A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  She looked down. “It stings.”

  Tristan had seen mortally wounded men ignore their injuries and continue to fight in the heat of battle. The mere thought that she could be seriously wounded brought emotion welling up in his chest. He removed his cravat and pressed it against her wound. “Hold this tight!”

  Thunder boomed directly overhead and rain fell in sheets. He scooped her up and hurried down a side street toward a sign proclaiming the Blue Bell Inn.

  “Tristan!” she gasped. “Put me down!” But her arms encircled his neck and her cheek rested against his chest. Her relief, the way she leaned into him, evoked a strong protective surge—so fierce it astonished him. He could have slain a dragon in that moment.

  “The pickpocket,” she whispered. “We must notify—”

  “Confound it, Annica! Do you want to report this to the authorities? Do you want to explain to them what you’re doing alone in Whitefriars in the middle of the night?” He reached the door of the Blue Bell Inn and kicked it open.

  Fifteen minutes later, with a disapproving innkeeper still deceived by her disguise and muttering about the certain fate of sodomites, Annica and Tristan were safely shut away from prying eyes. A fire sprang to life when Tristan dropped a match on the kindling, and the cold, sparse chamber was instantly more inviting. Rain beat against the panes of a mullioned window, narrowing their world to this one room.

  Still disoriented, she pulled her workman’s cap off and shook her head. Her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, curling from the dampness. The flat, empty feeling of loss came back to her. Harry Bouldin—a man she had known and respected—was dead because of her investigations.

  Tristan removed a small silver flask from his pocket, took one glance at her and downed a quick gulp before placing it on the table. He shrugged out of his greatcoat and threw it over a chair, then went to the washstand, got the pitcher and bowl and placed them on the hearth to warm. “Come here,” he ordered.

  “Tristan, I—”

  He had a grim, determined look on his face. “I will not be diverted, Annica. What are you doing in Whitefriars in the middle of the night? Where is your coach? Your footman? Miss Wardlow? Hodgeson? A companion or chaperon of any kind?”

  She sighed, knowing she would have to give him some sort of answer. “I had to meet someone, and I knew Hodgeson would not approve.”

  “Hodgeson? What of your uncle Thomas?”

  “He would not have approved, either.” She tried a smile.

  “Do not jolly me,” he warned. “Who did you meet?”

  “A Bow Street Runner,” she admitted. Her mind worked quickly, trying to find a way to redirect Tristan before he got too close to the truth.

  “Why? For God’s sake, Annica, what business could you have with a runner? And in the middle of the night, no less?”

  Thinking of Sarah and Mr. Bouldin, she blinked back fresh tears and cleared her throat. “Something was lost, Auberville.”

  “What loss could warrant the risks you’ve taken?”

  “Tristan—”

  “You should have come to me. I’d have handled it for you.”

  “We no longer have that sort of friendship, Auberville. I am quite capable, after all, and this is a private matter.”

  “Capable! I’m growing to loathe that word,” he muttered under his breath. “What have you done? Pawned your jewelry for a gambling debt? Are you paying hush money to someone? Are you plotting some reformationist rebellion? Where have you planted the bomb, Annica?”

  “Something was lost and I hired a runner to find it. He sent a message saying he had got information.”

  “He found your lost object?” Tristan looked doubtful.

  “He…he never came,” she said, looking down at her feet to hide her sudden tears.

  Tristan shook his head. He came to her and cupped her shoulders, holding her immobile. “Promise me that you will never do this again.”

  Acutely aware of the warmth of his touch, she felt her heart give a sudden lurch. “I cannot make such a promise, Auberville.”

  “You must,” he insisted. “’Tis too bloody dangerous! You cannot even imagine what sort of deeds are done in this part of town in the dead of night. You could have been killed. And, damn it, Annica, this sort of stunt could ruin you forever! It is one thing to have a reputation as an eccentric or an original, and quite another to be ruined.”

