Beautiful angel, he thought as he pulled the bodice of her gown down as low as he could without unbuttoning the back. He didn’t dare move her, for fear it would break the spell that had woven around them. For there was a spell. Iain had never felt anything like it. A wondrous sensation that slowly wrapped around them, binding them together, thoughts, wishes, dreams merging.
Becoming one. He had to see her, to watch her, and she wanted him, his hands over her, covering her. Her body spoke, and his understood the silent command.
The mounds of her breasts were exposed, pushed up tightly by the constriction of her corset and bodice. He wanted to touch, to see her naked—stroked by his hands.
To kiss. To pleasure her until her tears were ones of sexual satisfaction.
“Iain…”
Her voice was soft, a whisper. Frightened. He should whisper back to her. Tell her it was all right, that he would keep her safe. He wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t turn his back and walk away. Never again.
His fingers gripped her skirts, inching them up in a slow slide that tormented him. He could not look away, especially when the pale stockings came into view, followed by the rounded curves of her thighs. There were layers of petticoats, and white lace frothing beneath his hands, and Elizabeth’s fevered breaths rasping against his neck, all coalescing into a beautiful, sensual frenzy that was whipping up like a tempest inside him.
He would have her. Right now, on the floor, lying before the mirror.
Slowly, he placed his thigh between her legs, wrapped one arm around her waist, anchoring her to him, then lifted her thigh to rest over his.
“Open to me.”
The sweet exhalation he heard was made all the sweeter by the sight in the mirror. Elizabeth wore no drawers. Beneath her gown she was naked, bared, exposed to his gaze. And his hand, trembling, left her knee, slid up the soft expanse of her inner thigh until his palm cupped her, felt the heat and moisture. He touched her and watched her response in the mirror—the parted lips, the tip of her tongue creeping out, until he caught it in his mouth and sucked, opened her lips wider, kissed her with everything he had as he circled his thumb over her, feeling the slick flesh beneath his fingertip, the quiver of her body, the long beautiful sigh of a lover surrendering.
Her fingers were in his hair, tugging and pulling.
The kiss turned deeper and his fingers smoothed down her sex, stroking her, building her up until he slipped them inside, filling her. He felt and heard the vibration of her moan.
“Beautiful, beautiful Beth, evening has fallen, the blues of the sky filtering in through your window. You are temptation in the twilight and I can no longer resist you.”
“You must, Iain,” she murmured, pulling away from him, the blue of her gown slipping away from his black trousers, until all of her was concealed from him.
He pulled her back, turned her in his arms and lowered his mouth until he could place a kiss on the apex of her breast. “Do you really want that, Elizabeth? For me to leave you like this? Aching? When I could so easily appease you?”
He reached for her hand, kissed the tips of her fingers, and lowered it between them, fitting her palm over the engorged length of his cock. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head until it was resting against hers. He kissed the bruise and small cut on her forehead, savoured the feel of her pressed against him. Impossibly, he was growing harder and thicker behind his trousers.
“Beth…” He cupped her face in his palms, tilted it up and brushed his mouth over hers. “Take it. Let us find our way back to each other. Let our bodies say what we cannot, or will not, allow ourselves to tell each other.” Cupping him, she stroked the outline of his stiffness with her thumb. He was damp behind his trousers, ready to spill, ready to tear open the fastenings and free himself into her palm. “Beth.” It was a deep, painful plea, said against her mouth. “Take me.” The barest second of hesitation flashed between them.
He was aware of holding his breath, of pressing his cock into her, of murmuring next to her ear, “Take it all, Beth, take it deep inside you.”
“No, Iain.” Her voice held a steely conviction. “No.”
“It’s what we both want.”
“No, it isn’t.” She did not look at him, but instead twisted in his arms, averting her face. “I am done with you. Quite done.”
“Are you?” he demanded, anger rising up inside him.
“Well, that is unfortunate, Elizabeth, because I have not even begun with you.”
He left then, afraid his pride, arrogance and fear would rise up, take over, and he would say something damag-ing and reprehensible. It was just another block in the road, he told himself. A fight she knew she must wage, and one he knew he must wear down. She would give in, would allow him in; he just needed to give her time.
The right inducement.
As he left her, he saw the book on the bed and reached for it, opening it. This was the way. The secret to unlock-ing Elizabeth.
“Don’t waste your time with Sheldon on this diary,” he announced suddenly. “He can’t help you. But I can.
I will. I have knowledge of the Veiled Lady you seek.”
“For a price no doubt,” she snapped.
“Yes,” he answered. “A price. It won’t be so steep that you can’t pay it.”
“What if I don’t want to? Pay the price, that is?”
“How badly do you want to know who she was, Elizabeth? How badly do you want to know her story?” He left her like that, a nearly impossible feat. He wanted nothing more than to go back to her, drag her to the bed and kiss her, love her, mend the past until it melted away and there was nothing but a future between them.
“Let me know when you’re ready to begin.”
“I will never agree to it, you know.”
“You will.”
She had to. It was the only chance left to him. Seduce her with a love story that defied centuries. A love story that mirrored their own.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DOOR OPENED on the third violent rap of the brass knocker.
