by Julie Beard
His breath was shallow. Perspiration beaded on his brow. "Liza, I need you. God, you're wet."
She blinked from her stuporous ecstasy to send a worried looking wafting his way. "Is that bad?"
He chuckled tenderly. "No, my darling girl, that is good. Very good. Do not worry. You will be splendid. You always are."
His middle finger probed the soft, moist folds of her sex and she took in a hissing breath, clutching his arms. When he found the tiny opening he craved, he slid inward,
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stopping only when his hand could go no farther.
"Oh, Jack!" she said on a heaving whisper, her eyes wide. She caught tiny breaths of astonishment in her heaving lungs, and let them out in uneven gusts of pleasurable shock. She looked up at him with the most touching look of wonder and gratitude and uncontrolled sexual responsiveness he'd ever seen. He drew his wet finger out, and then thrust it in, long and slow, reaching deeper, men hastened the motion. She shut her eyes and began to groan as she built to her beautiful, innocent climax. She would burst soon.
"Jack, what is happening to me?" she cried out in a strangled voice. "I feel... I feel... oh!"
Suddenly she came in wonderful, wild waves that were honey-slow at first, then built to an explosive burst of searing ecstasy. Wave after wave of excruciating pleasure throbbed and gripped her, lifting her high into a world she'd never known. She cried out uncontrollably, and he smiled.
"Yes, my darling, that's it. I want you to come and come again."
When she sank in a heap in his arms, wallowing in the luxurious aftermath, he withdrew his hand, then fumbled with his trousers, unbuttoning them with trembling fingers. His hard, thick staff sprang free.
"I must have you now," he said severely.
He lifted her up and wiped his arm across the table, sending the dried flower arrangement and metal vase clattering to the floor. He lowered her onto the table and yanked her forward until her hips were at the edge. He forced her thighs to part even wider and leaned over her, his weeping rod pressing against her entry. She spread her legs wider, aching for him. He tugged down on her collar,
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careful not to rip her gown, and scooped both breasts in his hands, gently squeezing.
"I may hurt you, Liza."
"I don't care," she rasped. "Fill me, Jack."
He leaned down and suckled each breast, savoring the slightly salty taste of perspiration on her velvet skin, then stood up and looked at the blossoming flower of her pink sex that pulsed in need of him. He touched the rigid bead above, rotating with his thumb.
Liza jerked in response, and stared at him incredulously. Again? her wide eyes asked in the silence. / can do this again?
"Jack?" she asked in a little voice.
"Don't fight it, Liza. I want you to come again. Do it. Let it happen. There is no end to the pleasure you deserve."
He circled in ever quickening strokes until she exploded. "Oh, heavens!" she cried. "Jack? Jack! Oh, God, Jack!"
As her back lifted off the table with the force of her shuttering climax, he pushed his trousers to his knees, then gripped her hips and poised the tip of his shaft at her tight opening. He entered just an inch.
"Oh, oh, yes," she whispered, clawing at his muscular forearms. "Please."
Tightening his buttocks, he thrust cleanly into her. He held still, sweat dripping onto her ribs from his brow. Her body eased, then tightened around him. He sucked in a shivering breath as he tried to rein in control. "Are you ... are you hurting?"
She shook her head. "No. What will happen next?"
"This." He drew himself out long and slow until the tip of his ample cock pressed at the portal. Then he reentered
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in a long, slow journey to the darkness of her being. He was thick and hard and craving release.
"I'm going to draw myself out and thrust myself in," he said, "over and over until I pierce your very soul."
She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as the journey back and forth quickened. Heat burrowed into her, and the pounding he gave her was sheer pleasure. He went faster and faster, harder and harder, until they both grunted and groaned and cried out in delirious celebration. This was the slow building to his release that he could, if he chose, draw out for hours. But he didn't want to hurt her, and he didn't want to be so controlled. Not with her. He wanted to give as purely as he had taken from her. He wanted her to see his wild, dark sorrow, and feel his fierce joy.
