Tempered: Book Four of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  The first taste of his flesh stirred something dangerously warm within me. He tasted like nothing I could imagine—both clean and a little bit salty, with undertones of something I could only designate as forbidden fruit.

  The fingers at my wrist turned bruising. “Don’t,” he rasped, and the echo of it sent shivers through me.

  He’d ordered the same once, when I’d offered him my body in exchange for freedom.

  I would not allow him the opportunity to deny me again.

  Obeying a strange voice within my fluttering senses, I caught the flesh just over his collar bone between my teeth and bit down. Slowly. Deliciously slowly. Until the skin went taut and Ashmore’s groan ripped like a guttural admission from his chest.

  I let it go, my point smugly proven.

  “This can’t—” He seemed at a loss for the words. “I’m your guardian, here to help you recover, not—” A gasp as I nuzzled the skin of his throat. “Not this.”

  “This will help me recover,” I said, thrilling when he responded to the way my lips brushed against his flesh. “It will give me something else to concentrate upon.”

  “What of the books?”

  “Intellectually stimulating.” I opened my mouth over that skin I spoke against, dragging my tongue over the pulse thudding hard against it. His hips jerked against mine. “But they do not give the same loss of sense as physical pleasures.”

  “You know this?” A hoarse inquiry.

  This time, I sucked at his pulse, drawing his flesh into my mouth with undeniable delight as his breath escaped on a harsh uncivility. When I let it go, I wondered if it might bruise.

  “I know this,” I confirmed, uncaring what he might think of me then.

  Another curse, and he wrenched me from the door frame. Fingers tight at my wrists, he all but dragged me to the bed, only pausing long enough to help me right my balance as I stepped on the hem of my wrapper and stumbled over it.

  With an arm tight around my waist, he half-carried me into place, to deposit me on my bed and strip the unmade covers from the surface.

  The angles of his face were so taut, harsh planes and shadowed grooves, that delicious anticipation filled me where there had been only the need of a draught.

  “I’m a widow,” I told him. “I can do as I please.”

  “Say what you will.” Terse fingers pulled the draped cloth from his shoulders. “Such things will never end well.”

  “I don’t care.” I sat up, kicking my slippers to the floor. “You were already prepared to give me your attentions.”

  A hint of that wry humor emerged as he admitted, “Different attentions entirely, minx, and you know it.”

  I waved that away. “’Tisn’t as if I ask for love.” Even the word caused a shudder of revulsion to fill me, as though Teddy breathed it again into my ear.

  “Well, I know.” He bent, bracing both arms on either side of me upon the bed, his face now so close that I could see each individual glimmer of green that sometimes turned his brown eyes muddled. “The women of your blood do not love.”

  “Remember that,” I said, husky of voice and harsh of intent, before seizing his face in both my hands and drawing his mouth to mine.

  Chapter Seven

  My personal experience in such matters was not overly rounded. I was rather more aware of matters of the flesh than I suspect Society would be pleased to know, and had been since before my arrival to London at the age of thirteen, but most came from observation.

  The flesh tables where the good monsieur would auction the girls, the stolen moments behind the carts where—if one was quiet and possessing of a keen sense of timing—one might hear a lucky hand earning a bit of attention from a girl. Upon my collector’s path, I spoke often with the working women, and had utilized a dollymop’s brat for many an errand.

  Each of these did much to educate me on the subject, but my experience was limited to much less a sampling.

  Of the men who had kissed me, I could count these upon a single hand. Of those who had a more intimate understanding of my body, and that which made me beg for more, there was only one.

  I would not think his name now. Not when Ashmore’s lips closed over mine, capturing my kiss with such finesse that my thoughts fled all corners and focused suddenly, intently, upon this. Here. His mouth against my own, his breath mingling with mine.

  I lay half reclined upon the bed, my wrapper askew and my knees slightly open, his face held between my palms, while he loomed over me—a knee planted between mine for balance, his weight braced upon his arms on either side of me.

