Her head fell backward as his lips worked downward along the slope of her chest, his fingers sliding up under her left breast, his thumb brushing through her dress across her nipple. Words choked up her throat. “Why would you want that? You never wanted this attachment.”
His words stayed on her skin, heating her pores with every word. “Because as it turns out, you were the first thief to the party, and you have a part of me I never thought to give.”
Against everything logical and sane in her mind that screamed at her to stop, that it was time to break things with him, her hands lifted, her fingers threading in through his hair. “You’re dismal at this vow of no attachments.”
“I excelled at it until I met you.” His fingers slid to the top of her bodice, tugging down the fabric, her stays, until her left nipple was bared. A swipe with his thumb, and then his lips clasped around the bud, teasing. “Until you stood in front of me, naked. Beautiful and challenging. Kissing the scar over my heart. You stole it away from me then, in that moment.”
“I could give it back.” Her hands moved down from his head to tug at his lawn shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
His mouth left her skin for only a moment as his shirt disappeared before tugging down the other side of her dress to find her other nipple. “I don’t want it back. I want you to have it. To have that piece of me that I hate to be gone—because I fear for its survival—fear for its loss. But I want you to have it. Hold it. Protect it.”
His words sent a lump into her throat and her gaze followed her fingers as they trailed down his back, riding the numerous ridges of the scars that dotted his back. “It is hard to look at your body—it is so perfect, but the scars built up over scars hide so much from me.”
His head angled up, his lips moving to her neck until he was standing over her, his breath next to her ear. “You know more than anyone.”
“And yet I don’t know anything.” The truth of the words didn’t stop her fingers from finding the fall front of his trousers and setting his member free, already straining for her touch, her body.
His hands went along her thighs, dragging up her skirts, lifting her as his tongue swirled circles just below her ear that sent shivers down her back. Holding her body high, he set the tip of his member at her entrance—her already throbbing, begging for him, entrance.
“You know this.” He drove into her without preamble, stealthy, stealing her breath.
Her legs lifted and tightened around the back of him, her mouth burying along the skin of his shoulder.
He sat deep inside of her for a breath, not moving, their bodies entwined so securely it shook her to the very core of her being.
She did know this. She knew it for the visceral, carnal need that she’d never felt before, never experienced. Their bodies together were otherworldly, shouldn’t exist.
But they did. Right there. Every time they were joined.
A breath and a rake of her teeth across the cord of muscle along his shoulder and he growled, stepping forward and crashing her back onto the wall behind her.
The mosaic shifted—brittle old tesserae dislodging from the mortar behind her—but she didn’t care, couldn’t care for what she needed to happen.
He withdrew, slamming back into her, sending shocking waves vibrating through her body. Again and again, so furious in the need of it his shaft bored up into her, stretching and stoking alive nerves that had never existed before. Until she was gasping, fighting for air, fighting for control of her body.
“Come, Elle. Come. Don’t fight it.” His words ragged in her ear, she could hear he was close to breaking.
But she needed to fight it—fight for these moments where there was nothing but the two of them on the precipice—no world around them, no past, no future. Just their bodies doing exactly what they were meant to. A match made in the bowels of hell or the gardens of heaven, she didn’t care.
He continued to stroke, a growl rumbling in his chest as she panted, taking every one of his thrusts, opening up farther and farther to him.
One brutal drive, and his cock swelled deep within her, filling her, sending her over the edge to where she couldn’t fight any longer, only surrender to the vicious waves that tore through her body, taking everything from her and leaving sizzling wakes of agonized pleasure.
Her head curled down to wrap along his shoulder, her breathing heavy into his neck. She fought for air, for the sanity that deserted her every time they were together. How he was able to do this to her body he must be the very devil himself.
Under her fingertips, his skin pulsated, and she slid her hands along the sleek muscles of his back, still wondering at the mysteries of the many lines of scars marring the smooth of his skin.
“Rune.” His name into his neck dampened the skin under her lips.
