Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  He was watching her all the while.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ALLY HAD TO ADMIT THAT she loved the lodge. She would always love the cottage in the woods, and it would forever be home to her, but the lodge was something special. For one thing, there was electricity, which meant there was always light to read by. Her room offered an elaborate bath, with a deep sunken tub, and there was always wonderfully hot water in which to bathe.

  Alone when she woke, she found it gratifying to think she had the entire place to herself for an entire day. She would have time to indulge in a leisurely meal, time to explore the loft again and look for her sketchbook, and time to spend in the library—with no chance that prying eyes might want to see what she was typing.

  Though she did miss the aunts scurrying about, she couldn’t help but luxuriate in her solitude. And she had been gone longer before, she reminded herself, when she had stayed at the castle.

  But this time…

  This time she was about to marry Mark Farrow. So this time, she was gone…forever.

  Not wanting to brood, she finished her meal of fruit, eggs and muffins, and hurried outside. She had to discover where Bertram was before she could really begin to explore, but that proved to be easy. He was busy pruning a hedge in front of the lodge.

  She started toward the stables, then hesitated, deciding to return to the house for a scarf so she could tie up her freshly washed hair and keep from accumulating the tell-tale hay that had so nearly given her away the night before.

  She entered the parlor and walked down the hall, slipping into the bedroom that had so quickly become her own. She walked to the dresser, opened the top drawer, then caught sight of movement in the mirror.

  She nearly screamed.

  In the reflection, she saw the highwayman. He was seated comfortably on her bed, mask in place, booted legs stretched out on the quilt.

  She spun around.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here? Are you insane?” she demanded, all the while knowing he lived there, but not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing she had discovered his secret identity.

  “Shh,” he said quickly, rising and walking swiftly toward her. “You would not betray me, would you?”

  Oh, but this was sweet.

  “Never,” she told him solemnly.

  “They are gone for the day?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Lord Farrow and his son.”

  She nodded. “Yes, yes, they’re gone,” she said, sounding distressed. “But this is insane. You shouldn’t be here. Bertram is guarding the house. And the dogs—how did you get past the dogs?”

  “I’ve managed to befriend them. The best dog can be slowly won over with the right offerings of scraps and bones. I’ve been through this area many times, and I have made use of it. The Farrows are not often in residence here, you know.”

  “You’re still in danger here.”

  “Why?”

  “Bertram is just outside.”

  “But he would never simply enter the house with you here, Ally. He would knock. He would only burst in if you were to scream or to call for help. Do you intend to scream?”

  She shook her head.

  He was wearing boots, black riding breeches and an unbleached poet’s shirt, open at the neck. She noticed that he’d tossed his cape over a chair by the fire. His riding crop and pistol were there, as well. He’d certainly been thorough about creating the pretense.

  “I told you,” she said softly. “I would never betray you.”

  He smiled beneath the mask. “Yet you are to marry on Saturday.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  “It’s in the newspaper. Lord Stirling called in the announcement, apparently.”

  “I see.”

  “You intend to go through with it?” he asked.

  “A matter of honor,” she told him.

  “And do you know the man? Do you think you will be able to spend a lifetime with him? What is he like?”

  Oh, she was going to enjoy this, she thought.

  “He’s extremely arrogant.”

  “Hardly sounds like a good match.”

  “Abrasive.”

  “Really?”

  “A man controlled by his own ego.”

  “Appalling.”

  She smiled, allowing her hand to fall upon his chest. She was glad of the quick little intake of breath that followed. She slid her fingers up to the bare skin at his throat, then down, flicking open one of the buttons of the shirt. Her fingers teased against the flesh of his chest.

  “I am to marry such a man on Saturday….”

  “Yes?”

  “And so, though I fear for your life, I cannot say I am not glad you are here. With me. Alone.”

  Again his breath quickened.

  She rose on the balls of her feet, her fingers gliding back to his face. She cupped his strong jaw, and slowly set her mouth against his, her tongue sliding over his lips, pressing between them.

  As she had expected, she was quickly swept into his arms. She felt the firm pressure of his fingers spanning the small of her back, bringing her flush against him, felt his fingers in her hair, raking through it, cupping her skull. She felt the thrust of his tongue, an erotic sensation that filled her to the depths of her soul.

  She wondered briefly just what revenge she might be taking. She was where she wanted to be. And yet…

  He shifted, breaking the touch. “You’re to be married,” he reminded her.

  “I am not married yet.”

  “No?”

  “And since we have been given such sweet time, I would spend it with you,” she whispered.

  She had not known exactly how far she meant to take her charade before telling the truth. But she had first discovered her fascination with this man when he was in his highwayman’s disguise, and she wouldn’t resist the chance to explore further.

  But she would stop, reveal what she knew. She would….

  Then his mouth found hers once again. The pressure of his lips was vital and demanding, and she hungered for that touch, for the caress of his tongue, for his hands upon her and hers on him. She laid her palm on his cheek, played her fingers down his skin and slid her hand against his shirt, loosening more of the delicate pearl buttons. She was scarcely aware when he lifted her, when he eased them down together on the softness of the quilt, his weight half atop her. She felt the heat and strength of his hips and thighs, and fire seemed to ripple along his skin. His eyes, gleaming blue-gray through the slits in the mask, were on her. And then he touched her.

