Raven's Vow

by Gayle Wilson

  And all the nerve endings nature had so generously supplied in that place responded, acting according to divine design. A spectacularly emotive reaction. Building and tearing down. All the barriers destroyed. All the preconceptions rearranged by the reality of what it meant to have Raven’s mouth on her body.

  As she moved, her hips arching again without her conscious volition, she never once remembered Amberton’s touch. There could be no parallel between what had happened then and what was now taking place under the exquisite command of Raven’s lovemaking. Her lips breathed his name, a sighing surrender. Her fingers tangled in the blackness of his hair, finding it as silken as it had appeared last night, loose then, unrestricted as she wanted it now to be.

  At the sounds that began in her throat, torn, almost, from lips that had opened at the first contact of his mouth over the reaching peak of her breast, he allowed his teeth to close very gently over the rose nipple. Teasing. Then his tongue’s caress replaced that nearly painful tension, circling, pushing hack and forth across the hard tip.

  She couldn’t breathe. There was no more air left in the universe. Their universe. No one else had ever inhabited this world or ever would. His teeth grazed her flesh again, biting softly this time. Nibbling on the edge of pain. She was aware of the heat building between her legs, burning and yet so wet. Needing.

  The feel of his mouth was primitive, dark and elemental. And somehow elegant, like what happened to her body when she danced or rode. The movements awakening something inside that demanded a response, just as his lips were demanding. And her body was trying to respond, moving against the bed, lifting as if to find his. As if to meld her softness into that hard strength.

  “Raven,” she begged, because she didn’t know anything else now but him. There was nothing in her experience to help her. He had taken her far beyond what was familiar and into a realm that was unexplored. And she was lost without his guidance.

  At something in those whispered syllables, at what was very obviously a plea, Raven responded. The pressure of his mouth and teeth eased until he was holding her only with his lips. And then, lifting his head slightly, he released the distended nipple. The sudden breath of cool air against the moist skin that his mouth had been warming was harshly invasive, another almost-painful sensation. She whimpered at the loss of his touch. At that pleading sound, his lips caressed the peak he’d so lovingly created and then deserted. Caressed as gently as he’d kissed her nose the last time he’d deserted her.

  He eased away from her body, sitting up to look down into her face, which was softened with passion as it had never been before. She no longer cared that he could read what she was feeling. And, of course, she couldn’t have hidden what he’d done to her even if shehad desired any longer to keep her emotions hidden. But she didn’t. She was his and she had no will to hide her feelings from him ever again.

  “I told you,” he said. “Very rare.”

  She couldn’t speak. Not yet. It was too new, whatever bond he’d forged between the masculine beauty of his body and the small, seeking softness of hers. And so she lay, watching him. Drained. Exhausted by emotion. And he’d only touched her.

  “You, Mrs. Raven, are indeed very rare.”

  Her smile was not practiced. She was too far beyond the boundaries of flirtation. Too far into a place she’d never before entered to be able to command her features.

  “Why?” she whispered. She raised her hand to touch the single strand of dark hair that had escaped confinement. It was as soft as before and as enticing to her trembling fingers. She wanted to loosen the ribbon that held the rest and feel its curling length run like silk threads through her hands.

  “Because little girls aren’t supposed to react like that,” he said, answering her smile. She didn’t resent, this time, the suggestion that she was very young. She felt very young, especially when confronted with his obvious experience.

  “And how are little girls supposed to react?”

  “Shocked?” he suggested softly, his smile widening into small creases that broke the hard plane of his lean cheeks.

  She shook her head.

  “No?” he asked, his fingers rearranging the edges of the chemise and, graceful despite their size, retying the small ribbon.

  “I like your hands,” she said.

  He looked up from his task, and his soft laughter was very pleasant. She felt her mouth responding with a smile, answering his laugh just as her body had answered his caress. So in tune to his every movement.

  “I thought you said they were too big.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I like you big.”

  Raven’s amusement deepened, suddenly breaking through his normal control. He laughed, full and rich, and without self-consciousness, revealing very white teeth against the golden skin. Although she wasn’t entirely sure what had caused that response, she laughed with him. Because she belonged to him.

  “I hope so, my sweet darling,” he said finally, the laughter still lurking in the lucid depths of his sapphire eyes. “Dear God, I certainly hope so.”

  “Goodbye, Raven,” she said bravely, exactly as she had before in response to his request.Before, she thought, shivering. “I hope you have a very pleasant journey.”

  “And I wonder if you know how impossible that’s just become. How impossible you’ve made the likelihood of that.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Will you try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone? No more card games with lecherous bastards and no water hazards?”

  He took her fingers and brought them to his lips, his eyes meeting hers as he allowed his tongue to trace over the fine porcelain skin on the back of her hand. She followed the movement with her eyes, remembering the previous journey of his tongue over her breast, as he had, of course, intended.

  “Recuperating.” She forced the word through dry lips.

  “What?” he asked, dropping a small kiss between each finger.

  She swallowed, trying to find the breath to answer him. The sensations in her lower body were beginning again. Simply because he was touching her hand, she realized with wonder.

