by Deb Marlowe
She took a step toward the place. Stopped. A noise came out of her that she could not contain, could not recognize or categorize. The flames inside her were leaping again, growing—and she knew.
Suddenly, she was running again. Toward the house, this time. She lifted her skirts and her feet flew and she was inside, and heading for the bright light of the library. Yes. The liquor cabinet still stood there, in this place where ancient monks must have labored over their manuscripts. She picked up a chair and smashed the glass front of the cabinet and plucked several bottles of brandy from the shelves.
Dragging the broken chair and the bottles, she went back to the massive hearth at the Great Hall. Wood had been stacked here, and kindling. She started a fire, threw the chair onto it, too—except for one leg. She fetched the cravat from the window, wound it around one end of the chair leg, sprinkled it with brandy, and held it in the fire until it started to burn.
The odd sense of urgency had left her. Calm descended, settling like a mantle over her shoulders as she climbed the stairs and took the dark passage off the first landing. Even the light of her makeshift torch couldn’t chase the bad memories of being dragged down this corridor. She took a swig of the brandy as she stood on the threshold of the cell where she’d been imprisoned, and then she began to sprinkle it about. She poured it over the manacles on the wall and left a thick trail leading away. Near the door again, she tossed the bottle back onto the bed, held the torch to the brandy and let it light the puddle at her feet. Small, dancing flames flared up, crept across the floor and began to climb the wall. When the bed linens caught, she turned away.
Up. Up to the solar, now. Moving almost woodenly, she pushed into the pasha’s tent. Stepping over the body still on the floor, she crushed one of the pierced lanterns and allowed the oil inside to drip and leak over all the surrounding cushions. Pursing her lips, she tossed the torch into the wreckage.
With a whoosh, this fire roared to life, hot and fierce. Her grin echoed it as she left. She moved more quickly now, her step lighter, the weight on her shoulders lifting with each crackle of growing flame.
Smiling, she walked through the thickening smoke and out the main door. The wood was old. The whole place would burn quickly. No one would be imprisoned here, hurt here, again.
And this was only the first blow she meant to deal Marstoke.
Stoneacre stood silently where she’d left him. Bless him for giving her the idea—and for allowing her privacy to carry it out.
“Where’s Crawford?” she called as she approached him, suddenly struck with the notion that the man might have gone back inside . . .
“I sent him after the bawds.” Stoneacre was staring above her, where smoke had begun to leak around the solar window. “Oh,” he said, his eyes widening. “But what of the—”
“The house will be his funeral pyre,” Hestia answered roughly. “And it’s more a marker than he deserves.”
The earl did not get the chance to object. She’d reached him by then, and she didn’t pause, just stepped close, grasped his shoulders and pulled him down. And when he bent to her, she kissed him, long and hard and without mercy, but with all of the relief and leaping passion in her unexpectedly lightened heart.
Chapter 12
Friends and business partners who fall from Lord M—’s favor have suffered beatings, destruction of property and other unexpected mishaps—but the marquess has also demanded payment for debt or default through the services of wives, daughters and wards.
--from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
* * *
She tasted of brandy and smoke. He savored it, drinking it in. Her fingers had drifted to his hair and he shivered at her touch, pleasure coursing down his spine. Her tongue swept his, challenging him and he gave a low growl as he answered. She moved against him. He could feel her everywhere, supple and hot and utterly enticing.
Oh, damn, yes. His body knew just how to respond—but the rest of him felt like the kaleidoscope his sister bought for her nursery—so many emotions tumbling about inside of him and he didn’t know which to feel.
Pulling back, he gazed down at her, then at the burning house. “Not that I’m objecting to the current situation, but I am wondering just what your thoughts are?” He gestured. “On all of this?”
“I’m not thinking,” she answered. “I’m feeling—just as you suggested.”
“I congratulate myself on the excellent suggestion, then.”
“As do I. And eradicating that house from the world is making me feel very happy indeed.” She stepped toward him again, but they both started when a tinkling crash echoed from the house.
“That’s all very well, but do it from further away.” He tugged her hand, pulling her further out onto the lawn and wishing he could protect her from more than fiery sparks and bursting glass.
She followed, searching his face. “I’m feeling grateful, too, Stoneacre.”
“So am I—grateful you are alive.” And happy that she had exorcised some of the dark emotion that had held her. But also violent, furious and gutted at her story. And filled with murderous intent toward Marstoke. Oh, and yes, still scorched with desire for this brave and beautiful creature.
“I am grateful for you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” She cocked her head. “Marstoke is not the only man to despise me, but truthfully? Most men like me.”
“That’s easy to believe.”
“Some like the way I look—”
“No,” he interrupted. “We all like the way you look, Hestia.”
Her mouth quirked at the corner. “Some approve of the work we do. Others like my sardonic humor. Some just like that I have a scandalous name.” Her brows rose. “But there’s not one man in a hundred who could watch me fall to pieces the way I did today, then tell me that they admire me for it.”
