by Sharon Page
The only reason for anyone to sneak up on him was to hurt him.
“Ye sure the toff’s out cold?” said a soft, coarse voice.
There had to be two of them, since there was no reason to ask a question unless there was someone to answer it. Grey remained motionless on the chair.
“Keep your voice down,” answered another man in a whisper.
“Why? If the duke drank that brandy, he’s asleep now, isn’t he?”
“He should be,” answered the second man. “There’s enough laudanum in it to knock out a horse.”
Grey had to remember to thank Miss Winsome. If it hadn’t been for her, he would have tossed back his drink so fast, he would now be unconscious.
Miss Winsome—Hades, had these men done anything to her?
No, impossible. He’d left her bedroom only moments ago. These two must have broken into the drawing room and hidden in it, behind the curtains.
But why not attack him in the bedroom? Most nights, he came into this room after sex and drank. These fiends had to know that. Who had told them? Who knew?
Acrid anger blazed through him. Miss Winsome knew—
Damn it. So did most of the servants. Any one of them could have been paid to spy.
“I could slit his throat,” whispered the first man gleefully.
“The plan is to make it look like he took his own life. Very few men cut their own throats. A pistol is a much more preferred instrument for a suicide.”
To make it look as if he’d killed himself, no doubt this assassin intended to put the pistol to his head and pull the trigger, tearing out his brain with a pistol ball, while he was drugged.
Grey kept his eyes closed, but he made a sighing sound, as if asleep. He was naked under his robe, which meant an annoying lack of weapons. All he had in his favor was surprise.
His heart thudded. But he’d learned how to outwit people who wanted to hurt him. He’d learned to fight fear. Though he let his hands fall limply from the chair’s arms as if he were unconscious, he tensed, ready to attack.
He kept his breathing slow and rhythmic. For fun, he let his head fall to the side and snored.
Smell guided him. One man stank of sweat, lack of washing, unkempt clothes. The other gave off a perfumed scent, a slightly flowery scent an Englishman would never wear.
“He’s dead to the world,” breathed the first man.
“Shut your mouth,” hissed the second. “Let’s be done with this.”
“What of the tart?” The first man made a disgusting moist sound, as if licking his lips.
“We’re not to touch her. She’s to discover the duke in the morning, with a pistol in his lap and half his head blown away.”
Having two assailants was going to make this more difficult. Grey assumed only one had a pistol, since they expected to walk up to him and shoot him in the head. But a knife could still be thrown at him. He would have to move like lightning—
Grey smelled a light whiff of powder, felt the disturbance in the back of the chair as a hand settled on the upholstery. He couldn’t wait for the touch of the pistol to his head. Likely the assassin would have his finger on the trigger by then.
Taking a risk, he let his lids crack open a little. A floorboard creaked behind him.
At twelve, he’d begun to change the tables on his mother and her lackeys. Instead of being easily beaten, he’d been able to fight back. His mother had been forced to hire more brutal men to keep him in line, to be able to capture him to beat him. He’d fought to learn to outwit them.
The light in front of him changed as a shadow fell across the moonlight.
Grey surged up, slamming his arm to the side of his head with a quick, sharp blow. His forearm hit the pistol’s muzzle and sent it flying. The gun hit the ground and the shot exploded.
Damn, it was of no use now. The thought came as his arm already arced in a punch. His fist slammed into the assailant’s jaw, snapping the man’s head back. Grey whirled, turning toward the first man as the second reeled backward.
Moonlight flashed on a knife blade as Grey used the chair to propel himself up. The man slashed, but Grey threw his body to the side, so the sweep felt short of his body. Then he kicked, driving his foot into the man’s gut.
In a split second, he assessed the second man. Built like a giant: a head taller than him, bald as a billiard ball, thick with muscle. His kick had barely winded Baldy. And the first man was up. Out of the corner of his eye, Grey saw black hair in a ponytail, a small beard, sharp cheekbones. Blood dribbled from a snarling mouth, though the assassin wore a cocky grin.
