by Gwyn Cready
Her cheeks stung with rushing blood, though why she should be ashamed, she didn’t know. “Yes.”
She could feel him nod.
“Have you lain with a woman?”
She started. “Aren’t I supposed to be serving you with my mouth now?”
He laughed. “What do you think you’re doing, lass? I want to hear your secrets.”
She shivered.
“Have you lain with a woman?” he repeated.
“Why do you want to know?” She knew the answer but wanted to hear the words.
“The woman from whom I learned what I just did to you said she learned it from another woman. The vision has stayed with me.” He brushed her flesh with his palms, circling and circling. “I have imagined you with her.”
“I see.” At the center of his fantasies. She liked that.
“What about two men?” he asked. “Have you lain with two?”
The thought of Hugh’s mouth between her legs with Rogan cupping her breasts was quickly supplanted with the thought of two Hughs instead.
“No,” she said, holding that last picture in her head.
“Have you ever imagined it?”
“No.”
“You’re lying,” he said. “You’re imagining it now.”
She prayed he would not make her say more. In the tangle of bodies in her mind’s eye she could feel Hugh conquering her in every way imaginable.
“When we were in Reynolds’s office that night—”
“When you robbed me of the key?” Even then, as he turned her roughly and made her surrender it, she’d sensed she’d wanted him to possess her. She’d wanted him to be the one. But was this the way she’d wanted it?
“Aye. I found a corset there. All of lace.”
She flushed. “Yes. It’s called a bra.”
“What had you been doing there with him?”
“What do you think?”
“I should like to hear.” He stroked one nipple and then the other. “In this game, I have the right.”
“It was essentially a lap dance. I needed his help. It was my way of making it worthwhile.”
“‘Lap dance’? I am not familiar with the term, though I admit it is quite descriptive.”
“Well, it wasn’t a lap dance, really. That’s just shorthand for what I did.”
“I see. And this ‘lap dance,’ it is . . .?”
“About as you’d guess,” she said. “The woman straddles the man’s lap. She is naked, or nearly so, and he is fully clothed. And she teases him.”
“Teases?”
“Yes. Like this. Now.” Her nipples burned with pleasure. Oh, how she wanted him between her legs.
“And he takes her?”
“No. He is not allowed to touch her. If he touches her, the dance is over.”
“I want one,” he said, getting to his feet. “Show me.”
He pulled her to a standing position, and led her to the stone wall, where he seated himself near the stile. She had never done anything like a real lap dance before, though she had a good idea of what was involved. He leaned against the wooden rails of the stile and waited.
She stood between his legs and clasped his thighs. She could feel the long, coiled strength there. This part of the wall was low and her breasts were at the height of his face. “The objective is to make you hard.”
“You’re being imprecise,” he said, and lifted his mouth to hers. When they parted, he said, “Come to me.”
He helped her place a knee on either side of him, then she lowered herself to his lap. She could feel his erection strain his breeks beneath her. The flap of his trousers was loose and moved when she did. The cool brass buttons brushed her skin. She had no underclothes save a chemise, and she knew that was the way lap dances were done, but it felt very wicked to be rubbing his clothes like this.
She ground her hips, and he leaned against the stile, watching her move. She liked the look in his eyes, liked the way his fingers stretched and curled on the stone as she shifted her weight, liked the way the thickness moved beneath her. She saw the desire there so clearly, but wished she could see more. He hid more than he revealed.
He extended a hand to brush away her bodice.
“Ah ah ah,” she warned.
“But—”
“Patience.” She crossed her arms over her head and moved to the music in her head. The bodice and chemise slipped lower and lower until the only thing holding either aloft was the tip of a nipple. With one final shimmy, the dress fell to her waist, and he made a gurgling noise.
“Where is that whisky?” he asked hoarsely.
She fished the flask out of the gown’s pocket, and he took it from her hand. He downed a generous gulp, the muscles of his throat moving eagerly, then wiped his mouth, his eyes pasted to her the entire time. She rose upward, brushing her breasts across his mouth and cheeks.
“I thought touching was forbidden.”
“I may touch. Not you.”
“Bugger that.” He brought his mouth to her ear. “I want you ride me. I want to see you squirm like this on the end of my pike.”
“Not during this.”
He was so close, the heat from his body warmed her chest and neck. It must torture him to be so close and not be able to touch her. He lifted his hand again, and she caught it.
“I can’t help it,” he said. “It just moves on its own.”
She opened his palm and wove so that only the barest touch of nipple grazed it.
“Cruel,” he said, and she smiled at the power she held over him. His erection had doubled in hardness. It was the hammer of a Greek god now, poised for battle. Every move made him sway and she wanted to tease him the way he’d teased her. What she really wanted to do was break through that reserve, stir his heart, not his hunger.
“I will let you lower your trousers now,” she said, “if you promise to remain absolutely still.”
He nodded wordlessly and shifted the fabric to his knees. The hammer rose triumphantly, and Joss felt omnipotent as she pressed it slowly underneath her, letting its impressive length rake her, yet ensuring he was no more sheathed now than he had been a moment earlier.
