by Lisa Torquay
“I want this.” She said stabbing his eyes with her magnificent ones. Her teeth nibbled his bristle square jaw, her hand experimenting with his desperate cock.
His fingers closed over hers to guide her obvious, inexperienced touch. And she learned fast, the hellion. In a question of seconds, he was totally under her agonising tutelage.
Her stroke continued up and down his length, she caressed his ear with her lips. He wanted her to go faster, to end his affliction. And he wanted this never to end at all. So, he said nothing, just revelling in her softness against him and the silkiness around his flesh.
Bleeding hell, but this inclination did not favour slowness. On the contrary, it favoured gravity. His breath hitched and sawed, sweat broke on his temple, his body tensed and he burst in one of the most intense releases he ever remembered experiencing, amid unrestrained grunts. She did not stop until mindlessness overcame him.
He fell flat on the tilted mattress, breathless and sated. For the time being. He was going to rest for a while, until he could go for the second round in this tantalizing ring.
Not five minutes went by when a knock came on the door.
“Your Grace.” Miller, from behind the door. Nobody would dare come in without his order. “There is a matter that needs your urgent attention.”
Goddammit! He cursed. Leaving this angled mattress was the last thing he wanted to do. In his life. He raked his dishevelled dark-brown hair. “I am coming.”
He turned to her, lying there in that unusual position. Her focus locked on him, giving nothing away. He stood up to leave.
“We are not finished talking.” He said as he cleaned himself with a handkerchief and straightened his clothes. “I will send footmen and maids to clear this disorder.”
Annabel lay there unmoving, basking in the aftermath of her folly. And her delight. Her mouth savoured his salty soft hair-peppered skin, she wanted to go on forever. The warmness mingled with the hairy roughness in delectable contrast. She envisioned licking his entire muscled frame from the top of his blunt, elegant nose, to his… well… everything.
When she uncovered his manhood, exhilaration overtook her. So hard, so, oh, large. Hot silky skin covering his iron firmness, her curiosity to explore overwhelming. The way he reacted to her caresses also enthralled her, made her feel powerful and feminine. A puissant release put her to mind of a Roman god, potent and masterful. She needed to unveil what it meant to be with a healthy man and now she witnessed it. Being Romulus, it equalled paradise.
The servants came in tearing her off her reveries. Jumping out of that deliciously angled mattress, she rearranged her clothes. She had an escape to organise.
CHAPTER NINE
Annabel would flee tonight. Soon after the castle fell quiet. She had arranged the details with Benson. The side gate key still in her possession would be useful to slip through the wall no one seeing her. This would give them a good head start, since his people would learn of her missing only midmorning, when they dared come to her chamber.
She had also directed the coachman to release Peter from the dungeon and send him to the inn. The unnerving man resorted to despicable mediaeval techniques, learned from his barbarous ancestors. No surprise there, no.
The problem was how to skip dinner with the Duke. She did not fear his questioning, for she might question him in return. No, oh no. She feared not being able to resist him. Sure as the sunrise, he would want to continue what they began this morning. There was not a chance she could deny him. Or herself for that matter, which must be the worst of all.
Having not seen him all day, she reckoned he had been busy with estate matters. But the morning’s events played over and over in her head. Especially her assault on his irresistible person. And this time she did not even find guilty in her for the traitor he proved to be. The feel of him next to her overcame any moral consideration she might have had. Until now.
In the end, she pleaded indisposition and hoped he would swallow the excuse.
* * *
Slippery as a fish, the damned woman would not make things easy for him, Romulus conjectured, in his solar after dinner. She was going to get him to wait until morning for their conversation. And cause his body burn for eternity with craving.
He must get her to talk about what had been the purpose of her coming here. She came too close to discovering his plans and, worse, to divulging them to someone in London. He needed to disclose for whom she worked.
Her honed skills made sense now. Some kind of training enabled her to perform such… tasks. If she continued on that track, she would put herself in danger. The woman had no idea what she nosed. Diversion would not serve her on the morrow. She would talk either she wanted it or not.
What actually caused his thoughts to twirl was her declaration she came to know of his death. He would never have imagined that this could have been the reason she married another. It explained many things. In hindsight, he should have talked to her before he returned to the front, get this turbid situation sorted out. But he had not; and he spent six years of his life in bitter resentment. Perhaps, he ought to talk to his brother and ask him about these past rumours.
True, he had not written her as often as he wanted. More than that, his superiors assigned him to different posts, Spain and Portugal among them. Two war torn countries where roads and communication became precarious. And yes, he had been away undercover in a special assignment of his own, unable to write to anyone. The facts conspired against them. In her place, he would have seen no reason not to move on with his life though. He raked his sleek hair, expelling air forcefully from his lungs. War meant a waste of everybody’s time.
The rest of his brandy down his throat, he retired. Tomorrow she would talk. Or he would make her.
