by Kate Bateman
* * *
Alex wanted her lost, as mindless as himself, begging for what he burned to give.
She groaned in frustration when he pulled away and rose over her and he sucked in a steadying breath, fighting the need to spread her open and simply thrust into her. She incited him to mayhem, to madness. Instead, he slid into her so slowly, they both gasped. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.
So good. So good. So good. She fit him like a glove.
He was dangerously close. He closed his eyes, determined to bring her to completion before reaching it himself, and was rewarded with a breathless cry as he rocked his hips. He repeated the move, building a rhythm that had her clawing at his back.
“Yes. That. More,” she cried.
Suddenly desperate, he cupped her face and kissed her deeply, his tongue probing in harmony with his thrusts. Sublime. She was with him, all around him, and he felt his climax building as she flung her head back and reached her own peak with a hoarse little cry.
The feel of her convulsing around him was enough to set him off. He pulled out of her at the very last second as stars exploded behind his closed eyelids and he was hit with a punch of pleasure so strong it almost knocked him senseless.
He collapsed against her in blissful, panting exhaustion and buried his face in her neck, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Bloody hell. What a woman.
Chapter 36.
Emmy held Alex against her as they both struggled to catch their breath. She stroked his back and broad shoulders and stared up at the canopy above her with a kind of dazed wonder.
Blissful lethargy suffused her body. She was boneless, and yet she hummed with a purring, contented energy. She felt invincible. As if she’d stolen fire from the heavens or conquered some impossible mountain peak.
Her heart turned over in her chest as the world came back into focus. Despite that final, frenzied climax, it hadn’t felt like mindless coupling. It had felt like making love. The teasing expression on Alex’s face, the gentle way he’d coaxed her toward pleasure, the ardency of his kisses all spoke of something deeper and more complicated than mere lust.
Or was it just wishful thinking on her part? Maybe he looked at every woman he bedded with that same tender, exasperated expression. Maybe he kissed all his lovers as if they were the only woman in the world.
And when had she started thinking of him as Alex, instead of Harland?
Emmy closed her eyes in despair at her own foolishness. She was in love, but she had no idea how to define their relationship. Theirs had been such a strange courtship. A wicked, flirtatious game of cat and mouse brimming with mistrust and reluctant admiration. Some wishful, stubborn part of her insisted they were becoming friends, as well as lovers, but the pragmatic side of her knew how ridiculous that was.
I don’t think we can really class ourselves as friends, he’d said.
It was true. Her crimes, though committed under duress, were inescapable, and Alex’s adherence to the law was strict. She couldn’t expect him to change, nor would she want him to. His loyalty to his profession, to seeing justice done, was one of the things she loved most about him.
She doubted her reluctance would count for anything in a court of law. The fact that she hadn’t wanted to steal those jewels would be of no interest to a judge.
She stroked Alex’s hair as he rolled off her with a mumbled apology and dragged the sheets over them both. He gathered her into his arms and pulled her back against his body in an embrace that brought bittersweet tears to her eyes.
She was well and truly caught, in a snare of her own making. Alex had no need for cuffs or physical restraints. He’d bound her with passion. With love. And like an opium addict, or a hardened gamester, she couldn’t stop craving more, even when she knew it would lead to ruin.
From her position, lying on her side, she could see the tin containing the jewels resting on the window seat. Time was running out. She could almost feel the noose tightening about her neck. A dreadful sense of finality weighed down upon her, and she felt the sudden, urgent need to wring out every precious moment that remained, to impress it upon her memory like a brand.
The candle still flickered on the chest of drawers, and the fire lent a primitive glow to the room. She turned within Alex’s arms. He lowered his chin to look down at her with a sleepy, quizzical expression, and she stroked her thumb across his cheek, marveling at the fact that she was free to do so. The right to touch him was still a novelty.
“Did you know that your eyes are the precise color of the Bleu du Roi?”
She had no idea where that nonsensical thought had come from, but he smiled, apparently not displeased by her desire to talk. He traced the worry lines that had appeared between her brows with the tip of his index finger, then stroked the length of her nose.
“I have another word for you,” he murmured. “Have you ever wondered what the space just here, between someone’s eyebrows, is called?” He found the place again, and Emmy frowned instinctively, creating a furrow beneath his finger.
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
He smoothed her eyebrows. “The English don’t have a word for it, but the Spanish do. Entrecejo.” He tapped her on the tip of the nose, as if he were scolding a naughty puppy, and she fought a smile. He looked so pleased with himself.
She raised one eyebrow and tried to adopt a condescending tone. “All right. I’ll admit that you’ve proven far more useful than I ever imagined in providing me with new and interesting words.”
His lips twitched. “Oh, I do hope I’ve proved educational in several other areas as well, Miss Danvers,” he drawled.
She managed a weary chuckle, and he pulled her close.
“Sleep now,” he ordered.
He gave a jaw-cracking yawn and closed his eyes, the epitome of sated masculinity, and Emmy gazed at him in wonder. His hair was ruffled, his lips pink from kissing. He looked younger, more boyish than usual, and she felt a sudden rush of affection. It was odd, to see him like this, so unguarded. She had a feeling that only a select few had been allowed to see the coolly controlled Lord Melton so at ease. An aching sweetness filled her. She was glad she’d been permitted to see it.
