The Lover (18 page)

And tomorrow might never come.

"I want Anne." He inhaled cold, dew-laden air and acrid coal smoke. "I want more time with her."

"Is that all?" Gabriel asked ironically.

"No. I want to hire some of your men. I need a driver. A groom. Guards to watch the house."

"They could be killed."

More deaths piled at his feet.

"Everyone has a price. Offer them a thousand pounds each—"

"They would kill
you
, for that amount of money—"

"And tell them that if Anne is killed—or abducted—that they won't receive a farthing," Michael finished implacably. "And
I
will kill them."

"What if it is you who is killed?"

A spark of rebellion briefly flamed, then died.

There was no future for a man like him. It was too late to want to live.

"If Anne is safe, take the funds out of my estate and pay them. Everything I have is deeded to you."

A sharp exhalation tore through the night air, a brief mist of silvery breath. "Sometimes I could kill you myself, Michael."

Michael smiled mockingly. "You can't kill a man who's already dead, Gabriel."

"Have you ever killed a man,
mon vieux
?"

Men, women, and children were dead because of him.

"Yes."

"No, Michael. I mean
kill
a man. Deliberately taking his life. Hearing his breath rattle in his throat. Feeling his blood on you, hot and slippery. Like sex. Knowing that for better or for worse, he's dead. Because of you."

All he could see of Gabriel was the halo of his hair. Pale, perfect skin. A patrician nose. And the glittering darkness in his eyes that owed nothing to the night.

A passage learned in childhood when cramming for Eton flitted through his mind.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest
.

Shakespeare.
Hamlet
. Act five, scene two.

He remembered the author. The title of the book. The act it was taken from.

But he couldn't remember the face of his tutor. His parents. His sisters.

The man had taken the memories away.

"If you don't want to risk your men, Gabriel, I'll use a service."

"You can't have both, Michael."

Michael stiffened. Turning, he fully faced Gabriel. "What exactly can't I have,
mon frère
?"

"Dying won't save Anne Aimes."

The damp, cold night air seeped through his bones. "How do you know that?"

"I'm Gabriel." Michael did not have to see Gabriel's face to recognize his taunting smile. "God's messenger."

Layer by layer, Anne dragged free of the suffocating darkness that banded her breasts and anchored her thighs. Hot, prickly heat crowded her neck; it gusted warm, moist air. The rhythmic soughing overrode the distant ring of a handbell.

Memories flitted through her sleep-drugged thoughts, vivid splashes of color overlying the gray light that pierced her eyelids.

Crimson blood. Peacock blue velvet. Darkly veined, plum-tipped flesh. A white, wet feather. Gold-rimmed china. Burgundy red wine…

A vague pounding commenced inside her temples. Hazy, dreamlike images lurked beneath the dull pain.

Michel had teased her with wine…

No. He had teased her with the wine
bottle
. Cool glass sliding, gliding, penetrating.
Filling her with liquid
.

It had been cold instead of hot. Thin rather than thick.

He had drunk from her body as if she were the finest of goblets.

Anne suddenly became aware of the stickiness between her thighs.

And knew it had been no dream.

Burgundy wine coated her tongue; heavy, sweet, with an underlying bitterness.

Her eyelids flew open.

An arm tightened about her breasts; at the same time a leg hitched up higher, pressing on her lower abdomen.

She simultaneously became aware that it was Michel who weighted her down, not sleep. And that she had been awakened by the need to relieve herself, not by the ring of her mother's handbell.

Tenderness ripped through her chest—along with a burst of crystal-clear memories, sights and sounds unmarred by wine or sleep.

Anne had tasted this man. Suckled him. Brought him to orgasm.

She whose only accomplishment was nursing.

Now he lay sleeping beside her.
On top of her
.

And she could not even engage in the luxury of basking in the uniquely intimate experience.

Feeling subtly cheated and slightly disoriented, as if her thoughts and her body were disconnected, she tentatively wriggled out from underneath the heavy weight of his arm and leg, skin and hair sliding on the silk sheet.

How young a woman felt with her hair hanging loose as opposed to having it secured in a tight bun or braided in a single rope, she thought inanely. Freed at last, absurdly bereft at the loss of the bone-melting warmth that had cocooned her, she glanced at Michel.

