Scoundrel in My Dreams

by Celeste Bradley

  She was naked beneath Jack’s bribe. She’d told herself that it was because she meant to sell the lovely underthings, so she’d removed them and packed them safely away in the wardrobe.

  Now, as she tugged the priceless skirts high with her other hand, she wondered faintly if she’d meant to do this all along.

  There were no accidents with her and Jack. They moved toward each other like orbiting planets, unable to resist the laws of nature.

  The merest touch of his hand left her submissive to his every desire. His big, hot hands . . .

  Her fingers stroked her labia, petting it soothingly. If Jack were here he would cup it with his wide palm, warming it with the heat of his own body until she swelled and dampened in his hand.

  Dampness tickled her fingertips and she slid them gently between, stroking herself softly. How could one night have changed her so? How could one man’s passion have awakened this side of her so easily?

  She’d been shameless that night. He’d not even needed to speak to persuade her. He’d penetrated her body, her mouth—he’d even pressed her small breasts together and stroked himself between them until his juices had splashed hot on her neck. Anything he’d wanted to do to her, or have her do to him, she’d been his willing, eager partner, moving at a touch, responding to a sigh.

  It had been more than lust. It had been trust, deep and abiding. She’d had no shame because she’d had no fear, not of Jack. Even now, even after he’d locked her away and stolen her clothing—even after he’d pinned her arms above her head and stolen an orgasm as easily as another man might have stolen a kiss!—she had no fear of him.

  Her fear was of herself.

  Turning her burning face into the Jack-scented pillow, kneading her rigid nipples with one hand, she rubbed her slippery fingertips over her clitoris until her knees spread wide of their own volition and her pelvis rocked uncontrollably and she rubbed faster and faster until she called out his name as she pulsated and came at her own hand.

  When her shuddering and gasping had eased somewhat, she rolled facedown onto his pillow, her trembling legs sprawled wide. Loathing herself for needing such a release, furious at her body’s wicked, slippery betrayal, she wept her broken heart into the feather-stuffed thing that was a poor replacement for the man she’d once thought she’d loved.

  She wanted him still, as she always had.

  No.

  Bloody hell. She wanted him more.

  Eighteen

  In the shop just a brief stroll away from the bustling market, the three men stood silently as the apothecary, who recognized Melody immediately, confirmed that Mrs. Pruitt lived mere steps away in a block of shabby terraced houses that were no more than a single room wide.

  As they turned the corner onto that block, Melody began to stare about her, eyes wide, finger placed for thinking. “I like this street!” As they neared the address, she pulled at Jack’s hand, towing him down the walk.

  At a set of grimy stone steps, long unscrubbed, she let go and ran happily up the steps to the old, stained door. “Nanny!” She patted the door with both palms. “Nanny!”

  “This doesn’t look good.” Colin shot a worried glance at Jack. “The shutters are closed and the knocker has been removed.”

  Aidan ascended the steps and knocked briskly on the door. “Mrs. Pruitt?”

  Melody tugged on the door handle, pushing and pulling with all her might. “Open the door, Uncle Aidan! I want to see Nanny!”

  Colin edged closer to Jack. “The apothecary said she was quite ill. What if she’s passed on?”

  Jack gazed at the dark, shuttered house. The truth was trapped inside it, as locked away as if someone had written it into stone and flung it into the sea. The question of what had been done to Laurel and Melody would not be answered today.

  Colin strode to the house next door and tapped the knocker briskly. After a moment, a maid came to the door. She was a poorly little thing, with barely the energy to peer up at him from under her oversized mobcap.

  She had nothing to offer about the old woman. “She were there until a few weeks ago,” the maid said with a shrug, picking at her teeth with a grimy fingernail. “Ain’t seen her since.”

  “Is your mistress at home? She might be able to help us.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose and scratched her head. “Missus ain’t here,” she told him wearily. “She and the mister went to Covent Garden what for to see the play.” Then her gaze narrowed, belated suspicion creeping in. “I ain’t goin’ to tell ye more than that, so be off w’ ye!”

