The Dove Formatted

by welis

  After staring at her in silence for another long moment, he heaved a heavy sigh and nodded, though it seemed reluctant. “Aye, then. I’ll help ye. But, if we’re caught, ye’ll take the fall for it, lass.”

  She grinned and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek with a loud smack. He grunted, patting her back, then setting her away from him. His ears had flushed red, but he glowered at her.

  “Dinnae think this makes us friends, me and you” he groused.

  She gave him a sly smirk and choked down a giggle. “Oh, never that, Niall.”

  Grunting again, he picked up the burgundy and stalked out of the room, leaving her behind. She pressed a hand to her stomach and took a deep breath, her mind eased now that she had an accomplice. Next, she must enact the first part of her scheme … ensuring Adam was placated enough to trust her out of his sight and outside Fairchild House.

  Squaring her shoulders, she left the room and set off to the drawing room. If he thought that she’d given up, then he might believe she truly meant to passively accept his dictates. There was only one way she could do that.

  Pushing open the drawing room door, she found him still seated before the pianoforte. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she lingered in the doorway and observed him. His posture, hunched over the instrument in only his shirtsleeves and breeches, the brandy decanter resting within reach. She was surprised to find he’d drunk very little, seeming to get enough succor from creating the music that seemed such a part of him.

  He went still, his fingers pausing on the keys just as they had that fateful night in Dunnottar, when he’d attacked her, dragging her to the music room to dispose of her virginity with all the savage passion roiling in his veins.

  She shivered at the memory, frozen in place as he threw one leg over the bench and turned to face her. She felt certain she hadn’t spoken or made a sound; yet, he’d responded to her presence in the room as if he were as aware of her as she was of him.

  Leaning back against the enclosure covering the keys, he inclined his head, studying her in silence. Despite having just been immersed in his favorite pastime, tension stiffened his body, showing in the taut cords of his neck and the firm line of his mouth. He simply sat looking at her, seeming to wait for her to do or say something.

  So, she obliged him, closing the door behind her and making her way toward him. Her steps were light and sure, her anxiety melting away as she drew closer and noticed the evidence of his lust—his cock a mouthwatering outline through his snug breeches. As always, she marveled at the strength of his desire at only the sight of her.

  His gaze bored into her as she came to a stop just before him, then sank to her knees on the carpet. She heard his sharp intake of breath, but kept her eyes down, her head dipped in submission. His long legs were spread, bent at the knee, allowing just enough space for her to fit between them, her hands resting on his powerful thighs. The hard muscles relaxed against her palms, his breath coming more rapid as she caressed him—smoothing her fingertips down toward his knees, then up toward his groin. Every inch of him that she could see relaxed and unwound, and she could not help a little smile.

  He’d needed her, even if he did not wish to admit it. He might not care for her, but there was something about her that he needed, craved even. Why else would he so relentlessly keep her bound to him even when she fought?

  There would be no fighting tonight. When he reached out toward her, she arched her neck, laid her cheek in his palm, and closed her eyes, allowing herself to fall into a place of surrender. It was what she needed to do to gain his trust.

  Perhaps it was even what she needed to assure herself she was doing the right thing. She was doing it for him … all for him.

  Her skin prickled with warmth as he stroked her cheek, his thumb caressing her lips. He tilted her head back so she looked him in the eye, his expression open and portraying his lust, his need, the conflict he likely did not wish her to see. The warring emotions that made him such a volatile mix of love and pain, pleasure and torment, right and wrong.

  She opened her mouth for him, flicking her tongue out to lap at the pad of his thumb. They groaned in unison, eyes locked, a shudder seeming to afflict them both at the same time.

  He slipped his thumb between her lips, and she fastened her mouth around him, closing her eyes and suckling.

  “Fucking hell, little dove,” he whispered, his voice tinged with lust and awe. “You’ll drive me mad before long, you know. I fear you already have.”

  Her chest ached at his admission, the part of her that craved his affection blossoming and growing as if bathed with light. In his own way, it had been an admission of his weakness for her.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him again, releasing his thumb and edging closer. So close, she could lower her head into his lap. Which was exactly what she did, bringing her palm over his erection and pursing her lips to kiss the tip of it at the same time. He groaned, bucking his hips as she massaged him through his clothes, nuzzling him, drawing in his scent and reveling in the feel of him growing harder at her fingertips. Before long, he reached down and snatched open his fall, gripping her hair in one hand and his cock in the other.

  Shutting her eyes once more, she surrendered to his control, relaxing her jaw as he shoved toward the back of her throat. He groaned, his hips coming up off the bench as he pressed her head down, choking her, trying to go as deep into her as he could, mindless now from the pleasure.

  She let him use her, closing her lips around him and suckling, offering no resistance against his control. Her nipples tingled, drawing into tight nubs, her cunt pulsating and clenching from hunger and need. A hunger he would sate, but only after he’d had his way, gotten what he wanted. He fucked her mouth for what felt like hours, groaning and shuddering before spending in a rush, muttering oaths under his breath and stroking her hair.

