He leaned so close to her that his breath heated her tingling lips. "I'll try to keep from acting on my... impulses," His voice was low, rough-edged. "It won't be easy, what with those eyes of yours... all soft and amethyst. If I were you, I would stay in the nursery, as far away from the east wing of the house as possible."
"The east wing?" Emily asked unsteadily.
"My private domain. Forbidden. I assure you, you would not like what you find there."
Emily swallowed hard, her mind filling with images of the decadent party Flavia Varden had described. But she would not show weakness to this man. She didn't dare.
"You'll find me difficult to shock, Mr. Blackheath," she said.
"Oh, I'd wager I could shock you, Emily Rose, and take great pleasure in doing it." He cupped her chin in his hand, and Emily's breath snagged in her chest as he lowered his mouth to hers. He brushed her lips with a carnal mastery that made Emily weak, left her shaken, wanting....
She gave a whimper of protest, hating herself for not drawing away, hating herself as the hot, wet tip of Ian Blackheath's tongue swept out to probe at the corner of her mouth, to taste her there.
He gave a low groan, his arm curving around her waist, and for an instant Emily knew a swift stab of compassion for those women who had come before her. Wondered how any woman could deny the wine-dark potency that simmered beneath Ian Blackheath's lips.
She battled to pull away, wondered if she still possessed the will to do so. She never knew.
At that instant a crash upon the ceiling above tore a cry from Emily's throat, making her all but leap from her skin.
As if by instinct Ian shoved her behind him, his hand flashing to his side as if seeking a weapon.
Emily regarded him, stunned, as she heard the muffled sound of Lucy's wailing and some beleaguered servant's pleading as she doubtless tried to calm the child.
Blackheath paled a little as he saw the question in Emily's eyes. "Bloody hell! You must forgive my... somewhat alarming reaction. I've never been the same since Isabelle Dentworth's husband attempted to shoot me in a jealous fit. I don't mind a civilized duel, you understand, but when someone sneaks up on a man in his own bedchamber and starts blasting away, a person tends to get skittish."
There was something vaguely disturbing about the way Blackheath flung out the words, as if he wanted to disgust her.
It worked.
Memories of Alexander's supposed friends flooded back to her. Memories of invitations flashed to her from beneath half-closed eyelids after Alexander's death, of lingering touches that hinted at desires that had turned Emily's stomach. Liaisons that would have meant nothing. Less than nothing to the men who had indulged in them.
The thoughts splashed across Emily's consciousness like icy water, obliterating the thrumming heat that had coursed through her at Ian Blackheath's touch.
"The noise. It must be Lucy," she said needlessly. "I'll deal with it."
"I wish you good luck, madam. Somewhere in the hall there is an old suit of armor I brought back from my travels in England. If you'd like to gird yourself for battle...?"
"Battle with whom?" Emily asked, losing herself in those compelling blue eyes.
He smiled, just a little. Not that mocking smile, not the rakehell grin.
It was a sad smile, a disarming one.
"We shall see, Emily Rose," he murmured. "We shall most definitely see."
Chapter 6
Ian stared after Emily d'Autrecourt as she left the room, her sky-colored skirts rippling behind her. The gleaming masses of her hair were caught up in a chignon revealing the vulnerable nape of her neck—a soft little hollow that was so inviting with its dusting of fragile curls. Ian would have been tempted to press his lips against it, except that it was set above shoulders stiffened with disapproval and more than a little fear.
She was afraid of him now. Wasn't that what he'd wanted when he'd all but leveled her with his blatantly sexual innuendos? He had wanted this prim little seamstress to taste the danger in him, to feel it, a living thing inside him, consuming...
Instinctively Ian had been certain that Emily d'Autrecourt would not be like those other women who were attracted to the dangerous pull he seemed to exude so effortlessly. He had known she would not be drawn to him with the heedlessness of moth to flame, not caring whether she was burned, as long as she sampled his fire.
