Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  "And such fine orbs you have, too," Beau commiserated, tapping the man on one brown coat sleeve. "I know what I shall do to save myself from this muddle. I shall call you all by what I judge to be your finest feature—that way I shall not have to trouble myself by stumbling over your titles and whatnot. What say you? Do you not think that the most marvelous of ideas?"

  A rumble of laughing approval rose up from the throng of men.

  "Mistress DeBurgh, you will not insult our guests by denying them their names," Griffin began in steely accents.

  "Ah, blast, Stone, who the devil wants a mere name when such a beauty as this might be flattering the very deuce out of him?" a jolly lad of about five and twenty offered, then he turned to Isabeau, bowing over her hand. "You may, milady, call me anything you desire, so long as you gift me with the light of your smile."

  Beau giggled as Griffin nearly choked at the boy's words. She so enjoyed Stone's discomfiture that she oozed charm as she took the boy's hand in her own. "I believe I shall call you Monsieur Hands. I ask you," she said, drawing the others into her game, "does he not have a most remarkably strong set of hands? Yet well shaped. Like those of an artist. Have you ever considered taking up the brush?"

  The boy looked as if someone had smeared crimson paint on his face, his lashes dropping over his eyes in a sudden bout of shyness. "I—I... er... have dabbled at it a bit."

  "Then when I choose my husband I shall commission you to paint my wedding portrait. There. It is settled. And you." She turned the full force of her eyes upon a tall man whose face was sprinkled with freckles. She could almost see the poor fellow blanch and was intuitively aware that he was most likely curling up in dread, thinking she'd mention his obviously hated feature. But Beau fixed her gaze upon his nose, then clapped her hands in delight. "Hawk. Aye, sir, that is what you will be called. You boast a right noble beak, I think, and—"

  "And I? What shall I be called?" others piped up as she christened them each anew, making them all blush with pleasure or chuckle in amusement. As the last youth stepped forward—with an exceedingly handsome face and form, but eyes somewhat lacking in intelligence—Beau's own lids widened with wicked excitement. Upon each of his cheekbones was a small white scar so symmetrically perfect it was all Isabeau could do not to fall into her pudding.

  Instead she fluttered her fan, inquiring with a husky breathlessness that made Griffin curse. "Oh, sir, you... you bear the most dashing feature of all. Those marks upon your cheeks! I vow they make you look like a bold pirate rogue, or Robin of the Hood. So... so masculine, so wondrous menacing. I swear it fair robs me of words to express..."

  Monsieur Scar preened like a gamecock, fingers weighted with jewels brushing the white marks with as much pride as though they were medals of valor. "Why, Mistress DeBurgh, I would boast to you from whence these came, but I do not want to distress you."

  "Distress me?" Beau said as she nibbled at the food servants had slipped onto her plate. "I shall contrive to keep my courage up. With all these strong men about me, I believe I shall manage not to quake."

  She had taken them all up into her web of charm, the entire party hanging upon every word she uttered, every smile, every laugh. And with each stroke of the witty repartee Griffin's face grew darker, grimmer.

  "If you are certain..." Monsieur Scar let his voice drop into the eerie tones Beau had so often used herself. "Even sheltered as you have been, Mistress DeBurgh, you must have heard tell of Gentleman Jack Ramsey."

  "The—the highwayman?" Beau feigned a gasp, her fingers catching at her throat as if she were stricken with fear.

  "Mr. Clark," Griffin's voice cut in, "I do not think my ward cares to suffer through tales that do not concern her."

  "Oh, but I beg to differ, my lord," Beau said, leaning toward the youth eagerly. "I am entranced by the tale. Fair perishing to know what transpired!"

  "It was a dark and stormy night, the winds rattling the tree branches like the bones of a corpse, when he fell upon us."

  "Ramsey?" Beau encouraged.

  "Nay," another of the party piped up. "It was Clark's governor coming to drag him home to his schoolbooks!"

  But Clark ignored the gibe, pressing closer to Isabeau. "The most fearful brigand ever to slash a purse! He was a giant of a man, his horse's eyes pits of fire, his sword flashing like quicksilver against the night. Any man I know would have lost his courage at the sight of him, Mistress DeBurgh, and fled in pure horror. Any man save me."

