Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  He pulled her into his arms, fitting her against him as if he wanted to hold her there forever. The fever that had simmered between them for so long flared and engulfed them both and Elizabeth responded with a fervor she hadn’t known she possessed. She returned his kiss in full measure, her tongue meeting and dancing with his, her fingers sliding beneath his coat, tugging at his shirt, seeking the heat of his skin.

  His hands slid down her back to shape her buttocks, molding her soft curves against his hardness. She couldn’t help but tense.

  Marcus broke the kiss. “No,” he said raggedly. “Don’t think of him. Think of us.”

  The emotion in his voice swept away the last of Elizabeth’s hesitation. Us. Two letters joined in a word that was at once simple and infinitely strong—strong enough to put an end to her old fears, once and for all.

  She relaxed into his embrace, whispering her consent against his mouth. “Yes.”

  With a groan, he scooped her up and took two steps, lifting her onto the fabric-strewn counter. He pushed the materials aside, shifting her onto a length of peacock-colored silk.

  “Marcus, not here,” she gasped. “Not on Nell’s best silk!”

  Not diverting his attention from her, he growled a wordless reply, snagged a coin purse from his pocket, and tossed it on the counter. His hands returned instantly to her, cupping her breasts, stoking her back, threading into her hair. It was as if he wanted to touch her everywhere, all at once.

  His lips and tongue hungrily played along the sensitive skin of her throat, and she arched her neck, closing her eyes at the searing intensity of his kisses. The next second, she felt her skirt and petticoats pushed up around her thighs.

  She made one last, wild bid for sanity. “But Nell’s upstairs and might come down any—”

  He stole the rest of her protest with a provocative kiss, holding her still with both hands tangled in her black tresses. His tongue parted her lips, thrusting forward with slow, delicious strokes, and thoughts of anything and anyone else fled Elizabeth’s mind. Suddenly the absolutely scandalous was utterly irresistible.

  Marcus always seemed to affect her that way. He alone seemed to have this power to chase all fears and doubts from her mind, filling her instead with daring and hope… and love.

  It wasn’t the kind of love she had ever in her life expected to feel, but nothing about Marcus was what she expected. How could her love for him be a safe, predictable emotion?

  With a moan, she surrendered to it completely, let it cascade through her, bright and hot as fireworks in the night sky. She loved him. Recklessly, madly, wildly loved him.

  His kiss took on a new urgency and suddenly thought became impossible, scattered in a rush of glorious sensation. He pulled her bodice lower and Elizabeth moaned at feeling his hot breath on her skin a second before his tongue found her breast. When he took the sensitive tip between his teeth, she gasped.

  With one muscled arm around her waist, he pulled her toward him until she was just perched on the edge of the counter. He lifted her again, pushing her skirts completely out of the way. She felt the coolness of the peacock-colored silk beneath her, then the hot pressure of Marcus’s hardness against the naked juncture of her thighs.

  A shock of desire flared inside her. The fabric of his breeches was all that separated them, but to her amazement she felt no fear anymore, only a trembling, aching need to feel complete, as she instinctively knew she would with Marcus. She threaded her fingers into his hair and broke their kiss just long enough to whisper one word.

  “Yes.”

  The sound of her voice hung in the silence for a second. Marcus’s whole body went taut and still. Then he was opening his breeches and she could feel his naked, rigid arousal against her thigh, his heat scarcely an inch from melding with her own. She caught his scent, spicy and male, mingling with the lighter muskiness of her own arousal. The combination seemed to unleash some primitive, ancient impulse deep within her and she instinctively moved her hips toward him.

  Suddenly his hand was there, touching her, parting her. She whimpered softly when his fingers brushed against her wetness, slipping inside her for one tantalizing second. Then he was seeking that swollen bud concealed by her dark curls, finding it with an urgent caress, giving her pleasure as never before.

