The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Ah.” Sir Martin nodded sagely. “Weighty matters, indeed. Always fascinating to have a look inside a woman’s mind. But you must not worry overmuch. If Miss Dianthe has not formed an attachment by Lent, she will just have to stay on in London until after Easter. The spring season is best for husband hunting.”

  Afton laughed at his helpful advice. “How would you know that, Sir Martin?”

  “I have extrapolated that information by the embarrassing number of invitations I receive at that time of year. Indeed, I have been ‘hunted’ in spring more than any other season, I am bound to say. You have not forgot that I am considered highly eligible, have you?”

  She grinned at so blatant a ploy. “Certainly not.”

  “Excellent! Then perhaps you will consent to be my partner for charades?”

  She glanced to the side and found McHugh escorting a pretty brunette toward the parlor. “Not if you wish to win, sir.”

  “Hmm. I shall have to think on that.” His forehead creased in a thoughtful pretense. “No. I believe I would rather lose with you by my side than win alone.”

  “Very well, Sir Martin, you have been forewarned.”

  “Forewarned? Ah, yes.” He hesitated as if debating the wisdom of continuing. “I have been meaning to tell you, Miss Lovejoy, that I recalled who had a pin exactly like yours. ’Twas McHugh.”

  Not McHugh. The raven pin could not belong to him. She turned to see the man in question being assigned partnership with Hortense and Harriett Thayer for the game of charades. She held her voice steady. “How interesting. I would like to compare the two. When did you last see him wear it, Sir Martin?”

  “Don’t know, Miss Lovejoy. Had to have been last winter before he went to Algiers, eh? Don’t think I’ve seen it since he returned.”

  He’d returned about the time of Auntie Hen’s death. About the time the murders began. “How did you remember such a thing from so long ago, Sir Martin?”

  “I should have recalled it at once. After all, the raven is the McHugh’s emblem. You will find it on the family crest, on McHugh’s buttons and everywhere there is room for them.”

  A sharp pain pierced Afton’s temple and she closed her eyes to visualize the carved head of his walking stick. Yes. Ravens. Why had it not registered in her brain before now? How had she missed something so obvious? She recalled his agitation when Lord Ethan Travis had brought the news that Mr. Livingston had been found dead clutching a raven button. Dear Lord. If the murderer was McHugh, she needed to know at once.

  Sir Martin caught her arm as she stumbled. “My dear, are you ill?”

  “Sudden headache,” she murmured. “Something I ate did not agree, I think. Please, continue without me.”

  “Won’t hear of it, Miss Lovejoy. Allow me to escort you back to your aunt.”

  Afton nodded absently, planning her next move—to liberate McHugh’s key from his cloak in Millerton’s anteroom. Grace would excuse her and even give her use of the coach. After all, Lord Barrington would stand ready to rescue her at a moment’s notice. But who would rescue Afton if her suspicions were true?

  Afton pulled her hood forward to shadow her face and alighted from the coach at the Pultney Hotel’s side door. She crept up the rear stairs, pausing intermittently to glance over her shoulder. If anyone recognized her—alone and sneaking up to a man’s room—she would be beyond redemption. Thanking the Fates for the dim light in the hotel corridor, she prayed she would not encounter anyone at midnight. The tired and elderly would have retired long ago, and the young and adventurous would still be abroad for many hours.

  She pulled the pilfered key from the little pocket inside her muff. Before she could think better of it, she inserted the key in the lock, turned it and edged through the door, breathless with excitement and fear. She secured the lock behind her, scarcely believing that she had just illicitly entered a man’s rooms. McHugh might still be at the party, but she could not be sure for how long. She had to work quickly.

  A glance around in the soft firelight betrayed nothing unusual. The room was extraordinarily tidy, even sparse, until she recalled that he had just returned from eight months abroad. Under the circumstances, he would not have many possessions. That should make her search all the easier.

  Her attention snagged on the bed, a wide expanse boasting a tall canopy hung with heavy midnight velvet draperies. One could sleep all day with those draperies drawn. Her heartbeat raced when she thought of lying abed with McHugh. The sudden sound of laughter and the shattering of a bottle in the corridor made her jump.

