The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “You knew the risk?” he mocked. “Obviously not, Afton. Is there someone waiting at the other end of that bellpull tonight?”

  Her silence was answer enough.

  “Swear you will not do this again.”

  “Even if I am meeting you?”

  “Especially if you are meeting me,” he advised. He couldn’t resist any longer. He’d been wanting to hold her, kiss her and feel her pressed against him from the moment he’d walked in the door tonight. Pulling her into his arms, he expected resistance, but she came with a little gasp. When she lifted her arms to fit around his neck, he was amazed. He’d done everything he knew to alienate her and warn her away from him, but she came to him gladly. Almost hungrily.

  “Have you no common sense at all?” he sighed, lowering his head to her.

  “None,” she confessed.

  He found himself delaying the moment when their lips would meet, relishing it, anticipating it. How engaging her little moan of impatience was, and when she came up on her toes to make the contact he had denied, he knew she had given him a gift he did not deserve.

  Unutterably sweet, her lips softened and parted to accept him. Her heat, her scent, her taste combined to bring his senses to the boiling point. “Afton, do ye not know by now the consequences of tempting me like this?”

  “Aye,” she answered in his brogue. “Dire consequences.”

  “Do ye always tease at inappropriate times?”

  Her lips moved against his throat, tickling with their soft caress. “The only thing ye did to me last time was leave me wanting more.”

  Dear Lord, what had he done to deserve this tempting little wanton? “Have a care, or ye’ll get it.”

  “Ah, I was beginning to wonder what it would take.”

  That breathless challenge was enough to push him over the edge. Twining his fingers through her hair, he pulled her head back to access her mouth. He wanted to be tender, wanted to draw her slowly into his world of desire and need, but she pushed him to the edge of reason with her artless eroticism. She had no idea of her power over him, and thank God for that.

  Her tongue slipped sweetly past his lips, taking that initiative for the first time. The action stirred his blood immediately. A part of him couldn’t believe she had chosen him—McHugh the Destroyer. McHugh the Despoiler. Another part of him did not care. Whatever her reasons, she was here now. And she might never come to him again. He would not squander the gift this time.

  Keeping his mouth on hers, he swept her up in his arms, vowing that this would be no hasty angry coupling against a wall. No, this would be sweet and tender. This time he would have her naked flesh pressed to his. This time he would give her completion.

  He sat her on the small bed. Kneeling in front of her, he reached around her, his fingers fumbling with the buttons down her back. He thought himself clumsy and inept until she began working at the knots of his cravat. She seemed almost frantic to have it gone. He took pity on her and left his task long enough to assist with hers. When he’d loosened the knots enough for her to finish, he returned his attention to her buttons. Her little moans were all the encouragement he needed.

  She pushed his shirt and jacket off his shoulders in one sweep, her fingers skimming lightly over his skin. He shivered in the cool air, feeling vulnerable with his scars, and thus his past, exposed to her.

  “Do they still hurt?” she asked in a faint, trembling voice.

  He shook his head, fearing that she would not touch him if she knew the truth. “Only in my mind.”

  She tilted her head and pressed a fluttering line of kisses down the worst of the striations, amazing him as she said, “They have a terrible beauty. Like you, Robert McHugh. They define you. Strong. Courageous. Enduring.”

  Chill bumps rose on his arms and the back of his neck. He had hoped someone might be able to ignore the scars, or look past them to the man he was, but that a woman like Afton Lovejoy could find them beautiful and see virtue in them was an unexpected gift.

  Need rose in him, white-hot and urgent. With a moan, he lifted her head from his chest and covered her mouth with a bruising kiss. She seemed to understand his need and met his intensity with her own.

  He managed to unfasten enough of her buttons to slide the gown down her shoulders and arms to free her breasts. The seductive scent of Vent de Lis wafted up to him from the damp heat of her flesh, filling his senses with the awareness of her—as if he needed a reminder that Afton’s body was next to his, soft and yielding. Waiting. Urging. He took one firm, rose-tinted tip into his mouth and nibbled with gentle insistence. She cried out, dropping her head back in delight and cupping his with one hand to draw him closer, as he had done the night she had come to search his room.

