Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “Yes. You’ve just decided without discussing it with me. Just as you decided to use my art to further your cause for the navy, all without consulting me.”

  “It isn’t some nefarious plot to ruin your life. I just want you safe and comfortable. If something should happen to me I want you to be in some position to have power over your life before you do yourself some harm. I want you to have some independence apart from me.”

  Her eyes flashed sherry fire. “Do you actually believe my independence is something you are in position to gift me, through your magnanimous offer to educate me?”

  “Now you’re reading this all wrong. I am only looking to protect you. I am damaged inside. I don’t know how to love and maybe I can’t learn. I don’t know what I can give you, or for how long. That’s not fair to you.”

  She bit her lip and tears shone in her lovely eyes. “If you want to put me aside, you needn’t sham things up like this.”

  “Do you think I want to let you go?”

  “It seems as though you do.” Her voice grew hoarse and she turned and hurried away.

  Her stiff-shouldered stance tore at him like a knife twisting into his guts. In two strides, he caught up to her and locked his arm about her waist.

  Chapter Twelve

  Startled by Alex’s unexpected move, Emily froze. He held her against his body as he fished in his coat pocket.

  Then he laid something cool and smooth about her neck. She looked down and saw a necklace. Seed pearls with a diminutive, clear-red, heart-shaped pendant surrounded by small diamonds. They caught the firelight, flashing sparks of flame.

  “It reminded me of you—delicate yet dramatic.” His voice was so ardent and sincere that it sent shivers through her. He brushed her hair off her nape, then his fingers were busy working the clasp, despite his bandaged hand. “A heart for you, because you are all heart.”

  His fingertips traced the delicate necklace’s path over her collarbone. He plucked her chemise tucker away impatiently. It fluttered to the floor like a white flag of surrender.

  With one hand, he firmly grasped her shoulder, crushing her little cap sleeve, opening his lips, moving them with aching slowness along her tender flesh, drawing gently and sending waves of delight racing through her.

  Groaning, he lifted his lips, then she felt his tongue licking along the same path he’d just—just—well, whatever he’d done. Sucking? Kissing?

  Her nipples tightened and her breasts ached with sweet pain. His fingertips danced downwards over her bare arms, a smooth, feather-soft motion that sent shudders of anticipation racing through her. Staring down, she watched his large hand caress her belly in a circular pattern, his warmth transferring directly through the thin fabric.

  “You said that we could never again…do this,” she said breathily.

  “You’re too much of a temptation. God help me—no, he won’t because I am already damned. Didn’t I tell you to run?” His breath teased her nape. “Don’t you know that darkness craves light? But darkness also extinguishes light.” He released her and pushed her away. “This is your chance to run. I suggest you take it.”

  She stared at him. There was pain etched into his face. He really believed all that about himself. Sympathy overwhelmed her. She was just another woman to him, so he had said. Just another distraction in a long succession of them. But for now, she didn’t care. She wanted to distract him from whatever haunted him. She wanted to solace him.

  “Not going to run?” His voice echoed in a deep, ironic tone. He reached out his hand. “Come, then.”

  She stared at his hand. He wanted her. She wanted to give him all of herself. She placed her hand in his.

  He led her to the settee. She sat and he sat with her, then took her into his arms and kissed her deeply, with all the exquisite, sensual finesse of which he was capable. He moved his good hand down her back, unbuttoning her gown. He was going to seduce her.

  She didn’t care. She wanted to be seduced. Even if he didn’t want her for long, she’d rather enjoy this while she could. He stopped unbuttoning her and began pulling her gown over her shoulders. He paused when it was halfway down, with her arms trapped at her sides.

  Then he resumed kissing her, ravenously, as if he were starved for the taste of her lips.

  She struggled to speak against his mouth and he lifted his head.

  “I can’t move my arms.”

  “I know.”

  His voice was terse and hard and it set her heart beating fast. Her lower belly dissolved into a dark, liquid delight. He pushed her back on the settee and shoved her skirts up to her waist.

