by Laura Parker
Cassandra choked on her voice, halfway between laughter and a sob. He smiled so tenderly she was almost certain he felt sorry for her. His hand moved, touched her face to draw back a strand of hair that had found its way onto her brow, and then traced a feather-light pattern from her cheek to the corner of her mouth.
She shuddered, torn between fear and the exquisite heat that scorched her skin at his touch. It was like the warm flooding of brandy through her veins, melting and soothing, offering false courage for the acceptance of that touch and much more.
When he lowered his head and his lips settled on hers it was almost a relief. It broke the hypnotic spell of his fingertips and replaced it with a stronger, less frightening feeling. Kisses were common enough, she told herself. It was the other, the touching, the stroking, the sensual caress that made her ache to arch her back and rub herself against him. The wicked desire to purr in pleasure: that was what she abhorred.
Merlyn raised his head, eager to see her face which so perfectly reflected her feelings. “You are so beautiful,” he said quietly.
Cassandra turned her head slightly away, unable to endure the look of desire gleaming between the thick tangle of his sable-black lashes. He was too close, and the nearness made her want to touch the planes of his face with her lips, to feel his kisses on her mouth and be content, no, intoxicated by their effect. Hers was not the fear of a victim for her conqueror. It was the fear of an addict who looks upon her weakness, at the lure held out, irresistible and tantalizing and undeniable. The knowledge made her tremble. She did not love him, but she did desire him.
“Let me go,” she said faintly, looking up. “This must not be. I am a mar—”
“Enough!” The hand that had stroked her so gently encircled her neck, the fingers tightening just until her words stopped. Gone was the look of the cajoling lover. In its place was the fierce look of a man who would brook nothing to obtain that which he desired. “You will remind me, madame, of that which is best forgotten. We will speak no more of it. Ever.”
His fingers shot roughly through her hair and forced her head back as he bent to kiss her. It was different, hot and heavy with a passion he no longer tried to govern. When he released her mouth his breath came quick and hard in her ear. “Give me what I desire, Cassie. We’ve no need of holy words said over us. You belong to me. Yield to me!”
With a whimper of despair, Cassandra’s resistance collapsed and she lay softly within his embrace. What use were denials when she could feel his hardened desire pressing against her middle? All that was left to her was to keep her own body from exacting a moment of delight.
She soon learned that passive surrender was not what he demanded. His kiss deepened, the drugging sweetness now overlaid with the impatience of anger. But its power was the same, carrying her back where she would rather not have gone, to the night when she had surrendered herself to his magic and been left with the deep craving for it ever since.
“Love me, Cassie.” His deep musical voice was hardly more than a sigh. “Open yourself to me. Make your flesh pliant. Give of yourself to me.”
“I—can’t,” Cassandra answered in a ragged voice, but she knew it was only half true. Her flesh was blossoming, opening under his touch. She hardly noticed when he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the narrow stairs. She had never been in Meg’s bedroom. She saw only a flash of pink satin curtain and ruby carpet before a mattress gave under her weight.
She did not argue but watched in utter calmness as he divested himself of his finery and wig. How much more did the sable black of his own hair suit him, she decided, no longer aware of anything but him. The strong bronzed body that emerged from the silk and velvet coverings was hard and smooth, like the polished surface of fine wood. His masculine perfection took her breath away. She could not remember knowing the shape of him before. The broad chest, the taut muscles of his belly, the firm cables of his thighs: they were all new, and yet achingly familiar. Suddenly the desire consumed her to touch that fine hard warmth, to know again what she had forgotten yet could not forget.
Merlyn reached for her only to drag her from the bed. His fingers worked feverishly, undoing all Meg’s hard work as pins and laces were loosened, and then Cassandra stood before him in her glorious nakedness. He held his breath, taking in every detail of her slim body from firm, full breasts with taut, darkened nipples to the still slender waist and tantalizing dark triangle between her creamy thighs. Desire flooded him anew, and the need to cast a spell over her with his possession so that she would never again be able to deny him. Sweeping her up in his embrace, his body followed hers into the inviting softness of the bed.
