Like No Other Lover (31 page)

She finally got her eyes open, curious to see what Miles Redmond looked like in the aftermath of ferocious coupling.

He lifted his head to look at her. He was smiling. He looked amused at her languor and—

“Smug,” she murmured. “You look smug.”

He seemed to think about this. “That’s one of the things I feel,” he concurred, his murmur as languid as hers. He continued to smile.

She raised a hand and pushed his sweat-dampened hair back so she could see his eyes and those straight dark brows and his eyelashes and nostrils and…Every bit of him, every hair and scar, seemed important. Every bit of him comprised the topography of her heart.

She traced that smile with her finger, slowly. Beautiful, gifted mouth. It seemed permanent, his smile. He kissed her finger. She rested it on his sandpapery chin.

“Wonderful,” she murmured, almost to herself. She didn’t know why she’d said it, but it rather summarized everything.

And for a moment he seemed mesmerized. Gazing down at her, not blinking at all, as his smile slowly faded. “Yes,” he said. The word was faintly surprised and soft as cobwebs. And full of his heart.

She turned her head and slowly bit his shoulder shoulder, savored the salty, musky taste of him.

He laughed. “Savage.”

“I learned it from Spider.”

She turned to laugh up at him but he surprised her with a kiss. He’d meant it to be tender and brief, she knew. But once his lips pressed hers, they lingered, as though he couldn’t bring himself to leave her unless he’d thoroughly tasted her. And minx that she was, she parted her lips, inviting him in, touched her tongue to his. He sighed deeply and happily against her mouth and surrendered.

And thus their mouths began again to blend, to tease, and of course to arouse. The kiss became purposeful, hungry and deep and greedy, and soon their hands were roaming each other in feverish objective, limbs tangling to pull each other closer and closer still, a vain attempt to all but fuse. Cynthia loved and was a little afraid of the sheer size and hard strength of him; there was great relief in surrender, great safety in those strong arms and great hard hairy thighs, and a dizzy sense of falling, pleasure and terror in allowing him to do what he would with her.

He drew her upward to her knees before him, her shoulder blades against his chest, his arms wrapping her waist. He ducked his head, whiskers chafing her chin.

“Look,” he whispered directly into her ear. “Look in the mirror.”

In the oval cheval glass across the room she could see two shadowy people, pale and clinging and abandoned. She watched in the mirror as Miles’s pale, shadowed hands traveled her moonbeam white belly, saw the flat of his hand slide over the furred triangle between his legs, saw his fingers disappearing into that shadowy valley. She saw her head loll back against his shoulder as his fingers moved over her, slipped easily inside her, sent bolts of nearly intolerable pleasure through her that made her groan and move with him. Saw herself arcing back against him, moving her body against his hand, abetting him, telling him precisely how to touch her. And watching this was incomparable; it was almost as though two men were making love to her. Her every sense now engaged, every sensation doubled.

She watched Miles’s dark head duck to gently nip the place where her neck and shoulders joined, then his mouth traveling upward again to whisper in her ear.

“God, how I want you.”

He sat back against the headboard and pulled her slowly, slowly, backward until she was in his lap, her legs nearly straddling his, and like this he eased his cock into her again.

He took in a breath, a sharp hiss of pleasure.

The surprise and pleasure at being filled by him again was extraordinary; she leaned back against him.

And for a moment they were still together, savoring the wonder of being joined, the sway of each other’s breathing. And then, mesmerized, Cynthia watched the shadowy Miles in the mirror fill his hands with her breasts, and his fingers explored them until her ribs leaped and fell with tattered breaths. His hand slid down to stroke between her legs, where he joined her.

“Oh God…”

In her own ears, her wondering moan sounded like a plea for mercy, but it was in truth a plea for more. More. The kinds of pleasure that could be had from him seemed endless. She raised her arms, latched her hands behind his head, pressed back against him, and lost herself in the play of his fingers over her.

“Like this, Cynthia,” he demanded on a whisper. He braced his hands on her hips and urged her up and then down over his cock.

She learned: she slid languidly along him at first, purposely teasing, loving her control. And then she all but unconsciously took her cues from him: from the heat of his body, the slick sweat and damp curls of his chest hair chafing her back, the tempo of his breathing, from muttered oaths and soft groans of disbelieving bliss.

