Sweet Savage Eden (4 page)

T
he savage cold struck Jassy as soon as she set out on the path from the inn to the Towergate. The two establishments were not far apart, for in this town where the road ran south from London, there was continual commerce and travel, and even a third innkeeper might have fared very well. The general consensus was that Master John set the better table, while the Towergate offered more amiable rooms—more private rooms, at that. The gentry and nobility tended to spend their nights at the Towergate even if they did sup at Master John’s, while common folk enjoyed fewer amenities—and lower prices—at Master John’s.

Jassy’s teeth chattered. Her nearly threadbare cloak provided scant protection against the winter wind, and the ground snow—where it had not turned to muck from the countless carts and carriages passing by—had frozen to ice. She was somewhat glad of the cold, for it seemed to have frozen over her mind and her thoughts. When she stood before the door of the Towergate, she was trembling from the cold and from fear of what she was about to do.

The wind blustered behind her as she entered, drawing the door quickly closed. She leaned against it and noted that hounds and hands dozed about the dying fire alike,
that there was very little commerce at this late hour, only one pair of fellows still seeming to be engaged in quiet conversation near the wall.

One of the Towergate’s serving wenches came forward, and Jassy found herself furiously swallowing her pride and pulling the hood of her cloak lower about her forehead.

“What do you want, girl?” the wench demanded, and Jassy feared that she would be sick. The tavern wench was young, with well-rounded bosom and hips, and she moved with an explicit sway that brought new horror to Jassy. This … this was what she would become.

Quinine! She reminded herself desperately, and the thought gave her courage.

“I have been asked here,” she said simply.

“Oh,” the wench said, smiling slyly and eyeing her curiously. She shrugged and cast a glance toward the stairway. “Here for his lordship, eh? Well, well. Aye, he’d be expectin’ you. Third door. Best room in the house.”

Jassy nodded. As she moved toward the stairs the wench sauntered over to the barkeep and whispered quite loudly to him, “Why, ’tis Jassy Dupré. Imagine! Her what thinks she’s better than the rest of us! Whorin’ up to him that’s rich and fine, same as any other lass!” She laughed delightedly.

The barkeep chuckled, and Jassy could feel his eyes boring into her back. “So ’tis her, ain’t it, now? Maybe she won’t be so high-flyin’ in the days to come, eh?”

They both burst into crude laughter. The malicious mockery followed her all the way up the stairs and along the hallway.

Jassy reached the door and desperately threw it open, not thinking to knock. She closed the door tightly behind her and leaned against it, gasping for breath. Here she was in a man’s bedchamber—as the hired entertainment for the evening.

Not any man’s, she reminded herself. Robert’s. The kind, golden-haired gentleman. She would not die at his touch; she would come away with coin—bartered or stolen—and with her virginity intact.

Instinct forced her first to appreciate the warmth of the room. Then she noted that it was very dark, for the fire in the hearth that provided the warmth had burned down very low, to glowing embers. The room seemed empty, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light she stiffened, biting into her lower lip with perplexity.

Before the softly glowing embers of that fire sat a deep metal hip bath, from which steam wafted. It was definitely empty. Awaiting … her.

Bitterly she wondered how she would manage to scan his clothing when it appeared that she was to doff her own first. Nor could she make any attempt at playing the seductress, and then the innocent, until she had crawled into that tub, for it was understandable that such a gentleman would not want a serving girl until that girl had bathed.

Uneasily she stepped into the room, softly treading nearer the tub, wondering what had become of the man she had been summoned to … serve.

She gasped, her heart seeming to beat like thunder, when large hands fell upon her shoulders from behind. She did not spin around but stood like a deer, poised for flight, yet achingly aware that she dare not run.

“Your cloak, mistress,” came a husky male voice from the darkness that loomed all around her. “May I?”

Panic seized her. He was behind her, it was so terribly unnerving to feel him there. The room seemed to blacken still further, and then spin, and she braced herself. Slowly the dizzy sensations faded.

