"Go to hell, Ashcroft," she said.
Though her eyes flashed, Ambrose heard the tremor in her voice. His muscles grew taut. His fingers squeezed instinctively.
The viscount made a choking sound. "Don't let her looks fool you, man! She may look like a lady, but she's a whore through and through. She was asking for it," he pleaded. "Ask anyone, she spreads her thighs for any man—"
Ambrose's fist plowed into the other's face. With nary a sound, the bugger crumpled, sliding into a heap next to the carriage wheels. Breathing hard, Ambrose turned to face Marianne. Blood pounded in his ears; he didn't trust himself to speak.
"Lugo, see that this mess is cleaned up," she said in shaky tones.
"Yes, my lady." The manservant went to inspect the viscount. He nudged the fallen lord none too gently with his boot, eliciting a moan. Meeting Ambrose's gaze, Lugo gave him a nod that might have passed for approval. "I'll get these two where they belong," the African said. "In the meantime, my lady, Mr. Kent looks like he could use some attention. Shall I alert the housekeeper?"
"I'll see to that. You take care of Ashford," Marianne said.
Lugo bowed; when he raised his dark head, Ambrose could have sworn the man's eyelid drooped in a slight wink.
"Coming, Mr. Kent?" Marianne arched a brow at him.
Muscles bunched, he followed her inside.
TWENTY-THREE
Marianne sat upon the divan in her bedchamber, holding an herbal compress to her throbbing cheek. She comforted herself with the fact that she could cross Ashcroft off her list. Tonight's events put her one step closer to finding Rosie's captor; everything was going according to plan.
Then why did she feel like a bundle of nerves?
The answer, of course, was Ambrose Kent. He stood at the window in his shirtsleeves, his long, lean silhouette turned from her as he looked out the curtains to the street down below. Vigilance sharpened his profile, his keen eyes sweeping back and forth. A queer pang seized her chest; even with the danger over, he remained on alert. Protecting her. Her gaze drew to his large hands, and the pang deepened into an exquisite ache.
The knuckles of his right hand were swollen and red. In places, the skin had broken.
Clearing her throat, she set down her poultice. "We should attend to your hand. Tilda brought some salve and ice."
He swung to look at her, and her breath stuttered at the emotion darkening his eyes. A muscle ticked on his granite-hard jaw. He looked dangerous: a man on the edge, gripping onto his last vestiges of self-control.
She ought to have feared him. Yet she did not. The realization caught her off guard, scrambled her wits as badly as Ashcroft's blow had. Deep in her marrow, she believed Kent would not hurt her.
"Devil take my hand. You owe me an explanation." Kent's low, quiet voice sent thrills up her spine. "Why were you with Ashford tonight?"
"Come sit first." Though her pulse beat a rapid staccato, she smiled and patted the cushion next to hers. "We can't have you bleeding over the Aubusson."
He crossed over to her. He did not sit; instead, he towered over her, more than six feet of bridling male. His hands planted on his narrow hips. Tension vibrated in the space between them.
"Are you having an affair with Ashcroft?" Kent bit out.
Explanations flitted through her mind. Countless lies. They clung like ashes to her tongue.
So easy to let him think it. Let him believe what everyone else does, that you're a lascivious jade. He'll leave you alone then.
"No," she blurted.
She didn't expect him to believe her. Given their encounters to date, he had plenty of reason to think her a heartless trollop. To believe what Ashcroft had said of her. The notion thickened her throat.
"Why were you alone with the viscount, then? I won't be put off this time, Marianne. First Leach and now this. What is this damned secret of yours—what could possibly move an otherwise intelligent woman to recklessly endanger herself time and again?"
Emotions closed in on her, propelling her to her feet. To her surprise, Kent allowed her to pass, and she went to the fireplace, buying herself time to think. What would Kent think of the fact that she had a bastard? Would he blame her for her indiscretion? Would he still care to involve himself in her affairs if he knew the sins she'd committed—about her little girl who suffered to this day because of her failings?
