Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1) (31 page)

~ ~ ~

All the way up the stairs Luc tried not to think about how light she was, how warm she was, how much he wanted her pressed against him like this forever.

Every step of the way he fought his feelings — and knew that he was failing. His face was unreadable as he set her gently back amid the lavender-scented sheets and lifted her hair from her cheek.

But when he would have pulled away to rise, Silver’s fingers slid about his neck and held him still.

Her face was mere inches from his. Her scent was a sweet torment in his lungs. And her soft, thrusting breasts…

“Don’t, Silver,” he said hoarsely.

“Why, Luc? Let me hear the words.”

“Because … I must go.”

Again he saw the consciousness in her eyes, the warmth of awareness that he had seen too many times before in the last few days. It was that flare of emotion which had kept Luc from her room, that and only that. Blackwood, the highwayman, was experienced enough to know exactly what such a look meant in a woman’s eyes.

Her fingers tightened. “Tell me why.”

He circled her wrists, feeling the fragile bones, the ragged pulse. “Why? Because I’m a criminal and a thief. Because I have no heart left and my word can’t be trusted. Because you shouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t paint impossible dreams, Sunbeam. I’m a man with a past more black than you can imagine. I warned you once not to trust me or let me into your heart. I’ll only bring you pain.”

“I’m not so fragile!”

His eyes blazed amber. “Perhaps it’s my
own
strength I fear for.”

“So you will turn me away, just like that? Without any explanation?”

“I have no choice.”

She stared at him, her eyes fierce. “I warn you, I don’t mean to make it easy for you. I’ll leave you with a thousand images to haunt you. Whenever you smell lavender on a woman’s skin or honeysuckle in a spring wind, you’ll think of me. You’ll remember how close I was, here like this, in your bed.” Silver’s fingers slid to his neck and drew him down slowly.

Closer. Ever closer.

Luc’s blood hammered. “Don’t do this, Silver.”

“Yes. Now, right now. Because above all, you’re going to remember this…”

Her lips softened. She pulled him to her and let her mouth move over his.

She was not experienced. She didn’t know how to hide the quiver in her hands or the tremble in her lips.

But, oh, God, she didn’t need to know. Luc could feel the drumming of her heart, just as wild as his own.

And her heart was a lover’s heart and her hands were a lover’s hands, so experience was unnecessary. She simply let him feel her wanting him. She was warm beneath him, infinitely pliant. The soft little sounds she made challenged him to press closer and taste all that sweet yielding.

“Stop, Sunbeam.” His blood was on fire. Luc knew in a few more moments he wouldn’t have the strength to turn back. “Don’t do this.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her hands sliding down and circling his ribs. Then she moved again, parting cloth and finding his magnificent, thrusting heat. “Now.” Sighing, she traced the hot length of him.

Luc groaned. He stared deep into her eyes, drinking in the sight of her. He wished that he had strength enough to stop her; he wished that he
was
all the things she thought he was. “You crazy fool.”

“You’re the fool. How could anyone not want
this?”

“Why? This is why, Silver,” he whispered fiercely.

And then he drove her back against the pillow, mouth hard to hers while he gave her the wet thrust of his tongue. His hand fell around the curve of her breast. In one impatient movement she was bared to him, her nipple rising taut to his callused palm.

He taught her need then. With the practiced art of a master he tugged the budded crest and showed her how her blood could burn and her skin could flame with demands unmet.

“Do you feel me now? Do you understand what I’ll do to you?”

His hand jerked away the coverlet and opened over her belly, then inched down to the silken delta at her thighs, the sight of her by candlelight a perfect, erotic male dream. “And here, do you feel me here? Do you want me here, Silver? Are you hot and wet with wanting me?”

She twisted against him, lost in fire, lost in longing.

Lost in
love.

“I want you, Luc. Let me feel you. You touched me once before and made my blood sing. Now I would do the same to you,” she whispered.

Her words tore the breath from his lungs. “What does it take to frighten you?”

“The thought of losing you. The thought of never knowing
this.”
Her eyes sought his, deep pools of longing. “Let me feel you, Luc. Let me … love you. Just once.”

“Don’t call it
love,
damn it. You don’t even know who I am!”

“Then tell me.” Her eyes were caught somewhere between green and gold, cloudy with passion. “No, show me.”

The husky timbre of her voice cut right through him, shaking every last fiber of his resolve. Her soft fingers, touching his manhood with genuine, artless delight, left him blind with hunger. He would
die
if he didn’t find his way deep inside her.

But he didn’t.

Because Algiers had taught Lucien Delamere lessons no man should ever have to learn.

So instead of cupping her soft hips and driving into all the sleek, wet heat she offered, he twisted free of her hands and stared at her, his face fire and copper in the candlelight. “Show you? Very well, so I will. Look hard, Miss St. Clair. Look your fill and begin to understand why you shouldn’t have come here — and why you must never come here again.”

He turned about, his arms locked over his chest until the muscles on his back were stretched hard and tight.

And Silver saw in shocking clarity all the pale scars she’d only glimpsed dimly from the window.

They rippled over his back, fighting their way across the proud muscles like angry dragons.

Silver caught back a little moan, feeling the bite of those scars as if they pierced her own skin. “No…” She reached out, unable to face the thought of the pain he’d borne, unable to imagine who had put such marks upon him.

