Games of Pleasure (5 page)

She had been naked beneath the cloak! Her every movement had offered shadowed glimpses of smooth legs, elegant ankles and feet. And perhaps a breast? A curved thigh? He had tried, a little too desperately, not to look.

Not by conscious intent, perhaps! Yet her movements behind the screen mocked his composure. He stared at his fingers—spread on the shutters like starfish—as his mind arrowed in on the sounds. The shush of silk petticoat. The slide of laces. The snap of buttons. The little rap of shoes. At each rustle his arousal only grew stronger.

For God's sake! Was his body so blind to conscience? She had been beaten and cast adrift. If her husband knew that she'd survived, he would no doubt hunt her down to complete his punishment. Fate had placed her instead into the hands of the one man who could help her, whatever her predicament.

Ryder inhaled and turned around. Light flickered about the room, washing color over the tapestry screen. He had already secured another bedroom, of course: the room where he had washed and changed earlier.

Duty and discipline had always defined his life. He had absolute faith in his self-control and in the rightness of his insistence on gallantry. Yet he also felt this bright surge of courage, the response to adventure, the temptation to take just a few hours for himself with a beautiful woman who owed him her life. Why not? What harm could there be in it? Perhaps, if he could only win her confidence, she would yet allow him to help her?

She stepped out from behind the screen.

Dark hair framed her face to stream in a shining waterfall over her shoulders and back. Loose strands curled at her throat and shoulders and white neck. She had made no attempt to put it up or secure it with ribbon. Instead, where a necklace might lie, she had tied a narrow black velvet ribbon around the base of her throat.

The effect—when she was otherwise formally dressed—seemed outrageously wanton.

Thunderously hot blood pounded into his groin.

Her ivory silk dress buttoned at both shoulders. A gown that had belonged to the innkeeper's daughter, the silk no doubt bought from smugglers, the result purchased by Ryder at a premium earlier that evening. An overdress of thin black netting rippled over the silk, emphasizing every curve of long thigh and waist.

The net sleeves of the overdress disguised the marks on her arms. The bruising on her cheek had disappeared into the shadow of her hair. Nothing hid the glorious swell of her breasts, her skin soft as cream above her low neckline. As if she needed to find solace in his admiration, nothing hid the sheer, breathtaking beauty of his captive, wrapped in mystery and courage and dark wit.

She walked forward, her slippers almost silent: white satin dancing slippers, just a slip of fabric with the thinnest of soles, and ribbons that laced up the ankles.

“I've been ungracious,” she said. “I didn't mean to be. Your Lordship has been most generous and I am grateful. I owe you my life. I've not forgotten that.”

“The gratitude is all mine.” Perhaps he really meant it. The idea left him feeling oddly defenseless. “If I seemed imperious—”

She laughed. “Ah! Are most ladies
so
demoralized simply by your thunderous presence, my lord?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose many of them are.” He held out a chair for her, then seated himself opposite. Desire mocked like a third guest at the table.

The black-velvet gaze met and held his. “Yet I've never felt safer in my life.”

“Thank you. You cannot know quite how precious a gift that thought is to me at the moment.”

“As are your assurances that no one can find me here. So perhaps we may enjoy our mutual comfort and forget all of that mad world out there?”

“Yes, why not?” He smiled, though his heart pounded as if she had flung open a door leading to an unknown destination. “Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous!” She glanced up at him beneath her lashes. “Aren't you?”

Ryder thought he might simply disintegrate, so he grinned at her. “Quite desperately so!” He poured wine and lifted the covers off the dishes. “Do you see something to your taste?”

Her pupils opened like the heart of a pansy, offering infinite depths. “There's very little that I don't enjoy tasting, my lord.”

He swallowed hard. “I'm afraid we have only this limited selection, based on what our landlord happened to have on hand: oxtail soup, bread, vegetables, rabbit stew, cold beef pie, roast chicken, a couple of fruit pies—one cherry; one rhubarb and ginger, I think—and a jug of thick cream. Such simple country fare is to your liking?”

