Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  She almost turned around and reentered the carriage. In fact, she was about to do so when a familiar voice called her name and she turned to see Douglas hurrying down the stairs.

  “I’m so pleased to see ye,” he said, smiling broadly as he came to a stop before her. “Ye came alone?”

  “Oz is waiting in port. In case I’m thrown out.”

  He grinned. “I might have a wee something to say about that.”

  “How is he?”

  “Difficult and quarrelsome, with a tongue like an asp. But himself’s on the mend, and he misses you.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No, but he does.”

  “If only I could believe you. Although,” Sofia said with a smile, plucking up her courage, feeling a measure of her old assurance, telling herself she’d already once brought the mighty Blackwood to heel, “I might like to see if my womanly wiles still work.” Untying the ribbon on her straw bonnet, she took it off and shook out her pale curls. “There, I’m ready.”

  Douglas laughed. “Aye and ye have my blessing. He’s like a man with an itch. Come, I’ll take ye to the monster in his lair.”

  CHAPTER 29

  DOUGLAS ESCORTED HER to Jamie’s bedroom and quietly said, “He’s awake. I’ll leave ye here. Much luck to ye, lass.”

  She watched him walk away, waited until he disappeared, and nervously ran her palms over the peach silk of her skirt. Douglas’s last words weren’t exactly encouraging. Then she reminded herself that she’d come a very long way for this and discretion had never been her strong suit anyway, nor the sensibilities that passed for virtue in the timid. So fie on useless apprehension.

  She opened the door without knocking.

  Standing in the doorway, she gazed at the dark-haired, handsome man lying in a magnificent rococo bed of bleached wood. “I came to see you,” she said.

  “I see that.” She could have been at a picnic outing, he thought, in her bright summer gown, a straw hat dangling from its ribbons in her hand.

  “I’m thinking of staying.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Let me reword that. I am staying.”

  He still didn’t speak, although his gaze traveled slowly down her form.

  “Even if you refuse to talk to me.”

  He finally spoke. “I’m not sure I have anything to say.”

  “You needn’t talk.” She shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  He smiled faintly. “I recall you said that once before.” “And I recall things worked out rather well that night despite the lack of conversation. You’re too polite to throw me out anyway.”

  “I’m not polite at all.”

  He was clearly only recently returned to health, but he spoke as he always did, his voice clear and strong. “You’ve been polite in the past,” she said with a lift of her chin.

  “And you think I might be again.” He regarded her thoughtfully, as though having come to a fork in the road, he was deciding which path to take, or whether he’d turn back instead. He pursed his lips as though to speak, then apparently changed his mind. He let a pause develop, his expression unreadable, until at last a smile slowly unfurled. “Welcome to Dalmia.”

  She smiled back. “Thank you.” Her world was sun filled once again, the birds were singing, the air perfumed. She hadn’t known until then whether he’d let her stay.

  “I’d get up if I could.” He crooked a finger. “Come. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  She’d remained in the doorway until then and now she came in. “I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary,” she said, crossing the room. “The usual round of receptions during the Season. Was it awful?” she softly inquired as she reached the bed, taking in the changes in his powerful body. He was leaner, rawboned, his shoulder still swathed in bandages, a new austerity in his facial structure.

  “I’ve felt better,” he said wryly. “Although if ever I had reason to heal, I do now.” He extended his left hand across his body. “Let me touch you.”

  Letting her hat drop to the floor, she took his hand and felt her heart constrict as his fingers closed hard on hers. His strength was still formidable, his smile as seductive, his dark beauty intact.

  “Kiss me,” he said. “I’m still pretty useless in terms of moving.”

  She sat carefully on the embroidered silk coverlet, cautious not to jar the bed or its occupant. Leaning over, she kissed him, softly, lightly, barely exerting pressure while sweet joy infused her soul and her loneliness disappeared as if by a magician’s hand. When she lifted her head, she met his roguish grin.

  “I’m not fourteen,” he playfully said. “You can do better than that.”

  And she did then, but prudent still, knowing how very close to death he’d been; even now he could barely move.

  “Jesus,” he whispered when she finally raised her head. “I’m going to have to get better real soon. That’s not nearly enough.”

  “It’ll just have to be enough for now,” she firmly said, sitting back. “I don’t want to chance hurting you.”

  He would have laughed if he dared, the thought of kissing as dangerous in a life such as his ludicrous. “I’ll talk to the doctor. We’ll see what he says.”

  “No you won’t. We can wait.”

  “Maybe you can wait. I can’t.” And if he hadn’t nearly died from a drug overdose in addition to his infected shoulder, he would have seriously considered having an injection. Just enough to alleviate his pain so he could have a sex with the woman who’d been in his thoughts from the moment he’d regained consciousness. Before that, too, Douglas had told him.

  “Nevertheless, you have to wait,” Sofia insisted. “And I brought along a chaperon for protection, so you’d best behave.”

  “It better be an old woman,” he muttered.

  “Oz came.”

  “He’s fucking undependable,” Jamie growled. They’d spent too many wild nights together over the years.

  “He’s happily married I’ll have you know.”