He moaned, an animal noise that sent a shock through her.
“This is an abomination.” His words were choked. “I must have you.”
“You may not move.” She took the flask from his hand and dribbled the whisky over her breasts.
“A taste. Please.”
“Not now. Perhaps when we finish.” She lifted the flask and drank. The movement arched a breast almost to his mouth.
“May I finish?”
She rocked across him, as slowly and firmly as the stroke of a hand. “Yes.”
“In you!” he demanded.
“No. That’s not how the game is played.”
She could see the struggle on his face. “Poor Samson. You have been shorn of your power. And yet, for this”—she dribbled more liquid on her nipples and a timely breeze hardened them into whisky-soaked rubies—“it might be worth it.”
She was playing with fire, and she knew it. A danger when she had only one thing left to lose.
“You are wanton,” he whispered.
She crushed him in accelerating circles, a lascivious stirring of flesh and fire. He gripped the stones harder and lifted his hips, straining for friction. He entered her in his thoughts—she could see it in those eyes, though the object in question got no closer to its goal than the top of her thigh. He grunted in agony.
Then he grabbed her shoulders and crushed her hips into his lap, pressing his erection against her thigh and bucking them both nearly off the wall. Again he pressed, and again he groaned. She could feel the warmth of his seed spilling against her leg.
Then he clutched her to him, suckling one nipple and then the other, as if his empty stores could be filled from their fount.
She cradled his cheek, hoping he would give her one of his warm, reassuring smiles. “I really like this,” she said softly, �
�and like you.” But he seemed not to hear.
“You have been far too reckless. And you shall pay the price.” He scooped her into his arms and brought her again to the blanket. In an instant she was on her back, and he was on his knees, breathing with the anticipation of a conqueror. “Samson, am I?” Not an inch had been lost from his steely length, and he lowered himself between her legs.
No, she thought, no. Not with those guarded eyes. Not with that hardened heart.
“No!” she cried. “I don’t want to.”
“No?” He stopped, dizzy but hearing the agitation in her voice.
“This isn’t right.”
The timepiece chimed and she slid from under him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Not right? He was still in shock—shock and a state of such unparalleled shame he could hardly speak.
They had dressed in awkward silence, and now he stood stiffly by the stile, his hands tucked under his arms as if he could ward off the self-rebuke. He watched her brush the dirt and grass from her gown, afraid to say a word.
He shook his head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine. I’m sorry. It just . . . isn’t right.”
He felt the sting of the words, though they didn’t surprise him. She was saving herself for her husband. Hurt and ill at ease, he scanned the horizon, though he had seen or heard nothing of Reynolds since their carriage left London. If he was near, he was keeping his distance. If he was near, Hugh hoped he hadn’t seen what had just transpired.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s foolish, given what we already did.”
“And this?” He swept his arm over the blanket, still on the ivy, hoping the gesture would save him from having to put words to the acts they’d just committed. “Were all of these things unhappy for you?”
She flushed, and he saw she regretted them already.
“No, no, no. It was quite beyond anything I’ve ever experienced,” she said. “Honestly.”
Meaningless praise. He knew he was nothing if not a skilled stud horse. But this was one time he had hoped to be more. As the circumstance seemed to require it, he bowed. “’Twas my pleasure.” That, at least, was not a lie.
“I won’t ever forget this,” she said, though she looked as if she would give anything if she could.
“Nor I.” He gestured to the horse, the mute witness to their misplaced passion. “Shall we . . .?”
Her face filled with . . . Was it relief? Regret? Sadness? It had been a long time since he’d been clumsy or thoughtless enough to drive a woman to tears. He hoped this would not mark a new milestone for him.
“Yes. If you wish.” She adjusted her sleeves. “Do I look all right?”
“Beautiful. The gown is fine.”
“I doubt the duchess will want it back at this point.”
He considered a jest about the duchess’s earthy sense of humor, but abandoned it as poorly timed and gave Joss a weak smile.
He refolded the blanket, then mounted the horse and extended his arm. Her touch was torture. He pulled her up before him so that she could ride a proper sidesaddle back to the house. It would be the last time he would hold her in his arms.
“I’ve never ridden like this,” she said.
“’Tis a day for firsts.” He decided he would rather spend a lifetime with his open palm a quarter of an inch from her breast than endure the scent of her hair like this. He’d been foolish to place her in front of him.
Just as he shook the reins, the timepiece chimed.
He drew the chased gold from his pocket, pulled the stem to disable the bell and, with a silent sigh, began the long journey back to the house.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Hugh hurried the horse forward at the sight of a servant boy running through the Quarley gardens, waving wildly in their direction. Joss was glad for a distraction from the heavy silence that had stretched over their return. It had been obvious Hugh had found her putting a premature end to their lovemaking off-putting, and his strained courtesy only made her feel worse. From the garden, they had a sweeping view of the entry courtyard, and she noted the presence of several well-appointed carriages at the top of the long drive that hadn’t been there when they’d left. Perhaps this hell would be over sooner than she thought, and she could return, shamefaced, to both the company she’d put in jeopardy and the man she’d left at the altar.
