by Lisa Bingham
Upon reaching the bedstead, he stopped her, gently divesting her of her robe. The room was warm, but she trembled beneath his intimate regard, knowing at once that she pleased him.
“You are so lovely,” he whispered. “So pure.” When she would have shook her head to deny such a thing, he repeated, “Pure.”
Bending, he scooped her into his arms and laid her on the billowing goose-down mattress. To her surprise, he did not join her.
“Richard?”
“A proper gentleman does not disrobe in front of anyone other than his manservant. Not even in the presence of his wife.” He parroted the advice she had given him so long ago.
He saw the disappointment, the shy intensity, then the gleam of challenge. “Propriety be damned, my lord.”
Grinning, he touched his cravat. “Am I to understand that you wish me to breach the most sacred laws of conduct?”
“Yes.”
“Then I cannot disappoint a lady.”
From his position several yards away, he pulled at the end of his cravat, slowly, tauntingly, so that the artful arrangement disintegrated bit by bit by bit. Then he worked at the front closure of his vest, exposing the fine lawn of his shirt so gradually, Chelsea thought she would faint from the shallow breaths she took. When he shrugged from his vest, she leaned forward in anticipation.
“I have dreamed of being with you thus,” he said.
“And I with you, my lord.”
He dislodged the fastenings of his cuffs, exposing strong wrists, a smattering of dark hair. Next, he began on the pearl nubs that held his shirt shut. The buttons fell free, exposing a golden streak of masculine flesh. Sleek muscles. Taut skin. Chelsea found it incredible that such a man existed, and that he stood here, exciting her with his subtle strip of clothing.
The shirt gaped open, and he spied the uneaten food on the tray on her bedside table.
“Hungry?”
“Not for food.”
Her answer pleased him, and, as her reward, he dropped the shirt. Prowling to the bed, he sat on the side to divest himself of his boots and socks, then twisted to place his hands on either side of her ribcage.
“Perhaps I could tempt you with a morsel or two. A piece of fruit. After all, we cannot have you fainting from lack of proper nourishment.”
Taking one of the strawberries from its pool of cream, he held it poised over her chest. A drop of rich liquid fell, moistening a spot above her left breast.
He tsked. “I fear I have soiled your gown.” He bent and licked away the evidence, dampening her shift, then reached to remove it. “Perhaps it would behoove you to take this off.”
When she attempted to speak, he dropped the berry between her lips. Lifting her, he slid the night rail over her hips, her shoulders, then helped her to sit so that he could slide it over her head.
“Better, much better.”
When she shuddered in reaction to his sensual growl, he drew the covers to her waist, but no farther, then returned to his strawberries.
“Come, my love. You must eat at least half of this bowl. If you wish, I will finish the rest.”
He took another berry and held it above her to allow a pattern of drops to appear on her breasts. Then, offering her the fruit, he once again dipped to lick away the heavy cream.
The act was so erotic, so arousing, that Chelsea gripped his arms, silently begging him to abandon such torment and take her, here and now, but he forestalled such attempts.
“Shh, love, shh. We have all night. An eternity.”
What followed was an exercise in torture. Chelsea had never imagined what delights could be experienced in eating a simple bowl of fruit. By the time they had finished their repast, she was writhing beneath him, clutching at his hair, his shoulders.
Clearly as affected as she, Sullivan rose from the bed. He saw her, flushed and panting, ready, and knew they were heart-mates, soul-mates. He would never again be so touched by a woman—not just physically but emotionally and spiritually. Sullivan realized he would do whatever he must to see the haunting distress banned from her eyes.
“Richard?”
The word was barely recognizable, and Sullivan was glad. At this moment, he didn’t want to be reminded that she thought him to be someone else.
He stripped off his trousers and stood before her, basking in her greedy gaze, filled with a wondrous power. Then he was above her. Her legs parted easily to accommodate him, and as he probed at her entrance, she accepted him, eagerly, willingly, lovingly.
