Restless Rake

by Scarlett Scott

  She pressed another kiss to his skin, her tongue flicking out to taste him, and he wasn’t sure which urge was stronger, the one to catch her in his arms and flip her on her back or the one to fling her from him for her own good. His fingers tightened over hers, twining with them.

  “Damn it, don’t you see? You wouldn’t have been in danger at all, wouldn’t be in this very house like a lamb ripe for slaughter, if it weren’t for me.” His voice was rougher than he’d intended, but there was the truth of it.

  “Nothing that happened was your fault.” She seemed to read his mind in that canny way she had. She kissed higher, her hot mouth roaming to his neck. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “Ah, but I must, for that is where the blame lies.” And to do penance, he would see her safe and far, far away from him. An ocean away if he had anything to say about it. “I’m so very sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. How is your cheek, love?”

  He’d wanted to summon her a doctor but she’d been adamant in her refusal. With the fight drained from his body, he’d made her promise to agree to an examination in the morning. She had acquiesced with extreme reluctance.

  “Sore, but it will heal,” she assured him, and by now her enterprising lips had kissed their way up the cord of his throat, lingering over his Adam’s apple, before finding the solid angle of his jaw. She disentangled her fingers from his grasp, her hand flitting to his shoulder. “What of you? It must have hurt when you broke down the door.”

  In truth, he hadn’t felt a damn thing. Fear and determination had pumped through him, washing out any other sensation. He’d never been so frenzied, so terrified. All that had mattered was getting to Clara. Now she fretted over him, as though ramming his shoulder into a piece of wood was the equivalent to even a bloody twentieth of the pain she’d endured. His brave, sweet little dove. How he would miss her when he set her free from her gilded cage on the morrow. But it needed to be done. He was no bloody good for her. No good for anyone.

  “Do not concern yourself over my worthless hide.” He couldn’t resist slipping his hand beneath the soft curtain of her hair and stroking up her spine.

  She framed his face in both her palms then, her face so near to his that he could distinguish each fleck of navy in her vividly blue eyes. After what had happened earlier, neither of them had been willing to extinguish the lights entirely, and he was glad for it now.

  The warm glow of the lowered lamps bathed her ethereal beauty. He studied her, attempting to memorize her features: the rosebud mouth, wayward eyebrow, the freckles, tipped chin, retroussé nose. Perfection. Every inch of her was lovely. Jesus, he would more than miss her. Losing her would be akin to losing a part of himself. The best part of himself. How had she gotten beneath his skin, into his very blood, in such a short span of time?

  “I never want to hear you call yourself worthless again,” she told him then, her tone passionate. Dictatorial, almost. “You are anything but. You’ve proven yourself kind and true and brave more times than I care to count. I won’t stand for you to speak ill of yourself ever again. Am I understood, Lord Ravenscroft?”

  A wry smile tugged at his lips. “You are understood, Lady Ravenscroft.” If only he—or anyone else in England, for that matter—esteemed him as highly as the plucky, nude American woman draped over his chest and issuing him orders did. But that was part of why he loved her, wasn’t it? She saw beneath him, saw past the ugliness of his past, saw him better than anyone ever had. And she had chosen him. Against all odds, against logic and reason and goddamn it, even common sense, she had chosen him.

  For tonight, at least, she was still his. Before he could say anything else, she kissed him. It wasn’t a skilled kiss. It wasn’t even a sensual kiss. Rather, it was a sudden setting of her mouth upon his, hard and fast. But it was borne from the emotions arcing between them in the night with the force of electricity.

  Tonight only, they were man and woman, two people who had nearly lost each other in the darkness. For the time being at least, there was light. There was warmth and there was pleasure, and there was something else that was far more defining and powerful.

  There was his love for her, impossible yet true, and that was all that mattered.

  Her attempt at seduction was rather clumsy, even she had to admit. She’d meant to give him a soft, languorous kiss, a kiss that enticed and hinted at greater pleasures in store. Instead, she’d been so overwhelmed by love for him, a fierce surge of protectiveness rippling through her, that she’d mashed their lips together as though she could confess the depth of her emotions with aggression. She doubted he’d ever suffered such awkward inexperience.

