bruised-looking. His gaze slipped lower to the boy’s breeches tangled about one ankle and returned with a gut-knifing sense of dismay to her thighs.

  Dark stains laced their delicate inner flesh. He rolled away and stood up, his back to her. He yanked his trousers up and fastened them. He heard the rustle of the coverlet behind him and closed his eyes.

  “What can I do?” he whispered, knowing there was nothing. “Mercy, whatever can I do? Anything.”

  He did not know what to expect from her and found to his amazement that this was his greatest grief: he did not know her well enough to anticipate her thoughts, her emotions.

  He hazarded a glance over his shoulder. She was curled on her side beneath the satin brocade. Her hands clutched the glowing fabric to her waist, as though to protect herself from further invasion.

  Too little and far, far too late.

  “I’m sorry. God, I am so …” He would not offer her weak self-recriminations. She deserved more than a litany of self-blame as useless as it was hypocritical. “Mercy. I … God, I hope I haven’t hurt you. Shall I send for the maid?”

  “No!”

  Of course not, fool! he thought savagely, turning and staring down at her stricken face, her imploring eyes. She would not want this broadcast.

  “What can I do?” he begged.

  She swallowed, the working of her throat looked painful. Her gaze drifted away from meeting his. “I … I don’t want to be alone. I … please.” She sounded proud and vulnerable and lost. “Don’t leave me alone.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. She
should be in the tender embrace of her husband. This should be her wedding night. There should be lace and flowers in vases and light; much light. She should have been taught lovemaking in sunlight, on white Irish linen, with the windows open and a heather-laden breeze caressing her.

  She should not be huddled under a dark counterpane in a cold room, a boy’s shirt hanging open across her sweet, soft breasts, her hair gnarled by his fists, tears streaking her flushed face.

  “I’ll stay here. I’ll watch over you.” He made to turn. Her hand darted out, snatching his wrist.

  “Please.”

  “Could you … would you hold me? Like you did in the carriage?”

  She could not want him. Not after what he’d done, he thought in bewilderment. But then—the bitter thought bloomed with malevolent logic—who else did she have? What had he left her?

  He’d taken the worst advantage of her. She was alone, without family or friends in a strange country, and he’d all but raped her. Yes, he thought, forcing himself to acknowledge the word. Rape. When had he given her the opportunity to say no? When had he done anything but press her, force her, overpower her?

  He sat down wearily on the bed and pulled her, wrapped in that damn coverlet, over. She clung to him, seeking some solace. From him. And as ironic as he knew it to be, he would find some comfort to give her.

  He leaned back against the headboard, carrying her with him. Her hair spilled across his naked chest, coiling along his rib cage in cool satiny ribbons. Her breath trembled against his throat. Her fist lay like a hard stone on his chest. She did not move again.

  Fatigue and an odd, bittersweet contentment weighted his limbs. He inhaled. She smelled musky with exhaustion and lavender soap and the subtle, evocative fragrance their bodies had made. He closed his eyes, exhausted.

  She nestled closer. Her breath slowed, became a warm rhythm. Her fist relaxed until her hand lay slack over his heart. He drifted for minutes, then longer ones, finding comfort where he’d sought to give it. Finally, lulled by the sweet weight in his arms, the face pressed to his naked chest, the unexpected ease with which she slumbered, he yielded to his own fatigue.