The Forbidden Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Curse you for always having to win,” she said even as she dragged off her chemise, then shoved her lovely bare breasts into his face. The motion shifted her on his lap, tightening her grip around his erection.

  He groaned. “I think we should both win.” He thrust his hips up beneath her, reminding her of what he wanted. “Move, Emily, move…”

  And finally, she did.

  It was exquisite. It was utter torture. She found the perfect rhythm, smooth and rapid and enticing. She even managed to blend the rocking of the carriage with her own rocking in a precise symphony of movement that wrung him like a hot hand.

  Good God, having her make love to him was incredible. The scent of lavender spiked his senses, and her shimmies and innocent twists sent him reeling. He could hardly hold back his release to await hers. But hold back he did. After last night, he wanted her to know complete satisfaction.

  So he focused all his efforts on laving her breasts with his tongue and stroking the hot silk of her between her legs.

  “My goodness, Jordan…” she whispered when he tugged on her nipple with his teeth. “Do that again…yes…oh, yes…”

  Her unvarnished enjoyment was a curse, for it made it nearly impossible for him to restrain himself. He had to close his eyes to keep from seeing the pleasure shining in her flushed features, the amazingly erotic image of her riding him. As an innocent, she was overpowering; as an experienced woman, she would be annihilating.

  God preserve him until the annihilation.

  Her rhythm increased, her body descending like a goddess’s to torture him with pleasure. The rush to release became unstoppable, especially when she caught his mouth with hers and began to probe boldly inside with her tongue. He sucked on her tongue with almost frantic eagerness.

  Suddenly she broke off the kiss, her body arching above him. “I love you, Jordan!” she cried as she undulated around him. “I love you…I love you…”

  That was all it took. With a guttural cry, he spilled himself inside her and felt her shudder around him at the same time.

  I love you, her words echoed in his head as he clasped her fiercely to him. I love you.

  Chapter 18

  And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but

  The truth in masquerade.

  Lord Byron, Don Juan, cto. 11, st. 37

  Later, Emily sat in her chemise, drawing on her stockings. Jordan, dressed in only his drawers, leaned forward to rummage inside the amply filled basket from the inn. A surge of affection filled her when she noticed the freckles on his back, a dark smattering of them across his well-defined shoulders.

  He was hers. For a brief time, only a few hours perhaps, he was hers.

  Her mind clamored to be heard. You shouldn’t have told him you loved him. You shouldn’t have let him make love to you. You should have stayed strong.

  She ignored all of it. Someone should have warned her that lovemaking had varied delights. Perhaps then his seduction wouldn’t have taken her so by surprise. Perhaps she wouldn’t have cried out so feverishly that she loved him or exposed herself so wantonly.

  Oh, but the look on his face when she’d teased him at the beginning…She stifled a giggle. She would have to do that again sometime, once they were married.

  She sobered at once. What was she thinking? They were not going to marry. She must return to London, even if it meant attempting an escape everywhere they stopped. With each passing hour they moved farther north, and there was no telling what Lord Nesfield would do once he discovered her gone. Lady Dundee might hold him off for a while, perhaps even a day or two, but eventually when she didn’t appear…

  A hollow fear settled in her chest. When that happened, it would all be over anyway. So she must be strong. She must find a way to escape Jordan.

  “The sausage is cold, I’m afraid,” Jordan said as he drew out a greasy, paper-wrapped parcel. “But I think there’s toast and jam. Oh, and here’s a fruit tart. Do you want it?”

  He held it up to her, his gaze meeting hers. “What’s wrong? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  A ghoul was a better term for the looming image of Lord Nesfield in her thoughts. She forced a smile. “I…I’m merely tired, that’s all. And hungry.”

  He handed her the tart, then sat back and unwrapped the package of sausages. “There’s plenty of food here. And you can have a nice long nap after you eat.”

  She munched on the tart, but it tasted like wood in her mouth. “Aren’t we going to stop at all?”

  He seemed suddenly very interested in the sausages. “Yes, of course. We’ll stop for dinner.”

