Passion

by Gayle Eden

  Gabriella, still dizzy, felt him raise and roll to the side. She followed his movement and clutched him, wrapping her body around him with a need to hold on to that thread, that connection, for just a moment more.

  His firm back was dewed. She had her leg over his own strong one. Leaning back, she brought her fingers to the front of him, the backs of them skimming the muscles that jerked in his abdomen. In some distant place, she could hear his deep rasp, hear his resistance…She undid the latches and found his full and hard sex. It was hot, velvet, throbbing against her palm. She kissed his throat, laved it. Gabriella begged in her wordless way to have him as close as nature could meld them.

  Sliding her hand to the back of his spine, she tugged and worked the snug trousers off his round, tight, buttocks.

  Their breathing picked up, tighter again, and his hand suddenly came to her tangled hair at the nape. She had his trousers worked down over his strong thighs, to the knee. Gabriella pulled Raith over her, her knees bent, open, before her limbs captured him when he covered her.

  Raith’s hold now on either side of her head, he rasped a deep, “No…” yet even as he said that, she felt him arch his hips in and then sink the length of his sex deep, deep inside of her.

  There was a kind exquisite war in the next few moments. Gabriella, eyes closed, holding him, welcoming any pain or stings as she gloried in every thrust he gave her.

  Half hearing his dark, almost sobbing, breaths, feeling his intensity—every stroke of his sex from the head to end, every hot and roughly deep surge—each inch of her felt as if his cock was pouring as much life into her, as it was purging emotions out of him.

  He arched that raven head back, and then titled it down, and dark ragged breaths sounded in her ear before everything in him tightened and he shuddered.

  What she heard him utter was, “Gabriella... No….No...”

  * * * *

  The room was quiet enough for the sounds of full morning to penetrate. Gabriella was washed, dressed again, and with hair tied back, she drew on her cloak. Before leaving the room, she finished the last bit of coffee, and then turned to regard Raith.

  He was in trousers, barefoot, shirtless, smoking a cheroot and at the far window. He had neither spoken, looked, nor touched her, since he had left the bed in a swift movement after spilling his seed.

  Gabriella did not have any tears left. She had no intention of not finishing what they started either. She did not dwell on what happened between them. It was something she urged past his intent. Nevertheless, she would never, ever, regret it.

  “In that packet is a list of influential people he has blackmailed. One of the letters I glanced at in the coach has the name of a Sir George Crowley. You will find he is blackmailing your brother, Jules. He in turn, was blackmailed by Stratton—likely, to come up with something on Stoneleigh. Stands to reason, doesn’t it, if you’re in the business of blackmailing, you’d pick the richest man in London, who has the most to lose.”

  Raith did not look from the window. He drew on the cheroot and released smoke, his face as blank as she knew he could make it when he was walling himself off in ice.

  She headed for the door. “—It appears your brother was paying up.”

  Her hand was on the latch when she heard Raith ground out in tone that seemed to scrape past his throat with difficulty, “You do not have to go back there.”

  “We both have our final act to play.” Looking over her shoulder, she eyed his profile, that flexing cheek. “I’m not asking your permission. I expect you to do as planned. We will end this—for my mother, and for Suzette. Hopefully, Raith…for you and I, too.”

  Gabriella turned and walked out the door.

  Down the stairs, in the hallway, just before the entry door, she heard him shout her name.

  Turning, she saw him standing on the landing, feet bare, shirtless—his savage masculinity both sending a shiver down her spine and giving her assurance, that he would end it. He could no more walk away at this point, than she could.

  They locked eyes over that distance, his so black they looked like polished coal in that iron hard visage. Hers steady and now dry of tears, determined—else the sacrifice, the pain, the exhausting emotions, was for naught.

  “Make it mean something, Raith,” she finally spoke when he did not. “Make all the hell count for something.” She swallowed, searing that image of him into her head. “And live—just to spite the devil.”

  The poignant smile on her lush lips was a goodbye—that neither of them would say, an acknowledgement that their long years together, their contract, was almost over. Their lives, if they lived, were once more their own.

  * * * *

  It was early morning. Blaise and Ry took the coach to the Duke’s mansion. Jules was immediately sent for. All of them were assembled in the study when Ry relayed what he had heard of Raith. No one interrupted or asked questions until he was done.

  Artis supplied first, “I confirmed he’s living in the house. Not by the neighbors, mind. It seems you are right, he rarely ventures out during the day.”

  Jules, who was passing round the coffee, then took his over by the fireplace and offered, “I’ll go, try and find him, speak with him.”

  “What do you make of this mistress he was flaunting?” Blaise asked.

  “They could have very well been within feet of me and I’d not have seen them, so crowded are the hours the ton is present there. Could be, she was just that, a mistress.” Jules supplied. “It’s difficult to know. But if she was part of his revenge, we need to find her and speak with her.”

  The Duke ran a hand through his hair, pacing now and shaking his head. “Who sent me that note? I just cannot fathom why no more came, once I was here. Obviously, they knew I would come to London.”