Oh, he was so damned far past admiration. How could he not be? He had no idea what had been in Marstoke’s letter. He suspected it had been all taunting and insults, and still it had been the least of all the evils she had faced this afternoon. Not one woman in a thousand could have borne it. He was surprised she hadn’t collapsed under the weight of so much—and inordinately proud that she had faced it all with righteous anger, defiance—and, yes, flame.
But he couldn’t say a word of all of that. So he raised a brow instead. “Yes, well, I’m not like most men.”
“No,” she agreed decisively. She looked back at the house for a moment and he followed her gaze. Evening was coming on and the rising smoke drifting out from the corners and eaves blended easily with the shadows.
“I’ve worn a mask for a very long time,” she said carefully. “It’s comfortable and useful. And it works in two directions. From the outside it helps me appear poised and strong. Unflappable. But it turns inward, too, and helps me remain calm and in control.”
Turning back, she met his gaze directly. “I don’t know how you see past it. No one ever has. It’s . . . disconcerting. But right now, it feels very freeing, too. No one else could have convinced me to cast it aside today. But you did—and now it is off—and I find that I’m in no hurry to don it again.”
Her eyes widened and his attention was torn away as a great boom sounded and the roof over the solar collapsed inward. She drew a deep breath, a look of satisfaction moving across her beautiful face.
Her arms flew out. “This could have been a disastrous evening. And somehow, because of you, it is not. Tonight—it feels like we are floating. Free. We are disconnected from the real world and our usual lives.”
“True enough,” he said ironically. The flames showed against the darkening sky now. They should move on before the fire started to draw attention.
She grabbed the edges of his coat in two fists. “It’s almost as if we don’t exist right now. No one knows where we are.” She snorted. “Marstoke likely believes us both dead.” She flattened her hands against his chest as she gazed up at him with an odd expression. Li
ke she wanted to implore him, but wouldn’t allow herself to do it. “I want to leave the mask off. And the rules that go with it. I want you, Stoneacre, for this time that doesn’t exist.”
The kaleidoscope whirled again. His first instinct was to refuse. He wanted her for all of her days, not just this one. But despite her emotional victories today, he knew she was still fragile. He could not bear the thought of harming her. Nor did he wish to jeopardize their mission by making her uncomfortable or introducing discord now. But looming larger than all of that was one thought.
This was his chance to show her how they could be together. How much easier to convince her to leave that mask off than to persuade her once it was back on? And if she couldn’t be convinced at all? Then this might be his only chance with her—with the real Hestia—the one he’d been longing to know.
She searched his face, looking for the reason for his hesitation. “Come, Stoneacre,” she cajoled. “Let’s go find the rooms that Drake rented us. I believe you meant to play the besotted bridegroom this evening, did you not?”
And the decision was made. “I did.” He kissed her hands, first one, then the other. “I do. Indeed.”
They made their way back to the horses. The animals were nervous, spooked by the noise and the smoke in the air. Her mount was fidgety and required a firm hand and a good deal of attention, in her eagerness to leave the place behind, but Hestia didn’t mind. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want past memories or future worries intruding on what was happening now.
Stoneacre. That’s what was happening now. He rode beside her, focused and cautious in the dark and the unfamiliar countryside. She didn’t want to think about how or why he saw her so clearly or understood her feelings so completely.
She just wanted him.
She strolled away from the livery while he dealt with the return of the hired horses. The town lay quiet. Most households were abed. The moon hung heavy and bright above the trees and lent sparkle to the River Avon. Strolling out onto the bridge, she leaned on the stone railing, enjoying the beauty and peace of the scene.
His footsteps sounded behind her. She turned and he kept coming. Even in the moonlight, she could see determination in his face and she felt it in his touch when he took hold of her shoulders, backed her up against the stone and kissed her.
Oh, my. Yes. So gloriously good. Why was kissing Stoneacre so much more than with anyone else? He was serious about it, too, that much was clear. His kissed her deeply. Demandingly. His tongue moved insistently against hers and he widened his stance, pressed closer and angled his head to deepen the kiss even further.
She shivered with the delight of it. Joy and anticipation jumped, jostling beneath her skin. Joy? Wonders never ceased.
And then he stopped. He cupped her face in his hands. “I should be utterly convincing as a randy newlywed.” He took her hand and pulled. “Let’s go.”
Biting back a smile, she followed.
A light still burned in the entry of the Three Feathers. Hestia stepped closer to Stoneacre when someone stumbled toward them out of the taproom, but relaxed when it proved to be Drake, the coachman. He must have been keeping watch—and having a pint or two while he waited.
“Sir!” He stood straight, but blinked at them, rapidly. “The rooms are ready, as requested. I’ll show you upstairs.”
He led them to a room with a wide bed and a view over the kitchen gardens. Hestia stood at the window as Stoneacre stopped in the doorway and prevented Drake from entering.
“I’ve taken the servant’s room next door, sir, as you said. You can sleep there and I’ll head out—”
“No need,” Stoneacre interrupted. “You take it. We’ll be fine for the night. We’ll get an early start in the morning.” He shut the door on the man’s startled, still blinking, expression.
Hestia laughed. “We’ve shocked him, the poor man.”
Stoneacre looked unconcerned. “He’ll be happy enough not to have to make a bed in the stables.” He secured the latch and turned, already shrugging out of his coat. “Now.”
