Wicked Intentions 1 (42 page)

“Ye-es,” he hissed.

She felt his body shudder, knew she was hurting him with just her gentle touch, but she pressed on. She licked down his chest, feeling the tears start in her eyes as his heartbeat thudded under her lips. She was causing him pain and she hated it, but at the same time, she hurt him with all the love in the world.

“Do you remember what you talked about? How you described me kneeling before you?”

He shuddered.

She took down her hair, letting it spread over his chest as she kissed around his navel. A soft sound left his lips, perhaps a moan, but she didn’t stop. She tongued her way to that special spot by his groin where his thigh met his hip, licking like a cat. She wriggled farther down him, stretching her legs full length along his, her feet hanging off the end of the bed, her breasts resting now atop his hard thighs.

“And what I would do when I knelt before you?”

His whole body stilled. Carefully, thoroughly, she licked over his hard cock, feeling it leap beneath her tongue. She bathed him with her tongue but didn’t take his penis into her mouth. His breathing was rough now, and she didn’t know whether it was from arousal or pain.

Perhaps it didn’t matter anymore.

“I was so aroused by your words,” she whispered. “So shamed and at the same time so excited. You were opening up a new world for me. A world in which I could be free. I want you to be free too.”

She placed her head between his thighs and kissed his
sac, gently, tenderly, inhaling his male musk. Then she turned her head and ran her mouth down first one thigh, then the other, leaving no spot untouched, leaving no bit of flesh unloved. By the time she reached his feet—big, but with surprisingly elegant arches—she was drenched with her own need. He no longer trembled, but when she looked toward the head of the bed, she saw his fists clenching the spindles of the headboard so tightly she feared he might break them.

Now.

She flowed up him, bracing one hand on his shoulder, using the other to guide him into her. They both gasped at the penetration.

“I love you,” she moaned.

Her tears overflowed as she took him deep within her. She raised her bottom, letting him slide out once, twisting herself back down on him. Then she laid herself on him like a blanket, covering as much of his flesh with hers as she could. She found that she had to curl her legs next to his hips to keep him lodged within her depths, but she could spread herself over nearly all of his torso. Then she lay still, her head on his chest, his hot cock within her, listening to his leaping heartbeat under her ear.

He was gasping beneath her.

She raised her head a little and brushed her lips over his exposed jaw, trying to comfort him. “Is it all right?”

But he wouldn’t answer. His hands were still fisted, the muscles in his upper arms bulging with his restrained strength. She watched his hands flex around the neckcloths, waiting to see if he’d tear himself free, feeling his hard length within her, pulsing with life.

When after a while he still let her lay on him, she
moved. A gentle circling of her hips, a mere rising and falling, like waves upon a great rock.

She licked his throat, humming under her breath, comforting as she made love to him. He hardly moved within her. She wanted—needed—this to last. At the same time, her desire was rising. She ground herself against him, using his body to pleasure herself, even as she tried to convey all he meant to her.

He made a sound, perhaps a sob, and she closed her eyes, rubbing her wet face against his jaw.

“Temperance.” He moved his face then, catching her lips. “Dear God, Temperance!”

She kissed him gladly, letting him thrust his tongue into her mouth, letting him take control in this small way.

Her movements slowed until she was merely pulsing against him, concentrating on his cock filling her completely, on his hips against the inside of her thighs, on his tongue within her mouth. It began gradually, naturally, like the dawning of the sun, a warmth starting at her center and spreading throughout her body. She hardly noticed until she was clenching inside, sobbing noiselessly against his mouth. She felt him jerk inside her, felt all of his muscles tense beneath hers. She knew he was reaching his peak as well and continued to kiss him. Gently. Softly. Telling him all she felt with just her body.

He relaxed, his spasm spent, while she still lay on him, her flesh wet with both their fluids, delicately sensitized. She had enough presence of mind to reach up and untie his hands.