Without opening his eyes, he pulled her even more snugly against him and tucked her head beneath his chin. They fitted together perfectly. Emmy rested her hand on his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
Would he regret these moments they’d spent together? Would he remember her with affection, when she was no longer a part of his life?
* * *
He made love to her again just before dawn.
Emmy had been having a blisteringly erotic dream in which she’d been under him, his big body pinning her down, his wicked hands exploring every inch of her. I have plenty of friends, he’d whispered in her ear. What I require is … an adversary. Do you think you can do that for me, Miss Danvers? Do you think you can keep running forever?
She’d surfaced hot and frustrated, wrapped in the sheets, only to discover Alex—real Alex, not dream Alex—cupping her breasts and kissing the nape of her neck as he pressed up against her back. The hard length of him slid between her bottom cheeks, and she sucked in a surprised gasp as he rubbed himself between her thighs.
Her blood heated. In an instinctive move, she tilted her hips and he pushed into her from behind. She rocked herself back against him and delighted in his throaty groan and the new sensations the position offered.
He withdrew and rolled onto his back, coaxing her to sit on top of him. With her knees pressing into the mattress by his hips, her hands flat on his chest, she quickly grasped the concept. She slid slowly down onto his shaft, enjoying the heady sense of power as she learned to control the pace.
After a while he pulled her forward and she stretched out on top of him. Her breasts brushed his hair-roughened chest, a delicious foreign abrasion. Her toes brushed the front of his shins. He caught her hips and moved within her, and the
new angle hit a spot deep inside her that promised ecstasy. She ground herself against him, desperate to fan the flames, and it wasn’t long before she was holding her breath and plunging headlong into that whirlpool of bliss.
She never wanted the sun to rise.
Chapter 37.
Alex drifted into consciousness slowly, becoming aware of a pleasant lassitude, a general feeling of well-being. Sunlight warmed the side of his face. Without opening his eyes, he let the sensation bubble up inside him and spread out, and he realized with a slight shock that he was happy. Not merely content, but joyful. He wanted to leap out of bed, fling open the window, and shout out his happiness to the world. He felt invincible, as optimistic as he could ever recall.
Last night with Emmy had been extraordinary. He slid his hand sideways, searching for her, and encountered only cool sheets. He sat up, seized with sudden panic, and glanced around the room.
Where was she? Had she played him false? Sneaked back to London without him? The little—
No. She was sitting in the window embrasure in her chemise, her knees drawn up to her chest, looking out at the inn yard. She turned when she heard him move and gave him a shy, tentative smile as if unsure of her reception.
The morning light behind her made a halo of the soft curly fuzz of her unbrushed hair, a red-orange glow around her head, and Alex was momentarily struck dumb. With that peachy glow to her cheeks, pink lips, and those damnable freckles, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to cradle her against him at the same time as he wanted to overpower her. He tamped down a fierce tide of lust.
Sometime over the past twenty-four hours, he’d come to a decision. He couldn’t turn her over to Bow Street. She needed his protection. Not just from prosecution, but from Danton too. And the best way he could think of to do that, after catching Danton and having him tried for the Italian’s murder—was to give her the protection of his name.
He was the Earl of Melton. If she married him, even if Bow Street did decide to prosecute her for the theft of the jewels, as the wife of an earl she could claim “privilege of peerage.” As a countess, she couldn’t be arrested or imprisoned, except at the request of her fellow peers. She would have the right to be tried by a jury of peers in the House of Lords, who would determine her sentence, and—since she wouldn’t be accused of either treason or murder, the two exceptions to the rule—even if she were found guilty, she could escape punishment if it was her first offence.
Alex was hoping she could avoid prosecution altogether if they returned all the jewels to the Prince Regent, not just the diamond she’d stolen from Rundell & Bridge. Prinny was immensely fond of grand, dramatic gestures, and he never tired of opportunities to flaunt his benevolence. He’d be thrilled at the idea of being able to present the missing French crown jewels to the French ambassador or to the newly reinstated King Louis at the next state visit.
The Prince was also a fan of settling feuds by marrying enemies off to one another. A secret romantic at heart, he abhorred violence and always preferred a peaceful solution to any problem. Alex would personally vouchsafe his wife’s future good behavior and swear to keep her out of trouble.
He almost laughed aloud. Good God. Was he mad? He’d never thought he would marry, at least, not for another decade or so. And yet the idea of being wed to Emmy Danvers wasn’t unappealing. Quite the opposite.
He was attracted to her in ways he hadn’t experienced with any other woman. If he married her, he could kiss her whenever he wanted. And yet his desire wasn’t completely sexual. Lust was undeniably a factor, but there was more to it than that. He loved her strength, her bravery, her quick wit. He loved catching her eye in a shared joke across the room, the way they seemed able to engage in silent communication. He appreciated her humor, and even the quiet moments, holding her in the darkness, just standing next to her without speaking. She engaged his mind. His heart.