And as she teased his desire into a conflagration, he did the same to her own, and they played each other as intuitively as two musicians in an orchestra, moving together.

She saw two abandoned people in the mirror out of the corner of her eye, and in the haze of her lust she thought, it looks like love and it looks like violence. It looked like a capture and surrender and bliss and torture. It was all of those things, and it was beautiful, beautiful.

And then Miles was begging her with her name, the syllables of it a ragged gasp against the crook of her neck. “Cynthia…faster…Oh, God…please.”

His body tensed, and even as he cried out his release with hers and she felt it inside her, her own came from everywhere and nowhere, white heat roaring along her skin, incinerating her with astounding bliss. Shaking her violently. His arms wrapped her tightly, and she surrendered to it, until she was limp in those arms.

They lolled for a time without speaking, enclosed in a peace in which they were alone with their thoughts. Until Miles brushed a finger against her arm and found it pricking up in gooseflesh, which was how they became aware of how long they’d been still, simply being together. The fire had officially ceased throwing off heat.

He reached for the blankets, slid down with her in his arms and cocooned the two of them in blankets. They burrowed into the pillow, and soon Cynthia was warm and drowsy, and growing drowsier, lulled by his soft snoring.

For he was asleep almost instantly, and in this he mimicked the proverbial log: he moved not at all, nor did she think she could budge him.

She experimented by moving just a little out of his grasp; his arms were slack, and they released her easily.

She smiled. They’d worn each other out.

She liked excitement—well, she liked it rather less now than she had a few years ago, but nevertheless—she deplored melodrama. And she feared what she was about to do would be interpreted as such. But it was nearly dawn, and she intended to leave before it was officially daylight to avoid explanations and uproar and hurt feelings and confusion. There was no telling whom she might encounter in the house in the early morning hours, and she was certain she could persuade one of the stable boys to drive her to the coaching inn, where she could pay for a stagecoach to Northumberland.

She saw no other choice. She’d known as much from the moment she made her decision to come to him tonight. Her sense of honor, such as it was, meant she couldn’t marry Argosy, both for Argosy’s sake and because she’d made the choice to give herself to Miles.

Perhaps one day she’d see this moment as a sacrifice, she thought, with all the martyred drama the word implied. But now, instead, she felt…rather pleased with herself.

It was not quite the happy ending she’d envisioned. But it was one, nevertheless. Both happy, and an ending.

She inched her way out of his arms, and felt a peace and happiness and a lightness she hadn’t known was possible. It was the peace of having done the right thing, the
truest
thing she’d ever done. She knew what it was like to love; he’d shown her. And she also knew love simply demanded to be given away. She’d given him all that she could of herself. But it didn’t strike her as sacrificial; it was something she’d done as much for herself as for Miles.

She knew with a bone deep certainty that she would never regret it, no matter how long those days with the woman in the bath chair should prove to be. For she’d been offered employment.

He’d broken her heart open like an egg, but inside was…the whole world. And as she looked back at him, she felt the serrated edges of her heart in her chest. But also a sort of dizzying vastness: she could face anything now. Loving and being loved had given her that kind of strength, and a sort of permanent safety she could carry with her forever.

So she would not be spending her life with him. Life was not fair: that’s what made it interesting.

And she had probably been much luckier, in her day, than anyone had a right to expect.

She had three pounds to her name, one of which would pay her way to Mrs. Mundi-Dickson’s home by stagecoach, a small trunk of tired clothes, a tiny cat, and, though he’d never said it, she knew she had Miles Redmond’s love. She was the richest woman in the world.

She slipped the final way out of his arms and placed a light kiss on the hard curve of his biceps.

And after all, she
was
Cynthia Brightly. She squared her shoulders.

Miles stirred as she slipped out of the room; the sheets sighed. He murmured. But he didn’t wake, and she was glad.

Because despite her own grand inner talk, she didn’t quite trust her own resolve.

So she’d been gone for some time. Sensibly, perhaps, slipped out during the night. He supposed he was relieved.

He couldn’t have said what last night meant for their futures. It occurred to him that he ought to have asked her. He dressed, a peculiar unease making him hurry. He looked in the mirror, saw the beard darkening his jaw, decided to leave it until at least after breakfast, because of his urgency to see her. He looked
thoroughly
rested. He grinned wickedly at his reflection.

