by Cheryl Bolen
She wished to climb slowly, to maintain a fragile hold on her dignity, but she found herself unable to rule her actions, actions that had become subservient to her passion. She clutched his arm and fairly stampeded up the seemingly never ending stairway. Her very breasts felt heavy, swelled; between her legs, she was hot and wet. Her breathing grew heavy and labored.
They finally reached the second floor and sped past Rebecca's room, then Maggie's, then at last came to Edward's door. As impatient as she, his hand trembled as he twisted the knob and entered the chamber. Once they were within the room, he firmly closed the door and bolted it, then turned to her, his eyes like those of a man drugged by opium as he hungrily drew her into his arms.
Every part of her body awakened to his sensual onslaught as her body bowed into his and his hands glided possessively over her. Everywhere his hand touched ignited flames of molten desire, and when his hand cupped the mound at the base of her torso she fleetingly thought she would surely go mad if she couldn't feel him buried deep within her.
She yanked his shirt from his breeches and ran her hands beneath it and along his rock-hard abdomen. Then she allowed her hands to move further down until her fingers coiled around his swollen shaft.
With a groan, he removed her hand and began to rip at the buttons of her dress. She helped him lift it off, then remove her shift, and she watched hungrily as his shaky hands fumbled to unlace her stays. When her breasts sprang free, he sucked in a deep breath. "Oh, God, Maggie," he groaned as he swept her into his arms and carried her to the huge bed.
He stood there beside the bed and looked down at her naked body with hungry eyes. She gazed at him, at his rumpled shirt, still wet from her tears, half tucked into his tight-fitting breeches, and her heartbeat accelerated when her gaze dropped to the huge bulge between his legs.
He quickly freed himself of his clothing, and she gloried in his sheer maleness as the rugged length of his body stretched out beside her before he hauled her into his arms. Her hands possessively stroked his muscled back, her knee slid languidly up and down his granite thigh as they began to pulse into one another. She delighted in the feel of his engorged shaft jutting into the nest of hair between her legs.
"I'm going to brand you as mine," he growled into her ear. "By God, I'll never let you get away." His long elegant fingers, like a lightning rod giving off torrents of power it absorbed, began to stroke the slippery warmth where her thighs widened. She bucked beneath him, surging and retreating and so utterly ready for all he had to give.
Satisfied that she was ready for him, he eased her onto her back then settled himself over her. Even before he entered her, she began to shudder and had no command over the sounds that came from her mouth.
She was glad it was still daylight, glad that she could watch this man she had come to love so thoroughly as he eased himself into her, rivulets of sweat pouring from his brow as he drove into her. As she watched him, a subtle fusing occurred. She was no longer detached, no longer a person separate from him. His cries were her cries; his pleasure, her pleasure. They called out each other's names as he pounded into her. They shuddered together as wave after wave of numbing pleasure slammed into them.
He finally collapsed back onto the bed, drenched and breathing as if he had just run uphill. Her cheek slumped to the indentation of his chest where the dark hair bunched in the center, where his heartbeat roared in her ear. Waves of their shared pleasure still lapped at her as she closed an arm around him.
"Forgive me for putting the cart before the horse," he said, panting. "You will marry me. I'll not let you deny me, Maggie mine."
"I won't deny you anything. In fact," she said, pressing her lips to his, "I'd follow you to the ends of the earth no matter what person's name you were stealing."
A possessive hand cupped her breast. "If you're to be my wife," he said in a ragged voice, "I owe you an explanation about the Warwick business."
"You don't have to tell me anything, my love. My faith in you is boundless and blind."
He chuckled. "Nevertheless, I shall tell you." He dropped a kiss onto the crown of her head. "I shall first have to explain about the previous Lord Warwick. His father and grandfather had pledged their lives in service to the king. Clandestine service. The third earl, my predecessor, dedicated his life to King George. While everyone thought Lord Warwick was hiding himself at Hogarth Castle, he actually paraded about the continent performing services for the king--always under assumed identities. He was likely the most successful agent ever to infiltrate the French. Unfortunately, they eventually found him out."
"They killed him?"
Edward's thumb feathered over a taut nipple. "No. He outsmarted them. He told them that if he met an untimely death, information he had obtained about French double agents would be turned over to Napoleon. It was a bluff, but because these men weren't without guilt, they fell for it."
She propped herself on one elbow and gave him a quizzing look. "I don't see how you enter the picture."
"When Lord Warwick died of natural causes at the age of sixty, Lord Carrington--who had been apprised of the old earl's activities--urged that I take on the role of Warwick's heir. It was his opinion the French would believe that my uncle might have entrusted me with the information about the double agents, information the French would be desperate to get their hands on."
"That sounds like an extremely dangerous ruse."
"I knew the dangers when I accepted, but I also knew I might be able to entrap double agents. It seemed worth the risk. Like the real Lord Warwick, I was unmarried and would not therefore jeopardize a family."
A chill spiked along her spine. "It seems to me the odious Lord Carrington painted a target upon your chest."
He chuckled. "In a way, I suppose he did." Then she suddenly remembered that Lord Carrington's account vastly differed from Edward's. "But Lord Carrington told me before the trip north that he'd just learned of your duplicity. He cast suspicions on your character."