Grey expected him to draw out a blade, but he didn’t. Baldy struck again and Grey feinted, avoiding the thrust. He managed to get in two blows to Baldy’s jaw. The man jerked his head. Grey’s knuckles hurt and became wet with blood. He’d split the skin on them. His punches had done more damage to him than Baldy.
“Not going to be able to pretend he killed himself.” Blackbeard sighed. “Though a robbery will be just as convincing and will end up with the desired result. A duke’s death.”
Blackbeard’s hand moved like lightning behind his back, returned with a second pistol.
“Greybrooke?”
Miss Winsome. Damn, she stood in the doorway. Blackbeard swung the weapon toward her. Fear exploded in Grey. He surged forward, slamming his elbow into Blackbeard’s throat as he grasped the pistol’s muzzle with both hands. A cold sensation ripped down his side. He jerked away from it, aware of a stinging rushing along it, like a flame along a fuse.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Winsome run into the room. “Stay back,” he commanded her.
Baldy thrust again with his blade. Distracted, Grey felt it hit him but glance along his rib cage. He leveled the pistol at the man. Miss Winsome, refusing to listen to him, ran to the fireplace and snatched up the poker.
A knife hurtled through the air toward Grey. If he ducked, it might hit Miss Winsome. He lifted the pistol, slamming the metal barrel into the flying knife, sending the black clattering to the floor. When he jerked his gaze back to the two assassins, they were racing out the terrace doors.
He took a running step to chase them—
“Greybrooke, you’re bleeding,” Miss Winsome cried. “You’ve been cut!”
His entire body seemed to sag and crumple. Next thing he knew, he’d fallen to his knees. He put his hand to his side. Felt the pain, felt the wetness. Miss Winsome rushed to him and dropped to her knees beside him.
“Help me up,” he growled. “I have to go after them.”
“No, you do not,” she declared. “You need to be tended. At once!”
Pain shot through Grey. “Gah. Do you have to prod the wound like that?”
Miss Winsome amazed him. He’d been faced with two assassins and she had raced for the fireplace poker to help defend him. She had slung his arm over her shoulders and had tried to lift him. He’d staggered to his feet, using a chair to pull himself up. Leaning on her would have hurt her—and soiled her with his blood—but she had put her arm around his waist, led him to the settee, and insisted he lie on it.
Now he was sprawled on the white-and-blue sofa while she worked on his wounds with sewing needles and tweezers.
At his protest, she did not look up. She focused diligently on her work. “I want to make certain it is clean. I don’t want it to become infected. An infection of that sort could kill you. Now please hold still.”
Ignoring his groans, she cleaned his wound, her hands moving with efficient grace.
She was determined infection wasn’t going to take him. He appreciated that. But it was more—she was trying to help him, heal him with her touch. He’d never experienced this before. It was new. Stunning. Confusion made him growl, “You should not have come into the room.”
“They would have killed you. They were both armed, and they were vicious brutes.”
“I’m accustomed to dealing with vicious brutes.”
“You launched at the one
holding the pistol,” she gasped. “I know you did it to protect me, but he could have shot you. The other one stabbed you because you let your defenses down. You shouldn’t have risked your life for me.”
“Of course I should have,” Grey muttered, irritated. “And angel, half the time I don’t care if I live or die. I’m accustomed to violence and abuse. As you know, I lived with it during my younger years. If I died then, what in hell difference would it have made? But it was my duty to protect you.”
Miss Winsome gazed at him, stricken. “You cannot truly mean you didn’t care if you lived or died.”
“Yes, love. It’s exactly what I mean. Dying would mean an escape from the memories.”
She bit her lower lip, pain in her eyes.
“Do not pity me,” he said sharply. “Eventually I learned to fight back. They are dead now.”
“But they still haunt you. You have to escape the past. I believe the only way to escape your past is to embrace your future.”
Her words pricked him as sharply as her needle had done. “Angel, you have no idea. I told you before—a black past means a bleak future. I can’t escape the memories.”
