I Loved a Rogue The Prince Catchers (19 page)

Chapter 16

The Light in Those Lights Above

I
mpossible
.

But her eyes told him she spoke the truth.

“I—” He could not find his tongue. “I didn’t know.”

She slipped out of his hold. “Now you do. But you needn’t concern yourself over it. I was little more than a child, with a child’s heart still capable of mending whole and hale again, like my lungs already had. And as you’ve said, youth passes. Fortunately.”

With the grace of a stalk of wheat bending to the wind, she smoothed her palms over her skirt, tucked a lock of spun gold behind her ear, and walked across the terrace and into the house.

Taliesin stood staggered, never having imagined she had felt that deeply. His memories had painted it one-sided, all the heartbreak his.

Ass. Fool. Young angry fool.

Eight months after that summer day at the pond, he had returned to St. Petroc, determined to defy all reason and rule to have her. On his way to the vicarage, he’d come upon a gig parked in the middle of the road in the shadow of tree cover. Thomas Shackelford had her in his arms.

He had loved her for a lifetime, and in eight months she had forgotten him. His ribs had only just healed entirely. Beneath the newly knit bones, in that moment his heart had finally given up the battle.

But it hadn’t. Not in truth. He’d left St. Petroc during the May Day fair the next day, but he’d gone on angry and bullheaded for years after that.

Now he was no longer an angry boy. And she was offering herself to him. In the starlight her pale cheeks, glowing skin, and halo of golden tresses had bedazzled him. Her arms were bare, her dress caressing her slender curves, and the beads about her neck an invitation to touch her. She was beautiful, and he could no longer deny that he wanted her or pretend to himself that he only wished to tease her.

Carriages trailed away from the drive into the silvery-blue brilliance of the night. Bypassing the hall, he took the servants’ stair to the upper floor. He knew where he would find her. He knew her.

In the empty library she stood before the tall, bare window, a silhouette against the moon and stars. He crossed the room and she heard him.

She turned to him, dropped back a step, and he pulled her to him and captured her mouth beneath his.

Her lips were pliant and welcoming, her hands moving to clutch his shoulders.
She accepted him
. He kissed her and knew he would never have enough of her, never enough of the flavor of her lips or the texture of her passion. When he allowed her a moment’s freedom, her whispered
yes
undid him.

He dragged her against him, felt her hands in his hair, her slender, curved softness along every inch of him. Her mouth was hungry. He tasted her with his tongue and she met him with hers. A whimper of pleasure escaped her.

His hands consumed her. The arc of her back, the swell of her hips. All of her body his to hold now, to feel. The roundness of her buttocks in his palms was perfect beauty. Clutching his face she roamed his jaw with her mouth, arching her belly against his. Her hands tugged at his shirt, her fingers strong, frantic. Then they were beneath his shirt, against his skin, touching. Her hands on him, moving upward, exploring, making him insane. Her sighs came short and quick, desperate sounds that wrapped around his heart.

“
Please
.” She pushed at his coat, unfastening his waistcoat, and he was perfectly all right with that. He’d waited eleven years to get naked with this woman again. No time like the present.

She pushed his shirt up. He released her to pull it off, then took her into his arms. Her hands trembled as she put them on him now, her movements suddenly hesitant.

“Don’t be afraid.” He could barely speak. He closed his eyes and bit back his need, holding her waist tight to him.
God’s blood
. Torture. Her hands skimming his flesh. Her hips nestling his cock. Torture he hadn’t dared to dream. Real now.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered, smoothing her palms over his chest, her glimmering eyes wide upon his body. “I don’t think I’m afraid.” She bent her head and her breaths brushed his skin. Her hands butterflied across his ribs. “I think I am in need.”

He took her mouth and pulled her body against his, and her hands were everywhere on him—his chest, his shoulders, his back. Sinking his fingers into her hair, he kissed her again, and again, their tongues seeking, mating, her mouth a universe of desire. He plucked open the fasteners of her gown and the laces of the gossamer undergarments beneath. He tugged them from her shoulders.

“Yes,
yes
,” came from her throat. Her bare arms, beautiful in the starlight, circled his neck and her mouth sought his anew, then his jaw. Her fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes.” Lips, soft and damp, branded his skin, her tongue hot upon his throat. “I never knew,” she whispered, curving her hand along his neck. “I never knew.”

