Lady in Red (23 page)

After a moment, he eased his hand away. He brought that hand up to his mouth and sucked her moisture away, his eyes closing as if the taste were the only delicacy in the world. “Are you ready to try more?” he asked, his voice so rough it flamed her already wild emotions.

Dazed, she nodded. She’d entered a world she’d only ever heard mention of in whispers by other girls at the asylum. Some of them, in times past, had experienced the pleasures between man and woman, but Mary had never been quite able to believe them.

Once again he parted her thighs, only this time a bit farther before he carefully eased his body on top of hers.

She stilled. Though she was still riding the pleasure of a moment before, instinct told her this would be unpleasant. She pressed her palms down into the mattress and braced herself.

His face was creased in concentration above her. “I promise. Any moment you wish me to cease, I will.”

She nodded, sure that she would indeed wish to stop, but even more sure she wouldn’t deny him. Nor would she deny herself this chance.

He took his hard cock in hand and gently slid it through her slick folds.

Instead of terror, another feeling shimmied through her. It was the strange, instinctual need to move her body toward his, not away. The tip of him was soft and slick, sliding over her with marvelous seduction. Suddenly, her arms came up and wrapped around him and her hips tilted, inviting him in of their own volition.

With a soft groan, he rested the full head against her opening and rocked carefully against her. At first, she was certain that she was going to feel pain at his entry, but then her body opened to him and welcomed that hard shaft.

His cock entered her with ease, filling her completely. In long, slow thrusts, he stroked her. Again and again he thrust, his cock angling to brush her most sensitive spot, throwing her body to peak after peak of unbelievable need. Her hands pressed at his hard back as if somehow she could meld them into one being.

A moan tore from her throat and he bent and kissed her. His tongue tangled with hers. Abandoned, her body rose to meet his and she knew that, in moments, she would come apart with pleasure.

With his hot mouth over hers, he slid his hand between them and teased her just above her entry and she cried out. This time, the pleasure so complete, she could think of nothing but the bright stars erupting inside her.

As her muscles clenched around him, he let out a fierce groan, then pulled out of her body quickly. His fingers clamped around his hard cock and he worked his hand up and down in swift movements until he came, his seed spilling on the sheets.

As his entire body relaxed against hers, Mary stared up at the crimson canopy again. This time she felt relaxed with the pleasure he had just given her. Tears of sheer joy filled her vision. She blinked quickly. At last, she no longer need fear her body or that of a man’s, but now . . . Now, what did she do with her heart?

An unholy, feral sound tore from Edward’s throat. Just as he was sure his mind would sunder with fear, soft hands stroked his back and a voice called to him, “You’re safe. You’re safe, Edward.”

He blinked in the moonlit room and gasped cold air into his lungs. The blankets were flung down about his waist. He sat bolt upright in a large bed, Mary’s small body carefully curved next to his. Her delicate hands, small yet strong, moved over his shoulder blades and up to the nape of his neck in soothing swoops.

At first, his thoughts refused to do his bidding. Even now, he could see his father hanging from the frayed hemp rope. His hands shook with the memory of grabbing on to the old man’s legs and yanking to break his neck. And then there was the chorus of his mother’s gut-wrenching sobs pounding through his head. Her slim, dainty hands had been beside his, yanking at the duke’s legs. They’d had to break his neck when the old man simply wouldn’t strangle fast enough, lingering in misery.

It had been a hideous death. There hadn’t been a hint of honor to it. Shame had ruled that day, accompanied by a full taunting crowd screaming what a murderous bastard the duke had been. Not many dukes had been hanged in all of England’s history, but Edward had made sure that that would be the outcome.

The old man should have gotten away with it. He would have, had it not been for Edward. The jury had not been able to ignore Edward’s cold, factual testimony. His father had raped, tortured, and bludgeoned to death a fourteen-year-old girl in their town house. A host of dignitaries had tried to convince him not to testify, but he’d adamantly insisted.

The alarming feeling that he would never escape those moments danced painfully through him like boiling water in his veins. His father’s grunts as he died mixed so perfectly with the screams of that girl. As chilling a memory as his father standing above the body, his hand wrapped around the bloody candlestick.