Alex blinked. Good God. Was he in love? The kind of thing the poets went on about?
It definitely wasn’t the moping, gloomy love of Shelley, or the quiet admiration of Keats. Nor was it the desperate, soul-rending agony of Byron. But the prickly, teasing, exasperating love of Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Benedick, or Katherina and Petruchio?
Maybe.
There were so many things he didn’t know about her, things a man ought to know before considering a woman for his life partner. What foods she liked and disliked, whether she could play a musical instrument. How she took her tea.
But they were minor, of no real import. At her core, he knew her. Despite her crimes, he believed in her intrinsic goodness. She was not unkind or unfeeling. She cared deeply for those who had her trust, and she would defend those lucky enough to be in her inner circle to the death.
She would have made a bloody good soldier.
He couldn’t wait to learn all the tiny inconsequential things about her. Things that would doubtless drive him mad, or fascinate him, or delight him in equal measure.
She was pragmatic, a realist. She wouldn’t refuse him. She would recognize that this was the best option available to her. The one that would cause her family the least amount of distress.
He supposed it could be called a marriage of convenience—at least for her. He’d always thought that a singularly stupid phrase. Everything about the woman was inconvenient.
His own family would doubtless say he’d made a dreadful mésalliance, but he had a reputation for doing things out of the ordinary. This might well prove to be his greatest scandal yet. They’d recovered from the disgrace of him owning a gambling club, however. They would recover from this. His father had been after him for ages to settle down and start providing him with grandchildren. And besides, who cared what anyone else thought? He wanted Emmy, with that clever mind and tart mouth. He could do far worse for a wife.
Maybe marriage would be good for him. He’d seen a change in Benedict since he’d married his Georgiana. He was happier, more settled, as if Georgie had added an extra dimension to his life that had been missing.
Alex had grown so accustomed to living with partial sight that he was barely conscious of the lack. But what if he suddenly regained his complete field of vision? Maybe marriage was like that? Like gaining something you never knew you’d been missing and finding your life immeasurably richer because of it. He prayed it would be so.
“You don’t seem to be much of a morning person, Harland.”
Emmy’s amused greeting jolted him from his thoughts, and he realized with some chagrin that he’d just been staring at her like an idiot for the past few minutes.
“Morning,” he croaked. His voice was almost an octave lower from sleep, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Morning, Miss Danvers. I trust you slept well.”
He took pleasure in the delicate pink flush that warmed her cheeks. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of embarrassing her. He ran his fingers through his hair, then over his jaw, testing the need for a shave, which was a pointless move considering he didn’t have a razor with him and there was no way he’d trust a blade provided by this establishment. It would probably be rusty and blunt. He’d slice his own ear off.
“We should go,” she said briskly. “We need to get back to London so you can organize your ambush for Danton. We don’t have much time.” She glanced away from his bare chest and looked out of the window with a worried frown. “What shall we do about the carriage? I doubt we’ll be able to find a wheelwright who can fix it in time. I can’t ride all the way back to London.”
Alex flipped back the covers and put his feet on the floor. She kept her gaze primly averted. He suppressed a smile. He found his breeches and tugged them on, along with his stockings and shirt. His boots were a disaster. Though dry, they were almost impossible to pull on, but he managed it at last and turned to her.
“I’ll go down to the taproom and see if there’s anything to eat for breakfast. And I’ll enquire about hiring a vehicle of some sort.”
He made a po
int of looking inside the jewel box to make sure it was still full, and she sent him a withering look.
“Do you really think I’ve had time to hide them somewhere?”
He hefted the box in his arms and gave her a charming smile. “Better safe than sorry. I know the dangers of underestimating you, my love. You should be flattered.”
She sniffed, only partly mollified.
He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back at her. “Don’t worry about Danton. I spoke to Seb—Lord Mowbray—before we left and told him to be ready. Believe me, this isn’t the first ambush we’ve ever set. Get dressed. Come down when you’re ready.”
Chapter 38.
The trip back to London was uneventful.
The horse that had escaped during the storm had been discovered with its reins caught in a bramble bush a few miles down the road and had been brought to the inn, apparently none the worse for its adventure. Alex had managed to procure a shabby but serviceable closed carriage from a Reverend Blythe, a local clergyman.
It was a decrepit old thing, with moth-eaten curtains, metal springs, and horsehair stuffing poking out of the seats. It smelled of mildew and wet dog, but its wheels were sound, and Emmy didn’t care how awful it was, provided it got them back to London in time to save Luc.
At Stamford, Alex collected his original mount, a handsome stallion named Bey, and their original coachman. As before, he rode alongside the carriage, leaving Emmy alone with her tumultuous thoughts.
There had been no one else in the taproom when they’d taken breakfast, save the obsequious landlord, and they’d endured an excruciatingly polite meal. Alex would reach for his silverware, or lift his coffee mug, and her attention would be drawn to his wrist, or his lips. A brief image of last night’s lovemaking would flash into her brain. She’d spent the entire meal trying to will the embarrassed heat from her cheeks.
Harland’s amused, knowing looks, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, hadn’t helped matters at all.