She pressed to him, struggling against the barriers of cloth. Never close enough. Layers of fabric between her skin and his. He hadn’t known gentlewomen were so vehemently protected. Against men like him. Her lips found his and her tongue ventured into his mouth, her hips rocking against his. Silken ribbons caught in Taliesin’s fingers. Loosened. Broke free. He pushed the remaining garments down.

Sweet mercy. If he died now he would have no need of heaven. He stood before it already.

“
Y se alegre el alma llena
,” he uttered, and ran his hands to either side of her breasts. She shuddered upon a sigh of delirium.

“I never knew it would feel like this,” she whispered wonderingly.

“I did.” He had always known she would be beautiful. Ivory and pink perfection. The soft swell of her feminine flesh, the vibrant pucker of her arousal. He cupped one breast in his palm and circled the peak with his thumb.

“What—what are you doing?” she gasped against his cheek.

“Teasing you. I have always wanted to tease you, exactly”—he circled again, closer to the peak—“like”—he slipped the pad of his thumb across the bud—“this.”

She moaned. “Do it again,” she demanded softly, breathlessly. “And again and again.” Then: “Please.”

He smiled. And he did it again, and again, until she was panting and pressing herself into his hands.

“Tell me this is everything,” she said upon a whimper, her fingers gripping his shoulders, “and I will be content.”

She was thoroughly innocent. His beauty. His princess.

“I cannot. There is this too.” He bent and brushed his mouth across her breast. She sighed. Then he pressed his mouth into her flesh, losing himself, breathing her in, his dreams beneath his lips now. Holding his need back, he trailed his tongue over her nipple and a shudder rocked him.

Her fingers were clamps on his shoulders. “
Ohh
.”

Eleanor
. In his hands. In his mouth.

“And this.” He sucked. He tasted. The soft fragrance of her skin, the bud between his teeth made him drunk. Sinking into his hair, her hands held him close. She tasted of honey. He had wanted her forever, her soft beauty, her fierce need. Her slender body shivered, froze, then writhed against him.

“It’s too much. Too— Oh,
stop
,” she cried. “Stop!”

He released her and she sprang back. In the silvery dark, with her hair cascading from its pins, her gown pushed to her waist and her breasts bathed in starlight, she was not an angel as he’d long imagined her. She was, quite simply, a goddess. His goddess. She had always been. He could lose himself in worship of her.

She crossed her arms over her breasts, like the battle armor of Athena. She lacked only spear and shield. “I think I have lost this challenge.” Her voice shook.

“I’m quite certain you haven’t.” She had no idea what she did to him. Still.

“I-I look at you,” she stammered, “at your chest and arms, and touch you—you are so beautiful—and I feel what you do to me—and it feels so good.” Her throat worked, her eyes a storm of confusion. “Yet I feel like something inside me is . . .
wrong
. Like I might explode.”

Ah
. “Eleanor—”

“It isn’t in my lungs, I think.” Her chest heaved on fraught breaths under her arms. “But—”

He pulled her tight into his embrace. His hand explored her hip, the curve, the sensation of this body he had wanted for so long, and she pressed herself to him. He slipped his hand between her legs. “Here.”

She gasped. “Yes.” Alarm leaped from her eyes.

“No fear,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard. “No.”

He stroked the soft crevice of her womanhood, biting back his desire. “Allow yourself to feel it.”

She remained stiff. “I w-want to. But—”

“Touch me, Eleanor. Now.”

Her hand stole up to his chest, fingers spreading, burning fire into his flesh, then trailing across his ribs, his muscles contracting, hungry for this. Hungry for her, for her skin on his, feeding her need as it stripped him to nothing but need. Giving her pleasure, he forgot himself.

Her lashes fluttered down and a moan broke from her. “
Yes
.”

Bending his mouth to her delicate jaw, he caressed her with his hand as he had longed to for years, found her taut, sweet spot, and gave her what her body wanted. Passionate and eager, she needed no more encouragement. The rhythm of her hips sought him. She came swiftly, suddenly, shuddering into his hands with a cry that sounded like pain and shock and pleasure at once. She had never come before. He was the first to bring her release. The only. Heaven just kept getting better and better. And the abyss below him gaped.

Gulping in breaths, she wrapped her arms around his neck and put her lips on his, then teased his mouth with her tongue.

