Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6

by Lynne Connolly

  Since only immortals were present at their wedding, excepting the vicar, they could get away with that. Just about. Marriages, especially those of the aristocracy, generally took place privately, so nobody would know for sure, except those present. “They were taking a risk today, weren’t they?”

  He sucked in a breath. She was naked beneath her robe. A low growl purred against her neck as he drew her close and she smiled against his chest as she slid her arms around his waist, glorying in her freedom to do so. “My friends? Yes, they were. The last time we met like that did not turn out so well.”

  The explosion that killed his old friends, the predecessors of the gods here today. “They were brave.”

  “They were showing their loyalty and giving their thanks. I was never so near to tears as when I walked into that room and saw them all. They’re all staying at the club, even those who have London houses. Filling the rooms.”

  “Will it work?”

  He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, nibbling at the spot beneath her ear that drove her wild. “I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t care. Everything I want is here in my arms.”

  When he nuzzled her earlobe and kissed across her cheek to her mouth, Joanna gave up any effort at discussion. Eagerly, she kissed him back, sinking into the luscious sensation of having her man, her husband, here with her, making love to her.

  Bending, he lifted her into his arms. The robe fell away from her body, leaving her open to his avid gaze. She worked at the elaborate froggings at the top of his robe, needing him as naked as she was.

  He laid her gently down on the already turned-down bed and stood back to strip the robe from his body. He gazed at her, smiling, his gaze soft. The servants had lit the candles in the sconces set in the bed head, and the ones on the wall, so no dim shadows impeded their view of the other. The scent of burning wax filled the air, together with the heady perfume of the flowers set about the room.

  She sat up, pushing her robe off the bed as if it was as worthless as her old one, which had perished along with the house. Stretching out on the silken sheets, she enjoyed the heat in his gaze and the way his erection responded to the sight of her. Small drops of clear liquid appeared at the tip, and finally, she could do what she had longed to. Kneeling up, she kissed it.

  His long, heartfelt groan washed through her. She licked, tasting him as thoroughly as she’d wanted, dreamed of. His hands touched her head, then her shoulders, his grasp tentative. “Oh gods, you’ll be the death of me.”

  Not until I’ve had my fill of you. Talking to him directly through the mind had finally become as natural as speaking, although she doubted she would ever have that ease of communication with anyone else. She sucked and tasted him, spicily masculine, with a heady undertone of pure musk.

  He caught his breath on a groan, the catch of sound driving her to taste him more fully, worshipping that hard rod of maleness.

  But he drew back, and she looked up at him. “No more,” he said softly. “I cannot bear any more. Another time, my love. Lie back now, and let me love you the same way.”

  Wetness marked the top of her thighs when she lay back. He climbed on to the bed, prowling over her on all fours, his erection darker than the rest of his body, flushed, wet and ready for her.

  He dipped his head to taste her and she opened her legs, eager for the treat. He sucked the knot of flesh at the top, which he’d told her was called the clitoris, and swept the flat of his tongue over her, as if claiming her in a primitive ritual. She was a sacrifice to the god, a princess sent by her father to assuage the powerful being who demanded her. Her imagination roamed lazily over the old stories from the books she’d read.

  Secretly in love with a young groom from her father’s stables, the princess had gone reluctantly to the sacrifice, persuading herself that if she could not have her lover, then she would rather die. Only to find, when she reached the god’s lair, that he was the groom all along, who had donned a disguise and fallen in love with her from afar. Only first, he would have to take her in the view of the other sacrificial victims, who all wanted him. Before he’d torn her clothes from her body he’d whispered to her that she would be the only one from this day forward.

  But they had to watch. It was the law.

  Joanna’s vivid imagination added pictures to go with the lascivious and thorough tasting from Amidei. Reaching down, she pulled the ribbon from his hair, wanting more of the god than the man. Silken skeins fell over her hands, and she threaded her fingers through them and tugged, as he plunged his tongue deep and she cried out, feeling her peak seize her body.