Lowering her to her back, he began tracing with his lips the form of her womanly body. There was a pleasant ripeness to her hips, and the mysterious fluid her breasts delivered up to his seeking mouth tasted of exotic sweetness. The tender assault of his mouth and tongue continued, pausing and searching out her most vulnerable places, tasting and teasing until Cassandra moaned and trembled, caught in the silken web of his desire and hers.
“Ask me, Cassie,” he urged. “Beg me to love you. Say it!”
Cassandra shivered at the order. Her body was aflame, consumed in the need to belong to his, but she gathered her strength in a final desperate attempt to resist the admission. The strong dark face above hers, erased of its rice-powder pallor by a fine sheen of sweat, held no lover’s softness; no fine sensitive words of love flowed from the wide mobile lips. There was only the magnetic blue-green gaze of a wizard.
Merlyn knew the struggle taking place within her. Her flesh under his hand was vibrant to his touch. The warm inner softness of her body was open and ready for him. The taste of her desire was on his tongue. He told himself that the words did not matter. She wanted him: that was all that mattered. He could bear to live a little longer without the victory of hearing her surrender.
Cassandra lost the battle when he entered her. She arched her back, lifting her hips for him, and he slid deep within.
“Yes, Cassie, wrap your legs about me. ‘Twill be so good for you. Let me fill you, love you, bury myself within your silken warmth. Only your pleasure—and mine.”
She heard his deep dark voice, as soft as velvet in her ear, and knew his victory was shared. She followed its commands until the faint fluttering within her became a vast aching throb. Then the rhythm claimed her.
Yes, a hushed voice encouraged. The rhythm. It promised … and gave … Ah yes! Cassandra closed her eyes. Pleasure!
The sight of two naked bodies entangled in her sheets gave Meg a turn, but she choked down a cry when she recognized Merlyn’s dark head. It took her a moment longer to recognize Cassandra, willingly curled against his longer frame.
“Well, bless me. Didn’t think …” Meg stopped as it occurred to her to wonder what had happened to her French guest. The clothing scattered about told the story. She smiled in amusement. Merlyn had always had an uncanny way with disguises. She’d not recognized him! But something told her Cassie had.
With the sharp unsentimental vision of a guttersnipe, Meg surveyed Cassandra’s slender pale limbs entwined with the dark hard thighs of her lover’s and smiled at the dry tears that formed salty slicks on the girl’s lovely face. Their lust for one another had been too fiery not to burn itself free. But perhaps Cassandra knew that and feared the consequence. Perhaps she feared being branded so deeply she could never forget this man.
With warmer vision Meg’s eyes sought the virile shape of Merlyn partially revealed by the tumbled bedding. His long lean body was the color of polished copper. As she watched he moved, as if startled by a dream, and then his hand reached out and found Cassandra’s breast. He turned toward her blindly, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder like a child nuzzling its mother. The gesture surprised Meg. She did not believe, for all his appreciation of a beautiful woman, that he was the kind to be caught in love. If she were right, at least Cassie had a child to keep her company when
the man was gone. “Poor wee girl,” Meg exclaimed as she shut the door on the pair.
As she passed the second door on the hall, Meg pushed it open to check on Adam. “Sleeping cozy as you’d wish,” she said to herself. “Only, you’d best wake up, lad, to the news you’ll be sharing your mother with your sire for a spell.”
Meg didn’t regret the loss of her opportunity to share Merlyn Ross’s bed again. She knew she had never had a chance against Cassie. She was just as glad. There were too many handsome young bucks with gold in their pockets in the theater galleries to regret that. For instance, there was that strange young man who’d followed her home just now. With a bit of encouragement, he might be persuaded to come in and help her enjoy the good French wine she had purchased.
On second thought, she dismissed the idea. She was due at the theater in thirty minutes and the director didn’t take kindly to a tipsy cast. But if he came back, she’d not turn him away.
