Through the Smoke (10 page)

But he’d grown to expect nothing more. He’d told her he wanted a divorce. She’d gone hysterical and followed him into the library, threatening, pleading, cajoling. It was there that she swore she still loved him. That she told him her family would do everything possible to stop him from obtaining the Act of Parliament a divorce would require.

That had caused such an upwelling of emotion he’d never realized his father’s favorite painting,
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus
, was not on the wall
where it had hung for years—not until that detail had surfaced from somewhere deep in his subconscious.

An original by Pieter Bruegel, the painting was part of a much larger collection that had been on display throughout the manor. The place where it normally hung should have jumped out at him the moment he entered the room.

Maybe it had. Maybe he’d lost that detail in the haze of darkness that soon followed.

Or perhaps he was dreaming up the missing painting.

Truman sighed. He hoped he would soon find out. He was sending Linley to London in the morning to visit another avid collector. If he had to, he would have Linley visit every art expert in England, his mission to discover any piece of the collection supposedly destroyed in the fire. If he could find just one—

A groan drew his eyes to the bed, but the rich, burgundy draperies that hung there concealed who or what might have made the sound.

What the devil
? Assuming it was Susanna, that she had come to his bed despite his earlier refusal, he crossed the floor and yanked the draperies back. But it wasn’t his maid. It was Rachel McTavish! She lay with her eyelashes resting against her cheeks, her long blond hair unfurled on his pillow like a flag—as beautiful as any of the fine ladies he’d known.

Evidently Wythe hadn’t been content to tempt him with mere words. He’d sent for her. And she’d come, just like his cousin predicted she would.

Where the sheet gaped, Truman could see one bare breast and realized she was naked beneath the quilts. How long had she been waiting for him? Why hadn’t someone informed him she was here?

How like his cousin to taunt him with the knowledge that, despite his noble words, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her.…

With that thought, he almost stepped away from the bed. He could make a considerable dent in Wythe’s smugness by sending her home straightaway.

If only he didn’t long to touch her, to erase the vision of her sadness from his mind… a sadness he was partly responsible for causing.

How much had Wythe paid her?

It had to be a vast sum, to bring her to
him
. But he couldn’t find it in him to fault her. Not now, when he so badly wanted what she was willing to trade.

He remembered how courageously she’d defended her family. When he’d watched her at her mother’s funeral, standing there desolate yet strong, he’d known she was nothing like her father. She was rare and beautiful and, heaven help him, he could not stifle the desire that slammed into him with the force of the ocean battering the cliffs outside. It caused his hand to shake as he reached out to slide a finger down her pale, slim arm.

“Rachel?”

She whimpered in her sleep but turned toward him, seeking his voice, making herself more accessible to his touch.

Send her home,
his mind urged.
For honor’s sake, send her home. Her mother’s funeral was today.

But the demands of his body spoke louder still.

The bed dipped, creating a pool of warmth where there hadn’t been one before. Rachel snuggled closer and found a hard, lean body reaching for her, a glorious body with smooth skin covering powerful muscle.

Other sensations began to seep into her consciousness as well. The light caress of a man’s fingers moving over her cheek and down her throat. The soft fan of his breath against her skin. Steel-like arms gathering her close.

Who was it?

Strangely, Rachel wasn’t alarmed. She breathed in the unique scent of brandy, horses and cologne and immediately recognized the Earl of Druridge. It had to be him, for there was no other like him, and she remembered his scent all too well. The same scent had clung to the cloak he’d loaned her.

Pressing her face into his neck, she acknowledged his identity without thought of resistance. She didn’t know where he had come from, or how he had suddenly appeared in her bed, so he could only be a dream.

And, although she hated to admit it, she’d had this dream before.…

Sensing rather than seeing the dim glow of a fire in the background, Rachel tried to open her eyes, but her lids were far too heavy. Her mind seemed to be floating somewhere above her, above them both. But she could
feel the earl’s hands on her breasts, touching and teasing them as he coaxed her to respond to him and distantly wondered at her own inability to refuse.

She hated him. Didn’t she?

No, not at the moment. She wasn’t capable of feeling any such negative emotion, not when her thoughts were so befuddled and her head ached. Briefly, she conjured snippets of a memory—of Wythe bending over her and hefting her into his arms—but that image didn’t make sense. And, thankfully, the loathsome Wythe was gone. It was the earl who was playing her body as expertly as a master cellist draws only the sweetest notes from his instrument’s strings.

“How the mere thought of you has haunted me,” he murmured, sliding his fingers down her stomach as though he could hardly believe he’d gained access to her body.

She smiled. Evidently her subconscious had conjured a much more solicitous earl than the one she knew. This man was all that was gentle and good as he kissed her neck, her jaw and finally her mouth.

