Silver Deceptions

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Well?”

  “Of course not. I’m not such a libertine that I carry them about with me.”

  “I see.” She liked his heavy weight on top of her, and she couldn’t deny that he’d made her want more of his wanton, extravagant caresses. But she wouldn’t risk bearing a bastard. “Colin, I . . . I just can’t—”

  “It’s all right, Annabelle.” He tongued the pulse that beat in her neck, then murmured, “But men and women can pleasure each other in ways that won’t result in conception, you know.”

  She eyed him with suspicion. “Oh?”

  He lifted his head to grin at her as he trailed his hand down past her breasts and over her belly. Slipping her smock over her hips, he tossed it to the floor. “Do you wish me to show you?”

  Her breath caught in her throat as his eyes greedily drank in her nakedness. “I—I don’t know.”

  His hand roamed lower, until it slid between her legs to cover her mound. He rubbed there with his palm, and she gasped from the intense ache he created and soothed in the same motion.

  “You like that, do you?” he whispered with a cunning smile.

  His finger probed her silky folds, then darted into the slick, hot passage. A quick throb of delight shot through her.

  “And that?” he said as he began to stroke, gently at first, then harder and faster.

  “Oh yes.” She clutched his brawny shoulders. “Oh, sweet Mary, yes!”

  When he slid a second finger inside her, the sensation of tight invasion was surprisingly enjoyable. Indeed, it was near to being perfect.

  She threw her head back and closed her eyes, scarcely conscious that he’d moved his head from her shoulder, until his mouth closed over her breast.

  Ah, such warmth, such . . . strange, fierce sensations flooded her, barely quenching the feverish thirst he was raising in her. She drank in each delectable pleasure, marveling that he could make her feel this . . . this extraordinary bliss with only his lips and his fingers.

  But he didn’t stop there long. Instead he began kissing his way down her belly to . . . to . . .

  Her eyes flew open as his tongue darted out to replace his fingers in their forays inside her. “Colin,” she whispered as he flicked his tongue over the soft petal that ached for him. She gripped his head and arched up against his mouth. “Oh, Colin!”

  “That’s it, my swan beauty,” he murmured. “Let it take you where it will take you.”

  The rhythmic plunge of his tongue drove her mad, and she writhed against him, wanting to escape the wild sensations he was rousing, yet not wanting to escape them either.

  As he continued to caress her intimately with his mouth, her body strained toward some mysterious treasure that lay shimmering just beyond her reach. As if he knew what she felt, he quickened the pace of his strokes until she thrashed mindlessly, wanting . . . reaching . . .

  Then everything exploded into brilliant shards of diamonds, glittering with delights and pleasures she’d never known. She cried out, scarcely aware that she did so. She bucked against him, her body wracked by wave after wave of glorious enjoyment.

  Slowly, she sank into the down mattress. Slowly, she became aware that Colin had stopped his sensuous torment and was resting his head on her belly.

  She looked down at him. His taut expression spoke of passion suppressed, and his eyes stared off, remote, as if he fought a battle within himself. She felt suddenly bereft. He seemed so pained, so apart from her. Though he’d given her bliss with his mouth and hands, she had given him . . .

  Nothing. And suddenly, she wanted desperately to pleasure him, too. She wanted to make him feel the way she was feeling.

  No, more than that . . . she wanted him to take her. The thought struck her with painful force. She didn’t care about her fears; she didn’t care what might come tomorrow. The man who’d seen beneath her defenses to the real her was the only man she’d ever want bedding her. And if she let this chance pass her by, she might never get the chance again.

  “Colin?” She laid her hand on his head. “I want you.”

  He lifted his head to stare at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “I want you to . . . to lie with me.”

  “I already am, dearling,” he said softly.

  She shook her head. She hadn’t counted on how embarrassing it would be to make this admission. “I mean, I don’t care about the sheath. I want you to . . . to . . .” She faltered, unable to say more.