  The suddenness of his action made her gasp and she tried to lower them by kicking her legs. But he pinioned her between his powerful thighs so that she couldn’t shift.

  His expression sharpened to such fierceness that her mouth dried as she watched him unbutton his pantaloons. She struggled but her sleeves held her captive. She couldn’t move—she was helpless against him. She was utterly powerless.

  Why would he do that?

  Fear tingled along her spine. Yet her nipples tightened and her nub tingled and pulsed and grew erect. Wetness drenched her swelling inner folds.

  Why should this excite her so much? It was last thing she’d ever want, for someone to control or detain her? She should fight. She would fight—but a strange lassitude paralyzed her limbs even as every particle of her body seemed to feel more alive than ever before, every sensation magnified.

  Alarmed, she looked up into his face.

  His eyes glittered with a primitive, possessive desire. “Indulge me, sweetheart.”

  And she understood. He didn’t just want her. He wanted to consume her.

  Sex was not always tender and sweet. Sometimes it was fiery and fierce.

  The thought awoke something darker inside of her that she’d not even been aware of.

  Wetness flooded between her legs and hunger struck her so suddenly that she trembled with it. She wanted to solace him. She could deny him nothing. Even if it meant surrendering all of herself. Even if it meant her very soul.

  He parted her legs with his thigh. His erection touched her entrance, his eyes burning into hers the whole time.

  She nodded.

  He thrust into her so quickly, so brutally, that she cried out. Fire ignited deep in her sex and her walls clenched around him. God, he filled her so completely. He moved within her in a raw, savage rhythm, driving into her so deeply that he rammed the very mouth of her womb. She cried out with the unbearable sensation, then he placed his mouth over hers. Her channel gripped him tightly again and again and again, washing him in the copious outpourings of her honey. She screamed into his mouth.

  He withdrew far too soon.

  She frantically tried to raise her arms to hold him back but she was still bound by her own gown. He slipped from her and she cried out. His body shuddered violently and his hot seed surged onto her belly.

  A sense of loss crushed her. If only he had come inside her. She longed to feel the surge of his seed within her with an intensity that had her aching. The desire confused her. She shouldn’t want him to do that. Nothing in their future was certain. She didn’t even know if she ever wanted to be married and he certainly did not want to marry her.

  She shouldn’t care. But in this moment she did. Deeply. She very much suspected she was losing her heart; the realization chilled the lingering warmth of satisfaction. And when his lips touched hers so tenderly; she knew she was losing herself.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Emily remained drained and disturbed by her intense reaction to Alex. If she lost herself, who would she be? What would happen to her mission and her art? Would she become a shadow of Alex’s, longing for nothing more than to serve him, until he bored of her?

  And just how long could a girl like herself, barely passing pretty, keep the interest of a gentleman like Alex? After so many years without male attention, to suddenly be the object of his attentions was too heady. W
hen it came to an end and she knew it would, she would be devastated—that was, if she let herself become accustomed to it.

  And then what?

  With no clear answers coming, she went for a long walk in the crisp air and still couldn’t clear her mind.

  By the time she’d returned to her chamber, she wanted only to lie down, but she found the bed piled high with newly delivered gowns. On top of the pile lay a claret-colored velvet pelisse.

  It was the new style she’d seen ladies wearing in the park. Even Nancy didn’t have one this modish. It must be made from a Parisian design. It was both lined and trimmed in dark-brown fur with a matching muff.

  Gasping, she ran her hand over the rich fur. Then she picked it up, marveling at the garment’s fine tailoring. She placed the fur to her cheek and rubbed its softness against her skin. She tried to swallow a sudden burning lump. Never had she imagined owning such a garment.

  “Oh, good afternoon, miss,” Sally said, bustling into the room with an armful of linen towels. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Emily said, turning away and wiping at her eyes with her sleeves. “When did this cloak come? We didn’t order it from Mrs. G.”