  He aroused her mercilessly, his fingers stroking with a fast motion that left her breathless, then flicking the hard nub with the lightest touch. He brought her close to the peak, so close, without allowing her release.

  Spiraling tension coiled in her belly. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out. At last he stopped, wrenching a low sound of protest from deep in her throat.

  Her objection instantly turned into an aching gasp as he fitted the velvety steel of his shaft against her. Wrapping a hand through her hair, he took her mouth in a deep, probing kiss, moving his hips in small, deliberate circles. He rubbed the swollen tip in her wetness, in a way that was gentle and yet unbearably intense.

  Then his other hand grasped her hip and he was pressing forward. She held onto Marcus’s shoulders, crying out softly as he became part of her. With a single thrust he was inside, deep inside, groaning with the pleasure of it, that hard, male part of him smoothly melding with her softness.

  Elizabeth felt filled and stretched—and astonished. She couldn’t suppress a wordless sound of joy at how exquisite it felt to have him within her. They were one, as completely and surely as if heaven and all the angels had created them exclusively for each other. He was huge and hot and solid as steel, but she felt no pain, only the delicious pulsations that came from her body accommodating and holding his.

  Nothing had ever matched this, not his kiss or his touch or his most intimate caress. She wanted to savor the sensation, learning the feel of him, but he withdrew a little way, breathing raggedly. Then he moved his hips in a rhythm that thrilled her even more, it was so fierce and exquisitely sweet.

  She abandoned herself to a feeling of closeness unlike any she had ever known, letting go of her memories, her fears, letting them become part of the past.

  For she knew in that moment she would never, never again have reason to think of another.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus held her closer as he thrust into her, deeper, harder, caught up in a surge of desire beyond his most fevered dreams. Elizabeth’s gasps and cries filled him with a soul-deep pleasure he had never experienced. Her hands gripped his shoulders with a strength that was at once delicate and infinite, as her soft sheath enveloped his rigid hardness.

  His breathing came in harsh gasps, but even breathing didn’t seem important anymore. He would die happily, later, as long as he could absorb every bit of this feeling now. The touch of cool silk each time he withdrew was a tantalizing contrast to the wet heat of Elizabeth’s body. They moved together in that ancient dance, driving each other harder and higher toward release.

  The sensations blazed through his body and mind and heart. For the first time in his life he felt himself losing control. He drove into her, giving himself to her completely. He heard his voice, low and caressing, whispering her name, whispering words of love.

  Then there were no more words, only her high, soft sounds of bliss echoing his fierce, deep groans. He felt her body quivering, tightening, suddenly arching with tension. He lifted his head, wanting to watch her face as she found release. She looked down and their gazes met, just as her every muscle began to shiver with a wave of pleasure.

  In that moment, her eyes were darker than the rarest amethysts, filled with wonder—and an emotion that was as startling as it was unmistakable.

  Love.

  In the next instant, Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and her lips parted. A flush of color lit her cheeks as she surrendered to the climax that shuddered through her. Her inner muscles tightened around his shaft, sending pure ecstasy ripping through his body.

  He just managed to pull out before his climax tore through him. His seed flowed over the blue silk as he grated out a last,
low moan.

  Elizabeth went limp against him and he held her close, listening to the sweet sighs of her breathing and the thunder of his own heartbeat.

  She lifted her head and looked down at him with languid eyes.

  The tenderness, the trust, the love in her expression stunned him. He felt that now-familiar ache in the center of his chest, found himself totally lost in emotion. The feeling left him off balance, as if he might fall to the floor if he didn’t hold on to her.

  He drew her head down to his, claiming her mouth in another deep kiss.

  Then he brushed his cheek against hers. “Don’t give me your answer tonight,” he said roughly, “but promise me you’ll think about everything I said… about staying beside me, here in England. As my wife.”

  For a moment he thought she would argue with him again, tell him all the perfectly sound, logical reasons why it would never work.

  Instead, she nodded, her eyes still dark, sparkling. “All right.”