“Tell me,” Mary urged with a surprising amount of firmness.

He jerked at the sound of her voice. He’d been so deep in his thoughts, he’d forgotten his salvation. His gaze bored into the night, unable to shake an ever-growing sense that everything he had gained in Mary’s company was going to end. He couldn’t confess to her. Not yet. Not until he had come up with some way of imparting the knowledge without . . . what?

She would despise him. She would never trust him. Sick blood ran through his sinew. Christ, he was cut from a far worse cloth than her father.

Both men were murderous. That should have made it easier for him to confide in her. Instead, it sent a cold chill over his skin and sunk into the pit of his stomach. If he did not bind her to him before he found a way to explain, she would leave him. If she ever knew the truth—how he had been defeated by his own cowardice and not come to the aid of that girl until it was too late—that confidence in him shining from her would fade to loathing and fear.

How would he ever bear that? He wouldn’t. He would fall apart and diminish to a husk of a man, drowning in sin and regret. No, he would wait to tell her. Somehow, he would find a way.

“Edward?” she said with a softer note, her fingers pressing insistently against his back.

“It was nothing.” His voice trembled. He clamped his hands down on his thighs to hide their unruly twitch.

An exasperated sigh passed her lips. “I know nightmares, Edward—better than anyone else, I should think. That was not nothing.”

“I—I simply dreamed your father had found you. I was powerless.” At least the last part wasn’t a lie. He’d
felt
damn powerless.

The penetrating nature of her stare forced him to turn to her.

Mary’s skin was cool marble in the deep of night, matched by her violet eyes, two glistening stones. Slowly, she drew her hand up to his face. A sad smile touched her lips. “I hope one day you will trust me as you expect me to trust you.”

Without another word, she gently eased her hand to his shoulder, urging him back to the downy mattress. Carefully, she tucked the covers around them and she nestled into the crook of his arm.

Terror laced through him and locked his body in a paralysis of thought. He’d never known anything like this moment. Her acceptance of him and her trust as she rested her body next to his.

Of all the women in the world, Mary was the least likely to trust anyone, and she trusted him. He stared up at the plasterwork ceiling, drawing in slow, steady breaths until he felt her body drift off into slumber. A thought struck him. What if she shouldn’t trust him? What if he had been leading her astray in all this because, after nearly twenty years, the justice that had been served to his father had not made Edward happy or whole. Instead, it had left him empty. He’d never known what happiness might be until Mary had awoken something in him long dead.

And it had nothing to do with revenge.

“N
o,” Powers taunted. “Again.”

Mary growled with frustration. The wooden knife in her hand refused to follow her commands. Or at least so she kept telling herself. In truth, it was her clumsiness and ineptitude that wouldn’t allow her to beat her far superior opponent. Powers was larger—much, much larger—stronger, and faster, but that was no excuse. Anyone who hunted her, even her father, was likely to be all these things.

So instead of making a host of excuses, she focused on the blond bastard. He wasn’t even mussed. Not in the slightest. Powers’s hair—lush silver strands—brushed over his strong brow, emphasizing the coldness of his eyes and that wicked jaw.

His black silk shirt was open at the neck, revealing a distracting manly décolletage. The sun-kissed skin was smooth and hard and the light fabric clung to his treelike torso.

It was alarming, her consideration of his person . . . and the fact that he was indeed very similar to herself. If Edward could read her thoughts, he would suffer apoplexy. But she could not help the contemplations that rustled through her brain. Edward was perfect. A saint compared to herself . . . and she would never deserve him. In the end, Edward would see that. After all, he never spoke of them in terms of a relationship that could carry on after she’d exacted her revenge.

Powers, on the other hand, was the devil himself, and, well, didn’t she belong in hell?

The viscount strode toward her, his long legs stretching against his formfitting black trousers. Towering over her, he glared, no mercy in those eyes. With a dismissive snort, he grabbed her knife hand in a fierce grip. The rough pads of his fingers slid against her skin, biting with surprising demand. He yanked her back against his front. Now fixed behind her, he worked her arm in a large figure eight. “You must keep the blade out and to the side, and you must use your arm like a pendulum.”