  “I understand ‘ruined’ better than you, Tristan,” she snapped, looking up into the handsome face etched with concern. “Every woman I know is aware of how little it would take to achieve it. Furthermore, if I decide to risk ruination, you may rest assured that the cause will be worth it, and you will not be able to stop me.” She broke away and took two steps backward.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Will I not?”

  “Who are you to say me nay?”

  “Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville! The one man who is man enough to do it,” he told her through gritted teeth.

  “Then, if you would protect me, you’d best remove yourself before we are discovered, Auberville. Being in this room as we are now is enough to ruin me, and well you know it.”

  “I shall cure that little ill tomorrow,” he snapped.

  “That will be a fancy trick! And whilst we’re on it, what were you doing outside the Bear and Bull tonight? Have you been following me?”

  “It would appear I should have been. ’Twas one of life’s little ironies that placed me there. I recognized your charming little derrière as you came out of the tavern, lucky for you—”

  “Lucky? I swear, you are rather too full of yourself. I had vanquished the pickpocket ere you interfered.”

  “You have a talent for disaster, madam. You are wounded! Thank God ’twas no worse. You could be dead!”

  The thought sobered her, and the memory of Mr. Bouldin returned full force. Tears filled her eyes, and she wiped impatiently at them with the back of her hand.

  Tristan’s attitude changed in an instant from indignation to concern. “What is it? Do you hurt? Tell me, damn it.”

  “I thought we agreed to be friends. Would you deal with a friend as you are dealing with me now? Leave me alone, Tristan. I guarantee, you cannot help me out of this.”

  He regarded her unflinchingly for one long moment. Annica knew he was struggling with a difficult decision, and she was closer to being afraid in that moment than ever before—of what plan he might be hatching. His jaw tightened and a muscle jumped as he clenched his teeth. He took a deep breath and let it out, clearly mastering his temper and coming to a decision. “Leaving you alone will not be possible now,” he said in a quiet voice. “Shall we see your wound? No more delays—” he held a hand up to silence her “—and no diversions.”

  He unfastened her short cape and let it drop to the floor, focusing his attention on her right side, where she still pressed his cravat. He took the embroidered silk from her and worked quickly to unbutton her vest and drop that, too, to the floor.

  She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt and sniffed. When he tugged her white linen shirt from the waistband of her trousers, she put her hands over his to stop him. She could not expose herself with Tristan in the room. In fact, she doubted that she should expose herself with Tristan anywhere in the vicinity. She looked at him, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “You must not,” she whispered, fearing what his touch would do to her resolve.

  “Your wound needs attention,” he said in a husky voice.

  “You are not a physician, Auberville.”

  “I have patched wounds before, Lady Annica. This needs to be seen to now.” He retrieved the silver flask from the table and placed it on the hearth beside the basin.

  She glanced down and was surprised to see a red slash staining her shirt. Convinced, she dropped her hands to her sides. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but she bit her lower lip and nodded in consent.

  Kneeling, Tristan lifted the fabric just enough to bare her lower
right rib cage. She was amazed to see his fingers tremble as he traced the line of her wound. She was more aware of the tingling caused by his touch than any discomfort from the cut. Feeling dizzy, she shuddered, closed her eyes and placed her hand on the top of his head to steady herself.

  When he looked up from her wound, his face was pale and the scar beneath his left eye stood out in stark contrast. “’Tis no more than a deep scratch. It will not require stitching.”

  A guarded look shadowed his eyes as he stood and backed away from her. He turned toward the fire as if searching for an answer there, then back to her. There was a lean, hungry look about him. The heat of that steady gaze held her entranced. She could not have moved had she caught fire. Nor did she want to.

  He unbuttoned his vest and then his shirt, revealing his strongly muscled chest. His gaze never left hers. Her heart leaped into her throat and her knees went weak. She prayed he would not guess the effect he was having on her rioting emotions. Still watching her, he rent his shirt into several long strips and dipped one sleeve in the washbowl. Kneeling before her, and with a touch so gentle she could barely feel it, he cleaned the cut, then nodded in satisfaction. A fresh strip of cloth was doused with brandy from the flask, and that, too, was pressed to her wound. The alcohol stung, and she gasped in surprise.

