“You own this tavern?” Now her voice was a surprised squeak. Everything that came out of her mouth was either stupid or insulting. “Don’t be angry with me, Matt. Please don’t.”
He pushed her willy-nilly ahead of him into the dark room, his hand firm on her arm. He slammed the door shut behind them, and catcalls and a roar of laughter came from below.
“Oh, God, Arabella,” he said, pulling her close in the darkness. Her heart bounded in her chest. His mouth descended on hers.
It’s the same, she thought wildly, the same as back then, and dove soul-first into his kiss. Premonitions of disaster fluttered at the edges of her mind, then fell by the wayside as her mouth opened beneath his. She wanted to crawl inside him, to be enveloped by him. Hunger for him ravaged her, made her shake with it. She twined her arms about his neck, moulding herself to him, breasts squashed against his chest, hips and thighs yearning toward his.
He ended the kiss, his voice harsh and his breathing rough. “Bella, we have to talk.”
She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t even want to think. She needed to do, before she came to her senses. She writhed against him, ran her hands into his hair, and brushed his lips with hers. She put out her tongue and licked the corner of his mouth.
“Damn it, Bella—” He broke off with a curse and kissed her again. Now his hands moved swiftly, confidently, releasing her cloak and letting it fall. He kissed and kissed her, even as his large competent hands pulled the pins from her hair and spread it around her shoulders, travelled her spine, found her buttocks through her gown, cupped and squeezed until she was lost in sensation, knowing nothing but him.
She’d been lost then, too.
He broke the kiss. “God, woman, you excite me.” His voice was stark and sure against the darkness, his hands equally sure as he removed her pelisse, then turned her to undo the ties of her gown. His lips travelled her neck in tiny kisses while his fingers worked her stay-laces. In no time she stood naked but for her shift, stockings and half boots.
Those capable hands sought her buttocks again and travelled unhesitatingly to her core. His fingers delved into her wetness, found her sweet spot, caressed it with quick, soft flicks, catching her off guard, and the remnants of fear fell away like dead leaves. She cried out at the pleasure of it, and then he was at her mouth again.
His thumbs brushed her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” he growled against her lips.
“I’ve wanted you forever,” she whispered.
He stripped off her shift in one smooth motion, scooped her into his arms and carried her unhesitatingly through the darkness into another room. Coals glowed in the grate, giving enough light to show her a bed. He laid her upon it and made short work of her boots. He slid his hands up her calves and peeled her stockings down, cupping her feet. He kissed her toes and ran his hands up her legs. Her core pulsed.
He stood, leaving her naked and throbbing while he stripped off his clothes. His muscular form was barely visible. She wished she could see him better. She stretched and revelled in her nakedness. She wished he could see her; she wanted his dark eyes roaming her, making the heat within her grow. Next time they would do this in candlelight.
He joined her with another soul-scorching kiss and pulled her against his long body, skin to heated skin. She groaned against his lips, and he broke the kiss again. Slowly, with a long, meandering movement of his tongue, he traced the outline of her lips. He dabbed and toyed with her tongue, while below his erect member brushed her thigh. Oh, God, how she’d wanted this again! Quivering liquid fire shimmered to her fingertips, danced to her toes. With tiny lip-steps he travelled to her ear, circling and licking. Her head fell back, seeking his mouth on her chin, her neck, her throat.
She cupped her breasts, offering them to his kissing, sucking, plundering mouth. He growled low, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his teeth. She arched, and he suckled deeply until she arched higher with moans of pleasure.
“What a pity we didn’t bring your wine upstairs,” he said.
“Next time,” she whispered, and he pulled her close and kissed her hard. When he kissed her she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but kiss him back and fill herself with his taste and his scent, far more potent than any wine. His hands moved on her again, making her throb and soar and die of pleasure.
She felt for his member. He hissed as she fondled its hot, velvety length. Her core pulsed urgently, demanding to take him in.
