In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  “That’s the reason you’re working toward prison reform.”

  He shrugged. “I will once my peers accept me, but that’s not pleasant bedchamber conversation.”

  “Well, then, what is?”

  “This.” He lowered his head and kissed her, relishing the eagerness with which she returned his attentions.

  She knew the very worst about him, and yet still she came to him. Knew the very worst about him, yet still she welcomed him. No hesitation, no turning him aside because she feared his world or worried that she wasn’t good enough.

  He didn’t want anyone else in this bed with them. Catherine deserved to be the only one on his mind, the only one he thought about, the only one he wanted to please.

  She was the only one he wanted to please.

  At that moment, no one else mattered. Nothing else mattered. Not the possible danger that might be rushing toward them. Not the innocents who needed to be protected. Nothing mattered except Catherine, now, in his bed.

  The musky scent of heated sex mingled with her sweet rose fragrance. He inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils, savoring the unique perfume they created together. Kissing her deeply, he slid his hand along the concave of her stomach, tangled his fingers in the springy curls nested between her thighs. She was wet and hot, ready for what he had to offer her.

  He ran his hand up to her hip, trailed his mouth along her throat.

  “Oh, God, please don’t stop,” she gasped.

  He nestled his face in the curve of her shoulder, pressed a kiss just below her ear, and rasped, “Have you fantasized about this?”

  “More than you’ll ever know.”

  “How did you know what to fantasize?”

  She rolled her head from side to side as though lost in ecstasy. “Instinct I suppose. Must we talk?”

  Chuckling low, he embraced her and rolled to his back, bringing her with him, listening to her tiny squeal as she landed atop him, straddling his hips, looking down on him, while her glorious, abundant hair formed a curtain around them. He threaded his fingers through the golden strands, brought her mouth down to his, and kissed her eagerly, hungrily.

  He loved the way she held nothing back, didn’t pretend timidity. She wasn’t embarrassed by her nakedness. Somehow he wasn’t surprised by that. His dear, bold Catherine was in this bed with him now, just as she’d been in Dodger’s back room beating him at cards, just as she’d been in that alley fighting to save him, just as she’d come to his library in the middle of the night to make him a daring proposition in order to protect a friend.

  He’d never known anyone like her, never known anyone who mesmerized him as she did. Had never known anyone he wanted more.

  Tearing her mouth from his, breathing heavily, she stared down at him. “Can we make it work this way?”

  He grinned. “We can make it work any way we want.”

  She ran her hands over his chest. He cradled her breasts, adoring the weight of them in his palms. There was no aspect to her that he didn’t adore.

  Raising her hips, she wrapped her fingers around him. He groaned low in anticipation.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “God, no.”

  She slid down, enveloping him in her silky wetness. He almost spilled his seed then and there. Instead he clenched his jaw, fought for control. He ran his hands up her slender back, slid them back around to her breasts, and began to knead her soft flesh.

  Dropping her head back, she moaned. Then she began to ride him as though her life depended on it.

  He thought he would die from holding back—but he’d not give in to his own release until he’d given her hers. But she felt so wonderfully good, her passion igniting the blood rushing through his veins.

  She rocked against him, her cries escalating. He pumped his hips as she drove herself down. Her fingers were digging into his shoulders, his fingers were holding her hips, each of them holding on for dear life. He’d never experienced anything this intense.

  He had to hold back, for her, for her—

  But his body wouldn’t be held back. He bucked beneath her, his deep feral groan nearly drowning out her cry of satisfaction, her back arched, her face carved in an expression of awe and wonder. Shudders wracked his body as the pleasure coursed through her.

  She went limp, falling to his chest, spent. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength to wrap his arms around her, but he wanted to hold her close too much not to find the energy. He thought he could lie there forever. If he died this moment, he’d die content.

  Never in his life had he ever known such peace, such joy. He’d thought once more with her would be enough. But as he held her, and listened to her breathing, he feared he might never have enough of her.

  Chapter 18

  They walked from the house in the early hours of the morning, with him carrying a picnic basket, while she carted a blanket. She wore a servant’s dress that he’d located for her in the servant’s quarters, because she’d brought so little of her own clothing. It wasn’t confining and in a way, she preferred it to her usual attire. She was surprised that she could feel so relaxed knowing what awaited them.

  That morning, after another rousing session of lovemaking, Claybourne had tried to convince Catherine to go to the village and wait for him there, but she’d brought them to this moment. She wasn’t about to retreat now. He thought it would be another day or so—possibly longer—before Avendale made an appearance. Catherine wasn’t certain that he’d show at all.

  But she was delighted with the prospect of having a picnic with Claybourne.

  They walked for some time before they reached a pond. While Claybourne spread out the blanket, she asked, “Are there fish in there?”

  He stilled, looked at her, looked at the water. “I think so.”

  “Have you never fished in it?”

  He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Is your head bothering you?”

  He opened his eyes and smiled. “Only a bit. It’ll go away.”

  “I wonder what makes it hurt.”

