My Lady Quicksilver ls-3

by Bec McMaster

  He couldn’t do it. He wanted so much to believe her. He wanted her too much.

  Two steps and Lynch was in front of her, his hands reaching for her face. Cursing himself. Cursing the weakness in him that made him desperately long for her words to be true. The silk of her hair slid around his hand as he cradled the base of her skull and then her mouth met his and he was lost.

  “God,” he whispered, yanking her hard against him. “Rosa—I wish—” Her tongue, hot and wet. Her hands grabbing him by the shirt so that he couldn’t get away. “I wish I could give you forever.”

  “I’ll take tonight.”

  Then her mouth met his and all thought scattered, except for the desperate desire to have her.

  * * *

  For a second Rosalind thought she’d failed, that he would turn away, not want her. But even as her lungs deflated he was moving toward her, his mouth swooping down to capture hers. The kiss was hard, desperate. For the first time, nothing lay between them and she couldn’t stop herself from clutching at him, her heart thundering in her ears and hope rearing its head.

  He wanted her. Despite what she’d done. Despite her lies, the betrayal… Knowing everything that he knew about her, he still wanted her. This was what she’d never gotten a chance to see in Nate’s eyes. Instead, he’d died before she could dare ask if he could ever forgive her.

  Forgiveness might not be so swiftly earned, not with Lynch. She’d hurt him so badly… But at least this was a start. At least he hadn’t thrown her out the window like she probably deserved.

  Rosalind drew back for a breath, gasping, her fingers darting under his shirt. Greedy. So greedy for his skin, his body… To show him how she felt when she couldn’t find the words. He slid a hand through her hair, tilting her head back, and then his cool lips were running down her throat, the feel of it echoing between her thighs. Her back hit the wall, his other hand cupping her lush bottom and then she could feel the hard edge of his cock pressing against her stomach.

  Grabbing the back of her thigh, he dragged her knee up, pressing hotly between her legs. Rosalind moaned, her nails sinking into the smooth skin of his back, trailing up the long, lean muscles. Somehow, her hand found his, then she was pressing it lower, over her abdomen and down, hot desire racing through her veins.

  A soft gasp as he found her, wet and ready, his fingers sliding between the slit in her drawers. Her gasp or his, she didn’t know. Her head dropped back, nails digging into him as she bit her lip. He knew exactly where to touch her, exactly how to make her scream. But then this was the only thing she had never lied to him about. He knew her here. Knew every little place to stroke to drive her crazy.

  Hard fingers sank inside her, his thumb stroking hard over the nub at the heart of all this pleasure. Rosalind couldn’t think, couldn’t see. Her body moving against his, desperate for this, to assuage the ache in her chest, and now the ache between her thighs. It rose with choking swiftness—maybe because she wanted this so much, maybe out of sheer relief that he was touching her, giving her what she needed—and then it overwhelmed her with shocking suddenness.

  Her cry echoed in the room, her body convulsing around his fingers as she clung to him, trying to ride it out. Somehow this was purer and sweeter than anything she’d ever felt before, as if the purging of all that emotion that had been choking her let her body sing.

  Teeth rasped over her throat, biting at the soft skin over the vein. Rosalind’s eyes shot wide, knowing what he wanted, knowing the dark hungers that drove him. But if she dared ask him to trust her, then she had to give him the same trust. He wouldn’t force this on her, wouldn’t take directly from the vein. He never had.

  Her eyes widened further, fear thick in her throat at the idea that sprang to mind. She couldn’t. Could she?

  The thin stiletto rasped in her hair. The more she tried not to think of it, the more she couldn’t help herself. It terrified her. To give such control to another person, even Lynch. Her heart throbbed in her chest. Lynch lifted his head, his eyes half-lidded and dazed, his cheeks flushed with desire. He’d felt her withdrawal and looked to find the cause.

  Rosalind grabbed a handful of his hair and kissed him, trying not to panic. She couldn’t let him go. Not now. Fingertips trailing down his chest, she felt the hard press of the hilt against the base of her skull.