“Yes. Now.” She leaned against the bedpost and opened her arms. She’d often wondered if she’d be able to do this again. But she didn’t feel any of the things she’d worried about. No old memories or bad feelings. Stoneacre banished them all with his smile and his big, wide shoulders that were strong enough to block out the world—and her past.
He stepped into her arms—and the kissing felt wonderful again. He was so large. Strong. And his hands were busy this time, too. Surely there was magic in that slow, deliberate touch. Everywhere it roamed, she twitched and jumped. Everywhere else strained, pressing closer because nothing else helped the aching need that he built inside of her.
“I’m not swiving you up against the bedpost, damn it.” Stoneacre’s hands were on her waist and then she was in the air and being tossed onto the bed. She laughed and threw her head back as he crawled up, straddling her and caging her with those long limbs.
“You are not swiving me at all,” she informed him. “You are going to make glorious love to me.”
“You are right about that,” he breathed. Reaching up, he pulled a pin from her coiffure. And another. And suddenly, they were all out and her hair cascaded around her shoulders and across her chest. He pressed his face to it and breathed in—and retreated, coughing. “Smoke,” he choked out.
She laughed again. “I’ll rinse it with rose water sometime and you can try again.”
He wiped his eyes. “You normally smell like spring, but if you are taking requests, then can it be lilacs?” he asked with a watery grin. “I like lilacs. They smell like home.”
Her smile faded. There was the future, trying to push in. She banished it with the brush of her finger along the rough stubble of his jaw. “Yes. I will. If you will rid yourself of all of this.” Her hand moved down, taking its time going over the scarf he still wore, past his shirt and waistcoat to his trousers.
He sat up and removed it all, piece by piece. Not hurrying. At the end he stood by the bed again to peel away his small clothes and remove his boots. She rolled over and reached out a hand to brush it against his broad shoulders, along his long torso, ending at a curved scar on his side. He was perfect. Strong. A warrior with a wry grin on his lips and laughter in his eyes.
“All the saints in heaven, preserve us,” she whispered. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. That saying was pure Pearl, her old friend, long gone. The past trying to push in, too. But it was fitting, in this instance, she decided. Pearl had been her savior. And today, Stoneacre had been one, too.
The last boot dropped and he turned and stretched out beside her. “Now your turn,” he said easily. He put a hand to the dark jacket of her traveling outfit and grinned down at her. “So many buttons. How did you know I like buttons?”
“You like buttons?” Her mouth twisted. “And I’d thought I’d heard about every fetish known to man.”
He made a face at her. “I like anticipation. Why hurry? All the best presents come wrapped up, bright and tight.” His fingers moved nimbly down the row of carved buttons, undoing them one by one. “There’s fun to be had in the unwrapping.”
“That’s all very well,” she said he helped her out of the sleeves. “But have you considered the present’s feelings?” She raised a brow as he pulled her skirt away.
“Don’t you think the present enjoys the tension as it builds?” He breathed the question in her ear and sent shivers down her spine and raised goose bumps on all her limbs.
“Perhaps the present is in a hurry to be free.” She shimmied out of her petticoat.
“There is no reason to fear, or to hurry.” He grinned and let his fingers trail up and along her leg, pausing to tease her thigh where her garter was tied. “After all, the present is receiving a present as well.”
“Is it?” She propped up onto her elbows, watching him.
He nodded, concentrating on his task. All of her focus narrowed, too, onto that light, teasin
g touch. Desire pooled, thick and hot, in her womb. “What is it?” she rasped.
“Me,” he said with a satisfied smirk, before he bent down to nuzzle the spot his fingers had been caressing.
With a little laugh, she fell back. When had she laughed in bed? When had she felt light and happy and utterly involved in the growing intimacy? Never. Never before. And if that boy of Marstoke’s had succeeded today, then she never would have known. Would never have experienced the bliss of a smart, funny man igniting her senses with wit and care and just the tiniest of nips and touches.
He raised up then, and moved upward, smiling as he came. He breathed in her ear and she shivered again. His mouth moved into the curve of her neck and her nipples hardened as she gave a soft, happy moan.
“Ooh,” he said, looking down at her. “That’s my new favorite sound.”
“What was your old favorite?” she asked, watching him work the laces of her corset.
“Your laughter.” He kept unlacing. “I’ve only just heard it recently and thought it the most beautiful sound. Until now.” The last lace was undone and he pulled. She arched her back to help and then she was free. Only her shift was left and by the quickness of his breath, even Stoneacre had had his fill of anticipation.
Grasping the hem of her shift, he lifted it up and over her head and she was nearly naked—only her stockings left—and he was looking at her with a very serious expression.
“Stoneacre?” she whispered. She was no young debutante, but . . .
He looked up, directly into her eyes. “You are the best present I’ve ever got,” he said simply.
She melted. Eased back like a puddle of heat and want and longing. And they were kissing again and moving against each other, skin to skin.
Distant noises sounded. Laughter. Doors closing. The clink of metal pints. Tavern life. But it lived far away. Everything important right now narrowed to this cocoon of warmth they inhabited and the excitement coiling in her veins.
