Authors: Anne Stuart
“You can keep the earbobs,” she said nervously, taking a step backward, prepared to run.
“Noble of you. I don’t care for them, though.”
“Give them to Valerian. They’ll look charming on him.”
His mouth curved in a grin, and Juliette could no more deny her reaction than she could fly to the moon. That was the reason she had to run; she knew it full well. Not from the harm he might do, but from his rare, devastating smile.
“I’d rather see them on you,” he said.
“They don’t suit me.”
“The diamond-and-pearl earbobs,” he said in a dreamy voice that made her realize how very drunk he really was. “And nothing else.” And he reached for her.
She almost went to him. For one brief, mad moment she swayed toward him, wanting the dangerous comfort of his arms, his body against hers. But the sudden streak and fizzle of lightning saved her, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder.
She ran, barefoot, half mad with fear and longing, out into the stormy night in wild disregard of nature’s fury. He caught her by the edge of the garden, the rain pouring down on them, soaking them. “I’m getting damned tired,” he said in a thick voice, “of having you run away.”
She was no match for his strength. She didn’t wish to be. She went into his arms this time, hidden within the curtain of rain, and tilted her face up to his. Letting the rain pour down on her, letting his kisses pour down on her, and she slid her arms around his waist beneath the damp, flapping white shirt, the violence of the storm and her own wild, confused feelings sweeping her away.
His hands were rough as he held her. His mouth was hard, demanding, and when he pushed her down into the
wet grass she went, no longer fighting it. His body covered hers, his mouth settled across hers, and the rain surrounding them was a benediction and a torture.
He reached between them and yanked at her shirt and the buttons popped, the wet material ripped, and she was bared to the waist. The cool dampness of the air was a shock against her skin; the hot dampness of his mouth was even more astonishing. Pushing her shoulders back into the drenched earth, he put his mouth over her breast, teasing the hard peak with his tongue, the hot, sucking pressure sending streaks of desire spearing through her body, centering between her legs. She felt panic sweep through her, a dark fear that was so very different from the terror of her nights with Lemur. This wasn’t the fear of a man’s cruelty, the fear of pain. It was the fear of her own weakness, and of longing.
His hand slid down between her legs, cupping her through the wet material of her breeches, and the heel of his palm rubbed against her, slowly, enticingly, so that her hips arched against him, seemingly out of instinct.
He lifted his head, and the cold night air on her breast made her shiver. He looked down at her, a dark, searching expression on his face, and she closed her eyes, letting the rain pelt her cheeks, her eyelids, afraid to let him look too closely.
He was resting against her hips, and she could feel the hard ridge of flesh pressing against her. She waited, holding herself still for his next move, prepared for the worst.
He gave it to her. He kissed her eyelids, feathering them gently. His mouth moved down to brush hers lightly, nibbling at her lips slowly, delicately, until she had no choice but to cling to him, reaching up for him, unable to deny the fact that she wanted this, she wanted him. Until his hand
reached down between them, and he began to unfasten the row of buttons on her breeches.
Panic swept through her again, and she began to struggle. She was fighting so forcefully she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him, and it wasn’t until she was spread-eagled, immobilized, that his voice penetrated the mists of her terror.
“Calm down,” he said, clearly not for the first time. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes focused on his dark face, and a shiver ran through her body. He was still hard against her, she recognized that much, and she knew that she couldn’t stop him from taking her. His effortless control of her body left no question in her mind that he could take her, and it would be worse, far worse, than anything that Lemur had tried to do to her. Because some wretched, evil part of her wanted it. Wanted him.
“Stop struggling,” he said, “and I’ll release you.”
She hadn’t even realized she was still fighting him.
She tried to calm herself, but she couldn’t. If she relaxed, even for a moment, the darkness would descend, and she couldn’t bear it.
“Stop it,” he said again, his voice sharp and furious, and his anger finally penetrated the black cloud that had descended over her. She froze, staring up at him as he loomed over her in the rain-swept darkness, blinking as the water splashed into her eyes.
“That’s better,” he said in a milder voice. “I’ve never raped a woman, and I’m not about to. I can’t imagine there’d be much sport in it. I prefer my women warm and willing, lying in a soft, dry bed, not rutting in a garden in the dead of night in a thunderstorm.” His words were
mocking, bitter, and she wasn’t sure if that contempt was directed at her or at himself.