  “I assume we’ll spend the night in Leicester.”

  This time his answer was longer in coming. “Probably.”

  Then he changed the subject. Feeling temporarily reprieved—after all, she couldn’t just leap from the carriage—Emily seized on the chance to find out more about him. They talked as new lovers do, each wanting to know the other’s secrets. It didn’t surprise her to hear that he’d been dreadfully lonely as a child, or that he missed his mother despite her callous treatment of him.

  And his zeal in talking about reform made him seem less different from her than she’d thought. At least he made the attempt to understand the concerns of ordinary people. Many of his peers—like Lord Nesfield—had no use for such things.

  What was painful to hear about was his close friendship to Ian. Clearly he’d do anything for the friend who’d helped him through the dark hours of his childhood. It saddened her to think how much he would hate her, truly hate her, once he learned the truth, once Lord St. Clair had been exposed and Lord Nesfield took action. If only…

  No, she couldn’t risk it. For Lord St. Clair, exposure would mean embarrassment and the end of his hopes for marriage to Sophie. For her, however, exposure could mean her life.

  Jordan tried to turn the conversation to her parents, but she skirted that discussion with only a few terse words about her mother’s death.

  Later in the day, she learned what Jordan meant by “stopping for dinner.” Although they halted twice in the morning so she could relieve herself by the side of the road, the first time they stopped for more than a few minutes, she wasn’t allowed to leave the carriage. Apparently, Jordan was taking no more chances. He stayed inside with her while Watkins entered the inn and paid for their dinner, which he carried back to them.

  That alarmed her, but she clung to the fact that they couldn’t go on this way for the entire trip. Scotland was a good two weeks’ journey—Watkins had to sleep sometime.

  For herself, she slept in the afternoon, lulled by the rocking of the coach. She woke up to Jordan’s tender kisses, and they made love again, slowly, leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world.

  Afterward, he fell asleep with his head propped against the side of the carriage. She watched him, thinking how perfectly adorable he looked asleep, with his hair so unruly and his usually hard features soft. He claimed to be incapable of love, but she no longer believed it. It would come harder, but that would make it all the more precious when it came.

  If only she could stay with him to watch it happen…She sighed, a bitter disquiet spoiling her peace. Dear heavens, she must make sure they stopped soon. She couldn’t bear this limbo much longer, this place where he was hers and not hers, too.

  Shortly after sundown, she had her wish. They halted at an inn, and Jordan ordered another private dining room for them. To her dismay, however, there was no bed in this one, and Watkins joined them for the meal.

  As they sat eating roast mutton and poached salmon in a room twice as spacious as the one at The Warthog and four times more luxurious, she glanced at the yawning coachman, then leaned toward Jordan. “Aren’t we going to spend the night here?”

  “We’re not to Leicester yet,” he said calmly.

  “But your man looks exhausted.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  That was all he would say. But when they were on the road again, Watkins had
an assistant, some man Jordan had hired at the inn. She thought it odd that Jordan would be so insistent on making it to Leicester that he would hire a man for only a few hours, but she supposed it was his prerogative. He could certainly afford it.

  Once in the coach, she slept again, determined to be awake and alert once they stopped in Leicester. Thus she was shocked to discover when she opened her eyes again that the next day had already dawned.

  She sat up and looked at Jordan, who was sitting across from her wide-awake, peeling an orange with his pen knife. “Why didn’t we stop? Surely we’ve passed Leicester.”

  “Yes.” He propped his feet up on the seat next to hers, crossing them at the ankles with utter nonchalance.

  We must be well past it by now, she thought. We must be almost to Willow Crossing.

  Alarm bells went off in her head. Willow Crossing lay off the main road to Scotland, yet as she glanced out the window, she thought she saw a familiar grove of trees. A sudden horrible fear made her legs grow weak.

  “This isn’t the road to Scotland,” she stated.

