I Adored a Lord (22 page)

“What of ‘It is too late—­he is yours—­he will always be yours now'?” He bent and sat down on the clean straw with movements so economical and fluid that she saw how this large, powerfully built man had trained his body to the sort of discipline required of a monk. “Has your philosophy altered since only this morning?” he said.

“Was that only this morning?” she said over the open mouth of the goblet, the golden honey aroma stirring in her nostrils. “What a peculiar day it has been.”

“The days that preceded it were so benign in your experience, were they? Clearly you lead an adventuresome life.”

She looked at him squarely. “How did Monsieur Paul gain entrance into the chateau past the prince's guards? And after the murder, how did he escape without notice?”

“Perhaps a servant allowed him entrance. I inquired of the kitchen staff. They all denied having seen the deputy in the house. Tomorrow I will interview the other servants.”

She might have assumed he would do so. Perhaps he had not avoided speaking with her this afternoon. Perhaps he had merely been otherwise occupied.

She looked into her wine. “Is that the sort of thing they teach men in Catholic monasteries? To interrogate servants and hunt down murderers?”

He did not reply. Gathering her courage, she looked up at him. A slight smile creased one side of his mouth.

“Another question you have been waiting to ask, hm?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes away. “I only learned of your deeply pious past this afternoon.” She took some time studying her fingertip as she ran it around the lip of the goblet. “Is it your past?” Butterflies cavorted about her stomach. It should not matter what he answered, but the wine spread warmth in her limbs and she wanted to know.
Needed
to know.

“Why?” His voice was easy. “Do you take some particular interest in it?”

“Only in the event that the deputy turns out not to be the murderer and the mayor should need to reopen the case.” Grabbing the decanter, she stood up and went to him. “It would be inconvenient for him to be obliged to hunt you down upon some remote mountaintop.”

“You are all consideration for our French friend.”

“Aren't I?” She plopped down beside him, tucked her legs beneath her, and extended the bottle to him. “Mostly I wonder if monks are allowed to have dogs.”

He topped off his goblet. “I should think it would depend upon the monastery. Some are stricter than others regarding the prohibition of personal property.”

“Would you keep him?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Ravenna—­”

She grasped his sleeve. “But would you?”

He looked down at her hand and she removed it, but it felt peculiar to release him, as though her hand wanted to remain with him.

“I don't think Gonçalo would allow me to abandon him,” he said. “That he is not here now is only due to the deep sleep into which he fell after his run beside the sleighs this afternoon.” He paused before adding, “But the issue is moot. That life is behind me.”

She fell back in the straw, exhaling panic. It was remarkable, really, how even two sips of wine made one's feelings so
acute
and dramatic. “Do you think Mr. Anders drinks wine?”

“I believe I have seen him do so.” His voice smiled.

“I don't mind it when you laugh at me.”

“I was not laughing at you.”

“Of course you were. Will your brother make Mr. Anders meet him tomorrow at dawn?”

“At the request of Mademoiselle Dijon and the general, he withdrew his challenge. Since the dog was not harmed, the general has also forgiven Lord Prunesly for the theft. It seems it will increase the value of his kennels for a titled lord to have taken an interest in them. They have agreed upon an arrangement by which Lord Prunesly will show the dog at his scientific meeting after all.”

“After which all the most fashionable ladies will want one of Marie's pups in their boudoirs. Clever. But I am relieved. Martin Anders is very foolish. I cannot think now how I ever considered him a potential suspect.”

“You didn't. Not since your late-­night encounter with him.”

There was something odd in his voice. She opened her eyes and he was as handsome as she had thought before. Now he was looking into his wine, perhaps also searching for the magic in it that made thoughts tumble and feelings acute.

“I don't believe he meant me harm,” she said.

His gaze came sharply to hers. “Anders?”

“Your brother. Just now. And I am terribly grateful for the wine, as it turns out.”

He paused. “Are you?”

