Compromised Miss

by O'Brien, Anne

  In a stride he was there, so close that the silk eau-de-nil ruffles of her gown brushed his thighs. Before she could retreat, his hands were on her shoulders, holding her. His eyes raked her face, his fingers gripped savagely. There was no softness in him, no laughter, no tolerance.

  ‘I won’t have it, Harriette.’

  ‘Nor will I have you putting a burden of guilt on me that I do not deserve.’

  ‘You are my wife. You will behave with discretion.’

  ‘You said I should be free to order my life as I wished.’

  ‘It was not my intent that you take a lover!’

  ‘Nor have I!’

  ‘Nor will you. I’ll not allow it. You are my wife. You are mine.’

  She saw the change in his face, a shiver of something more than anger, more dangerous than fury, the moment before he lowered his head and covered her open lips with his. Heated, passionate, he gave no quarter, until she was aware of nothing but the power of his body against hers, the force of his tongue taking possession. It set light to the emotions in her own blood and she clung, responded, arched demandingly against him, in spite of all her misgivings.

  ‘Harriette…’ he murmured against her mouth as he stooped to lift her, to carry her to her bed.

  ‘No…’ She forced herself to push against his shoulders. Panic rippled through her at the conflict in her feelings. How easy it would be to let him take her, fill her with pleasure. It was what she wanted, what her mind and body desired. How easy it would be to rip to shreds all the accusations and suspicions that lay between them and bury them beneath the sheets of her bed. But when he left her the cold divide would still be there, the weight in her heart would remain. So, wife though she might be, she would not. ‘No!’ Harriette repeated more forcefully.

  Luke lifted his head, his lips, as if she had struck him. Allowed her to slide to her feet. And Harriette, in her distress, allowed all her fears to transmute into words. She expressed, fatally, the first thought that came into her head.

  ‘I won’t go to bed with a man who is engaging in espionage, or, even worse, treason!’

  ‘What?’ His hands fell away.

  ‘I said that I won’t share my bed with a traitor,’ she stated with as much composure as she could muster, as her throat dried in trepidation, her heart fluttered.

  ‘I am not guilty of such a crime.’ His brows were a black bar.

  ‘But you did not tell me the truth, Luke. Don’t deny it.’ Harriette lifted her hand, fingers splayed against his chest, when he would have interrupted. His own heart beat as hard as hers. ‘I know about Captain Henri, your prisoner of war, waiting to be transported back to France. He would not tell me about the agreement between you, but I think there can be only one reason.’

  ‘I see.’ Luke’s face was an essay in bitter betrayal. ‘I was away too long, it seems. In my absence you have tried and condemned me.’

  ‘Yes. For I must.’ She must say what was in her heart. She could hide the facts no longer. ‘I know about the gold waiting for you in your study from Hoare’s Bank. I know that you have been visiting a parole town—how can that not be in connection with your prisoner of war?’ When she received no response, she continued. ‘And I know about the letter from Jean-Jacques Noir. You are still in league with him.’

  From her list, Luke homed in on one detail. ‘You’ve been reading my correspondence?’ His mouth tightened in a disdain that, she discovered, could match hers.

  ‘Yes.’ Refusing to feel shame, yet silently begging him to refute all her accusations. ‘In the opinion of the Monsieur Marcel in Port St Martin, Noir is a man of neither morals nor principle.’

  ‘Ha!’ The bark of laughter was harsh. ‘Morals? Principle? A fine condemnation coming from the leader of a gang of smugglers.’

  ‘Perhaps. But Marcel does not sell his country’s secrets to the enemy. Nor does he help his enemy’s army with gold and escaped prisoners.’

  ‘Which is what I do, I suppose.’

  ‘Why not? Since you refuse to explain to me, I have to presume that you are involved in some terrible treachery against England’s welfare.’

  Luke fought to find his breath, stung almost beyond control by the accusation, yet astonished at how much she had discovered of his carefully disguised secrets. But that was not important! He stoked his own temper. She had the temerity to accuse him when he had discovered her in Ellerdine’s embrace. The bright memory of Ellerdine’s smile destroyed the last vestige of control. Fired by pure male jealousy, without thought for the words he chose, he uttered the one accusation that had been a burr against his skin since that morning at Lydyard’s Pride.

