The Rake

by Georgeanne Hayes

  * * * *

  Demi was half asleep when the door burst open abruptly. It jolted her wide awake, however, and she sat up and stared at the furious man at her door in consternation. Garrett surveyed the room, his eyes narrowing on the startled maid by the window.

  “Out!”

  The woman gaped at him. “My lord?”

  “Out!”

  Sending a frightened glance at Demi, she bolted for the door. He closed it firmly behind her and locked it. Demi swallowed uneasily. “Garrett?” she gasped a little doubtfully.

  Her eyes widened as he shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it to the floor, then tugged his cravat loose and tossed that aside, as well. “Are you mad! Lady Wyndham--the servants!”

  He shrugged, popping the buttons from his vest as he tore it open impatiently instead of unbuttoning it. Leaning down, he tugged first one boot off and then the other, dropping them to the floor with a clatter. “Yes.”

  Demi blinked, dragging her gaze from the evidence of his arousal with an effort. “What?”

  “I believe there is a very good chance that I am mad. I have published the banns, but I do not believe I have the patience to wait until we have said our vows. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

  She held out her hand as if to stop him. “Garrett, this isn’t--you shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Unfortunately, it was. It is required and I could not find a way around it, beyond making a mad dash for Greta Green--which I have no intention of doing.” The shirt joined the pile of clothing near the door. Demi covered her eyes as he shucked his breeches and linens.

  “But-but Garrett, I don’t want you to feel that you have to marry me!”

  She felt the bed shift as he settled on it beside her. His hands closed over her wrists, pulling her hands away from her eyes. She looked at him wide-eyed, unnerved by the glitter in his eyes as much as she was by the tense set of his expression.

  “You cannot save me from my folly, Demi. God’s truth, I don’t think I could bear it if you tried.” Lifting a hand, he stroked her cheek gently. “If you feel you cannot love me, Demi, I will learn to live with it, but I’m fairly certain I cannot learn to live without you. I know I don’t want to.”

  Tears filled her eyes and clogged her throat so that she couldn’t speak for several moments. “How could you possibly believe that I didn’t love you? You must know that I do.”

  Slipping his hand from her cheek to the back of her head, he leaned toward her and kissed her, his lips moving over hers in a gentle caress, fitting, molding and then separating from hers in tiny kisses that were almost tentative, as if he were uncertain, still, of his reception. Demi slipped one arm around his shoulder and the other around his waist, surrendering without protest. He deepened the kiss, covering her mouth with his own and plunging his tongue inside to taste and touch and explore the sensitive inner surfaces possessively. She kissed him back almost with a sense of desperation as need, long denied, surfaced, began to overwhelm her.

  Disappointment flooded her as he pulled away. He placed a finger to her lips, traced them, and then traced a trail downward. With fingers that shook noticeably, he loosened the tie at the neck of her gown and tugged it off, tossing it across the room to join his own clothing. He pushed her back among the pillows then, pushing the covers away and studying her body in a leisurely way that made heat and tension curl inside of her.

  She shifted uncertainly and he placed his palm on her shoulder, skating it down her arm lightly. Moving over her, he stroked and kissed her slowly, almost methodically, from her shoulders all the way to her toes, missing nothing, leaving no part of her unexplored. Demi was writhing feverishly beneath his caresses, moaning almost incessantly long before he reached her feet, and dizzy with need. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he caught her ankles and pushed them up the bed until her knees were bent, her legs spread wantonly.

  Looking down at him she saw that he was studying her woman’s flesh, his gaze liquid with fire, his face taut with hunger. As if he felt her gaze, he looked up at her. Holding her gaze, he leaned toward her slowly and opened his mouth, kissing her there as he had her breasts, with the moist adhesion of his mouth, the teasing torment of his tongue. Demi gasped at the intense pleasure that ripped through her, reaching for him blindly. He caught her wrists, closing her hands over her ankles and holding them there as he continued to tease and suckle the tiny bud above her femininity until, abruptly, shock waves of pleasure exploded through her and she cried out.