  “This…revenge is something he’s been obsessed with for years,” Ry put in. “Unless you know something of the underworld, what it’s like on those streets at night, you never understand the minds of people who walk them. It is not a world just any man can stomach, or survive in. A few gents play at it, but he has lived more there than anywhere. He is a smart and shrewd man, so we can’t guess what we don’t know.”

  Jules finished his coffee. “I’ll ask discreetly at the clubs. I have an appointment to keep. I shall get word to father after I’ve seen Raith, and he can catch you up, Blaise.”

  “Fine.” Blaise nodded. “Ry is going to make rounds on the docks and in taverns. I will spend the day in the coffeehouses. Chances are that a female who looks and drew as much attentions as she apparently did, will be remembered.”

  “Hopefully he will be there and he’ll see and talk to me,” Jules supplied before taking his leave.

  Blaise and Ry left shortly after.

  The Duke went out an hour later, going to the park where he walked—and yes, prayed. He did not like it. Not the stories that dubbed his son an obsessed ghost, ones describing a fierce and haunted man who obviously still was devastated by the murder of his wife. That part he could understand, but the fact that he had not been there for the son who needed him, when he needed him, clawed at his heart. He felt sick, sick with what Raith had suffered, and at the cursed fates that would deal such a blow to him.

  No love or acceptance in his life before, nothing but coldness, bitterness, and lies. It was apparent Raith had found someone to love him, who he loved in return, and look what had happened—more anguish and pain.

  His chest squeezing, Artis sat himself on a bench. He was only half-aware of buggies, strollers, and riders going by, vaguely conscious of the nods of respect. There was a black fear in him, a writing guilt. He wanted desperately to let his son know he loved him, that he would do anything in the world, for him.

  He was horribly afraid, he would never get that chance.

  * * * *

  Caroline knew something was wrong the moment she met the Captain in front of the coffee house.

  “What’s amiss?”

  His face was tense, body language
too. “It’s a private matter, something I regret, that demands my presence elsewhere.”

  She studied his face. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” He took her arm, leading her not inside but up the street toward the shop they had stood in front of the night before. “How thick is the traffic?”

  “Not bad.”

  He cupped her face and kissed her.

  Caroline responded shockingly fast, her body seeking to be closer, her mouth loving the flavor and texture of his. She should be frightened of the passion between them, the sudden intensity with this man—but truthfully, it set her own free and set her aflame.

  Blaise released her, his breath accelerated. He stepped back and leaned against the brick, though it was obvious by his expression now that he would rather be nearer, embracing her.

  Laving her tingling lips, Caroline murmured, “Are you in some sort of trouble? Or, someone you know? Let me help you.”

  He smiled tightly. “No. not me. Yes, someone I know. But I have….others, that are able to help.”

  Caroline frowned. “You look…upset.”

  Shaking his head, he said merely, “I am sorry, about our evening.”

  “Don’t be. Certainly, you must take care of whatever 'tis that concerns you. You must not think I—“

  “It’s not that,” his voice was deeper. He straightened, his face reflecting now his deep state of thought. “There could be events that...might change…things.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” He lifted his hand and perceptibly wanted to touch her, but let it drop. A muscle flexed in his cheek and he murmured, “Shall we continue our safe game Lady M, or dare I say what we both know aloud? If I say it, then you cannot pretend, and I cannot believe what I choose to hope would happen between us.”

  Caroline’s heart fluttered. Her stomach tensed. She whispered, “I don’t care what happens. I will find a way to see you again.” She rose to her tiptoes and kissed him.

  Settled on her feet again, their mouths reluctantly parting, she peered through those lenses and knew since he could not see her, she must put her honest emotions into her words. “If you discovered our future lay a million miles apart, would you regret a moment we’ve had?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. I did not expect this. I never expected to meet a stranger, feel everything I do right now. I do not even know myself when I am with you, but I like that part of me—more than any other. I feel more… alive.”

  He breathed out heavily, “I understand.”

  “Though my existence and obligations—things that were set in stone long before I met you, may not be changed, or rather, not in my power to change. This has meant more to me than any event in my life. I’ve felt more…”

  His hand came out and drew her into his embrace for long moments.

  She whispered, “I don’t want it to end here. It cannot. Not yet.”

  “You know where wanting leads.” He kissed her brow, her cheek. “Do you know what this kind of intense feeling means?”

  His hold and small kisses were passionate. “I know I feel it, and that’s enough.”

  His lips covered hers. The kiss was deep, hungry, before he set her from him with a whispered bloody hell, then, “Can you have your coachman wait?”

  “I hired a hack.”

  “Is it still nearby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lead the way.”

  She did, and he ordered the man to drive around for a half hour, and then set him out on another street, after they were inside. Closed in the carriage, he turned and took her in his arms. Pushing her hood back, his fingers went to her hair, touching it, feeling it before he cupped her jaw.

  Caroline put her hand on his side, under his jacket, feeling the heat and strength in him. Gazing at his face, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she murmured, “Kiss me. Make me feel like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

  She heard him groan before his mouth covered hers, and from the first hot rush and silken thrust of his tongue, nothing did exist, but the man who made her feel like no other ever would.

