by Darcy Burke
He should not be in her bedchamber. He knew that; of course he knew that. Station and circumstance and gentlemanliness aside, a man as outraged as he over another man’s ill behavior should not be flaunting propriety by turning down bed sheets and carefully settling an innocent young woman atop them.
But what was he to do? Even if he hadn’t canceled the supper orders, Violet would still not have been able to consume a single bite after seeing that Wanted bill and learning of her alleged victim’s continued existence. And a disturbing thirst for vengeance. For he could think of no other reason to exaggerate charges, other than to ensure the Wanted bill caught public attention and the monetary reward led to Violet’s location.
Alistair closed the door to keep out prying eyes while he got her settled. Right now, she just needed safety. And peace. He perched at the edge of the mattress alongside her prone form and frowned. Was it wise to leave her alone? Violet had completely shut into herself and he could hardly take his leave of her without assuring himself of her wellbeing.
“Are you warm enough, or shall I cover you?” he asked quietly.
When she slowly shook her head in response, he realized how poorly he’d phrased his question. No, she was not warm? Or no, he should not cover her? He glanced over his shoulder. Embers still glowed from the fireplace, but a slight chill had always haunted every room in the abbey.
“I’ll stoke the fire before I go.” He straightened, lingering only to brush a loose curl from her shoulder.
Her fingers latched onto his wrist. “Don’t go.”
His breath caught as her dark eyes finally met his. “What?”
“Stay,” she whispered.
“Violet, love ... You have had a violent shock, and it is scarcely appropriate that I—”
“Stay.”
He could not. He should not. But, oh, how he wished to. Just to hold her tight and know that for now, forever, she would be safe. “Perhaps I could pull up a chair and watch over you until you find slumber.”
“Lie next to me.” She tugged him closer. “Please.”
After the briefest of pauses, he lowered himself alongside her, consciously pushing away all thoughts of propriety or hesitation. Right now, Violet needed him. And, he admitted deep in his heart, he needed her, too. For far more than just this moment.
He pulled her into his arms until their legs entwined and her head lay atop his chest. He stroked the chestnut curls cascading down her back while whispering a steady stream of soft words meant to calm and reassure her. He didn’t even know what he said. Foolish words from his foolish heart. When at last her body finally relaxed atop his, he closed his eyes. And just held her.
He had no idea how long they lay thusly, their bodies perfectly intermeshed. She drifted into sleep, but he did not. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and breathed in the rosewater scent of her hair. She felt so ... right. His arms were beginning to lock up from keeping their prolonged position for so long, but he could swear he’d never been so comfortable in his life.
He loved her, he realized suddenly, his cheek against her hair. Good God, he loved her.
When had that happened? Days ago? Weeks ago? Months? Had he been blind all this time, or simply deceiving himself about what he felt? How wrong he’d thought it was? There was unquestionably an unequal social and class disparity. That part was still true ... yet wholly irrelevant. He loved her. And love trumped everything.
Roper had been right. Alistair was both the stubbornest and luckiest of men. He had found love a second time. God had blessed this abbey with not one but two perfect women. God had spirited the first back to paradise but, in His benevolence, had seen fit to set Alistair upon the path that led him here, to this woman, to this bedchamber, to this moment. The angel in his arms was a gift straight from heaven. An answer to prayers he hadn’t dared speak aloud. Fortunately, God had had the wisdom to listen to a man’s heart rather than his words.
Sending a silent thank-you heavenward, Alistair held her even tighter.
She started, rearing up with a whistling gasp and clamping claw-like fingers around his forearms. Wide-eyed, she stared at him blindly for a long, heart-stopping moment before relaxing her grip and falling limply back into his arms. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.” He hesitated, then pressed a worried kiss to her forehead. “Bad dreams?”
Without lifting her head, she slid her fingers into his hair and sighed. “You cannot imagine.”