He ran his hands down her back and flattened her against him, seeking the satisfaction of her body against his hard cock. She kissed his jaw, then pressed her lips to his ear.

“I win,” she whispered. Her laughter was like sin and sunshine.

He bracketed her hips with his hands and clamped her to him as her lips played upon his neck. He needed to be inside her more than he wanted air. To feel her now, to be one with her, he would give everything he had. Everything.

“What prize will you claim?” He sounded nothing like himself—whipped, alien, enslaved.

“Wasn’t that it?”

Breathing her in, hoarding deep reservoirs of her scent of honeysuckle and passion like a thief, he prepared himself. “Then it is my turn to offer a challenge.”

“That sounds fair.” Her hands stroked over his chest. The urge to lift her up against the wall and make her take him—make her satisfy him—burned in his blood and his hot, heavy cock. But even that wouldn’t be enough. Never enough.

“What will it be?” she murmured, sliding her slender palm across his nipple.

Commanding an effort worthy of Galahad, he set her off him and stepped back. “I challenge you to leave here.” He dragged in air. “Now.” He made himself say the words. “And to never return.”

Her laughter died. Confusion filled her eyes.

Then betrayal.

Then, finally, pain.

He backed away. Took up his shirt and coat. Could not look at her. She didn’t understand but he could not explain now. Not with her before him bare-breasted and tousled and sated in the starlight. Not with her in his house, the place he had thought she would never come. But always, always in the back of his dreams, he had wished it.

Tomorrow, perhaps, in the light of day, fully clothed, he would explain. Or perhaps never. Years ago he had made a promise to her. But he had made another promise to himself; he had built his life on it. No matter what the temptation, no matter what the loss, he would not break it.

Chapter 17

The Ring

E
leanor awoke aching everywhere—in her head and body, especially between her thighs where the sensation of his touch lingered, that opulent gift he’d given her that she hadn’t even known to ask for. She slid her fingers beneath her nightgown and caressed herself. She’d done it before, wickedly, sinfully, drawn to it from perplexing stirrings, and she had found mild pleasure in it. But she’d known only a piece of the picture, apparently.

Now she encouraged it with her fingertips. Eyes closed, she felt his hands on her, his body pressed to hers, and the throbbing began. She thrust her hips into it, imagined his tongue touching hers, his lips upon her breast, driving her pleasure higher, tighter. Then for a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine him between her thighs, possessing her. She convulsed in a shudder of pleasure, her body arching off the bed. A sob escaped upon her moan.

She gasped for air and slung her arm across her heated face.

That
was what she had learned last night about wild adventures. That, and what she had already known: that he would hurt her again. And leave.

Slowly, the regular cadence of her breaths returned, the megrim somewhat relieved. But the ache in her chest clung like she’d clung to him the night before. She pressed her face into the mattress and refused to feel shame like some submissive medieval maiden chastised by churchmen for her desire. Or heartbreak. She’d felt every wretched emotion possible eleven years ago as a girl. A woman now, she was perfectly capable of doing incredibly foolish things without tearing herself to pieces about it afterward.

But she had liked challenging him. She liked all the challenges they had shared on this journey, albeit the last challenge the most. She would miss it.

At least she would win his final challenge.

Perhaps she would remain at Drearcliffe until the Prince siblings returned to Bath, and travel with them. But she would not be able to explain why she could not go to Kitharan, nor why Mr. Wolfe would not call at Drearcliffe.

She didn’t know what to do about Robin. She could not possibly marry one man when she was finding such pleasure with another, even if only in her imagination and by her own hand. She could not marry any man who didn’t make her feel the way Taliesin did.

Other women did. Other women married for the things she wanted: companionship, a home, children. Did those women settle for life without passion?

More than passion. She could not name it, but she felt it beneath her ribs like the tide’s answer to the moon’s caress. No lust or even heartbreak could feel so alive. The pain in her heart this time was a living ache, a storm she watched wide-eyed, marveling at its wild beauty.

She rolled over. Beside the garments that Betsy had set out were the shoes he had bought in Piskey to replace her ruined boots. A defiant tear dropped onto her cheek.

Swiping it away, she set her feet to the frigid planks and went to the grate to make up the fire.

