He sat and flinched when Helena touched a handkerchief to his brow.
"Hold still," she said. "You are bleeding."
He had not realized it. In the heat of battle, all that had mattered was keeping her safe. Now, as he looked down at his hands, he saw that some of the knuckles were torn and swelling. He was not concerned. He had been in far worse condition before.
But Helena inhaled sharply. "Your hands."
At once, he saw his hands as his wife must be seeing them: work-hardened and welted with violence. His were a brute's hands, unfit for a lady's eyes. A sickening feeling churned in his gut and seemed to prickle the scars on his back. Reminders of who he was. He started to turn his hands over, to hide these deformities at least, but Helena grabbed hold of them. He watched her slim fingers trace gently over the broken skin.
"Pay it no mind. I heal quickly," he said, still unable to meet her gaze.
"But it is my f-fault."
"I trust you will remember that the next time." At the sound of his own words, he frowned. Had he just implied that there was the possibility of a next time? That he would permit her to engage in another such escapade? The idea seemed ludicrous, but one could never be certain with his wife's hare-brained logic. He opened his mouth to clarify his edict.
But before he could say anything, something warm splattered on the back of his hand. Another drop followed, landing between his knuckles and trickling down between his fingers. A succession of warm, wet drops plinked against his skin.
Bewildered, he looked up to see his wife's tear-drenched eyes.
"You are not ... crying?" he said.
She shook her head, the tears rolling down her cheeks now.
"'Tis the stress," he said, a little desperately. "Your sensibilities are overwhelmed."
"Yes, the stress, that must be it," she said, her smile wobbly.
Then she began to weep in earnest.
He searched for a handkerchief. Then he remembered he had one in the pocket of his jacket—the jacket that she was currently wearing, that dwarfed her as her entire body shook with sobs. God, she was crying like a child might, gulping for breath as her eyes and nose dripped. There was nothing for it. With a groan, he scooped her into his arms. He cuddled her against him, whispered Lord only knew what nonsense against her curls as she cried her heart out.
He did not know when her arms came to wind around his neck. Or how her face came to be tilted under his. Or whose lips moved first to find the other's. But hers tasted as sweet as he remembered, felt just as soft as they parted beneath his. He could taste her tears now, too, licks of salt between their clinging mouths. He had never kissed her or anyone in this fashion before—with the intent not to possess or pleasure, but merely to comfort.
He held her for a long time, under the dark canopy of trees.
And then something changed. His lips had been undemanding at first, seeking only to soothe, to calm. She sighed, seeming to melt into his embrace. It was the kind of softness a man could drown in, and he lost himself in the succor of her honeyed mouth, the gentle caress of her fingers along his nape. He drank of her sweetness until she made a sound, a little moan, and her hands moved restlessly to his shoulders. She molded herself against him at the same time that her mouth burst into flame.
God, the heat of her. Her tongue twined with his in a molten dance. He knew without words what she felt, what her breathy sighs and unconscious movements conveyed. He knew it was the aftermath of fear shaking her body with desire, leading it to press pleadingly against his for relief from the tensions coursing within. He himself had felt the after-effects of violence many a time before. But his sheltered Helena had never experienced such a shock before, and it grieved him that she should do so now. On the morrow, he was going to tear Reed's head off. But, for now, he understood all too well the need to affirm life after death brushed by. He knew precisely what she needed.
By God, just this once, he wanted to be the one to give it to her.
He let his mouth wander from her mouth to her neck, licking and nibbling his way down her throat. She squirmed in his lap, and he groaned as the curve of her buttocks moved snugly against his cock. It would take every ounce of his self-control to survive this night, for he meant this loving to be about her. For her. If he could, he wanted to give her the mindlessness of release. Leaning her back against his arm, he parted the velvet lapels of the jacket. Her skin glowed pearl-like in the shadows. As he eased down her torn bodice, her head rested against his upper arm. He saw that her eyes were closed, her lips parted.
