by Elisa Braden
Her breath hitched on a moan. Her head fell back against his chest. “Bastian.”
He circled and stroked. Over and over. “Do you know what I should like to do to ye right this moment, Gus?”
She shook her head, pressing her hips and breast forward into his hands.
“I should like to take you. Hands and knees. Hard and rough and deep. But I don’t, ye see? Because I love you. I bloody love you. Your pleasure means more to me. Your heart means more to me. Your life means more to me than mine.”
Whatever part of her heart she’d thought to reserve was lost. Claimed fully. It did not matter if loving him meant bearing up under gale and flood. It didn’t matter if it consumed her. Because loving him was inevitable. Inexorable. Fire and tide. Time and rain. It was a force of its own.
She reached up behind her to stroke his jaw. “Do you know what I should like you to do to me, Bastian?”
His teeth gently stroked her shoulder as his hands pressed and circled. Pressed and circled.
“I should like you to … oh, God.” She writhed against him as pulsating waves washed in circles out from her breasts to her core like rippling rings on water. “Take me. Hands and knees. Hard and deep. Because I love you, my rough man. I love you. And having you inside me, bringing you pleasure, is the only thing that satiates my hunger.”
His hands pressed harder between her wet folds, sliding his fingers alongside the nexus of all those rippling rings of beauty. He pinched her firm, red nipple between his fingers, squeezing until the sensations were like lightning—nearly too much. She arched and cried out for him, the tension in her belly coiling tighter, undulating in perfect time.
Her eyes met his in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen. Against her back, his staff swelled thick and impossibly long. “Be certain, Gus,” he said, his rumble a rasp. “I’ll not hurt ye. Ever. But I need ye very badly.”
One day, she would explain how much she loved his roughness, how it excited and thrilled and aroused her like nothing else. For now, she could do little more than moan and pant, “I am certain. Now, Bastian. Now.”
He went to his knees. Kissed the small of her back like a supplicant at an altar. Stroked her buttocks then banded her waist and drew her down. She went forward onto her hands of her own accord, needing him to hurry.
Feeling his knuckles brush against her womanly core, she jerked then groaned as he slid his longest finger inside. Stroking. Pleasuring. She watched him in the mirror. His eyes were upon her. Riveted and blazing.
He released his fall. Withdrew his finger. Slid it inside his mouth.
Dear heaven, she was going to … right then. Before he even…
“Not yet,” he growled, frowning. He came over her. The blunt, hot tip of him parted her folds. Slid slowly inside. She clawed the carpet beneath her as he stretched her sheath impossibly wide.
It had been like this the first time, only more painful. Now, there was little pain, just a great deal of pressure. He was already deep, yet going deeper.
His hips thrust sharply as his hand braced beside hers, forging inches deeper. His mouth dropped to her nape. His teeth scraped and pleasured. He filled her until she was certain there could not be any more. But there was.
More. And more.
“Take me, Gus. Ah, God. All of me.”
She was willing, but in this position, he felt even bigger than before.
He grasped her thighs and pulled them wider. It helped, but just then he thrust deeper. She grunted at the force of it. The dual sensations of pressure and pleasure. They melded and became one. At last, she felt the root of him, the burning at her opening making her quiver. Her arms trembled as she fought to remain still and let him take her.
Her sheath squeezed him tight, pulsing around his root.
“Do ye feel me, love?”
“Yes. You are … so much.”
“But you’ve taken me, deep and true.” His chest heaved against her back, the linen of his shirt soft against her skin, his muscles hard. Unyielding. “Now, I shall take you.”
She felt him slide out by inches. Return with a hard forge. Again. Again. Soon, his withdrawals were longer, his thrusts harder. She wanted to watch him in the mirror, but everything was their joining. Everything. She could not think, only feel.
His length. His heat. His staff battering inside her, stoking a deeper fire than she’d thought possible. Dragging against hidden nerves. Pleasuring her in a way she’d never contemplated. He touched her only at her waist and neck and sheath. Not her breasts. Not the place he’d stroked earlier.
Everything was their joining.
