Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6

by Scott, Scarlett

  Lord. This was fast unraveling. “I don’t want to go home with you, Father.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn. I’m your father and it’s my duty to protect you, especially if you refuse to protect yourself.” His blue gaze snapped with fury.

  “I won’t go with you,” she denied again, for she was where she belonged. Nothing in her life had ever felt so simply, preciously right. Yes, there was no other word for it except one. One she’d refused to think up until this moment as she faced her father’s paternal wrath and protectiveness.

  One simple and terrifying word. An emotion as powerful as it was bewildering.

  “I’ve fallen in love with Lord Ravenscroft,” she blurted. “I won’t leave him.”

  Chapter 13

  Julian stared into the darkness and willed his fierce arousal to abate. His head ached with a low, steady throb, a needling reminder that he wasn’t entirely healed of his injury. That alone should’ve been enough to keep his mind from Clara, who was likely sleeping the slumber of the innocent just next door while he tortured himself with images of her lovely curves. Now he knew the precise color of her nipples. A lush, warm pink, sweeter than any rose he’d ever seen abloom. Now he knew her taste as intimately as he knew her musky citrus scent. And he bloody well knew how it felt to sink inside her tight, wet heat and lose himself.

  It felt like pure heaven on earth, that’s what.

  And if the sentiment rendered him nothing more than a mooning imbecile, well, it couldn’t be helped. For she had infected him, had ravaged his body and his mind as completely as any disease. He could only think of her. Of wanting her. No, damn it, more than that. Of needing her.

  Ah, it was true. He needed Clara more than he’d ever needed anyone or anything in his life. He needed her more than money, more than liquor, more than sin. I’m here because I care, she’d said to him, earnest and without artifice. She cared for him. The idea had been so laughable—that a lovely innocent as pure and true as Clara could somehow care for a reprobate like him—that he’d been ill equipped to deal with his reaction.

  So he’d made an ass of himself, settling into his familiar mantle of aloof apathy. He’d pushed her away. He regretted his actions now as he waited for sleep to claim him. He wished he could be a man worthy of her love, one who had not given away so many pieces of himself that almost nothing remained.

  But sleep didn’t seem to be forthcoming. He’d damn well tried everything to lose himself into the abyss of slumber. He’d tossed back a not insubstantial quantity of whisky before settling into bed. He’d taken a tepid bath in an effort to cool his ardor. He’d turned up a lamp and settled on a volume of particularly dry poetry. He’d turned the lamp back down and tossed the volume aside.

  He’d used his own hand to reach his release twice already.

  Nothing he’d tried thus far had been effective. He was still hard as marble, his thoughts consumed by her, wishing he hadn’t decided to let her rest for the night without taking her again. Surely she was sore. She’d been a virgin. He’d done his best to blunt the pain but he’d still torn into her like a savage, and there’d been blood enough to show that their lovemaking hadn’t been entirely pleasant for her.

  Tomorrow he would make it up to her. Tomorrow, he’d woo her and charm her, strip her bare and touch and kiss and lick every beautiful bit of her. Tonight, however, was another matter. Tonight, he was tortured and frustrated, feeling like an amnesiac who’d woken within a strange body, uncertain of who he was and how he ought to act.

  To hell with trying to sleep. He threw back the bedclothes and turned the lamp up, searching for the trousers he’d discarded in one of his fitful attempts to distract himself. As he pulled them up over his hips, an odd sound cut into his heavy musings.

  Very odd indeed. It was muffled and high, almost like a cry. A series of muted thumps followed the sound. His mouth went dry as a surge of unadulterated fear surged up his spine and exploded into a thousand jagged splinters. For a moment, he remained still, listening, praying he was wrong, that he was overreacting. Another high, shrill sound split the night.

  A muffled scream.

  Jesus, it was Clara’s muffled scream.

