Shameless (14 page)

And then, to her shock, he bumped against her. Just a tiny little bounce almost, and her body tightened with surprise.

He did it again, and she realized it was deliberate. She was pressed up tight against him, and he was holding her head against his shoulder, her face hidden, and his other arm was tight around her waist, imprisoning her there. She knew she should try to get her hands up between them, to push him away, but there was simply no room.

He bumped again, and she could feel her nipples
harden almost painfully. She wanted him closer still, she realized, moving her legs so he could settle more fully against her. With the next jerk against her she pressed her face harder against his shoulder, to stifle her instinctive cry.

She was burning up. Her breasts, her heart, between her legs, everything was on fire, and she waited for the pulse of him against her welcoming heat once more.

But Rohan didn’t move. The voices had drifted away, though she could still hear them, and the light was faintly visible when she lifted her head from his shoulder. He moved his head, just a bit, and she tried to look up into his face. She could just see his eyes, and they gleamed as they looked down into hers.

She shifted beneath him, restless, longing, half hoping he’d move away from her, half hoping… She couldn’t think clearly. She didn’t know what she wanted.

And yet Rohan asked her the one thing she couldn’t answer. “What do you want, sweet Charity?” It was just a taunting breath of sound, and no one outside of their tiny cave would hear it.

She turned her face away from him, staring at the wall, trying to control her wayward body, envisioning it packed in ice, frozen. But the ice melted against him, and her body was soft and welcoming.

“What do you want?” he persisted, his breath hot against her ear, and his teeth closed lightly over the lobe, and she wanted to moan in pleasure. “What…do…you…want?”

She gave in. She had reached the end of her ability to fight him. “More,” she whispered.

She knew he smiled in triumph. She knew she didn’t care. He pushed up against her, slowly this time, grinding against her, and she lost her breath as sensation danced through her. It was as if they were having sex, she thought dizzily, except that instead of inside her he was outside, rubbing against her with the hard ridge of his erection, a pressure that was making her tremble and dampen in the place where he pressed, and she felt a soft little explosion course through her, leaving her shocked, astonished, as she fell back on the cushioned ground beneath her.

She tried to speak, to say something airy and dismissing, but for the moment she was unable to make a sound. She felt strange, unsettled, anxious, and she knew she should be angry at what he’d done to her, except that she’d asked for more, hadn’t she?

She tried to relax, but her legs were restless, entwined with his. The voices had faded, though there was still just the faintest light emanating from the tunnel outside their pillowed cave. “We…uh…we should go,” she finally managed to say. She could pre tend that unexpected response had never happened. After all, how was he to know?

“Not yet.” His voice was against her ear, tickling her, arousing her. Arousing her? Had she gone mad? “You’re not finished.”

“Not finished? What…?” Just as her voice rose slightly, he clamped his hand over her mouth again. He’d moved, his body lying partly across hers, pin
ning her there, and she felt his hand on her skirt. Pulling it upward, slowly, his warm, hard hand beneath it, and for a moment she was too shocked to protest.

Then she tried to push at him, but he simply caught her hands in his arms and held them. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Not if you want to rescue your doves. This won’t take long.”

“What won’t?” she whispered, but then she felt his hand on her thigh, long fingers stroking, caressing, moving upward beneath her loose cotton drawers till he reached the damp, most secret part of her. Vagina, she told herself sternly, remembering Emma’s lessons. Vulva. Clitor…

She slammed her face against his shoulder to muffle her reaction when he touched her, his fingertips sure and practiced. And then his hand cupped her, holding her still by that simple expedient, and he released her wrists. A moment later she felt something thrust in her hands, a soft cloth. “Stuff my handkerchief in your mouth,” he suggested, a note of laughter in his voice. “That will drown out any noise you might make.”

“I don’t want this,” she whispered.

One of his fingers had begun to move, lightly stroking, and that anxious, aching feeling was back, tenfold. “Are you certain?” He was somehow able to speak with only the breath of a sound coming out. His hand slid down farther, and she felt one of his fingers slide inside her, and her hips jerked at the sudden invasion. He moved his mouth to hers, run
ning his tongue along her trembling lower lip. “Do you really want me to stop?”

Of course she did. This was madness; this was pleasure that was oddly painful. She needed him to leave her, she needed…

Her body arched up, almost of its own volition, and without thinking she shoved the cloth into her mouth, smothering her instinctive cry. She felt his laughter against her cheek. “That’s right, my precious. Charity begins at home.” And he slid two fingers inside her, and the slippery dampness would have embarrassed her but she was well past that point.

