Her Mad Baron (24 page)

He went to the library, penned a note and summoned a footman to deliver it to Duncan Cadero.

Tonight he’d free himself from the medicine with her help and he’d give Florrie a gift in return. He smiled at the plan that should have horrified him or at least make him feel uneasy. He felt like a schoolboy planning a holiday treat, just as he might have before his father’s death. All right, perhaps he felt considerably more lewd than any schoolboy.

When he returned to his bedchamber and settled on the side of the bed to get undressed, she sat up and knuckled her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Ten.” He pulled off his boot.

“So late! I must get home.” She slithered out of the tall bed, landing with a thump.

“No need, Florrie. I sent a note to your brother saying it was too foggy to send you home. You’ll stay here tonight.”

“If a servant can make his way to my house to deliver the note, then it’s not too foggy for me.” But she didn’t reach for her clothes. She stood, unself-conscious and watched him undo his cravat.

“We aren’t married yet,” she said. “This is wrong.”

“We aren’t married yet, but we shall be. And no one will find out. My servants are discreet.”

She hoisted herself back onto the edge of the bed and hugged herself, her arms crossing her breasts. “It feels...so naughty to
plan
such a thing.”

“There is less evil when it is unplanned?” He unbuttoned his waistcoat, slid off the braces.

She watched, shoving a lock of her hair from her eyes then quickly crossed her arms again. “Yes, I think so, because in that case, one might blame it on uncontrollable passion.”

“A whole night of passion,” he said softly. “No one will come in and find us. Do you remember that you wished you could shed your clothes and stay naked together? Come. Let us stay together the whole night.”

Florrie did indeed remember how much she’d wanted to stay in his arms skin-to-skin and had thought it was impossible. The never-to-be repeated night with Nathaniel—only now she’d get a lifetime of nights in his bed.

A pity she was falling in love with the man. No, she’d been falling in love with him from that first madman’s kiss. Now, worse, she found she was too fond of him.

Even when he looked at her with eyes of gray ice and made it clear he would marry her because it would irk his uncle or he found it the most convenient way to slake his passion she found it impossible to back away, retreat to safety and preserve her heart.

She looked over at her abandoned pile of clothes. Now was a time to try. She’d learn sane, calm responses—better late than never.

She reached for her trousers. His hand flashed out and clamped her wrist.

“Nathaniel,” she said in a thin voice. “It’s perhaps too much.”

He gently removed the trousers from her hand and dropped them back onto the chair. Then he moved close, blocking her way, and he kissed her while he unbuttoned his shirt, flicked off the cufflinks. They clinked as they hit the floor.

His shirt was off and on top of the pile of her clothes. As he unbuttoned his fly, it became clear he wore no undergarments.

That lurching ache meant her body was waking up, responding to him. This was good practice, she decided. Saying no to him when she felt too easily bent by his will would be important. Her heart was too vulnerable, too open from pain. She’d take a lesson from him and turn into a polite inanimate object. She sighed against his lips and the slide of his tongue and knew that was impossible for her to manage.

Very well, if she couldn’t edge away in spirit, she’d remove herself entirely. She might have to spend the night in his house so as to not create even more talk at the Parsons’ boarding house of scandalous comings and goings. Nothing demanded that she spend the night in his room.

“How many can you sleep in this house?”

“Eight bedrooms,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Unless you would like to double up with a servant. Then there’s more.” His smile was wicked. “I don’t even know how many bedchambers Willsbourne has. Some day we shall have to explore. Kember has fifteen I believe. So many beds to explore—and carpets too.”

He stood at the edge of the bed, between her legs where he could pull her close. Not up against his body but near enough so she could feel his heat and his breath on her cheek.

He ran his hands up her arms over her shoulders.

One more kiss and she’d move away. She closed her eyes and offered her mouth. His kiss was firm, and coaxing too. How could he be so demanding yet skilled at reading her response? When she fell into that passion, she barely noticed anything beyond her own body’s needs.

One long kiss and she pushed back, sliding over the bedcovers.

He climbed on the bed and moved to her.

“I am tired,” she declared.

“You don’t appear tired.” He kissed her neck, pressing his mouth to the pulse at the base of her throat.

She squirmed, trying to get away. He rose to his knees to examine her. “Your eyes are dark, and you’re breathing quickly. Ah hah, and look.” He circled her aureole with the edge of a thumb then bent to taste her breast. She arched her back, then wished she hadn’t given him such a signal of her arousal. Blast, she wished she could hide better.

She managed to dislodge his mouth and hands and rolled away.

“Florrie.” His smile was greedy, not tender, though his voice was low and sweet. “I wonder. Do you want me to prevail?”

“What can you mean?” She pushed herself into a sitting position, leaning against the pillows.

“You like fear. You love it. I can give you some.”

Her heart beat so loudly she heard it in her ears.

“You’re not tired,” he repeated and was moving to her, slowly.

She didn’t answer, still turning over his words about fear. Part of her was surprised that he would notice her irregular nature beyond her abnormally high passion. He seemed so caught up in his own matters: his peculiar need to run away from affection as well as the trap of his forced addiction. Funny that he should be watching her at the same time she watched him.

For the first time it occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t just a body he needed. It was
her
body.

But now the predatory gleam in his eye demanded her attention. She forgot to breathe, and she felt that strange fluttering pulsation deep in her belly.

“What do I say to get you to stop?” she whispered.

He reached for her wrists and, with one hand, pushed them up over her head, pinning them against the elaborate mahogany headboard. Straddling her lap, he kissed her then said, “Say it. ‘Stop.’ Go on, say that word.”