  Filled with new urgency, she shook herself and recalled herself to duty. She dropped her muff on the tall highboy dresser and slid the top drawer open. It was narrow and contained collars, a few cravats, gloves, handkerchiefs and a few other male accessories. McHugh was not an extravagant man.

  She could feel herself blush when she opened the second drawer and found men’s underclothes. Heavens! She took a deep breath and searched quickly through the personal items, her fingertips tingling when they came in contact with the fine linen. Nothing.

  She wondered at her quickened breathing and stared at the remaining drawers in dread. If such simple items could stir her senses, what might the rest of McHugh’s possessions do to her? Deciding a change might be in order, she went to his closet, intending to return to the highboy once she had regained her composure.

  She opened the door and stared at the few items within. Two heavy woolen coats, a soft, dark blue velvet robe, the simple elegant vests and jackets that defined his style, and, on a shelf above them, three fashionable tall hats. On the floor in a gleaming military row stood several pairs of shoes and boots. Nothing there, either.

  Just as she moved to close the closet door, she caught sight of a small wooden box on the shelf beside the hats. With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, she lifted it down and removed the carved lid. Ah, his cuff links, pins, studs, a watch chain and fob, a set of small angled instruments and a ring. Flushed with guilt for her violation of his privacy, she nonetheless inspected and inventoried the pieces. Their value was obvious from the excellent quality and workmanship. She lifted the heavy gold-and-onyx ring from the box to examine it more closely.

  It appeared to be old—a seal with the pattern in recess. The intricacies of the design carved into the onyx would only be evident when pressed into wax, but Afton was certain she could make out the form of a bird with its wings spread for flight. A raven? Her heart skipped a beat. She dropped the ring into the box, replaced the lid and pushed it back on the shelf in one fluid movement.

  Perhaps more important than what she’d found was what she hadn’t found—his raven pin. Was it missing because he had dropped it in Auntie Hen’s salon? Suddenly urgent to leave, Afton stepped back to close the door, and landed against a solid wall of bone and muscle.

  Light-headed with shock and fear, her knees buckled. A strong arm caught her around the waist and spun her about. The McHugh!

  “Looking for something, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked in a sardonic tone.

  “I…you.”

  “Me? In the closet?” Rob glanced over her shoulder to look into the darkened nook and consider this thought. She was lying, of course, but what other motive could she have? Why else would a woman like Afton Lovejoy come to a man’s rooms? Could she have been drawn there by the desire he knew they both felt? A doubtful warmth crept into his chest.

  She gave him a timid, tentative smile, looking charmingly disconcerted. Deliciously vulnerable. Freshly innocent. By the pink stain on her cheeks, he guessed she had read his thoughts. But she wasn’t dashing for the door. No, Afton Lovejoy held her ground. He admired her valor.

  Why, when he tried to behave himself, did God only send him more temptation? Lust literally pounded in his blood, pulsed through his veins. Could it be that little Miss Lovejoy did not want to be safe? That she was not as innocent as she appeared? That she had come to be seduced, regretting her rejection of the night before?

  He test
ed the waters. “The only charm a closet would hold for me, Afton, is if you were in it with me.”

  “Oh.” The word came out as a squeak and she looked down at her hem as she cleared her throat. “I…I do not know what possessed me to think I could invade your privacy in this manner, Lord Glenross. I—”

  “The less formal I become, the more formal you become. Is that your counterpoint to the liberties I have taken, Afton?”

  “I…this is just so…so unusual for me, my lord. It isn’t as if I am often in a man’s rooms. I have behaved completely out of character, and—”

  His voice was low and raspy. “Completely? Are you certain?”

  She looked up and met his gaze, her eyes wide. One trembling hand reached out and touched his sleeve. So many emotions passed over her face that he was easily convinced of her confusion and embarrassment. Could Afton Lovejoy really want him? Did she feel even half the measure of desire he felt? A fourth of the wonder at the miracle of emotions running so deep? God! He hadn’t felt anything so profound and true since…ever. Desire, yes. Lust, need and hunger, yes. But a passion so intense it beggared expression? Never.