  ‘And are you any better, more righteous than I, Harriette? If we are to speak of morals and principle, can you put yourself on a high pedestal? I think not. You might be beautiful when in the grip of temper.’ Once again he closed the space, dragged her to him and kissed her, suddenly, shatteringly, all force and fire. She was his. She would never belong to her damned cousin! He captured her mouth again. ‘But beauty can be a mask for all manner of deceits.’

  Harriette gasped at the unexpected. ‘I don’t understand you. You have always known my connection with the Free Trade.’ She felt the flush rise in her cheeks. He was suddenly so close to her, so angry. So magnificently furious! A sudden premonition of disaster flooded her, but still she replied calmly. ‘My smuggling has never been a secret between us.’

  ‘You are ridiculously naïve if you would have me believe that’s all you’re involved with,’ Luke spoke, smooth as silk, deadly as the edge of a knife. ‘Are you willing to stand there in such lovely innocence and deny that you are a Wrecker?’

  It was as if a bolt of lightning charged the atmosphere in the room. As if a bottomless abyss, dark and deadly, opened at Harriette’s feet.

  ‘A Wrecker?’

  Luke watched the effect of his accusation with a tightening of a band around his heart, yet closed his senses against the swim of horror in her lovely eyes. ‘My education was extended to remarkable lengths in my short stay in Old Wincomlee. When too stormy for smuggling, there are those who would think nothing of attracting a vessel into an unfriendly bay, on to the rocks. Who consider the safety of the cargo to be paramount compared with the safety of the crew, who can be left to fight for themselves, to sink or swim. A welcoming light on a dark and stormy night would seem to be a sign from God for a foundering vessel. I think the Tower Room at Lydyard’s Pride could be used for any number of distasteful activities.’

  Harriette was stunned. This was beyond belief, that he should believe her capable of such atrocities. But you think him to be capable of treason. What difference? Harriette banished the voice.

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘I do. And I will as long as I have breath in my body! What possible proof do you have that I might be a Wrecker? Who would make such an accusation? No Lydyard would ever give their assent to such an operation. I would never do such a thing.’

  ‘No? What about the Lion d’Or?’

  ‘I recall it. It foundered in the bay.’

  ‘And the crew?’

  ‘Lost. In spite of all we did.’

  ‘What happened to the cargo?’

  ‘Alexander sold it.’

  ‘So you saved the cargo, if not the lives of the crew.’ The lines around Luke’s mouth were deeply sardonic. ‘Who lit the lamp in the Tower Room, Harriette?’

  ‘It was not lit.’

  ‘George Gadie was not as sure as you appear to be.’

  ‘It shouldn’t have been lit—not on a night like that…’ The heat of anger in Harriette’s blood was suddenly replaced by a deep chill. Breath was ripped from her lungs.

  ‘So you say. But the question is, do I believe you? You have no difficulty in distrusting me, Madam Countess.’ It ripped at her heart, cruel claws.

  So she retaliated. ‘Do you blame me, all things considered? Why, even when you asked for my hand in marriage, what
was it you said? We will make a business contract. My reputation in exchange for the use of the Ghost. Was it to smooth your negotiations with your French contacts? You refused to explain, as I recall.’

  ‘I have not used the Ghost!’ Luke snapped.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean that you won’t. Nor does it explain Captain Henri. And I am no Wrecker! I was not there when the Lion d’Or came aground.’ Harriette found her anger melding with an intense grief, to leave her distressingly tearful. ‘I was at Whitescar Hall, at the celebration of the birth of Sir Wallace’s first child, with all the county present.’ She smeared the tears from her cheeks. This was no time to weep.

  ‘Yes. I left the reception—Wallace was furious, I remember—to launch the Ghost to try to save lives. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but that’s the truth. Damn you, Luke,’ she whispered. ‘I am no Wrecker. Have I ever lied to you?’

