by Elisa Braden
“Enough, Briar,” he growled, his belly trembling, the hand in her hair gripping and releasing. Gripping and releasing. “Enough. I need to be inside you.”
She gave him a final, lingering stroke of her lips, then found the hand that clenched the sheets and laced her fingers with his. “You or the blackness?” Her own voice was raspy with her arousal.
Before she could blink, he had dragged her up along his body and rolled until he lay atop her, his eyes ferocious and blazing. Just as quickly, he spread her legs and pulled her knees up alongside his hips until she was wide open and pleasurably trapped beneath him.
“Both of us,” he breathed. His nostrils flared. He notched himself at the mouth of her core, the tip hot and insistent. “Let me in.”
She gripped his neck, her fingers digging into his nape. The need to comply was a towering ache, a pulsating burn. But this was not merely lovemaking. This was a demonstration—one she must complete.
“I will,” she whispered. “But first, answer a question. Does the blackness like knowing you are the only man who has ever been inside me?”
His head dropped forward onto her shoulder. He groaned and kissed her neck. “Yes. Bloody hell, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are mine. Only ever mine.”
“Whose wife am I?”
“Mine.”
“I belong to Phineas.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you like being the first?” She kissed his ear. “Do you like knowing you are the only man whose touch makes me want him until I ache?”
His hips jerked, forcing several inches of thick, hard Phineas inside her. This time, his groan was nearly a shout, tortured and grinding.
She wriggled her hips deeper into the mattress until he slid out of her. “Answer me.”
He propped himself above her, the muscles of his arms and shoulders rippling with fine tension. His face was flushed, his eyes molten. Savage. “Yes,” he gritted. “I do.”
She slid her hand along his jaw. Ran her thumb across his lips. “Then, it is not merely the blackness.”
“No.”
“Do you wish to keep me all to yourself, Phineas?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to avoid touching other men?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to kill the man who threatens me?”
“I want to tear him to pieces and scatter those pieces into the sea.”
She wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck. Then, she placed her lips against his and whispered, “Take me.”
His first thrust was hard and deep. His second even harder, the third and fourth deeper, forging and filling until her sheath felt stretched. As his movements quickened, the friction grew scalding. Tight rings of pleasure rippled outward like water. His hands gripped her waist and clutched her hair, controlling her movements and holding her still for furious, pounding thrusts. His hips battered hers, his thick staff setting a brutal pace while his chest chafed and pleasured her breasts.
God, how she loved this man.
The mere thought set everything he had kindled inside her ablaze. The flames built in a wild, surging crescendo, licking into the sky. In a burst of showering sparks and booming combustion, her body seized. Arched. Cried out against the skin of his neck. She clawed at his back and his nape, unable to bear the intensity. She sobbed his name again and again as it broke over her. Heat and light. Heat and light. Heat and light.
In the aftermath, she felt his peak approach—the impossible hardness of his muscles, the urgent tempo of his thrusts, the heated vibrations of his groans against her neck. Caressing his shoulders and back, she tightened her legs around him, her body around him. She held him as strongly as she could then whispered, “It is not madness. It is you. All the blackness. All the rationality. Every part is you, Phineas. The man I love.”
The explosion came upon him suddenly, hard and wracking. Her name was a desperate growl. He shuddered and jerked and groaned as his body filled hers.
She would give him whatever he needed—her mouth and her body and her heart. She did not know if it would be enough. She only knew he had somehow separated his fundamental nature into two parts, and the part he wished to deny was the part that loved her.
That would not stand.
She gripped him tightly, stroking his hair and his shoulders, kissing his ear and whispering her love as she took his pleasure with unseemly greed.
He was hers. Hers alone. And she would have all of him. The scientist. The husband. The blackness. The man.
Now that she knew he wanted her—Eugenia, not Maureen, not any other woman—she would have all of him, and nothing less would do.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Very few circumstances require such extreme measures. But this, I daresay, is one.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham while dismissing her most recent lady’s maid, the second in a single day.
