Lois Greiman (24 page)

The room echoed in silence.

“Tatiana,” she whispered. “The queen. Who calls our sovereign ruler by her given name?”

“He leaves you unmolested,” he repeated, stunned by the realization, “because you are not MacTavish’s?”

“Who sent you?”

“All his efforts are directed toward the pirate lord,” he murmured. “God Almighty.”

“He won’t help you here, Dancer,” she whispered. “God has abandoned Darktowne. You must help yourself.”

“And leave you?” He reached out against all good sense and touched her face. “With him?”

“Get out,” she said again. “Take Jack.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” she rasped. Anguish and horror seemed to rip at her throat. “Why?”

He knew he should drown the feelings. But he didn’t want to. Not anymore. “Because I love you.”

“No.” She shook her head and stumbled back a step, and now there was fear. It filled her eyes like a dark tide, swallowing her face. “Don’t say that.”

“I love you,” he said, “and I’ll not leave without you.”

“Are you crazy?” She gripped his shirt in both hands suddenly, her eyes wild. “Don’t say that!”

He almost laughed. For it was ludicrous really. Laughable. He had come for revenge. He would stay for love. It was as simple as that.

“I’ll not leave until I know you are safe.”

“Then I’ll go.” She was breathing hard, but he had ceased.

“What?”

“I’ll go. I’ll leave the Den.”

“When? How?”

“I’m not certain yet. But we cannot go together. ’Twould be too risky. You must leave. Before he returns.”

“But what of—” he began, then stopped and watched her closely. “You lie,” he said. “You don’t plan to go. You hope to send me away. To protect me. Again. When—”

But she’d stepped back and was pressing the tip of her blade to her throat.

“Shandria!” He lurched forward, but she was already drawing the knife away. A plump drop of midnight blood rolled down her alabaster neck. He swore, but she put her fingers calmly to the open wound, then stepped forward to press it to the nick she’d made in his throat.

“I vow on my blood,” she whispered. “to leave this place. To leave Poke forever if you will go.”

“But—When?”

“Within the week. No more. So long as you promise never to return.”

He shook his head. “You don’t plan to leave.”

“You’re wrong,” she murmured. “I will leave this place for a better one. That I promise you. But we cannot go together.”

“I can’t abandon you here.”

“Abandon?” she whispered, and smiled, that whimsi
cal, fairylike expression of hope. “No. You have rescued me. Given me the strength to leave. But you must promise not to return and look for me. Not to ever come back.”

“Then how will I find you?”

“I’ll find you.”

“You don’t—” he began, but in that moment she kissed him with such sweet longing that he felt dizzy with it.

He groaned but managed to back away. “Not again,” he warned. “I’ll not be tricked this time. You cannot distract me with your body.”

Shandria laughed out loud, knowing it was foolish, knowing she should not be flattered. Life hung by a gossamer thread, and yet she was happy, for this moment. “Then perhaps you’d best leave,” she said.

“Tonight?”

“Immediately.”

He drew her into his arms, and it felt like magic. There was no longer pain in his eyes, no shame. Dare she hope that was because of her?

“But if I go now, Poke will think I left out of fear,” he said. “Perhaps he will believe I lay with you.”

“He won’t,” she said, and because she could not resist, she kissed him again. He slipped his hand behind her neck, drew her close, and groaned against her lips, but in a moment he pulled away.

His expression was intense, his desire hard and obvious against her belly. “How do you know?”

“I’ve lived with evil for a long while.”

“When will he return?”

He desired her. This man with the poet’s soul and the warrior’s heart, wanted her, and somehow that knowl
edge made her feel like laughing, though she knew it was foolish. “He’ll not be back before the dawn.”

“You know this?” His tone was breathy, urgently hopeful. “You’re certain?”

“He has a home apart from here. A place where he is not called Poke.”

“Then we have tonight.”

She knew she should deny it, should send him away before she realized what she was missing, but just this once, she would allow herself to be weak.

“I’ll not risk you, lass,” he murmured. “But if you think it safe—”

“It is safe,” she whispered, and kissed him.

