Breathless (11 page)

She awoke with a start, a bright light momentarily blinding her, and she realized the coach had come to a stop and someone was standing in the open door of the carriage.

“What have we here?” Lucien's voice was silken. “Did we pick up an uninvited passenger along the way?”

Miranda could feel the fear that swept through her friend, and she put a protective arm around her. “Lord Rochdale, I believe you are acquainted with my dear friend Jane, are you not?”

“Indeed,” he said gravely, though she could sense the damnable amusement in his voice. “Though I scarcely expected to renew my acquaintance under these circumstances. I've bespoken a room and a meal while we change horses—why don't we continue this conversation by the fire?” He held out a hand to her, and there was a mocking light in his eyes.

To continue any hope of keeping Jane ignorant of the true basis of this marriage, she had no choice but to accept his hand, letting him lift her down onto the ground, bypassing the steps entirely. For a moment she swayed, automatically reaching for Lucien, and then she drew her hand back swiftly, using the carriage for momentary support rather than willingly touch him again.

Unfortunately he was already seeing to Jane, and couldn't appreciate her cold reaction. And then she
stopped thinking about him entirely when she saw the pinched, miserable expression on Jane's piquant face, and her anger toward the man flared up once more.

He didn't relinquish Jane's arm, and in truth it didn't look as if she would have made the trip across the cobbled stable yard without his support. He didn't look back at Miranda, leaving her to follow in their wake, and at least then some of her anger dissipated. Jane must be taken care of first. Once she was dealt with there would be time enough to figure a way out of this mess.

Because there had to be a way out. If he thought she would simply acquiesce then he had very little notion of who she really was. The first thing she had to do was forestall the wedding. A stomach complaint would do to begin with, and then anything else she could come up with. As long as Jane was safe.

The inn was small but neat, and she followed the two of them into the private dining room, glancing about her curiously as Lucien settled Jane into a chair by the fire. He glanced back at Miranda. “I imagine you both will wish to refresh yourself before we eat, but I'm afraid my curiosity will not withstand another minute. Why are you here, Miss Pagett?”

“She didn't realize we were eloping,” Miranda spoke up. “She was concerned about my reputation and thought to accompany me.”

He had an ironic expression on his face. “Alas, I'm afraid I prefer my honeymoons à deux.”

“I'm certain you do. For some untoward reason the driver ignored my attempts to gain his attention. We will simply have to turn around and go back to London at once.”

“Will we?” Why had she ever thought his smile to be charming? It didn't meet his cool, pale eyes.

“Jane,” Miranda said in a firm voice. “Why don't you go upstairs and lie down for a bit while I have a conversation with my…affianced husband?”

“Oh, dear,” Lucien said with a note of laughter in his voice. “Are we about to have our first quarrel, love? By all means, Miss Pagett, go and make yourself comfortable while Miranda and I come to blows.”

Jane didn't move, bravely stubborn for the first time in her life. “I don't think…”

“Go ahead, Jane,” Miranda said firmly. “Leave this to me.”

He waited until Jane had left the room, then sank down gracefully on the recently abandoned chair. Miranda stood by the fire, rigid with fury and fear, but he simply nested his fingers and prepared to give her his full attention. “You can't do this,” she said.

“Don't be tiresome. I can do anything I please. Indeed, it's a shame your friends are equally as headstrong as you are, but that is scarcely my concern.”

“She's not headstrong at all, she's very timid and right now she's terrified. You need to send her back home. It's one thing to run off with me. My reputation is already in shreds, and you have some misguided reason for taking out your anger on me. So be it. Jane is an innocent, and her family will hardly let you get away with this.”

“I hesitate to correct you, but you are wrong on several counts. One, I have no anger toward you. You're simply a means to an end, and a quite delicious one. As for Miss Pagett, I will have a doctor see her before we continue on our journey, to set your mind at ease, and
then I will have her write a letter to her family telling them she chose to accompany you on your bride trip.”

“My family won't believe it.”

“I don't expect them to. But they're unlikely to frighten Miss Pagett's family. Now why don't you come over here and sit?”

“I'm not coming anywhere near you.”

He shouldn't have been able to move that swiftly. She didn't even see his cane anywhere near him. At one moment she was stiff and defiant, in the next he'd crossed the room, scooped her up and carried her back to the chair, sinking down with her imprisoned in his arms.

Without thinking she fought back, and he tightened his grip, painfully, so that her struggles abated and she held very still. “That's better…. Once you cease fighting I think you'll realize we'll do quite well together.”

“Once I cease fighting you'll lose interest in me.”

He laughed. “That is always a possibility. In which case, why keep fighting me? Or do you want me to lust after you?”

