She had to give it one last try. “You don’t really want me,” she said, watching as he stripped off his elegant jacket. “You know you don’t. If you want sex, why don’t you avail yourself of the women downstairs? I’m sure they’re much more willing and experienced.”
“I’m not interested in willing,” Nicholas said, removing his neckcloth with long, patient fingers. “I want you.” He sat down in the chair by the fire and proceeded to pull off his boots, no easy trick, considering their custom fit. She watched in fascination, knowing there was no place she could run to.
He unfastened his shirt as he approached her, and he was very big in the darkness. This was no raddled old earl, no clumsy, plump butcher. This was her worst enemy, a man of dangerous beauty and lethal charm. A man who wanted to hurt her, to punish her. A man who would do so by giving her pleasure, if he could.
Her only defense was to make certain there was no pleasure. She eyed him stonily. “Don’t do this.”
His smile was gently mocking. “You knew it would come to this, sooner or later.” He reached out and touched a strand of her long chestnut hair. “Didn’t you?” She refused to answer, and he tugged, a sharp little jerk. “Didn’t you?” he said again, his voice deceptively soft.
“I can’t stop you.”
He shook his head in agreement. “You can threaten to kill me, you can threaten to kill yourself, you can kick and scream and fight me if you’ve a mind to. But you can’t stop me.”
“All right then.”
He stared at her, momentarily startled, and dropped the lock of hair. “All right then?” he echoed.
“I can’t stop you. I’ve no fancy for being forced. Go ahead.” She pushed herself back down on the bed, arms stiff at her sides, staring at the ceiling, and waited.
She’d hoped to call his bluff. It was useless. She felt his fingers at the buttons that traveled down the front of Ellen’s oversized day dress, felt the coolness of the night air as he undid the fastenings one by one.
“You don’t need to do this,” she said through clenched teeth. “All that’s necessary is to lift my skirts.”
The soft sound of laughter didn’t warm her. “Had some experience, have you? I don’t want just what’s between your legs,
ma mie.
I want your entire body.” He pulled her to a sitting position, pushing the dress off her shoulders.
“My body is at your disposal, monsieur,” she said politely, not aiding him as he undressed her. The chemise was made of fine lawn. It reached her knees, and she found herself hoping he’d have the decency to leave her that much. He didn’t. He rolled down the white silk stockings and tossed them away, then stripped the chemise from her body, until she lay there naked, forcing herself not to move as he watched her out of those dangerous, hooded eyes.
“You’re very small, my pet,” he murmured, not touching her, his eyes drifting down over her small, rounded breasts, her flat stomach. “One might almost think you were still fifteen. I can remember it as if it were yesterday…”
He couldn’t have picked words more suited to enrage her. “Bastard!” she hissed, lunging for some covering. “I’ll never be fifteen again. I hate you, I hate you…”
He hauled her back, covering her body with his, pressing her down into the soft mattress, and where his shirt was open she could feel his hot flesh against her skin, and she shivered in the shadows. “You’ll never be fifteen again,” he agreed, staring at her, his eyes glittering.
The weight of him, resting against her, was doing strange and terrifying things to her insides. She could feel his arousal pressed against her, and the reality of it was suddenly more than she could stand.
“For the love of God, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Don’t do this to me. For pity’s sake, leave me alone.”
For a moment he didn’t move, and she allowed herself a brief flare of hope that one last time she’d found the words to deflect him. That hope vanished as he slowly shook his head. “Whatever gave you the notion that I had any pity in me? Any love of God, any decency? I’m a wicked man, Ghislaine. And I’m about to prove to you how truly wicked I am.”
He dropped his head down, blotting out the fitful light, and put his mouth against hers. She bucked against him in one last attempt to throw him off, but he ignored her, his mouth open against hers, kissing her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands holding her head still even as her fists flailed against him.
It was a losing battle, and she knew it. Not because he was too strong, not because he could overpower her. If she kept fighting him it might still be enough to stop him. Despite his assertion that he was truly wicked, she didn’t really believe he would rape her.
It was a losing battle simply because she knew she couldn’t fight him. His mouth was too sweet on hers, calling forth a response that had stayed buried deep inside. The more she struggled, the freer her emotions were. The more she fought against his kiss, the more she wanted it.