  Rising up, he lay over her. Supporting his body with one hand, he used the other to guide himself to her, and thrust deep inside.

  He did not rest, did not wait for her, but powered into her, their bodies coming together in a series of wet slaps, the sound blatant and shockingly arousing. Thrills coursed through her, and she lifted her legs, gripping his hips between her thighs as they worked in harmony. She clutched his buttocks, the muscles flexing as he thrust.

  Neither of them closed their eyes. She let him see everything, opening her mind to him with a generosity that he reciprocated. Tumbling in, she felt rather than saw his experiences, his emotions and his love for her, swirling around her in a turbulent whirlwind of sensation.

  The shocks of sensation grew ever more consuming, taking her, but she trusted him to share the experience, to abandon them to each other.

  Crying out, she twisted against him, but he held her firmly, showing her no mercy. Amidei hammered into her as if he was racing after his own peak. Her head went back against the pillow and she shivered in a series of convulsions she could not stop, nor would have wanted to.

  She cried his name, watched him as he joined her, his eyes dilated, his mouth open. The muscles in his throat strained and his shoulders tensed as he pulsed within her, flooding her with his seed.

  The moment went on forever. Amidei hung his head, his hair trailing over her chest, caressing it with gentle, silken sensations. His chest heaved and when he rolled to one side, one arm lashed around her so she came with him, his heart beat against hers, strong and fast.

  Their breath slowed, and their hearts regained their normal rhythms, beating in time with each other. He kissed her, long and lovingly, and she pressed close, refusing to allow his shaft to leave her body.

  “That,” he said against her lips, “was making love.”

  As if she didn’t know.

  *

  The next day Amidei let Joanna out of bed long enough to write the letters to Patrick, but then he reclaimed her, saying that if this was all he would get for a honeymoon, they’d better make the most of it.

  The guests at the club dispersed to their London houses, leaving in the most public ways they could devise, with carriages and outriders. To all intents, the building was deserted, except for the domestics, Joanna, her father, and her husband. Ripe for the taking. Amidei gave the mortal servants leave, and informed the immortal ones what was happening. All was prepared.

  Joanna visited her father, who seemed much better. When he patted her hand, she burst into tears, because he only had one hand to do it with. “My dear, I count myself fortunate to see you happy. Do not concern yourself with me.”

  She told him what they had planned. “I am but the decoy, Papa. I will come to you safely when I’ve done my part.”

  His face tightened into stern lines. “I cannot say I like that part. Do you mean that the man who did his best to destroy us is coming here?”

  She nodded. “He would not come if I had not asked him.”

  “Still, I cannot like it.”

  He was sitting up today, dressed and far more lively than the day before. What was left of his left arm was bound close to his body. He was far more cheerful than Joanna would have been, in the circumstances.

  *

  The immortals returned privately under the cover of night, dressed plainly, entering through the servants’ quarters and s
ide doors. Joanna did not hear from Patrick, but they had to assume he would turn up. Otherwise she would go after him. Immortals this powerful could conceal their presence, shield it so they could not be read. Now, would Argus risk entering the club for the twin enticements of gaining Joanna and a look inside the place he had not managed to enter before?

  The day after that, they made their move.

  Joanna barely recognised Amidei when he returned to their room after dressing in his chambers. He wore a perfectly good coat and breeches of a dull red colour, and his waistcoat was plain. His hair was tucked away, and he wore a wig over it. The stiff white hairpiece did not become him half as well as his natural hair, and he smiled when she told him so.

  “My love, I don’t wish to draw attention to myself, but neither do I wish people to say I was in disguise. I do not want to appear in any way underhand when I come to you. It will be as if I cannot keep away from you. Which is very much the case.” Crossing the room to where she sat at her dressing table, he lifted her hand and kissed it.