* * *
Annabel closed the side gate softly and spotted Benson with their two horses and borrowed saddles. The inn would bring them back two days later when her escape would not be a secret anymore. Her travelling dress did not list as the best for a ride, but three miles were not that far. She had packed a smaller bag with the essential since there would be no way to carry the trunk on horseback.
They rode slowly the first few yards to keep silent and started a more forcible trot to the inn. To sneak away from Blackthorne figured as the most difficult. Only gaining the road as fast as possible would ensure their success, she hoped.
At the inn, Benson and Peter quickly attached the horses, and they left in full speed. The cool night bore no moon, but she estimated the hour around midnight. They would have roughly ten to twelve hours until someone missed them. The servants also informed her that their contact at the inn had been summoned by her superiors, having departed mere hours ago.
Annabel kept checking the carriage back, apprehensive. They pressed ahead, changing horses when necessary. It took two days to London, in good conditions. Perhaps, luck would shine to them.
* * *
Romulus glanced at the clock in the solar, the hour drawing eleven. No sign of the woman so far. He started getting worried. Perhaps, her indisposition was real. He would have her maid check on her.
After knocking, the butler came in the room. “Your Grace, Lady Winchester is nowhere to be seen.”
“Did the maid say if her things are missing?”
The butler avoided eye contact. “Yes, milord. It seems the lady took a small bag with her.”
Like a bullet up from his seat, he punched the massive desk with a bang that made the servant wince. “The resourceful hellion!” He muttered frustrated to himself.
To the butler. “Have my horse saddled, please.”
After a careful bow, the older man left.
As he mounted his horse, Miller reported the footman and the harness horses gone. The housekeeper prepared a saddlebag of provisions for him while he dressed his riding coat and hessians for the trip.
“We should go with you, milord.” Miller risked the wrath of his master.
Even staring daggers on fire at
the man who must have prevented her escape, he answered. “Thank you, Miller, but I will go alone.” He took the reins and directed the Arab stallion to the front gate. “She cannot be too far. One rider goes faster.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” He bowed to the back of the Duke.
How the goddammed woman kept him stringing along constituted a mystery Romulus did not care to look into too closely. At breakneck speed, his sleek hair flying behind his head under the hat, he fumed. And he fumed for reasons he did not want to think about at this precise moment.
He should not mind being left by the woman. Twice. The feelings that coursed him were too conflicting. The way he felt six years ago too similar to now. To the way he felt when his mother had gone.
As the cool wind whipped his bristle fierce jaw, impossible to answer whether he ran after her for the information he needed to keep secret or for her and her alone. What he knew was the cauldron boiled at high temperature in his guts. He hoped not to cede to the temptation to twist the woman’s delectable neck when he found her. For he would find her! Surely the ride would wear off his temper. A temper he never knew to be in him, bloody hell! That which she unleashed in him stood far beyond understanding.
* * *
Annabel munched on a piece bread and ham, purchased in the last inn three hours ago. The carriage rattled with the unevenness of the road and her bones crackled in unison. To have vanquished a quarter of the distance caused her to bet she could make it without confronting the darned Duke.
She had to admit she left more than mere clothes behind at Blackthorne. A foreign sense of loss underlay her apprehension. Meeting that man again awoke things she deemed buried for good. Things she most assuredly did not want to resurface. This tore at her, nonetheless. Too much time sitting in a carriage did not bode well for her inner thoughts. She wished she remembered to bring a book to divert her from these unwanted musings. She did not; and she doubted she would have been able to concentrate in any case. So, she tried to get some sleep.
* * *
Since the last inn, an hour ago, it started to rain. This would slow the trip, blast it! But the carriage ploughed through.
An hour more elapsed and the rain subsided, making her more optimistic about the prospects of the trip.
She lay back on the seat as the carriage jounced along the precarious road. There was little more she could do.
Neighs came from outside as Annabel was reluctant to open her eyes. She must have fallen into a slumber after her sleepless night. The carriage jerked to a stop, and she had no choice, but to open her eyes and sit up alert. At that exact second the door threw open and two murky hazel beacons flashed on her.
Darn the man!
“I daresay I always succeed in bringing you back to the castle, my lady.” That lopsided humourless slash of his sensuous lips drafted on his rugged face. Clothes damp, rain-wet hat in his hand, his dark-brown hair falling humid down the sides of his face, a two-day stubble, the man looked like a highwayman.
She responded in kind. “Oh, Your Grace.” Her hands folded on her lap, expression forced to a serene contemplation. “You must have come to bid me farewell.” Such a bland smile on her face, she herself did not believe her acting skills. “You could have sent a note.”
Rugged face transformed in deadly seriousness, lividity smothered his now stony features; no mood for irony there. “Get down from there.” His furious eyes stabbed hers hard. “You are coming with me.” He commanded low and overpowering.
She lifted her chin, her back straighter. “I am not.”
“Do it or I will make you.” That came silkier, but no less lethal.
For maximum effect, she sat back slow. “I do not think so, Your Grace.” She defied him. “There are no laws in this country forbidding a woman to travel.”
