The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  “May I ...” America bit her lip. She pushed herself up off the petite chaise. “Does it hurt very much to give blood?”

  Exeter frowned. “The danger is not that it hurts, Miss Jones, but that you will become squeamish and swoon.”

  America stuck her chin out. “I don’t faint, Doctor Exeter.”

  He studied her. “Come, then. Lay beside Mr. Black and roll up your sleeve.”

  Mia arrived with his kit. The doctor unwrapped a folded cloth which covered a number of metal utensils and a length of tubing. He retrieved a small container of clear liquid and poured it over his hands. America recognized the sharp, pungent odor of rubbing alcohol. Mia held a white cloth underneath to catch the excess drippings as Exeter poured the disinfectant over a small, sharp-looking knife.

  America grabbed his arm. “You must please explain everything to me. Only then will I not be afraid.”

  “Very well. I am going to cut your arm and insert a hollow needle into your vein. I will then attach a syringe to the end of the needle and a thin rubber tube will transfer your blood into a similar apparatus implanted into Mr. Black.”

  He held up the knife. “Try to think of something pleasant, Miss Jones.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “WAKE UP, MR. BLACK.”

  The sharp burn of ammonia caused a deep, involuntary inhalation of breath. Phaeton clawed his way to the surface of consciousness. He blinked, then blinked again. His vision remained hazy, obscured by a flutter of pale shadows—his eyelashes. A second waft of smelling salts lifted his head off the pillow. Racked by a spasm of coughs, he jerked upright.

  His body thrashed violently from side to side. Sluggish, deep voices spoke to one another. “Get hold of his upper arm, throw your weight into it.” Phaeton tried to twist out of the painful viselike grip that held him down. There was unbearable pressure on both shoulders. He exhaled, took another deep breath, and broke free of the noxious, cruel grip of the underworld.

  He collapsed onto a mattress and pillows. An indistinct shape sat beside the bed, which stubbornly refused to resolve itself.

  “Hold my hand.” His own husky parched words sounded distant, foreign. Someone’s fingertips pressed lightly on the inside of his wrist.

  “Fond as I have grown of you, Mr. Black, I believe Miss Jones is the one you want.”

  He opened his eyes wide with a start.

  Dr. Exeter. Phaeton attempted a grin of relief, but it hurt to smile. Excruciating soreness permeated every fiber of his body. He had seen what a steam-powered threshing machine could do to a man who fell into endless rows of scissorlike tines. If one could survive something like that, Phaeton supposed, they would feel something like he did at the moment. Vaguely, he was aware of fleshy parts in private places that were chafed and raw.

  He decided against any sort of physical movement. Without too much difficulty, he rotated his gaze. Shapes were still faint, shadowy. “My eyes—are they moving together?”

  “Well ...” Another indistinct figure spoke, and he recognized America’s voice. “Oh yes, now they are. Much better, Mr. Black.” A gentle hand squeezed his. He knew it was hers.

  The doctor swabbed a soothing cool solution into his eyes and wiped off the excess. Phaeton blinked many times before she came into focus. Those lovely golden green eyes crinkled at the ends, and a corkscrew of untamable curls fell down the side of her neck. He thought her smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “Hello, my dove.”

  “You require copious amounts of rest, Mr. Black. You nearly left us.”

  Phaeton answered Exeter, but his gaze never left Miss Jones. “So, I have not yet crossed the River Styx.”

  “Is that where you have been? Well, you are safely back among the living.” The doctor turned Phaeton’s head to one side and palpitated a wound on his throat. “Perhaps, when you are feeling stronger, you will give us a full report.” The strong hands lifted the back of his head. “Drink and sleep peacefully. We will exchange notes later in the day.”

  Phaeton gulped cool water mixed with the bitter taste of a sedative. Laudanum. Another squeeze to his hand, and he slipped away into the merciful arms of Morpheus.

  The worried brow on his drowsy face caused America to smile. Phaeton untied his drawers. “I’m afraid to look. How is the man Thomas?”

  Gently, she brushed hair off his forehead. “The duke suffers battle fatigue, my lord, but he will soon recover.”

