by Lisa Bingham
Richard fumbled with the fastenings of her gown, managing to expose little more than a strip of bare skin down her chest. He caressed that narrow triangle, delving beneath the cloth until he rubbed one nipple.
She arched against him, gasping, and he bent to take her mouth again. His kiss became bold, rapacious. Tongues dueled and tangled, bodies strained, arms reached.
When he would have drawn back, she clutched at his hair. It had come loose from its leather thong, spilling over her like hot satin and offering her the handhold she needed.
“No … don’t leave me,” she gasped.
“Too fast … slow down.”
She peered at him wickedly, dragging a caress over his nipples, down the length of his chest, to the top of his trousers. “If you will remember, I told you once: ‘One of your first lessons is that a proper gentleman should not keep a lady waiting.’”
Before he knew what she was about, she yanked at the placket of his trousers. Buttons popped and rattled over the cobble floor. Then she plunged down to free him, caress him.
“Damn it, Chelsea,” he rasped between clenched teeth. “I can’t wait … I can’t …”
She whimpered against him as he reached for the hems of her skirts. To Chelsea, he seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to clutch at the fabric of her gown, lifting, pushing, until the flounces of her chemise and petticoats spilled around his elbows and he encountered the bare skin of her thighs and buttocks beneath.
Then he reversed their positions, her spine against the beam. Grasping her thighs, he took her lips with his own. She could feel him nudging against her most sensitive places as he lifted her, pushed her hips firmly against the support, then surged into her welcoming warmth, hot and powerful. Sleek and strong.
She shuddered, wrapping her legs about him, her arms about his shoulders. Never before had she felt him so deep, so real. She clung to him, savoring it all, the closeness, the passion, the inferno of sensations. When the inner spasms began, she bit into the curve of his neck to stop her cries, knowing that this would be the last time.
The last time …
Later, curled up against Richard on the blanket he’d spread over a mound of straw, she rubbed the swell of his chest, the pebbled surface of his nipples.
“My real name is Gelsey O’Rourke and I lived with Nigel for three years,” she began softly, not looking at him, not allowing him to speak. “At first, I thought he was my savior, my friend. But I soon discovered he was to be my own private hell …”
She told him everything, leaving nothing secret. She spoke of the beautiful house, the clothes, the education. Then she went on to describe how she was trained like a well-kept courtesan—and though Nigel had never taken her himself, she had seen enough, heard enough, to dispel the last vestiges of innocence and ignorance she held. She conveyed the rising horror she felt at knowing he would take her on her sixteenth birthday, Nigel’s fondness for liquor and opium, his cruelty to employees and staff. She related all she knew of his crimes and her inability to actually prove that any of them were his doing. Last of all, she talked about Jaime and the painting.
After she had finished, he held her close, so close she nearly believed he could be hers, would be hers, forever.
But time was ticking away. Ruthlessly. Being gobbled up by some greedy god. At long last, she kissed his throat, his breast bone, his navel. One final caress.
He joined the taste of his skin with that of his lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she asked tremulously.
“For trusting me.”
“I will always love you. Never forget. I love you more than life itself.”
“Chelsea?”
When he would have questioned her, she said, “Smee and Greyson will come looking for us if we don’t make an appearance soon. I’ve got to cut some flowers for Biddy.” She tried to silently convey all of the adoration that filled her soul. An emotion that, until he had entered her life, she had thought she was incapable of feeling. “Take care of your horse. See if you can’t round up your buttons,” she teased. “Then we’ll talk.”
He nodded, and she stood, feeling his eyes follow her each step of the way. At the door, she paused, looking over her shoulder. For all time, she would remember him this way, his hair spilling onto the blanket, his shirt mussed and partially fastened, his trousers only half buttoned and gaping to reveal the golden skin of his hips, a peek of dark hair. Then she walked from the stables.
Out of his life.
The carriage waited for her at the bottom of Lookout Point, just as Nigel had promised. But what Chelsea hadn’t anticipated was that he would be there to meet her himself.
He stepped from the carriage, tall, lean, handsome. His smile was welcoming, his manner charming, as he swept his hat from his head, bowed, and extended a posy of delicate white rosebuds tied with a pink ribbon.
“For you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m so glad you decided you could come,” he said, as if she had appeared for nothing more than an afternoon drive.
She didn’t answer, not trusting herself to speak. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the man she had just left—and what he would think of her when he found her gone.
Nigel ushered her into the carriage, then took the seat opposite. “You won’t miss him, you know,” he stated once they were under way.
Once again, he had known the intent of her thoughts.
The clatter of the hooves was his only reply. He might have forced her to join him in his home, he might even force her to submit to his will, but that was her body. She would never allow him to break her soul.
Sighing, Nigel shifted to sit next to her, caressing her hair, her cheek, her jaw. “Come, my sweet. What’s past is past, and you know I won’t hold you accountable for all that has occurred.”
When she stared at him with barely disguised hatred, a glint of warning appeared. “As long as you are wise and listen to your elders. You must do just exactly what I tell you to do.”