“I believe you. How can I help?” He warmed as her arms clung to him, keeping him close. “I cannot undo the past, but I have more than enough money for the hire of a good barrister. I will write my solicitor for recommendations first thing in the morning.”
“I wrote to a few already. The only funds I have are what I’ve earned since coming here, and I planned to put every cent toward my legal defense. Alistair, I ... ” Violet propped herself up on his chest in order to meet his eyes. “I wanted to tell you. I did. But I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me, or to cut me from your life. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to wait until after I’d managed to acquit myself of any charges, in order to better prove to you what kind of person I am.”
“I already know what kind of person you are.” He smiled up at her. “Haven’t I said from the beginning that you were a miracle in our lives? You’re an angel from God Himself.”
Her expression was uncomfortable, rather than pleased. “Trust me, I’m hardly—”
“Nobody is perfect,” he interrupted quietly. “I am living proof. But this was not your fault, love. You are not to blame. I can understand not wishing to disclose the details before you knew how the story would end. And now that I do know, I can help. This Percy Livingstone will not win. I swear it.”
The doubt did not ease from her expression, but she nodded rather than offer additional protest. “Thank you.”
His insides clenched. He would fix this for her. Be the guardian angel of his guardian angel. He had promised. And he loved her to much to do anything less.
He caressed her cheek with the curve of a finger. “If there is anything else I can do, please say the word.”
The worry lines slowly left her face as she gazed down at him. A new look came into her eyes. A better look. Hunger. Her fingers tightened in his hair as she lowered her face to his. “Kiss me.”
Alistair did not need to be told twice. He wanted nothing more than to keep her next to him forever.
Cupping her to him, he rolled so that his body was atop hers and her open mouth beneath his. Her mouth tasted like heaven. She gripped his hair and locked her thighs about his as he kissed her again, and again, and again. Oh, how he had yearned for this. For her. He could not help his body’s reaction as his pulse quickened and his cock hardened. Her gasps of pleasure as he slid its length against her core only served to heighten his arousal. She was perfect, and he ached to make her his.
She slid one hand from his hair to her shoulder and tugged at her neckline. His breeches tightened further in response. As an innocent, she wouldn’t be able to fathom how erotic it was to see how shyly she pulled the scooped neck of the gown down over her shoulder. He kissed the bared flesh, then her lips. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she lowered the thin silk inch by inch until one breast broke free of its confinement.
Plump and pale and perfect, the breast exactly molded to his waiting hand. The nipple had sprung to life before he’d even touched it. When he finally gave into temptation she gasped into his mouth at the feel of his fingers caressing and tugging the sensitive bud. He had dreamed of exactly this.
He tore his mouth from hers in order to taste that delicious breast, to feel his tongue rasping across the hard nipple. Her back arched, both her hands tangling in his hair and keeping him locked in his suckling position. She needn’t have worried—he wouldn’t dream of stopping. Not wishing to startle her, he kept himself propped in place with one hand, and with the other began slowly, slowly, easing the hem of her gown up toward her hips.
&n
bsp; Her legs parted without prompting, baring her naked thighs, baring everything to his palm, to his fingers. She was beautiful. Still teasing her nipple with his tongue and his teeth, he traced a light pattern up her thighs, across her belly, circling ever closer to her core without quite touching her center, until her flesh shivered at his touch and her taut legs trembled in the night air. He wanted this moment to be perfect for her. A memory to cherish forever.
The next time he teasingly swirled the tip of a finger tortuously close to her cleft, she bucked her hips without warning. Surprised, he bit harder than intended upon her nipple as his finger sank straight into her warm heat.
She cried out, her head arching backward. Just as quickly, she pushed his head back to her breast. He forced himself to take it slowly, to savor each gasp, each sensation. He wished to bring her joy. A moment to cherish. She clutched him to her chest as he drove his finger deeper and deeper within her. Every kiss, every thrust, was his body’s way of telling her how much he wanted her. How much he loved her. Heart thundering, he slid a second finger in to join the first, all the while circling the pad of his thumb across the slick wetness of her clitoris. She was ready, and so was he.