  Heart hammering in his chest, he ran to the door adjoining their chambers. The knob refused to turn. Locked, goddamn it. Who had the key? Did he? Damn it, the chamber had been empty for so long, and his servants were so sparse, that only God knew where the key could possibly be. There wasn’t time to ring for a servant. There wasn’t time to try the hall door. Clara was within, and she needed him.

  No one would hurt her. Not his Clara. No.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself into the door, shoulder first. Wood cracked. The door didn’t budge. Bracing himself, he summoned all the strength and unholy anger, the fierce urge to protect his wife, and slammed himself back into the portal. He’d break down the bloody door, and when he crossed the threshold, Lord have mercy on the bastard on the other side.

  Because Julian was going to fucking kill him.

  * * *

  She woke to a heavy body pressing her to the mattress. As sleep left her and awareness returned, part of her knew something was wrong. The body atop hers was too heavy and bulky. The scent of him was all wrong too. He was breathing heavy, and the smell of spirits and smoke clung to him.

  No, it was not Julian who had laid himself upon her above the bedclothes. It was a stranger. A large man. A man who intended to do her harm.

  She let loose a scream but a hand clamped over her mouth and nose. She could scarcely breathe. She struggled to free her arms, but they were trapped beneath the bedclothes and her attacker’s weight. Dear God, he meant to kill her. Whoever had attacked Julian had come for her this time. And he was going to murder her in her bed.

  Still fighting to breathe, she forced her mouth open and sank her teeth into the fleshy pads of her assailant’s fingers. She bit him as hard as she could. Until she tasted the copper tang of blood and heard him curse her.

  “Damn it, you bitch.” His other hand snagged in her hair, gripping it so hard that tears ran down her cheek at the awful, wrenching pain.

  But she was in a fight for her life, and if she had any say in the matter, her husband would not wake up in the morning to find her body, limp and broken lying in her bed. She would live for him, for herself, for the life they’d build together. She bit down harder, summoning up all the fury within her.

  He released her hair. “Goddamn it.”

  His fist connected with her cheek, gnashing her teeth together. White stars flew before her eyes in the inky darkness. In her shock, she released her grip on his finger, and he didn’t waste a moment in striking. His hands clamped on her neck, tightening.

  “You’re going to die tonight, you little American bitch,” he growled.

  Dear God. Perhaps she was. She choked, struggling to breathe in, but no air would find her lungs. His grip was so tight. And the blow to her head had made her weak. The lack of air made her weaker still. But she had to continue fighting. She thrashed her legs on the bed, thumping as hard as she could. Perhaps someone would hear. Her fingers clawed at her attacker’s manacle-like hands, scratching and scraping and trying to draw more blood, then to his face when she failed. He kneed her in the stomach, sending a fresh wall of pain crashing over her.

  She couldn’t free herself. Her vision seemed hazy and indistinct now, even in the darkness. The stars returned, along with a buzzing in her ears. So this was it. She was going to die after all, she thought in grim horror. And she hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell Julian she loved him. To bear him children. To take away his sadness.

  Life seemed to slip from her. She could feel it leaving. The darkness was there, beckoning, waiting to claim her. Another minute and it would all be over. She’d be gone. She wanted to fight, but her body, attacked and starved of air, wouldn’t cooperate.

  Suddenly, her assailant released her throat and rolled away from her, his weight leaving her body. She ga
sped, the breath returning to her aching lungs a violent shock. Her hands went to her neck where just seconds before, her unseen attacker’s fingers hand been. She rubbed, trying to bring the life back, trying to erase the pain and the violence both.

  A part of her processed the sound of her attacker cursing and then the quick, hefty thuds of his footfalls racing across her chamber. A second set of footfalls sounded. She braced herself, uncertain if they belonged to one of his confederates. Just as quickly, the footsteps hastened back to her side. Someone else was upon her then, and this time it was a welcome embrace, for she smelled his cologne, felt his arms around her in their familiar, beloved strength. His bristled cheek pressed to hers.

  Julian, thank God.

