Psyché, lantern in hand, was beside him in a heartbeat. ‘Watch him,’ she murmured. ‘Right pocket. A pistol, I think.’
Will’s veins iced. What if he’d been delayed, or hadn’t been returning? What if—? He thrust the distraction of what ifs aside. He nodded and followed Winthrop down the stairs, careful to stay back far enough so he could watch the man’s hands.
But Winthrop made no move to try for the pistol if indeed he had one. They reached the front door and Psyché set the lantern down and unlocked the door.
‘Elaborate precautions for a second-rate shop,’ Winthrop sneered.
Psyché’s smile flashed. ‘For the second-rate intruders, Lucius. Goodnight.’
He strode through the door, glanced down the street and raised one hand. The small black carriage Will had noticed earlier started forward, but Winthrop turned back.
‘Tell me, Barclay—I was acquainted with a George Barclay years ago. Older than myself. He’s been dead these twenty years. A connection of yours by any chance?’
The carriage had nearly reached them and Will’s skin prickled. ‘Very likely you refer to my father.’
As the carriage drew up, he caught Psyché’s arm, dragged her back into the shop and slammed the door. He turned the key immediately.
‘Will—?’
Will shook his head, gestured for her to step back and shot the bolts. Psyché, ignoring his wordless instruction, cracked open a small, sliding port he’d never noticed in the wall beside the door.
Together they listened, scarcely breathing, on either side of the opening.
The carriage rumbled to a halt.
‘Sir? Thought you said—’
‘Shut up!’
‘But where’s—?’
‘One more word and you’re dismissed!’
‘Yes, sir.’
The carriage door opened and closed. With a rumble of wheels and a clatter of hooves it rolled off down the street.
‘Damn,’ Psyché muttered. ‘We might have learnt something. Probably he could see the light through the peep.’ She closed it.
‘We did learn something,’ Will said grimly. ‘He wasn’t expected to be alone.’ He forced himself to stay calm. ‘He was after you. And when you declined to co-operate he was prepared to take you by force.’
She caught her breath. ‘To force me to tell them where Kit is? He offered a bribe, but—’
‘I doubt he meant to pay up. But if he could get you outside...’ Will let out a very careful breath. ‘Now he knows I’m here for the night.’ He gave her a level glance. ‘We’d better make it clear that I’m here indefinitely.’
* * *
Psyché opened her mouth and closed it. There were some arguments you couldn’t win and she’d tilted at enough windmills in her life to recognise one when she saw it. Instead, she lifted the bar.
‘I was intending to be a little more discreet than that.’
‘Yes.’ He helped her set the heavy bar. ‘So was I. But your safety trumps discretion.’
The laugh that escaped felt wild, uncontrolled. She bore down. ‘Are you staying to make love with me, or to protect me?’
He hesitated and she felt as though something in her was waiting, desperate for the answer.
‘Are you accepting me as your lover?’
‘Can you accept that I will be your lover, not your mistress?’ She would never take a man who saw her as anything less than his equal.
His smile shook her to the core. ‘I really can’t afford a mistress as such, you know. But, yes. So my protection goes without saying, sweetheart.’
Her breath suddenly ragged at the heat in his eyes, she held out her hand. ‘Come then.’
There were no more words as she led him back up the stairs and into the apartment, just the lantern and the shadows that shifted around them in gentle benediction. She took a moment to tend the fire, banking it for the night.
When she rose to douse the lamp he was watching her, fiercely intent. ‘No lamp?’
She touched a taper to the fire. ‘This will be enough.’
The lit taper danced and trembled in her hand as she brought it into the bedroom. She did not often light the bedroom fire, but tonight was for warmth and joy, light and truth. It was the work of a moment to touch the taper to the kindling, add coals as it caught.
Light flared, surrounding them, infusing them as she straightened and lifted her hand to touch his cheek, trace the slightly scratchy line of his jaw with her fingertips. He stood utterly still as she traced the edge of his lower lip, felt the warmth, the heat rising between them.