  She shut the door in Colin’s face. He grimaced at Aidan. “I ought to have let you flirt with her. You have a way with women with poor oral hygiene.”

  Aidan wasn’t amused. “Shut it. Melody’s going to fall apart when she learns that she won’t see her Nanny after all.”

  He was quite correct. Melody could wail like a banshee when she felt it was necessary, and she clung to the door handle, even as Jack lifted her into his arms.

  “Nanneeee! I want Nanneeee!”

  Jack held her close and patted her soothingly, but Melody had had a long, stimulating day and this disappointment wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.

  “Nanneeee!”

  Despite the fact that his eardrums must have been aching, Jack held her close all the long walk back to where the carriage awaited on the other side of the market. By the time they climbed inside, she’d worn herself out with wailing and was reduced to quick, broken breathing punctuated by whimpers.

  Jack kept her in his lap while Colin helped her blow her nose and wipe her tears. Aidan fidgeted helplessly.

  “What are we going to do?” he burst out finally. “We don’t know any more than we did yesterday!”

  Jack tucked Melody’s vastly cleaner face into his neck and began to whisper a story into her hair. It was a recounting of the time he’d found the conch shell he kept in his room. He’d found several while diving in a reef and supped on the creatures inside, roasting them on sticks over a fire he’d built on the beach. She went particularly quiet as he described digging the wiggling things out with his knife. Melody always did love a gory tale.

  When he glanced up, Colin was giving him a mystified look and Aidan was frankly green.

  “And I thought my stories were lurid,” Colin said with a shudder.

  “Must we discuss it?” Aidan clamped his jaw shut.

  Jack shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “It succeeded.”

  It had indeed worked miraculously. Melody lay limp but mostly calm across his lap, her booted feet dangling and only the occasional hitch in her breath. Large blue eyes blinked slowly at them, her lashes still spiky with tears. Her finger wearily worked its way into her mouth as they watched. This time Jack let it be.

  Aidan frowned. “One day she’s going to pull that out and there won’t be anything left of it.”

  Colin shrugged. “It could be worse. Pru told me that Evan used to keep his in his nose.”

  Jack looked at his friends. “Tomorrow. By ourselves.”

  “Indeed. We don’t want to put her through that again.” Colin let out a slow breath. “One more day then. Pru will be happy.” Then he looked askance at the once pristine pink lace dress. It was filthy from the fallen apples, and somehow during their adventures a vast rip had appeared down one side of the overskirt. “Who do you think is going to kill me most thoroughly, Pru or Button?”

  Aidan leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I’ll buy her another dress. I’ll buy her ten. Button does love it when we overdo.”

  Button had already made a fortune from Jack earlier that day, but he said nothing. Patting Melody’s back rhythmically, he gazed unseeing out the square little window at the passing city.

  He hadn’t visited Laurel yet today.

  He wondered if she liked the gown.

  After depositing a weary and overstimulated Melody into Pru’s capable hands, the three men had made their way down to the kitchens in the hopes of cadging
something tasty to make up for their missed dinner. Cook gazed at them all expressionlessly, then interrupted his evening routine to whip up three plates of roast with gravy and parsnips.

  Colin, Aidan, and Jack tucked in right there at the servants’ table, unwilling to wait for someone to set the dining room.

  Colin nudged Aidan. “The new girl is something spectacular, isn’t she?”

  Aidan only grunted. Colin laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, old man. I forgot you were most thoroughly saddled and bridled.”

  “As are you.” Aidan turned his gaze on Colin sourly. “I am deeply in love with my stunningly beautiful wife. That being said, the new girl is most definitely something spectacular.”

  Jack, however, wasn’t watching the darkly delicious Fiona flirt shamelessly with Samuel. His gaze was on the large underfootman lurking nearby. Bailiwick had a lovesick expression on his face and a single rosebud in his hand.

  Colin and Aidan caught sight of Bailiwick as well. “Oh no,” Colin breathed. “Don’t do it, son.”

  Aidan folded his arms. “He’s going to do it.”

