by Anne Stuart
She couldn’t, wouldn’t ask him to stop. He was doing things to her no man had ever done, touching her in ways that astonished and frightened her, his fingers sliding deep in her damp, fiery heat, his thumb rubbing against her, sending irresistible tendrils of longing threading through her.
And then he was looming over her, between her legs, and he’d unfastened his breeches. She wouldn’t watch him in the darkness as he took his revenge, took her. She closed her eyes, and tried to call for that cocoon of safety that had always been there. She reached for it, and it vanished, like mist, as he pressed against her, pushing between her legs, filling her with a sure deep thrust that shoved her back against the bed.
For a moment he lay still, covering her with his larger body, his open shirt around them both, and she shivered. This wasn’t what she’d remembered. This invasion was more devastating, more overwhelming. This time there was no escape, as he began to move, pulling away from her and then thrusting in, deep, so that her hips arched up against him with age-old instinct.
She told herself to pretend he was Porcin, hunched and sweating over her. She told herself he was the old earl, stinking of garlic. She couldn’t convince herself. Not when his hands stroked her breasts, his mouth danced against hers. Not when she could feel the betrayal of her own longing building deep inside her, where their bodies joined.
She told herself to fight it, but when she squirmed against him it simply brought him in deeper, harder; and her treasonous body reacted in mindless joy. Her self-control was shattering, and she wanted him, needed him, needed his body, needed his mouth against hers, needed his hands on her breasts, needed something, and she couldn’t begin to know what it was.
She wouldn’t give in to it. Her one revenge was her remoteness, and he was stripping it away from her. She shook her head, in negation of his power over her, but he was, as he said, merciless. “Don’t fight it, my angel,” he whispered, his voice a mockery. “I’m not going to finish with you until you come.”
She whimpered then, and hated herself for doing so. He covered her mouth with his, and like a fool she kissed him back, as his hair fell around them both, curtaining them in darkness. He reached down and caught her hips, pulling her up against him, and then his body went rigid in her arms, and she felt the flooding of a great warmth, one that for the first time was answered with her own warmth. And she wanted to cry, for the final innocence that was truly lost.
She lay still beneath him, hating him, hating herself. Her face was wet with sweat and something she told herself could never be tears, as she tried to calm her pounding heart, tried to slow her racing breath. He lay atop her, still partially clothed, and she could feel the shudder that ran through his body. And then he pulled himself away from her, climbing from the bed, not bothering to fasten his clothing as he stared down at her.
She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t face him, or her own foolish betrayal. She curled up in a ball, shoving her fist in her mouth to stop her moan of anguish, and shut her eyes.
The soft linen sheet settled over her, tossed by impatient hands. A moment later she heard the lock in the door, heard it slam behind him. And listened as the key turned once more, sealing her in there.
At least he hadn’t stayed with her. At least he’d left her, to mourn her defeat at his hands. He’d won. He’d had his revenge, and it was more powerful than she could have imagined. He’d stripped away the illusion that her flesh was invulnerable. Even worse, he’d stripped away the illusion that her heart was stone.
God, she hated him! Hated his arrogance, his coldness, his devastating efficiency with her body. But most of all she hated the expression she’d seen on his face, a brief, fleeting emotion that vanished as soon as it appeared, vanished before she’d closed her eyes and turned away from him.
It had been remorse. Bleak, black remorse. And in that brief moment of feeling he’d destroyed whatever vengeance she might have planned. She hated him, with all her heart and soul. But because of him, she found she still had a heart and soul. And they belonged to him.
He wouldn’t come back that night, she knew it. He might even head on to Venice, leaving her behind. It would be the best thing for both of them. She could only lie in bed, her body still damp and tingling, and hope that for once God would show her some mercy. That she might be abandoned by the man she was fool enough still to love, and never see him again.