  Grasping her hips, he shifted onto his knees and sheathed his flesh deeply within hers while the muscles in her passage continued to quake in shattering release. Slipping hands beneath her, he pulled her upright, so that she was straddling him as she had that day on horseback, riding him. She wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders, allowing her mind to recapture those moments, feeling the same rush of excitement flood her as she moved in rapid counterpoint to each thrust.

  Within moments, she felt her body racing with his toward completion and when his arms tightened around her and he groaned his release, her body convulsed in a mind shattering climax. His arms tightened around her as she felt her body go limp with release. Almost reluctantly, he lowered her back onto the pillows and moved away from her. Settling beside her, he stroked her soothingly.

  “Your mother will be wroth with us,” she said finally when she had caught her breath. “She has been at such pains to make me respectable.”

  Chuckling, Garrett pushed himself up until he was propped against the headboard and dragged her across his lap, stroking her hair back from her face and soothing it with his hands. “I think she has achieved precisely what she intended … perhaps not exactly as she had intended, but she is not one to quibble over the details.”

  Demi looked at him a little uncertainly, but he only shook his head, smiling faintly as he settled his hand over her belly, cupping it, stroking it. Demi stared down at his hand, feeling the heat of it sink into her. Slowly, as she glanced from the expression on his face to his hand, understanding dawned. “You knew!” she gasped.

  His gaze flew to hers and lingered for several heartbeats before it returned to his hand. The half smile became a satisfied grin. “I do now.”

  “That wasn’t--it’s not because you thought I was with child?”

  He studied her seriously for a long moment. “The first time I ever saw you, you took my breath.”

  Happiness and doubt washed through her in equal measure. “Truly?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “When?”

  His lips twisted. “I cannot recall.”

  She frowned. “Well, what was I wearing?”

  He frowned thoughtfully and finally smiled. “The most beautiful smile I have even seen. But I think it was the look in your eyes that stopped my heart.”

  Demi blushed. “What look?” she asked uneasily.

  “I’m not at all certain … love, I think. I saw a woman who looked at me as if I was the most wonderful man in the world, and it made me feel as if I was, or at least as if I wanted to be as wonderful as you thought.”

  Uncomfortable, she traced the pattern of hair on his chest. “Maybe.” She looked up at him again. “Probably.”

  “The one thing I am absolutely certain of is that I could think of nothing else … nor gather the nerve to approach you. At first, I think it was because I was afraid that I’d see that light in your eyes dim if you saw me for who I really was. Later it was that dragon aunt of yours. By that time, she’d decided that it was Phoebe I was interested in. I didn’t know what she might do to you if she realized I only had eyes for you.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her lightly on the lips. “There are many very good reasons why I should marry you, Demi, but don’t for one moment believe that any of it is even half as important as the fact that I love you.”

  The End

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  Excerpts from other books by Georgeanne Hayes follow.

  CONQUEST OF THE WHITE ROSE

  By

  Goldie McBride

  Chapter One

  The first roar of fury barely penetrated Elspeth’s semi-conscious haze, although it generated a spark of fear and the vague thought that the Normans, who’d taken over Rasgarth, her family’s holdings, were embroiled once more in a drunken brawl among themselves. The second was punctuated by a kick that lifted the man she was trapped under. Elspeth peered up at the man who stood above her through one eye. Her other eye was swollen nearly shut.

  Her heart nearly stopped when the blurry visage looming above her swam into focus.

  A demon!

  She knew it must be, for it could be no man--this dark giant, his perfectly chiseled face twisted in fury, his eyes as black as sin.

  Renard belched a gaseous cloud of soured wine in her face at the blow, but gathered himself and rolled off of her.

