The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

by Susan Carroll

  “But if it did—” he began, but she silenced him before he could tempt fate any further. Straining on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his.

  Martin hesitated only a heartbeat before burrowing his fingers beneath her hair. He cradled the nape of her neck, his lips moving over hers in a kiss that was warm and lingering.

  He drew back and gazed at her, her hunger mirrored in the green depths of his eyes.

  “Cat,” he said hoarsely. He moistened his lips and she could tell what he was trying to do. Muster the strength to resist temptation, summon up all the good reasons they should back away from each other.

  Reasons that she understood far better than he. Of the two of them, she would be the one most likely to limp away from any casual coupling with a bruised heart.

  And she didn’t give a damn. She had walked through this world with her heart untouched and detached for far too long. Even the pain of knowing what it was to love Martin and then losing him would be nothing compared to the emptiness of never loving him at all.

  Reaching up, she traced her fingers, lightly, tantalizingly against the barrier of his lips. Martin stared down at her, an agony of longing in his eyes.

  “Cat, we—we should not—”

  Cat expelled a breath rife with the frustration of desire too long denied. “Yes, damn it. We should.”

  Curling her fingers in the folds of his shirt, she yanked his mouth back down to hers. Martin gripped her shoulders as though to thrust her away.

  Cat’s tongue darted out, caressing the seal of his lips, seeking entry. A tremor coursed through Martin, and it was as though she could feel something break inside the man like a storm erupting in the sky.

  With a low growl, he wrapped his arms around her. His hands roved boldly over her body as he deluged her with kisses, raining them down upon her cheeks, her eyes, her chin, finally settling upon her mouth. His tongue claimed hers in a white-hot collision that robbed her of breath.

  Locking her hard against him, he hiked up her shirt. Cat gasped as he cupped the bare skin of her buttocks, the heat of his hands sent a rush of molten warmth straight to her feminine core. Kissing her ferociously, Martin drew her hips so tight against him, she thrilled at the feel of his erection straining against his breeches.

  She shivered with need, straining frantically to get closer. Martin dragged his mouth from hers, his breathing coming hard and quick.

  “Ah, God,” he groaned. “I am a worthless rogue. A complete scoundrel. A very wicked man.”

  “I know,” Cat breathed, rubbing against him, fairly shimmying up the man the way she had done the tree. “It is one of the things I—”

  She nearly said love best about you. Despite her passion-drugged senses, she retained enough wit to amend. “One—one of your better qualities.”

  Martin gave a ragged laugh. Although his body throbbed with need for her, he removed his hand from her bottom. Smoothing her shirt back down, he made a noble effort to put her away from him.

  But his heroics were all in vain because Cat caught the ends of the shirt and wrenched it over her head. His mouth went dry as his gaze raked over her small firm breasts, the red-gold dusting of hair at the delta of her legs.

  Martin groaned, his erection tightening to a painful degree. “Cat, have mercy.”

  “No.” She tossed the shirt at his feet like someone flinging down a gauntlet. “It’s a damn dark wet night out there and we’ve just had a narrow escape. The world won’t end and the sky won’t fall if we find a wee bit of pleasure in each other. But then I am not troubled by your church’s notions of sin. I am after all only a pagan.”

  That was exactly what she was, Martin thought. A pagan goddess, brazen and proud in all her naked glory, hands planted defiantly on her slim hips, her legs braced slightly apart.

  She shook back her hair, the fire-colored strands spilling about her white shoulders, her eyes blazing like bright jewels. Martin moved toward her like a man all too willing to fling himself on her sacrificial fire.

  He had always taken the initiative in any lovemaking. He was after all a Frenchman. But he allowed her to undress him, Cat’s fingers deftly unlacing his shirt. She ripped it off over his head, her gaze roving appreciatively over him.

  Tossing his shirt aside, she lightly scored her nails over his bare chest as she prowled around him in a way calculated to drive him mad.

  He felt dazed with heat and desire as she wrapped her arms about him from behind, flattening the warm globes of her breasts against his back. She swirled her fingers through the hair dusting his chest, inching lower with each stroke toward his breeches.

