Captives of the Night

by Loretta Chase

  Above the gradually slowing beat of their hearts, Ismal could hear the tick of the clock, the crackle of the fire and, beyond, outside, the hiss of the rain. Cautiously, he eased his body from hers. She winced.

  He brushed a kiss against her swollen lips and, moving onto his side, gently gathered her into his arms. She was warm and soft, limp with exhaustion, her silken skin damp in passion's aftermath.

  She was his at last.

  She loved him, she'd said. He feared it was a costly possession, her love.

  He had, perhaps, a superstitious fear, barbarian that he was. He had, often enough, accepted the love others offered. He had done so without letting it touch him, because he'd understood long ago that love was a treacherous thing to give and receive. It could turn the world from heaven to hell in an instant and back again, again and again.

  So had his world changed moment to moment since last night, when she had made the gash in his heart with her small, despairing plea for his name. It was not a mortal wound, perhaps, but near enough—deep and searing as the hole Lord Edenmont's bullet had torn into his side a decade ago. This time, however, even Esme's salves could not have eased the hurt.

  The remedy Ismal needed was in the keeping of the woman who'd done the damage. She'd offered love, and made a terrible magic with that gift. When he'd come this night, he'd known that her love was a serpent that could turn upon him in an instant, spitting revulsion, fear, contempt.

  Yet he had given her what she wanted because there was no choice, and stoically he had waited for the serpent to strike. Rejection would not kill him, he'd told himself. It would release him at last, after a year and more, and he'd be free of her. The need, in time, would fade like any other.

  But Fate had not written it so.

  Fate had given her into his keeping. And all his peace, he saw with a terrible clarity, was now in hers. It was too late to fear the treacherous magic of this woman's love. All he truly dreaded now was losing her.

  He drew her close and nuzzled the soft tangle of her hair. She stirred sleepily. Then she tensed, drawing her head back to look at him in bewilderment.

  "You fell asleep," he chided, smiling because he couldn't help it. "The tigress at last is sated—and falls asleep. Selfish cat."

  Color flooded her cheeks. "I couldn't help it. I was—that was—you are—"

  "Very demanding," he supplied. He kissed her eyebrow.

  "Yes. But..." She bit her lip.

  "Tell me."

  "I don't know, exactly."

  "Tell me approximately, then." He stroked down her smooth, supple back.

  She let out a small sigh. "That never happened before." With her thumb, she traced small circles in the center of his chest. "I don't know whether it's you...or whether I had it completely wrong. Lovemaking," she explained, darting him an embarrassed glance. "I thought it was like—like a rash."

  "A rash." His voice was expressionless.

  "The more you scratch, the more you itch."

  In other words, her husband had failed to satisfy her, Ismal interpreted, not altogether surprised. Opiates and drink took their toll on a man's stamina. Furthermore, being Beaumont, he must have made it out to be her fault.

  "This is what happens with Englishmen," he said. "They are not properly trained regarding women. A strange delusion is bred into them that women are weak and inferior, consequently, unworthy of the trouble of understanding. Albanian men are not so ignorant. From the cradle we learn that women are powerful and dangerous."

  "Are they, indeed?" An uncertain smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Is that why you keep them locked in harems?"

  He grinned down at her. "Aye—and to keep other men from stealing them. Women are like cats. Independent. Unpredictable. You give a woman all she asks—you die to please her. Then, one day, another man passes her window and calls to her, 'Ah, my beautiful one. Your burning eyes make roast meat of my heart. Hajde, shpirti im. Come, to me, my soul, he beckons. And so your woman goes, forgetting you, just as the cat forgets the carcass of the poor sparrow she ate the day before."

  She laughed, and the sound was delicious, tickling his skin, warming his heart. "Roast meat," she said. "Sparrow carcasses. How romantic."

  "It is true. A woman cannot be controlled. Only appeased. Temporarily."

  "I see. You told me your story to shut me up—"

  "And to entertain," he said. "As I would amuse a cat with a ball of string."

  "But you succeeded," she said. "I was utterly captivated, enthralled. And appeased."