  Tristan looked up at her. “That should keep you until you are home.” He stood, brushing the length of her as he did. The move was seductive…deliberate.

  She dropped her shirttails and held his shoulders to keep her balance. She had never touched a man’s naked flesh before and the heat and firmness left her short of breath. Curious, she dropped her head back to look up into the unreadable face.

  His mouth lowered reluctantly, as if drawn against his will. “We’ve gone too far to pretend nothing is happening here,” he murmured against her lips.

  Diversion was an absurd waste of time. In a flash of clarity, she knew she had been waiting for him to claim her since he had first smiled at her. And she knew, too, that she had been considering surrender ever since Madame Marie had told her that not every romance must end in marriage.

  His arms tightened, crushing her against his bare chest, and he deepened the kiss—a kiss unlike his others. This one did not ask, it demanded, seizing control of her senses. She yielded, powerless to control whatever savage forces were raging inside her, and glad of it. When his tongue invaded her mouth, little shock waves rippled along her spine.

  He blazed a trail of hot kisses down the column of her throat. Bending her backward over one steady arm, he used the other to open her shirt. One gentle hand began a breathtaking stroking of the soft flesh of her breast. His mouth stopped in its downward progress from her ear to cherish the hollow of her throat, and she gasped when her pulse leaped to meet his lips.

  Tristan’s responding moan vibrated along her every nerve, and she shivered at the sensation. She was tingling in the most amazing places!

  He swept her up and carried her to the narrow bed, covering her face and neck with small, eager kisses. He had her boots off in two short tugs and her trousers unfastened before she could protest. Her shirt, already undone, was quickly discarded.

  “Annica…Annica…you overwhelm me. I cannot even think when you sigh,” he murmured against her heated flesh.

  She was past dissembling, past modesty. She fumbled with the waistband of his trousers, urgent to discover this unknown territory.

  He was the model of masculine beauty, like a nude statue of a Greek god she had seen in a museum. Lord! Was the rest of Tristan like that statue?

  Boots, trousers and small clothes joined the pile on the floor before he turned back to the bed. She could not help staring. The rest of Tristan was very like the statue, but stronger, more powerful. Larger. Much larger. And erect. She took heart from the fact that she had never heard of anyone dying from what they were about to do.

  When he came down beside her on the bed, he did not return to her lips but made for sweeter destinations. His mouth closed over one rosy aureole, and it became taut and exquisitely sensitive as he teased and cherished the little bud. Annica twined her fingers through his hair, drawing him closer. “Tristan! Oh…never stop!”

  He shuddered and his hoarse voice pulled her out of the sensuous fog surrounding her. “What we are about to do will change you, sprite. If you would say no, say it now, and quickly, because in a moment there will be no choice left to make.”

  She reached out to brush back a thick shock of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead. “I feel as if I shall burst into flames at any moment. I could not bear to end it now.”

  “What of the risks?”

  “I’ve weighed the risks….”

  The deep vibration of his laugh against her flesh caused a liquid fire to course through her veins. “A neat trick, madam, since you have no idea what lies ahead.”

  She traced the ridges of his muscles with her fingertips, fascinated by the supple firmness of his flesh and the way his muscles moved beneath his skin. She was awed by their strength.

  His hand slipped past her bandaged ribs to the soft flesh of her belly and to the crisp thatch of nether hair and beyond. Her blood turned to molten lava—hot, thick, all-consuming. Though she had felt the excitement of his kisses, she’d never felt such mindless compulsion to rush onward. All she knew was that, if he stopped now, she would die.

  When he parted the soft petals guarding her sheath, she bit her lip to prevent an embarrassed outcry, but her hips betrayed her by rising to his hand. That touch, that invasion, was closer to heaven than she had ever been.