“Oh, Matt,” she whimpered, “Please, please!” She wrapped her legs around his and arched against him.
He pushed inside her and stopped, holding perfectly still. She twisted, groaning as the thick, tight heat filled her. He pulled back and thrust into her, pulled back and thrust again. She gripped him and threw herself at him, body and soul. She caressed him with her core again and again, convulsed around him, rocked with pleasure that went on and on and on until she burst and abandoned herself utterly to him, just as she’d done seven years ago.
With rapid thrusts he drove toward his own climax, breathing hard now, and she held him and gave him everything, everything she had—
He roared, triumph vibrating in his voice and his limbs, and pulled hard out of her, shooting his seed onto her belly.
He hadn’t done that last time.
He drew her close and they lay entwined, hearts beating chest to chest. Gradually her breathing slowed and her mind cleared, and she could think again.
It made sense, she supposed. If he pulled out of her before releasing his seed, she couldn’t conceive a child. Evidently he’d become more responsible with age.
She certainly hadn’t. She’d acted as foolishly—as madly—as seven years ago. Dismay seeped into her as the minutes passed, silent except for their breathing and the sounds of revelry below. He had tried to stop their lovemaking before it went too far. She thought she knew why, but she had to ask. She moved within his arms and raised her head from the haven of his broad shoulder. “What did you want to talk about?”
Matt blew out a long breath and withdrew his arm from under her. She sat up. Her nakedness didn’t feel wonderful anymore. “Tell me.”
“About what comes next.” He rolled away, groped about on a small table and stood to light a candle.
Now she felt even more exposed. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Next I go to your mother’s house.”
“Yes, but—”
A knock sounded on the door of the next room. “Matt! Sam’s here. Wants to discuss a price.” That was Bird’s voice.
“But what?” she demanded, shivering now.
Matt picked up her shift and tossed it to her, then donned his stockings and breeches. “But it’s not that simple.” He buttoned his breeches and put on his shirt. “We have to negotiate with Bird.”
“About what?” She dragged her shift over her head, but it didn’t stop the shivering. She pulled on her stockings, but that didn’t help, either.
“Your reputation.” He disappeared into the next room, shouted, “Get him some ale and put him in my office. We’ll be there in a jiffy,” and returned with her clothing.
The chill within her spread and grew. She stepped into her stays and turned for him to lace them. The light touch of his hands no longer felt right. She had to force herself to stay still and wait.
“The degree of scandal depends on what he implies about you and me,” Matt said.
The chill congealed like a horrid, slithery lump of aspic about her heart. She should have considered the inevitable outcome of another tryst with Matt, but she’d been so caught up that she hadn’t cared about anything but the here and now.
Matt didn’t love her; he just wanted to bed her. He was a man, after all. Men tended to lack discrimination when it came to sexual matters. They took what a woman offered and then walked away.
He’d done that once before. He intended to do it again.
To do him justice, he’d tried to warn h
er this time. The instant he finished with her stays, she stepped away and pulled her gown over her head. When he would have refastened the ties, she shook her head. From here on, she would manage by herself.
As she had, in every way that mattered, for years and years. She tugged her boots on, thankful the meagre candlelight didn’t show the shaking of her hands. She put on her cloak and fastened it. Her hands were steadier now. She armed herself with the hauteur that had protected her so well.
“It doesn’t matter what he implies,” she said coolly. “At best, you will figure as the son of a woman who knew me as a child.”
He too was ready to leave, but he hesitated at the last button of his coat, frowning.
“And at the worst you will figure as another of my scorned suitors.” She put her nose in the air and moved languidly toward the other room. Thank God there was enough light to see her way.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Obviously,” she said. “So you needn’t worry, Matt. No one will imagine, even for an instant, that I ran away to be with you.” She paused for effect. “Well, then. Shall we go?”
* * *
Bitter fury roiled inside Matt. “Not until we’ve finished our talk.”
