She returned his caresses, learning the essence of Ian Blackheath. The powerful breadth of shoulders, the narrow hips, the steely curves of his buttocks. She kissed a scar that stood out, white beneath the curve of his arm. She kissed his mouth, his eyelids, his temple, where the half-healed gash still whispered of the danger in him.
When his fingers trailed a path of molten sensation down her belly, she flushed then caught her lip between her teeth. She was no virgin. She knew what he was searching for. Yet there was the most unbearable melting sensation centered there between her thighs. A dampness that she had never known before.
"No," she whispered, tightening her legs against him. "Ian, don't."
"That is how it's done when you love someone, Emily. I touch you there, stroke you there, dip into the place where I want to bury myself."
"No. It's—it's moist. I don't know why. I..."
A half-laugh, half-groan tore from Ian's throat. "Ah, lady, are you trying to drive me mad with wanting you?"
"Don't laugh at me."
"I'm not laughing, Emily Rose. Your dampness means that you want me. That your passage is ready to receive me, to glove me tight inside you. Do you mean you never had that happen before?"
"No. I... of course not," she said a little indignantly, "or I would not be making such a fool of myself right now."
"That selfish bastard," Ian bit out. "The lovemaking must have hurt you, then, with your husband."
"It was... uncomfortable. But I thought... It seemed... Well, I'm certain Alexander didn't know it was supposed to be that way, either."
"He could've bloody asked someone or gone to a whore to learn how not to hurt you! I’s not as if this were some bloody state secret."
He was spoiling the magic with the anger in his eyes, but then his face softened. His hand splayed, heavy and warm on the delicate skin of her belly. "Let me show you, Emily, how much your body wants me." He moved his hand down to the nest of dark curls, his fingers stroking that thatch of silky hair with such skill her thighs began to tremble.
"Open for me, Emily. Let me inside."
She let her thighs fall apart a little ways, but Ian wasn't satisfied. His big hands curved beneath the slender columns, pulling her legs farther apart, exposing that part of her body that no man had ever seen. His eyes darkened, a tempest raging in their depths as he looked at her, then slid his fingers down to touch the dewy petals below.
Emily stiffened, all but jerking straight up at the excruciatingly intimate contact of that rough fingertip against that dainty pink flesh.
"How does this make you feel, Emily?" Ian was whispering, as he watched the long brown length of his finger move against her. "Does it feel half as good to you as it does to me?"
He was waiting for an answer—impossible man. She was long past speaking.
His fingers dipped inside her, where the moisture seemed to center, then slid up to find a place Emily had not known existed.
If Ian had taken a red-hot brand and pressed it against her, she could have felt no more fire. The flames surged inside of her, wild and wanton and wonderful, as he circled and teased that hidden place, bringing her closer to something she couldn't imagine... a place she had seen whenever she had looked into Ian's passion-dark eyes.
She arched against him, unable to stop the moans that rose in her throat. And then suddenly his touch was gone, and he was kissing her, the tiny indentation of her navel, the silky dark curls, the inside of her thigh. His hair brushed against that fragile skin, the tresses so soft, his hands roving over her flesh, heating her, tormenting her.
She stroked his shoulders, his arms, deliciously confused, unbearably eager for whatever new secret he would reveal to her.
But when he lowered that dark head and touched the pulsing center of her with indescribable delicacy with the hot, rough point of his tongue, she gave a low, rasping cry that seemed to echo in the tremor that went through his body.
What was he doing to her? Emily thought wildly, tossing her head as he savored her, seduced her. This must be wicked.
But not to have known this, never to have known...
The embers he had set to burning pulsed and glowed, burst and simmered, centering there, where Ian Blackheath was worshiping her with his devastatingly intimate kiss.
And suddenly she couldn't bear another moment, couldn't wait...
"Ian!" she cried out his name, and he knew what she wanted, what she needed of him. He raised his head, and what he saw stole his very soul.
