And so, here they were.
It had been a disaster. She was too aware of Ned. Every instant of every interminable day she could have answered the question of where he was, to whom he was speaking, and what he was wearing. Worse, she felt his gaze tracking her just as closely. The proximity, the tension simmering between them, the accusation she could not yet make, had conspired to make her miserable for the entire weekend. She’d tried to hide it, to mask her unhappiness for the sake of pride, but every now and again she felt the overwhelming urge to escape the charade.
She had done so that afternoon, leaving the card party to find a brief respite. On her way to the solarium, she’d been passing the library when two words had erupted from the other side of the closed door, spoken by a voice she’d have known anywhere.
“John Jones!”
She’d stopped. Yes, the door had been shut. True, she was a guest in this house. But that was her brother’s name being spat with such venom. She’d snuggled her ear up against the paneled door and held her breath.
“…first light at the caves Jones marked on his map. And this time we’ll take the slippery bastard,” Ned’s lieutenant, a man named Bragg, was saying.
“Finally,” Captain Masterson replied. “Wait for me in the old kirkyard. Unless I hear something that changes my plans, I’ll meet you there an hour before dawn.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“You’re certain that the bastard will be there?” Captain Masterson’s voice, low, threatening.
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Because I need an end to this, Bragg, before I do someone a very serious harm.”
Amazingly, Bragg sounded like he laughed but then it turned into a choked sort of coughing sound. “Name of this person wouldn’t happen to be ‘Jones’ now would it?”
“Damn your impudence. Get the hell out of here, Bragg, and remember what I said.”
Eyes wide, Philippa backed off and hurried away. She hadn’t realized the extent of Masterson’s animosity. He kept his feelings masked most of the time. Oh, not that he didn’t swear and stomp around and all, but she would never have guessed he contained such anger.
Needless to say, she hadn’t returned to the card party.
She didn’t waste time pondering her course. She knew it. She always knew her course and it always was one charted from the heart. Clearly, she had to save John from the law.
Therefore, that afternoon she’d pinched the manacles and chain she’d noticed in the Masterson stables a few months ago when her visits had been regular and more convivial, before she’d accidentally intercepted a letter that revealed Lord Masterson also happened to be Captain Masterson, sent here with the express purpose of “ferreting out an iniquitous den of smugglers.” Within an hour of her discovery, she’d broken it off with Ned.
When he’d come calling, she’d left him cooling his boot heels in her great aunt’s parlor while she’d fled out the back door and gone tearing along the cliff paths on her half-wild mount, trying to outdistance her anger and hurt. But that was months past. She was over him.
She’d avoided conversation with her taciturn host that evening by passing the time flirting outrageously with brawny Hal Minton, a neighbor who appeared by her side often when she wanted most to avoid Ned. Then, after all the other guests had gone to bed, Philippa had snuck into Ned’s bedroom, the manacles and chain carefully muffled in a shawl.
She’d held her breath when she saw the faint glow from his bedchamber, praying that he hadn’t stayed up reading all night before going on his predawn raid. He must have planned and worked toward tomorrow’s undertaking for over a year, the same year he’d spent manipulating her in order to get closer to his intended prey.
Her heart stomped in her chest. Even for her, this was bold work. Only her fear for John compelled her. He was her only living relative except for dear, doddery Aunt Grace who acted as their guardian—at least, when she remembered to do so.
And a frankly poor job she’d made of it, too, Philippa now thought with unaccustomed rancor, otherwise she wouldn’t have stood there, staring with a far too familiar eye at the broad and beautifully muscled expanse of Ned Masterson’s naked chest.
Naked.
The fire burned brightly in the hearth, lustering his pale skin and casting shadows over the molded swells and ridges of that impressive, elegant torso. She’d seen this chest before. Touched it. No, honesty compelled her to admit, she’d caressed it. And enjoyed doing so.
She knew his body to be hard and dense, his skin smooth and clear, his fragrance earthy and male. Knew it as only a lover can. Her will wavered before this unanticipated and unwelcome distraction.
Why did he have to lie down atop his sheets half undressed in a cold room?
Why? she thought with unreasoning anger. Because why would pragmatic Ned Masterson bother to undress when he planned to rise within a few hours? He’d taken off his shirt so as not to wrinkle it, but the buff-colored trousers couldn’t wrinkle, not molded as they were so tightly to his thighs and calves. As for being chilled, the day Ned Masterson kowtowed to a human frailty like being cold, the moon would fall from the sky.
No, in this and in all things, he was the quintessential tactician, taking the most direct route to his objective. Even when that route meant riding havoc over a woman’s heart.
At least he’d removed his boots before lying down on the ancient, massive Masterson bed. His blond head was turned, the firelight polishing its angelic color to a bright, refined gold. He slept on his back, his arms—as sculpted as Michelangelo’s David—flung wide, even in his slumber exposing his heart with arrogant disregard for his safety.
His trousers fit snuggly about narrow hips, his chest was smooth and bare until low on his flat belly where a silky cloud of fine dark hair started, growing increasingly thicker until it disappeared beneath his waistband.