  Unfastening them, she released his erection. He almost moaned with relief until her hand closed over him, the mere heat of her touch enough to make him lose control.

  “Sweet Jesu, woman, what are you trying to do to me?”

  “Make you come apart in my hands,” she purred, nipping playfully at his arm. He could tell she was delighting in her power over him, perhaps a shade too much. It was damned time he regained some control over this situation.

  Catching hold of her wrist, he brought a halt to her bold exploration. Whipping about to face her, he murmured, “No, what you are doing is bringing me to my knees.”

  He knelt down before her, slanting a wicked glance up at her. Before Cat guessed what he meant to do, he cupped her buttocks and yanked her close, burying his face in the nest of curls between her legs.

  Cat cried out at the delicious shock of an audacious kiss unlike any she’d ever experienced. The heady sense of power she had been feeling ebbed from her as Martin forced her legs farther apart, teasing her with his tongue.

  She shook, clutching at his shoulders as her body reacted with surprising swiftness, shattering her with mind-numbing sensations of pleasure that left her too weak to stand. Quivering, she sank to her knees beside him. Martin’s smile was far too smug.

  “You—you French devil,” she panted.

  “Irish witch,” he laughed.

  Cat pounced on him, dragging him to the floor, where they kissed, wrestled, and caressed. After what she had just experienced, Cat didn’t think it possible her desire could rage again so soon. But it flooded through her all over again with his every skillful touch. As she had always suspected, the man was infernally clever with his hands.

  Cat scarce knew how Martin freed himself from the rest of his garments. She would have liked a moment to catch her breath, savor the sight of his naked body, all hard muscle and sinew and sweat. But he rolled her onto her back.

  Bracing himself over her, he kissed his way down her throat to her breast, capturing first one nipple and then the other. As he laved her with the wet heat of his tongue, Cat closed her eyes and bit down upon her lip to keep from crying out at the sheer pleasurable torment of it.

  It was as though he sought to brand her with his touch, his scent, his kiss, over every inch of her body. Cat knew she would carry the taste and feel of Martin le Loup to the end of her days.

  It was only going to make it harder when the time came to leave, surrendering him to his English life, his Lady Danvers. Cat didn’t care. She desperately wanted this, needed these few stolen hours.

  When Martin finally plunged inside of her, she gasped at the shock of their joining. As her body stretched to accommodate him, it was as though he filled her completely.

  Her eyes fluttered open to find him staring down at her with wonder in his gaze.

  “Mon Dieu, Cat!” he said hoarsely. “You are so warm and tight. You fit me like—like—”

  “A glove?”

  “No, as though our bodies were fashioned for this, to belong together.”

  Cat’s throat constricted. She wished he meant that, but she was certain that it was no more than the tender words Martin would feel obliged to whisper to any woman he bedded.

  She buried her fingers in his hair and yanked his mouth down to hers. Bracing her feet against the rough wooden floor, she lifted her hips, urging him into action. His fir
st thrusts and her response were a little awkward, more of a collision until she caught his rhythm.

  Rocking against him, her body moved in time with his in a fluid motion as smooth and tempestuous as waves foaming over the shore. All trace of Martin’s feigned English accent vanished as he breathed endearments and wicked profanities in a stream of fluent French.

  As he plunged harder and deeper, Cat’s tension coiled tighter and tighter. She raked her nails across his back and cried out his name as she experienced another ecstatic release, intense ripples of pleasure spiraling through her.

  Martin gave a final thrust and shuddered as he spilled his seed deep inside her. He collapsed against her. Cat felt the thunder of his racing heart, echoing hers.

  She wrapped her arms fiercely about him, holding him close as their labored breathing slowed. To her dismay, Cat’s eyes prickled, threatening to fill with tears.

  Their lovemaking had been nothing short of miraculous, a physical joy like nothing she had ever known. But she realized she had offered Martin more than her body this night. She had opened up her heart and soul to him as well, making herself more vulnerable than she ever had to any man.

  As Martin drew back, she blinked hard lest he catch her out in her lies, realize that what had just happened meant far more to her than a fleeting pleasure.