A passion-tossed angel, a violet-eyed goddess, alive with love for him, hunger for him.
He kissed the soft petals one last time, then rose above her, bracing his arms on either side of her, his hands lost in cascades of her midnight-dark hair.
"My God, Emily, look at you... look at you," he rasped, hardly daring to move as that small, loving hand curled about his white-hot, aching flesh, stroking it with such tenderness, such longing.
And when she guided him to the sweet, fragile opening, he felt his chest tighten, felt his heart ache... and slowly, by precious inches, he buried himself inside her.
He groaned in raw pleasure as her wet heat gloved his sex, tight, so tight. He wanted nothing more than to give way to his own mind-shattering urges, to take her, swift, hard, spill his seed deep inside her.
But thoughts of what she must have endured before this loving reined in those primal urges. He was not a gentle man, but he found gentleness inside himself for her. He was not a man given to tenderness, but as he held Emily in his arms, he was more tender than he'd ever been in his life. He subjugated his own needs, in a quest to satisfy hers. Urges he knew Emily didn't even suspect she had.
A primal thrill of possession shot through him, the knowledge that this was a gift that he could give to Emily Rose. The skill he had gained on his path to ruin, the ability to pleasure a woman's body until she sobbed with ecstasy.
His brow furrowed in concentration, his hips settling even deeper into the cradle of her thighs. Then he withdrew the heated core of him and sank time and time again into her waiting sheath.
He could feel Emily grow restless beneath him, her hands on his back, the nails biting just a little with an innocent eroticism that all but unmanned him.
"Ian, I... oh, I..."
"You're perfect, angel... so perfect..." He nuzzled his face against her breasts as he stroked deep inside her, his tongue tasting her as he rained kisses up her throat, against her cheeks.
She was quickening around him, he could feel it, feel her getting wilder, hotter in his arms, feel her slipping over the brink.
He wanted to hold her, wanted to help her hurl herself off into madness. His fingers stole down between their bodies, found the pulsing nub that he sensed was screaming for release. He circled it, smoothed it with the tip of his finger as he thrust harder against her, deeper, burying himself to the hilt time and again.
He gritted his teeth as he felt the feathering of his own culmination start at the base of his spine. He battled to keep it at bay, withhold it. Just as he knew the battle was lost, a cry tore from Emily's throat, and she tightened around his throbbing length in shattering contractions that made Ian drive himself with all his strength into her welcoming wetness, as her sweet climax sent him careening over the edge in a flood of heat and passion and soul-deep love.
He fell against her breasts, burying his face in the waves of her hair, unable to speak, unable to breathe. His whole body trembled as the sensations still rocketed through him, echoing in places that were buried deep in his soul.
How could he have imagined what it would be like? How could he have known that this time with Emily would make the touch of every other woman seem like callow playacting on a barren stage?
How could he have known that her love would break away all the bitterness inside him and leave him with something so fragile, so unexpected, that he was almost afraid to put a name to it?
Hope.
For the first time since the death of his mother
—for perhaps the first time in his life—Ian felt the darkness drain away from his spirit, felt it flowing out of his soul.
He felt clean and whole and so much in love that he thought he might die of it.
Tears burned at the backs of his eyelids as he raised his face from Emily's hair. He traced the backs of his knuckles across the cameo-like perfection of her cheek.
Her eyes were shining. Her kiss-reddened lips were parted in a smile that was at once enchanting and amusing, as if she had discovered some delicious secret she wasn't about to share.
And as Ian stared down into those violet depths, he wondered what she would say if he told her his own secrets. Would that smile fade? Would those eyes cloud with blame and confusion?
Tell her the truth, Tony had urged him. If she loves you it won't matter.
But it would matter. Oh, God, how it would matter. How could he tell her of the danger he wore like a mantle, when he rode as Pendragon? How could he tell her that she would be the loved one of the rebel thief, the cold-blooded killer she scorned?
