To Love a Dark Lord

by Anne Stuart

  The wariness dissolved into full-fledged panic for a moment, and then she pulled herself together once more. “I will not be your whore, Killoran,” she said fiercely. “If you’re in need, then go back to the party and partake of the women there. I won’t share your bed.”

  “A bed isn’t necessary. If need be, I can take you on the floor. Or on the kitchen table.”

  Her eyes widened at the notion. “You can’t make me.”

  He laughed then, a faint, bitter sound, full of regret. “Ah, but my precious, I can.”

  “By brute force, perhaps,” she said, backing away from him. “And I’ll fight you every inch of the way.”

  He advanced upon her. Slowly, silently, taking care to frighten her just so much and no more. “Not by force,” he said, “and you won’t fight.”

  He reached out for her. She slapped him, and the force of her blow whipped his head around. He paused, gazing down at her, perversely pleased to see she looked completely horrified. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I shouldn’t have... I warned you...”

  “You shouldn’t waste your regrets over a slap. As a means of defense, it’s fairly paltry. Save your apologies for the time you skewer me.” And he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him fully prepared for worse than a slap.

  But she was silent, mesmerized, holding utterly still as he brought her body up against his. She was shivering in the hot room, and he could feel the battle raging within her. He tucked her face against his shoulder, smiling into the darkness. A faint, bitter smile of triumph and anticipation. She would be his.

  And he would be free.

  Chapter 16

  There was no escape. In the firelit room, she knew that there was no escape at all.

  In truth, if she could bring herself to fight him, she knew he would let her go. If she were steadfast and strong, she could run away from him.

  Ah, but she was far from strong when it came to Killoran, and she was steadfast only in her self-destruction. Even if she ran, she’d never be free of him.

  She might as well submit, since it was what her secret, shameful heart had wanted from the first moment she saw him. Cousin Miriam was right after all—she was possessed of the devil, of evil, licentious desires. And she would give herself to the devil, here and now.

  She forced herself to go limp in his arms. If she couldn’t bring herself to stop him, at least she could do her best not to prolong matters. If she simply lay there and let him do what he wanted to her body, it would be over soon. And then he would want her no more. Cousin Miriam and even Gertie had made that more than clear. Once a man has his way with you, your value is lost. In submitting to Killoran, she was doing the wisest possible thing, given her circumstances.

  He slid his hand through her thick hair, cupping the back of her head, turning her face up to his. He looked dangerous in the firelight, brutal and satanic, and she kept very still, waiting.

  “A virgin sacrifice, Emma?” he murmured. “I would have thought you’d have more pride.”

  “I won’t fight you,” she said, her voice low and faint. “I’m sorry if that’s what you prefer, but I can’t battle any longer. You’ll win in the end, you always do, whether it’s cards or dice or other people’s lives.”

  His thumb traced the edge of her jaw. “I have the devil’s own luck,” he said softly. His body was very hard and fiery against hers. She was reminded again of how very powerful he was. Physically powerful. Emotionally powerful. She tried to withdraw further, into some dark, quiet place inside herself, as fear began to take over.

  But he wasn’t about to let her. And she knew full well that it wasn’t he whom she feared. It was she herself.

  The touch of his mouth against her eyelid was the first warning. His lips feathered against her skin, and her eyes fluttered closed. She could feel her heart beating, a desperate tattoo, and she tried to will herself into a calm resignation.

  She had never been held so closely by a man. Never felt the strength and heat of him.

  It was no wonder she was unable to dismiss him from her mind. Even as she tried to shut off her brain, her senses were playing havoc with her vain effort at self-control.

  He kissed her other eyelid, and he was not a man she would have thought would be much for kissing. He kissed her temple, her cheekbone, her angular nose. And then in the shadowy night his mouth sought hers.

  It was light and darkness, sin and forgiveness, hell and redemption. She put her arms around his waist, pulling him closer, closer still. She could feel the warmth of his strong back through the fine linen shirt; she could taste brandy on his mouth. His hand was between them, against her breast, and she hated the layers of cloth that separated them.