Somehow her arms had become entwined around his neck. Somehow she’d slanted her mouth beneath his, accepting his kiss, her body softening against his hard one, ready to accept that too. His hands slid down and cupped her small breasts, and she heard her instinctive moan of pleasure from a distance. Heard it with mounting horror.
She forced herself to drop her arms to the bed beside her body. Forced herself to slow her breathing, to lie still beneath him. He lifted his head to stare down at her, his eyes glittering with anger and frustration, and she met his gaze with stony impassivity.
“Is this your final defense?” he asked, his voice roughened in the darkness. “You’re going to lie there and ignore me while I have my wicked way with you? It won’t work.”
She controlled her start of shock that he’d seen through her so easily. “Do whatever you like,” she said, her own voice a husky betrayal. “I can’t stop you.”
“You can’t fool me either,” he said. “There are some ways you can’t control your body.” And he put his mouth on her breast.
She jerked, her fingers clenching the sheets beneath her, trying to force herself to keep still as inevitable streaks of desire raced through her. Desperately she tried to bring the dark, safe place back, but it was elusive. There was no place to escape to; there was just the darkness and Nicholas’s strong body pressing against hers, his mouth on her breasts, his long fingers running down over her stomach, between her legs, so that she jerked again, forcing herself not to fight him.
He lifted his head, and her breast was cold and damp in the night air. He slid his long fingers into her, and she dug her heels into the mattress as well, biting down hard on her lip. “Another way your body can’t lie,” he whispered, leaning forward and touching her tight lips with his tongue.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t ask him to stop. He was doing things to her no man had ever done, touching her in ways that astonished and frightened her, his fingers sliding deep in her damp, fiery heat, his thumb rubbing against her, sending irresistible tendrils of longing threading through her.
And then he was looming over her, between her legs, and he’d unfastened his breeches. She wouldn’t watch him in the darkness as he took his revenge, took
her.
She closed her eyes, and tried to call for that cocoon of safety that had always been there. She reached for it, and it vanished, like mist, as he pressed against her, pushing between her legs, filling her with a sure deep thrust that shoved her back against the bed.
For a moment he lay still, covering her with his larger body, his open shirt around them both, and she shivered. This wasn’t what she’d remembered. This invasion was more devastating, more overwhelming. This time there was no escape, as he began to move, pulling away from her and then thrusting in, deep, so that her hips arched up against him with age-old instinct.
She told herself to pretend he was Porcin, hunched and sweating over her. She told herself he was the old earl, stinking of garlic. She couldn’t convince herself. Not when his hands stroked her breasts, his mouth danced against hers. Not when she could feel the betrayal of her own longing building deep inside her, where their bodies joined.
She told herself to fight it, but when she squirmed against him it simply brought him in deeper, harder; and her treasonous body reacted in mindless joy. Her self-control was shattering, and she wanted him, needed him, needed his body, needed his mouth against hers, needed his hands on her breasts, needed something, and she couldn’t begin to know what it was.
She wouldn’t give in to it. Her one revenge was her remoteness, and he was stripping it away from her. She shook her head, in negation of his power over her, but he was, as he said, merciless. “Don’t fight it, my angel,” he whispered, his voice a mockery. “I’m not going to finish with you until you come.”
She whimpered then, and hated herself for doing so. He covered her mouth with his, and like a fool she kissed him back, as his hair fell around them both, curtaining them in darkness. He reached down and caught her hips, pulling her up against him, and then his body went rigid in her arms, and she felt the flooding of a great warmth, one that for the first time was answered with her own warmth. And she wanted to cry, for the final innocence that was truly lost.
She lay still beneath him, hating him, hating herself. Her face was wet with sweat and something she told herself could never be tears, as she tried to calm her pounding heart, tried to slow her racing breath. He lay atop her, still partially clothed, and she could feel the shudder that ran through his body. And then he pulled himself away from her, climbing from the bed, not bothering to fasten his clothing as he stared down at her.
She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t face him, or her own foolish betrayal. She curled up in a ball, shoving her fist in her mouth to stop her moan of anguish, and shut her eyes.