  “Rosa?” he asked.

  She had the knife in her fingers before she could even think about it. Swallowing hard, she caught his own hand and wrapped his fingers around the hilt.

  Lynch froze. His smoky gray eyes met hers, heat spilling through them until they were black with fierce need. His gaze dropped to her throat, his lips parting with a little quivering jerk. He wanted it. So much. Too much.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe through it and she watched the harsh emotions chase each across his face. “No,” he said softly. “No, you’re frightened… I won’t—”

  She dragged his hand to her throat and pressed the edge of the blade against the throbbing vein. Their eyes met. “I want you to claim me. I want to be yours.”

  Another shuddering moment. Then the hot sting as the blade sliced through skin. It clattered to the floor and then his hands cupped her arse and his mouth closed over her throat as her hips nestled around his.

  The surge of feeling shot straight between her legs, igniting her body. Each pull of his mouth, each hot swallow tugged on her clit as if his mouth were there instead. She came, clutching at his shoulders, crying out, her hips rubbing against his, desperate, desperate now to get him inside her… Hands sliding between them, tugging at his breeches and then he was free, the hot surge of his cock filling her hands, rubbing against her wet-slick skin. She came again, crying out, whimpering… It felt like her heartbeat sped up, beating in time to his as his mouth took her blood into his own body, his own veins.

  One hard thrust. Rosalind’s eyes went wide, drugged, candlelight melting into a puddle around them. Firm hands cupped her breast, sliding the buttons free, the very same ones she’d struggled with… Then his clever fingers slid over her nipple, tugging, teasing, his hips pumping as he thrust deep within her.

  A rasped curse. Then Lynch was licking at her throat to close the wound, his hips thrusting her against the wall with furious desperation. His mouth caught hers, and she could taste the coppery tang of her own blood as their tongues clashed.

  Rosalind’s heart thundered in her ears. I love you. She screamed the words inside, where he couldn’t hear, her eyes flooding with heat. Why couldn’t she do this? Why was it so hard to give so much of herself? It shouldn’t be this way. He deserved so much better, but she was so afraid, afraid that a part of him would look at her and not see anything deserving of those three little words.

  “God, Rosa… Need you so much…” He gasped, fingers digging into her hips, his face tightening with fierce need. “Taste…so damned good…”

  She cupped his face and kissed him, feeling the pressure building within him, within her. She wanted to explode, but she had to get this out before it was too late.

  “I love you,” she blurted, a harsh whisper in the gasping stillness. Not what she’d intended but…enough…

  He kissed her. Hard. Capturing the words on her lips as he drove her into the patterned wallpaper. Fingers slid between them and then she was lost, crying out, anchored only by the feel of his hands on her hips as his body shuddered against her, a harsh cry torn from his own throat.

  Heat spilled within her. She held him through it, his face tucked against her shoulder and her hands sliding through his hair. Gasping, trying to catch her breath again, she felt each tiny shudder as it went through him.

  Hers.

  She understood then why he’d longed for her blood. This was the same. Not to own him, not to bind him to her with ties he couldn’t break, but to exist in that moment where the pair of them were one. To give—and to receive.

  To be claimed.

  Completely and utterly.

  She knew that
there was still so much between them, so many damned words that hadn’t been said, but for the first time tonight, she felt a tiny little bud of hope swell in her chest. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she pressed a small kiss against his throat.

  She was never going to let him go now.

  Twenty-five

  Lynch rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. Soft dawn light crept through the window and he could hear pigeons cooing on the roof above.

  Panic surged through him and he dragged his shaking hand down over his mouth. So much he hadn’t been able to get through last night. And so much he had…

  He glanced down, at the slumbering woman on the bed beside him. Rosa’s warmth lingered in the sheets, her breath shifting the cotton sheet that wrapped precariously around her, caressing the lush curves of her bottom. His heart stuttered in his chest. The memories of last night hammered at him like pinpricks of image shoved red-hot into his brain. Everything she’d admitted to, everything she’d said, those last whispered words he’d pretended not to hear… The ones that did so much damage to his heart.