  The depth of her emotion was difficult to conceal when he gazed down at her with such warmth. He tenderly stroked back damp strands of hair from her brow.

  “Catriona.”

  He hardly ever called her that. Cat swallowed hard, feigning a languid smile.

  “Whew. That was—was—”

  He grinned. “Yes, it was. Wasn’t it?”

  She winced, her back and bottom beginning to feel the effects of their vigorous lovemaking, pounding against the hard floor.

  Martin eased off her, eyeing her with concern. “Was I too rough? Have I hurt you?”

  More than you’ll ever know.

  Cat forced a laugh. “I don’t bruise that easy. But I might have a splinter in my arse.”

  Martin chuckled. Before she knew what he was about to do, he had her scooped up high in his arms. Carrying her over to the bed, he murmured, “We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE FIRE BURNED LOWER, THE LOGS REDUCED TO GLOWING embers. At some point during the last hour, the downpour had slackened to a dull patter of rain against the window. Martin had no idea when. During the second time he and Cat had shattered in each other’s embrace? Or had it been the third?

  A hazy smile played on his lips, his eyes narrowed to half-slits. He felt more relaxed, replete, and content than he could remember being in a long time. He shifted, seeking a more comfortable position on a mattress so hard-worn; it had a tendency to roll the bed’s occupants toward the sagging middle.

  Not that he had any right to complain. He and Cat had wreaked their own share of damage upon the bedstead. He feared that some of the rope springs might have snapped during one of their vigorous bouts of lovemaking, and he was certain they had ripped one of the ancient sheets.

  Most of the bedclothes were tangled in a heap on the floor. Martin leaned over the side of the bed and snagged the coverlet. He dragged it to the woman curled up on the opposite side of the bed, her back toward him.

  Much to his disappointment, he feared that Cat had fallen asleep after their last tempestuous climax. He would have preferred that she do so cradled in his arms, her head nestled against his shoulder. But he saw that she was wakeful, watching the rain trickle down the windowpane.

  He tucked the coverlet about them and snuggled close to her. His heart felt so extraordinarily full. He was bursting to pour a wellspring of romantic words and foolish endearments in her ear. But he doubted Cat would welcome them.

  He contented himself with caressing his fingers over the place on her bottom where he had removed the splinter.

  “How is your arse?” he inquired tenderly.

  “Tired,” she said with a weary laugh. “I am summoning the ambition to rouse myself and get dressed. We ought to get back before morning. Meg will be very alarmed if she wakes to find us both gone.”

  “Morning is a long way off. It cannot be much past midnight and it is still raining,” he protested. “We have plenty of time.”

  “But you must be eager to get that portrait to Walsingham. If Babington discovers it has gone missing, the man will likely panic and bolt. I doubt your employer would be pleased about that. After all, there is your reward to consider. Do you think Walsingham will keep his promises to you?”

  “I suppose so. He tends to be a man of his word.” Martin ought to be rejoicing at the thought of achieving his long-sought-after goal. He was surprised by his own lack of enthusiasm.

  He tried to kiss Cat’s shoulder, but she dragged the coverlet higher.

  “You will finally be able to go to Lady Danvers and lay your heart at her feet.”

  Martin flinched with guilt at the mention of Jane. In truth he had given little thought to her of late and none at all during these past few hours. He would be obliged to go to her, if for no other reason than to assure her she could stop worrying about her brother. And he would have to be honest enough to tell her why he was so certain of this, confess how he had spied for Walsingham.

  Martin hoped Jane would be able to forgive him. But as for wanting anything more from the woman, he was stunned to realize that he didn’t.

  Cat shrank away from him to the very edge of the mattress. It was as though now that the lovemaking was done, she had already grown weary of his touch. Or perhaps it was his faux pas in allowing his thoughts to stray to another woman while the bed was still warm from their passion. But damnation. He hadn’t mentioned Jane’s name. Cat was the one who had reminded him of her ladyship.

  The candles had long ago guttered out. Only the red glow of the fire provided what flickering light there was to be had. Martin rose up on one elbow, squinting down at Cat, wishing he could better see her face.