  “Yes, that’s it,” he groaned. “You are so ripe that you respond as if we are already one. Come, sprite, open for me.”

  She raised one knee to grant him fuller access. Dizzy with delight, she wondered if this was what it was like to swoon. Perhaps she was the swooning kind, after all. She reached for him, wanting to touch him as intimately as he touched her, to give back some of the joy she took.

  His arm beside her head braced his weight, the other caught her hand on its downward path and raised it to his lips. He skimmed a kiss along the knuckles before placing it on his chest. “This will be difficult enough, Annica. Do not distract me, or we’ll both regret it.”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded.

  The hand bracing his weight laced through the tangles of her hair. “Steady, Annica. Hold on to me.”

  She did as he asked, feeling the strain of control in his powerful muscles, and she trusted that he would be as gentle as it was in his power to be. She began to doubt the wisdom of her decision with his first tentative probing. Then he nibbled an earlobe, and her fear went whistling down the wind. A bittersweet ache brought her knees up alongside his hips.

  He pressed downward again, gaining a shallow entry. She was startled by a sudden tightness where only moments before she had felt herself opening to his coaxing. He held her gaze, an exultant look about him, and her body turned fluid as he thrust again, slowly, gently.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep shuddering breath when the new and bewilderingly erotic sensation swept through her. Despite the building pressure, she desperately wanted more of that feeling. “Tristan…”

  He plunged downward, tearing the fragile barrier. She gasped and stiffened in surprise. Relenting, now that the deed was done, he smoothed her hair back from her face. He kissed her and stilled his movements, allowing her time for the discomfort to ease, time for her to accustom herself to his size. He eased his weight from her by rolling over and dragging her with him, placing her above him, but still rooted within her.

  He whispered an apology of sorts. “That was the worst of it, sprite. Henceforth, this will bring you only pleasure.”

  She nodded, growing accustomed to the tender intrusion. Her hair tumbled about them and, both hands free at last, he caught it between his fingers and pressed it to his lips.

  He inhaled deeply. “You smell of juniper and moss and wildflowers. Your skin tastes as
sweet as wild berries. Annica, my woodland sprite. Annica, of the evergreen eyes.”

  “That is quite poetical, my lord.” She sighed, pleased with the comparison.

  “Perhaps I have a poet’s soul.”

  She shivered. “You are a warrior, Tristan—a hunter.”

  He pulled her head down by the dark tendrils to nip one tender earlobe. “You’ve found me out, sprite. And now that the warrior has invaded this particular territory—” his hands slid down her back to caress her buttocks “—what should he do next?”

  “Conquer, my lord. If he can.”

  His laugh turned to a soft groan when he stirred within her, causing an exquisite tightening in her passage again. The feeling was irresistibly intimate. They had truly become one person, one flesh, and she felt his strength and power. Overcome with the heady sensation, she prayed it would never end.

  She moved experimentally, and he gave a low rumbling groan. His arms tightened around her and he rolled over again, still buried within her.

  “’Tis time to finish this, sprite. I’m at the end of my control,” he told her, an apology in the deep voice.

  The discomfort eased, but Annica felt urgency rising again. Tristan quickened the ancient primal rhythms. Her passion built with alarming speed and intensity, filling her to the bursting point. She matched his moves and was rewarded with praise.

  “Yes…that’s it, sprite. I knew from the moment I heard you laugh that you were a woman made for love,” he sighed. “A woman made for me.”

  Waves of fire washed over her and a glorious radiance erupted at her core. It was the most amazingly joyful, most intensely pleasurable sensation she had ever experienced. The release of the unendurable tension was like the loosening of a flight of birds into an endless, deep blue sky. When it ebbed, lethargy left her weak and trembling.

  “Now you are mine,” he whispered in her ear with a deep, answering shudder.

  The public coach drew up around the corner from the Sayles home, and Tristan lifted Annica down. He tossed a coin to the driver and waited until the man disappeared.