  “Clara!” His voice was hoarse, and he clasped her to his bare chest as though he could pull her inside himself and keep her there forever. “Jesus, Clara, are you hurt? Speak to me, love. Say something.”

  “I’m alive,” she croaked in awe, her brain still stupid with lack of air and shock, still trying to process what had just occurred.

  “Thank Christ. My God, what did he do to you? I’ll hunt him down and draw and quarter him myself.” There was a vicious, raw edge to his tone she’d never heard before.

  When he would’ve left her and chased after her attacker, she clutched at his shoulders. “No, Julian, please. Don’t leave me.”

  Terror, wide and deep and all-consuming, filled her chest at the thought of being alone in the dark again. What if whoever had tried to kill her would return? What if Julian wouldn’t be there to frighten him away and keep her safe? Her pistol had done her no good tonight, tucked into her reticule as it was and too far out of reach. She shook so badly that she knew she’d never have managed a good shot anyhow.

  If she’d ever fancied herself invincible, that illusion had been thoroughly dashed. She’d never felt more desperate or helpless than she had with a stranger’s hands clamped around her throat and the life seeping from her body. A sob rose in her chest, and to her shame she couldn’t contain it.

  “Hush, darling.” He caressed her hair, rained kisses all over her face. “I’ll not leave you. He won’t hurt you again. You have my word.”

  His reassurance somehow helped to banish some of the horror that threatened to take hold of her. She continued to gulp air, and breathing—never before a luxury—felt better than it ever had. “Julian, he wanted to kill me. He told me I was going to die tonight.”

  “Any man who dares try to hurt you will need to go through me. I’ll damn well kill him first,” Julian growled. “Listen to me, love. Whoever he is, he cannot come after you and expect to get away with it. I’ll hunt down the son-of-a-bitch myself and make him pay.”

  If only his words could assuage her fears entirely. For tonight had made it painfully clear that whoever was determined to do him harm wouldn’t stop until he’d accomplished his evil task. Either that or meet his own end first. And now he’d come after Clara as well. A shiver tore through her. Her thoughts raced to Julian’s sisters next. “Do you think he’s still within the house? We need to find Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra.”

  He kissed her again before standing. “Stay here, love. I’m going to ring for the servants and turn up the lamps.”

  Clara hugged herself, her body shaking with a combination of cold and shock. Her nightdress was only a thin impediment to the night air. Light flared to life, illuminating the chamber in a dull glow. Ordinarily, the sight of Julian clad in only trousers slung over his lean hips, his chest broad and bare, would have made her warm and wanton. But panic was beginning to set in now. She rubbed her neck where the stranger’s fingers had pressed. How much longer would it have been until he’d taken her life?

  Never mind her own brush with death. There could still be a lunatic on the loose. Others could be in the selfsame danger while they lingered in her chamber. Clara summoned her wits, took a calming breath, and slid from her bed. “We must find your sisters, Julian,” she said again.

  He was looking at her strangely, an inscrutable expression on his face, his gaze going from her neck to her throbbing cheek. “Jesus, Clara. Why didn’t you tell me he’d hit you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine could be at peril even now.”

  “The bastard ran for the stairs, not toward their chamber.” He held out a dressing gown for her, his jaw a hard, grim line. “Put this on, love. You can’t go running about the house like that.”

  She allowed him to help her into the robe, and when she would have tightened the cord at her waist, he gently brushed her away, doing it himself. “I could have managed it,” she told him.

  “I know.” The words seemed torn from him. “But I wanted to. I—goddamn it Clara, I need to touch you. To know you’re still here.”

  His tone held a note of incredulity, as though he could not believe he felt that way, much less confessed it aloud. Then he hauled her to him again, the gesture devoid of his usual seductive charm. The motion was jerky, nearly bringing their faces colliding together. His eyes roamed over her as his fingertips traced, gliding across her smarting cheek, past her lips, across the bruises she was sure had begun to mottle her throat. It was the closest he’d ever come to admitting he cared for her.