Her lips parted, and he held up his hand with a groan. “Enough, Miss Winsome.”
“All right. But I can help to heal this.” Tenderly, she dabbed at the wound with the moistened cloth. “It’s very shallow in some places, thank heavens. But it is quite deep in others. It should be stitched.”
There was no stopping her. She summoned a physician, and after the doctor sewed up his wound, Miss Winsome put him in her bed. She gently helped him lie back. She drew up the sheets, then the counterpane. Hell, she was tucking him in. He should protest against the sweetness of the gesture.
But, hell, he liked it. Grey drifted off to sleep, realizing he’d never been tended like this.
Grey woke, cracking open his lids. Faint light bloomed at the edges of the curtains. It was morning, but early. He was aware of two intense sensations. His side ached like the blazes, and his cock was as hard as the iron poker Miss Winsome had swung around last night.
Where was she?
He jerked up in the bed, despite the agony of moving. And relaxed.
She was curled up like a sleeping kitten in a chair she’d pulled to the bed. She’d fished a blanket out, but she must have tossed around during the night and now her bare toes peeped out beneath.
How adorable she was. How tender and caring.
He wanted to wake her, and he knew a mischievous way of doing it. First he got a French letter from the bedside table, then he limped to her. Gently Grey drew the blanket up to her hips. Getting on one knee gave him a jolt of pain, enough that he almost passed out. But the throbbing of his rock-hard cock proved stronger.
He pushed up her muslin nightdress, parted her shapely legs, and put his mouth against her warm cunny. He tasted the earthy tang of her juices. Slicking his tongue over her, he felt her body move beneath him. A soft sigh escaped her. She was still asleep, but her hips moved under him, undulating. He was provoking her into an erotic dream.
Feeling devilish, he licked her clit with lavish strokes. Her hands gripped the chair. Her toes curled. She sighed and moaned. Her lashes began to flicker.
He sucked on her clit.
Her eyes opened wide. But she didn’t try to pull away. She moaned. “Oh, I can’t stop. Oh! Oh!” She ground her hips to his mouth, then she arched under him. A keening cry of pleasure filled the room.
His cock was ready to burst.
Standing hurt, and the movement tugged ominously at the stitches. He didn’t want to tear them; Miss Winsome might send for the doctor again. She was still squirming on the chair and moaning. Coming, but not entirely satisfied yet.
Despite pain, he slid his knee beside her on the chair. Grey pulled on the French letter. He had to push his straining cock down with the flat of his hand. Braced on one hand and one outstretched leg, he got his prick to make contact with her sweet, wet quim. Bending forward despite pain, he captured her mouth in a long, slow kiss. And slid his cock deep inside her.
22
Kissing her deeply, Grey savored the tight embrace of Miss Winsome’s scalding hot quim around his shaft. Slowly, he moved with her, letting his groin bump her clit. He loved the way she gasped in delight, the way his thrusts made her eyes glow like blue sapphires.
Then she raised her arms so her hands were behind her head and put her wrists together.
He’d made her into the perfect submissive for him. She did exactly what he wanted. Why did he not want it now?
Last night, he had let her touch him to clean his wound. Let her dig into his flesh with tweezers and a needle. He’d trusted her to do that.
The caring, efficient movement of her fingers on his skin had soothed him. When he’d shut his eyes because it damn well hurt to have his wounds probed, her touch had been like a light in darkness. He’d known she wanted only to heal him.
Maybe he wanted to experience more of her touch. Maybe he wanted to know what it was like to have her caress him when she wanted to give him pleasure.
“Don’t keep your hands away from me.” The thrusts of his hips slowed. “Touch me.”
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“God, yes.”
Her hands settled on his shoulders. She slid her palms along the muscle there. “I’ve wanted so much to do this. To . . . um . . . explore all of you.”
“You have?”
“You are so strong and beautiful. My hands have literally itched to stroke your chest and your back. Even . . . I’m embarrassed, but I really wanted to touch your bottom.”
