Smuggler's Lady (31 page)

Rutherford was in the hall with a group of men when the ladies appeared, on their way to bed. Merrie's eyes were downcast, her shoulders sagging just a little—body language that would be obvious and comprehensible to no one but himself, who was familiar with every one of the actress's tricks. He gave her her candle, clasping her wrist for a second as he bade her good-night.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “You will not still be vexed tomorrow, will you?”

Rutherford's lip quivered. “Look at me.” Obediently she raised her eyes. “As I conjectured,” he said in a low voice. “You are quite unrepentant. I give you fair warning, Merrie, if you meant to quarrel with me this week, I shall simply absent myself.”

“I do not mean to quarrel with you.”

“That is all right, then.” He gave a satisfied nod, eyes twinkling as he released her wrist. “Sweet dreams, Cousin Meredith.”

The tip of her tongue touched her lips and her own eyes narrowed suggestively before she placed her hand on the banister, following Arabella upstairs.

Nan had clearly taken the advice and not waited up for her. Meredith undressed rapidly in the empty bedchamber, slipped into her nightgown and a dark hooded cloak, then sat by the fire to wait. It was well over an hour later before she was certain that the entire household had retired. There were no more soft voices in the corridor, sounds of doors opening and closing, muffled footsteps on the landing carpet. She cracked her door open. The corridor was deserted, lit dimly at either end by candles in wall sconces. Barefoot, drawing the hood of her cloak over her bright hair, Merrie stole into the corridor. Keeping against the wall, she crept toward the central gallery at the head of the stairs. The hall below was dark and shadowy, lit only by the dying embers of the great fire. Obviously, no one was still about if all the candles downstairs had been extinguished. On tiptoe, she darted across the gallery and into the passage leading to the west wing. She could always pretend she was sleepwalking—Lady Macbeth with a troubled conscience! Merrie pressed her fingers to her lips to keep back the bubble of laughter. It was quite hopeless. She could never learn to be respectable; it was so dull!

The castle was a warren of passages and wide corridors lined with doors. Fortunately, topography was a vital skill for a smuggler, one learned years ago, and she found her way to Damian's door without hesitation. No light showed in the crack beneath. Softly, she turned the porcelain knob and was in the room with the door closed on the outside world in the blink of an eye.

Rutherford, though, was even quicker. He still slept like a soldier, barely losing consciousness, ready to wake, instantly alert at the merest breath of disturbance. The silver-mounted pistol that he kept beneath his pillow was in his hand as the doorknob turned; his feet were on the floor as the dark figure whisked inside.

“What the devil?” he exclaimed softly, not sure whether he could believe the evidence of his eyes.

“Oh, you are awake. What a pity. I had planned a very special way of waking you.” The mischievous chuckle convinced him that he was not in the grip of hallucination. “Is this not a famous adventure, love?”

Rutherford was, for once, speechless. Without taking his eyes off her, he pushed the pistol under his pillow again, lit the candle beside the bed, and swung himself back into a horizontal position. Merrie tossed back the hood of her cloak, shaking out her hair, her eyes shining. “Have you nothing to say, sir?” He shook his head, still watching as she threw off the cloak, untied the satin ribbon at the throat of the demure white nightgown, and drew the garment slowly over her head. Damian exhaled on a long, slow breath as she stood still for a minute, offering her beauty to his gaze, a tiny smile curving her lips, head tilted quizzically. Then, with a sudden exultant little laugh, she sprang onto the bed beside him.

“Wicked creature!” Rutherford found his voice at last. But she just laughed and began with deft efficiency to remove his nightshirt.

“I am come to make love to you tonight,” she informed him, pushing him flat as she moved her body over his. “You must lie still and let me pleasure you as you have so often done for me.”

