The Moonstone and Miss Jones (18 page)
Exeter’s return stare was less than parental.
Mia shifted her gaze away and spoke to the women surrounding her. “At first I was frightened. I thought the blood between my legs meant I was ill . . .” The poor girl looked a bit mortified. “When I realized it was the monthly curse I was relieved.”
Valentine took a seat close by. “I don’t believe I have ever encountered one of your kind. There are many kinds of demigods—or half-bloods. Most are gifted with extraordinary powers. Some are part animal, some demon—some angel. They come in various shapes and sizes—and you are all beautiful to look upon. Jersey is one. If you let him, he can be very helpful during this time of discovery.”
Valentine leaned in close and took Mia’s hand. “Have you met your other half, as yet?”
Mia’s sparkling dark eyes grew large and round. And green.
Chapter Twenty
B
LOODY BLUE BOLLOCKS
! All Phaeton could think about was his cock buried deep inside America. Preferably in a warm bed, but he wasn’t about to be choosey. He had stumbled home through an access portal near the Anchor Pub. His latest, best inkling—
bitters.
Interesting how many of these strange slipstreams between worlds were located in such close proximity to a pint of bitters. Or was it just that London had so many pubs?
LOODY BLUE BOLLOCKS
! All Phaeton could think about was his cock buried deep inside America. Preferably in a warm bed, but he wasn’t about to be choosey. He had stumbled home through an access portal near the Anchor Pub. His latest, best inkling—
bitters.
Interesting how many of these strange slipstreams between worlds were located in such close proximity to a pint of bitters. Or was it just that London had so many pubs?
No matter, at the moment he was not inclined to think about anything other than his pursuit of carnal relief. According to Big Ben, it was near midnight. Just ahead, along the river, the professor materialized, and not long after, the two Nightshades. He assumed Ping moved in and out of these spatial anomalies with ease, perhaps even created his own. Ah, there he was, up on the bridge.
They made their way across the Queen Street Bridge and waited for a hansom at a cab stand. Lovecraft continued to pester him endlessly about his conversation with Violet and the whereabouts of the Moonstone. “My impression is she is somewhat estranged from Georgiana and Fleury. I pressed the matter quite strongly with her—I expect to hear something soon.”
“Did she mention names—locations—anything we could pursue?”
“Rather hard to remember details with a lady’s derrière rubbing against one’s crotch.” Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, but the professor’s eyes were particularly buggy this evening. “Need I remind you, Phaeton, time is running out.”
“I understand. We appear to be on a collision course with a world that is unraveling as we speak. A crumbling, debilitated London that just might take our side down with it.” Phaeton exhaled, loudly. His pressing cockstand no doubt contributed to his lack of patience with Lovecraft. “I expect Gaspar knows the dangers better than any of us.”
He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he had begun to feel a kinship with the bloody leader of the Gentleman Shades. He thought it might have a good deal to do with how Lovecraft was acting, as if he was entitled to the Moonstone. “Short of calling up the Metropolitan Police and the Horse Guards, which I wouldn’t recommend, we’re doing everything possible to recover the stone.”
“This is a game that must be played by wits and stealth, not with an army of combatants,” Ping added.
Phaeton studied Lovecraft. “What is going on with you, professor?”
“Cutter.” Without taking his eyes off Phaeton, the professor called the Nightshade over. “Cutter served under my son—Lieutenant Alexander Lindsay Lovecraft. Please tell Mr. Black what was left of my son after the war.”
Phaeton had no trouble reading Cutter’s expressions, despite his having only half a face. His bodyguard was clearly in distress. “Not much more than a torso—both legs and an arm taken out by cannon fire. They used shrapnel—nails, balls of lead—cut a swath through our men.”
“The very best surgical doctors in London managed to repair my son’s internal injuries.” Lovecraft’s sly grimace was laced with grief as well as anger. “It’s been over seven years, and I have perfected the artificial appliances Lindsay will use to lead a reasonably normal life—but I need the Moonstone.”
Cutter’s one good eye bulged, and his mechanical brow lifted. “Lindsay is alive?”
“Like everyone else you assumed he wouldn’t last—and he nearly didn’t.”
Right,
Phaeton thought. The balmy professor was certifiably mad. Luckily a hansom pulled up. “Gentlemen, I’m headed off to a soft bed and warm woman.” Now it was his turn to eyeball Lovecraft. “We’ll take this back up in the afternoon.”
