Sweetest Little Sin

by Christine Wells

  His other hand came down on her lower back, pressing, holding her still. He was determined to draw this out. She wished she could touch him, but in this position, exploration was impossible.

  The hand against her mouth relaxed and lifted, then his fingertips ran over her lips. She licked the pad of his thumb, heard his breathing become harsher. His thumb pressed, insinuated into her mouth. On instinct, she closed around it and ran her tongue along it, stroking him as he stroked his hard length into her.

  She made love to his hand as he made love to her, sucking each finger in turn, glorying in his possession.

  Shifting a little, he thrust into her, and Louisa gasped as he hit a particularly sweet spot. Both hands gripped her hips now, holding her steady as he plunged and stroked deep that same place that had drawn her gasp.

  The fast build of sensation scattered her senses. She could only focus on the heat and slide of him, the beat of blood, the inevitable surrender. She wanted it, yet it was too much.

  Illogically, she tried to move away, but his hands anchored her and she had to take it—take him—beyond her endurance, beyond reason or thought.

  Finally, she surrendered, shuddering with it, allowing herself to be carried away as the pleasure swept over her in wave after wave.

  His release came then, and he collapsed over her, biting hard into her shoulder to stifle his own cry.

  When his shudders had subsided, he shifted his body from hers to lie beside her, his lungs heaving.

  She ran her palm over the hard muscles of his chest in a gesture of wonder and thankfulness. He turned to her, lashed an arm around her waist, and kissed her softly.

  “My wife,” he said, a husky rasp to his cut-glass accent. “Mine.”

  A thrill pierced Louisa’s pleasure-struck haze. She’d known it, hadn’t she? Deep within her, she’d known he’d lied that awful morning at his house. Their marriage had been legitimate; they were husband and wife. They were one.

  She couldn’t seem to muster the fury she ought to feel.

  They lay side by side, face-to-face, long legs tangled. Louisa could discern the barest outline of him in the deep black of night. If only she might transport them to another time and place. There was no leisure for rebuilding foundations or for planning the future.

  If they could get out of this mess . . .

  She reached up and smoothed the inevitable stray locks of hair from his brow. “You bastard, Jardine.”

  Silent laughter shook him. “Such language!”

  “No, it’s not funny. Why did you lie to me about our wedding? It was unnecessary and cruel.”

  He growled. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

  “And yet, here I am, betrothed to a traitorous sadist,” she murmured. She wouldn’t stoop to apportioning blame, but the chain of events was irrefutable. She would not have been so unwise and adventuresome had Jardine not rejected her, cast her adrift.

  Did she regret the intervening incidents? Perhaps not, if they brought her this. Him. Assuming they didn’t both die ugly deaths here, of course.

  Softly, Jardine said, “Despite his disgusting tendencies, Radleigh is a small-time villain. There’s someone mixed up in this who is far more dangerous than Radleigh could ever be. He’s after that list.”

  “How do you know that? Was he one of the guests?”

  Grimly, Jardine said, “No. But the woman you know as Harriet Burton saw him here.”

  “You spoke to her? When?”

  “Today. She couldn’t say much. I asked her where you’d gone and she said the name ‘Smith.’ It was enough.”

  Jardine bent his head closer. “He wasn’t one of the guests. I’d have recognized him. But I think he’s nearby. I’ll get that list—”

  “I don’t think Radleigh had any intention of selling it to you. He has agreed to give it to me if I wed him tomorrow. I’ll go through the ceremony, but since I’m already married . . .”

  “Forget it. I’ll not have you compromise yourself like that. Do you want to be labeled a bigamist?”

  “I had no choice,” Louisa said coolly. “It was either agree to marry him or be forced. Or perhaps shredded to ribbons like Harriet. I don’t think he’d decided which.”

  Jardine’s hold tightened around her. “He would have double-crossed you, anyway. If I sum up Radleigh correctly, he would have taken back the document and sold it to me later.”

  “Why are you so intent on finding this Smith?”

  “It’s a long story, one I don’t intend to regale you with now. But while Smith lives, you and everyone . . . close to me are in danger.”