Licking her lips, Marianne watched the flames leap in the grate. "I've told you I'm not having an affair with Ashcroft. That should suffice—"
"That doesn't begin to suffice."
She spun around as Kent came toward her. He kept advancing, his pace steady, leaving her no option but to retreat. Heartbeats later, he had her backed against the wall next to the mantel. His arms caged her. She should have been angry, afraid. Instead, she ... yearned. He touched her wounded cheek, and she trembled from head to toe.
"What are you afraid of? Tell me, Marianne." Though his touch was gentle, his features were intent, harshly controlled. She understood why criminals would want to confess all their sins in the wake of those bright, piercing eyes. "I won't hurt you. I want only to help. Trust me."
"I ... can't," she said helplessly. Wanting.
"You can," he said and lowered his mouth to hers.
His warmth flowed into her, melting away her resistance. Dear God, how she had missed this—craved his kiss since the moment the last one had ended. He drew her in with his taste, the sustenance of his strength. His wiry length crushed her against the wall, and nothing had ever felt more right. Sighing, she pulled at his cravat, the buttons of his waistcoat. She needed to be closer, needed his heat to banish the chill of the past and to fuel the fire of the moment.
Wordlessly, he stepped back and stripped off his waistcoat. Yanked the shirt over his head. The smooth, sleek muscles of his shoulders gleamed like polished bronze in the candlelight. She touched his chest, delighting in the contrasting textures of coarse hair and hard sinew. His heart beat strong and steadfast beneath her palm. Her gaze dipped to the ridges of his abdomen, following the tantalizing line of hair to where it disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. At the sight of the straining bulge beneath, syrupy warmth flooded her sex.
"Your turn." Though his voice was stern, faint lines fanned from his eyes. "Face the wall, Marianne, and let me undress you."
His command sent a delicious ripple through her blood. She'd never been one to follow orders and yet ... after an instant's hesitation, she obeyed. She could allow herself the luxury of this one small surrender. She turned her head, her cheek brushing against the silk-covered wall. Each breath pushed her breasts outward, skimming her stiff nipples against the hard surface. She stood there, aroused, in an agony of anticipation.
The hot mouth upon her nape made her start. A moan flew from her lips as he licked and sucked the sensitive patch of skin, gnawing gently on the delicate tendon of her shoulder. Her eyes closed as his fingers worked nimbly along her spine, undoing her. Layer after layer whispered to the floor. She shivered, clad in only her stockings and garters.
"Beautiful selkie, will you let me pleasure you?" he murmured.
"Yes," she sighed. "Just hurry."
His husky laugh rasped over her senses. "There's no need to rush. We have all night." His hands closed over hers and brought them over her head; he placed her palms against the wall. "Keep your hands there, sweeting."
In this position, her nerves seemed stretched to a new sensitivity. Sensation amplified: the air wafted in a sensual caress against her back, the wallpaper scraping gently against her taut nipples. A feeling of freedom washed over her. Strangely, she felt more powerful than she ever had. There was nothing to keep her here. No bonds, no threats, nothing to stop her from removing her hands and ending the interlude. Yet she was making the choice to yield to this man—to take what she herself wanted.
He kissed her shoulder blades one by one, his hands finding her breasts. He played with the buds, pinching and rolling them until she arched back agai
nst him, gasping his name.
"Enough with games. Kent, I need you now—"
"Keep your hands on the wall," he reminded her.
She pouted when his hands left her aching bosoms. But her pique dissolved into molten arousal when he wedged his thigh between her legs, widening her stance. A wicked beat took hold of her pulse, echoed by the insistent throb of her flesh as she rode the masculine ridge. She rubbed herself against him, a sinuous friction that only fed her fires. She needed more pressure, an angle that she couldn't quite get to on her own.
"Want more?" His gravelly voice scraped against her ear. His hands held her hips, supporting her as she wriggled against his leg in helpless pleasure. "Tell me, Marianne. I'll give you whatever you need."
"Touch me," she breathed.
