Breathless (23 page)

The butler moved out of the way hastily, and Jacob continued on into the house.

It smelled of beeswax and lemon oil and old money, and he took a deep breath, resisting the impulse to curl his lip. He didn't need to ask the way—he could hear Jane's fiancé lecturing her in an upraised voice, and he headed in that direction.

He took the steps lightly, two at a time, the heavy trunk on his shoulder. They were in a small parlor near the top of the first flight, and he paused in the doorway.

Jane was sitting in a chair, her shoulders bowed, her head down, as her fiancé loomed over her, bullying her, yelling at her. “I cannot
believe
you would be so
lost
to all sense of propriety that you would simply take off, with nothing but a note from one of the most notorious men in London to set their minds at ease. And that you would accompany a strumpet of Lady Miranda's reputation goes beyond
all understanding.
For all her titled family I would have disallowed the connection the moment we were married, but I thought you had the delicacy to keep your association with such a
reckless
and
unacceptable
personage quiet. But no, you must needs go haring off to the ends of the earth with her, sending word back to your parents that you were ‘assisting' her in a marriage by special license
to a man whose name with which I shall not soil my lips.
Are you so lost to all sense of propriety—
to what is due to my consequence as your affianced husband
—that you would do such a thing?
Your understanding must be pathetic indeed, not to have considered what this must look like.”

“Mr. Bothwell, I beg pardon. I'm sorry…” Her voice was thick with choked-back tears, and Jacob's rage momentarily blinded him.

“Silence!” Mr. Bothwell thundered. “Do you have any idea what kind of people you spent the last few days with? That…that man is a member of the Heavenly Host, and you know what they are, Miss Pagett? Satanists. Devil worshippers, who sacrifice children and practice the most obscene behavior, and he's arranging for them to join him in what I can only term an—” he lowered his voice for a moment in whispered disgust “—an
orgy
, to celebrate his marriage to that doxy! God knows what will happen to her, but she is only reaping the result of her own unspeakable behavior. Behavior that you have chosen to emulate! I cannot think how I was fool enough to affiance myself to someone
so lost
to all sense of what is fit and proper. I cannot cry off, but I will speak to your father, and I don't doubt we can make some kind of arrangement to sever this distasteful association without causing harm to my reputation. Yours, I'm afraid, is beyond repair, and I—”

“Excuse me,” Jacob said, having had enough of this, striding into the salon. “Where were you wanting me to put this, Miss Pagett?”

Jane looked up, her face streaked with tears, and he would have clocked Bothwell and had done with it, until he looked at the joy in her eyes as she looked at him, and everything fell into place like a puzzle. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, and it was suddenly very simple.

“How dare you interrupt your betters?” Bothwell
shouted at him, clearly happy to bully anyone he thought would have to take it. “Get out of here, or I'll have you turned off immediately.” He turned back to Jane. “As for you, Miss Pagett, I'll have my ring back. You…”

“Excuse me,” Jacob said again, turning on his heel, calculating it perfectly. The trunk on his shoulder slammed into Bothwell's head, and he went down like a stone.

Jacob lifted the trunk down and set it on the floor, leaning over Bothwell's motionless body. He gave him a none-too-gentle nudge with his boot, but the man didn't move, knocked cold.

“Pity,” he said in his normal voice. “I didn't mean to knock him out.”

Jane had leaped up. “You didn't?”

He looked over at her, grinning. “No. I was hoping for the chance to hit him a few more times.” He tilted his head, observing her. “I think, lass, that you gave the wrong man back his ring.”

She looked flustered, uncertain, but she pulled off the pitiful jet ring Bothwell had given her and threw it at his unconscious form. No blood coming from his head, Jacob noticed with no particular concern. He'd been in enough fights to know when someone was badly injured, and being wanted for the murder of an upstanding gentleman wouldn't have suited him. But Bothwell would live to bully another young woman, more's the pity.

“That's the girl. Now where do you fancy you'd like to go?”

She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her ringless hand. “I need to go to Miranda.”

It wasn't the answer he could have hoped for, but it
was better than some he might have feared. “I can do that.” He held out his hand for her.

She didn't move. “First, tell me who you are. What your name is.”