She could no longer think about how he was causing such sensations to rocket through her body. His fingers thrust inside her, his thumb rubbed against that most sensitive part of her, and she wanted to yank the cloth out of her mouth, to beg him to stop. It was too much, too powerful, she couldn’t stand it, she wanted…

And then all conscious thought vanished in a white haze as her body arched, rigid, as thousands upon thousands of tiny pinpricks shot through her, and she lost herself, the pleasure-pain exploding into a rich darkness she never wanted to leave. It was glorious. It was heaven.

It was disaster.

She came down slowly, brought back to safety with his gentling strokes, and she realized that despite the cloth she’d used she’d managed to bite her lip. She pulled the cloth from her mouth and hid her
face from him, pressing it against his shoulder even though it was too dark to see. He was going to say something horrible, she just knew it. He was going to mock her pathetic reaction to his practiced touch, he was going to make her feel…

“Lovely,” he whispered against her ear, smoothing her tangled hair. “Perfectly lovely.”

And she wanted to weep.

S
he lay in his arms, trembling like a virgin, and he tried to stifle his guilt. In truth, she hadn’t said no. She’d even asked for more, and there was no way he was going to stop with just that small climax. Because he was fairly certain that in some ways Melisande Carstairs was a virgin. It seemed she’d never felt any pleasure at all in bed, much less the most exquisite pleasure of what the French called
le petit mort.
The little death.

Right now he would have surrendered himself to that little death quite happily, but there was a time and place for everything, and this wasn’t the place. He smoothed her skirts back down as he held her, breathing in the sweet scent of her, flowers and feminine arousal, and he wondered how his life had gotten so complicated. He’d come to London to find a wife and to have sex, and so far he’d failed at the first and not done terribly well at the second. No one
seemed to interest him. Except for the enigma that was Charity Carstairs.

Just as well he’d changed his mind about Miss Pennington. That had been her brother out there in the corridor, talking with Lord Petersham, and he already had one brother entangled in the Heavenly Host. He didn’t want to rescue two.

Slowly, slowly, her trembling had stopped. Her face was still pressed against his shoulder, hiding from him, hiding from herself, but her hands had released their bruising hold on his arms and fallen back. He wondered if she’d marked him. He expected her hands would ache later on. She’d realize why and she’d remember, and she’d presumably feel angry and shamed and ridiculous. But her body would remember and warm at the thought.

Jesus, he needed to start thinking of other things—and right now—or he was going to flip her skirts back up and take her there and then. He had no doubt he could persuade her. She was still in that slightly dazed, postorgasmic trance, but before long strength would return to her limbs and she’d be ready to slap him again. He was already going to have a difficult time dealing with her after this delicious moment of intimacy. If he actually tupped her she’d probably come after him and shoot him.

He slowly released her, setting her back against the corner of the little cave. He knew what it was for, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice the restraints that lay about the place. He wanted her to think of the room fondly.

“I’ll make certain they’re gone,” he whispered against her ear.

She nodded, and closed her eyes, and he wanted to kiss her eyelids. But she was already withdrawing, and if he tried she’d probably clout him.

There was no sign of the two men, though they’d left torches burning, so presumably they were coming back. He wondered if they’d found the cave-in yet. Would they come running back here once they found it, or would they stay to investigate? Did he have time to get Melisande out of this place before they returned?

What was the worst that could happen? He could always pretend someone had told him how to get here, and he’d been enjoying Lady Carstairs. What would they do, report him for trespassing?

But it would destroy any advantage they’d gained. He’d considered trying to persuade them to let him join, but he had no idea whom to approach, and he suspected he’d be blackballed. He’d never had much of a reputation for unbridled lechery—he found he preferred one partner at a time, and that should be a willing female. Not what the Heavenly Host seemed interested in nowadays.

No, his best bet was to get Melisande out of there before they were found out, and the longer he hesitated the less likely he was to succeed.

He ducked back into the cave. She was sitting up, and she’d made an effort to tidy her hair. “Time to go,” he said, and scooped her up. “I can…”

“No, you can’t,” he interrupted her ruthlessly. “If you try to walk it will take us that much longer. Trust me.”

Her mirthless snort was answer enough.