She did not know if she could reach her peak this way. The pressure was hard and growing harder with every hammering thrust.
“Look at us,” he growled. “Look.”
She did. And her body was seized by lightning. It came so suddenly, she screamed through gritted teeth. Her back arched. She flexed around him hard enough that the friction of their joining burned. He kept thrusting. She seized again, sobbing his name. Clawing the hand on the carpet beside hers.
The pleasure was too much. He was too much. She turned her head and opened her mouth against the muscles of his arm, tasting salt and Bastian. She seized again, the ripples jagged now as his rhythm quickened. Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.
She was pleading, pleading, pleading.
He thrust deep. She seized again, squeezing him hard. Then she felt it, the warmth of his release inside her. Heard his shouts, hoarse and rumbling. Heard her name echoing. Augusta. Augusta. Love you. Love you.
As the shivering pulses of her ecstasy slowed and eased, she kissed his arm. Laced her fingers atop his. Met his beautiful onyx eyes in the mirror. “And I love you,” she whispered. “More than I ever imagined possible.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“One is wise to assume all one’s choices are of importance to the outcome, whether they appear directed by some external force or not. As I explained to my former lady’s maid only yesterday, one cannot blame one’s misfortune on the weather when one is caught ‘keeping warm’ with the coachman and a flask of gin.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter filled with accumulated wisdom.
Many things in Phoebe’s life had happened by chance. Her mother’s death. Her father’s. Augusta being born eight years before her. Meeting Glassington at house party where only local gentry were expected.
Today, she could list one more: the arrival of a note delivered by Mr. Duff at the very moment she was passing through the entrance hall on a mission to speak to Cook about adding more ginger to the ginger biscuits. It was an odd coincidence. One might say prophetic, given its occurrence the day after she’d nearly lost Augusta.
The note was addressed to Reaver, not her, but she happened to be near the door, so she answered the knock. And she happened to get on quite well with Mr. Duff, so he was pleased to allow her to pass the note along. And she happened to see what looked like Glassington’s name through the outside of the folded paper.
So she opened it.
And her throat began to ache.
And she recalled everything Augusta had sacrificed for her sake.
And she thought how selfish she had been, despairing that she must marry Glassington.
Augusta would not hesitate to do what was necessary. She would make a plan and charge forward. Now, Phoebe intended to do the same.
First, she arranged to have the carriage brought around. Then, she packed a valise, tucking the coins Augusta had given her inside. She penned a note to her beloved sister and bundled it together with the note addressed to Sebastian. And she left the house.
On the journey to Reaver’s club, she reviewed the note in her mind.
Remembered Augusta being carried out of that hideous house in Cheapside, stunned and wheezing.
Remembered Augusta being struck by Georgiana’s blows as she covered Phoebe like a warrior’s shield.
; Remembered Augusta forbidding Phoebe to help with the laundry because Phoebe must have “a lady’s hands” if she wished to be a lady.
Then, she steeled her spine, layered stone around her bleeding heart, and did what must be done.
*~*~*
It was nearing Christmas, so Reaver’s was a bloody madhouse. Every man was in his cups. Every man wished to celebrate the sacred occasion with wild wagers and wilder revelry. Adam had been running the entire day.
Which explained why he did not read the note until half-past-four. Satisfaction surged through him as he realized the implications. Only a matter of time now. Soon, Phoebe would be his.
Unless.
He went cold, reading the words. Knowing Drayton would have notified not just Adam but Reaver, too.
Phoebe would be his unless Reaver was more persuaded by his devotion to Augusta than his loyalty to a friend—even a best friend. A partner.
There could be little doubt Adam required insurance. Tucking the note inside his coat pocket, he charged from his office to Reaver’s.
“Frelling,” he said crisply. “I need a set of markers.”
Frelling frowned and rose from his desk, leading the way into Reaver’s office. “Which file are you seeking?”
“Glassington.”
