Her Protector's Pleasure (5 page)

Elsewhere, as well.

Her tongue touched her upper lip, and he had to bite back a groan.

An image blazed from the darkest recesses of fantasy: moon-spun tresses spilling like liquid silk into his palms and across his thighs. A breath, a lick ... that soft pink mouth worshipping the hardest part of him. 'Twas the naughtiest of acts that assailed his imagination—one he'd secretly fantasized about but never experienced. After all, he did not purchase his pleasures and wouldn't expect a decent woman to engage in so depraved a deed. Yet the vision took hold of him, of this wicked widow taking him this way, her eyes vivid and knowing as she swallowed him whole—

"Why, Mr. Kent, I do believe there's more to you than meets the eye."

The amused drawl jerked him back to reality. He blinked, mortification burning the back of his neck. Hell's teeth, what was he about? He was acting like some sex-starved debaucher. Clearly it had been too long since he'd been with a woman—not since the couplings with Jane and those had been well over a year ago.

Still, it was no excuse. Jaw clenching, he fought to regain control. He gripped his thighs, willing his erection to subside.

Show some self-discipline, man. And for God's sake, get your mind out of the gutter.

"Hold still for the next part," Lady Marianne said.

Before he could respond, she applied a hot, moist towel over his wound. He sucked in a breath as she blotted and dabbed, pausing to rinse out the towel before repeating the process. He told himself the pain was good: it dulled the need gnawing at his belly. Dulled, but did not take it away completely. He kept his gaze fixed on the basin, watching as the water turned red with his blood.

"I think you'll live," she announced, "and I shan't have to put stitches in."

That got his attention. "You have stitched a wound?" he said in disbelief.

"It is no different from stitching anything else. I have a steady hand." As if to prove it, she picked up a glass of clear liquid and dumped it over his lesion. Fire scorched his battered flesh.

"And a steady constitution, apparently." His teeth gritted as she secured the bandage with a firm knot. What kind of woman was this? Did she shoot people as a habit, tidy them up on a regular basis?

Her lips curved. "Now that we've taken care of your injury, I believe you have other needs that require attention, Mr. Kent. What would you like to begin with?"

Sweat glazed his brow, and his lungs suddenly felt short of air. Surely she could not have guessed his carnal thoughts …

"How do you mean?" he said in a strangled voice.

She leaned closer to him, and his muscles went rigid in anticipation. He dug his fingers into the cushions, afraid of what his hands might do otherwise. His mouth pooled with hunger as her unique scent pervaded his senses. Savage need surged within him to kiss the mocking smile off her lips, to taste every inch of her milky skin, to hear her pant his name in bliss—

His lungs burned as she casually reached for his lap ... and over it. To the table of refreshments, which he'd somehow forgotten about entirely. She lifted a silver cover, revealing a plate of golden brown pastries.

"Ah, excellent. Cook's pheasant pie," she said. "Shall I serve?"

He could not summon a proper response.

She went to inspect the offerings. Even this proved a special kind of torture. She bent over the table, affording him a tantalizing view of her bosom. He could not tear his gaze from the rounded white mounds peeping over the edge of green fabric. Not too big, nor too small, her breasts had a ripe, firm curve that made his palms itch to touch them. To discover what sort of delight tipped their centers. Would her nipples be a shy, blush pink or—God help him, his personal weakness—a rich, berry red ...

"Hungry, Mr. Kent?"

Not for food.
Heart hammering, he had to squeeze the words past his cinched throat. "Not particularly."

"Pity. Cook has a way with sausages."

So saying, Lady Marianne forked a plump length of meat.

Devil and damn. Don't watch, turn away—

It was too late. Like a victim of the gorgon Medusa, he remained rooted in place. The analogy extended for when she held the sausage up, the blunt tip nudging her lips, a part of him did indeed turn to stone. Hard as rock, his shaft throbbed as her mouth opened. The meat slid inside with excruciating slowness. She bit down with dainty precision, juice dribbling from the corner of her lips. When her pink tongue appeared, sweeping her lips in a sensuous arc, lust shattered the remnants of his control.

