No Proper Lady (21 page)

The fabric moved farther upward, traveling the lean, scarred length of her body. Joan drew it higher, over her head and then off. Her bare breasts rose high and firm, dark pink nipples hard and thrusting toward Simon, as if begging for his hands. He made himself wait, though, until Joan reached for him again.

Then he drew her toward him so that her naked skin pressed against his. Her gasp was both satisfying and tempting. He wanted to hear it again, so he cupped her breast in one hand, flicking his thumb over the nipple. Joan writhed. Her hand, on the small of his back, pressed harder, pushing him against her so that the hair between her legs rubbed deliciously against his stiff cock.

Simon groaned, but he didn’t enter her, not yet. He wanted to feel her first, to feel all the firm muscle and smooth skin, to read her scars like he might a book. He ran his hand up her arm and then down her back, gliding over the tattoo there.
Protection
, he thought, and left his hand there for a while, as if, by its warmth, it might activate the mark or lend some new power to it.

He could indulge that fancy for only so long, though, before Joan’s urges and his own body’s had their way. When she trailed her fingers down his spine, they left heat behind them. When she gripped his buttocks, Simon groaned again and slid his hands down to hers, cupping them and squeezing gently. She squirmed again, eager, even if not impatient, and the friction made Simon gasp.

“You’re lovely,” he said, his voice thick. He still couldn’t speak of love. It felt too much like doom. “You’re so bloody lovely.”

Another day, she might have laughed and denied it. Now she looked up at him and smiled. “So are you.”

One of her hands slid between them, found his cock, and stroked once. Slowly. Simon thrust forward into her hand and cried out.
Now
, he thought, with a tidal certainty that he’d never before felt with a woman.
Now
.

She was wet against his hand, and she opened easily, eagerly. Nonetheless, his first thrust forward was slow and gentle. Joan’s body closed around him, arms and legs as well as her sex, and Simon began to move very slightly inside her. He looked down at her while he rocked forward and back, watching her eyes and the almost serene pleasure on her face.

Even the moonlight couldn’t make her silver, not entirely. She was too dark for that. Too vivid. The most living person he’d ever met.

They fell easily into a rhythm. No struggle upward to a peak this time, nor overwhelming fall. Instead, Simon seemed to float there, aware of his own urgency and yet willing to wait, wanting to wait. Not wanting this to be one more thing that was done, that was in the past, as he went forward into—what?

He didn’t want to think about it. Right now, he didn’t have to. He moved slowly, Joan warm and strong below him, and lost himself in
now
.

It was almost a disappointment to feel his pleasure rising, his own climax approaching, and he tried to hold it off. Then Joan was there with him, coming around him, her eyes open and wide with surprise. He’d never seen such joy on her face before.

Simon kept his own eyes open when he came, trying to burn Joan’s face into his mind. Trying to keep it always—however long
always
lasted.

Afterward, Joan lay with her head on Simon’s chest, one arm thrown across him. She felt deceptively boneless. Simon suspected that she could snap alert at one wrong sound, though he was far from inclined to test that theory.

Joan didn’t speak. Her eyes went from the window to Simon’s face and then back to the window for a long moment. Then she sighed.

She was going to leave now, Simon knew. She’d say something about having to go, push herself out of bed, and leave. It was very practical of her.

“Could we get under the blankets or something?” Joan asked. “I’m not feeling the cold yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“You’re staying?” Simon asked, blinking down at her.

Joan opened one eye. “If you don’t mind.”

He put one hand on her arm in case she got any ideas about getting up. “Of course I don’t. I—” Simon tried to process his thoughts, tried to get past the feeling that he’d been given a gift he’d never expected. “But—the servants?”

“Hell with ’em,” Joan said, wriggling closer to his side. “Gossip doesn’t spread that fast. It’s one night.”

Either he truly believed her or he wanted to believe her, and Simon didn’t care much either way. He pulled the blanket around them both, rested his chin on Joan’s head, and closed his eyes.

One night, he thought, and tightened his arms around her.

Alex was reasonably certain that Joan would show up.