Frelling adjusted his spectacles and browsed the drawers behind Reaver’s desk. He held up a finger as he pulled open a drawer. “Ah, yes. Here.” He withdrew the file. And found it empty. “I—I don’t know where … Mr. Reaver must have …”
Adam was no longer listening. He was stalking out of Reaver’s office, headed for Reaver’s house. Along the way, he encountered Duff, who mentioned seeing Miss Widmore earlier in the day—twice. Once at Mr. Reaver’s house and once there, at the club.
“She asked about hirin’ a post-chaise.” Duff shook his head and frowned. “Odd thing, that. Reaver’s coach is a far sight better than a post-chaise.”
Adam listened, all the while growing colder and more furious. He mounted his horse and galloped for Reaver’s house as though hell itself were at his heels.
He arrived with a scattering of snow on his coat and a feeling of dread in his gut. Reaver’s new butler, Teedle, waved him inside. “I’m afraid Mr. Kilbrenner is not at home, Mr. Shaw.”
“Of course he is. You may fetch him or I will.”
Teedle sputtered a protest.
Adam drew close to the white-haired servant. “Now, my good man. I haven’t time for games.”
“He—he is indisposed. With Mrs. Kilbrenner.”
“Ah. Why didn’t you say so?” Adam brushed past the butler and headed upstairs, ignoring the man’s indignant blustering.
Adam knocked on Reaver’s bedchamber door. Loudly.
A deep, bellowing reply came immediately. “Bloody, bleeding hell! The house had best be on fire, Teedle!”
A feminine laugh was followed by a bit of conversation.
“Reaver!” Adam shouted. “Pull your arse out of bed, man. I must speak with you.”
When the door was yanked open a minute later, Adam frowned. “By God, you are a monster. Where is your shirt?” He glanced past Reaver’s naked shoulder to the woman cinching a dressing gown over a garment that more properly belonged on a man. “Ah, that explains it.”
Reaver’s black scowl deepened as he gave Adam a hard shove. “Keep your eyes off her, Shaw.”
Adam winced and rubbed his own shoulder. “Bloody hell, man. Calm yourself. You know where my affections lie. On that subject, what have you done with Glassington’s markers?”
“Nothing. They’re at the club.”
“No,” he snapped. “They are gone. And so is Phoebe.”
Augusta ducked beneath her husband’s braced arm to stand beside him. “What is this about Phoebe?”
Reaver grunted. Adam translated the sound to mean he’d rather not involve Augusta in whatever mess Adam was bringing to his doorstep. But Adam did not have time for Reaver’s protective instincts. He needed to find Phoebe and stop her before she did something idiotic. Like marry Glassington.
“Phoebe has fled north in a post-chaise,” Adam said flatly. “Likely with Glassington’s markers, and likely with the intention of forcing his hand.”
Augusta blinked several times in rapid succession. “Beg your pardon?”
Teedle, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward. “Madam, your sister did leave a note for you. I was waiting to deliver it until … well, until …” He cleared his throat.
Adam waved impatiently. “Yes, yes. Until they emerged to retrieve something vital, like food or air. Fetch the note, Teedle. Do it now.”
Frowning, Augusta reprimanded, “Mr. Shaw, really. I am not certain what is causing this sense of urgency, but—”
“Your sister is gone.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it is my business to know.”
“I don’t see why.”
Reaver hugged Augusta’s waist with one hand. “He cares for her, Gus.”
She looked up at him, her frown deepening. “Well, they are friends, I suppose. Mr. Shaw was kind to her—”
“I love her. And she loves me.”
Gray eyes widened upon him. Her mouth tightened into a flat line.
Teedle arrived, bearing two notes on a silver tray. Good God, the man was painfully formal.
Augusta plucked up the note from Phoebe, while Reaver unfolded the one addressed to him. Together, they read the missives, Reaver squinting and holding the paper at arm’s length while Augusta paled and covered her mouth with her fingers.
Reaver was the first to speak. “Glassington has taken Miss Elder and bolted for Scotland. He intends to marry her as soon as they arrive. Evidently, my visit to her father proved effective, after all, as Mr. Elder raised objections to the match. That left Glassington no choice but elopement.”
