Wicked Intentions 1 (41 page)

Mary Whitsun’s eyes shone. “I’d like that, ma’am.”

“Good.” Temperance blinked back yet more tears.

Lady Hero smiled at the two of them. Her titian hair was wet and straggling about her shoulders, and yet she still seemed dignified and every inch the sister of a duke. “When you are settled, I would like to discuss building a new home.”

“As would I,” Lady Caire said. For a moment, both ladies eyed each other.

“Larger, do you think?” Lady Hero murmured.

“Definitely.”

“And with room for the children to play?”

“Oh, quite,” Lady Caire replied decisively, and smiled at the younger woman.

They seemed to have come to some sort of unspoken pact.

“Thank you,” Temperance said, dazed.

“You’re in for it now,” Caire murmured irreverently in her ear. “With my mother and the sister of a duke attending to your affairs.”

But she ignored his teasing, hugging him in her glee. The home had not one but
two
patronesses!

“And if you don’t mind, I’d like to contribute something to the home as well.” His tone was oddly diffident.

She looked up at him and said, “Thank you. We’d be most honored to have you as a patron as well.”

He kissed her quickly and then Caire sighed. “I need
to attend to
that.
” He nodded his head to where St. John held Mother Heart’s-Ease with the two footmen. “Will you stay here?”

Temperance smiled up at him. “No.”

He sighed. “If you’ll excuse us, Mother, my lady.” He made an abbreviated bow to both ladies.

“Certainly,” Lady Hero said. “I think we need to organize these children.” She raised her eyebrows at Lady Caire.

That lady nodded and as one, the women wheeled to descend on Nell and the group of children.

Caire shivered with mock apprehension. “Those two are going to be formidable.”

“And just what we need,” Temperance said with satisfaction.

He hugged her to his side as they approached St. John and the struggling Mother Heart’s-Ease.

St. John looked at Caire. “What is this about? Why would this women set fire to the home?”

“She killed Marie,” Caire said grimly. “And Marie’s brother, too, when he tried to blackmail her. She realized that we were getting close to discovering her, and she came here to kill Mrs. Dews, I think.”

Temperance looked at the gaunt woman with loathing. “All the children were inside the home as well. She would’ve killed many more than just me.”

“Yes. She didn’t care.” Caire nodded at St. John. “If we search her gin shop, we might find evidence of the murders.”

“No need,” St. John replied. He flipped back the ragged red man’s coat that Mother Heart’s-Ease wore. Beneath, rusty stains splashed across the bosom of her dress and down the front.

“Dear God,” Temperance whispered, covering her mouth with her hand.

It was apparently too much for Mother Heart’s-Ease. She lunged, shrieking obscenities like a madwoman, which, it was quite apparent, she was. Both footmen were hauled forward at the strength of her attack. Caire swung Temperance behind him and backed several steps, putting them both well out of Mother Heart’s-Ease’s reach.

“I’ll bring her to gaol in my carriage,” St. John shouted above the woman’s ravings.

Caire nodded. “Bind her well.”

“I will,” St. John replied. “I’m taking no chance of her escaping.”

The men set about their grim task.

“Come,” Caire whispered in Temperance’s ear. “You’re wet and cold and so am I. Let’s find a carriage to take us home.”

“But Winter…” Temperance glanced about and spotted her brother helping to herd the children.

Winter caught her look and raised his hand, jogging over. “I’m to help Lady Caire and Lady Hero to settle the children, especially the boys. They’ll be staying at the Duke of Wakefield’s house, and they’ll need supervision there.”

“I must help,” Temperance began.

Winter laid his hand on her shoulder. “No need. There’s enough people between the servants and Nell and me.”

Caire nodded above her. “I’m taking her home and giving her a warm bath.”

Winter eyed Caire without speaking. And then he stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”

Caire took his hand, shaking it firmly. “No need to thank me.”

Winter looked between Caire and Temperance, his brow arched, but he merely said, “Take care of her.”

Caire nodded. “I will.”