  “Such a good little dove,” he whispered when she released him from her mouth and fell against his leg with a gasp, fighting to catch her breath. “So good.”

  She nuzzled against his thigh, reveling in his praise, his satisfaction becoming her own. Even as her body screamed for release, she found contentment in his relaxed state, at having been the cause. They sat that way for a long moment, his fingers soothing her stinging scalp and rubbing away the abuse from his yanking fingers.

  Then, he was grabbing her beneath her arms, lifting her into his lap. She gasped when he spread her legs to hang over his, snatching up her gown and grasping her buttocks, pulling her so they were connected, his cock flaring back to life against her mons. He sighed, burying his face in her neck, nuzzling, kissing, biting, all while grinding her against him, coating himself in her wetness.

  She shuddered in his hold, closing her eyes and tipping her head back as he bit her shoulder, causing stars and pinpoints of light to explode behind her eyelids. He snatched down the front of her bodice to expose her breasts, his breath racing against her skin as he brought a hand from under her gown to cup one, kneading it and pinching the nipple until she cried out. Then, he was soothing her with flicks of his tongue and soft pulls of his lips, before going back to inflicting his brand of torment, scraping her with his teeth.

  By the time he’d grown hard enough to enter her again, he’d reduced her to a writhing, panting animal. She clawed at him, undulating in his lap as he nudged his way as far as he could reach, touching the parts of her that never ceased to send lightning strikes of pleasure deep into her womb.

  Cupping her buttocks, he dug his fingers in, dragging her pelvis against his at the perfect angle to stimulate her clit. She gasped, already so close to falling apart that she could hardly fight it. He seemed to realize it, too, keeping his gaze on her face as he did it again and again, moving her the way he wanted, his hips rolling in sweet counterpoint to hers. He panted against her cheek, his lips and teeth nipping at the line of her jaw. Then, he was kissing her, his tongue invading her mouth and his lips smothering her moan
s.

  The kiss proved her undoing, triggering her release. She shook violently, groaning into his mouth as her hips bucked against his, her insides squeezing him, drawing him in deeper. He made an answering sound, but went on drinking from her mouth, refusing to pull away until she had spent completely, going silent and still atop him. She could only cling to him then, her head lolling against his shoulder as he stood and fell to his knees on the floor, then laying her on her back and coming on top of her—all without dislodging their connection. She spread herself wide for him, dropping her knees open and arching her back, opening her hands when he fit his palms against hers.

  He held her hands for a brief moment, squeezing her fingers, then shifted his grip so that he had her wrists pinned above her head, her arms pulled taut. Then, he was fucking her in earnest, his body colliding with hers, pounding her into the rug. Another climax loomed on the heels of her first, and a scream burned in her throat, trapped by the breath she held while waiting for it to wash over her.

  Adam lowered his head to capture a breast in his mouth, sucking with pulls she felt deep in her core, exacerbating the pounding spasms threatening to overtake her. The insides of her thighs grew sore, and she’d be bruised in the morning, her shoulders aching from being held this way, her neck and breasts marked from his mouth and teeth. But she wanted it all, wanted Adam just the way he was now … cruel, and demanding, and beautiful.

  Her scream finally released when she came, her second climax even more violent than the first, making her back bow up off the ground and her toes curl into the rug. Then, he was following her, resting his pelvis in the cradle of her hips and spending inside her yet again, searing her insides with his seed, bathing her inner channel with his essence.

  Releasing a sigh, he let go of her wrists and dropped his head, resting it in the crook of her neck. Daphne lay beneath him, her harsh breath ringing out in tandem with his. This would be the second time he’d spilled his seed inside her, and she wondered if it would take, this time … if the first time had already rooted itself inside her.

  As she closed her eyes and breathed in the heady mixture of his scent and hers, she cursed herself for a fool for what felt like the hundredth time. Not just because Niall’s words proved truer than she’d been willing to admit, but because the thought of having a part of Adam growing inside her was not as frightening as it should have been.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  dam stepped down from the hired hack that had delivered him to the Mint—a Godforsaken slum comprised of abandoned mansions that had fallen into disrepair, ruins of taverns and inns, and timber homes burnt out and scorched by the fires that had claimed it all. Notorious home of beggars, prostitutes, and thieves.

  Two days ago, when he had sent word to Bertram that he intended to give in to blackmail, he had been pleased with the other man’s choice of location for their meeting. Set far enough from the West End that he need not worry he’d be spotted and recognized, it also offered the perfect setting for his planned assassination. No one would come running should they hear the gunshot that would take Bertram’s life, nor would his escape be prevented. The city watch never bothered with this side of town. The man who had ruined the people he loved would die as he was meant to … in the darkest and dirtiest of gutters.

  Reaching into the pocket of his greatcoat, he found the revolver he’d stashed there—one of the twin set he kept in a cedar chest in his study. He’d brought the set along from Dunnottar, feeling safer on the road with the protection. He’d never had cause to use them beyond target practice, but he was a crack shot. He would not miss.

  He made his way toward the gaping entrance to a building that had been obliterated by fire, its caved-in roof allowing the light of the full moon to shine through. The scorched placard outside the building marked it as the address Bertram had sent him that morning—their designated meeting place.