The taproom was deserted when Nicholas walked in, silent in his stockinged feet. He’d pulled his clothes together, but just barely, refastening his breeches and pulling his shirt about him. Tavvy must have availed himself of one or both of the maids, their host was abed, and he was alone in the darkness.
He dropped down before the banked fire. The Dutch were ever a clean race, he thought with a weary grimace. Everything spotless, tidied away for the night, including his bottle of brandy. It didn’t matter. All the brandy in the world wouldn’t wash away the memory of Ghislaine curled up in that bed, trembling with misery. All the brandy in the world wouldn’t wash away his self-loathing.
She’d won, of course. He hadn’t been able to make her come—his own raging needs had taken him over the edge, for the first time in his memory. And the damnable thing about it was that she didn’t realize she’d won. The pleasure he’d given her had been far more than she’d ever wanted to accept from him, even if she hadn’t reached her peak. He’d still managed to show her how helpless she truly was when she was up against him. He ought to be proud of himself, he thought with a sour smile.
If he had a spark of decency left he’d leave her behind tomorrow. Settle as much of his dwindling pocket money as he could with the landlord, and never have to face her again.
But he knew perfectly well that any spark of decency was long gone. He was going to keep her with him; he was going to keep her in his bed. He was going to make love to her every time he could, until he was able to ride her out of his system. And ride him out of hers.
Because otherwise they might just end up destroying each other. And while he had no fears for his own worthless hide, he’d just been reprieved from believing her murdered during the Terror. He wasn’t about to let her be destroyed now. Particularly by his own hands.
Chapter 19
“But, Tony,” Ellen said in a plaintive voice, struggling to keep up with him as he moved with inexorable speed through the elegant halls of Vienna’s best hotel. “Why did you tell them we were married?”
Tony halted his headlong pace, and Ellen barreled past him, coming to an abrupt halt. “Because, dear one,” he said with great patience, “Vienna is not devoid of English society at the moment. We need to do our best to preserve your reputation.”
“I would think it was long gone, Tony,” she said with great frankness. “We’ve been alone, unchaperoned, for more than two weeks now. We’ve traveled across Scotland, sailed to the continent, and made it all the way to Austria without either my maid or your valet. I think,” she said cheerfully, “I’m ruined.”
“Oblige me by not announcing it to the world,” he said under his breath, taking her arm in his and hurrying her past the curious guests. “We might still manage the ruse if we’re very circumspect.”
“I can be discreet,” Ellen said in a hurt tone of voice.
“Dearest, you are the most transparent female I have ever known. Subtlety and deceit are beyond your capabilities. You’ll simply have to trust me to keep gossips away from you. I’m going to want you to stay in the hotel, in your room, while I go out and see what I can discover. I can’t imagine why Nicholas would have brought Ghislaine to Vienna, but since those people we questioned in the inn overheard them discussing it, and since it was our only lead, we had no choice but to take it. If you’d only agreed to return home…”
“But I couldn’t, Tony!” Ellen wailed as Tony unlocked the gilt and white door to the hotel suite. “After we’d come so far, I simply couldn’t just give up on them. I would have come on alone…”
“I know you would have,” h
e said in a long-suffering voice, closing the door behind them. “Which is why I’m here with you. It’s bad enough I’ve aided in the destruction of your reputation. I’m not going to abandon you besides.”
“Dear Tony,” she said. “You take these things too seriously.” She glanced around her at the elegantly appointed drawing room. “This is lovely,” she said, moving over to inhale the fragrance of the roses in the crystal vase. “Do you realize I’ve never been in a hotel before?”
“What about Paris?” he inquired, stripping off his gloves and hat. “You visited for a while, after…”
“After I was jilted?” she supplied with surprising equanimity. For some reason the old pain had vanished, melted away. One more shameful reminder that it had simply been her pride, not her heart, that was wounded. “I did. But I stayed with one of Lizzie’s cousins. Tell me, is it very noisy in a hotel?”
