“Fort. I insist that you call me Fort.”
Elf looked into passion-dark, desperate eyes. “It would serve you right if . . . Fort, then. Fort. Fort. Fort!”
She chanted it as he rose, still inside her, to lower them both to the carpet. She chanted it in time to his thrusts, until breath and coherence escaped her. She chanted it in her mind when she could only grip him, tighter and tighter, for fear of extinction.
Then she sighed, “Fort,” in dreamy surrender, remembering at last to say, “Thank you.”
He laughed as if he scarce had breath to laugh with. “You can’t imagine how delighted I am to have been of service, dear lady.”
He had left her body, but sensations lingered everywhere to remind her. Flat on her back on the carpet, Elf stretched and smiled up at him. “You sadly underestimate my imagination, my lord. Fort.”
Somewhat unsteadily, he pulled her to her feet, gathered her in his arms, and carried her to the undisturbed bed. He set her on her feet again in order to pull back the covers, but when he turned to her, he smiled and touched her lips with his finger. “I like that.”
“What?”
“That smile. You look very pleased with yourself.”
Her smile widened. “I am. And pleased with you, Fort.” Cheekily, she added, “If you ever need one, I’ll give you a reference!”
Laughing, he picked her up and tossed her onto the sheets. She realized then that she was still partially dressed, if a loose-topped shift, lace stockings, and one shoe could be in any sense called clothing. He plucked off the shoe and tossed it on the floor.
She moved to strip off her shift, but he said, “Don’t.”
She looked down at the stained and sweaty garment. “Why not?”
“A woman is most beautiful in sensuous disarray.”
Elf didn’t think she had ever felt more beautiful than at that moment in the mirror of his eyes. “What of you, then?”
“What do you want?”
She considered asking him to put on the black silk robe, but realized she liked the sight of his body too much to want it veiled. Strong body, tangled hair, and a face so relaxed she hardly knew him.
“What are you thinking?” he asked. “You can ask whatever you want.”
“That a man is designed to pleasure the sight of a woman.”
He grinned, and she thought perhaps he might even have blushed a little. “Men think it works the other way around.”
“Which merely proves that God designed both sexes perfectly.”
He leaned over to kiss her. “Don’t bring God into this, sweetheart. Remember, I promised to show you the way to hell.”
She discovered that his buttocks were available to her eager hands and explored their firm roundness. “I’ll never think of hell in quite the same way . . .”
He pinned her to the bed with strong hands, but Elf relaxed in his grip. It wasn’t a dangerous moment, just a lustful one. She would trust this man with her life.
That thought surprised her.
Naked trust.
Was that the truth he had spoken of? She did wish she could rip off the mask and be honest with him.
Deliberately, she moved matters back to the simply lustful. She licked her lips. “Do you have something else wicked in mind, Fort?”
He laughed out loud, and suddenly the universe shifted.
Just like that, thought Elf. Did a person fall in love just like that? Or was it realization that struck like Cupid’s dart?
Her heart had started a new rhythm. A rhythm that had nothing to do with lust, only with love, with a fierce protectiveness and a need to be-with that pushed close to agony.
For she could not have him. If he knew who she was, he would not want her.
She would only ever have this one night.
But for this night, at least, she had her laughing lover.
As he relaxed down beside her, she snuggled against him, savoring perhaps the most precious moment of all—closeness, so relaxed, all barriers down.
This, she realized, was what she had really sought this night.
If only she could shed Elfled Malloren and all it entailed, and be Lisette. She’d do it in a moment to be so close to this man, to bring him laughter and pleasure every day and night, and be exquisitely pleasured in return. Just the thought of marriage, of this closeness through eternity, brought the agony of suppressed tears—because it could not be.
Or could it? She was a fighter, a Malloren. With a Malloren, all things are possible . . .
Fort pulled the covers over them and his arms came comfortably around her. “Sleep a little, Lisette. I promise I’ll wake you later to continue your education in wickedness, but for the moment we both need a bit of rest.”
She never could have imagined the beauty of sliding into sleep wrapped in his arms.
He kept his promise, waking her with kisses and nibbles and fiery touches. When she asked, he showed her how to touch him so he groaned and writhed. Though watching in the mirror had been exciting, this was perhaps even more delightful. The candles had guttered into darkness, and touch, taste, smell, and hearing were intensified beyond belief.
He did not enter her, but they shared pleasure anyway, inventively, wickedly, before tumbling back again into exhausted slumber.
When she woke to find herself smothered in dark cloth, encircled by strong arms, Elf thought he was up to yet more wickedness, but something she did not care for. She squirmed and tried to protest, but a hand clamped cloth down over her mouth, cutting off what little air she’d had.
Damn him, what did he think he was doing?
When the hand moved, she sucked in a breath through heavy, musty cloth and started to cough.
“Stifle it, or I’ll throttle you,” growled a voice. Definitely not Fort’s.
A voice with a Scottish accent.
Chapter 10
Fear swamped panicked anger. Oh God, Elf thought, and it was a prayer.