“Stop.”

He threw himself off her and rolled away at once, settling on his side. Pushing himself onto an elbow, he grinned at her, no more of the predator, more a playmate. “See? It works.”

She smiled back. “You’re silly.”

His grin vanished. “Yes. I blame you.”

“I’m not sorry, you know.”

“Nor should you be.” He was up again, on all fours, prowling. The light from the single candle in the room picked out the muscles moving on his back.

She put up her hands to stop him. “Wait, now you have that look, and you’re making me nervous.”

“Good.” He still moved around her, intent on her, close but not touching. A stalking animal.

“You are mixing me up, Nathaniel. One moment I think I should run away and hide and another moment… Well, I still think I need to run away and hide.”

He sat against the pillow next to her so they were side by side on their backs. They sat in silence, except for their hard breathing, and she wondered if she only imagined the tension radiating from his body.

The addiction? Anger at her remark? Something kept his muscles taut. Or perhaps she only knew her own jittery awareness.

The bed creaked. He twisted away from her, and she heard the sound of cloth ripping.

“What are you doing?” she asked his back.

“Playing. You’ve shown me that you enjoy games. Damn. This is more difficult to do than it looks.”

He showed her something white, with embroidery on it. He’d ripped a long strip from the pillow’s fine linen.

“You’ve ruined that. And it’s so lovely,” she said.

He held up the cloth that dangled and twisted from his fingers. “Yes, it’s still lovely.”

“Why have you done that?”

“I’ll show you.” With one smooth motion, he was on her, pinning her to the mattress with his weight. He encircled her wrists with one hand.

“You run,” he whispered. “I’ll chase.”

She swallowed and turned away from his hungry gaze. He raised her hands above her head and deftly wrapped her wrists together with the broad strip of cloth.

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was unsteady.

“You’ll see.” He pulled her bound wrists to his mouth and tore off the end of the cloth with his teeth. She didn’t struggle, only watched as he ripped more of the cloth into a strip, cursing under his breath when it didn’t seem to rip correctly.

“You’re tying me up,” she said. “Why?”

He was pulling a strip of the cloth through the binding on her wrists. At her question he stopped and shrugged. “You seem to like ropes. These are softer.”

“That’s no sort of answer.” She still didn’t try to free herself, but the dangerous quiver in her belly grew stronger. Soon, she’d fight, flail and struggle. She was only preserving her strength.

He left her arms bound and worked at her ankles now. The cloth was cool against her skin. She gasped as he yanked at her legs, spreading them wide.

“Very nice.” Lewd and casual, he rested his palm between her legs for a moment.

She gave an indignant squeak.

He was whistling tunelessly between his teeth. Pushing at the bed with her bound hands she heaved herself up to watch him. He tied one of her legs with a long strap to the huge bottom bed post. No longer so worried, she watched and understood why he’d cursed. He’d required a long piece of cloth for this silly plan.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish.”

He stopped whistling and looked up from the other ankle. “Didn’t I make myself clear? I’m going to frighten you. I’m going to keep you helpless and unable to resist whatever I want to do to you, until you beg me to stop.”

“Oh, my.” She flopped back down, suddenly giddy. He went back to whistling and working. She gave an experimental tug with her leg. She couldn’t move. The anticipation of fear began to throb through her. Helpless. Out of control.

He finished and crawled along up her body, stopping to kiss and stroke her calf, the back of her knee. She squirmed at that almost ticklish touch. He drew his hand lazily up the inside of her thigh.

She gasped and twitched when she instinctively tried to close her legs but couldn’t.

“Almost,” he said, and straddled her waist. Leaning forward, he pulled her arms gently over her head and tied them to something. She tilted her head back to see he used one curving design jutting to the side of the headboard. If she lifted her arms and jiggled them, she’d easily work the makeshift rope up and off the mahogany headboard.

Looking down, she saw that he was aroused against her body, between her breasts.
Oh. My.

He climbed off of her and reached toward her head, holding one last long strip. She flinched but couldn’t get away. He tied the last soft white rag of cloth around her eyes.

In the dark she had no choices left.

He nuzzled her ear, and his breath was loud. A small touch, wet, so also a lick on her cheek, then the kisses came, down her neck, over her body. Kisses and small bites and the light scrape on her skin. Fingernails? Calloused finger tips? She strained her senses trying to distinguish what part of him touched her. His fingers, hands, tongue, teeth and cock. All of them played on her bound, quivering body in near-silence. She concentrated on each of his touches. She couldn’t speak, and he only hummed his appreciation.

All of her senses were heightened as she waited for each touch. Her skin anticipated and feared the next stroke. She tingled with need for him, and when she felt nothing beyond a possible moth’s wing touch on her inner thighs for a few seconds, she whimpered with frustration.

“I knew it,” he said, and the self-satisfaction in his voice made her twist against the bonds.

“You are conceited,” she muttered, and stifled a gasp as something—his finger, no, so wicked and damp, it had to be his tongue—slid along her thigh and then splayed against her swollen womanhood.

“You are warm. And so slick.” He moved against that small part of her body that made her shiver. His hair brushed her leg, warm and soft, and he sighed against her and went back to that touch that made her crazy to move.

She whimpered and fought, silently.

She couldn’t escape so she’d take what power she could—hold still and not allow him to see her excitement.

Less than two minutes later—to distract herself she counted off the seconds—she lost count and was lost again, trapped by his strips of sheets and her body’s responses to his touch.