Winter bussed Temperance on the cheek and ran back to the children.

“Now to find a carriage,” Caire muttered, then grimaced. “Damn it, I forgot to thank St. John for capturing Mother Heart’s-Ease.”

“But he didn’t,” Temperance exclaimed.

He turned to look at her.

And she couldn’t help but laugh; it was such a silly thing after all that had happened. “The Ghost of St. Giles appeared with her while you were inside the house.”

“What, in front of everyone?”

“Yes. He marched right up to St. John and gave Mother Heart’s-Ease to him. I think we were all too stunned to detain him.”

“And St. John was there at the same time?”

“Yes.” She looked at him curiously.

Caire shook his head. “I wish I’d been there. I’d enjoy very much finding out who it is that hides behind that mask.”

Temperance wrapped her arm about his side as they started for the carriages. “I think that’s a mystery that we’ll have to save for another day.”

T
EMPERANCE WOULD HAVE
fallen asleep on the carriage ride to Caire’s house if she weren’t so nervous with anticipation. She had told Lazarus that she loved him, but there was still something yet—she needed to
show
him.

So when the carriage stopped outside his town house, she took his hand and led him silently inside.

“I smell of smoke,” he protested as they climbed the grand staircase together.

“I don’t care,” she replied. “I nearly lost you today.”

Her heart was leaping in her chest so violently that she thought she might well faint. She had a second chance. Dear God,
Caire
was giving her a second chance. Whatever she did, she mustn’t mess it up. She carefully closed his bedroom door behind them and then stood before him.

“I want to… no, I
need
to show you how much I love you,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking about it for the last week. How you thought I felt I was degrading myself by making love to you.”

He started to speak, but she placed her forefinger across his lips.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Let me.” She inhaled to fortify her courage and deliberately trailed her finger across his lips, over his jaw, and down his neck. “Please let me.”

He held very still, barely breathing. She knew this caused him pain, but she did it anyway. She needed to teach him that touch—especially
her
touch—need not bring him pain, that it could be pleasurable as well, and the only way she knew to demonstrate the lesson was to show him.

“I want to see if I can find a way”—she held his gaze as she untied his cloak—“to do this without it hurting you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

The cord rasped softly as it slid apart. She took the cloak from his shoulders, carefully placing it along with his hat next to the candle atop the chair. When she turned back to him, he was still standing, watching her curiously. He’d made no move to take off any more of his clothing.

“You healed me.” She swallowed and placed her hands on his shoulders. His jerk this time was softer, as if he either strove to contain the pain or it had receded a bit. She hoped it was the latter. “You made me whole again after years of suffering. I’d like to do the same for you.”

Slowly, gently, she took off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth. When she began unbuttoning his shirt, she could feel him shivering under her fingertips. For a moment, her courage failed her. What if forcing her touch on him merely made him more sensitive to it? Gave him more pain?

Then she looked into his face.

“Very well,” he said. “But don’t be disappointed if this doesn’t work. I’ll still love you no matter what.”

She felt tears prick her eyes at his calm acceptance of her and what she wanted to do. Whatever happened, they were in this together and that at least made her feel better.

Bit by bit, one article of clothing at a time, she undressed him in near-complete silence. By the time they got down to his smallclothes, she was out of breath and he was already erect under the cloth. Her hands shook as she divested him of his last article of clothing.

She stood back and looked at him.

He was magnificent nude. His silver hair spread over his shoulders, long enough to brush his dark nipples. In contrast, the hair on his body was nearly black. Dark curls swirled between his nipples in a diamond-shaped pattern on his chest. His hard belly was bare, but just below his navel, the dark hair began again, in a thin line that trailed to the curls around his manhood. His legs were long and strong, his shoulders broad and muscled. And his
eyes—dear God, his eyes!—watching her silently, sparkling sapphire blue, as he waited for her next move.

“Tell me if I go too far,” she whispered. “If it hurts too much, if you want to stop.”

His deep sapphire eyes were trusting. “I will.”