‘Psyché,’ he whispered.
It was statement and question all in one and her name had never sounded so sweet. As though the man who spoke tasted it on his tongue like the richest chocolate.
‘Yes.’ Such a simple word to encompass so much. She wanted it to mean everything between them. Consent, reassurance, joy and desire. She rose on her toes, slipped her arms around his neck and touched her mouth to his.
The very air fizzed about them as slowly, slowly they deepened the kiss. She neither knew nor cared who was kissing, or who was kissed. They kissed each other as though they had been starved and this was a feast set before them. Trembling fingers found knots—her fichu, his cravat—and buttons, laces—his waistcoat and shirt, her bodice. Searching hands found bare flesh and fire-lit shadow played and gleamed on fair skin and bronze. A meeting, a melding, more than mere bodies wanting.
This was more. Something altogether deeper and more urgent. She had known pleasure, had given herself before with affection and desire. But this... Her head spun and her heart, her foolish heart, whirled after it.
Will’s mouth on hers, his taste—the man himself, spiced with wine and coffee—on her tongue. His hands, sure and gentle on her body. The drawstring of her chemise gave way at a tug and his forehead rested on hers, his unsteady breathing an echo of her own as he lightly traced the upper curve of one breast through the linen.
‘Love?’
Oh, yes. She wanted that. Wanted to know fully the delight of his hands on her breasts. But when he bared her, what would he see? Want slid in hot ripples under her skin. Burning, demanding. She wanted everything. All the more since he took nothing of her for granted. Could he accept all of her? She could only know by risking.
‘Yes. Yes, please.’
Another tug and the chemise fell open, baring her. She heard the sharp intake of his breath and then his caressing fingers made the linen free of one shoulder. He bent to her, kissed the strong curve. Her own hands shook as she returned the favour, eased his shirt tails from his breeches and helped him to pull it over his head, baring him to the waist.
Her eyes devoured him, and she leaned forward, pressed her mouth to the hollow at the base of his throat, dabbing at the slight saltiness with her tongue.
A rough groan broke from him and his mouth captured hers. A taking this time, a demand, fierce and hot, that she answered with everything in her. Clothes were cast aside, falling unheeded until only his breeches and boots, and her chemise remained between them. And then his hands slid over her hips, were at the hem of her chemise. And stilled.
Against her lips, the sweetest murmur—‘You permit?’
Permit? Her throat tight with unshed tears, she eased back, set her own hands to the garment and lifted it slowly over her head. For an instant, before his wondering gaze, she held it to her breasts, then opened her fingers and let it fall. Let him see.
Chapter Fifteen
Will’s mouth dried. For a moment he saw only her, the lovely wholeness of her. She stood before him, all gleaming, mysterious shadows in the firelight. Tall, slender, her tight curls, freed from all constraint, tumbled about her shoulders.
Shyness assailed him. What an oaf he must seem to her, this goddess revealed to his clumsy, mortal gaze. And t
here was the ugly scar now beneath his ribs, jagged and purple.
But then he saw and his own scar was as nothing. There, just below her right shoulder where her breast began its lovely rise—obscenity had been scorched into her living flesh in the shape of a W. For a moment he could not breathe as pain, shame, grief and rage all warred within him.
‘I’m sorry.’ Useless, inadequate words. Both for what had been done to her and to express his own guilt and shame.
‘No, Will,’ she whispered. ‘You did not do it, you were not responsible.’
Wasn’t he?
‘We all did it.’
A child. She had been a child when her—
‘He was your—’
‘He was my master, Will,’ she said. ‘He sired me, but he was not my father. Not then. Not ever really, but certainly not then. Neither in my thoughts nor his.’
She came to him, raised her mouth to his in a gentle kiss. ‘Don’t put this between us, Will. Don’t give them that.’
He answered her kiss. How could he not? And felt her fingers trace the bullet’s searing path.
