by Liz Carlyle
Nash was quiet for a moment. “I can only imagine what life on such a small island would be like,” he acknowledged. “But at the risk of repeating myself, Zee, you must know that this is a rather dangerous affaire we are having. This is not the West Indies. What you are doing here—with any man, let alone one of my reputation—would ruin your name beyond repair, were it to become known. There would be no hope of your marrying and little hope of keeping your place in society. You understand that, do you not?”
“It will not become known,” she insisted.
“I hope your confidence is rewarded,” he answered coolly. “You have never wished, I take it, to marry?”
“No husband would allow me to lead the life I do,” she said quietly. “You know that, Nash. I would be but a possession. And I would likely lose control of Neville’s. It would become my husband’s property, just as I would.”
“You have the misfortune to be a woman before your time,” he admitted. “Perhaps someday your sort of life will not be so unusual. But is that your only protest against marriage? Your work? The loss of authority? Does it matter so very much?”
“Of course it matters!” she snapped. “Neville’s is the thing which defines me, Nash. It is all I have known, the whole of my adult life—and a good part of my girlhood, too. And it is why I did not marry Gareth, even though I…yes, I loved him, in my own way.”
Nash sat silently for a moment. “I see,” he finally answered. “I believe, my dear, that your Mr. Lloyd has my deepest sympathies.”
“Has he?” asked Xanthia archly.
Without answering, Nash looked up and narrowed his eyes against the sun. “Well, I daresay we’d best go in now,” he said. “The others will be returning for luncheon shortly, don’t you imagine?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
The conversation had come to a strange and sudden end. But Xanthia had lived with her brother long enough to know that one got nowhere in questioning a man when he was in a strained, temperamental mood. Nash drew her up from the bench, placed her hand upon his arm again, and together they began their sedate promenade back to the house.
They arrived to find that the riding party had indeed returned, and had brought with them Lord and Lady Henslow, whose carriage they had met in the village. Lady Henslow greeted Xanthia with overt curiosity and declared herself charmed to meet Kieran. She then returned to her sister’s side, where she remained almost dotingly. She good-naturedly allowed Lady Nash to dominate the conversation, pausing to do no more than pat her sister’s hand. It was becoming ever clearer that Lady Nash was accustomed to being cosseted by her family.
After a pleasant meal of cold chicken and roast beef, the group dispersed, with Lady Nash insisting the new arrivals must have a nap. Lady Phaedra accompanied Xanthia upstairs.
“Shall you have a rest now?” asked Phaedra, when they reached Xanthia’s door. “If not, perhaps you would like to see the old ruins? It is a lovely walk.”
Xanthia smiled and squeezed the girl’s hand. “I fear I cannot,” she said, feeling the press of duty. “I am so sorry. I have some letters to write which will take me most of the afternoon.”
“Heavens, that sounds like a lot of work,” said Phaedra.
“Work, yes,” said Xanthia. “Exactly. Might we see the ruins another time?”
Phaedra smiled. “Yes, of course.”
Xanthia went in, found her satchelful of papers, and went to the rosewood secretary, which sat between the windows in the sitting room. There were several matters which she had assured Gareth she would see to during this trip, and she meant to keep her promise, no matter how tempting it might be to do otherwise. Moreover, work would help to keep her mind off Nash and stop her from fretting over the unusual mood he had taken on—a mood which had only hardened throughout luncheon, until he had seemed as cool and as distant as Xanthia’s brother.
With that thought, she let the drop-front of the secretary down and began praying she would find an inkwell inside, for she had forgotten her lap desk altogether. To her surprise, the desktop was frightfully untidy, as if it had been shut it up in some haste. Mrs. Hayden-Worth, no doubt. Xanthia picked up a crumpled piece of notepaper and sniffed it. It still held a hint of her strange scent of mace and musk. Perhaps in their rush to clean the room, the servants had failed to open the desk. In any case, the notes appeared very dull, consisting mostly of chicken-scratched lists of things to do, or to purchase, and duns from various shopkeepers.