He removed his leg, leaving her bereft. Then his lips touched the top of her spine, following the curve with tender persistence. Her lungs strained as he lowered to his knees behind her, his thumbs caressing the sensitive inside of her thighs, spreading her further. When he nipped her on the buttock, her breath stopped altogether.
"You're pretty here. White and tender as a cake."
He soothed the bite with kisses that turned her knees to water. Then his mouth was everywhere, tasting, sucking, driving her wild. Shamelessly, she thrust her bottom out, giving him access to anything he wanted. He licked her, plumbing her intimate folds, making her fingers curl against the wall. Then his tongue dragged upward, sliding along her crease to circle a place too wicked to name. The sizzling flicks around that sensitive rim startled a moan from her throat.
"Too much?" he said hoarsely.
"I can't take anymore," she gasped. "Please, enough playing. Just … do it."
He was behind her immediately, his cloth-covered manhood a burning weight against the base of her spine. His hot words poured into her ear. "I will. But you'll have to ask for what you want. Tell me your desires, love, and I'll give them to you."
"Your cock. I want your cock inside me," she sighed.
She heard the faint rustle of material and then he was there, his blunt head nudging her swollen lips. "You're so wet for me," he murmured, rubbing against her in exquisite torment. "You make me hard, Marianne—make me want to bury myself in your lovely pussy. Where are the letters?"
Bliss spun her senses. "In the drawer … by my bed."
"Wait here. Don't move."
Anticipation jangled her nerves as she stood there, shivering and exposed. Empty and aching, living for the instant when he would return to her. Her breath puffed against the wall as her imagination soared with each sound. The drawer opening and closing. Heavy footsteps. The soft crinkling as he sheathed his cock ...
Her eyes shut in ecstasy as he penetrated her. His pace was maddeningly slow. He made her feel every unyielding inch—his thick girth stretching her, filling her, making her crave more and more of him. At this angle, it seemed his manhood had no end, nudging ever closer to her deepest secrets. He kept his rhythm steady, giving her cadence after cadence of pleasure … but he did not allow her crescendo to build to that critical peak. Moisture gathered on her brow as she strained against him, silently asking for more.
"Aye, love, I'll give you what you want. But you have to trust me," he muttered at her ear.
"I do. I do," she whispered, her palms slick against silk. "God, just make me come."
In the next instant, he left her. Before she could protest, he spun her to face him, lifted her against the wall. He brought her down hard onto his shaft, and she moaned at the devastating impact. She clutched his flexing shoulders as he took all her weight, her shoulders rising and falling against the wall with his steady thrusts. Her control began to unravel as the whirling tension built, gathering in the wanton peak that throbbed for his touch.
"Give me everything. Don't hold back any longer." His eyes burned into her, his guttural command and fierce rhythm brooking no refusal. "Trust me."
Her scalp rocked against the wall as the maelstrom raged higher. As the need for relief grew and grew until there was no holding back. No resisting his intent eyes, his plunging cock, the way he kept her teetering on the precipice of release. So close.
"Kent, please." The plea scraped from her throat.
"Everything, Marianne," he said, and she knew what he wanted even as his hips twisted, making her groan. "Let go. Let me help you."
"I … I … oh God." The words broke from her as he searched out her pearl. He plucked and stroked in concert with his pistoning shaft, giving her everything she wanted. Everything she needed. A man I can trust. The last of her defenses gave way.
"My daughter. I want my Rosie back," she sobbed.
The next instant, the storm shattered within her. She flew apart, rent asunder by pleasure, by relief too potent to bear. Kent pounded into her a final time, his muscles bunching, his guttural shout filling her with euphoria. With a sigh, she let herself float gently away on the tide, warm and safe in her lover's arms.
TWENTY-FOUR
Ambrose cradled his lover close in the bed, stroking her hair as she slept. Her breathing had the deep, even quality of a babe's. His arms tightened protectively around her, his chest aching with the knowledge that the woman dozing in his arms had suffered entirely too much.
Marianne has a daughter.
She'd guarded her secret well. From this, he surmised that her little girl had not been the product of her union with the much older Lord Draven. Had Marianne had an extramarital affair? The knot in Ambrose's chest tightened as he recalled her anguished words.