She lowered her head, nodding. She tried to remind herself that this was the golden-blond, shining knight who had championed her in the public room when his towering, dark friend had so cruelly cast her into trouble.

She closed her eyes tightly, the better to remember his light, gentle eyes. So admiring.

“You are cold. As cold as ice. The bath and the fire will warm you.” He spoke very quietly. His words were nearly whispers, and yet they, too, unnerved her. Soft, they were different somehow. They held a curious tension,
a certain fever. He was a man, she reminded herself. A man who had hired a harlot for the evening.

He touched her.…

Her cloak was gone. His hands fell to her shoulders, and she tried not to shiver at the feel of those long male fingers there.

She stepped forward, eluding those fingers.

“The bath. It is for me, then?”

There seemed to be a slight, ironic pause. “Aye, mistress. For you.” Then once again those fingers settled upon her shoulders, moving with expertise to the buttons on her simple woolen gown. She willed herself to remain still. She had not expected this feeling. This feeling that he should tower so behind her, seem to sear her with his hands, with the promise of his length and breadth behind her.

She narrowed her eyes, seeing the mist rise from the tub, the embers glow in the hearth. If she could just see it all like this! A red and glowing mist sheathed in darkness!

His fingers moved on down her back and skimmed the fabric from her shoulders. Once again she nearly gasped, nearly screamed out loud, for he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her nape. She felt that touch as if it were a brand of fire sweeping through her, riddling her to awful panic, yet waking her too. As if it had given her some special substance to her blood, to her veins, to her body. She felt alive, where before she had been numb. Trembling, yet aware anew that she must play this game oh so carefully to escape with her pride, her chastity—and the money she so badly needed.

His hands caressed her shoulders, and the gown fell down her arms even as she thought and planned. The wool fell over her meager petticoat, and she instinctively found herself stepping from it—and away from his grasp once again.

Her eyes lit upon the armchair just behind the tub and the fire. His frock coat lay across the top of it, neatly folded. So close to the tub. One could just reach out—and search the pockets.

If only she could escape his scrutiny long enough.

Ah, unlikely! For though she dared not look, she heard a soft sound as he whisked her dress away—and came a step closer to her once again, this time finding the hook to her petticoat, releasing it, watching it fall. In her shift she felt the cold once again.
Turn
, she warned herself.
Turn and slip into his arms. He is blond and golden and gentle, and you must woo him with a smile if you hope to leave him as a lady
.

But she could not turn. She longed to do so, but she could not. Not even to stare into those gentle eyes. Not now, not yet, for she was suddenly ashamed to be here before him in her shift and stockings alone.

Again she shivered. She felt the tension and vitality of his movement behind her, the whisper of his breath. She inhaled and felt dizzy, for she breathed in the subtle scent of him, dangerously male and potent. He clutched her shoulders, bringing her back against him, and she felt all the muscled hardness of his body.

And the growing desire within it.

She saw his hands, long-fingered and bronzed and powerfully broad as he swept his arms around her, pulling her close. She felt dizzy again, nearly overwhelmed.

And once again, ever so near to a scream, for those hands cradled around her breasts, cupping the weight, thumbs lightly flicking against her nipples through the material of her shift, so sheer that it might not have been there. She ground down hard on her jaw to keep silent, and she mentally braced herself so that she would not bolt and fly from his touch.

Then some ragged, heavy sound came to his breathing, and his fingers moved to the pins in her hair. Her hair fell from its heavy braid down her neck in a massive coil, and she inched forward again, lowering her head.

“Please … I cannot get it wet. I should freeze when I left here.”

She heard the softest laugh and almost wished that he did not lurk in the darkness behind her, that he would
step forward, smile upon her with his soft, expressive eyes.

And yet she did not really wish to see him. Not now. Not when she must forget all inhibition, all strict teachings of a lifetime. She must forget about the whispers going on downstairs, whispers about how the arrogant Miss Dupré was, after all, no untouchable thing, no ice maiden, but a whore to the highest bidder.