  An odd pairing, to be sure, and one that did not seem to wholly know how to come together.

  He did not lower himself to cover me, though my skin burned at the thought of his bare chest so far away. I knew what it was to have a man laying atop me, to pin me with his weight and sear with his body a brand of possession upon me.

  I wanted that again. In those moments—when I experienced a release flooding through my veins, sweeter even than the laudanum I wanted—I was allowed to forget.

  Ashmore’s breath was fresh from a cleaning; breathing in filled my senses with all manner of delights. He wore no cologne that I could discern, only the scent of his skin and a woodsy fragrance I attributed to the shaving soap he used. His lower lip was soft and sweet beneath the exploring stroke of my tongue. While I had no trouble hearing the ragged sound this caress engendered within him, I could not understand why he held himself so rigidly—or why his hands, tightened into fists beside my hips, did not touch me as I wanted him to.

  Instead, he feasted at my mouth as a man of famine might—cautiously at first, but with growing hunger. He caught at my teasing tongue with his own, flicked at it as if to encourage me to taste deeper of his mouth—to be the aggressor where I had not considered any farther than to be the lure.

  A gasp caught at my throat as his head tilted just so, an angle that allowed him to seize my mouth in a deeper kiss. His tongue swept beyond my lips and retreated, speeding my pulse with thrill of a challenge. His teeth nipped at the tender flesh, a cheeky warning, and again at my lower lip as I sucked in a strangled bit of air.

  When he raised his head, leaving me bereft of his warmth, my lips throbbed and tingled. That wicked heat between my legs had intensified shamelessly, until all I could imagine were his fingers there—stroking me as I knew was sinfully delightful, claiming that bit of me in order to send me flying as I yearned to.

  Long fingers curled around my upper arms. My eyes flew open as Ashmore deftly scooped me from the bed, the tensile muscle in his shoulders coiling with the effort.

  A glimpse of his eyes forced me to still, the flesh between my thighs tightening as a glint flared within his gaze. Yet his grip was unshakable, his body rigid as he sat behind me, his back to the headboard.

  Before I knew what he intended, I was placed upon his lap, his chest warm against my side and his arms banded about my waist. My legs draped over his hip, knees tucked against his side and clamped in place by an elbow.

  I tilted my head to the side, a frown forced through my hazy sense of arousal. “What is this?”

  “Sanity,” he replied, curving one hand over my bare leg and one over my hip.

  An experimental wriggle assured me that it wasn’t lack of interest that motivated him. His eyes narrowed, mouth twitching as my hip lodged against the front of his trousers.

  I did not like this. Not one little bit.

  “I would much rather you were kissing me,” I told him, lifting one hand to the loose collar of my wrapper. “Wouldn’t you?”

  His head leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closing. “There are many things I’d rather do,” he replied, a strained note of amusement in the rejoinder. “Kissing you is not and has never been on that register, as I value my reason.”

  The rejection smarted.

  As I sat clamped in his grip, my fingers gripping my wrapper, the hollow ache in the core of my body seemed only to mock me.


  Tears stung my eyes. I looked down, hiding my face. “If you don’t want me,” I began, rather very small.

  “Damnation.” Ashmore straightened, shifting uncomfortably beneath me. “If you cannot deduce how much I’d like to take you here in this bed, you’re too sodding inexperienced for the taking.” The intensity with which he spoke nearly growled from him, but his hands did not leave my waist or knee.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Then why?”

  “There are many reasons.”

  To my horror, a sob filled my chest. I forced it down hard as I could, but in vain. It twisted from me, evolving into a hiccup merged with a gasped inhalation.

  “That’s one,” he said, but not unkindly. Ashmore tugged me closer, until it was not his face I saw when I opened my eyes again but his bare chest, pale and hairless where I’d expected at least a sprinkling. While he did not exhibit the refined muscle of Hawke’s physique, his was a ropy, tensile strength that spoke of long hours in motion. Even that flat taper at his waist showed evidence of such effort.

