by Cheryl Holt
"Oh my, indeed."
"I want to do it again."
"I think I do, too."
As he began again, there was none of the tenderness he'd exhibited prior. He claimed her in a torrid, exotic manner that was beyond her realm of experience. With his arms wrapped around her, she was crushed to him, her feminine spots pressed to his, and her breasts in particular were elated with the naughty placement. Her nipples swelled and ached.
His fingers were busy, tangled in her hair, yanking at the pins and combs so that it fell in an auburn wave. He massaged her everywhere, as he continued to plunder her mouth, and the feelings he stirred were so powerful that she was glad she was prone. If she'd been standing, she might have collapsed to the rug in a stunned heap.
His tongue flicked against her lips, asking, asking again, and she recognized what he was seeking. She opened for him, and they engaged in a merry dance that had her reeling with sensation.
He shifted so he was more fully on top of her, his torso wedged between her thighs, and of their own accord her legs widened to provide him greater access. He fit perfectly, and she reveled in the odd positioning.
To her surprise, she had an incredible knack for wicked behavior. When he clutched her hips and flexed his loins, she instantly grasped what was required and met him thrust for thrust.
What did it portend? Where were they headed?
His hand was drifting to her chest, and without warning, he slipped it under dress and corset to stroke her bosom. The agitation he created was electrifying, and she moaned with excitement. She was on fire, burning with a strange flame that was about to incinerate her with pleasure. She struggled toward it, anxious to reach its heat, when he halted and pulled away.
He glared at her as if he was angry, as if she'd done something awful, when she couldn't imagine what it might have been. He was a skilled roue, while she was a sheltered spinster. How was she supposed to know what to do? If he made one derogatory remark, she couldn't predict how she'd react.
"What is it?" she demanded. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." He appeared smug again. "Everything's very, very right. Let's get you back to your own bed."
"To my bed! Are you insane?"
"Tomorrow will be hectic, and you should rest." "But I... but we ..."
She hadn't the vocabulary for libidinous discussion, so she couldn't inform him of how ragged she felt on the inside. His ministrations had rattled loose her innards so that it seemed as if she were perched on a high cliff and about to jump off. He'd ignited a blaze, and she was eager for him to extinguish it.
He sat up, and she was irked to note that he was composed and completely unaffected, while she was frantic, confused, and thoroughly undone.
"You need to go," he said.
He tugged her up, her feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. He stood, and she should have stood, too, but her legs were rubbery and too weak to hold her.
"Why must I?" she inquired.
"Because, my little vixen, if you stay another second, I shall be overwhelmed by passion, and I'll do something I oughtn't."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that a man can become aroused to where he can't control himself." "And you are there?"
"Yes, and despite what you may have heard about me, I intend for you to have a wonderful wedding night. So let's get you out of here, while I still have the strength of will to let you leave."
She considered quarreling over his certainty that they would marry in the morning, but at the moment her head was spinning, her body in a dreadful state, and she couldn't put two coherent sentences together.
He guided her to the floor and steadied her. Then he escorted her to the door, finally opening it when she didn't wish to go.
"Would you like me to walk you to your room?" He sounded like a gallant swain. "No, I can find my way."
They stared and stared, a thousand comments swirling between them that couldn't be voiced aloud.
"We'll get on just fine," he murmured. "Don't worry so much. It will all work out."
"But I don't want to—"
He laid a finger on her lips, silencing her; then he leaned down and kissed her very sweetly, very tenderly.
"You don't ever have to be afraid of me," he whispered, and he urged her into the hall.
She dawdled, unable to depart. It seemed wrong to go, wrong to spend the night without him, but his calm expression indicated that the encounter was concluded.
Not knowing what else to say, she whirled away and went to the stairs. All the way up, his keen gaze followed her until she vanished from sight and she was all alone.
Four
“We have to kill him." "The bastard is like a cat. He has nine lives."