“Tell me about the woman he nearly wed, Mr. Walsh's sister, the one who died of a broken heart.” She should not ask. It was not her place to ask. But he answered.

“Her name was Fannie. In the first years that Walsh worked for my father, she lived with their mother and grandparents in Bath and rarely visited her brother. When she was fourteen her mother and grandfather died of fever, and she and her grandmother went to live at Airedale. I think my brother came to admire her then.”

“How old was he?”

“Eighteen.”

“Did he court her then?”

“Three years later.”

“He was eager.”

“Rather, he was certain. He saw no reason to wait longer. And, as she was a very pretty girl of an open nature, he saw great reason for haste.”

Ravenna closed her eyes and breathed slowly through her nose, the air cooling her muddled head. “He was heir to a title and she was the sister of his father's employee. What more attractive marriage could she have hoped for?”

In response, he was silent.

Cheeks suddenly hot, she turned her head and studied him in the silvery-­gold of lamp and moonlight. His handsome face was set in quiet lines, as so often, and now she understood why; he was trained to it.

“What happened?” she said. “When he offered for her?”

“My father would not allow it. The match was vastly unequal, of course, and I believe he had other reservations as well.”

A girl of an open nature
. “Her character?”

“Perhaps.”

“How did your brother accept that?”

“He fought it, but our father did not relent. When Walsh saw that his sister would not be a countess, however, he accused my brother of having seduced and ruined her. My brother insisted that he had behaved with honor toward her. Infuriated, he called out Walsh. He met Walsh at dawn and shot him in the arm.”

“It is remarkable to me how readily gentlemen take up firearms to settle disputes,” she murmured. “What happened then?”

“Then?”

“After the duel.”

There was another lengthy silence. Then he said, “She transferred her affections to another man.” His eyes, usually so warm and direct, shuttered now. “That man did not return her affections. Soon after, she fell ill.”

“Her will to live must already have been weak. Animals don't suffer that sort of death if they are loved and well treated. Only humans succumb to illness in such a fashion.”

He looked down at her and the lamplight seemed to cut a crease in his cheek. “You said before that you do not believe in dying of a broken heart.”

“I don't.”

“And yet you have now suggested the opposite.”

“Weak ­people have weak wills. Was this girl—­this Fannie—­was she weak?”

He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Might we discuss something else, Ravenna? This wearies me.”

“Oh, well, one mustn't weary his excellency.”

He smiled. “No.”

She turned her face to the window. The moonlight was a winter moon's, aloof and chill, and her breaths clouded upon the air. But wrapped in her heavy cloak, she barely felt the cold.

“On nights like this, Beast and I used to wander the park at Shelton Grange searching for hare. We could see everything as though it were day. Sometimes better.”

“But no longer?”

“He left me. I suppose somewhere up there”—­she gestured to the heavens—­“is a snowy park in which he hunts for hare in the moonlight.”

He did not respond. Then, sleepily: “If he was anything like the monster you deposited upon my pillow, he is probably tearing through pristine angels' boots at this very moment. I believe I can hear the cherubim and seraphim now groaning in chorus.”

She laughed. Such pleasure warmed her chest, more than she had felt in months. But unlike the peaceful happiness she had known before, an undercurrent of longing swept through her, as though true joy were just on the other side of a door she daren't open.

Her companion was quiet, his eyes closed, the movement of his chest regular as though he dozed.

“I am sorry Gonçalo has caused you to lose sleep,” she said.

Without opening his eyes he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. In repose his face was starkly handsome, and with a day's whisker shadow seemed too rugged for either monk or nobleman. As she had wanted to touch his back earlier, now her fingers tingled with the desire to stroke the plane of his cheek and hard jaw, and to delve into his dark hair and know its silky texture. She wanted to feel him.

“Do you find something amiss with what you see?” he asked without opening his eyes. “Is this the reason for your long study?”

She laughed. “Are your eyelids transparent?”

“At war, a man learns to hone all his senses.”