  He was stealing her life, her soul, her breath. It didn’t matter. She gave them willingly, courting death and despair for the heavenly torture of his mouth against hers. She clung to him, tightly, mindlessly yearning, when she realized he was trying to disentangle himself, trying to push her away.

  She clung to him, her fingers digging into his flesh, desperate for him, but he was far stronger than she was and not afraid to use his strength. He thrust her away from him, and she fell back against the wall, staring at him in shock and shame.

  “Tell me no, Emma,” he said in a low, bitter voice. “Tell me to leave you alone.”

  “Touch me,” she said.

  “Have you no sense? No pride? I’ll destroy you, as surely as if I took a knife to your throat. Tell me no, Emma.”

  This wasn’t Killoran the cool, elegant seducer. This was a man in pain, in need. This was her man, for however brief a time it lasted.

  “Yes,” she said simply, waiting for him. And she held out her hands to him. They trembled slightly; she couldn’t help it. He could turn his back on her, walk away, and there’d be nothing she could do. All she could do was offer herself, and wait.

  The mask closed down over his face once more, and she felt despair and sorrow fill her. The pain, the need, were gone. Instead he looked at her from unreadable eyes, and his thin mouth curved in a mocking smile. “So be it,” he murmured. “Far be it from me to deny a lady pleasure.”

  She dropped her hands, as if they burned, but it was too late. He caught them, his long, strong white fingers wrapping around them. “It will be pleasure, you know,” he continued, his voice low and mesmerizing. “I have a rare gift. You yourself remarked on it. I never lose at gaming, women flock to me, and I have a magic touch with horses. I know how to take a man’s fortune, gentle a stallion, and seduce a mother-abbess until she screams in pleasure.”

  Emma tried to pull back, but he was drawing her closer, inexorably closer, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t Killoran. This was another, darker creature who inhabited him, one she shouldn’t dare trust.

  But things had already gone too far. He was bringing her toward the bed, and in the wavering candlelight she could no longer see his face. “Turn around,” he said, his voice faintly husky, and she did so in a fog, presenting her back to him, staring down at the bed, at the soft whiteness of the fur throw.

  He pushed her hair off her back, and his mouth pressed against the nape of her neck. His hands were deft, damnably so, as he unfastened the myriad of tiny buttons that traveled down the length of the black silk gown. It fell down her arms, and he kissed her shoulder blades as he undid the whalebone corset with far more speed and dexterity than any lady’s maid had ever managed.

  He untied the ribbons that held her hoops, the tapes that held her three lace petticoats. Her clothes began to descend toward the floor in a graceful collapse, and she stood there in her thin chemise, shivering in the heated air.

  He kissed her on the fine lawn of her chemise, his mouth hot and damp through the almost transparent material. He sank down on his knees behind her, his hands cupping her hips, and placed his mouth against the small of her back.

  She heard the faint, barbaric cry in wonder, knowing yet not believing that it had come from her own th
roat. His clever, clever hands were on her bare skin now, hot against her hot flesh, running up her thighs. Her skin was on fire, icy flames licking over the surface, and she wanted to cover his hands with hers, pull them up, up to her breasts that were straining against the soft cotton. Instead she clenched her fingers, clenched her mouth, to keep the words at bay, while his hands slid down the outsides of her legs, then began to move up the insides. She panicked when he reached her thighs, clamping them together. She heard him laugh softly as he drew away from her, and she was suddenly afraid he’d changed his mind.

  But the gentle pressure on her shoulders sent her tumbling onto the cloudlike softness of the fur-covered bed. She lay face-first across the bed, sinking into the warmth, as he climbed up behind her, straddling her prone body.

  He already had the chemise up to her waist, and he pulled it over her head before she even realized what he was doing. He was sitting on her thighs, and his silk breeches were cool against her bare skin. His hands slid up her body, over her buttocks, up the line of her back, and she arched in pleasure, like a cat, unable to help herself.

  “You like that, do you?” he murmured. “I thought you might. You’re a sensual creature, dear heart, no matter how you try to fight it. You were made for this.”