His shoulder was darkly masculine against the cream-colored silk sheet and leaf green velvet spread. The left side of his face was buried in the pillow; morning stubble shadowed his right cheek. His eyelids remained closed in sleep, lashes a silky black fan.

He looked… vulnerable. Seductive. Everything any woman could possibly desire.

And he was all hers for the next twenty-six days.

A spinster's lover.

Holding her breath for fear of waking him, she curiously touched his cheek.

It was bristly. Endearingly masculine.

Moving her finger up, she lightly skimmed the puckered ridge of scars edging his high cheekbone.

Michel winced.

Lassitude scattering, Anne snatched her hand back.

She didn't want to wake him.

There were other things to do. Other avenues to explore. Fears to conquer that without Michel she would never have had the courage to overcome. She slid out of bed.

Michael clutched the crumpled silk sheet in his hand to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Anne.

This was her first morning awakening in his arms. Yesterday, after convincing her to stay with him, he had left his bedchamber on a pretext in order to provide her time to take care of personal matters.

She was new to intimacy. She still needed a semblance of privacy.

He knew it. He didn't have to like it.

His cheek burned where she had touched him. The stubble on his cheek. His scars.

Forcing himself to lie as she had left him, he listened to the soft pad of her feet crossing the floor; the bathroom door softly opened, clicked shut. A few minutes later he heard the muted flush of the toilet. The rush of running water. Minute splashes. The sharp click of a toothbrush knocking against the rim of the porcelain sink.

Morning sounds.

He had listened to such sounds thousands of times, lying in bed while a woman took care of her toilet.

Diane had sung while she performed her ablutions.

Anne neatly, efficiently took care of her needs. As she had taken care of his.

Was she shocked in the light of day at the unconventional methods of lovemaking he had introduced her to?

Did she remember every single detail—as he did?

How long would it be before Little's absence was noted?

Would Anne mourn the solicitor?

Would she mourn Michael?

The bathroom door opened with a telltale click.

Michael held perfectly still, every nerve in his body tensed, waiting for what she would do next.

Anne padded across the room to the chaise lounge. Clothing rustled—wool drawers, a linen chemise, wool petticoats. Everything he had removed from her before showing her how a fine wine was best imbibed.

Anticipation roiled inside him.

Her corset was not the variety that a woman could lace up by herself. Furthermore, the gown she had worn yesterday buttoned down the back. She would need to wake him in order to fully dress.

The door to the wardrobe squeaked.

Michael did not have to look to know that her staid dresses, skirts, and bodices hung side by side with his clothing.

More rustling.

More footsteps.

A soft swish, the depression of a cushion.

He imagined Anne sitting on the yellow silk-upholstered chaise lounge, her prim, dowdy skirt pushed up, pale, slender hands pulling on flesh-colored stockings, smoothing up plain white garters until they snapped around her shapely thighs.

His semierect flesh burgeoned into hard arousal.

He mentally followed her progress to the dressing table.

She had not commented on the absence of mirrors in his house. Had never once complained of any inconvenience.

Perhaps he would buy a mirror for her.

Immediately he discarded the notion.

She didn't need a looking glass.
He
would be her lady's maid. Her mirror. Everything she needed.

Michael could feel sudden hesitation.

She had found her toothbrush that Marie, the housekeeper, had unpacked. But there was only one hairbrush on the dresser.

His.

He wanted her to hold the carved amber handle in her hand, sink the bristles into her hair. To remember that he had held the amber handle in his hand. That he had brushed her hair the day before.

And would do so again when she was ready to crawl back into bed and partake of morning pleasures.

He did not know when she picked up the brush, only when she put it down, a faint clink of amber on wood. A tiny scraping filled the following silence; she scrambled to scoop up a sliding hairpin.

A smile tugged at his lips.

She was putting up her hair without a mirror.

Anne was nothing if not self-sufficient.

He allowed her to slip out the bedroom door into the hallway.

It was best that she breakfast alone. With her mind free of the clouding effects of sexual satiation and wine, she would be more inquisitive.

Michael relaxed, his erection a not-unpleasant throb. Gabriel's men—and his own servants—would keep her safe until he joined her.

Rolling over, he threw back the covers. Motion reminded him that his erection was not strictly a result of desire.

Anne's corset lay on the chaise lounge.

Amusement lit up his eyes.

His staid spinster was indeed becoming liberated.