  He wanted them to be true. Wanted this to at least be worth it. But could he trust them? Trust her?

  The answer to that was easy; if he believed that they were true, then he wouldn’t even be questioning it.

  Lynch felt utterly drained. Judging by the clock on the mantel, he had only three hours before he was due to present himself before the court. His chest caught again, panic clutching at him with greedy fingers. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs simply refused to open. Reaching out, he grabbed for Rosa’s hand, felt her warm fingers tighten around his as she stirred with a soft moan. He didn’t want to be alone. Not this morning.

  Somehow he sucked in a breath. It was easier, with her hand in his, but not enough. Lynch turned to her, sliding his other hand down over her bottom as he kissed her shoulder. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as he kissed her, stole her own breath.

  This was good-bye. Those dark eyes met his as she woke and then she slid her iron hand into his hair and yanked his mouth to hers as if she felt the need, the fury that rode him. “Jasper?” she whispered, but he didn’t wish to speak. Not now.

  He pushed her onto her back and came over her desperately. The heat of her body drove away the last of the panic as he thrust into her with fierce need. Each soft gasp from her lips anchored him, fighting off the last of his fear. If he could protect her, if she lived because of his sacrifice, then that would be enough.

  It was fast, furious, desperate. And when it was over, she smiled up at him with dazed eyes, one hand still linked with his, and those iron fingers drifting tenderly over his cheek. His heart squeezed again and he buried his face in her shoulder, holding her beneath him as he fought one last wave of panic.

  “Lynch?” she murmured, shifting as if to look at him. “Are you all right?”

  His throat was dry. “I’m fine.” Lynch wrapped his arms around her and shifted her so that her body tucked into the curve of his hip, his face buried in that glorious red hair. So that she couldn’t see him. “Go back to sleep.”

  She brought their linked hands to her lips and pressed a kiss to his white knuckles. “I think I will,” she murmured, in her husky Mrs. Marberry voice. “You’ve quite worn me out.”

  Her soft laughter echoed through her chest as he held her. For a moment all felt right with the world. He breathed in the scent of her hair, so familiar and yet so uniquely hers.

  The minutes stretched out, each tick of the clock sounding like the clang of a jail cell. Rosa softened in his arms, her breathing becoming slow and even. He wanted to stay here all day. Forever. But the hour hand struck nine and he knew there was too much to do if he wanted to protect her.

  Untangling himself from her body, he slipped from the bed with careful grace and made his way to the door.

  He didn’t say good-bye.

  He didn’t even leave a note, though he lingered over his desk for long moments in indecision.

  In the end, they’d said everything that needed to be said.

  * * *

  There was a knock at the door. Rosalind lifted her head off the pillow, feeling the aching bruise of that fall into the orchestra pit. She winced, then realized she was alone.

  Jerking the sheet up to her chest, she looked around, her heart hammering a little faster. There was no sign of Lynch and from the sunlight streaming in through the window, she’d slept half the morning away. Little wonder, what with the emotional and physical exertion of the night before.

  “Mrs. Marberry?” Perry called. “May I come in?”

  Scraping her hair behind her ear, she called out an assent. Her eyes felt tight and puffy. Vanity compelled her to admit it was probably a good thing Lynch had left early.

  Or was it?

  She couldn’t help feeling nervous. So much had happened between them in the last day, and yet not all of it had been resolved. He’d forgiven her? Hadn’t he?

  Perry swept in with Rosalind’s green dress from the previous afternoon over her arm. Dark circles lingered beneath her cerulean eyes; she looked almost as poorly as Rosalind felt.

  “Here,” Perry said, thrusting the dress toward her. “Garrett said it was time for you to get up. He wishes to speak with you.”

  The abrupt tone of her voice made Rosalind’s chest tighten. They didn’t know. They couldn’t. “Is Lynch here?” she asked. “Is he…did he want to see me?”

  Perry stiffened, her gaze darting to Rosalind’s—then away. “You’ll have to ask Garrett.”

