Reminded of those heady days before they were torn apart, she couldn’t help wanting him. This very moment. She’d been secretly craving this ever since he’d found her.
Blast him for having such a hold over her. He was a randy rogue and a silver-tongued devil, and she didn’t care—as long as he was her rogue, her devil.
He tore his mouth from hers to murmur, “Come to my bed, Isa.”
He dragged openmouthed kisses down her jaw, leaving her gasping for air. Or sanity. She didn’t remember him being so demanding. It probably would have frightened her back then.
It excited her now. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Of course it’s not wise. Neither was your showing up here late at night alone, but you did.” Grabbing her hand, he started for the open door to his bedchamber. “Surely you knew this would happen.”
“Certainly not.” But had she? Had a small part of her, the part that still remembered the joyous days of being his wife, come here to seduce him?
Determined to deny it, she slipped her hand from his. “No,” she said, “I didn’t.” She told herself to be strong, to hold out until things were more settled between them. Until she could be absolutely certain she could trust him. “And I definitely don’t think I should go in there with you.” She almost sounded convincing.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”
She squelched a quick disappointment. “It is.”
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to settle for staying here.” With a knowing smile, he began unbuttoning her riding habit jacket.
“Stop that!” She grabbed his hands. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! I meant I don’t intend to come to your bed.”
“You’re not,” he said blithely. “You’re coming to my . . . er . . .” He glanced about. “My settee. That’s perfectly respectable.”
“Not with what you want to do on it,” she grumbled. “And it’s not your settee. This isn’t even your house, for pity’s sake.”
When she tried to move away, he pulled her back, eyes gleaming. “My host won’t mind, I promise.” Swiftly, he undid the rest of her buttons. “If we ruin anything, I’ll replace it.”
“You can afford that?” she said dubiously.
He shoved her riding jacket off and tossed it aside. “I can afford whatever it takes to have you again, lieveke.”
Little sweet one. The Flemish endearment reminded her powerfully of her homeland, and it melted her as Mausi never had. She really ought to stop him. She really ought not to be standing here like a ninny, smelling his musk oil scent and gazing at his crooked smile.
His crooked, seductive smile, which destroyed the rest of her objections. She remembered how it had curved his lips whenever he’d come toward her in the tiny bedchamber in their apartment. She remembered seeing it and knowing what it meant, and thrilling to the promise of it.
Blast him.
Breath quickening, he untied her chemisette and tossed it away to expose her far-too-revealing riding corset, with only a hint of chemise peeking above it. She went still as his gaze drifted down to where her bosom was half-uncovered. He skimmed the back of his hand along the swells of her breasts with a tenderness that made her heart flutter.
Foolish heart. No matter how much she lectured it, it was still ridiculously susceptible to him.
As if he’d guessed it, his eyes locked with hers. “Tell me you don’t want me as much as I want you. Tell me that you never once missed our marital bed in the past ten years, and I will let you walk out of here right now.”
She closed her eyes, hoping that not seeing him would make it easier to lie—but his fingers felt like fire on her skin, and the scent of him, so close, made her head swim, and she could no more speak than she could run from the room.
“That’s answer enough for me,” he rasped, then he turned her swiftly around so he could work loose her corset ties with frenzied movements.
Swaying against him, she felt the rigid bulge of his arousal against her bottom, but before she could even react, he’d slipped his arm about her waist to pull her into him more firmly.
“I wanted to do this Saturday night,” he murmured in her ear as his hands pushed down her corset enough to close over her breasts, kneading, teasing. “I wanted to strip you naked and take you right there, against that pillar; to claim you as mine before God and everyone.”
“That would have sparked a public riot. What would your family have said?”
“My family?” He slid one hand down her skirts to cup her between her thighs, and his tone sharpened. “Ah. You mean the baron.” He rubbed her roughly, making her gasp, then squirm. “Who whisked you away from me while I was still trying to get control over myself.”
A control he was denying her now, by inciting her with wicked caresses. One hand tormented her above while the other pleasured her below.
Exquisite torment. Dangerous pleasure. Both she could ill afford.
She dug her fingers into his muscular thighs, but she couldn’t make herself shove free of his grasp. “Rupert brought me home . . .” she managed, “because I . . . asked him to.”
“Because you were too much a coward to face me.” He tweaked her nipple, and the piercing pleasure made her moan. Verdomme, he’d always known how to rouse her.
Turning in his arms, she untied his banyan and shoved it from his shoulders. “I’m facing you now,” she whispered as she shimmied out of her loosened corset and tossed it aside.
With a groan he untied her chemise and pulled it down just enough to bare her breasts, then bent to take one in his mouth, then the other, tonguing her and teasing her and driving her to distraction. A growing urgency made her undulate against him and he backed her toward the bedchamber door, halting only long enough to dispense with her skirt, petticoats, drawers, and stockings, which he dropped into a heap about her feet.
“I missed you,” he murmured as he ran his gaze over her. “I missed this.”
The wildness in his eyes called to the wildness in her heart, reminding her of the Victor she remembered, the one who couldn’t keep his hands off her, whose gaze ate her up like a dragon feasting on virgins.