Sullivan strode into the house, whistling to himself. But the melody died in his throat when he encountered Smee and Greyson in the kitchen.
He knew his appearance was a little ragged. He knew these men would probably be perturbed since they had supplied his wardrobe. But, in truth, he didn’t think it was entirely his fault that several of the buttons to his trousers were now in the palm of his hand.
“Master Richard,” Greyson broached, as if picking his way over a battlefield.
“Yes?”
“Miss Chelsea—”
Sullivan waved in the general direction of the garden. “She’s gathering flowers, I believe. She said something about an arrangement for Biddy.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, she might have said that, sir, but …”
Sullivan frowned. “What is it, man? Speak up.”
“She’s gone, sir.”
“Outside.”
“No, sir. She’s gone.”
The sharp metal shanks he held bit into his palms.
“Where?”
“Well, you see, sir. It all started with the trellis.”
“The trellis.”
“We noticed that a few of the plants were bruised.”
“Bruised?”
“Then Smee was quite sure he heard a horse galloping off.”
“A horse.”
“But you’d taken one mount, and the other was safely stowed in the stables.”
“Greyson—”
“Then there was the dog, sir.”
“Greyson, where is all this leading?”
“To that viper, Nigel Sutherland.”
The three men started at the weak, elderly voice that had replied. They turned in concert to regard the pale woman standing in the doorway.
“Nigel Sutherland has won,” she said wearily. “Once again, he has won.”
She swayed, and Sullivan moved to lift her into his arms. “Gra
ndmama?” He suddenly realized how frail she really was. Her body was no more substantial than thistledown. “Damnation,” he cursed under his breath, taking her to a chair. He was at a loss for a way to reassure her and restore her strength.
As he settled her into place, Greyson and Smee rushed to find her some smelling salts and a glass of water.
“Leave it be,” she ordered, stilling their instinctive ministrations. She turned beseechingly in his direction. “Nigel Sutherland came to the house this morning. Dudley must have seen him and barked in warning, because that man …” She sobbed and continued, “Nigel slit the pup’s throat.”
She pursed her lips to still their trembling, then continued. “I believe he went up to Chelsea’s room. I found a rose, a white rose. That was always his calling card to her. A single, white, flawless rose. But this time, the rose was stained with blood. He must have threatened her, made some sort of bargain. Because she has gone to him. In an effort to protect you.”
Sullivan growled and sprang to his feet, “No, damn it! We had everything planned, everything taken care of. If she’d only waited, she would have been safe!”
Biddy shook her head. “Nigel gave her no such opportunity. He was one step ahead of us the entire time.” Her eyes became bleak. Old. “Now he has taken a hostage.”
Nigel tugged on the bellpull. Waited. Tugged again. Great bloody hell! Where were those servants? He had returned with his prize, sure that Estella would have been there to greet him and her little charade was over, but she was still gone. Gone!
He hadn’t thought she would actually do such a thing. Why would she, blast it all! She loved him, she adored him, she worshiped the ground he walked on.
A knock preceded the timid entrance of one of the chambermaids.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Summon Mr. Wilde at once!”
“B-but, ’e isn’t ’ere, m’lord.”
“Where in the blazes is he?”
She shrugged.
“Very well, then, get one of the others—Blackmore or Derrington.”
“They’ve taken ill, m’lord.”
“Ill? Blast it all, don’t tell me another batch has come down with this malady.”
“I’m afraid so, m’lord.”
Nigel waved the girl away and stamped to the window. The rain had begun again, obscuring the garden below in dribbling sheets of moisture. Nigel’s rage boiled in him, burned. How dare she? How dare Estella treat him this way? How dare she defy him?
Until Wilde returned, he couldn’t afford to make a scene. Once the masquerade was over, he would hunt her down like the vixen she was. Then…
Nigel stepped into the bedchamber bordering his own. Quiet, so quiet. The emptiness seemed to drip from the very walls. A bleakness cloaked his heart. His anger drained away.
Estella had gone.
She had really left him.
He gazed at the bed with its brocade coverings and velvet draperies. He had grown so accustomed to joining her here, that even now he expected her to be waiting at the dressing table or in the bed. Delicate, beautiful, ensconced in lace-edged linens and feminine nighttime frippery. Or smiling, seductive, reaching for him as she had the night before.
But she had left him. Left him.
The hollowness that settled into his bones was over-whelming. Unbelievable. Jerking from his maudlin thoughts, Nigel stormed from the room. Using the secret panel, he descended to his study.
To his infinite disgust, he trembled as he pulled the panels away and disclosed the painting. A molten fire kindled in his veins. More than ever, he felt the overwhelming drive to possess this woman. To own her. Break her to his will. Estella might leave him. She might weakly cower in London. But he would have Chelsea. She would match his passion with a blaze all her own.
He heard a whisper of sound behind him and whirled, expecting to find Reginald, his shirt unbuttoned, a snifter of brandy held loosely in his fingers. But it was Chelsea who stood in the threshold leading into the hall.
