The stench of death rocked him. From the shadows a wraith of a man with long, incongruously thick white hair stared back at him, his eyes cavernous in the darkness. His face was pocked with wet red sores the size of sixpence, and moisture stained the nightshirt pink beneath his velvet dressing gown.
At Yarmouth’s castle Wyn had seen a portrait of the duke—a picture of a man in the middle of his life, tall, aristocratically slender and weak-chinned, with round eyes and tapered shoulders exaggerated by an indolent pose, his elbow propped upon a bust of a long-deceased emperor. Caligula, probably.
The monstrosity before Wyn bore little resemblance to the nobleman in that portrait.
“Your Grace, I would bow but these fellows have me trussed too tightly. Or— Wait . . .” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t bow anyway.” He shrugged, the shackles digging into his wrists.
The duke nodded and the gray woman pulled the curtain back farther. A pair of dueling pistols rested upon the foot of the bed, perfectly presented atop the satin coverlet as though still in their case.
Wyn’s throat constricted. “Ah,” he said conversationally, “you aim to finish this in a gentlemanly manner.”
Curious
. Yarmouth looked barely capable of lifting his hand, let alone of gripping a weapon.
“The s-second . . .” The old man’s voice rasped, unused, but diseased too. Syphilis, perhaps, by the look of the sores. If so, this creature sunk upon the mattress had been suffering for some time.
Wyn lifted his brow. “The second?”
“The second . . . is . . .” Yarmouth’s cravat pulsed. “ . . . if you miss the first.”
This, Wyn had not anticipated. In the duke’s eyes now he saw the madness. Madness, yes, that may have been there when he had raped and tortured his young ward, Chloe Martin, a girl of no more than sixteen when Wyn found her, fleeing her guardian after finally escaping him. Madness caused by the disease, or merely exacerbated by it.
“Given the hospitality I have been offered today, I don’t suppose you intend to pay me for this assassination, as you did for the last,” he said laconically. “Do apprise me, then, Your Grace, of your purpose. If you are able.”
“Kill . . . me.”
“If I am given one of those pistols, I will shoot the large man to my left in the kneecap. If I am then given the other, I will shoot this scarred chap likewise. It would be foolish of me to do otherwise, of course.”
A wild gleam lit Yarmouth’s eyes. “I hired you . . . to assassinate . . . a French—”
“Spy. That you did. And, imagining myself immensely clever, I gladly accepted your offer, before, that is, I learned that the so-called spy was no more French than you or I, merely a girl upon whom you had practiced your depraved fantasies until she was so scarred she could barely run. Yet still she found the courage to escape you. Remarkable, the human will, isn’t it?”
Fingers thick with lesions scrabbled the bed linens.
“Kill me.”
“And satisfy you? Two birds with one stone? End the wretched misery of your existence while damning me to execution for defying you five years ago?
Attempting
to defy you, that is.”
“Your letter . . . You-ou vowed . . .” His head shook, uncontrolled tremors.
“I vowed to kill you the next time I saw you,” Wyn agreed. “For setting me up to kill her. For lying to me. For—” He could no longer withhold the anger. “She was under your protection. A
girl
. Given to you to protect after her parents died. Instead you hurt her.” His hands were fists, the shackles cutting his flesh.
“Vanity . . . got the better of you.” The mouth contorted into a grin. “You killed her.”
By accident. A message sent to the duke—Chloe the willing bait to lure Yarmouth to his death—Wyn crouching in an alley after midnight—a steady hand yet a head full of brandy—Chloe stepping through the door first—
not the plan
.
How the duke had laughed, his mirth bubbling down that dark corridor of hell as he’d strolled away unharmed.
Weeks later, arising from the trough of forgetfulness into which he’d sunk himself that night after Jin helped him find a proper grave for the body, Wyn had written the duke a letter. Then after five years awaiting opportunity to breach the duke’s impregnable fortress, Lady Priscilla had provided that chance, to fulfill the promise he’d made Chloe Martin as she’d lain dying in his arms.
“The horse was another lie, wasn’t it? Lady Priscilla was your ploy to lure me once again to do your bidding. You want to die and end your suffering, but you haven’t the courage to do it alone. For my attempt at defying you five years ago, I am to have the honor of once again pulling the trigger, aren’t I?”
He stared into Yarmouth’s dessicated face and, with a clarity born perhaps of equal parts fury and satisfaction, he recognized at this moment his own misdeed. He should not have hurt Diantha. Ready—
eager
—to trust him that morning, she might have done what he wished had he explained the danger. She might have listened for once, and helped him keep her safe.
He said quietly, “There is no greater honor than to be entrusted with a woman’s safety and happiness.”