  She wanted to protest. She wasn’t made for this, she was made for him. But she knew he wouldn’t listen. Or if he did, he might leave her, take those hard, deft hands away from her flesh, and then she thought she might die.

  So she said nothing, burying her face in the soft white fur, as his hands moved up her sides, kneading, touching, stroking, dancing along the sides of her full breasts, so close and yet not close enough. His mouth followed, and he kissed her, everywhere. The base of her spine, the nape of her neck, the side of her breast, and the cleft of her buttocks, and all the while his hands were soothing, kneading, arousing.

  “I could take you like this,” he said in a dreamy tone. “I’ve done it before. I wouldn’t have to see your face. I wouldn’t have to look into your damned brown eyes and see that helpless look of longing. I could pretend you were as practiced a slut as Barbara Fitzhugh, and you wouldn’t be able to weave your tangled web around me.

  “Ah, but I mustn’t forget you’re a virgin. That might frighten you for your first time. Though perhaps you could simply pretend it wasn’t happening. You might think you want me to deflower you, but you don’t know what you’re asking. You’re bartering the only valuable thing you own, and you’re getting nothing in return.”

  The words were harsh, the voice smooth and hypnotic. She was in a dream, a trance, unable to fight him, unable to refute a word he said.

  “I’m good at deflowering virgins,” he said against her ear. “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had. There’s a trick to it, and it’s been a while since I’ve wasted my time on any but the most experienced and discriminating of partners, but I’m certain it will come back to me.”

  No, she whispered silently, but there was no one to hear. He lifted himself off her for a moment, turning her over beneath him, and she lay spread out across the center of the bed, looking up at him as he straddled her.

  He was still fully clothed, and she was naked, vulnerable. His eyes traveled slowly down the length of her, not missing a detail. He would see the abundance of her curves, the heart-shaped birthmark beneath her left breast, the scar on her hip from the time she’d fallen out of a tree. He would see what no man had ever seen before, her breasts, her belly, her…

  The silence built and grew. She’d shut her eyes tightly, momentarily embarrassed out of the sensual lassitude he’d instilled in her. But finally she could stand it no longer, and she opened her eyes once more, to glance up at him, trying to gauge his reaction.

  For the moment there was no telling. His eyes were hooded as he stared down at her, and she was suddenly terrified that she was being judged by a connoisseur and found wanting. No wonder he hadn’t taken her to his bed. It had been no great battle to preserve her innocence. Indeed, the battle had been to lose it.

  And then he leaned forward, and the mask was gone from his eyes, his face, if just for the moment, and the longing was back. “A true redhead,” he murmured. “My love, you’re magnificent.”

  Somewhere she found her voice. “I’m not your love,” she said in a pained whisper.

  The mask returned. “True enough,” he agreed. “But for tonight, you are.” His hands lifted over her breasts, paused, and the lace cuffs trailed against them. “Aren’t you, my love?”

  She wanted to deny it. To deny him that one piece of herself as she was giving him everything else. But she knew Killoran far too well. He’d be satisfied with nothing less than total surrender, and he would wait for her to give it.

  “Yes,” she said.

  His hands closed over her breasts, and she bit her lips to keep back the cry of response that raced through her. His thumbs brushed against the hard, sensitized tips, and the cry escaped her anyway.

  “You like that, don’t you, my pet? I knew you would. Has a man ever touched your breasts before? Tell me yes and I’ll cut off his hands. Has a man ever stroked you like this?” Slowly, dangerously, his fingers encircled the aching globes of her breasts, and she felt her hips arch in unbidden response.

  “No,” she whispered, pushing against him.

  “I thought not,” he said. “If you like that, you’ll like this even more.” And he leaned forward and put his mouth on one breast, taking it deep into his mouth, suckling her like a babe.

  She gripped the bed beneath her, but the silky fur slipped through her hands. Her entire being seemed centered in her breast. His long hair fell on her, and she reached up, threading her fingers through it, pulling him closer, offering her breast to him.