She played idly with the trailing end of the ribbon at her throat. His attention riveted on her white skin, where the black velvet tickled over her cleavage in sensuous invitation.

“I like everything, my lord, from the simple to the exotic. Perhaps I have a fondness for dishes that you've never even had the chance to try?”

He glanced down to fill her soup plate, then looked up again as if her gaze were a magnet.

“The duke employs one of the best French chefs in the country. You think food exists anywhere that's more interesting than what's served at Wyldshay?”

“Oh, I'm sure of it!”

She dipped her spoon in her soup and sipped, though she never took her eyes from his. Her mouth was ripe, delectable, and smiling at him. His pulse hammered.

“I've also dined in London. At the King's table upon occasion.”

“No doubt. But the King is so very respectable these days.” Her tongue licked over her lips. “Have you never risked truly unusual fare, my lord, indulged every whim of appetite, however wicked?”

“Can food be wicked?”

“When it sits impiously in the mouth, certainly.”

“The very thought makes me giddy.”

She broke open a roll to split it down its length, her fingers caressing.

“Because a man needs solid sustenance? Something to sink his teeth into?” Her white teeth tore off a small piece of the bread, then she snarled at him, grinning, like a dog worrying a bone. “Or to wrap his tongue around?”

He laughed aloud and poured more wine. Yet in spite of his thundering blood and unruly private reactions, the very outrageous-ness of this conversation set its own limits. Why not just relax and enjoy himself?

Perhaps—after what she had just survived—she simply needed to be reassured that a man could respond to her with kindness rather than with his fists? How could he be cruel enough to turn that down?

“You're too solicitous of my comfort, ma'am, though I think I'd better keep my tongue between my teeth.”

She dabbed a little butter on the bread before biting off another small piece. “But doesn't that make it rather hard to enjoy such a feast when it's offered? How do you expect to indulge yourself in its splendors if you never allow your tongue free rein?”

“But which splendors appeal most, ma'am? Chicken, rabbit, or this noble beef pie?”

The turn of her wrist was stunningly lovely as she picked up her wineglass. Ardor resounded in dark, hidden depths.

“You invite me to partake in the king of meats?” she asked. “Alas, the noble beef would appear to be hiding its desires beneath some very respectable trappings of pastry.”

“Beef has no desires.”

“Yes, it does,” she replied, mirth lighting her eyes. “But if you're so determined to deny them, perhaps you should begin with this white meat and the smoothly innocent potato? Pray, take these two, my lord, deliciously round and dripping with butter—and perhaps this carrot? So very upright and solid!”

He almost choked, then he threw his head back and shouted his laughter. He had not allowed himself such pure joy in as long as he could remember. He felt sharp and hot with desire, but she laughed back, as if she really were carefree, as if all her dark shadows had been forgotten, which only made him fiercely glad.

“And what will you have?” he asked.

Still grinning, she topped up his glass, then laid open the savory pie with her knife.

“I'll have the most noble food offered, of course,” she said.

Ryder tossed back more wine, filled with wonder that she seemed to have shed her fears so easily—and that she so obviously felt no apprehension at all at being with him?

“But you're not afraid of the fearsome beef pie, ma'am?” he asked, just to make sure. “You don't think it too formidable?”

She raised a brow, as if gently mocking him. “Do other ladies find such noble pies so terrifying, my lord?”

“A great many of them do, ma'am, I regret to say!” He had begun to feel very pleasantly foxed. “Too damn many!”

“Why? Should beef intimidate simply because it's a superior member of the aristocracy?” She leaned forward over the table to tap the meat pie with her knife. “Arise, Sir Loin!”

He was thunderingly aware of the shadowed cleavage between the magical swell of her breasts. He drained his glass again, knowing it was past time to retreat.

“Yet you can't deny that such an aristocrat among meats makes for a cold pie, trapped within its grand flutings of pastry.”