  Her cheeks heated with mortification and she made to pull away from him, but he caught her shoulders and held her still when she would have retreated. His lips firmed over hers, taking control of the kiss, teasing her mouth open for his exploration. His tongue delved inside, claiming and coaxing. He tasted of whisky and desire, and her fingers sank into his hair as she gave in to him, telling him without words what she most longed to say.

  She slid her leg over his thigh so that she straddled him, bringing their lower bodies into full, torturous contact. Take me. He was hard and hot, the tip of him brushing her slick folds in a maddening precursor of what was to come. I’m yours. A low growl of pleasure rumbled from him. She arched into him, wanting his possession so badly she ached with it.

  I love you.

  Clara kissed him back with all the fiery sensations burning though her: relief, fear, hope, desire. If only she could tell him how she felt. But it was too soon, her emotions too new. And her body clamored for revelations of a different sort entirely. She rubbed the sensitive bud of her sex on his cock. He pumped against her, nipping her lip. His hands came between them to cup her breasts, his thumbs drawing quick, delicious circles over her nipples.

  Yes. This was what she needed so desperately after what had happened. She needed to become one with him, for the joining to be frenzied and intense. To lose herself, lose every memory of evil and terror and replace it with the wonder of Julian’s body against hers, on hers, inside hers. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of him, cologne and hot-blooded man.

  He broke the kiss at last and worked his way down her throat, lingering with sweet tenderness where her skin was sore and bruised. He rained kisses on her, erasing the violence and pain inflicted upon her with each brush of his lips.

  “I’m so sorry for this,” he crooned. “I’m so very sorry, my love.”

  “It will heal,” she promised, continuing to torment herself by gliding her slick folds over him again and again. “Take away the pain for me, Julian. Replace it with pleasure.”

  His tongue flicked over her neck, tasting and licking and banishing every trace of the brigand who’d dared to assault her in her own bed. “I’d take it for you, darling. I’d bear it all for you if I could. That’s how much I—goddamn it, Clara, I will hunt the bastard responsible for this down. I’ll hunt him down and I’ll choke the life from him, and I’ll watch him die.”

  His words sent pinpricks of ice through the sensual haze enveloping her. Her husband was not a violent man. But he meant what he’d just said. She had no doubt of that. His deep voice vibrated with a complex blend of rage and passion. This beautiful, enigmatic man she’d married would kill to avenge what had happened to her. The realization left her shaken. Humbled.

  “The police will find him,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. The inspector who’d been sent to conduct interviews with the household had seemed rather green and overwhelmed. “The law will see him punished.”

  “I’ll see him punished,” Julian vowed before bestowing another series of quick, devoted kisses to her neck. “That’s my promise to you. You’ll never know another moment of fear if I bloody well have a say in it.”

  Here was the rattler in him re-emerging. She hadn’t been wrong about that part of him. With everything in her, she believed that if there was indeed a way for him to hu
nt down the villain who’d attempted to kill them both, he would. And he would extract his own vengeance. But she didn’t want to think any more about vengeance or murders or evil men who attacked in the darkness of the night.

  No, she most certainly did not. What she wanted now was her husband. The man she loved. The notorious Earl of Ravenscroft, a man who seemed to regard the entire world around him—even his own life—as some sort of private joke, the man who had married her without ever intending to uphold his half of the bargain, the man who cared for his trying sisters and had committed all manner of sins in the name of providing for them, the man who tried so hard to never allow anyone to see the real him. That was the man she loved. Complicated, baffling, more handsome than any man had a right to be, protective and wild and strong.

  And most importantly of all, hers.

  She guided his head back to her for another kiss, and this time she took great care not to bungle it as she had before. She angled her mouth over his, kissing him slowly, running her tongue over the seam of his lips until he parted for her, letting her inside. She plundered him, taking and tasting, nipping at him, teasing him, leaving them both breathless. And then she undulated her hips against him, not stopping until the head of him rested at her slick entrance.