  “People have headaches all the time. It’s nothing in particular.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then you’re very fortunate.”

  He took her hand and helped her to sit on the blanket. She glanced around. “Are you certain we shouldn’t be more alert?”

  “We’ll become more vigilant this evening, and I have men watching the roads. For just a bit longer, let’s pretend that all is right with the world.”

  He poured them each some wine and removed a block of cheese from the basket.

  She took a sip of wine. “Do you want to hear something silly?”

  Leaning over, he gave her a quick kiss. “I’d never consider you silly.”

  “It could just be wishful thinking, but I don’t think Frannie would find fault with all that’s happened between us.”

  His jaw tightened. “I don’t intend to tell her.”

  “No, I wasn’t expecting you to. It’s just something she said.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “When I told her that I didn’t want you to be alone, she encouraged me to come with you. She even said that I shouldn’t leave you alone at night. I think she was giving me permission to be wicked.” Voiced aloud, it sounded even sillier than it had bouncing around in her head. “That sounds so ludicrous, doesn’t it? If you were mine, I certainly wouldn’t give another woman—” She stopped, glanced around. “The hole I’m digging is getting rather large, isn’t it?”

  “Do you feel guilty about last night?” he asked.

  “Strangely, no. Do you?”

  “I know I should, but I don’t. I suspect because Frannie doesn’t really consider me hers, yet. I’m beginning to realize that I’m simply one of Feagan’s lads, and that you had the right of it. I need to spend more time with her. Our feelings, I fear, are based on our childhood, not our adulthood.”

  Oh, yes, the hole she�
�d dug was monstrously large now, large enough to bury her. She wished she’d kept her thoughts to herself.

  “If I ask about your childhood will you tell me that it isn’t proper picnic conversation?”

  He grinned. She did so love it when he looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world. She imagined that he had so few moments like that and she relished each one he shared with her. He stretched out on his side, raised up on his elbow, and studied her for a moment, before asking, “What do you want to know?”

  She was almost giddy and…Drat it! She couldn’t think of a single question, or at least a single question that she didn’t think would ruin his good humor. But she wanted to know so much.

  “You killed Geoffrey Langdon.”

  He swirled the wine in the glass, took a sip, nodded.

  “How?”

  “I stabbed him.”

  “How did they know it was you?”

  “There was a witness.”

  “Are you going to make me ask all the questions? Why can’t you just tell me the story?”

  He finished off his glass of wine and poured himself another one. “It’s not pretty, Catherine.”

  Reaching out, she skimmed her finger over his scar. “There is nothing you can tell me that will make me think less of you.”

  “But it is not only my tale.”

  “Please. I know you killed him for Frannie, so I know something awful happened to her. I can imagine what it was.”

  “But I doubt you can imagine how brutal it was.” He took another sip of the wine as though he needed it to shore up his courage. “Some men prefer virgins. Less chance of catching the pox that way. Young girls are usually virginal. Sometimes a young girl on the streets is taken, against her will, to a brothel, where she is tied to a bed so that it’s easier to take her virginity.”

  Catherine was horrified. “And that’s what happened to Frannie?”

  He shook his head. “Geoffrey Langdon untied her because he favored girls who fought, and Frannie, bless her, fought. We knew where she was, Jack, Jim, and I, but we got there too late. She was hurt and bleeding. I carried her all the way back to Feagan’s. She never wept. It always seemed to me that she should have wept. But she didn’t.”

  She wished she hadn’t asked for the details, and yet knowing them helped her to understand him so much better, and not only him but his relationship with the others. The strong bond they shared. “How did you learn who the man was?”

  “When Frannie was stronger, Jack and I took her back to the brothel. We hid on the street and watched who came and went. Jack knew what I was going to do, but Frannie thought we were just going to beat him up. When she pointed him out, I did what I’d planned to do. Walked across the street and put a knife into him before he could open the door. Unfortunately, he’d knocked on it and the madam opened it. She saw me. Screamed. And as fate would have it, a damned bobby was right around the corner.

  “I didn’t even try to run. Jim found out later that Langdon visited the brothel every Wednesday night for a virgin. But his sins weren’t as grave as mine. He was the heir apparent, so my offense was much worse.”

  “He deserved what you did to him.”

  He gave her a self-mocking grin. “I always thought so. Now you know my sordid past. When the old gent came to Scotland Yard to confront the boy who had murdered his son, he decided I was his grandson.”

  “Why?”

  “My eyes. Silver eyes run in the family.”

  “I’ve met Marcus Langdon. His are silver.”

  “Yes.”

  “But surely there was more than that.”

  “The old gent asked questions. ‘Do you remember a tall man with dark hair?’ ‘Oh, yes, sir, yes indeed.’ ‘Your father?’ ‘Oh, yes, sir. He held my hand.’” He shook his head. “He made it so easy.”

  “You didn’t have any of those memories.”

  “Of course not.” He began rubbing his brow.

  “Is it your head?”

  “Yes, I think it’s the flowers here. Their scent is so strong.”

