by Jenna Jaxon
Well aware from his husky tone what needs the man likely had, Kat winced. If only she could see all of his face. It was so difficult to judge the man under that golden mask. She forced herself to relax, though the thought of his hands on her raised gooseflesh everywhere. It was only her hair, after all. No great sin. Perhaps if she softened her demeanor, she could convince him of her plight. She could offer honeyed tones for a little while.
“Will you hear my story of how a lady ended up in this House of Pleasure, sir?” Even to her own ears, her innocent tone sounded false. How would it sound to–
Releasing her hair, the stranger grabbed her hand. “We both know how you will end up, my slave. Come.” He pulled her toward the four-poster and she dug her toes into the rough, worn carpeting. Honey be damned, she had no intention of going anywhere near that bed.
“Let me tell you my story, sir. ’Tis truly enlightening.” She snapped her wrist down, freeing herself from his grasp, then turned and raced across the room, searching in vain for weapons once more. Frustration mounting, she seized the wingback chair. At least it presented a barrier of sorts. She thrust it in front of her.
“Sir, you must hear me. I truly am not what you think.”
His skeptical stare was bearable. But when he pursed his lips and made a “tsk tsking” sound, he might as well have shouted the word “whore.”
“I am not!” Katarina clutched the chair’s golden upholstery to keep from launching herself at him and wrapping her fingers around his arrogant throat. “I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam, sister to the Earl of Manning. I was kidnapped and brought here tonight against my will.”
He cocked his head. Then his mouth twitched. “Truly? What an exciting life you must lead...Lady Katarina, was it?” He chuckled deep in his chest, and took a step toward the chair.
She glared at him. “I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam, you dullard.”
“And true ladies always run around London at night scandalously underdressed as Greek slaves?”
“My brother and I were on our way to a masquerade ball when I was abducted.”
“As was I, fair lady,” he bowed with an exaggerated flourish, “when I decided to come to this charming establishment instead. Perhaps if we had continued on our ways uninterrupted, we would even now be dancing together at the ball.” That nasty laugh grated against her nerves worse than the screech of rusty nails, making her contemplate murder. If the scoundrel didn’t believe her story, killing him might be her only means of escape.
Chapter 3
“I tell you for the third time, I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam!” She all but screamed the words at him. As though making them louder would somehow convince him of their truth.
“I see you would prefer to play a different scenario, my lady?” He smirked as he emphasized the last two words. “I, for one, would fancy seduction rather than force.”
She clenched her hands. “But I am a lady, you oaf! Why will you not believe me?”
“Then convince me, Lady Katarina.” His voice dropped to low, sultry tones. Even worse, his mouth softened from the hard lines of the arrogant master to the soft, sensual half-smile of the practiced rake. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with fright.
“As...as I told you, my brother is the Earl of Manning.” Somehow more vulnerable now than when the man had declared himself her master, she eyed the door, wondering if they had locked it behind him.
“How delightful!” The low-pitched words rumbled dangerously close to her ear; her throat closed, stealing her breath. “I am very good friends with the earl.”
“You are?” Dumbfounded, she choked on the words.
“I am sure he will be as astonished as I that his sister has been sold to me.” The man’s full lips twitched in restrained amusement. “Although, I confess, the earl never mentioned you to me.” He stepped closer and laid a hand on one of the chair’s wings, stretched a long finger out and caressed the side of her hand.
“What!” Katarina jerked it away. Her hand tingled alarmingly with the brief contact. “He most certainly does have a sister.” She tossed her head and raised her chin. Why had Jack not told this man he had a sister? Was the rogue even telling her the truth?
“I am sure I would have remembered you, fair lady, had he described your wondrous charms.” That chuckle sounding in his throat again, the man inched closer, trying to sidle around the back of the chair.