“What more is there to say?”
“There is plenty,” Matt said. “I am and always will be your friend, but I am not a toy like one of your suitors, to play with and then spurn.”
He couldn’t say for certain, but he thought she paled. Damned if he would relent and apologise, though. She deserved to know just what he thought of her and her kind.
“Matt, I didn’t…” she began again. “I never, ever thought of you as one of them.”
Too low for that, was he? “Nor am I some lackey, content to be your dirty little secret,” he said.
Now her face flamed. “How dare you! You’re the one who started this, not I.”
“And you’re the one who insisted on continuing when I said we should stop.”
From outside came a muffled snicker. A board creaked, then another.
Matt strode to the door and wrenched it open, to see his sneaky, eavesdropping, so-called friend tiptoeing down. “Bird, you bastard, I’ll make you pay for this.”
“Aw, c’mon, Worcester,” Bird said. “I need my story.”
Matt bounded down the stairs, seized the fleeing Bird by the collar and pushed him up against the wall. Sam Fitch and the tavern wench hovered at the entrance to the taproom, gawking.
“If you insinuate anything about Miss Wilbanks to which I don’t consent, you had best make your peace with your Maker,” Matt said, and stomped back up the stairs. Bird wheezed, dragging himself to his feet. Sam Fitch and the tavern wench appeared at the entrance to the taproom, gawking.
Bella appeared in the doorway, shaking out her cloak. “Mr. Worcester and I have finished our discussion. Perhaps you would be so kind as to bring me to the printer, Mr. Bird. After that, I shall need an escort to my trustee’s house.”
“You’re not going anywhere without me.” Matt moved her bodily out of the way, shut the door once again and set his shoulders against it.
Arabella shoved at him. “Let me go! I never want to speak to you again.”
“Don’t be a fool. It’s dark, we’re in an unsavoury part of town, your hair’s all down your shoulders and I’m trying to protect you, damn it all!”
With jerky movements, she dug through her hair for pins, then crouched to search for the rest where they’d fallen. Matt brought the candle over to cast some light on the floor.
“Get away from me,” she said, scooping up a few pins, feeling blindly for more. “How you can call yourself a friend and at the same time accuse me of such…such vileness—” Her voice broke. “I thought you cared about me, if only a little.”
His heart twisted. “I do care about you.” He had to stand his ground. “But although I can live with being forgotten or ignored, I will not submit to being used.”
But if she’d really been toying with him, why was she so upset?
* * *
It was over, once and for all. She should be thankful he didn’t love her, because she couldn’t love him, not after what he’d said.
What made him think such terrible things of her? That one instance where she’d been too craven to acknowledge him? Coupled with her cavalier treatment of suitors, she supposed he might have cause to misjudge her. Perhaps she should apologise for her cowardice, at least. She couldn’t bring herself to explain why she’d spurned every suitor, even a few she’d liked. Nothing would be more mortifying.
She followed him down the stairs and through a narrow passageway. He ushered her into a cluttered office with a desk and an assortment of chairs. “Have a seat,” he said, sitting behind the desk. He sounded as weary as she felt.
A stick-thin man with sandy hair poking from beneath a filthy cap came into the office carrying a tankard of ale. Bird slipped in behind him and pulled up a chair next to Arabella. He handed the scrap of paper with her notice on it to a granite-faced Matt.
“You know, he might really murder me,” Bird whispered.
She threw him a disgusted look. “You may deserve it, but Matt wouldn’t do that.”
Bird shook his head. “You don’t know him like I do. When a man lives on the streets, he gets used to doing whatever it takes to survive.”
On the streets? Matt?
“I never killed anyone,” Matt said irritably. “But there’s always a first time.”
These were idiotic male jests and nothing else. “Let’s settle this business about the notice in the paper,” she said.
“Paper’s going to be late out as is,” the thin man said. He took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who might you be?”
