With the threat of Bardot gone, Serena ran back to the house to enlist more help. It was not until several hours later, when both captives had been freed, that anyone remembered Declan McElroy.
By then, Oliver had been welcomed back into the crushing—but not scolding—arms of his mother and Nounou. He was then thoroughly bathed, dried, fed, and ensconced in a warm bed. For once, he fell asleep before Nounou could complain about the light.
“He is exhausted,” Nounou said, motioning for Serena to leave her vigil beside his bed. She had not left her son’s side since pulling him from the hole in the cave. “Come, it is time you bathe and eat.”
Serena closed the door with regret.
“I have just had a bath sent to your room.”
Serena nodded. “Has the doctor been to see Mr. Lockheart?”
“Been and gone some hours ago. He will be fine and walk as normal in only a few days.”
“Thank you, Nounou.”
The French woman gave her a knowing look and snorted. “You look terrible. Go and bathe and put cucumber on your eyes. You won’t wish him to see you this way.”
Serena laughed. “For your information, he has already asked me to marry him, Nounou.”
“Ha! He might change his mind if he were to see you now.”
When Serena arrived in her room and had a look in her mirror she had to admit the older woman might have a point.
She would hurry and clean herself and then go and call on Gareth, no matter how scandalous such behavior might be. But when she lay in the steaming warmth of the tub, a powerful lassitude crept into her body. She would close her eyes. Only for a moment.
***
Gareth didn’t care that the maid had squeaked and then scuttled through the still open doorway when strode into Serena’s room.
She was not in bed and her sitting room was dark. “Serena?” he called, limping through her dressing room toward her bathing chamber. His breath caught in his raw throat at what he found.
She was asleep in her bath. Her hair had been washed and lay over the high tub back, puddled on the floor like chestnut-gold foam. Her arms floated by her sides and her full breasts rose above the water line, their nipples hard. Her body was covered in goose pimples, telling him the water had long cooled.
He crouched beside the tub, grimacing at the assorted aches and pains. “Serena, wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered and she regarded him with huge, unseeing pupils, her expression confused as she left sleep behind.
“Gareth?” Her hand rose from the tub, dripping water.
“Yes, it’s Gareth.” He let his eyes drop to her slick, bobbing breasts and the shadowy triangle beneath the water. “I think you must be clean now.”
A slow, joyous smile spread across her tired but beautiful face and she held a hand up and examined it. “I am becoming a prune.”
He stood and took one of the big Turkish towels from the pile, opening it and holding it out. “Come, I will dry you.”
She rose from the water like a goddess from the sea and his body rejoiced at the sight of her water-slicked curves and rosy peaks and dark chestnut curls.
He helped her from the tub and then began to rub her dry.
“What time is it?”
“It is not yet six.” He knelt on one knee and started with one foot while she held herself steady on the edge of the tub.
“Mr. McElroy—”
“He returned an hour ago.” Gareth dried between each perfect toe, spending an inordinate amount of time on her elegant arch and ankle before moving up her calf.
“Mmm,” she purred. “That feels good. Is Mr. McElroy unharmed?”
He forced himself to stop mid-thigh, afraid she might never get dry if he gave in to the distraction that lay at the top of her legs. “He is.”
She laughed. “Really, Gareth. Must I pull each syllable from you?”
He found himself again at the top of a well-dried leg, his eyes at the perfect level. Perhaps only a little taste. A little lick. Just one suck . . .
“Gareth!”
He looked up from where he knelt between her thighs. The view of her breasts from this angle was lovely. So was her flushed face, which was looking down at him with an expression he believed to be equal parts amusement, asperity, and desire. He latched on to the desire.
“Hmm?” He caressed the skin that bordered her sex with his thumbs, gently opening her to his hungry eyes, his mouth watering.
“I’m cold.” She shivered to illustrate and Gareth handed up the towel without breaking contact with her body. She slung it over her shoulders and gave a low laugh, which Gareth took to be encouragement.
He parted her folds and took her into his mouth, curling his tongue around her small organ. He massaged her rhythmically, until she became swollen and wet, her thighs spreading wider without any encouragement from him.
“Oh, Gareth.”
He responded to her soft plea by sliding a finger into her slick, tight heat, pumping her while he continued to suck and tease. Her hands tangled in his hair and pulled hard enough to hurt. He reveled in the pain and worked her without mercy toward completion, only halting when he felt her knees sag, as if they might buckle. He gave her one last thrust and released her, lurching clumsily to his feet.
“Come,” he said. He was too whipped to risk carrying her so he took her limp hand and tugged her toward her bed.
She followed unsteadily and he released her only long enough to pull back her bedding, slip off his robe, and pull his nightshirt over his head, almost howling with pain as he worked his sore muscles.
Gareth slid into bed beside her and took her into his arms, warming her still cool body with his hands. He kissed her damp hair and pulled her closer with one leg, until they were twined together like vines. “Declan sent a message to Mr. Steele when he made the withdrawal from the bank.”
“Hmm? Declan? Oh. But what about—” she broke off, as if too embarrassed to articulate her wants. Gareth felt a grin tug at his lips.