Katarina, experienced in these kinds of games from years of chasing and being chased by Jack, continued around the chair, maintaining a constant distance from him. “I am sure I don’t know why Jack never thought to mention me, but the fact remains that I am his sister.” She advanced another cautious step, surveying his tall form, trying to gauge his next move.
“Jack?” The man’s eyes gleamed. “But surely Manning’s name is William Fitzwilliam.”
She stopped. “Uncle William? You knew Uncle William?”
“Knew him?”
“He died in August last year.” Hope stole through her. He didn’t know about Uncle William. That was why he didn’t believe her. “My father, Colonel Robert Fitzwilliam, his younger brother, inherited the title. We lived in Virginia all our lives but were planning to remove to London when my father died unexpectedly in October, leaving my brother John the earldom. After several months of settling our affairs and a horrific crossing, we finally arrived in England four weeks ago.”
“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. How dreadful for you.”
At the soothing words laced with sympathy, she sagged with relief. At last, he believed her.
He grasped her hand, and the warmth of his skin dispelled the chill in her fingers. With his thumb, he stroked over the top of her knuckles, kneading the skin with soothing circular motions, an exquisite treat for her misused flesh. “You must have been devastated, my lady.”
Staring at their intertwined hands, she became lost in the velvety sensation of his touch. She raised her eyes to his. But his head was still bent over their hands as he concentrated on each small, comforting movement of his thumb.
“I was.” The confession popped out. “I still miss my father dreadfully.” Blinking back tears she had no intention of shedding, she shook her head. She tried to withdraw her hand, to distance herself from him and the painful memories that weakened her ability to think clearly. But he tightened his grip and snared the other hand as well.
“You are distraught, my lady. It has been a harrowing night for you. Please allow me to come to your aid.” He brought her hands to rest on the soft black cloak that disguised the solid expanse of his chest. The concern and respect in his voice, which had so recently mocked and insulted her, broke through her crumbling defenses. Ready to drop from weariness, she could not reclaim the strength leached away by the excitements of the night. And his chest was so strong and warm under her palms. Incredibly warm. Kat sighed as that heat stole into her body, relaxing the muscles in her hands and arms inch by inch.
The face beneath the mask softened, his lips turned up in a tender smile. He traced a line down her cheek with the back of one finger. “Allow me take care of you, my dear.”
His touch, like fine silk drawn over her skin, sent a pang of longing through her. Could she permit someone else to be strong for her, just this once? He understood the fears she faced tonight and sought to vanquish them, as any knight errant would seek to make amends. He continued to stroke her cheek, her jaw, her chin, his touch feather light. A powerful, unreasoning desire assaulted her to feel his strong arms around her, sheltering her from the harsh world. She was hardly surprised, then, to find him gathering her against his broad chest.
“Lean your head just there, sweet.”
She could hear the strong beat of his heart, smell the clean, comforting citrus of his cologne. The fresh scent reminded her of home.
“You will be all right now,” he whispered, holding her securely to him. Safe at last. She closed her eyes and leaned into his caresses, contentment stealing through her for the
first time since leaving Virginia.
With a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face up to his. Her eyes flew open and peace fled as he pressed her mouth with a gentle kiss that stole what breath she had left. His lips–soft, warm, insistent–generated heat all the way to her toes. A sensation so overpowering she forgot everything around her, giving herself completely to the pleasures of that kiss.
Somehow his tongue slipped through her quivering lips, stroked her tongue, and caressed the depths of her mouth. She groaned, her face aflame at this unexpected intimacy. No man had ever kissed her this way, plundering where he would and denying her the will to protest. Raw power leaped from his mouth, streaked through her body, inflamed her craving even more.
Every magnificent swirl of his tongue resonated, not only in her mouth but in the deep, private places of her body as well. She moaned into his mouth, the low, guttural sound rising from some unknown reservoir of need. Pressing against him, she slid her hands up the steely hard muscles of his back evident even through his cloak and clothes.