  He looked startled. Then a dark, seductive gleam shone in his eyes. “To show you the full range of sensual delights?” He kissed his way up her body. “Is that it, Annabelle? Haven’t I satisfied you enough tonight?”

  When he tugged on her nipple with his teeth, she moaned deep in her throat. “Oh, dear heaven, yes . . . I mean . . . no . . . I . . . I . . .” Now he was rubbing his thick flesh over her thatch of hair, arousing her blood again.

  “I like it when you’re speechless. You know, if I take you now . . . unprotected . . . there’s always the possibility—”

  “Oh, hush,” she whispered, arching up against him. He was already making her hot and bothered again. “Please . . . Colin . . . please . . .”

  “You need not ask twice,” he said with a blazing smile before he eased into her.

  She gasped at the sudden tightness, the uncomfortable thickness within her. He’d surely cleave her in twain if he continued.

  “You’re so very sweet and tight,” he murmured. “ ’Twill be uncomfortable at first, dearling. You must relax.”

  “How can I relax?” she hissed as he inched farther, pressing against some part of her inside. “ ’Tis very u-unpleasant.”

  He stopped his movement, his features drawn as he encountered the barrier of her innocence. Not even a flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Aye. But not for long.”

  Slipping his hand between their bodies, he found her secret place again and began to stroke the aching bud once more. She responded immediately to the liquid fire his manipulations sent pouring through her.

  “Better?” he managed.

  “Yes . . . oh yes . . . oh, Colin . . .”

  “Now I must hurt you, but ’tis best to get it over with.” Then he plunged through her virginal barrier.

  Pain gripped her. She tried to buck him off, but his weight was too great, as was the strength with which he pulled her thrashing arms to her sides. He lay motionless atop her, allowing her to adjust. A tear escaped her eye, which he kissed away.

  “The bad part is over, I swear,” he whispered as he nuzzled her cheek, her temple, her hair. “Now there is only delight.”

  At first she didn’t believe him, for his movements as he stirred again inside her left her feeling invaded and sore. Then gradually the soreness gave way to a kind of heat, and the heat gave way to licking flames, and the flames to a raging fire that threatened to consume her.

  “Hell and furies,” he muttered as he thrust into her with increasing rhythm, rocking her body in a dance more sensual than any court minuet. “Hell and furies . . . Annabelle . . . ah . . . Annabelle . . .”

  Then he lowered his head to sear her with a kiss, plunging his tongue into her mouth in ever-quickening strokes that mirrored the cadence of his hips. Despite the slight discomfort, she writhed beneath him, once again straining to reach those mystical delights he dangled before her.

  As he pounded into her, his mouth devouring hers as his hardness invaded and plundered, any lingering pain faded into sweet, sweet oblivion, and there was nothing left but him and his thunderbolt strokes within her.

  He caught her up like a hawk carrying its prey into rich blue skies, and she soared with him, wheeling into ever more lofty heights. As she dug her fingers into his muscled shoulders and reveled in his glorious strength, he transported her farther, faster, higher . . . carrying her into the brilliance of sunlit sky, into that private space where there was only him and his gift of pleasure hurtling her upward.

  “Colin!” she cried out as she reached the g
olden peak. “Oh, Colin!”

  With a roar of his own, he gave a mighty thrust and spent himself inside her.

  It was some moments before either of them could move or speak. Their bodies shook together, their hearts raced equally fast, and their breathing was quick. When at last he rolled off to lie on his side next to her, she felt a little bereft. Propping himself up on one hand, he lazily stroked her skin, then spread her hair down until it fanned over her breasts, tickling them.

  She sighed in contentment, and he leaned over to kiss her shoulder. “When I first saw you at the Duke’s Theater, I was told you were haughty and cold onstage, but fire itself in bed. Now I see that even unfounded rumors can have truth in them.”

  She turned her flaming face into the pillow.

  “Annabelle,” he said, “you’re mine. You have no need to keep up this silly pretense of wantonness now that you’re under my protection.”