The potion, after all, had been very potent. The woman must have been nearly frantic by the time they’d met at the theatre. The strained note to her laughter had certainly borne that out, as had the tension that had gone through her body at his touch. Whatever Simon might have been doing to her, Alex thought, he certainly wasn’t leaving her particularly satisfied.

Still, some doubting part of Alex half expected, when ten o’clock arrived, to find Joan’s maid with some excuse. It was possible that Simon would prevent her from coming. It was possible that her own nerves would have gotten the best of her. And there were always unexpected complications when dealing with women. One simply never knew.

Alex had prepared himself for some disappointment, a temporary setback, at least. He could always try again. Delay did increase desire, or so they said.

Still, after so much time, he was impatient to see the culmination of his plans—his own carnal pleasure, Simon’s pain, and perhaps an aid to his magical practice or an agent in the Grenville home. There were a number of possibilities at hand, and Alex badly wanted to grasp them.

He’d given most of the servants the night off, saying that he’d have a quiet supper in his rooms—which he had—and retaining only two maids and the butler. Casborough had been serving him long enough to be unshockable and knew enough not to ask inconvenient questions. At Alex’s request, he’d prepared the drawing room by lighting a fire, turning the lamps down low, and placing glasses and decanters on a low table.

Wine did great things for an evening, after all. If it didn’t, Alex could always slip a little more of the potion into Joan’s glass. When Casborough opened the door, a few minutes past ten, Alex felt a thrill that he hadn’t quite been expecting. Physical desire and more emotional satisfaction mixed deliciously. In a very short time, he would have everything he wanted.

Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to kill Simon afterward, or his sister. Alex smiled and rose from his seat to greet his visitor.

Joan was wearing an evening dress: blue and white, frothing with ribbons, and long sleeved but temptingly low cut. Her hair was loose, almost unbound, and there was a wide velvet ribbon around her neck. Alex wondered idly where she’d told Simon that she was going. He’d know the truth soon enough, anyhow.

“Joan,” he said, taking one of her hands in both of his. Her eyes widened most gratifyingly. “It’s so very good to see you.”

“And you,” she said, her face already flushed. Through her glove, her hand was a little cold.

Nerves, Alex thought. Best not to rush things. If he blundered here, Joan could run straight back to Simon. Not that she’d ever be able to do anything to his good name, not after having come here more or less unescorted, but there was no sense in ruining the game. He waved Casborough away and led Joan over to the wide sofa. “I thought you might care for something to drink,” he said.

“Oh—” she began, looking over at the decanters. “I—a very little, please.”

Alex poured slowly, letting her hear every sound he made in the otherwise silent room. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’d like to have you well aware of everything.”

“That’s practically a given,” she said, laughing a little as she took the glass.

It wasn’t taking her long to relax, Alex thought. In a way, that was good; in another, it was less than flattering. “I do hope,” he said, watching her toy with the wine, “that you’ve been doing all right. Particularly after that little display we witnessed.”

“Very well, thank you,” she said.

Alex lifted an eyebrow. “No nightmares, then.”

She caught her breath. Rich color spread up her neck and over her face. There was a little pulse in the hollow of her neck, beating fast now, like a rabbit’s heart as the animal cowered before a predator. Alex was hard almost instantly.

“No,” Joan said. “No nightmares.” She added, “You have a very nice house here,” her eyes darting around the room.

“Yes,” Alex said. “It’s very spacious. The view from my bedroom window is particularly excellent.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head and looked up at him. Unconsciously, it seemed, she wet her lips.

“Mmm.” Alex sat down beside her, almost close enough to touch but not quite. She was breathing quickly now, he noticed, with desire or fear, or both. He hoped for both. Forcing women was no fun, but a little fear always made seduction more interesting. “Are you the sort of woman who enjoys a good view?”

Joan caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Maybe,” she said. “Though I must admit I haven’t seen very many.”

“Then tonight should be quite enlightening,” Alex said, and reached for her.

Her shoulders were tense beneath his hands, but she didn’t pull away, and her mouth opened at the first touch of his tongue on her lips. Alex slid one hand up to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair so that pins scattered across the couch, and the other down to the base of her spine, crushing her to him.

