The Revenge of Lord Eberlin (18 page)

His hand squeezed her breast.

Lily grasped his shoulders. “But all you had were acorns,” she added breathlessly.

He drew her earlobe in between his teeth.

“I think you are willfully avoiding my conversation, sir.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured as his lips grazed her cheek. “I think you are willfully avoiding our agreement.”

In that fog of arousal and broken memories, Lily instinctively tried to step back, but Tobin’s hold of her tightened. “No, madam. You made a bargain.”

He claimed her lips before she could muster a protest, and she halfheartedly attempted to turn her head. Tobin put his fingers to her cheek and held her there. His mouth was soft, moist, and plush. Lily felt herself falling into that kiss, falling into debauchery and away from the propriety that had been instilled in her since the day she took her first step. Her determination to fell him, to keep Ashwood from his hands, to keep herself chaste, was swallowed whole by his kiss.

Lily had no idea what it felt like to be wholly and unabashedly desired, and while she meant to push against him, she was curving into the hard planes of his body, feeling his strength surround her as he put his arm around her back.

Lily gripped the lapel of his riding coat; she could feel his erection pressed against her and did not shy away—her body flared with the sheer excitement of that kiss. No man had ever affected her like this, had moved her like this, and lust, and want, and a strange burst of affection bubbled up to the surface of her mind.

Her response to him frightened her on some deep level. Why should she feel so enlivened, so desirable, in the arms of her mortal enemy? He moved his attention to her shoulder, his hands cupping her breasts, kneading them, squeezing her resolve from her.

She had to stop at once, before everything was lost.
But she was suddenly falling, landing softly, anchored by his arm around her waist, onto the rock.

Tobin was immediately over her, one knee beside her, trapping her against him. He kissed her as his hands roamed her body. “I want you, Lily,” he said gruffly as he kissed her shoulder, her collarbone. “I want to feel your legs around my waist, your breast in my mouth.” His hand was on her leg now, and Lily realized, through that haze of her longing, that he was touching the bare flesh of her inner thigh. It was an exquisite thrumming, an anticipation of pleasure. When his fingers brushed against her sex, she almost gave way to the pleasure.

She was powerless to resist him. He began to stroke her, his fingers sinking into the folds of her sex. His stroke was gentle yet feverish, his lips soft yet insistent, all of it driving her to an exquisite state of madness. Lily felt herself falling away in pieces, bits of her floating out into the world. She gasped; he pressed his fingers into her flesh until she lost herself, falling away completely.

Tobin pulled her up, lifting her skirts.

A fat drop of rain awakened Lily to the reality of what she was doing. Her virtue was the only bargaining chip she had, and she was on the cusp of giving it to him completely. Another drop of rain hit her squarely in the forehead, and she felt herself running out of breath, desperate to reach the surface of her senses. “We came here quite a lot, Tobin,” she said roughly. “I did not imagine it.”

“Lily,” he said, his eyes blazing with desire. “Forget that now.”

Her craving for more was a shock of light through her. So many images and thoughts competed in her head. Desire burned in her, and she tried to focus, to
think.
Doubts about what she was doing, doubts about Aunt Althea, about Mr. Scott, and the events of that summer, began to crowd in between the overwhelming desire she was feeling.

She recalled the way her aunt had smiled at Mr. Scott, the way Tobin had smiled at her. She had a flash of memory of her aunt and Mr. Scott coming out of the potter’s shed one day, her aunt’s hair mussed, laughing. She’d told Lily she’d broken some pots. But the way Mr. Scott had looked at Aunt Althea had been the way Tobin had looked at her only moments ago—with ravenous, unapologetic desire.

Clarity hit Lily like the cold rain beginning to fall. She pushed at Tobin. “No!” she said, startled. “They
sent
us away!”

Tobin ignored her, but Lily’s lust was overcome by anger, and she shoved at Tobin again. He paused, lifted his head as if it took some effort, then brushed her wet hair from her cheek. Rain was falling steadily now.

“They sent us away, didn’t they?” she demanded of him. Tobin calmly returned her gaze. “Were they . . . were they
lovers
?” She was sure of it, but she needed Tobin to say it.

He did not seem surprised by her question; he obviously
knew it to be true. Lily scrambled up out of his reach as the pieces of memory began to click into place.

Tobin bent down to pick up her cloak. “It is raining,” he said, and put the garment around her shoulders.

“Keira discovered it,” Lily said. “She told me, but I could not believe her. She showed me the stool your father made for the pianoforte.”

Tobin showed no emotion as he fastened her cloak.

“There is an inscription underneath,” Lily pressed. “One that was obviously inscribed for my aunt and was signed with the initials J. S. And I . . . I’ve been thinking, I’ve been trying to put together the pieces of mem—”

“I’ll get the horses.” He walked away.

“They were much closer than I understood them to be, but
you
understood it!” she called after him.

He paused between the horses. She saw the clench of his fist, the rise of his shoulders as he drew a deep breath. His reluctance to speak, his infuriating calm irked her.

“You are the only one who can tell me the truth now, Tobin. Do you think I haven’t wondered about it all my life? Do you think I haven’t lived with the thought that I am the one who
saw
him at Ashwood that night? I saw him riding away. I saw the lovers in the hall, too, but I did not realize it was
them.”

“We should go,” he said flatly. He checked the cinch on his saddle, then hers.

Lily grabbed his arm, making him take a step back.
“Did you know about the stool? It reads, ‘You are the song that plays on in my heart; for A, my love, my life, my heart’s only note. Yours for eternity.’”