  “Come and put your head on my lap.”

  He didn’t hesitate to move closer, to rest his head on her thigh. She began to massage his temples. He moaned low. “Almost makes the head pains worth it to have your tender ministrations.”

  “I worry about these headaches you’re getting.”

  “I’ve had them for years, Catherine. They come. They go. They’re of no importance. If they were, surely I’d be dead by now.”

  She smiled down on his rugged face, took a moment to trail her fingers over his nose. “What happened to your nose?”

  “I got into a fight. In gaol, they don’t segregate children from adults while we’re awaiting trial, so we were at the mercy of big bullies and the worst society has to offer. Some individuals in gaol deserve to be, but that’s not pleasant picnic conversation. Tell me about your brother.”

  “Sterling?”

  “Have you another?”

  Bending down, she kissed the tip of his nose, before returning to rubbing his temples. “I told you. He and Father had a row, but I don’t know what it was about.”

  “How is your father?”

  “Not well. He grows paler and thinner every day. He can’t speak, can’t tell me what he wants. I thought to take him out to the garden for a spell, but his physician doesn’t agree.”

  “I should think if given the choice between spending his final days in bed or in a garden, an Englishman would always choose his garden.”

  “You think I should disregard the physician’s advice?”

  “I think you should do what you know in your heart is right.”

  She brushed her lips over his. “Thank you for that.”

  He rose up, twisted about, and latched his mouth onto hers, kissing her hungrily, laying her down in the process. He tasted of wine. She thought she’d never again sip on red wine without thinking of him.

  She ran her hands up into his thick, curly locks. She thought of him as a child, how unruly his hair must have been as he’d raced over the bleak and rugged moors. She thought she could hear the sea in the distance and assumed if they walked farther, they’d eventually meet up with the cliffs.

  She drew back from his lips. “Are there any portraits of you as a child?”

  “No.”

  Sometimes it was difficult to get information from him, not because he was being obstinate—although he was certainly that—but because when she looked at him she saw the Earl of Claybourne. When he looked in a mirror, he saw an imposter.

  “Are there any portraits of the earl’s grandson—before you came into his life?”

  He gave her an indulgent smile. “You’re trying to find something in me that simply doesn’t exist.”

  “So there is one.”

  “In the room that the old gent referred to as the Countess’s Sitting Room.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Catherine—”

  “Please. I’m not trying to prove you’re Claybourne. Honestly. But the old gent must have seen something in you, so it’s the closest I’ll come to seeing you as a lad.”

  “Why would you—”

  She pressed her finger to his lips. “Do I really ask for so much?”

  He arched a brow, causing her to smile while rolling her eyes. “All right. I suppose I do.”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, her nose, her chin. “But you don’t ask for anything I’m not willing to give.”

  She liked this aspect of him, when he wasn’t quite so dark and brooding, when he teased her, when he made her so terribly glad to be with him.

  He rolled off her and helped her to her feet. They began packing away their picnic.

  The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees. She glanced toward the distant road, and a sense of foreboding sent a shiver through her. She didn’t know if it was the prospect of looking at the true Earl of Claybourne as a child or something more sinister that disturbed her.

&nb
sp; Luke had visited this room only once and it had given him a blinding headache then.

  The old gent had brought him here, to show him the portrait and to explain how his wife had died in this room, died with grief over the loss of her firstborn son and grandson. The room had carried a heavy flowery scent back then—no doubt the lingering presence of the countess—and Luke had attributed that to causing his headache.

  But the room now smelled of furniture oil, and yet still his head began to pound as he watched Catherine trace her fingers over the faces in the portrait without actually touching the canvas. She took a step back. “They look to be very happy.”

  “The old gent thought they were.”

  She turned to face him. “Have you ever considered growing a mustache?”

  “Like the man in the portrait? No.” Nothing he did would make him look like the man in the portrait.

  “I can see similarities—”

  “Catherine.”

  “I know you don’t think you’re Claybourne, but there are similarities. The hair, the eyes…even the chin I think.”

  He shook his head.

  “How old were you—was he—when this portrait was done?”

  “Six. It was completed just before they were killed.”

  “Why would someone kill them?” she demanded to know.

  Luke had no answer for that. “Robbery most likely.”

  “But the boy, what happened to him?”

  Luke shook his head. “Sold. Put on a ship. Perhaps he died elsewhere. There’s no way of knowing.”

  “It just seems so very odd. And it also seems that quite possibly you could be—”

  “Catherine, as you say, they were happy. Why would I not remember that? Why would I have no memory of him or her? You were young when your mother died. Have you no memory of her?”

  Sighing, she looked down at the floor. “I remember her. Vaguely.” She lifted her gaze back to his. “I see your point, I suppose.”

  “Good.” He plowed his hands through his hair, pressing on his scalp, trying to relieve the pain that had begun without giving away that it was there. “I need to see to some matters.”

  “Am I free to roam the house?”

  “You’re free to do anything you want, although I advise you against leaving. Avendale could show up at anytime.”