A blush rose in Philippa’s cheeks. Once… Though they’d never… Not that she hadn’t wanted…
She squeezed her eyelids shut, marshaling her treacherous thoughts before opening them and easing the muffled chain and manacles down onto the corner of the bed. She’d already taken too long. Gingerly, she took the manacles from the shawl and looped the chain around the thick bedpost and had just padlocked it into place when she heard him shift.
She spun around.
Ned opened his eyes.
Chapter Two
His eyes were green in color and clear as cathedral glass, shadowed by thick dark lashes. It was absurd that one so fair should have brows and lashes so nearly black, at variance as his sensualist’s mouth and the dueling scar tracing a thin line on cheek. “Pip.”
He spoke her name like it was the answer to a question he’d been dreaming about, a haunting imponderable. For a second, pleasure bloomed in his eyes.
“Pip?”
Oh, dear.
With as much casualness as she could muster, she sank down on the edge of the bed, obstructing his view of the bedpost. Behind her back, she groped for the shawl and, finding it, piled it atop the manacles while trying desperately to think of something to say.
“Ned.”
He went very still, pleasure dissolving from his expression, leaving suspicion and an ineffable sense of vulnerability. Ridiculous. Ned Masterson was the least vulnerable man of her acquaintance.
He scowled, his gaze roving over her face as he pushed up to his elbows and braced on his forearms, his abdomen bunching as he did so. When he moved, muscle and sinew articulated in a refined shift and slide, a tautening and release of tension and energy. How she loved the way Ned Masterson moved.
“Why are you here?”
She could still flee. If she left now, she might be able to find the cave where John was unloading his contraband. But there were dozens of caves and miles of coast. The only other option was to stay and…and do what must be done, what she wanted to do, had wanted to do since she’d met him, this bright, wicked Lucifer.
“What are you—”
She’d never been any good at dissembling. She was a terrible liar. And though she’d tried these past four months to be cordial and cool, she was well aware she’d been blistering and derisive.
She had been angry. She still was. But she didn’t have to pretend the excitement she felt. Or the longing. Because as stupid and unpleasant and wrong as it was, she felt all those things for this man.
And if deep inside she recoiled from the idea of using Ned’s undeniable attraction to her for her own advantage, well then, hadn’t he done the same thing to her?
She wouldn’t think. Not anymore. The manacles still waited on the corner of the bed. He still studied her warily.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
She wasn’t prepared for how intoxicating that kiss would be. How evisceratingly sweet. Their lips met, clung a second, pressed deeper. She sighed and melted toward him.
Abruptly, he seized her upper arms, sitting up and pushing her away, even though his mouth followed hers, belying the implied refutation. Her head swam at suddenly being torn from something so potent. She sagged in his grip, her head dipping forward, her eyes shut, overwhelmed and betrayed by her reaction.
“What are you doing here, Philippa?” Ned demanded harshly, his grip tightening.
She looked up. “I’m here because of you.”
She didn’t need to lie. It was more of the truth than she wanted it to be.
Whatever restraint he’d been executing broke. He dragged her forward, settling her across his lap and following her down, one hand splayed behind her head the other on her waist.
He kissed her, his tongue sweeping across her lips with deft certainty of his welcome. And he was welcome, damn him. He stroked the satin sleek lining of her cheeks and sucked gently on her tongue. She kissed him back, drank his passion with the desperation of the famished.
She’d forgotten the taste of him, the rich hunger he roused. His aggression drew a primitive response from her, their tongues coupling.
Her thoughts tumbled about, disjointed by a maelstrom of sensation. A few more minutes and every other consideration would be burnt away in the blast furnace of their desire. She struggled upright, pushing him with all her might. It was like shoving rock under which ran a river of lava. His lips broke free from hers and she pushed once more. He allowed her to topple him flat on his back. But he didn’t let go of her arms.
His green gaze glinted. His chest heaved like a bellows. “What are you playing at, Pip?”
“Ever since you came to Trecombe, you’ve had the advantage in this game you’ve played between us,” she answered hoarsely, thinking of how he’d kept his true purpose here from her and used their relationship to further his own ends. “You’ve had the whip hand.”
His smile was wary, a shade bitter. “Have I? I could have sworn it was the other way around. In fact, I distinctly recall feeling the flail of your tongue more than once in recent months.”
She sniffed at the blatant diversion. “It annoyed you. It didn’t disturb you. It didn’t keep you from doing what you—” She stopped in time, having almost given the game away. But for once, she would be as devious as him. “My manner may have caused you some minor social discomfort. A man like you would hate being slighted by a woman.”
At that, the muscles beneath her palms jumped and the hard line of his jaw tensed. His nostrils flared and the hands around her upper arms tightened before he forcibly relaxed them.
“‘Some minor social discomfort?’” he echoed in a soft voice. “Is that what I feel when you flaunt Minton in front of me like your newest prize? Him, of all men? Oh, yes, I grant you, it has been…uncomfortable.”
Minton? What had Hal Minton to do with anything?