“May I be of service?” The steely eyed, pinched-mouthed butler looked down the long length of his nose in hauteur.
“Tell Sheldon the Marquis of Alynwick is here to see him.”
“His lordship is not in this evening.”
“My apologies. Perhaps in my attempt at politeness, you did not understand me,” Iain snarled as he placed the toe of his boot on the step to prevent the butler from slamming the door in his face. “You will go now and inform Sheldon that Alynwick demands an audience, and if he denies me, I will tear down this door and any other door that keeps him from what I want. Is that understood?” The butler sniffed. “Very well, my lord. If you will wait here.” The door slammed shut.
Iain was left staring at the black painted door and brass knocker in the image of a lion’s head. It took no more than a minute for the butler to return and open the door to him.
“His lordship will see you immediately.” Shrugging off his greatcoat and hat, he handed them to the butler, who passed them along to a footman before he escorted Iain down the long, mahogany-panelled hall to Sheldon’s study.
Throwing back the doors, the man announced in tones that conveyed immense distaste, “The Marquis of Alynwick.”
Sheldon glanced up from the middle of the floor, where he was busy attempting to make a black dog sit still.
“Jack!”
Sheldon roared the name, but the dog came bounding over to Iain, his tail wagging so voraciously that his whole back end was swaying.
“Down!” Iain ordered when he jumped up on him. The canine obeyed, much to Sheldon’s obvious surprise. Iain petted the animal behind the ears as a reward for listening. The dog licked his hand as though it were a sweet.
“Jack, go lie down.”
Reluctantly, the dog obeyed, prancing to a blanket on the floor near the hearth.
“Forgive him. He’s just learning his manners. But from what I heard of you at the door, you’
re not one to be impressed by good ones.”
Setting his teeth together, Iain fisted his hands at his sides. “I’m not a pandering, toadying aristocrat, no. Why waste time on niceties using double entendres when a succinct statement derives far more satisfactory results?” Sheldon watched him, his gaze steady and knowing.
“I am neither pandering nor toadying, either. I’ve spent too many years in the East, dealing with those who do not care for the British way of evasiveness and betrayal hidden behind gentility. Sit,” he commanded, motioning to the chair before his desk. “Drink?” Overnight, it seemed, a bar had been set up. There hadn’t been one present last night when Iain had searched the study. “No, thank you.”
“Tea? Brandy? Scotch? ” he asked, his gaze sly, as if the bastard knew Iain’s tongue was hanging out for a wee dram of uisge beatha, the water of life. But he’d be damned if he took anything from the Earl of Sheldon.
With a shrug, Sheldon poured himself a large measure of brandy from the decanter on a side table, then took a chair behind his desk. Setting the glass down, he moved a pencil over onto an unrolled piece of parchment, manoeuvring the tip so that it rested against the Templar cross fixed on the corner, ensuring Iain’s gaze would be drawn to it.
Cunning scoundrel…
And this was the sort of man Elizabeth had spent her time with? The man she had thought to share Sinjin’s diary with? Sheldon was as dangerous as a two-headed cobra.
“You will forgive the disarray of my study, I hope. I have had a locksmith in today to add new locks to my windows, and the maid has not yet been in to clean up the workman’s wood shavings.”
Iain refused to allow his gaze to slide to the windows.
He would not give any confirmation to the answers Sheldon was seeking with his veiled statements.
“Infidels, thieves and murderers abound in the metropolis,” he replied. “It’s good to watch your back.”
“Indeed.” Sheldon sat back in his chair, reached for his brandy and took a leisurely sip. “Although years spent abroad have given me an edge, I think. They have a way about them, in the East. A certain relish and technique for subterfuge, ambush and revenge. One picks that up quite quickly when one is raised amongst them.”
“I wouldn’t know. I was raised by a Highland clan in the wilds of Scotland. We Scots have our own way of vengeance and retribution.”
“I shall have to remember that.” “See that you do.”
Leaning forward, Sheldon replaced his glass atop the desk and ran his tanned hands across the parchment, fanning them out so that the paper lay flat. “To what do I owe this somewhat expected visit?”
“You know very well what is on my mind.”
“Lady Elizabeth York.”
“You’re a quick study, Sheldon.”
“I only state the obvious, a trait we share, I think. We share something else, too. The fact that Elizabeth York is on both our minds.” He glanced up, his gaze daring Iain to refute the truth. “Isn’t she?” Iain’s eyes dropped down to Sheldon’s hands. He had a horrid, gut-wrenching visual of those dark hands traversing the pale curves of Elizabeth’s naked body. It made him grit his teeth and strive for control. Especially when he still had the scent of her clinging to his fingers.
What he was doing was underhanded, most especially to Elizabeth. But a desperate man would do anything.
Even cut off his arm. And Iain was desperate enough to do just that. Although he had tried, unsuccessfully, to make himself believe that this visit was part of his duty to Sussex and Black, and the Guardians. As such it was his obligation to investigate Sheldon and discover what he knew about their order. But he was here for Elizabeth, his Beth.
“Leave her be, Sheldon.”
The earl cocked his head, studying him. “You think I’m toying with her, or that I mean to harm her?”