Ophelia glared at Percy, furious that he had no knack for homicide when she could have slain Jamieson Merrick a dozen times over. She'd offered to pull the trigger out in the forest, but Percy had insisted that he should have the satisfaction of dispatching Merrick to the great beyond. Yet Percy had botched it.
How difficult could it be to murder one lone man?
"Father taught you to shoot when you were three years old," Ophelia nagged. "How could you have missed?"
"Anne was there with him. She was in the way." "So? What has she to do with your failing to rid us of Merrick?"
"I didn't want to hit her by accident." "Oh, for pity's sake. Who cares about her?" "You don't understand." "No, I don't. Why don't you explain it to me?"
"It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. I'm still getting used to the notion."
Ophelia rolled her eyes in disgust. "Why don't you get used to it a tad faster? The filthy swine is here, and the first night out he's sleeping in your bed!"
"Don't remind me."
"He's stolen your tide, your fortune, and your property, and he's had you moved to a closet that's tiny enough to be a chambermaid's. In the morning, you're to leave Gladstone forever. What will it take to shame you into action?"
"Did you see how he lords it over me?"
"Yes, and how you can tolerate his still breathing is a mystery I can't solve."
"You heard him. He knows I'm the one who attacked him."
"So? How can that paltry fact keep you from trying again?"
"But I can't fathom why he's leery of me. Aside from our initial meeting, I've been courtesy, itself. I followed your advice to be as accommodating as possible, and it had to have put him off guard."
"Obviously, my plan didn't work. He blamed you immediately."
"We must be more cautious. Now that he's made a public accusation, if he were to suddenly perish, fingers would point directly at me."
She stalked over to her jewelry box and retrieved a very small, very sharp knife. "I'll go to his room and stab him to death this very second. Just give me the word, and it's done."
She stared Percy down, daring him, challenging him, but knowing he wouldn't consent. Not right away anyway. He'd need to be cajoled, but in the end, once she'd sufficiently goaded him, he'd be more vicious than she could have imagined.
It had always been thus between them. She was the wicked one, the depraved one, and she enjoyed coaxing him to mischief he didn't wish to attempt. Ultimately, he would relent, eager to prove that he was tougher and stronger than she.
She waved the knife, pretending she was ready to march down the hall and commence the assault. Simmering with rage, Percy stomped over and yanked it away.
"Give me that thing before you hurt yourself."
"You won't use it on him. Why shouldn't I?"
"I won't have him murdered inside this house. If he is, the investigations will never stop, and I'll be the prime suspect."
"I want him to die here—where he's caused so much trouble."
"Not in the mansion. Or anywhere close to the mansion. It has to be somewhere where he won't expect it. Out in the woods or along the road."
Percy leaned in, so that she was pressed to her dressing table, the edge cutting into her butto
ck. She could feel his hard cock against her thigh. When they quarrelled, he grew aroused, and the more she enticed him, the quicker he'd be incited to do as she demanded.
Their incestuous lust for each other had sparked when they were very young. After their nanny tucked them in at night, Ophelia would sneak to Percy's bed, would slip under the covers and touch him all over. As they became adolescents, the attraction only increased.
Ophelia had never wasted any effort fretting over their abnormal passion. Their amour seemed normal and destined to occur, so it had been a huge surprise when their mother, Edith, had caught them and objected so vehemently. Their deviance was the reason for her mental decline, but Ophelia couldn't care less.
Percy was her love. Percy was her life. Percy was her lump of clay to mold and form so that he behaved exactly as required.
Her world had been perfect. She'd had a husband, without the bother of one. She'd had the acclaim of being a countess without having to suffer an earl's male dominion. She ruled Percy. She'd made the decisions and managed the estate; then, like an evil curse, Jamie Merrick had appeared on her horizon.
He was taking everything from her, and to top it off, he was intending to marry Anne! Anne would be placed above Ophelia. Merrick was piling on humiliations faster than Ophelia could tabulate them, and the affronts couldn't be allowed to stand.