He was surprised. He hadn’t thought of her getting pleasure from touching him. Yet he loved caressing her body. He did it to delight her, but he loved the plump weight of her breasts, the velvety beauty of her nipples, the slick silkiness of her cunny.
“You have my permission to fondle my arse as much as you like.” Did she hear the catch in his voice?
Even though his cock was deep inside her and they were joined as intimately as possible, Miss Winsome blushed. At once her hands cupped her bottom. Grey sucked in a sharp breath as she caressed his taut ass. Her hands massaged, glided, then her fingers went between his cheeks. A bolt of pleasure hit him. . . .
Good Lord, she was trying to touch his asshole. It shocked him. “Miss Winsome—”
“It feels good when you touch me there. I thought—oh, I’m sorry. I should have asked before taking such a liberty. But I didn’t quite know how to put it into words.”
Sweet. Adorable. Lovely. Once, if he’d thought about the word “sweet” in regard to sex, he would have wanted to run. Now he wanted more of it. It was like ices at Gunter’s, or a delectable pie—a treat that he wanted to enjoy again and again.
He thrust in her, trying to keep his strokes controlled. Bury deep, brush his groin against her to tease her clit, gaze into her eyes. Then draw back, brace his weight against the back of the chair on his arms.
Her hands draped weakly around his neck. Her blue eyes gazed at him as if he were a god. She was giggling. Then moaning. This was obviously what she liked. It was special to her.
After rushing in to save his life, risking her own, didn’t she deserve something special?
Grey shifted his hips, and sped up, using the strokes of his shaft to tease her hard clit, then he moved again, seeking, until he was certain by her fierce moan and stunned look that his cock was kissing the secret place inside her pussy. He found the rhythm that made her fingernails gouge into his shoulders.
This felt so intimate. He didn’t care that there were no ropes, no games, no exotic situations. He cared for her and he liked being joined with her, and he wanted nothing more than to slickly take her to ecstasy.
He had to go faster, his cock demanded it. His balls sucked up tight, ready to explode.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Miss Winsome squealed. She arched up in ecstasy, and her nails dragged down his back.
The sudden shock
of erotic pain hit his trigger. A brilliant light burst in his brain. He came apart, shattering into a thousand pieces. All he could feel was his semen rushing through him.
His hips bucked. His wits melted into come and shot out of him. He was falling—
Grey caught his weight on his hands, gripping the arms of the chair.
Shining like an angel, her golden hair in a tangle of curls, Miss Winsome smiled up at him. Dazedly, with her hair in a tangle, her cheeks pink, her eyes glowing.
“Greybrooke, oh! I—”
“Grey. Call me that. My name is Damian, but I hate the sound of it.” Hated it intensely because his mother had used it. “Grey is for friends, Miss Winsome.”
“Would you call me Helena? I can’t be Miss Winsome anymore. It seems wrong. It makes me feel like a governess, and I’m not one anymore. I want—I want to think we are friends.”
“We are more than that.” He caught his breath as tears glittered in her eyes. “That, angel, was sex your way. I have to admit—you might be right. This was just as good as my erotic games.”
She giggled, which he’d hoped she would. The sound of it touched him even more than tears. He had everything here he believed he could never have. Intimacy. Caring. Laughter.
What in hell should he do?
“I like your erotic games,” she whispered. “But now you must go to Bow Street and tell the magistrate about the men who attacked you. They would know you are not to blame for the blackmailer’s death.”
“Helena, love, that doesn’t prove anything. Certainly not my innocence. Someone wants me dead, and for me, that is personal. I will try to find the assassins, but tonight I’m going to the theater. To find Morse.”
“Tonight?” Her eyes were wide with horror. “I mean, you are wounded.”
“I need to finish this business. They will try again, and I’m putting your life in danger too, Helena.”
“Then I—I am going with you.”
“Of course you are. I am not leaving you here alone, in case the men attack again.”