“Most willingly,” he whispered, closing his eyes as she flicked his nipples with her eyelashes, her breath whispering over his skin. Her tongue, with swift little darts, grazed his skin, bringing every nerve ending to life. He was driven to the edge of torment by the delicacy of touches that appeared not to be corporeal, just a whisper of breath, a silky brush of hair or eyelash, the stroke of a tongue. All the while, her body, glowing in the candlelight, moved sinuously across and over him, available for his eyes and hands to roam wherever they wished. Merrie's own pleasure tonight was derived solely from Damian's so that, when she offered herself to his touch, it was for her lover's gratification, and the arousal she felt was purely secondary although nonetheless powerful for that. With lips and fingers, she brought him to the brink of ecstasy until, with an almost defeated groan, his hands locked in the auburn cascade on his belly and tugged her head up. “Enough,” he said hoarsely. “We will share the end game.”

Readily, Merrie swung herself astride his supine form, sheathing him slowly within her welcoming body.

“Do not move,” he demanded, holding her hips.

“I want to move,” she murmured, her breathing rapid and shallow.

“No, I want you with me and, if you move, I shall be lost,” he groaned.

“I
shall
be with you.” She threw her head back, pressed her knees against his chest, resting her hands on her ankles, and very deliberately circled her body around the pulsing presence within. Damian moaned, his fingers biting convulsively into the firm flesh of her hips. As his body shuddered under the explosion, she drove hard against him, tightening her inner muscles until she was consumed in his fire.

It was a long time before either of them came back to a sense of the world around them. Merrie, lying collapsed on Damian's chest, their bodies still held at the point of fusion, wondered if she had died just a little. When she whispered this, he stroked her hair, telling her that they had touched the outermost limit of ecstasy and that was, indeed, a little death—a miraculous and rare experience. Lifting her off him with hands now gentle, he settled her into the crook of his arm and lay wide-eyed in the dimly lit room as Merrie's deep breathing told him she slept the sleep of satisfied exhaustion.

She was such a wondrous, irreverent, wild creature. How could he persuade her that he did not want her tamed, that marriage need not be a staid progress through a life confined and rigid? Rutherford knew well enough that Merrie would not change just as he knew that her own knowledge of this fact kept her so proud and obstinate in her refusal. But if she would not believe him when he told her that it was the wild and reckless Merrie Trelawney that he wanted as his duchess, it was hard to know what else he could do short of kidnapping her and marrying her by force over the anvil at Greta Green. It might well come to that, Damian reflected with a grim little smile, stroking the curve of her cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she smiled in her sleep.

It was a pity to wake her, but he had no choice. His own eyes now drooped, and sleep sang a siren song on the horizon of consciousness. There was no way of guaranteeing that one of them would surface before the household arose. “Wake up, darling girl. You must go back to your own bed.” He lifted her into a sitting position, but she flopped against his chest.

“Cannot,” Merrie muttered. “Still asleep.” Her breathing resumed its rhythm, and Damian swore under his breath. Quite obviously he was going to have to carry her back to bed, thus doubling the jeopardy. At least if she were discovered wandering the corridors alone, some story could be fabricated. He could not imagine what possible excuse he could produce for wandering through the castle with a night-gowned figure, dead to the world, in his arms. Apart from anything else, he did not know which was her room.

He managed to shake her into semiconsciousness, dressing the limp figure in nightgown and cloak, leaving her on the bed while he pulled on his shirt and britches. She was fast asleep again when he scooped her into his arms. “Merrie!” He made his voice sharp, setting her on her feet where she swayed dopily. “If you cannot see your adventures through to the end, then you cannot be allowed to have them. You must wake up enough to direct me to your chamber.”

Her eyes focused blearily but with a distinct flicker of awareness. “Beg pardon—east wing,” she muttered.

“That's better.” He picked her up again. “Now, stay awake to show me your door. You must not speak though, just point.” A small nod indicated her comprehension. She forced her eyes wide open in such a determined effort to look alive that Damian was hard put not to laugh. “Some adventuress you are,” he mocked, bending to kiss the freckled nose before softly opening the door.

The journey to the east wing seemed infinite, and he started at every creak of the boards beneath his feet. It was accomplished eventually, and with a sigh of relief he inserted the inert body beneath the coverlet on her own bed. The sloe eyes suddenly shot open, and a pair of wiry arms went around his neck, imprisoning him. Meredith laughed delightedly against his mouth. “Now, you can stay here and we may start all over again.”