  There was a line of fire from the tip of her breast, where his mouth suckled and pulled at her, down to the center of her body, between her thighs, burning and hot and wet. She shifted, restless, anxious, and he lifted his head to look down at her. Her breast was hard, distended, wet from the attentions of his mouth, and she wanted to pull him back again.

  “Getting impatient, Emma?” he murmured. “Good.” And he covered her other breast with his mouth, using his teeth, lightly, gently.

  She jerked in reaction, moaning, and he drew back. He moved off her body, stretching out beside her, running his long, hard fingers down her skin. Her flesh seemed to jump at his touch, and she realized she was covered with a thin film of sweat. The room smelled of fire and brandy and arousal, her perfume and her skin and his, and she thought she would go mad if he didn’t take her. And he knew it.

  He moved his hand over her stomach, down between her legs. She tightened them in instinctive panic, but he simply kissed her, hard, pushing his tongue into her mouth, tasting and draining her resistance, so that her thighs opened to his hand, and she let him touch her. His fingers threaded through her damp hair then delved deeper. She squirmed in fright, in discomfort, and then in sudden, riveting pleasure, and a bolt of reaction hit her; her entire body shook with the power of it, and by the time it was over she was exhausted, panting, staring up into Killoran’s dark green eyes with dazed surprise.

  He smiled for a moment, and there was something oddly vulnerable there. And then he blotted out the light as he kissed her again, and his fingers slid deeper still, two of them.

  She jerked in shock, in protest, but he paid her no mind, his tongue pushing into her mouth, stroking, touching, arousing, his fingers doing the same thing. The second bolt hit her, and her body clenched, but before it left her another one came, and then another, each building in intensity, overlapping. He removed his mouth from hers, but he kept her legs trapped with his, and he wouldn’t stop.

  She couldn’t breathe. Her body was trembling, wild, and she hit at him. He made no effort to stop her, simply absorbing the blows as he pushed on, inexorable, those deft, clever fingers touching her, taking her, driving her to a wild madness that could culminate in nothing less than life and death.
r />   “Stop,” she cried, desperate. “I can’t...”

  “Give it to me, Emma. Show me. Don’t fight it. I’ve earned it. Come for me, Emma. Let me hear you scream.”

  She did. Her harsh, choking cry filled the room with a vast, tearing sound as her body convulsed, the last tiny bastion of control, of sovereignty, vanishing under his wicked, loving hands.

  She fell back against the fur throw, dizzy. He was leaning over her now, his hands cupping her face. He whispered something against her mouth, but the words danced in and out of her mind and then drifted away. She struggled to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. With her body still rippling with tiny convulsions, she sank into a powerful, healing sleep.

  Killoran lay beside her, motionless for a moment. He could see the pooled tears beneath her eyelids. She probably didn’t even know she’d cried. She’d hate it, he thought. She didn’t like to admit weakness. Particularly weakness where he was concerned.

  He looked down at her lush, ripe body. Flushed and pink from loving, and still virginal. He could probably come just from looking at her, but he wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to touch her again.

  He’d had her, more effectively than taking her maidenhead. Any man could rip past a frail barrier of flesh. He’d taken something far more important, a part of her soul that she could never reclaim. She was his now, a tiny, inviolate part of her. It would be enough.

  He rose from the bed, careful not to wake her. He was so damned hard he ached, and he paused for a moment to adjust his throbbing erection, then leaned over and wrapped the white fur throw around her. She slept on, oblivious, but in the firelit darkness he could see the marks from his early morning beard against her breasts.

  The fire in the front room had burned down to embers long ago. There was a faint chill in the air, one he welcomed, as he shut Emma’s door behind him. It did little to subdue his fierce arousal, but it suited his bleak soul very well.

  He ran a hand through his hair. Her scent clung to him, another thread of arousal, and he wanted to hit something, very hard. Instead he wrapped his icy self-control around him, sank down wearily at the rough-hewn table, and wished to God he hadn’t left Sanderson’s party. If only he’d decided to vent his lust on that redhead. In the dark, all women were the same. He could have closed his eyes and pretended she was Emma. He could have had her down on her knees between his legs, servicing him, and he could have kept himself separate, invincible.