“But it's not cold,” she said. “Why should you think so? I believe it's a pie of great depth and generosity, and very hot indeed at the core.”

He took his own knife and plunged it into the heart of the pie, laying it open. “No,” he said. “As you see, it's a cold pie.”

“There's enough fire in this room, though, to warm it.”

The wine burned into his overheated blood. “Dare I risk it?”

“Dare you not? You might otherwise always regret dismissing the poor beef pie as a cold fish, and wonder how succulent things might have tasted with just a little more flame added.”

“Mustard by itself won't do?”

“Oh, I'm very fond of mustard,” she said, “as long as it's very hot.”

He lost himself in hilarity. Candlelight danced and spun, sparking infinite promise in the lovely turn of her throat. Her skin rippled as she tipped back her head to drain her wineglass. Every nerve in his body leaped in response. He was hard and hot and feeling far too reckless.

“Then you don't think we should reach for a little cool detachment?” he asked when he had caught his breath.

“Not at all,” she said. “I think we should go directly to the sweets.”

“You know that I am filled with desire for the fruit, but these sweets aren't for me, are they?”

“Why not?” Her fingers, elegant and supple, stroked the fluted stalk of her glass.

“Because, however strongly tempted, a gentleman learns to restrain his appetites.”

It sounded pompous even to his own ears, but she laughed and speared a single cherry with her fork. Her lips gleamed moist and ripe, her mouth pursed for a moment as if kissing, while she sucked in the red fruit. Desire ricocheted to his groin.

“Then you dislike cherries? Most men claim to prefer them to any other fruit. Or do you prefer a spicier, more experienced flavor, like this rhubarb and ginger?”

Wine buzzed in his head. His body flamed with yearning. His mouth was so dry that he thought he might have to drag his voice over gravel. “I don't know. Tonight I shall go without either.”

“You will? Why?” She sliced into the rhubarb pie, then dipped a forefinger into the spilled juice. The tip of her tongue curled as she tasted it. “Ah! It's very sweet. You should try some. It won't harm you.”

Ardor flickered about his head in a flaming aura. He could no longer find words. Only this reckless longing as he watched the flick of her tongue over her fingertip. He reached for a last shred of sanity.

“No,” he said at last, his voice thick. “However delicious it appears, honor demands otherwise.”

She speared a piece of candied ginger with her fork and held it out to him. “You really don't need to fear the bite of the ginger, my lord. The balance between the flavors is perfect.”

“I'm not afraid,” he said desperately.

“Yes, you are. Your diet has been restricted far too long by all that bitter fruit from the thicket. I think it past time that you indulged yourself a little.”

“No! It's not that.” He closed his eyes. Otherwise, he thought he might simply lean over the table to kiss her.

“Then you prefer humble pie?” she asked gently. “There's no need for that, I assure you.”

Ryder glanced up. Her smile was open, welcoming. No shadow lurked in her eyes. The temptation was overwhelming: to take her up on her invitation. The less noble parts of his anatomy clamored the argument:
Why not? Why not?

“Though I've been accused of many faults,” he said, “humility is not among them.”

With his last ounce of willpower, he pushed his chair back from the table.

He meant to make his bow and leave the room. Any debt he owed gallantry was fulfilled. She could be in no doubt now that he found her breathtaking, that he desired her with stunning intensity, and that he intended her no harm. She most certainly would not take her own life: not a life that was so vibrant and witty and alive to sensual pleasure. He could safely leave her in this room and retreat back into his own life.

“No one will find you here,” he said. “But I believe I should ride back to Wyldshay tonight, after all.”

“In this storm? To have been raised in that brier patch of scruples must have been damnable. Do those harsh principles never allow you to taste any of life's riches, my lord?”

She dipped her spoon into the cream pot and twirled it together with sweet juice from the pie. Taking a little of the mixture on the tip of one finger, she brushed it over his lips: rich cream, with the sticky undercurrent of sugar and ginger and fruit.