“Foolish woman,” Tobin muttered. He put his hands on her waist to lift her into her saddle, but Lily pushed back. “I will not be dismissed! I did not know—how could I have known? I was only eight years old; I had no concept of such things.”

Tobin grabbed her and forcibly lifted her onto the saddle. “I cannot see the relevance of it now.” He slapped his crop against her horse, which started forward.

“It is
entirely
relevant now!” she argued, drawing her horse up. “If they were lovers, then why would he have stolen the jewels?”

Tobin suddenly whirled about, his eyes hard and cold. “How can you be so bloody obtuse, Lily? He did
not
steal them. Yes, God yes, they were lovers! If he was at Ashwood that night, it was for an assignation—not to steal her bloody jewels!”

Lily gasped. Tobin vaulted onto his horse. The rain was coming down much harder now, but she didn’t care. “But don’t you see? If he didn’t steal them, if they were lovers, we can exonerate—”

“The time to exonerate him was fifteen years ago!” Tobin shouted at her. “You are fifteen bloody years too late to exonerate my father, for he hanged at the end of a bloody rope on
your
word! He is
dead
—my father is dead, his name forever slandered, and to exonerate
him now does
naught.
” He spurred his horse forward, galloping away.

The bitterness in his voice shook Lily. Her memories, so much clearer now, shook her. When Keira had told Lily, she had refused to believe it. But now . . . she wondered how her aunt had allowed her lover to hang?

Her chest felt constricted. She glanced up the road. She couldn’t see Tobin, and neither could she make herself move, paralyzed by the enormity of the truth and her part in it.

She recalled Althea’s mad search of the house after that night and realized now that she’d been searching for the jewels. She thought of her aunt’s strange death. An accident, they’d said, but Lily had always found it curious, since her aunt had been strong and had rowed that lake so many times. She saw all the events of that summer again, spinning out before her like acts in a play.
“Tell the boy to see to her.”

She leapt off her horse and stumbled toward the cottage, recalling the many times she’d been sent away so she would not see her aunt’s adulterous affair, Tobin ordered along to watch over her. They had not been friends—he had been her keeper.

“For God’s sake,” he said. “Come here.”

She whirled around; Tobin had come back.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but Tobin grabbed her and put her on his horse. He tethered her horse to his, then swung up behind her and pulled her into his chest. He spurred his horse and they moved along at a good clip.

Lily tried to resist sitting so close, but the rain was cold and hard, the wind even colder. She felt suddenly exhausted, her mind reeling, and she sank into his support and warmth. She needed it.

When they arrived at Ashwood, the storm was raging and the rain had turned to a stinging sleet. The door swung open, and the footman Preston raced down the steps, fighting with an umbrella, as a stable boy ran forward to take her horse. Tobin had Lily down before Preston could reach them.

She grabbed Tobin’s hand before he could pull away. “We could find them, Tobin.”

He ignored her, gesturing to the footman for the umbrella.

“We could find the jewels and then we could clear his name.”

Suddenly, nothing seemed more important. She had to do it. She could never change what had happened that summer, but she could at least find those jewels for Tobin.

But he looked at her disdainfully and pulled his hand free.

“Your ladyship, this way,” Preston urged her.

Lily ran with him into the house, where Linford was waiting to take her wet things. When she looked back, Tobin was gone.

T
obin had discarded his wet coat and waistcoat, and had pulled his shirt from his trousers. Carlson had tried in vain to direct him to a hot bath, but Tobin had stood aboard ship decks in far worse weather and did not require that sort of pampering.

What he required was a stiff drink.

He paced before the roaring hearth with a brandy snifter dangling between two fingers. He was conflicted, and he was not a man to be
conflicted
. He never cared enough about anything to be conflicted. And on those rare occasions he
did
care, as in the case of his father’s unjust death, his path was exceedingly clear—very black and white without even a hint of gray.

Yet for a few highly charged, highly pleasurable moments this afternoon, his path had
not
been so clear. The mud in him had disappeared, and in its place had come a vastly different feeling—he’d been an inferno, wanting the one woman he did not
want
to
want. What he wanted was to ruin her—not to desire her. Not to feel enslaved to her body and her smile. But desire her, he had. Kissing her had breathed lifeblood into him, and he’d risen from the dead in those moments. The sensation had been an odd one—not the thickness in his throat, nor the tightness in his chest. But something even deeper, even more frightening than that.

Then it had all changed again in the space of a single breath. Lily had had some sort of epiphany, and it had changed. Had she really not understood until today what had happened between her aunt and his father?

Tobin had suspected it as a lad, and he’d realized it had been true when, as a young man, he’d experienced his first infatuation. Besotted with a woman, he’d mulled over the ways he might express his adoration. He’d remembered his father’s stool then, the one he’d return to night after night when the family’s evening meal was done, painstakingly crafting its inscription. His father had often inscribed things in his work, but even at thirteen, Tobin had understood that one inscription to be different. It wasn’t until he was a man that he understood what that difference was.

Part of Tobin wanted to disdain Lily completely for suggesting, fifteen years too late, that she ought to find the goddamned jewels. Yet part of him wanted to find the bloody things for the very reason she suggested, to
exonerate his father—and without her help, he’d have no hope of it. Wasn’t vindication a better path than revenge? That moral high road, the thing that a decent man would seek. Or did he owe his father and his brother and his mother an eye for their eyes, and Charity for her wretched life? Wasn’t a man who had failed to protect his family impelled to avenge their deaths?