Wicked Seduction (13 page)

He shook his head. “I gave up wondering many years ago. Only a fool wastes energy on yesterday. Today has enough challenges.”

She bit her lip. He was right, of course. But there were still moments she ached to relive even one day of her old life, one day when her father was still vital and strong.

“Tell me why you were crying,” he said softly.

“Tell me why you are in my bedroom barefoot.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise. “It is too difficult to climb a wall in shoes.” He gestured out her window. She saw now that the glass was lifted. He must have scaled the wall and climbed in.

“But there is nothing there but wall and a few spots of ivy!”

He nodded. “Exactly. That is why I had to take off my shoes. My coat and cravat are down there as well.”

Of course, she thought with a laugh. Why ever would she think something different? “But why would you risk your neck in such a way?”

He gave her an arch look. “I lived for seven years on a ship. I climbed ropes during storms, cut sails in the dark, even scrambled between ships at war on the ocean. Even with my injury, your wall is not a risk.”

No. Put like that, it wouldn’t be. “But why?” she pressed. That was the question he had avoided. “Why would you climb in my window?”

He lifted one shoulder in a kind of shrug. “I had to see you.”

She mulled over his words, sifting through them to find the truth. “I was supposed to go out this evening. The Season is beginning. I will not be at home for many nights to come.”

He dipped his chin in a nod.

“So you intended to sit here and wait for me? Until I came home hours from now?”

Again, a quick dip of his head. She let hers fall backward against the wall in shock.

“What if anyone saw you? My reputation would be destroyed!”

“No one would see me.”

“But of course they would!”

“No one would see me,” he repeated. He spoke with such confidence that she was tempted to believe him. Which was ridiculous, because she could not entertain a man in her bedroom without someone noticing! And yet, he was here, sitting on her bed, talking with her as if it were the most natural thing.

“Mr. Frazier—” she began.

“Kit. Please call me Kit.”

“I most certainly will not!” she said firmly, even though she had been calling him Kit in her thoughts for a while now.

“Please,” he said, and she heard a note of desperation in his voice. “It helps me remember where I am.
Who
I am. On Venboer’s ship, my name was Slave.”

“Just ‘Slave’? Weren’t there a lot of you?”

He nodded. “It was a game Venboer played, a way to show us that we were all one and the same to him.”

She bit her lip, beginning to understand a little of what he suffered. After years as a pirate slave, coming back to London must feel like a dream to him.

“But you are safe now,” she pressed. “You
are
in London. You
are
free.”

His gaze slid from hers to the guttering candle. “We were not allowed fire on the ship. No candles. No light. Too dangerous, especially when many slaves would rather die than continue on.” He reached out to touch the flame. She watched it flicker over his fingers and wondered that he did not burn. Then he pulled away and looked at her. “Candles help me remember. Clothing helps me remember.” He leaned forward. “You help me remember.”

She felt her lips curve in a rueful smile. “I do not believe I helped you last night.”

“Never say that!” he said sharply. “If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I would have returned at all.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and she saw how haggard he appeared. “It has been four years since I bought my freedom, and yet still, some nights I am afraid to go to sleep. I am afraid that I will wake in the morning—”

“And this will be the dream.”

He nodded, and she saw such vulnerability in his eyes.

“Kit . . .” she whispered, her heart breaking at the sight. And then her stub of a candle finally gave out. The flame flickered one last time and extinguished. She gasped in surprise, but that was nothing compared to his reaction. One moment he was sitting there in candlelight, confessing his fears. The next moment, there was darkness and he leaped on top of her bed. It took her a moment to realize he’d spun around too. He was crouching with his back to her, his body blocking hers as he looked out over the room. Was he protecting her? She touched his back and felt the muscles tighten beneath her fingertips.

“Kit. Kit! There is nothing there. Just the candle going out.”

He didn’t respond at first. His body remained tight, his every muscle prepared to strike. Then she heard him take a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “I know,” he finally rasped. “I know that in my mind, and yet . . .”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence for her to know what he was thinking. His rational mind knew the truth, but he could not shake the fear from his body. It was an instinctive reaction, honed over years at sea.

“I’m going to scoot to the side,” she said gently. “There’s another candle in my dresser drawer.”