Edward chuckled as his hand splayed over her bare hip. "So he was trying to prejudice you against me even then? It's a rugged cross I must bear--being in love with the most sought- after woman in London."
Could Lord Warwick really have fancied himself in love with her before they went to Yorkshire? "What about the Warwick ruse? Have any French spies approached you?"
"It's the damnedest thing. I've not been approached in these nineteen months since I took on the false identity."
"You think they realized the former Lord Warwick was bluffing?" Her hand softy stroked his mat of chest hair.
"I don't know what to think."
"Perhaps the French double agent planted a servant in your house, a servant who's been conducting a search all these months, trying to find the information. Have you any French men in your employ?"
"No."
She settled her head into the heart of his chest and brushed her lips into the dark hair there. "Are your servants retainers of the old Lord Warwick?"
"No. He never stayed at Warwick House and was rarely at Hogarth Castle. His only old retainers are still at Hogarth."
"So all your servants here have been hired since you "ascended"?"
"All of them," he said, his mouth a grim line.
"Oh, my darling, it's all too complicated. Can you not just revert to being Mr. Stanfield? Mr. Stanfield who does not have a target painted on his chest."
He rolled to his side, drawing her with him. Her hand came up to stroke his jaw. "Under the circumstances, I should infinitely prefer being Mrs. Stanfield," she murmured.
This was the Maggie he had fallen in love with. She didn't give a tuppence about wealth or title. She loved him, Edward Stanfield. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun had just set, blanketing his chamber with velvety darkness.
He regretted all the tortured weeks that had led up to this moment, resented anything that had kept Maggie from his arms. But he knew those weeks had only fed the bud of affection established that day in Greenwich, sto
king their love by allowing them to get to know one another on a level separate from the physical. Their blossoming love now stood on a foundation as firm as bedrock.
Her sweet rose scent evoked memories of a cozy bedchamber at the Spotted Hound and Hare, memories of the most exquisite lovemaking a man could ever know. He had not thought he would ever again experience anything so sublime, yet he found it again this afternoon, and it was even more exquisite this time because of the knowledge she returned his love.
"I would like to be plain Mr. Stanfield, to take my precious wife and flee from danger, to protect you and love you till the end of our days."
"We could go to America," she said hopefully.
He drew her into his arms. "Would that we could, my love, but we'll never be free until we find the villain who threatens our happiness." His lips covered hers softly, thoroughly, as hers parted beneath his. He felt himself growing hard again as he began to trace a path of kisses to the softness beneath her chin, down the smooth curve of her neck, along the swell of her breasts. He weighed a breast in his cupped hand, then drew the nubbed nipple into his mouth as she began to moan and arch against him.
Beneath his touch her body became a fine instrument and he a virtuoso whose deft hands could make it sing.
Once again he mounted her. This time he entered her in one swift, sure move. And once again she took him to a place no woman had taken him before, a place of fractured light and swirling moisture and intoxicating pleasure.
Long afterward as she lay in his arms she whispered, "You'll never know how much I wanted to accept your offer that day in Greenwich."
He smoothed away the damp hair from her beloved brow. "Then why did you refuse? I thought you hated me."
"I thought you loved Fiona--that to you I was nothing more than a compliant body."
"You're so very much more than that. Even before that day," he said with a bitter laugh, "you had succeeded in purging Fiona from my mind. I was obsessed by you, my maddening wench."
"You truly didn't love her then?"
"After I met you I began to wonder if what I had once felt for her had ever been love."
"But . . . I'll vow there was something between you and her. Once. I believe she loved you very much."
"I'm sorry for any hurt I may have caused her." He drew in his breath. "Especially when I told her it was you I loved."
"So that's why she released you?"
He nodded, tugging her against his chest.
Her hand traced sultry circles on his back. "I vow I'll make up for all the anxiety I've caused you."
"You already have," he murmured.
A knock sounded at his chamber door.
"What is it?" he growled, not moving.
"Mr. Hollingsworth is calling on the countess, and I can't find her," Wiggins said.
"She's out!" Edward snapped. "And she won't be back for dinner."
"Very well, my lord."
"And Wiggins?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"I'm not here, either."
Chapter 30
The pounding on Edward's bedchamber door awakened her the following morning.
"What is it?" Edward barked, planting his elbow into the mattress and raising up to cast his glance at the locked door. There was just enough light in the room for her to see the dark line of stubble on his jaw. Her gaze flitted to his bare chest that funneled to a trim waist, dipping to the thick black hair surrounding that most special part of him. She was almost overcome with the intensity of her love for him, the thrill of her possession.
"Miss Sarah is frantic with worry, your lordship," Wiggins said. "Lady Warwick did not return last night."
Edward threw Maggie an amused glance and shrugged. "I've ruined you," he whispered playfully.
"I'd advise you not to tell him I've been beneath you all night," she whispered, her hand moving to stroke the rugged plane of his cheek, her eyes dancing.
"Then you don't want it known you've been here?"
"Of course I want it known! I'd shout it from the Tower of London."
