Reckless (13 page)

“I'll have to keep that in mind.” His voice was no longer muffled. “You hum when you're particularly pleased with life.”

He made it sound as if she was pleased with him,
she thought crossly. “No. I hum when I'm enjoying particular physical sensations. I could hardly say I'm pleased with life right now.”

“You
could
say so,” he said. “But you won't. You're not honest enough.”

“If you think being abducted and ruined is cause for celebration you greatly overestimate the effect of your charm,” she said in a pinched voice.

“No one abducted you. You arrived here on your own, came with me without fighting, and you were just as involved in your ruination as I was.”

“Hardly. I didn't know what I was doing.”

“I'm aware of that. You don't even know how to kiss.”

She wasn't supposed to know how to kiss, she thought miserably. She was supposed to spend her entire life in virtuous ignorance. “I'm sorry I was such a disappointment,” she said stiffly. “Next time perhaps you'll have enough sense to choose someone with a little experience. Someone who's actually enthusiastic about the whole undignified process.”

“Very undignified,” he agreed, and she could hear the laugh in his voice. He was closer than she'd realized, which made her nervous, but she refused to turn around and look at him. Even without her spectacles she'd probably see him too clearly. “But I think you grew reasonably enthusiastic after a little persuasion. And there are times when lack of expertise can be particularly…endearing.”

She was getting more and more bothered. By his voice, by the warm, scented water, by the memories he was evoking. “When is your servant coming back?”

“Why do you ask?” He was directly behind her now, so close that she could feel him brush against her loose fall of hair.

“I need time to dress before I leave.”

“You aren't going anywhere. Not right now.”

“You promised…”

“I promised nothing. And you were wide awake when Dormin was here—I checked and you were only pretending to be asleep. If you truly wanted to leave all you had to do was ask.”

“I want to leave.”

“Ah… Too late,” he said, moving around the side of the tub. And before she realized what was happening he'd climbed in with her, on top of her, naked, beautiful, erect.

She let out a shriek, dunking her head down under the water. A second later he'd hauled her up, into his arms, laughing at her. “You can lie to me, Charlotte, but don't lie to yourself.”

And he set his mouth on hers.

S
he was delicious. In every sense of the word, Adrian thought, moving his knees between her legs with no difficulty as he kissed her lovely mouth. She moaned, a small, weak sound that was pleasure and dismay, and he drank it in, reveling in it. He braced his arms on the side of the tub, letting his hips dance against hers, letting his erection float against the sweet juncture of her thighs.

He heard his own moan, an unconscious mate to hers, as her tongue met his. They kissed, like lovers who knew each other well, and he lifted one hand and cradled her neck, loving the feel of her.

She still hadn't mastered breathing too well, and when he dragged his mouth away from hers, down the side of her neck, she drew in a deep, rasping breath, and he waited for another protest, which he would ignore.

Instead, she lifted her hands and stroked the sides
of his face, pushing his damp hair back. He raised his head to look at her, his thumb and fingers slowly rubbing the back of her neck, soothing her.

Her eyes were wide, calm, accepting. But he wanted the words. “Yes?” he said.

She held her breath for a moment. “Yes,” she said in a soft whisper.

He smiled then, and he told himself this feeling was smug, masculine triumph. It wasn't. It was simple happiness.

He sat back on his knees. Her full, lovely breasts were just floating at the top of the water, the pink nipples soft and sweet. He leaned down and licked one, feeling it instantly bud against his tongue, and with sudden hunger he latched onto it like a hungry babe, sucking it into his mouth, clinging to it, hearing her quiet moan of pleasure. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, kneading, clinging, and her back arched with instinctive need. He covered her other breast with his fingers, teasing the nipple into matching hardness, as he sucked, sucked, and her hips lifted in the water, wanting him.

He reached down, caught his erect penis in his hand and guided it to her, then thrust, a little too hard, a little too fast, but she took it with only a faint cry. She was wet and sleek and welcoming, and he moved his head, dropping it down on her shoulder as he tried to control his breathing, his fierce need. He wanted to slam into her until he spewed, he was
famished, greedy, ready to explode. He dropped his hands into the water and cupped her hips, pulling her up tighter against him, and the sound she made was one of unmistakable pleasure, arousing him further when he thought there was no place else to go. He began to move, slowly at first, letting her get used to his invasion. Dormin had used healing herbs in the rose-scented water, and she took him without protest, without restraint, catching the rhythm, moving with it, her eyes closed, her hips lifting to meet each plunging stroke, faster and faster, as the water splashed around them onto the floor, and he knew he was going to have to pull out, soon now, or he wouldn't be able to leave the tight grip of her body. But this time he wasn't going to come without her. He put his hands between them, slid his fingers into her soft, wet curls, just above where they were joined, and touched her.