Night fell early, thanks to the storm. No thunder, but plenty of wind. It howled and rocked Jonas in angry blasts. He attempted to resettle himself in the saddle and nearly screamed at the white flash of pain. Rain had soaked him through hours ago. The wet helped ease the heat in his skin, which throbbed and fogged his mind. His shoulder and leg were bleeding again.
But he was here. By God, he was here.
He pulled his horse up short beside the castle’s fountain, breathing and blinking as his own hands wavered in his vision. Rain cascaded from his hat’s brim. He knew he should move, but he could not remember how.
On his right, he heard the creak of Drayton’s saddle as the other man dismounted. “Bloody suicidal fool.”
In front of him, he watched Dunston dismount and approach. The dapper earl scowled. “I do hope this was worth your death, Hawthorn.”
He opened his mouth to tell him it was. That he would have gone farther and suffered worse to save her. But nothing emerged. His throat was dry. His face was hot. Slowly, he blinked.
“This will hurt.” Dunston’s warning came a second before he and Drayton yanked Jonas from the saddle. Pain exploded. Not merely in his limbs, but everywhere.
Blackness. Weakness. Dripping. Pain and pain and pain.
Dunston, who had looped his uninjured arm across his shoulders, held Jonas upright and dragged him before wooden doors. The doors opened. A white-haired man asked a question.
Jonas could scarcely hear for the wind and the rain and his pounding head.
The entrance hall echoed, but there was no more rain. Just more heat. Other men arrived. Footmen, he thought. Vaguely, he heard Dunston and Drayton talking. Two footmen tried to take his weight.
He groaned as pain radiated outward from his shoulder and leg.
“Mr. Hawthorn?” It was her voice. Pure and soft as snowfall.
Blinking, he forced his eyes to focus. Gray and white squares refused to un-blur.
“… has happened to him?” Her voice sharpened. She sounded distressed. “Fetch Lord Holstoke’s physician. Now. Go!”
He blinked again. Tried to raise his head. Christ, he was weak. Hot and weak.
Her face appeared before him, paler than usual but even more exquisite than he remembered. That smooth brow puckered with fret and fear.
For him? No. Unlikely.
He needed to tell her something. How beautiful she was.
Those rosebud lips were moving. Demanding. “… him upstairs. The blue chamber. He is not permitted to die.” Moonlight eyes riveted to his. Delicate nostrils flared. “Is that perfectly clear, Mr. Hawthorn? You will not die.”
Her command was his last memory for a long while. Next thing he knew, he lay naked and screaming in agony. No sound. The screaming was in his head. Firelight flickered on blue walls. Heat pulsed. He dragged his eyes open.
Saw … her. Dark smudges marred the skin beneath moonlit green. Wisps of midnight curled against creamy white cheeks. She sat beside his bed, hands folded and wringing. “Keep him
alive, Phineas,” came her cool, soft voice. “Do as you must.”
Somebody poured a bitter brew down his throat. He choked and fought, but to no avail. Then came pain unlike anything he’d felt before. This time, his scream was real, ripping from his throat, echoing off blue walls.
The room went dark. When light returned, she was there. Moonlight eyes were rimmed red, gazing at the fire. She rocked herself back and forth in the chair as though she needed comfort. He tried to stretch out his arm toward her, but it weighed twelve tons.
He was hot. Bloody hot and thirsty. His head pounded. Hell, everywhere pounded. He wanted to speak but managed only a croak.
Her gaze flew back to him. She stood and hovered close, though her hands continued wringing at her waist until her knuckles blanched. “Rest,” she admonished. “You’ve done yourself quite enough damage already.”
“D-danger,” he said, his breath short on the single word.
“I know,” she replied with a fierce frown. “Lord Dunston informed us about your findings. What I do not understand is why you would undertake this foolish journey after you were … shot.” Her lips went tight and white. Briefly, she closed her eyes. “You could have died.”