In a day full of shocks he'd somehow managed to shock her further. The thought that he might actually desire her was so bizarre that it had never occurred to her. She jerked her head to look at him, startled, and he laughed at her astonishment. “Why in the world does that surprise you, my pet? I would hardly decide to marry you if I didn't want you. There are any number of ways this particular game could play out. I happen to prefer it in my bed.”

She managed to recover from her shock. “God knows why,” she said. “I'm no great beauty, I'm no longer in
nocent and I have it on the word of an accomplished rake that my skills in the bedchamber are lacking.”

“Now you're fishing for compliments.” His grip had loosened, marginally, and she wondered if she could take him off guard, as she had Christopher St. John, so long ago. But then, she could hardly run. For one thing, Jane was upstairs, and she couldn't leave her behind. For another, she had not the faintest idea where they were, how far from London they'd traveled. Until she discovered that much any escape plan would be a waste of time. “I'm not particularly concerned about your skill in bed,” he continued. “I have more than enough for both of us. To make up for my appearance I'm quite adept at performance, and you'll get the way of it before long.”

“Now who is fishing for compliments?” she shot back.

She'd managed to surprise him. “Don't be ridiculous. You're a very pretty child, if not perhaps a flamboyant beauty, whereas I'm an ugly brute with a soul to match.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she mocked him. “Your soul may be the epitome of putrescent decay, but apart from minor scarring you know perfectly well that you are quite decadently appealing.”

His pale eyes widened, and then he exploded in laughter. “I don't know which enchants me more, putrescent decay or decadently appealing. You can't decide whether to insult me or flatter me into releasing you. In honor of your fighting spirit I'll make a wager, my pet. I'll offer you a chance of escape.”

He meant it. She held her breath. “Anything you choose.”

“It's quite simple. We have yet to seal this devil's
bargain with a kiss. If you can let me kiss you and not respond in any way then I'll send you home with your friend, leave your brothers in peace and do my best to ruin your family
financially.
That will require more effort, but I'm more than capable of succeeding. What do you say to that?”

The tight knot of fear that had lodged beneath her breastbone loosened at his light words. “That's too easy. I'm not certain I trust you to keep your word.”

“Again, more insults,” he said with a sigh. “I swear on my sister's soul that if you do not kiss me back I will release you. Immediately.”

At that she believed him. “Yes,” she said immediately, her eyes glowing. “Oh, most definitely yes. Though I fail to see why you're giving up so easily.”

“I'm not giving up. I'm winning.” Tucking one long finger beneath her stubborn chin, he drew her face up to his. She looked into his pale eyes and felt the first trickle of misgivings. This was impossible, wasn't it? He ran his thumb across her lips, pulling them apart. And then he settled his mouth against hers.

T
his was going to be so easy, Miranda thought, the moment his mouth touched hers. She'd never been fond of kissing, at least, not when it didn't involve young babies or family members, and this was a wager she was preordained to win. She'd gone from defeat to certain victory, and she held very still, waiting for him to be done with it.

She expected brutality. She expected force. She didn't expect the featherlight brush of his mouth against hers, a whisper of a touch. His hand cupped her chin, holding her loosely, knowing she wouldn't, couldn't pull away, and he moved his mouth to the side of her cheek, his warm breath in her ear, down the line of her jaw, and she squirmed.

And realized she was sitting on his lap, his arms around her, and she was no longer a virgin. She knew exactly what was beneath her bum, hard and growing harder, and she told herself it was one more reminder of how little she liked any of this. But his mouth tickled her eyelids, closing them, and she felt an odd little
shiver dance down her spine, and she squirmed again. And he grew harder.

He moved his other hand up to the back of her neck, his fingers playing gently with her hair as it was coming loose, barely grazing the skin. His mouth brushed her temple, then moved down the other side of her face. He brought his other hand down to cradle her throat, stroking gently, and he pressed his mouth against her pulse, which for some strange reason was pounding.

“I thought you were just going to kiss me,” she said in a tight voice.

“Hush,” he whispered against her skin. “I'm taking my time. You're not an easy conquest.”

She was tempted to bite him, but she resisted. “I'm not a conquest at all—” she started to say, but he covered her lips with his long fingers, silencing her.

“If you're impervious then you can be patient.” He slid his hand down to the high neckline of her dress, and she felt a button pop open. And then another. She preferred dresses she could get herself in and out of—she hated being at the mercy of a lady's maid, but he was having far too easy a time unfastening the top of her dress.

“I don't…” He silenced her by covering her mouth again, and his lips were soft, damp, brushing against hers, and if he were any other man she thought she might even enjoy it. He hadn't lied. He knew how to kiss, a great deal better than Christopher St. John, and she could feel an uncomfortable warmth between her legs. She tried to harden her mouth, but he caught her chin again. “That's cheating,” he admonished her.

She wondered if he'd use his tongue. That would guarantee her disgust, she told herself. No one had ever
kissed her that way. Jane had insisted it was wonderful, but Miranda took leave to doubt it. Nothing this man did to her would bring her pleasure.