Wrapping her in his arms, he dragged her against him. His lips crushed hers with hot passion, then blazed a trail down her throat to her breasts. His arousal throbbed between them, promising, tempting. He moved lower, cupping her breast, then finding her tingling nipple with his teeth.

She cried out, shocked by the urgent burst of desire.

“I’m sorry.”

It took her a shattered moment to realize he had released her. Had, in fact, backed away a few horrific inches. He was breathing hard, and his teeth were gritted, but he spoke again, which seemed, suddenly, to be a terrible waste of her time, and his lips. She watched them move.

“I would make this good for you, lass. Take it slow.”

“Slow?” she whispered. She was wet and empty. He was hard.

“Aye.” He reached out, but drew his hand carefully back, as though he didn’t quite trust himself. “I’ll not rush you if—”

Reaching down, she pulled her nightrail over her head.

His lips stopped their foolish talking, and suddenly they were on her again, kissing her breasts, suckling. She closed her eyes to the ecstasy, letting herself drown in the feelings. His hands replaced his mouth, moving lower, slipping kisses down her belly. She felt flushed, hot, needy like never before. Never imagined.

His fingers skimmed down her waist and around, cupping her buttocks, bearing her closer. She moaned when he kissed her hair, then he was lower still. Perhaps she should be embarrassed, but the feelings were so potent, so overpowering, that she could do nothing but spread her legs, welcome him in.

And then he licked her.

She stifled a scream, but she could not control her knees, and they buckled, sending her tumbling into his arms. He caught her, holding her as if she were a precious flower, cradling her against the heat of his body. His clothed body. She found his shirt, needing to be closer, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. His shirt opened. She slipped her palm inside, felt his muscles tighten and shift. Pushing the garment aside, she slid her hand down his ribs, then moving closer, she kissed his shoulder, his chest, trailing downward until she found his nipple with her teeth. He jerked his head back with a growl, and she felt a shaft of hot desire burn through her. She pushed him back, and he gave way, but in a moment he was on his feet, moving away.

Frustrated and achy, she reached for him, but he only snatched the blankets from the bed and spread them before the hearth. Firelight gleamed in his eyes as he turned to her, and when he pressed her onto the floor, she went willingly, wanting him atop her, inside her.

But he merely settled onto an elbow and stared at her,
dragging his gaze with slow heat down the length of her naked body.

She shivered under his perusal and reached for the corner of the blanket, but he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. His lips felt hot against her palm.

“Please…” His voice was soft with longing, whispering against her tingling skin before he released her. “Don’t cover yourself.”

She curled her fingers against his kiss and let her fist drop restlessly to her side. And he smiled with his eyes, watching her.

“You are beauty itself, Shandria,” he whispered, and touched her face.

She closed her eyes to the tender caress, and he slipped his hand over her body with reverent slowness, down her throat, over her breast. She quivered and arched beneath his touch.

“Beautiful and strong.” His hand bumped over her ribs, onto the hollow of her stomach, where it rested just above her most private parts. “Elegant. Practical. Too good for the likes of me.” He found her gaze with his, and there was a shadow of sadness again. Sadness that broke her heart.

She reached up to touch his face. “True goodness is a rare thing, Dancer,” she whispered. “But I know it when I see it.” Firelight danced in his soulful eyes. “And I see it in you.”

“Truly?” The word was whispered, but not without hope, not without gladness.

“Aye. There is nothing wrong with you,” she said, and shifted so that his fingers brushed her thigh. “Except that you are slow.”

“My apologies,” he said, and kissed her.

She did not stop the caress to rid him of his shirt, and
soon his chest was bare. She slid her hands over his shoulders, down the bunched, lean muscles of his back, drawing him closer, skin against skin, heart against heart. But there was an impediment.

She slipped her hands between their bodies and he rolled onto his side, allowing her access to his trousers. Her knuckles brushed his erection, and he drew a sharp breath, muscles quaking at her touch.

And it was that shiver of feeling that made her kiss him again, slow and deep. For though many men desired her, there were none whose soul she could see in their eyes. None who owned the goodness she could feel when he touched her.