All she wanted was his hands on her, his tongue in her. Of its own accord, her tongue thrust into him, bringing a growl of approval that encouraged her to frenzied explorations of his warm, wet mouth. He slipped a hand down and rested it on the swell of her breast, impudently nudging a finger inside the gown’s low decolletage and brushing it against her aching nipple.
Blue fire shot directly from his finger through her breast, causing Kat to gasp and arch against him. With a chuckle the man released her lips, but before she could protest, lowered his head and seized her nipple through the sheer white cloth. The gauzy fabric might as well not be there, for she could feel every lash of his circling tongue. The crest contracted into a small, tight bud. Another streak of fire leaped straight to the vulnerable core between her thighs. An unexpected bloom of heat raced through her and she moaned louder.
His response, a rumbling throaty groan, sent exquisite vibrations humming through her breast. Then he lifted her in powerful arms, carried her the few feet to the bed and laid her on the blue coverlet. Dazed by the throbbing ache deep within her, bereft of his lips, she struggled to lift her head. As if roused from a drugged sleep, she rolled onto her side and raised her head. The man, the stranger, had not only removed his cloak, but was quickly unfastening his breeches. She shot upright and scrabbled wildly, trying to escape backward across the bed, but could find no purchase on the slick counterpane. The man advanced, his lips beneath the mask quirked in a wicked smile.
“And I thought you were enjoying yourself, my lady.” He chuckled in his chest again. “But I see you are still reluctant. Come, let me help you forget your troubles once more.”
“Nooo!” She scrambled off the bed, making for the door, praying wildly that it was unlocked.
He snared her in one arm, pulled her back to the bed and threw himself down on her. “You are the most spirited lady I have ever had the pleasure of seducing,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “If I wasn’t afraid of yet another scandal, my dear, I would set you up as my mistress and we could play these delicious games to our hearts’ delight.”
Duped! He’d never once believed her story. And she had let this scoundrel touch her... Twisting, she fought back as he pressed her into the soft covers. With ease he gripped her hands, raised them above her head. God, but he was strong! He pushed her gown up to her hips and an insistent hardness pressed against her legs as he tried to part them. Panic gave way to cold fury.
“Take your person off me this instant,” she spat at him, still struggling with every ounce of energy left. “Or I vow I will see you die by my hand or my brother’s. I care not which. I tell you for the last time that I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam and if you ruin me you bring equal ruin down upon you and your entire family.”
The dark circles behind the glittery mask–all she could see of his eyes–widened and he tilted his head to the side as though puzzled. Perhaps the deadly calm with which she’d spoken or her icy certainty had finally penetrated his lust-maddened brain. She winced when he probed her wrists, explored the abrasions left by the kidnappers’ rope. His mouth pursed, then he loosened his grip on her hands.
She shot a hand out and ripped into his cheek with her nails, leaving three long red gashes spouting blood. The man cursed and straightened, releasing her to clutch his injured face.
Kat leaped from the bed, sprinted to the corner and grabbed the stoneware pitcher from the washstand. She swung the jug around with all the force she could muster, not waiting to see where it landed but aiming high. The solid clunk as the heavy pottery connected with the back of his head reverberated down her arm. The pitcher burst into a torrent of pieces, pattering like rain onto the soft blue rug and the dark red-clad body now sprawled unmoving at her feet.
Grabbing up the basin, she bent cautiously toward the motionless figure. She raised her weapon, but the man did not stir. A flicker of guilt made her search for signs of life, and with the slight rise and fall of his back, relief coursed through her. Clutching the basin, she rose, skirted the still figure and stepped to the door.
Slow and silent, she turned the knob, praying to every saint imaginable that the door was not locked. When it opened toward her a scant quarter inch, she breathed a grateful sigh. She eased it shut and leaned her head against the cool wood, trying to steady her heartbeat. Think, she must think. Plan. Glancing down at her gown–dirty, crumpled, stained with blood–a wave of giddiness overtook her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on gathering the dregs of her courage.