He was sweating, heaving into her in a hypnotic rhythm. But suddenly he stopped and pulled out, his hard staff standing at attention. He scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He lowered her and spread her legs wide with his knees. Then he lowered himself on top of her. He poised his shaft between her thighs, then stroked it up and down the valley of her sex. He massaged the silken head up, down, and then into her, then out. Up, down, in and out. She was panting now, ready to explode again.
"Now you can have all of me, Liza," he whispered, and hiked up her hips. He pounded into her with quick thrusts. The sound of slapping skin could be heard over short pants for air. He stared at her dazedly, grimacing as he came closer and closer to his own thundering climax. From a distant place, he heard her cry out again with a strangled release, then he let himself go.
He rammed his shaft deep inside her, spilling his seed, not thinking or caring about the risk they were taking, knowing only that he wanted her to have all of him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
iza would never be the same. She knew that the moment she rose from the sweat-soaked bed in the cottage. It was further confirmed when she and Jack kissed and giggled and staggered like drunkards as they dressed each other and combed each other's hair with their hands, trying to restore some semblance of propriety. She'd never known such ease and freedom with another. It was as if he were her best friend. She felt absolutely no self-consciousness.
Now if only Aunt Patty were half blind as well as half deaf, she wouldn't see the evidence of lovemaking— swollen lips, flushed cheeks, groggy eyes, and that telltale smile of utter contentment.
Fortunately, Harding and Patricia Bramble had not even missed the couple. They'd dug into the feast the cook had prepared and had drunk a bottle and a half of wine. By the time Liza and Jack returned to the graveyard, the older pair were guffawing like school chums, telling
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jokes and gossiping to their hearts' content.
When they returned to the house, Liza went immediately to her bedroom and ordered a cool bath, claiming the long walk had overheated her. She was reluctant to wash the scent of Jack off her skin, for there was no telling when, if ever, she would hold him so intimately again.
While she felt free and wholly at one with herself and her lover, she had the first inklings of horrible discontent. For no matter how well suited she and Jack were as lovers, their passion could not erase the problem she'd been grappling with all along. Lord Barrington was blackmailing her. He had discovered a horrible secret about her family. And Liza was the only one who could keep him from revealing it.
She prayed Jack could help her out of this situation. He had to find enough evidence to condemn Lord Barrington of arson. And he had to do it before her engagement was announced; otherwise, she would irrevocably be connected to the wastrel viscount in the minds of good society, even if the engagement were later broken. Especially if it were broken.
There was another reason Liza wanted a quick resolution of her dilemma. Jack Fairchild was too clever by half. Given enough time, he would figure out precisely what sort of infamy Lord Barrington had unearthed. And then Jack couldn't offer for her even if he wanted to. A future and honorable baron couldn't in good conscience saddle his descendants with such scandal. And if there was one thing she knew beyond doubt about Jack Fairchild, he was a man of honor.
She wished she could speak to someone about her problems. Perhaps it was time to write Mrs. Halloway again.
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* * *
"Harding, I need you to find out which properties Mr. Cranshaw owns in town. Find out what building projects are under way, if any. Giles, I need you to find out who purchased Jacob Davis's property when he went bankrupt. Search in documents and discreetly ask questions in town."
The men looked up with curious stares. Jack crossed his arms and began to pace between their desks.
"Giles, I also need you to find out what inquiries Lord Barrington may have made into any of the local land in the last eight months or so."
"That information would be in Mr. Pedigrew's files, sir. He handled all legal matters in town. I know he met on a few occasions with the viscount shortly before he retired."
"Good!" Jack grinned and slapped his hands together, rubbing them to create friction. "I want to see any notes, documents, or briefs you might find on the subject."
"Consider it done, sir."
"Mr. Fairchild," Harding cut in, "may I ask what you are trying to find out?"
