—from Longsword
“What do you mean, she’s gone out?” Reynaud grated at the butler. He stood in the front hall, having just returned from his business meeting.
The man cringed but stood his ground bravely enough. “Miss Corning said she was going to visit Mr. Oates, my lord.”
“Dammit!” Reynaud turned and ran to the front door, throwing it open. The stable boy was just leading his horse to the corner. “Oy! Bring him back here!”
The boy looked up, startled, but led the big bay around. Reynaud leaped down the steps and mounted the horse, nudging the gelding into a trot. He’d seen the note just this afternoon while sitting with her in her bedroom. Jeremy Oates had died two days before. Why it had taken Oates’s parents that long to write the terse note, he had no idea. He knew he should feel shame for reading Beatrice’s letters, but he’d wanted to protect her while she was recovering from that terrible stab wound. He’d intended to break the news of her friend’s death gently. Hold her while she wept. Dammit! Now his plan to cushion the blow was in shambles. He urged the horse into a canter, riding dangerously fast past carts and pedestrians.
Five minutes later, when he rounded the corner onto Oates’s street, the first thing he saw was Beatrice, standing at the top of the town-house steps, looking like a forlorn waif. He jumped down from the horse and threw the reins to one of the footmen attending her carriage. Then he slowly mounted the stairs. One fat raindrop fell, then two, then a deluge let down.
They were instantly drenched.
He took her arm gently. “Come home, Beatrice.”
She looked up at him, the water running down her face like tears. “He’s dead.”
“I know,” he murmured.
“How?” she asked. “How could he be dead? I just saw him the other day, and he was fine.”
“Come home.” He started leading her down the steps. “You’re still ill.”
“No!” She yanked her arm suddenly and surprised him enough to pull it from his grasp. “No! I want to see him. Maybe they’re wrong. They hardly look in on him at all. Maybe he’s just… just . . .” She trailed away, looking around wildly. “I want to see him.”
She started back up the stairs.
He came up swiftly behind her and picked her up. “You need to go home.”
“No!” She flailed her arms and hit him—whether on purpose or accidently, it was hard to tell. “Let me go! Let me see him!”
He no longer tried arguing with her. Instead he ran down the rain-slicked steps and took her to the carriage.
“Home!” he yelled to the coachman before ducking into the vehicle.
The footman slammed the door behind them, and the carriage bumped into motion.
He wrapped his arms about her to contain her movements so she wouldn’t pull the stitches out of her wound, but she’d stopped struggling. Deep, heaving sobs shook her frame.
He laid his cheek against her wet hair. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t fair,” she choked.
“No, ’tisn’t.”
“He was so young.”
“Yes.”
He murmured into her hair, gently stroking her cheek, her shoulder, and let her sob against him. Her grief was uncontrolled, childish and wild and without grace, and such raw emotion stirred something within him. This woman was real. He might never again be the sort of civilized English gentleman she deserved, but she was exactly what he wanted. What he needed. She was warm and caring, and she was home.
He wanted her.
So when the carriage at last pulled up in front of Blanchard House—his house—he took her in his arms and carried her up the steps and into the house as and his ancestors with their brides. He passed the butler, the footmen, and the maids, and all fell back, making way for him and his prize.
“No one disturbs us,” he said, and then mounted the stairs to her room. The master bedroom—the one used by his father and all the Earls of Blanchard before him—would’ve been better for what he intended, but the usurper was using it, and it didn’t matter anyway. This was between only the two of them and no one else.
He made her room and walked in. The maid was there, dithering by the wardrobe.
“Leave us,” he said, and she did.
He set Beatrice down gently by the bed. She had her face still buried in his shoulder and was as limp as a rag doll.
“No,” she said feebly, though what she still protested he had no idea. She probably didn’t, either.
“You’re wet,” he said gently. “I need to dry you.”
She stood without protest as he unlaced her bodice and stays, stripping the wet fabric from her body. He did it dispassionately. It was important to get her warm and to make sure she hadn’t reopened the wound. When she was nude, he took a cloth from the wardrobe and rubbed her all over, drying what wet there was. Her skin was white and peach, a smooth, beautiful expanse. He took the pins from her hair and dried them with the towel, watching as the silky gold strands curled against his fingers. When that was done, he wet a corner of the cloth at the basin on the dresser and washed her face. Her cheeks were reddened, her eyelids and lips swollen, and he knew she didn’t look her prettiest, but his cock didn’t care. He’d been erect since he’d walked into the room.
Finally, he pulled back the coverlet on her bed and, picking her up, laid her on the bed and tugged the sheets over her to keep her warm.
It was only after he’d taken off his coat and begun unbuttoning his waistcoat that her eyebrows knit.
“What,” she said softly, “are you doing?”
HER CHEST HURT. Her heart and lungs and breasts, they all hurt with every breath she took. She felt as if part of her world had broken off and fallen, never to be reclaimed again. Jeremy was dead. Dead, and she’d not even known it until Putley had blurted the news. Shouldn’t she have known? Shouldn’t she have felt his passing in some fundamental portion of herself?