“He is here.” Jonas panted. Gathered strength. “So, I must be here.”
She paced away, her shoulders trembling with agitation. He watched her retreat, but struggled to focus when she entered the shadows at the edge of the room.
“The—the sketch,” he rasped.
“Ruined,” she said quietly, keeping her back to him. “Your b-blood soaked it.”
His eyes closed. Blast. He would have to draw the blackguard again when he could lift his hand.
She turned. Glided toward him. Stood beside his bed with seamless composure. “Rest, Mr. Hawthorn. My brother and Lord Dunston will ensure our safety.”
“Your safety,” he said, the words nearly a growl as they rattled in his dry throat. “Yours.”
Her blinking grew rapid, as did her breathing. Those fine, delicate hands twisted together until he could not bear her distress any longer.
He forced his muscles to respond. Stretched out his arm. Reached for her hands. He was shaking by the time his fingers brushed hers.
As though he’d scalded her, she jerked violently and stumbled back several steps. She folded her arms across her middle, tucking her hands away. Her eyes flared wide as a hare’s when flushed by a hunter. Her bosom rose and fell at a panicked pace.
His arm dropped to the sheet. He couldn’t hold it up any longer, and she obviously did not want his loathsome hands upon her.
Haughty woman.
Haughty, exquisite, haunting woman.
In the silence, the pain softened. His thoughts grew heavy and slow, though his body floated above the bed.
Soon, he let his eyes drift closed, but he could still see her—cold as a winter lake. So bloody beautiful, she was both pain and pleasure. Heat and ice. Strength and fragility.
Darkness moved in. He slid into it gladly, numbness coating the pain. As it blanketed him, he imagined he felt a tickle against his lips. Delirium, probably. The fever or the laudanum. But it seemed real.
Then, a whisper fell, soft and achingly sweet. “Rest now, Jonas Hawthorn,” it said. “I am not so easy to kill.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“A beach on a clear day is a fine place to ramble, Humphrey. In a downpour, however, it is only a fine place to drown.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, in reply to his expressed preference for beaches and rambles and rain.
The fourth plume was the key ingredient—Genie was certain of it. She sketched the addition. Squinted. Wrinkled her nose.
Drat. Now, the hat looked silly.
Sighing, she closed the sketchbook, clasped it to her chest, and gazed out the library window. Five days after the storm arrived, rain continued its drenching. Where had summer gone? Washed away to a county other than Dorsetshire, that much was certain.
She hated being stuck inside. Boredom swallowed her, thick as mud. Of course, she would not have been bored if both Phineas and Hannah were available. Particularly Phineas. She sighed and tingled, remembering how not-bored she’d been last night.
But Phineas was spending his days investigating. Following the arrival of Dunston and Mr. Drayton, along with the nearly dead Mr. Hawthorn, Phineas had trained all his considerable focus upon finding the poisoner. He’d positioned men at every castle entrance. He’d insisted that Genie and Hannah must remain inside. Along with Dunston and Mr. Drayton, he’d visited Bridport to question shopkeepers and mail coach drivers and proprietors of public houses, coaching inns, and taverns.
Day by day, Phineas grew increasingly grim and silent. They all waited for Mr. Hawthorn to awaken. Hannah had scarcely left the man’s side in five days. Eugenia had been bringing Hannah supper each evening, sitting with her for several hours and chatting, mainly to herself. Much like Phineas, Hannah had withdrawn into silence and a relentless focus upon a single task—keeping Mr. Hawthorn alive by force of will.
Several times, when Mr. Hawthorn grew restless, Genie had noticed Hannah leaning forward as though she wished to touch him. Genie’s heart ached for her sister-in-law, who appeared both desolate and torn.
In London, Dunston’s surgeon had removed the arrows that had pierced Mr. Hawthorn before stitching the wounds closed. According to Dunston, the surgeon had been pessimistic even before Mr. Hawthorn had insisted on traveling from London to Dorsetshire on horseback. Phineas’s physician, too, had doubted the Bow Street runner’s odds.