It was all she needed. She let out a wordless cry as her body tightened around his, milking him, smooth, shuddering contractions as pleasure engulfed her, and as he felt his seed burst forth he pulled free, hating it, using his own hand to try to simulate the feel of her as he emptied himself into the warm water, cursing beneath his breath.

When his heartbeat had sullenly slowed, he rose, lifting her in his arms, sopping wet. He stepped out of the high tub, onto the wet floor, and carried her across to the bed. There were Turkish towels lying
there, and he wrapped her in them like a cocoon, her body soft pink from the water and exertion. As he pulled them around her, drying her, she suddenly looked up at him, and he stilled for a moment, staring back.

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and for a moment he was confused. Had he forced her without realizing it? Hurt her? He was still half-erect, or maybe growing so again, and he wanted her with a fierce need that her tears strangled.

He'd pulled the toweling up around her neck, holding it there to keep her warm. “Do you want to leave, Charlotte?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

For a long moment she didn't move. And then she shook her head, reaching up for him. And he covered her body with his.

 

Charlotte lost track of time. The hours passed in a blur, aided by the artificial light. He lay on the bed beside her and fed her sweetmeats and bits of cheese and ham, delicious tarts and sparkling wine. He made love to her, in the darkness, in the muted light, on the bed, on the floor by the fire, and when she was too sore to take him inside, he had her use her hand on him, bringing him to an exquisite completion that had her own body trembling.

There was no more need for talk. She was past the point of pretending she didn't want this, and he'd lost interest in baiting her. All he seemed to want
was her body, wrapped around his, sleeping against him, shattering in ecstasy, on top and beneath and beside him. She was awash in the touch of him, the taste and scent and texture of his skin. She wrapped her long legs around his narrow hips, she shoved her hands through his thick hair, she kissed him, over and over again, never tiring of it, having no idea how much time passed in that dreamy, dazed state, when she awoke and found herself alone in the cavernlike room, the front door open to the bright sunlight.

For a long moment she didn't move, unwilling to face the daylight. She didn't want this to end, couldn't bear for it to be over.

Her monk's robe lay across the foot of the bed, and she pulled it on, fastening it at the shoulder, then searched for the rope that held it closed. Her sandals were long gone, so she slid barefoot onto the thick carpet. “Adrian?” she said in a small voice.

No answer. There was a scrap of paper on the table, but she didn't want to look at it. She wanted to go back to the bed where such powerful, impossible things had happened, pull the curtains and close her eyes. And wait until he came back for her.

But he wasn't coming back. She knew it immediately, and she wasn't the type to cry. She crossed the room and picked up the piece of paper, then dropped it on the table.
Novelty can only entertain for so long,
it said.
Goodbye
.

Her hair was loose, a mass of curls flowing over
her shoulders. She reached back and took the length in one hand, working it into a loop to flatten it before she pulled the hood over her head. She tucked her hands inside the large sleeves, ignoring the faint tremor. The interval was over, it was time to return to her normal life. Time to move on, without looking back.

In the light of day the courtyard looked smaller than she had imagined. There was no one in sight—even his servant had disappeared. Odd, though. She had the strange sense someone was watching her as she walked back toward the Portal of Venus. The grass was cold and wet on her bare feet, and she realized by the position of the sun that it was still early. She moved on, slowly, deliberately, refusing to think.

She passed an occasional servant as she went, but they kept their heads down, refusing to look at her. The Revels must still be continuing, she realized. Everyone else was still in the midst of their debauchery.

It was just as well. She no longer had the strip of white cloth that signified she had no interest in participating, and if anyone decided she was fair game she'd have a hard time putting up a fight. She was lost, defeated. Everything ached. Not that he'd been too rough. They'd made love gently, fiercely, with tenderness and with anger. She was bruised from
his hard grip, he was raked by her nails, but the only thing he'd been brutal with was her heart.

She skirted the now-silent chapel with its obscene imagery, headed down toward the river, a narrow stream that carried the small flat boats from Hensley Court and back. She could only hope one was waiting there. Even if there was no servant she could probably manage to pilot the boat herself. It moved by way of a long barge pole, and she probably had enough strength to use it. If she didn't, she'd walk, or swim, or fly if she had to. Anything to get away from this sorrowful place.

The path led down beside a steep embankment overlooking the water, and there were rocks lining the path. She glanced down—when they'd arrived it had been dark and she'd had no idea how dangerous it was. It was a good thing she was barefoot—it made her more sure-footed.

The trees were rustling overhead. New leaves were budding, and the wind had picked up, pulling at her hood. She tugged it closer, keeping her head down, unable to see on either side, her hearing muffled as well. It wasn't until the hands touched her that she realized she was not alone.