His vision turned black. The beast of need broke free, obliterating all else.

He was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. His hands closed on her waist, and he yanked her against him. Pleasure shocked his system as her softness collided with his own hard edges. His fingers knotted in the fine silk of her tresses. And the animal in him roared as he bent down and claimed the kiss that was more essential than his next breath.

Hot. Carnal.
Take
.

His blood pounded in his ears as he ravaged the softness of her mouth. She tasted sweet and savory, like cinnamon and sage, the flavor addictive beyond description. All he knew was that he needed more. He drove his tongue deeply, penetrating her, groaning as his tongue found hers. At the wet, sinuous tangling, his erection threatened to burst free from his trousers. He clamped his hands on her bottom, urging her closer, dragging her against his raging cockstand—

The slap snapped his head back.

It took a minute for reality to sink in. Lady Draven was glaring at him, her lips red and swollen from his kisses. Tangled by his hands, her hair cascaded in pale streamers to her waist. Her bosom rose and fell in rapid breaths as her gaze clashed with his. Rage glittered in the icy emerald depths. Appalled at his lack of control, he dropped his hands. Took a step back.

"My lady, I …" He trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Had he misread her intentions? Good God, if he had, he'd acted like the veriest scoundrel. The sort of man he most despised. Self-loathing bubbled through his veins as he racked his brain for a suitable apology.

"Now, Mr. Kent, what
were
you lecturing me about earlier in the carriage?"

Her lingering taste clouded his faculties. His body was still hard and humming from the contact with her lithe form. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

She tapped her chin with one elegant finger. "Yes, I have it. I believe you shared your expertise on the matter of controlling one's impulses." Her brows formed sardonic arches. "Should you care to add anything to your learned discourse?"

The motive for her actions became instantly clear. Humiliation seized him; all of this had been a ploy to put him in his place? This false seduction nothing more than her way of proving a point? In that moment, his anger almost equaled his desire ... almost, but not quite. Which infuriated him further.

"Nothing to add, my lady," he bit out.

Her gaze hardened. "Then I believe you know your way out."

A word formed in his head, one he'd never before used in conjunction with any female. He retained sufficient control to keep his mouth shut. He threw on his clothes, and hands fisted at his sides, issued a stiff bow. As he strode toward the door, he silently cursed himself and made a vow: he would never get entangled in this black widow's web again.

FIVE

The sun-drenched meadow brimmed with birdsong and blossoming clover. Overhead, a pair of larks soared across the azure sky, their shadows gliding over Marianne's skin while she lay stretched against the grass, her hair loose and free. Her eyes closed with pleasure as her lover whispered in her ear. His words were as sweet as his berry-flavored kisses, the promises of forever holding her as securely as his arms.

At seventeen, it was so easy to believe in love.

His lips touched her neck. The hesitant yet sweet caress brought a warm flush to her skin. She knew she ought to stop him. But desire had a stronger hold than maidenly modesty, and she abandoned herself to impulse, to the reckless curiosity coursing through her. His mouth found hers, and need shivered through her. Her nerves tingled. No longer uncertain and innocent, this kiss burned with a new intensity.

Not a boy's fledgling ardor ... but a man's hunger.

Every part of her responded. Her lips parted to the thrust of his tongue, and his spicy, male flavor infused her senses. He tasted right, smelled right,
felt
right ... she moaned as his lean length pressed her deeper into the soft grass. Her neck arching to his kisses, she fitted herself shamelessly against his hardness, the bold shape of him fueling her inner fire. Her insides turned liquid, and hot honey trickled between her thighs.

"Oh, Thomas ..." she sighed.

"I'm not Thomas." Her eyelids flew open. Above her was not her lover's handsome, boyish countenance, but a stark face carved by time and experience. Amber eyes pinned her and penetrated her very soul.

Marianne awoke with a gasp. She was clutching the bedclothes, breathing hard. Blackberries, her first taste of desire, lingered upon her tongue as she stared up into the swirls of the damask canopy.

What is the matter with me? Why
him
, of all people?

'Twas the third night in a row that she'd dreamt of Ambrose Kent.