  The crowd choked and snorted and sneered at his claim, but Clark went on, obviously not caring a fig what his comrades thought as long as he held the rapt attention of a lady.

  "I have heard that Gentleman Jack is most dreadful handsome," Isabeau said, toying with the lace at her breast, "and that the women he holds at bay with his sword are more eager to surrender their virtue to him than their jewels."

  "Isabeau," Griff ground out, "we do not discuss ladies virtue at the table."

  The conversation had taken a turn young Clark had not expected, and he stammered, groping for a way to steer it back to his own heroism.

  Monsieur Hawk chuckled. "Beware, Clark, lest you convince Mistress DeBurgh to scorn the lot of us and race out to the crossroads in search of this Ramsey. It would be a blasted pity were she to elude us all."

  "In truth," Beau said, dealing Griffin another verbal riposte, "though Gentleman Jack seems a most daring rogue, it is another who has captured my imagination. One entitled Lucifer's Flame, Satan's Fire... oh, drat, what was it?"

  "The Devil's Flame?" Bertie inserted hopefully. "Why, Stone, did I not hear some rumor that you were set upon by that very rogue? Janey—I mean Lady Charcross—mentioned that her servants had heard from a postilion that—"

  "It is nothing but rumor," Griffin growled. "You would do well not to show your witlessness, Bertie, by heeding servant's gossip."

  "I say, old fellow," Bertie sniffed, "it was your cousin who—"

  "My lord Stone is just attempting to be modest," Isabeau chirruped, casting Griffin a tolerant glance. "Why, it is true indeed. He even matched swords with the blackguard."

  "Damn it, Isabeau," Griffin shot from his seat, his fists clenched, "this is not amusing."

  "You found it very much so, as I remember. You see," she said, leaning toward Tarkington with a conspiratorial laugh, "the Devil's Flame is a veritable tumble-nose with a sword, so my lord dealt him a lesson he will not soon forget."

  "Is that so, Stone?" one of the men asked, others adding to his plea. "Do regale us."

  "Oh, please, my lord." Beau fluttered her lashes, her fan dipping to accent the cleavage of her breasts. "Do regale us with your adventures."

  Griffin slammed his fist onto the table, his eyes holding such fury, such fear, that Beau faltered beneath it for an instant. "There will be no more regaling of any kind at all," he snarled. "My ward appears to be quite beside herself."

  One strong hand shot out, clamping around Isabeau's wrist. "A megrim, is it, my dear?"

  "I fear I have been afflicted by a most troublesome heat in the blood of late." Isabeau let desire show in her eyes, let her lips part as if in invitation. "Perhaps if I took to my bed..."

  Fire, wind, crashing waves of need seemed to race between them. Griffin's eyes blazed so dark Beau felt her head swim. Then he was pulling her, guiding her toward the door, the objections of the party and his sharp excuses scarcely penetrating the primitive thrumming of Beau's heart.

  It was all she could do to keep pace with him as he strode through the crowd that was still reveling in the night, his long legs devouring the ground in dangerous, measured strides.

  "Griffin," she could not help but say, "my slippers. I cannot keep pace."

  But he only swore and scooped her into his arms. She felt the power within him, the leashed savagery enveloping her in a whirl of sensation so wild that she did not know he had reached the Ravensmoor coach until he had flung her inside it.

  He snarled a command to the wide-eyed coachman an
d all but ripped the curtains down across the windows to veil them from prying eyes. But despite his efforts a ripple of light from the brass lamp sneaked through a tiny gap in the curtains. His features appeared so taut, so perilous in the flickering light that they seemed to be the mask of some enraged pagan god.

  Beau swallowed hard. That sensation of something akin to fear was foreign to her, more annoying than any other emotion could be. It made her thrust her chin up in pure defiance, stifling her gasp as the coach lurched into motion.

  "What the bloody hell did you think you were doing in there?" Griffin's voice cut the silence like a rapier.

  "I was being charming, as you instructed. Attempting to trap some poor wretch into marriage."

  "Marriage?" He gave an ugly laugh. "The way you were flaunting your charms, milady, you'd never have reached the altar. Perhaps the bedchamber, or a cell at Newgate."