“Oh, you wish to know what about the men who were supposed to be watching him?” he teased, knowing that was not what she wanted at all. “Well, his message told Steele of the situation and instructed him to lag behind a quarter of an hour.”
Her cool, calloused hand slid between them and wrapped around his painfully hard shaft.
He gave a low, satisfied grunt of pleasure but continued his story, his voice only a little strained.
“As we suspected, he was set upon by two masked men in broad daylight, just to the south of Shooter’s Hill,” he said, naming the notorious lay of robbers and highwaymen, although not usually in the middle of the day. Her hand froze in mid-stroke and he realized he had better continue his tale. “The two men had just relieved him of the money and were heading off with his horse when Steele came over the hill with five of his fittest, most fearsome Bow Street compan—” He broke off as she began to work him in earnest, thrusting into her tight hand.
But then the vixen stopped.
“Please continue.” Her voice was cool and toneless and if Gareth had been a more suspicious sort he might have wondered if she were mocking him.
He had to swallow several times and gather his scattered wits. “The Runners made short work of the robbers who, when their masks were removed turned out to be—”
“Sandford and Leeland.” She had released him, her voice thick with disgust. “It was them, was it not?”
“Yes, you are correct.”
She groaned and turned onto her back, covering her eyes with her hands.
“What is it?”
“I should have known. He came to me in London, furious and threatening. He thought I was the one who said something to you to get him discharged. He was in the process of making good on his threat when Miles, a very good friend of mine, interrupted and drove him off.”
Gareth shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me this, Serena?”
&nbs
p; “I could hardly say anything at the time, and it never occurred to me when we learned what Etienne had done. I should have known two such slimy characters would find each other.”
“According to McElroy, who only stayed around long enough to watch Steele get the entire story, Featherstone went to Bardot. He claimed the Frenchman was desperate for money and told him I would likely pay money to protect you and the boy.”
She turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Gareth, I am so sorry you have been used this way.”
“I am sorry I didn’t have Steele keep Bardot when he had him the first time. None of this would have happened.”
She slid a hand from his shoulder up his neck. “You couldn’t have known.”
He inched closer. “None of that matters now. What matters is that Oliver is safe. Fortunately Bardot never told them of his relationship to Oliver, so I suppose we can thank him for that.” He rested a hand on her belly, which jumped and quivered at his touch. “The Featherstones are someplace they can never hurt either of you again.”
Her body froze. “Gareth, you haven’t . . . had them killed?”
The thought had crossed his mind, but he knew what killing another man had done to Dec, no matter how justified.
“No, Dec just sent them on a little trip.” He stroked her stomach in ever growing circles, his fingers accidentally brushing her mound.
She shook her head. “I won’t ask—I don’t want to know.”
He rubbed her in silence, until her legs spread a little.
Gareth accepted the invitation and entered her, thrilling as her sheath tightened around his finger.
“Ah.” The sound accompanied a softening of her body, her core molten beneath his questing hand. Her hand caught at him. “I want you.”
Her words enflamed him, but he shook his head, rising up on his knees and kneeling between her thighs, spreading her wider, his eyes flickering from his hand to her face.
“Not yet, but soon. You will come for me first.”
She tightened at his words and her breathing quickened. He smiled down at her, pleased to know she was aroused by his command. And when she came, which she did far too quickly, he prolonged her ecstasy, teasing her climaxes out in waves.
He entered her in a long smooth thrust, taking his weight on his forearms while tasting her breasts, his hips driving into her in deep, hard strokes until he pushed them both over the edge.
***
He woke with a start beside her, his body rigid, his eyes wide.
“Gareth?” The candles had guttered low and darkness claimed all but the bed.
He was beside her, their bodies entwined. They’d both fallen asleep after their lovemaking, but something had woken her. She now knew it had been the tension in his body: he was having a nightmare.
“Gareth?” She slid a hand under his chin. “Are you awake?”
He gave a slight nod and his eyelids drooped as he exhaled slowly. “Yes, I’m awake.”
She opened her mouth to ask about his dream, but then closed it. When he wanted to take her into his confidence, he would. Until then, she owed him love without reservation.
“Declan and I lived in the house of a Mr. William Jensen, a man who claimed to operate an orphanage, yet never placed any of the children he took in—at least not with families or legitimate employers.” He turned onto his back and stared up at the darkened canopy above their heads. “There were those who stayed only a short time—comely girls and boys who would disappear after they’d been well-fed and their bones no longer showed. They would leave one day, dressed in new clothing, bound for some new life.” He looked down at her, his eyes bleak in the low light. “Dec and I used to envy them. Before we knew better.”
He slid an arm beneath her and pulled her close. “I can’t remember a time I wasn’t there. I’ve since concluded I might have been either Mr. Jensen’s son, or perhaps some relative’s child. He brought Declan home when he was perhaps six. Jensen had caught him picking pockets in a crowd outside the old Drury Theater. He was dirty and half-wild, but Jensen must have seen something in him.” Gareth shook his head. “I don’t know why Dec was alone. Perhaps he worked for one of the men who ran gangs of children to steal and work for them. Or maybe his family left or died or were arrested and he had to fend for himself. He’s never said, and I have never asked him. Jensen kept us away from the other children, giving us a room together. There were never many children at his orphanage, but he didn’t want us getting to know any of the others for some reason.”