  He brushed back the tangle of strands from her cheek. He confessed tentatively, “I can’t even think of Jane. After all that we just shared—”

  “Don’t,” Cat said sharply.

  Martin’s hand stilled. “Don’t what? Touch you or—”

  “Don’t feel obliged to make pretty speeches or vows of devotion just because we bedded.” She rolled over enough to frown at him. “We both know this was naught but a pleasant interlude. Two warm bodies relieving pent-up desire on a wet rainy night. The earth didn’t move and the sky didn’t suddenly rain stars.”

  Maybe not for her. Martin expelled a deep breath feeling like a barque that had been coursing the waves only to suddenly have the wind taken out of its sails.

  “Pardon me for trying to be gallant,” he muttered. Flinging himself to the other side of the bed, he punched his thin pillow in a vain effort to plump it.

  “I am sorry if I wounded your masculine pride—” Cat began.

  “Non, pas de tout. I am not that arrogant about my skill in bed.” Martin grimaced. “Well, yes, I guess I am. When I finish making love to a woman, I am not accustomed to having her yawn, roll over, and start to snore.”

  Cat jerked upright, clutching the coverlet to her breasts. “I did nothing of the kind. That is the sort of behavior that is considered the prerogative of you men.”

  “I have never been that insensitive.” Martin jammed the pillow behind his head. “Even when I paid—”

  Martin checked himself, but not in time. Cat smirked at him.

  “You paid to bed a woman? Never would I have imagined the dashing and lusty le Loup would have to resort to that.”

  “I was very young,” Martin snapped. “It was how I parted company with the burden of my virginity. I was only eleven.”

  “Eleven!”

  “Twelve, perhaps.”

  When Cat eyed him skeptically, he conceded. “All right. I may have been closer to thirteen when I surrendered to the ch
arms of Daphne la Bouche, one of the most skilled prostitutes to ever walk the streets of Paris.”

  “Daphne the mouth? Why did they call her that? Oh!” Understanding lit Cat’s eyes. Some of his irritation fading, Martin grinned in spite of himself.

  “From that wolfish look of yours, I am assuming the sobriquet was not bestowed because of the wench’s fondness for gossip.”

  “No, Daphne was incredibly tight-lipped, especially when she—ooof.” Martin grunted when Cat poked him sharply in the ribs.

  “I comprehend without you painting me any vivid pictures.”

  Martin subsided, suppressing his smile. At least his bawdy reminiscences had had the effect of luring Cat back to his side. He draped his arm about her. “I had to pick a great many pockets to afford Daphne’s services. She might not have been some beautiful courtesan, but she didn’t come cheap.”

  “Was she worth it?”

  “Oui. She was very good. She provided such a dizzying introduction into the rites of Venus, I was completely taken with her. I returned to the brothel the next day with a wilted nosegay, vowing to make her my mistress and rescue her from her tragic profession even if I had to steal the purse of the king himself.”

  “And how did Mademoiselle la Bouche respond to this generous offer?”

  “When she got done laughing at me, she boxed my ears, threw me out, and prepared to entertain her next client.”

  Cat chuckled, but her voice was not without sympathy as she stroked his chest. “Poor daunted wolf cub. But what a remarkable lad you must have been.”

  “Remarkable?” Martin snorted.

  “Yes, I find it amazing that you were still able to retain such passion for life, such a romantic view of the world considering your circumstances. Abandoned by your mother, no family, no home, only yourself to rely upon. There had to have been times when you were cold, hungry, and desperate.”

  “There may have been.” Martin shrugged. He had always been good at suppressing the darker moments of his life. He wrapped both arms about Cat, depositing a kiss atop her head.

  “Sometimes the only way to survive the grit of the streets is to learn to walk with your head in the clouds. Besides, I was not entirely friendless. There was an old woman, a flower vendor who was kind to me. She was sort of the patron saint of street urchins although there was nothing particularly saintly about her. Tante Pauline could outcurse and outdrink any of the draymen who drove wagons through Paris.”