But she hadn’t time to ponder the question for long. “As has been the cut you give me at every possible turn, never once offering me a reason why. Don’t you think that I feel—” He closed his eyes as though the sight of her was insufferable.
When he opened them again, his smile caused her to shrink back in his grip. He did not allow it.
“What do you know of ‘a man like me,’ Pip, my black beauty?” he asked in that terrible, cool voice made worse by its contrast with his bright, burning gaze.
“Nothing,” she proclaimed. “Nor do I want to.”
For a moment, she could have sworn pain trespassed over his elegant, severe features and caused the odd timbre in his deep voice.
“Then, tell me, darling, what sins have I been punished for these past four months? For, faith, I burn to hear them named.”
She tried to pull away and he gave her a little shake.
“Name my crimes, Pip,” he commanded, “lest I name yours. Then tell me what my punishment is to be, because, as you can see, I am eager to pay whatever penalty you impose.”
Her anger rose to meet this mocking invitation. She struggled to keep from condemning him with what she knew, because it was her nature to be direct, to confront openly that which threatened or hurt. Had no one else been at risk, she would have. But fear for John kept her from speaking. It was probably the only thing that could have. Instead, she told him a different truth.
“You’ve dominated in everything you’ve ever done. Decided what you wanted and taken it. You used my, my…” she searched for a word, “affection for your own ends.”
“I do not recall your begging off,” he answered hoarsely. “Though I do recall you begging.”
She gasped.
“And, my darling, my beauty, if you still truly believe that in those sweet interludes I achieved my end, then Minton is either a eunuch or you are abysmally unobservant.”
Her mouth flattened. He just made her actions easier.
“You wanted to know your crimes. I have told them to you.”
“I pleasured you.”
“You took. You used.”
“I took your pleasure. I used my body to give you pleasure.”
She turned her head. She could not argue with what he said and she could not reveal her knowledge of his perfidy. “We see this differently. Is that any wonder?”
“No.” His face became shuttered. “And this is why you are here? To kiss me, upbraid me, arouse me and then leave me wanting? I would have thought you’d like to practice another form of torture, Pip, for I swear, I do not know how you can refine upon that which you already do so well.”
She did not answer him but instead reached up and grabbed his wrists, yanking at them roughly until he released her upper arms. She did not let them go, but pulled his hands up and over his head, shoving them against the cool, starched counterpane. In doing so, she had to get on top of him, the bared upper swells of her bosom flattened against his naked chest. His heat soaked her with carnal awareness. His eyes narrowed over banked fires, dangerous fires.
“I will lead this time, Captain. You will follow.” She’d made a mistake. She saw it in his expression the minute she’d addressed him by his rank—a rank no one was supposed to know. She did the only thing she could do that was certain to distract him: she lowered her mouth to his.
At once, his head and shoulders lifted off the mattress, meeting her mouth’s descent. He twisted his hands as though to break from her grip but she jammed them back and he let her.
She slid forward, resting still more fully on him. His long legs opened on either side of hers and she was suddenly acutely aware of his state of arousal.
Somehow she ignored her body’s demand, stretching her arms and locking his wrists above his head. He made a sound deep in his throat, a sound of hunger and predation. She felt her resolve skittering away before the primal sound, retreating from any thought beyond the next kiss, the sculpted body supporting her, the fragrance of masculine arousal. He permeated her every sense, drugging her, toppling her from her momentary ascendan
cy.
Not yet. God, not yet…
She reached up and groped for the manacle while his mouth slanted hungrily across hers. Then, with the last shreds of her fleeing will, she slipped it around his wrist. And clicked it shut.
Chapter Three
Ned heard. He tore his mouth from hers and bolted upright as she flung herself to the far side of the bed. He surged after her, brought up short at the end of the chain.
With a snarl, he turned and saw what held him. His left wrist was bound tightly by a steel bracelet attached by a chain to the headboard post. The matching manacle swung free. He jerked the chain once, savagely, while she inched toward the end of the bed. At once, he realized her intent. He leapt across the bed, blocking her path to the door.
She stopped at the bottom corner of the bed, eyeing the length of the chain shackling him to the post. If she kept her back to the wall, he couldn’t possibly reach her. She swallowed, marshaling her courage.
He didn’t say a word. She could not help but admire that monumental self-restraint. But his eyes spoke, bright with loathing and betrayal.
She edged away from his glare, even though he could go no farther than a few feet from the head of the bed. Before she realized how far her trepidation had driven her, she bumped into the wall. He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
“Pip, my dark, betraying, beautiful Pip,” he purred, stalking down the length of the bed, “that was such a mistake.”
She lifted her chin, her fear fading before his taunt. He was the most arrogant man she’d met. Once, it had even been part of his attraction: his supreme self-confidence, the assuredness with which he moved, spoke…made love.
“Brave words from a man chained to his own bed,” she said.
“Bloody hell!” Her words snatched away his composure. He flung himself against the chain and the weight of the mammoth bed. His progress came to an abrupt end, his arm caught on a level with his shoulder, the bicep bulging, the manacle cutting into his wrist, its mate jangling angrily.
Once Upon a Pillow Page 17