Ah, here it goes, he thought. It was one thing when he was a mystery, a kiss in the dark. The truth was less palatable. “You know who I am. Or at least what I am. I'm Jacob Donnelly—called King Donnelly in some parts of London, due to my leadership of a group of individuals who are, for want of a better word, thieves.”

She didn't flinch. “And who is Mrs. Grudge?”

Sparing her would get them nowhere; he had a mind for the truth now. “She runs a brothel over in Brunton Street, but she likes a bit of adventure every now and then, does Long Molly, and she was willing to help out. She has a special fondness for Scorpion.”

She took it well, did Miss Jane Pagett. “And you'll take me to Miranda?”

“Aye. You'll have to give me leave to check on my people first, but then we can be off. If you don't mind the traveling.”

“I like to travel,” she said firmly. “What are we waiting for?”

M
iranda slid into the warm bath, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of roses that surrounded her. There were dried rose petals floating in the water, and she could almost imagine it was summer. She would continue her explorations tomorrow, this time through the gardens behind the house. It was spring, daffodils were blooming everywhere and the fresh canes of rosebushes would be spiking through the damp earth. She couldn't wait.

She closed her eyes, sliding down. If she tried really hard perhaps she could forget that he was back. He hadn't made any move to touch her, to kiss her. He'd had her—perhaps that was all he intended.

It was easy enough to be sensible about it when she was dressed and walking around. But lying naked in a hot tub of rose-scented water aroused too many of her senses, and a host of memories returned. His mouth on her breast, sucking. His thick, hard invasion that had been uncomfortable at first, and then quickly became quite…wonderful.

She shouldn't want it again. Most of the time she
didn't. She simply pushed it out of her mind. But he'd returned, and it was no longer so easy. Suddenly she was wanting it, wanting him, again.

She heard his bellow from a distance, and she smiled to herself. He must have discovered his rooms. She'd been waiting for this moment all day, been loath to leave the house for fear she'd miss it. Every spare inch of his bedroom, dressing room and adjoining sitting room had been painted the loveliest shade of powder pink. She hadn't had enough time to find a matching shade of fabric for the curtains, but the white cotton lace had a nice, cheery touch, as did the coverlet and pillows. She'd even managed to paint several old chairs to go with the overall effect.

If he were a seventeen-year-old girl he would love it.

She chuckled. She ought to see about painting her own rooms. They were currently a faded green, and her dressing room, without windows, was very dark unless the adjoining door was open.

She knew exactly what he would do. He would storm around, have his valet find him another set of rooms in this huge old place and not say a word to her. It was part of the battle plan, her stealth attack, and he would never let her know she'd scored a hit.

She was wrong. Her door was slammed open, and he stood there, a furious expression on his face. Bridget, who'd been laying out her clothes for the evening, looked up, frankly terrified.

“Get out,” he said.

Bridget fled.

He advanced on Miranda. The water was cloudy from the soap, and she slid down farther, watching him
warily, half expecting him to spring on her. And then she gave him a wide smile. “Do you like your rooms? I wanted to redecorate them first—a good wife always sees to her husband before she attends to her own needs, and I fancy I did quite an excellent job. There were a few things I wasn't able to get done, but I think it very peaceful, don't you? I've always found pink to be such a calming color.”

Apparently not. “Get out of the tub.”

“I'm not finished my bath yet, my dearest. Come back in half an hour if you want to talk. I can tell you're ever so slightly cross with me, and I vow I can't imagine why, unless you tell me that by some strange circumstance you don't like pink.”

“I don't like pink.”

“Well, how was I to know that?” she demanded, all fluttery exasperation. “Perhaps you would prefer a pale lavender?”

“Get. Out. Of. The. Tub.”

He was very angry indeed, and she wanted to chortle with glee. Lucien de Malheur, Earl of Rochdale, the Scorpion, the untouchable, who never showed any emotion, was furious.

“Would you perhaps prefer a baby blue?”

She knew the moment she said it that she'd gone too far. He came up to the tub, reached down into the water, up to his elbows in his elegant coat of superfine and hauled her out of the tub with such force that water sloshed everywhere.