Phaeton thought. The balmy professor was certifiably mad. Luckily a hansom pulled up. “Gentlemen, I’m headed off to a soft bed and warm woman.” Now it was his turn to eyeball Lovecraft. “We’ll take this back up in the afternoon.”
Much to his relief, the ride to Mayfair was swift and silent. Mr. Tandi opened the door at 22 Half Moon Street. “Do come in gentlemen. The household is retired for the evening, but you are welcome to take a brandy in the study—or shall I show you to your rooms?”
He led them through the foyer to a curve of stair. “Mr. Coppersmith and Captain Blood share a room on the fourth floor. I have placed a reasonably comfortable chair near Miss Jones’s bedchamber, as I am told she is always guarded—as is the doctor.” Exeter’s man ushered them upward. “I myself volunteered for first watch, this evening.”
Halfway up the grand staircase, Phaeton paused. “Changed my mind about a good tumbler full of whiskey—would you be so kind, Mr. Tandi?”
The manservant bowed a nod and slipped downstairs. Upstairs, Phaeton spotted the chair beside America’s room. Glancing back at the two Nightshades, he put a finger to his lips and stole inside the bedchamber. He took a moment to orient himself.
Moonlight traced a faint pattern of window pane squares across the plush carpet. The pale glow illuminated a figure at the window. A tall, masculine silhouette stood just inside the French doors. Out on the balcony, Phaeton spied the shadow of a lithe and lovely figure of a young woman. Could it be America? And Doctor Exeter? A heaviness filled his chest and yet he crept forward.
The ephemeral beauty approached Exeter slowly, in a sensuous, feline fashion. Her hand went to the shoulders of her nightgown. She slipped dainty sleeves off her shoulders and let the silk fall to her hips.
Beautiful round globes. Small and high set.
Phaeton froze. Pretty as they were, those weren’t America’s breasts.
He stole a quick glance at his surroundings. An elegant canopied bed, and a few tell-tale masculine furnishings. He had the wrong bedchamber. This was Exeter’s room. Phaeton’s eyes returned to the trysting couple. The beautiful creature reached out for the doctor’s hand, cupping his palm to her breast.
“Mia.” Exeter spoke her name in whispered protest even though Phaeton was quite sure the doctor’s thumb stroked a nipple. Mia arched into Exeter and murmured the loveliest . . . most unusual love cry. Something between a moan and a deep, throaty purr.
Placing one foot behind the other, he backed out of the bedchamber. He closed the door with a near silent click and turned around. His bodyguard held out a tumbler of whiskey. “Mr. Tandi left this for you.”
Phaeton examined the paltry amount of whiskey left in the glass.
Jersey slouched onto a side chair, and grinned. Phaeton had been slow to warm to the quiet leader of the Nightshades, but the man was growing on him. Phaeton knocked back the last half dram.
Jersey nodded across the corridor. “She’s in there.”
He found her curled up on a small settee, fast asleep. A book lay open in her hand. The booty rub at The Orchid Lounge had kept him half-hard for hours now. Phaeton shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat. For the past few hours all he could think about was the sight of America’s naked bottom writhing beneath him. Her moans of arousal from his cock rooted deep inside her.
She awoke to the touch of his arms wrapping around her. “Open your eyes, Sleeping Beauty.” He brushed his lips over her throat as he removed the book from her hand.
Her eyes opened, bright with mischief. “Am I in a waking dream?” Her somnolent, sensuous smile only increased his arousal. Phaeton slipped her nightgown off one shoulder. “A dream that has to do with you and me on that comfortable bed over there.”
“A bit more room than this cramped and uncomfortable settee,” she replied. “Mmm,” Phaeton murmured. “With those lovely limbs wrapped around me, I could go the night.”
“Goodness, that long?” She rose from the settee and faced him. The nightshirt covering her breasts slipped to the floor. Golden green eyes watched him as he took in the sight of her.
Phaeton thought America as strong and fine a woman goddess as he had ever seen. In the dim light and shadow of the room her movements were mesmerizing. The curve of that lovely, high-dimpled derrière, breasts bouncing suggestively—he took a deep breath.
Searching her travel bag, she brought out a flask of essential oil; pouring some into the palms of her hands, she rubbed the fragrant oil onto her throat, breasts, and stomach as she stood before him. She was thin, but she was also immensely fit from the physical exertion of crewing a ship. Her skin glistened, and Phaeton felt his cock throb from his raw need to take her—and none too gently.
“I wish to use our act of love this evening and the passions evoked to focus our will. Using this night of bliss to make both a wish and a prayer for certain happy events to occur.” She spoke in a kind of ritual language—her Cajun mother’s witchcraft speak.