He had wanted to make certain that she would keep her distance from him in the weeks to come. That she would care for his niece, keeping the blasted little wretch in tow before someone really did decide to string her up from an oak tree, and that she stay as far away as possible from the secrets that lurked in the east wing.
What he had never suspected was what he would taste on her lips. Something winsome and wooing. Something sweet and all but forgotten.
Yearning.
A hushed, sorrowful questing like a whisper in the wind, touching him in places he didn't want to be touched, awakening needs he didn't want to feel.
He understood lust. He'd drunk his fill of it often enough. He was a man of passionate appetites, and he had the face and body to ensure that he would not often be denied. Quick, feral hungers, wild, primitive thirsts—he'd had his share of both.
This was a far different emotion he felt now.
In the bedchamber he had experienced the expertise of women so skilled they could bring a man to climax with the merest brush of their fingers.
He'd taken women with seething passion, and so languorously that it was akin to torture. And when the sex was done, he'd forgotten them.
But somehow he knew that he would remember forever the sound of Emily d'Autrecourt's gasp the moment his lips first touched hers. He'd remember the astonishment in those eyes, as if she'd awakened for the very first time. And he knew he would never forget the way he had felt as something stirred to life inside him, way down deep.
No, Ian thought grimly. It had to be lust. Pure and simple. He was just aroused because, no matter how much Emily Rose d'Autrecourt might have loved her dead husband, Ian was certain that there were sensual rivers inside her that the man had never coursed. There were secret places, hidden places on that delicate ivory-blushed body that d'Autrecourt had never inflamed.
And a man would have to be dead between his thighs not to be intrigued by the thought of bringing a woman as beautiful as Emily to her first pleasures.
Ian's lips gave a wry twist. Few men realized that the loss of virginity was not merely the tearing of a lover's maidenhead but was rather a woman's slow initiation into the mystical rites of her own body. But Ian did.
"Don't be a fool, Blackheath!" Ian upbraided himself. "You should be trying to drive her away from you, not tempting yourself beyond reason."
But the damage was done, he admitted with a grimace. He was aching, in that old familiar way that was suddenly excruciatingly intense, incredibly new.
"Is she gone yet?" Tony Gray peeked around the corner as if expecting to be hit by flying bric-a-brac.
Ian shook away his sensual thoughts and managed a smile at his friend, hoping his attraction to the seamstress wasn't as evident in his eyes as it was in the pulsing center of what made him a man. "Lucy? Yes, she's off terrorizing the upstairs maids for a change."
Gray looked like the very devil. His hair stuck up in spikes, doubtless from raking his fingers through it in distress. His eyes were still a trifle wild, and a muscle in his jaw twitched ominously. "Tell me right now, Ian. What do you plan to do about that wretched child? By God, she should be cast afloat on a nail keg for what she did to my Zeus!"
"That poor abused child? That wayward little moppet I was to lavish with understanding?"
"Don't you dare mock me, Ian! You have no idea the state of mind I'm in! I've been to the stable with Buckley, and I've never seen such a tragic sight!"
"Tony, the stallion's tail will grow back. It's not as if she cut off more... er, irreplaceable parts."
"She might as well have!" Gray flung out. "Ze
us was supposed to stand stud to Vickersby's mare—that fine leggy filly out of Explicit. How can he face her looking like that?"
Ian laughed, the tide of his desire for Emily d'Autrecourt ebbing a little in the wake of Tony's theatrics.
"Aren't you being a trifle overdramatic?" Ian asked. "I vow, you and Lucy should tour on the stage together! I've never yet seen a breeding in which the mare examined the stud's tail. Zeus is quite a superior male specimen. If he finds the lady attractive, I doubt she'll be able to resist his charms. He'll be a proud papa once again before you know it."
"This is not amusing, Blackheath. I want to know what you propose to do about that girl!"
"Lucy?" With a sigh of consummate satisfaction, Ian sank down in a chair, and stretched his legs out before him. "You will be relieved to hear that I have at last found a solution to the problem of my wayward niece."
"You drowned her? Well done, Ian!"