Instinctively she fought him, but he was very strong. He simply picked her up, carried her into her dressing room and dropped her on the floor. A moment later the door slammed, plunging her into darkness.

She'd ended up on the rug, and she quickly pulled herself into a sitting position, huddling on the floor in the darkness, hugging herself in the rapidly chilling air as she waited for the sound of the lock.

It didn't come, and she started to get to her feet. Why did he toss her into her dressing room if she could simply walk out?

And then she heard the sound of a coat being tugged off and tossed on the floor, and she knew she wasn't alone in the darkness.

“Lucien,” she said in a conciliatory tone from the ink-dark shadows. “I'm sorry I annoyed you. Really, my darling, you have no sense of humor…” She ended with a little shriek, as he hauled her up, pushing her wet body against the wall, his own pressing her there.

He said nothing, and she could feel his heart beating through the thin cloth of the shirt he wore. His long legs were against hers in the darkness, breeches against bare legs, and she squirmed, accidentally allowing him to move one leg between hers, pinning her there.

He slid his hands behind her head, moving her face forward to his. “Vixen,” he said pleasantly. “You're lucky I don't beat you.”

She held herself very still. She was awash in the feel of him up against her body, between her legs, his mouth so close. She was frightened of feeling that depth of reaction again. She wanted him. She was terrified of the way he made her feel.

“You wouldn't beat me,” she said in a hushed voice, trying to keep it light. “You know you adore me.”

“Vixen,” he said again. And kissed her.

She knew he would. Knew this was going to happen, no matter what she said or did. If she pretended she
wanted it he would do it anyway. If she pretended she hated it he could still continue. Because he told her he knew her body better than she did, and her body couldn't lie.

His mouth was hard, angry, and for a moment it hurt. She put her hands on the wall behind her, bracing herself as he kissed her, wanting his hard mouth on hers despite the pain. And then it softened, opened, and his tongue touched hers, and it felt as if all the anger had drained away, and she lifted her hands to his shoulders, clinging to him.

He kissed like an angel; he kissed like the very devil. His mouth was dark and sweet, a memory that roused her in ways that should have shamed her. She didn't care. His long sleeves were wet against her body, and she reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it free from his breeches.

He pulled it over his head, and then it was his bare chest against hers, for the first time, her breasts pressed against hard muscle and wiry hair. In the darkness he was all around her, and he kissed her again, pushing her back against the wall, and she slid her arms around him.

She could feel the ridges on his back, the cording of scar tissue, and for a moment he froze, his mouth just above hers, and she was afraid, so afraid that he would pull away, that he would leave her.

And then he moved. “I'm a scarred monster,” he whispered in her ear. “And you're trapped.”

She pulled her arms from around him, and he stayed very still, waiting, she knew not for what. For her to push him away in horror?

She found his face in the darkness, cradling it with
her hands. “You aren't a monster,” she whispered against his lips. “And you're trapped, as well.” She kissed him, on his mouth, his jaw, his neck.

He claimed the kiss then, holding her still for it, pushing her mouth open once more, and she kissed him back, inexpertly, to be sure, but with her whole heart.

He moved his hand down, between her legs, and she could feel the dampness there that hadn't come from the bath, a dampness he spread around, sliding his fingers inside her, moving up to circle her with the moisture, rubbing, sliding. She wanted him to keep on touching her, and she spread her legs, giving him better access, her hands on his shoulders now, clinging to him.

He made a low, growling sound in the back of his throat, a sound of pure animal need. He reached up and took one of her hands, sliding it down his chest to the front of his breeches.

She hadn't touched him the other night, had only felt his invasion. He placed her hand on his erection, and she let her fingers move along its length, astonished by how hard, how thick, how big he was.

“Release me,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Unfasten my breeches.”

She wanted to. The more his hand slid and touched and danced between her legs the more she wanted him there, the hardness that was maddeningly out of reach, and she slid her hands around the waist of the breeches, looking for some kind of fastening, buttons, whatever, but her hands were shaking, and she felt like a clumsy idiot.

“I don't know how,” she finally confessed, trying to drop her hand.

He caught it, moved it to the side where she felt
hidden buttons, and with his hand guiding her she unfastened the buttons, four of them. “Now push my breeches down.”

