by Gayle Eden
Reluctantly lifting his head, so that his mouth was near her temple. He felt the tremble in her, and her rapid breaths against his throat. Soft curls, scented and silken, brushed his cheek.
He skimmed his open mouth against her temple, dragging air in his lungs while he rasped, “Will I see you again?”
“Yes.”
“When.”
Her other hand on the side of his neck, fitting just in his collar, body so perfect against him, Blaise accepted she could feel his physical reaction thanks to the snug trousers. He knew, the way a man does, that she more than participated in that kiss, and that her body responded too.
It was electric. Unexpected. Moreover, the rush in him was half amazement, half relief that he was still a man—as Ry would say, in all the important parts.
“Where?” she murmured instead. “Here, or somewhere else?”
“I don’t know.” His blood was still rushing, muscles tight, and warmed with arousal. “I don’t care,” was his final, honest, reply. He did not care where. He simply knew he had never felt like this, the whole night, the conversation, none of it, in his life.
She laughed breathless, then groaned and tilted her head back, making him lift his own.
He felt her looking at him again and wondered how good the light was, or if it was pitch dark, as his eyes could only see. He remembered there was a lamppost at the corner. In any event, she may read the hunger on his face, but at least his eyes were shrouded.
“Do you live nearby?”
“Yes. But—“
He could almost feel her grimace. “Oh, right—I was only thinking we—"
“—meet me here, tomorrow night—“
“I’ve a s….somewhere to be until midnight.”
“Can you get away after that?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me here.”
“I will.”
He lowered his head and captured her mouth this time with no hesitancy in either of them.
The kiss was deep, hungry, full blown and passionate. Blaise kissed her, let her kiss him, and the length of time had no meaning, the kiss no real ending—because he scraped her lower lip with his strong teeth, and suckled her tongue, and unleashed some of his pent up hunger without awareness save that he had never felt so much nor tasted such sweetness. And her sweetness had a wicked, wicked, hunger that sprang from instinct. Blaise struggled with his carnal side, sensing parts of her untried, unskilled. The fact that there was nothing practiced in her though, drove his own arousal deeper.
At one point, lifting his head, breathing severe and hearing her do the same, he closed his lashes, the pound of his heart louder in his ears than the drum of rain.
“Do you feel this…?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m dizzy, I…I am stunned, at my own…” She sighed shakily, breathless. “I knew in some way….when we bumped into each other…”
“So did I.”
She blew out a breath, obviously struggling for control, as he was. “It’s time…”
“Must you go?”
“Yes. For now.”
He shuddered a breath and released her. Blaise offered her the umbrella.
However, she said, “No. The coach is here, just up a ways.” Her voice was husked and he knew the emotions that cause it all too well.
“Aside from anything else we say….or…” Blaise cursed softly and reached out, touching her face again, wanting to trace it in earnest, but having no more time... “This is honest. More than anything I can ever remember feeling.”
“I know. Trust me. I know what is honest, and what is pretense, all too well.” She touched his hand, kissed his palm, and then left him
Blaise listened, hearing the traffic, sensing when she had gone. He closed the umbrella and drew out a cheroot. Falling back, leaning against the door. His fingers trembled while he lit it and smoked. The wet scent of rain helped to ease some of the tension and heat in his blood, and to slow the deep hard beat of his heart. Smoking, breathing out, he got himself under control and calm enough to think straight.
The cheroot spent, Blaise headed not home, but walked awhile, aware of the dangers, particularly for a blind man, but his senses picked up if anyone walked near him.
He figured he would investigate that institution that Langley talked about. Sighted he had every confidence in his fighting skills, even in seduction, though he had hardly done that. His intimate encounters were meant for one thing.
Blind, he would have to learn all over again to make blindness his advantage—an oxymoron to Baize’s mind, but he was not a man comfortable with vulnerability. He was well trained, and knew he could defend himself. Nevertheless, his senses needed honed.