  No, she truly didn’t. So what was to become of her vengeance? Was she to become Colin’s mistress and abandon all her plans?

  “There will be no other gallants now. Agreed?” he said more firmly.

  The possessive tone in his voice both worried and thrilled her. He was sure of her already, wasn’t he? Wanting to prick that assurance, she said, “Well, now that you’ve shown me how wonderful it is to lie with a man, I may wish to—”

  “Hell and furies,” he muttered as he turned her to face him. But his expression softened when he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “I’ll throttle any man who tries to bed you, Annabelle,” he vowed.

  “Even the king?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Even the king, damn his soul to hell.” He lowered his mouth to hers, then stopped an inch away, his breath hot against her trembling lips, already parting to receive his kiss. “Promise me there will be no others.”

  It was hard to think when his hands had begun stroking her again.

  “Promise me,” he repeated, then ran the tip of his tongue along her lower lip, enticing her. His fingers were filling her below once more, stroking her until she scarcely knew where she was.

  “I promise,” she whispered, a renewed ache for him making her willing to promise almost anything.

  Then, with a growl of triumph, he made sure he wiped all thoughts of other gallants quite out of her mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  “No mask like open truth to cover lies,

  As to go naked is the best disguise.”

  —William Congreve, Love for Love, Act 5, Sc. 4

  Colin and Annabelle lay spoon fashion beneath the heavy counterpane after their second tempestuous bout of lovemaking. Feeling languid and oddly content, Colin ran his hand over the smooth curves of her waist, down her hips to her thighs, then back.

  Never had he found such absolute enjoyment with any other woman. Sir John would have said it was because Annabelle was an innocent, but Colin knew better. If anything, a virgin should have given him less pleasure than a more experienced female.

  Nor was there any doubt that Annabelle had been a virgin. Her blood stained the sheets that lay crumpled beneath them. It pleased him absurdly to know he’d been right about her innocence. Only he had entered the fortress of her disguises to find a woman who was neither aloof nor indiscriminate with her favors, but open, giving, and thoroughly enchanting.

  He couldn’t stop touching her. And anyway, why should he? She was his now. She’d promised to be his, and he would make her keep that promise.

  Though he doubted it would be so very difficult. He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, relishing how her body leapt to life. Ah yes, he had her now. He’d caught the elusive swan.

  “Mmm,” she purred as he continued to drop warm kisses along her collarbone.

  He drew the counterpane down and pushed her heavy mass of hair aside, intending to kiss her neck. That was when he saw the long lines of white crisscrossing her upper back. His stomach roiled. Mina had been right. They were the marks of a whip or perhaps a crop.

  He tried not to think of what they’d looked like when they were fresh, but he couldn’t help it. Rage against whoever had hurt her sparked in him like a brush fire. Grimly he traced one of the scars.

  Annabelle stiffened, then tried to pull the counterpane up over her back.

  He stayed her hand. “Who did this to you? For the love of God, who beat you so cruelly?”

  She remained quiet a long moment. He peered over her shoulder at her face, noting that she looked sad as she stared off across the room.

  “I want to know who, dearling,” he murmured, drawing her against him. “Tell me who so I can find and murder the wretch.”

  “You can’t,” she said bitterly. “He’s dead.”

  “ ‘He’?” His mind raced. “It couldn’t be a husband, for I know as well as anyone you were chaste. An employer? The master of a house where you were servant?”

  “Neither.” She sighed. “I told you I recently learned I was a bastard. Well, my stepfather always knew. Apparently Mother married him when she found herself with child by another man.”

  “And he punished you for it,” Colin bit out.

  “He punished my mother, until I grew old enough to punish, too. I suppose he couldn’t stand the thought of having a child not his own. He was a . . . a very proud man.”

  “No,” Colin ground out, “he was a cruel man to use you thus.”

  Twisting to face him, she gave him an odd, searching glance. “Some men would say he had every right to beat me.” Pain gave an edge to her tone. “He raised me as his daughter. It was his duty to discipline me.”

