The Vixen

by Christi Caldwell

  Connor swept her into his arms and carried her to the red Chippendale sofa in the corner of his office. He set her down and then straightened.

  Ophelia shoved herself up on her elbows. With eyes laden with desire, she urged him on.

  He brought shaking fingers to his jacket. He undid the handful of buttons there and rid himself of the fine woolen garment. He tossed it aside. The article joined the other forlornly thrown garments scattered about the room. After divesting himself of his shirt next, he reached for his breeches.

  She held a staying hand, and he froze.

  On unsteady legs, Ophelia rose. She joined him and rested her palms against his thickly muscled chest, thinly matted with whorls of dark curls. She slipped her fingers through it, testing its softness, feeling his strength.

  “Ophelia,” he groaned, her name a prayer and a command all at the same time.

  “So beautiful,” she whispered, sliding her fingertips over his flat stomach. The muscles of his abdomen were as crisply defined as his corded biceps and thick forearms. Tentatively, Ophelia caressed his nipple. That flesh puckered, and a hiss slipped from his throat.

  Connor reached between them and shoved his trousers down, then kicked them aside so that he stood before her naked.

  She froze as hunger warred with fear. All the ugliest memories slid in, and with them, the doubts. I cannot do this . . . Her breath came fast. I cannot.

  Connor cupped her cheek. “I will never hurt you.”

  Those five words penetrated the slowly building panic, stopping it in its place. Warmth suffused her heart, healing and beautiful. “I know,” she whispered, believing his vow. “You are”—and always would be—“the only man I’ve never feared.” Even as she had no right to him, even as there could be nothing more, she selfishly wanted to take what he offered. Her mouth went dry, hungering for a glimpse of him.

  Ophelia glanced down.

  And then wished she hadn’t.

  His turgid length jutted proudly from a nest of dark curls; a pearly sheen pebbled on the tip.

  Oh, God. Her stomach pitched. “Ya’re going to put that in me?” She shook her head in denial and disbelief. “It ain’t ever going to work, O’Roarke.”

  He took her lips in a brief kiss. “Do you trust me?” he whispered against her mouth.

  She did. She always had. Even as a girl, when she’d learned nearly all were given to deceit, she’d implicitly trusted this man. “I do.”

  He swept her into his arms once more and laid her on the cool fabric of that sofa. Only this time he joined her, lowering himself above her, balancing himself on his elbows.

  Then he again found her breasts, worshipping first one and then the other, until her fears and doubts receded and she was reduced to a thrumming bundle of nerves, capable of nothing more than feeling.

  Connor slipped a hand between her legs and cupped her mound.

  She cried out, her hips shooting up as the ache there throbbed and intensified.

  He slid a finger into the moist heat, finding the nub there. He toyed with it until tears sprang to her eyes and words eluded her. For there was no shame. There was only a joyous, splendorous beauty in his touch.

  “So beautiful,” he breathed, that long digit stroking inside her, and then he slipped another inside.

  “Connor,” she pleaded, panting, hot, wanting something. Not knowing what, only that he could provide it.

  Through the desire fogging all thought, she registered him slipping a knee between her legs, gently parting her.

  Spread your legs for me.

  Ophelia cried out as that cold reality of her past intruded on this blissful moment she stole from Connor.

  “Do not think of him. Think of us. Think of only us,” Connor whispered against her temple. His husky, rich baritone anchored her to the present, pushing back thoughts of another and leaving nothing but that deep, hot longing.

  Us.

  Who knew one word alone could seduce and tempt?

  Refusing to mourn now what would never be, Ophelia let her legs splay open.

  Connor lowered himself between her thighs. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and all his muscles strained with the evidence of his desire and the cost of restraint.

  She stiffened, braced for him to batter at that thin piece of flesh she’d fought so hard to retain. She wanted both to cede that precious gift over to this man and to clamp her legs closed for fear of what would come.