He rose abruptly, hauling her up with him. “Next time,” he said, “I might not let you go.”
For a moment neither of them moved. And then she realized her shirt, like his, hung open, exposing her small breasts to the night air and his piercing regard. She yanked the torn ends together, covering herself, and stumbled toward the house.
“Too late, Juliette.” His voice followed her, cool and dark as the night air. “I’ve seen you, I’ve touched you, I’ve tasted you. Sooner or later I’m going to have you. It doesn’t matter to me that Lemur was first. He only hurt you.”
“You’d hurt me, too.” She paused by the door, and her voice was no more than a thread of sound.
“Never.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Let me leave,” she begged.
“Never.”
He stood alone in the garden, long after she’d left him. He needed the dubious comfort of the cold rain. He’d had too much to drink; he’d had too much to dream. He had been thinking about her, fantasizing about her, when he’d heard her surreptitious footsteps in the hall, and it had been a simple enough matter to reach over and plunge the room into darkness.
The sheer force of the fury that had rocketed through him when he saw her delving through his desk drawer had set the actions in motion. He’d told himself he was going to be cool, distant, toying with her. He’d watched her pick up the watch that represented the one fond memory he had of a father who’d despised him, and he’d wanted to vent
that fury on a body that aroused him far too much for his own good.
He’d used the first excuse. Even her obvious better judgment hadn’t stopped him from going after her. She wouldn’t have gotten far in this storm without shoes or money. She would have been back in her room by morning, and they both could have pretended it had never happened.
But he’d been looking for a reason to touch her. And he would have taken her, coupling with her in the grass and mud like a rutting boar, ignoring her obvious shyness, her obvious panic, if something hadn’t penetrated his lust-driven daze.
He’d told himself he could take her. It wasn’t as if she were unused to it. She’d been married to Lemur, and her husband’s reputation was none too savory. Doubtless rolling in the mud would have been pleasurable by comparison.
But he’d felt her panic, and while it hadn’t diminished his desire, it had brought back his sanity. She was small, and cold, and frightened. Frightened of him, of his strength, of his lust, of his anger. And for the first time in years, he felt ashamed.
If he thought there was any chance of maintaining his self-control, he’d go to her, wrap her in his arms, and kiss away the tears. Comfort and warm her, croon to her all the stupid, lovesick things women liked to hear. He’d never wanted to say those things before. He wanted to say them now.
But he didn’t trust himself. His idea of comfort could rapidly turn into the same passion that had almost overwhelmed him. And if he took her now, against her will, when she was lost and frightened, she would never forgive him. And he would never forgive himself.
He knew he should send her away, to some place safe
from people like Mark-David Lemur. Safe from people like Phelan Romney. And he knew he wasn’t ready to do it. Not until he’d managed to get Valerian on a boat bound for France.
If it were up to him, they’d be gone. But he couldn’t leave Valerian behind, and his brother refused to run. They were at a miserable, frustrating impasse, and Phelan didn’t know who would explode first. Or who would survive that explosion.
Time was running out. No mysterious suspect had yet to appear, no logical alternative to the wretched likelihood that Lady Margery had finally taken a knife to her bullying husband. And the longer the brothers stayed in England, at Sutter’s Head, the more precarious their situation became.
Sooner or later someone would unmask Valerian. Sooner or later they had to make the decision—to accept their sacrifice and leave the country, or to tell the truth. If they didn’t, that decision would be taken out of their hands.
Once they were in Europe, Phelan could get hold of the substantial income he’d inherited from an aunt and uncle who had died just around the time he was born. He wasn’t accused of a crime—it was only the need to keep their whereabouts secret that stopped him from touching his inheritance. Once he had access to it, he could send Juliette far away from her marauding husband, send her somewhere safe.
Or he could take her with him. The thought came, unbidden and tempting. He could protect her, keep her with him, by his side, in his bed …
But he couldn’t have that, no matter how much he wanted Juliette. He’d already accepted his fate long ago. There would be no woman in his life, no permanent one. Sooner or later they all started fussing about marriage,
and babies, and staying home, and Phelan couldn’t stand staying in one place. And he was never going to father babies. Never going to pass on the madness he’d seen in his mother’s eyes.
Of course, Juliette wouldn’t fuss about marriage. She was already legally tied to another man. And she wouldn’t long for babies when she was terrified by his touch, although he had every intention of teaching her how to like it. He’d already made great strides in the endeavor, and he had no doubt as to his eventual triumph.