  It filled Luke with shame. Harriette’s simple explanation. Her final simple question. Luke took in the effects of his accusation with a gut-churning mix of guilt and contempt for what he had allowed himself to do. The catch in Harriette’s voice, the sheer misery in her face despite the sternly braced shoulders, struck home and shame coated Luke’s skin. Even in the face of such distress she had the strength of will to face him, even when tears transformed her eyes to silver and marked her delicate skin.

  Luke swallowed painfully. How despicable had he been? He had gone too far; far beyond honour or decency, spurred by sheer brutal jealousy that his wife should choose to find solace in Ellerdine’s arms. And who could blame her when he treated her with such lack of consideration. Did he believe her? Yes, he did. Here, in Harriette’s brief account, was no artfully hidden guilt, of that he would swear. Whatever Ellerdine’s carefully aimed inference that morning at Lydyard’s Pride, Luke found that he simply could not believe it of her. How could he ever have believed it? How could he doubt her transparent integrity, or the devastation in her eyes? His vicious words had reduced her to tears and he should be ashamed of causing suffering to a woman of such high spirit. Whatever else was between them, he would stake his honour on the truth of her denial.

  ‘Have I ever lied to you?’ Harriette demanded again.

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘And yet you would believe some vicious gossip before you would believe me. Who would say such lies about me?’ She pressed her hand against her breast. ‘It hurts me—so much pain—that you should think it.’ And the tears that she would give anything to control began to slide down her cheeks once more. But still she held his gaze. As if allowing him to see into her heart. ‘On my honour I am not guilty.’

  And Luke, wishing that he could turn back the hands of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, responded to his conscience. ‘Harriette—I know. It was unforgivable of me. I should never have accused you of that.’

  Harriette would have turned from him, but he stopped her, fingers burning into her shoulders. She risked a glance. The fury was no longer there, but overlaid by something far more immediate that caused her heart to throb, her skin to heat. Before she could draw breath he had dragged her to him so that the delicate ruffles were crushed between them. His mouth was so close to hers, his eyes blazing with green fire that was no longer temper.

  ‘What do you want of me, Luke?’

  His eyes swept her face. How sad she looked. Wounded and confused. It was his doing. Self-blame layered itself on his skin, a slick and unpleasant sensation. He could tell her that his doubts had been fired by Ellerdine, but that would be shrugging the blame from his own shoulders. At least he had enough honour left to him to refuse to do that. The shame was his for believing Ellerdine before his own wife. The shame was his for accusing her. He had allowed his jealousy to overcome his sense of judgement.

  He did not know what to say to her.

  And at that moment Harriette raised her hand and touched his cheek in an open plea. The most intimate of little gestures.

  ‘Luke…’ Her voice broke.

  It stole his breath and suddenly the jealousy and shame were swept away. Desire became a fast flood, centred on his awareness of her slender body hard against his.

  ‘Harriette—can you forgive me?’

  She stood motionless in the circle of his arms. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted on a sob. ‘I feel as if I am wounded beyond healing.’

  ‘And the fault is mine. All I can ask is your forgiveness. I have no excuse for my behaviour.’

  ‘What do you want of me?’ she repeated, as his arms remained encircling her.

  Then his lips were hard, bruising, the powerful muscles of his arms banding.

  ‘This!’

  It robbed her of words, of thought. Only sensation remained, a desperate thrill from the crown of her head to the arch of her feet. As overwhelming as it was horrifying that she had so little command over her response to him. Her lips parted beneath his demand, she could do nothing but press herself against him.

  Luke raised his head.

  And Harriette, more angry with herself than with Luke, felt emotion build and spill over until she raised her hand, instinctively, to strike out at the arrogance of him. But Luke caught her wrist and pulled it to his lips.

  ‘No! You’ll not strike me. And I still have enough honour left to me, no matter what you think.’ He trailed his lips in open-mouthed kisses from wrist—where her pulse rioted—to her soft palm. ‘Tell me to go, Harriette, and I will.’ Desire curled low in his belly. His muscles tightened in painful urgency.