  “Make love to me, Julian,” she ordered against his mouth.

  In one swift motion, he rolled them both so that she was pinned beneath him on his bed. Her thighs opened, welcoming him. His fingers dipped into her folds, working the nub that was so greedy for his touch. She jerked against him, crying out. He kissed her again, deep and voracious, before taking the tip of her breast in his mouth and sucking.

  A mewling noise split the air, and she realized dimly that it had come from her. He caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged. Her hands went to his broad back, her nails sinking into his warm, muscled flesh. He played with her, working her fast and hard and bringing her perilously close to release. Then his fingers brushed lower, parting her, sinking inside her body. She twisted and moaned, still unaccustomed to the invasion but knowing now what it meant. Wanting more. She arched into his hand, bringing him deeper inside her, crying out with need.

  Her nipple popped from his mouth with a wet sound and he stilled, his gaze meeting hers. “Are you sore, my love? I don’t wish to give you any more pain tonight.”

  The discomfort from earlier had gone, and in its place was only a wild, ravaging hunger. A need to have him inside her again. “I’m fine. Please, Julian. I want you.”

  Her reassurance was all he needed, for in the next moment, he withdrew his finger and his cock was once more at her entrance, poised. “Are you certain, little dove?” His voice was strained, his expression tense.

  She moved against him, bringing the tip of him inside her. “Yes,” the lone word left her lips as a hiss. “Oh yes. I need you inside me.”

  “Fuck, Clara. Tell me again.”

  His guttural demand was as wicked as it was enticing. He liked when she said sinful things to him, she realized, things she would never have before dared to say aloud or even known existed.

  She met his gaze, unwavering. “I need you inside me. Now.”

  The breath left his lungs in a hot rush, billowing over her bare breasts like a kiss. In one long thrust, he was fully sheathed inside her, deep and rigid and wonderful. Every part of her—her skin, her breasts and limbs and mercy, her entire body—hummed with pleasure. His mouth took hers again as his touch traveled everywhere, stroking her nipples, her back, dipping between where their bodies joined to tease her hungry flesh.

  She was wet, so very wet, and he slid in and out of her more easily this time than the last, her body stretching to welcome him, tightening to bring him deeper. It was a beautiful rhythm, and it didn’t take long for her to shatter, clenching around him as waves of bliss licked over her. He continued to thrust inside her, absorbing the ripples of her pleasure.

  With another growled curse, he withdrew suddenly from her body and she felt the warm wetness of his seed on her belly. He kissed her again, a possessive claiming as powerful as their coupling had been, and then rolled to his side, his chest heaving, head upon the pillow.

  “My God, little dove,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My God.”

  The next morning dawned grim and bleak. Julian woke with Clara pressed trustingly to his side, the scent of sunshine and citrus and some indefinable note that was simply her—lush and effervescent and gorgeous—enveloping him. He ached with everything inside him, every instinct and nerve and raw, pulsating emotion, to keep her forever there. To never let her go.

  For the first time, he understood what had been missing from his life. She had been. A complex and determined woman with a keen mind and a sound dose of daring, who’d been bold enough to make him want her and steadfast enough to make him love her. It was the sight of the purple bruises circling her neck like some sort of sick necklace that broke the spell she cast upon him, a reminder that he dared not linger or stray from his course.

  He had brought the darkness of his world into her light, and he alone could remove the blight.

  He knew what he must do, and so he pressed a kiss to the silken cascade of golden hair at her crown and gently extricated himself, taking care not to wake her. He dressed in haste, without the aid of his valet, and made certain two of his most reliable footmen guarded the chamber door. Though he doubted the miscreant who’d attacked Clara would have the bollocks to make another attempt by the light of day, he wasn’t about to take any further chances with her safety.