The soft linen sheet settled over her, tossed by impatient hands. A moment later she heard the lock in the door, heard it slam behind him. And listened as the key turned once more, sealing her in there.
At least he hadn’t stayed with her. At least he’d left her, to mourn her defeat at his hands. He’d won. He’d had his revenge, and it was more powerful than she could have imagined. He’d stripped away the illusion that her flesh was invulnerable. Even worse, he’d stripped away the illusion that her heart was stone.
God, she hated him! Hated his arrogance, his coldness, his devastating efficiency with her body. But most of all she hated the expression she’d seen on his face, a brief, fleeting emotion that vanished as soon as it appeared, vanished before she’d closed her eyes and turned away from him.
It had been remorse. Bleak, black remorse. And in that brief moment of feeling he’d destroyed whatever vengeance she might have planned. She hated him, with all her heart and soul. But because of him, she found she still had a heart and soul. And they belonged to him.
He wouldn’t come back that night, she knew it. He might even head on to Venice, leaving her behind. It would be the best thing for both of them. She could only lie in bed, her body still damp and tingling, and hope that for once God would show her some mercy. That she might be abandoned by the man she was fool enough still to love, and never see him again.
The taproom was deserted when Nicholas walked in, silent in his stockinged feet. He’d pulled his clothes together, but just barely, refastening his breeches and pulling his shirt about him. Tavvy must have availed himself of one or both of the maids, their host was abed, and he was alone in the darkness.
He dropped down before the banked fire. The Dutch were ever a clean race, he thought with a weary grimace. Everything spotless, tidied away for the night, including his bottle of brandy. It didn’t matter. All the brandy in the world wouldn’t wash away the memory of Ghislaine curled up in that bed, trembling with misery. All the brandy in the world wouldn’t wash away his self-loathing.
She’d won, of course. He hadn’t been able to make her come—his own raging needs had taken him over the edge, for the first time in his memory. And the damnable thing about it was that she didn’t realize she’d won. The pleasure he’d given her had been far more than she’d ever wanted to accept from him, even if she hadn’t reached her peak. He’d still managed to show her how helpless she truly was when she was up against him. He ought to be proud of himself, he thought with a sour smile.
If he had a spark of decency left he’d leave her behind tomorrow. Settle as much of his dwindling pocket money as he could with the landlord, and never have to face her again.
But he knew perfectly well that any spark of decency was long gone. He was going to keep her with him; he was going to keep her in his bed. He was going to make love to her every time he could, until he was able to ride her out of his system. And ride him out of hers.
Because otherwise they might just end up destroying each other. And while he had no fears for his own worthless hide, he’d just been reprieved from believing her murdered during the Terror. He wasn’t about to let her be destroyed now. Particularly by his own hands.
“But, Tony,” Ellen said in a plaintive voice, struggling to keep up with him as he moved with inexorable speed through the elegant halls of Vienna’s best hotel. “Why did you tell them we were married?”
Tony halted his headlong pace, and Ellen barreled past him, coming to an abrupt halt. “Because, dear one,” he said with great patience, “Vienna is not devoid of English society at the moment. We need to do our best to preserve your reputation.”
“I would think it was long gone, Tony,” she said with great frankness. “We’ve been alone, unchaperoned, for more than two weeks now. We’ve traveled across Scotland, sailed to the continent, and made it all the way to Austria without either my maid or your valet. I think,” she said cheerfully, “I’m ruined.”
“Oblige me by not announcing it to the world,” he said under his breath, taking her arm in his and hurrying her past the curious guests. “We might still manage the ruse if we’re very circumspect.”
“I can be discreet,” Ellen said in a hurt tone of voice.
“Dearest, you are the most transparent female I have ever known. Subtlety and deceit are beyond your capabilities. You’ll simply have to trust me to keep gossips away from you. I’m going to want you to stay in the hotel, in your room, while I go out and see what I can discover. I can’t imagine why Nicholas would have brought Ghislaine to Vienna, but since those people we questioned in the inn overheard them discussing it, and since it was our only lead, we had no choice but to take it. If you’d only agreed to return home…”