Chapter Ten
Cassandra watched, without seeing, the packing of the trunk laid open at her feet. The bundles of clothing Merlyn had purchased and brought with him for Adam and herself made no impression upon her. A chilly draft sent a shiver wiggling up her spine, but it was an automatic gesture. Her eyes did not move nor did she blink when Meg uttered a curse as she stubbed her toe on the trunk.
“What’s the matter with Cassie?” Meg murmured out of the side of her mouth as she picked up the last of the things from the table where Merlyn sat smoking a pipe.
Merlyn shrugged and exhaled a bluish cloud of smoke. “She’s frightened of sea travel.” His eyes did not meet Meg’s disbelieving glance. “Just finish the packing. I spent a small fortune to see Cassie and Adam properly dressed for our journey, and there’s not much time before we must catch the coach for Dover.”
Meg rounded on him with a string of curses and Merlyn, his nerves stretched beyond endurance, jumped up from his chair and struck her with the flat of his hand. It was not a hard slap, but the crack of his palm across her face brought Cassandra’s eyes up. Her pupils widened and her lips parted as if she would speak, but words failed her. Instead, her hands flew up to cover her eyes and she bent over her lap as great racking sobs shook her shoulders.
“Lord! What’d you do to the poor girl?” Meg exclaimed, forgetting her own pain as she hurried over to put her arms about the smaller woman.
“Nothing,” Merlyn said in a flat voice. “Nothing at all.” Suddenly he found Meg’s house too confining and he grabbed up his coat which was slung over the back of his chair. “I’ll be back in an hour. Be ready.” A moment later he slammed out the door.
“Here now, Cassie. He’s gone. You can tell Meg what’s wrong.”
Cassandra lifted her face from her hands, appalled by her weakness. “Did he hurt you?” she asked, reaching out to touch Meg’s reddened cheek.
Meg looked genuinely surprised. “Hurt me? Lord love us! ‘Twould take more than one of Merlyn’s love taps to hurt me. Is that what frightened you? I had it coming. What with his temper roaring fit to boil over, I knew when I pushed him I might be scalded. Thing is, why’s he in a rage? I came back early enough to know he was pleased with your company this morning. What happened?”
Cassandra caught her breath in a hiccupy sob and tears sparkled in the tips of her dark spiky lashes. The last flicker of hope that it wasn’t true had died when she gave up to his magician’s touch. She could no longer deny it. She was falling in love with Merlyn Ross. But he had not stayed to hear that confession. He had risen and dressed and would have left her without even waking her had she not called out to him. She should have let him go; then she would not have heard the words that broke her heart.
“He hates me, Meg! And I, fool that I am, can’t find it in my heart to hate him back for what he’s done to me! I wish I were dead!”
The intensity of that feeling was shared by Merlyn, but not for the reasons Cassandra believed. Moving through the underworld company of Lewknor Lane, Merlyn gave no notice to the many greedy eyes following him. Most took one look at the madness that lay like a fiery mantle about him and moved aside. The one unfortunate who took a chance on Merlyn’s preoccupation to lift his coatskirt received a fist full in the face for that miscalculation. A moment later, Merlyn disappeared behind the doors of the Fox and Hound Tavern.
The tavern was full, but its portly proprietor greeted his new guest with a greasy smile and a rough shout for a barmaid.
“Care for a private room, guv’nor?” the owner inquired hopefully, eyeing the velvet coat and red-heeled shoes.
“Just a table and a bottle of Blue Ruin,” Merlyn answered. “And be quick. I’ve matters requiring a clear head.”
The owner of the Fox and Hound knew better than to inquire just how his customer expected the lethal gin to clear his head. Going back behind the bar, he said to the girl who would serve the table, “Keep an eye on the quality, Polly. His kind is the first to give trouble. That wicked patch over one eye, could be Gentleman Jem, the smuggler, himself.”
An hour later Merlyn found that half a bottle of raw gin did not improve his thinking but it did make easier the venting of his emotions.