  “Mr. Dalton ordered that, I think.” She frowned. “Something’s wrong with it?”

  “Oh, no—not at all.”

  As Sally hustled out, Nancy sauntered in. Without waiting to be invited to sit, she threw herself down on the bed. As Emily tried on the expensive pelisse, she could see Nancy watching her in the dresser mirror’s reflection.

  “Did Alex really knock Richard to the floor of that tavern?”

  Emily smoothed her hand over the fur trim and ignored the question.

  Nancy chuckled softly. “No, I don’t suppose I’d answer that question either if I had been the one there. I hear Richard accosted you first. He feels rather badly about that.”

  “Does he?” Emily asked, as vivid images of Green’s attack flashed into her mind.

  “Yes, he does. He told me repeatedly. He said it was a shame you’re entangled with Alex. He must have been deep into his cups that night to do what he did. But the other day, we saw him at a relative’s house. When she caught him alone, Mama asked him directly if you were the girl at the Blue Duck and he said no, you were not.” Nancy laughed softly. “I didn’t believe him, but Mama wants so desperately to think highly of Alex, she let herself believe.”

  “But why would Green lie for me?”

  “He is not a wholly disagreeable sort. He can be very considerate, sweet even. But more than that, he’s just so afraid…you know, afraid of Alex.”

  Emily left off caressing the fur and turned to Nancy. “Afraid? But why?”

  “Aside from Alex having knocked him to the floor of the Blue Duck?” Nancy laughed.

  Emily felt foolish. “He seems to fear something deeper. Something less tangible.”

  Nancy’s expression grew thoughtful. “I don’t know. It’s something from their privateering days. They served on the Pollyanna, starting during the war against the King. Alex was just thirteen, Richard in his twenties. The Pollyanna was lost at sea in 1782—”

  Emily gasped. “Their ship was wrecked?”

  Nancy nodded. “Exactly where or how, I can’t say. Somewhere in the Caribbean. Only Alex and Richard know and they are as united in silence over that event as they are divided otherwise. Green returned in eighty-five. By his account, Alex was dead. It devastated Uncle William.”

  “Alex’s father?”

  “Yes. Then one day in eighty-seven Alex showed up in Boston, raised from the dead.” Nancy waved her hand and made a popping sound with her mouth. “It was like a miracle.”

  “But what about those years in between? Where was Alex?”

  Nancy rolled her shoulders. “Alex says he was in France. We have distant relatives there who are shipbuilders. I am given to understand he spent much time with them.”

  “But you said everyone thought he was dead…didn’t he write in all that time?

  “Ah, well, Alex and Uncle William had a falling out, shortly after Alex’s mother died. That was when he ran away to sea and what they said to each other must have been ghastly, for Alex never wrote.”

  A cold feeling settled in the pit of Emily’s stomach. Alex hadn’t written home. Maybe he hadn’t been able to write.

  Nancy smiled. “Well, don’t look so sad. That’s all in the past.”

  “Maybe Alex didn’t write because someone prevented him from writing.”

  Nancy frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean maybe something terrible happened to him during those years.”

  Nancy smiled and shook her head. “Likely he was there doing his girling and studying his cartography, the only two things he seems to have a genuine interest in.”

  Was that possible? Was Alex really capable of being that bitter? That selfish? Frustration gripped Emily, spurring her to ask, “And Green? Did he ever say anything that shed light on what really happened between them?”

  “Richard would never say. As I said, he is truly terrified of Alex. It’s something complicated. Some weighty secret. And it will do you no good to ask. Alex will not speak of it. But Richard is not Alex’s worst enemy. He’s nothing—a fly, humming about, irritating Alex. No, for Alex it’s whatever haunts him that is his worst enemy.”

  Suddenly uneasy under the other woman’s steady gaze, Emily turned back to the mirror and pretended to examine herself wearing the beautiful pelisse.

