The Reckless One

by Connie Brockway

  Yet the mere scent of her stirred him.

  “Touch him,” Armand urged.

  Did she hesitate before reaching out? Did she note the uncontrollable forward cant of his body in anticipation of her hand? Her gloved fingers brushed his naked skin. He forgot everything else.

  His breath caught. He backed away. Not because he abhorred her touch. Just the opposite. Because he wanted it. Her fingertips fluttered down his chest to his belly to where his breeches hung low on his hips. He shivered, willing her hand to slip lower still, waiting for that intimate touch, aching with arousal, heedless of the spectators.

  Her gaze dropped to the evidence of his arousal. Abruptly, she snatched her hand back, like a maiden.

  “Madame wished a challenge?” Armand was asking. “Here is such a one. Arrogant. Young. Healthy.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Forgive me, Madame.” Her servant lumbered forward.

  “Yes, Jacques?”

  “I believe this one would suit very well.”

  Raine studied the mountainous Jacques. Since when did a servant advise his mistress on her sexual requisites? She did not reprimand him, however, but only hesitated before gesturing toward the English boy.

  “Perhaps him,” she said, and it sounded to Raine as though she was asking. “He is—”

  “Very young,” Jacques finished, his tone cautioning.

  Raine ground his teeth in frustration. She had to pick him. She must.

  “I will be whatever Madame wishes me to be.” He forced the words out between his lips, surprised at how easily they came, how facilely he abdicated the last shreds of his pride. “I will do whatever Madame wishes me to do.”

  He held his breath.

  “All right,” she finally said. “I’ll take him.”

  Jacques nodded approvingly.

  “Very good,” Armand said. “I’ll send two guards with you.”

  “Not necessary,” Jacques said, handing Armand a heavy-looking velvet pouch. Raine blessed the man’s self-assurance.

  “But it is, Monsieur,” Armand argued. “I know this man.”

  Madame made a dismissive movement with her hands. “Has there ever been a problem before?” she asked coldly. “I do not wish spectators at my sport. I desire … privacy with him.”

  “I understand, but Madame, you must see that if this man should escape—”

  “Do you dare to press me?”

  “Non, Madame!” Armand assured her, hauling a thick set of keys from his belt and opening the lock that held Raine manacled to the wall. “Still, I fear this one.” He fastened a length of chain between Raine’s manacles. “I have the solution: The guards will ride post, on the back of the carriage. You will have privacy. I will have peace of mind. This is sensible, yes?”

  Armand jerked Raine forward and handed the end of the chain to Jacques.

  “If you insist,” Madame said, irritation vibrating from her slender form.

  She stalked from the cell, her skirts rustling. Armand hurried after her, barking for the guards. Raine, who’d kept his head bowed throughout the proceedings, glanced up and found Jacques watching him.

  The huge man shrugged off his cape, throwing it over Raine’s naked shoulders, robbing the act of charity by saying, “I will chain you in the coach across the seat from her. If you hurt her … If you so much as blow your filthy breath in her face, I will rip off your head and piss down your neck. Comprends?”

  Raine’s lips curled back. “I assure you, your mistress is safe with me.”

  “Good. Be civil, be wise, and all shall go well for you. Better than you imagine.”

  Raine could not keep the derisive sneer from his face. “Your largesse undoes me. I wonder if hers will.”

  In answer, Jacques shoved Raine between the shoulder blades. He propelled him through the door and down the low corridor toward a flight of stairs leading up to the prison’s receiving yard. There, just outside of the gates, waited a closed carriage. The prison guards were already perched on the footmen’s steps at the back. Armand stood beside the open door.

  Any attempt to flee now would be futile. Choking down his frustration, Raine shuffled across the yard through the open gates. Outside, he stopped, unable to help himself, and lifted his face to the weeping sky. He drew breath outside the prison walls and closed his eyes.

  “Go on, son.” Jacques’s voice was surprisingly mild. “Get in.”