For several seconds, there was no sound. Then Chelsea’s head lifted ever so slightly, her chin holding a rebellious angle. “I never would have taken you for the sentimental type, Nigel,” she said, indicating the framed canvas.
“Ahh,” he drawled, taking one last look at the portrait, then closing and locking the concealed doors. “Sentiment has little to do with it, my dear. I am merely a connoisseur of fine things.”
Tucking the key into his pocket, he joined her, touching her cheek.
She jerked away as if branded, but he caught her chin, holding it in a bruising grip. “Take care, my sweet,” he warned. “Take care that you do not anger me into changing my mind. I may not be so lenient with your lover upon reconsideration.”
He saw the battle in her, the stark fury, then the emotional struggle as she controlled her normal instincts to fight him and become submissive once again.
“That’s better. Much, much better.” He stroked her jaw, her hair. “Run along upstairs like a good girl. A gown is waiting for you in your room. I had Thomas place it on the foot of the bed. Go and dress, pretty yourself for the party. Then tonight, tonight, after the solstice celebration, we shall share the longest day of the year. Together.”
Sullivan trotted his horse up to the half-dozen men waiting for him in the lee of the cliff. He surveyed the carefully chosen army, quickly scrutinizing their costumes for the evening.
“Any last-minute questions?”
They shook their heads.
“Good. Just remember that the stakes have increased a bit. If things get dicey, he may try to use Miss Wickersham as a shield. Protect her at all costs.”
The men murmured in agreement.
“Very well. Take your places.”
His assistants in stealth cantered away, assuming the identities they would play for the evening. Only the Sutherland brothers, Greyson, and Smee remained.
“Smee, Greyson, you know what to do.”
The two servants nodded.
“Here is the eviction notice and Estella’s letter. Place them in a prominent place where Lord Sutherland is sure to find them.”
He extended the items that had been bound together by the white velvet ribbon that held the keys Estella had intended as a gift for Chelsea. Sullivan had never had a chance to give them to her.
Greyson squinted, his brow furrowing as he tugged the ribbon free, and gave the letters to Smee. “My lord, where did you find these?”
“Estella included them with the papers she brought.”
“Do you know what we have?” he asked excitedly. “Have you any idea?” He showed them to Smee, Gregory, and Rupert as if they should be aware of their importance. “These are the keys to your grandfather’s safe. Nigel’s safe!”
“I’ll be bloody bound,” Rupert muttered.
Sullivan’s lips lifted in a slow grin. “It seems we have a slight change of plans.”
Even Greyson smiled.
From his vantage point in the trees behind them, Reginald Wilde scowled. Damned if he wasn’t sure that of the five men below, two of the strangers were Mr. Cane and the elusive Sutherland impostor.
Trap!
Everything in him screamed the word, and he nearly yanked his horse around and galloped into the evening, sure they had been sent by the magistrate to arrest him. But, upon closer look, Reggie thought he recognized one more … the giant who …
Damn! He’d been taken for a jolly ride in a turnip cart to be sure. He’d be buggered if he didn’t think he’d stumbled across a flagrant batch of brigand plots.
“Lord Sutherland?”
Nigel stifled an impatient sigh, holding his arms out so that the manservant who attended him could finish the necessary adjustments to his costume.
“What is it, Thomas?”
“A good portion of your guests have arrived. You asked me to notify you.”
“Very well.” He waved the man away, but the servant lingere
d. “What is it?”
“I was asked to deliver this to you.” He extended a silver platter holding a single vellum envelope.
Nigel glared at it, surmising it was the written regrets of a guest who would be unable to attend, but when he saw the familiar script, he snatched the missive from the server and tore it open.
My Dearest Nigel…
His stomach clenched; bile rose in his throat.
“Get out,” he rasped.
The two servants gaped at him.
“Get out!”
They scurried to do his bidding, dodging into the corridor and closing the door just as something crashed against the opposite side and Nigel bellowed, “Get the bloody hell out!”
The first strains of the orchestra beginning to tune their instruments sifted through the open windows into the chamber where Chelsea had been led. She shuddered, gazing about her at the sterile white walls, the cherub-painted ceiling, the rose-and-white damask bedcover. It was the same bedroom she had lived in as an adolescent. Nigel must have kept it like a shrine.
The skittering of a violin rasped across her nerves, and she chafed her arms, remembering how many times she had waited in this same spot for just such an evening to begin, knowing that if she spoke to anyone, begged for help, she would be severely punished.
Chelsea had no doubts that such was the case tonight. Her bond with Nigel was fragile yet. She must pamper him, soothe his ego, and cater to his every need in order to ensure that he would allow Richard to leave England without intervention.
Turning, she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror, knowing that tonight she would don the most difficult mask she could possibly wear. Tonight she would use all of the skills Lord Sutherland had taught her to make him her slave.
She didn’t know if such a thing were possible. But she had to try.
Her spirits were bolstered slightly after witnessing his reaction to her portrait. In that bare, unguarded instant before he had realized she stood behind him, Chelsea had seen that even Nigel Sutherland had a vulnerability. His Achilles heel was the memory of a childish Irish waif who had once been his toy.