Lord Ruin (17 page)

“Please. Anne.” He stared helplessly at a teardrop caught and glittering in the sable sweep of her lashes. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

“That is patently false.” He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her cheeks. Plenty of women had resorted to scenes of despair with him, some he’d even say were heartrending, but Anne’s silent tears unmanned him as even the most histrionic sobs never had. “Why?” He brushed a finger beneath her eye. He would have given a great deal to have some of Devon’s ease with her or for her to have with him some of the ease she had with Devon or even Thrale. But he was never sure how best to deal with her. A more complex woman he’d never met.

The moment Cynssyr touched her Anne felt a shock of awareness. In her imagination, she heard the bark of a gun, smelled acrid smoke. Heard a man’s shout as a tall, lithe form slowly crumpled. No matter her determination not to let him ensnare her as he had so many others, she was desperately, resentfully, caught up anyway. Drowning in the green depths of his eyes, she felt her will ebb away. She said the first thing to pop into her head. “I’m homesick. For Bartley Green.”

His fingertips moved over her cheek, and he gave a tender smile. She wanted him to stop touching her. She didn’t think she could bear it if he did stop. The feeling made her despair all the sharper because she wanted him to mean it, that inviting glance and magical smile. She hated the way her heart sped up when he was near.

She told herself it was only a physical reaction. One she could control with enough effort. A good deal of effort. Lord Ruin. A well-deserved name. Deliberately, she drew away from him. She would
not
humiliate herself. About all she had with him was his respect. What would happen if he found out she was no different from any other silly woman who fell in love with him? “I miss my family, that’s all.”

“Understandable.” He walked to the table, pushed aside the salver and his hat and leaned against the edge, arms crossed over his chest. One look at his face and the hint of curve to one side of his mouth was enough to see he didn’t believe her. She wished she were a better liar. “You should entertain them here more often. I won’t object if you do.”

She shoved her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose, then clasped her hands. “Thank you, your grace. I shall.” He was staring at her, and she really wasn’t sure how long she could take it.

As often happened, Ruan found himself focusing on some aspect of her features. The back of her neck once. Another time her lovely throat. Her eyes were perhaps her best feature. Unless you were looking, you didn’t notice they were large and perfectly shaped. What a pity the spectacles hid her thick lashes and that soothing and gentle blue-gray. Her mouth, too, he thought, was lovely. A shape that made a man think of kissing. Slowly, thinking of kissing her, he smiled.

Anne’s breath hitched, and she stepped back. “I take it,” she said with some struggle for repose, “that your matter of honor this morning was settled satisfactorily?”

“You are my wife. You belong to me. I will never let you suffer insult without retribution. You are mine, and I will protect you with my life, if need be. That, Anne, is all you need to know. I will challenge any man who dares what Wilberfoss did.”

Her worst imaginings rushed in like an incoming tide. Without another thought, she closed the distance between them and clutched his shirtfront. “What if he’d shot you?”

“It wasn’t very likely.”

“Cynssyr,” she whispered. “Cynssyr, do not tell me you killed him.”

“No.” He dabbed at her cheeks again. “Though it was damn hard not to.”

Tears. Betrayed by tears. He would, and probably did, despise her for the tears. How tiresome and childish. How like all the others. She collected herself. “It’s time I went to Cornwall, Cynssyr.” One emotion rose clearly above all the others she kept at bay with such poor success. Ruthless by necessity, she dismissed it. “To Fargate Castle.”

“It’s too early to begin your confinement. I’ve not even told Mama of your condition.”

“Mary has already guessed. Heaven knows who else,” she said.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “My dear, whatever is the matter? What are these tears? You have never been emotional before now.”

“I don’t know,” she said, miserable because she was lying to him. “I don’t know, Cynssyr.” She leaned against the hard expanse of his chest. And what a bit of stupidity that was. She ought to have moved away, not come closer. If she did not leave him, she would be hopelessly lost. Cornwall seemed her only escape.

Taking her chin between thumb and forefinger so that she had to look at him, he said evenly, “You may say anything to me. Anything at all.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter.” She drew a ragged breath, tremendously aware of him gently stroking her cheek with the side of his thumb. He did this to her without trying. Made her want to tell him her cares when she never had to anyone before. “I have always been the levelheaded one. A woman to be counted on in crisis.”

Ruan drew her closer. “It’s the child.” His thumb stopped moving on her cheek to rest along the side of her face.

She pressed her palm to her chest. “When Lucy’s husband died so horribly, I never felt helpless or that my world might come apart at any moment.”

“You feel helpless now?”

“Everything is such a muddle.” Despairing, she wiped at her cheek again. “This business with Wilberfoss ...” She shook her head because emotion choked off the words that might express how she felt. Besides, it was far safer to say nothing at all. God knows what she might reveal in her present state.