“I am glad you honed them so that you returned home alive,” she said.

“Thank you. At this moment, I am as well.”

Her head was spinning and her heart beat hard. So much feeling swirled inside that it seemed to fill her entirely. She had never had such a friend. And yet as she enjoyed his laughter and companionship, the longing swelled.

“Today,” she began, uncertain of her words, “after Monsieur Sepic announced his conclusions, I wondered if . . .”
What was she saying?
“I want to find the murderer, of course. The actual murderer. But . . . I am afraid of this ending.” She whispered, “Please don't let it end.”

He turned to her and the lamplight cut across his sober face and shadowed his eyes. He leaned down and slid his hand around her cheek and into her hair. A caress soft as a prayer passed along her jaw, then beneath her lips. It made her shiver with pleasure and fear.

“I thought you were asleep,” she whispered. “Before. When I was staring at you.”

“How, do you imagine, could I sleep when you are near?” His voice was low.

Butterflies danced in her stomach. “Do you intend to kiss me now?”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“You made me promise to never again kiss you in a stable.”

She stared at his lips. “I now relieve you of that promise.”

 

Chapter 15

The Wolf and the Hare

H
e kissed her. Lips barely touching, mostly it seemed that he breathed her, a caress of warmth against the coldness surrounding them.

“You are exquisite, Ravenna.” His voice sounded remarkably unsteady. But his words were nonsense.

“I am no—­”

Then he truly kissed her. Capturing her lips quite securely beneath his, he scooped his hand around the back of her neck and tilted her face up so that her mouth came against his fully. She had never kissed anyone except him, briefly and against her will. She had not known that a kiss could be like this. Neither harsh upon her mouth nor gentle, his mouth commanded hers to return the kiss, and she did—­eagerly. He tasted of golden wine and felt at once like home and danger, delicious and thrilling. Her hands found their way to his shoulders and gripped, and he leaned into her, trapping her beneath him. This time, beset by the most powerful urge to push herself against him, she didn't mind being trapped. When his lips coaxed hers apart, a rushing, insistent heat funneled through her.

She might have made a sound; he lifted his head. His indigo eyes questioned.

She forced words through her quick breaths. “I thought when you kissed me this morning on my brow that you hadn't any more interest in kissing me like this.”

“No.” He sounded breathless too.

“But—­”

“A promise is a promise.” He cupped her face in both his hands, and his gaze upon her mouth looked as hazy as her muddled head. The wine was strong, but they hadn't drunk that much.

“If I made you promise to continue kissing me like this now,” she said, “until I say otherwise, would you honor that promise too?”

“A man is only as good as his word.”

“And deed, I hope,” she managed to say before he covered her lips again. This time as he tasted her, his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Ripples of pleasure followed. He did it again and her lips parted. Her mouth wanted him inside her.
She
wanted him inside her. Then he was there, stroking her and making her weak. Pleasure. Longing. Tangled together, hot and wanting. All the feeling inside her needed more than even the thrilling connection of lips, more than these caresses, and much more than the connection of bodies through clothing. Tentatively she allowed the tip of her tongue to stroke his.

“Ravenna.” Her name came upon a groan that seemed to come from his chest. She felt it rumble against her breasts. “You mustn't tease me.”

“I'm not teasing. I want to touch you.”

He gave her what she wished, and the confident caress of his tongue against hers shot spikes of yearning straight down her body. She ached profoundly, and she knew it was the mating urge. She wanted to be closer. As close as possible.
Intimately
close. The need surged everywhere—­upon her tongue that he caressed and between her legs where the ache was fiercest, and in her breasts too.

“And to be touched by you,” she said. She wanted him to touch her. Needed him to.

His palm smoothed from her face to her shoulder, then to the neckline of her gown above her breasts. He bent his head, and where his fingers played at the edge of her bodice he put his mouth.

Shocking pleasure
. Soft heat with the rasp of his whiskers against her skin. His lips caressed. She sank into ecstasy.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin, his mouth hot upon her. “This. You.” His hand curved beneath her breast and cupped it. His groan mingled with her gasp.