With his teeth, he tugged down the edge of her bodice until he bared her other breast. Slowly, tortuously, he applied himself to teasing that nipple with as much attention to detail as the first. He wished to bring her every pleasure, to hold back no part of himself.
She released her fingers from his hair and slid her hands to the sides of her breasts, trapping his face between them as his fingers jutted within her. He panted, barely able to think. She was everything. He suckled one erect nipple, then the other. As his fingers continued to thrust and to stroke her, he dragged the length of his cheek across both breasts, allowing the roughness of his jaw to graze both nipples before he pulled them back into his mouth one at a time.
Her answering gasp pleased him to his core. His body burned for her. He lifted his mouth from her nipples to suckle her tongue, to devour her with kisses, until she cried out as the walls of her womb spasmed against his invading fingers.
When the last of the contractions ceased, he eased his fingers from inside her as he slowly pressed a line of heated kisses down the side of her neck, down the valley between her breasts, down the flat expanse of her belly, down to her—
“No,” she rasped, tugging him upward before he could pleasure her as he’d done before. “This time, I want you.”
When he hesitated, she yanked him to her, pressing her mouth to his as her deft hands made quick work of his fall. He gasped against her mouth. Freed from his breeches, his cock reveled in the sensation of her soft fingers closing tight around the shaft. Stroking, tugging, working him until blood rushed his ears and cleared his head of all conscious thought. He had dreamed of her touch, imagined every detail, but nothing, nothing could compare to having her truly before him. He kissed her again, nearly trembling with restrained desire.
“I want you, Alistair.” She parted her legs and guided his cock between her thighs.
He could barely breathe. She absolutely would be his. He slid home in a single shuddering thrust, then froze in horror that he might have hurt her in his passion. She reached for him and nipped at his lower lip.
“More.” She smiled when his cock twitched in reply.
He lowered his mouth to hers in a consuming kiss. He would make this count. He would make it perfect. Ever so slowly, he began to move. He shuddered with pleasure. Lacing his fingers with hers, he withdrew and reentered to the rhythm of his pounding heart.
She wrapped her legs around him, biting lightly at his lower lip as she tightened her inner muscles around him. He nearly died. He cupped the back of her head, claiming her with kisses as his body claimed her with his cock. For he was claiming her. Just as she was claiming him. Her head fell back against the pillow as her spine arched and she climaxed once more, this time with their bodies joined together. He thrust faster, building to a climax that threatened to burst from him at any moment.
“Roll over,” she whispered.
Trapping her mouth with his, he wrapped his arms about her and rolled onto his back. She straddled his body and began to ride him, deliberately, tantalizingly. Dimly, he frowned despite the growing pleasure. She reached behind to back to cup his bollocks. He nearly swooned from the pleasure. It was as if she knew exactly how to—
His rhythm stuttered as dawning awareness slowly crept in.
She should not have had the least idea that straddling a man and riding him was even possible. Much less to tug at his bollocks as she worked his cock between her legs. She was an innocent. She was his unspoiled angel, for God’s sake. Or so he’d thought. His hips stilled as a rush of facts became obvious. She had kissed him first, had she not? She had met him pleasure for pleasure, and her current position with his bollocks in her hand could leave no doubt.
“You’re not a virgin?” he managed weakly.
Perhaps as rocked by the jarring question as he, she froze in place. A pink flush infused her cheeks with color. She released her hold and glanced away.
His body was suddenly cold. She was no angel after all. How could he have been so wrong about her? Was it not true that a person who deceived about one thing, might deceive about everything? He had yearned so much for something perfect that he had let his fantasies blind him to the truth. How could he love someone he didn’t even know?
He couldn’t.
He answered his own question, then. All his questions. He was making love to a stranger. “This is not your first time.”
She rolled aside. They were no longer connected, in body nor in his imagination.