  Not at all what I had expected of my absent guardian.

  Because it cost me nothing—what little pride I’d managed to find had deflated—I allowed my cheek to rest upon his shoulder.

  His demeanor softened, body easing back into the headboard behind us. The hand at my waist stroked over my braid, instead. “I am aware of your wants,” he told me. His voice echoed from two directions—the tenor from his mouth and the rumble easing from his chest. “’Tis not so uncommon as to trade one vice for another in a bid to escape the hold of the first.”

  I flinched. “You make me sound so mercenary.”

  “Not at all. Simply predictable.”

  I bit at my lower lip, fidgeting with the collar between my hands.

  For a moment, all that spoke between us was his heartbeat, slow and steady beneath my ear. Even mine had eased to a measured pace, as if the arousal his kiss had caused in me had no will to linger without immediate attention.

  My smile, when it finally came, was bitter. “I’m too thin, aren’t I?”

  “What the devil are you saying now?”

  “I’ve lost too much flesh.” I made as if to straighten from his hold, but the hand at my braid splayed at my shoulders. I settled again, but did not realize what was causing him to shake until I heard laughter bubbling up from under my ear. “What?” I asked, annoyed. “’Tis true, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he denied, although the chuckle in the single syllable made it wobble. “Not even a little true.”

  “Bollocks.”

  This only seemed to make him laugh harder, until I had no choice but to raise my head from his shoulder lest he rattle my brain with his chortling. I glowered at him openly, now; he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes closed and mouth curved up in undue merriment.

  Whatever he found so funny, I was not amused.

  I jabbed him in the chest with my knuckles.

  His laugh turned into an exhale of surprise, and he let go of my knee to rub at the offending spot, eying me with a mix of wary acknowledgement and lingering humor. “That was uncalled for.” The warmth in his eyes turned them to a lovely glow, so startling in color against his copper hair that it gave him a fiery appearance all together—as if a flame burnt inside his chest, rather than a heart.

  That my heart gave a bit of a kick beneath his study only fed my ire. I would not be swayed by merely a look, especially while he withheld his attentions. “Your amusement, given the circumstances, is not polite,” I said, nose in the air.

  His snort caught me off-guard; as did the hand that caught my cheek and turned my face to his. Before I’d taken a breath to scold his continued good-humor—a bloody nuisance, in my state—he pressed hard enough on my nape with his other hand that I was forced to lean forward.

  His lips brushed mine. Once. Then again, when my eyes went wide. A third time, his lower lip rubbing against mine with sumptuous care.

  My scolding turned into a shuddering exhale.

  This time, when he allowed me to lean away, his eyes were heavy-lidded, mouth curved into an indolent smile. “Make no mistake,” he said, his lovely voice now huskier than I’d expected. “You are delightful in every way. Any man you favor is altogether too fortunate for his own good.”

  The octave did something to my insides I could not explain—something reminiscent of arousal but deeper. Delicious, in a way; like being touched without physical contact.

  “However, your recovery is altogether enough to claim your focus, and I’ll not be the bastard who keeps you from it.” The hand at my nape had not moved, but his thumb stroked a line down the curve of my neck. Back and forth.

  I tilted my head some to allow him greater access. As I did, I lifted my worrying thumb to my mouth.

  Ashmore’s other hand caught it. “That is not a healthy habit. You’ll wear the skin down.”

  “I mend quickly.” A truth rather more literal since the day my father attempted to murder me. Whatever had been woven with the opium in his serum, it had left me a swift healer.

  “I’ve noticed.” His thumb stroked across my knuckles. “Who did you allow to touch you?”

  What tender ripples of feeling he had coaxed from me vanished. Ice filled my chest. Ice, and the sudden, angry lash of scorned memory. I jerked my hand out from his. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  The warm glow in his gaze altered to something darker. “Were you forced?”