  With a smile, he lifted her from the counter. Lowering her gently to the floor, he straightened her disarrayed gown before seeing to his own clothes.

  “And about that assembly on Wednesday.” He stole another kiss “You’re not going.”

  She reached up to smooth his tousled hair out of his eyes. “I thought we settled that particular—”

  “We did settle that particular question. We’re not going to argue any more about ‘my half’ and ‘your half’ and who’s in charge of which task. You’re not going.”

  “But the more we know about Montaigne’s plans, the less danger you’ll be in when you carry out the raid. I have to meet with him again.”

  Marcus had heard that tone before. She didn’t like being pushed—so much so that she might end up doing something impulsive and even more dangerous.

  It seemed that compromise was the best way to protect her. “Then I’ll go with you.”

  “I can’t arrive with a man.” She placed her hands on her hips. “The whole point of doing this at all—”

  “I’ll meet you there. No argument.”

  She started to reply, then lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I swear you are the most stubborn, infuriating—”

  “Yes, we have a great deal in common.” He grinned at her. “But never mind the compliments. What time will you be there?”

  She sighed and gave in. “I’ll be arriving with Lady Kimble and her friends at noon. You can’t miss her coach. It looks like something a sultan would ride in.” She folded her arms. “At least try to be discreet. If Montaigne sees you—”

  “I’ll be there.” He pulled her close and stole one last kiss. “You may not see me, but I’ll be there every second.”

  Releasing her, he went to the counter and picked up the length of silk he had just purchased, folding it to hide the stained end. “Is silk very hard to clean?” he asked, sliding her a wicked glance.

  “I don’t believe so, my scoundrel lord.” Her cheeks a fiery red, Elizabeth looked away, fighting a smile. “But I suggest you take your purchase and leave with haste, before Nell starts to wonder why we’ve been so quiet.” She looked at him from beneath her lashes, adding softly, “I’ll never be able to look at that counter again without blushing.”

  “Good. It looks beautiful on you.” He headed for the door. “Stay home until Wednesday.”

  She didn’t argue about it further. “Very well.”

  Satisfied that she was being cautious at last, he gave her one last, lingering gaze, and left, daring to hope that perhaps all would turn out well after all.

  Chapter 21

  Before he had walked even halfway home, Marcus realized that this wasn’t going to turn out well at all. By the time he approached his town house, it had sunk in with appalling certainty.

  This party Wednesday had all the makings of a disaster.

  How could he keep watch over Elizabeth at all times, in a houseful of people, without getting so close that he drew Montaigne’s notice? Even if he managed it, what if she made another assignation with Montaigne—as she intended—for the day of the Fair?

  Marcus didn’t see any way he could steal the gold and protect her at the same time. And if he were distracted with worry about her, he might botch the raid entirely. Why did she have to insist on placing herself in danger?

  He was in a sour mood by the time he walked up the steps to his town house. Quinn opened the door.

  Marcus handed him his greatcoat. “I’ll be upstairs.”

  “Very good, sir,” Quinn replied, not questioning either his employer’s ill humor or the odd fact that he was carrying a bolt of blue silk.

  Marcus took the steps two at a time and went up to his library. He needed to devise some way to secure both Elizabeth’s safety and the raid on Montaigne’s gold shipment. He dropped the length of fabric by the door, poured a brandy and prowled the room. The late afternoon sun only highlighted the emptiness of the place. His sanctuary appeared colorless. For the first time, he actually found it… lonely.

  He stopped in front of his bookshelf, Elizabeth’s words ringing in his mind.

  “It’s rather convenient, isn’t it? You write people down and put them on a shelf and only take them out when it suits you…”

  Ridiculous, he thought. He reached up and selected one of his volumes of poetry. As if he would people his world with paper friends. He didn’t have to—he had lived quite happily without them for ten years.