  His fingers again found her and tangled in the damp curls shielding the apex of her womanhood. “Connor,” she managed, gasping. His butterfly-soft caress, slow and deliberate as he stroked her, stirred desire, and her speech dissolved into a blend of incoherent pleas, sighs, moans.

  Connor lowered himself farther, and through the thick desire, she registered his shaft probing at her entrance. All the while his fingers continued to work their magic, teasing at that nub until she was beside herself with longing.

  At last he stopped, the head of his enormous length poised, pressed against that bit of flesh.

  His chest heaved.

  How tender, how restrained, when painful need spilled from his eyes. “Do it, Connor,” she said quietly.

  His lips twitched in an agonized smile. “Ordering me about even here?”

  They shared a teasing smile that quickly faded. Connor lowered his mouth and teased the tip of her right breast. She gasped, twining her fingers in his lush curls. He continued suckling. His ministrations brought her hips again arching.

  “Forgive me,” he pleaded. With a groan, he plunged himself deep.

  Ophelia cried out as he battered past that scrap of skin. Tears popped behind her lashes. She made herself go absolutely still. His enormous length, buried to the hilt, throbbed, sharpening the sting of pain.

  “I am so sorry,” he whispered, kissing the trail of tears that slid silently down her cheeks.

  “Oi told ya it wasn’t going to w-w-work,” she stammered.

  “It will.” He brushed his mouth over hers. When he pulled away, a tender yet agony-filled smile curved his lips. “We were made for each other.”

  His profession melted her from the inside out.

  Wordlessly, he pressed another kiss atop her breast.

  Her breath quickened as his ministrations stirred the earlier desire, and slowly the pain receded. Then he began to move, filling her, stretching her. With each deliberate stroke, discomfort faded and left in its place a throbbing ache. Ophelia lifted her hips, meeting his thrusts. Their bodies moved conjointly, their hips moving in perfect sync.

  A shuddery gasp left her as the pressure built and the fire spread.

  Their movements became frantic.

  Ophelia wrapped her arms around him, clinging for all she was worth, sinking her nails into his back.

  He groaned, a deep, masculine sound of approval.

  Connor drove deeper, harder, faster, and she took all of him, wanting him. Wanting this. Wanting all of it.

  A tingling pressure built at her core, as with each lunge he drew her up higher and higher until she feared she’d break apart, until she ached to shatter.

  He thrust home, and she screamed her joy and surrender, splintering into a million beautiful shards of light and sensation.

  Connor stiffened, back arched, neck thrown back, as he joined her, spilling himself in deep, rippling waves that stretched her pleasure on forever.

  Then she went limp under him, panting, out of breath from the power and beauty of their joining.

  Connor collapsed, swiftly catching himself on elbows that shook.

  With the hot, reassuring weight of his body blanketing her own, Ophelia smiled.

  Chapter 17

  It was the cold that awoke Connor.

  The absolute absence of Ophelia’s warmth pulled him back from the heavy haze of sleep. He reached for her, searching, his fingers caressing only air.

  Mayhap in a hungering he’d carried for her since she’d stepped into Killoran’s offices, he’d only dreamed her be
ing here now, in his office, in his arms, under him.

  He forced his eyes open . . . and then found her.

  Behind his desk, she examined two pages in her hands. She’d since donned her lawn shirt and breeches. Now, she alternated her attentions back and forth between those sheets. Seated as she was in his massive leather winged chair, there was a naturalness to her being there. In his office. In his life. As though she belonged there. As though she always had.

  And I want her here.

  I want her beyond how she might help me solve Maddock’s investigation and more than the gift she gave me a short while ago.

  His heartbeat sped up and then slowed to a near stop.

  Ultimately, with her brother’s expectations . . . she’d choose another. Just as Bethany had. Where that had wounded a younger version of himself, losing Ophelia would break him in ways no one and nothing had before.

  Ophelia nibbled at her lower lip, an endearing hint of the concentration she devoted to her task.

