A Lady of His Own

by Stephanie Laurens

  Closed her hand and slid it down his length, hot, hard, burning. Clasped, lightly scored. Deliberately incited him.

  He dragged his lips from hers, dragged in a labored breath. Muscles bunched; he yanked her gown to her waist.

  “Like you”—his words were almost too deep to make out, gravelly, grating, dark with forceful menace—“they were always in need of claiming.”

  He reached down, gripped her naked thighs, and lifted her.

  Excitement, flaring anticipation and relief rushed through her; giddy, she closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, grabbed his shoulders for balance. Head back, braced against the wall, she felt him nudge into her softness, ease in just a fraction—then he stopped.

  Held them both on the brink, nerves coiled, clenched, waiting…

  She raised her lids, through the dimness found the dark glint of his eyes. Held them for a pregnant second, then provocatively murmured, “And did you claim them?”

  He thrust into her, and filled her, not slowly, not fast, but powerfully, forging in, the latent strength in his body, so much greater than hers, blatantly evident. She couldn’t have prevented him, denied him her body, held him out had she wanted to, not by any physical means.

  He thrust deep, impaled her fully, then leaned close, and whispered against her lips, “I tried.”

  Her lips curved in response.

  Physically, she was his. Emotionally, he was hers.

  As if in acknowledgment of that truth, his gaze lowered to her lips. “I was never sure I succeeded.”

  He kissed her rapaciously, and their ride began. More forceful, less civilized, more real than before. The sense of being a figment of the other’s fantasy released what little inhibitions they possessed, unlocked and let fall the last restraints.

  Let them both be as they dreamed of being, a revelation deeper, more intimate, more telling.

  He held her against the wall, supporting her weight, and thrust heavily into her. She gasped, clung to his shoulders, gripped his hips with her knees, and rode every deep penetration.

  When she broke from the kiss on a sob, he bent his head and feasted on her breasts. Took all he wished without quarter.

  Ravished her, body, mind, and soul.

  Even while her body shuddered, racked by a superbly gauged intimate assault wholly focused on bringing about her surrender, the elements of desire their roles revealed spun around her, through her.

  Slowly coalesced even while he drove her to the brink, and over.

  Until she screamed his name on a breathless cry, and shattered.

  He withdrew from her and carried her to the bed, tossed her across it, stripped her nightgown away, stripped off his breeches, and joined her. Trapped her beneath him, with his thighs spread hers wide, settled between, caught her hands one in each of his, raised them level with her head, then pressed them to the coverlet as he braced his arms and rose over her, held her down as with one powerful surge he joined with her.

  And took more. Demanded more, every last gasp, every last sob of helpless desire she had it in her to give.

  Heat poured from him, turned their skins slick, burned through their veins, and still she met him, matched him, stayed with him. Gave all he asked, took all he gave in return. Exulted as from under weighted lids she watched him above her.

  Hot, relentless, unforgivingly hard—and hers.

  He drove her ruthlessly up and over the peak; her awareness fractured into slivers of glowing gold. She felt him follow hard on her heels into physical oblivion; he slumped atop her and she freed her hands, slid her arms around him and held him close—and that power that had grown immeasurably in the last weeks rose up and engulfed them.

  In that moment of blessed peace, a sense of certainty bloomed and burgeoned within her.

  Long moments passed before they eventually moved, just enough to find the pillows and slip under the covers, not enough to disturb the heavy pleasure that lay upon them, that had sunk to their bones, and deeper.

  Curled within his arms, her head on his shoulder, she felt her lips curve as, borne on the cusp of sated slumber, the truth gleamed, clear, in her mind. Her fantasy had been an extension of their real lives—lord and lady—that was who they were. His fantasy, however…in it was embedded the real truth of what they were, what they meant to each other.

  He was the pirate who had captured her.

  She was the siren who, his captive, had captured him.

  CHAPTER

  20

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN THEY GATHERED FOR BREAKfast, Nicholas was much improved, yet to his irritation was straitly informed by Charles, Jack, and Gervase that he could not stir a foot without a guard.

  As their clear message was that they wouldn’t permit him to stir that foot, he had no option but to acquiesce.

  “The patrols I set in place—in light of your arrival”—Charles looked at Jack and Gervase—“I’m calling them off. Normal enough seeing we’ve gone two days without incident. If he’s scouting about, he’ll doubtless wait another day or so for all alarm to subside before making his move.”

  “Regardless,” Jack declared, working his way through a plate of sausages, “we’ll be here.”

  “I need to go into Fowey and check what my sources there have unearthed,” Charles said. “It might not be anything, but we can’t afford to miss whatever scraps fate deigns to throw us.”

  Gervase and Jack nodded. Nicholas looked resigned. “Perhaps I should show these two the priest hole?”

  Jack brightened. “Good idea.”