Except that she was no longer a virgin, even if she felt like one after so many years of abstinence. And with him standing in front of her, tempting her, it was hard to be cautious.
Part of her had to know if their lovemaking had been as perfect as she remembered. The Victor she’d created over the past decade was crumbling, but she still wasn’t sure how much of him, how much of her marriage, had been illusion and how much had been real. She had to find out.
All the same, even she was surprised by her next words. “Take your clothes off.” That throaty voice didn’t even sound like hers.
Heat and surprise flared in his face. “Grown bold, have you?” he rasped, but he practically ripped the buttons from his shirt in his haste to remove it.
“Yes.” She let her gaze drink him up as he shucked off his trousers. “I had no choice but to change if I wanted to take care of myself. I’m a different woman now. Are you sure you can handle that?”
The savage intensity in his look made her pulse jump. “Perhaps you should be sure you can handle me.” Without warning, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the other room to lay her on a very elegant bed. She was still lying there, stunned, when he covered her body with his.
Planting his hands on either side of her head, he loomed over her to add, “I’m different now, too.”
When he coupled that with a thrust against her below, a frisson of fear and arousal slid along her nerves. This new Victor could be very dangerous. She still didn’t know how he’d found her, why he’d come here, if he was here for revenge. All of that should give her pause.
Yet it merely emboldened her further.
“Really?” With a coy smile, she slid her hand inside his drawers to cup the hard length of him. “You don’t feel any different.�
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He hissed through his teeth, his member hot against her palm. “Some things never change, wife. And I begin to think that wanting you is one of them.”
Before she could exult in those words, he seized her mouth with his.
After that, she was all instinct and urges, rising to the kiss and letting him explore whatever parts of her he wished. Better yet, she was exploring whatever parts of him she wished, something she would never have dared to do in the week after they married.
Some things hadn’t changed—his body, for one. He still had a nice sprinkling of hair across his chest, and solid muscle still roped his abdomen. She’d barely been brave enough to touch those muscles when she was young, but now she couldn’t wait to kiss and tongue them.
To her delight, his muscles flexed and rippled beneath her mouth, his skin went taut, and his caresses of her grew bolder and hotter and harder, until she was shimmying beneath him.
“I want you, too,” she whispered. “Victor . . . please . . .”
With a growl, he slid out of his drawers and began drawing up her chemise. “When did you turn into such a temptress?” he said hoarsely.
“After you left me.” She nuzzled his roughly whiskered jaw. “When I realized that I hadn’t seized what I wanted when I should have.”
His gaze was raw need. “Seize it now. Show me what you want.”
“You.” She pulled her knees up to allow him to settle between her thighs. “Inside me.”
His eyes blazed down at her. “Thank God.” And with a guttural groan, he entered her in one hard thrust.
She tensed at the suddenness of it, and he froze.
“Too rough?” he choked out.
“No,” she whispered and reached around to fill her hands with his bare buttocks. His exceedingly firm buttocks. Dear heaven. She squeezed, taking a feminine delight in his moan and the way he hardened even more inside her. “Too long since I lay with you, that’s all. But I’m ready now.”
When she punctuated her words by writhing beneath him, his gaze turned a molten gold. “I’ve been ready for a decade.”
He began to move, slowly at first, as if gauging her response. But as she rose to his thrusts, he quickened his motions until all she could do was grip his shoulders and hold on for dear life.
She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten what it was like to be filled by him, to be plundered by a man who wanted her, needed her. To have his heat against her skin, his hands all over her.
To have him driving into her so deeply that she could see only the fine sheen of sweat on his skin and the glitter of his hungry gaze as he took her, feel only the intimate press of his body to hers as the whirlwind swirled up from somewhere hidden to seize her and take her higher . . . farther . . .
“Come for me,” he gasped as he plunged into her. “Come for me . . . as you used to, my beautiful . . . temptress of a wife . . .”
And she did. Her release hit her like lightning, splitting her present from her past in one blazing flash and hurtling her into the future. With a hoarse cry she arched up into him, and he came, too, spilling himself inside her before collapsing atop her.
And as the whirlwind slowed, the room stopped spinning, and her body slid from pure pleasure to pure contentment, she realized one thing. Her memories had definitely not been an illusion.
10
VICTOR FORCED HIMSELF to roll off of Isa, since his weight must be crushing her. But he wished he could linger forever with her beneath him, and he felt bereft the second he was on his back staring up at the canopy. What insanity had made him think that bedding her would purge the obsessive need for her from his soul?
It had only made it worse. He could still smell the violet water in her hair, feel the softness of her against him.
He wanted her again. And again, and again, until he could be sure this was real. That she was truly his once more. That he could trust her with his life. His future.
Still breathing heavily, he glanced over to see her lying there flushed and beautiful and seemingly content. The top of her chemise was pulled down nearly to her belly and the bottom pulled up nearly to her mons. He hardened just to see her looking so luscious, with the candlelight turning her exposed breasts golden and highlighting the tops of her thighs before disappearing into the dark shadows between them. It made him want to reach over and unveil the umber curls just hidden beneath the bunched-up fabric.