  How convenient for you. The treacherous thought seemed to come from nowhere.

  “Jardine—”

  “ Shh.” He tensed and laid a finger over her mouth. What had he heard? She strained to hear but couldn’t discern any noise beyond her own breathing.

  He launched out of bed and pulled on his shirt in one swift motion. The faint glimmer of moonlight caught the whiteness of the fabric as he listened at the door, then opened it.

  Louisa scrambled to cover herself with the bedclothes as a swift exchange of murmuring ensued. Then Jardine closed the door.

  He bent toward her, spoke in her ear. “That was my man-servant. Radleigh’s back, heading upstairs. Get dressed, Louisa. I need to finish this now.” Before she could protest at his high-handedness, he added, “I’ll need your help. Pin up your hair.”

  He yanked on his breeches, hunted for his boots.

  The click of a pistol being primed reverberated through the silence.

  What was he going to do? Louisa scrambled up, fumbled through the darkness for some garments.

  Finally clothed, she straightened and reached for her hairpins. “What now?” she whispered, quickly twisting her hair into a makeshift coiffure.

  Jardine shifted the Chinese screen she’d used to protect her privacy while she bathed. His hands gripped her hips and he maneuvered her to a spot that would leave her in full view of Radleigh’s peephole. “Now I want you to stand here and begin undressing. Very slowly.”

  Light flared, illuminating the room, throwing long shadows against the opposite wall.

  She glanced back at the lit lamp.

  Jardine had disappeared.

  Twenty

  JARDINE liberated a candle from its sconce outside Louisa’s door and moved toward the curiosity cabinet next to her bedchamber.

  He glanced at the clock. The night wasn’t so very advanced. The household would still be up and about, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to get Louisa out of here now.

  According to Ives, Radleigh had been drinking heavily at the tavern in the village. What was the bet he’d visit his fiancée before going to bed? At the very least, he’d stop in the curiosity room to see whether he could catch a glimpse of her.

  Jardine lit two branches of candles, left the door wide open. Glassy, dead eyes stared back at him from the cabinet with all sorts of stuffed animals in them. He shrugged off a frisson of distaste and located the peephole.

  He bent to look through it, to ensure that Louisa had obeyed him. Instantly, he was captivated by the sight of Louisa, slowly unpinning her hair. One shining silvery blond lock after another fell down her back like moonlit rain, cool and alluring.

  When all the pins were out, she ran her fingers through the straight mass, lifting it from her nape and letting it fall. The graceful sensuality of her movements made him hard for her all over again.

  They’d never had leisure for slow exploration, had they? Everything was always rushed, explosive. Exciting, but ultimately not enough.

  The longing to see her in his bed, in his home, pulled at him so strongly, the temptation to forget this whole business and steal her away almost gained the upper hand over duty.

  But he was doing all this so they could have that leisure, grow old together, wasn’t he? After all these years of hiding their association, of being hunter and prey, such an existence seemed as distant and unattainable as
a mirage.

  He drew a long breath as Louisa daintily lifted one stockinged foot onto a chair, smoothing her skirts back up her leg to reveal the prettiest garter he’d ever seen. All lacy and beribboned, it was pure white, but no whiter than the slender thigh it encircled.

  He thought of Louisa’s legs, the strong, elegant length of them wrapped around his waist, and more blood left his brain. Slowly, she slid the garter down, and he imagined pressing his mouth in its place, making love to that sensitive, soft skin on her inner thigh.

  Still, no Radleigh.

  Louisa’s stocking, robbed of its anchor, fell easily to her ankle. She bent to pluck the stocking from her foot, giving him a perfect view of her small breasts swinging forward, moving freely against the fabric of her gown and shift. There hadn’t been time to lace her corset.

  She repeated the slow operation with her other garter and stocking. Clearly, she was drawing this out to delay undressing fully. Sensible of her to remain clothed. Though it was stupid to pant like a dog for the revelation of one more hint of flesh when he’d just licked and touched every naked inch of her, he willed her to reveal something. Just a little more . . .

  Footsteps approached the room. “What the hell are you doing there?”