Their joining was fierce, earth-shattering. While they dung to each other, panting, he knew that he had lied to himself all these years. Home was not an island, home was not a place, home was being safely niched in Chelsea’s body, her arms.
Her heart.
“Well?”
A pair of horsemen became two-dimensional shapes set against the deeper ebony of the hillside. If one were to look closely, carefully, one would be able to determine that the two men were not natives of the area but were a pair of travelers who had recently arrived at Addlebury.
“Nigel, Lord Sutherland, was in fine form?”
“Pompous as ever. Nigel was quite sure he could not be beaten. When the opposite proved true, he bet heavily. Again and again and again.”
“To what end?”
Gregory grinned. An honest, rake-hell, satisfied smirk. He held out a packet of vellum documents.
“What’s this?”
“The deed to Lindon Manor and the surrounding estates in the area—a prize he was reluctant to part with even when he’d been squarely beaten, I might add. I managed to obtain it only upon threatening to expose him as a cheat in front of his guests. That and a promise of a rematch.”
“I can’t believe he did it. I can’t believe the man would be so stupid as to wager his home.”
“Nigel reacted just as Sully supposed he would—too arrogant to consider he might lose.”
Rupert held the papers up to the light of the moon, squinting at the elaborate writing. He read enough to ensure that they were indeed quite legitimate. “It worked,” he breathed. “Sully’s blasted plan worked.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Gregory’s green eyes glittered with a devilish mischief. An emotion that hadn’t been there in years. Straightening in his saddle, he drawled, “It would seem to me that our good Lord Sutherland is trespassing.”
Rupert’s own features lightened considerably, becoming no less devilish. “Could be.”
“Perhaps we should see about having him evicted.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Should we go about it tonight?”
Rupert chortled. “Nay. I feel quite fatigued.”
“So do I.”
“But tomorrow …”
“The summer solstice. Yes, the longest day of the year should prove a most satisfactory time to break the news. That way, Nigel will have even more time to enjoy a purgatory completely of his own making.”
“Damn, damn, damn!” Nigel threw the cut crystal goblet into the fireplace. The glass shattered. The amber liquid exploded. A shower of sparks cascaded onto the rug.
“Temper, temper.”
Nigel whirled to find Reginald watching him from the doorway. The secretary closed them both into the tomblike silence of the study. “Am I to understand your meeting with Mr. Cane failed to prove profitable?”
Challenging. The younger man was forever challenging him. Nigel was growing tired of it all. Reginald was not in control. Nigel was. Nigel was always in control.
Nigel growled low in his throat, panic, fury, and frustration roiling in the pit of his stomach, lingering on his tongue like acid.
He and Reginald had shared much through the years. Their bond was unique, and in many ways dangerous. Nigel had shared his blackest secrets with his secretary. They had long since crossed the boundaries of simple employer and employee, yet they weren’t quite friends. There was something more to their relationship, mu
ch, much more. But not even to his closest associate and the guardian of his soul could Nigel admit the folly of the last few hours. That he had allowed himself to wager Lindon Manor was inconceivable.
But he had done it all the same.
He had been so sure he could best the man. So sure! In retrospect, he realized Cane had toyed with him, played upon him. He had lulled him into a false sense of security, allowing Nigel to win at first—waiting for the stakes to grow high and Nigel to grow cocky. Then the tide had turned, so slowly he hadn’t been aware of the IOU’s piling up in front of his adversary. A little wine, a few good cigars, a drag or two on the hookah, and wham! He’d been caught like a rat in a trap.
“Find him!”
His barked order was issued so unexpectedly, Reggie’s brows climbed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Cane. Find him. Now!”
“May I ask—”
“No, you may not ask. I am your employer. I am. I do not need to explain myself; I do not need to ask permission. Your position here is not indispensable. It hinges upon my good will, which at the moment is sorely strained! Find … him!”