  How could Alex have turned his back on his family like that? What could a father possibly say that would be so terrible a son would rather pretend to be dead than to write home even occasionally? What had happened between Alex and Green to cause such discord between them?

  Nancy had related a neat, tidy story.

  But Emily couldn’t forget the pain etched into Alex’s face.

  Algeria…Yes, something about Algeria. Alex hadn’t been in Paris, at least not the entire time. He’d been in captivity. Tortured. Forced to endure—no, she wouldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t let her imagination run so freely. She couldn’t bear to…

  “You seem like a kind-hearted person,” Nancy said in a tone that told how certain she was of the validity of her own opinions. “You should know that Alex is, uh…very fickle in his romantic attachments.”

  Emily drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. “I don’t cherish any romantic attachment to him. But I thank you for the warning all the same.”

  She didn’t have to force the chill into her tone. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone to ponder this new information. But Nancy didn’t seem likely to leave any time soon.

  She glanced over at Emily’s night table and picked up the little box that sat there. She plucked the lid off, then gazed at the crystalline sugar glistening on the plump fruit pieces. She looked up at Emily over her spectacles and arched a coal black brow. “French plums?”

  Before Emily could respond, Nancy popped one into her mouth. “Umm.” Chewing then swallowing, she narrowed her eyes speculatively. “No—it’s candied apricots.” She chewed for a few more moments. “Turkish, no less, if I am not mistaken. A present from my dear cousin, I presume?”

  “He sent those simply to thank me for the dinner party.” Emily struggled to keep the snappishness out of her voice. Was she on trial or something?

  “Alex has been quite fond of them ever since he returned from Paris. He imports them from Malatya, Turkey. He claims apricots grown and dried anywhere else just do not taste the same. But he will only purchase them from one specific merchant; he says all the others are of inferior quality. He spends a small fortune for them, or so James tells me. James is quite envious of Alex’s personal wealth.” Nancy rolled her eyes, tossing the box back onto the night table. “I doubt there’s much difference in apricots grown and dried in Malatya or Damascus or wherever. But that’s Alex, he’s very particular in his tastes…”

  Nancy’s voice drifted off. She was starin
g at the night table. Her eyes grew wide and she appeared to freeze. She gasped loudly.

  Oh, damn. Why didn’t I hide that necklace?

  Nancy picked up the necklace and jumped to her feet. She danced excitedly over to the window, holding the pendant up to the light. It glittered with fiery light.

  “Goodness,” Nancy breathed. She turned to Emily, her sapphire eyes wider than ever. “A pigeon’s blood ruby. Perfect clarity.”

  Her voice sounded almost accusing.

  “It’s merely paste—surely it’s paste,” Emily said shakily, suddenly dumb with disbelief.

  Nancy compressed her lips a moment. “I’ve just told you that Alex is a man of particular tastes.” Her tone spoke of her impatience with Emily. “Men of particular tastes do not purchase paste trinkets for their women. No—it’s real and of the highest quality. My dearest friend’s father is a jeweler. He taught us all about precious stones.” She laid it back down on the night table with reverence.

  Emily wanted to just die.

  Everyone knew that she and Alex—well, everyone knew. How foolish she’d been to think it could be otherwise.

  Nancy stared severely over her spectacles at Emily. “Into the lion’s maw, my dear girl, into the lion’s maw.” With that, she arose from the bed and flounced out.

  * * * *

  As Emily entered Alex’s study, she blinked hard against the glare of so many candles illuminating the room. She was getting tired of being called from her bed at all hours of the night. He’d sent instruction for her to bring her notebook with her.

  “You took your sweet time getting here,” he said from where he was sprawled lazily upon one of a pair new, dark blue settees. His banyan was untied and draped carelessly over his clothes. Several papers were scattered over his chest. He brushed the papers aside and stood.

  Two weeks had passed since she’d last spoken with him alone.

  He’d been leaving early in the mornings and coming home late at night. She had missed him—terribly—and he had appeared not to even think of her.

  Two whole weeks.

  Two lonely, cold weeks.