  Colin winced. “I can’t watch.”

  Jack, however, watched carefully. He might not yet be much of a human being, but he’d never lost his soldier’s powers of observation. Bailiwick loved Fiona. Anyone with eyes could see that, except, apparently, Fiona herself.

  Was everyone so? Was everyone blind when it came to their own hearts?

  He’d been blind to Laurel’s feelings for so long.

  Could Laurel now be blind to his?

  Could he?

  Bailiwick walked slowly up behind Samuel and loomed silently. Fiona flicked him a single scornful glance, her dark eyes flashing, and then ignored him. She even upped the level of her flirtation, leaning forward to murmur something and reaching out to run a fingertip down the front buttons of Samuel’s livery waistcoat. Samuel flushed hotly and moved closer, saying something most likely entirely indecent and mutually pleasurable, by the glazed look in his eye.

  Samuel was the only one startled when he was lifted bodily away from Fiona. With a yelp, the smaller man—who wasn’t a small man at all, in any other company!—was flung away to stumble down the hall and make himself scarce for a few days.

  Bailiwick then stood dumbly before Fiona, who was glaring at him with her fists on her mind-numbing hips and her black eyes flashing fury. Preparing to blast Bailiwick, she inhaled deeply. Every man in the room noticed her doing so.

  “Damn.” Colin gulped. “I think I’d better find Pru.”

  Aidan nodded. “She’s probably with Madeleine. I’ll go with you.”

  They pushed back from the table and hurried away from the combined threat of female fury and female wiles. It was a potent brew, but it left Jack cold. Oh, he could appreciate Fiona’s tempestuous attractions, but they stirred him not at all. Why then did the merest thought of Laurel’s dark hair tumbling over her lovely ivory skin make his knees weaken with need?

  It was clear that Fiona had a similar effect on Bailiwick. He simply bowed his head when Fiona’s fury overflowed. Her scathing words would have driven any sane man scuttling down the hall with his tail between his legs, but Bailiwick only stood there, openly offering himself as target.

  When she slowed down enough for another impressive inhalation, Bailiwick spoke.

  “I ain’t like Samuel.”

  Then he thrust the single perfect rosebud into her hand and turned and walked away, his wide shoulders slumped.

  As he passed Jack, Bailiwick turned his agonized gaze to meet Jack’s.

  “Them blokes only want one thing. She’ll suss it out when I don’t budge.” The giant underfootman walked on, stoic determination evident in every step.

  It was really too bad that Bailiwick didn’t glance back over his shoulder, or he would have seen Fiona stamp her foot, swipe at her eyes, and then raise the rosebud tenderly to her lips.

  Perhaps not so blind after all.

  Buoyed by Bailiwick’s stout, if wretched, resolve, Jack mounted the stairs into the attic. It was time to face Laurel, to face down his past, to make the confession of his sins. Secrets had caused this mess. It was time for all the secrets to be brought out into the daylight. If the price was too high, at least Jack would suffer in a state of honesty.

  It was the best he had to offer her right now. His secret owed her. It had cost her her bright future. It had consumed every day and night that he should have spent at her side for the past few years. She should know why he had ruined her life.

  When he entered, Laurel was sitting in a chair by the little table, smoothing tissue paper with her hands. It was an odd practice. Jack couldn’t understand why she bothered.

  When he asked her, she gazed up at him with such a glare of frustration that he nearly took a step backward.

  “I,” she said slowly, as if to an idiot, “have nothing better to do.”

  Ah. Right.

  Then he saw that she wore his gift. The color was quite nice on her, very nearly the color of her eyes. The bodice was a bit tight, but like most men, Jack rather thought all gowns should be made thus. “You look . . .” Lovely. Stunning. Desirable. His throat went dry. He had the most dishonorable thought that he might just keep her locked up here forever, his to do with as he wished.

  And oh, the things I wish!

  She lifted a brow and waited.

  He choked. “Clean.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Thank you. So kind of you to notice.” She turned back to her paper smoothing, the implication being that even that tedious activity was more diverting than his conversation.

