The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  As she got used to him, he thrust harder, deeper, though he delivered every stroke with a passion that went beyond pure lust. That said, he would bring her to a climax again. He would feel her muscles tighten around his cock, needing him, wanting him.

  “Do you want to take control?” His voice was thick and husky with desire. “Do you want to claim me?” He withdrew all but an inch—let her feel the emptiness without him—before plunging home. She gasped, moaned. “Do you want me to show you how to love me?”

  Her hooded lids sprang open. “Yes.”

  “Then I’m going to flip you over.” He gathered her close, managed to remain buried inside as he rolled to lie on his back while she straddled his hips. “Move just as we did before, but this time you command the pace.”

  A nervous smile touched her lips.

  “I shall help you.” He gripped her buttocks, assisted her as she slid up and down, sheathing his cock. He waited until she’d found a rhythm before slipping his fingers through the damp curls to stroke and tease.

  Her concentration faltered, her movements growing frantic as lust took hold and swept her away. He watched with wondrous fascination as her sumptuous breasts bounced, as her breathing grew more erratic and she dug her fingers into the muscles of his chest.

  “That’s it, love. Take what you want.”

  Hug me. Never let go.

  “I want you,” she breathed as her head fell back and her mouth opened to exhale the sweetest groan he’d ever heard. She shuddered. Her body clamped around him, pumping his shaft until he feared he might suddenly spill his seed.

  “I need to withdraw.”

  “Oh, Lord!” she said, meeting his gaze as a look of heart-rending tenderness passed between them. “I can barely catch my breath.”

  “We’re not finished yet.” He rolled her onto her back and came to kneel between her thighs. “Touch me, Verity.” Capturing her hand, he showed her how to pleasure him.

  Part of him wished he wasn’t so aroused. He could have spent an eternity watching her massage his manhood. But a handful of strokes, and he jerked his hips and spurted his hot seed onto her abdomen.

  “Hell’s teeth!” The words burst from his lips as his climax tore through him. When one felt a strong connection to a woman, satisfaction thrummed on a much deeper level.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. It’s just that I have never felt so sated.” It wasn’t just that. Inner contentment—just as potent as the pulses of ecstasy—rippled through him, too.

  She smiled. “If it is always like this, I could love you every day.”

  “You would receive no objection from me.”

  Perhaps he should broach the subject of marriage, but there was time to discuss their future once he’d dealt with Wincote and Layton. Besides, at present, he needed to attend to their ablutions.

  He climbed off the bed, grabbed a towel and the linen square from the washbowl and padded back to the woman he would take as his bride if she ever wanted to marry.

  “Stay there while I play lady’s maid.” With gentle strokes, he wiped away all traces of their union. He spent longer than necessary washing her breasts and the shapely thighs that had gripped him in a lover’s embrace.

  “You’re hired,” she said with some amusement. “My maid is nowhere near as thorough.”

  “No doubt your maid is not addicted to touching you.” Addicted was indeed the right word, for the need to join with her again sprang upon him. “But I would take the job if it meant I might do this every evening.”

  She touched his arm. “Can I ask you something?”

  He stilled. “You can ask me anything.”

  “Might I sleep with you tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

  Perhaps her fears stemmed from thoughts of the scoundrel hiding in the square. Perhaps she needed to feel locked in a loving embrace just as much as he did.

  “Of course. Though be warned, a certain part of my anatomy has a will of its own.”

  She glanced at his flaccid manhood. “I should like to love you again if given an opportunity.”

  Hell, this woman amazed him on every level. “After your first time, your body needs rest.” And Miss Trimble probably had her ear to the door. Come the morning she would be charged for attack, ready to hurl a tirade of abuse.

  Verity arched a brow. “I think I might determine that for myself.” And without another word, she reached for him, drew him down to the bed and kissed him in the wildly passionate way that soon had his cock jerking to attention.

  They made love for almost an hour. Beyond the thick curtains, the first rays of dawn would soon break over the square. Still, he would hold her close until Cavanagh hammered on the door, eager to go home and change out of his costume.

  As Lawrence settled into bed and gathered Verity into his arms, their hearts still racing, their legs entwined, he waited until the usual feeling of euphoria subsided—it didn’t.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lawrence’s muscular leg was draped across her thigh, keeping her trapped in a heavenly prison. One strong arm held her so close she could hear the slow, hypnotic beat of his heart. Verity snuggled closer to his warm body, ready to close her eyes and drift back into a peaceful sleep.

  Then he moved a fraction, and the solid length of his manhood pressed against her abdomen. Saints above! She was equally addicted to Lawrence Trent’s touch, his taste, to the look of joy on his face when he shuddered and spoke her name. If she had her way, they would remain in the hotel room for the week, only leave to take much-needed sustenance.

  Curiosity led her to reach down between their bodies and touch the steel rod encased in skin as soft as silk. Hmmm. Definitely addictive.

  “You’re determined to kill me, love.” His voice sounded deeper, a little raspier than usual. The endearment fell easily from his lips, yet she had seen a flicker of doubt in his eyes when she first mentioned the word love.