"Anthony, Anthony, your lack of sensitivity appalls me! No. I did my familial duty by Lucy quite admirably, for once. You recall the lady I introduced to you a little while ago?"
Tony gave him a blank stare. "The seamstress?"
"Yes. For some reason only God himself can fathom, she has agreed to take hold of Lucy's reins."
"What?" Gray's jaw dropped.
"It's true." Ian shook his head with a grin. "The woman must be insane."
"There is a God in heaven," Tony said, sinking into a chair with a sigh of patent relief. "I shall take myself off to church this very Sunday and fill up the vicar's coffers with every shilling I won at hazard last night. Tell me, is that sainted woman upstairs packing the child's trunk this minute?"
"Trunk? What trunk?"
"Why, Lucy's trunk, of course. So that Mrs. d'Autrecourt can carry her off to her new domicile. No, I'd forgotten. The child didn't have a trunk. Well, then, let's hurry out to wave farewell to her from the doorstep."
"So that's what you're thinking. No, Tony. You mistake me. Lucy isn't going away. Mrs. d'Autrecourt is coming to live here."
"Here?" Tony gasped. "At Blackheath Hall?"
"Since we are sitting in Blackheath Hall this very instant, that would seem self-evident."
"Ian, you must be mad!" Tony bounded from his chair, his face red with anger and disbelief. "What the devil have you done?"
"I've found a governess for Lucy. Managed the whole affair quite nicely, if I do say so myself. We couldn't risk allowing the chit to run about loose, especially with her penchant for listening at doors and spreading the latest gossip. And you seem to have an aversion to my throwing the child out into the streets."
"I've changed my mind," Gray hissed between gritted teeth.
"This way," Ian continued as if Tony hadn't spoken, "Mrs. d'Autrecourt can keep Lucy out of mischief, and you and I can turn our attention to more important things—like the shipment of brown Besses and black powder that are to be channeled through here a few days from now."
Ian let his eyes drift shut and gave a contented sigh. "Come, Tony, I await your congratulations."
"Congratulations?"
Ian's eyes flew open at that thrumming of fury in Tony's voice.
"Before Lucy arrived, you were flaying me alive, railing on and on about how I was betraying the cause by getting engaged to Nora. And now here you are, housing a child who runs about listening at doors, and an Englishwoman fresh from the ship!"
"I didn't choose to be saddled with Lucy," Ian said, indignant. "You can hardly hold me responsible."
"You invited that seamstress into your home! She's English, Ian! Just where do you think her loyalties lie? Do you think she understands about the rights we seek? The anger we feel here in the colonies?" Tony broke off in disgust. "It was only a day ago that we dealt with Crane! Have you forgotten how precarious our position can be?"
"Ah, yes. Crane. He is probably hanging his head over the rail of one of my ships right now, retching into the sea on his way to the Gold Coast."
"Had the hand been played out just a little differently, he'd be spending the blood money he received for our capture, and our friend Atwood would be fitting ropes about our necks for a hanging. Crane came damned close to discovering the truth about all of us," Tony said. "If he'd been able to pass along the information he had found—"
"He did not. He cannot. And he will not," Ian brushed Tony's concerns aside.
"That doesn't mean someone else won't."
"Someone like our little seamstress?" Ian asked, with a cynical smile. "But of course! Doubtless she has been caught up in this ring of spies to take Crane's place. She's been sent by Atwood to seduce me. To pry free my dastardly secret. By God, it would be pleasant letting her try."
Tony flushed. "Don't be ridiculous! I didn't say she was a spy! But if she ever discovers the nest of treason she's come to roost in, I doubt she'll agonize very long about whether she should go to the authorities."
Ian's mouth twisted in an arrogant grin. "I think the east wing is safe enough from her prying. I made it clear that I was not terribly set against social clichés. I would be more than happy to have an affair with the family governess."
"You did what?"
"I offered to indulge in an amorous relationship with her—any sacrifice in the name of the cause, you know." Ian grinned. "Of course I had to demonstrate to her the fact that I was quite in earnest."