“She says she hates me. Hates me! The father of her son!”
The plump barmaid astride Merlyn’s knee nodded her blond head and smiled prettily. She didn’t know what the fine gentleman was saying and didn’t much care as long as it ended with them in bed abovestairs and the transfer of a few of the coins she could feel bulging in his money belt.
Merlyn felt her small dirty hand reach for his purse, tucked in his pocket, but did not stop her. The hand went first between his sprawled legs, groping for evidence that he was ready to climb the stairs, and, not finding it, moved surreptitiously to the purse before returning to the business at hand.
Merlyn felt nothing close to desire for the dirty girl rubbing herself against him. The pert pink-crested breasts she teased him with after unlacing her bodice left him curiously unmoved. He did not want that kind of release. He wanted to put his fist through the wall, to explode and shatter every building for miles around. And all because of a lying, scheming deceiver he could not forget.
Only when Cassie lay in his arms could he be certain that she lived for him as he did for her. In those moments she could deny him nothing. Her body acted against her will and met his need with its own. But later, when sanity returned, she despised him twice as much because he had shown her her weakness and made her succumb to it.
At a more insistent tug at his pocket, he looked up and slapped the girl’s hand away.
“Aw! What’d ye do that for?” Polly bawled at him and then remembered she’d best not displease him before he’d had his pleasure. Quickly her small round arms went out and about his neck and she brought her painted lips down hard on his.
The kiss did not affect Merlyn. Other than a refusal to allow her tongue entry into his mouth, he neither responded nor turned aside. When at last she dragged her mouth away, a frown on her brow, he was as puzzled as she. He stared at her. He’d bedded dozens like her in his life, some wealthy wives of peers, others like Polly; all of them sluts. They all wanted something. He’d found most women knew their desires were more easily wrought by spreading their legs, or promising to do so.
“At least you’re honest about it, Polly,” he said in a quite different timbre from the smooth bass that was his natural voice. He was drunk. Well, nearly, he decided as he poured another glass. That was his intention. “Women! They’re all sluts!”
“Aye! Whorin’ bitches, ever’ one, God bless ‘em!” came the rejoinder from across the room.
“ ‘Ere’s to that!” cried another, and boisterous laughter erupted in the tavern.
Merlyn scanned the company. They were dirty and loud, drunk and stinking. Thieves, whores, cheats, and con men, it was a company he knew well. Some were dressed as well as he, others in the meanest rags, but they all shared the common denominator of youth. There wasn’t
a face above forty in the crowd. The ravages of poverty and filth took a toll in the slums of London far greater than in rural shires. Old age was a seldom-bought commodity. Once he had been a part of this company. But he’d managed to overcome the odds and break the cycle that kept most of them tied to poverty even when wealth was briefly theirs. He’d dared to hold back the impulse to spend every tuppence. And, like seeds, they grew. Whatever Cassie wanted from him he could provide. Why did she hold him in such disdain?
In the moments following their lovemaking she had allowed him to hold her close. She even slept in his arms, as trustingly as she had done in the coach from Derbyshire. He had thought at last there would be an understanding between them. What had happened to destroy it?
He couldn’t remember. He would have left her to see to their departure, but then she had awakened and called to him. He had been too eager to kiss her, to see the pleasure return to her eyes when he pleased her, to judge the warning in her eyes. She was unsure of herself, but that did not surprise him. It pleased him to think she had never become used to a man’s caresses. It was a delight that made him eager for her. Her reluctance, he had thought, was nothing more than shyness. What had she said about wickedness? He could not remember when her struggles became a fight in earnest. Perhaps he’d said the wrong thing in promising her that with him she would grow accustomed to making love during the day as well as at night.
Merlyn shook his head in irritation and emptied his cup. They said many more things after that. All of it was forgettable but the last. She said she would not be the mistress of a man who was a thief and a liar, a scoundrel and a rogue. It hurt, couldn’t she see how her words hurt him?