Augusta looked again at her husband. “She has gone after them, Bastian. She is alone. Headed north. And she has the markers.”
“I must go,” Adam said, turning away.
“Mr. Shaw.”
He turned to face her.
“She is with child.”
“I know.”
Augusta blinked. Her mouth opened and closed. “If she marries you rather than Lord Glassington, everyone else will know, too. You understand that, yes?”
“I am not daft, Mrs. Kilbrenner. Glassington and I are hardly twins.”
Her slender jaw flickered. “Do you not think my sister deserves an easier life than the one you can offer?”
“Perhaps she does. But she also deserves a man who will fight for her, not one who discards her like a bit of rubbish and has to be blackmailed into marriage. She deserves to be loved. Nobody could possibly love her more than I do.”
Nibbling her lip, Augusta glanced up at Reaver. “Did you know?”
He sighed. “Aye. Shaw told me yesterday.”
She narrowed her eyes upon Adam. “What is your plan?”
“To find her. Persuade her marrying Glassington is madness.”
“It is not madness. It is sensible. He is the father of her babe. She will be a countess. The babe will be the child of an earl, perhaps even an earl himself, one day.”
Adam’s voice went quiet. “And he cares so little for her that even your attempts at blackmail have driven him not to marry Phoebe but to elope with another woman.”
She glared up at Reaver. “Do you intend to remain silent as a great block of stone?”
“What do you wish to hear?”
“Your opinion on the matter.”
“I think Phoebe should decide for herself.”
“That is dreadfully unhelpful.”
Reaver shrugged. “You asked.”
“Well, I think we should go along.”
“We?”
“You and I. If Mr. Shaw intends to intervene, then I want to be there. For Phoebe.”
Rubbing his brow, Reaver gritted, “By God, you are a nuisance, woman.”
&
nbsp; “Yes, yes. Now, the likeliest route is the Great North—”
“—Road. Aye. Shaw, meet us downstairs in twenty minutes. Ask Teedle to prepare the coach.”
The door slammed in Adam’s face, though he could still hear arguing behind it. The arguing stopped abruptly.
Adam straightened his coat and started for the stairs. The entrance hall seemed a fine place to wait, after all.
*~*~*
By the time they reached Smithfield and headed north, the snow had begun to fall in earnest. Fat flakes swirled and floated in the lantern light while, beyond the coach window, all else was dark.
Augusta sighed and laid her cheek against Sebastian’s arm, holding his hand tighter. She eyed Adam Shaw and wondered if he was the reason for the despair she’d sensed from Phoebe over the past weeks. The man was undeniably handsome. Refined features. Lean and well proportioned. He had a crisp quality about him, energy that was focused. Controlled.
She preferred her own rough man, of course, but she could understand Phoebe’s attraction. Earlier, when Augusta had demanded that Bastian tell her more about Mr. Shaw, his answers had unsettled her.
“He is a fine man, Gus. He will care for Phoebe with all his might and considerable fortune, of that you may be certain. But if you think to thwart him, know this. A man does not rise as far as he has without having a bit of ruthlessness in him. Shaw had further to climb than most. So he has more of it than most.”
“You are saying I should not stand in his way, that I should simply allow this to happen.”
Bastian had sighed. “I am saying, should you decide to stand in his way, you must be prepared for defeat.”
She had not liked his answer, but she’d understood. Shaw might wear the mask of a majordomo, elegant and dignified, but he was a powerful man in his own right. As a full partner in Reaver’s, he was as wealthy as Sebastian. He could care for Phoebe and her child. Protect them from the worst trials—poverty, danger, hunger.
But some difficulties remained inevitable. Marriage between them would invite the meanest sort of societal scorn. Such attitudes were, in Augusta’s opinion, idiotic—her father and uncle were proof that one would be well advised to assess others based on individual character rather than arbitrary factors such as title, origin, or name. Nevertheless, she expected Phoebe would be judged poorly for marrying an Indian man. When she birthed her first child, she would be further seen as a fallen woman. The child would find little acceptance in polite society. And her other children with Mr. Shaw would likely struggle to find their place.