  “No!” The quickness of my reply must have only worried him, for his features turned thunderous. I turned so that I could face him more directly and lay a hand over his chest. His heart pounded against my palm, much faster and harder than moments before. “No,” I repeated firmly. “I chose my own path.”

  He searched my gaze. “Did you give yourself to your husband before the vows?”

  I could not hold his stare. I glanced away, pain lancing through my heart. “No. Compton was too proper a man for that.” To say nothing of my own ambivalence on the subject. Compton’s kiss had stirred me, but it was as a gentle breeze compared to the tempest Hawke had caused.

  That I had never truly come to terms with my wifely responsibilities before our marriage was another thing I would carry forever. While it was true enough hat I’d accepted the earl’s hand in marriage, I had done so for reasons that had little enough to do with love. Compton had promised to allow me independence to pursue my intellectual hobbies, to furnish me with all that I wanted, to provide for me in all the ways his station allowed him to.

  Even Hawke had demanded I marry my earl, in exchange for forgiving not just my debt but the earl’s younger brother, who was just the sort the Menagerie liked best to visit.

  Compton had once assured me that I would grow to love him.

  I would never know if this was true.

  “I had taken Compton for a gentleman,” Ashmore acknowledged, so simply that my gaze flew to him in surprise.

  “You knew him?”

  “Of him,” he corrected, and if he felt at all strange about discussing my late husband while I lay curled in his arms, he did not show it.

  I couldn’t even be sure how I felt about that, either.

  Truly, I was a disaster.

  As the company he afforded me—chaste though it may be—was preferable to being alone, I allowed myself to once more relax into his embrace. Absently, I tucked the edge of my thumb into my mouth and chewed a ragged line.

  “I did not hear of your wedding until days before it. Post is slow in India.” His rumble was quiet; respectful, in a way, though I wasn’t all that certain he’d intended it. “By the time I made it back to London, Compton was dead and you were gone.”

  I heard no censure in his voice, although I did not need to in order to feel it. Pain shot up my hand, and the salty tang of blood slid over my tongue.

  I winced. “I— Well, the Lady Northampton was not inclined to allow me to avenge her son.” Not that she had any idea that I would, either. Had she, I suspect I m
ight find myself taken away to Bedlam, rather than banished to a widow’s bower.

  Those long fingers I admired slid through mine, forcing my hand from the edge of my teeth. As I looked up, he raised my bleeding thumb to his lips and drew the ragged wound into his mouth.

  It didn’t hurt at all when his tongue caressed the tiny tear.

  Hawke had done that. The memory of it assaulted me without warning. The visceral impact of the ringmaster’s tongue sliding over the raw wound in my hand had started a decadent flame deep within me that I still remembered.

  One that had culminated in my yielding to his bed.

  My eyes widened. “Why?” I whispered.

  It was as if Ashmore hadn’t realized what he’d done. He stilled, my thumb now a breath from his lips, and looked down at me with something so raw I could not fathom its heart. Horror, perhaps? That I’d seen him do something so strange? Or sadness?

  He lowered my hand to my chest, smoothed his own over my fingers. “It is my deepest regret,” he said quietly, looking away, “that I was not there for you when you needed it most.”

  Confusion beset me from all sides. I frowned at his profile. “You could be here for me now.”

  “I am here for you now.” Slowly, he laid his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes. “You simply won’t see it for what it is.”

  Delivered as it was with such weary compassion, I had no words with which to counter it. I did not want him to be right—I wanted him to be giving to me the forgetfulness which I demanded.

  Was my own guilt, my own craving, infecting all that I decided for myself? Would I be so weak?

  I listened to his heartbeat in silence, weighing the things I had learned when all I’d wanted to do was forget.

  Could it be that Ashmore had attempted to come to my wedding? If he had managed to arrive in time, I wondered if my groom would have been murdered—if I would have been forced below, hounded by the sweet tooth.

  Would I have been compelled to see all I was destroyed?

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I curled into Ashmore’s warmth and tried to block the disastrous dance of what-if and perhaps playing in my head.