“Mad, besotted fool,” Dunston had muttered, shaking his head. Genie had elbowed him and pointed out that if Maureen were in danger, he would have taken similarly foolish chances. “Perhaps,” he’d admitted. “Brat.”
She’d rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.
Then, he’d wrapped her in a tight hug and told her he would keep her safe, as Maureen would never forgive him if he did not. Genie hadn’t felt uneasy until that moment. Henry Thorpe rarely spoke in such a way.
Rising from the desk, Genie wandered to the window and gazed out upon the sunken garden. The Neptune fountain spewed high into the air. She frowned, curiosity piqued. Tossing her sketchbook on the desk, she went in search of answers. Ordinarily, Genie preferred creating to reading, but after climbing the spiral staircase to the library’s second level, she found a book with both answers and illustrations. Genie liked illustrations. She traced her finger softly over the exquisite feathers and the proud beak, the fierce musculature and the deadly talons. She sank down onto the floor, laid the book open upon her lap, and read as though she were Mr. Moody or her sister Jane—with complete absorption.
Consequently, she could not say how long she’d sat there before voices out in the corridor drew her attention. It was Hannah and Phineas … arguing? Genie closed the book and frowned. Yes. Hannah’s tone was strident, Phineas’s exasperated. Quickly, Genie slid the book onto the shelf before rushing down the circular stairs and out into the corridor.
Hannah was shaking, clutching papers in her fist and glaring up at her brother with something approaching fury.
“You are overwrought,” Phineas unwisely observed. “Perhaps one of my teas will help. Valeriana officinalis has a distinct calming effect, particularly for females suffering … untimely discomfort.”
Genie nearly groaned. Ordinarily, she was on the receiving end of Phineas’s maddening male rubbish. To see him treat his sister with similar bewilderment was almost relieving, though not for Hannah. She watched the girl’s eyes flare wide.
Oh, dear.
“Curse you, Phineas! I will not be dismissed with idiotic assumptions and valerian tea.”
Perhaps Genie should intervene. She cleared her throat. They both ignored her.
“I have already explained the list to Eugenia.”
“But you have not asked her forgiveness.”
Phineas glowered. “We dis
cussed the matter days ago, and the matter has been resolved. Now, if you will simply hand the papers to me—”
Hannah jerked her fist away. “Her hats are not preposterous!”
He rubbed his neck. “Hannah.”
“And she may be blunt, but she is honest and true.”
“I do not need you to tell me about my wife.”
Hannah shook the papers near his chin. “This indicates otherwise!”
Genie’s heart twisted. Hannah was defending her. Like a friend would. Or a sister.
“Give me the list, and I will burn the deuced thing,” Phineas said.
“That is no solution. You must apologize.”
He blinked. “I have.”
Finally, one of them noticed Genie. Hannah turned to her with red-shot eyes. “Did he?”
Genie hesitated before answering. “He explained why he wrote it.”
Phineas sighed. “You see? This overreaction is completely unnecess—”
“But he did not apologize.” Genie finished. “Not in so many words.”
Hannah nodded and approached Genie, extending the crinkled pages with a shaking hand. “As I thought. He should, Eugenia. It is the least you deserve.”
Genie took the list, but she kept hold of Hannah’s fingers. They were cold and trembling. “Thank you, dearest.” She squeezed and smiled. “How is Mr. Hawthorn?”
Hannah’s nostrils flared. Her lips went as white as her skin. “He—he has not yet awakened. The physician is with him now. He says if the fever does not break soon, he will likely …”
Genie examined her sister-in-law’s disheveled hair and wrinkled gown. Hannah was more mussed than she’d ever seen her. “Have you eaten?”
Hannah shook her head, her eyes dazed. The slender girl began weaving with exhaustion.
Gently, Genie pulled her closer and braced her elbow. “Well, that is the problem, then. Everything is improved by a good meal.”
A small huff. “You always say that.”
“Only because it is true.”