“I don’t know your true intentions.”
“They aren’t to hurt Elizabeth, I assure you.”
“Lady Elizabeth,” he muttered between set teeth.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the dog’s head come up. Senses alert, the animal watched them, obviously aware of the very dangerous hostility in the air.
“All right, then. Lady Elizabeth. She’s a remarkable woman. I’ve never met one like her. I could spend hours talking to her.”
“You have, it seems,” Iain growled.
“What has she told you?”
The question was asked in a mild, almost artless way that spoke volumes. In trying to seem relaxed and almost uncaring, Sheldon was revealing a great amount of anxiety.
“She has not told me anything, but I was with Sussex when she informed him of your little stroll this afternoon.”
“Ah.”
He would not have Sheldon thinking that Elizabeth had gossiped about him, or that she had been purposely questioning the earl to extract information that she could share with them. He still didn’t know who or what Sheldon was, and he would not have Elizabeth in danger.
“So Sussex sent you over here, did he?”
“No, he did not. I came on my own volition.”
“Because you love her.”
It was not a question, but a boldly stated fact. One Iain would not deign to answer, because when he admitted it, when he finally said the words aloud, the first person to hear them would be Elizabeth.
“You came here tonight to tell me to stay away from her, is that it? You’ve discovered that she and I share much in common, and that I have requested she join me on my latest expedition.”
Sheldon slid the etching closer to the edge of the desk so Iain could see it. “Elevations of Temple Church. I’m sure Elizabeth told you of my interest in the Knights Templar, and the artefacts and mystery surrounding them.”
“She did. What I’m wondering is what you stand to gain by bringing her there with you.”
“The pleasure of her company? The excitement of sharing a find with someone who understands my enthusiasm? Elizabeth has just as much zeal as I for the Templars. Or did you not know that?” Christ. The bastard was perfect for her! The thought nearly knocked Iain from his chair. How he hated to admit such a thing, but it was there, staring him in the face. The Earl of Sheldon was everything Iain wasn’t—kind, gentlemanly, well-read; everything a woman like Elizabeth should want in a husband and more. They shared the same interests, they talked with ease—but they could not possess the same elemental passion that Iain and Elizabeth held for each other. That was a rare phenomenon, a meeting of souls and hearts, and every other ethereal thing he could think of. There was simply no way Elizabeth could feel that—could allow herself to feel that—for another man.
Suddenly, Iain narrowed his eyes. “What are you about, Sheldon?”
Surprised, the earl held up his hands. “As you can see, I have nothing to hide, Alynwick. I’m an archaeologist with a love of Templar lore. I came into my title quite accidentally, and have been in England only a short time.”
“I’ve asked around about you,” he said, “and there is precious little anyone knows about you, or your time spent abroad.”
“I don’t doubt it.” The bastard didn’t even look surprised that Iain had taken it into his head to investigate him or his past. “My family is a very small one, and since my father spent much of his time in the East, the few connections and friendships he had while growing up here have all but disappeared.”
“Convenient.”
“If a bit lonely.”
Iain decided to ignore that statement, and the image of Elizabeth filling that void for Sheldon.
“While there were few who knew me, there was no end to the people willing to impart to me what they knew of the Mad Marquis.” Sheldon’s hazel eyes flickered up from the pencil he was holding, landing on Iain. “Like you, I decided after you nearly choked me to death at the Sumners’ musicale that I did not, indeed, know enough about you.”
Iain should have expected no less, but still was shocked. Not that anyone wouldn’t relish the idea of
gossiping about him. But he hadn’t thought Sheldon the type to go searching for information. He’d believed him bookish, concerned with literary salons and art—not the type to exert oneself to investigate a man’s past, or break into his study.
The earl was a puzzle. And Iain loathed puzzles. He definitely had no patience for them.
“And what did you learn?” he asked in a bored tone.
“Anything of use, or was it all the usual nonsense, a di-gest of my sexual escapades?”
“There were any number of those. I confess you put the most virile of the male species to shame by your prowess. But I found something of interest there.”
“I doubt it. I’m only exciting when it comes to my sexual appetites and the scandals they create. Other than that, the ton doesn’t give a damn.”
“You were raised by an abusive mother.” Iain had murder in his eyes, he knew, as his gaze narrowed on Sheldon. How had he learned that?
“Your parents separated when you were young. Your father left you in her care, having no need of you until, it can be presumed, he desired to mould you into his heir.
Your mother’s father was the laird of the Clan Sinclair.
The old man was a tyrant and so, all the accounts say, was his daughter.”
It had been the main attraction for his father, his mother’s innate strength. He’d wanted that bred into his son, so that when it came time to take his place, not as the Marquis of Alynwick, but as a Brethren Guardian, he would have a backbone of steel.
His father had known what his mother was like. How she raged at any imperfection. She was not maternal. Not soft and loving. She had raised Iain to be immune to any emotion, and when her lessons did not work, his grandfather had taken over the task.
Most of all, Iain had learned to be selfish and self-serving, putting his desires before anyone else’s. A leg-acy that most parents would cringe away from, but not his. They’d relished it. He was strong in both body and mind. He needed no one. Not even them.
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