By the time he was heading home, his raging hungers under control, Ry met him at the corner, having crossed the street.
“Been following me?” Blaise jested as they walked.
“Only since your lady friend departed and you made the asinine decision to walk the dark streets by yourself,” was Ry’s grunted reply.
“It’s always dark for me, cousin. I’m blind.”
Ry snorted. “I hope you’re armed.”
“I am.” Blaise told him of his decision to check out the place Dr. Langley recommended.
“Wise. And liberating. There’s nothing as damned irritating as having to ask people to do what you used to do yourself.”
“Yes. Any luck at the tables tonight?”
“Got distracted.”
Blaise laughed. “I thought you’d…altered your scent to something more…ah feminine.”
“Funny,” Ry said dryly, then, “As it happens though, she was not only skilled in the sheets, she was quite talkative.”
“Oh?”
“We’ll discuss it at the house, but the long and short of it was, she’d walked the streets back a few years ago. Talked about this man who used to haunt them….said he was like a dark wrath, night after night.”
“Raith.
“Yes. First, she said he was looking for someone named Suzette. In addition, she mentioned the poor lady, as she put it, slaughtered, and thrown in the Thames. Said everyone was terrified and the whores started losing money because they did not trust anyone. In any event, after that, he didn’t stop…”
“But there’s more?”
“Yeah. However, let’s get out of this rain.”
They did, not having their long talk until they were in casual clothing, before a warm fire, in Baize’s study.
Blaise was up late in the night, brooding. He would send round a note to his father in the morning. He had an instinct, a feeling, that had always served him well, and it was not a good one.
Chapter 5
Gabriella felt the chilly air waft over her skin. Sight blurry eyed, and heavy headed, she lifted herself to a sitting position on the cold floor. Every part of her was aching. Looking around the shadowy chamber, she did not see Stratton.
He had been in an unpredictable mood—catching her off guard after they returned from an outing. He had dragged her in the chamber and forgone the usual ritual of wine or anything else that might mellow him. She shuddered. She had discerned something sly in his face that split second before he had spun and backhanded her, but she had barely caught herself before he was on her.
It took everything she could summon to talk sharply to him, and go into the role. Still, while she dominated him, he made her stimulate him to climax. Her mind had been racing, heart too, from that blow. She had thought that would satisfy him. However, as they got to their feet, he had slapped her several times, over and over. The only part of the battle she had won—was resisting the restraints. She knew if he got her in them, she would be dead.
Thus, she by turns pleasured and took his blows, and he had been silent except for that wheezed breathing. She dare not beg. Dear God, it was difficult to play the part with him like that.
Gabriella had tried to read his face, his eyes, while her own smarted from the strikes. She had never seen him so intense. Fearing
he had already heard whispers on the street, possibly he’d found out his warehouses had been emptied, or if Raith had damaged his ships….whatever it was, he took it out on her.
Thankful he was apparently gone, she got herself up. She wanted to escape and flee to Raith, very much afraid that Stratton would kill her before the rest played out. That is what Raith told her to do. That is what she had promised and assured him she would do. However, Gabriella had her own reasons, she still had the rest of the papers to exchange in the main house safe. She had learned a lesson. She would not be caught off guard again.
In her rooms, she used the candlelight to see and poured water in a pan, washing, hair first, then her body, she could feel bruised skin. The shaking started though before she got her chemise and warm robe on.
Curled on her side, in the bed, Gabriella stared at the flame flickering amber waves on the walls. Her dirk was under the pillow. She could not use it yet, would not. Raith would be angry...enraged no doubt, if he knew she would let this happen without defending herself.
Gabriella closed her eyes, gritty, swollen. Her lip and inside mouth ached painfully. Tomorrow, hopefully, after she met with Raith one last time, it would be over. Before she fled the house for good though, she would leave her mark too. She would get her blood vengeance and have him at her mercy for real—no pleasure, no games. She would make sure Stratton felt that. She would let him know exactly who she was.