How could he subject her to nights pacing the floors of Blackheath Hall, waiting for him, knowing all the while that a stray pistol ball or a sword thrust might already have left him on the road somewhere, spilling his lifeblood into the dirt?
On the night of his last confrontation with the English he'd learned that Atwood was already preparing to tighten the noose around his neck.
How could he condemn Emily to that kind of suffering after what she had already endured?
His chest ached as he looked into that face that was still aglow in the aftermath of his loving.
A sweet, wild enchantress, as irresistible as the song of any Siren, and as dangerous.
But his body was already stirring against her. His hands were already itching to coast over the delicious peaks and valleys that she had surrendered to him minutes before.
"I love you, Emily Rose," he said hoarsely. "By God, I'd give my life, and gladly, if I could be a different man for you... one washed clean of all that I have done."
"But then I wouldn't love you, Ian," she said softly, turning her head to press a kiss against his palm. "Every choice you made before I came into your life shaped you into the man you are today. The man I fell in love with. I want to spend a lifetime learning everything about you. A lifetime of having you kiss me and touch me, of watching you smile."
A strangled sound caught in Ian's throat. "There are so many things you don't know about me. So many mistakes I've made, paths I've taken that—"
She stopped his words, pressing her fingertips against his lips. "I know everything that matters, Ian," she said in a voice like an angel's. "We'll find the way together."
He turned his head away from her, his eyes snagging on Lucy's doll, pillowed there upon the chair. The child's words seemed prophetic, terrifying: I just wanted the doll so I could have something to love. But I have decided to love you and the lady instead.
They were words Ian himself might have said to the child, words he would have died for the pleasure of whispering.
But wasn't love impossible after the roads that he had taken? Night-dark roads stained with blood and reckless courage. Secret bargains in which Ian Blackheath had bartered away his soul.
Gladly, damn it. He'd been glad to give it. Because he'd never known what a price he would have to pay in the end. He'd never suspected that angels with violet eyes came to save sinners, or that little girls could steal away not only a doll but a man's empty heart as well.
He'd never thought that he would want to take a lady of his own. Pendragon's lady, heiress to the darkness that consumed him. He closed his eyes so that Emily couldn't see his anguish. There is no way out of my hell, Emily Rose, he wanted to say. No gilded path you can guide me along as Orpheus did his Eurydice. There is nothing but this space in time. This loving. To last us both for all eternity.
Chapter 15
Ian lay upon the tangled white sheets, his thick, dark lashes pillowed on his arrogant cheekbones, the harsh planes of his face softened in sleep. His hand was still curled in the fall of her hair. His arms had held her against him, tightly through the night, cherishing her, in a way that still made Emily's throat feel raw, her fingers tremble.
Ian Blackheath. Rakehell. Scoundrel.
The perfect villain.
The perfect lover.
A man far more gentle in his passion than Alexander had ever been. A man far more good-hearted than her vicar father. A man who refused to enslave another human being. Who had taken a little girl into his heart, reluctantly, but completely. A man who seemed embarrassed by the very fact that there was goodness inside him.
Emily gently slipped from his grasp and propped herself on one elbow to peer down into that beguiling face. She smoothed a tendril of dark hair back from that stone-carved jaw.
She would show him... show him the wonder she had found in his wry sense of humor, his gruff tenderness, his bedazzling smiles. She would show him that no secret he had could come between them, any more than she would let her own secrets keep them apart any longer.
She lightly kissed curve of his lip, savoring the warmth in him, the strength. Then she slipped from the bed where he had bound her to him in a way far deeper than vows or promises or rings of gold could ever hope to.
Bare feet padding on the floor, she crossed the room and picked up Lucy's doll.
Atwood. Doubtless things might get a little difficult with the English soldier and his superiors when she told them of her decision to stop being in their service. But she was certain she could make them understand.