  "You must forgive me." Beau's voice dripped insolence. "I am new at this game of flirtation."

  "You underestimate yourself, milady. Half the men present were drooling upon their waistcoats over you, and the rest were plotting how to get you into their beds without having me slice them stem to stern in a duel over your honor. But then, you have no honor, do you, milady Flame? You charge into my bedchamber one day ago with vows of eternal love. And now you are slavering over anything in breeches."

  "I was what?"

  "Simpering like a cursed lightskirt, fondling their hands, admiring their... by God, when you raved over Minton breeches I could have thrashed you!"

  "Could you have, my lord?" Isabeau knew she was courting disaster, but suddenly she was loving the menace glittering in every tensile muscle, every stark plane of Griffin Stone's body. "I think you are a liar."

  "Don't taunt the devil, girl, unless you want to be sucked down into hell."

  "I am the Devil, Stone. Sent here to tempt you. And I know full well what you wanted to do to me... with me... at that accursed supper. You wanted what I wanted, felt what I felt... but you had not the courage to take it."

  "Shut up, damn you."

  "Why? Are you afraid, Stone? Afraid to hear the truth? That you're mad with need for me, that you want to tumble me back into the sheets and take—"

  She saw him shudder, fight for control. "Curse it."

  "I love you. Love you. Is that what you are afraid of?" All taunting, all baiting had fled. Instead she was flooded with an innate understanding of the man even now battling with his conscience.

  "What is it, Stone? Do you think once I've touched you, kissed you, felt you inside me, I'll suddenly awaken and be aware of whatever flaw it is that makes your grandmother despise you?"

  "Beau."

  "Do you fear I'll leave you then, run away with some witling like Clark or Tarkington or—"

  "Damn you to hell!" Griffin ground out, lunging across the seat, the suddenness of his movement wrenching a gasp from Beau's chest. "If you ever so much as look at them, I'll—"

  "I don't want them. I want you, Griffin. I want you so much I can't think of anything else. Want you so much I fear I might die of it." Her hands were shaking, her voice quavering with emotion as she tangled her hands in the midnight satin of his hair. The light from the coach slashed across his face, the feral hunger, primitive fury in his features searing into Beau's heart.

  With a groan of surrender he crushed her against him, his mouth crashing down on hers with a savagery that bruised, a desire so fierce it fed the flame of her own. There was no time, no place for the elegant dance of civilized mating. This was as wild as the joining of the first man and woman, and as miraculous.

  He bore her down onto the velvet squabs, his hands everywhere upon her, devouring her, as though she and she alone could fill some emptiness inside him, the depth of which neither of them had suspected. Yet he filled her as well, filled her with a dizzy wonder that surpassed any sensation she had ever known.

  "Beau... Beau..." He pressed his lips against her flesh as he bared it, his hands tangling in lacings, tearing them free. The satin stomacher fell away, undergarments dispatched with haste by fingers that played across her skin with the skill of a master.

  Oblivious to the jolting of the coach, oblivious to the streets of London flashing by beyond their tiny haven, Beau kissed him, touched him, her hands fumbling with his shirt. Her palms collided with hard muscle sheathed in satiny warm skin, the hair-roughened plane sending fire jolting through her veins.

  Cool night air kissed her breasts as he made them naked to his gaze, and his eyes went black with passion as he traced the outline of those vulnerable curves, the pink-tipped crests already aching for the wet heat of his mouth.

  "Damn," he rasped, his thumb skimming across her sensitized skin. "You are beautiful... so infernally beautiful."

  Beau moaned, arching her head back, dragging his lips down to her fevered, aching flesh. He drew her nipple into that hot, wet cavern, his tongue toying with it, his teeth grazing it, his fingers hot and insistent as he tore away the last of her petticoats.

  One callused palm curved about her calf, stroking her rigid muscles, pausing to skim over the fragile skin behind her knee before he charted a torturous path along her inner thigh.

  Beau jumped at the sensation of his hand there, his long fingers stroking, fueling the raging inferno building in her secret places while he suckled, worshiping her breasts in the most delicate of torture. "Beau..." He breathed her name. "You feel so good, so warm... so cursed sweet..."