“Cynthia has gone.” She sounded subdued and, truth be told, a trifle envious. “She’s nowhere. Argosy is in a bit of a state. She left him a note. Jonathan is comforting him. Georgina has not yet come down to breakfast, as I am earlier than usual. Oh, and Mama and Papa are home.”

And at first it was like the angels had descended to sing a celestial chorus. The day was brilliant. Cynthia
wasn’t
engaged! She wouldn’t marry Argosy! She—

His heart skidded to a sickening halt. “Gone?” he repeated with near funereal calm.

“She left a letter for him. Slid under his door! It said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He’s feeling quite thwarted.” Violet was wry. And disconsolate. “He’s having his valet pack his things.”

“Gone?” Miles had forgotten every other word he knew.

No note or letter for
him
? “Gone” meant not knowing where she would be, or with whom she would be, or whether she was safe and well. Gone meant possibly never seeing her again.

Gone might mean gone in the way Lyon was gone. He knew a moment of complete paralysis.

“Miles…” Violet was scrutinizing him in that way she had that wasn’t entirely sympathetic. “Why are
you
in a state?”

“I’m not in a state.” The denial was a reflex. Repeating her words saved him from having to think of other words to say.

Violet tipped her head. “I do believe you are,” she persisted.

He ignored her. “Where do you suppose she went?”

He’d hoped the words sounded casual. Unfortunately, they emerged sounding like a military command.

His sister was frowning darkly now. Her hand went up to smooth it out. The frown remained. “Why do
you
want to know?” she demanded.

“For the love of God, Violet,” he said very, very slowly—
punishingly
slowly, as though she were a backward child.
“Do you know where she went?”

His sister froze, eyes round as wagon wheels. Her mouth dropped, brows dipped. And for a beat she stared at him, just like that, and did nothing to prevent a frown from encroaching.

“Miles!”
Her gasp nearly blew back his hair. “Oh, good heavens! You! Cynthia Brightly!”

“Violet—”
He growled the word. He was pacing. It was as if he kept moving, he would somehow get closer to where Cynthia might have gone.
“Please.”

“You and Cynthia Brightly! Cynthia Brightly! You!”

Oh, now he’d done it. He’d addled Violet, and for the rest of her days she’d repeat those two things like a demented parrot.

He stopped pacing. “Do you want me to shake you by the scruff, Violet? Is that what you want? I can still do it, and I have no compunctions about it. Tell me where she might have gone…that is, please,” he added as an afterthought, an absurd attempt to return the conversation to normality.

“You haven’t been rude and strange because you were feeling
ill
. You were feeling…
Cynthia
!”

“Oh, God. Violet. You must stop.”

Clearly Violet’s fascination was buffering her from the very real threat of being shaken or boxed about the ears. She was still staring at her brother in a way that had begun to make him feel distinctly exposed.

And then her expression softened into awe.

“Good heavens, Miles. How very sweet that you—you!—have a
tendre
for Cynthia Brightly and oh dear God in heaven Papa
will disown you
!”

A sentence that had begun in wonderment ended in shrill alarm.

“He won’t disown me.” Miles said this rather by rote, as he wasn’t at all convinced of it. He was, in fact, certain the consequences would be grave.

“No. Miles, you cannot do it,” Violet said firmly. “You cannot go after her. I can’t bear losing you, too, Miles, and Papa will cast you out. He nearly made a meal of Lyon. Surely whatever you think you feel for Cynthia is only—”

“It’s not ‘only,’ Violet.”

He said it quietly, but with such Miles-like finality that it stopped her as surely as though he’d clapped a hand over her mouth.

He gave a short, humorless laugh at her stunned expression.

“Nothing about Cynthia is ‘only.’” He hated confessing this. Nothing had ever made him feel more…foolish. More vulnerable.

More human.

Violet was quiet now. In her world, Miles behaved in certain ways, always. He held their worlds together. And what could it mean if Miles, of all people, were just as human as the rest of them?

He wasn’t certain what to expect: a tantrum? Storming from the room? More stubborn silence?