  "Ah, no," he said sadly. "For you wanted me, still, and I saw my fate. 'It must be done, Ismal,' I told myself. 'Recall your father, the mighty warrior. He would not shrink, even from certain death. Be strong like him. Take courage. The goddess demands a sacrifice. Lay yourself upon her altar, and pray she will be merciful, And so I did." He licked her ear. "Though my heart drummed with terror."

  She squirmed and pulled away. "Don't. That makes me demented."

  "I know." He was growing aroused again, though his body had scarcely quieted from the first tempest. Gently he released her and shifted himself up onto one elbow.

  "You fire up in an instant," he said as he lightly caressed her breast. Smooth and white as alabaster. Full and firm. So beautiful she was, and passionate. Made to make a man weep. "It is frightening," he added. "Luckily, I am Albanian, the son of a strong warrior."

  "And the son of a sorceress." Her tawny gaze was darkening. "I suppose there's some comfort in that. At least I haven't disgraced myself with someone ordinary."

  He clicked his tongue. "It is not disgrace. We care for each other. Neither of us belongs to another."

  "Neither of us?" she interrupted. "Aren't you forgetting your wives?"

  With his index finger, he wrote his name over the smooth curve of her breast. "This matter of wives plagues you excessively," he said.

  "I can understand a man having trouble cleaving only to one," she said. "But when he's allowed scores of them, it's very difficult to understand what the problem is. Obviously, it's too late for me to object, but I am curious. Purely for intellectual enlightenment, I wish you'd explain. Why should a man of your cultural background stray? Or was it the circumstances? Were you obliged to leave them in Albania?"

  He let out a sigh. "I vowed to myself that I would not respond to any more interrogations, at least for this night." He moved over her and eased himself between her thighs. "Perhaps I should distract you," he added, skimming his fingers down over her belly.

  Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. I shan't survive another—Oh-h-h," she moaned, as his fingers grazed her tender woman's flesh.

  "Mediant," he murmured while he caressed the sensitive peak with feather-light strokes. "Wicked, curious cat. I give you everything you want, and it is not enough, ungrateful creature."

  Her eyes were glazing over. "Dear God. Oh. Don't. Oh-h-h-h."

  He bent and feathered a trail of kisses over her breast, then lightly took its trembling crest between his teeth. A low, surrendering moan answered, and she slid her fingers into his hair.

  Smiling, he trailed down slowly, teasing her silken skin with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

  She gasped, and tugged at his hair as he stole lower, to the center of her heat. She was damp already with wanting. Ready, vulnerable to delicious torment. He wanted to make it long and delicious. He had claimed her like a savage. Now he would enjoy his conquest at his leisure. He flicked his tongue over the delicate bud. This time, her moan pulsed through her muscles and on through him, to vibrate in his heart like the strings of a lute.

  She was the night, and the night was dark, hot honey, thick with pleasure. She was his, hot and helpless under his tongue, and her soft, tremulous cries were for him. He toyed and tantalized, savoring the desire he drew from her, the moist warmth of her feminine secrets. Again and again he coaxed her to the crest of pleasure, and grew drunk with power as each climactic shudder pulsed through him.

  "Please. Istnal." She
fisted her hands in his hair. "Please," she gasped. "I need you inside me."

  He rose to her, smiling his triumph and happiness while his swollen rod throbbed against her heat.

  "Like this, my heart?" he asked huskily as he eased into her slick core.

  "Oh. Yes."

  Slowly, this time. Lovingly. She was his now, sweet and hot...and needing him...inside her. Her body welcomed, opening gladly to him...surrounding him, taking him deep, and tightening, to hold him in the most intimate of embraces while she moved to the sensuous rhythm he set, and joined with him in lovers' dance.

  She was the night, and the night sang in his heart, low and aching as the music of his homeland. She was the Ionian wind, singing in the pines. She was the rain streaming into his parched and lonely exile's heart to nourish his soul. She was the sea and the mountains, the soaring eagles and the rushing rivers...all that he had lost. In her he found himself. Ismal. Hers.

  She reached for him, and he sank gladly into her welcoming embrace, and drank the heady brew of simmering kisses. Her passion was raki, a potent whiskey racing through his blood, inflaming him.