  He took a brief moment to confer with Osgood, leaving the household preparation in his capable hands before settling into his carriage for what felt like the longest drive of his life. With each sway of the conveyance, he felt sicker, the knot inside his gut tightening until he feared he’d cast up his accounts like a sailor on his first day to sea.

  Yes indeed, this was the fates’ way of meting out punishment for the reckless sin that had marked his life. Finally, he must do penance. He’d bloody well take it, though, if it meant protecting the woman he loved. The plum-colored flesh of her elegant throat and cheek mocked him as the carriage came to a halt outside the townhome of Jesse Whitney. His visit was unannounced, unexpected.

  He’d come to bow and scrape to Clara’s father, to see to it that she remained far from the path of the malevolence he’d unwittingly brought into her life. Far from him and anything and anyone who would hurt her. Swallowing his pride today was the least of his worries. Jesus, someone had almost killed her. On his watch. Because of him.

  Another surge of nausea nearly made him wretch but he tamped it ruthlessly down as the carriage door swung open and he descended, gulping the cool morning air despite its familiar stench of horse dung and soot. He entered the stately home in a dreamlike state, only half aware of his surroundings.

  As the butler led him to Whitney, Julian rehearsed half a dozen different things he might say. But how the hell did one tell a man that his daughter had almost been murdered in her bed and it was all his fault? Given Jesse Whitney’s searing dislike of him and his propensity for defending his daughter with the business end of a pistol, he wouldn’t be surprised if he left this interview with a gunshot wound.

  Whitney stood upon his entrance, looking tense and ill at ease, his mouth drawn into the ferocious frown he’d come to expect. “Ravenscroft.”

  “Whitney.” Julian sank into a chair, his legs betraying him. He’d never felt more weak, more pathetic and useless than he had in the hours since Clara’s attack. It left him limp and drained, floating in a sea of self-disgust.

  Clara’s father sat, steepled his fingers, and raised an expectant brow. “To what do I owe this visit, my lord? Have you squandered my daughter’s dowry already? If it’s more money you’re after, I’m afraid you’re bound for disappointment. I’ll not give you another godforsaken penny.”

  On any other day, he would’ve taken umbrage that the man held him in such low regard that he imagined him capable
of losing a fortune in the span of a few days. But today was a different goddamn sort of day.

  “I don’t want your bloody money, Whitney,” he bit out. “I want you to assure me that you’ll abide by Clara’s wishes and send her back to Virginia as soon as possible.”

  “Well I’ll be damned.” Whitney sat back in his chair, regarding him as he would a thief who’d just approached him on the street with every intent to fleece him. “Is this what you planned all along, you cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch? To get her dowry and then rid yourself of her?”

  “No,” he denied, his voice hoarse with the tenseness of the emotions roiling through him. “Her leaving me is the last thing I want in this world. But it’s what needs to happen. Someone attacked her last night. If I hadn’t been able to break down the door when I did…”

  His words trailed away, cut off by the sudden thickness in his throat. By God, he would not weep before Jesse Fucking Whitney. He would not. His hands tightened into impotent fists on the chair’s carved mahogany arms. He took a steadying breath.

  “My God.” The color drained from Whitney’s face, leaving him as ashen as Julian was sure he appeared. “Where is she now? What happened to her?”

  “She’s safe,” he reassured. “She is sleeping under guard as we speak. But the bastard strangled her. She’s badly bruised. His intent was clear. I can only surmise that the person responsible for attacking me is behind this as well and he’ll stop at nothing until he reaches his objective. I’ll not have Clara in danger. Not for all your American gold. Not for all the gold in the bloody world. I want her safe and far away from me and any enemies I’ve made over the years. The farther away the goddamn better.”

  “Sweet Jesus, she was strangled? My daughter was strangled? In your home? What kind of a monster are you?” Whitney flew from his seat, his face going from white to red in an instant. “How dare you put Clara in danger? If ever there was a man deserving of a beating, it is you, Lord Ravenscroft. I’d punch you in your smug, lordly face now if I didn’t fear that I couldn’t stop, and I’ve no wish for my children and wife to see me cast to gaol for your murder.”