Lord Ruin (18 page)

Her fingers tightened in his shirt, her head fell back. “No,” he said. He caressed the side of her face, bringing her head back to him. His lips hovered just over hers. “No, you must look at me. I want you to see my face.” He took in a long breath as he pulled out and rocked back, very much at the edge of climax. Too much. “Can you not see how much I want you?” He stared into her eyes, willing her to give herself. The pent up emotion was there, so palpable he might damn near taste it. “What are you thinking?” he rasped. “Tell me.” She held him close, arching toward him. She was not unaroused, but not abandoned to him as he wanted, as he knew she could be. “Tell me,” he insisted.

“You are beautiful, Cynssyr.” She touched his face, and he saw in her eyes what she would never say. That she believed herself his inferior and worse, that there was probably nothing he could say to make her believe different.

“It’s you who’s beautiful, Anne. Inside and out, you are the most beautiful creature on earth.” He moved deeper into her, changing the tempo of his strokes until he hovered at the precipice. He could feel her tighten around him, the contraction of her body around him, and still she held back, fought for control as if she dared not let go. She did not know, or recall, what she might feel with him if only she gave in. Even so, it was good. Very good. Enough to create a storm in him and drive him past all concern.

“Cynssyr,” she said in a lost and wistful voice. He drove into her one last time before a shattering release made him shout to the ceiling. The sound echoed off the painted dome above their heads. He did not come back to himself at all quickly. Sheer pleasure wrung him out. He gave not a single thought to where they were or the fact that anyone who might open the door would see his naked backside until she moved in an attempt to relieve her by now uncomfortable position on the table.

A lovely pink tinted Anne’s cheeks while they put their clothes to rights. He retrieved her slipper which had ended up several feet behind them, but she had to put it on a bare foot because her stocking was a shambles, and he’d somehow managed to break her garter. Grinning a little, he put stocking and garter in his pocket. Her hair spilled down her back, hiding her face from him as she knelt gathering scattered hairpins. “Anne,” he said.

“Just a few more.”

He brought her to her feet. “I’ll buy you a thousand more.”

Her fingers fisted around her hairpins. “I don’t need more hairpins. I’ve plenty, thank you.”

“No hairpins, then. But, what do you want from me, Anne? What do you want most of all? Jewels? More gowns? Name it. Whatever I have, it’s yours.” How many women had longed to hear those words from him? He’d never said them to Katie. No, instead, he’d served himself up to the one woman most likely to refuse him.

Her eyes darkened to stormy gray. “Truly?”

He nodded despite the likelihood that he did not want to know the answer. If she asked for the world, he’d do his damnedest to give it to her. But, somehow, he didn’t think that’s what she’d ask for.

“I want to go to Cornwall.”

He steadied himself. “My dear, we cannot leave London until the Sessions are over.”

Slowly, she stooped to retrieve another wayward hairpin. “You must stay, but I have no such obligation.”

Unimaginable, letting her leave him. “I need you here.” He simply wasn’t an unselfish man.

“Why?”

For a moment, he was flummoxed, at a complete and total loss for a reply that did not reveal more than she was prepared to accept. Desperation spawned inspiration. He didn’t consider the implications of involving her in his private affairs, he just did it and was glad for it. “Because,” he said, “I need you to interview the women who’ve been assaulted.”

“I see.”

“They count on me, you know,” he said. “Whether they say so or not, they expect me to put a stop to this. All of them. Husbands and fathers alike. They trust me to protect their wives and daughters. Their lovers. And I have let them down. I need your help, Anne.”

Behind the careless drawl, she heard despair. “Oh, Cynssyr.” She put a finger over his mouth and knew giving in was a terrible mistake. “I will help you. Whatever you ask.”

Ruan, Devon and Benjamin waited two interminable hours for Anne to return from Mrs. Featherstone. Ruan couldn’t sit. He paced while Devon and Benjamin lounged on chairs near the fireplace. They were in a corner parlor that overlooked Queen Anne Street to the front and Wimpole Street to the left. Mostly Ruan watched rain drip down the windows and counted cobbles in Wimpole Street below. Nine hundred fifty-five. Four wagons, five hansom cabs, three nannies with young children, one pickpocket, twenty-six gentlemen, ten tradesmen, eleven servants male and female, including those glimpsed through windows. He lost count of ladies with their companions.

“Taking a bloody long time,” Ben complained for the dozenth time. Devon had long mastered the art of silence. He’d not spoken in the last hour at least, surrounding himself in brooding quiet. Ben glared at Devon for not agreeing and spoke in an irritated voice. “Stop that infernal pacing, Cyn.”

“I don’t like this at all. We have ill used her,” Devon remarked from his sullen slouch on the sofa. “Dragging her into this sordid affair.”

