Blue Moon Enchantment (Once In A Blue Moon Series)

by Jeanne Van Arsdall

  Unable to bear looking at her lovely face, he started to turn away, but she caught his sleeve.

  “Who, Desdein?”

  The mask slipped back into place—too easily. The condescending tone of the supercilious fop answered for him. “Who kissed you? Why the Mad Marquis, of course.

  He will have something to recant to all the ton. That he kissed a country mouse, and the silly goose called it torture.”

  Her smile faded. Her full lip quivered. “No...I called you cruel. I was right.”

  Jaw setting, he glared at her with icy arrogance. “Yes, I live for it.”

  Desdein turned and strode back into the other room to the fire to warm the chill spreading in his body. He didn’t look back, knew if he did it’d be a mistake. Not even when he heard her quiet sob. Should he turn back he’d have kissed every tear he’d brought to those solemn eyes. Then he would, indeed, be cruel.

  Not to her. To himself.

  For touching a dream that could never be.

  ***

  Ashlyn awoke with a sense of unease. Immediately she feared it was Cyril. Often she broke her slumber, fearful her small friend had drawn his last breath without her getting to hold him one last time or tell him how much she loved him and would miss his gentle company.

  She reached out and felt the warmth of his body, then tension eased in her somewhat. Still, there was disquiet within her. Something was wrong.

  She slid off the bed, her eyes went to the other room, seeking Desdein, saw he was in a chair before the fire.

  He was slumped in the chair, a half-empty decanter on the floor within reach. His arm hung over the chair arm, the long fingers gripping a single piece of paper. As she neared, she thought he was asleep, but when her body blocked the fire from his face, he looked up.

  Weary, the dark of his beard showing, he looked very rumpled, very accessible. For once the masks were down. His long legs, sprawled wide, were still encased in the tight riding breeches, the jackboots, fitting like a glove to mid-thigh.

  Being a bold, sinful lass, she knelt between his knees and put her hands on the leather covered thighs. He watched her, the lavender eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and the drink. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but could only stare at the beautiful face of Desdein Deshaunt. She’d always thought him handsome at the few parties they’d both attended. He was a graceful, elegant man who played at being a fop. But she’d noticed how his clothes fit his body, how there was solid muscle under the silks and velvets.

  There was a throb in her body, like a heartbeat, but slower, stronger, moving through her, driving her. As she watched him, the inner plaint strengthened.

  “Desdein, what is wrong?”

  His lower arm lifted, holding the piece of paper. “Your father’s reply.”

  She shivered with a chill though the fire burned brightly, warmed her back. There was no need to read it. She knew what her father’s response would be, had warned Desdein her sire would never trade her for his brother.

  “What shall you do?” she whispered.

  He leaned forward so they were almost touching foreheads. “Do you wish to know what it says?”

  She swallowed. There was a hard edge to Desdein’s measured words. His mood was dangerous and she’d be stupid not to recognize it. His feral stillness set her heart to slamming against her ribs, as she stared at the sensual lips she so wanted to kiss again. And again.

  “I told you I had no value to him. I am sorry. I wish I could make it up to you.”

  “How would you make it up to me, Ashlyn? What would you do?”

  “Whatever you want.” She tried to smile, but the words hurt. “I told you I am not worth much to anyone.”

  Releasing the letter, it fluttered to the floor. “Do you know what you offer me?”

  “No. I know volumes about ancient history, or how to do accounts for an estate. I did not have a tutor. Could not afford one. I learned what I know by reading.”

  “Then let me be your tutor.”

  He took her mouth with a roughness that was startling. It shocked her, but she quickly accepted the wildness within him. His arms pulled her against his body, her breasts pressing to his chest. She felt like a leaf caught in a storm, unable to do anything but let the wind carry her along into the maelstrom.

  He reached down, then rose, sweeping her into his strong arms, cradling her. She stared into the lavender eyes, realizing they had a bluish tint up close.

  Just like her Blue Moon wish.

  Desdein was her Blue Moon wish come true.