Tony leaped to his feet, jabbing an accusatory finger at Ian. "Wonderful! Perfect! I know that look in your eye." Tony swore. "Not only are you harboring an Englishwoman in your very house, but you're also plotting ways to get her into your bed!"
"I have it on highest authority that Emily d'Autrecourt isn't interested in any such liaisons. A pity. And yet"—Ian gave a shrug—"I have never been able to resist that sort of a challenge."
Ian stiffened at the feel of Tony's fingers biting into his shoulder, hard. There was fury and desperation in Gray's face. "Damn it, Ian, I have a feeling about this. A bad one. You have to get rid of her. Now."
Sparks kindled in Ian's eyes. He gripped Tony's wrist, and yanked it away from his shoulder. "You forget yourself, Tony. No man tells me what to do. Not even you."
The words were ice-cold.
"Oh, no. No one tells you what to do, Ian!" Gray roared in disgust. "But you feel free to order everyone else about! You run around using your body as a shield for the rest of us, clearly hoping to take a pistol ball or a sword thrust. You expect people who care about you to watch you ride straight over the edge of a damned cliff, if you want to, just so you can feel the cursed thrill of it!"
"Tony..." The word was a warning.
"No, I won't be quiet. Not this time. Tell me the truth for once in your benighted life, Ian. Is that why you've brought an Englishwoman into your home? So you can walk on that blade edge of danger you love, even here at Blackheath Hall? Is this just another part of the infernal game you are playing with your life?"
"Tony, no more."
"Why? Because it might be the truth?" Gray's hazel eyes were filled with torment, boiling with frustration.
"You want the child out of here?" Ian challenged. "Then use your family connections to get her into school at once. You want Emily d'Autrecourt away from Blackheath Hall? Then find me some other woman with the nerve to take Lucy on. Hellfire and damnation, the child has kept all twenty of my servants running around as if they were dancing on live coals ever since she's been here."
"I'm doing the best I can, damn it!" Tony raged. "I wrote the blasted letter and had Polly write one, too. I—"
"Let me know when you have a reply. Until then kindly stop annoying me with your complaints."
Tony slammed his fist on a table, making the prisms on the candlestick dance wildly. "You don't even hear what I'm saying, do you, Ian? You never bloody listen! Fine, then. Drown yourself in insane risks. Court your own doom, if you want to. I'm sure Dame Death is like any other woman and won't be able to resist making you her own. Maybe you've found your way into her arms at last, Ian—through a
winsome pair of violet blue eyes."
With a curse, Tony turned and stalked from the room. Ian listened to the hoof beats of Gray's much-abused stallion as it thundered from the yard.
Restless, Ian paced to the window, staring out into the darkness. Thunder rolled in the distance, whispering of wild winds and jagged lightning, a coming storm.
A storm that now moved over Virginia as inexorably as the rumblings of revolution that were engulfing the colonies.
Could it be that Tony was right this time? Ian wondered vaguely. Did it matter if he was?
Ian straightened his back, feeling the familiar thrumming in his veins that could not be denied.
The hunger was inside him again. Deeper, stronger, since his encounter with the beautiful Englishwoman whose taste still lingered on his lips.
With an oath he turned and strode out of the house. The wind raked through his hair and tugged at the open edges of his shirt, caressing his heated skin like the fingers of a lover.
Ian's mouth curled into that devil-smile as a jagged flash of lightning split the sky.
The rogue Pendragon had to be one with the night.
Chapter 7
The storm was over. It had raged for hours, a torrent of rain, howling wind, and crashing thunder outside the bedchamber window.
A flood of fury and pain and helplessness inside the room.
Emily sat on the side of the huge bed amid the ruin that had once been Lucy's chamber, watching the little girl sleep. She hadn't even attempted to pick up the countless objects the child had thrown to underscore her shrieks that she didn't need a governess, didn't need anybody. Emily hadn't attempted to right tables, straighten coverlets, or even brush back the waves of her own hair that had tumbled from its pins in the fracas.
She hadn't moved even once from the child's side since the moment the exhausted little girl had surrendered to sleep.
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