Dark shadows filled the bathroom. The French walnut toilet seat was a lifeless brown in the dim light. It sat flatly on the embossed, ivory-tinted porcelain-and-turquoise commode. A sure sign that a woman was in residence.

Leaning down, he lifted the lid for his own convenience. He reminded himself he would have to remember to put it back down. For Anne's convenience.

Shaking himself dry, he jerked the brass pull before stepping over to the sink.

A tin of matches waited beside a box of tissues. Gritting his teeth, he struck a match and lifted the hurricane globe off the brass wall sconce above the sink. Hurriedly he touched the yellow flame to the wick before clumsily replacing the globe and lighting the wall sconce on the left side of the sink.

Anne had seen his fear the day before when he had lit the coals in the library fireplace. She had offered him solace and never once understood the danger she had been in.

He blew out the match and tossed it into the toilet.

Stoppering the porcelain basin with a brass-plated rubber plug, he twisted the ivory taps until water rushed out of the twin brass spouts and hot steam curled upward.

A side drawer in the French oak cabinet underneath the sink yielded a shaving mug, brush, and straight razor. He dipped the brush underneath the hot water spout before plunging it into the mug and working up suds from the cake of soap in the bottom. Setting the mug on the gold-veined marble counter, he twisted off the taps and splashed his face and neck with water. Deftly he lathered his dampened skin.

Michael did not hire a valet. He did not want another man looking at him when he could not.

Or perhaps he no longer trusted baring his throat.

Snapping open the straight razor, he angled it to carefully shave his neck.

He imagined cutting the man's throat. Imagined his blood. Hot and slippery, yes, but not like sex.

Pleasure was a part of life, not death.

Michael shaved his left cheek. His right. Five practiced swipes apiece. Sucking in his lips, he shaved his chin. His upper lip…

Little's burned, scorched mouth formed in the swirling mist.

Son of a bitch!

The straight razor drew blood. He could feel it welling up.

Suddenly anxious to join Anne, he quickly rinsed his neck and face, then returned the shaving articles to the side drawer. The styptic pencil burned, a physical reminder of the fire that had eaten his flesh and killed Little.

Of the fate that awaited Anne if he failed to protect her.

He wrenched open the cabinet drawer directly underneath the sink and froze.

The sight of Anne's plain, wooden-handled toothbrush, still damp, lying beside his own ivory-handled one, brought an unexpected tightness to his chest.

Quickly he brushed his teeth, tossed his toothbrush into the drawer, blew out the two lamps, and rushed out the door.
Damn
. He swung back around to drop the wooden seat onto the commode.

Pale brown hair wound through the bristles in his brush; they lay over a single black strand of hair.

A surge of unadulterated masculine possessiveness was knocked short.

Anne's hat was gone.

He had brought both it, the hat pin, and her hairpins up the night before.

And now they were all gone.

Anne would not take her hat unless she planned on journeying outside his town house.

Raoul did not know that a coach and driver waited at the local livery for Michael's use.

She would take a cab.

And there would be
no one
to protect her.

Michael grabbed the clothes he had tossed onto the floor by the bed after Gabriel had departed. The time it took him to dress was counted by the blood pumping through his heart. Right shoe on.
Bloody hell
, he couldn't unknot the laces on the left shoe.

He pictured Anne stuffed inside a trunk. But he knew it would not be a trunk the man laid her in.

The knot came undone. Shoving his foot inside the shoe—cursing anew at the time it took to tie the lace—he raced out of his bedchamber, footsteps ricocheting up and down the length of the dark hallway.

Reason dictated that his spinster would be in the breakfast room. She wasn't wearing a corset.

Women like Anne didn't go out without a corset.

The last twenty-nine years had taught Michael that reason had little to do with reality.

He took the steps three at a time. Sliding—
goddamn the marble
—he grabbed the wrought-iron banister to regain his balance.

No footmen stood guard near the foyer. Or by any other door.

The small breakfast room at the end of the town house was empty.

Michael threw open the library door.

Marie dropped her feather duster in an unprecedented display of emotion. "
Ma foil
Monsieur, you startled me! I will only be a moment. If you—"

"Where's Anne?" he interrupted harshly.

Disapproval shone in the housekeeper's brown eyes; it was quickly replaced by Gaelic stoicism. "Mademoiselle Aimes, she is not here, monsieur."