He cupped her breasts, molding the luxurious weight in his palms. She shuddered as his fingers found her nipples and played with them. He rolled the hardened points between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently. When he bent down to draw one of the ripe berries into his mouth, she let out a keening cry. He suckled her, circled his tongue round the puckered fruit. Aye, delicious. He felt her hand clench the linen of his shirtsleeve. He pulled her more deeply into his mouth even as he reached beneath her skirts.
His breath came harshly as his hand caressed the silk-encased length of her leg. Even here, she was all feminine curves, and he had to ward off the image of himself between her legs. Of his thighs pressing down into hers, his rod long and thick and poised to plunge into her heat. No, this was to be about satisfying her and her alone. Not that he had complaint. It made him drunk with pleasure to touch her thus, under her chemise, past the ruffle of her garter. He skimmed the trembling insides of her thighs, pausing at the brush of silky curls against his knuckles.
"Don't be afraid, my darling," he whispered, looking into her eyes. "I won't hurt you. You know that, don't you?"
She nodded, her eyes heavy-lidded and trusting.
"Let me then," he said, his fingers finding her. "Let me."
Helena made a choked sound as he lightly petted her pussy. His nostrils flared to encounter the slick moisture that had not been there on their wedding night. If her breathy whimpers were any indication, she wanted this, wanted him. His chest expanded with that knowledge even as he used her wetness to create a silky rhythm, gliding up and down along her feminine folds. She was panting now, her head thrown back and eyes closed. He found the heart of her sensations and rubbed there, gently, with his thumb.
Helena let out a scream which he quickly smothered with his mouth. He swallowed her cries as he continued to stroke her pearl, pressing harder, alternating up and down movements with ones that spiraled. Perspiration formed on his brow as he felt her juices rain upon his hand. His palm moistened with her essence. Excitement raged within him. By God, she had a passionate streak in her. She was lusciously wet, so very eager, and she did not yet know the ecstasy that awaited her. That he would give her.
His tongue delved into her mouth at the same moment that his middle finger eased into her channel. Her thighs quivered.
"Stay open for me, darling," he coaxed against her lips. "I promise there will be no pain this time. Your body wants what I can give it."
His finger slid in deeper, and she shuddered.
"Can you feel how your body wants this?" he asked. "I can. I can feel every throb, every pull of your delectable self on my finger. Feel how you pull me in deeper, how ready you are for my touch. Can you feel it, my love?"
"Yes." Pleasure slurred her voice. Her thighs slackened.
"And this?" He pushed deeper still, until her nest feathered against his knuckles.
"Oh my God, Nicholas—"
He withdrew his finger and plunged all the way in. Helena's moans filled his ears as he continued to finger her. His cock pulsed in unison with the thrusts of his hand, experiencing vicariously the tightness, the voracious heat of his wife's cunny. He groaned as she began to gyrate upon his lap, her pelvis tilting to meet his strokes. She had no idea what she was doing to him. If this continued much longer, he would come in his smalls.
He could imagine a worse fate.
He increased his tempo to match the quickness of her breath. Her breasts
tempted him with each bouncing movement; he could not keep himself from licking along one plump underside. He worked his way upward, sighing at the decadence of orange blossoms and soft flesh against his cheeks. He could have stayed there, pillowed between her tits, forever. But he could tell from the slickness of his fingers, from the way she was biting her bottom lip to keep her cries in, that she was close. So very close. He wanted her release to be perfect.
He nuzzled her ear.
"Open your eyes, my love," he said.
Her eyelids quivered open, revealing hazy, unfocused depths.
"Yes," he said. "Stay with me. Let me watch you fly apart."
He plunged into the core of her, thrumming her little knot at the same time. It did not take long. Her inner muscles clutched at his finger and then he was surrounded by a flutter of convulsions that stiffened her body.
"Yes, love, come for me now," he urged.
In the next instant, Helena cried out, her hand gripping his shirtsleeve, her back arching over his arm. The sound of infinite pleasure, of her first climax, inflated his chest. The satisfaction he experienced could barely be contained within his skin. Likewise, the agonizing desire threatening to burst from his cock, but he didn't care. He'd made his lady come, and that was all that mattered.