  “I like touching you. I wish we had no reason to leave this room today.” She wished they could spend forever like this.

  “While our thoughts are aligned, we cannot focus on our future until we’ve dealt with Wincote and Layton.” He brushed hair from her face, kissed her forehead. “No regrets?”

  “About last night?”

  “Last night? It was past three when we climbed into bed.”

  “No regrets.” She smiled. “Though if I could, I would make you believe that I love you.” She wondered why he had not made a declaration when every aspect of his countenance said he cared for her, too. “Does your lack of faith stem from the problems of the past, from your childhood?”

  Had he felt just as unloved as she?

  He remained quiet for a time. “I was five when my mother patted me on the head, told me she loved me and sent me to live with a woman who had a heart of stone. I saw her twice after that. Once on my eighteenth birthday. Once the year after, when she summoned me to her bedside and drew her last breath.”

  “I’m sorry.” She knew what it was like for a parent’s words to contradict their actions. “Some people don’t know how to love.”

  “My mother provided for me financially and felt that was enough.” The coldness in his voice masked a wealth of pain. “More than ample, considering the nature of my birth.”

  “People often use money to absolve their sins.” She shuffled up to place her head on the pillow, to look at him directly. “Perhaps they don’t know any better.” She cupped his cheek, her heart wrenching when she noted the tortured look in his eyes. “Based on the fact you’ve not made enquiries regarding your brother’s copy of Vathek, am I to understand that your relationship with your father is equally strained?”

  “Lord Ranfield mourns the death of his son with the same fervency he does my birth. I have no desire to subject myself to his constant abuse.”

  The need to love him sent the blood racing through her veins. “Then you need not see or speak to him again.” She reached up and kissed him openmouthed. “K
nowing what I do of you, I presume you refused any suggestion of an allowance.”

  He drew in a deep breath.

  “Forgive me, Lawrence. I did not mean to pry.”

  He captured her hand and linked their fingers. “My mother refused Lord Ranfield’s assistance. She was a wealthy woman in her own right. Being her only child, I inherited a substantial sum from my mother and grandmother upon their deaths.” He paused, then gave a contemptuous snort. “Had I been a stronger man, I might have given it all to the orphanage. But I was young, happy to accept reparation for the pain caused.”

  Silence descended.

  “Our pasts share some similarities.” She, too, was shown little affection. “My father made it his life’s mission to draw attention to my failings. And yet, having no need to worry about entailments, he left me everything in his will.”

  “Any man who fails to notice your attributes is a blind fool.” He bent his head and kissed her, a slow melding of mouths that tightened the coil within.

  Things may have progressed beyond an intimate caress had they not heard the light rap on the door, and the faint swish as someone pushed a note through the gap at the bottom.

  Lawrence climbed out of bed, and she watched with fascination as he padded across the room. He retrieved the note and read it silently.

  “Cavanagh is returning to Jermyn Street. He is tired of playing the Roman emperor and desires clothes that protect his nether regions.” Lawrence chuckled. He seemed a little less burdened than he had the previous night. “I’m to call on him should I decide to visit Wincote.”

  The mere mention of that name brought the alarming events of the previous night rushing to the fore. “I wish we could go back to that night in the graveyard and forget all about the Brethren.”

  Fear for his welfare caused a wave of apprehension.

  “But then we would have parted, never spent such an inordinate amount of time together.” He did not return to bed but threw on his breeches and shirt and moved to the window to part the curtains.

  “We have spent more time together than most courting couples do in a year.” To be apart from him now would be unbearable.

  “Courting couples seek to marry. As a spinster,” he began in a teasing tone, “you made it clear marriage was not part of your agenda.” He glanced at the rumpled sheets on the bed. “Last night, we moved beyond the boundaries of most courting couples. The question now is whether your views have changed.”

  For people who had no problem with honesty, the thought of marriage left them both skirting around the truth. “That all depends on what you meant when you said you’d have me in every way a man might have a woman.”

  A knowing smile played on his lips, but it faded the moment someone chose the inopportune moment to knock on the door.

  “We will discuss the matter over dinner this evening.” His gaze slipped over her body in the licentious way that heated her blood. “Once ensconced in my house in Manchester Square, I guarantee we will suffer no disturbances.” He crossed the room, paused before opening the door. “I suggest you hide beneath the sheets. Miss Trimble is most likely on the warpath.”

  Panic took hold, though it had nothing to do with encountering Miss Trimble’s wrath. “What if it’s Mr Wincote?”

  “Then the man has saved me the trouble of barging into his home in Brunswick Square.”

  Verity pulled the bedsheet around her body and slipped out of bed. She grabbed a candlestick, moved out of sight of the door and nodded for Lawrence to proceed.

  Lawrence yanked open the door, jerked his head back in surprise. “You may lower your weapon,” he said, bending down to retrieve a package. He peered out into the corridor and then shrugged. “Someone has been kind enough to leave me a gift.”

  “A gift?”

  He closed the door and brought the package to the bed. The words Lawrence Trent were marked clearly on the brown paper, though after a quick search it was apparent the sender had left no return address.