Then she tucked her head under his chin and lay quiet, his cock still lodged within her, and whispered, “I love you, Lazarus Huntington. I love you.”

* * *

“D
OES IT STILL
hurt when I touch you?” Temperance asked sometime later.

She and Caire had bathed and supped and made love again, and now they sprawled nude upon his bed. She lay on her side, her legs tangled with his, rubbing her palm over his chest. She couldn’t seem to touch him enough.

Caire turned his head, his sapphire eyes meeting her own. “No, your touch no longer pains me. I think you have indeed cured me. It tingles a bit, but the sensation is not painful.” He caught her hand, rubbing her fingers over his nipple. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Happiness streaked like a golden light through her, but she kept her face grave. “Are you sure? Perhaps we should test your endurance further.”

His lips curved rather wickedly, and he brought her fingers to his mouth, kissing each one slowly and carefully until Temperance nearly squirmed. “Is that a challenge, madam?”

She lowered her eyelashes demurely, her heart pounding at their flirtation. “Perhaps.”

“Then I shall endeavor not to disappoint.” His voice had turned serious, and when she looked up again, his face had lost its former teasing look. “I never want to disappoint you.”

“You won’t,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes as if pained. “I am not the man you would’ve chosen on your own, I think.”

She laid a palm on his cheek. “Why do you say that?”

His eyes snapped open, and he suddenly rolled to bring her beneath him. “Because I am selfish and vain and venal—nothing, in fact, like you or the men in your
family. Don’t think I’m unaware of that fact. I don’t deserve you, Temperance, but it doesn’t matter. You have told me you love me, and I’ll not let you change your mind, now or ever.”

He lay on her heavily, his legs between her spread thighs, and she was aware that he was erect and ready again. It was a position of dominance, one meant to enforce his will.

But she looked up at him and smiled gently. “What makes you think I didn’t choose you?”

His dark brows snapped together. “What?”

She threaded her fingers through his glorious silver hair. “You are exactly what I want, exactly what I need. You are honest and strong and fearless, and you make me fearless too. You don’t let me hide behind excuses and prevarication; you make me face myself and you as well. I love you, Lazarus. I love you.”

“Then marry me,” he said fiercely.

She gasped, the prospect of happiness shimmering so close she could almost reach out and touch it. “But… what about your mother?”

He arched an arrogant eyebrow. “What about my mother?”

Temperance bit her lip. “I’m not an aristocrat—I’m not even close. Father was a beer brewer. Surely your mother and the rest of society will disapprove of marriage to me? After the fire, I don’t even have anything to my name but the clothes I wore today!”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” he drawled, and his sapphire eyes seemed to glow in the shadows of the curtained bed. “You have a very fine piano.”

“I do?”

“You do,” he said, and kissed her nose. “I ordered it only a couple of weeks ago as a surprise present, and as it wasn’t delivered before the fire—it wasn’t, was it?”

“No.”

“There you are,” he said loftily. “You have a piano and a full set of clothes, and that’s plenty dowry to marry me.”

“But you provided the piano!” Temperance couldn’t stop the smile that was spreading over her face. A piano? Lazarus might call himself selfish, but it was the sweetest gift she’d ever received.

“Where the piano came from is of no matter, Mrs. Dews,” Lazarus replied. “The fact is you own it. As for society, it can go hang. I’ll wager the thing the gossip mongers will be most scandalized by is that I found a lady to consent to be my wife.”

“And your mother?”

“And my mother will no doubt be extremely happy that I’ve married at all.”

“But—”

He nudged himself against her damp folds, and she lost whatever objection she was about to make.

“Oh!”

She looked up and saw he was so very close, his silver hair falling like a curtain to either side of her face.

“Will you marry me, Mrs. Dews,” he whispered, “and save me from a life of loneliness and uncaring?”

“I will if you’ll save me from a joyless life filled with only work and duty.”