He lifted his head. His eyes looked fevered, almost hazy, and as full of desperation as she felt. Her throat made a whimpering sound of protest, and she reached up and clamped his hand to her firmly. Fingers laced over his, she made him hold her. Her nipple was tight beneath the fabric. His dark eyes held hers as he stroked over the peak. Another whimper escaped her, then another. Now nothing mattered but the need to feel him more, to have him where she ached hardest. She separated her thighs and pressed up to him. But the narrow gown made it impossible.

She broke her lips free and tugged at her skirts. “Help me. Help me.” Desperation drove her.

With strong, remarkably capable hands, he pushed her skirts to her thighs, then higher. She spread her knees and let him bear up against her.
Yes
. Yes. A thousand times yes. A sound came from her throat, a sound she'd never heard, of pure pleasure, echoed by rumbling pleasure in his chest.

“
Ravenna
.”

Bending his cheek to hers, he pressed her into the straw, and there was only feeling and pleasure and the aching that grew yet more desperate now as she clutched at him and urged him against her.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I want this.”

His mouth covered hers and he kissed her, deeply, hungrily, possessing her mouth like she wanted him to possess her entirely. He touched her face, his skin against hers hot, perfect, making her wild, making her clasp his hips with her thighs and groan. She shuddered, wanting him even closer. Wanting
more
. His hand slipped along her throat and he followed it with his mouth, each caress new pleasure. He encompassed her breast again and she pushed into it. Her nipples strained against her clothing, swollen and sore with need. She wanted him to touch them. She wanted him to remove her clothing and touch
all of her
. Wild for his hands on her, she needed to be connected with him.

He spoke against her throat. “I did not come here with this intention.”

She grabbed his shoulders. “I think I may have.”

“I needed only to find you. I need . . . I have the most powerful need to be near you.”

“I think I want you nearer now.” Wild birds had ejected the butterflies and taken up residence in her belly. Her legs felt weak, every part of her quivering. “As near as possible.”

“Ravenna—­”

“
Please
.”

There was little to do. He was already where she wanted him and she felt his male readiness. Only the fall of his trousers and perhaps a shirttail stood between her and the satisfaction of her ache.

“Please,” she whispered.

She did not expect him to delay and he did not. There was the most extraordinary shock of being touched by flesh that was not her own, then probed, then
broken
, like she was soft pine wood and he was an awl. She gulped in air and for a moment she regretted. But the moan that came from his chest, so powerful and satisfied, rolled through her and made her weak with yearning. Without further cajoling her body simply opened to him and he entered her completely. His instrument was large and she felt stretched and filled and
extraordinary
.

His chest heaved. He dropped his brow to hers.

Panic slipped through her, and she abruptly felt the cold air on her stockinged legs and the weight of the man atop her. Rams and stallions never paused like this. They did their business before the female escaped. “What's wrong?” she whispered.

“A moment,” he said in a strained voice.

She tried to swallow. Could not. Her throat was closed. Completely dry. He had been a monk. Had she made him break a vow? Oh.
No
. “You have done this before. Haven't you?”

“Not with you.” His voice was so deep.

“Well, it's good that one of us has because—­
unh!
”

He thrust into her and her world exploded. He filled her and it was
perfect
, as though her body had been made to be filled by him. She clutched his shoulders tighter.
This
—­this was what she wanted.

“One of us?” he said roughly, thrusting again, jarring her into the straw, delectably hard and deep inside her.

He thrust again.
Yes
. This friction. This delicious meeting. This deep caress. “
Ohh
.”

“One of us?” he growled.

“Now both of us.” How hadn't she known of this? How would she ever have enough of it now? “Oh,
yes
.”

“Ravenna—­”

She never wanted it to end. Having him inside her was pleasure and desperation and satisfaction all at once. “Yes. Please—­”

“
Ravenna
.” His body went perfectly still. “Are you a virgin?”