Betsy had gone to sleep before their party returned to Drearcliffe the night before, but she had laid out Eleanor’s brush and the apron she wore while searching through Sir Wilkie’s dusty collections. Reaching into the apron pocket, she drew forth the ring and set it on the dressing table. The ruby winked like a sailor’s sunset.

She blinked.

And reached for the manifest on the table beside the ring.

And found the air abruptly thin.

The T beside her mother’s name—Grace T—had been scribbled poorly on the manifest, the pen catching the top right end of the cross bar and levering halfway down the vertical bar to curve, then merging into it. It had been drawn poorly because it was not in fact a T or any letter at all. It was the same symbol fashioned into the gold and buried beneath the ruby on the ring.

Dressing swiftly, propelled by urgency again, she snatched up her hair and tried to still her hands enough to knot it. She must ride to Kitharan. That he had exiled her meant nothing now. He hadn’t any say over where she went. If he wished to call the constable to throw her off his property, she supposed she would relent rather than go to jail. Until then, she wished only to share this with him.

Pulling on her pelisse and buttoning it as she hurried down the stairs, the manifest between her teeth and the ring in her fist, she stumbled into the foyer. Surrounded by dogs, Sir Wilkie’s manservant was opening the front door.

“Mr. Fiddle,” she said, “could you bid Mr. Treadwell to saddle my horse? I must ride immediately to—”

Taliesin walked across the threshold.

“Kitharan,” she croaked.

“Unnecessary now, perhaps,” he said, his voice very deep, his eyes very dark, and his entire person very beautiful.

Here he was.

“Never mind, Mr. Fiddle,” she mumbled.

Mr. Fiddle shuffled from the foyer, the dogs scampering behind him.

“Here you are,” she managed to press through her lips. “I needn’t lose this challenge after all.”

It was possible—but she couldn’t be certain in the shadow of the doorway—that the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

“You wished to speak with me?” he said. “Or perhaps I am presumptuous. Your purpose in going to Kitharan could be to speak with my stable master. Or my housekeeper.”

“Or one of those other people that work for you, astonishingly enough.” She swallowed over the heartbeats ricocheting about her throat. “Everybody there last night, by the way, was amazed that a Gypsy could be master of such a place. With such efficient servants too. They were all shockingly impressed. Shocked that they were impressed, that is. But I suspect you anticipated that. Rather, intended it. Did you enjoy your party?” She ducked her head and attempted the remaining buttons of her pelisse with quivering fingers. “That is, the earlier part?” They were misbuttoned from the top.

He came toward her. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”

He stood too close. If she lifted her head he would see her violently hot cheeks. Tucking the ring and manifest into her pocket, she crossed her arms over the lopsided pelisse and the breasts that he had kissed until she made sounds she had never made in her life before.

“Beside my mother’s name on the manifest of
Lady Voyager
,” she said a bit unsteadily, “appears a symbol I recognize.”

He studied her arms across her chest and a muscle flexed in his jaw. He lifted his eyes to hers. “What symbol?”

“How much do you know about the fortune that Lussha gave to Arabella?”

“She gave it to all three of you.” It seemed he had not shaved this morning. His jaw was more shadowed than last night when the scrape of his whiskers on her breasts and neck had made her weak with pleasure.

“We were all in the tent when she said it,” she managed to say. “But Arabella had asked for it because of— When Ravenna told you about the prophecy, did she tell you about the . . . about our heirloom?”

“No.”

“Our mother sent us to England with a small, valuable object that she said we must keep safe. It was so precious that rather than give it into our nurse’s keeping, she tied it on a thick string around my neck. She told me to show it to no one until we reached our destination. It is one of the only memories I have—her instructing me in this. When they took us to the foundling home I buried it in a hidden place so it would not be discovered.” During that first night, trembling with fear in the dark, she’d been determined to obey her mother. Then she’d believed her mother would eventually come to them. That she would not abandon them.

“What is the object? Do you have it now?”

“I cannot tell you what it is. And, yes, I do have it. Lussha said that we mustn’t show it to any man until one of us wed a prince. Then we could reveal it to him and he would tell us about our parents.”

His brows came together. “That’s ludicrous.”

“Of course it is.” She curled her fist around the ring in her pocket, and the paper of the manifest crackled. “But that heirloom bears the same symbol that appears after my mother’s name on the ship’s manifest. I realized it only this morning.”