Percy leaned nearer, titillated by her sheer red negligee. He shoved the thin straps off her shoulders, revealing her two spectacular breasts. His gaze heated; his nostrils flared.
"I'll kill Merrick for you," he vowed.
"You haven't the nerve."
"I do. You'll see."
Ophelia couldn't guess if Percy was sincere, but she wouldn't worry about it. Merrick was set to evict Percy in the morning, after the wedding, and if Percy gave up and left without a fight, Ophelia didn't want him.
Merrick's overture, where he'd suggested Ophelia be his bride, was fascinating, and she was considering his proposal. She could scare Anne into fleeing, then Ophelia would be the next logical choice, and now that she'd met Merrick, she wasn't so sure she'd mind being his wife. He looked so much like Percy—as Percy had been before dissipation had made him soft and portly—and possessed a dangerous, assertive air that Percy lacked.
She arched up, urging Percy to feast. She'd shut her eyes, would ride him and make believe he was Merrick, that the filthy pirate was taking her against her will.
Percy had just dipped to suck on her nipple when someone burst into her boudoir.
"Fornicators!" a familiar, croaking voice charged. "Fornicators!"
Percy lurched away as if Ophelia had the plague. She glared over to where aging, crazy Edith was quivering with indignation.
"Oh, for God's sake," Ophelia barked at Percy. "I thought you locked the door."
"I thought I had, too," he barked back.
"I can't deal with this. Get her out of here."
Despite his unholy proclivities, Percy was one of the few people who could still persuade Edith to do anything. With her wits so addled, she frequently assumed that Percy was her deceased husband, and she'd meekly obey his dictates, which was the only reason Ophelia hadn't smothered Edith in her sleep. Once Percy lost the ability to control her, she was a dead woman.
"Edith!" Percy said. "Why are you out of bed? You know you're not permitted to wander."
"You must listen to me! It's a sin, I tell you. A sin!"
"Edith!" he snapped more testily. He grabbed her by the elbow and escorted her out.
As he stepped into the corridor, he peered at Ophelia over his shoulder, his exasperation clear, his lust unassuaged. He was visually promising to return, and Ophelia nodded her assent, though she didn't mean it.
Edith's ranting would keep him occupied for hours, and Ophelia wouldn't wait for him.
The second he walked off, Ophelia raced to the mirror to check her hair and straighten herself. Jamieson Merrick was in the adjoining bedchamber, and it was high time she paid him a visit.
Hello, Miss Carstairs." At hearing a male speaking from so close by, Sarah Carstairs jumped in alarm. When Jack Merrick emerged from the shadows, she calmed a bit, but not much.
With all the changes in the house, it had been impossible to relax, and she'd finally given up and strolled outside. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep.
He'd been quiet as a prowling cat, leaned against the balustrade and watching her from farther down the veranda, and he neared till he was right next to her. He was tall, six feet, and broad shouldered, and with her being just five foot six, he seemed incredibly large and manly in a fashion she enjoyed.
His size and stature flustered her, as did his attractive looks. With his black hair and piercing blue eyes, he had a rough, menacing manner that intrigued her, and she hated that she'd noticed him in such a physical way. It had been an eternity since a man had drawn her attention, and she knew she should spin around and go in, but she didn't.
"Hello, Mr. Merrick," she greeted.
"I see your insomnia is as bad as mine," he said.
"Who could rest with all this drama?"
He chuckled. "Jamie has a knack for theatrics, doesn't he?"
"He definitely does. Was he always this way?"
She was fishing for details, but too polite to come right out and ask what she was dying to know: Would Jamieson Merrick actually force Anne to marry? And what would happen both if she did and if she didn't?
"Yes, he's always had a flair for arrogance," Merrick admitted. "When we learned that he'd been born an earl, I wasn't surprised in the least The tide fit him exactly."
"There have been so many awful stories," she said. "Is he a good man?"