  The music of desire grew louder, their rhythm stronger and faster, driving to appassionato.

  She was desire, and desire was a mad dance, a wild valle with the night. She clung, surging with him in stormy harmony. She was lost, as he was, to feverish need, yet she was with him, holding him, even as they raced to crescendo.

  Then she was eternity, and eternity was the vast night heavens where the stars blazed. His needy soul reached for her, into the void. Leila. With me. Keep me.

  She was there, her mouth claiming his, her strong, beautiful hands holding him fast. She was there, a burning star, his, and rapture was a searing burst of gold fire. He blazed for an instant…then fell…into the void, consumed.

  Chapter 14

  Despite orders to the contrary, Nick was waiting up when Ismal returned near daybreak.

  "Herriard's back," Nick said as he took his master's hat and coat. "He—What the devil have you done to your neckcloth?" He scowled at the linen dangling limply from Ismal's neck. "I hope to heaven no one saw you like that. And where are your other things? You didn't leave them there, did you?"

  Ismal remembered Leila in his silk robe, the sash draped about her head like a turban, the trousers clinging to her lush hips and long, slender legs. "They were stolen," he said. "How did you learn about Herriard? I thought he planned to be away until the first of April."

  "Lady Brentmor came looking for you not ten minutes after you left. Bursting with news for you. Only you weren't here and she had to collect Mrs. Beaumont from Lady Carroll's and take her to a card party."

  Ismal headed up the stairs. "I trust her news can wait until morning."

  "It is morning, in case you haven't noticed," Nick said, trailing after him.

  "Tell me after I sleep, then. I am rather weary."

  "Well, so am I. Only I had to stay up, didn't I, because you won't let me write things down, and if I fell asleep I might forget some important detail."

  Ismal ambled into his bedroom and, pulling off his cravat, sat on the edge of the mattress. "Tell me then." He began to tug off his boots.

  "Evidently, the old lady got some reports from her informants late in the afternoon," Nick said. "Item one: Late in December, the Duke of Langford paid two thousand quid for shares of a company that doesn't exist."

  "Ah." Ismal set his right boot down. "This makes sense. Lord Avory is kept on a relatively modest allowance. It was more profitable for Beaumont to bleed the father. Also, much more dangerous."

  "Suicidal, I'd say. Because—and this is item two—the Duke of Langford has some interesting friends in the demimonde. Some burly fellows you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. And a talented courtesan by the name of Helena Martin. He's her landlord."

  "This is very interesting." Ismal placed the left boot beside its mate. "According to Quentin, Helena in her youth had a brief but very successful career as a thief." He had not considered it unusual or significant. Hundreds of children in London's slums stole and whored to survive. Helena Martin was one of the very rare cases of upward mobility. A skilled—and discreet—thief could prove very useful at times. Certainly Beaumont had employed such in Paris.

  "That's item three," Nick said. "But I told her you already knew. Item four is a reminder that Quentin's men didn't find a single document in Beaumont's house that could be used to blackmail anybody."

  Ismal nodded. "Either none were left or someone stole them." He looked up at Nick. "So it is possible Helena stole them—for Langford."

  "An experienced thief would know where to look, wouldn't she? Not to mention it’s possible Helena had been in the house before. Beaumont did take tarts home when his wife was away."

  "The trouble is, once the papers were stolen, it was unnecessary to kill the blackmailer." Ismal pulled off his shirt and tossed it to Nick.

  "Maybe Helena had reasons of her own—or Langford felt it was safer to be rid of Beaumont once and for all."

  "An interesting theory. But no more than that. We need something more substantial than speculations."

  Nick was frowning down at the wrinkled shirt. It took him a moment to respond. "Yes. Well. Speculations."

  "Is that all? May I rest now?"

  Nick shook his head. "Item five."

  "No wonder you were afraid to sleep. The old witch came with a very long list, it seems."

  "The old witch has been busy," said Nick. "Unlike some people I could mention."

  "It is a tiresome case." Ismal yawned. "I prefer to let you and her do all the boring work. Perhaps you would be so kind as to proceed more concisely with the rest of your items, and keep the editorial comments to yourself."