She made sure not to move until he nodded. Then she trailed her hand along his back and to his thigh so that she would not startle him as she moved. It was a moment more before she could spark the flint and get a light. But once it was done, she released a breath in relief. She turned back to him, seeing his body relax as the light burned through the room. She saw too that his cheeks were red with embarrassment.

“I thought this would be easier,” he said quietly. “I thought I could come back to London and still be a man.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the wall. “I came to apologize, angel, and to thank you. I’m sorry if I frighten you.”

“You don’t frighten me,” she said with absolute truth. “And change is hard. Even good changes. It takes a while for the mind to catch up.”

He looked at her, and she saw gratitude in his eyes. Then he slowly shifted until he sat down on her bed, his back to the wall.

“Would you like me to light another candle?” she offered.

“One is enough.” Then he glanced down at the dirty footprints he had left on her bedsheets. “I owe you new linens.”

She laughed, surprised at how light the sound was. “I have slept on far dirtier things, I assure you.” Then as he watched, she pulled off the sheet and turned it over such that the clean side would be against her skin. “See. Now no one will notice, least of all me.”

He stared at her and slowly shook his head. “You are a marvel, angel.” Then his expression darkened. “Tell me why you were crying.”

She let her eyes drop away from his. “I don’t cry,” she repeated firmly.

“Is it your uncle? Did he hurt you?” He abruptly leaned forward, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. It was only mildly frightening to see him so, but it was his words that chilled her. “I will kill him for you, if you like. With him dead, Rose will inherit. She is almost of age, is she not? You can convince her to keep you on as companion, and then the two of you could live here without him. You won’t have to think about him ever again.”

She stared at him, her mind barely keeping up with his words. He couldn’t possibly be offering to murder her uncle for her. “You’re not serious, are you?” she whispered. “You can’t be.”

She saw him clench and unclench his teeth. But in the end, his spine rolled back against the wall. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not serious. But it is wonderful to imagine, isn’t it? I used to lie awake and dream of ways to kill Venboer.”

“No!” she gasped, though a tiny part of her did wonder what it would be like to live alone with Rose without Uncle Frank’s constant questioning about the household expenses. To be able to buy a dress without thinking how she would justify it to him. And without wondering what he was thinking every time he watched her from his library chair. He just sat and watched her as she went about her tasks. The idea of living without him was intoxicating. And yet equally appalling.

“No,” she repeated firmly. “I don’t want him dead. I just want . . .”

“What?” he prompted when she fell silent. “What do you want, angel?”

A husband. A home. A life such as she would probably never have. “I don’t know,” she finally said aloud. “I just wish that things were different, that’s all.”

“Like back when your father was alive?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” He exhaled a sigh. “Wishing is for fools. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone very much more dull. Then she looked into his eyes and saw an answering longing in them, a wish so deep and so powerful that she could read it in the very striations of his eyes. “Then I suppose I am a fool.”

His lips quirked. “So am I.”

He took her hand, tugging her gently closer to him. She allowed him to, though she didn’t move next to him as he obviously wanted. Instead, she let him hold her hand and relished the feel of his large palm, the rough texture of his calluses, and the simple joy of being touched in so gentle a way.

“Alex’s family is back in London. I took him to them today.”

She jerked her gaze up to his face. He had spoken so deadpan, so blandly, that she knew the words were important. Men never allowed their emotions free rein, and he was more closed than most.

“Was it terrible?” she whispered, thinking how awful it would be for Alex if things had gone badly. He was just a boy, really. Too young to be—

“It was exactly as a reunion should be,” he said. “Tears, hugs, teasing, more tears, and a celebration the likes that I have never seen. Angel, they love him so much and they were beyond thrilled to have him home.”

“Oh,” she whispered, understanding coming slowly. “I’m so glad for him.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s terribly hard, isn’t it? To see such happiness and know that it isn’t there for you.”

“I am happy for Alex,” he said clearly. Then his gaze grew abstract, his lips softening into a gentle smile. “His mother couldn’t stop crying. She’s probably still sobbing.”

Maddy smiled, her eyes misting in memory. “Tell me about it,” she asked. “Every moment. Every tear. Please.”

He looked at her then, and she saw from his eyes that he understood. She needed to share in Alex’s joy as much as he needed to tell it. And then together, they could live for a while in happiness, even if it wasn’t their own.