  “Please,” she sighed.

  The vagueness of her entreaty gave him license to continue. He pressed her down against the pillows, cherishing her other breast until both were puckered and hard with arousal. She was beginning to writhe with pleasure. It would not be long before she would be weeping with the need of him. He wanted that. He wanted her crying his name, begging him to take her, gasping with her orgasm and still aching to have him inside her.

  He wanted to do all the things that would bring her to that point, and he wanted to make up to her for the quick roughness of their first coupling. But reality was less quixotic. Reality was that he needed her so badly he could not wait.

  As he gathered her skirts up, Afton parted her legs to assist him, so caught up in the heat and passion of his ministrations that she was prepared to let instinct override modesty. When he slid one knee between her legs, she spread them to fit him between them. Hoping, praying for what came next, she began to fumble with the fastenings of his trousers. Her fingers brushed his swollen phallus and he jerked and moaned.

  “M’God, lass. Leave me an ounce of control, will ye?” he said in a strained voice.

  She drew her hand back, afraid she had hurt him somehow. Before she could frame the question, he found and separated the soft folds that shielded her passage, and began a rhythmic stroking that caused her hips to rise to him. She craved the pressure of his hand and the feel of him filling her, touching her where she’d never been touched before. She closed her eyes, imagining him doing those things.

  A faint whimpering echoed in the alcove and she realized with some surprise that she was making the sounds. The heat that flickered between her legs ever since that night in McHugh’s hotel room was burning out of control. Every inch of her skin tingled and every nerve sang with the tension of being drawn tight.

  “Please,” she said again.

  “Easy, Afton,” he whispered, “’twill be worth the wait, I promise ye.”

  Oh, she prayed so. She could not stand another moment of this ceaseless burning. She needed to find the end of it before it consumed her.

  McHugh unfastened his trousers and freed himself with a little moan. He positioned himself above her, his shirt agape to reveal his chest, his trousers down and his member thick, long and erect. The sight of a man in such a state should have shocked her. At the very least, she should have been frightened, but instead a wave of primal need washed over her.

  “Hurry,” she urged. “Oh, hurry.”

  With a cough, or a laugh, or both, he obeyed her command. She’d been well prepared this time, and there was no barrier to obstruct the process, but his first tentative probing threatened discomfort. Then, with a sigh, he thrust again and slid downward. The unaccustomed thickness of his shaft filled and stretched her, and she found it profoundly erotic. When he began moving, the friction was like electricity, raising chill bumps all over her body. She arched to him, bringing her knees up, wanting to take him deeper.

  McHugh began a Gaelic recitation in a low broken murmur, keeping rhythm with his lovemaking as she spiraled higher and higher. She could feel her destination within reach. She slipped her hands downward to his firm buttocks and pulled him closer as she raised herself up to him.

  “Aye. That’s it,
lass. Let the passion take ye,” he muttered with approval. As if he had been waiting for that sign, he quickened the pace, driving her into a frenzy.

  She felt the pleasure drawing inward to that center where she and McHugh were joined. Then, in a burst of heat, light and color, long waves of ecstasy washed over her, spreading outward in ever expanding ripples. Rapture, she thought. This is rapture. She had arrived.

  Afton stirred as he fastened his trousers again, tucking in his still-open shirt. Rob smiled, watching her languorous stretch. The force of her orgasm had been so overwhelming that she had fallen into a gentle swoon. And he? When he had spent himself, he’d collapsed to his elbows, trying to spare her the burden of his weight. To his chagrin, he had grown hard again while still inside her, confirming his suspicion that he could not get enough of her. He had withdrawn, eliciting a moan of protest from Afton.