  He ran a finger over the soft wet swell of her lower lip. His fingers fell to the buttons of her bodice, and she caught her breath and simply stared at him as he progressed slowly, button by button. He laid his palm on her breast, over the sheer material of her silk shift, and sensation seemed to rip through her. She closed her eyes, and his mouth found hers again, with an ever greater passion. Then he moved against her with a sweet, barely leashed savagery, hands sliding down her breasts, midriff, to her hips, his lips and tongue running riot over her throat, then teasing her flesh through the silk, settling upon her nipple in an erotic frenzy. The lightest graze of his teeth sent new fire lapping at her senses. She had no idea when or how he had undone the waistband of her day skirt, how he had tugged the fabric lower, out of his way. She knew only the feel of his hands, burning, gentle, firm…stroking over her hips, over her buttocks. She hadn’t realized she was all but tearing at his shirt herself, only that it was suddenly gone, and then his naked chest was against her, against the silk, and even that barrier was too great.

  He rose, sweeping away both the skirt and the petticoat beneath it. He caught her feet, removing her delicate shoes, and his fingers slid along her thighs, finding her garters, slowly rolling down her hose, letting them waft to the floor like puffs of cloud. She closed her eyes, realizing on some distant plane that she had taken this too far, yet in the wave of euphoria that had seized he
r, not caring. When he was beside her again, she realized he was completely naked, bare and blazing, and his hands were on the hem of the shift, and it was meant to disappear, as well.

  She opened her mouth at last to form some sound, to speak, to protest…to cry out that this was merely revenge, that it should not go so far.

  She never spoke, for he kissed her again. Kissed her with the hard flesh of his body and muscle playing against her, with his hands everywhere, stroking, holding, seeking. The stroke of his tongue seemed to penetrate her very being, and then he left her mouth and it was not imaginary but real, for his lips fell upon her flesh everywhere. She shivered and trembled. She was gold and she burned. She felt the intimacy of his mouth on her abdomen, laving teasing circles there, drawn to the line of her hip, back again, then lower. She touched his flesh, and it was alive. Beneath his skin, muscles flexed and eased, so alive. His fingers skimmed down her hip, slid between her thighs. He touched her, and she gasped just as her lips were once again claimed by the overwhelming passion of his kiss.

  She writhed, her fingers threading into his hair, clawing his back. His mouth moved swiftly, lightly touching her throat, her breast…her stomach, thighs…and between. The intimacy was stunning, shocking. She cried out, rocking to elude him…arching to know more of him. The searing sweetness he created seemed to bubble and boil deep within her, radiate to her limbs, constrict and release, then rise, blind her mind and eyes, fill her to a point of near madness…and explode with a volatile, violent pleasure that was ecstasy, insanity….

  She was still reeling when she felt the pressure of his body. He held her in his arms, his lips finding hers, fierce and hard, and then…his body was on her. His powerful thighs were between hers, the length of him against her. She felt the tip of his erection first, and then movement, full, thick, good, a pressure that filled a craving and yet cut like a knife.

  He cradled her gently, moved slowly. She tightened around him, and he eased her with his touch. She began to cry out, and again his kiss silenced her, the caress of his tongue easing the seconds of sharp torture that came…and then became something else, something painfully pleasurable. Time ticked by and she was aware of nothing but the scent and feel of him, the hardness of him against her, within her. Each nuance of his flesh. Each thrust and ebb, like a tide, like a storm. His body was both thunder and lightning, the rub of flesh against naked flesh ever more erotic, his touch exquisite. Sensation, the rush to completion, built as every thrust grew harder, filling her further. It was impossible, this craving, this desperate wanting, needing. Her breath, too, was thunder, her pulse an avalanche. Her heart careened out of control. Her center, where he thrust and stroked so intimately…

  The world took flight. Nothing was real. Only his flesh. Only the firm and searing control of his body…out of control….

  Again the shattering burst of climax. The taut craning of the man in the mask…

  The world reeled around her. The sense of being filled, draped with honey…warm, so warm, and yet…

  He eased to her side. She was stunned. And with their lovemaking over, the splendor known, the ecstasy reached, she was suddenly afraid of what she had done. What if he didn’t believe…?

  She didn’t dare open her eyes. For the longest time she hid in his arms as he smoothed tangles from the wildness of her hair.

  He shifted slightly. Unwilling, she opened her eyes.

  He was taking off the mask.

  “No…wait…”

  But the mask was off, and he was staring at her.

  “I knew who you were,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he told her.

  Startled, she sat up. “You did not!”

  “I did.” He smiled.

  “You’re lying.” Suddenly feeling her nakedness, she reached for the wrinkled quilt, drawing it to her breast. “You’re a liar. Your ego cannot bear the fact that I might have wanted someone else.”

  “So this was all to teach me a lesson?”