  Connor used her distractedness as an opportunity to study her: the tangle of her white-blonde hair like a curtain draped around her lush siren’s frame. Delicate shoulders peeked out from between those luxuriant strands.

  Except mayhap he’d come to matter to her, too . . . and mayhap Ophelia would choose him unconditionally for who . . . and what . . . he was.

  She set down the pages and reached for another.

  “I expect I should be offended that you prefer papers and files to me, Ophelia Killoran,” he called over, his voice heavy with sleep.

  She started and lifted her head with enough force to strain the muscles of that graceful neck he’d kissed only—he squinted over at his clock—thirty or so minutes ago. “You’re awake,” she observed quietly.

  “And you’ve been,” he ventured.

  She nodded. “I didn’t sleep. I’ve been looking through your files”—Ophelia glanced briefly to the work laid out before her—“about the marquess’s son.”

  There wasn’t another woman like her. Unlike the previous women he’d taken as lovers who’d craved baubles and wealth, Ophelia had instead carved a place for herself in the world. Connor swung his legs over the edge of the leather seat and stood.

  Ophelia’s eyes formed perfect circles, and a fiery blush stained her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the pages in her hands. “Uh . . . yes . . . well . . .” she stammered, and his heart pulled. He’d been in awe of her spirit as long as he’d known her, captivated by her wit, and now so wholly enthralled by her innocence.

  He crossed over and rescued each article of his garments. “What are your thoughts?” he asked, stooping to gather his trousers.

  “M-my thoughts?” she squeaked, studying that page as if it contained the details to Blackbeard’s lost trove.

  His lips tugged. He stuffed one leg into his pants. “Of the information, Miss Killoran,” he clarified after he’d pulled the article over his hips and buttoned the falls.

  She blinked wildly and then lifted her eyes. “Oh . . . uh, yes, of course. I’ve been considering the timeline of events: the fire, the disappearance . . . or the death of the child.” It was a significant concession from one who’d been adamant about the fate of the marquess’s son. “I’ve immediately crossed off many of the children on my lists because they were in Diggory’s gang prior to the fire. Others”—she reached for another page, with names inked through with a definitive X—“were born on the streets to women I know . . . knew. They are the babes of Diggory’s men.”

  He grabbed a chair and carried it over.

  Ophelia hopped up, but he waved her back.

  Pale-white brows lifted with her surprise.

  “Do you expect I’m so arrogant that I’d order you from your chair?” he drawled.

  “It is not my chair. It is yours,” she quietly corrected, fiddling with her papers. “I’d expect it because . . .” Because he didn’t trust her.

  Resting his hands along the arms of his chair, he leaned back. “I never distrusted you, Ophelia.”

  She snorted.

  He offered a sheepish grin. “Very well. I was suspicious, but only because of what I do. I’ve been given reasons to question all.” He held her gaze. “But never did I believe you capable of harming a child.” It went against everything he knew of her, as a girl who’d saved him and even more so now.

  Her lips lifted in a tremulous smile.

  Edging his chair closer, he nudged his chin, encouraging her to continue.

  She handed over a page. “These children. I’ve marked a question mark alongside their names because I believe they are too young, and yet I cannot determine with any real certainty. My sister Cleo . . . she’s always appeared far younger. As such, one shouldn’t rely on an illusion of age.”

  Connor studied her notes.

  “What of the marquess’s son?”

  He paused, glancing up from his reading.

  “Perhaps if I examine the research you’ve conducted, I might match it with anything I know of the children at the Devil’s Den.”

  She wished to see his notes. Once such a request would have been met with an immediate and firm no. Once he would have also been riddled with suspicion at finding her in his office, alone, and only after having sneaked out in breeches and picked his locks.

  Leaning over, he reached for the bottom drawer—which sat agape.

  He gave her a droll look.

  “That requires a more reliable lock, as well,” she muttered matter-of-factly when most would at least feign sheepishness.