Not when his hand pushed open the front of her dress, baring her skin, the tops of her breasts to the warmth of the fire, the warmth of his hand. Not when he slid his fingers inside her chemise, cupping her small, bare breast, but when she felt her nipple harden against them, felt that unfamiliar heat build, she tried to move.

“I really don't think you should do that, my dove. I failed to bring my valet, and I must confess I'm at about the limit of my self-control. I would certainly hate to embarrass myself before I claimed victory, and I don't have many changes of clothes.”

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about, and she froze. “Kiss me and get it over with,” she said, ignoring the fact that she wanted to press down against him, she wanted to slide her fingers through his long, dark hair.

“Then open your mouth for me, darling.”

His tongue was a shock, its intimacy astonishing considering he was pressing her bare breast against his fingers. She held utterly still as he tasted her, with deep, sensuous thrusts that should have reminded her of the unpleasantness of mating but instead only turned the heat to dampness, and her other breast pebbled against the cloth, wanting his hand, wanting his mouth, as he kissed her with such slow, deep deliberation that she closed her eyes and let her head sink back against the support of his long, stroking fingers.

Jane was right. The touch of a man's tongue was intimate and arousing, and she had never known this. She didn't want to think anymore—her body was on fire,
and she wanted more of this decadent sweetness. She couldn't have it, she told herself dazedly. If she was to win this battle she needed to stay cold, reserved, but how could she do that when she was burning from the inside out?

She wasn't even aware of raising her arms to slide them around his neck, to cradle his head as her tongue reached out for his. And she was lost.

He put his hands on her legs, lifted her and swung her around so that she was astride him, her skirts up high around her thighs, and he was pressing her against his erection, pressing that damp, aching part of her against the hardness that she despised, and she made a soft, moaning sound as he rubbed against her. His hand slid down beneath her skirts, touching her, and this time she tried to pull away, but his arm held her fast, and in truth she didn't want to escape. She wanted his hand on her dampness, his long fingers parting the secret folds of her body, and when his thumb brushed against her she jerked as a rush of pleasure washed through her, and for once in her life she wanted more.

He stopped.

They stared at each other for a long, frozen moment, and then he pulled his hand away, swung her back around and settled her skirts down around her legs, as if nothing had happened. His eyes were narrow slits in the candlelit room, and she could feel his heart pounding against her, his breath slightly labored.

“I won,” he said plainly. “You're wet. Even in this heated room your nipples are hard. And you kissed me back.”

She pulled out of his arms, stumbling across the room and collapsing in a chair. She was shocked that
her shaking legs had carried her that far. “You're disgusting. And I didn't kiss you back.”

“Your tongue was in my mouth, precious.” He sounded bored. He reached down and adjusted himself, drawing her eyes to the part she didn't want to think about. “No one forced you to do that. You were aroused, and in another minute I would have had you in that chair. I do promise to make up for it eventually—we have any number of excellent chairs in my house upon which to experiment.”

She couldn't find the words. She'd wagered and lost, though she couldn't quite believe it. In truth, her skin still longed for his touch, her mouth for his kiss. Perhaps he'd drugged her. Perhaps she'd gone mad. It didn't matter: she had lost.

She realized then that her dress was gaping open, and she swiftly began to button it again. “It is a great deal unfortunate that I didn't wear something a bit more difficult for you to deal with,” she said in what she hoped was an icy voice. She couldn't ignore the raw undertone to it.

“My precious, I could get you out of full court dress in seconds flat if I so desired,” he said, pouring himself a glass of wine. It was as if those hot, fevered moments in the chair hadn't existed. If she hadn't felt the evidence of his arousal she would have thought this was all a game to him. “But I think we'll wait to consummate our grand passion until we're legally wed. In the meantime we still have the problem of your friend. And I must confess I've never found threesomes to be particularly satisfying. I do a much better job concentrating on one woman at a time.”

How did he still manage to shock her? she wondered.
“She's sick. Send her back home with an escort,” she said, then paused. “Do that much for me.”

“But, darling Miranda, have I ever expressed any desire to do anything for you?” he said mildly.

“It would make life easier for you.”

“And have I ever expressed an interest in doing things the easy way? If I preferred simple efficiency I would have killed your brother Benedick the moment I arrived in England. He was lucky I was in the tropics when my sister died—it gave me time for my initial rage to pass and for me to come up with a plan.”

She stared at him, hating him, hating the fact that her breasts still tingled and she wanted to rub them against him. She kept her hands fisted in her lap. “I made a very great mistake with Christopher St. John,” she said. “I didn't fight him. I knew he was going to bed me and there was no way I could stop him, so I didn't struggle. Not until later, when I couldn't stand it anymore. That's not going to happen this time. I won't lie down for you, and I won't let you rape me.”