  ***

  He should have never touched her. There was too much frustration, anger, blind rage boiling within him. Too many things to consider. He had to save Jeremy, but he couldn’t use Ashlyn in this manner. He owed her that. There was only one thing left to trade—himself.

  He looked at the paper on the floor, barely making out Kildorne’s words, shakily scrawled across the cream-colored velum.

  For God sake, please don’t harm her. I shall do anything you want. Name it.

  ***

  He’d been selfish not to show Ashlyn that she’d more value to her father than she knew. But he’d wanted Ashlyn. Wanted to carry her sweet memory with him when he faced Kildorne. Maybe carry it to the grave.

  Desdein sighed, then thought of the second missive he’d sent to Kildorne, telling him to protect his daughter, bring Jeremy to Hallowden Hill at dawnbreak and he would trade the Devil in Spurs for his brother. The reply came, agreeing. He’d hold Kildorne until Jeremy could be sped upon his way. Then damn his soul, Kildorne and he could die together.

  Only what to do about Ashlyn? He had sat before the fire trying to drown his fury in the Scotch. She’d be ruined in the ton’s eyes, even though he’d done naught more than kiss her. They’d brand her fallen. He recalled her speaking of being tired, from sitting up at night with a pistol to protect her honor. His kidnapping her had sentenced her to endless nights of such terror.

  His hand had clenched around the paper that held Kildorne’s reply to his second offer and tossed it into the fire.

  No matter. He’d know he left her unsullied, the one pure, honest thing he’d ever touched in his life. He would’ve spared her innocence, though he burned with every fiber of his being, wanting her as he’d never wanted anything in his whole life. In Ashlyn’s arms was Salvation, the power to heal his troubled soul. But for once, he was going to do what was honorable.

  Maybe on nights of the Blue Moon she would gaze out her window and think of him, of her first kiss from a man known as the Devil in Spurs.

  Only, she came to him, put those strong, beautiful hands upon his thighs and said she’d do anything. Sealing her fate.

  He’d die come dawn, so he wanted these last few hours with her. He wanted her burned into his memory.

  ***

  Pausing by the bed, Desdein kissed her, softly, sweetly, reverently at first. As he broke it, intending to put her down, Ashlyn’s raspy sigh of hunger let loose the demons within him. His mouth took hers, letting her feel the power of his need, almost fearing he’d shock her. Being a virgin, Ashlyn deserved tenderness, but he wanted her with a forced that rocked him. It empowered him, yet in the same breath left him helpless against the driving energy, pushing him to take. Claim. Brand.

  Setting her on her feet, he trembled—not from holding her weight, from reining in the frantic craving that twisted his guts. As he unfastened the back of her gown with the care of a lady’s maid, he suffered the need to bury himself in her body. Make them one. Ashlyn held no comprehension how much it cost him not to rip the clothing from her lush body.

  He left her the chemise; so thin, so sheer it inflamed his desire more than protected her from his gaze. Utterly dumbfounded, he paused to stare at her beauty, the rounded hips, the full breasts. Unable to stand not touching her, he fell to his knees before Ashlyn, intent on worshipping her. His hand seized her waist, yanking her to arch to him so his mouth could latch upon one breast through the gauzy mate
rial. Her hands clutched his upper arms, her fingers biting the muscles. He drew hard on the soft breast, sucking with a rhythm that brought mewls to her throat. He kept it up, pushing her higher and higher, her hips pressing against his stomach in age old mating instincts. Her open responses made it harder for him to keep control.

  “Oh, Desdein, is this ravishing?”

  His mouth released the hold oh her nipple to reply. He lifted her onto the bed, as he began to undress. “It is indeed.”

  “Can a man ravish a woman more than once in a night?” she asked in seriousness.

  His smile was predatory. “He can...should he enjoy it.”

  “Will you...enjoy ravishing me, Desdein?”

  As he pulled off his shirt, the sly minx leaned to him and her mouth latched onto his hard male nipple, her actions mimicking his. He sucked in a sharp breath to steady himself as his groin nearly exploded with the wildfire she set off in him. “Enjoy? Hmm, ah...yes...I think that is a distinct possibility. Enough! I cannot think with you doing that.”