Pushing a damp tendril off her cheek, she waited for her heartbeat to calm and the wave of arousal to pass. Bodily needs always did—and if they didn't, she knew well enough how to take matters into her own hands. For she did not trust any man to do for her what she could safely and efficiently do for herself. Having been saddled with a hot-blooded nature—she was never one to lie to herself—she tended to her own needs regularly.

And with alarming frequency in the past three days.

For reasons she could not entirely comprehend, the encounter with the blasted policeman had thrown her off-balance. Ambrose Kent did not possess good looks, at least not in the traditional sense. He was her social inferior. While these two facts did not bother her over much, the next one did: he had dared to interfere in her business and to question her judgment. He, who knew nothing about her—about the life-or-death plight of her daughter—had presumed to
judge
her?

Anger welled. She lived by her own rules, and no man would govern her again. Turning onto her side, she yanked a pillow into position beneath her neck.

Kent deserved what I dished out. Let him experience what it is like to lose control. Let him know how it feels to be subject to another's whims.

Yet despite her livid state, she could not stop the image from forming in her head. Of Kent stripping before her, undressing with the ease of a man who didn't use the services of a valet. There could be no other explanation for the rumpled state of Kent's waistcoat and his hopeless excuse for a cravat. Yet she had to admit that those drab, ignominious garments had concealed a bit of a surprise.

Ambrose Kent's physique was … splendid.

Her pulse quickened at the memory of his lean, sinewy body. Though somewhat undernourished, Kent's shape had been undoubtedly virile: the body of a man whose strength had come from necessity rather than vanity. From chasing criminals and rowing policing lighters rather than a fancy fencing or boxing saloon. Subtle power had emanated from the hard curve of his biceps and the rigid paving of his chest. The only softness had come from the dark hair dusted across his upper torso and narrowing into a line between the taut bands of his belly.

She swallowed, remembering how that line had circled his navel before arrowing south. Her eyes had followed the delicious trail until it disappeared beneath his waistband. And there, between his thighs, had been a prominent bulge that not even the poor cut of his trousers could hide.

Kent had looked to be a large man in
every
respect.

Perturbed, she realized that her musings were fanning rather than dimming her arousal. Her stiffened nipples chafed against her satin chemise. Between her legs, the flesh had grown damp and throbbing, the coil at her core wound tight. She shut her eyes and tried to dispel Kent's image. Instead, he seemed to expand in her mind's eye. Her breath quickened as she pictured the proud policeman losing control. The moment his will lost to desire, his mouth twisting in a sensual smile, his amber eyes blazing as his big hands reached for her …

Her resolve began to melt. She'd been under so much tension as of late. Surely, a quick release couldn't hurt … The rap on the door stilled the downward path of her hand. Her eyes opened. Blowing out a breath, she fought off the simmering frustration.

You ought to be glad for the interruption. Because no matter how you rationalize it, fantasizing about Kent just won't do.

She sat up as Tilda bustled into the chamber. As ever, the lady's maid was the image of competence. Tilda's starched cap sat upright upon her tamed brown curls, and nary a wrinkle could be found on the black bombazine that covered her voluptuous figure from neck to ankle. With the exception of the scar below her right ear and her accent (rapidly improving under the tutelage of the elocution master), there was nothing to betray the fact that Tilda Collier had once made her living in the alleyways of St. Giles.

"Good mornin', milady. Brought your breakfast," Tilda said, sliding the tray onto the table next to the bed. "You've got a busy day ahead o' you."

Marianne sat up straighter. "There's news?"

"No, milady." A look of understanding shadowed the other's blue-grey eyes as Marianne's heart plummeted. "But I'm sure there will be soon. That fellow Corbett said 'e'd call, didn't 'e?"

"And I am to trust the word of a male prostitute?" Marianne said bitterly. "To hinge my daughter's future upon his ill-begotten promise?"

"A whore's word is no different than anyone else's." Shoulders hunched, the maid turned and poured the chocolate.

Shame stabbed Marianne at her own carelessness. She was reminded that hers was not the only tragedy that lived in this house. "Forgive me, Tilda," she said quietly. "That is not what I meant."