“She’s a friend of mine,” Matt said. “The paper will have to be even later, because she needs to insert an announcement.”
“Impossible,” Sam said.
“Come now,” Arabella said. “It’s only a few lines.”
“And where am I to fit those few lines?” Sam said. “You tell me that.” He turned to Matt. “Ten guineas.”
“Ten?” Arabella cried. “Absolutely not. I’ll bring it in tomorrow and pay the usual rate.”
“Better to get it over with,” Matt said. “Two guineas.”
“Seven.” Sam took another swallow of ale.
“Five guineas and free ale for a week,” Matt said. “Take it or leave it.”
“Even that’s too much,” Arabella said. “I can’t afford it.”
“He can,” Sam said, motioning to Matt with his chin, “and he’s already offered it. Done.” He drained his tankard and took the scrap of paper Matt held out. “I’ll squeeze it in tonight.” He left, calling for more ale.
Arabella glared at Matt. “He knew perfectly well where he would fit it in. How am I to pay him? Until I can make arrangements with my trustee, I’ve only a few guineas to my name.”
“Bella, it doesn’t matter. As he said, I can afford it. I’m not a pauper.”
She supposed a tavern-keeper was better off than a jarvey, but he was the last man in the world she wanted to owe. “I don’t wish to be beholden.”
“And I wish to get this over with.” He stood and turned away, and a memory flashed into her mind. This was that stolid set of his shoulders, that still and silent look he’d sometimes had as a boy, beaten down inside even while he’d held himself defiantly tall. Usually, it had been because of something his father had said or done.
This time it was because of her.
Arabella stood as well. “I shall pay you back, but it will take time.”
“Whenever you like.” He put up his collar and headed for the door.
She followed him. Something dreadful had happened to Matt during the past seven years. She had to know more. “You said we needed to talk.”
“Talk to Bird.” He walked away without looking back.
She didn’t care tuppence about Bird, but she wasn’t about
to run begging after Matt. “Was he really on the streets?”
“So he says.”
“When?”
“I dunno. Years ago.” In a coaxing voice, Bird added, “Time to talk about you, darling.” They emerged into the passage. Matt stood in the doorway, looking out into the night.
In the lamplight, Bird’s leer was positively greasy. “What’s my drawing going to say about you?”
“Something horrid, no doubt.” Not that she found it in her heart to care.
“I’d rather not do you any more harm than necessary,” Bird said. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a good man, but I value my skin.”
Arabella glanced at Matt, but his utter stillness told her nothing. She scowled at Bird. “For God’s sake, stop jesting about murder and explain yourself.”
Matt whirled, making an impatient sound. “Believe it or not, he wants the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“I already told you,” Matt said. “He wants to know what you’re going to do now. If he tells the truth about you, people are more likely to believe what he implies about your uncle and Sir Reginald.”
“That’s right,” Bird said. “And you want them to believe what I imply, don’t you?”
“As long as it makes them out to be utter villains,” she said.
“That’s the spirit,” Bird said. “As for the truth about you, darling—the thing is, it’s got to be verifiable truth, and if you can come out of this looking virtuous, so much the better.”
She huffed. How unlikely that was! “Why?”
“Because the better you look, the worse they do,” Matt said, frowning at her. “It all has to do with contrast.”
“I can’t come out of this looking virtuous,” Arabella said. “There are at least a dozen witnesses that I went with you to your rooms.”
“They don’t count,” Bird said. “They’re a disreputable lot, and they take a dim view of virtue. They don’t care what you have or haven’t done.”
“It’s the nobs that count,” Matt said.
“Must you use that word?” Arabella said. In spite of being gentry-born himself, he’d always derided the upper classes. She’d thought it merely a reaction to his father, who cultivated his richer parishioners and paid little attention to the poor, but this sounded like something far more fundamental…and he’d never before applied the derision to her.
To Rescue or Ravish? Page 4
