Scandalous Desires

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “Michael?”

  Her voice was soft and sweet in the stable’s still air. For a moment he wanted to hide. To not let the disease of his soul touch her. He felt filthy with sin.

  But she was ever relentless was his Silence. She poked her head around the stall door. “There you are.”

  He straightened from the wall. “Aye, here I am.”

  She hesitated by the doorway as if aware of the blackness in his soul. Perhaps the truly good had a sort of inner compass that swiveled around when in the presence of evil.

  “What did Harry come to say?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing ye need worry about.”

  He started for the stall door, but she didn’t move aside. Instead she hugged her arms across her chest and looked at him with those damned beautiful eyes. “What if I want to worry about it? What if I want to share your troubles?”

  He stared at her nonplussed and couldn’t help thinking that he’d never had this sort of problem with any of the whores he’d taken to bed. He wanted to brush past her and leave her and her damned questions, but he had a feeling in his gut that to do so would somehow be an act not easily mended.

  Mick sighed. “Harry brought Bran to see me.”

  She stood immoveable and simply raised her eyebrows.

  “Damn ye,” he hissed, taking her by her slim shoulders. “Why can’t ye leave it alone? ’Tis a man’s business and none o’ yer own.”

  “I think it is,” she replied, bravely tilting her face to look him in the eye, stubborn thing. “I’ve given you my body and more. I think in return you can give me some small confidence.”

  “It that what this is? A test?” He felt the anger rise in him again, seeking a victim even if she might be innocent of any outrage against him.

  “Perhaps it is,” she said slowly. “I need to know that I’m more to you than a woman in your bed, Michael.”

  “Ye know full well yer more than that,” he growled in outrage. “What d’ye want from me?”

  “Truth,” she whispered, powerful in her softness. “Honesty. Friendship. And perhaps love.”

  The words sent icy fear through his belly. He could storm a ship, could knife a man, could lead a gang of near-feral pirates, but the things she asked of him were impossible for him to do. He was the son of Charlie Grady, a man who’d never felt compassion, let alone love in his entire life. What softness Mick had had in him had been burned away sixteen years ago as surely as Charlie Grady’s face had melted. He’d had to armor himself in layers of granite to survive, to fight to where he was now in the world. And she? She wanted him to simply strip his armor away—let it fall and stand naked and vulnerable in the sunlight.

  Her gaze was clear and direct and too terrible for words as she waited for something from him—something he wasn’t sure he had in him.

  “Damn ye,” he hissed again, and brought his mouth down on hers.

  He’d been bedding women since the age of fourteen. He knew well their sweet parts, their soft sighs. This he could do. She would have to learn to be content with it. He knew no other way to keep her.

  MICHAEL’S KISS WAS overpowering. Silence struggled to remember that he’d not answered her questions. But her body had become attuned to his mastery overnight it seemed. She found herself curving toward him, opening her mouth, running her hands through his lovely hair. Already she was quickening, anticipating whatever he might want to do to her.

  But he hadn’t told her what Bran had come for. He’d refused to share that information and more importantly some small part of his everyday life. If she was to be more to him than merely a body in his bed, he must learn to open himself, he must—

  Michael began gathering her skirts in great handfuls and her thoughts scattered.

  She tore her mouth away. “Oh! What if someone comes?”

  “Hush,” he murmured, his voice lowered to a deep rasp. “No one will interrupt.”

  He’d bared her legs now and was backing her into the stall wall. She leaned there and watched, dazed, as he dropped to his knees.

  “Michael!”

  He ignored her urgent hiss. “Hold yer skirts.”

  “Oh, dear Lord.” She obediently took the material in her hands even as she craned her neck to watch for intruders. What if Harry came back? Or Bran? Did Michael keep a groom?

  He laid both hands on her now, stroking up over her calves, smoothing over her knees, and delicately tracing her thighs.

  She shivered. What did he intend to do? She could feel heat gathering at the apex of her thighs and if he reached up there—

  She squeaked as he bent to kiss the inside of her thigh.