She took a deep breath. “You’re not a virgin either.”
“Of course not,” he sputtered. “I have a child!”
“Would it have been more acceptable if I had one, too?”
“No!” He tried to make sense of his turbulent thoughts.
She crossed her arms over her exposed breasts and glared at him. “So it’s fine for you, O master of the house, but not for me?”
He jerked away from her in disbelief. “I was married.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You didn’t seem too concerned about marriage a minute ago, when you were attempting to divest me of my virginity!”
“I was wrong.”
He closed his eyes to block her from his sight. That was not what he had meant to say, but it was true. She was not who he had believed she was, but she was still herself. Still passionate. Still beautiful. Still lying naked before him. He rubbed viciously at his face, unable to think. “I thought you were ... innocent.”
She scrambled backward against the headboard and clutched a pillow to her bosom. “Well, I’m not. And you aren’t much of a gentleman. Either bedding me is fine, or it’s not. Regardless of the past. I’d say, men who think with their cocks shouldn’t be so quick to judge others. Especially those they’d planned on rogering silly.”
He flinched at her language and colored hotly at the direct hit. “Enough. If you don’t want to be judged like a whore, you shouldn’t speak like one.”
Silence fell.
Oh, God. He’d spoken out of anger, but his words went much too far. His stomach clenched with guilt and self-recrimination. She did not deserve the implied insult. Of course she wasn’t a whore. She certainly didn’t need to be treated like one. Cursing his wounded pride, he prepared to beg forgiveness for his capricious tongue and spend the rest of his life in atonement. He lifted his gaze to hers. His blood ran cold.
Her expression was neither hurt nor offended, but curiously empty. Her shoulders slumped, as if she had collapsed inward. She did not look angry. She looked ... guilty. Although he could scarce believe it, he was not blind.
“You prostituted yourself?” he asked in shock and disbelief. “For money?”
“Never.” Her head snapped up, eyes flashing with suppressed fury. “I am a survivor.”
His brain overloaded with conflicting messages.
Before he could begin to sort out his thoughts, she launched herself at him. Fists first. Caught off guard by her shove, he lost his balance and sailed backward off the bed, thudding arse-over-teakettle in a naked heap upon the cold marble floor. Fire raced up his elbow.
“Get out,” she commanded, her bare arm pointed firmly toward the door. “Now!”
He picked himself up, not breaking eye contact. He was searching for the right words to say. He could think of none. Her entire body trembled but she did not break his gaze.
“Goodbye,” she repeated firmly.
Without another word, he turned and strode out the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Alistair’s knees banged against his daughter’s new breakfast table. He winced as the silver clattered against the china for the hundredth time in five minutes. He was either going to break his knees or the dishware. It was just a matter of time.
Meanwhile, Lillian was oblivious to his pain, both inner and physical. She’d been beside herself with glee ever since the child-sized breakfast set arrived. The miniature table and miniature chairs might not be designed for someone of his dimensions, but they matched his petite daughter perfectly, allowing her not only to dine in greater comfort, but also to more easily play hostess to guests. In this case, her father.
Fortunately for him, she was so enamored with pouring tea and arranging pots of jam that she scarcely noticed whether or not her father attended to her inarticulate murmurs of delight. He was having enough trouble attending to his own problems. Starting with the events of last night.
He set down his teacup before it shattered in his hands. In love, was he? How could he possibly love a woman he didn’t even begin to know? From his perspective, he’d just yesterday met the true Violet Smythe—pardon, Violet Whitechapel—for the very first time.
And what had he learned? The more he tried not to remember, the more the memories came flooding back. His angel was far from innocent. Far from angelic. She was a sexually cavalier imposter, and he a blind man who saw only what he wanted. Had he fallen in love with a chimera? With an ideal of impossible purity that had existed solely in his overactive imagination? She had never claimed to share his ideals, nor had she ever professed to be innocent or virginal. He had simply assumed ...