She placed her palms flat against his bare chest, firmly, and gently pushed him to sit on the bed. She was expecting his flinch by this point, but she didn’t give in to it, keeping her hands against his warm skin as he inhaled deeply. When he had settled, she slid her palms slowly down his torso, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the tickling abrasion of his body hair. She watched his eyes as they darkened to midnight blue; she paused and then slid her hands back up his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured. “I’ve wanted to simply look at your bare body for so long.”

His mouth twisted, but he didn’t comment. He inhaled, his chest swelling and deflating beneath her palms. He was so alive, so vital, and for the moment he was all hers.

She gave a gentle shove, making him lie back on the bed.

His eyes narrowed, but he lay obediently.

She went to his chest of drawers and searched until she found his neatly folded neckcloths. She drew five out and turned back to his great bed. “When you tied me, I was forced to accept your lovemaking without giving in return. I’d like to do the same for you.”

His eyes widened, but he nodded once, firmly.

She began tying his right ankle to the post at the bottom of the bed. She finished that foot and looked at him. He was breathing faster, but his eyes were calm. She tied his other foot and both his wrists. The knots were loose,
and in any case, she was fairly certain he could tear himself free from the bonds if he truly wished. But that didn’t matter. The point was merely to give him the feeling of helplessness.

And to that end, she approached the bed with the last neckcloth between her fingers.

His sapphire eyes glittered as she laid the neckcloth across them and tied it firmly to the back of his head. She brushed her fingers over his cheek. “All right?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, yes.”

His voice sounded sensuous. Anticipatory.

She stood back and looked at her handiwork. He filled the huge bed. She’d tied his wrists to one post. His fisted hands were stretched over his head, the muscles bulging in his upper arms. The neckcloth covered his face from his brow to the middle of his nose. His lips were parted as he waited for her next move, his face turned to her as if he tracked her movements by sound. She shivered, remembering how it had felt when he blindfolded her—her senses primed by the dark. His broad chest heaved. His penis lay thick and ruddy against the paler skin of his flat belly.

Dear God, she was growing wet merely looking at him. For the first time in her life, she welcomed her own arousal. She half closed her eyes, glorying in the sensation of her heavy breasts, of her thighs rubbing together. This was who she was, whether she liked it or not, a woman who wanted and needed sex. Who loved sex. And tonight she would use that part of herself—the part she’d always despised—to heal this man she loved.

Quietly, she removed her clothing, bodice, stays, dress, underskirts, stockings, and shoes. When she took off her chemise, his nostrils flared. Could he scent her arousal?
She could smell it herself, faint and tangy. She would usually be wildly embarrassed at her own body’s scent and moisture, but she willed the embarrassment away.

She needed to be bold and without fear to do this.

For a moment, she stood by the bed, not touching him, not moving, merely breathing in and out, feeling her own body, watching his. Then she touched one finger to his nipple—as he had once done to her. His chest heaved at the touch, but he made no sound.

“I love you.” She circled his nipple, small and dark against his pale skin. It pebbled as she touched him. She inhaled as well, her chest suddenly tight. He was at her mercy, this powerful, lonely man, both physically and emotionally. If she made the wrong move, she might hurt him terribly, for she knew now that she could hurt him, and the realization was wondrous and strange.

Somehow, by some miracle, she mattered to him.

“All of you.” She leaned forward and placed her mouth against his chest, kissing him, stroking him with her lips, trying to convey all she felt. She licked his nipple, circled it with her tongue, tasting man, tasting
Caire.
She took that small bit of flesh between her lips and bit gently, carefully, listening as his breath quickened.

“I think I’ve loved you since that first night when you surprised me in my sitting room.”

Her breath quickened as well, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. She climbed on the bed and straddled his hips, but when he pressed up, she ignored him, sliding lower, her legs on either side of his thighs.

“Or perhaps it was when you talked to me so shamefully in your carriage that first time.” She lay flat on him, her breasts crushed just above his hot penis, her forearms
along his sides, touching him with as much of her body as she could. “Do you remember?”