“Come, Anne.” Though he did not reach for her, he spoke with such genuine concern she felt he had. Her body reacted to the very thought of his hands on her.

“I am lost, Cynssyr, and I don’t know how to get back to the woman I used to be. I’ve always known my own thoughts, and now I don’t.”

“Anne, my dear.”

“I want you not to always regret I am your wife. All I can do is cry like the sort of silly woman you despise.”

“Believe me, you are nothing like the women I despise.”

She swiped at a stray tear, determined not to make a greater fool of herself than she already had. The thought of his life’s blood staining the cold, hard ground tore at her. “You could have been killed,” she blurted out. “My God, you could have died.” Without her there to hold him and tell him she would be desolate without him.

“So, that’s what this is all about.” He was relieved to find the solution so near at hand. “Wilberfoss upset you. Rightly so. But I have put an end to it, so no more of this nonsense about Cornwall. It’s too soon.”

She sighed and turned away, but not before he caught a glimpse of her despair. He couldn’t have this. This effect she had on him.

“Anne.” He made her face him again. “Had I made your acquaintance in a more normal fashion, we wouldn’t have this awkwardness between us.”

She smiled sadly. “If we had met like any two people might, you would be married to my sister.”

“But
you
are my wife.” He let his voice drop. “And I am dying for want of you.”

She looked away because she was afraid of what he might see if she didn’t. “Never say so.”

“Your innocence goes straight to the core of you, doesn’t it?” He cupped her face between his hands, staring at her. Her eyes slowly closed. He kissed first one eye, then the other. Without thinking what he was doing, he pulled out a loose hairpin and let it fall to the marble floor. “Wilberfoss was drunk. Just as you said. I kept thinking of you telling me not to put a bullet through him as he deserved. As it was, I believe he thought he would die from his wound.”

Her eyes popped open. “Wound? What wound?”

“An accident. The fool walked into my shot.” Another pin, then another came free until her hair spilled over her shoulders.

“It would have been wrong to kill him.”

He shook his head. “I could feel you there, disapproving.”

“Cynssyr.” She lifted her hands to her head, trying to gather up her hair. “The servants.”

He pushed away her hands. “Never mind them.” A river of silver-gilt fell over his fingers. He ran his hands though the tresses, discarding the occasional hairpin. “I love the feel of your hair.” He breathed in the scent of her. “You always smell good,” he whispered. He didn’t even know what scent she wore. “What perfume is that?” When he found the last pin, he filled his hands with her soft, silky hair.

“
Eau de Naphre
.” Her nervous eyes followed the downward spiral of the last hairpin. It clattered on the floor, a faint echo of sound. “My mother wore it.”

Desire burned through him, an inferno as unexpected as it was undeniable. He was finished waiting for her to do more than accept him. He would make her lose control. His thumb moved to her lower lip. “I might have done a good deal worse than you. Left to my own devices, I would have.” He tipped her head and gently brushed her mouth with his.

“Please. Do not say things to me you don’t mean.”

“Agreed, Madam.” He released her hair. “But I wonder, if I spoke nothing but unvarnished truth, would you believe me?” His hands trailed to her shoulders, a feather-light touch that continued to her waist. She drew in a ragged breath. “Will you believe any compliment I pay you?” he asked.

“Can I or will I?” she asked faintly, having trouble catching her breath.

He moved closer. “You tell me the answer to that.”

She met his gaze and told him the naked truth. “Yes. When you look at me like that, yes.”

He lifted her onto the table and stepped between her thighs. She stared at him, never taking her eyes from his while he worked his hands beneath her skirts. “I have this image in my head I can’t dismiss. Exactly this. Of making love to you like this.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Thank God, that tiger is gone.” His fingers touched her calves, stroking upward and around to her thighs until he was gripping both her legs.

“Cynssyr.” She whispered the protest.

“We’ll not be disturbed.”

“How do you know?”

He gave her a slow, blood-boiling smile and lied. “I do not pay my servants to disturb me when I am occupied with important matters.” As he said this, he released one of her garters and slid her stocking down. Then the other. He watched himself push up her skirts and then followed the slow glide of his hands along her bare thighs. “You have beautiful legs.” Some years back, before Katie, before he’d gone off to join the war, he’d had a mistress close to his physical ideal. Not as perfect as Anne, but very close. He’d broken with her sooner rather than later because, quite bluntly, the woman had all the intelligence of a turnip and so little imagination he could endure no more than the briefest conversation with her.

He moved forward and released one of her legs so he could unbutton his trousers. Her eyes, when he looked up because he was free of his clothing, were wide and aware, locked onto his face. Her hand rose and clutched the front of his shirt. He got a palm under one of her thighs and lifted it. “Look at me,” he told her. “I want to see your face when I come into you.” She was ready for him. She gasped when he was at her entrance and sliding in and in, as deep as he could get into heat and wetness.