  She stood, arrow straight, ashamed of herself, resentful of his power over her. ‘I should not have done that.’ And took a deep breath that pressed her breasts against his chest. ‘Do you still want me?’

  ‘I’ll not force myself on you, Harriette. Do you think me so lacking in integrity?’ His mouth captured hers again, forcing her lips to part, his tongue owning her, awakening all manner of sensations, stirring a response that shivered through Harriette, a need that destroyed all her defences.

  ‘Well?’ he gasped at last, eyes raking her face. ‘Do I go or do I stay?’

  She should refuse him. She knew it, and would refuse him. But Harriette’s blood had sprung into flame, her skin on fire with it.

  ‘Damn you, Luke,’ she said, and allowed desire to rule her. With the smallest of steps so that the hair’s breadth between them was obliterated, she locked her arms around his neck and allowed him to push her back on to her bed.

  It was a breathtaking acknowledgement of desire oversetting willpower. Time and place, even the bitter words of the past moments, held no meaning. Clothes were ripped aside, wilfully discarded in the heat of demand to be flesh to flesh as Luke’s hands and mouth devoured her. It seemed to Harriette that every inch of sensitive skin was prey to the intoxication of his body. They rolled, entwined, breath ragged, his muscles bunching, rippling beneath her sweat-slicked palms. Tensing when her nails gripped, bit. Until he covered her, the weight of him holding her motionless, thighs spread and open to his avid gaze. Harriette stilled in breathless anticipation, every thought, every response, dominated by his superb body.

  Luke reared above her, her body finally subject to his, his sex straining. His fingers dipped between her thighs and she cried out as they penetrated. As her belly tensed in a curl of anticipation, she reached up to press openmouthed kisses over his throat, his shoulders.

  ‘Harriette…!’

  Luke looked down at her, the lovely flushed face, the tender bruised lips. The silver of her eyes shining as brilliantly as any diamonds. He was beyond reason, beyond control, lured on by a need to bury himself between the slender thighs, a primal desire that overrode every other sense.

  ‘Look at me!’ he demanded.

  And she did, so that he could see his own reflection in her eyes.

  ‘You are mine, not any other man’s. I’ll have you. And you’ll have me—all of me. You are not Ellerdine’s—and never will be.’

  Perspiration sprang on his brow, his chest, as he still h
eld tight to the reins. Yet at the core of his mind there remained the essence of a consideration that he must have a care of her. She was ready for him, impossibly hot, enthrallingly slick and yet he must not use her as if driven by thoughtless, indiscriminate lust.

  The decision was stripped from him when, in a sinuous, silk-smooth action Harriette ambushed him, arched her body against his, against the heel of his hand. It was enough to drive out every thought but the lure of the passion that speared between them. One hard thrust and she was his. No languorous coupling, no gradual building of urgency, but an overwhelming driving on to the end because he had no choice. Because she held him, nails scoring into his hips, teeth nipping at his shoulder. He felt her muscles tense and shiver beneath his, stoking his erection. With a final shuddering he emptied into her, a hot spill.

  ‘Harriette…you destroy me…’

  As breathless as he, shattered by the emotions in the room, by her own compliance in such wanton desire, Harriette could only hold on. Compliance? No, she had been as hungry for fulfilment as Luke. Duty and obedience? Is that what it had been? Never. It had been the fiercest of desires to touch and be touched, to possess and be possessed. Words, her own unspoken—don’t let him take you, it makes you too vulnerable—his recalled—Harriette, you destroy me—spun in her brain.

  She regretted it, or did she? She did not know, only that she had been unable to stand against the force of the wild, untamed demands that had arced between them.

  She stared into his eyes, so close that she could see the reflection of the candle flames. He had not asked her, this time, if she wished him to blow them out. He had not had the courtesy, and yet it had not mattered. She had not noticed in the frenzy of longing. As shame returned, Harriette turned her head aside so that he should not see the regret that he should take her in the heat of anger rather than affection. With lust rather than love.

  Wordlessly, raising her hands, she pushed with her palms against his chest.