He spoke slowly, taking his time. He had a gift for storytelling, and though he kept his voice low, his story filled the room. Through him, she got to know each member of Alex’s family, and before long, she was curled up into Kit’s side so that she could feel the vibration of his words. And when he was done, the room still echoed with the memory of laughter and good food. She sighed in delight, holding every second to her heart.

She felt his arm tighten around her. Some part of her had known all along that he would do that. His kiss was inevitable from the moment he had appeared by her bed.

She should pull back, she thought. She should move away and order him to leave her bedroom and never come back. She should, but she didn’t. Instead, she lifted her face to his. He touched her cheek first. A quick brush with his fingers. And when she turned toward his caress, she saw his eyes widen and his nostrils flare. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t the breath. She only knew that she wanted this to happen. And she didn’t want to think at all. When his mouth finally found hers, she released a sigh that took her mind with it. No thoughts. No fears. Just a simple, single kiss.

Until it became more.

Chapter 11

His caress feathered behind her cheek, then delved into her hair. His gentleness was only a ruse, she knew. Within seconds, he was cupping the back of her head and holding her in place as he plundered her mouth. And, oh, she liked it. What a glory it was to surrender to his possession as his tongue swept into her.

There was no teasing like last time. No nipping at her lips. Just a slow, steady, thorough possession. His mouth slanted completely over hers. His tongue dominated as he thrust into her. And when she tried to tease him by sucking him deeper into her mouth, he reacted as if she had pushed him beyond his control.

He growled into her throat and, with his free hand, pushed her down on the bed, following her without breaking the seal of their mouths. She might have gasped in surprise, but there was no breath for that. He continued to thrust and parry with her even as his body settled hard and heavy on top of her.

They were both fully clothed—except for his lack of shoes—but the feel of his weight was intimate beyond anything she’d ever experienced. She was shocked by it, and yet, nothing had ever felt more exciting, more thrilling, more exactly what she wanted at that very moment.

She reached up to touch his face, to stroke his cheeks, to run her hands through his hair. She did it, but only absently. It was a soft feeling on her hands when everything else was so delightfully hard. And hot. Good God, his organ was so large as he thrust against her pelvis!

She should not be feeling these things. She should not understand these things! But she was the daughter of a doctor and had been raised in the country as well. She knew exactly what a man looked like, but she had never felt it like this before. He pushed against her in a steady rhythm that drove her wild.

Without her willing it, her legs fell apart. One slid off the bed such that her heel landed on the floor. That allowed him to settle more fully against her, and to her shock, more deeply against her core.

He pulled away from her mouth with a gasp and trailed kisses across her jaw and along her neck. “Don’t be afraid, angel,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

She wasn’t. Or she hadn’t been until he spoke. But his words started her mind working again. Why would she be afraid? He wasn’t going to hurt her, was he?

His fingers found the buttons of her gown. It was a work gown, not a fashionable one, so the buttons down the front were perfectly accessible. While his organ continued to push against her, the rhythm delightfully steady, he began undoing her bodice, kissing down her throat as he went.

She shifted against him, her mind starting to cry alarms. But the movement only opened her groin more fully to him. There were layers of fabric between them, but he was so large she believed she could feel his every ridge. She even drew her free leg up his calf, tightening her legs to feel him more intimately.

He had unbuttoned her gown almost to her navel now, and her shift was wet from his kisses. He pulled himself upward, one foot dropping to the floor as he levered himself against her. She shivered at his thrust, her whole body arching in wonder at the exquisite feel. And as her head was thrown back in delight, he grabbed hold of either side of her shift and ripped it apart.

She opened her eyes at the sound and saw the bunch of his arm muscles as he brushed the torn fabric aside. She saw the raw expression of hunger on his face as he looked down at her. And then she watched it shift to awe.
Awe.

“You are so big,” he said. “I had not realized beneath those ugly gowns.” He ran his fingers along the side of her left breast.

She bit her lip, wishing to hide away. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He didn’t appear to hear her. “So perfect,” he said as he cupped her breast. Then he let his eyes drift shut in obvious pleasure as his other hand framed her right side.

She trembled at the feel of him holding her, his hands so large that he easily shaped her. And when she looked down, she saw tan fingers on white skin, as his thumbs rolled over the rose peaks of her nipples.