A measure of calm returning, she surveyed the room again, assessing what, if anything, she might use in her escape. Without the benefit of surprise, the earthenware bowl would prove useless as a weapon. Stepping toward the washstand to replace the basin, a sharp prick of pain brought her up short. Shards from the broken pitcher had cut her foot, and with a sigh she remembered her captors had taken her shoes. She must go out into the London streets barefoot, looking like a fugitive from a slaughterhouse, but it could not be helped.
With the basin returned to the stand, Kat peered around once more, irked that there was nothing she might use. Flung into the corner, hidden by the chair, lay the man’s big, black cloak. Gleefully, she grabbed the expensive garment and pulled the warm folds around her. It smelled like him, the clean citrus rising from the collar. That scent might haunt her for the rest of her life, but could be endured for now.
The cloak dragged the ground, so her ankles and legs would not show. Her grubby feet, however, she could do nothing about. At least she was decently covered. Decent. Would she ever feel decent again?
Resolutely, Kat pushed that thought aside. God knew she was not free yet, neither was she home. All that happened tonight would keep until she had time think.
Gathering the cape around her, she cracked open the door, half expecting to see Nigel barrel down the hallway, sword in hand. But no one lurked in the shadowy corridor. The still-unmoving figure lay sprawled on the carpet as if dead, and a twinge of remorse shot through her. A fleeting memory of his lips on hers caused her to catch her breath. She was not sorry she’d struck him. Nevertheless, she hoped the man would recover.
And live another day to debauch someone else? Steeling herself against her previous charitable thoughts and disturbing memories, she peeped out the door. The hallway was still vacant. She sped across the threshold and closed the door with a quiet click.
Rain had fallen since she’d entered this hell house. Shivering, she paused at the back door to raise the hood. With any luck at all, no one here would be able to trace her. Leaving only a trail of small, muddy footprints to melt into the gloomy London night, she slipped out.
Chapter 4
As she hurried down the dark alleyway beside the House of Pleasure, Kat had no idea where she was. No matter. Rid of kidnappers and purchaser, she drew in an exhilarating breath of damp air to celebrate her freedom. She would find her way home eventually.
Kat crossed a fairly deserted stree
t to avoid two men huddled around a smoldering brazier. The cold cobblestones slick under her bare feet, she tried to keep her balance and squinted in the poor light. Only one lamp lit on the entire block. Despite the need for haste, she had to be careful not to slip and do even more damage to her aching body. Upon reaching the sidewalk opposite, her feet squelched into something soft and slick; an earthy, decaying smell assailed her. A shudder raced up her spine as she tried not to think about what it might have been. Only escape mattered.
At a crossroads, she paused to peer both ways. Her best chance would be to find a more populated area where there might be a night watchman. A glance back the way she came showed no pursuit. Relief washed over her. She was truly free. Now to avoid being accosted by some other man. Pulling the cloak around her tightly–her gown, if seen, would certainly suggest her to be a whore of the first degree–she listened for the din of people. A faint clamor to her left made her pray her luck had turned, and she struck out down the shadowy avenue.
At the end of the street she rounded the corner and stumbled backward. Spread before her in the golden glow of the oil lamps that lined the street, a busy London thoroughfare teemed with life. Street vendors hawked their wares, tempting passersby with bunches of colorful flowers, articles of clothing, and all manner of food. The rich smell of roasted meat wafted over Katarina, and her empty stomach rumbled in protest. Gentlemen in elegant evening attire streamed out of a nearby building, hailing hackney cabs, their brightly garbed companions chatting and clinging to their arms. After the quiet darkness of the previous streets, the bright, bustling scene dazzled her.
One foppishly dressed gentleman on the opposite corner handed a lady into a waiting hack. If only she were that woman. The cab moved off the moment the door shut and there, praise God, on the opposite corner stood two night watchmen. Kat plunged across, disregarding a shouted curse from an oncoming carriage in her haste to find a safe haven.