“Not any worse than a country inn, Ellen. Just a little grander.”
“You know, Tony, I like it,” she said naively. “Do you suppose we might stay a few days once we retrieve Ghislaine? She’ll provide an admirable chaperon, and we won’t need to worry about gossips.”
“Let’s worry about that after I locate the missing couple,” Tony said repressively, moving past her and glancing into the bedroom beyond. Whatever he saw displeased him, for he turned back to her with a fearsome scowl on his face. “I’m going out to see what I can discover. I don’t want you to leave this room.”
“You sound like my father,” she grumbled, making a face.
“And it’s a tragedy you never learned to obey him,” he shot back.
“Now that’s where you’re dead wrong. I’ve been a meek, obedient female most of my life. A dutiful daughter, a helpful sister, a dependable friend. And I’m going to end my days a meek, kindly aunt to all my hopeful nieces and nephews. Surely one brief fling of madness will be overlooked in such an otherwise respectable life,” she said.
His scowl lifted for a moment as he stared at her for a long moment. “Is that how you see your life?” he asked softly.
She didn’t want to look at him. These last few days her longing for him had grown to unmanageable proportions, longing for his comfort, his humor, his tenderness. Longing for something more, something she didn’t dare put a name to, something that was set off by too long a perusal of his tall, muscular form, his handsome face, his sleepy eyes and lazy smile. She turned and walked to the large window, staring out at the elegant park surrounding the hotel. “That’s the lot of most women,” she said. “We do as we’re told, we abide by other people’s decisions, we’re tossed back and forth with no choice of our own. We listen to our parents, our brothers, our husbands, and then our children. We do what’s expected of us.”
“You don’t have a husband.”
She turned and glanced at him then, but his expression was bland, unreadable. “No, I don’t.”
“It was a lucky escape. Purser wouldn’t have done for you, you know. He was a prosy little bore, a bully, with little wit or’ grace. He would have immured you in some parsonage with a half a dozen brats and spent your inheritance. You could have done far better.”
“I had no better offers,” she said, unable to keep a mournful note out of her voice. “Besides, I like children.”
“So do I.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. Before she could ask him what he meant, he sketched a bow. “I’m not certain when I’ll return. You will stay indoors, won’t you?”
She cast a longing look at the bright sunshine beyond the window. “If you insist,” she said reluctantly.
“I insist.”
She remained at the window, half her mind registering the sound of the closing door. There were people outside, well-dressed, happy-looking people, including children. All in all, this adventure hadn’t been nearly as dangerous as she had expected it to be.
To be sure, Tony’s company was far from peaceful. Being cooped up in his presence for day after day had proved dangerously exhilarating. But the pleasure of Tony’s presence carried its own form of frustration. Trapped with her in the carriage, then on shipboard, he’d been punctiliously correct, and all her efforts at teasing him had gotten her nowhere.
She could trace it back to that night in Scotland, the night they’d shared a bed. She wasn’t sure what else they’d shared, and she’d been too shy to inquire. When she woke the next morning, her head was pounding, her mouth was tender, and her heart was aching. She was alone in the decrepit little hovel, with Tony’s coat thrown over her for warmth. And she almost thought she could remember the feel of his hands on her; gentle, deft, arousing.
She’d found him outside, in conversation with Danvers, who’d arrived with a fresh team of horses and a cold breakfast. Tony hadn’t met her eyes at first, and when he did, he’d been cool and proper, friendly but distant. The perfect family friend. Not during the endless travel across the sea to Germany, or the long miles down to Vienna, had he ever alluded to that night. And something had kept her own unruly tongue silent, for fear she wouldn’t like what she’d discover. She wasn’t afraid to find that he’d despoiled her while she’d been in her cups. She was more afraid he hadn’t been interested.