“Oh!” she gasped. No one had ever touched her like that. No one had ever rolled her nipples between their fingers, had squeezed and lifted her in such delight. Her belly began to tremble with each stroke of his hands. Her buttocks tightened and she ground against him. Never would she have thought this could feel so good.

She felt his hair brush across her shoulder and then the heat of his mouth across her left breast. Kisses. He was kissing her skin, even as he continued to lift and mold her breasts. His tongue drew circles over her collarbone and breast. And then, he shaped her into a perfect peak that he nipped with his teeth.

Her body had left her control. She was using her legs to drag him closer to her as he moved in a rhythm that was too slow. He began to suck on her nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a pull that was too strong, then just perfect, then not enough.

She grabbed his shoulders, needing something to hold on to. He pushed against her, his thrusts coming harder. She arched into his every stroke while his mouth continued to tug at her nipple. She felt as if her body would burst with the heat as a straight line of fire raged between breast and groin.

She cried out at the glory of it all, her undulations pulling her breast from his mouth. But she felt him rasp her name. “Angel. Angel.” Repeated over and over as he rammed against her.

Then it happened. A wave of pleasure so amazing that her entire body seemed to lift off the bed. She cried out as another wave rolled through her. He too slammed against her, his face frozen on a gasp of wonder: eyes wide, mouth open, and such amazement that she knew she would remember it forever.

Twice more he slammed against her. At least double that many waves of pleasure swept through her. Then he collapsed, dropping his weight full and heavy upon her. His face landed to the side of hers, his breath hot against her neck and shoulder. And still her body moved as yet more waves washed through her. Smaller. Slower. And still wonderful.

Was this what it meant to make love? Was this what married women experienced every night? If so, no wonder everyone rushed to the altar. She lifted her arms, wrapping them around Kit. He was boneless on top of her, but his weight was lovely. And now she could appreciate the soft feel of his hair.

She tilted her head and pressed a kiss to his temple. And when he didn’t respond, she contented herself with holding him in her arms. As she closed her eyes, she pretended they were married. She was holding her husband, she told herself. And tomorrow night, they would do this again. So thinking, she allowed herself to drift into a light sleep.

Kit’s mind was awake long before his body could move. Thoughts collided inside him, slamming against his consciousness even as his body lay in languid release.

What had he done? She was a gently bred woman, and he had just rutted over her like a . . . like the slave he was. He had pinned her down, ripped her clothes, and then feasted on her body. That he released into his pants and not her sweet channel was both a blessing and an embarrassment. What kind of animal was he? With a groan of self-disgust, he slid off her. She sighed as he moved, her eyes drifting open as her near hand played with his hair.

“Is it always so wonderful between husband and wife?”

He flinched at her wording. They were not married nor were they likely to be. Not unless he could get his affairs in order. “I have no idea,” he said with complete honesty. “I have never been wed.”

“Oh,” she said with a dreamy smile. “Of course.”

“But I can say that this was special,” he said softly as he looked into her eyes. “
You
are special.”

She flushed and glanced away, but she looked pleased with the compliment. “I suppose all men say that afterward.”

He tugged her chin back to him, forcing her to look into his eyes. “There was a time when I said many silly things to women. Exaggerated compliments, ridiculous statements. I have lost the knack of it. I can only tell you the truth.” He took a breath, knowing that his next words were not adequate to his feelings. “I will remember this night for the rest of my life. It will not diminish with time, it will not fade or soften. I will remember you, your touch, your caresses, and your exquisite body.” He rubbed his thumb across her lips. “Thank you for tonight.”

She looked at him, her color pinking to a delicate rose, but she didn’t smile. She liked what he said. He saw a misty gratitude in her eyes. But the sight never reached her mouth or the rest of her body, which had gone very still.

“I have given away too much, haven’t I?” she asked softly. Then her gaze darted to the door. “If someone heard, if someone knows what I have just done—”

“No one heard. No one knows,” he said, praying that it was true. “But I should not linger.” Then he pushed up from her side, regretting the loss of her heat, her touch, her scent.

She straightened as well, pulling the edges of her shift together. He winced at the sight of her torn clothing, of the mess he’d made of her hair and her bed. And yet, she had never looked more lovely to him.

“I am sorry,” he abruptly confessed, and he wondered if he lied. “This was very bad of me.”

