“Yes you are. I’ll show you.” He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Unlike others, whose certainty stood on rockier foundations, his was sure. She had to believe him.
As if to contradict her, an unruly dark curl fell over her shoulder onto her breast. When she went to flick it away impatiently, he stopped her, his hand on her wrist, and took the curl between his fingers, using it to paint a shivering line around her nipple. Smiling, he teased her with her own hair, tickling and stroking, as if drawing a picture, but it would be one that had no form.
Their movements increased and she lifted up, driven by instinct, riding him harder while he thrust up, each stroke sending fresh waves of excitement around and through her, circling her body, only to be picked up and renewed by the next hard drive. They moved in perfect union, until she was slamming her body on to his, and he was growling as he met her downward plunges with upward lunges. His back arched and his head went hard against the soft bedcover, his silver hair spilling over the rich blue silk in wild tumbles.
“I can’t hold back,” he said, his breath coming in hard gasps, his chest heaving. “You unman me, sweet love.”
Something burst deep inside her, spilled over, and her body erupted in shudders, ripples spreading through her like a rock dropped in a still lake. She cried his name, heard hers in return. A powerful being surged into her mind, filling it and holding her, lifting her higher but keeping her hidden and safe from prying eyes. She felt completely secure, and at the same time wild, fleeing into the place made for her, where she was meant to be.
She tumbled on to hot, male power, and, half insensible, felt him roll, so they were side by side again, but he was still inside her. Aftershocks rippled through her and she shivered with delight.
“Now that,” he murmured, his breath heating her cheek, “was magnificent.”
Joanna would have agreed with him, but she was finding words difficult. Coming down from such joy had confused her senses. She snuggled close, the heady aroma of their lovemaking swirling around them, leading her into heady bliss.
She awoke to a muffled thump coming from the direction of the drawing room. Blinking, she gazed at the expanse of male chest she was nuzzling. It was still daylight, so she could not have slept too long, but at this time of year in April, the days were lengthening as spring closed in to defeat the chill of winter.
“Shh,” he said. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. You’re still tired.”
Ignoring his command, she lifted her chin to meet his smiling gaze. “What was that noise?”
“They’re moving furniture,” he said. “I’m changing the drawing room. Too French, too elaborate.”
“On a whim?”
“You could say that.” He caressed her, his hand softly moving over her waist and up to stroke the side of her breast. “Change is coming, so I might as well accept it. I thought a darker blue would be pleasant, and less gilt.” He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Ha! Your outrage is charming. They’ll use the furniture in another suite of rooms, so don’t concern yourself. Nothing will go to waste.”
His caresses made her want to arch her back and purr like a cat. She had never been this complacent and accommodating in her life. What was happening to her?
Perhaps she was falling in love.
She rejected the notion the moment it dropped into her mind. That could not happen. He was a lord, powerful and possessed of talents she could only wish for, and she was—none of those things. If she let herself think in that direction, she was headed for heartbreak. This was an affaire, plain and simple. Passionate for sure, but that was all.
Having given herself a severe talking-to, Joanna returned her attention to his face. And immediately lost all her resolutions. She was softer than clay in his hands. Only away from him could she think properly.
“Now tell me about Patrick Gough,” he said.
She blinked, bringing her mind back. “He wants to marry me.”
He hugged her closer, almost to the point of pain. “Why, then, are you here?”
At least he hadn’t walked out this time. “Because I don’t want to. My father wants him to, and he’s given me little say in the matter. That’s not like my father. Since my mother died, it’s been us as a team, against the world. But since Patrick arrived, my father has behaved autocratically. He tells me what is happening; he never consults me or asks me.”
“So you’re a designing woman, are you?” He tilted up her chin and kissed her softly. “A woman who knows her own mind.”
“I like to think so. But I was brought up that way. My father believes women should think for themselves. He always said they have a harder line to hoe in this world, so they had better learn how to do it. He taught me to have independence of mind.” She smiled. “Hardly the pattern of a model servant, I must confess.”
This time he made the kiss longer. She melted into him, ready to abandon words, but he drew back. “I prefer you that way.” After gazing at her in silence for a few seconds, he huffed a half laugh. “So, independent madam, what are we to do with you?”
Her ire rose. “Nothing. I came to tell you of the danger you’re in.”
“We already took steps to counter the threat. This is but one battle in a succession of them.”
“I wasted my time then.”
He growled softly, grinding his body against hers. “I wouldn’t have said that.” He curved his arms around her, cradling her head in one hand. “If you wish to stay, then you must stay. I have places that you can go, if you prefer, houses in this country and abroad. Whatever you want, sweet one.”
He gave her no clues, so she asked. She would not play games with her heart. “What would you prefer?”
Rolling onto his back, he laughed. “I was trying to give you the choice. Me? I don’t see how you can doubt it. I want you to stay here, with me. But that could be selfish. There will be stories and rumours.”
“Not least how you took up with the staff,” she remarked.
Leaning up, he gazed down at her face, took a strand of her hair and wound it around one finger. “You know, anyone looking at you now would not connect you with little Joanna Spencer. You could be someone else entirely, if you chose.”