“We ought to have involved her sooner.” Ruan was completely unapologetic. “If I’m right, and the women tell her things they could not tell a man, then we’ll stop this all the sooner.”

“I have to say I agree.” Ben reluctantly nodded.

Ruan resumed his pacing. He analyzed the tightness in his chest. A sense of anticipation. And it wasn’t just because he wanted to hear what Anne learned from Mrs. Featherstone. He wanted to have Anne in the room with him now. He missed the way he felt when they were together. He thought her fascinating. In all his life, he’d never known what it was like to admire a woman until Anne. To appreciate the physical and the intellectual at one and the same time. To be so entirely enthralled.

“Cyn?”

He looked at Ben and had the impression he’d missed something. “What?”

“What do you think?” he asked, very slowly, as if annoyed that he had to ask.

“About what?”

“Anne.”

“I don’t see it’s any business of yours.”

“Well, you can’t just send her off to talk to the others without consulting us, Ruan,” Benjamin said.

Ruan kept still. Dear Christ, he’d completely misinterpreted the question. “Of course I will not,” he replied. “Withers next, I should think.”

“Yes,” said Devon stirring slightly on the sofa. He gave Benjamin a look. “Withers next, just as he said.”

“Twenty pounds to your one, Devon,” Ben said casually lifting a hand, “that Cyn here was thinking of Anne when he was off woolgathering.”

“Well,” Devon said sourly. “He was thinking of a woman, at any rate.”

Ben made a show of adjusting a cufflink. “I fought it when it happened to me, Cyn, old man. But I swear to God, it’s not half as bad as you fear and much better than what happens if you don’t admit it.”

“What in hell are you babbling about?”

“Love, Cynssyr. I speak of love.”

“Love?”

“Don’t repeat that rubbish about love and delusion.” Ben’s amiable face rearranged itself to something edged with anger. “You can live without love, I won’t deny you that. But what a horrible life.”

Devon laughed softly but without amusement. “Of course, Aldreth means mutual love. He loves his wife, and she loves him in return. Any other state of affairs, I assure you, is truly miserable.”

“My condolences, Bracebridge,” said Ben.

“I don’t accept them.”

“That’s enough,” Ruan softly said. Hell. Hell and bloody hell. His own freedom was fast becoming mere illusion. It ought to matter more. “To the devil with you,” he told the window. “To the very devil with you both.”

The carriage he’d put at Anne’s disposal appeared on Queen Anne Street. His heart sped up, a purely involuntary reaction. “She’s here.” He watched the carriage draw up in the driveway. Henry jumped from the back and ran around to wait with an open umbrella. A footman flipped down the step and opened the door. Anne descended and Henry surged forward to make sure the umbrella protected her from the wet.

It seemed forever until she arrived in the salon. She looked quite neat in her royal blue pelisse. “I’ve ordered tea,” she said, walking in.

“Well?” Devon said when Ruan helped Anne to a seat.

She pushed back the trim of her hat. “You must stop them.”

“We will,” Ruan said.

“Good.” She searched her reticule for her glasses. “Here they are.” Ruan experienced an uncomfortable spark of arousal when she looked at him, outraged, spectacles perched firmly on her nose. A handkerchief, well used, fell unnoticed from her sleeve. He lifted his eyes from the tear-stained bit of silk. The spectacles slipped down her nose long enough to show eyes faintly red, as if she’d been up too late the night before, only he knew she hadn’t been. She replaced the frames with a determined motion. “It is as you suspected, Cynssyr. She did not tell you all that happened.”

“The woman did not,” he said brusquely, “tell me a damn thing.”

She looked at Devon and Ben. “Two men assaulted her.” Speaking crisply, she drew herself up, back ramrod straight. “Not the same men who accosted her in the street. Those men were ruffians, they spoke in street cant and were in need of a thorough bath.”

They fell silent when the merchant brought in tea and sandwiches. Anne ate a slice of bread while the others set to. “One is certainly a gentleman,” she continued. “His accent was educated and from London. The second spoke well but with a country accent, very slight, but there. Liverpool. Or some such place in Lancashire, she thought. The second man, the one with the country accent, was slender with dark eyes and dark hair. His mouth is thin, his cheeks and chin narrow.” She hesitated, a thoughtful quirk to her mouth. “He is a violent man and cruel. He does not like women, Cynssyr.” She made a face. “I’m sorry. That is my interpretation. Mrs. Featherstone did not say that.”

“You did well.”

“Extremely well,” Devon echoed.

“Thank you.” Anne practically glowed with pleasure. Deep inside him, Ruan felt an answering pleasure. They did well together. Remarkably well.