The slightest, smallest gasp like a sigh came from the veiled woman in the chair. But Wyn did not remove his attention from the duke.
“You are a twisted man, Your Grace. You deserve to linger in this misery until your madness takes you entirely. For I will not assist you.” Not now that he had discovered the tragedy in deception. Not now that he had tasted life.
“She fought me.” The words were softly spoken, barely a damp breath from Yarmouth’s lips. “Dear Chloe . . . fought . . . every time.” The mouth shaped into a grimace of pleasure, the eyes bright.
Wyn turned his face away. “Take me from here,” he said to the guard.
Chopper glanced at the cavern of the bed.
Wyn did not know if the duke assented or if his guards could no longer bear their employer’s presence either. They pushed him toward the stairwell, and as he went to his uncertain fate below he thought of Diantha . . . safe. He even smiled.
She would not have listened to him. If he’d told her all, she would not have allowed him to hide her away to ensure her safety—not again, not after the abbey. She would have insisted on helping him and by now she would be here, the duke’s prisoner, just as he. Instead she was safe in Savege’s house, with Grimm keeping watch for surety.
They came to the landing above the basement the moment the door there opened, revealing the Highlander who had promised Wyn the night before that he no longer worked for the Duke of Yarmouth.
And, behind Duncan, Diantha.
Wide-eyed, hair tumbling from a bonnet askew, spots of pink where her dimples ought to be, her mouth tied with cloth and wrists bound with rope, she looked at him and her body went slack.
Duncan caught her up against his side.
“What’s this?” Chopper scowled. “Bringing your fancy piece here, Donnan?”
“Does she look like a fancy piece, ye dolt?”
The big guard slavered. “Share a bit of the fun with us, mate?”
Duncan’s gaze came straight to Wyn. “No, lads. This lass here be for the pleasure o’ His Grace.”
D
iantha gagged. She knew the lie was to throw the duke’s ruffians off their guard, but even the notion revolted. Swallowing down bile as well as the strip of her shift stuffed between her lips allowed, she recovered from the false swoon and struggled to right herself against Lord Eads, fighting not to look at Wyn. If she looked—truly looked—she might actually swoon.
Iron shackles.
Blood
. Everything inside her screamed to tear out the ruffians’ eyes with her fingernails.
She closed her eyes to slits and groaned then shook her head in weak protest, playing the part as Lord Eads had instructed her in the hired hackney coach while they’d bolted through the streets to this house.
“Goddamn you, Eads.” Wyn’s voice sounded barely human.
The big ruffian looked her up and down like she was dinner.
But the other seemed skeptical. “Listen here, Donnan.” He shook his head. “The duke ain’t—”
And then the tiny landing between two sets of narrow stone steps erupted into a melee of male aggression. Wyn slammed his body against the guard to his left, knocking him off balance to teeter on the edge of the steps. Arms flailing, he scrabbled to stay upright. Lord Eads thrust her behind him, blocking the big guard lunging toward Wyn. She struggled not to fall, unwinding the ropes from her wrists and tugging the gag from her mouth. Lord Eads threw himself at his opponent, and the other guard regained his footing and grabbed for Wyn. She screamed. Iron links clanged. In one graceful movement Wyn leaped over the chain and hauled it high to swing around the ruffian’s shoulders. Lord Eads’s opponent bellowed and fell against the wall clutching his neck, blood oozing through his fingers. The big body thumped to the floor. The other ruffian shouted, then gasped, chains rattling
not
around his shoulders—his
head
.
“Don’t kill him!”
“I am not”—grating voice—“going to”—the ruffian slumped—“kill him.” Wyn released his captive, iron links clanking as the guard collapsed onto the stairs. He swung around, fire blazing in his silver eyes fixing on Lord Eads. “But I am going to kill
him
.”
Diantha pushed away from the door. “He didn’t—”
In the darkness above, a door knocked open against the wall. Both men’s eyes snapped upward. Then they met, blue challenging gray.
“Allou me.”
Wyn nodded and dropped to his knees beside the bleeding guard. The irons jangled. Lord Eads started up the steps.
Diantha surged forward. “But what is he—”
Wyn grabbed her wrist and dragged her through the door. Behind them on the landing the shackles were clamped about the smaller ruffian’s wrists.
The misty night air had turned to fog, the alley behind the duke’s house hazy and sparkling now like a haunted fairyland. Wyn pulled her, his grip digging into her flesh, and she struggled to keep up. She did not protest the brutality. She had never seen such fury in his eyes as a moment ago. She had also never seen a man murdered.
Their swift footsteps were eerily quiet in the alley that ran along the mews. This neighborhood was not like the street near the docks where Tracy took her, rather more respectable from the glimpse she’d had upon hastily disembarking from the hackney coach. She hadn’t known then what they would find inside the duke’s house, if they would find Wyn alive or—or—
She stumbled. He caught her shoulders, steadied her, and in the ghostly dark their breaths swirled mist between them. Somewhere far off, the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels echoed.