  Outrage filled Radleigh’s tone. Bastard.

  Jardine smiled, put a finger to his lips. “You don’t know? I would have thought . . .”

  He motioned Radleigh forward. “By all means, see for yourself.” He allowed his smile to broaden. “Allow me to compliment you on your taste.” He kissed his fingers. “Exquisite.”

  Ignoring the furious snarl on Radleigh’s face, he bent again to the peephole.

  It took a second to register what he saw.

  Or didn’t see.

  Louisa wasn’t there.

  The moment of distraction made him a little slow to react. Radleigh grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away from the wall. Jardine dodged the blow aimed at his chin and drove his fist hard into Radleigh’s stomach.

  The breath left Radleigh in a loud “Oof,” but he kept on, a powerful battering ram in contrast to Jardine’s quick agility.

  Jardine could have used his pistol, but a shot would bring servants running. Besides, he wanted Radleigh alive so he could force him to reveal where that list was hidden. The time for strategic maneuvering was past. He’d have that list if he had to kill Radleigh to get it.

  The heat of the fight was in his blood now. He had his rhythm and his opponent’s measure.

  With a snarl, Jardine spun away from a blow aimed at his solar plexus. Radleigh might know some dirty tricks, but he didn’t know as many as Jardine.

  Radleigh reached out and bunched his big hands in Jardine’s coat, made as if to throw him across the room. Jardine’s foot shot out, sweeping Radleigh’s legs from under him.

  The big man crashed to the floor, hitting his head on the edge of the stuffed animal display.

  Jardine stood over the unconscious body of his opponent, panting, his fists clenched.

  The sharp sound of someone clapping made his head jerk up.

  Jardine froze as the man he had sought all these years strolled into the room.

  “Smith.”

  He was flanked by a heavy, a big, thickset man who looked like he belonged on the streets of London, a knife in his hand and ugliness in his eyes.

  Jardine maintained his sangfroid. “I wondered how long it would be before we met.”

  Another thug arrived, shoving Louisa before him, crowding the small room. He had a handkerchief wrapped around his upper arm, and it was rapidly staining red.

  “Stuck you, did she?” Jardine’s eyes flickered to Louisa, warning her to be silent. “My compliments, Lady Louisa.” Where had she found a knife?

  Smith turned, his smile broadening.

  Louisa’s eyes widened as she saw Smith. “Oh, Mr. Saunders. Thank heaven! Jardine, it’s Mr. Saunders, Radleigh’s secretary, the man who helped me—”

  “No, Louisa. He’s not here to help us. And his name is not Saunders.” Jardine drew in a long breath. “It’s Smith.”

  Smith threw back his head and laughed.

  “SUCH a trusting little thing, isn’t she?” Smith’s lively brown eyes sparkled with amusement, glinted with a malice that shocked Louisa to the core.

  Confusion flooded her brain. Mr. Saunders, who’d taken such tender care of Harriet, was the villain Jardine sought? She’d pictured Saunders screaming in pain as Radleigh tortured him into revealing her and Harriet’s whereabouts. He appeared in excellent spirits now. So Radleigh must have lied about that. Was he in collusion with Smith, after all? She stared at Saunders—no, Smith—trying to fathom it.

  Smith tilted his head, examining her in his turn. “Clever and brave and true. Yes, I like her. I am not, now, surprised at your choice, Jardine, though I admit to my initial bafflement. Your other mistress is so very . . . different, isn’t she?”

  Louisa couldn’t restrain her gasp. Her gaze flew to Jardine’s. His expression was flinty, giving nothing away.

  Saunders—Smith—had shed his mild-mannered veneer. The transformation would be remarkable, impressive, if it weren’t so terrifying.

  He held out a commanding hand. “Bring her here.”

  The man she’d wounded with the knife left on her supper tray shoved her in front of him, none too gently.

  She lifted her chin, met Smith’s gaze. “When my brother hears of this, you’ll be sorry.”

  Smith’s firm lips trembled, as if he were finding it difficult to contain his mirth. “Shall I? I wonder.”

  A groan sounded from the floor. Radleigh was waking up. That made the odds even higher against them.