‘Will.’ The softest murmur. ‘My Will. My warrior.’
Oh, God, he was nothing of the sort. He was—
She reached for the falls of his breeches.
He swallowed, as lust, desire, need and want stormed through him as the first button gave.
‘Psyché. Love.’ He had to fight just to breathe, had to remind himself to think.
‘Hmm?’
Another button fell, on the opposite side to the first. God, he loved a methodical woman. What was left of his mind threatened to combust spontaneously. He caught her wrist, drew her fingers away from the third button—right beneath the first.
‘Love, if you keep doing that, there’s every chance I won’t even get my boots off.’ And while the heated, uncivilised, unregenerate part of him suggested that the boots weren’t actually in the way, the remaining chivalrous, albeit feeble, corner of his brain thought they really ought to go.
The husky chuckle that escaped her did nothing to cool him, merely nudged the chivalrous, thinking part of him firmly aside.
‘My apologies. It’s been a while.’
His struggling brain reasserted itself marginally.
‘Then you’ve...you aren’t...’
He sounded like a halfwit and that was being generous. She drew back a little and he could have kicked his own sorry behind. Except his boots—hell! He was still wearing them!—were stuck in the quagmire he’d created.
‘A virgin?’ Her voice was even, uninflected, telling him precisely nothing.
Yes. That.
He nodded.
‘N-no.’ Only the slight hesitation betrayed her discomfort. ‘Should I be?’
Should she? Should he?
‘I’m not,’ he admitted. ‘Why should you be?’
That husky laugh again and her shoulders shook with it. And not just her shoulders.
‘Because society invents all sorts of contradictory rules for women that never apply to men. Do you mind?’
‘That I’m not a virgin?’ He smiled at her. ‘Not if you don’t.’
Her smile bloomed. ‘Not in the least. Shall I help you with your boots?’ A wicked edge honed the smile. ‘Or...not?’
‘Not?’ His mind went in at least three directions, all of them ungentlemanly.
‘Mmm.’ She almost herded him to the bed. ‘Excellent choice.’
He was, he realised on a shock of delight, as the backs of his thighs hit the bed, being seduced. Or ravished.
He rather thought it was the latter.
But a man had his pride, damn it. He drew her down with him and rolled to bring her under him. And saw white-hot stars that sliced through him like the pistol ball all over again.
He swore, as sweat that had nothing to do with desire broke out all over him.
She half came up on one elbow. ‘Will?’
‘It’s nothing.’ Damned if he’d—
‘Let’s try this.’ She sat up, shadows and firelight sliding on lithe curves, the dark mass of curls tumbling around her shoulders. One gentle hand pressed him back, the other stroked the length of his aching cock with wicked knowledge.
‘I don’t think he minds at all,’ she murmured.
Will choked out a laugh. ‘I can attest. Perhaps you’d like my boots?’
There was a sultry chuckle as she straddled him. ‘Maybe next time.’
The thought that there could be a next time sang through him, but he put it aside. Now was what he had. Now was important. Now was beautiful and vibrant. He set his hands to her hips and drew her down against him. Not that she needed guidance, but he needed to touch, to feel, needed to show her how much he wanted her.
She used her body, sliding over his with that lush, wet heat until his control quaked, pleasuring him and herself until he could take no more.
With a groan he reached between them, positioned himself at the tight, wet entrance. A gasp broke from her and she eased down a little way as he stroked and teased the sensitive nub of her sex, his other hand at her breasts. And he watched, spellbound, as she held there, kneeling above him, rocking, teasing them both with the promise of more, until with a growl of need Will grasped her hips and brought her down firmly, sheathing himself to the hilt. Her head fell back, her mouth open on a silent cry.