  Perry left her to dress. Rosalind made swift work of the gown and stockings, butterflies starting to tickle in her abdomen. Instinct—ever a curse—was starting to make her nervous. Something was wrong. Perry had been warming to her last night but this morning they might as well have been strangers.

  When she jerked open the door to Lynch’s bedchambers, she found Garrett drumming his fingers on the desk in Lynch’s office. The fingers stopped, his gaze examining her with an obliqueness that wasn’t normal. One could always gauge Garrett’s thoughts by the expressions that flickered across his face. There was no sign of his usual, slightly self-mocking smile as he stared at her.

  “What’s going on?” Rosalind asked.

  He eased to his feet, white lines straining around his mouth. “Mrs. Marberry.” Those blue eyes were watchful. “I’ve been instructed to escort you to the dungeons.”

  The blood drained out of her face. “What?” He wouldn’t. Not Lynch. Damn it, last night had to have meant something. She’d given him everything, until she was almost wrung dry. Unless…she had hurt him so badly that she had destroyed even the glimmer of affection that he’d had for her.

  Garrett gestured her in front of him. “Shall we?”

  She wouldn’t break. Not here. Not in front of Garrett or any of the Nighthawks she might see on the trip to the cells below. Her vision white with shock, she preceded him through the door, seeing none of the twists and turns they took. All too soon, she was standing in front of what looked like a pair of doors made entirely of interlocking brass cogs.

  Garrett stepped past, his hands darting over the display. Each cog gave a click as he turned them, though she couldn’t fathom by which order he moved them. Then he stepped to the side and pressed a small button concealed beside the doors.

  The whole display began to move, the cogs in the middle beginning to grind, then each subsequent cog turning and shifting the others at its peripheral until the whole door was a whirling rotation. A heavy clunk sounded within. Then another. And a final, dull throb that sounded as if it were low within the door. The cogs ground to a halt, and then the thin crack in the middle began to separate.

  “A clockwork door,” Garrett murmured. “You must move the pieces correctly the first time, or it grinds to a halt and can’t be resurrected until the entire thing is reset. Lynch and Fitz came up with the idea. Nobody can get in without the first piece of the puzzle—and nobody can
get out.”

  The doors parted to reveal the inside of an elevation chamber. Rosalind swallowed hard and stepped inside.

  “He has an extraordinary mind,” she replied quietly.

  Garrett stepped beside her, then pressed the button for the doors to close. The boxcar began to move, the steely rasp of the heavy winch sounding above her.

  “He has an extraordinary heart,” he corrected, shadows darkening his vision. “He told me who you are and what you had done.”

  The words were polite; the tone held a core of steel however.

  Each jerk of the elevation chamber reminded her that there was no way out. Worrying at her gloves, she tried to keep her breathing steady. Already little white dots danced in her vision. “Does he intend to speak to me?”

  She could feel him looking at her, his gaze burning through her. “You puzzle me, Mrs. Marberry—or whatever your name is—”

  “Rosalind. My name is Rosalind.”

  “Rosalind.” He seemed to be considering something. “I’m not quite certain if you are playing games or if you truly do care. I thought you were rather enamored of him.”

  She kept silent, despising the probing nature of his question.

  He let out a low breath. “As impenetrable as a damned sphinx. I see. You don’t give a damn what I think of you, do you?”

  The boxcar came to a halt, its doors opening to reveal another set of clockwork doors. Rosalind met his gaze. “Not at all, sir.” After all, she’d been hated and feared and worse in her time. She’d grown used to the sensation, to the thick callus that seemed her only form of protection.

  Or had been once.

  The only one whose opinion mattered wasn’t here.

  Garrett turned several of the cogs in the door—she tried to watch this time—and the mechanism swept into a whirling, dizzying dance again.

  “We don’t often keep prisoners,” he said, gesturing her through the doors. He wouldn’t stop looking at her, as if trying to puzzle out some mystery. “Only the five of us who make up Lynch’s Hand know of the existence of this one—and have the code to the doors.”