“If it is her family’s crest, its appearance on the manifest is not particularly remarkable.”

“But it is the only clue we have ever had about her identity.”

“You have now the name of the ship,” he said slowly, “your mother’s first name, and the heirloom with the symbol. Your quest has borne fruit. I know a man who can help us. He is in Plymouth.”

She paused. “Us?”

“Have you suddenly become a travel-wise lady voyager yourself, able to brave the roads on your own?”

“No.” She tightened her arms. “You told me to leave.”

He bent his head and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I cannot have you in my house.” He looked up at her, a plea in his midnight eyes. “Eleanor, I cannot touch you.”

Belated regret. She understood. Years ago she had regretted falling in love with him. It must be possible to regret kissing someone. And undressing her. And giving her extraordinary pleasure. She supposed.

It ached simply to stand near him and not touch him.

“I cannot imagine that you promised Arabella that too,” she said.

Now she was quite certain the corner of his mouth lifted.

“No.” His gaze seemed to scan her face, then swiftly he turned away from her to the door. “Can you be ready to leave here in two hours?”

“To leave for Plymouth? Only two hours? That will barely give you time to return to Kitharan, then return here. Haven’t you a house you must . . .” Her words trailed off as the silver in his ears caught the light. House or not, he was a nomad. Free to go and come as he would. He could leave upon a moment’s notice or none at all. This truce, rather, this cooperation he was offering her, would be brief. Leaving would happen again, inevitably.

“Taliesin, why did you come here this morning? To call upon Mrs. Upchurch or Miss Prince?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I came to see you.”

He left her tongue-tied by her own confusion.

FANNY FOUND HER
packing. She peered about the room. “Is your clever Betsy about?”

“She is in the kitchen preparing food for the journey. Fanny, thank you for the welcome you have shown us here. I am deeply grateful.”

“Oh, Eleanor.” She hung back by the door, averting her face. “Your gratitude makes me ashamed, for I have been a poor friend to you, I think.”

“You have not.”

“But I have! Do you remember when I told you that I would do anything to ensure my brother and sister’s happiness?”

Eleanor nodded. She had understood. Arabella and Ravenna’s happiness had always been her first concern.

“That first night we were all here, Robin saw swiftly how it was between you and Mr. Wolfe. He asked me to distract Mr. Wolfe so that he might be able to capture your attention.”

She was not so naïve that she misunderstood. “Your interest in him was not sincere?”

“Oh, no. It was entirely sincere. It still is. I think you are vastly fortunate to be the object of his affection.”

“You misunderstand it, Fanny.” Enormously.

“I don’t believe so. But I should be a wretched friend if I did not apologize for attempting to monopolize his time so that my brother could be with you alone more frequently. Do you like him, Eleanor? Does Robin have any chance at winning your admiration?”

“I do like him,” she said honestly.

Fanny clasped her hands at her breast. “Oh, I am relieved to know it! He admires you excessively. If I promise to never interfere again, will you forgive me?”

“I don’t know how to assure you that you needn’t apologize. But if you must have my forgiveness, I give it.”

Fanny kissed her on the cheek. “I wish you great success in Plymouth. If you need me, you mustn’t hesitate to send for me.” She went to the door and offered a smile over her shoulder. “And, Eleanor”—her lips curved into a little smile—“if you ever decide that you haven’t any need of Mr. Wolfe’s devotion, do let me know.”

GOOD-BYES WERE SAID
on the drive before Sir Wilkie’s house. Even the master himself emerged from his dungeon to wish her a good journey.

Betsy glared at Taliesin as she mounted the carriage steps. Then with a worried scowl, she tucked herself inside.

Mr. Prince followed Eleanor to her horse and helped her to mount. In full view of the carriage and the man on his stallion nearby, he grasped her gloved hand and held it tight.

“My thoughts will be with you every moment of your mission, Eleanor,” he said quietly. “I wish you good fortune.”

“Thank you. I am grateful for the help you have given me so selflessly.”

“I won’t have you imagining such a thing. It was far from selfless.” He squeezed her hand and released her. Turning to Taliesin, he offered a stiff bow. “Good journey to you, Wolfe.”

Taliesin said nothing, no word of thanks or farewell. Touching the brim of his hat, he turned his great black stallion about and spurred him onward.