  He pushed her back on the bed, dancing on one foot then the other as he pulled off the jackboots. Ashlyn laughed and lay back on the bed, watching him with hungry eyes until he finally was naked. Putting a knee on the bed, he slid over her careful to keep his weight on his elbows.

  “Why are you laughing, you scatty woman?” He slid one of his legs between hers, pushing them apart, smiling at her lack of resistance.

  She loosely wrapped her arms about his neck. “I think Aunt Dora’s comments on ravishment to be grossly misconstrued.”

  “Shall I teach you the right of it, my pet?”

  Her radiant countenance, bathed in shadow and firelight, turned solemn. Her grey eyes stared into his, so open, so needing him. “Teach me, Desdein.”

  “For you, lass, I would slay dragons and duel wizards.” He liked the sheer material of the chemise, gossamer, as if it was made of faeries wings, so he left it on. As if feasting, he took her other breast in his mouth, using his tongue, his teeth, drawing on it until she writhed and keened in need.

  She came apart in his arms, barely understanding her body’s responses to him.

  Barely felt the virgin’s pain as he entered her.

  ***

  Ashlyn jerked awake and tried to focus. Sore in places she didn’t know a woman could be sore, she smiled, recalling her night with Desdein. If Aunt Dora knew how much she enjoyed being ravished, poor dear would faint and need smelling salts.

  Blindly, she yawned and stretched, looking for Desdein. She wanted to touch him, run her hands over his strong body. Her lover. Those two words had a special, secret ring to them.

  Cyril sat on the end of the bed, his tail snapping, unhappy for some reason.

  Apprehension crept up her spine as she felt the bed was cold where he’d lain beside her. She looked about for her dress, then spied Desdein’s black breeches and shirt, and quickly dressed in them. They were much warmer, and it felt rather free wearing men’s clothing. Easier to put on, requiring no maid. Except for the waist, they were a decent fit, but by tightening the belt she solved that problem.

  She pulled up short when she saw Desdein’s valet building the fire. “Where is your master?”

  “Gone.”

  Why did that word provoke such fear in her? “Gone where?”

  “He arranged a trade with your lord father.”

  “Trade? What? My father shan’t want a daughter who has been soiled.”

  He shrugged, handing her the paper. “Mebbe, you underestimate your father. Maybe Deshaunt ain’t trading you. He figured the Devil in Spurs would do the trick. Sought to spare you.”

  Ashlyn’s eyes skimmed her father’s words, startled by the emotion they conveyed. In spite, she could spare little time to wonder at him. She paled when Jacob revealed Desdein’s intentions. “He cannot! Yes, the blasted man would. Oh, drat. How long ago did he leave? Where did he go?”

  She dashed to the door, then remembered Cyril. In a dither, she hunted for his basket, recalled they hadn’t bought it, then searched for her shoes, but could only locate one. Shaking, she was doing her best not to cry, but she feared she’d be too late. Blasted man might do something stupid, like give himself up or shoot her father and get shot himself. Of course, with her father it would be an accident since the man couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn.

  “Here now, you cannot go barefooted.” The valet came back into the room with a pair of boots. “They were Master Jeremy’s when he was but a lad. They might fit.”

  “Thank you.” She sat down and tugged one on, pleased by how well they fit. “Where did he go?”

  “The master said not to tell you, but I figure you are the only one to stop him getting himself killed. Hallowden Hill. There is a ship anchored in Hallowden Bay. The master hopes to see his brother onboard and at sea by first light.”

  “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Not long.”

  “Can you fetch me a horse?” She bit her lip. “I forgot. I cannot ride.”

  “I have a carriage awaiting you. The marquis said I should take you and the cat to Crayford Hall. He left papers naming you as the new owner.”

  “How kind of him, but if he thinks he is going to get away from me that easily, the man has pudding for brains.”

  The sour faced valet smiled. “Sounds like, miss, you care for the Marquis.”

  “I hate his bloody guts.” She scooped up the cat. “Come, Cyril, we have to go catch a devil.”