  * * * *

  The street where Raith lived was gloomy and narrow, the mansion old and gothic. Jules muttered how it fit the restless specter everyone spoke of as he climbed out of the coach at the corner, telling the driver, “Wait here,” before he headed toward it.

  The drizzle was more a mist amid the fog. He was glad for his great coat, mentally muttering next that his valet would have a coronary at the condition of his boots. The cobbles were hooved up and broken, undrained water lay rank in places he could not avoid. The iron entry gate was broken, rusted and hanging at an odd angle. How very apt and fitting, he ground dryly. He proceeded through that entry and up a short walkway, banging the knocker several times.

  Huddled in his coat, he looked around, waiting, and was eyeing the damaged gate when a figure rushed through. Although wearing a cape and striding fast, he knew from the height it was Raith.

  “Raith!”

  The figure came up short, and even in the gloom Jules saw the stark and on-edge features—the chill in those black eyes.

  “What in bloody hell are you doing here!” Raith’s voice rasped—different, mature—filled with something that put chills down Jules’s spine.

  “Since you obviously recognize me. Invite me in. I need to speak with you.”

  Raith stepped close and grasped the shoulder of Jules’s coat, just as the door opened. The light was not bright, but enough so the brothers saw each other clearly. “Get back in your coach, wherever it is, and get the hell away from me.”

  Shocked, Jules felt his coat released. He turned in time to see Raith head through the door, and heard him bark something at the butler.

  Cursing, going after him, Jules entered and shut the door loudly, seeing the butler hurry away seconds before he caught up with Raith—who was taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Raith.”

  Yanking off his coat, hair wet and clothing stained Raith ignored him, reaching the landing and heading for his rooms.

  Jules did what he could not know others never had, he followed—and used his hand to block the door Raith tried to shut. He forced his way inside that stark domain.

  “Get out!” Raith snarled and flashed him a black glare, taking off his shirt. He was then hurrying to pour water in a bowl.

  Though disturbed by the atmosphere, the tomb like feel of the chamber, Jules watched him scrubbing his face and hands.

  “Raith. Please—just give me a moment of your time.”

  “I don’t have a bloody moment.” Raith rinsed his face.

  Reeling from the image, the voice, and look of Raith—dark and fierce, so bloody imbued with bitterness, Jules murmured, “My God, what is that? What have you done?” Jules went over and sniffed the shirt. “Is that gunpowder and…ethanol? Jesus Christ. Tell me what you are doing, brother. Please, Raith, talk to me!”

  Drying and rushing to the wardrobe, yanking out a black shirt, Raith growled, “Get out of my house, Stoneleigh.”

  Feeling as if he was dealing with a mad man, Jules rushed, “We know it all Raith…about your wife, that she was murdered.”

  Buttoning the shirt Raith flashed black ice at him again and sneered, “You—don’t know a bloody thing.” He finished and scrapped his hair back with his fingers. Sitting down, Raith tore off his boots and fetched another pair, hastily grabbing a wool coat.

  As alarmed by his movements, as he was the evidence on his shirt, Jules watched Raith slide open a slim drawer and take out a knife that he tucked in his boot.

  “We can help you, Raith. We will help you. Myself, father, Blaise.”

  “It’s too late to help me.” Raith strode out the door.

  On his heels again, Jules attempted, “Mother lied to you. She lied about who your mother was, and about father. She was being cruel, and was livid that you would have an inheritance. It was bad for all of us, but father wants you
to know the truth. He needs…to talk to you. We are all sorry, Raith. God dammit! Please, listen...” He grabbed Raith’s arm as they exited the door.

  Buttoning his coat, Raith responded, “It doesn’t bloody matter anymore, Jules. Now will you go the hell away?”

  Jules had never felt so desperate in his life. “I will, if you’ll listen to me. Let us help. What are you going to do? If you’ll tell me who—“

  Raith tore his hold loose. They were through the gate when he turned and shoved Jules nearly off balance. His face and eyes looked ravaged. “I don’t need your help. I do not bloody need you! It is done. Now go, Jules. Go or so help me, I’ll—.” Raith snarled and turned away.

  Jules caught his balance and stood there watching the figure stride with haste up the dark street. His guts felt like knots. His heart was ramming his ribs. It only took a second for him to make up his mind, get royally pisssed, and start running.

  He reached his coach and told his man, “Follow him—discreetly.”

  Inside the coach, one that moved too slowly over the shimmering cobbled streets, Jules muttered curses, prayers, more curses, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard a loud boom. Everything flashed red and gold. The acrid scent of smoke followed—and then chaos erupted.

  The driver tried to control the horses. Alarms were going off back toward the docks. Shadows turned into people running with lanterns. The fire brigade rushed by.

  In a moment of opportunity, Jules leaned half out the coach door and yelled grimly to his driver, “Don’t lose sight of him.”

  “I won’t, my lord.”

  It was not easy getting through the streets with bodies spilling out of houses, taverns, and riders crashing through, heading past them to the explosion. The coach turned down another street, then up. Jules broke a sweat when they pulled against the curb.

  Getting out, the sounds of voice, noise in the street behind them was rattling his already razor nerves. He looked at the driver. “Which way?”

  “There.” He pointed a gloved hand to the right.