  “Ah, alas, poor Radleigh.” Smith shook his head. “He was panting to enjoy the social status you would bring as his wife, wasn’t he, Lady Louisa? But after the regrettable incident last night, I fear our friend’s ambition to turn respectable must be at an end, don’t you? Stupid of him. If he’d played his cards right, he could have had everything he wanted, just as I promised.”

  The dark, deep-set eyes turned opaque as they scanned her from head to toe. “Shall I let him have you, my lady?”

  Louisa swallowed hard. The picture of Harriet lying bloodied and haunted in that horrid temple rose in her mind’s eye.

  She didn’t answer, just stared at him doggedly, tried to block out the desperation that gripped the back of her neck, hammered in her chest.

  They had to get out of this mess. Why didn’t Jardine do something?

  Muttering obscenities, Radleigh slowly raised himself to his hands and knees. There was a swift movement, and his head snapped up, the momentum flipping him over. He crashed to the ground and lay still.

  Jardine shrugged. “Sorry. Foot slipped.”

  Smith gave the kind of indulgent smile a father might give at a young son’s playful antics. He turned to his henchmen. “Take them down.”

  “A moment.” Jardine fixed Smith with his gaze. “This is between you and me, Smith. Let’s settle it now. Alone.”

  “And miss all the fun I’m going to have?” Smith’s smile broadened. “I don’t think so.”

  “You like to take out your inadequacies on women—”

  Smith placed a hand over his heart. “Now, there, you wrong me. Not just any women, Lord Jardine. You are confusing me with an indiscriminate boor like Radleigh.” Dreamily, he said, “How your lovely Celeste screamed when Radleigh’s knife cut into her flesh. Oh yes, he was with me, even then.”

  Jardine took a hasty step forward. With a warning growl, the thug’s hold on Louisa tightened. His knife pressed harder to her throat. She couldn’t stop the cry of pain and fear.

  Jardine halted at the sound. With a furious glare at Louisa’s captor, he backed away, holding his palms outward.

  Smith’s hateful deep voice went on. “Does Celeste still bear the scars? I thought so. Such a ripe beauty. Such a terrible waste. As I recall, she had the most glorious hair.” He smiled. “Radleig
h liked it, at any rate.”

  His gaze flickered toward Louisa. Nausea made her stomach pitch. She’d been right. Those locks of hair she’d found in Radleigh’s desk were trophies, not keepsakes. Had this Celeste’s tresses been among them?

  Jardine’s clipped accents cut through the room. “You haven’t thought this through, have you, Smith? Faulkner knows you’re here. The net’s closing around you, and yet you waste time boring us all to tears, prosing on about how clever you are.”

  He gestured in Louisa’s direction. “If you kill the daughter of a peer, you’ll create an uproar. Lyle would hunt you to the ends of the earth. Even the bigwigs who currently protect you will wash their lily-white hands of you once you cross that line.”

  “And yet . . .” Smith put a fingertip to his lips. “And yet, the satisfaction of seeing you suffer while your lady love goes under the knife would be so delicious, so exquisite, that I simply cannot forgo that pleasure, come what may.”

  Smith stood a head shorter than Jardine, but at that moment, he looked every bit as lethal. “Since the day you killed my brother it has been my life’s work to find a punishment befitting that crime.” He made a sweeping gesture toward Louisa. “And now, my lord Marquis, here it is.”

  TERROR rose so thick and fast in Jardine’s throat it nearly choked him. Louisa. God, why did she have to get mixed up in this? Why hadn’t he forced her to get away when he’d had the chance?

  “Let her go. She’s innocent.”

  The hooded lids half closed. “My brother was innocent, Lord Jardine. Yet he was not spared.”

  “Your brother sold children into prostitution. He was lower than vermin.” Jardine sneered. “Lower even than you.”

  “I’ll pretend for your lady’s sake that I did not hear that.” Smith paused, then said softly, “You ought to take more care of her, my lord.”

  Jardine ignored the fierce agreement in his churning gut.

  “Who told you? How did you know what Lady Louisa is to me?”