"As good as can be expected."
It was an enigmatic response and did nothing to ease her anxiety.
"If he marries my sister, will he be kind to her?"
"As kind as can be expected."
She scowled. "You're not being very helpful."
"This is new territory for me. If we were on a ship's deck and pillaging another pirate's bounty, I could tell you precisely what he'd do. But in this situation, I haven't a clue."
"But you know his character. It wouldn't alter merely because he's in a different location."
"No, it wouldn't."
It was the perfect opening for him to expound, but he was silent as stone, and she could barely resist the urge to reach over and shake some answers out of him.
He sat on the rail, his hips on the edge, his arms and ankles casually crossed, and he stared up at the mansion, its shape outlined in the moonlight.
"Have you always lived here?" he inquired.
"Since I was a baby. Our parents died, and my aunt Edith brought us to stay with them."
"You're so lucky," he murmured with a great deal of envy.
"Yes, I am," she agreed, not meaning it.
She didn't feel lucky. It was difficult, having to grovel to her Merrick cousins. They were selfish and cruel, and Ophelia in particular was overbearing. She relished tormenting Sarah and had wielded Sarah's painful secrets like an executioner's axe, constantly threatening to tell if Sarah didn't do as Ophelia bid her.
Sarah often felt that she was little more than Ophelia's slave, so for the most part, she tried to be unobtrusive and inconspicuous, to never bother her cousins or yearn for more than she'd been given. Years earlier, she'd been terribly greedy, but that sort of covetous-ness could drive a person insane.
She was older now—and much wiser. The consequences for insatiable conduct were exceedingly dire, so she'd convinced herself that she was contented with her lot. She would never again crave more than what she had.
"And how about you?" she queried, still delving for information. "Where was your home before you returned to Gladstone?"
"I didn't have one."
"Everyone has one, Mr. Merrick."
"Not me. I grew up at sea With Jamie. I'm a nomad. I'd give anything to have a spot like this to call my own."
/> "Will you and Mr. Merrick—that is, Lord Gladstone—reside here full-time?"
"I doubt it."
"But why wouldn't you?"
"I suppose we're not the type to settle down. We never learned how."
"Why would your brother fight so hard to regain this place if he doesn't care about it?"
Jack shrugged. "It's his, and he's entitled to it, but he doesn't have to like it."
"What will become of Anne? Will he take her away?" "I don't know his plans."
The comment was a bald-faced lie, Sarah was sure. She'd seen Mr. Merrick and his brother together. They were thick as thieves. When one of them inhaled, the other exhaled, their entire existence bound as if by invisible threads. Jack Merrick would have been apprised—down to the most minute detail—of what Jamieson Merrick intended to do, and the fact that he couldn't say, or wouldn't say, was extremely worrying.
It boded ill for Anne; it boded ill for herself.
"I spoke to Anne a while ago," Sarah told him. "She's discussed matters with your brother. He claims that if she weds him, he will let me remain on the property for as long as I wish."
"Did he?" Merrick was completely noncommittal.
"Is he a man of his word?"
"Occasionally."
She snorted. "You're an obnoxious tease, and I have no idea why I'm talking to you."
"What would you have me say?"
"I want you to enlighten me as to what will happen in the morning."
"How would I know? I'm not a fortune-teller."
"Will your brother keep his promise?"
"Will your sister do as he's demanded and wed him?"
"How would I know?" Sarah tossed back, and he was the one who snorted.
"Now who's being a tease?"
She was peering out across the garden, while he was still studying the house. He turned toward her, and it was the strangest impression, but suddenly she felt a powerful urge to fall into his arms and cast caution to the wind.
He felt it, too, the sense of connection flowing between them, and she could perceive his shocked awareness. She was no sheltered virgin like Anne, and she recognized what was occurring. He desired her, and the realization made her heart pound.
A dangerous and blazing need swept through her, and she was desperate to be touched by him, which stunned her to the marrow of her bones.