  “No.” He concentrated on peeling the orange. “We’re not going to Scotland.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’re not going to Scotland’! You said—”

  “I said we were going to be married. You asked where we were headed, and I said ‘north.’ And we’re going north.”

  The truth hit her all at once. “You’re taking me home.”

  He met her gaze. “Yes. I intend to do this right, and that means asking your father’s permission for your hand.”

  Dear heaven, she could only imagine what Papa would think when they arrived and Jordan announced that he wanted to marry her! How could she explain? Even if she could spin some tale about her sudden appearance with Jordan, she doubted Jordan would keep quiet about her masquerade. Oh, no—that was probably the very reason he’d brought her here.

  And in the end she’d have to tell Papa that Mama killed herself. No. No!

  “It won’t work,” she protested. “If you bring me to Papa’s, I’ll tell him that I won’t marry you. Then you’ll have to give up your plans.”

  “If you refuse to marry me, Emily, I’ll tell him what you’ve been doing for the past month. I’m sure he’ll find it very interesting.”

  “He knows already,” she lied. “It won’t accomplish anything.”

  “He doesn’t know. My man learned that much from the servants at Lady Dundee’s, who were speculating wildly about why Miss Fairchild’s father kept sending letters to her there.”

  Her throat tightened, and she dropped all pretense of nonchalance. “Jordan, you promised—”

  “I promised not to speak to Nesfield.” His feet hit the floor as he leaned forward, fixing her with a dark gaze. “I didn’t promise not to try to protect you some other way. You’ve been drawn in by a man who’ll bring about your ruin if you continue to do his bidding. I won’t stand by and watch it happen. And since you won’t tell me why Nesfield is forcing you to masquerade and you won’t let me speak to him, you give me no choice but to take you away from him, as far away and as permanently as I can manage. If that means speaking to your father—”

  “You will kill Papa,” she hissed. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

  “Then make me understand.”

  She stared at his implacable face, at the eyes that promised her no quarter. Glancing out the window, she was alarmed to see that they were now traveling down the main road that led through town. In five minutes or less, they would be at the rectory. She had to tell him something, anything that would make him stop!

  Perhaps if she told him the reason for her masquerade…Yes, that might satisfy him. Perhaps if he knew the reason, he wouldn’t press her on why she’d agreed to it. Of course, he would hate her for her part in putting an end to his friend’s hopes, but she couldn’t help that.

  “All right,” she whispered. “But stop the coach. Please.”

  His eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to discern whether she were in earnest.

  “Stop the coach!”

  He did as she asked, ordering Watkins to pull over to the side of the road.

  She slumped against the seat with relief. Then, seeing his expectant look, she said wearily, “This has to do with Sophie.”

  “Sophie?” He looked astonished. Obviously, he hadn’t considered that.

  With halting words, she recounted how Sophie had tried to elope and how Lord Nesfield and Lady Dundee had asked her to act as a spy in an attempt to unmask Sophie’s would-be husband. Emily glossed over her reasons for agreeing, focusing on her explanation of their plan.

  She knew at once when he made the connection between her masquerade and Lord St. Clair.

  Straightening in his seat, he uttered a foul oath. “Ian was one of your suspects, wasn’t he? Not only Pollock, but Ian. That’s why you’ve been so cozy with him. That’s why the dinner parties and the outings to the museum and the dancing at the ball.”

  The chill in his voice made her wrap her arms tightly over her chest. “Yes. Lord Nesfield even suspected you, because you paid so much attention to me, but I told him that was ludicrous.”

  He drove his fist into the side of the coach. “I should have realized that all this concerned Ian. But I let my jealousy of Pollock blind me to the obvious.” He glowered at her. “You’ve been spying on my closest friend, knowing that Nesfield will destroy him if he discovers Ian is the one.”

  “Destroy him? No! Lord Nesfield said he would offer the man, whoever it is, money or…or something that would make him agree to leave Sophie alone.”