His hand traced idly up and down her arm, which had begun to sprout goose pimples, but this time not from the cold.
“We became a team, Dec and I. Jensen would host card parties—and parties for other activities, as we would learn eventually. He and his associate, a Mrs. Burgess, who did not live at the orphanage, but who must have served as a procuress, would set various traps for their guests.” He paused and looked at her. “What I am going to say will be upsetting.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
“Dec and I were novelties. We would serve drinks and food and so forth. The whole time I would watch the cards and let Jensen know how to bid. Sometimes the men would take a break that lasted for a while. I know now that they went to the rooms prepared by Mrs. Burgess. Rooms where they could indulge in other tastes.” He squeezed her tight. “They sold children—virgins—to the men who came to play. I learned later they would blackmail their clients afterward.”
Serena had seen terrible things during the War—and she’d suffered at the hands of such men herself. But raping a child was a level of darkness she’d never let her mind imagine.
“With my skill at cards, I was too valuable for such things but I’d noticed a change in Declan. He’d become sullen and withdrawn—even with me. Jensen punished him more and more, yet to less and less avail. You see, Serena, Jensen’s punishment was to lock us in the old cellar under the building. Nothing but rubbish and vermin and damp rot and darkness. It had not taken many trips to the cellar to convince me I should always pay attention when Jensen was at the card table.”
His hand dug into her shoulder so hard it hurt, but she just pushed closer to his body, which had begun to sweat in the cool night air.
“But Dec had a harder head. Or maybe he just liked it better in the cellars than he did in the rooms where Jensen sent him.”
He took several deep breaths and Serena wanted to tell him he could stop—that she didn’t want to know. The truth was, she didn’t want to know. But he had to tell her, that much was painfully clear.
“One night one of the guests took a fancy to me. I must have been twelve, perhaps thirteen—I’m not sure when my birthday is and Jensen never mentioned such things. In any event, the man kept giving me coins with each little thing I brought. He seemed so . . . happy to give them to me. Jensen must have thought so, too. I don’t know who the man was, but when he got up to take a stroll he asked me to join him. Declan was there. I believed he was sulking because of all the money I’d earned. Not that I would be allowed to keep any of it. But he jumped to his feet and shouted, No! as we were about to leave the room.
“The gentleman rushed me away but I could hear Jensen’s voice, ordering Declan to his room and telling him he’d been a very bad boy. Jensen never ordered any of us to our rooms as punishment—it was only the cellar. He must not have wanted to do that in front of his customers, thinking to punish Declan after they’d all gone. Instead of going to his room Declan followed me and my new friend, who led me to a door that was always kept locked, a bedroom of a sort I’d never seen before. It was filled with tools for any perversion imaginable, and many that are not.
“He shut the door but did not think to lock it—after all, he must have paid a good deal of money to have me. If I wasn’t there to count cards and help him, Jensen would likely be losing money. When the man asked me to sit on his knee, I knew I didn’t want to be there. He was the sort of man who
enjoyed rough play and he had me—a scrawny youth—pinned to the bed with one knee when the door flew open and a ball of rage descended on him.”
“Declan,” she breathed.
“The very same. Unfortunately, Mrs. Burgess must have been nearby. She came and pulled Declan off the man’s ear, which he’d bitten hard enough that there was blood everywhere. She led the screaming man from the room and locked us inside. We were there for hours—long enough to placate their customer, get rid of the other guests, and then come back to deal with us.” He shook his head at whatever was in his memory.
“Jensen had missed the fact we had both grown and were no longer little boys. Declan, in particular, had developed a good deal of brawn. Jensen entered the room and struck me across the face with his fist. I must have been dazed for a few moments because the next thing I knew, Declan was on top of Jensen, his hand holding a bloody knife. He must have struck Jensen just so, because he was dead within minutes.”
“Oh, Gareth!”
He looked down at her voice, his expression bland. And that was when she realized how thick his mask was—and just how little it concealed when you came to know the real man beneath it.
“Mrs. Burgess had already left, no doubt believing Jensen had us firmly in hand—just as he had for years. We ransacked his study but could not get to the real money, which was in a safe in the wall. There were perhaps nine others in the orphanage—all chosen for their handsome looks—and we told them to take what they could find and run.”
“Where did you go? You were only boys.”
He shrugged. “We were safer away from Jensen. We hid with hundreds of others, down by the river, under bridges, wherever we could escape the weather or bigger, meaner thugs than ourselves.
“It was Declan who came up with the idea of making me look older and trying our luck at a gambling hell. He was smart and had learned from Jensen how to remove only the down from a duck and not leave it bare.” His lips curved into an ironic smile. “Soon we had enough money to get off the streets. I knew a life at the card tables would never end well and when the little shop where we bought our victuals closed, we offered to invest our money if a look at the legers showed any chance of saving the business. It did, as they almost always do.” He glanced down at her. “That was the beginning.” He frowned and then raised a hand to brush a tear from her cheek. “Have you been crying again?”
A Figure of Love Page 30