  His liquid brown eyes remained dulled by opiates, but that lazy curve at the ends of his mouth made her heart skip a beat. “And how do you know, my tantalizing dark dove?”

  Phaeton was back. And it made her deliriously happy. She concocted her own version of a devilish grin. “Because I will make sure of it.”

  His eyes cleared enough for a rare bit of tenderness to shine through. “I wish I could have been there to see you duel with the treacherous little man-eater.”

  Her grin turned lopsided. “You missed a brief clash. Qadesh made short work of me. It was Doctor Exeter who managed to frighten her off.”

  “Your blood flows in my veins.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Through my heart.”

  She lowered her eyes, folding his blanket down. “The doctor says we are a match. Not all transfusions go as well as this one.”

  His hands swept around her waist, and he pulled her close. He surveyed her through half-closed eyes, a look that made her shiver all over. His gaze flickered over every feature of her face. “Then it would be prudent, indeed sensible, to keep you near, to replenish my body in any number of ways.” The surprising strength in his arms caused an extra tingle of joy.

  She reached for a glass of sedative. Phaeton groaned. “No more.”

  America sighed. “Oh dear, unless you nap for an hour or two longer, I’m afraid I will not be able to remove of all your clothes to give you a sponge bath.”

  He pressed back into bed pillows and stared. Easy enough to read the lusty imaginings swirling through that randy mind of his. She pressed her lips together and feigned determination. “Doctor Exeter had ordered one more dose of sedative.”

  “You are a witch and a tease, Miss Jones.” But he took the medicine.

  Phaeton stood at the helm of a great ship, the salt air whipping through his hair as the sun burned a swath of warmth across his cheeks. Miss Jones stood beside him wearing an Admiral Nelson hat and a frothy white dress. Suddenly, they were fired upon by nearby vessels flying the Jolly Roger. Cutlass swinging buccaneers sailed across the sea on ropes and dropped onto the deck. Phaeton and America drew swords.

  He found himself face to face with Yanky Willem. The schooner lurched to one side, and the filthy pirate nearly had him over the side rails. As the pirate leader drew close, his black-toothed grin drooled blood. “This day will be yer last, Yanky.” Phaeton withdrew his sword from Willem’s body and booted him into the drink. America stood at the helm, smiling at him over a pile of dead men.

  A spray of salt water soothed his sun-kissed skin and Phaeton awoke with a sudden jolt.

  A damp washcloth bathed his face and neck. Pale shadows in the room signaled late afternoon. Miss Jones dipped the cloth back into a basin of water and wrung it out. The tinkle of drops created a sudden powerful urge to urinate. Raw, recently scabbed wounds on his cock burned as the shaft enlarged. His eyes watered.

  “I’m in desperate need of a chamber pot, Miss Jones.”

  She eyed the pitched tent under the bedcovers and brought a porcelain receptacle out from under the bed.

  She helped him sit up and maneuver himself to the edge of the bed. A bit lightheaded, he positioned the bowl between his knees. Nothing. He looked up from the business at hand. “Are you going to stand there and watch?”

  Hands on her hips, America snorted. “Priggish all of a sudden, Mr. Black?”

  He glared.

  “Oh, very well, I’m off to the kitchen.” She turned on her heel.

  “Warm buns and chocolate pudding, Miss Jones.”

 
; At the door, she turned back. “Pudding, Mr. Black?”

  He tried a pleading, starved look. “Please.”

  She pivoted and nearly ran into Exeter. “Oh, hello, doctor.”

  “Miss Jones.”

  “I’m off to forage a meal for my patient.”

  Exeter paused to let her through. “I ordered a beef and barley broth for him.”

  She returned his raised brow with one of her own. “He fancies a sweet pudding.”

  The doctor brightened. “Cook makes a steamed chocolate pudding with chocolate sauce, Mia’s favorite. But he must have the soup first.”

  Phaeton released a torrential stream into the chamber pot.

  Exeter peered into the bowl. “Clear and nearly colorless. A good sign, indeed. Quite a remarkable recovery.” The doctor pulled up a chair and took out a small journal and fountain pen.

  Phaeton tucked his legs under the covers and adjusted a pillow.