  He lowered his lips to within inches of hers. “Are you certain?” he asked again.

  “F-fairly certain. I have never done this before. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “No. You shouldn’t. But you are here now, and there’s nothing for it but to pay the consequences.”

  “What consequences?”

  He dropped his mouth the remaining inch to meet hers. This time, tutored by his previous kisses, she parted her lips very slightly. Timid as it was, the action was as bold as a woman of Afton’s upbringing would dare. But before this night was over, he would see that she would dare more. Much more.

  His answer to her invitation was hungry—half moan, half growl—as he swept her up and carried her toward his bed. He cradled her against him with one arm and worked at the fasteners of her cloak and hood with the other. They fell away as he placed her on the bed and stood back to discard his own coat.

  He could not take his eyes off her. She was glorious. Her eyes sparkled with unknown emotions. Excitement? Fear? Or, if it please the gods, desire? Her ivory skin was luminescent in the candlelight, and her face was framed by wisps and curling tendrils of coppery silk. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen as her lower lip trembled, curving a timid smile.

  That a woman of Afton Lovejoy’s warmth and integrity could want him woke an unexpected and fragile hope he had thought dead. Forgotten passions surged upward, burning and branding his heart with wonder and gratitude. Perhaps he wasn’t the animal Maeve had accused him of being. Perhaps there was something within him worth loving. Perhaps he did have more to offer than an unholy pride, a title and a fortune. Perhaps, oh glorious notion, he could reach with Afton the destination he had sought his whole life.

  Afton’s senses reeled in a dizzying spin as she watched McHugh unbutton his shirt. Now she could think of nothing rational as she took note of the light matting of hair that spread across his pectoral muscles and dipped in a downward line to disappear into the waistband of his trousers.

  Her gaze snagged on a fading scar at the base of his throat that stretched the width of his neck. Then she saw the cross-wise scars on his chest, still livid against the paleness of his flesh. The scar tissue was thick and reddened, as if it had been damaged again and again. As if his torturer had enjoyed his job and had been good at it…. She’d seen Rob’s other scars, the ones on his hands and arms, and knew what they meant. Resistance. Defiance in the face of death. What horrors he must have endured, what sheer strength and determination he must have possessed to survive. She shivered, a sudden cold invading her soul for what he had suffered.

  McHugh must have read her expression because he pulled his shirt together in a self-conscious gesture. “Afton, dinna ask about my scars, if you regard me at all. I could not bear your pity.”

  She fought the tears threatening to well in her eyes. That he could bear the pain and the scars, but not her pity, told her much about the man he was. “I hold you in the highest regard, McHugh,” she confessed in a soft breath.

  Leaving his shirt open, he leaned over her, one knee on the bed beside her. His large, rough hand traced the line of her jaw to her throat, and his attention focused on that spot. “I can see your pulse, Afton. ’Tis as rapid as a sparrow’s. Are ye frightened?”

  Frightened? She knew she should be. But all she could think of was how his brogue became more pronounced as he let his guard down and lay beside her, pressing her against him, flattening her breasts to the hard wall of his chest. Of the seductive way some part of him pushed into the V of her legs, causing her to shiver with bittersweet yearning. And, oh Lord, of the way his tongue slid past her lips and claimed her with an intimacy so strong, so complete, that she heard herself urging for more with little moaning sounds, encouraged to meet his tongue, taste him, take him into her in a way that was entirely foreign to her.

  “Are ye?” he insisted.

  “Frightened? No,” she whispered against his ear when he gave her the chance. She found the boldness to touch that magnificent chest. “I know you will not hurt me.”

  “Thank God,” he murmured in a voice so faint she thought he had not meant her to hear.

  He began undoing the row of glass buttons to reveal the nearly transparent chemise beneath her dress. Reticence made her squirm when he lifted himself to one side in order to examine the prize he had uncovered. His breathing deepened and he applied his mouth to the swells above the edge of her chemise. She closed her eyes, both to shield her modesty and to better experience the sensations he evoked. Warmth washed over her, languorous and lazy, rendering her incapable of protest.