The heat of his body caressed her through her frock, sliding against her back. She could have sworn he’d lingered a moment longer than necessary before he jerked away.

Mary shoved a lock of hair back from her forehead and braced herself for the next bout. “Why can’t Edward teach me?”

As if she’d summoned him, Edward strode through the stable yard gate, his boot steps firm and his black garb immaculate in the late-afternoon light. “Because Powers is the better knife man.”

Powers waggled his brows, an irritating habit of his, and said brightly, “No one better to slit a man ear to ear or nose to nob, sweetheart.”

“Your wit is astounding.”

“Oh, come now. You adore it,” Powers drawled as he shrugged his damp linen shirt back over his hard shoulders. Indeed, Powers’s otherworldliness fairly shone from his gold-kissed skin. Mary had to take her earlier considerations back. The gods had nothing on Powers’s perfection.

Edward, on the other hand, was grounded upon the earth and had a forbidden beauty that Powers would never attain. But would she ever be worthy of the man that walked the ground, who lived his life with honor despite his proclamations that he wasn’t a good man? Would he ever be able to let her in?

She allowed herself to focus on the present moment. The deep scent of earth, horses, and hay surrounded them. There was no warmth to the setting sun’s light, and yet a slight sheen of perspiration had broken out across her brow in her exertion. She wished she could enjoy the luxury of deshabille the way the men did, but her clothes were all firmly in place.

Wishing for some sort of gesture or confidence from Edward, she let her gaze skirt to him.

He stood about ten paces off, his coat slung over a stable door. He leaned up against a wooden beam, his arms folded over his wide chest. All she wished was to recall how splendid the previous night had been . . . and yet, even that thought only reminded her how unworthy she was of Edward’s affections—even now he couldn’t share his fears with her. Last night, he’d lied. She knew it. He hadn’t dreamed of her father stealing her away.

She’d heard it in the tenseness of his voice. Perhaps he would never be able to tell her, to allow her more than just physical intimacy. Perhaps a more worthy woman could win his secrets from him.

It was one thing to be his mistress, but a man like Edward deserved an equal as his companion, not a used-up laudanum drinker like herself. A well of shadowy pain circled in around her as her mind wandered off to the keeper Matthew and his attentions.

“You’re not focusing, love,” Edward said.

She blinked, the image of Matthew melting away. “I don’t care for the blade,” she declared defiantly. “Give me a pistol any day.”

“Yes, we all know you can shoot a nail at twenty paces,” said Powers, cocking his head side to side, examining her. “But that won’t serve you if you wish to do the job quietly and not be sent up for a lifetime . . . or dropped to a quick stop.”

Edward’s mouth tensed. “A most unpleasant end. Sometimes the stop isn’t so quick.”

Powers’s gaze shifted quickly to his friend.

Mary dug her booted toe into the dirt, wishing she could ask what undercurrent was taking place between the two men. She should just ask, but she had no wish to be told it was none of her affair.

“Come on, then,” she said, palming the knife again.

Her skirts were heavy and swishing about her legs. Powers wouldn’t let her practice in breeches. Said that she was likely to face an attacker in skirts, so she would fight in skirts. He was damn irritating with his pragmatism.

Powers walked back toward her, his body lithe and easy, balanced upon the balls of his feet. The man was pure grace when aiming to slice one open.

“Look for his weaknesses, Mary,” Edward called from his place on the edge of the yard.

Mary fought a snort. Weakness? Only a low blow would find his weakness. “Where’s a bottle, then?”

“I could still put you in your coffin six sheets to the wind, sweetheart.”

Lord, she hated it when he called her pet names. He somehow managed to make them sound like such insults, even after the secrets they had shared. “Says a great deal about you, doesn’t it?”

“Only that I’d have to be dead before you could strike me.”

Mary scowled. She shifted on the balls of her feet, circling around, waiting, hoping for any opening. Before she could dart in, Powers stepped forward, feinted to the right, then swirled in and grabbed her about the throat. The wooden blade pressed into her jugular.