  Stepping over a pile of wood that might have once been a piece of furniture, he glanced up and nearly tripped over his own two feet, stunned by what he found.

  Waiting for him in the midst of the destroyed vestibule stood Daphne, a black, hooded cloak covering her dark green gown. Lowering the hood to reveal the glow of her auburn hair, she gave him a grim expression.

  “Hello, Adam.”

  He scowled, coming forward to take her arm. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  For that matter, how had she known where they would meet? Why was she not at Fairchild House, waiting with the things she’d insisted she be allowed to go and collect herself?

  Raising her chin in that infuriating way of hers, she pulled her arm out of his grasp. “I’ve simply come to tell you I found another way to solve our little problem.”

  His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together until he feared he might obliterate them into dust. He had known better than to trust her out of his sight, to let her insist that if he let Niall accompany her on her errands, she would behave herself. Damn her for making him think she would stay out of his way, when he should have known all along that she would not.

  “There is no other way,” he ground out. “You need to leave, now, before—”

  “Untwist yer smalls, Hart,” grumbled Niall’s familiar voice from the shadows.

  He turned his head to find the butler standing nearby, leaning against the hull of what had once been a hearth, hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

  “The lass knows what she’s about.”

  Adam scowled at his so-called friend. “You’re in on this, too?”

  “Aye,” Niall confirmed. “If ye’d only listen—”

  “I do not want to listen, goddamn it,” he bellowed. “I want her out of here, and when I’ve finished my business, I am going to throttle her, then kill you!”

  Daphne, not at all cowed by his blustering, simply stepped around him and swept toward the entrance. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged it, his scalp stinging as he fought to get himself under control. Her boldness infuriated him, as much as it stoked admiration. His little dove could be as stubborn as he was.

  He turned to find her greeting a man in austere black attire, flanked by two others who proved as large and burly as he and Niall. What the devil was going on?

  “Ah, Mr. Cunningham,” Daphne said lightly, as if they were acquaintances encountering one another at a soirée. “Thank you for coming, and arriving just in time. I admire punctuality in a man.”

  The man flushed, executing a swift bow. “It was no trouble, my lady. My lord.”

  Adam scowled at this Cunningham fellow as he came forward to show him the same deference he had Daphne. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

  “Patience, Adam,” Daphne chided with a grin. “When our other guests arrive, we may begin. Oh, here they are now! Winifred, darling, I trust you found your way here without trouble.”

  Adam’s mouth fell open as a woman he recognized as Bertram’s former fiancé approached, followed by a procession of several others. There must be at least a dozen other people here, most of them ladies, the rest men acting as their escort.

  Winifred held her arms out to Daphne, and the two embraced, bussing one another’s cheeks.

  “My God, it is like something out of a novel,” the young woman exclaimed, glancing about the dark, burnt-out building in awe. “It’s all quite thrilling.”

  The other women agreed with soft giggles and whispers while Daphne merely stood by, beaming at him as if she were so bloody proud of herself.

  Coming toward her again, he took her arm, yanking her close and bending his head to whisper in her ear.

  “Daphne, you are trying my patience,” he growled. “I explicitly told you—”

  “And I told you,” she interjected, turning her head to look at him. “I will not let you do this … not when there is another way. A better way.”

  He had just opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she could be about when yet another familiar voice caught his attention.

  “Hartmoor, what the devil
is going on?”

  The entire group fell silent when Bertram appeared in their midst, his pale face fixed in a mask of annoyance and anxiety, his limpid eyes darting about to take in Daphne’s assembled guests. He blanched when he spotted Winifred, as well as several other women Adam recognized now that he’d gotten a closer look. Lady Cassandra Lane stood closest, at the forefront of Bertram’s collection of conquests. Each one glared at him as if they would crush him beneath their heels if given the chance … as if he stood lower than an insect in their estimation.

  Swiveling his gaze to Daphne, Bertram scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Daphne folded her arms before her and stepped forward to meet him. “Waiting for you, of course. Now that we are all here, we may begin.”

  Adam watched the exchange with baited breath, his hand still deep in his pocket, fingers closed around the butt of his pistol. His foe stood just before him, with no one or nothing between them. If he drew the revolver now, he’d have a clear shot. But he’d be a fool to do it now, with a magistrate and two men he felt quite certain were Bow Street Runners standing at his back.

  “My business is with Hartmoor,” Bertram insisted, uncertainty creeping into his tone.

  He knew as little about what was going on as Adam did.

  “Actually, the nature of your business has changed,” Daphne replied, gesturing toward the man standing just behind them. “You know Mr. Cunningham, the magistrate? He is said to be one of the most incorruptible in all of London, unable to be bribed or coerced into bending the law to suit his own needs. Well, when I informed him that the Earl of Hartmoor wished to prosecute you for a crime, he was all-too happy to accompany me this evening.”

  Bertram’s eyes widened for a moment, but he briefly regained control, presenting his typical air of self-importance and unflappable arrogance. “Crime? What crime, dear sister?”

  “Why, rape, of course,” Daphne stated.