  Raine hefted his chains and flung them in onto the floor of the carriage. Jacques reached past him, snapping a padlock through the links and locking them to a bolt on the floor. Damn the man’s caution!

  Unceremoniously Raine climbed into the carriage. Across the carriage, bootheels scrabbled against the floorboards. She’d already entered. He peered through the dim interior.

  She was almost indiscernible in her black gown and heavy veils, being tucked as she was as far back into the corner as possible.

  As though, he realized, she was scared to death of him.

  Chapter 3

  It was possible Madame Noir regretted her decision to choose him; that titillation had taken a backseat to fear.

  But this woman was notorious for her outré appetites. The more probable reason for her ostensible fear was that it was all part of some perverse game. A game which, if Raine played it correctly, he might use to his benefit.

  If he could convince her to unchain him he would be out of this carriage in seconds, losing himself in Dieppe’s twisting alleys. With such thoughts, he crouched low as he entered the carriage, conscious of the part he needed to play.

  Mindful of how his shoulders crowded the doorway and blocked the light, Raine slouched down onto the seat opposite her, angling himself in such a way that he did not appear threatening. He could hear her short agitated breaths, feel her tension.

  Jacques called out from up top and the horses plunged forward, pitching her across the slick leather seat. Raine flung out a hand to keep her from falling.

  “Take your hands off of me,” she whispered.

  She was not commanding him. She was pleading. As false as he suspected her trepidation to be, her simulated fear worked insidiously on him. His body reacted instinctively to the implicit submissiveness in her appeal. Was she pretending that she was an anxious virgin closeted with a ravening beast? If so, her fantasy marched closer to the truth than she could know.

  It had been years since he’d felt such lust.

  “Take your hand off me.” Her voice quavered. He obliged, releasing her slowly, letting his hands slide down her sleeve. He did nothing to hide the direction of his gaze, allowing it to linger on the agitated rise and fall of her breasts.

  Role-playing be damned. He wanted her.

  “Madame,” he said softly, lifting his arms and spreading open Jacques’s cape, displaying his shackled wrists and naked chest, the scars of Pierre’s frequent “disciplinary actions” ridging his white prison-hued skin. “As you can see, I am at your disposal, to do with as you please.”

  She shrank back against the deep, tufted leather seats. “You don’t understand,” she whispered.

  “I do not,” he agreed. “You will teach me, though. What is your pleasure, petite Madame? You touch; I am not allowed to touch? You arouse and then withhold the culmination of the arousal? Is that how you achieve satisfaction? Pray, do your damnedest by me. I am in a lather to be so victimized.”

  “Quiet!”

  “Just tell me the rules of the game, Madame,” he said tersely. He was more than willing to pay whatever price freedom demanded. He sank back against the seat, his aroused body flaunted for her perusal. “You have only to look to see how primed I am for whatever sport you chose,” he said.

  “O Lord.” Her whispered epithet embodied the virgin maiden’s horror of a lecherous suggestion. ’Sblood, she was a good little actress.

  “I am yours.” He leaned forward and gently grasped her wrist, drawing her gloved palm forth until it lay flat low on his belly. He drew his breath i
n on a hiss of undeniable pleasure. “Can you feel my muscles clench with the promise of that which you withhold?”

  She tried to snatch her hand back but he kept it there, desperately trying to gauge the nature of his role. How much to ravish; how much to seduce. His very life depended on his ability to judge her reactions. Once, a lifetime ago, he’d been well on his way to being a master of such sensual expertise.

  “I was resigned to my celibacy, Madame,” he said grimly, “having long since purged myself of the tormenting memories of a woman’s soft body, a woman’s sweet mouth, a woman’s ardent embrace. You’ve resurrected those, given them substance, teased me with their reality.” His voice grew low and fervent. She tried to tug away, but her efforts lacked conviction. She wanted to hear this confession. Bask in it. Damn her.

  He grabbed her other wrist and, heedless of her sudden resistance, yanked, tumbling her into his embrace. He hauled her into the lee created by his widespread legs. His arm snaked about her waist, the chains locking him to the floor jangling noisily.