She quirked a brow. “Really?”
“How’s your French?”
She switched effortlessly to the language. “Très bon. My papa ensured I could speak it well. I am also reasonably proficient in Latin.”
“Parli Italiano?”
Regretfully, she shook her head and reverted to English. “Only a little, and that is mainly because of the Latin. My father said he did not want me reading Boccaccio.”
Amidei roared with laughter, until tears came to his eyes and his chest heaved with effort. That was worth seeing. Under those fancy clothes, Amidei was all man, sleek, powerful muscles, broad shoulders and narrow hips. Joanna enjoyed the sight. Knowing her time with the real thing was limited she committed it to memory, lifting up a little to enjoy the sight.
His laughter stopped abruptly and he caught her shoulders in his hands. “What are you thinking?” It was a demand.
“That I am your lover, but I won’t be your mistress. That is, I want to, but I don’t want—to enter that profession.”
He shook his head. “I would probably kill you with possessiveness if you did that. I don’t want you to do that, either. Joanna, if you wish, I’ll make you independent of any man.” He paused. “Even me.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve it.” His gaze wandered to her breasts. She had almost forgotten that she was naked, such was the insidious power of his presence. “Because I want to. Acts of benevolence please the giver as well, you know.”
Never having been in that fortunate situation, she hadn’t considered the matter that way before. Only in the obligation it gave the receiver of benevolence. She considered the conundrum. Undoubtedly his offer would provide her with a solution, but she would be beholden to him in a way she did not want. “I can�
�t do that.”
“I asked you if you spoke any languages for a reason.” He lost his humour, reaching up to touch her as if compelled to do it. He covered her breast with one hand. She let out a sigh and leaned into him. Why should she hide how he made her feel? “I asked you because we could hide you in plain sight—here.”
Startled, she opened her eyes and stared down at him. He still held her breast. If she lifted her hands up, he’d be supporting her that way. “How?”
He jerked his head. “The suite next to this one is free. I prefer it that way, so it is always the last to be filled. You could take that one. There is even a door connecting the suites. You could take it and become someone else. A French comtesse, perhaps.”
“That would only add to the rumours.”
“Not if you’re a French comtesse who is English born.”
She had to laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
He shook his head, his hair clinging to the pillow. “That’s the way we live. You’re an immortal now, so you should probably consider that. We move from one name to another. Why not start now?”
Stunned, all she could do was stare. This was real. It was happening. He’d talked to her mind-to-mind as if the practice was normal, he’d spoken casually of a long lifestyle, and she’d seen Mr. Lightfoot’s feet. Her rebellion was over. This thing had really happened to her, and she was truly changed. “Can I go back to what I was before?”
Keeping his eyes on her, he shook his head. “Never.” He heaved a deep breath. “There are ways out, but they are difficult. Some people refuse to acknowledge they were different. Some choose to live a mortal lifespan. Some leave the world immediately. They can’t cope with the changes and they give up. Some look on what we are and what they have become as an abomination, a crime against God. Indeed, that was one reason we chose to conceal ourselves. We were persecuted and feared.”
Releasing her breast, he slid his arms around her and drew her back down. She laid her head on his chest, his heartbeat and the gentle movement of his breathing reassuring her.
“You believe me now, do you not?” He did not wait for her to answer him. “I’ve seen the reactions before. You’re angry, then you tell yourself it’s not real, then you may go through other emotions, delight, unhappiness, uncertainty, then you accept it, and you begin to think like an immortal.”
“And how is that?”
“You will know, if you do not already. You’ll never be alone in this, Joanna.”
Whether he meant he would be there or someone else would, she didn’t know and at this moment she didn’t want to know. She was too afraid the answer would not be the one she longed for.
She could admit that to herself. “Teach me to control what others see and what they don’t.” That seemed to her to be the most important lesson. “Were people reading my mind all along?”
“You can tell,” he said. “I told you before. Like a headache? Have you felt that?”
She swallowed. “Hasn’t everybody?”
“Yes, of course. But the feeling is specific. You’ll come to recognise it.”
“I think I already have—”
She sat upright, the sheets falling off her body as someone flung open the bedroom door. She’d ignored the noise outside once Amidei explained it. While they’d been talking, the occasional thump and even a muffled curse had filtered through the walls.
But nobody would dare to open the door.
Before she could take a breath, Amidei had flung her down and thrown his body in front of hers, turning to confront the intruder. His hair flew about his shoulders and the glimpse she’d caught of his eyes had made her catch her breath. They were pure, molten silver. “What is the meaning of this?”
A roar was his response, a male roar that sounded familiar, especially when the sound turned into words. “Gough was right! How dare you debauch my daughter, sir!”
Fury lashed through Amidei and instinct came into play. One minute he’d been curtailing his desire to pounce on Joanna and hammer her into insensibility in the most pleasurable way imaginable, the next he’d detected a surge of fury as the man came barrelling through the door.
That action only infuriated Amidei further. How dare anyone come in here? Before he’d taken her, he’d briefly contacted Lightfoot, giving the order that he was not to be interrupted.