Jack leveled him with a sober look. "No, you may not. Sorry, old boy. This one is confidential. Just do as I ask and you will be well rewarded if you strike gold. I want to solve the mystery of the fire that destroyed Jacob Davis. It was clearly a case of arson. Someone is to blame. And I want to find out who, and I don't care what his disposition in life is. Do I make myself clear?"
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Harding frowned and his lips curled in an uneasy grimace. "Perfectly."
Suddenly, the door opened and a footman entered bearing the Cranshaws' checkered green-and-white livery.
"A letter from Cranshaw Park, if you please, sir," he said in a dry, thin voice.
"Put it here, my good man." Jack motioned to the desk.
The footman placed the letter down in front of Harding and returned his bored gaze to Jack. "Is that good, sir?"
"Yes. Henry will take it to Waverly tomorrow."
Harding picked up the missive and recognized the handwriting at once. "Oh, dear."
The footman had started for the door, but turned back at this. "Is there a problem, sir?"
Harding tossed a significant glance to Jack. "This letter is from Miss Cranshaw."
The footman smiled patiently. "No, sir. It is from her abigail. The maid gave it to me herself."
Harding frowned, but nodded as if in full accordance with this view. "I see. My mistake." Harding darted another telling look at his employer. "Thank you. I'll make sure it gets into the proper hands."
The befuddled footman paused a moment, then turned to go. When the door shut behind him, Jack swiftly leaned forward and snatched the letter from his secretary's hand.
"I'll take that," he said nonchalantly. He slipped it into his pocket, then disappeared into his own chamber.
Giles and Harding stared after him, then looked at one another with saucer eyes.
"This does not bode well, Mr. Honeycut. Something very significant has happened. I haven't seen Mr. Fairchild this determined on a secret course since he had an
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affair with the countess of—" Harding bit his tongue. "That is to say, I am very concerned."
Giles twiddled his thumbs. "We all know who's going to read this letter in the end, don't we?"
"Yes," Harding said beleagueredly.
"Why not, I say?" Giles said, heading for the door. "Mr. Fairchild is a good man. He only wants to help Miss Cranshaw. That's good enough reason to open a letter."
Harding smiled wanly. "I hope you're right. But I do wonder if Miss Cranshaw would agree with you. If I were her, I'd be incensed to learn my letters had been part of a secret plot."
"What she doesn't know won't hurt her, Mr. Harding. And she'll never find out."
"Unless, of course, Mrs. Halloway finally does write to her."
"You can intercept the letter."
Harding went very still. "Good Lord, Mr. Honeycut, what if Mrs. Halloway returns to Middledale for a visit?"
"Oh, well, then you do have a problem."
"/ have a problem. You mean we have a problem. You're part of this firm now, need I remind you?"
When Giles grinned proudly, Harding shrugged and waved him off. "Go to your investigations, Mr. Honeycut. Since you're related to everyone in this town by one degree or another, you should meet with some success. Why should I care a fig what Miss Cranshaw finds out? Let Mrs. Holloway return. She'll expose Mr. Fairchild's meddling and Miss Cranshaw will be rid of him once and for all. And then he can finally devote himself to work. The days until Lord Abbington comes for his pound of flesh are flying as swiftly as swallows."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ack had trouble sleeping that night. He rose around one in the morning, trying not to disturb Harding. He threw on a quilted silk robe and stumbled his way into his parlor. He had no valet or bed servant to wait on him. But his housekeeper's nephew slept on the floor in the kitchen. He woke at the sound of Jack's shuffling feet and lit beeswax candles to light the room, men went yawning back to his pallet on the floor.
Jack resigned himself to a solitary brandy, but it wasn't long before he had company. Harding appeared in the doorway, tugging his robe around his fat belly, scratching the back of his short neck.
Jack looked up with relief. He'd never before felt so lonely as he had since making love to Liza. It was as if his arms were now achingly empty, whereas before he'd never noticed any lacking.