  Jamie’s expression brightened. “Ah, his wife came, too.”

  “No, apparently it’s a busy season for farming.”

  His scowl was back in place. “He’d better not have touched you.”

  She smiled. “I adore your jealously, but it’s wildly misplaced with Oz. He’s deeply in love with his wife, cherishes his daughter, and sends them telegrams three times a day. He’d be shocked if I flirted with him.”

  Jamie blew out a breath. “Very well. I could be wrong.”

  She grinned. “I love it when men apologize.”

  “I don’t care to hear about men, plural, in your life.”

  “That reminds me,” she said, recalling all the tedious evenings she’d recently spent in London. “Why didn’t you send me a message, a note—anything?”

  “Reminds me?” Another glowering look. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that I was moping over you to such an extent that Rosalind was throwing men at me to distract me from my misery.” She raised her brows in mild reproof. “You should have written.”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t mean that seven-word telegram.”

  “I was thinking about writing.”

  “Liar.”

  “I didn’t know your address.”

  “You could have sent a note via Fitz, you know, Lord Groveland, Groveland House.” She grinned. “Back in your court, darling.”

  It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, he struggled to find suitable words. “You figured rather largely in my hallucinations,” he slowly began. “Ask Douglas, he’ll tell you. But”—he started to shrug and thought better of it—“we hadn’t known each other very long . . . only a few days—and I wasn’t sure”—a rueful grimace—“what it all meant. It just didn’t make sense . . .” His voice trailed off. “For any number of practical reasons.”

  Sofia nodded. “I said as much to Rosalind at first. Not that I didn’t miss you. But I thought it was proba
bly the sex I missed, and there were any number of men who—well, you know what I mean.”

  He was scowling again, so she said, “Your ego doesn’t need further bolstering, but the truth is—no one appealed after you. So there—your reputation is unsullied. You’re quite extraordinary,” she ended with a little sniff.

  “You are, too.” An unsimple, difficult truth.

  She contemplated a space over his head, not sure she dared broach the subject. “You know, Rosalind actually believes in love at first sight,” she said, being the most likely woman in the world to dare anything. “I never have.”

  “Me either.”

  “There, you see how much we have in common?”

  “What we have in common, darling,” he softly drawled, “is something else entirely. Although”—his smile was dazzling—“I’m more than willing to call it love if you wish.”

  She grinned. “Or lust.”

  “Yes. Hot, blissful, earthmoving lust. Christ, I really have to talk to the doctor,” he muttered. “Maybe he can give me a shot or something,” he recklessly asserted.

  “There’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Allow me to disagree on the matter of urgency.” His voice was crisp. “I happen to be in a damnable rush.”

  “Speaking of, say, issues of urgency, I have a small matter to discuss with you.”

  He looked up, instantly alert, prompted by a sixth sense perhaps or something in her tone. “I’m listening,” he carefully said.

  “What if I were to say I was pregnant?”

  His brows rose. “I’d say congratulations to you and whomever the father is or else I’d kill my boot maker.”

  “And I’d point out that you’re the father. There was no whomever, and we never did stop for champagne or any other useful remedy that day.”

  “You fell asleep.”

  “You could have wakened me.”

  He should have; he had no excuse. “Is that why you came?”

  “No. But I thought you might like to know. I’m not absolutely sure yet, but mildly sure. My menses are two weeks late.” She was full of joy over it, but she didn’t mention that.

  “And your courses have never been late before?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought you said I didn’t have to worry about this. I thought you said I was safe.”

  “You were—from this.” She touched her stomach.

  A jolt went through him at her small gesture. Not this. A child.

  “Babies and issues of paternity don’t matter all that much in my unconventional world. I wouldn’t have come for that,” she said, feeling a need to explain when he was looking so displeased, she supposed was the word. “But a baby together with love,” she softly added, forging ahead because she couldn’t help herself after coming so far. “That made all the difference. And I found I couldn’t live without you or I felt as though I couldn’t, particularly after being courted by any number of dull and dreary men through any number of boring evenings. Oz noticed my melancholy—pining away, he called it. He talked me into coming here. I’m not altogether sure I would have otherwise.”

  Another jolt—this one familiar in his profession. Fear. What if she hadn’t come? What then? “Hmm,” he said, the soft sound conjecture and uncertainty—benign possibility infusing the resonance at the end. “So have you thought about getting married?” So might he approach a wall of artillery—with wary vigilance.

  “No, I haven’t. What about you?”

  “It’s never crossed my mind.”

  He is direct. “You know I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, because of course it was the oldest ploy in the world. The sound of voices outside his windows could be clearly heard as the silence lengthened.

  Sofia thought it was Italian being spoken, but then Jamie lived in a Venetian palace. Why wouldn’t his staff speak Italian?

  Her calm demeanor exhibited neither artifice nor guile. Reassuring, he supposed, if he needed reassurance. But Sofia was the least likely female to resort to artifice or guile. Outspoken and blunt was more her style. “Did you hear about Antonella?”