  Penny set down her teacup and pushed back her chair. “I’ll come with you, Charles—I want to speak with Mother Gibbs.” She rose with a smile for the others, but didn’t catch Charles’s eye. Turning to the door, she spoke over her shoulder, “I’ll change into my habit and meet you in the stables.”

  She could feel his gaze narrowing, arrowing on her back; blithely ignoring it, she glided out of the dining room.

  He was waiting when she reached the stables; from the look in his eyes, he was less than impressed. She held up a hand before he could speak. “If I stay here, I’ll be forced to go for a walk—I’ll be safer with you.”

  The comment gave him pause, then, with a grimace, he surrendered and lifted her to her saddle.

  Neither they nor their mounts had been out for two days; they took to the fields and galloped, eager for the exercise. When the outskirts of Fowey lay ahead, they reined in to a sensible pace.

  In perfect empathy, they trotted toward the town. That empathy was deeper than before; from the moment she’d agreed to marry him, regardless of her qualification, she’d sensed the change in him. The absolute, unshakable confidence that she would be his come what may. Initially, she’d been suspicious, but there was no denying he knew her and her stubbornness well; after last night, his rock-solid confidence in their ultimate outcome had infected her. It could only mean that he was sure he could meet her condition, was committed to meeting it, confident he would. Which meant…

  A frisson of expectation, of shining hope, surged through her; she glanced his way, let her gaze slide over him, then looked ahead. Perhaps, at last, their time had come…but first they had to catch the murderer.

  They left their horses at the Pelican, took the downhill lanes to the quay, then wended up the familiar alleys to Mother Gibbs’s door.

  Even though it was midmorning, Charles had to knock three times before a towheaded lad opened it. Recognizing the youngest Gibbs, Charles asked for his mother, only to be informed in an uncertain tone, “Ma’s in the kitchen givin’ the others merry ’ell.”

  Charles blinked; sounds of a shrill altercation drifted up from the depths of the house. “Dennis and your brothers?”

  The boy had recognized him; he nodded.

  “We’ll go in.” Charles grasped Penny’s hand and towed her past the lad, who blinked in surprise.

  “Close the door,” Charles reminded him.

  Shaking free of his stunned stupor, the boy jumped t
o obey.

  The kitchen lay at the end of the corridor that ran the length of the house. Penny ignored the closed doors they passed; the nearer they got, the louder and shriller the argument became. Charles ducked his head and they stepped down into the kitchen.

  Mother Gibbs stood before the stove, in full flight, punctuating her statements with a heavy ladle that she banged on a chopping board on the table before her. Ranged on the other side of the table were her three eldest sons, all hulking, brawny sailors who towered over her, yet all three appeared to be trying to make themselves small, an impossible feat.

  Glimpsing movement behind the wall of her sons, Mother Gibbs shifted, saw Charles, and broke off in midharangue.

  The three brothers followed her gaze to Charles and Penny; Penny could almost hear their sighs of relief fall into the sudden silence.

  Charles took in the situation in one glance; he held up a placating hand. “My apologies for interrupting, but I need to speak with you all, and time is short.” When no one responded, just stared at him, he shifted his gaze from Mother Gibbs’s florid countenance to Dennis’s studiously blank face. Charles paused, tasting the silence. “Has anything happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened!” Mother Gibbs thumped the ladle down. “These numbskulls sent my sister’s boy off to keep watch somewhere and he’s not been home and his mother’s been here whining all morning.”

  She brandished the ladle at Dennis. “You know what I’ve told you ’bout getting your cousins involved—they’re younger’n you lot. And now here we’ve had spies this and spies that for the last week ’til Sid’s up and told Bertha he was out to keep watch last night, and he’s not been back since.”

  Leveling the ladle at Dennis, she narrowed her eyes. “So you just get on out there to wherever you’ve sent him and tell him to get along home sharpish, or I’ll have Bertha here whining over our teatime, and that I won’t have, do y’hear?”

  “Yes, Ma.” The words were uttered in unison by all three brothers.

  Dennis slid a harrassed look at Charles, then looked, somewhat sheepishly, at his mother. “Did Aunt Bertha say where he’d gone?”

  “’Course not!” Lowering the ladle, Mother Gibbs opened her mouth—then registered the import of the question. She stared at her eldest son. “You know, don’t you? You sent ’im—”

  She broke off because Dennis was shaking his head, as were his brothers beside him.

  “We didn’t send him—or anyone—anywhere. Didn’t need to.” Dennis glanced at Charles. “His lordship here asked could we learn anything about those three gents he had his eye on—easy enough to get the stable lads as run with us to keep their eyes open and report anything odd they see.”

  Dennis looked at his mother. “We didn’t send Sid anywhere—honest, Ma.”

  “But…” Mother Gibbs blinked, then looked at Charles. “Sid went out yesterday evening while it was still light. Told Bertha he was going to keep watch on some spy. She thought…” Mother Gibbs stepped to the side and sat heavily on a stool as the color drained from her face. “Oh, dear.”

  Charles agreed with her. He caught Dennis’s eye. “Any idea who Sid took it into his head to watch?”