She might not even complain about travel. She’d spent most of her life following her notorious father through countries most Englishwomen had never seen, and she seemed more than eager to depart this demi-paradise, this England.
And then reality hit him. He was standing in a midnight garden in the pouring rain, his body still rock-hard with frustrated lust, weaving fantasies about a happy ending with a runaway wife.
Clearly he was going mad.
He was going to send her away, with her diamond-and-pearl earbobs, with every cent he could spare, with the bloody watch his father had given him if need be. He was going to send her away, tomorrow morning, at first light.
Before he couldn’t bear to let her go.
The rain continued, unabated, pounding against the windows of the old inn, thundering against the rooftops. The wind rattled against the doors, sending gusts of smoke down the chimneys, but inside, the fire was warm, the hot rum punch delicious, and their mysterious fellow guest kept his distance, safe in the private parlor. In all, Valerian was content. Or he would have been if the memory of that too-small bed didn’t lurk at the back of his mind.
It would be easy enough, he told himself. He must simply pretend that he really was a woman. Think of himself as his elderly nanny, the one he’d shared with Lord Harry’s one true son. Nana had been plump, comfortable, and about as conversant about sex as an elm tree. She’d cozy up in bed with a young lady, even offer a soft shoulder as a pillow, and no one would think twice.
But even contemplating that was too great a leap for Valerian’s imagination. He wasn’t going to be able to do it—he knew he couldn’t. He sat in front of the fire, half an hour after a yawning Sophie had taken herself upstairs, and he knew he’d be spending the night in a chair there.
He propped his long legs out on the settle, sipping meditatively
at his punch. His clothes had finally dried, the damned corset was digging into his ribs, and his huge slippers smelled of wet leather. He wanted to curse the fate which had brought him to this decidedly uncomfortable pass. But he couldn’t curse a fate which had brought him to Sophie de Quincey, no matter for how short a time.
He leaned back, contemplating just who their fellow guest, the unseen Mr. Lemur, was. Mine host had suggested he came recently from foreign climes, and he was rather a mysterious gentleman, though well mannered for all that. For a moment Val wondered whether Phelan might have had the ill luck to meet the man during his lengthy travels, but he discarded the notion as unlikely in the extreme. No, odds were that they had nothing to fear from the foreign-traveling Mr. Lemur.
He toyed with the idea of convincing himself that the man was a villain, that he should go up and join Sophie in bed to protect her from the marauding male sex inhabiting this inn. Except that he knew perfectly well he was the most marauding of them all.
She’d be asleep by now. She’d been exhausted, her eyes overbright, and he’d made certain she’d downed enough rum punch to ensure a good night’s rest. She would never know he hadn’t spent the night at her side.
For that matter, if she were to sleep so soundly, why couldn’t he spend the night in bed with her, watching her? It would be his only chance, and surely after all the torment he’d endured, he deserved that much …
He’d had too much rum himself, to be thinking that way. Another mug of it, and he’d start thinking she wouldn’t notice if he touched her. If he kissed her. If he slid his hands
underneath her thin white undergarments and caressed her warm, creamy flesh …
The sound of footsteps on the stairs was muted, discreet, surreptitious. Valerian flipped his skirts back down over his large feet and sat up, listening. Was that damned villain thinking he could sneak up on a helpless female? Val would cut the man’s heart out if he touched her.
He heard the quiet footsteps outside the taproom door. He’d just begun to search around him for a possible weapon when the door opened noiselessly, revealing Sophie standing there in the firelight.
For a moment Valerian didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Indeed, he couldn’t. Sophie was wearing a thin cotton nightdress, and he could see the silhouette of her body in excruciating detail. She’d brushed her long hair and braided it loosely, she’d scrubbed her face, and she looked so damnably young it broke his heart.
“Aren’t you coming to bed, Val?” she asked.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“I was waiting for you. I … don’t like to sleep in strange beds. It makes me nervous. And the rain is so noisy.” She crossed the room, and he saw that her feet were bare. She had beautiful toes.
He stared at her, trying to think of an excuse, so dazed by his longing for her that his brain wasn’t working properly. “I’m afraid I snore,” he said.
She smiled. “That’s all right. I probably do, too.”
“I’d take up most of that tiny bed.”
“I don’t need much room.”