“They marked me, you see. I am one of the Dey’s select guard. I have access to his court and even to his harem. Only a few men hold that privilege, I assure you.”

“Luc, don’t.”

He laughed roughly. “Still not enough? Then perhaps
this
will convince you.” His jaw tensed as he twisted the first two buttons of his breeches free. Dove-gray wool pooled low, settling into folds that revealed the wedge of an iron-hard stomach.

And just above the opened breeches, two more fine lines of silver splayed out in neat rows.

“That’s the punishment for disobedience in the bagnio, Silver. In Algeria they have men who specialize in use of the whip. It is their greatest pleasure, in fact, and they are true masters. Each strike takes a little more skin, making it that much harder for the wound to heal.” His voice hardened. “Making you wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to let go…”

His fingers tightened as if at some dark memory, and then he jerked his breeches back to his waist. “I have killed men, Silver. I have seen them die at my feet and I have not blinked an eye. And I have been forced to do things…”

His eyes went hard and unreadable.

“So never ask me again why. Just go away from me and never look back. Because if you look back I might be following you. And next time, dear God, I might
not
be strong enough to turn away.”

The candle guttered.

Shadows twitched across the moire walls.

Luc strode from the room and flung the door closed behind him.

~ ~ ~

He went to his study. Usually it lulled him, the sight of all those leather volumes heavy with the wisdom of centuries.

But tonight the books only mocked him.

He straightened a pile of correspondence. He added water to a miniature potted rose in one curtained window. He brushed a speck of dust from the head of an exquisite Egyptian malachite sculpture of a cat.

And then he prepared himself to die.

~ ~ ~

Afterward, Luc was never certain how he came to be there. An hour later his hand was on her door without his conscious intent.

And she was there before him, all silver and softness in the moonlight, all hope and magic to a man who had forgotten such things could actually exist.

Scent drifted toward him. Lavender, rose, and sage.

Her scent.

What would he do after she was gone? How would he start to make himself hard again?

Right now he wanted heat, not cold. He wanted
her
heat, wrapped all around him, her softness pressed to his pounding need.

He almost moved then, almost forgot his promise and went to her. But at the final moment when sanity came near to breaking, when sweat touched his brow and his body ached with hunger, something stopped him.

It was the feel of metal, cold and smooth beneath his fingers.

The pistol was wedged in the satchel slung over his black cloak. It was the pistol he’d shot men with. The same pistol he might have to use tonight.

Luc went very still, thinking about his past, sickened by all he’d seen and done. With the cold, clear light of reason he knew he could never cross the million invisible miles that stretched between them.

He might as well have been dead to her.

He took one last look, finding a deep, wordless joy in her peace. And then he swept up his cloak and hat and went out in search of death or revenge.

Whichever came first.

~ ~ ~

Far away in a London ballroom, a woman stood surrounded by eager admirers. Light flashed off shimmering jewels and gleaming silk.

But India Delamere had no interest in beaus or dancing. Abruptly she turned away from her swains and flung herself out into the night beyond the laughter and the crowded ballroom.

“India? Whatever is the matter with you, gel?”

When the girl turned, her face was streaked with tears. “Luc’s in danger, Grandmama. Oh, I feel it so clearly this time. And here I am, wasting my hours in empty gaiety when I should be looking for him.”

The Duchess of Cranford gripped her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Nonsense. Everything that can be done has been done. Your brother is gone! The best thing you can do is get on with your life.”

“You’re wrong,” India said softly, her eyes fixed on the night. On something that only
she
could see. “He’s not dead. And somehow, somewhere, I’m going to find him, I swear it.”

~ ~ ~

Gasping, Silver shot upright in bed, her eyes dark with terror. She saw nothing to make her frightened. The room was silent, the candle long guttered.

But terror knotted around her heart like a rope of gleaming black silk.

Luc was in danger; she could feel it clearly.

With trembling fingers she shoved back her hair and pushed to her feet. She understood so much about him now. She knew why he shunned his feelings and pushed everyone away. How would she ever forget the sight of the scars he carried on his back? Her heart twisted at the memory of those cold, cruel marks.

And now he was throwing himself into more danger.

Somehow she had to stop him.

She was turning toward the door when Bram rushed in, his face white.

“Have you seen him?”

“Luc? No, I haven’t. But—”

“I had hoped I was wrong and he was still here with you.” The boy tugged at his hair. “I was reading in the library and lost to the world, or I would have tried to stop him.”

“Bram, you’re not making sense. Tell me what’s happened!”

“It’s Luc. He’s ridden out, swathed to the teeth in black,” the boy said grimly. “He had a satchel over one arm and a rifle slung behind his saddle.” He looked at Silver, his eyes anxious. “And he wasn’t riding slow or careful, Syl. He crashed off through the shrubbery like a man possessed, as if he didn’t care who noticed.”

Silver remembered how he’d looked when he’d left her, his eyes hard and unreadable, his voice rough with hopelessness.

So never again ask me why. Just go away from me and never look back.

The fool. The stubborn, reckless fool!

Silver fumbled for a candle, trying to stay calm, trying not to think of him huddled on some rise overlooking the grim stretch of the Norfolk road. “I expect he’s gone out to rob a coach, Bram. It’s his livelihood, after all, as he’s so fond of telling both of us.”

The boy stared at her, his face lined with shock. “Don’t you
care
? What if he doesn’t
come
back? What if he dies out there on the heath!”