* * * *
Raith entered the house just after the dawn hour. Having spent all night watching Stratton’s hired ruffians harass citizens on the wharves, trying to figure out who was raiding the warehouses. He then went to visit a chemist who was in and out of Newgate for various crimes, and spent hours swimming the filthy Thames, setting the oilcloth protected charges around Stratton’s ship. A group of urchins he gathered to draw the crew away and cause a distraction, were paid half, with the other half promised when the deed was done.
Wet, chilled, coughing, and rubbing his arms, he ordered hot water, went to his rooms and stripped, then bathing from the pail and then drawing on a fresh shirt and trousers. His wet mane slicked back, he heard noise in the hall and opened his chamber in time to see Gabriella, dressed in a long blue velvet hooded cape, hurrying to her rooms.
Frowning, he still had whiskey in his hand when he followed, pushing open the door, and feeling an altogether different chill skitter down his spine when she did not turn at his entry.
He had not expected her until later that day.
She kept her back to him, looking out the window. “I’ve the last of them, the papers, but there’s s—“
“Gabriella.” He took several steps.
She turned around, the lamp light striking her battered face.
A growl issued from Raith’s throat. His lips pulled back in rage. “It is over. I will kill him before this hour is out!”
“No—wait!”
He had spun on his heel to leave, but she grabbed his arm, saying, “We’re almost done. And there’s a packet there, something you must look at…”
He scarcely heard her. Turning his head to eye her marred face, the black eye, and swollen cheek, he rasped. “Stay put. Do not bloody leave this spot.”
“Raith.”
He set the bottle down and left.
* * * *
Gabriella was afraid Raith had gone to kill Stratton, so deadly was the intent in his black eyes, so lethal, that she visibly breathed a sigh of relief when he entered again.
“Raith I…”
“Take that off. All of it,” he ordered, placing a tray by the bed.
“Raith listen to me…”
He moved with quick purpose, and came to her, unhooking the cloak. The starkness tightened his eyes while he took in the fingerprints on her neck and shoulders.
Gabriella did not expect him to pick her up, but he did so, and carried her to the bed and laid her on it. Facing her, Raith sat at her hip and pressed a container of coffee and brandy into her hands. When he uncorked a bottle and began treating her face, she tried to grab his wrist.
“There’s no time for this.”
Having been attending his task, those cold eyes met her own. “You lied to me. You’ve been lying to me all along.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t see this coming. He’s… he knows someone is after him, onto him…I…”
“You can give me excuses later. Drink that. All of it.”
She muttered and drank, closing her eyes a moment because she had been shaking all over since escaping the house this morning, afraid that Stratton would catch her. With a bit of luck, he was too preoccupied with Raith’s doings to miss her yet.
The feel of Raith’s fingers between her breasts brought Gabriella’s lashes up. He had undone the buttons of the bodice clear to the waist. Both inner swells of her breast were exposed as he dabbed at marks.
“Damn him. Damn him.” She heard that rasp in his throat before he stopped suddenly, and threw the bottle and pad toward the tray.
Finished with the drink, she set it aside and reached a tentative hand out to touch his damp hair. “It’s not that bad.”
He did not raise his head but shook it slightly, his eyes on the endless trail of yellow and blue marks. Suddenly, he grasped the edges of the gap and ripped it—startling Gabriella when he stood, tearing the gown open and wide—leaving her in nothing but stockings.
“Raith—stop, what ar—“ Her stare glued to his face as he stood at the side of the bed, arms lax, staring at her body, Gabriella heard him growl, “You lied to me…why….why would you…”
“It’s not that bad.”
Raith’s eyes shot to her own. Nostrils flared, he snarled, “You are going to try and tell me how you got these….” His hand swept down her body, “Was not through violence?”