  “Raise yer skirts higher, love,” he whispered.

  She groaned under her breath. If she pulled up her skirts any farther, her most intimate parts would be exposed. It was one thing to frolic nude in the dark, quite another to do so in the light of day.

  But his voice was like liquid sin, dark and dangerously seductive. She did his bidding, her fingers trembling with want, and felt the cool air caress the juncture of her thighs.

  “That’s it,” he said approvingly. “Hold it there, love, and spread yer thighs jus’ a wee bit wider.”

  She swallowed and did as he bid.

  “That’s me girl.” He whispered against her skin, his hot breath making her shiver.

  His mouth trailed up beside her mound, licking and kissing, but very leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. She tilted back her head, impatient, nervous, on edge from suspense. He drew closer to her center and tongued the crease next to her thigh.

  Silence bit her lip, trying to make no noise—surely they would be discovered if she did.

  She felt him run his thumbs through her maidenhair and down to the plump outer lips of her sex. He thumbed them apart, exposing her wet inner folds.

  “Michael!” she whispered, as loud as she dared.

  But he ignored her. He blew on her wet curls and she shivered—more from the sensation than the chill. Then he leaned forward and touched his hot tongue to her center.

  She jumped at the contact, nearly hitting her head against the boards of the stall. Oh, dear Lord! “What are you doing?”

  He chuckled low and restrained her quivering body with his hands, then he drew his tongue through her folds, slow and thorough, the most intimate contact she’d ever experienced. His tongue was wet and hot and felt indescribable.

  He didn’t seem to care that they were in an open stable, that she was jerking in reaction from each touch, that what he did to her must be some kind of wicked indecency. Michael O’Connor didn’t care at all. He just kept licking and tonguing her until she thought she might go mad with the intensity of the feelings he was provoking in her. Each swipe of his tongue burned exquisitely on her nerve endings. Each deep kiss drove her ever nearer to an edge. She was shaking, panting, damp with her own need, and he simply would not stop.

  She found herself spreading her knees wider, tilting her hips to give him better access. She might very well expire from this torture, but she would die in bliss. Her head was back against the old stable wall, and she watched the rafters overhead blindly, thinking that she’d never be able to enter a stable again without blushing.

  And then he took her little knot of flesh between his lips and suckled it as deeply as he had her nipples this morning. Dear God, she could not hold back. She tumbled over the precipice, sweetly unaware, joyously free. Her back arched, her legs tightened, and she had to stuff a hand in her mouth to keep from screaming.

  She was still trembling when he stood and took her into his arms. She rested there grateful and limp, for she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own feet after her ravishment. But when she made to let her skirts fall he placed his palm possessively on her mound.

  “D’ye like that, darlin’?” he drawled.

  “You know I did.” Her tongue felt thick and her words were slow. “But you did it to distract me.”

  He pulled back and looked h
er in the face, his own wary. “Ye never give up, do ye?”

  “Won’t you tell me, Michael?”

  He shook his head, looking away and curled his fingers into her cleft, sensitive now from her peak, and gently stroked.

  She moaned, clutching at his coat.

  His breathing had quickened as he felt her dampness. “Yer so wet, so hot and swollen.”

  He flicked a finger across her bud and her hips jerked. “Michael—”

  “I had meant this only for ye. I had meant to try and play the gentleman, but it seems I cannot.” His hand moved away from her and began working at the fall of his breeches. “I mus’ have ye.”

  She watched him from half-closed eyes. She should protest, should tell him they must go inside and talk about why he’d looked so desolate after meeting Bran, but she found she couldn’t.

  She simply couldn’t deny him when he needed her.

  He drew himself out and her gaze dropped. He was fully erect, the veins standing out around the stem of his penis, the head ruddy and round.

  “Come here,” he said, and took one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist.

  This brought his hips close to hers and she felt him rubbing against her—just a bit too high.

  She moaned in frustration.