I want to make love to you
, he thought, but didn’t say the words out loud. There was no escape, and he should have known it from the beginning. One more fitting piece
to his punishment, and he hadn’t even done anything so terribly wrong.
He stood up then, admitting defeat. “I’ll come upstairs,” he said. “But don’t expect me to sleep. I’ll just sit in the chair and keep you company until you fall asleep …”
“There is no chair.” She reached out and took his hand in hers, and there was no missing the wicked expression in her eyes. “It’s all right, Val. I know your secret. I promise not to tell a soul.”
For a moment he stared at her, shocked. “What secret?” he demanded, his voice unnaturally hoarse. He wondered how he could have given himself away.
“For all that everyone thinks you’re such a bold female, I know the truth.”
“The truth?” he repeated stupidly.
“You’re actually quite modest, aren’t you? I saw how uncomfortable you were in helping me to undress. Why, you couldn’t even look at me,” she said with gentle amusement. “I cannot imagine how a woman with your healthy attitude about the process of mating could suddenly turn so shy. After all, there’s not such a great difference in our bodies.”
“That’s what you think,” he said gruffly.
“To be sure, you’re quite tall and strong, and in comparison I’m just a little dab of a thing,” she admitted. “But we’re both female, despite the fact that you’re a great deal older and more experienced.”
“Actually,” he confessed, “I am a bit more comfortable with male bodies. I don’t know why …”
“You may undress in the darkness, dear Val,” she said with a naughty smile. “I promise not to peek. But please, come to bed. It’s cold and lonely up there, and the wind howls around the eaves and frightens me.”
He couldn’t resist her. He put his arm around her, a major mistake, considering that she was wearing absolutely nothing beneath the thin white cotton, and he could feel the warmth and resiliency of her flesh. He wanted to push her away, feeling burned, but there was no alternative. “I’ll come up if you really want,” he said in a low, resigned voice. “I am rather tired.”
She smiled up at him, winningly. “Thank you, dear Val. I knew I might rely on you.”
The bedroom was pitch-black, the rain too intense to allow for a trace of starlight. When he closed the door behind them, it took him a moment to get used to the inky darkness. He could see Sophie flit ghostlike across the room, hear the enticing creak of the bed, and he had to stifle his groan.
“Do you want me to light a candle?” she asked. “There’s a nightdress across the foot of the bed that the landlord brought for you.”
“No,” he said in a strangled voice. He kicked off the damp leather slippers. “I can find it myself,” he said more normally.
He encountered her foot first when he groped for the nightdress. Granted, it was beneath a pile of covers, but it still shocked him, and he wondered how he was going to survive a night lying next to her.
He pulled the voluminous nightgown over his head. Fortunately, it was the size of a tent, and he had no difficulty reaching underneath to unfasten the back of his clothes. They were cunningly designed so that he should have little trouble divesting himself of them. One of Hannigan’s myriad unseen relatives had crafted them, and not for the first time he thanked that unknown benefactress. He could
even unfasten his corset beneath the huge white nightgown. Retying it in the morning would prove quite beyond his capabilities, and he could hardly ask Sophie to assist him. He’d have to hope nobody searched too closely for a willowy waist.
He draped his clothes across the table, hoping the night would remove the last trace of clammy dampness from them, and then turned toward the bed.
“I didn’t want to mention it before,” Sophie said cheerfully, “but I have excellent night vision.”
“Wretch,” he said, wondering if the darkness would aid his disguise. Or unmask him.
“I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about, Valerie. People share beds with each other all the time. I promise you, I don’t have lice.”
He laughed despite his tension. “You’re a ridiculous child.”
“I’m eighteen. About to become engaged,” she said, her voice suddenly hollow.
He walked over to the bed, staring down at her in the darkness. “He’s made an offer, then,” he said resignedly. “That’s what your mother was talking about.”
“Not yet. But he’s going to. Mother’s already informed him how pleased we would be.”
“She might have asked you.”
“Mother doesn’t ask people their opinions. She informs them, and expects all and sundry to follow suit.” She looked up at Val, and her face was beseeching. “I don’t want to marry him.”
“Then you shan’t,” Val said, giving in and climbing into bed beside her. The sheets were fine linen, and warm. From her body, he realized.
“Tell that to my mother.”
“I will. The moment we return.”
Sophie shifted in the bed, looking at him. “It won’t do any good,” she said despairingly. “Mother’s made up her mind, and there’s no moving her once that happens.”