  A sudden burst of love blossomed inside her chest, warm and altogether foreign, doing its part to chase away some of the lingering shadows. “I’m here,” she told him, kissing his cheek, his chin, every patch of his skin available to her. Finally, she settled on his mouth.

  The kiss they shared was long and fierce and deep. It said more than either of them could as they rejoiced in their relief to be in each other’s arms, life still a vibrant creature of fragile possibility. For now, they had each other. They were safe. And it was enough.

  With great reluctance, she drew away from him. “We must see to the rest of the household, Julian.”

  “Of course. Forgive me. I’ve never…” He allowed the thought to trail off, as though thinking better of it, before catching her hand in his, their fingers tangling. “I’ll not let you out of my sight for the rest of the night.”

  She tightened her grip on him. With Julian, she felt safe. She felt as though they could battle whatever menace sought to claim them and come out the victors. “I wouldn’t let you,” she assured him. “Not tonight or ever again.”

  But as they ventured off together to find his sisters who, as it turned out, remained peacefully sleeping in their beds, having been unaware of any commotion at all, it occurred to Clara that he had remained troublingly silent.

  Chapter 14

  Hours later, Julian found himself in much the same position he’d been in before all hell had cut loose within the walls of his home. Nude in his bed, his cock rigid as ever. But this time, a beautiful woman, smelling of orange and musk, just as nude as he, curled her sweet body to his. Her cheek rested on his bare chest. His hand stroked over her glossy, fragrant curls. It wasn’t right to want her as much as he did now, not after all she’d been through. But his body wouldn’t heed his bloody mind, so he kept his lower half angled away from her, hoping like hell she hadn’t noticed what a depraved bastard he was.

  Ah yes, much the same position indeed. Hungry for his wife. Unable to sleep. But beyond the physicality of it all, everything was different. Strange how in such a short amount of time, so much could change.

  Everything could change.

  He could have lost Clara tonight.

  It had been a litany hammering through him the entire time he’d roused the servants, checked upon the safety of his sisters, and scoured the house for any signs of the intruder. In the end, they hadn’t found a damn thing. The police had been summoned, and they’d taken statements but had accomplished precious little. They certainly hadn’t discovered any clues as to who had attempted to murder Clara.

  The mere juxtaposition of his wife’s name and murder in the same thought left him feeling as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs. As tho
ugh the weight of a cartload of bricks sat upon him, as though his gut was tied in knots, his skin a bizarre blend of hot and cold, simultaneously numb and on fire. A world without Clara. He couldn’t fathom such a travesty. By God, there ought not to be a world at all without her in it.

  He had not lost her, and he could thank the Lord for that a hundred thousand times and his gratitude would still never be adequately expressed. If indeed the Lord cared to listen to a sinner like him, that was. But not losing her wasn’t the point any longer, not now.

  For he could have lost her. Had he been any slower to break down the door, had he been sleeping instead of awake and brooding, had she not been as strong and fierce a fighter as she was, he wouldn’t have her warm, lovely curves draped over him. She’d have been murdered in her bed, just next door, because of him. Because he had unwittingly brought danger into her life.

  Whitney’s words echoed through his mind. How can you keep her safe? What would happen if the villain who assaulted you returns to finish the deed here in your home? What if Clara is in the way? And what had Julian done but mocked him? This isn’t war, he’d scoffed. But tonight had proved him wrong. Dead wrong. It was war. He’d tear out the throat of the man who’d dared to create such bruises on Clara’s tender skin, who’d dared to attempt to choke the life from her while she slept in her bed.

  A hunger for retribution burned through him. A bloodlust. A desperation to right the wrongs of the night. Tonight, he’d done what he did best his entire life: he’d failed. He’d failed Clara, much as he’d failed at everything he’d ever tried. Being a good son, rescuing himself from debt without selling his soul, keeping his bloody wife safe.