She shook her head. “It was my choice as well.”

He stood up from the bed. His pants were an unholy mess and cold as well. Grimacing, he looked around. “Do you have a cloth I could use?”

“Yes. One second.” Straightening up on her knees, she shrugged out of her dress. The fabric pooled about her waist and her breasts bobbed free before him. Just the sight had him stiffening again. God, she was beautiful.

“Angel . . .” he murmured.

But she was busy pulling off her torn shift and handing the soft fabric to him. “Use this.”

He looked at the worn cotton in his hand. He couldn’t. Even though he was the one who’d ripped it, he couldn’t sully her attire with his filth.

“Oh!” she said, misunderstanding. “You wish some privacy, I’m sure.” She started buttoning up her dress, carefully hiding away her glory. If he hadn’t seen with his own eyes, he would never guess the fullness of her figure beneath the ruffles and fichus. If he had the dressing of her, she would be lauded as a diamond this season. Beautiful beyond compare and lusted after by everyone in London.

When she was all buttoned and tucked away, she smoothed her hair and climbed off the bed. He was still standing there like a fool, staring at her, and already hard again. She poured the remains of a pitcher of water into a basin, then headed for the door.

“I shall just refill this and be back. A couple minutes.”

“Angel . . .” he began, but his voice trailed away. He didn’t need privacy. He needed her. And yet he desperately needed to be far away from her, not tempting himself to re-make the same mistake. This time without any clothing between them.

“Don’t worry,” she said in a bracing tone. “I shall give you enough time.” Then she cracked the door and peered out. A moment later she was gone.

He closed his eyes, but that was no help. The memory of her full skin, of her breasts high and full bouncing before him, of her writhing in ecstasy beneath him—all of that was waiting the moment he closed his eyes.

Cursing himself, he forced himself to deal with his mess, but he refused to sully her torn shift. Instead, he tore a wide strip off the bottom of his shirt. It was new and the best in his limited wardrobe, but he counted it as nothing. Using that, he cleaned himself up as best he could, before rebuttoning and tucking all away.

He folded her shift into his pocket. His soiled linen was tossed out her window to land near his jacket and cravat.

He should leave her, he knew. Just being in her bedroom tempted him beyond reason. But he couldn’t. He had come to her room for a reason, and it was not to seduce. He desperately wished it were different. It would be beyond awkward to ask. But he had to know. And if he climbed out now, he would be back within the hour to ask his question. So he stayed, his hands shoved into his pockets and his stance uneasy. At least his right hand was encased in her shift.

She returned too tardy and too soon. She scratched softly at her own door, and he pulled it open as fast as he could. Her cheeks were rosy from exertion and her smile was filled with mischievous delight.

“I feel like a girl sneaking treats from the kitchen at night. No one is about. The servants are gone or retired. We are completely safe!”

She wasn’t safe. Someone still could have heard them. Someone might even now be below the window discovering his clothing. “I, um, I need to leave, but I have to ask something first.”

She nodded as she set down the full pitcher. Then she turned to him, her expression open and expectant. Sliding away from what he needed to ask, he stumbled into another question.

“Do you still have the broach I gave you last night?”

She smiled. “Of course I do.” Then she pulled it out of her gown pocket. The gold flashed dull and garish in her palm. “I shouldn’t carry it around with me, but I couldn’t think of a safe hiding place. So . . .”

“The problem is that I need a fence.”

She frowned at him, not understanding what he meant.

“A jeweler or someone who will buy the piece, melt it down and make something better.”

“But this is an old and valuable broach! It shouldn’t be melted down.”

He shifted awkwardly, and he forced himself not to hunch like a dog before her. “I need to get some English coin. I cannot pay a tailor with jewelry. I need someone who will buy pieces like this and give me English pounds.”

“Oh!” she said, finally understanding. “Of course. But must it be a jeweler?” she said, her brow furrowing as she thought.

“It can be anyone, I suppose. But who . . .” His voice trailed away. She was thinking, her brow creased, her eyes narrowed on something only she saw.

“There is a woman. A baroness who has a fondness for romantic tales.” She flashed him a smile. “She and Rose are very much alike in that. But whereas Rose has almost no pin money, the baroness has a great deal. And her husband absolutely dotes on her. I think, if you spin her a good story, they would pay well for this piece.”