“When she revived, the other was—” She reached for her handkerchief but of course did not find it. Devon handed her his. “Thank you. The other was taking liberties.” A flush, anger and embarrassment both, colored her cheeks. “With her person. He wore a sort of mask that hid his features. He told her, the man did, that she ought to enjoy what he was doing as his associate— that’s the exact word he used,” she said, crushing the handkerchief. “His
associate
—had been so cruel by comparison.”

“Blackguard,” Devon said.

“Very much so, Devon.” As always, her aplomb roused his admiration. “She believes she was held outside of London. She was not assaulted until very late the night she was taken, very nearly morning. She could hear livestock. Cows and pigs. A rooster. Her room contained only a bed. A house, not a cottage was her impression.”

“Did she say how far they traveled from where she was abducted?” asked Ben.

“She didn’t know.”

Ruan pushed away his tea and jumped to his feet. “What did the two ruffians look like?” Intent on these new facts and getting them to fall into a sensible pattern that would lead him to whomever was responsible, he fell by habit into the steely voice he’d employed with his soldiers during the war. He paced before her, hands clasped behind his back. Anne met his iron gaze with a steel of her own. She was utterly reliable. Steady as any man. More dependable than many men he’d known.

“She did not have any more detail than I have given you.”

“The carriage. Was it a hack or did she think it a private vehicle? Was she able to see anything inside?”

“No. She was blindfolded.”

“The one with the mask. Did she notice distinctive jewelry or physical characteristics?” He concentrated on the flood of information and on uncovering every last detail to be had. “Anything besides voice that made her think him a gentleman? His clothes? A monogram embroidered anywhere? Engraved buttons? Perhaps an unusual watch fob? A scent or hair oil?”

“Slow down, Cyn,” Ben softly warned. “She’s not one of your soldiers.”

“A ring, Cynssyr. She saw a ring. Carved with some sort of animal. A signet ring. Worn on the small finger of his left hand.”

“What kind? A bird? Beast? Real or mythical?”

“She didn’t remember any more than it was an animal.”

“‘Twas someone she knows,” he said. “That’s plain.”

“Yes.”

“Why else would he go to such lengths to hide his face from her when the other man did not?”

“So I concluded, as well.” She twisted the handkerchief, holding one end in either hand. “I cannot believe this of Richard. He is kind and gentle.” She looked at all three men. “I like him. He loves Emily.”

“Do not let emotion cloud your judgment.” Despite Ben’s admonition, he spoke to her exactly as he would have to a promising officer. “Emotion prevents reason. You must suppress emotion at any cost.” The moment he spoke, he wanted the thought back, but the words had flown. Emotion unleashed was precisely what he most wanted from his wife. He thought of the victims and what they had suffered. He thought of husbands and fathers frantic with worry, impotent with rage. What if Anne were next? A hole opened inside him that nothing could fill except Anne. He did not like even a taste of what those men had felt. God, it would be living hell. “There must be something more!”

Ben put a hand on Ruan’s shoulder. “Cyn. Please.” To Anne, he said, “Who do you think it is? If you had to pick someone, whom would you chose?”

She answered without hesitation. “Lord Wilberfoss.”

“He’s a boy.”

“Not a boy,” she replied. “A spoiled, immature man.”

“That’s as may be.” Devon adulterated his tea with a healthy dose of cream and three lumps of sugar. “But he doesn’t need the money.”

Anne sipped the weak tea she’d brewed herself. “Money isn’t his reason. Whoever it is, Lord Wilberfoss, or Richard or someone else, he enjoys it.”

“But why Wilberfoss?” Ben again. More gentle than Ruan, but just as relentless. “Because of what he did?”

“Not entirely.” Leaning back, she fiddled with one of her gloves, eyes shuttered and unreadable.

Ruan restrained himself from pacing anew. He drew a deep breath and asked, “Why else, then?”

“I don’t know why, Cynssyr.” A distant church bell chimed the hour. “But I feel it. Perhaps I am prejudiced.” She lifted her hands then let them fall to her lap. “What have you heard about Richard?”

“Very little.” Devon took a long draught of his tea. “Rumors. Nothing I can substantiate. But I’ve heard even less of Wilberfoss.”

“Wilberfoss?” Ben shook his head. “I just don’t see it. He’s harmless.”

Ruan studied Anne’s face. Composed and calm as ever. He trusted her judgment and instincts. “Devon, how soon can you get someone to Liverpool? Have him nose around the larger estates thereabouts.”

“Quickly enough.”

“Do it.” He stopped before the tea cart and poured himself some tea. Unlike Devon, he drank his black and just short of bitter. When he turned back, Devon had moved to the sofa next to Anne. His arm circled her shoulder, and he murmured soothing words in a low voice. As he watched, Anne leaned toward him until her forehead touched his shoulder. The truth was, Ruan thought, silently watching his best friend comfort his wife, Anne had found something in him he thought didn’t exist. Damnation, but she had him hopelessly trapped.