  He trailed his finger over her cheek. “Discipline doesn’t require cruelty or violence. He had a right, a duty, to discipline you as a father would. But his cruelty served no purpose but to make you distrust men.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned to hide her face against the pillow. With a shudder, she drew the counterpane over her scars. He let her.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she choked out. “He’s dead. The past is past.”

  No, he thought. The past wasn’t at all past for her, for she still didn’t quite trust him. But how to make her trust him when she’d suffered so at the hands of men? No wonder she’d been so vehement about her bastardy, about the hard ways that men used women. He slid his arms around her, feeling helpless to make her see that all men weren’t alike, that she didn’t have to face everything alone.

  She must have spent years facing the world alone. Hell and furies, what kind of mother let her daughter suffer so at the hands of a brute?

  Ah, but that was easy to answer. Utterly unaffected by his humiliating sobs, his own mother had let him be wrenched away from her by the wild-eyed lord who was his father. He’d already been a nuisance to her, she’d told him. They’d both be much better off if he went peaceably to England with his father.

  Now that Colin looked back on it, though, he realized his mother had probably been right to let him go. His father, a dashing, hotheaded man prone to fighting duels and provoking Cromwell’s men whenever possible, had nonetheless taught Colin a great deal about honor and family. He’d left some property to Colin and done his best to provide his son with a decent education.

  Years later, after Colin fled into exile with Charles II, his father having been killed in the civil war, Colin had searched for his mother. Any illusions he’d harbored about her character had been finally destroyed when, at the age of sixteen, he’d found her in a respectable old chalet in the country, the kept mistress of an ancient duc. Her prettiness still intact, though become more brittle, she’d accused him of wanting money and had tossed him into the street.

  He shoved that painful memory to the back of his mind. “What of your real father? Did he know about this?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t think so. But I never knew my real father.”

  The faint wariness in her voice gave him pause. He began to sort through things she’d told him before. Her surname was Maynard. Her stepfather’s nam
e? If so, then why express so much interest in the Maynards of London? Had she thought her dead stepfather might have relatives in London to whom she could turn? Or was it another relative entirely she sought?

  And why did she go by “The Silver Swan”? It couldn’t be coincidence that it was the same as Walcester’s code name. Colin had learned long ago to regard suspiciously anything that masqueraded as chance.

  Gently he pressed her down until she lay beneath him. Her eyes widened as she stared up into his face.

  “Was your stepfather’s name Maynard?” he asked.

  A hint of fear leapt into her eyes. “Why would you think so?”

  “You’ve been very interested in my friends the Maynards from the day we met. Are you searching for someone? A relative, perhaps?”

  She tried to move from beneath him, but he held her pinned. “Tell me. Where did you get the name Maynard—from your stepfather?”

  “Of course,” she said, too quickly, and glanced away. There was genuine alarm in her face now.

  “Please don’t lie to me, dearling.” He gentled his tone. “After what you and I just did together, you ought to be able to trust me a little, don’t you think?”

  Paling, she whispered, “Hush, Colin. You ask too many questions.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “Aye. I like to know about the women I care for. ’Tis an odd habit I have.”

  Her gaze shot to him. “Do you care for me?”

  He brushed his mouth against hers. “More than I should, dearling.” Between bestowing kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her bare neck, he murmured, “Is Maynard the surname of your stepfather, Annabelle?”

  Her breath was quickening. “Has anyone . . . ever told you you’re a rogue?”

  He chuckled. “Many times. How do you think I know so much about giving a woman pleasure in bed?” He fondled her breast so deftly that she gasped. “And I fully intend to show you how it’s done once more.”

  When he moved to caressing her below, she let out a moan.

  “So tell me,” he whispered, “is Maynard your stepfather’s surname or not?”

  “Not,” she breathed, then arched up against his hand. “Colin . . . I want . . . I want . . .”