She shied from the thought, from the bone-crushing hurt, and looked at Lord Hope. Somehow he’d taken her to her rooms and undressed her. She should be scandalized, but she just hadn’t the will to be. And now… and now he appeared to be taking off his own clothing.
She peered at him, only a little bit curious. “What are you doing?”
“Undressing,” he said, and that certainly made sense because he was.
He took off his waistcoat and shirt, and she watched, detached. His arms were strong and brown from the sun. Had he worn a shirt when he’d lived with the Indians? He unbuttoned the fall of his breeches, and she watched him strip those off as well. His smallclothes were tented over his masculine parts, and at any other time she would be very interested at the sight, but at the moment she felt… nothing.
Or at least almost nothing.
“But why?” she asked, and even in her sad state, she knew her voice sounded like a small child’s.
“Why what?” he asked as he removed his shoes and stockings.
“Why are you undressing?”
“Because I intend to lie with you,” he said, and took off his smallclothes.
Well, that certainly was something she’d not seen before. His cock stood up as proudly as a soldier, thick and round and almost a purplish red, particularly at the head. She blinked at the sight. Then he was walking toward her, that part of himself bobbing with each step, and he got into the bed with her. He gathered her close and he felt so hot. So hot he was like a furnace and she sighed a little at how nice his hard, hot body felt against her cold skin.
She looked up at him, so close, his black eyes only inches from her own, and said, “He’s dead and I’ll never forget him.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied.
“I want to die, too.”
His eyes hardened. “I won’t let you.”
And he kissed her. His mouth was hot, too, and this time he didn’t wait but thrust his tongue into her mouth. She moaned a little at the sensation. He tasted of rain-water and salt, and suddenly she couldn’t think of anyth
ing better to taste. She grasped at his shoulder and felt bare, masculine skin, and she dug her fingernails in. If she wasn’t allowed to die, then she would live and forget the rest of the world for right now.
At this moment, there was only the two of them, together in this cozy bed.
He pushed his fingers through her hair, gripping the back of her head, holding her as he explored her mouth with his tongue. He darted in and then out until she caught him and sucked on him, and he made an approving sound. He rolled then, climbing atop her, and she felt the brush of his chest hair against her breasts, tickling and arousing.
She made a sound deep in her throat, and he raised his head. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She tried to pull him back down to kiss her, but he held still, resisting her.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She said it irritably, because she missed his kisses. It seemed to her that he was simply teasing her.
Then he moved, shifting so that one of his legs began to part hers. Her eyes flew to his, and she saw the corner of his mouth quirk.
“You’re sure?”
“Ye-es,” she said, but she was distracted, feeling the slow insertion of his thigh between hers. Her legs fell open, admitting him, but he didn’t stop there. He continued pressing down until his thigh had thrust to the very apex of her thighs, until he had burrowed against her feminine flesh, and she was parted, open against him.
Her eyes widened.
His eyes drooped, the tattooed birds looking wild and pagan.
“It doesn’t hurt?” he asked gently.
“No… oh!” She gasped because he’d shifted and pressed, and somehow the combination was simply divine. “Do that again,” she demanded.
He grinned, his teeth white against his brown skin. “As my lady commands.”
And he kissed her as he pressed with his thigh. She opened her mouth wide, wanting to taste all of him, wanting to experience everything he might show her. When next he pressed down, she shoved up, rubbing herself against him, twisting and thrusting. She wanted… more. Much more.
She tore her mouth from his and looked him in the face. “Put it in me.”
He didn’t pretend shock. “Not yet.”
“But why not?” She widened her legs in invitation. She could feel that part of him, pressing against her thigh. “Isn’t that what comes next? Isn’t that what you want?”
“Not yet,” he said maddeningly, and placed his mouth against hers again. But this time he didn’t stay there. He caressed her with his open mouth, with his soft lips, as he trailed downward over her throat. He licked the upper slope of her breast and then took the nipple in his mouth.
She gasped. That small point flamed with pleasure, each strong suck a pull that tugged at her center. She arched, clutching at his head, feeling his shorn bristles beneath her palms.
He shifted, licking his way to her other breast, and tasted that nipple as well. At the same time, his thigh still pressed against her.
She arched up. “Oh, please, now.”
“Not yet,” he whispered, his breath blowing over her wet, sensitive nipple.
He raised himself on straight arms and brought both legs between hers. She was spread wide now, eager and waiting for the inevitable conclusion to this.
But it didn’t come. He reached down to position himself, laying his penis against her wet folds. Then he bore down, pressing himself against her most sensitive point.
She twisted, panting, under him. “What are you doing?”
His face was grim, the cross earring shining dully at the corner of his jaw. “I’m preparing you.”
She glared at him through slitted eyes. “I am prepared.”
His lips curled, not quite smiling. “Not yet.”