Reggie slowly straightened, unaccountably hurt. When he stormed from the room, Nigel swore, then swore again. Damn it all to hell, it was time that little runt learned his place!
But he couldn’t deny that Reggie’s reaction unsettled him no little bit.
Chelsea had turned onto her side, breathing heavily. Her skin was flushed and dewed with perspiration. Her hair tumbled about her in a sea of curls.
Drawing the tresses aside, Sullivan exposed the delightful smattering of freckles across her shoulders. He kissed her there. Then between her shoulder blades. Down the length of her spine.
She took a ragged breath. He felt it against his lips, then felt the gooseflesh rise on her skin. In truth, he didn’t have the energy to do much about it. But he smiled to think that even now, when both of them were exhausted and sated, the embers of passion could still flare.
Curling against her spoon-fashion, he rested his head on the pillow above hers, wrapped his arms around her waist, and held her to him. If Nigel had his way, this might be their last night together. But if Sullivan Cane had any say, it would be the beginning of forever.
“Richard?”
“Hmm?” He dipped his head, rubbing the stardusting of freckles with his nose.
“If I were to ask you once more to go away, would you?”
“Nay, my love,” he answered. “You could not tear me from your side.”
She did not speak, and Sullivan returned to his explorations, missing the stark terror that raced across her features.
But when he turned her for his kiss, she gave it full-measure, then clung to him, silently bidding him to love her yet again. When their bodies fused and his life’s seed shot into her, she whispered a silent prayer. That she would have him tonight, the next night, and the next …
Knowing full well that Nigel Sutherland would be coming to fetch her. Soon.
Estella preferred the rain. She preferred the musky odor of water-drenched loam, the moist warmth that clung indoors, the quiet patter, the lazy afternoons.
But the rain had stopped earlier that day, finishing too abruptly for her taste, long before things seemed … clean.
Shaking away that morbid thought, Estella looked into the mirror over her vanity, coaxing the tangles from her hair with the silver hairbrush that Nigel had given to her for Christmas more than a decade before. The handles of the vanity set had been decorated with an elaborate crest belonging to the Earl of Lindon.
The air crackled as she ran the bristles through the thick golden waves, over and over and over. Nigel had given a second such brush to another woman. No, not a woman. A girl. His ward.
It had been years since she’d thought of her. Gelsey, her name had been. Gelsey O’Rourke. Nigel had introduced Estella to the Irish waif, spouting something about harboring her from the world and displaying good Christian charity. Then he’d ensconced her in Lindon Manor. He’d thought himself so clever. He’d considered Estella so gullible. He’d never suspected that she’d known his intentions were less than honorable.
Estella had known what he planned to do to the child. Yes, she’d known. She’d merely chosen not to confront him. She’d willingly let him shower his attention upon a girl too young to defend herself, because by allowing him to do so, he would not direct his attentions toward Estella.
She met her own reflection in the vanity mirror. She saw a bleak hollowness there. A yawning void.
Mortality was an alarming thing. Just a few years ago, Estella would have shrugged off such memories. She would have comforted herself with the thought that she possessed everything in life she had ever desired.
Everything.
The word had a brassy ring. Especially since, at this point in her life, she realized she had been chasing material possessions. She had thought to salve her conscience with money and power. Trifles. She had bartered her soul for trifles, denying that what she wanted most could not be bought. Love.
She had lost that chance at happiness long ago, when first she had begun to spin her webs of deceit. In the succeeding decades, she had paid dearly for her actions. With her pride, her body, even her son. For thirty years, she had played a role. She had become a stranger to herself: biddable, frail. Nigel’s prize.
“Dearest?”
The door adjoining her own room opened without a sound, admitting the one man she had grown to hate. In the mere batting of an eyelash, the fire was extinguished, and the sweet, adoring expression she’d developed throughout her marriage was firmly entrenched.
“Yes, my love?”