  Now her dark lashes fluttered and she sighed deeply. “McHugh, come back here. I need ye.”

  He laughed and went to pour more port into the little teacup. The delicate piece of china looked absurdly out of place under the circumstances. “Nay, lass. Should I come to ye, I’d stay, and ye canna take much more tonight.”

  “How kind of you to spare me.” She smiled, brushing the tangled copper curls out of her eyes.

  “Aye.” He grinned. “McHugh the Kind, they call me.”

  She giggled at the outrageous lie and the sound of her laughter soothed his conscience. His mistreatment did not seem so bad when she laughed and begged for more. Later he would wrestle with his conscience. Later he would find the strength to distance himself from her. Ah, but now he wanted—no, needed—her to take some small pleasure away from this incident. He poured another dram of port for her and took it to the cot.

  She sat up, pushing her arms back into the sleeves of her gown. “What were you saying in Gaelic, m’lord?”

  “I was quoting a poet. Christopher Marlowe.”

  “What work?”

  “‘Come live with me, and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove….’”

  “McHugh.” Her voice was soft but had turned serious.

  He waved his hand, trying to defuse the mood. He could not bear to hear her rejection. “Words, lass. Words of seduction. No more. But I have better news for you.”

  “Better news?” She turned her back to him and held her hair out of the way.

  He bent to the task of refastening her buttons. “Aye. ’Twill be easier for you in the future. The first time is more difficult, because you don’t know where you’re going. Now you know.”

  “That was not the first time,” she reminded him.

  “Aye, it was. Your first pleasure is the real beginning.”

  Her breathing became shallow and rapid, and he knew she was remembering the sensations. He left a little kiss on the back of her neck before he stood and moved away. He needed distance or he would ravish her anew.

  “We need to come to terms.”

  “I know, m’lord.”

  He scratched the back of his neck, trying to choose his words carefully. “I’ve lost my need to hurt you, but I’ve warned you countless times that I cannot be responsible for you. I cannot take the risk. There would only be pain at the end of it. I cannot deny the…the attraction between us, and I do not regret it. But nothing can come of it, and it must never happen again. D’you understand?”

  She nodded. “It is…impossible.”

  “Our only business together is in finding the murderer.”

  “I know.” She exhaled a soft sigh.

  “You must tell me everything. I need to know all if I am to find out who is killing people.”

  “I have told you, m’lord. And I will report any new findings. But you must do the same. My aunt is dead, and I will know who killed her. Even…”

  “Even if it is me,” he finished. He was painfully aware that the evidence alone would convict him of Henrietta Lovejoy’s death, and that Afton had not completely acquitted him.

  “Yes.”

  “And you must stop coming here. You must stop telling fortunes. No more swindling the ton.”

  She stood and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with defiance. “I cannot agree to that. I was engaged in this investigation long before I met you. I will not give it up because of your antiquated sense of chivalry.”

  “Afton—”

  She lifted one delicate hand, palm outward, to stop his words. “Do not waste your breath. I am unmovable on this.”

  “I will not be responsible for—”

  “You are not responsible. I make my own decisions, McHugh. I will succeed or fail on my own. You have no part in this.”

  He did. He would damn well see to it that she did not put herself in danger, and he’d do it any way he had to. He’d follow her, lock her up or drag her along at his side if necessary. “Gi’ me a key to this flat, Afton. I want access and I want to meet you here starting tomorrow night. If you do not come, I will hunt you down, no matter where you are.” When she looked mulish, he repeated, “A key, Afton. Or I’ll tie you up and leave you here.”

  She went to a peg by the closet door and removed the key hanging there. She tossed it to him, as if she did not want to come too close to him and tempt him to carry out his threat.

  “Now get your cloak, and I’ll see you home.”

  “No. If Dianthe should see—”

  “Dianthe be damned. I’ll not leave you to walk home alone with a murderer on the loose.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The dim light of a candle in the window of Zoe’s salon warned Afton that McHugh had arrived before her—his gambit to make certain she was never in the salon alone. How could the man be so annoying and so endearing at the same time?