“Did you bring a horse? A carriage?”
She shook her head. “Lord Eads dismissed the hackney—”
He grasped her wrist again and jarred her into motion. The fog wavered ahead, showing glimpses of a stone building with a sizable wooden door. Wyn jolted her to a halt, a door rattled as it slid in a track, and he pulled her inside.
It was dark and warm, the scents of horses and straw wonderfully clean. Simple and like home.
He released her to close the door and Diantha sank against the wall, trembling. Wyn’s boot steps receded into the blackness. But he would not leave her—she knew this—no matter how furious. And finally, as she gulped in air, her lungs filled and her body shed its shock, her anger and hurt rose anew.
He returned, the white of his shirt and neck cloth visible first, then all of him, and she saw again the blood on his face
.
Her anger deflated. She reached out. “What did they—”
He gripped her wrist, flattened it to the wall, and he covered her mouth with his.
She drank him in, needing his anger, fueling hers with the pain inside her and such profound relief.
This was wrong
. She loved him, but she could not be hurt by him again. Years of blind trust in her mother had taught her when to relinquish love so that she would not suffer. She wrenched her face away, struggling to breathe between the wall and his hard body.
“Defend yourself,” he growled, biting at her lower lip, and a moan escaped her. “Defend your actions tonight, your willful, reckless involvement in a matter that was none of your affair.”
“We saved you.” His hands moved along her arms and she offered no resistance. Everything in her was alive, feeling him, wanting him. His hands on her, rough and purposeful, were a dream. “You were in
shackles
.”
His palms came around her face, his fingers sinking into her hair, discarding the bonnet, jarring her jaw upward. Red marks circled his wrists. She gasped and he caught her mouth anew. He kissed her, long, deep, not allowing her breath and she clung to his shoulders until her legs got wobbly. She broke free to drag in air. He trailed kisses along her jaw, his hand moving along her neck, drawing her cloak open. She pushed at him with a feeble palm.
“Wyn, I—”
“You are mine, Diantha,” he uttered against her throat. “Mine.” No softly whispered words of affection or even relief, but gravelly possession like that night at the inn. His palm slid from her shoulder, around her breast, and their groans met in the darkness. He pressed his thigh between hers; she allowed it. Her body wanted this, but her heart was weeping.
“
No
. I cannot do this. Not after you were with a—a woman of ill repute last night.”
His hands swept into her hair, casting pins loose, holding her immobile. “I wasn’t with anyone last night, except you, in my dreams.”
“You
weren’t
?”
“How could I be with any other woman when I want only you?”
“But you said—”
“I lied. I lied.” He punctuated each utterance with kisses that fused her to him further. “I lied to make you refuse me, and I got what I wanted, but now I want you.” He tugged hard at her sleeve. Her breast bulged in the straining bodice. He touched her, sweeping his thumb beneath the fabric and over the nipple, and she felt his pleasure rumble in his chest beneath her palms. “And I will have you.” In one powerful move he swept her up into his arms. “Now. In a stable where, I think, you need to be had.” He took three strides, the stall door swung shut behind them, and he pinned her to the wall before her feet again met the floor.
She gasped for air. “I don’t
want
this.” But his hands were everywhere on her, and she was whimpering in need, pushing his coat off his shoulders. She had to feel him, to touch him one last time, anger tangling thickly with desire and desperation. “I don’t.” She spread her hands over the muscles of his chest and was weak inside with longing.
He pulled her hips hard against his. “I need you, Diantha.” His hands moved up her waist, curving around her breasts. “I crave you.”
“I suppose I should be flattered you consider me in the same category as brandy.” She tore at his waistcoat, tasting his jaw with her lips, pulling his shirttail from his trousers, seeking his skin, the taut, hot perfection of this man. “I won’t marry you. If you ask me again I will—”
“Have me.” He took her to the ground, pressing her into the sweet, fresh straw with the weight of his body. She rose to him, to feel him. Her skirts skipped up her calves then her thighs, gathered in his hands.
“You make me insane.” His voice was husky. Beneath the layers of fabric his hands surrounded her behind.
“Ohh,
God
.”
His mouth covered the soft part of her breast as his hand sought her below. He groaned touching her. She thrust herself to him, the hunger twining fast and desperate this time, the ecstasy of relief and need tumbling through her. He was not gentle; it gave him pleasure to caress her so, she thought, and she wanted that. She wanted to please him. She wanted to love him entirely.