Impatiently, Xanthia began to stack the jumbled papers neatly into one corner. Beneath the mess she found a well-worn prayer book embossed with the gilt initials J. E. C. With an inward shrug, Xanthia picked it up by its spine, meaning to lay it aside, but she caught it awkwardly, and another half dozen bits and pieces of equally unimportant-looking papers slid out.
“Bloody hell,” said Xanthia under her breath.
She began to stuff the bits back into the prayer book as best she might, but one of them, a piece of folded ivory foolscap caught her eye. The paper was thick, and looked to have cost a small fortune. Xanthia flipped it over. It was addressed to Mrs. Hayden-Worth at Brierwood, and had obviously come from America. Inordinately curious, Xanthia flicked it open with her thumb, and let her eyes skim over the words, which were as dull as the shopping lists had been:
26 March
Dearest Daughter:
I am in receipt of your letter dated last month, and trust that you are well. How glad I am to hear that you will be in Cherbourg on the twentieth of May. I trust you will have fair weather. There will be two thousand pounds awaiting you there. Pray do not spend it all at once, and write to me immediately upon your return from France.
With all my love,
Your indulgent Papa
P.S. I am sending the seed pearls you requested via Captain Tobias Bruner on the Pride of Fairhaven. Please count and sew them carefully, to see that none have been lost in transit. I am sure they will look lovely on you.
It seemed an odd letter, for reasons Xanthia could not quite put her finger on. Jenny’s father was a man of few words. He scarcely enquired after his daughter’s health and gave her no news from home. But clearly it was just as Phaedra had implied. Jenny’s father indulged her dreadfully—and perhaps without the knowledge of her husband. She could see, too, why Jenny might have been in a hurry to go to France. Two thousand pounds of Papa’s pin money would make for a very fine shopping spree.
A little ashamed, Xanthia tucked the note back into the prayer book. She did not care for Mrs. Hayden-Worth, it was true. But that was no excuse. She ought not read another person’s correspondence. She shoved the untidy pile as far away as possible and began to lay out her things.
It was there that Kieran found her some hours later. “Aren’t you going to change for dinner, Zee?” he asked as he came through the door.
Xanthia looked up in some amazement, and laid her pen aside. Beyond the windows, the sun was slanting straight into the windows. “Oh,” she murmured.
Kieran strode over to the secretary and pulled out her chair. “Up with you, old thing,” he ordered. “This may have been my idea—but I don’t dare go down to that dinner table alone.”
Chapter Fourteen
An Adventurous Assignation at Brierwood
I n the gloom of a near-moonless night, Xanthia stealthily wound her way through the passageways of Brierwood, stepping tentatively as she went. Her slippers peeped from the hem of her silk wrapper as she mounted the first flight of stairs. Excitement, and the deliciousness of anticipation, drove her forward, impelled her toward Nash’s arms.
Already, her body shivered with eagerness. She thought of his kiss this afternoon—so skillful, so rich with sensual promise. No, this one thing she would not be denied.
What if we are discovered, my dear? he had asked. We might have a hard decision to make.
She had insisted they would not be caught. But in hindsight, he had not seemed especially concerned. Sometimes she found herself wondering if he
almost…but no. It was not possible. It would not work. They were both too set in their ways for her to have hope. Nash was a philanderer, and she—well, she was just enjoying the opportunity his philandering provided. In that respect—actually, in every respect—Nash was the perfect lover for her.
But they must not be discovered. Xanthia set every foot with the utmost care. From time to time, a seam of light would appear beneath a door, but no one stirred. On the last landing, a squeaking floorboard gave her a fright. She froze, and heard nothing. A few more steps, and she reached the door which opened onto his bedchamber.
She knocked lightly, and as if he had been waiting by the door, it opened. He wore only a dressing gown, this one of raw black silk, edged in gold, and his hair was again drawn back, this time with a black silk ribbon. But she had little time to drink him in, for within an instant, he had pulled her into his arms and was burying his head in her hair.
“You came,” he murmured. “You fool.”