  “Now, Mr. Black, while it is fresh in your mind, might you relive your expedition to the other side?”

  He exhaled a testy groan. “Why would I wish to do such a thing?”

  Exeter opened his notebook. “Your odyssey will be recorded and stored in the library of secrets. One day your experiences will help inform another, who must undergo a similar trial.”

  His eyes narrowed on the doctor. “Very well.”

  Much to Phaeton’s surprise, the better part of an hour slipped by with no ill effects. As he relived his journey, a veil lifted, and a burden eased. Occasionally, Exeter would ask a rather pointed question, but for the most part he left him to his ramblings.

  Phaeton sighed. “There is a painting by Goya. I believe the work is titled Saturn Devouring His Son. It was here on loan at the National last year.”

  Exeter never looked up as he guided his pen across a ruled page. “I’m afraid I missed that one. Sounds frightful enough.”

  Phaeton rested his eyes while the brass pen point scratched indelible cursive letters onto paper. “A gargoyle of immense proportions holds his son, the size of a child’s doll, in hand. His large mouth is agape, having already eaten one arm and torn off the head.” Phaeton opened his eyes and met Exeter’s stare. “I can tell you that Spaniard has crossed over.”

  A tap on the door signaled the arrival of supper. Phaeton’s stomach growled. Exeter snapped the journal shut and smiled his now familiar close-lipped grin. “An appetite, very good.”

  “I should hope so, doctor.” America’s eyes were bright, full of sparkle. As hungry as he was, Phaeton hardly noticed dinner as the footman set up a tray table.

  She removed a folded wire from a rather cleverly concealed skirt pocket. “I have received a wire, Mr. Black, but I cannot decipher a word of it.” She passed it over.

  “An encoded message.” Phaeton borrowed Exeter’s pen and tried several different letter substitutions. “Ah, yes, here we go.” In moments he had the wire decrypted.

  POST OFFICE INLAND TELEGRAM

  16 FEB 1889 9:00 AM

  TO: MISS AMERICA JONES

  ROOS HOUSE ON-THE-THAMES

  STEAMSHIP OF SUSPICIOUS REGISTERY IN

  PORT STOP UPON ARRIVAL LEAVE WORD

  WITH PERCY AT THE BLUE ANCHOR

  INSPECTOR MOORE

  “Dexter has a flair for the dramatic.” Phaeton read the message a second time before handing it back to her. “You are not to go alone.”

  “Which is why I mean to get you well enough for travel.” When the doctor raised a brow, America stuck Exeter with a grim stare. Those two were plotting something.

  She steadied the bowl in his lap. Phaeton narrowed his gaze at the two conspirators and spooned up a wonderful beef barley broth. He opened his mouth wide as Miss Jones fed him a piece of hot buttered bun.

  Exeter stood at the foot of his bed and observed. Presumably, he was concerned with whether or not Phaeton managed to keep the soup down.

  America added a dollop of conserve to the next piece of bun. “Doctor says we have both made a remarkable recovery.”

  “You have a hard head, Miss Jones.” Exeter’s nod swept to Phaeton. “Mr. Black proves to have a strong heart.”

  As she leaned in, Phaeton inhaled the scent of her. Lilac and something else—lavender perhaps? She had fought the she-devil off him. And her blood flowed in his veins. A bolt of strange energy surged through his body at the very thought of her essence inside him.

  America sat upright. “Your eyes have turned red again.”

  “Mmm. May I bite your neck?” Phaeton chewed the rest of his bun and winked.

  Exeter moved around the side of the bed to get a closer look. “I found no evidence of an exchange of blood. Any residual spell from Qadesh will disappear shortly.” The doctor clasped hands behind his back. “How do you feel?”

  “Thickheaded.”

  Their laughter caused him to set down his spoon. “What is so amusing?”

  The doctor continued to snort. “You decrypted a coded message in minutes. Hardly dull-witted.”

  America smiled. “Eat up, Mr. Black, so I can move on to your bath.”

  Exeter checked his watch. “Time to look in on my other patient.”

  “Doctor Exeter has been at your bedside or his father’s for the better part of last night and today.”