  Connor rescued the file resting on top—a thick folio containing all the information he’d assembled on Lord Maddock’s case. She’d not gone through it yet.

  “Don’t make more of my motives than there is. Oi would ’ave eventually gotten to reading through it,” she said, shifting in her chair.

  “Would you have?”

  Ophelia shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Or perhaps she’d intended to record her information and leave it for him? His mind slowly picked through that. It did not make sense. It would imply she’d no intention of again seeing him . . . His stomach muscles clenched.

  Either way, he turned over the folder for her to peruse.

  Ophelia proceeded to read the synopsis resting on top. Her eyes frantically worked over those words written there, and with each line read, the color seeped more and more from her cheeks.

  “My God,” she whispered. “The staff saw her . . . heard her . . .”

  “Burning alive,” he confirmed somberly. “Horrific stuff. Some of the servants who escaped claim she was searching for her child. A handful of others say she was screaming that her child had been taken. Whatever it was, there were conflicting reports that none could confirm. And the constables deemed their information unreliable because . . .”

  “They were servants?”

  Another time he would have disputed her on that quick assumption. But that had been before his father’s display of self-aggrandizement and his disdain for Ophelia.

  Ophelia looked to the page again. “No wonder the man went mad,” she murmured without rancor. She resumed reading. “He claims the nursemaid set the blaze and made off with the child.”

  “The investigation concluded she’d also perished in the conflagration. No remains were ever discovered.”

  Ophelia finished scanning the top sheet and then turned to the next. “Why does he blame the girl?”

  Connor rolled his tight shoulders, and his chair groaned in protest to that slight movement. “She came highly recommended, with commendations from her previous employers.” The Marquess and Marchioness of Flint. “I was the first to question them regarding their opinion of the young woman. They never wrote references on her behalf.”

  Ophelia whipped her head up. “What?”

  “They came upon the young woman arguing with another servant in their employ. She spoke in Cockney tones and brandished a knife. The marquess did not even allow her to pack her belongings. Several servants escorte
d her from the residence.”

  He could all but see the questions turning over in Ophelia’s eyes. “And there were no inquiries made into . . . this . . . this woman . . .” She flipped through the pages. “Charlotte.”

  “There was no reason for it,” Connor explained. “The investigation centered around the one person most believed responsible.”

  “The marquess,” she murmured.

  “Continue reading.”

  At his urging, Ophelia immediately directed her attention back to the page. She paused. “There was a fight.”

  “A terrible one, with him storming off to his clubs and the lady in tears.” All hints of guilt had pointed squarely at the young husband. “He had no reason to question the nursemaid.”

  “Until?”

  Connor cracked his knuckles. “He came upon the tale of Ryker Black and Helena Banbury and how they’d been stolen and given to Diggory.”

  Ophelia’s entire body stiffened. Something dark flashed behind her eyes but was quickly gone. With measured movements, she placed his notes in their proper order, closing the leather folder. “And from that he believed . . . ?”

  “Diggory had a sick fascination with the nobility that sent him in search of a noble son.” He reached into his desk and withdrew another folder. He tossed it before her. “The boy’s name was . . . is . . . August Rudolph Thadeus Stephen Warren, the Earl of Greyley.”

  “August Rudolph Thadeus . . .” She paused.

  “Stephen Warren, the Earl of Greyley,” he finished for her. “Quite a lot of name for any one person.” He chuckled. “I always said the number of names one was saddled with was a mark of one’s importance and place in this world.”

  She stared back at him through unblinking, stricken eyes.

  On the heel of that, remorse flooded him. “I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t . . .”

  “No, it is fine.” Ophelia brushed off his response. “It’s true. To the world it is a sign of power. May I see it, your file on the child?”

  He inclined his head in unspoken acknowledgment.

  While she went through his notes about the marquess’s lost son, Connor examined the papers she’d supplied him with.