  ***

  The sun was up, for the good it did. Fog rolled in at daybreak and was so thick Desdein could hardly see a few feet ahead of him. He’d dismounted and waited. Two loaded pistols were tucked behind his belt, against his back, another was in his hand.

  Warrior’s Heart murmured deep in his throat, then jerked against the reins, alerting him that the black coach slowly eased forward, inching its way through the fog. The driver, Horace, reined to halt at the top of the hill when he saw Desdein. Heart slamming against his ribs, he wasn’t sure he breathed until the door to the carriage opened and Kildorne finally stepped down. The man glanced back inside the coach, then back to Desdein, surprise in his eyes.

  The Viscount held up both hands to show he carried no weapon, then started forward. “Marquis de Fournier, I...did not expect you to be here. I meet that highwayman...Devil in Spurs they call him.” His eyes rested on the pistol in Desdein’s hand.

  Desdein lacked time for pleasantries. “Did you bring him?”

  “Then I take it you are the highwayman?”

  Desdein sketched a mock bow. “At your service, Viscount.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  “Where is my brother?” He raised the pistol and trained it on Kildorne.

  The elder man lifted his lower arm and made a flick with his wrist. Horace tied off the reins, then stepped down. Going to the door, he leaned in and pulled Jeremy out, hands tied before him. He looked a little mussed, but none the worse for wear. Since hearing of his arrest, Desdein feared they might have beaten him...or worse.

  As his brother took a step, Desdein heard a carriage racing up behind him, driving too fast in the fog. He figured there could only be one person foolish enough to have Jacob clattering about in this mist at breakneck speed. Ashlyn.

  His heart swelled she cared enough to come, yet it would’ve been much easier if the matter were over before she’d awoken. Her father’s eyes tracked the carriage, as it rattled to a stop behind him. The door flew open and Ashlyn leapt out, even before it came to a full rest.

  “Jacob, I shall turn you out without references for bringing her.”

  “Yes, your lordship. Better than her beating me with the horsewhip, as she threatened.” Jacob’s nonplussed tone said he hadn’t really feared that. The meddling valet had brought her hoping she’d stop him. “Of course, if you are tossed in Newgate you shan’t need a valet and your references would have dubious value.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, seeing Ashlyn wor
e his clothes. She ran to him, putting her left hand on his back, and asked breathlessly, “Desdein, what are you doing? What is this about Newgate?”

  Just as he opened his mouth to explain, Cyril staggered out of the carriage and came to wind around his feet. “Ashlyn, gather Cyril before he exhausts himself and then get back into the coach. Jacob, take her to Crayford Hall as per my instructions.”

  “No, Desdein.” She placed a hand on his upper arm.

  Jacob just shrugged.

  Desdein glanced at her beautiful face, pale but determined. Ashlyn hadn’t batted an eyelash that he held a pistol on her father, nor had she spared his brother a glance. Her focus was on him. He smiled. It felt good to have someone worry about him. Sad it came too late in his life. Maybe had he found Ashlyn years before, he’d be comfortably settled with her, too wrapped up in making babes with her to let vengeance claim his whole life.

  “’Tis a good thing I did not ask you to marry me. I would likely have to beat you every day just to get you to obey me.”

  She sighed. “Most likely, and on Sunday you might try to murder Cyril and me, as well.”

  “Trust me?”

  She swallowed her fear. “I trust you not to beat me or murder me. Or Cyril.”

  “Then let me do what I must without interfering. Yes, Desdein?” he prompted.

  She hesitated so long he feared she’d refuse, finally she said, “Yes, Desdein.”

  “Stay behind me while I handle this.” He looked to her father, noticing the man intently watched the byplay between then. Rather than loathing, he saw calculation and possibly a spark of hope. That puzzled him. Did the man hope to use Ashlyn against him?

  “Send Jeremy toward me.” His voice rang out in the hushed fog that eddied about them.

  Jeremy glanced toward Kildorne, who nodded, so his brother started forward.

  As he neared, his blue eyes rested on Ashlyn, then traveled the length of her body. He arched a brow as he returned his gaze to Desdein.