The men left torches burning the way they’d come, and he followed the light, coming out into a large underground room that led off to an absolute rabbit’s warren of tunnels. Fortunately light only came from one, and he followed it, moving swiftly.

The sight of the steps leading upward was the best thing he’d seen in weeks. He took them two at a time, careful not to jar the woman in his arms, and then they were out in the late-afternoon sunshine again, at the far end of the ruins.

He cast a surreptitious glance down at her. Her eyes were closed, her face calm and slightly averted. So she was going to ignore what happened in the so-called “training room.” So be it. He wasn’t going to bring it up—it was up to her if she wanted to discuss it, and if she didn’t, so much the better. Women had a tendency to put too much importance on sex, and this had hardly been sex. Just a little treat for his partner in crime, to prove that she wasn’t the cold creature she thought she was. Harmless enough.

It took him a while to reach their tethered horses. The picnic was still spread out on the coverlet, and he simply wrapped it all up and dumped it in the basket, ignoring Melisande’s squeak of protest from the rock where he’d set her. Her ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, and he wondered if he’d been wrong and she’d actually broken it. It would be hard to tell
beneath all the swelling—he needed to get her home so she could elevate it.

“You’ll ride in front of me and we’ll bring your horse behind us,” he said, coming for her.

“I most certainly will not. I’m perfectly capable of riding.” She didn’t meet his gaze, and it both amused and annoyed him. Then again, he didn’t want to discuss it, either, did he?

“I doubt it. It’s your right foot. How are you going to guide your horse?”

“I can manage. If you’ll help me mount.”

He sighed, reaching for her and carrying her across the clearing. He picked her up and placed her in the saddle, then vaulted onto his own horse, taking the reins in his hand. “Let’s go,” he said in a bland voice, and waited, letting her go first down the overgrown road that had first brought them there.

She made it about ten feet, then shrieked with pain as she tried to use her foot. He moved to catch up with her, all smug complacency.

There were tears in her eyes and pure irritation in her mouth. “You’re right,” she said briefly.

“I always am,” he said in a silky voice. He reached out for her, waiting to see if she’d cross the distance and come into his arms.

Clearly she thought about it for a minute. And then she held out her arms and he caught her, pulling her off her mount’s broad back and onto his. He settled her back against him, her skirt covering her legs with as much decency as he could muster.

“Don’t talk,” she said tersely. “Just ride.”

You mean you don’t want to discuss the pleasure I just gave you in the Heavenly Host’s depraved caverns? You don’t want to acknowledge that there’s a bone-shaking attraction between us, and sooner or later we’re going to do something about it, even if neither you nor I want it?

But he could give her her wish. He rode at a steady pace, trying to avoid jarring her ankle too much. She had it modestly tucked under the hem of her habit, but that was doubtless making it even more painful, and he wished there was something he could do. Teasing her would take her mind off the pain, but he suspected she’d rather have the pain.

She tried to sit in front of him without touching him, but he knew the effort must be costing her dearly, and there was a limit to how much he’d allow her to hurt herself. He hauled her back against him, clasping one arm around her waist in an unbreakable hold. “Relax,” he said in a cool voice. “I’m hardly going to molest you on the King’s highway, and you’re going to fall apart if you keep clenching your muscles like that. As soon as we come to a tavern we’ll stop and I’ll send for a carriage.”

“No,” she said. “Just take me home.”

He didn’t bother to point out that they were most likely already an on-dit, having been seen together on at least two occasions. If they arrived back in town with her unceremoniously cradled in his lap the gossips were going to go wild with conjecture. He considered whether it might hurt her silly charities. If so he’d insist they stop—he wasn’t going to
be responsible for taking her raison d’être away from her, even if he thought it was a lost cause.

But people were more likely to see Charity Carstairs as human, with all humanity’s frailties, and they would be more sympathetic to her efforts. At least, he hoped so. Because truth be told, he liked riding with her bum up against him, his arms under her luscious breasts. He liked the fact that the gossips were going to link her with him, inextricably, so that she couldn’t look elsewhere.

Of course, that would affect him, as well. If the ton was certain he was having an affaire with Sweet Charity then he might have difficulty forging an alliance with an eligible young female. But society was a great deal more liberal when it came to men’s foibles, and he didn’t think a mistaken rumor would interfere with his plans.

Even if the rumor ended up being true.