His buttons opened beneath her fingers, and she eased his clothing down, over the hard mounds of his buttocks and away until they were both naked. His skin gleamed like dusky gold in the firelight, and when he kissed her she felt strangely molten. She pushed him onto his back, and he went easily, pulling her with him until she was stretched atop him, her core damp and open against his hot shaft.

Their gazes met with smoldering heat. Then he reached up to run the flat of his nails along the side of her breast and down to caress her thigh, to draw it near until she was straddling him.

It was as natural as breathing to rock against him, to feel those first breathless strains of impending fullfillment, to feel his testicles press firm and hot between her cheeks.

Grasping her waist, he lifted her. She arched, moaning, and he slid inside. They exhaled together, and she settled against him, knees gripping, hands clutching his arms as she drew him into her.

There was no time for thought now, no need to con
template. They had begun the dance as old as time. And though, in the back of her mind, she knew his desire to move slowly, there was nothing she could do but increase the tempo. No way to fight the burning demands of her body. And perhaps he did not mind. His hands gripped her thighs with ferocious need. His muscles rippled and bunched as he rocked to her rhythmn, faster and faster. Desire, hungry and insistent, pushed her on, pulled him in. His face was intense, his eyes closed as they strained desperately together, wildly climbing to the peak until she reached the crashing crescendo.

She gasped and stiffened, arching back, welcoming the savage release on a shuddering breath, before letting her muscles go limp and loose.

He opened his eyes with a feral growl, and lifting her from him, set her upon his swollen cock. She lay atop him, sated and weak, feeling him pulse against her belly and knowing with sated certainty that she had been right.

There was nothing in the world wrong with him. Body or soul.

Their breathing was harsh and fast. Their hearts beat together, quick and hard, then slower. Steadier. She slipped onto her side, and he cuddled her against his chest, her leg sprawled across his, her arm against the quieting tempo of his heart. Contentment crept in, more alluring even than satiation, more consuming, more ravaging, for happiness was not her lot. But it would be his. She would make sure of it.

He brushed the hair from her face and kissed her shoulder. And somehow it was that simple caress that brought hot tears stinging to her eyes. She turned her face away. Now was not the time for weakness.

He exhaled shakily and let his fingers bump along her spine. “Sorry,” he murmured.

An apology. And she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But she supposed she must respond. Somehow. “Sorry?” she asked, still turned carefully away, lest he know the truth; she was weak to the core. Weak and shaken.

He smoothed his palm over the rise of her buttocks. “They could probably hear me breathing all the way to Berrywood.”

She forced a chuckle, but it was weak, shaky.

“Lass?” he said, twisting to see her face. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Of course. I am fine.”

But he was no fool. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’ll…” She paused and raised the back of her hand quickly to her cheek. “Maybe I’ll miss you.”

“When I’m gone.”

“Yes.”

“But it won’t be for long.”

She said nothing. Couldn’t.

“It won’t be long,” he repeated, but there was already suspicion in his tone. “Before you join me.”

“No. Of course. Not long,” she said, and glanced at him.

She knew the moment he realized the truth.

“You’re not planning to meet me.” His tone was flat and low.

“I said—”

“You said you’d leave here for a better place.”

She was a fool. Too weak, too much in lov—She stopped the thought before it dared fully form. Trounced it into oblivion. “And I will,” she said, struggling for flippancy. For control.

“Heaven,” he said.

She almost winced, but kept her chin up, her gaze steady.

“You’re hoping for heaven. Because you’re sacrificing yourself for me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed, but she could no longer hold his gaze and turned away.

He shoved his hand behind her neck. She cringed at the scrape of pain, and he swore, for he had found the truth—behind her neck, beneath her hair, hidden like the ugly secret it was.

“Lass,” he breathed, but she refused to look at him. Humiliation ground into her soul.

He grasped her shoulder and turned her away, exposing her back and she went willingly, for she dared not meet his eyes. She felt his hand tremble as he brushed her hair away, heard his hiss of outrage when he saw the wounds—the burns, just the size of a cheroot.