“Then we’ll have to change Captain Melbourne’s.” He’d had too much rum punch, he knew that. He’d had too much proximity to temptation, and the entire bed smelled like lavender.
“But how can we do that?”
“We can always ruin you,” he said recklessly.
She giggled. “I’m afraid, dear Val, that you lack the necessary equipment to ruin me.”
Her artless statement didn’t improve his temper. He neither confirmed nor denied it. “We can always say someone else ruined you.”
“Who?”
“The mysterious Mr. Lemur. Or my husband. Or Sir Neville Pinworth.”
“He’s about as likely a candidate as you are, dear Val,” she said with a burst of laughter.
“Less likely,” he allowed himself to say.
“You’re probably right. Well, then, once I’m ruined, what happens next?”
“You come with us to the Continent. We’ll visit all the great cities: Paris, Vienna, Florence. We’ll live a life of unbridled dissipation.”
“I thought we’d need a man for unbridled dissipation. And I’m afraid your husband won’t do. He frightens me.”
“Phe—Philip?” he countered, genuinely surprised. “Why?”
“He’s so dark, and cold, and cynical. He must be a very uncomfortable person to be around.”
Valerian thought of his blackened eye. “On occasion,” he said wryly. “And I wasn’t suggesting you have an affair with him.”
“Perhaps we can find me a very handsome lover,” Sophie said sleepily, sliding down in the bed, “since you insist that the pleasures of the flesh are worth sampling. I’ll count on you to pick the right man for me.”
Valerian lay back beside her, arms folded across his chest, stiff in more ways than one. “Describe to me your requirements,” he said, “and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d like him to be tall,” she said in a dreamy voice, “but not too tall. I do have a partiality for blond hair, and I’d like him to be strong, but not too muscular.”
“Not overbuilt like Captain Melbourne?”
“Exactly. Someone a bit leaner. It would be nice if he were handsome, but it’s not strictly necessary. I wouldn’t want a man who was more interested in his reflection than in me.”
Valerian almost laughed. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time staring into a mirror in the past few weeks, out of necessity, not fascination, and he’d yet to find his reflection nearly as interesting as the woman lying too bloody close to him. “Handsome, but not conceited,” he noted. “What else?”
“I’d like him to be kind,” she said. “And to love the countryside, and to be gentle, and to care about pleasing a woman. I’d want him to love me.”
He almost reached for her. She might as well be describing him. Surely there was hope …
“And I’d want him to be honest, and faithful, and never lie to me,” she added.
It took him a moment to regain his voice. “A tall order,” he said.
“I know. But since I don’t intend to marry, it can’t hurt to dream, can it?”
“It can. It can hurt very much indeed,” he said dolefully.
A streak of lightning illuminated the room for a brief moment, followed by a clap of thunder. Sophie shrieked, and scuttled across the small space he’d kept between them, flinging herself against his shoulder. Instinctively he put his arms around her, knowing he was playing with fire. She settled against him with a contented sigh, her head nestled perfectly against the hollow of his shoulder, and her golden-blond curls were like silk against his stubbled chin. “Do you mind?” she whispered, yawning.
“Not in the slightest, child,” he lied, clenching his fists to keep from touching her. He could do this for her. He could hold her and comfort her in the dark and the storm, no matter how tormenting it was for him. He owed her that much for the lies he’d spun her, for the joy she’d given him. He could survive the night. Couldn’t he?
It was a close thing. The night was endless, and far too short. She made little noises in her sleep, soft, seductive little sighs and murmurs. He’d expected, and almost hoped, that she’d move away from him once she was solidly asleep. She never did. She clung to him, rubbing her face against his arm like a contented kitten, and there was nothing he could do but lie there in torment, in an odd kind of glory, and hope the morning would come soon. Or not at all.
When he finally slept it wasn’t for long, and he awoke as the first rays of dawn were streaking across the darkened
bedroom. She still slept in his arms, trustingly, her hand resting on his flat chest, against his skin, inside the voluminous nightdress.
He moved very, very carefully, taking her hand and placing it beside her on the bed, slipping away from her. She roused for a moment, peering at him sleepily through the early dawn light, and he hoped to God she couldn’t see clearly. “Are you getting up?”
He
was
up, he thought miserably. “I was always an early riser,” he said lightly, wanting nothing more than to join her back in the too-soft, too-small bed. “You sleep some more. We won’t be able to leave for several hours at least.”