"Good to see you, Harding."
"Having trouble sleeping, sir?" He sank his round frame into a square armchair.
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"So it would seem." Jack stretched out his long, muscular legs and waved a hand toward the decanter. "Pour yourself something to drink. I could use the company."
Jack watched him go through the motions of ambling to the sideboard, unstopping a decanter of brandy, and splashing liquor into a glass, feeling almost absurdly grateful for his secretary's company. He simply wasn't himself tonight.
Something in him had changed, and he had the uneasy feeling it had happened the moment he'd made love to Liza. Somehow during the course of their sweet, succulent lovemaking she had deftly opened him up like a surgeon and plucked out his heart. It was now hers to do with as she pleased. What made it so much more frightening was the fact that she didn't even want it. She'd simply longed for an awakening. She was still too intent on her duties to her family to even think of lifelong happiness. And she was just independent enough to think she could make love without love or marriage.
Bloody hell! What a position that put him in. Lord knows he didn't want love. But, dear God, it had finally occurred to him that he might need it. He was prepared to offer for her. It was a matter of honor. He wasn't sure, however, he was prepared for a marriage in which he was utterly besotted with his wife.
"What is troubling you, sir?" Harding deposited himself back in his chair and put his lips to the rim of his glass, sipping, then sighing contentedly.
"It has suddenly occurred to me, Harding, that I have yet to wake up in a woman's arms."
The secretary sniffed the liquor, swirled it in the bottom of the glass. "I don't quite get your meaning."
"I mean mat I have made love to many women, but I
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never cared enough about them to fall asleep with them."
"Pardon my practicality, sir, but that may be owing to the fact that waking up with someone is usually a privilege reserved for those who marry. Even if you wanted to loll around in the arms of your lovers until noon, you couldn't do it without a husband knowing about it."
Jack chuckled with a note of self-loathing and rubbed the jabbing pain that pricked his eyes. "What a waste my life has been. And here I am lamenting such a petty thing when other people are facing such very real problems."
"Like who?"
Jack lounged back and steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair
. "Jacob Davis, for one."
"You mean the chandler?"
"Yes. It would seem that Lord Barrington is responsible for a crime that has ruined a good Middledale family, the Davises. I did not want to possess this intelligence, but now that I do, I can't ignore it. I trust you will be utterly discreet."
"Of course. Lord Barrington! Isn't that Miss Cran-shaw's intended?"
"The very one."
"Are you certain he is to blame?"
"Certain enough to know such a crime cannot go unpunished."
"Leave that to the sheriff, I say."
"No. I don't yet have the evidence. That's what Giles is working on. Moreover, I can't accuse Barrington without hurting Liza's reputation."
"Liza? You're using her Christian name now, eh?"
Jack felt a blush creep up his neck. Harding knew him too well. He'd doubtless already guessed just how far Jack's relationship with Liza had gone. Normally, Har-
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ding's assumptions meant nothing. But with Liza it was different. There was nothing ordinary about her.
He cleared his throat and took a sip of brandy. Then he regaled Harding with Davis's sad tale. Harding's frown deepened with every detail. When Jack ended the story, the secretary dropped his chin in his hand and sighed.
"Sounds bloody awful. So this is the matter you have us investigating."
"Yes. It puts me in a quandary. If Barrington knows I am investigating his crime, he will make sure that Cranshaw ceases to use my services. He may even try to hasten my journey to debtor's prison."
Harding sat up. "How could he?"
"He has his sources of gossip in London. If he wants to know to whom I owe my debts, he'll find out quick enough."
"Why can't Miss Cranshaw tell her father the truth about this bloody cur?"
"She doesn't want her parents to know." Jack was suddenly overwhelmed with the premonition that Liza had no idea just how deep a game she was playing. He tried to rub the worry lines from his forehead. "I don't think she realizes just how much danger she's in."