His blue eyes flamed, and then he was kissing her passionately. He pulled back only long enough to say, “Then you’ll marry me, my sweet Mrs. Dews?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Yes, I’ll marry you and love you until the end of both our days, my Lord Caire.”

And she would’ve said more, but he was kissing her again and it didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that he loved her and she loved him.

And that they’d found each other.

Epilogue

Now, a year passed and during that time, King Lockedheart grew more and more morose. One by one, he dismissed his courtiers until only a very few wise men remained. He grew weary of his beautiful concubines and he sent them, weeping, away. He sat alone in his great golden throne room on his velvet throne and wondered why he felt this way. All that was left to keep him company was his little blue bird, but a bird cannot talk or laugh or smile.

One day, a quiet knock came at the throne room doors, and when the king called for entry, who should come in but Meg the maid?

Well, the king sat up straight, but soon his broad shoulders slumped again and he looked a bit sulky. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, hither and yon and over all the wide world,” Meg said cheerfully. “I had a wonderful time.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be going again?” the king asked.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Meg said as she sat at his feet. “How did you feel when I was gone?”

“Lost. Empty,” the king said.

“And now that I’ve returned?”

“Happy. Joyful,” King Lockedheart growled as he scooped Meg into his lap and kissed her soundly.

“Do you know what this is?” Meg asked in a whisper.

“Love,” the king replied. “This is love, true and eternal, my sweet Meg. Will you be my queen?”

“Oh, yes,” Meg said. “For I’ve adored you since first you had me dragged before you. We will be married and we’ll live happily ever after.”

And so they did!

T
HREE WEEKS LATER…

The mornings were the hardest, Silence found. There just never seemed to be any
reason
to get up. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. William was gone, of course, four weeks now at sea and still no letter. That wasn’t so unusual, but the nagging feeling that he wouldn’t write at all this voyage was. Concord wasn’t speaking to her, except for one short lecturing letter that she’d burned because it might destroy any sisterly feeling she had for him should she read the whole thing. No one had heard from Asa.

Silence sighed and rolled to her side, idly watching a fly buzz against the bedroom window. Temperance would be happy to have her come and help plan the wedding. But the sad thing was that Temperance’s happiness with Lord Caire contrasted depressingly with Silence’s estrangement from William. And jealousy of her own sister made Silence feel small, ugly, and bitter.

Winter had come around twice asking in his easy, patient way for her help with the foundling children, but—

There was a thump at her door.

Silence turned in the direction of the outer room. It had been quite a loud thump for her to have heard it in the bedroom. Who could it be? She owed no tradespeople and wasn’t expecting anyone. It might be Winter come to cajole her again. She scrunched down in the covers. If it
was
Winter, she didn’t want to see him. She had just decided to pretend to not be at home when she heard it: a faint mewling.

Well, that was odd. Was there a cat at her door?

She got up and padded to the door, cracking it only slightly because she was still in her chemise. No one was there—or so she thought until she heard the sound again and looked down. A baby lay at her feet in a basket, like Moses, only without the rushes. She frowned at him and he frowned back, stuffing a fat fist into his mouth and growing rather red in the face. She didn’t know much about babies, but she did know when one was about to bawl.

Hastily she bent, scooped up the basket, and closed the door behind her. She set the basket on the table and lifted out the baby, inspecting him—or rather
her,
as it turned out. The baby was dressed in a gown and stays and was quite pretty, with dark eyes and a wispy curl of dark hair peeking from her cap.

“I don’t receive visitors before two of the afternoon,” Silence muttered to the little girl, but the baby simply waved a fist, nearly catching her in the nose.

Silence looked in the basket and found a worn silver locket in the shape of a heart.

“Is this yours?” she asked the babe as she opened it awkwardly with one hand. Inside was a slip of paper with the word
darling
written on it. That was all. She searched the basket, even taking out and shaking the blanket the baby had lain on, but there were no more clues to the baby’s identity.