His eyes never left her. “What is this wish of yours, my love?”
“I have already received my wish. Your healthy return to me from the Outremer.” She pulled him onto his feet and kissed his mouth.
“And your prayer?”
She talked to him in a whisper. “That no harm shall ever come to the pea in the pod.”
Her kisses moved to his ear and neck.
“Angele Dei, qui custos es mei.”
She recited a prayer to his guardian angel as his breathing grew harsh and more rapid.
“Me tibi commissum pietate superna,”
She unbuttoned his shirt. Wetting her lips, she kissed his chest.
“Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.”
Her tongue circled his nipples and she used her teeth to scrape gently. She whispered the name of God along with her own name. She returned to his lips, then his forehead and brushed it with kisses.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
“Angele Dei, qui custos es mei.”
She recited a prayer to his guardian angel as his breathing grew harsh and more rapid.
“Me tibi commissum pietate superna,”
She unbuttoned his shirt. Wetting her lips, she kissed his chest.
“Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.”
Her tongue circled his nipples and she used her teeth to scrape gently. She whispered the name of God along with her own name. She returned to his lips, then his forehead and brushed it with kisses.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
She finished the sign of the cross on her haunches—one sleek, muscled thigh thrust forward between his legs. She then unbuttoned his trousers and took him in her mouth. Phaeton held onto a nearby bedpost and stretched his frame as her tongue licked and her lips surrounded his shaft. He thrust deeper into her mouth, and she gave him such exquisite pleasure he begged her not to stop. Ever.
Throughout the rest of the night they traded off stimulating each other again and again. The slightest touch or kiss from her, and he easily fell into more lovemaking. Finally they lay still, the air of the bedchamber infused with the scent of intercourse. He had thrown off blankets for they were not needed. America lay naked with her arms and legs wrapped around his frame. The tips of her fingers traveled lightly over his chest hair, then trailed down a narrow strip of fuzz that ran down his torso. It was his favorite place she took her fingers walking.
Phaeton stroked her back, contentedly. “After we find the Moonstone and close the bloody connection with the Outremer, I plan on keeping your belly fat with babies.”
Wide-eyed, she lifted her head. “My prayer worked, then.”
“I knew I should have paid more attention in Latin.” His lazy lopsided grin met her look of amused affection. “Do remember I slipped in a caveat, darling. I used the word
after
.”
after
.”
“After you find the Moonstone,” she recited.
He lifted a brow.
She sighed. “And close the inter-dimensional portals.”
“Hoo-hoo.” Phaeton lifted his head and stuffed another pillow under his neck. “Very scientific terminology, Miss Jones.”
“It’s in the book I started this evening.”
“You mean the book you fell asleep reading.” He teased her with a one-eyed pirate grin.
She pushed away to make eye contact. “
A Guide to the Probable Locations of Inter-Dimensional Portals,
by Timothy Noggy.” Phaeton scooped her into his arms. “Tell me more.”
A Guide to the Probable Locations of Inter-Dimensional Portals,
by Timothy Noggy.” Phaeton scooped her into his arms. “Tell me more.”
“ ’Tis a book full of hidden knowledge. All about the rabbit holes and time travel and—”
Phaeton cut in. “And some sort of solution to this unraveling business, I hope?” He rubbed the bristle of his beard against her temple. “I saw some frightful sights tonight.”
“What kind of things?”
“Not now, darling.” Why would he possibly wish to give her nightmares?
America nuzzled his ear. “And I look forward to covering your lap with a squirming toddler while you attempt to conduct business with Detective Inspector Farrell.”
Phaeton actually found himself smiling at the thought of bouncing a squalling, raucous babe on his knee. “Are we not to have a nurse or nursery?”
America placed an arm around him and ran her hand down his back and over his buttocks. “I stand ready to volunteer my nipples and since I have already reserved your knee . . . all we need is a cradle.”
Phaeton looked at her for a very long time. “I love you, America.” He stroked her breasts and moved lower to her belly, which was slippery from scented oil. She shuddered gently from his touch.
“I love you, Phaeton.” She kissed him sweetly.
He brushed strands of curls off her face. “When two people are expecting a child together—preferably before the blessed event is large and round and obvious . . . it is customary to . . .” The knot in his throat was palpable. “. . . Marry.”
America’s lip twitched, as she tried not to look overly joyous or amused. “Yes, Phaeton.”
He could not believe he heard himself chuckle. “Why am I laughing at this? This is horrifying.”
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