  “Hush, darlin’,” he murmured. “I’ll make it all better, I promise. Jus’…” He caught her other leg and she found herself braced against the wall, both of her legs wrapped about his waist now.

  He had his hands on her bottom and was holding her full weight. She felt quite safe, but more importantly, his penis was now at the right height.

  “Put me where ye need me, sweetheart,” he whispered.

  She reached between them and grasped him, conscious of his muttered curse as she did so. She couldn’t help a quick stroke up and down. He was so hard, so beautiful.

  “Silence…,” he warned.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. She put him at her entrance, biting her lip at his heavy heat. It felt so good—so right. For a moment she stilled. Would she ever be able to recover from this height if he walked away from her someday? She felt as if she were giving a part of herself. Something that could never be taken back again.

  He twisted and shoved and began to breach her and she looked up as he did.

  Michael—her Michael—was watching her, his nostrils flared, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

  She held his fierce gaze as she reached up and traced his cheek. “Make love to me.”

  He expelled his breath in a gust as he pulled out of her nearly all the way and then slammed back in. His pace was fast, nearly frantic and she held onto his shoulders and fought to keep from wailing.

  Oh, God, he was so powerful! She watched him. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, his lips curled back with his exertion. She wanted to kiss him, to embrace him and tell him he was everything to her, but all she could do was hold on and try not to fall apart when the explosion came.

  For it was fierce—as fierce as he. A burning, ripping tide of pleasure nearly as violent as it was wonderful. She felt as if her world was tossed up in the air and came down completely re-pieced. This was earth-shattering.

  This was love.

  She gasped at the realization and watched as it took him, as well. His head arched back and he shouted as he came, his body jerking against hers. He was magnificent, he awed her, but she felt a pang of melancholy. What did this act mean to him—if it meant anything at all?

  He laid his head against her shoulder, gasping as he caught his breath, and at first she didn’t hear him.

  Then the words rang too clear. “He betrayed me, m’love. Bran betrayed me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A great chest appeared before Clever John, as long as a horse and nearly as tall. When he lifted the lid he found gold coins, long strands of pearls as big as his thumb, and sparkling gems of every description. For a moment he merely stared in wonder. Then, belatedly, he remembered Tamara. He raised his head to thank her, but the girl was gone. Clever John stood alone in his garden with all the riches in the world. Only a single orange feather floated gracefully on the wind….

  —from Clever John

  “We took out four o’ the Vicar’s stills in Whitechapel,” Harry said to Mick late that afternoon. “And we toppled one o’ ’is wagons fair full o’ gin barrels.”

  Bert, lounging against the wall, grunted. “That were a pretty sight to see. Gin spillin’ everywhere and poor sods runnin’ to lap it up out o’ the channel in the middle o’ the street afore the soldiers came to drive them away.”

  Mick winced. He’d never had any sympathy for those who made and sold gin, but the thought of gin drinkers actually trying to drink spilled gin out of a foul channel was grotesque. “What soldiers?”

  Harry scratched his head. “There’ve been soldiers patrollin’ St. Giles, like, in the last few weeks.”

  Mick frowned. Soldiers didn’t just turn up out of the blue. Someone ordered them. Someone sent them. “Who commands them?”

  “Captain Trevillion,” Bert said.

  “And who gives him his orders?”

  “That we ’aven’t found out,” Harry admitted. “No one seems to know. But Trevillion’s a right prick. Strict about arrestin’ any gin sellers ’e finds, though they be mostly old bawds.”

  Mick snorted. “The Vicar must not like that.”

  Harry chuckled. “Naw, ’e don’t, and that’s a fact. ’Is men ’ave been arrested, as well.”

  Mick leaned back in his chair, considering. The Vicar might be feeling harried by this Trevillion, but he’d dealt with soldiers before—most often by bribing them. They wouldn’t stop him for long.

  He let the chair legs thump down. “Ye’ve done well, lads. But I’ve one more job for ye and it’s an important one.” Mick looked both men in the eye. “I need ye to guard Mrs. Hollingbrook and Mary—with yer lives.”