Gently, he extricated his hand from beneath her skirts and cradled her close. He smoothed back her hair as he waited for both their passions to subside.
"Beautiful," he said. There was wonder in his voice as he stroked her cheek. His fingers glistened, and he could smell the musky sweet scent of her release. "Every inch of you, so unbelievably beautiful."
"Mmm." Her eyes had drifted closed again.
Nicholas heard familiar voices echoing down the walk. He made attempts to rearrange their clothing, securing his wife's bodice as best he could and buttoning his jacket over top. Helena made no move to help; from her rhythmic breathing, he thought she might have fallen asleep. Brushing away a damp tendril of hair, he pressed his lips to her forehead.
"This wasn't a dream, was it?" Her voice was cloudy with sleep.
He rather thought it was. A wondrous dream he would give his life for.
"Sleep, my love," he said. "We will talk in the morning."
TWENTY-FOUR
Helena opened her eyes. In the dim light, she blinked at the brocaded bed hangings for several moments before she recognized her own bed chamber. She had no idea what time of day it was. Her slumber must have been deep, all consuming, because her mind seemed to be having a difficult time adjusting to wakefulness. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Oh, the dreams she had had—such vivid, aching dreams ... She turned her head on the pillow.
A single red rose lay on the table next to her bed. Beneath it was a letter, addressed to her in her husband's untidy scrawl. Heart thudding, she sat up and reached for it. Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. Six lines instead of three this time. The first sentence began, "An Ode to My Wife's—"
Helena's eyes widened at the bawdy verse; she felt her cheeks flame, even as warmth seeped elsewhere. She gave a choked laugh. The man wasn't going to win any literary accolades, that much was certain. But, Lud, he did have a wicked sense of humor and the most amazing hands ... Flopping backward onto the pillows, she gazed dreamily up again at the canopy of swirling golden flowers.
Last night at Vauxhall, Nicholas' loving had been selfless, tender beyond words. He had coaxed pleasure from every nook, every cranny, and asked for nothing in exchange. She had been so caught up in the maelstrom of sensations that she had not given thought to how she might return the favor in kind. Truth be told, she had experienced no thoughts at all—just a rapture that melted her bones like butter on fresh baked bread.
Their lovemaking had been rather one-sided, but she would be sure to see that oversight remedied as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, she wondered where Nicholas might be at this moment. She yawned. What time was it, anyway? Sitting up again, she reached for the bell pull.
The chamber maid appeared straightaway, as if she had been waiting for the summons. Bobbing a curtsy, she set a tray down by the bed. "Good afternoon, milady."
"Afternoon?" Helena asked. "What time is it, Mary?"
"'Tis half-pas' two, milady. You slept yourself a sound one las' night." Mary drew open the curtains, and a colorless afternoon light filled the room. "'Is lordship says you was not to be disturbed."
"Where is my husband?"
"'E left wif the crack o' dawn this mornin'. Business, 'e said. I o'erheard Mr. Crikstaff remind 'im o' the ball this evenin'. 'Is lordship said 'e'd meet you there."
Lord and Lady Hayfield's ball, Helena remembered. She had not been enthused at the prospect, but with Nicholas as an escort the event suddenly sounded divine. A perfect start to the rest of her marriage. Smiling, she sipped on the cup of chocolate and nibbled on a pastry as Mary lit the grate. Bessie entered carrying linens and clothing.
"Good afternoon, my lady," Bessie said. "Ready for your bath?"
Helena soon found herself relaxing in hot vanilla and citrus scented suds. As Bessie massaged soap into her hair, Helena rested her head against the towel draped over the edge of the tub. Cooling slices of cucumber covered her eyes, and water lapped against her shoulders in a lulling tide. She drifted into another world. A world full of colorful dancers, whirling round and round. She was standing on the edge of the dance floor looking on. When the music stopped, the dancers parted into two lines, one on either side of her.
Nicholas stood at the opposite end.