  Impatient or careless, McHugh tore the fragile cloth of her camisole when he moved down to expose what lay beneath the fabric. Then he froze. “I’m sorry, lass,” he mumbled against her flesh.

  She choked back a small laugh. “My mistake entirely,” she whispered. “I had no idea how to dress for seduction.”

  Muscles in his back that had stiffened a moment before relaxed. “Ask next time. I’ll gladly give ye advice.”

  Afton seized the moment to satisfy her own curiosity. She pushed his shirt out of the way and traced his scars with her fingers. They were valiant, smooth and strong, like the man himself. She bent to press her lips to the one at his throat, then left a trail of little kisses along the thickened scar tissue of his chest. She heard him gasp before he twined his fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her head, holding her to him like a lifeline. That gasp resonated in her heart and she knew she had given him some sort of gift. But she would not stop there.

  By the time she was finished tracing his scars with little kisses, McHugh had abandoned his reticence and returned to his earlier quest. Her chemise tore further, but she scarcely had time to register that fact before his mouth fastened over one aching nipple. Her breasts tingled and firmed into tight buds in response to his attentions. She arched to him, wanting deeper contact, needing more of the exquisite feelings. When she made involuntary mewling sounds, he relinquished her breast and moved up to her mouth again, murmuring nonsensical soothing words—Gaelic poetry, by the sound of the rhyme, and she loved that he would recite it to her. Later, when he was done with her, she would ask him what he’d said.

  He reached down and slid his hand beneath the hem of her underskirt, sweeping it upward until he could slip one knee between her thighs and move over the top of her.

  Shock ripped through her, but she was so deeply aroused that she could not frame a protest when his hand inched farther up her thigh. In a tangle of gown and bedding, McHugh drew her knee up to ride his hip, then traced the curve of her bottom to find the now-exposed center of her passion. At his first searching touch, she obeyed her instinct to raise her knee farther.

  “Aye,” he whispered. “Yes…that’s th’ way of it, lass. Gi’ y’self over to it. T’ me.”

  That af
firmation gave Afton confidence and she pushed his shirt off his shoulders to bare his upper body, heavily muscled and perfectly formed. She could feel the coiled, hard strength beneath his skin and scars, and marveled at the intensity of his attentions coupled with his deliberate tenderness.

  Then his hand unerringly found the root of her yearning, and reason departed. She could only think of the wildfire running through her veins, consuming her. Rationale, logic, sanity—all disappeared in the flames of McHugh’s passion. She wanted to wrap her legs around him, trap him there forever.

  He stroked downward, parting the fleshy petals shielding her passage. One finger found and forced a shallow entry, and it was her turn to gasp. She twisted beneath his touch, trying to get closer, to deepen the contact, dimly aware of McHugh’s murmured approval. She knew instinctively that there would be bliss at the end of this questing, but she needed more…ever more. And more.

  McHugh deepened his stroke, drawing her closer to the edge of sanity, while raining kisses downward. “I want t’ taste ye, lass. I want t’ memorize ye with all my senses. D’ye trust me?”

  She arched her back, trying to mold herself to him. “With my very life,” she moaned, breathless from the excitement coursing through her.

  Afton felt a deep shudder go through him. A moment before, he had been fire and ferocity, and now he was ice and stillness. He lifted himself away from her and rose, cursing darkly under his breath.

  He stood stock-still, tightly controlled, his face in shadow. A long moment passed and she wondered what had changed in that space of seconds. When he did speak, it was not what she expected.

  His voice was hoarse and raspy in the clipped English tones, as if he were forcing the words against his will. “Repair yourself and go, Afton. Quickly, ere I change my mind.”

  “Why—”

  “Too easy, Afton. Are you not sensible to what is happening here? You’d trust me with your life, you said. This would change your life forever. I cannot do it to you. I’ll not be responsible for that. I’ve warned you before.” He went to a side table, seized a carafe and poured a deep amber liquid into a glass. Lifting it with a shaking hand, he tossed the contents down in a single gulp.