“More,”
she pleaded upon a whisper. “But I don’t— I don’t want you inside me. I don’t—
uh
—” Her body undulated beneath his touch. She threw her hand out to the wall, her eyes half closed and the beauty of her face exquisite as her pleasure grew. “We are not to marry,” she gasped, “and I don’t want you to get me with child. So,
don’t
—” The remainder of her protest was lost in a moan of pure feminine acquiescence as he slid his finger into her.
“Don’t put my hands on you?” Driven by her hot, primed beauty, his other hand moved to his breeches fastenings. “Don’t give you this?” Upon every thrust of his finger the creamy swells of her breasts above her bodice jerked upward, a luscious pink aureole peeking out. Wyn bent and drew it into his mouth. “My Diantha.” He sucked the peak, bit, and she moaned, meeting his hand faster, and he had to be inside her.
He grabbed her hips and dragged her under him, pressing her to his needy cock, kissing her neck, her throat, feasting upon her silken skin, the luxury of her breasts. She pushed at his chest with one palm, grabbing him closer with her other, her hand sliding down his arm.
“I said—”
“You said more.” He must have her. Hands beneath her skirts, kissing her breasts then the curve of her waist, he descended, pushing quantities of silk and lace out of the way.
“What are you doing?”
“Having you in a stable.” He pressed her thighs open.
She struggled to push her skirts down. “I told you I don’t want you to make love to me.”
He grabbed her wrists. “Because you fear me getting you with child only?”
Her breaths were fast, eyes wide and bleary with passion. “Y-Yes.”
“Now tell me the truth.” He stroked across her femininity, her eyes closed upon a moan, and then he did what he’d wanted to do since he spent a night in a stable loft fantasizing about her.
She was sweet, her scent, her texture, and exquisitely wet. He tasted her, drew her pleasure with his tongue and she gasped. But she allowed it, gripping straw in her slender hands. He used his lips, his teeth, until she called his name, but he wanted more. He could not take his fill. He sank his finger into her.
“Oh,
stop
.” Her back arched, her knuckles white against the wall, eyes closed and head thrown back. “I want you to— I want—
Unh!
” She contracted against his tongue to a stuttering series of soft cries. Then again, harder, her groans deeper and breaths short until she was whimpering her pleasure like sobs. “I
need you
.”
He moved up between her legs and brought himself against her. He bent and breathed her in, the satin of her curls brushing his cheek. “Ask me.”
“Please!” She moved against him, her thighs clutching him close. “I will beg if you like.”
“A lady need only ask once.” He thrust into her, again, and again, until he was fully embedded. She moaned, gripping his back with her hands, and, desperate for relief, he took her. The mattress of straw was a bed for the tight gift of her body she gave him. He lifted her hips and gave her pleasure until he could only thrust blindly, be inside her as deeply as she could take him, her decadent thighs spread, all of her open to him.
“Wyn.”
As she shuddered around him, he came. Beyond reason and control he filled her so deep that no one could ever again deny she belonged to him—not he, not she. And he uttered a curse, perhaps a prayer, that he could be a man worthy of this woman’s heart.
Hauling air into his lungs, he bent his mouth to her neck, her breasts, the damp contour of her throat. She pressed her body to his, and he could not leave her yet. He was exhausted, and he was exactly where he wished to be.
Eyes closed, she allowed him to caress her. “I did not know it could be done quite like that. With a man’s mouth,” she said between slowing breaths.
“I bloody well hope you didn’t.”
“A gentleman should never swear in the presence of a lady,” she murmured. “Rule Number Seven.”
“When you speak of ‘a man’s’ mouth rather than mine in particular, naturally it concerns me.”
Her lapis eyes opened. “No other man has touched me like you have. You know that.”
“I do.” He brushed her lips, which were tender from his enjoyment of her, and her hand came up and around his jaw tentatively, then into his hair. Gently she explored the wound on his temple with light fingertips. There was no pain there now, only the pleasure of her caress.
She drew away first. He stroked a damp curl back from her brow and her lashes dipped. But this quiet, sated woman was not all of her. Given her fight, their affinity would not last for long, and he must see her to a safe place now.
He pulled back and fastened his breeches as she pushed her skirts over her legs and tucked her beautiful breasts back into her gown. The darkness surrounded them, the muffled silence of horses in a nearby stall, and the distant Watch calling the hour through the muting fog.
Wyn watched her. “How did you make him do it?”
Her lashes flickered, but her fingers continued picking straw from her wrinkled skirts.
“How did you convince Eads to take you there?”
She pushed to her feet on the uneven ground and shook out her skirts. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?”
Her head shot up, eyes alight. “Thank you, Diantha, for saving my life. For caring enough about my brandy-swilling hide that you risked yours despite—
despite
the fact that I lied to you.
Again
.” Her voice cracked.