“Haven't I just demonstrated that it won't be rape?” He almost purred the words. “Don't worry, your nonvirginal body is safe from me for the time being. When I take you the first time I intend to do a proper job of it. You've only had a taste of what I can do.”

She wanted to cry. He'd taken unfair advantage—he knew far more about women's bodies than she did, even though she lived in one. He knew how to touch and where, how to kiss, how to arouse, when she had been so certain she'd be impervious.

She pulled together what little dignity she had left. “Are we continuing our journey tonight?”

“We are. I will be joining you and Miss Pagett in the
carriage. My leg is beginning to pain me, and I prefer to begin my wedded life in good health. Don't worry, precious. I won't tell Miss Pagett that I almost made you climax.”

Nearly anything could be used as a weapon. But there was nothing around for her.

He rose, and she realized he'd left his walking stick behind. He favored one leg, but he still managed to move with a sinuous grace that belied his usual appearance.

“Just how bad is your leg? You're scarcely as crippled as you pretend.”

“You'll find, my sweet, that little about me is as it appears. I broke my leg when I was younger and it was set badly. I don't let it trouble me.”

“Then why don't you continue the journey on horseback?”

“Because I don't wish to,” he said in the softest, sweetest voice. “Accept it, Miranda. You lost the wager, and you're wasting time fighting me.”

“It's not in my nature to give up.”

He had come even with her, and he paused, looking down at her. “And that's why you're so irresistible,” he said.

 

Lucien walked out into the cool night air, breathing deeply. It was astonishing how much Miranda Rohan aroused him. His hands were shaking with the need to touch her, and controlling himself a few minutes ago had required more strength than he knew he had.

He should have just taken her. She was no shy virgin—he could thank Christopher St. John for his bungled part in that. She had rubbed against him, instinctively, helplessly, as he kissed her, and she was wet
with longing. It would have taken a moment to release himself, and he could have plunged up into her, burying himself in her welcoming heat, holding her hips as he bucked and fucked and lost himself.

Bloody hell, he had to stop thinking about it. He couldn't walk around with a perpetual hard-on. And yet, there was something wickedly enjoyable about being physically aroused and anticipating Miranda's eventual surrender. Tonight had been a delicious taste of it.

There was an old saying: revenge is a dish that is best served cold. Who would have thought his revenge would be so deliciously hot and yielding?

Jane Pagett was a complication, but one he could deal with. Right now he was bone tired and ready to sleep in his expensive carriage. It was a long way to go, up into the Lake District to his secluded home by Ripton Waters, but once they reached it he could count on time to complete the coup de grace of this particular revenge. For now, he was ready to rest.

 

Miranda climbed back into the carriage, stifling her instinctive moan. No matter how comfortable a carriage, how gifted and smooth a driver, being cramped up in a small space for so long made her bones ache. Jane was already curled up in one corner, her sweet face creased with misery, her nose and eyes red. She'd finally realized just what a mess she was in, and there was nothing Miranda could do to reassure her. She took her hand and squeezed it as she took the seat beside her, and Jane managed a weak smile in return. Until the carriage dipped slightly and Lucien climbed in, taking the seat opposite them and stretching out his long legs with a sigh.

The door was closed, plunging them into darkness, and a moment later they were moving once more.

“Miranda, my love,” his voice came through the darkness like a seductive snake. “Come join me and give your dear friend more room.”

“I'm quite fine where I am.”

“But I'm not.” With luck Jane wouldn't recognize the hint of steel in his voice. She wanted to continue the charade that this was a voluntary elopement for as long as possible, and refusing would be to call his bluff.

With an audible sigh she rose, just as the carriage hit a stone, tossing her against Lucien. He caught her easily, and even in the darkness she could see a glint of his smile. “That's one of the many things I love about you, my darling. Your reluctance and your enthusiasm.” He settled her onto the seat next to him, his arm around her shoulder, clamping her body against his, his heat pouring through her. “That's right,” he whispered in her ear. And then, to her shock, he bit it, not hard, catching the lobe between his teeth lightly, and she jerked in reaction.

Thank God Jane couldn't see what he'd done. “Miss Pagett, are you comfortable?” he asked, all solicitude, as he pulled the capacious fur throw over them.

“Yes, thank you,” Jane said sleepily. Jane was looking decidedly unwell, and Miranda had the uncharitable wish that Jane's stomach would erupt, as well. Please, Jane, cast up your accounts all over his elegant Hessian boots.

Jane sniffled, coughing a little, but the ride was smooth enough to keep nausea at bay. She would be asleep in moments, Miranda thought, and that was all for the best.

Perhaps she could induce nausea on her own. She could think back to Christopher's hands on her, the ugliness of his member, the pain of his penetration, the sheer awfulness of lying beneath his naked, hairy, sweating body as he pumped away at her.