But before he could act on the impulse, she straightened her clothing to cover herself more. When she rolled to face him, his breath caught in his throat. For the barest moment, she looked at him exactly the way she’d done when they were first married—as if he were the knight come to save her.
Then the look faded, and he choked back a curse. He hadn’t saved her, after all. He’d barely saved himself. And now all those chickens were coming home to roost . . . and leave droppings all over her life.
Yet when she spoke, it was about his life. “You have so many scars.” Running her hand over his chest, she fingered a healed gash along his collarbone. “As I recall, this was done with a bayonet during the war, right?”
“Yes.” One that had narrowly missed his heart. He swallowed convulsively. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
Her hand continued to skim his chest. “You’d be surprised what I remember. These whorls of hair. This tiny mole near your underarm.” She flashed him a shy smile. “The way you kiss.”
That brief glimpse of the old Isa made him kiss her again . . . and cup her breast and nuzzle her neck as she ran her hands over him. He was just wondering if it was too soon to seduce her once more, when she drew back with a frown.
Her fingers had found two scars along his ribs. “These are new.” Her brow furrowed as she touched a small round patch of skin on his other shoulder. “And this. It looks like that other one you have on your back, where you were shot with a musket at Waterloo.”
With a sigh, he threw himself against the pillow. Clearly she was done with seduction for now. “That’s because this one was made by a musket ball, too.”
Her gaze filled with a stark concern that made his throat tighten. “How? Why? There haven’t been any wars for you to serve in. What have you been doing all these years, that got you shot?”
“Looking for you,” he said truthfully.
She eyed him askance. “On the wrong end of a musket?”
Covering her hand with his, he brought it to his lips to kiss. “I had to make a living, so I hired out my services. Sometimes the work was dangerous.”
“How dangerous?” she whispered.
He shrugged. “I got shot a time or two. Gained a knife wound here and there. All in a day’s work.”
She pressed a kiss to the scar on his shoulder, her eyes troubled. “Who were you fighting?”
“Why does it matter? It’s in the past.”
“Is it?” She glanced around the room. “You’re clearly a close enough intimate of a duke to be given his finest guest suite. You must have done something to earn his friendship.”
“Trust me, it’s not his finest.” The servants had wanted to give him the best one, and he’d refused. It made him . . . uncomfortable. Sometimes he felt like an impostor when people tried to toady up to him. He might be a duke’s cousin, but he felt like a criminal’s son. “There’s a much finer one down the hall.”
“That’s not the point,” she said tersely. “How do you know a duke? Why did you come here?”
He hesitated, on the verge of telling her about the Duke’s Men and his newfound relations, about being hired by Lochlaw’s mother. But he couldn’t bring himself to trust her that much yet. There were still holes in her story, and before he unveiled all his secrets, he needed to know more.
“Tell me why you came here,” he countered. “Once you realized I wasn’t joining you in Paris, why didn’t you return to Amsterdam to look for me? Or Antwerp, if you thought that was where I’d gone?”
“If?” She drew back from him with a wounded look. “You
still don’t believe me.”
“That’s not . . .” He jerked the sheet up to his waist and turned to face her, some of his decadelong resentment rising in him again. “I’m just trying to understand how you could throw away our marriage on the word of your family. Why you didn’t even attempt to look—”
“How was I supposed to manage that? I had no money unless I used the ‘spoils’ of the theft, as you called them, which I refused to do. And my family wouldn’t have given me the money to go looking for you, anyway. They kept saying I was better off without you.”
He tensed. “And you believed them.”
She shifted onto her back with a haunted expression. “I didn’t know what to believe. You were always so reticent, and I can see now that Jacoba played on that. She pointed out that you never talked about your family, that I barely knew you. All of that was true.”
One day he was going to make sure Jacoba Hendrix paid for every deceitful word she’d spoken to her sister.
“And I wasn’t even sure where you were,” Isa went on. “Was I supposed to roam the Continent like a penniless nomad, searching for my husband? Or did you expect me to find some post where I could earn my living, in hopes that I might stumble across you one day?”
“Of course not,” he clipped out, conceding the point. “Finding work is easier for a man than for a woman, anyway.”
She stared at him. “Not to mention that I thought you were running from the authorities, just as we were. My family had convinced me that you were as culpable as they, so I couldn’t return to the scene of the crime without risking being caught and made to admit what I believed was your part in the theft.”
“Or yours or your family’s,” he said acidly.
She tensed. “Yes. Once it was done, I wasn’t keen on being hanged for it. Like you, I did what I had to in order to save myself. But apparently my doing so is some kind of crime.” She sat up as if to leave the bed, and he rose to catch her by the arm.
“Lieveke,” he said in a low voice, “I’m not accusing you.”
“Aren’t you?” Her lovely brown eyes darkened with sorrow. “You think I should have tried harder, should have looked for you, should have roamed the Continent searching for the man I thought had betrayed and abandoned me—”
When the Rogue Returns Page 12