“I am a fool for you,” she admitted.
He set her a little away and stared down into her eyes. For an instant, it took away her breath. It was too much; she glanced away. A massive, almost medieval-looking bed sat in the center of the room, the wood black with age, the canopy full and arching. It was hung with dark blue silk, and the matching silk coverlet was already turned back, the sheets almost seductively rumpled. A low fire burned in the grate, the room’s only light, and a carafe of port sat on the night table, a glass beside it.
“What a magnificent beast of a bed,” she murmured. “I hope you mean to put it to good use?”
He chuckled and threaded his fingers lightly through her hair. “Lord, I was half afraid that between this morning and dinner, you might come to your senses,” he said. “Where’s Rothewell?”
She shook her head. “In bed—I hope. But I cannot be sure. He often cannot sleep.”
Nash’s exotic black eyes roamed over her face. “How long can we go on like this, Zee?” he whispered.
Once again, she was not perfectly sure what he was asking. “As long as we wish, Stefan,” she said. “Until…until we tire of one another, I daresay.”
Something flared in his eyes—a powerful but inscrutable emotion—and he bent over her and gathered her gently to him. “What if we do not?” he murmured. “What if it…it just gets worse?”
She tried to laugh. “My dear, you go through women like other men wear out stockings,” she said, gently urging him away. “And I am just a woman, like any other.”
“Don’t push me away, Zee, when I am being perfectly serious,” he said. “And you are not just any woman. You are my woman. At least for tonight—yes?”
She nodded, but said no more. He held her gaze for what seemed infinity, then slowly he lowered his lips to hers again. His mouth melted over hers, coaxing her desire and drawing the most exquisite feeling from the depths of her womb. The pleasure twisted sweetly through her, all the way up, until she was shuddering against the wall of his chest as his warm, familiar scent surrounded her.
Somehow, she pulled her mouth away. “Make love to me, Stefan,” she whispered feverishly. “I have thought of nothing save your touch. To see you, yet be unable to touch you—oh, it has driven me half-mad, I think.”
He drew her to the edge of the bed. Xanthia sat and looked up at him expectantly. His hands went to the tie of his dressing gown. “Tell me, Xanthia, how to please you tonight,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.
She trembled again, visibly this time. She looked away as the silk slithered down his body. “Possess me,” she rasped. “Take me, Stefan. I want to feel as if you own my very soul. I…I sometimes wonder if you don’t.”
Something wild and primal flared in his eyes as he knelt before her, naked. Slowly, he unfastened her wrapper, tossed the tie onto the bed, then pushed the fabric off her shoulders. She wore a simple nightgown, the thinnest she possessed, and beneath it, her areolas were obvious. His gaze warming appreciably, he took one dusky peak between his lips and sucked hard, drawing it fully into his mouth. She gasped at the intensity, but his other hand slid over her belly, the palm open and warm. He stroked up her ribs, all the way up, until he caressed the weight of her opposite breast.
Xanthia speared her fingers into the softness of his hair and let her head fall back with a soft groan. This was what she had come here for. This was what he gave her, the thing she could no longer do without. He was her addiction. Her only wicked pleasure. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but no sound came out. She was lost, lost in the sweet, sensual onslaught.
Nash’s mouth left her nipple and skimmed up her throat. His lips caressed the curve of her neck, the turn of her jaw, and then he kissed her again, lingeringly. “Take this off,” he rasped, pulling at her nightdress.
He rose from his knees, and she stood. He drew the nightgown up and tossed it carelessly aside, his gaze running boldly down her length, heating as it went. “By God, Zee, you are a beauty,” he whispered. “I want you, body and soul. I want you here to do my bidding.”
She lifted her arms to circle his neck. “Perhaps I am,” she murmured. She drew him down and kissed him, hot and openmouthed. “Bid me,” she challenged when their lips parted. “Hold nothing back, Stefan. I am no simpering virgin.”