He bent and caught her lower lip between his teeth, gently biting as he rocked against her. And something combusted down there. A flame flickered and flared, growing steadily, spreading through her belly, threatening to burn out of control.
“Stop,” she cried, but her voice was muffled beneath his lips. He opened his mouth over hers and swallowed whole her moan of ecstasy.
“Now,” he said when he lifted his head. “Now it’s time. Put me where you want me to be.”
He caught her hand and brought it between their bodies, guiding her to his hard, slick flesh. He wrapped her fingers around his heat and then took his hand away. He looked at her. “It’s up to you.”
She blinked. “But I don’t know—”
“Do you want it?” Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip. She realized that he was holding himself very still.
She licked her lips. “Yes.”
“Then”—he nudged her with his hips, his length sliding through her fingers, his eyes half closed—“do it.”
So she guided him to where she thought he should be, feeling the width of his head slip through her folds, wondering if this was quite possible. She looked up at him, into black, intense eyes, and for a fraction of a second thought she must’ve lost her mind.
Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Are you sure?”
And that small bit of tenderness decided her. “Yes.”
He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t try to go slowly. He thrust himself inside her, quickly and violently, and her entire body arched with the pain. Burning. Tearing. Something wasn’t right.
She pressed her palms against his chest. “No.”
He looked down at her, his face drawn, the tattooed birds flying about his eye, wild and savage, and he no longer looked tender. He looked like a conqueror. “Too late. You’re mine now.”
And he withdrew his penis slowly, until only the head remained inside her, large and intrusive.
“You’re so soft, so tight around me,” he whispered like a demon incubus. His upper lip curled in erotic bliss. “I want to stay in you forever. I want to make love to you for an eternity.”
He thrust back into her, and although it hurt, it wasn’t as bad as the first time. He leaned down and touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. “I can smell your sex, and it’s hot around me. You make me tremble with want.”
She touched his face, tracing the damp birds wonderingly. Was it true? Did he tremble for her? She’d never known, never dreamed she could affect him thus.
He closed his eyes as if in pain. “I’m trying to hold back, trying to go slow, but I can’t.” His head fell, his iron cross earring brushing her breast. “I can’t.”
And he thrust into her again, hard and fast. She gasped at the impact. It no longer hurt, but there wasn’t the same pleasure as there had been before when he’d used his thigh on her. She watched his face, hard and intent above her, and felt the slide of his flesh in hers. He was on her and in her, physically dominating her, but he seemed the more vulnerable one, and it fascinated her. His breathing was rough, coming in quick gasps; his eyes were unfocused and desperate, his mouth drawn in a line of desire. His body seemed to act of its own volition, as if he no longer controlled his movements.
She reached up to caress his cheek.
His eyes closed. “Beatrice. Beatrice.”
He bent and kissed her wildly, uncontrolled and desperate, and she returned the kiss, awed that she’d brought him to this extreme.
And suddenly he arched and shuddered, his big body convulsing. He buried his head in her breasts and muffled a shout, trembling all over.
Then the room was silent. She felt his heavy weight on her and listened to the patter of the rain hitting her window. She should move—make him move—get up and deal with tragedy and loss and her life.
Instead, she fell asleep.
HE WOKE TO the sound of thunder outside and the soft breath of a woman against his side. Every muscle in his body, every bone and sinew, was completely and utterly relaxed, and he smiled before he even opened his eyes. For the first time in seven long years, he felt… at peace. He turned his head to look at the woman beside him. The woman who had brought him such overwhelming contentm
ent.
Beatrice lay sleeping. Her wheat-colored hair was tangled about her face. Her sweet lips were slightly parted, her lovely brows drawn together as if even in sleep she mourned her friend. He wanted to smooth that small indent between her eyebrows, wanted to take her pain from her, but that was impossible. He couldn’t heal her grief, but he could make sure she was never harmed again. She was too important to him now. She made him feel whole. Sane and calm. He knew he’d have to work quickly to consolidate his position.
Quietly he drew back the coverlet and climbed from the bed. He stretched, feeling the pop of his spine, and then bent to retrieve his smallclothes from the floor. He must not’ve been as stealthy as he thought, for when he straightened, clear gray eyes met his own.
He dropped the smallclothes and went to her. “Are you all right?”
She blinked sleepily and then blushed enchantingly. “I’m… rather sore.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat on the bed and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Stay here and I’ll send the maid up with a hot bath.”
A corner of her mouth curved down sadly. “That would be nice.”
“You can spend the rest of the day abed,” he said softly.
Her eyes slid away from his. “But Jeremy . . .”
“I’ll find out what arrangements his family made—where they buried him.” He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek.
She caught his hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded and straightened, picking up his smallclothes again. He drew them on and buttoned the flap.
Her brows knit. “What time is it? How long have you been closeted here with me?”
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “A little over an hour and a half.”
“Oh, my God!” She struggled to sit up in the bed. The sheets slid down to her lap, baring her sweet breasts. She snatched them up again. “What will Quick think—or my uncle?”
To Desire a Devil Page 17