  Joanna’s reflection blushed, and it was not a fault in the excellent mirror. Behind her, Betty grinned as she pinned Joanna’s excuse for a cap into place. “There, ma’am, now everyone will know it’s a grand lady you are. Do you wish me to change anything?”

  Joanna shook her head. She looked astonishingly like a countess dressed for a day at home, and now that Betty had finished, Joanna had the strange feeling the woman in the mirror was someone else. But when she looked down, she saw the same gown of apple green silk, delicately embroidered with bees and spring flowers, and the matching petticoat. The apron she wore was, like her cap, a fashionable travesty of the practical garments they claimed to emulate. Costly lace edged the lawn rectangle, the whole garment so fine that the clothes beneath were easily visible. When she moved, she rustled, something she had never done before, but she loved the soft whisper of silk and the fresh scent of clothes dried in the countryside. Like the other houses of the rich, the laundry was sent out to establishments outside the city, where they could be cleaned in the sweeter air of the country.

  The delicate scent of oranges hung about her, from the perfume Betty had dabbed on to Joanna’s skin. But she wanted to be seen.

  From his pocket, Amidei produced a gleaming string of pearls, so big Joanna did not at first believe they were real. “This will finish the outfit off nicely,” he murmured, as he fastened the clasp. Big-eyed, Joanna touched the cool spheres which were rapidly gaining the warmth of her body. Amidei smiled in satisfaction. “You must wear them often. Pearls benefit from being worn.”

  “So I’ve heard. They’re lovely. Thank you.” Her breasts rose and fell under their covering of fine linen. Even her fichu enticed, being delicate enough for the warm tone of her skin to be seen beneath. She did indeed look pretty today, although she would not go so far as to say beautiful. However, she had given up contradicting Amidei. He seemed determined to tell her so, and make her believe it. Perhaps in time she would.

  Getting to her feet, she caught herself leaning too far forward, a result of the heels on her new shoes and the unaccustomed sway of a larger hoop than she was used to. In her old life she would do without a hoop at all, using padding beneath her gown to acquire the correct shape, but the hoops, although considered small by most ladies of fashion, held the fabric away from her body and felt much less cumbersome.

  She swallowed, gathering herself for the task ahead. It had been her idea to get this over and done with. The sooner they acted, the sooner the affair would be over. “Is everything ready?”

  He nodded. “It is. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Absolutely. It’s the only way.”

  “It might not happen today. He might not approach you.”

  “Then I’ll wait again tomorrow.” Absolute determination marked her now. She would not stop until she found Patrick and rid herself of the menace. She refused utterly to live her life in fear, always looking over her shoulder.

  “I could find him and kill him.”

  “If you do that, you are breaking the law. I thought nobody was above the law?”

  He bared his teeth in a tight grin. “You may have a point.”

  In her book, a man who could concede a point to a woman was a real man. She kissed his cheek, not daring to kiss his mouth because they might end up in bed again. Their passion before their marriage had been nothing compared to their voraciousness afterwards. Their desire might ebb in time, or it might not, but she did not care. She was enjoying herself far too much to worry about something that might never happen.

  The current task, though, racked her with concern. Putting her husband in danger, hurting her new friends and destroying her father’s livelihood all had to be paid for.

  In blood, if necessary. She had her blade secreted in her pocket, a knife she’d carried with her for years, ever since she was forced to walk through the streets of London on her own. She had found it in the kitchen of the house in the city and kept it sharp ever since. Naturally she had never used it—she didn’t even know if she could, but it was there, and it made her feel safer.

  She was as ready as she would ever be.

  Trying not to show her nervousness, she sat in her drawing room on her own, and waited. The club was quiet, unnaturally so. She picked up a book, but could not settle, so she went to the window and stood looking out. Debris whisked down the street, stirred by the April breeze. A piece of paper, a woman’s hat, with its owner chasing after it, and a leaf or two.

  How good an actress was she? She was about to find out.