  He had no argument there. Turning abruptly in frustration with himself, he paced the room for a moment. It didn’t take long. Soon he was back, gazing over her shoulder at her smoothing, soothing hands.

  It was a charming view, actually. She’d pinned her long hair up so nothing foiled his view down her neck and into her bodice. She went still. “Do you see anything you fancy?”

  “Yes.” He answered truthfully, his mouth not quite connected properly to his thoughts. Her breasts were full and soft—rounder than they’d been years ago, heavy and mature. The shadow between them seemed like the entrance to heaven.

  I held them in my hands, in my mouth. I—

  Then he heard the echo of his own reply. “I mean . . . no.”

  “How devastating for me,” she said flatly.

  Her sarcasm did not sting him, for he realized that she was at last speaking to him. Furthermore, her bottomless fury was quite . . . relaxing. Much preferable to the constant worried gazes and careful, coaxing tones of his friends, who treated him rather like the family idiot. An idiot who possibly carried knives. And explosives.

  Laurel didn’t treat him as if she worried he was simply trying to decide how to die. She treated him as if she rather wished he would make up his mind and get it over with.

  How refreshing.

  “I have to tell you . . . something.”

  She flicked him an indifferent glance. “Right now? I’m terribly busy, you know.”

  If she’d been wearing her braids and if he’d been the same man he once was, he would have given her braid a tug for such cheek. Blinking, he was surprised that he could even remember being that man. It was rather encouraging.

  The man he was now opened his mouth and began. “I never told you . . . about what happened to Blakely.”

  She kept on smoothing. “I know about Blakely. He died in battle.”

  “No,” Jack said simply. “He didn’t.”

  Her hands stilled. He rather thought she was listening quite hard, but she only said, “Oh?” as if she didn’t much care if he continued.

  How simple it was to confess before her loathing. After all, she could scarcely think worse of him than she did now, could she?

  He sat upon the bed, his hands loose in his lap, and he told her everything.

  Nineteen

  The words came slowly, piecing together in Jack’s mind as if t
rying to reassemble a note torn to shreds. Yet they did come, in the end, for she made no response, asked no questions. Her hands continued to smooth paper, slowly passing over and over it, the sound like the sea on a beach, rhythmic and soothing.

  “My cousin was not . . . suited to war. It was not so bad when we were merely foot soldiers. We gambled and drank and marched and passed the time with the other men. Blakely enjoyed being an ordinary man. Inevitably, however, whispers of his rank and wealth leaked out to the officers. Perhaps it was Blakely himself. He was ever loose tongued when imbibing. What better way to curry favor with the future Marquis of Strickland than to promote him quickly? For motives of political power, Blakely was put in command of the troops before he was ready.”

  Jack was still for a long moment. “Blakely would never have been ready.”

  The room was so quiet, so still but for the soothing sound of waves. Jack wanted to lie back on the bed and rest in this den of peace, but he would only bring his nightmares with him into sleep.

  He did not think Laurel would be inclined to save him from himself this time. Remembering his mission, he went on. “He was not a coward, my cousin, but he was of a foolish temperament. He was . . . inclined to rush in without thinking. There is no place for a man like that in command.”

  He raised his hands to his face, pressing against his eyes, though he’d long ago shed the last of his tears. His eyes were hot and dry. He pulled his hands away from his face and looked at them, as ever surprised to find them clean of blood.

  “His men were loyal. I should know. I was one of them. We followed him, believed in him, advised him as well as we might. Blakely did not mean to lead us all into the valley of death. He simply couldn’t see the gaping maw of our fate before us, though others of us plainly did.”

  He let out a sigh, a long breath, like releasing a dark spirit. Then he said the words: “So we mutinied.”

  He closed his eyes and listened to the slide of her palm across the paper. He followed it, clung to it, let his breathing match it. He fancied it might go on forever, like the sea itself, unchanging and eternal. For the rest of his life, he could come to this room and hear the peaceful, rhythmic sound of Laurel’s hands.