“Not now.”

Breaking her grip, he pulled out and off of her. She had barely time to register the shock of her empty body and the cold air on her inner thighs when he yanked down her skirt and swiftly set to buttoning his breeches.

“How can you be a virgin?” His voice shook. He scraped his hand through his hair and his eyes looked confused. “How is that possible?”

She couldn't quite breathe. “I thought you said you had done it before. Am I wrong in supposing that means you should know how a person can be a virgin, then subsequently not?”

He stared at her uncomprehending. “You said ‘please.' ”

“A virgin cannot be polite?”

“What was all that talk of a woman's virtue not residing in her maidenhood? And your unstinting loyalty to Lady Iona?”

“That was me speaking my mind and being a nonjudgmental friend.” She sat up, the chill curling around her. “Would my family really have sent me to woo a prince if I weren't a virgin?”

He gestured toward the door. “Half the girls in that house aren't virgins.”

“How do you know that?” Oh. No. He could not have done this with other potential brides. Could he? But he was so handsome. He could have any woman he wanted. “Have you  . . . ? That is . . . With . . . ? Oh.” She pushed herself up, her stomach ill.

He grabbed her wrist. “No. I have not. That is not how I know. It has been my project this sennight to learn these things, if you recall.” He released her.

She snatched her hand back and sank it into a fold of her cloak. “You didn't know it about me.”

“I haven't been investigating you.” His voice sounded peculiarly slurred. But he'd only drunk two glasses of wine . . . here. Perhaps he'd had more earlier. Perhaps he had been foxed when he came to the stable. Perhaps he had come to find her only because he had been foxed.

“Well maybe you should have been,” she said, entirely uncertain now, and starting to hurt in a way she had not anticipated. She hadn't wanted their friendship to end but she had ended it quite effectively herself. “Anyway if that is the case, then it should have been your project to make my first time being ravished a good one.”

“Your first time being ravished?” His eyes looked fuzzy, like he was trying to recall. He looked up, and it seemed that he struggled to focus. “I was not ravishing you. You were willing. I thought.”

“And ready.”

“And drunk. And I'm drunk.” He put a hand over his eyes. “My God, what am I doing? I am going to regret this in the morning,”

Ravenna's stomach cramped. She backed up. “There is nothing to regret. Nothing happened.”

His brow grew dark. “Nothing happened?”

“I may not be a woman of great experience—­or, rather, any at all—­but I have seen enough animals mating to know that nothing just happened here. Even birds mate for longer than that.”

“Birds mating?” He was not laughing. But she had not meant it in jest. The indignation in her chest had become a burrowing core of hurt.

“You know, I don't think I will thank Lord Case for supplying the wine, after all.” She pulled her cloak about her and ran.

F
OR A MOMENT
Vitor could do nothing. Shock, lust, and confusion all battered at his cotton-­wadding head. Legs leaden, he lurched to his feet and set off after her. He reached the stable door in time to see her enter the castle, but his vision was blurred, spotty, and his head was astoundingly heavy. He shook it, but the fog remained.

It needed but seconds to return to the stable room, take up his empty glass, and curse himself for a fool. He slewed his gaze around. Nestled upright in the straw, her goblet was nearly full. But he had drunk two glasses.

Poisoned wine
.

He could not believe it of his brother.
He could not
. Despite the past. But . . .

He smelled no scent other than fermented grape, but in truth he knew little of poisons, only that some left small trace. Taking up the bottle and goblets, he strode as well as his bandy legs would carry him, staggering and spilling the wine from her cup into the snow. His feet sank in the slush.

Melting?

No wonder the stables had not been unbearably cold. That, drugged wine, and her body beneath him had warmed him.

Her virginal body
.

In his right mind he wouldn't have done it. In his right mind he would have halted it, no matter how she pleaded.

Balderdash
. In his right mind he'd been wanting her beneath him again for a sennight.