He pushed her down onto the bed, which gave to their weight with a soft squeak. The rumpled sheets were cool beneath her heated flesh. Nash crawled almost predatorially up the length of the mattress until he straddled her hips. Already, his erection was firm and jutting. Xanthia took the heated weight of him between her palms and drew them slowly down his length.
Nash’s head went back, his face a mask of exquisite agony. Over and over she stroked him. Tormented him. Until he began to shake ever so slightly, the tendons of his neck straining. His eyes opened then, and his hands captured hers. “Enough, wench,” he growled, pushing them high above her head. “You are here to do my bidding, are you not?”
Lightly, she laughed. “But I love to torture you.”
With an almost disdainful grunt, he reached for something just beyond her shoulder. She felt rather than saw the cool silk draw taut around her wrist. Something like panic caused her to jerk, but he drew the silk tight with another sound of satisfaction. Her panic turned to something else.
“Stefan?” she whispered uncertainly.
“If there’s any torture to be done tonight, my love,” he rasped, “the doing of it will be mine.”
He had her other wrist now, bound tight to the first. Experimentally, she tugged on them, but the silken tie held fast. Still holding them high above her head, he bent down, nuzzling at her breast, then drawing it lovingly back inside his mouth. Xanthia moaned, her body arching involuntarily. In response, Nash drew the silk tie tighter still, as if to show her who was in command.
When she began to writhe uncontrollably beneath him, however, Nash rose to a kneeling position and looked down at her naked body, a wicked light in his eyes. “Sit up, love,” he softly commanded. “Let’s have you on your lovely knees, hmm?”
Willingly, she did so. To her shock, he rose higher onto his knees, stretching their arms well above her head. She could easily have slipped the knot, but inexplicably, she did not. Instead, she looked up to see he was looping the silk tie around the highest slat in the wooden canopy. She felt enthralled. Oddly aroused.
“Stefan?” she said again.
He pulled the knot fast and drew her arms taut. Xanthia’s breath ratcheted up a notch. She felt stretched out. Fully exposed. Again, she tested the knot with a little jerk. It gave but slightly, and yet it was not uncomfortable. Still, she was trapped on her knees. Naked. In the middle of Nash’s massive bed.
Nash slipped one finger into the thatch of curls between her thighs. “Now you are truly in my power, my dear,” he murmured, indolently drawing the finger through her curls, up her belly, over her navel, and all the way up between her breasts.
“Yes,” she said weakly, watching his hand. “I do se
em to be your prisoner.”
He leaned into her, and opened his mouth over hers for a kiss which was invasive and possessing. “Do you wish to be released from your prison, sweet?” he rasped, when his mouth left hers.
“No,” she said swiftly. “Not…not yet.”
He laughed deep in his chest. “You find this intriguing?”
Xanthia felt her face heat. “I…I do not know.”
He let his lips play down her neck. “You are a deeply sensual woman, Zee,” he murmured. “You are curious, I think. I saw it in your eyes once before.”
“Yes…perhaps,” she admitted.
“There is nothing wrong with erotic play,” he said reassuringly. “Not if both partners wish it. And there is certainly nothing wrong with your curiosity.”
Xanthia’s breath was coming rapidly. “And do you wish…to play?”
“I wish only to please you,” he answered. “The simplest act of lovemaking would please me, so long as you are my partner.”
“W-Would it?”
“I think you know it would.” His teeth grazed her throat. “But I think, my dear, that you need a strong man in your bed,” he whispered seductively. “I think that you want to be—shall we say, subjugated just a bit?”
“Yes.” The word escaped on a sigh before she could snatch it back.
He bent his head and lightly licked the hard, pink bud of her nipple. “Do you know why, Zee, you want that?” he murmured.
“N-No.” But she did want it, and his words fired her blood like fine cognac.
He slipped one finger into her curls again, deeper this time. “It is because strong women need strong men,” he whispered, easing his finger back and forth in the silken heat between her legs. “You yearn for a man who can control you, who knows what you crave—and can give it to you.”
“Is that what you mean to do?” Her voice came out soft and thready. “Give me…what I crave?”