“Yes?” The word so rough, it was barely audible.
She pulled back slightly, the back of her head hitting the tiles on the wall behind her as her right hand moved to flatten on his chest and she found his eyes. “That piece of me that you stole, what are you going to do with it?”
He paused, still, for an extended breath. Then his lips went onto her brow, silent for long beats of his heart she could feel under her palm. “I am thinking to hold onto it for as long as I am able to.”
Silent, her forehead sank forward, her cheek resting on his shoulder.
She had no commitment, no promises in response to his words.
Because promises only brought pain.
Promises created futures that could be destroyed far too easily.
{ Chapter 16 }
Leading Elle onto a tiny open corner of the dance floor, Rune’s finger slipped under the back of his cravat to itch his skin. He’d always hated the damn things—not born into them as Des and Weston were. Those two had always worn the finery at balls and house parties with ease.
He avoided the blasted events when he could, and it was mostly because of these overly starched scraps of cloth wringing about his neck. A noose aching to tighten. And he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of wearing gloves, no matter how the absence of them drew looks.
“Did I tell you on the way here how splendid you look in full dress?” Elle spun to her right and centered herself in front of him, dipping downward as he bowed to her.
His mouth pulled to the side and he shook his head as the music started and he set his right hand along her back.
Her hand clasping into his, a teasing grin came to her face as their feet started with the first strains of music from the strings in the minstrels’ gallery. “I do find it curious that you just happened to pick up appropriate clothing for this event from the tailor when you were in Newport. There was a bit of arrogance in that.”
“Was there?” The edges of his lips lifted. “I am here to protect you, if you recall. I imagined I was coming one way or another.”
“Whatever it was, I admire the self-confidence in your own charms.” Her grin grew wider. “As it was dark in the carriage, it was hard to tell, but under the ballroom lights my initial thoughts have been verified.”
“What thoughts are those?” He pulled her toward him to avoid her bumping into a tall lady clad in green swinging wide in her dance steps—foxed or exuberant, he couldn’t tell.
“From when I first met you—that your presence at a party like this I never would have missed.” Her forefinger popped out from his clasp on her hand and pointed in a circle about the brightly lit ballroom. “And I’m not the only one. Have you seen the salivating looks coming your way?”
A chuckle burst from his lips. “Salivating? A bit of an overstatement.”
“They would be salivating if they knew that not only are you handsome to look at, every single imagination they’re having about what’s under these clothes and how your body works is true.”
“Don’t make me want to leave early, Elle.” Shaking his head, he attempted to ignore his cock sparking to attention. He had more immediate concerns—like angling her to the s
ide as their space on the dance floor shrank farther and father. Damned crush. Hopefully Elle only promised Lord Kallen she would dance one waltz. Though Rune quite understood why Kallen wanted her on his dance floor. She floated, so smooth on her feet it was as if he maneuvered a fluffy cloud to and fro.
“What if I want to leave early?”
Minx. The sheer scamp on her face was laughable and made him start seeking out the exits of the ballroom, looking for a dark corridor to pull her into. If he was handsome in full dress, she was an utter goddess. Her body slid into a gown of satin in the darkest shade of celestial blue that matched her eyes. The bodice of the gown was finished with silk trimming, so light it whispered against her skin. A matching silk scarf was wrapped delicately around her neck and tied jauntily at the side. Not exactly common, but it did serve the purpose of hiding the bruises that still marked angry welts at her throat.
Welts that sent his blood raging every time he caught sight of them.
She had gone with a simply adorned cap with several matching feathers—small enough it did nothing but accentuate the deep browns and reds in her hair. How she had managed to get such intricate weaves into her hair in the short amount of time they had to get ready after arriving back from the Roman baths, he didn’t know. Her maid had to have magic flowing from her fingers.
He stretched his neck against his cravat again and forced a scold onto his face to counteract the mischief bouncing about her eyes. “If we leave early then Lord Kallen will never address me again. I actually got two words of greeting when we arrived.”