She took her other hand from his bare shoulder, placing them both on his hips, and shoved the breeches down his thighs, and she felt him spring up against her, thick and hard.

He kicked his clothes away, and then he was just as naked as she was, in the dark, his body pressed up against her.

She reached down and touched him, gasping at the silken smoothness, letting her fingertips learn him. “This is ridiculous,” she said in a choked whisper. “This can't possibly fit.”

She felt his laugh more than heard it. “Trust me.” And he put his arm under one of her legs, lifting her, bracing her against the wall. With his other hand he took the head of his sex and slid it against her, against that place that seemed so powerful to her overwrought nerves, and he was wet as well, smearing the dampness all around her, sliding down her cleft, and then up again. Her quiet moan of disappointment was unstoppable, and he laughed again.

“Hold on to me, Miranda,” he said, and she did, putting her arms around his neck as he lifted her, and she could feel him at the entrance of her sex. He thrust inside her, a thick, wet slide, and she cried out, not in pain but in sheer, guttural pleasure. He hoisted her higher, using both arms to support her under her thighs, bracing her against the wood paneling behind her bare back, and he began to move.

She let out a strangled cry, dropping her face onto his shoulder, letting her hands slide down his heavily
scarred back, clinging tightly. He no longer seemed to mind, he was too intent on the sinuous movement of his hips, thrusting in, withdrawing as her body clung to him, then moving in deeper still, and each time she cried out, in blind, helpless pleasure.

She felt the first convulsion begin to sweep over her, and she clutched him more tightly, trying to speed him, needing more, needing harder, faster, but he must have felt the fluttering contractions, and instead he shoved all the way in, holding her completely still as wave after wave washed over her. She fought him then, fought his iron control. She needed more, but he was adamant, refusing to move, in so deep she could feel his leathery sac against her, and all she could do was dig her fingernails in as her body trembled.

As the first wave passed he started to move again, and she murmured a strangled protest, one he refused to listen to, and this time when her climax came it was even stronger, and she cried out, begging him in strangled tones, but once more he held himself in deep, impaling her.

She was sobbing by then, unable to control herself, and when he began to move again she begged him. “No more,” she gasped, her body shaking apart. “I can't take any more.”

“Yes,” He thrust deeper still. “You can.” He was moving faster now, and her body was accepting his rhythm, his dominance, in this at least, and she knew she was past fighting. She surrendered, letting her fingertips caress the corded scars on his back, her legs tight around his hips, and she told herself this was for him, now. The last of her had burned up in a storm of desire and there was nothing left.

Nothing left but his thick, heavy thrusts as she clung to him, nothing left but his final, powerful slam into her, and she could feel him, feel his climax, feel him fill her with his seed, and out of the darkness something took over, some dark, terrible, wonderful place, and she buried her face against his neck to muffle her scream as she was lost once more.

 

He was trembling, every nerve and muscle in his body suddenly weak, and he could only be glad he had the wall to brace her against, or they would have both collapsed on the floor in a comical welter of limbs. He could feel her face against his shoulder, the heated puffs of her breathing, the wetness of her tears, and he vaguely wondered how he was going to disentangle them. When he didn't really want to.

He wanted to stay buried deep inside her. His cock was still twitching, still semierect, and he knew if he stayed that way he'd get hard again. Because no matter how thoroughly he'd fucked her, he still seemed to want more of her. He couldn't imagine ever having enough.

But he pulled free, because he didn't want her to know how much he needed her. Not that she would guess—for a ruined woman she seemed to have the sophistication of a nun. But he liked that. He liked that she seemed to know almost nothing about the intricacies of pleasure. He could thank St. John for his ineptitude after all.

He let her legs down onto the floor, carefully, then caught her as her knees gave way. He took her down onto the padded floor with him, letting her fall against his body, and he found he was cradling her in his arms as she wept silently. Her tears were hot against his already
heated flesh, and he found he was stroking her back in wordless comfort, though he wasn't quite sure why. Why she needed comfort after what had had to be as soul-shattering for her as it had been…
almost
had been for him.

No, he could understand. The power of it, the vulnerability. She was trembling slightly, just an errant shiver that ran over her body and had nothing to do with cold.