  She gasped, her hands trapped between them, pushing at his cold chest. The feel of her gloved fingers stroked his nerve endings. His heart thundered in his chest in equal parts fear and arousal.

  “Cry out and I’m dead ’ere I’ve been of any use to you,” he grated out. She was svelte and tensile as a young she-cat, her hips narrow. Even through the thick layers of her skirt he could feel the delicate jut of her pelvic bones brand his inner thighs. Her veil settled over his knees in a drift of black silk.

  “Let me service you,” he whispered, the line between playacting and reality blurring with the heady feel of her. His patience was wearing thin. She would find herself ravished in fact if he played this game much longer. “Let me touch you. Fondle you. Inflame in you a fire to equal my own,” he purred. “Enjoy me.”

  He rocked lightly against her, striving to keep the anger from his voice. Anger as much with himself as with her, at the body that betrayed both his mind and spirit. “Here. Now,” he said. “Let me take you. I cannot wait. Only unchain me,” he ground out urgently, “and I will swive you as thoroughly as a spring stallion at his first mare.”

  “Let me go!” The veiled face jerked back. Raine cursed his impetuousness.

  He released her arms immediately. He’d read her incorrectly, decided that coarseness would appeal to what he knew of her appetites. Instead, she’d been appalled. He was not mistaken in that reaction; no one could act that well.

  He forced his features into a submissive expression, dropping his gaze so that she might not see how it burned. Trembling, she scrambled into the seat opposite him.

  “Forgive me,” he began in a hard, far from humble tone. But he’d been stretched a bit far, worn a bit thin. By this game. By her. “I should not have allowed my desires to make me so bold.” His hot eyes lifted contemptuously to her concealed face. “But then, I thought you liked your captives vulgar and base. Tis the rumor in the prison where you purchase your toys.”

  As soon as the words were spoken he cursed himself again. He hadn’t planned on speaking thus. The words had simply come. He sneered at his manacled wrists. He’d thought that over four years in prison had culled the impetuousness from his soul.

  He waited for the inevitable; a blow across his face, an imperious call to turn the carriage around.

  Amazingly, it did not come. She only squeezed herself farther back against the seat. “Sir. Please. Be still. Be quiet. The guards might hear you. Only wait, I pray you,” she urged, “wait!”

  “I am your creature, Madame. You have only to command me,” he replied flatly. “As you well know.”

  They drove in silence until the carriage lurched to a halt. Raine peered outside. They were in the yard of a hotel. Beyond the three-story building, Raine could see only an occasional light in the distance. They were near the outskirts of the city. Good.

  The carriage door swung open. Jacques stuck his massive head in and fitted a key into the padlock securing Raine’s chain. He unlocked it, wrapping the links around his fist and jerking Raine across the carriage.

  With a snarl, Raine stumbled out. Pierre stood waiting for him. An anxious-looking middle-aged man emerged from the hotel and assisted Madame Noir’s descent. Together they hastened into the hotel.

  “I will take him up to the room,” Pierre said to Jacques. “Once there, he is your responsibility. You best make sure he is returned by first light tomorrow.”

  Jacques eyed the bloated French jailer with ill-disguised disgust. “Has Madame ever neglected her part of the bargain?”

  “No,” Pierre said. “Make sure she does not grow lax in her … satiation. This one is wily. Reckless. Come.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Pierre yanked Raine after him, leading the way to the servants’ entrance at the back of the hotel. From there they climbed a flight of stairs, stopping before a linen-paneled door at the top. The door swung open and the innkeeper, bowing and smiling, backed out of the room.

  Jacques grabbed Raine’s arm and thrust him into the ornately shabby room, barking at Pierre to remain outside. Raine stumbled to his knees beside a four-poster hung with dull blue satin drapes. Madame Noir hovered on the other side.

  “Madame,” Jacques said, eyeing Raine and holding a pistol out to her. “I will pay the jailer and his partner and return.”

  “Must you leave?” she asked, coming around the corner of the bed.