He raked his dishevelled hair, looked up for a second, as if praying for patience. In a swift movement, one arm locked around her waist and the other under her knees. Next thing she knew she floated over the ground as he yanked her off her seat.
She pushed at his unyielding shoulders. “Put me down, you vile blackguard!” She hissed even as he sat her on his horse, legs to one side.
While he mounted the Arab stallion, he turned to her servants drily. “Follow.” And the horse jerked to a trot.
If she could kill the damned scoundrel, she would. The fury in her bubbled intense and boiling. Mixed with the frustration of her thwarted attempt to leave, she might wrestle with him for one week and it would not wear off her. She breathed heavily, far from getting a grip.
A long time passed before she was capable of not seeing red. Lifting her gaze to him, she found his attentive on her.
“I should have borrowed your mare.” She provoked. “I would be halfway to London by now.”
“She has a name.” He answered simply in his deep tone.
“The mare?”
He nodded, and she frowned at him interrogatively. “Iseult.” He said.
Surprisingly, it came from one of her favourite tales from the Round Table. “And this stallion?” Maybe she should not have uttered the question.
“Do you really need to ask?” His predictable response.
“Tristan.” She concluded.
The muddy road ahead filled her view while she remained bewildered and mute. She had been the one who embarked on this teenage enchantment for the Arthurian Cycle, reading every single book she found and used to talk to him about them that fateful summer.
Her throat clogged suddenly at the memory. The both of them were a lost case, there was no way of going back there and grasping that carefree happiness again. She should have forgotten all about it, should have let go. She pulled at her cape in a self-protective gesture, newly angry at herself for the thought.
“Are you cold?” His grave voice blew at her.
“No.” Without turning to him, she riled at the day’s events. At that moment, she wished badly to go and take refuge in her own home.
White clouds misted the sky as afternoon led to an early sunset, cold and windy. The inn he would take her to not far.
He dared not touch her, even though they sat too close on his horse. Her vexation reached him in ripples of awareness.
The minute he saw her, he had this inexorable need to take her back to Blackthorne, disgusted that she exposed herself to the perils of the road so lightly. Did she have no sense in that beautiful head of hers? Alright, so she came all the way from London unharmed. And she could defend herself quite well, he admitted. But still… The hellion had no qualms in being worrisome.
The inn came into view on the bend of the road and he hastened Tristan, eager to put her in due comfort. She travelled the whole night and day. Resilient, this woman, he would give her that.
Helping her from the horse, he ordered a room, a bath and dinner, while he headed to the stables to see to Tristan’s care.
By the time Annabel had soaked lengthy in her bath and dressed in a fresh chemise, she was completely renewed. She did not feel so tired as she slept in the carriage. The appetising smell from a meat pie wafted from the nearby table and she sat down to attack it.
Fire glowed in the fireplace and the room presented a spotlessly clean condition. As soon as she ate, she would lie down in the inviting bed. And leave the problems for tomorrow, she decided, as her hair dried before the flames falling down her back in midnight ringlets.
She had swallowed her last bite, when the door opened and the unnerving man came in, wet hair, soap scented, breeches and black shirt opened at the neck, no neckcloth.
CHAPTER TEN
She stood up, forgetting she dressed only a sheer chemise, minding herself solely when his eyes roamed over her and heat flourished on her skin.
“This is my room.” She asserted unwavering.
“And mine, too.” In non-committal movements, he hung his coat on a peg by the door. “We are Mr and Mrs Swanson.” He turned to her, kicking off his boots.
There could be no more cynical c
reature on the planet. “This cannot be!” Her fury surfacing all over again.
He neared her, attention trained on her face, fierce. “Do you really think I would leave you alone in a room for you to flee again?”
“I did not flee.” She countered. “I left on my own accord.”
“True.” That lopsided grin made an appearance. “And now you are here.”
Her hand flew to her waist, her eyes cast daggers at him. “You have no right to force me back.”
“When one is a Duke, the lines between right and will are very… blurred.” He waved his hand dismissively in the air, his shirt gaping over his muscled chest, peppered with hair and firm and hot… oh, my!
“I will head to London in the morning.” She reasserted.
His gaze fell to her lips. “No, you are not.” He took out his shirt, causing her almost to choke at the sight of that expanse of sinew and strength.
She did not know how he loomed so close to her she had to lift her head to meet his murky eyes, almost green in the fire light. “My duty is to go to London and report you to the authorities.”
His expression hardened and shuttered to unfathomable. “Do not meddle in this, Annabel. You have no idea what this is about.” He directed low and lethal.
She squinted her gaze conveying utter suspicion. “Of course, you would prevent me from reporting.” Her chin up a notch. “You don’t want Court Martial, do you?”
They stood toe to toe, she could smell him, soap and man, heat arrowing to that place he had touched with drastic consequences.
“Oh, Court Martial.” An eyebrow shot up his forehead. “You dream big.” Too silky for her safety.
He took her arms, pulled her to him, as his sensuous bristled lips found her neck.
She could barely contain a sigh, but her insides lit up. “This is what you deserve.” Her sigh came here.
