"Olivia," he called after her, "I command that you come back here to work. I have not yet dismissed you for the evening."
He was promptly ignored. Probably a new experience for him, she mused.
* * * *
Her letter to Christopher written, blotted and sealed before she could change her mind, Olivia sat for a long while before the mirror that Deverell had moved into her room with all the other silly luxuries. She'd never been one to study her face much in the past, for she knew its failings all too well and staring at them wouldn't change anything.
But tonight she looked at her reflection with newly awakened eyes and with the knowledge of True Deverell's attraction to her.
What did he see when he looked at her?
Whatever it was, no one else had ever seen it.
Twenty years ago, on the death of her mother, her father had received a visit —the one and only visit since his marriage—from Olivia's grandmother. The fine lady had come to witness her "ungrateful" daughter laid out in a coffin, as if she needed proof of death. But just before she left the house, she turned that icy regard upon the grandchild she'd never before seen.
"Well, she's a plain creature, dreadfully thin. What are you feeding her?" As if Olivia was a dog or a horse being examined.
Her father had responded quietly, with only a faint hint of indignation, "Olivia has a hearty appetite and she is in good health. She also has a quick mind for study."
"Tsk, tsk! She looks sadly inadequate to me. Sadly inadequate!"
She heard her father draw a breath, swallowing whatever reply he might have given.
"What a disappointment," the lady continued, tapping her walking cane on the hall tiles. "But what else could be expected of such a union. We must make the best of it." She stooped just an inch or so toward the little girl at whom she glowered with disdain, and said, "Your mother married for love, child. See where it got her. May her premature end in this damp, miserable little nowhere house be a lesson to you."
With that she'd swept out into the rain, to where her ivory-wigged coachman helped her up into a very fine barouche box, and there ended the grandmother's interest in Olivia.
Sadly inadequate.
But the face looking back at her in the mirror tonight was not unattractive. It was heart-shaped, calm, the features well spaced, skin clear and slightly tinted with a flush of healthy pink. Her posture, thanks to Great Aunt Jane's ceaseless nagging, was excellent.
Slowly she reached up and unpinned her braid, letting the thick rope fall over her shoulder.
He wanted to see her True Self? So be it.
Chapter Twenty Six
He was undressing in his bedchamber when there was a soft tap on his door. Definitely wasn't Sims. He tied the belt of his dressing gown and opened the door.
"Olivia!"
She was in her nightgown and a woolen shawl, her hair in a braid over one shoulder, the end of it tied with pale blue ribbon. The woman who had haunted his dreams for the past few months looked very young and innocent. "Can I come in?"
Suddenly he was tongue-tied, for possibly the first time in his life.
"Well? If you're not too fearful for your life."
He stepped aside and she walked in, looking around with wide eyes. He still remained with the door open, not certain what she was about, until she said, "You can close it now." It could have been reference to his mouth, as well.
"Olivia. What are you doing?"
"I thought it would be obvious, especially to a man with deep powers of perception. I've come to finish you off since that is, apparently, what I do with the men I encounter."
He stared at her as she dropped her shawl to the bed and then slowly began to step out of her nightgown. "And how, exactly, do you plan to finish me off?"
"I'm coming to bed with you, just as you asked, Mr. Deverell."
"I see you are in the mood to gamble tonight," he murmured, watching the linen of her nightgown slip slowly down over her breasts, her waist, her hips. "You're... taking a risk."
"A risk?"
"With a man like me it's always a risk, Olivia." The words choked out of him.
"It is good of you to advise me." She walked up to where he stood, rigid in more ways than one, and reached for the knotted belt of his dressing gown. "But are you not taking a risk too, in light of my reputation? I set the rules tonight. I'm in charge."
Excitement flared inside him. "Are you indeed?"
"If you want me, I am in charge."
She wasn't the first to try it, of course. But she was the first who might actually succeed. True didn't know whether to feel pleased or terrified. He nodded, not quite trusting himself to answer.
Her skin was pale, smooth, shimmering slightly in the candlelight. He thought of the time when he spied on her in the scullery, washing her hair. The hunger had begun right there and then, and there was no turning back from it. She was the fox and he the hunter. It was instinct.
"First rule," she said. "This will be one night only."
He stayed silent, grinding his teeth. Fine, if she thought once would be enough for her. They'd see, wouldn't they? Just like his ungrateful offspring, she thought she knew what she wanted and wouldn't be told.
"I know you like to overindulge in everything," she added wryly. "So I must set some limits." With both hands she slid the robe from his shoulders and he let it fall. Instantly her gaze lowered, trailing down his chest.
Limits, eh? He saw her eyes flame with desire and then darken as her pupils expanded. She bit her lips so hard he was surprised not to see blood.
"Second...second rule. You will...you will be certain to withdraw," she managed on a taut breath. "I don't want any mistakes."
Again he said nothing. Her hands moved downward, following the path of her sultry gaze.
"Third rule. We will never speak of it again after tonight. Not to anyone, nor to each other."