  “I’m going to be recuperating,” she said, fighting the urge to tighten her fingers over his, to try to hold him to her. God, she didn’t want him to leave, now that she had just discovered how very much she desired him.

  “Good,” he said softly, placing her hand carefully against the sheet. “And I’m going to be remembering. Miss me,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if it was a question or a command.

  “I miss you already,” she whispered truthfully. She missed his touch. The feel of his mouth against her skin.

  “Close your eyes,” he commanded. Willingly she obeyed. She felt his weight leave the bed, and then unexpectedly and very gently, as if she really were as fragile as the Venetian goblets downstairs, he kissed her forehead.

  And the hated tears were already welling when the door closed behind him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “But if you think that Mrs. Raven—” the groom began.

  “I don’t think Mrs. Raven’s in any danger. I’d never undertake this journey if that were the case,” Raven explained patiently. “The doctor has ordered at least a week’s recuperation, which should preclude any activities outside the house. If she does venture out before I return, I want you with her. And I don’t think she’s in danger.” Raven wondered for whom he’d made that repeated assurance. He knew, however, thathe had been the target of the attack, and the farther away from Catherine he was, the safer she should be.

  “But Mr. Raven—”

  “Don’t let her out of your sight, Jem. I’ll be back on Sunday. I’m trusting you with the most precious thing I possess,” Raven said, placing his hand on the shoulder of Catherine’s groom. “Don’t let me down.”

  Jem nodded, his eyes meeting his master’s in perfect understanding, and Raven’s lips relaxed into a softer alignment. This man would protect Catherine with his life.

  Intelle
ctually, Raven might know for whom that bullet had been meant, and that the last thing the old man would want was to hurt his daughter. Whatever estrangement might have been caused by her marriage, Catherine was still the Duke of Monfort’s only child. Raven would never leave if he believed his wife’s safety was threatened, but to be certain—

  “One stop,” he instructed the coachman as he mounted the narrow steps of the carriage that would carry him north. His hand touched the fine line of the scar on his high cheekbone. He imagined his welcome this time would be even colder than when he’d last visited that elegant town house. And as he remembered, it had been remarkably unwelcoming then.

  Montfort’s butler recognized him. Raven could see the same fear reflected in the man’s eyes that had been there before. Especially when the American pushed open the door of the Mayfair mansion, despite the servant’s resistance.

  “But his grace isn’t expecting—” Hartford began.

  “He damn well should be,” Raven said, easily breaking away from the trembling hand attempting to grip his arm. He threw open doors until he found the duke, seated at a rosewood desk.

  The old man looked up from whatever had been occupying his attention, lifting the gold lorgnette he had been using and focusing its glass on the massive figure of his sonin-law. If he was surprised by this invasion of his office, that emotion was not evident in the expression with which he regarded the American.

  “I’m going to assume you have a reason for being here,” Montfort said.

  “You may be certain, your grace, that I’d never put myself in the position of having to be civil to you without reason.”

  “Civil?” the duke taunted softly at Raven’s tone. One white eyebrow climbed cynically. “But perhaps our standards are different,” he suggested with more than a trace of condescension.

  “Very different,” Raven agreed, his words as mocking as his father-in-law’s.“I’ve never ordered anyone shot in the back.”

  “Indeed,” Montfort said, his lips twitching in amusement. “I’m very relieved by that confidence. If, however, that is the extent of the information you desire to impart…” Pausing, he waved one bejeweled hand at the stack of documents on his desk.

  “I’ll fight you or your hirelings any time you wish, your grace,” Raven said, anger building at the dismissal, “but if you ever hurt my wife again, I’ll gut you like the animal you are.”

  The boredom in the midnight eyes remained a fraction of a second before the import in his words reached the sharp brain behind them. Something shifted in their glittering depths, and Montfort repeated, his voice no longer taunting,“Hurt your wife?”

  “Your assassin missed, as I’m sure he informed you. What he didn’t tell you, I suppose, is that his ball grazed Catherine’s mare, which as a result bolted with her.”

  There was a long silence. Montfort said finally, his eyes never wavering from the cold fury in Raven’s, “And my daughter?”

  “Catherine was thrown.”

  There was another long, silent heartbeat. Raven could hear his own, pulsing too quickly, frightened as well as furious at the renewed images of what might have happened.

  “I assume you intend to tell me the outcome,” Montfort suggested. He had lowered the lorgnette, the thin, elegant fingers of both hands playing with it restlessly, so that Raven periodically caught glimpses of gold. Unbidden, the surety came again that the old man had never meant to hurt Catherine.

  “Bruises,” Raven admitted, watching the white fingers pause suddenly. The duke’s mouth tightened, and then he set the quizzing glass on the desk. When the midnight eyes glanced up from under those intimidating brows, they were again politely amused.

  “How fortunate,” he said. “If you are unable to protect my daughter, Mr. Raven, perhaps it might be better if you allowed—”

  Raven didn’t bother to listen to whatever suggestion the old man was about to make. “I’ll protect Catherine from the devil himself,” he promised softly. And then remembering what Jem had told him, he released his own lips from the rigid line in which they’d been set. The Devil Duke, the groom had called the old man. How bloody apt.