She dipped her hand into the pocket of her pelisse, fished around a bit, extended her palm. Something glinted from the center of it.

“This is yours, isn’t it?”

He looked down at his missing silver button.

Then looked up at Violet, the answer on his face.

“I found it near the bench yesterday. Where I found Cynthia in the garden. She was sitting alone and she looked…quite pink in the face.” Violet touched her nose by way of illustration. “She’d been crying. I told her she looked…” Violet paused. Just as she’d stumbled across Cynthia yesterday, she was stumbling across a realization now. “…she looked heartbroken. Miles…Oh. She
was
heartbroken. She wanted you. She wanted
you
.”

Her hand went up to her mouth. Violet’s face went pale and pinched, as surely as though she felt the heartbreak herself.

Miles thought of Cynthia yesterday: weeping and trying to disguise it. He’d known how that must have felt for her. Then turning her face up to him, so he would know for certain everything she felt.

Last night. Her generosity and beauty and oh God…her gift for passion.

It had been a blessed interlude of forgetting, a reckless respite from thought and sense. It had seemed terribly right, terribly necessary.

He, so like a man, simply hadn’t considered what the morning might bring.

“I just…I just never imagined she’d leave.”

He was barely conscious of having said the words aloud; the sentence was a finish to the run of his thoughts. He never suspected there was pain in his voice. He didn’t hear it.

But his sister heard it.

Violet watched him, trying not to frown. She rubbed his silver button between her fingers thoughtfully, because he hadn’t taken it from her.

Poor Violet. Once again she was confronting upheaval and change and realization, but perhaps she needed to. The Redmond family, so serene and elegant and dignified and impenetrable on the surface, buffeted this way and that by that capricious thing called love, shaped by it despite the fact that they would prefer to be above it. Shaped by it the way the elements shape mountains and valleys.

He wouldn’t blame Violet if she decided to retire to a convent.

The very idea of this—the havoc she would immediately wreak in any convent—distracted him, and almost cheered him up.

“Miles?” She made his name sound like a question. Interestingly, she also sounded like their father: coolly in command of what she was about to say. She’d come to some conclusion, then. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you. But I also find the idea of you with a broken heart makes me dreadfully unhappy. And I have decided that I should like you to be happy more than anything.”

He managed a faint smile at this. “How very mature of you, Violet.”

“I invited her to the party. It’s all my fault.”

“Oh, no,” he said, smiling a little ruefully. “It most certainly is not all your fault, as much as I would like to credit you with it.”

She was quiet—for Violet, anyhow—and subdued for a moment.

“Violet, I promise you this: you will never lose me. Never. No matter what happens.”

Implying, of course, that
something
was about to happen.

Neither he nor Violet had any idea how he would be able to keep that promise. For that matter, neither he nor Violet had any way of predicting what their father might do, only that it was a certainty he would do something.

But the force of Miles’s conviction seemed to cheer Violet, as it always had.

She simply sighed.

“No matter what, Violet, you should know that I will do anything at all to find her. It doesn’t matter whether you tell me or not.”

“She said something about an irritable old woman in a bath chair. Mrs. Mundi-Dickson. In Northumberland. She will be a companion.”

This seemed an entirely unlikely occupation for Cynthia Brightly. He wondered what manner of trouble she would manage to get into as the paid companion to an irritable woman in a bath chair.

“Where?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. Northumberland is all I know.”

It was enough. Really, a single fact posed no difficulty for Miles, who was trained to follow facts to wherever they might lead next, to ruthlessly unravel mysteries.

He turned swiftly to leave. He hesitated.

“Did you tell Argosy about Mrs. Mundi-Dickson?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Tell him,” Miles said. “I want him to know.”

Because no matter what, he wanted Cynthia to be able to choose. Despite what he thought he knew about how she felt and what she wanted, he wanted to be
chosen
.

And if Argosy had sufficient wherewithal, if Argosy was driven by need and passion to track her down, then he ought to have the right to do it.

Miles wanted everything to be cricket.

He seized his sister and kissed her on both cheeks, surprising her perhaps permanently speechless.

He would find Cynthia. But there was something he needed to do first, because Miles Redmond always strove to do the right thing.

With the enthusiasm with which he’d landed on an island populated by cannibals, he went in search of his father.