Interesting. Totally unfeasible. He would remind her about tonight, every chance he had. If he survived, of course. He grabbed her braid and began pulling it apart with impatient fingers, not even waiting to untie the ribbon first.
"Are you listening to me?" she exclaimed.
"Hmm."
The silk hair ribbon fell, her hair tumbling freely with his fingers tangled in it. He looked down at her. At her beautiful breasts— more abundant than he'd expected— her softly curved stomach and the triangle of tight, ebony curls below, hiding treasure.
"What happens if I break one of your rules?" he muttered, cupping her breasts and then sliding his hands down her body.
"Then I'll have to punish you, shan't I?"
"And how, precisely, would you do that?"
"You'll find out."
Her eyes were bright, fearless, daring him to flaunt her blessed rules. Well, there would be a few things she'd find out tonight, too.
True moved his hand between her thighs and she exhaled a small gasp. "Are you in a hurry?"
"Yes, I damn well am." After these past few months of yearning for her, he had no intention of taking his time.
She was silky soft, warm, fragrant. And all his at last. His to discover fully.
"Now get on my bed and prepare yourself to take some... dictation."
Her hands caressed his manhood, exploring him in return. He felt her chuckling. "I haven't got my writing materials," she muttered coyly.
"Don't worry about that, Olivia, I have a large pen of my own, as you see, and plenty of ink."
* * * *
Olivia was, of course, no innocent maiden when she went to his chamber that night and stood naked before him, but, in many ways she was naive. In her life she'd seen three men naked before— and one of those by accident.
Freddy Ollerenshaw was very muscular, bore more than slight resemblance to a shire horse and had the grace and finesse to match. Allardyce had not been quite so well favored in that department and had preferred being administered to as if he was a naughty schoolboy and she his tutor. That was enough fo
r him to reach his own satisfaction and if he ever gave any thought to his wife's pleasure it was not apparent.
William had never troubled her in the bedroom at all. He thought the "act of copulation" quite unnecessary and the only time she saw him undressed was when she walked into the kitchen one evening in search of an illicit midnight snack, and found him taking a bath with an extraordinarily lavish amount of soapy water and a small model of the H.M.S. Victory. She could only assume he had been in the water for quite some time as all his bits and pieces were terribly shriveled. The incident was enormously humiliating for them both and they never mentioned it again.
But now, here in her hands, was something unlike any of those. A man unlike any other. He was well made, hewn of rugged rock like this place he'd made a home. Savage too, heat blistering and surging through him as lava must once have run across the earth, forming new lands and wild, yet-to-be-tamed continents.
He hauled her up against his body, lifting her swiftly off her feet. And he kissed her while she struggled to wrap her legs around his waist, clinging on for dear life.
There was no doubt about what she was doing, no second thought.
Just this once she would have something she wanted on her terms.
She didn't want another husband— she was bad for them— and he didn't want another wife, for he was bad for them. But why shouldn't they have this fierce, delicious pleasure? A secret only they would share for the rest of their lives and she would cherish, even in her lonely future.
As they fell to his bed, she ran her hands over his shoulders, let her fingers trace the veins of his broad neck, marveled at the strength surging through his body, a vitality that seemed to belong to another time. Another species.
"I don't want to hurt you," he growled into her mouth.
"You cannot," she said, reaching urgently for him, her legs climbing his back. Nothing could hurt her again. She'd taken many blows and lived to tell the tale. Just like him.
He kissed her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other caressing between her thighs. "You've been yearning for me," he groaned. "All this time. As I've yearned for you."
"Yes."
Slowly he licked his way down her body and Olivia arched restlessly, her skin alive, hands trembling.
"I ought to punish you for making me wait so long." He very gently nibbled her inner thigh and she exhaled in a sharp gasp of shock. "But I can't."
"You can't?" she muttered dreamily.
"Because you're in charge tonight. The rules are yours."
And then his lips touched her so lightly, so intimately that she almost lifted off the bed.
He licked, stroked and kissed her with such care, seeming to know exactly where to touch her and how to adjust his rhythm. Olivia tried not to think of the other women upon whom he'd honed this skill. After all, she was now the one to benefit from his experience, was she not?
"You've been neglected, my sweet," he said.
She wasn't sure which part of her he was talking to, but she heartily agreed.
* * * *
When he entered her, he tried to be gentle, but he was close to boiling over. His need for her was too great. Their bodies melded slickly together at last, lifting and falling like the waves that crashed against the base of his island.
She ran her fingers through his hair, her legs wrapped around him, showing her own urgency.
"True," she moaned softly, "don't hold back."
Oh, he wouldn't, and he didn't.
If she thought she wanted all of it, then it was hers. He filled her, buried himself deeply in that tight warmth, and she keened under him, her glorious hair spread across his pillow like the thickest, richest, most extravagant blanket he could buy.
Except he could not buy it. She'd made that clear.
According to what his wife had told him about her past, he was taking a heavy risk with this woman. But he didn't care. He was a gambler. Besides, what could she do to him?