She loved Ian, loved Lucy. And though there had been no promises between them, Emily was certain that with time, Ian would come to realize what she already knew. That they had been destined to find each other. That they belonged together, forever.
"It will be over soon, Ian," she whispered to him. "I'll tell them that I love you. I'll make them see..."
She slipped from the room into the silent halls. Before a quarter hour had passed, she had donned a simple skirt and jacket, and gone to the stables, where a sleepy-eyed groom saddled a dainty mare for her.
"Where be ye goin' so early, Ma'am?" he asked, looking more than a little worried.
"I have some things to pick up at my shop before the rest of the house is awake. I'll be back this afternoon."
"Perhaps I should come along with you. Master Ian isn't going to like it if I let you run off on your own."
"No!" she said far too quickly. Then desperately attempted to think of some excuse for this solitary ride. "You go along and get some sleep. You look exhausted."
"Master's mare dropped a colt out of Zeus last night. A fine boy, he is, just like his papa."
Emily closed her eyes, her mind filling with wondrous, hazy images of her arms filled with a wriggling bundle with crystal-blue eyes and the devil's own charm. She could see Ian, reaching out to let his son's tiny, questing hand curl about one long, bronzed finger. A fine boy, she would murmur as he reached down to kiss her. Just like his papa...
She flushed, suddenly aware of the vacant smile she must have on her lips, and shook herself inwardly, tightening her grip on the basket in which she had hidden the doll. With the briefest goodbye, she swung up into the saddle and started the mare across Blackheath lands at a gentle canter.
The wind tugged at her bonnet and kissed her cheeks, reminding her of Ian's lips, his touch, so vital, so gentle, so alive.
There are so many things you don't know about me...
He had said the words, edged with despair.
Emily's lips curved in a soft smile.
As soon as she finished this last bit of business with Captain Atwood, she would discover Ian Blackheath's secrets for herself.
* * *
Captain Reginald Atwood stood before his superior in the tiny, secluded cottage that was Stirling Fraser's headquarters, rivers of sweat trickling from beneath the soldier's wig to soak the collar of his shirt. Never in his illustriou
s military career had Atwood felt his own mortality so keenly—not even when he'd felt a Spanish-steel sword lancing through his side in battle.
"Mr. Fraser, if you would let me explain—"
"That is exactly why I summoned you here, my good Captain," Fraser purred. "You can imagine my distress when I received word that this doll we have been so anxiously awaiting was delivered to the millinery shop days ago—before you were sent to speak to Emily d'Autrecourt about its importance. It was most disappointing to realize that something had gone awry. And that you and Mrs. d'Autrecourt, who are supposedly trusted allies, must be aware of the fact. I am not accustomed to being kept unenlightened when difficulties arise."
"I understand that, sir. But this was just a—an unfortunate mishap that the lady was attempting to make right. The message itself was in no real danger. It was just a matter of retrieving it."
"The message was in no danger? How can you be so certain? What do you know of Ian Blackheath, except that the man is a greedy bastard who would sell his own father to turn a profit? A man who deals in weapons and sells them to those mad Bostonians who are itching to bury an ounce of lead in every English breast in the colonies! How dare you take it upon yourself to make such a decision regarding a vital bit of communication? How dare you deceive me?"
"It was not my intention to deceive you sir!" Atwood's gloves were fused to his hands with sweat. He swallowed, but couldn't get the lump of fear past his neck cloth. "The lady... I thought that she—"
"It is not your position to think, Atwood. If you did it more often we would be in even more peril than we are now. I suppose you were thinking with what's enclosed in your breeches, sir. Emily d'Autrecourt is a lovely woman, if I remember. But one of impeccable virtue. Or at least she was before she embroiled herself in Blackheath's household."
"I told her I must have the doll before a week had passed, that otherwise you and I would have to become involved in the matter."
"I shall call in reinforcements at once. It seems that taking a doll away from a little girl would be a task far too arduous for you."
The Raider’s Bride Page 23