And she was falling, down the steep embankment, the rough stones tearing at her arms and legs, the branches slapping at her. The hood fell back, and for a brief moment she looked up, up, to see someone
standing at the top of the bluff, unmoving. Someone who had pushed her.

She landed against the boulders. The breath was knocked from her lungs, and she lay perfectly still, unable to breathe, unable to move. Her eyes were open, staring up at the figure above her, and she realized to her horror that he was starting down the steep hill toward her. Not to help her. To finish her off.

She tried to scream, but her breath was still gone, and all she could do was gasp and choke, flailing around. She could feel something wet and warm sliding down her face, and she knew it was blood. She was going to die, she thought. Whoever had shoved her down the cliff was going to kill her.

“Madame, are you all right?” The rough Yorkshire accent came from somewhere beyond her, down at her level, and the man above swiftly turned and began climbing upward, away from her.

Her breath came back in a huge, sucking
whoosh.
“I… I…” For a moment she couldn't find her voice.

Someone was coming toward her now, someone tall, and the rising sun was behind him, throwing him in shadows. For a moment she thought it was Adrian, and her heart leaped. But he came closer, and it was a stranger, one of the servants, kneeling beside her. “Just lie still, miss,” he said. “Help is coming.”

Help is coming, she thought dizzily. She tried to look up toward the bluff, but there was no one in sight. “You must have slipped, miss,” the man was
saying. “That hillside is right dangerous—you could have been killed. Can you speak, miss?”

She moved her mouth, trying to get the words out. She wanted someone to go after him, after the man who'd pushed her. Who'd tried to kill her. But that was ridiculous—why would anyone want to hurt her? “The man…” she managed to say.

“What man, miss?”

But by then she gave up, slipping into the darkness that swirled around her head.

 

Adrian sank back against the velvet squabs of his very fast carriage, closing his eyes. The shades were pulled down over the windows, shutting out the day, and his cousin Etienne was busy opening a bottle of wine. “You almost left without me, dear boy,” he said in a faintly complaining voice, his accent just slight enough to be considered charming. “I hardly think that hospitable. I might have had to beg a ride with one of those dreadful chits that Montague invites.”

“I told you I wanted to leave by dawn,” Adrian said with poor grace.

“I don't see what the hurry was. That tiresome creature you trapped yourself with would hardly come chasing after you, would she?”

“I prefer not to talk about it.”

“Indeed, I don't blame you. Though there's something to be said for playing with an amateur for a few hours. But two nights! My boy, you must have been
a glutton for punishment. You can just be thankful I made Dormin unlock the door, or it could have gone on even longer. Heaven forbid!” he said with an extravagant Gallic shudder.

“Heaven forbid,” Adrian echoed, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“I didn't make a mistake, did I?” Etienne's rich voice was suddenly anxious. “Dear boy, I thought I was rescuing you from a horrid fate. That red-haired Amazon— you must have been desperate to get rid of her. If I thought you actually found the tiresome creature interesting I would have left you alone.”

“I don't,” he said, his voice flat. Annoyed that he wanted to defend her, annoyed that he wanted to slam his fist into Etienne's florid face. It was bad enough that his cousin had gotten Dormin to unlock the door; Dormin would pay for that transgression.

But with Charlotte sleeping the righteous sleep of one beautifully shagged, he hadn't been able to send Etienne on his way, not without answering a lot of questions he didn't want to think about, even on his own.

“I admit, I was curious about that flame-red hair. Is she worth the trouble? I might ask Lady Whitmore to bring her next time…”

“No!” Adrian said sharply. And then he managed a dry laugh. “Truly, Etienne, you would find her tedious beyond measure. She's like any sentimental
young thing, full of tears and protestations of love. I had to tie her down to take her.”

“You know I can be quite fond of that kind of sport.”

Adrian kept his face impassive. One of the things he enjoyed most about his father's French cousin was his total lack of conscience. He did what he wanted, with whom he wanted. And Adrian had begun to realize that all he had to do was desire something to ensure that Etienne would go after it. And he didn't want Etienne going after Charlotte Spenser.

He wasn't quite certain why. Why he lied. “You certainly aren't interested in protestations of love, are you?”

“Of course not. In particular, not from someone as charmless as Lady Whitmore's friend. What in the world made you take her in the first place? Oh, yes, I remember. She has the most affecting crush on you, does she not? Always watching you covertly from the back of the ballroom. Clearly this was your semiannual act of charity.”

He'd forgotten he'd ever said anything at all about Charlotte. Etienne's malicious tongue could flay anyone alive, and the sooner he stopped talking about Charlotte the happier he'd be.