* * * *
This was like nothing she'd ever known, or even imagined. His heat surrounded her, consumed her like a wildfire through dry forest.
She rolled him over and sat astride, feeling bold and greedy.
It was her turn to grab his wrists and hold them over his head. The muscles flexed, tendons tightened— a look of surprise passed over his face— but he did not resist for long. Then she kissed him, eating at his mouth as if it was her last meal. He had teased her once that he was in danger of letting her take charge of him.
Tonight that would come true.
"Where is your razor?" she whispered directly into his ear.
"My what?" He stiffened.
Olivia stifled a chuckle. "Don't worry, I'm not going to cut anything off. Unless you displease me."
He told her it was on the washstand.
"Stay there," she commanded. "Don't move."
To her astonishment he obeyed.
She fetched the razor and cut her hair ribbon into two parts, which she used to bind his wrists to the bedposts.
"Olivia? My sweet, is this necessary?"
Her reply was an unequivocal "Yes." She'd had plenty of time to think about it.
Now she kissed his brows, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his chin. She kissed every part of him — even those she'd never yet had the chance to thoroughly explore on a man—until his breathing grew shallow and he bucked his hips at her. Then she lay over him and tickled his nipples with her tongue, listening to the low groan rumble through his chest, like the purr of a very large, very hungry cat.
"Olivia!"
But she continued her wicked feast, taking delight in her position of power and in this opportunity of discovery. She heard the ribbons stretching as he fought his bindings, heard the threads popping. She could not keep him her prisoner for long; indeed, she was shocked he let her get away with it as long as he did, for she knew it wouldn't take much effort on his part to sever those ribbons.
Finally she sat astride him again, teasing him with her body, exploring herself while he watched, and learning as much about her own capabilities as she did about her lover.
Her lover.
The word excited her further still. She trembled, blood rushing through her veins in a tumult of pleasure
His eyes glimmered up at her, the silver half hidden beneath black lashes as he tried to resist the temptation of all that she offered. This feeling of power, she suspected, could become addictive.
Her heart beating hard and fast, she held out her hand for his tongue and he almost bit her fingers off. He strained forward, growling, his muscles taut.
"I must touch you."
When she released his wrists, his hands went immediately to her waist. His manhood penetrated again with one thrust and then he gripped her thighs, squeezing hard.
"If you want me to keep that second rule, Olivia," he managed breathlessly, "don't chance your luck."
She tipped her head back, letting her hair fall over them both. That, it seemed, was the final straw. He roughly grasped hold of her bottom, desperately urging her to slow down, but she rode him rapidly to that first fence and with only seconds to spare she stayed in her saddle.
Suddenly he held her waist and his eyes smoldered smokily up at her. "You do gamble, Olivia. You fibbed."
In that moment his fingertips pressed into her skin, seemingly to prevent her from rising, but then he relented and Olivia escaped her wild ride— and potential unwed motherhood— in the same blink of an eye.
* * * *
Holding her close, he reveled in the sweet scent of her hair and ran his fingers down her spine, his senses sharply attuned to hers. Feeling every breath as she took it. Never before had he lain like this with a woman. Not like this.
For the first time in his life he had trusted another human being, putting his body into her hands completely.
The possible murderess of three men.
He had to admit, the risk added an extra layer of heat to his pleasure.
In the past he
was detached, but this time he could not be. He knew her too well, had lived with her and laughed with her. It was not merely a flame of sexual desire that might, at any moment, be snuffed out by a draft. This thing between them was a bonfire, tall and deep. The sort of fire that burned even on a rainy winter's day. And there would always be a glow somewhere within it, sparks and embers never extinguished.
When he was a boy, running wild through the fields, True used to annoy the local hunt by distracting the hounds to get them off the scent of a fox. Another reason for the old squire to curse his name. Now he wanted to save this wily fox from whatever hunted her. If he could. If she'd let him.
But there was a difference between keeping a person safe and keeping them trapped. There were men who didn't understand the difference— women too.
She had made a rule: one night only.
The best way for that rule to be broken was by her own will. He could not show her the way, for she was too strong, too clever, and she would resist any attempt to capture her. Let her find her own way to the answer, for then she could be sure. He, in the meantime, must be patient with her, as he tried to be with his offspring. Patient.
Somehow.
He nestled her closer, his legs tangled with hers, his arms tightly cocooning her to his chest.
"Tomorrow we will not speak of this," she murmured.
When he gave no reply, she tipped her head back to look at him. "Mr. Deverell? I said, tomorrow—"
"True, for pity's sake."
She sighed. "True, tomorrow we will not mention this."
Still he said nothing.
"True!"
"Yes, my sweet?"
"Answer me, damn you."
"But it wasn't a question. How could I answer it? It was a command that I must simply follow. You, Olivia the merciless, are in charge."
Glancing down at her, he saw she was frowning slightly, unsure. "Yes. I am. Don't forget."
True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 26