  Alerted by her husband’s lessons, she felt the brush against her mind when it came. Although the club had not let down its inner barriers, the ones that would detect the presence of a new immortal within its doors, they were significantly weakened, allowing an intruder from outside to pass within safely.

  Deep in her mind, Mercury simmered. Nobody could go that deep, except for him. He was her line of safety, her single thread of rescue. The trap was laid. Would he take it, or would she have to go through all this again tomorrow? Unbearable to even think about that.

  Was that him? A soberly dressed gentleman glanced up at the building, the brim of his hat flicking up, but not for long enough to give her the chance to identify him. He wore a coat like the one she’d seen him in a few times, but the style wasn’t unusual. She couldn’t be sure.

  The man walked out of sight.

  A few minutes later, he walked back. Surely it was Patrick Gough. It had to be him. Closing her eyes, Joanna pushed yearning and pain into her thoughts. It was easier than she’d imagined, once she recalled how she felt when her father had lost his arm. Anger too, with Lightfoot for taking the course he did, but she went no further than that. Patrick would pay for that too. Without his intervention, his subtle persuasions and enticements, her father would never have taken the course he did.

  Warmth swept across her, a particular kind of warmth, the kind that meant someone was skimming her mind. That sharp pain followed, a sudden, needle-sharp twinge that was there and then gone. They’d prepared for that. The pain indicated a swift, hard reading, and with Amidei’s help, she could show her grief went deep.

  Had he seen her? She stepped back and checked the time with the clock ticking above the mantelpiece. Five minutes to two o’clock. She had told him she would be at the side door at two, but she had not wanted to go down too early. If her story was true, she would be watched by Amidei’s servants.

  Now she raced from the room, down the eerily empty corridor and through the door at the end to gain access to the stairs. The rustle of her skirts and the tap of her shoes were the only sounds in the house.

  After fumbling with the lock, she flung open the door to the outside world.

  There he stood, smiling, his eyes shining. She clenched her fist involuntarily, then put it to her mouth and bit, as if working to hold back tears. The slight pain actually worked, and she could blink. She dropped her hand, ensuring he saw the
bite marks. “Oh, Patrick!”

  He took a step forward, but not enough to bring him to the threshold of the club. “Are you convinced of what I said now?”

  With a sob, she nodded. “You were right. But not the spying. Something else, something worse.”

  Satisfaction spread over his face. “The demons? I could not spread that in a journal. The sedition rumours are flying around town, and I believe the club will close within the month.”

  “What happens then?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, his handsome face alight with triumph. “I have plans. This is a beautiful building, and with the right management, it will do well.”

  “Still a club, then?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But I am more concerned about you.”

  “There are no people here, only—them.”

  He nodded. “Can you step outside?”

  She shook her head. “There’s a barrier. It hurts me so much that I can’t bear it. I’m a prisoner here, Patrick. I’ve never been outside since I came. I was so wrong. Forgive me?”

  The tears trembling at the ends of her lashes probably helped the effect. Inside her, Amidei planted an emotion. Terror and fear. With those seeds, she could enhance them enough to persuade Patrick that she was telling the truth.

  She must not fail. They needed to ensure that Patrick was not receiving help elsewhere, though it seemed unlikely. As a young immortal, even younger than the ones born after the disaster, he would have all the arrogance his attributes bestowed on him and none of the experience. Why should he find help when he could claim all the glory for himself?

  “I have a carriage at the end of the street.” Urgency coloured his voice, making his request almost irresistible. “Come with me now. I did this for you, my darling. Just for you.”

  “I—I had no idea. If only I’d listened—but Amidei—Lord d’Argento, that is—persuaded me. Patrick, he seduced me!” Her brow furrowing, she wrung her hands together. The tears came now, as she pushed her emotions higher. If she failed, if she couldn’t entice him inside, she would let down Amidei and all the immortals waiting to pounce.