He smiled and drew her close. "Tell Miss Sarah not to be alarmed," Edward shouted to the unseen butler. "Lady Warwick has been sealing the marriage agreement with her future husband."
"Very good, my lord."
"And Wiggins?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"That future husband happens to be your employer."
"Very good, my lord."
Giggling, Maggie collapsed into Edward's arms. His powerful hands glided over her smooth, bare flesh, lighting little fires anew wherever he touched. They had lain with one another for twelve straight hours. There was no part of her body he had not reverently touched, had not pressed his lips to. Consumed only by their blazing need for each other, they had forgone dinner and feasted instead upon each other's bodies.
He drew her close and murmured in her ear. "You'll never be rid of me, Maggie mine, not until I'm in a narrow cell six feet below the earth."
She tucked her face into his chest, her hand sliding down the length of his taut stomach muscles, then lower to close her fingers along the velvety length of his lush shaft. Something he just said sparked a long ago memory, a memory buried so deep she had forgotten it. Narrow cell. Coffin. Why was the term so significant? Sudden realization spiked through her and she bolted up.
"Edward! I've remembered it!"
"Remembered what?" he groaned.
"The Scoundrel's clue!"
Edward jerked to a sitting position. "Good lord, Maggie, what is it?"
Her hand flattened against her temple. "How could I have not remembered!"
Facing her, he clasped hands to both her shoulders. "Remembered what, love?"
"The poem!"
"What poem?"
"The one The Scoundrel made me memorize."
"Good lord! When was this?"
"When we first married. He begged that I memorize a silly stanza--not that it was silly, really. Actually, it was quite morbid. But being a new bride, I was eager to please my husband."
The solemn look on Edward's face caught at her heart. Of course he wouldn't want to be reminded that she had once belonged to another man. "Do you remember it still?" he asked.
She nodded. "I have an excellent memory."
"I want you to go to my desk and write it down."
Her nudity did not cause her a moment's embarrassment. She strode to his French desk, sat down, picked up the quill, and began to write.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering hill,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
In the long-forgotten kirkyard at Rufton Mill.
His hand cupping her shoulder, Edward watched as she wrote. "It's oddly familiar," he said. "I can't believe Henshaw composed it. It's too good."
"That's what I thought," she said with a laugh. "It's always seemed vaguely familiar to me too, but for the life of me I can't remember why, can't grasp the significance." She caught his hand and looked up at him, adoration firing her eyes. "Do you suppose it's some kind of code?"
"Since Henshaw was a cryptographer, it's quite likely," Edward said, pulling his wrinkled breeches from the floor and stepping into them. Then he returned to the desk and snatched the poem.
After withdrawing from the chair, Maggie went about dressing in her crumpled gown while Edward sank into the chair and took up the plume. She came to stand over him as he replaced the initial letter in every word that started with a consonant. Then he would replace the replacement consonants. Shade became made, blade, paid, braid, prayed, weighed, played, laid and slayed. Then he underlined blade, which she realized was a noun. Of course, he would be looking for a thing rather than an action. Before long, he had filled three pages with columns of the replacement words and was so intent on what he was doing he did not seem to realize she was even there.
"I would help you if I had any notion of how to proceed," she said, setting her hands to his shoulder
s.
He gazed up at her. "Oblige me by writing to Hollingsworth."
Why did he want her to write to Randolph Hollingsworth? Then apprehension dawned on her. "You wish me to inform him that I cannot accept his offer?"
"I do."
"Shall I tell him I'm to marry you?"
"Seeing that he doesn't know I'm no longer engaged to his sister, I think not. You could say your affections are otherwise engaged."
"How long before we let others know--about us?"
A frown sliced into his face. "As much as I wish to shout it from the Tower of London, I think perhaps we should wait."
"I don't wish to wait," she said with a pout.
He drew her hand into his. "Not for long. Allow me time to apprise Hollingsworth that Fiona has cried off."
"Should you like me to also write to Lord Carrington?"
Edward muttered a curse. "I should like you to place an announcement on the front page of the Times to let all the men who've fallen in love with you know you belong to me."
"You can't be serious!"
He chuckled. "No, I wasn't, but I'm not sure how to proceed with Carrington. I can't get a read on his offer. Not that you're not the loveliest, smartest, most desirable woman ever to walk this earth, but I'm not convinced of his devotion to you."
"I feel the very same."
"Let's think on it for a few days."
She pulled up another chair and sat beside him to compose her letter to Randolph Hollingsworth.
"I don't know what to do about Harry Lyle," Edward mused. "He, too, plans to offer for you."
"Could you not just tell him about us? Isn't he your best friend?"
"He won't be after I tell him."
"He'll come around."
She finished her letter and paused to read it.
My Dear Mr. Hollingsworth,
Allow me to say how flattered I am over your offer of marriage. The woman who marries you will be most fortunate indeed. That woman, however, cannot be I.
I regret that I was not more honest with you. I should have told you I was already in love with someone else, someone whose affections I had no hope of securing, and because of that I seriously considered marrying you. Circumstances have blessedly changed, and I find that that magical door that was once closed to me is now open.