* * *
Pleasure, hot and deep, speared her as his body slid within hers. Her eyes closed at the nigh unbearable pressure of this first possession. His of her, and hers of him. And his hands—oh, God, his hands! One at her sex, sure and knowing, the other at her breasts a tender delight. She held still for a moment, to feel, to absorb it all. He filled her so completely, in ways she had never known, the earthy, physical pleasure soaking into her heart and soul. Changing them, changing her. Then, as his hands shifted back to her hips and thighs, she opened her eyes to look down.
The contrast, his pale, strong hands against her dark flesh, stirred her. Kneading, loving—so beautiful. Dark and light fitting together to make a lovely wholeness. She tried to rock, but he held her down now and moved under her, driving deep, so deep. And she was close, burning on the edge, desperate to go over. But he held her there in that blazing need, his eyes fierce on hers, hands locked on her hips and his shaft hard inside her.
One hand slid from her hip, through the wet curls to find her. He stroked and she gasped and rocked, frantic for more. He pressed, her head fell back on a wild cry as the world convulsed inside her, and she tumbled, sobbing from the cliff, everything that she was, or could be, burning.
She collapsed on to him as the shocks rolled through her and he groaned in pleasure, his mouth as hot and demanding as the rhythm of his thrusts. He rolled them and she was beneath him, his weight and heat covering her as he drove deep, again and again, until with a strangled curse, he pulled free and spent himself beside her.
She knew an instant’s regret mingled with tenderness that he had retained enough sanity to do his best to avoid that complication.
* * *
Her head nestled on Will’s shoulder, Psyché listened to his breathing as his big, gentle hand stroked her back. Beneath her cheek his heart beat steady and true. She thought that her own heart might never regain its true rhythm and pace. She wasn’t sure she knew what that was any more.
What had she done?
She’d never done this before. Never lain fully relaxed and warm, entangled with a lover in the aftermath. Her first brief experiences at eighteen had been with one of her uncle’s under-gardeners. She had chosen Jesse very deliberately because he was like her—the child of a slave woman and a planter.
Uncle Theo had given Jesse a position and his freedom after his erstwhile owner, who was also his sire, had attempted to ship him back to Jamaica for sale. Psyché had given him her virginity one bal
my summer’s evening after Hetty’s wedding.
Secrecy had been imperative for Jesse’s sake no less than her own. She had liked him, respected him, and she had certainly not wanted him to risk his livelihood for her.
She had taken another lover here in Soho, but it occurred to her now that she had never even considered giving Hugo a key, nor had he ever stayed the night. It had simply been sex, friendly and enjoyable. But he had found her brand disturbing and when they drifted apart she had accepted it with equanimity. Hugo had also been a little shocked and hurt when he realised that she was taking precautions to avoid pregnancy. He had insisted that of course he would do the right thing if she became pregnant. He had not liked that she preferred to rely on herself.
A couple of other men had courted her with an eye to marriage and she had blocked them at once. She had The Phoenix and her freedom. And although The Phoenix remained hers if she married because Uncle Theo had seen to that in the trust that protected her, she remained uneasy about the power a man had in marriage.
Recently she had avoided the complication of men. Partly because she was unwilling to lead a man on, hoping for more than she would give. And partly because she had wanted more, only she had had no idea what that more might be, or how she might have it safely.
She had a dreadful suspicion that she now knew exactly what that more was. But how could she have known? This terrifying intimacy of lying safe and sated in a man’s arms was completely new and she doubted that it would have felt so disconcertingly right with either Jesse or Hugo. They had been good men—kind, honest, affectionate even. But—
Neither of them had been Will.
And Will was safe. He would never want marriage, so her freedom, her independence would never be required of her. They could have a long-term affair without risk on either side.
But as that large, warm hand stroked, now circling her bottom, she wished for a world where there were no restrictions, no risks and no fear. She did not want to be other than she was. That would be to wish away Mam, or Uncle Theo, and she could not wish away love. So she snuggled closer to what she had. He had seen her brand and grieved. He hated that it had been done to her, but he had not been embarrassed as Hugo had been.
A Marriage of Equals Page 15