He wanted her in bed. Quite badly. It could be as simple as proximity, and the erotic atmosphere of the caves. Indeed, as a man he tended to find caves automatically sexual, and it was no wonder he’d reacted, particularly when he’d been rubbing up against her in the tiny room.

Once he was free of her, back in his own house, he could turn his attention to more congenial company. Despite Melisande’s best efforts there were still a great many beautiful and willing Cyprians available, and he would have no trouble filling his bed tonight.

But he didn’t need to think about that with Lady
Carstairs cradled against his cock. She’d already become too closely acquainted, first, in her sleep, when she’d unknowingly caressed him, and then later when they were hiding in the cave and he couldn’t help his response.

But he was going to think about cold rain and war and piglets and anything else that could get his mind off sex.

He took a circuitous route back to her house on King Street. The likelihood of avoiding being seen by at least one nosy person was not good, but at least they wouldn’t have to make conversation with anyone. By the time they arrived at the Dovecote it was late, and clearly her gaggle had been watching for her. To his horror, they all came flooding out her front door, some twenty strong.

He slid down from the saddle, then reached up for Melisande. “Someone take the damned horses,” he said, and carried her up the stairs, hoping one of the women knew enough about horseflesh to deal with them. The door was still open and the woman he had once known as Emma Cadbury, owner of one of the finest brothels in town, came rushing toward them, her face free of paint, her hair and clothes plain, her beautiful face creased with worry.

“What happened?” she demanded breathlessly.

“I fell,” Melisande spoke up for the first time.

“Where’s her bedroom?”

“You’re not taking me to my bedroom!”

“Yes, I am. And have someone call for a doctor. I don’t think she’s broken her ankle but I could be
wrong. She’ll definitely need it elevated and bandaged,” he said, overriding her objection.

“I can elevate it downstairs!” she shot back.

Mrs. Cadbury wasn’t the kind of woman who was easily intimidated, but he was a man who knew how to get his own way. He looked at Emma Cadbury.

“Her bedroom is on the second floor,” she said after a moment. “First doorway on the right. I’ll send someone for a doctor.”

“Traitor,” Melisande said bitterly as Benedick started up the stairs.

He ignored her. A couple of the younger girls met him at the top of the stairs, rushing ahead to open the door for him. Melisande was fuming now, rigid and silent and outraged, and he wondered what kind of tongue-lashing she was dying to deliver. And whether she’d let loose if her doves were around.

He glanced around the room in surprise. It was utilitarian but a far cry from the kind of place a wealthy widow like Lady Carstairs should live in. No chaise, so he set her down on the plain bed, letting his hand caress her bum as he withdrew it, his face blandly innocent. He took a pillow from the top of the bed, lifted her leg and placed it on the pillow with as much care as he could manage. Even that much of a touch left her white with pain.

“Has someone gone for that damned doctor?” he snarled over his shoulder.

“Of course, your lordship,” Emma Cadbury said in a cool voice, coming into the room. “I expect he’ll be here shortly. You needn’t trouble yourself further.”

He glanced at her. “Mrs. Cadbury, it’s very difficult to get rid of me when I’m not ready to go. I don’t take hints very well. I intend to stay until the doctor has seen her. After all, Lady Carstairs was in my company when she was injured and I count it as simply my responsibility to ensure she’s all right.”

“I
absolve
you of your responsibility,” Melisande snapped, her temper finally shattered.
“Go away, please.”

He turned back to her. “Don’t waste your breath, sweetheart. I’m not leaving.” And in order to demonstrate, he took a seat on the bed beside her.

“Your lordship!” Mrs. Cadbury sounded scandalized. And faintly amused, which surprised him.

“Don’t bother. You’ve seen a great deal more shocking things than my sitting on Melisande’s bed. Go and get her a glass of brandy—it might help with the pain.”

Mrs. Cadbury looked at the two of them for a long, speculative moment. And then, to his astonishment, she swept from the room, taking the other members of the gaggle with her. Leaving him alone with a very angry Charity Carstairs.

“I’m going to kill her,” she said beneath her breath.

Benedick stretched out on the bed beside her. “Save your energies, Charity. You can’t budge me until I’m ready to go. Just close your eyes and breathe.”

“I’m not closing my eyes anywhere around you. I don’t trust you.”

He reached out to touch her face, and she jerked it
away, her eyes troubled. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, suddenly serious. She turned back to look at him, and there was one of those odd, eerie moments of understanding between them. The kind of moment that shook him, disturbed him more than he cared to admit.