How?
Why?
The world tipped and something punched her in the belly. No, she’d been tossed over a man’s shoulder, head hanging down. Bile bit at the back of her throat, but she managed not to vomit, terrified that she’d choke to death.
Or that he’d carry out his threat and throttle her.
What was happening?
Where was he taking her?
Where was Fort?
Jerky movements told her the man was hurrying down the stairs. Swathed in the musty blanket, Elf could hardly breathe, never mind scream, and the thumping up and down once more threatened to make her vomit.
She prayed again, silent, incoherent pleas to any deity that might be listening.
Suddenly, she was swung around and dropped without care onto hard wood so she couldn’t help but cry out. The blanket was pulled off her and she sucked in pure, fresh air. She was outdoors on a cloudy night in some kind of big box. Shadowy forms loomed over her . . .
A lantern opened by her face, so she flinched from the sudden light.
“She’s a mask on. Let’s see who she is.”
With the snick of a knife, the mask was flipped back. “Nae one I ken.”
The lantern was covered, creating dark again. Before Elf could try to move, something heavy tumbled on top of her. She squealed and a fist to the head knocked her dizzy. “I telt ye to be quiet!”
With a huge thump, the air changed. She was now in a closed box. A long narrow box.
A coffin?
Staggered by this thought, she heaved at the weight half over her. Cloth. Skin.
A body? A body in a winding sheet?
She was in a coffin with a body?
Oh God!
Fighting to escape the corpse, she couldn’t stop whimpering. “No. Please. Help. Stop—”
No matter how she shifted, she couldn’t find space. Limp, cold arms and legs brushed against hers—
Not cold.
She stilled. It was alive.
She ran her hands over face and hair.
“Fort?” In her panic she probably couldn’t have made more sound than a whisper anyway. A moment later, she gave thanks for it.
He didn’t so much as twitch. She shook him. “Fort!”
His slackness told her he was unconscious. Hastily she fumbled for his neck, for a pulse. She found it and sagged with relief.
She was stuck in a coffin in the hands of her enemies, but she was with Fort and he wasn’t dead.
Elf took some deep breaths and tried to think.
They’d been taken prisoner by the Scots, but at least they hadn’t been murdered.
That was good.
She hoped.
She could imagine some evil reasons they might want her alive, but surely they couldn’t apply to Fort.
They were being taken somewhere. The box was moving. Or at least, she decided, the cart upon which the box rested was moving. She could hear the trundle of wheels and the clop of hooves.
She reached out to the rough wood and traced it around her. Shuddering, she realized it really was a coffin, with the traditional coffin shape.
A moan escaped, but she bit her lips to stop it and pushed up at the lid. She didn’t have much hope, and as expected, the lid was fastened down.
Were they to be buried alive?
Her heart was already pounding, but now it began the mad race of panic. She wanted to beat on the box, to scream, but stopped herself—just—by biting on her knuckles. Screaming would do no good.
Surely their captors wouldn’t just put them in a grave and throw on earth. Why would they do that?
It’s an excellent way to dispose of inconvenient bodies, said a voice in her head. A murdered earl would be a national alarm. A disappearing one would just be a minor mystery.
How long, she wondered, before people realized that a marquess’s sister had disappeared at the same time? The thought of the ensuing scandal appalled her, though she supposed she’d be past caring.
Her family wouldn’t. How horrified and grief-stricken they would be at her disappearance.
Rothgar! He would be destroyed by her death. Again, pointlessly, she pushed at the coffin lid, weeping now with frustration. How could she have been so selfish as to put herself in danger, knowing how it would affect her brother?
Tears turned to rage.
Damn the Scots. She’d have their guts for garters for creating such a mess.
And damn Fort, for being embroiled in such madness. It was all his fault—
But abruptly, she couldn’t feel that way. Though still muttering about his stupidity, she cuddled closer to him, checking again that his pulse beat steadily.
It was steadier than hers, for her heart still raced with panic. Or perhaps the air was beginning to fail. What did it feel like to suffocate?
She shook Fort, trying to wake him just to have someone conscious nearby. He moaned slightly, but no more than that.
Elf slumped against him, curling an arm around his torso, both protecting and seeking protection. After a moment, she snuggled closer and listened for his heart. Of course it had to be beating, but she needed to hear it.
She wiped away tears and kissed his chest.
Her lover. How strange to think of him that way, but he was.
Her beloved.
An even stranger thought, but he was that, too.
She recalled that moment of certainty, testing it. Yes, whatever love was, she felt it for this man. She cared for him more than for any other man, even her brothers. She needed his presence. Life without him would be arid. She longed for his body. Not particularly for the sexual games they had played, though they had been delightful, but just as contact, as presence, as if she was no longer whole when alone.
Nor was it a new thing. She’d been drawn to him from first meeting.
Such notions might terrify her at another time, but with death approaching, she could only be honest with herself.
She wondered if he felt anything similar. It seemed ridiculous that she feel so passionately and he be indifferent, but it could be so.