  He could change that fact any time, if he chose. All he had to do was call upon…

  His brows drew together as he tried to name one person who would call him friend. He placed his glass on the shelf and started flipping through the notebook in his hand. He had known each of these people at one time or another, briefly.

  His frown deepening, he tossed the book aside and picked out another, then another. The pages were filled with casual acquaintances, pub owners, passersby, shopkeepers, women who had held his interest for a time, drinking companions… but no friends.

  Suddenly he came across a poem he had never finished, and his hand and his thoughts both stilled.

  The page was blank but for a few partial sentences, started but never completed, all blacked out with angry strokes of his pen.

  It was about his father.

  What could he say about a man he had respected and honored above all others—and resented so bitterly.

  And loved so much.

  Marcus snapped the notebook shut and dropped it in the pile. He turned his back on the bookshelf. His gaze fell on his latest volume, which lay on the desk, open to the poem he had been working on most recently.

  The one about Elizabeth.

  A sudden, numbing recognition of a pattern riveted his eyes to the page. He had methodically finished every poem he had ever started, except for the one about his father—and this one.

  Why should these two people be so hard for him to write about?

  Because they were too complex. Because his feelings for them were just as complex.

  He stepped toward the desk and ran a finger over the half-finished sentences and inadequate images on the page. From the very beginning, his feelings for Elizabeth had been too raw, too intense to be captured by a means so mundane as paper and ink. She was simply indescribable: honest to a fault, yet an outlaw; embittered by her past, yet optimistic that she could change the future for others; stubborn and tender-hearted and brave and reckless…

  God help him, he couldn’t even find words for the color of her eyes.

  Elizabeth had filled his mind and heart—his life—until everything else seemed bleak by comparison. As he stared at the unfinished poem, the truth suddenly hit him like a physical blow.

  He hadn’t been able to finish this poem because he didn’t want to file Elizabeth away with the others.

  From the beginning, he hadn’t wanted her to be just another meaningless page on a shelf full of forgotten people.

  He had been falling in love from the moment he first met her.
r />   Hard on the heels of that astonishing admission came another feeling, equally strong. Fear.

  His love wouldn’t be enough to protect Elizabeth from Montaigne, not if she insisted on playing her dangerous charade at that assembly on Wednesday. He could very well lose her.

  Lose another person he loved because of Charles Montaigne.

  No. His gaze shifted to the window. Night was already falling. Tomorrow was Tuesday. He had only one day.

  Gritting his teeth, he realized there was truly only one way to ensure her safety. She would be furious, but that couldn’t be helped. He would earn her forgiveness later. They would have ample time to work everything out after the Fair.

  Three quick steps carried him to the door and he bellowed down the stairs. “Quinn!”

  Quinn appeared moments later. Marcus gave him a probing look. “I have something to ask of you. I won’t order you to do it because it’s going to be dangerous—”

  “Ask it, sir.”

  “You don’t understand. It will involve breaking the law, maybe risking your life.”

  “Ask it, my lord. After all that you’ve done for me, I owe you a great deal.”

  “Not your life.”

  “Perhaps not.” Quinn nodded gravely. “But I should like to think I at least owe you my loyalty, and my friendship.”

  Marcus felt a smile ease his scowl. He reached out to shake Quinn’s hand. “All right, then. We’ll work as a team. Now let’s get underway. We’ve much to accomplish before Wednesday.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A light rain misted the Wednesday morning air as Lady Kimble’s carriage rolled along the London streets, gathering up a cargo of bewigged, bejeweled women. On one padded velvet seat, Elizabeth sat squeezed between Lady Vicary, a dowager wearing what must be her own weight in jewelry, and Lady Houblon, a plump matron of about fifty who insisted on dressing as if she were fifteen.

  Elizabeth was trying to focus on the daunting meeting that lay ahead of her today, but her head was swimming with the clash of competing perfumes, and her ears were ringing with Lady Kimble’s endless praise of her gaudy coach—which the woman insisted on repeating for the benefit of each new arrival.