  Harry and Bert exchanged cautious glances.

  “O’ course,” Harry said. “But where will ye be, Mick?”

  Mick set his jaw and said quietly, “I’m goin’ to London to put Bran on a ship to the farthest corner o’ the globe. And then I’m goin’ to kill the Vicar.”

  Bert’s hairy eyebrows drew together. “Can’t ye send someone else to do the deed?”

  “No, this is somethin’ that must be done properly,” Mick said grimly. “I’ll see to it m’self.”

  Harry licked his lips nervously. “Why?”

  “Bran said that the Vicar won’t stop until he kills Mrs. Hollingbrook or me Mary Darlin’, and I believe him.”

  Bert hawked as if to spit and then glanced about the orderly study and thought better of it. “ ’E was a fuckin’ traitor was Bran. Can ye trust anythin’ ’e says now? Per’aps it’s some type o’ trap.”

  Mick studied the papers on his desk without seeing them. Bran had been pale and sweaty—sick with remorse, if Mick was any judge. “He betrayed us all, aye, but in this, I believe, he spoke the truth. He has no love for the Vicar now, I’m thinkin’. Fionnula died by the man’s order, mind.”

  Both Harry and Bert looked troubled at that reminder.

  But it was Harry who spoke for both of them. “Ye can count on us, Mick.”

  “Good,” Mick said quietly, “because I’m trustin’ me most precious possessions to ye.”

  “Right ye are, then,” Harry said.

  “They’re upstairs,” Mick said, “in the nursery. I don’t want ye to let them out o’ yer sight once I’ve gone, d’ye understand? I’ll leave tonight after supper.”

  The big man nodded and stumped out, followed by Bert.

  Mick sighed and studied the papers in front of him. With Bran gone and both Harry and Bert occupied guarding his lasses, getting into the Vicar’s house was going to be a delicate matter. He leaned back in his chair to think.

  By the time Mick left the study it was evening and he had a plan that should prove effective. But he was still mulling over the proble
m of a lack of men he could truly trust when he entered the dining room.

  Silence was already seated and for a moment all thoughts of his raid disappeared. He remembered her insistence that he tell her about Bran, her worried concern when she heard that he’d been betrayed. She soothed his soul, this woman.

  She wore a light green dress he’d had made for her, and the sight brought him a deep satisfaction. The dress was more modest than he would’ve liked—she’d wrapped a lace fichu over her shoulders and tucked it into the low neckline—but he’d provided it for her and she’d worn it. His eyes narrowed, studying the pretty picture she made sitting at his table. He’d have to order more gowns. Several morning dresses and at least one more elegant gown she could wear to the opera.

  She smiled suddenly, the sight bringing a rush of warmth to his heart. “Why are you looking at me like that? Should I be nervous?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “I’m thinkin’ on the gowns I’ll have made for ye.”

  The smile remained on her face, but her eyes somehow looked sad. “Are you? Then you think I’ll be living with you for some time?”

  He froze in the act of lifting his wineglass. “D’ye have any doubt?”

  She shrugged. “We haven’t discussed the matter and I don’t know your mind. You are an extremely hard man to read, Mr. Rivers.”

  He took a sip of wine while he considered her words. She hadn’t said she was against living with him, simply that she hadn’t known his mind.

  “I do wish ye to stay,” he said slowly, setting his glass down. “I can give ye many fine gowns—rooms full, if it’s yer wish.”

  “That’s quite generous of you,” she said in a gentle voice.

  He looked at her sharply. There seemed to be some subtext of this conversation that he was missing. “Ye can live here wi’ little Mary Darlin’ and do as ye wish with yer days. I’ll buy ye a carriage and there’s the garden to tend.”

  “How kind.”

  His mouth tightened. Pushing. She was always pushing him. From this afternoon’s argument over Bran to this now. He’d already let her in, already offered her his house and himself. “What more do ye want? It’s more than yer husband provided for ye, ye must admit.”