  Exeter looked like he could use a few winks. Phaeton ladled up another spoonful of soup. “How is the Baron?”

  “Comfortable, I hope. He is no longer conscious.” The doctor nodded a bow and excused himself.

  The moment the door closed, Phaeton pulled her close. “Nurse Jones. I believe it is time to examine the wounds on your patient’s privates.”

  “I see that playful smugness is back in your grin.” She returned the wicked glint in his eyes and left his wandering hands to wander. Without exposing any skin, she rattled off a report. “Bruising has gone from dark purple to pale green, and the scratches and bite marks are healed over. Wouldn’t want to open up any wounds by forcing too much blood down there, now would we?” America laughed and pushed away.

  He smiled and pulled her back. “I can take a bit of pain with my pleasure.”

  She easily read the sleepy sable gaze that perused her body. Shifting her eyes, a darker thought needled at her. She hadn’t planned to mention anything about last night. He had been injured, nearly killed by that wicked pythoness, but the question escaped her mouth. “Did you enjoy her?”

  His eyes met hers before rolling upward and to the side. “The simple, honest answer would be yes, for a very brief period.”

  Suddenly and most unexpectedly, she kissed him. His generous mouth opened and unleashed a hot tongue as he took control. How easily he made her body burn for him. She took his lower lip between her teeth and moaned softly. “Thank you for being honest.”

  A small corner of his mouth twitched. “I didn’t know you cared, Miss Jones.”

  She reached behind her and lifted his arm from around her waist. “I believe I promised you a sponge bath, Mr. Black.”

  Phaeton’s head fell into the pillow, as his belly shuddered. “Do not stop, Miss Jones.” The washcloth sprang to life and began to wave. America caught hold of the dancing fabric and gently stroked the soapy cloth over his ready mast. Her hands soapy and slick, she abandoned the cloth and stroked the length of his shaft.

  America had built up a fire in the hearth and removed his nightshirt. Carefully, she had washed every part, every appendage except the one he most wanted her to touch. She had taken her time, until the anticipation became unbearable.

  Her fingers danced over his chest as she followed a narrow trail of hair past his navel to the proud member throbbing in her hands. “You are beautifully made.”

  As his arousal edged upward, he sensed she wanted him badly, but would not press for her own pleasure. The quick-witted, affable side of Miss Jones had always made her a pleasant companion, but this recent kindness toward him moved Phaeton, inexplicably.

  She kept her fingers wet and soaped, so that s
he would slip over cuts and scratches. His euphoric demands increased in a frenzy of peaking pleasure. “You may grip tighter, faster.”

  The vixen purposely stroked slower, lighter. He opened his eyes and frowned.

  She grinned. “A picture in the Kama Sutra comes to mind, Mr. Black.” She leaned over and kissed, then licked him like a stick of hard candy.

  He released a kind of trumpeting growl. For a moment, she must have thought she pleasured a bull elephant. When she jerked upright, her eyes were large and black with desire.

  “You temptress, you—” He grabbed her up into his arms and lifted her skirts. “Lay on your side.” She wrapped a leg around his waist and he found the slit in her pantalettes. His fingers moved into the damp heat between her legs. The light tickling she received continued until he made her cry out and her body tremble. He fingered deeper to see if she would receive him. He was nearly mad with passion. “Oh, my dove, you are ready.”

  He pressed into her. They shared a ripple, then a wave of fierce arousal, which moved directly through her body into his. He continually marveled at her ability to bring him such astounding pleasure. She answered each of his thrusts, and added more of her own, until she brought him to release. Sleepily, he used his fingers to play and stroke and circle until she tumbled over the edge of desire and into the Land of Nod.

  The whining squeak of his bedchamber door roused him out of his own dream. A rustle of skirt and two sets of footsteps.

  “Have you seen the way Mr. Black and Miss Jones look at each other, Oom Asa?” Phaeton very clearly heard Mia’s whispered comment.

  Phaeton opened an eye and raised a finger to his lips. Mia and Exeter stood at the foot of his bed, well aware America lay fast asleep, nestled in his arms. And he did not imagine the subtle lift at one corner of the doctor’s mouth, even as he turned his wide-eyed charge away from the scene in his bed.