  He looked at her in disgust. “Emily, you aren’t stupid. Do you really think Nesfield will stop at offering money? What if this lover of Sophie’s refuses Nesfield’s money? Will Nesfield threaten to ruin him? Or will he arrange for the man to be…disposed of?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Y-You mean, murdered?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t put it past Nesfield. He won’t propose a duel—he knows he wouldn’t win. Instead he’ll hire footpads to accost Ian in some dark byway—”

  “He never said anything about murder! Surely he wouldn’t—” She broke off in horror. A man who would threaten to send a young woman to the gallows if she didn’t do his bidding would certainly not hesitate to have someone murdered.

  She took a shaky breath. “In any case, I don’t know who it is. It mightn’t be Lord St. Clair at all.”

  “Or it might be. I don’t think Ian would carry off an heiress, but who can know for certain?” He leaned forward, his face taut. “Even if it isn’t Ian, you were helping that snake Nesfield see to some poor man’s ruin. Why?”

  “Sophie is my friend,” she said stoutly, seizing on the explanation she’d given Lady Dundee. “I…I didn’t want to see her married to some…some—”

  “Fortune hunter? What rot! If your friend was in love with the lowliest shepherd, you would have gone to the ends of the earth to help them find happiness. I know you. You believe in such idiocy.” His expression tightened. “What happened to your aversion for lying? Am I to believe you took on a masquerade you loathed, dressed in provocative gowns, and paraded yourself in front of every man in London merely to help your friend? I don’t believe it!”

  “I don’t care what you believe!”

  “You’d better. Because I’m returning to London as soon as I leave you at your father’s. I shall get to the bottom of this, if I have to strangle Nesfield to do it!”

  Panic descended on her. “You can’t! Talk to Lord St. Clair if you must, and Pollock, too. Warn them to keep away. But please, don’t go near Nesfield!”

  He clasped her shoulders and shook her. “Why, damn it? What has he threatened to do to you?”

  Tears coursed down her cheeks. “I…I can’t…tell you! You can’t do anything about it and if I tell you—”

  “Is it your father’s living? Is that it? He’s threatened to take away your father’s living? Damn it, Emily, I can give yo
ur father ten livings, wherever he likes!”

  “It won’t matter!” She stared distractedly about her. “Lord Nesfield knows things about me…he says he’ll…” No, she couldn’t tell him. He would rush back to Lord Nesfield for certain then, no matter how much she begged. Jordan was the sort to act, and he would never accept that he couldn’t prevent the marquess from having her prosecuted. So he’d blunder in and threaten Lord Nesfield and accomplish nothing but her ruin. She could think of only one way to prevent that.

  She clasped his coat. “I’ll marry you, Jordan. I’ll be your mistress…I’ll do whatever you want! Just don’t go to Nesfield! Take me back to London with you, and I’ll…I’ll talk to him myself!”

  He was staring at her now as if she were some loathsome insect. Releasing her shoulders, he tore her clenched hands from his coat, then fell back in the seat. “‘Things?’ What kind of ‘things’ does Nesfield know about you that are so heinous you’d offer to be my mistress to keep from having them exposed?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll get married, and then perhaps he won’t…” She trailed off. “What am I saying? He hates you. If we marry, he’ll be even more likely to use what he knows against me.” Jordan was looking at her with such wariness, her heart twisted in her chest. “Besides, you don’t want a wife with dark secrets, do you? It’s one thing to lower yourself to marry a mere rector’s daughter, but God forbid you should marry a woman who keeps things from you, who might be a thief or a…a murderer.”

  “That’s enough!”

  “I’d ask you to trust me,” she whispered. “But you won’t do that, will you? Not the mighty Earl of Blackmore. No, you must know everything, have control over everything. You would never be so foolish as to trust somebody else.”

  “Damn you, Emily, shut up!” His eyes blazed like two torches in the blackest night. Then he rapped sharply on the ceiling. “Go on to the rectory, Watkins!”

  The coach rocked, then rumbled forward. She stared at Jordan. “What are you going to do?”

  He didn’t answer. A disquieting stillness had come over him, tense and frightening.