“You two are fast on the way to becoming the grandest of friends.”
“Or something akin to that.” Rune looked about the ballroom at the couples dancing with them in the middle of the crush. Every man and woman in the room had dressed in the finest of fashion, as far as he could tell. The amount of feathers flittering in the air above them from the headdresses was comical.
“Tell me of this scar.”
His gaze snapped down to her. “What?”
“This one.” Her eyes motioned to their clasped hands where her white-gloved thumb slid along the scar that ran from the inner side of his wrist, around the bone, and up onto the back of his hand.
Maybe he should have worn gloves.
He’d thought she was done asking about the past, asking about pain. He should have known better. And where better to ask than in the midst of a crowded dance floor?
He looked to his hand, following the line of tough white skin. “A skirmish.”
“A skirmish with who?”
Rune stifled a sigh. Short answers were becoming less and less effective with her. “Men in a tavern in the Caribbean. It was in the early years on the Firefox. We had just taken a pirate ship. A lucrative one and word had travelled fast. A slew of men thought to rob us.”
“Who were you with?”
“Just Des and Pad that night. There were eight of them, nine if you included the one that ran away in the midst of it. They were all quick to attempt to slice our throats.”
The grip of her fingers tightened on his hand as her blue eyes went wide. “Rune…”
“This is why I don’t speak of the past, Elle.” On his step backward he bumped into another gentleman. Bloody crush. He shortened his steps. “Everything that has happened, has happened. It’s done. The only thing accomplished by talking about it now is to send fear and outrage into your eyes—why would I want to see that? Why would I want you to suffer that?”
Her lips pursed. “The fear is because I care. The outrage is because someone made you bleed. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know these things that are a part of you.”
He veered their steps to the left to avoid a portly gentleman out of step with his partner.
Her balance shifted effortlessly with his unexpected move and she looked up at him. “You three survived?”
“We did.” He gave a short nod. “The blade that did this was a desperate move on my part to block a short sword from meeting Des’s neck.”
Her body stilled with a gasp. “You saved his life?”
His feet kept moving, nudging her to keep step. “He’d saved mine not but ten seconds before. It happened back and forth between us more than I can count in those days.”
“And the men that attacked you?”
“All met with the blade.”
“You and Des and Pad…killed all of them?”
His jaw shifted to the side as his stare set on her. “It was the life, Elle. Survival meant killing.”
Her face blanched for a long moment, but then her chest lifted in a deep breath as her shoulders quivered. “You’re right. I don’t like thinking of you close to death. Of Des close to death.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop asking me on the scars?”
Her right cheek lifted in a crooked grin. “You will not escape my curiosity that easily. I will, however, begin to space out my inquiries so my heart can survive the tales.”
He closed a step, shifting to his right and immediately bumped into a tiny woman that had escaped his vision. Too many damn people. They were now nearly standing still on the dance floor.
His look centered on her blue eyes. “You realize it is acceptable to not need to know about my past—my scars?”
Her gaze pierced him. “Is it? They’re a part of you, Rune. They hide you from me and I don’t care for that. If I could erase every one of them—see beneath them—I would.” A determined smile made way across her lips. “So you can expect more questions in the future.”
Rune drew a breath, holding it in his chest. She’d not give up her questions of him, but she did actually allude to the future. It sounded like a solid trade.
By the grace of the gods, the music ended and Rune happily stepped off of the dance floor, weaving them through the mass of people to the edge of the room where he spied a footman with a full tray of drinks.
Passing a flute of champagne to Elle, he grabbed a glass of red wine for himself and then turned toward the expanse of the ballroom. For the amount of people stuffed into the massive room, he felt sorry for the couples still on the dance floor attempting to get a few steps in as the music started again.
He looked to Elle as he took a sip of wine. “Tell me, if Lord Kallen hates everyone and everyone hates him, why does everyone on the island come to this event?”