Impeccable, gorgeous, his presence dwarfed the dance floor. He strode between the lines of dancers toward her, the soles of his polished Hessians slapping against the floor. When he stopped in front of her, she could hardly breathe, so fierce was the possessiveness in his gaze.
"May I have this dance?"
It was not really a question. The moment she went into his arms the room faded. She did not know how long they danced, five minutes or an eternity, for she lost count of time. The only beating was that of her heart and his as they moved together in perfect unison. They did not speak, and such was the flawlessness of the moment that they did not need to. For once, she could read his thoughts, and he, hers.
They danced through an open door. The room was a blur of red and gold as he spun her around. They came to a halt against a desk, her thighs backing into the wooden edge. With fearless joy, she pulled his head down and kissed him. Open mouthed, her tongue mating with his. She could feel his desire for her, and it fanned her own. Tugging free the hem of his shirt, she ran her palms beneath the linen, along the contoured planes of his chest and the jutting ridges of his abdomen. How strong he was, how she savored the contrast between the iron muscles and wiry hair.
He encouraged her explorations with harsh breathing and guttural sounds torn from the back of his throat. Emboldened, she went to her knees so that she was eye level with the top of his trousers. One by one, she freed the buttons along the hidden placket, watching his face as she did so. His eyes were half-lidded, his mouth taut with anticipation as she exposed his manly flesh. He was built like the statue of the satyr, long, thick, and hard as marble.
Groaning, he pushed himself into her hands. She began to pump him, the delicious friction heating her palms. His hips moved faster and faster, and beneath her skirts her pussy dampened and clenched in shared excitement. She loved him this way, when he abandoned himself to savage pleasure. When he surged heavily, shouting out, she was saturated with infinite satisfaction.
She stood, words of love trembling upon her lips.
His face was relaxed, his eyes searching. He reached out a finger to touch her cheek. To her shock, she felt not the warmth of his touch, but the press of velvet against her skin.
He was looking at her, but seeing the mask.
"Who are you, mademoiselle?"
Helena came to with a start, her heart pounding. Water sloshed around her in the tub. Steam clouded the bathing room. Bessie was humming a low melody as she ar
ranged a dressing gown on a hanger. She turned when she heard Helena sitting up.
"You fell asleep, my lady," Bessie said. "It must have been quite an event last night."
The maid clucked her tongue as she brought over a towel.
"And a grand ball in but a few hours. You had best keep your strength up, my lady. Who knows what excitement tonight will bring?"
*****
Nicholas was no stranger to death. One could not come up in the rookery without witnessing the mortal end. Yet, in all the times he had encountered death, it had been an oddly vital thing. Dying had been fresh, drawn with blooms of scarlet and newly stilled flesh. Its horrors paled in comparison to this, the death of decay. This death was old, cased in bloated blue skin and crusted in violet-black. The once familiar face was now shreds of rotted skin and gutted eye sockets, the refuse of rats come and gone. Buzzing over the straw pallet, the flies provided the only shroud.
The room in the bowels of the flash house was ill-ventilated and the size of a linen closet. Upon receiving Kent's missive this morning, Nicholas had come immediately to the decrepit wood structure deep in the heart of the rookery. Kent's man Caster had led him inside and down the narrow, twisting passageway below the main floor. Here, the ceiling hung low, and the walls were cracked and blotched with yellow. The smell was that of a butcher's shop, several days past cleaning. Nicholas bit back a surge of nausea.
Kent looked up from his crouching position next to the body. "Are you certain you wish to be present, my lord? Perhaps you would care to wait outside in the carriage."
"How long has he been this way?" Nicholas said.
"Two days, mayhap three," Kent said. "The body has passed the initial stage of stiffness."
"And the cause of death?"
"Different for each of the victims, if they can be called that. Bragg here appears to have bled out from the knife wound in the gut. There is no excessive blood spill in the room, so I would guess he received the injury in a pub brawl or some other dispute and dragged himself here to die. My men are searching above stairs for signs of an altercation."
Her Husband's Harlot Page 23