  Elspeth made a feeble attempt to cover herself, but Renard had lain upon her so long that she could not seem to command her limbs to move. It was some relief that the dark lord’s rage seemed to be focused upon Renard. A flicker of hope went through her. Perhaps he’d come to take the vile Normans instead of the women they had despoiled?

  Renard lifted his head groggily, focusing with obvious difficulty. When he finally did manage the feat, his eyes all but bulged from their sockets, which seemed to lend a good deal of credence to Elspeth’s fears.

  Renard had led the band of ruffians that had descended upon them like demons from hell after William the bastard’s army had defeated the forces gathered to repel him from Saxony, and had lain waste to the lands her father had spent a lifetime building to fruitfulness. They had slain all who opposed them and many who had only tried to flee--and those had been the fortunate ones. Those who’d survived had endured a reign of terror such as they could never have imagined.

  Her own life had become such a nightmare since Renard had first fastened his lascivious gaze upon her that she had longed for death to end her suffering and would have sought it if he had not watched her so assiduously as to remove all opportunity of a quick and painless end.

  “Guillume--my Lord Arnaud! We did not expect you for at least another fortnight!”

  “That much is obvious!” Arnaud of Valognes said in a voice that was deadly cold. “Else you and your guard might have been on watch instead of rolling about on the floor with your laymen.” He glanced toward the doorway and Elspeth saw two men at arms stood at attention there. “Take him.”

  “But … Guill--my Lord!”

  The two soldiers strode forward at the command. Each grasped an arm. Hauling Renard to his feet, they marched him from the room between them. The man he had called Lord Arnaud watched their departure through narrowed eyes. When he turned at last, his gaze focused upon her and Elspeth’s blood ran cold.

  “Out!”

  Elspeth stared at him blankly. She had made it a point to pretend she didn’t understand a word of their language. She wasn’t certain if it would transpire that there was any sort of advantage to it, but she had thought it possible it would. At the very least, she knew they would speak more freely around her and she might be warned of any evil intent toward herself or their people in time to prevent more bloodshed.

  She was in no condition at the moment, however, to recall the dangerous charade she had been playing. She looked at him blankly because she simply could not fathom what he wanted.

  After studying her a moment, he strode toward her impatiently. Reaching down, he grasped her by one arm and hauled her to her feet. Renard had shredded her gown when he’d fallen upon her. Trying vainly to cover herself, Elspeth grasped the tatters of her clothing as he pulled her to her feet.

  The abruptness of being dragged up so quickly sent a wave of dizziness through her and worse, her body was still numb and uncooperative from being pinned to the cold floor beneath Renard so long. Her knees refused to hold her. The moment his hand loosened, she began to sink toward the floor despite her best efforts to brace herself upright. With a sound of impatience, he hauled her up once more. This time, he caught her face in one hand, jerking it up for his inspection. “Are you too drunk to walk?”

  Elspeth stared back at him fearfully, but she’d had time to consider her situation. It seemed unlikely, despite his irritation, that he had it in mind to kill her on the spot. As tempting as it was to respond immediately and try to spare herself yet another beating, her knowledge of their language, pitiful as it was, was her only weapon. Instead of answering, therefore, she merely met his gaze as steadily as she could manage, swallowing her terror.

  His frown turned thoughtful as he scanned her face and then looked her over more carefully. She would’ve given much to know what was going through his mind, but the dark eyes typical of the Norman devils made them nigh impossible to fathom. Finally, apparently satisfied that he had discovered what he sought, he released the bruising grip on her cheeks and turned, dragging her from the room.

  She did her best to keep up, unwilling to test his temper further by deliberately provoking him, but her legs still felt strange and uncooperative and it was difficult to hold her gown together with one hand. His long stride was impossible to match in any case.

  She stumbled. He glanced down at her frowningly several times and finally slowed his angry stride.

  She saw when they reached the great hall that it was overflowing with Normans. The servants were gathered in frightened knots, watching while those, apparently, who’d arrived with Lord Arnaud, lay about them with the flat of their swords, and fists, and booted feet, rousing Renard’s drunken men from the floor.