  “Not exactly, though you certainly deserved such a lesson.”

  “You wanted to torment me. Well, I’m sorry, but I knew. There was, after all, that little matter of the fact that you were in the stables, up in the loft, last night.”

  “You did not see me there.”

  “No, but the dogs betrayed you. And then you came into the house covered in hay. You eavesdropped on my conversation with my father.”

  “I was not eavesdropping,” she said indignantly. “I was stuck there.”

  “You might have made your presence known.”

  “So your father knows of your secret life. Is he a criminal, as well?” she asked, ignoring his point.

  “My father? A criminal?”

  He stared at her, and he had never looked more the son of an earl. Then he smiled, started to laugh and reached for her. She drew back, suddenly furious. He’d managed to turn the tables again. She had meant to play him, but it seemed that he had played her, instead.

  “What? You’ve developed a sudden shyness?”

  “I’ve discovered that I prefer an outlaw!”

  “Why are you angry? You were intent on making me furious, making me believe you would happily bed a highwayman before me.”

  “Making you think? It was the truth.”

  He stood, natural and easy in his nakedness. Rippled muscle from head to toe, and totally unaware of the effect he had on her body or her mind.

  “Ally—”

  “I’d prefer to be alone.”

  “Ally, come now. The joke has been on both of us.”

  “This is all a joke?”

  He sighed. “Forgive me, then. Will it make you feel better if I tell you that at first I wasn’t certain, that you did torture me quite effectively while I was wondering whether you did or didn’t know?”

  The sudden clanging of a bell caused her to jump and him to frown. “It’s the telephone,” he informed her. He reached for the quilt. “May I?”

  “No!”

  But the quilt was gone even as the words left her mouth. He wrapped it about himself and left the room.

  Suddenly freezing and deeply dismayed, she raced into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She filled the tub with hot water and sank into it gratefully, shaking. How she hated him.

  How she loved him….

  There was a tapping on the door. “Ally?”

  “Go away!”

  To her amazement, he did. She waited, hunched in the water, certain he would return. She was angry, and she wanted to remain angry.

  She wanted him to talk to her. She wanted to understand everything.

  She wanted to love him for the man he was, the way she had grown to love the strange nobility and the mind of an outlaw.

  But he didn’t return. She was sore, she realized, and she let the water ease her muscles. Her thoughts remained at frantic odds with one another as the water grew slowly cold. At last she rose. She hesitated before going out to the bedroom, but he wasn’t there. She dressed quickly, with fumbling fingers.

  When she ventured out to the parlor, he was waiting.

  He was the son of the earl this time, decked in a fine brocade waistcoat and a handsome tweed jacket, britches and riding boots. He stood before the fire, her sketchbook in his hands.

  And he was reading.

  “Give that to me!” she demanded, starting toward him.

  He snapped the book shut. When he stared at her then, he was a total stranger.

  “You are an idiot,” he told her.

  She stood rigidly still, fury bubbling inside her.

  “I beg your pardon?” she demanded icily.

  “You went back to the post office.”

  “Back?”

  “You wore a far more dangerous mask than I ever did, Ally Grayson,” he accused her. “Why do you think you were nearly assaulted at the cottage? Do you think these people are playing games? Perhaps I should take you to the morgue with me. Maybe seeing a man with his throat slit would force some sense int
o you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A. Anonymous. I was a fool to believe you when you denied the envelope was yours. And now…good God. You’ve written another essay.”

  “I write excellent essays,” she informed him regally.

  “You will get yourself killed.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I see. As if a highwayman might not get himself shot one day.”

  “That’s entirely different.”

  “It is? How? You apparently feel there is a strong reason to masquerade and risk your life stopping carriages. Perhaps I see an equal reason to risk my life stating what seems to me to be of importance.”

  “A. Anonymous is inviting a murderer in!”

  “A. Anonymous writes so that people will think.”

  “You’re all but begging for your throat to be sliced.”

  “I write what I see, what others should see,” she said with dignity.

  “You went to the post office—again. After the cottage was nearly breached.”

  “I was not followed.”

  “Oh? The telephone call that just came was from Scotland Yard. You were seen.”

  “You had me followed? How dare you?”

  He shook his head. “I did not have you followed. I had Ian send a man to watch the post office. And you were seen.”

  “Well, obviously, if you told the police…”

  “You were followed from the museum. You might well have been followed again. But what does that matter? You were seen once, you could be seen again.”

  “Would you stop behaving as if what I did was a criminal act? It’s what you’ve been doing that is illegal.”

  He stood very still, staring at her.

  “It stops now.”

  She shook her head fiercely. “No.”

  “You are about to become my wife.”

  “I will not stop writing.”

  “I don’t intend to marry a corpse.”

  She was startled by the shiver that seized her. She had never seen him so fiercely cold and unyielding.

  She said softly, “I don’t know you. I don’t know you at all. But as I have said all along, you are not obligated to go through with the marriage.”

  She spun around and returned to her bedroom, closing and then locking the door. But it didn’t matter. He made no attempt to enter.