  Grim, Dennis shook his head. “He didn’t speak to me.” He glanced at his brothers; both shook their heads.

  Dennis sighed. “Sid’s been itching to go out with us for months, but”—with his head, he indicated his mother—“we’ve always put him off. Might be he heard what’s been going on and thought to try his hand.”

  Charles held Dennis’s gaze for a moment. “We need to search.”

  “Aye.” Dennis looked at his brothers. “So I’m thinking.”

  There was a quality in their voices that both Penny and Mother Gibbs recognized; they exchanged glances, then Penny eased past Charles and went to crouch beside Mother Gibbs as the four men discussed organizing a search.

  Mother Gibbs’s hands clasped and unclasped in her lap; she looked more stunned than if one of her boys had struck her. Penny laid a hand over the old woman’s fingers. “We can’t do anything but wait—they’ll find him.”

  Mother Gibbs blinked. “Bertha’s Sam was lost at sea—that’s why she’s been so set against Sid going with the others. If something’s happened to him because he wasn’t running in Dennis’s harness like all the others do…” She exhaled gustily; her gaze grew distant. “She’ll be beside herself, our Bertha.”

  Penny wished she could offer some heartening platitudes, but when it came to this man—the murderer who’d walked among them for the past weeks—she couldn’t believe enough to even hope.

  She looked up to hear Charles commit the stable hands from both the Hall and the Abbey to the search, then he glanced at her.

  “We need to get back.”

  She nodded and rose, her hand still resting over Mother Gibbs’s. As before, the three Gibbs brothers had behaved throughout as if she wasn’t there. She looked down at the old woman, met her old eyes, squeezed her hand, then went to join Charles.

  He ushered her out of the house. They strode back to the Pelican Inn in record time. Charles paused only to speak with the grooms, spreading the word, then they were galloping back to the Hall even faster than they’d left it.

  The news sobered everyone. Only Nicholas was game to suggest, “It could just be a coincidence.”

  The others all looked at him; although no one argued, none of them agreed. Penny knew what she hoped, but the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach doused her usual confidence.

  As Charles had called off the patrols, the Hall’s grooms and stable lads joined in the search, spreading out to scout through the Hall’s acres. Immediately after luncheon, one of the Abbey’s grooms arrived bearing a missive from Dalziel. Charles took it and sent the groom back with orders for the Abbey staff to search the riverbanks from river mouth to the castle ruins.

  He watched the groom ride off, then, hefting Dalziel’s packet, walked inside.

  Penny was waiting in the front hall; he waved her to the library and followed. The other three were there. All watched as he walked to the desk, picked up the letter knife, and slit the packet open.

  Without bothering to sit, he spread out the sheets and read. Reaching the end of the second sheet, he glanced at their expectant faces. “Carmichael has no links with anyone suspicious, and he lost a brother and two cousins in the wars. Three friends have confirmed he’s been dallying with a view to getting leg-shackled to Imogen Cranfield for more than six months. Altogether, I think that puts him lowest on our list of three.”

  Looking again at the second sheet, he came around the desk and sat. “Fothergill…they’re still checking but have turned up nothing suggestive yet. The family’s large—they’re having trouble tracking down the right branch. As for Gerond, Dalziel reports that some of his inquiries have started to meet with Gallic shrugs…interesting. They’re pressing as hard as they can but have nothing definite yet.”

  Jack nodded, jaw firming. “So Gerond goes to the top of our list, Forthergill is an outside chance, and Carmichael is unlikely.”

  “That,” Charles said, refolding the letter, “sums it up.”

  “Tell me again,” Gervase said, “what we know about Gerond.”

  Charles obliged. Jack asked, and Nicholas confirmed that his attacker had sworn in fluent French.

  “Dalziel confirmed that Gerond has strong links with rabidly patriotic groups among the French.” Gervase’s lips thinned. “Those boxes—the pill- and snuffboxes. They might not rate all that highly to us, but if some ranked as French national treasures, that might account for someone like Gerond throwing in his hand with the new regime, even if to avenge old crimes.”

  Jack leaned forward, clasped hands between his knees. “He’s of the right age, and he’s seen some action, hasn’t he?”

  Charles nodded. “Some, but all on our side.”

  “Whoever this is, he’s definitely had training, and some experience.”

  P
enny sat on the chaise and listened as they discussed the characteristics and traits they felt the killer possessed; from there, they progressed to formulating plans to draw him into the open, into their grasp. It was clear Jack and Gervase, and even more Nicholas, had focused on Gerond as their man; to them, the evidence pointed that way. Charles, however…he was usually quick to act on instinct, yet in this he hung back, refraining from distinguishing between Gerond and Fothergill.

  Consulting her own feelings, she had to admit that, to her, all fingers pointed to Gerond. It was Charles’s quiet resistance to focusing solely on Gerond that emphasized the point she and the others were missing, but that Charles was not. Would not.