  “Don’t hurt my wife again,” Raven said. “I’m warning you.”

  He turned on his heel and started across the room. The butler was standing in the open door of the duke’s study, backed by four burly footmen. Raven met the majordomo’s eyes with nothing but contempt in the cold blue ice of his own. The servant’s glance flicked to his master, and at whatever silent communication passed between them, the butler stepped out of Raven’s way, sending footmen scattering behind him. For a moment Raven allowed his amusement to show before he strode across the wide foyer.

  As he reached for the front door, it opened before him, and for the first time in months Raven found himself confronting the Viscount Amberton, the sartorial elegance of the bottle green morning coat he was wearing almost matching the duke’s. Birds of a feather, Raven thought, his lips moving at the mental image of two strutting male peacocks. Still smiling, he bowed slightly to the English aristocrat, who had stepped back with the same alacrity just exhibited by his grace’s servants.

  “Don’t worry, Amberton. I’m not going to hurt you,” Raven promised, amusement again allowed to tinge that assured voice.

  The viscount’s blue eyes met his, revealing in their depths an emotion Raven identified correctly as unadulterated hatred.

  “Family business?” Amberton asked, recovering his aplomb, his own mockery very clear at the idea that the coal merchant and the English duke might have any other business in common.

  “Exactly,” Raven agreed calmly. Nodding, he stepped around the viscount and into the clean sunshine of the London street.

  When the door closed behind the American, Amberton’s lips whitened and a small muscle twitched beside his mouth. Realizing finally that the servants were watching, the viscount strolled across the foyer with his usual languid grace and entered, unannounced, the office where the duke sat.

  Montfort had been tapping the lorgnette he held lightly against his cheek. The dark eyes came up at the nobleman’s entrance. “Tell me, Amberton,” his grace said, “do you know anyone for hire with, shall we say, a disposition to violence?”

  Raven closed his eyes and rested his head against the leather of the carriage seat, exhausted by what he’d accomplished in the short time he’d been in the north. He had spent the last four days pretending interest during endless meetings, and additional hours at night writing out the terms that had been agreed to in contracts to be signed the following day. In the dim quietness of his lonely rooms, in which he seldom had the opportunity to rest his head against the pillow of the undisturbed bed, the memories of a very different bed intruded.

  Catherine. He savored again the unexpected responses she’d made to his touch, welcoming his hands and even his mouth against the soft, smooth fragrance of that porcelain skin. Raven’s body would harden against his will, against all his determined intent, torturing him with the promise of what awaited his return.

  And even here in the confines of the coach, bound finally for London, he could feel that painful reaction to the unending fantasies he had of making Catherine his. Of finally being allowed to show her what he felt, what hehad felt since the day he had first looked up into those russet eyes misted with unshed tears. Exactly as they had been the morning he’d left.

  As his heritage had compelled him, he had honored the vow he’d made to Catherine so long ago, when they had begun this inconvenientmanage de convenance. And now, finally, he would honor, too, the promise he had made only to himself.

  The noise that shattered the intensity of his memories was as recognizable as it had been the morning in Hyde Park. Harsh commands and then shots, sharp and clear, disturbed the cold upland air. His orders to Tom, however, had been explicit. John Raven was no one’s fool, and he’d known that another attempt to put an end to his life and, therefore, to his unsuitable marriage, might be made on this journey. The m
ate to the pistol that was now held competently in Raven’s right hand had been given to the coachman in anticipation of just such a challenge. And Tom had been told to drive on, no matter what.

  The coach swayed more strongly, the tiring horses prodded with the whip to outrace the men who were trying to stop them. Raven wondered if this assault had been that carefully planned—the site well isolated and yet near the next post station to ensure the team’s fatigue. And remembering the shrewd mind behind those midnight eyes, he knew that nothing had been left to chance.

  The road was dangerously narrow, the coach rocketing between the sweep of wind-gnarled trees on one side and a rock-strewn drop on the other. Raven fired methodically, exposing himself briefly at the window as he squeezed off his careful shots, then retreated inside to reload, his hands automatically performing the necessary procedure. He could hear their pursuers, shouting to one another and their occasional shots. He never knew which of those had the desired effect, but Tom would, of course, have presented a stark target for the following riders, his body silhouetted against the leaden sky of the north country.

  The horses plunged onward, now without the familiar guidance of experienced hands on their reins. Legs trembled from exhaustion and panic, and eventually there came the fatal stumble, throwing off the steady cadence that had sustained the chase. The break in rhythm began to unravel the confidence of that precise team that had strained in unison for miles. Dangerously out of synchronization now, the horses faltered, allowing the carriage to careen too close to the hillside along which the roadway had been cut. The outside leader lost its footing in the rubble, struggling frantically to regain its stride, but it was too late. The rear wheel of the coach rounded the curve well off the road. It collided with one of the boulders that edged the decline and splintered, ending any prospect that the horses might, in their exhaustion, have slowed enough to allow the man inside, waiting his chance, to attempt the hazardous climb to the empty box.