  “It’s a book.” Lawrence felt the size and weight before tugging on the string to reveal the leather-bound volume. “It’s not hard to guess which one.”

  “Vathek.” Her heart lurched. “It’s from the Brethren.” Her pulse pounded in her neck while she waited for him to open it at the vacat page. Shock held her rigid, though she knew what to expect.

  “Demons lurk amongst us,” he said, reading from the neat script. “Beware the Brethren.” He snorted in amusement. “Must they repeat the same tired warnings? Could they not have thought of something less predictable?”

  Verity gripped his arm. “Everyone who’s received the book ends up dead.”

  “We don’t know that. Sebastian Vale is the only person we know who died after receiving a warning. There is no evidence Charles possessed a copy.”

  “What about Joseph Bradley?”

  “The book might belong to his brother. You saw the library. Isaac Bradley has a copy of every book known to man. Until we know Joseph received a similar threat, we cannot make assumptions.”

  “Then we should visit Mr Bradley, make our plea and beg him to show us the book.”

  “Perhaps. But you saw how nervous he was. Bradley seemed most reluctant to speak about the Brethren.” Lawrence glanced at the veiled threat written on the page. “Besides, the sender may not have underlined the same passages in the text.”

  Unperturbed by the intimidating remarks, Lawrence flicked through the first few pages.

  Verity watched with bated breath. Impatience took control of her rationale. She fought the urge to snatch the book and conduct her own inspection.

  “The first marked line appears early in the text.” She leaned over him and turned to the place she remembered by heart. “I don’t understand.” Staring at the clean, unmarked page only added to her confusion.

  “As I’m not a member of the Brethren, perhaps the sender wishes to deliver a different message.” He continued turning the pages. “I cannot help but be somewhat disappointed.”

  How could he make light of the situation knowing all that had occurred?

  “I have said it before, and I will say it again. Courage and intelligence are no match for devious cunning.”

  “Let’s see if Wincote agrees when I throttle him senseless.”

  Verity sighed. She seized the book and gave it the scrutiny it deserved. None of the relevant lines bore the Brethren’s warning. “There must be a reason they sent you the book.” As she leafed through the pages, the reason became abundantly clear. One line jumped out to hit her squarely between the eyes. The sentence circled in red ink carried a real threat. “Good Lord.”

  “You’ve found something?” Lawrence glanced at the line written by the author but used by the Brethren to drive terror into the hearts of men. “Let us punish him for his perfidy. Perfidy? Clearly, they believe I have committed a different crime to that of murder.”

  “Perfidy?” she repeated. “A breach of faith or trust.” She fell silent as the words stabbed at her heart and mind. “There must be other clues.”

  There was one more clue—scored near the end of the gothic tale.

  Lawrence stared at the words for the longest time. “The punishment of unrestrained passions and atrocious actions,” he eventually said, his voice no longer that of an indifferent man, but of one crippled with guilt. “For once, the Brethren appear to be rather accurate in their assumptions. A man betrays his principles when he displays weak morals.”

  Weak morals? He spoke of the intimate love they’d shared.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Lord, now she wished she had slammed the book shut and not given it a second thought. “It is nothing more than a statement intended to play to your weakness.”

  “A statement that is accurate to a fault.”

  He marched over to the washstand and plunged his hands into the cold water. The muscles in his shoulders were tense, his stance rigid. It was as if an army of pious men had charged into the room and brought fresh reinforcements. />
  “Our passions stemmed from more than a physical need,” she said, for she could sense his retreat, knew he planned to position himself behind the solid walls of his righteous fortress. “Love cannot be measured by a set of standards.”

  “You need to get dressed.” He cupped his hands and splashed water over his face. “We will discuss the nature of our relationship this evening. That’s if I am not locked in a cell in Newgate charged with murdering John Layton and Phillip Wincote.”

  Every firm muscle in his back bore the evidence of his barely contained rage.

  “Do not sink to their level. The book is a means to draw you out of this room.” To punish him, hurt him, to make him pay for prying into the Brethren’s affairs.

  “I intend to have the matter concluded before we dine together tonight.”

  “If you mean to visit these men, I am coming with you.” She braced herself for an argument, but he answered her demand with a resigned sigh.

  He turned to her, his face twisted in anguish. “Then return to your room and dress. Strap your blade to your thigh and bring your gentleman’s satchel. While these men are intent on mischief, I’ll not let you out of my sight.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The atmosphere in the carriage hummed with volatile energy, made worse by the fact Lawrence sat opposite her with his copy of Vathek on one knee and her cousin’s open on the other.

  “The handwriting is identical.” Eyes as cold as the mossy pools on the moors stared at her. “Though I’m surprised a man of Wincote’s intellect thought to devise such a plan. To find the relevant passages, he must know this book by heart.”

  “Maybe that’s the job of his accomplice, although Mr Layton appears equally inept. I imagine they find the game amusing.” It was their conceit and lack of conscience that made the men formidable opponents.

  “The game has ceased to be amusing.” His expression turned grave. “Indeed, it occurs to me that this won’t be over until one of us is dead.”

  Verity clutched her satchel. Fear flowed like an icy river through her veins. “One of us?”