  He was swearing at her even as he loved her, and Beau adored it, adored him, wanting to drive him to the same peak of insanity to which he was hurtling her.

  She groped for the fastenings of his breeches, hungry for the feel of him naked against her, desperate to touch the unyielding lines of the body pressed so intimately against hers. After a moment the fastenings slid free, releasing him into her hand. Hard. Hot. His maleness jutted against her palm just as his finger trailed through the dewy curls at the apex of her thighs.

  A shudder worked through him, and she was humbled, awed, that she held the power to bring this man such pleasure. Gently, so gently, he slipped one finger inside her, readying her for the mating to come. He toyed with her, teased her, until her whole body felt as if it were tearing asunder with the madness he was inspiring.

  "Griffin..." She whimpered his name, arching against the exquisite mastery of his hand. She opened her thighs wider still, begging to possess him, all of him. The rocking of the coach mingled with the whirling in her head as he staked his hands on either side of her shoulders, settling his lean hips between her trembling legs.

  "Isabeau..." he groaned. "I don't... don't want to hurt you..."

  "I'm no cursed fragile flower, Stone." The words were as fierce as the passion within her. "Take me. Now."

  A guttural cry wrenched from him as he thrust, burying the pulsing heat of him deep within her. Pain bit, sharp, but she gloried in the feel of him as he plunged again and again into her welcoming depths.

  Then the stinging ebbed, flowing into a whirlpool of blue-gray eyes desperate for love, a mouth that couldn't get enough of the taste of her, a hard, masculine body drawing upon every skill it possessed to drive her insane.

  It built, grew, that mad stirring in her womb, tormenting her until she clawed at the hard plane of his back, the taut curve of his buttocks, trying desperately to draw him deeper, deeper still.

  Her head thrashed against the coach seat, Griffin's thrown back, jaw clenched, eyes crushed shut as the rhythm consumed them.

  Then in an instant the maelstrom broke free, an animal groan tearing from Griffin in answer to her own cry of release as spasm after spasm racked her body.

  He collapsed against her as they both struggled to breathe, to gather the shattered remnants of their separate souls into one.

  Beau clutched him to her, their sweating, trembling bodies yet seeming as one as she stroked that fall of dark, thick hair.

  "Isabeau." He breathed her name, his knuckles smoothing h
er cheek. "What trickery did you use to bewitch me? Did you make a pact with the dark one? Or are you some fallen angel sent here to save me?"

  "I must be an angel... for this is surely heaven." A sound that was half laugh, half sob ripped from her, and she buried her face in the spicy warmth of his throat. "I never expected to breach heaven's gates, Griffin Stone, but if I'd... if I'd known it was such a wondrous place, I vow I'd have spent a lifetime at my prayers."

  "And what would you have prayed for?"

  "This. Only this. Always this."

  Storm-blue eyes pierced deep into her soul. "I love you, Isabeau. You knew it from the first."

  She nodded but could not keep tears from welling against her lashes.

  "You make me burn, woman, make me ache. You make me whole in a way I've never known before." A smile broke across those strong lips, and it wrenched Isabeau's heart. "I tried to warn you. Tried to keep you safe from me. I told you that I possess a thousand flaws."

  "A hideous temper and an over-soft heart."

  "I'll rage at you, order you about."

  "And I'll defy you at every turn."

  "But I love you, Isabeau DeBurgh. More than life itself. And if you will stoop to have me, I vow I'll never make you sorry that you became my wife."

  "Your... wife!" Beau flung herself into his arms, kissing him, laughing as she felt joy well all shimmery silver within her.

  But whatever words she had been about to say were lost as she felt the coach lurch, the vehicle beginning to slow its speed.

  "Blood and thunder!" she sputtered, peeking out the curtain to see the Stone townhouse looming against the night sky. Griffin cursed, the pair of them struggling madly to draw on their clothes in the confines of the coach while shaking with laughter. Desperately Griff fumbled with the lacings of her gown, the lacings he had torn in his haste to love her. It was hopeless.

  His shirt was billowing in total disarray beneath his crumpled coat, his breeches scarce yanked above his hips as Griffin dug Beau's cloak from where it had fallen upon the coach's floor and swirled it around her, doing the same with his own mantle just as the coach door flew open.