Leaning over her, he grasped a hand full of her hair, his face more ravaged than ever. “You were never to suffer this, never. You were supposed to leave…You were supposed to bloody defend yourself and kill him!”
Her eyes watering at the rage in him, the sheer force of his emotions, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and stared at him, tears already tumbling down toward her full lips. “I can handle it. I wanted the plan to work. I want you to avenge…”
“Christ!” He loosed her. “I did not bloody demand this of you! Tell me you knew that!”
“It’s not so bad,” She wept now, unable to handle the emotions in either of them. The past week had been utter hell. This—was hell.
Raith sat on the edge of the bed again, fingers shoving through his hair whilst he stared at her. His emotions were so raw, so intense, he was shaking too.
Gabriella did not know what he would do, or what he wanted when he abruptly lifted her by her shoulders. She was too distraught to think straight. However, he shoved the material off her, pulled it all away, and threw it beside the bed.
She sobbed in earnest, angry with herself for doing so, but traumatized, perhaps letting the aftershocks out or perhaps because only Raith was safe enough to show such emotions to.
She felt him climb onto the bed. Through her blurred vision saw his face swim before her. He trembled, shook, with what force did not seem to matter—because he kissed her. He kissed her, and—-oh, God, what a kiss….
Her hands went to the shoulders of his shirt, her lips opening, tongue seeking, needing, begging an assuage.
His lips warm, supple, but tongue forceful, their breathing became choppy and frantic.
When he left her mouth, leaving a taste of ash and fire behind, she gasped on sobs still gripping her, “Raith…Raith...” Gabriella’s hands were everywhere, in his hair, tearing at the shirt until it was half off his torso. her thoughts nothing, nothing—but an intense half rage, half pain—merging with desire, need—a voice inside crying yes, yes, touch me, heal me, let me feel myself again. Make me know I am whole and not shattered into pieces.
The atmosphere tight, tense, she did not want to let go of Raith for a second, was afraid to—
more afraid, to let go of him, than she had ever been in her life. “Please…Please…” was all she could rasp while tasting the salt of tears running onto her tongue.
Moreover, Raith was there, raising his frame, still in her blurred vision, but unlike she had ever seen him before. Despite the frantic feel of electricity around them, she saw, as if slow motion—through some misted veil, that long black mane falling around his face, and his sooty lashed eyes half-mast. She saw the beauty in his bones, and the curve of his lips, the sinew of his throat and collarbone. She felt the heat from him, like fire that burned out the cold and dark.
He became grace, essential male, to her softness and the curves of her skin, easing down her body, his warm chest sensitizing her flesh. His lips circled her nipple and it felt like silken fire. Raith suckled, pulled, and slowly rolled his tongue over them, baptizing them from the foulness of Stratton’s touch. The core of her responded with a liquid melting, a contracting in her sex, that had her nails scoring his back.
Suckling one then the other, he did so until her sobs were not as before, but ragged breaths of pleasure and intense need. He had the normally large discs rigid and hard, sensitive to his every breath. He left them but his kisses traced between those globes, and down her ribs like sheer balm.
This was right. This was passion. Only Raith was there—the center of her need.
Lower still, his teeth and tongue gently scored each thigh, which he’d had spread wide. Heat, moist heat, and the drag of his tongue brought her fever to new heights.
Caught in a miasma of fire after so much darkness and cold, Gabriella opened herself to it, her hand reaching for his hair, holding him to her, feeling every move when he pressed his lips to her entry before scoring his tongue upwards, parting the lips, and reducing her breath to mere shallow pants.
He pressed inward, licking, suckling, moving his head around slowly, and creating sensations that drew her nipples tight, and had her heart pounding loud while fire sparked in her blood.
She cried his name, in her head or aloud she would never know, but the moments he spent with his mouth and lips, his tongue, laving, abrading, suckling, built up a blaze so high that when it exploded, she cried out, trembled, feeling both intense bliss—and a purging, that was beyond description.