Joan made some muffled noise and wriggled against him, perhaps struggling from surprise or perhaps trying for closer stimulation. Either way, the friction felt wonderful. Alex took her mouth again, taking her lip between his teeth—gently, but not too gently—as he pressed her down into the sofa. He hadn’t meant to take her here, but if circumstances got the better of him—well, there’d be the rest of the night to move upstairs.

He found the buttons of her dress with one hand, cursing the need for secrecy that kept him from ripping the damn thing off. Still kissing Joan, he began to undo them.

Then a woman screamed.

Alex didn’t raise his head at first. He could calm Joan easily enough, and Casborough would handle whichever stupid girl had lost her wits at the sight of a mouse or something. Nothing he had to worry about. But then the world flashed green before his eyes, and he smelled something sharp and bitter.

The wards.

Simon
.

He pushed himself off Joan and onto his feet, frustrated desire only adding to his anger. “I have to see to this,” he said. “I’ll be back. Call one of the servants if you need anything.”

“But what is it?” she asked, eyes wide. “Are we in danger? Is it a burglar? Should I—”

“Wait. Here.”

He stalked out of the drawing room. Casborough met him on the way. “Sir,” he began. “I beg your pardon, sir—”

“You had better,” Alex said darkly.

“—but one of the maids saw a shape, sir. A dark one. Toward your bedroom. And I’m afraid there’s all sorts of damage in the dining room, sir. It hardly seems—shall I call the law?”

Human
was what he’d been about to say. The shape hardly seemed human because it wasn’t. Perhaps Simon had set aside some of his more inane prejudices after all. It would have been a good sign—except that Simon had done it to him. “No,” Alex said. “Stay out of the way. I’ll handle this myself.”

***

Joan watched the door close behind Reynell. In her mind, she saw the house as Simon had drawn it for her: the dining room down a long hallway from the drawing room, with the staircase in between. She tore open the loose stitches closing the slit in her skirt: there were the knockout darts on one side of the band around her thigh.

Reynell would be out of sight by now. Joan palmed the darts and headed for the door.

The hallway lights were dim, and there was nobody around. No cover either, though. Joan could see the staircase up ahead, but there wasn’t a door or even a niche between her and it. She walked quickly. Running would look too suspicious. She had the darts, but if a servant got a scream out first, she was screwed.

I got nervous
, she said silently, rehearsing,
and then I got lost.

Down the hall, something crashed. Something heavy. Joan’s sensor had gone off pretty strongly just as Reynell had started feeling things. Maybe Eleanor or Simon had set up something large. She hoped it was that. She couldn’t afford to check.

As she reached the staircase, a shape appeared ahead of her. Large. Male. Joan slipped a dart into her hand and raised her chin. The man was in rough clothing, she saw now, with a cap that hid his face, the kind a stable hand might wear. She should be able to scare the hell out of him with rank alone.

“You—” she began, quiet and imperious.

Then she saw that it was Simon.

They couldn’t talk. There wasn’t time, and it wasn’t safe. Joan met his eyes, though, and the glance was like a shot of good whiskey. Whatever happened now, she had somebody at her back.

Joan took the staircase as fast as she could, her skirt looped over one arm, and it still took forever. The carpet was thick enough to almost trip her up once or twice, the flashgun between her breasts jolted her at every step, and the knife and flask under her skirt chafed her thigh. Before she was little more than halfway up, her corset started stabbing her in the ribs. If she’d had time, she’d have asked Simon to cut the whole damn outfit off her.

One turn, midway between the floors, hid them from anyone watching below. They bolted around it and farther up. Not a second too soon.

“What the hell do you mean you don’t know?” Reynell was at the bottom of the stairs, shouting at someone. “Find her. Bring her back to the drawing room. You have someone watching the front door, don’t you?”

The answer was inaudible. Joan climbed faster. She didn’t look at Simon.

“Then there’s only one place she can be.”

As they reached the second-floor landing, they heard him start to climb. Joan started toward the hallway and then turned back when Simon’s footsteps stopped.