  “I did,” she said, as if he’d not changed the subject. “They stopped by in London. I’m glad for them. Ernst seems genuinely excited about Antonella’s pregnancy and their coming marriage.”

  “I didn’t know how you’d feel about being usurped.”

  “You didn’t?”

  His brows arched faintly. “Money can be alluring.”

  She lifted her hand in a small sweeping gesture that encompassed the costly, sumptuous room. “You know that from personal experience, I suppose.”

  “Don’t be a bitch.” But he was smiling.

  “Be nice to me or I might jump on you.”

  “Promise?” A low, husky rasp.

  “All in due time, dear. Do you have your own priest or minister? You look as though you’re rich enough to furnish a clergyman’s living. We could be married here.”

  He grinned, some decision made, or if not, deliberately overlooked. “You never wait to be asked, do you?”

  “As if you’re interested in demure maids.”

  “True.”

  “I would naturally insist on fidelity.”

  “As would I. Should I call in my solicitor?”

  Her gaze widened. “Do you keep one on the premises?”

  “I do.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I suppose for ladies who drop by and wish to marry me. Solicitors know how to drive a hard bargain.”

  “If you say I’m not the first I’ll turn sulky.”

  He smiled. “What do you think?”

  “I think you waited for me.”

  “And I think you waited for me.”

  “We’re very lucky, aren’t we?” she said, mischievous and playful, her eyes alight.

  “Very lucky.” That they’d met, that he’d survived, that she’d had the good sense to track him down, that he might be a father. “Now go and shut the door and lock it. Douglas is like a mother hen, and if I faint, you can revive me with kisses. We’ll have our honeymoon first and we can be married tonight. I don’t want any arguments.” His smile was perfumed with good humor. “If you’re good I’ll let Oz be best man.”

  “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Be a dear, lock the door, then undress for me,” he said, ignoring her demur.

  “I mean it, Jamie. I don’t want to cause you harm.”

  “I could shout for a servant and he could lock the door.”

  She held his gaze for a moment and saw the familiar determination in his eyes. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “In a minute. I don’t get married every day.”

  Slipping off the bed, she walked to the door, shut and locked it. “I could still refuse you,” she said, crossing the large sun-filled room, stopping just short of the bed.

  “Why would you want to?” Softly put, but willful beneath the gentle tone. He was not a man tolerant of resistance.

  “I don’t get married every day either,” she said with matching willfulness. “And I’d like a living, breathing husband in the end.”

  “I promise to keep breathing. Now, hurry, will you?” He smiled. “As I recall, that’s usually your demand.”

  “Not today,” she steadfastly declared. “I intend to make no demands whatsoever.”

  “How unselfish of you, darling, but you needn’t be noble minded. Look.” He twitched his hand downward and flicked the coverlet aside. “He’s more than happy to accommodate you.”

  She sucked in her breath, his enormous erection as vigorous and virile as ever.

  Aware of her interest, aware as well of her gratifying eagerness for cock, he blew out a small breath. “I think you’re going to have to undress later or I’m going to embarrass myself. Do you know how many wet dreams I’ve had because of you?”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve used
my dildo because of you?” Her gaze was riveted on his memorable physical presence: the graceful, athletic, long-limbed body she’d dreamed of so often, leaner but dynamic still, his bronzed skin dark against the white linen sheets, his rampant cock inflaming her desires, recklessly subverting issues of prudence.

  Ignoring her largely rhetorical question, he drew in a harsh, steadying breath. “I changed my mind,” he tautly said. “Undress first. I can wait.” His dreams and sleepless nights were over. He wanted more.

  “Maybe I can’t wait,” she shakily replied.

  “Try.” He smiled, a brilliant, mischievous smile. “It can be your wedding gift to me.”

  Her hands were trembling so violently as she unbuttoned her bodice that he began speaking to her of his vineyard, describing how it had been planted by the Romans, telling her he’d show it to her when he was better, when he could walk again—quietly distracting her, calming her. It was not unexpected that his stratagem worked. He was skilled at comforting women, at charming and beguiling them, and he selfishly wanted this for himself.

  Her gown came off, then her chemise, at which point he almost changed his mind about waiting. “Your breasts are bigger,” he murmured, his erection surging at the sight. “So soon?”

  She looked up, her fingers on the tie at the waistband of her drawers. “I don’t know. Is it soon?”

  “I’d think so, but perhaps not.” He had no experience with enceinte women.

  “My breasts are more sensitive, but then my whole body is more susceptible to touch, sensation”—she met his heated gaze and shivered—“everything.”

  “Come, let me feel them.” He’d disciplined his voice to a mild equanimity. “We’ll see how sensitive they are.”

  She let her drawers slip to the floor, and the sight of her lush and voluptuous and nude was almost too much for his self-control. But his voice was pleasant and undisturbed a second later when he said, “Sit here by me,” and indicated his left side where he had the use of his arm.

  He watched her walk around the foot of the bed, contemplating the subtle changes in her body: the new ripeness in her breasts, the slight lengthening of her nipples evident only to a discriminating eye, the deepening rosy hue of her aureoles. He wasn’t a doctor or a midwife, but perhaps she was right.