She looked over the lip of her champagne flute at him, a grin playing about her lips. Color had warmed her cheeks from the dance, as stilted as it had been. “Why else? It’s always been this way—if you are anyone on this island, you are here at this party.”
“And if not?”
“Then you’re no one.” She motioned her glass to the mass of people. “And there is no truer way to hell on a small island like this than to be no one.”
Rune glanced down at her. As bitter as her words seemed, she said them resigned. Resigned to what was around her. What she was expected to do.
For how she liked to tout her freedom as a widow, she was shackled just the same.
“Eliana—you escaped to the far side of the room.” Lord Kallen’s left elbow jabbed outward, setting into the side of a fop in a bright blue tailcoat as he shoved past the crowd. He inclined his head to Rune. “Mr. Smith.”
Rune replied with only a nod as Elle was already talking. Still not one to trust him with Lord Kallen.
“You know I like to be close to the fresh trays of champagne at this party,” she said with a gleam in her eye and her glass raised.
Lord Kallen chuckled, hearty and full. “That you do, my dear. Come—what was it that you wanted to see? Now is the time to show you as I’m determined to avoid Mrs. Flordin as she wants to corner me about a parsnip harvest she didn’t get in on and I can see her sniffing about for me.” He grabbed Elle’s hand and set it in the crook of his elbow, and the two of them started to maneuver along the edges of the ballroom toward one of the exits Rune had identified earlier as a possible dark corridor he could ravage Elle in.
&n
bsp; A plan now in dust. Or merely delayed if luck was on his side.
Swallowing the last of his wine, he set the empty glass on a tray and followed the two of them out of the ballroom.
Through several winding corridors, Lord Kallen brought them into a dimly lit room—large, a library, with countless tomes surrounding them on the walls. In the middle of the room were large tables, four of them, with stacks of atlases and maps, some curled and some flat, sitting atop them. Some of the maps were yellowed with brittle edges, others newly printed by the smell of ink in the room.
“This was what you wanted to see, correct?” Lord Kallen tapped the table closest to him with his cane. “Every map that I have ever collected.”
Elle stepped forward, stripping off her long white kid gloves and running her thumb along the edge of one of the unfurled maps. “This is perfect.”
“And this has something to do with what you found in the baths?”
“Yes—in the lower Bronze Chamber. We think it’s a map. You must see.” She looked to Rune, waving her fingers at him to produce the best map they’d sketched in the baths.
He pulled it from an inner pocket and handed it to her.
She smoothed it out on the table in front of Lord Kallen. “This was what we think the mosaic of the ring held—a map—see how the ring entwines with this shape and then outside that shape were the blue tiles. Oh, the blue tiles.” She stood up straight, waving her fingers at Rune again. “The tile.”
Rune reached into his pocket. He was beginning to feel like a human reticule.
He handed Elle the tile.
She held it up to Lord Kallen, her words fast in excitement. “We wanted to ask you on this as well. This is a tile from the lower section, and look at the mortar on the back. Do you see the red tint to it? It’s not like the mortar in the above chamber. And the sides of the tile—they were cut different. What do you make of it?”
Lord Kallen pulled a gold-rimmed quizzing glass from his breast pocket and set it in front of his right eye, holding the tile up to the light of the closest sconce. He flipped it around, studying it, scraping his nail upon the back of it where the mortar was still attached. “It’s from a different time. The red tinge to the mortar—the color would have been mixed into the lye. Post the Roman baths, most likely. The mortar after the Romans left the area often had more clay in it that would have held the tinge of red mortar for a longer time.” His fingers rubbed along the edge of the tile. “And this is not as regular as the tesserae used in the upper baths. It appears as though you are right about the tool to cut it—it’s not as smooth, so probably a rudimentary chisel cracked it. That would set in somewhere in the post-Roman era as well. People not as skilled.”
The Soul of a Rogue (A Box of Draupnir Novel Book 3) Page 11