  “I do not trust the guard to give his partner his portion and I would not have you interrupted should the jackal come here looking for his share.

  “In the meantime, keep this pistol trained on him.” Jacques nodded toward Raine. “If he moves, shoot him.”

  She took the gun, leveling it at Raine. Slowly, he climbed to his feet.

  “I will kill him if he tries anything,” Jacques promised tersely, and then, with a worried glance at Raine, he stomped from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Raine stared at the gun. The pistol bore looked as cavernous as the entrance to hell, which, Raine allowed fleetingly, it just might be.

  Without a second’s more hesitation he acted.

  His hand flew out, snatching the barrel and twisting it viciously. With a cry, she released it. He grabbed her wrist, spinning her around and slamming her back against his chest, pinning her free arm to her side.

  His forearm jerked her head back, pressing against her throat. It would be a simple matter to break that slender neck. With one hand he manacled her wrist, with the other he held the gun. Carefully, he released the hammer and shoved the pistol into the waistband at the back of his breeches.

  “Scream now, Madame, and die now,” he whispered into the veiled ear so close to his lips.

  In response she began struggling fiercely, her free hand tearing at his wrist. She kicked, but her movement was hampered by the thick layers of skirt. Still, one booted heel found his instep, crunching down and drawing from him a hiss of pain.

  He wrenched her head back against his cheek, bringing the concealed face near his mouth. “Cease!”

  She whimpered, her struggles abating but not ending. Immediately he became aware of her buttocks pressed against his loins.

  He smiled humorlessly at his body’s heated attempt to subordinate reason. Since the moment she’d stepped into that damned cell, she’d bewitched him. Perhaps his years in prison had perverted his sexuality because, ’struth, she aroused him more than a thousand fantasies he’d devised to keep him company over the long years.

  “Please,” she rasped. “Please. Listen to me!”

  “No, Madame,” he whispered. “You listen. Heed me well. I will never return to that place. Not alive. And you are the means for me to keep that vow. You are my prisoner now.”

  She moaned, her face twisting away from his, the silky veil slipping against his lips. “Please—”

  “Shut up,” he growled as a sudden realization overwhelmed him.

  He needed to kill her.

  Without doing
so his chances of this gambit succeeding were well nigh nil. Should he actually make it alive out of the hotel he would not last an hour if he had to drag her along with him. He didn’t have time to gag and tie her; Jacques could be back at any moment. And if he left her behind, she’d raise an immediate cry. He should kill her: quickly, silently, now.

  But he couldn’t. As much as every instinct for survival demanded it, he could not kill her. In more frustration than anger, his arm tightened around her throat. She began kicking again and he lifted her, hitching her against his hip, filling his arms with the firm, supple woman.

  The old devil-may-care humor that had once been the hallmark of his character awoke in response. The rash, heedless boy who’d died, unredeemed and unransomed in a French prison, was resurrected.

  No, he couldn’t kill her but at least he could claim something from this night. Damned if he wouldn’t see the infamous Madame Noir’s face.

  He grasped a fistful of dense, gauzy material. “Madame, you are revealed,” he said.

  He wrenched the veil from her head. Hair pins scattered at their feet, their small, sharp staccato a prelude to the silken whisper of her veil fluttering to the floor. Loosened tresses, soft and heavy as damask silk, cascaded over his bare forearm in shimmering waves.

  Red-gold. Antique gold, healthy and luxuriant.

  Confounded, Raine seized a handful of the silky stuff and jerked her head back.

  Fine skin. Creamy and utterly smooth. Blue eyes, dark blue. Near indigo. Frightened. Young. Very young.

  Too young.

  “Madame,” he said, easing his forearm’s pressure from her throat, “who the hell are you?”

  Chapter 4

  The girl—for certainly she was not much more than that—wrenched away, his surprise aiding her escape. She wheeled to face him and her hair came further undone, spilling about her shoulders and tangling with the jet beads decorating her bodice, the black silk a foil for the gleaming gold strands.