It could break her heart, that thought, but with death approaching such concerns were pointless.
With questing fingers, she found his features and traced them. She kissed his eyelids, his cheek, his lips.
“Mmmmm.” Then the contented murmur cracked into a groan and he stiffened.
“Hush!” she whispered quickly. “Don’t make a noise.”
“What—”
Elf put a hand over his lips. His wits were disordered by that blow, but she didn’t want him shouting out. If for some reason their captors opened the coffin to check on them, it would be useful if they thought him still unconscious.
He didn’t relax, but something in his body suggested that he was aware of the situation. She gingerly moved her hand.
“What’s happening?” he whispered, putting out a hand to explore. “Where the devil are we? Gads. My head . . .”
“It’s a coffin,” she whispered back. She couldn’t put her fears into words, but an extra tension in his body suggested he shared them.
“Who?” he whispered. “Why?”
“The only voice I heard sounded Scots.” She waited for his reaction.
He just became very still.
That answered any doubts she might have clung to about his involvement.
Where, Elf suddenly thought, were Roberts and her people? Then she realized that it was the middle of the night. They’d probably all gone home.
Elf began to suspect that she’d made a terrible mess of everything and could pay for it with her life. Clearly Fort deserved some of the blame, but she snuggled closer anyway.
That was when she realized he was naked, and she was as good as. They’d taken her in just her shift and stockings!
At the thought of that man carrying her like that, she wanted to cry. It was a stupid reaction, but she couldn’t help it. For a moment, it seemed the most appalling aspect to the whole affair.
Then she became aware of her bare leg pressing against his. She could feel the rough, springy hair of his calf. Without any other place to put it, she still tried to ease away. It made no sense when they’d been so intimate, but for some reason their situation now seemed indecent.
Once or twice she’d dreamed of being naked in a public place. This felt horribly like one of those dreams. She should be worrying about death, but just now she fretted more about the lid opening to let in light and expose her state.
With a stifled groan, he shifted, gathering her thigh between his to make a little more room and wrapping his arm tighter around her.
Elf stiffened.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
His hand wandered slightly. “Lightning blast ’em! Did they take you in just your shift?”
Suddenly tears threatened, but she swallowed them. “I still have my stockings.”
He held her closer, muttering more curses, and now his touch didn’t seem so wrong. “I think I’m wrapped in that damned monk’s robe. As soon as we’ve room to move, you can have it. So, you think your Vauxhall pursuer is behind this?”
“Who else?”
“You might have vengeful relatives.” He shifted again, easing her a little on top of him. “I sincerely hope this is not a case of Abélard and Hélöse.”
“Who?” She eased her head into his shoulder, which seemed beautifully designed for the purpose.
“A pair of medieval lovers.”
“A romantic tale?”
“Not really. Her relatives gelded him.”
“Lud!”
“Indeed. And it’s a true story.”
“Well, I can assure you my relatives are not behind this.” Though she had to wonder if they might be tempted to a similar vengeance when they found out. She’d intended to be back at Amanda’s for breakfast. Now, even if she survived, the whole story could get out.
She thought of Chastity, who’d been caught with a man in her bed and ostracized. Lewd pictures of her had hu
ng in every printshop window, and even after vindication, some people looked askance at the “notorious Chastity Ware.”
And Chastity had been innocent!
The cart stopped.
Elf clutched Fort, scandal and modesty suddenly irrelevant. As they awaited their fate, Fort held her close in an illusion of protection that she needed anyway. With a jerk and an audible grunt or two, the box was lifted.
A moan escaped Elf. She couldn’t help whispering, “A grave. I think they’re going to bury us alive!”
“ ’Struth.”
They clung together as the box swayed and bumped. Then it landed with a thump.
But surely not in a deep hole.
Elf remembered to breathe.
A Scottish voice said, “Brace the rope, Mack.”
They let coffins down into graves with ropes, didn’t they?
“No!” Elf moaned into Fort’s shoulder. He suddenly moved, thrusting up at the lid again and again.
“I think they’re awake in there, Kenny.”
“No matter. Get on with it.”
With Fort still heaving at the lid, the box tilted and slid a noisy distance to land at an angle. The jolt clashed Elf’s teeth together and made Fort grunt from the pain in his head.
They must be in the grave, though you’d think the coffin would go in straight.
Then the box shifted and went flat with another bump that made Fort curse and go still.
This was it, then. The end of the adventure.
A sudden calm settled on Elf. They were going to be buried alive. No one knew, so no one could help. Perhaps no one would ever know what had become of them. It seemed both silly and tragic, but beyond all help.
She began to pray that death come quickly, and that her brothers not suffer too much for her folly.
She heard a rattle and thump some way away, then another rattle on the coffin. The first stones hitting the lid?
Metal against metal, but in the distance. Shovels? She tried to imagine the scene outside the stale darkness that had become her world, but then decided to concentrate on dying well.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Fort, since she suspected this was all her fault.
“Why? I’m just sorry I don’t seem to be able to break a way out of here.”
Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] Page 18