  She pulled her nondescript black cloak more tightly around herself as she climbed the tenants’ staircase, avoiding the entrance through La Meilleure Robe. She would rather not remind McHugh how she had deceived him by arriving through the secret staircase. She had no wish to provoke his ire again.

  Their meeting would be brief, since she had nothing to report on the investigation of the names on her list. At least Mr. Renquist had not been discouraged at their meeting earlier. He was certain that, sooner or later, the murderer would give himself away. Afton prayed the rogue would not give himself away by killing again.

  Removing the key from her woolen muff, she let herself into the second-floor flat. McHugh was pacing in front of the fireplace. When he turned at the sound of the door opening, his face registered profound relief.

  “Where have you been?”

  She glanced at the old mantel clock. She was barely ten minutes tardy. “I must have made a late start.”

  “Good God! Say you’re not walking!”

  She pushed the hood of her cloak back and dropped her gloves on the little table. “Very well. I will not say it.”

  “Damn it! Will I have to hire someone to follow you every time you leave the house?”

  Her anger at his presumption was softened by the concern in his voice. “If you do that, McHugh, how will I explain it to Aunt Grace or Dianthe?” At his silence, she sighed. “Very well, I will take a coach after dark. But your concern is costing me a pretty penny.”

  “Then stay at home,” he growled. “You’re safer there.”

  “From the murderer? Do you really think he will come here again?”

  “He wants you dead, Afton, just as he wants me to hang for it.” He picked up her muff and handed it to her. “Come on. We are late.”

  Was he hoping his formality would help him keep his distance? “Late? Where are we going?”

  “You wanted to take part in the investigation, and God knows you’ve proved I cannot leave you alone. Come on, then. You’re suitably dressed, not a single thing to distinguish you when your hood is up. Keep your face in shadow.”

  She noticed that he, too, wore nondescript clothing, dark colors and a shapeless coat. There would be no way for a casual observer to distinguish if they wer
e heavy or thin, old or young, familiar or strangers. The unexpected adventure filled her with excitement. At last she was doing something to solve the mystery. The greatest risk she had taken before was posing as Madame Zoe, but she feared nothing with McHugh at her side.

  “How do you know where to go?”

  “As the situation is urgent, I thought it best to hire an investigator. He keeps me informed of the suspects’ comings and goings, their obligations and appointments.”

  She thought of Mr. Renquist and how useful he had been to the Wednesday League over the years. Yes, McHugh had been wise to employ an investigator. “Where are we going tonight?” she asked. “Who are we following?”

  “Be quiet, Afton, and ready for anything.”

  On the street, he hailed a coach and gave an address in St. James Street. McHugh instructed her on the rudiments of what they would be doing, and gave her a long list of cautions if they should be discovered or if anything should go awry.

  “If I tell you to do something, do it quickly. I will not have time to coddle you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, annoyed that he would think her in need of coddling. “You needn’t worry about me, McHugh. I can take care of myself,” she told him as their coach drew up at the corner of St. James Street and Piccadilly.

  He helped her down, paid the driver, and took her arm to lead her into the shadows of the buildings. This, she knew, was the bastion of English manhood. St. James Street housed the best of the men’s clubs in London, and any man with credentials claimed membership at one of them.

  “Which is yours?” she asked in a whisper.

  “White’s,” he answered, following her line of thought.

  “And which are we watching?”

  “White’s.”

  She fell silent, discouraged by his obvious reluctance to share information. Clearly, he had taken her along to keep an eye on her, and did not require her help. Looming next to her as he was, silent and steady, his presence was like a cloak around her—protective and all-encompassing. She could feel the warmth of his body at her back and the tickle of his breath on her neck. Her skin tingled with awareness. She wanted to turn in his arms, press herself against him and lift her mouth for his kiss.