“I shall not touch your hair, though I long to see it free. Please, go. Take your leisure in the bath.”

She bit her lip, wishing she might ask him to turn from her as she farther disrobed.

She knew that she could not.

And so she was glad that he lingered in the darkness as she stepped forward, trembling, trying her best to whisk her stockings from her legs with some grace and poise, pausing uncertainly before she could step from the shift, and unwittingly performing it all in a most sensual manner.

All Jassy could think was that it was quite important to let her shift lie close to his frock coat so that she might reach the latter in pretense of seeking the first. And once that garment was gone, she was in all haste to reach the hip bath, for never in her life had she felt her own nakedness so keenly.

She sank into the water, closed her eyes, and tried to keep her teeth from chattering, though the water still steamed.

Something fell before her. Her eyes sprang open, yet she saw nothing, for once again he was behind her.

“Soap, love,” he murmured, still so husky, still so low, yet there was the slightest irony there, and she wondered if he were truly as kind as she had thought him. All the better if he could be crude, she thought, for then it would be easier to deceive him, to take from him what she had no desire to earn.

A cloth followed the soap into the tub. She nervously grasped both, wishing fervently that he would not hover behind her so. He must move! He must! And she was not so sure anymore that he would gladly hand over his coin
were she not to perform her services, and therefore she must reach his frock coat.

He paced behind her; she wondered if he grew impatient. She grew desperate, gnawing upon her lip as she sought a way to move him.

Mercifully it was he who moved himself, in a most obliging fashion.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked her softly.

“Aye, that I would,” she whispered in reply, and he strode quickly to the door, throwing it open to call down for service.

Jassy dropped soap and towel and lunged over the edge of the tub swiftly, delving her fingers into his pocket, discovering it loaded with coins. Bitterly she realized he would surely not miss one, and it was a sorry world indeed that a man of means could purchase a woman and not even notice the cost of all that she had to give. Quickly she returned to the bath.

She heard him thanking someone curtly at the door, returning with a tray. She risked a glance at him as he set it upon the table and poured out two glasses, but she could not see him at all, for he lingered in shadow. She knew only that he had stripped down to shirt and breeches, that in bare feet he was soundless and sleek, and that he was truly a tall man, broad and trim.

Robert …

If she could but see his gentle eyes …

Ah, and good that she could not, for his coin was caught in the palm of her hand, and she dare not let him find it there!

She lowered her face into the water and started violently when she raised it, for he was hunched down behind her, one arm cast around her shoulder. He offered her a glass of amber liquid.

“Rum,” he said briefly. “Caribbean rum, golden and pure. ’Twas this or weak ale.”

She took the glass and drained it, gasped and coughed, and heard his laughter as he patted her damp back. “I should have taken the ale,” he murmured apologetically.

“Nay, nay, ’tis fine,” she responded. And indeed it was,
for it burned like a sustaining fire as she swallowed, and it eased all that seemed so rough and jagged and terrible about the night.

“You would try more?”

“I would,” she murmured, her eyes downcast, and again reckoned bitterly that the cost of the rum was probably greater than that of the common whore.

It did not matter now! she assured herself, for the coin was in her palm—soon she could turn to him, then start to cry, and plead forgiveness. She would prove herself the daughter of the great actress Linnet Dupré with a convincing and magnificent performance.

Then she would leave.

And in leaving, save the dream. That in life she could come upon this golden man again, all honor intact. And by some miracle she would be rich and beautiful in silks and satins, and he would fall madly in love with her. And then …

He handed her the glass again. And knelt down behind her. His finger caressed her neck, from the slope of her shoulder to the lobe of her ear.

It was not so bad, it was not so bad. She had the rum.

She swallowed down that second glass and felt its hearthlike warmth and amber glow.

“You are quite rare,” he said curiously. “Too slim and yet so elegant. The face of an aristocrat and, alas, the hands of a charwoman. The body of a temptress and eyes that warn of the cunning vixen, proud and sly.”

She wondered at his words. That he should sound so entranced and so acidic—all in one.