She’d teased him about being staid and respectable, more to remind herself that his interest in her was brotherly than from an actual belief in his stuffiness, but ever since Scotland he’d lived up to her teasing. He’d been quiet, sober, almost repressive, watching her with an odd expression in his calm gray eyes. He didn’t tease her, didn’t flirt with her, barely touched her in the polite manner most gentleman used to assist a lady. In all, he treated her as if she were poison, and she couldn’t blame him.
After all, she’d trapped him into this dilemma. He must know perfectly well that society would hold him responsible for her ruined reputation. He must also know that society and her brother, his best friend, would dictate only one remedy.
She wouldn’t do it to him. She wouldn’t marry him, no matter how many people insisted that she should. She’d rather live in retirement, in ignominy, than to do that to the man she loved.
He needed a pretty little child, one just out of the schoolroom, to adore him without question, to present him with a large family. He didn’t need her.
She wasn’t convinced it would come to that. They had met no one during their travels, and since she already lived a great deal retired, it was unlikely that society would note her disappearance. Sir Antony was a different matter, but men’s actions weren’t questioned as closely.
And Lizzie would cover for her, even if Carmichael was in a rage over the affair. Lizzie was placid, affectionate, and knew how to manage even the most domineering of males, which her brother, Carmichael, certainly was not. Carmichael might fret and fume, but Lizzie would see that everything was covered up neatly.
All she had to do, Ellen thought mournfully, was stay put. Stay cooped up in this admittedly spacious hotel suite on a bright sunny day, when she longed to feel the warmth of the sun, the fresh spring breeze blowing through her hair. Surely Tony would never know if she made just a brief foray out into the afternoon warmth.
She glanced around the suite, looking at the room beyond, and remembered Tony’s scowl. What had displeased him so greatly? She pushed open the door and stood staring, perplexed. There was nothing but a bedroom, an elegant, tasteful bedroom, with an extremely large bed, piled high with silk pillows. It looked more than comfortable. So why had Tony scowled?
Her clothes had already been unpacked by the efficient staff of the hotel. She moved to the cupboard, seeking a light shawl, and then jumped back in shock. Her small valise had been unpacked, her clothing stored neatly on the shelves. Side by side with Tony’s fresh linen.
She slammed the door shut. It had to have been a mistake. And yet she knew, deep inside, that it wasn’t. Tony had registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Smythe-Jones of London. He’d frowned at the bed. He was going to share this suite with her. Lord knew, the poor man probably
thought he would be forced to share the bed with her as well.
She’d set his mind at ease. Knowing Tony, she was sure his decision to share her suite would be unshakable and quite sound. A large cosmopolitan city such as Vienna was not the place for a woman to be without protection, even in as elegant a place as this hotel. He would only be thinking of her.
She’d insist he take the bed, and she’d make do on the sofa in the salon. She was a large female, but he was a much larger male, and he’d need that oversized bed. He’d argue, of course, but this time she wouldn’t give in.
Dear Tony, she thought, feeling a sudden stinging in her eyes. So determined to do the best thing, forced to bestir himself when he would be much happier in London, living his pleasant life of clubs and horses and balls. In trying to rescue Gilly, she’d brought Tony to the edge of disaster as well. It was going to be a close thing, extricating all of them from the morass Nicholas Blackthorne had tossed them into.
She almost hoped Tony would kill him in a duel. No, she didn’t. For one thing, Nicholas might very well kill Tony—he had already been proven to be both deadly and unscrupulous. For another, Tony was not the killing sort. If he did put a period to Nicholas’s wretched, troublemaking existence, it would cause an unavoidable scandal.
If luck was finally with them, Tony would manage to spirit Gilly back to her. She and Gilly could share the bedroom, Tony could take an adjoining room, propriety would be satisfied; and while Carmichael might fret and fume, there would be no need for noble sacrifices on Tony’s part. And as the long, empty years stretched out in front of her, she’d remember her adventure, and the way Tony sometimes seemed to look at her, as if she weren’t just an aunt or a sister or a daughter, but a woman.