Rachel parted her lips for him, instinctively knowing what he craved and wanting the same. That simple act of submission seemed to quicken something inside him. He groaned before deepening the kiss, at which point Rachel’s thoughts began to splinter. More memories surfaced—a horse accident, that vision of Wythe looming over her while she lay on the ground, staring into the starry sky as he carried her… somewhere. But her mind could make no sense of the long nothingness that followed. And now she seemed to be viewing things from afar, disconnected, yet somehow on fire.

The earl’s hands were everywhere, strong and sure as they found the hidden treasures they sought. Even the hand with the scars felt like heaven on her body, once she insisted he remove the glove he always wore. He seemed to like that she wasn’t put off by his scars, that she wanted him to touch her with nothing in between, and his mouth followed his hands, nibbling first at her ear, her neck and finally licking one nipple.

She heard her own small cry at the pleasure he gave her, felt all her nerves draw up tight just below her belly. Someplace deep inside her had begun to pulse with warmth and readiness, causing her to strain for the release she craved but didn’t know how to achieve.

“Soon, sweet Rachel, soon,” he assured her, his voice hoarse with his own need as she tried to pull him on top of her. “There’s no hurry. Let me savor the taste and feel of you.” The muscles in his back and arms bunched beneath her touch, telling her he felt the same urgency but was holding back.

She clung to him as his fingers moved lower still, below her belly button around the curve of one hip to the apex of her thighs, sweeping her away in a storm of desire so intense she couldn’t catch her breath. Arching toward him, she insisted he give her that mysterious something as soon as possible.

“Now,” she urged. “I need… I need you.”

He couldn’t seem to wait any longer either. But as soon as he settled her beneath him and pressed inside her, a white, hot pain lanced up from between her thighs, shocking her as badly as her startled reaction seemed to surprise him.

Stiffening, she tried to recoil from whatever he’d stabbed her with. But he wouldn’t move; neither would he let her go.

“Rachel, I didn’t know,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rachel’s tongue felt too numb to speak. Tears gathered in her eyes and began to roll into her hair. She could feel her body start to quiver as the physical pain joined the heartache of remembering her mother.

Druridge smoothed her hair off her forehead and kissed her tears away. “Shh,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He pulled back in an unspoken plea for her to look up at him, and finally Rachel managed to open her eyes.

The fire outlined his dark head and the broad width of his shoulders as he leaned on his elbows above her.
He’s beautiful,
she thought. But he was no dream. She didn’t know how it had happened. At this point, she couldn’t even guess. But she was in the earl’s large, soft bed.

And he had just taken her virginity.

Chapter 6

That night Truman didn’t dream. Once he was able to coax Rachel into letting him touch her again, he’d obtained one of the most powerful climaxes he’d ever experienced, and then he’d slept like the dead—comfortable, relaxed, content at last.

When morning came, he reluctantly roused himself. He wasn’t sure how long the sun had been boring through the crack in the draperies, but he could see the light behind his closed lids and knew dawn was several hours past. He’d slept in. He’d probably missed a whole slew of appointments at the colliery but, oddly enough, he couldn’t find it in him to care. Katherine’s restless ghost wasn’t hovering over him at the moment. It was almost as if Rachel’s innocence had banished the past long enough to let him sleep deeply for the first time in two years.

Instinctively, he reached for her, searching the bed with his hands before opening his eyes. But she was gone.

“Damn,” he muttered, feeling a surprising sense of loss. He tried to shake off his disappointment, but the scent of her lingered, tantalizing him with the memory of how it had been to bed the strong-willed beauty he’d admired since their first meeting at the bookshop. Better, and worse, was the knowledge that only he had possessed her. Better because it somehow branded her as his own—and worse for the same reason.

Pulling back the bedding, he gazed at the slight smear of blood that proved last night had not been fantasy. Part of him felt like he owed her something more than money, even though she’d obviously agreed to whatever Wythe had arranged.

He’d pay a handsome stipend, Truman decided. She needed financial wherewithal, so that was the best way to help her. Then he’d stay away. Soon the memory of last night would fade in her mind, and the good his money would do her and young Geordie would absolve his conscience for having behaved no better than Wythe.

With a fresh burst of energy, he pulled the linens off his bed and piled them on the floor for the maids to wash. The sooner he rid his room of any reminder of the bookseller’s daughter, the sooner he could forget the confusing emotions she inspired: the regret, the tenderness, the obligation, the longing.

“There,” he said aloud and rang for his valet so he could dress. But when he turned toward the bureau, he spotted something wadded up on top.

Closer examination revealed it to be a ten-pound note. For a moment, he pretended a servant had found it in the laundry or that he’d left it there himself. But deep down he knew.

It had come from Rachel. The only thing he didn’t understand was why.