  Nick's jaw clenched. "Very well. Sir. Item five: Lady Brentmor—by means she doesn't choose to explain—has obtained information regarding Mrs. Beaumont's finances. Thanks to the financial acumen of her man of business, Mr. Andrew Herriard—"

  "I know his name," said Ismal.

  "The dowager says every last ha'penny is accounted for. Mrs. Beaumont has an ample income, thanks to a series of sound but canny investments. A few risks that paid off very well. No oddities or discrepancies. No skirting the bounds of ethics."

  "Just as we already knew."

  "Indeed, all was in order. Except for one thing."

  Ismal waited through the obligatory dramatic pause.

  "Mrs. Beaumont started out with only a thousand pounds," said Nick.

  "That is not so surprising." Ismal's stomach was a bit queasy, though he was certain the dowager would not have breathed a word to Nick about the secrets of a decade ago. "It was my understanding that her father was bankrupt."

  "Apparently, Lady Brentmor thinks there should have been a lot more money, not less. I'm to inform you—this is item six—that she intends to contact sources at a bank in Paris. She seems to think Beaumont got his hands on the money before Herriard turned up to take charge."

  "I do not see what Her Ladyship hopes to accomplish," Ismal said with a trace of irritation. "It was ten years ago—and stealing from an orphaned girl would fit Beaumont's character. It would be but one in a long list of injuries he did her. However, since she did not kill him, it is irrelevant to the inquiry."

  "I did point that out to Lady Brentmor. She told-me it wasn't my business to think, but to listen. Item seven," Nick began.

  "Heaven grant me patience!" Ismal fell back on the pillows and shut his eyes. "When will you be done with your accursed items? I shall be an old man before you finish, I think."

  "Next time, I'll make the old lady wait," said Nick. "I'd like to see you make her stifle editorial comments. I haven't told you the half of what she—"

  "Item seven," Ismal coldly reminded.

  "Christ. Item seven," Nick grated out. "News from abroad. From Turkey."

  Ismal's eyes flew open.

  "Jason Brentmor left Constantinople three months ago," Nick said. "He's on his
way home. She thought you'd want to know." He left, slamming the door behind him.

  Leila was acutely conscious of the fine thread of moisture stealing down between her breasts. Fortunately, several layers of clothing concealed this fact from nearby onlookers.

  At Lady Seales' soiree at present, only two onlookers stood nearby, discussing the political situation in France. One was Andrew Herriard, the picture of quiet gentlemanly elegance as he hovered protectively at her shoulder. The other, unquietly stunning in a midnight blue coat and blinding white linen, was the cause of Andrew's reversion to guardian role: the so-called Comte d'Esmond.

  Her former guardian's behavior was making Leila wonder whether the spurious count was also Andrew's reason for returning to London two weeks ahead of schedule. Earlier in the day, when he'd called, Andrew had in his mild way given her to understand that he was concerned. Oh, he had approved of Gaspard and Eloise. After all, they were quiet, well-mannered, and obviously diligent—as the terrifyingly clean house practically screamed. Even in her studio, not a trace of the previous night's profligacy remained—no forgotten bit of clothing, no spilled cognac, not a strand of hair clinging to carpet or sofa pillows, not a speck of dust, a piece of lint. Just as though nothing had happened.

  Only it had, and Leila had been burningly conscious of the fact throughout her previous conversation with Andrew. Her stomach had knotted with guilt, just as it had when she was a girl, listening to one of his gentle lectures. He hadn't precisely lectured today. But even while applauding her choice of staff, he had managed to drop more than one subtle hint about her finding a live-in companion. She had met those mild hints with evasive incomprehension. Luckily for her, he hadn't pressed.

  Today, evasion, she thought. Tomorrow, black falsehoods, no doubt. She had failed Andrew and fallen, but she was wicked at heart and didn't care. All she cared about—like any hardened sinner—was not getting caught. She was Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter, truly.

  Ismal—Esmond, she reminded herself—was not helping. He remained talking to Andrew as though the man were his dearest friend. He was cultivating Andrew, which the latter, being nobody's fool, must surely comprehend. Meanwhile, Leila sweated with the strain of driving away simmering recollections of the previous night.