I want my Rosie back.
What kind of blackguard would be so cruel as to separate mother and daughter?
Long silken locks slid against his arm, and Marianne's thick lashes fluttered as she came awake. Her gaze wandered about the room, the drowsy quality fleeing when it encountered him. Her lips parted; roses bloomed in her cheeks.
"How are you feeling?" he said tenderly.
He knew the moment everything returned to her. Her body tensed against his, panic darkening her eyes. She struggled to get up, to flee; he kept her in place by rolling atop her, taking care to leverage his weight on his arms.
"Don't go," he said quietly. "Not yet. Talk to me, sweetheart."
"I've already said too much." Her voice was thick, her breathing quick and fitful as she shoved at his shoulders. "Let me go."
"Not until you tell me about your daughter."
Her tresses spilled across the pillow as she shook her head vehemently. "You don't know what you're asking. Please, just get off of me …"
"You've been carrying this on your own for too long. You need to share your secrets with me." He saw his words hit their mark. She bit down on her trembling lower lip, her chin wobbling. "You know I'll help you, Marianne. Once you tell me everything."
Her chest rose and fell in labored surges. Her eyes slid away. "Let me up first," she said in a small voice. He did, and she sat up, her arms circling her raised knees. With her hair tumbling down her back, she looked young, so very vulnerable. "I—I don't know how to begin."
"Start from the beginning. Who is Rosie's father?" he said gently.
She kept her gaze focused on the coverlet. "A young lad I fancied myself in love with. I'd known him for years, and the summer I turned seventeen, we … acted on our feelings. He and I had planned to marry. But he died." She sighed. "In a carriage accident. Leaving me heartbroken and in an unfortunate condition."
Ambrose's heart squeezed for the girl's pain. Yet he knew the woman well enough to keep any pity from his voice. "Did you have anyone to turn to?" he asked.
"There was no one. Mama died shortly after I was born, and Papa …" She laughed, a scornful sound. "The squire had more interest in cards and horses than his daughter. Out of desperation, I told him about my pregnancy, and he threatened to disown me. To throw me out of the house unless …"
Ambrose took one of her hands, linking her elegant fingers with his own callused digits. He willed her the strength to c
ontinue on.
"Papa had a friend. A rich and powerful man," she said.
"Baron Draven."
"Yes," she said hollowly. "He'd offered for me, you see. He'd been willing to overlook my lack of dowry and had promised to pay off Papa's debts in return for my hand. Papa told me to keep my mouth shut, to marry Draven by special license and present an heir eight months hence. Papa said Draven would never know—babes were born prematurely all the time. But I couldn't … I couldn't marry any man under false pretenses."
"Of course you couldn't," Ambrose said, wondering what the hell kind of father would suggest such a deception. "You're a principled little thing."
"You think I'm principled?" Her eyes searched his.
"Not in a conventional sense. I won't deny that you're clever and capable of trickery when the occasion merits. But you have your own ethics, including a sense of honor and fierce loyalty to those you care about," he said firmly. "I cannot see you deceiving a man about a matter as vital as his offspring."
"Thank you." He was surprised to see the soft sheen in her eyes. "That is the nicest compliment I've ever received."
"Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "What happened with Draven?"
The softness in her eyes disappeared. "He listened to my story. At the end, he told me nothing had changed for him. He meant to have me one way or another. He vowed to look after my child as his own; if that child turned out to be a male, Draven said he'd name him his heir. I was stunned, too relieved and grateful to even question his promises.
"We married by special license, and Draven took me to his estate in Yorkshire. Seven months later, I gave birth to a girl. I named her Primrose. She took after me, you see." With a sad smile, Marianne fingered a strand of her blond hair. "For that first year, Rosie was my world. Motherhood brought me joy, a sense of purpose that I had never known before. I would wake excited to see Rosie's sweet face and go to bed dreaming of the adventures we would have together the next day. And then …" Her voice faltered.
"What happened?" Ambrose said softly.
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 17