There was a curious energy cloaking him, a cracking, static nervousness. But when he spoke, it was to say, “You look tired.”
“A little. But not so tired that I would bar you from my room.” She offered him a gamine smile that echoed the coquette she’d once been. “Our guests have retired?”
He approached her, so tall, so lean, so undeniably attractive, even now. But a brooding intensity cast a pall over his bluntly cut features, frightening her, warning her. She had seen him like this once in their time together. Mere days before the grapevine had reported that Nigel’s ward had disappeared, only to surface later under a new name and the auspices of Dowager Lady Sutherland.
“Near as I can tell, they are all abed.”
“Then we have what’s left of the evening to ourselves,” she murmured, her voice a practiced seductive purr. She hoped to waylay some of the anger she saw in his eyes. Cruel eyes. Why had it taken her so long to see that there was no light in their depths? Merely a deep, omnipresent darkness.
His hand wrapped around her neck, stroked her, caressed her. When she did not immediately respond, the fingers tightened, bruising her, before gentling her. “So it would seem.”
Knowing she had been subtly chastised, Estella reached to rub his knuckles, following the strong framework of bone and flesh, the tracery of veins. She trailed each inch tenderly, lovingly, clasping him and drawing his palm down to cup her breast. “Then stay with me, my love. Stay with me this eve.”
When he bent to press his lips to her throat, Estella admitted to herself that at least this had not changed between them since their nuptials. She could not fault him his passion or the way he never ceased to pluck a response from her. Her loins quickened, and her breathing became labored, and she admitted that even now, despite his mood, his cruelty, and three decades of wedded hell, Estella could still close her eyes.
Pretending he was the man she wished him to be.
Sullivan rested his chin near the crook of Chelsea Wickersham’s shoulder. Their lovemaking to date had been wild and passionate, the stuff of dreams, but try as he might, he could not get her to open up to him emotionally, to believe in him enough to allow him into her mind as well as her heart and her body.
“I don’t understand you, Chelsea.”
The w
oman he’d so thoroughly adored mere minutes before lay quietly in his arms. When she did not immediately respond to his words, Sullivan wondered if she had fallen asleep. If not for the tense quality of her posture, he would have believed such a thing possible.
Just as he was about to lapse into silence himself, she said, “Perhaps because I find it more comfortable that way.”
He found her statement intriguing but did not turn her to face him. There was a guardedness to her voice that did not encourage prying. Therefore, he was surprised to hear her add, “There are things I’ve done, secrets I’ve kept, that I don’t want anyone to know about.”
“Not even me?”
“Not even you. Especially not you.”
She clutched at his arms, strumming a chord of protectiveness that Sullivan had never known he possessed.
“Don’t you know there’s nothing you could say that could make me love you less?”
This time, she did not answer. Somehow, although she made no sound, no move, Sullivan sensed that she did not believe him. Turning her, he sought to unravel her masked expression.
“It’s because of Nigel, isn’t it?”
She shifted away, but not before he saw a flash of hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have spoken of him. Not now.”
“He will always be between us.”
“No!” When she would have risen, he held her still. “Can’t you see? I don’t care that you knew him before. I was the first man to love you. I was the first man you allowed to touch your heart. I don’t care what has gone between the two of you. I simply care that you continue to let him rule over your life! Let me take care of him.”
“You cannot defeat his kind, I know that now.”
“His type doesn’t worry me.”
She pushed free, dodging from the bed and drawing on her robe. “He should worry you a great deal. Nigel has murdered. He has lied and stolen and cheated.”
She rounded the bed. “It was he who framed your father. He bribed a government employee to steal the documents that were later found in Richard Albert’s possession. He hired the lawyer to defend him, paying the man well for his incompetence. When he could not arrange their executions, he ushered your parents onto the boat that would send them to their doom, then returned to poison your grandfather. He’s done all these things and more. Not openly, not even craftily. But through the sheer pleasure of proving to himself that he could do them.