  Even as she reached the hall with Lord Arnaud, they began to push the revelers toward the door.

  From the knot of frightened servants, an elderly woman detached herself and Elspeth recognized her old nurse, Griselda. “Lady! Lady! What has that monster done to you?” she wailed, falling to her knees beside Elspeth.

  Elspeth stared down at her in horror as Lord Arnaud came to an abrupt halt. “Shh! Are you mad, woman! Do you want me to join my ancestors? I’ve survived nigh two weeks of that pig of a Norman. I’ve taken no serious hurt, not near so much as I’m likely to take if they learn who I am.”

  Griselda scrambled to her feet abruptly, wringing her hands and casting fearful glances toward Lord Arnaud.

  Elspeth didn’t dare look at him. She knew few of the Normans had any grasp of the Saxon tongue, but it would take no great intellect to figure out who she was if Griselda was determined to treat her as her lady in front of them. With the exception of her mother, who had passed on many years ago, the Normans had slain the rest of her family--her father and brothers had all fallen beneath Norman blades when they’d gone to protect the realm from the invaders from across the sea. She had no protector and no way of knowing whether the Normans would be satisfied with the blood already spilled or if they were bent upon wiping out the last of her father’s seed. It seemed to her, though, that the possibility was great that they would prefer not to harbor the daughter of the old lord.

  After a moment, Lord Arnaud tugged her into motion once more and strode toward the servants purposefully, releasing her at last when they reached them. Elspeth cast an uneasy glance at him, but he seemed to have dismissed her. With an effort, she hobbled over to join them. They stared at her fearfully, but parted, allowing her to find her way to the back where she would be less noticeable.

  “Who among you speaks French?”

  Everyone shifted, exchanging nervous glances when he addressed them. Finally, Jean, the young man who’d come into her father’s household as a troubadour and remained as her tutor, stepped forward cautiously and bowed. “I do, my lord.”

  Lord Arnaud looked him over, assessing him. “You are not Saxon.”

  “I am a troubadour, originally from Vereins. I joi
ned Lord Odolf’s household last spring.”

  Lord Arnaud’s brows rose. “And stayed to entertain so long?”

  Jean blushed but didn’t glance in Elspeth’s direction. “I made myself useful.”

  Lord Arnaud studied him for so long that Jean shifted restlessly. “Then you may stay and make yourself useful to me, as well. I’ve need of someone who can speak their crude tongue and pass my orders along until I can master the language myself.”

  Jean bowed again. “I am happy to be of service, my lord.”

  Lord Arnaud nodded. “Then set them to work cleaning this pig sty. Remove anything that can be fixed for the craftsmen to repair. The rest should be piled far enough from this tender box so that it can be burned without setting the house ablaze, as well.”

  Jean looked at him uncomfortably.

  “Is there ought about the order that you do not understand?” Lord Arnaud demanded impatiently.

  Jean swallowed with an effort. “The carpenter and his apprentice were killed when the … uh … others arrived,” he said weakly.

  Lord Arnaud’s lips tightened with barely suppressed fury. After a moment, he nodded. “The order stands. Use your best judgment. Dispose only of those things that appear beyond redeeming.”

  Battered as they were, everyone was so relieved that they were expected to do no more than perform the tasks familiar to them that they nigh fell over themselves to show their willingness to comply. Elspeth knotted her gown together the best she could and set to work with them.

  The first of the servants to venture outside to begin the task of disposing of broken furnishings returned fearfully. Lord Arnaud, they said, had rounded up Lord Renard’s men and had lined them up at the whipping posts. The news sent a ripple of unease through everyone as the thought occurred that they might be next, and everyone bent to their tasks with renewed vigor, despairing, but hopeful their efforts might please Lord Arnaud enough that he would consider showing some leniency.