Now here, in his own house, someone defied that command? He would not bear such an insult, especially when Joanna was here, and in such an emotional state. She needed tranquillity and protection. She needed gentle teaching. He should never have allowed her to go home last night.
His foolishness and his growing suspicion that her father was far more than he appeared had simmered inside him, and when the man appeared, Amidei was ready to tear him limb from limb.
He looked ready to do the same.
Charles Spencer was not a small man. The sword he brandished did not appear as if it was wielded by an amateur.
A sword? Mercury laughed at such paltry weapons. Or he would when it was gone.
But he had Joanna to consider. Whatever else this man was, he was her father.
His thoughts rocketed through him in a fraction of a second, as he thrust her behind him and braced himself before her, ready to spring. For her sake he would hold off a moment longer. “What are you doing here?”
He dropped the exquisite manners and the civilised behaviour like soiled gloves. He had no need of them now. Placing one hand on the mattress, he vaulted lightly off the bed and drew himself to his full height. Unashamedly naked, he lifted his chin arrogantly. He kept his voice deliberately steady. “Well? I’m waiting.”
Behind him, Lightfoot stood, holding a sword of his own.
Her father reddened, but did not give ground. “You, sir, have a question to answer first. You have debauched my daughter. I demand you release her.”
“What she does is up to her. It is not for me or you to question.” He sent a probe into the man’s mind.
Spencer must have some resilience, because he did not cry out or clasp his head. He shook it, and glared. “Well?”
“Joanna came to me in terror. What happened after that is none of your concern.” That would be the last concession he gave him, and only because the man was Joanna’s father. The instant anger of alertness and imminent danger had given way to something much more dangerous—the cold, clean anger of deep offence.
“She is my daughter, sir. My responsibility.”
“Not any more.” This man was Argus. Power shimmered around him, the glow visible to his inner senses. Argus would understand what he meant when he said, “I have claimed her.”
Spencer dared to sneer. “You cannot. We are not living in the Dark Ages any more, sir. Reason and the law says she is mine.”
He raised a brow. “Anything else?”
Spencer’s attention flicked to the side when the sheets rustled. A tearful voice said, “Papa, please!” Amidei did not have to look to know she’d pulled the sheets up to her chin. That man had brought shame into this bedchamber, where it had no place.
“Joanna, come here. You are going home with me this instant.”
“Papa, how can I? The news will be everywhere. You’ve let the world in here, so I might as well admit what I’ve done.”
Amidei turned his head to look at her, and his resolve melted. He touched her upraised knee, and caught her attention. Tears were pouring down her face, and her hair, so gloriously tousled, fell forward. He’d wager she pulled it forward to cover her blushes. “You have nothing to fear, and nothing to be ashamed of, my sweet.”
“Then you’ll marry her?” That came from Spencer, but he must have moved his sword hand, because Lightfoot needed no more reasons. His sword flashed as Amidei turned back to Joanna’s father, and the air shimmered and changed as the man became—just a man.
“Lightfoot, no!” Amidei darted forward, ducking around the blade to grab the satyr’s forearm. His action only deflected the killing blow and the sword caught Spence
r, effortlessly slicing through cloth to the flesh beneath.
Blood spurted and Joanna screamed.
Amidei dropped to the floor, supporting Spencer’s inert body. “See to her. Take her away!” He had no time to yell anymore.
When Lightfoot obeyed him, Amidei knew he had seen it too, the removal of the aura that had turned a mere man into a god. This blood was red, and mortal, soaking into his floor and marking the end of his hopes.
Lightfoot hustled a protesting Joanna away. Amidei would go to her when he’d done here.
Using his immortal strength, he tore away the coat and sleeve to reveal a slice cut deeply into the man’s arm. “Here!” he called as a footman darted across the room, dragging off his heavy, cumbersome livery.
The man dropped. “I was in the army, sir,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”
“You won’t have seen this,” Amidei said grimly. The footman was mortal, but it was either use him or let Spencer die. “Cooper, hold the edges together.” He knew his name, because he knew the names of all his employees, and finding someone’s name was usually as simple as touching their minds.
Ripping off a piece of shirt, he bound it around the wounded man’s upper arm, pulling it tightly. If he did not stem the blood flow the man would die whatever he did. Then he sent his soul out into the man’s body, seeking the damage at the deepest level.
The damage was extreme, blood vessels, veins and arteries sliced through, bones severed. All that held the arm together was the flesh at the back, and the smaller of the two bones in the lower arm. Spencer had lifted his left arm in a way that would have saved him, if he’d had a shield strapped to it. But he had not.
If Spencer had been a god, Amidei could have saved it, but a mortal would not heal fast enough to repair the damage. As it was, the man only had one chance. “Give me Lightfoot’s sword,” he rapped out. Someone obediently shoved the hilt into his hand. Amidei stood, mentally marked the spot, and lifted the sword. He cut precisely, slicing the arm off the rest of the way. He kicked the limb aside, heedless of where it went. Spencer still had a deep gash in his shoulder, but at least that had not damaged the flesh beyond repair.
Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 Page 18