He spoke quietly. She still heard every word. “You know where to go.”

“I do. And—”

“I’ll delay him. Then lead him on. You’ll never get the book otherwise.”

Joan grabbed his shoulders and yanked him down to her. The kiss was hard. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and his hands pressed her to him with bruising force.

“Don’t die,” Joan whispered, and then ran off down the hall.

***

Fourth door on the right. Locked, as Joan suspected. Didn’t matter: what a hairpin had done in five minutes, her picks did in one. She grabbed the flashgun out of her corset and bolted into the study, slammed the door behind her, and locked it.

The guardian wasn’t there. Maybe Simon had hurt it too badly. Maybe Reynell didn’t want to waste his strength when he was in the house. That didn’t matter either. Joan thanked the Powers for small favors and took a hasty look around.

Outwardly it was a normal enough room with a fireplace, a low sofa against one wall, a large desk facing the door, and a bookshelf behind the desk. No blood. No dead virgins. But Joan’s sensor was almost flaming. This was the place. Reynell kept the book here, and he’d done more than that in the past.

She crossed the room to the desk and began yanking out drawers and dumping their contents on the floor. Papers and booze in the top drawer. More papers in the next drawer. None of them were magical. The third drawer had more papers, and a false bottom. Joan smashed it open with the hilt of her knife.

A shower of tiny bones fell out, hit the carpet, and scattered. They looked like fingers.

Shouting in the hall outside. Not at the door, but close enough.

When she stepped toward the bookshelves, the sensor flared again. It actually hurt this time. Joan tipped out each book, rifled through it, and dropped it—but nothing. Badly written pornography, pretentious occult bullshit, even poetry. But nothing handwritten.

Damn.

She grabbed control of herself before she could panic.
Think. It’s not in the desk, and it’s not on the shelves. There’s nothing else here that can hold it, unless he put it in the sofa cushions, but it is here somewhere. Just keep going. One step at a time. It’s something hidden.

The bookshelves were pretty thick.

Joan reached out a hand. It was torture to go slowly, to slide her fingertips over the bottom of each shelf, but she made herself do it anyhow. The yelling outside was closer now. There was a sound like thunder.

She told herself she didn’t hear it.

On the third shelf, she felt a small bump, no bigger than a fingertip. It could have been a knot in the wood—but it wasn’t. Too regular.

Joan drew her hand back quickly. There was no point in taking risks now. She drew her knife, cut a thick wad of satin off her skirt, and wound it around her fingertips until it was almost an inch thick. Then she reached out again.

Nothing stung her when she pressed the button. Nothing exploded. Instead, a thin drawer slid out. Inside was a manuscript, rolled and tied with a black ribbon. Joan grabbed it.

The writing was the same as in Reynell’s note. That, and a few sentences, was all she needed to know.
This is it.

She flu
ng it into the fireplace, grabbed the flask from under her skirt, and dumped the liquid inside over the paper. There were matches on the mantel, and the cut on her palm was fresh. As Joan opened it again with her knife, she remembered her fight with Simon and what had come after. It was a good memory for a time like this, both the oath and the love.

“By blood and fire,” she began, as her blood mingled with the red-gold liquid from the flask. “I cast you out. By sun and starlight, I destroy you. By my will, and the will of all mankind and its allies, I send you back to the void where you belong. Your power is broken, and your place is not here. You have no part of this world.
Begone
.”

A faint breeze blew around the room. It lifted the hair on the back of Joan’s neck and toyed with the remains of her dress. She smelled jasmine.

The match seemed to drop very slowly, but when it hit, the book exploded. A burst of blue-white flame made Joan leap backward, grabbing her skirt out of the way. When she could look into the fire again, she saw that the manuscript was black already and crumbling around the edges.

Out in the hall, Reynell screamed.

He’d come in soon. Simon might be there first, or behind him, and Joan could probably get a decent shot off either way. But—this was something he had to do. They all had that need. Even Eleanor had, in the end, and Simon had seen her right to it. So maybe he had the same right.