“You little devil!” Tearing her arms away, he forced them above her head, holding her hands, palm against palm on the bed as he glowered down into a face alight with mischief.

“You should have known I would not be so feeble,” she chided. “Besides, it would not have been fair if only I had had the risk, would it?”

“One of these days, Merrie Trelawney, I am going to wring your neck and throw your body into the Serpentine,” Rutherford threatened with a ferocity not entirely feigned. “I have a very good mind not to teach you to drive.”

“Oh, you would not be so unkind,” she protested.

“No, I would not.” He sighed, still leaning over her. “I can deny you nothing, and I am very much afraid that that is not good for either of us.”

“Oh, pooh!” Merrie scoffed. “You talk as if I am a spoiled child to be overindulged. If I were not feeling so warm and loving, I could become very angry.”

“Heaven forbid!” He kissed the corner of her mouth, still holding her palms. “I did not mean to imply anything of the kind. I do not believe you have ever been indulged, even to a reasonable extent. I would like to spoil you, but I know that you will not accept it, which is why it would not be good for either of us.”

Merrie smiled in rueful understanding and apology. “You do spoil me quite shamelessly and, equally shamelessly, I enjoy it.”

“If that is true, then am I content,” Damian said simply. “Sleep now. If you meant to hunt, you must be up betimes.”

“I will give you a lead,” she promised.

“As always,” he countered at the door.

In spite of her disturbed night, Meredith appeared at the breakfast table promptly the following morning. Her riding dress drew startled looks of envy from the three ladies who had also decided to take to the field and a smile of approval from Mr. Brummell, who drew out a chair for her beside his own. “You must promise me never to return to Cornwall,” he said into her ear as she sat down. “Anyone who can so disconcert the Honorable Mrs. Astley and dear daughter Helena is necessary to the comfort of all sensible people.”

“They have not yet seen the hat,” Merrie murmured, helping herself to a hot roll from a covered basket. “It has a tall crown, like a shako, with a peak and ostrich feathers.”

“Perfect,” Brummell declared. “What else would one wear with epaulettes?”

Gerald Devereux, arriving a few minutes later, greeted the table in general and Meredith in particular. “I hope you will not consider it an impertinence, Lady Blake, but that is a most dashing habit,” he said, taking the vacant seat on her other side when she smiled her permission.

“Not at all impertinent, sir. Flattering, rather,” Merrie replied automatically, concealing her disappointment under the warm smile. That seat had been intended for Damian, but then, if he were so dilatory about making an appearance, he had only himself to blame.

Rutherford, himself, however, did not make that connection when he entered the breakfast parlor to find Meredith in animated conversation with Devereux and Brummell and the nearest available seat to her across the table. The position did afford him an unrestricted view of her dress, though, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. His mistress was attired in a figure-hugging dark-blue habit. Epaulettes, frogged buttons, and braided sleeves emulated a hussar's uniform. That square little chin was lifted by a high, lace-trimmed collar, and a muslin cravat. Rutherford was not entirely sure that the habit met with his wholehearted approval. It certainly did not find favor with the highest sticklers such as the Honorable Mrs. Astley, whose disapproval was patent—as patent as Gerald Devereux's approval, Damian reflected with some annoyance as he helped himself to a dish of bacon and mushrooms on the sideboard.

“Good morning, Lord Rutherford.” Merrie greeted him with a smile that was all sweet innocence except for the sensual suggestion lurking in the sloe eyes. Damian instantly forgot his irritation. If Devereux wanted to bask in a little of that radiance, his lordship could afford to be generous—just as long as that particular look was reserved for his eyes only.

Horses, hounds, red-coated huntsmen, grooms, and riders milled around the circular gravel sweep outside Belvoir Castle in the crisp chill of early morning.

“There is something immensely stirring about a meet,” Merrie observed to Beau Brummell as they strolled down the castle steps, surveying the lively scene before them. “I enjoy the meet and the ride but not the kill,” she confessed.