“Are you Captain Hawksmoor?” asked the boy, breathless, when he reached them.
“Aye.”
“You are to come inside. The Duke of Silverbridge requests your presence immediately.”
“Where is he?” Hugh slipped off the horse, and Joss felt his warmth evaporate.
“Outside the dining room. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Hawksmoor.”
Hugh’s gaze went to his boots. “This is Miss O’Malley,” he said, handing the boy the leads. “See that she gets to the house safely.”
Hugh adjusted his coat, gave her a low bow and strode toward the house.
Silverbridge was waiting for him in the entry hall, and Hugh labored to dispel the dour look he knew must be on his face. Careful formality replaced the wry ducal smile.
“Where is Miss O’Ma—”
“In the stable, I believe. Has Sir William arrived?”
“Aye, and I have laid the groundwork for your case. You need to gather the map and your other papers and share them with him.”
“They were taken to my room, I believe,” Hugh said. “Let me retrieve them and I will join you.”
He hurried down the grand hallway. At long last, the chance to do something to avenge his brother’s death had come.
Joss gazed into the looking glass in her well-appointed bedroom, wondering how an afternoon that should have been so perfect could have turned out so poorly. Stopping Hugh had hurt him and it had certainly not pleased her, but there had been something cold and mechanical in the way he’d moved, and if she couldn’t trust her instincts, what could she trust? She was gazing at her wrinkled gown, wondering what if anything she could do to make herself presentable, when a voice sounded at the open door.
“Given the particular placement of that grass stain, I must strongly suggest changing before dinner.” It was Kit, hands on her hips, grinning. “Can I assume everything has changed?”
“Everything has changed,” Joss said sadly. “Only not for the better.”
“Where are we?” Fiona asked, roused from a deep sleep when the carriage pulled to a stop.
“Our destination is Thetford,” Nathaniel said, “a place of my youth. ’Tis still a distance of ten miles or so. I am stopping to pick up some provisions.”
“I would thank you if I had asked our destination. What I asked was our location.”
He sighed. “We are outside Cambridge.”
“Cambridge! Then we are near Lord Quarley’s home.”
“’Tis a quarter hour in that direction,” he said, jerking his thumb, “but we are not here for that, I told you—”
“Aye, aye, aye. I know what you told me. We are here on a lark, though you refuse to share the details.”
“That’s not the only reason we’re here. Despite his protestations to the contrary, I do not intend to leave Hugh’s safety to fate. Especially now, when he’s—” He stopped.
“Distracted?” She made a sour face. “I do not care for that woman.”
“As I said, I would have been happy to leave you at the Grey Lamb.”
“Oh, I’m certain you would have.” She gazed out the post chaise window toward the hills he’d indicated. Somewhere beyond them Hugh would be sharing his bed with that damnable wench. Fiona felt the reassuring weight of the pistol she had hidden in her cloak, right next to the maps of London and Edinburgh. “Where’s the Manchester map?” she asked.
Nathaniel, who had been examining one or the other of them throughout the better part of their trip, pointed to the place on the bench where he’d been sitting.
“Do not leave the carriage,” Nathaniel
said. “Hugh doesn’t want us here. An unwelcome appearance will only endanger his chances of being able to help your family. As I said, I’m stopping only to gather some provisions. I’ll be back in a quarter hour.”
Fiona heaved her disgust. “Do you mind if I take a piss? Or is that forbidden as well?”
Nathaniel opened the door and jumped to the street amid passing riders and carriages. “If your idea of an appropriate facility is a field behind a whorehouse, you may take your chances. Otherwise, there’s a commode under the seat.”
Damned old fornicator, she thought. There was a word for what he was getting, and it wasn’t “provisions.”
She waited until he’d disappeared, then slipped out of the carriage. Cambridge was a sizeable town, and they were on its outskirts, a largely unpopulated street with as many empty fields as businesses. Other than a smith, a dilapidated inn and what she supposed was the aforementioned whorehouse, a two-storey affair with sooty windows and a porch with two cheerless chairs, the prospects were bleak.
She stepped toward the inn, uncertain if she wanted a drink, a rest or just the satisfaction of knowing she was doing exactly what she had been told not to. She waited at the corner for a wagon to pass. When the vehicle cleared, she spotted Rogan Reynolds talking to the driver of another carriage.
In a flash, she realized he must have followed them. She turned to hide her face, though she was uncertain he knew who she was, and kept walking. Was he here for them? Was he here for Joss? Or was he here for the map?
The map, according to Joss, was virtually an exact copy. Could Reynolds have known such a thing had been so meticulously produced? Fiona bet he didn’t know about the map and had come only on the suspicion that his fiancée and her new lover were getting close to the truth. If Reynolds had been following them closely enough to discover them kissing by the statue of the lion, it undoubtedly meant he already had his doubts about Hugh. Fiona was certain she had a man on her hands desperate to protect both his fortune and his claim on his fiancée.
Would he recognize her? The time he’d come to the shop, Fiona had been gone. The question was, had he been following Joss and Hugh or had he been following her and Nathaniel? She prayed it was the former, as this would allow her some small element of surprise.
