TemptedByHisKiss (14 page)

She barely knew him, but felt sure he would make a caring husband and an excellent father. With the right words and a few, well-chosen looks, she imagined she could encourage him to do more than ask her to share a long-distance correspondence.

All I need do is give him a smile, she thought. Tell him I would be delighted to write to him, and not to worry over my fiancé. Then let nature take its course. Yet even as her lips parted, no sound emerged.

Before she could consider the reason behind her silence, a fat drop of rain fell from the sky and struck her cheek. Seconds later two more raindrops descended, leaving a pair of round, dark patches on the skirt of her riding habit. Only then did she notice the huge black thunderclouds lumbering toward them on the horizon, the earlier breeze whipping up in hard gusts.

“We should head back,” the lieutenant said, glancing over his shoulder at the rapidly darkening sky. “Looks like we’re in for a gale.”

She nodded and turned her horse around. Beside her, he did the same. Casting another glance at the swiftly approaching storm and the desperate way the leaves appeared to cling to the shivering tree limbs, she could only pray they were in time to outrun it.

In the Clybourne House library, Cade rubbed a hand over his aching thigh and poured himself another draught of whiskey. He downed half in a quick gulp, then filled the glass to the top again before setting the stopper into the crystal decanter with a faint ringing clink.

Bloody leg, he cursed silently. Ever since he’d awakened this morning, he’d known a storm was on its way. Ironic to realize that his injury had turned him into a kind of human barometer, capable of sensing changes in moisture and atmospheric pressure. Perhaps he should lend himself out to the academics in the Royal Navy, he thought sardonically, who tasked themselves with the study and prediction of the weather. Who knew what intriguing information he might be capable of providing to them?

Thinking about the Royal Navy, he scowled, wondering where Meg and that sailor chap she rode off with this morning might be. In his opinion, the man was deuced inconsiderate to have taken her out in the first place, considering the potential for rain. And a worse fool for having failed to return her to the house by now.

Ignoring his limp, which was more aggravated today than it had been in weeks, Cade stalked to the window, his cane thumping forcefully against the polished hard
wood floor. Yanking aside the sheer drapery, he stared out across Grosvenor Square. His brows angled into a deeper furrow at sight of the dark, menacing clouds.

As he watched, a handful of gravel-sized raindrops hit the glass in a loud, staccato splatter. Seconds later thunder rumbled hard enough to rattle the window panes, lightning crackling across the sky in a jagged, flashing arc. A pregnant silence followed as if the entire world were poised on the brink of some cataclysm—as perhaps it was—the sky suddenly splitting open to unleash a virtual wall of water.

Cade cursed and let the curtain fall back into place. He tossed back another swallow of liquor, then thumped across the room, his open book and reading spectacles lying forgotten where he’d left them in the leather-covered armchair before the fireplace.

Perhaps he should call for the chaise and go out after her? he thought. But Hyde Park was only a few blocks away, so by the time the servants brought the coach around, Meg and the lieutenant would surely have returned.

Ignoring the nagging discomfort in his leg, he paced, pausing to swallow the remaining whiskey in his tumbler, then pour himself a refill.

Five minutes later he was on his way out into the hallway to order the chaise, after all, when Croft opened the front door. A blast of cold air erupted inward, bearing Meg in its wake. Her purplish-blue riding habit was plastered to her body, her once fashionable riding hat bent into a soggy, squashy mess, the formally wispy scarf tied around its base shriveled into what looked like a pair of limp, pitiable braids.

Behind her came the lieutenant, water sluicing from
his own sodden hat brim to pool in a small lake around his feet. He shivered and flicked water off his frame in a manner reminiscent of a large dog returning from a hunt. A laugh rumbled from the lieutenant’s throat, his lips turning upward in a rueful smile as he angled his head to catch Meg’s gaze. She laughed in reply, holding her arms out at her sides in a kind of dripping pantomime.

Cade’s hand tightened around the top of his cane. “So you’re back then, are you?”

Meg swung her head his way, having clearly not noticed his presence until that moment. “Cade!”

The grin fell from the lieutenant’s face, his expression sobering abruptly as he also met Cade’s gaze.

Cade glared and leaned more powerfully onto his walking stick.

“Uh-hmm.”
McCabe audibly cleared his throat. “I expect I ought to be on my way before this weather turns any worse.”

Looking back at him, Meg shook her head in protest. “How could it possibly be worse than it already is? No, you must stay, since I would not feel right sending you back out now, not with it pouring so hard.”

I would, Cade decided.

Seeming to read Cade’s thoughts, the lieutenant glanced again at Meg. “Fear not, dear lady, I have been in worse storms than this aboard ship. I’ve had watches where I had to stand literally soaked through for hours, so a little wetting is no matter.”

A tiny pair of lines formed above her nose. “Yes, but—”

“Besides, I could do with a change of attire and have naught here to wear.”

“I am sure Cade or the duke would be happy to loan you something of theirs.”

Don’t count on it, Cade mused.

McCabe hunched his shoulders and kept his gaze fastened on Meg. “Nevertheless,” he murmured, “I would do well to return home. My thanks for a most memorable outing, Miss Amberley.”

“And mine as well. This is a ride I shall not soon forget. I would still have you remain, but since you insist, I shall bid you a safe trip home.”

The lieutenant made her a very proper, formal bow, his wet boots squelching against the tile floor as he turned and strode toward the exit. Cade waited until Croft shut the door behind him, then sent the butler a nod of dismissal. The servant moved away in silence.

Gathering the long, heavy skirt of her sodden riding habit over one arm, Meg swung toward the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Cade demanded.

She paused. “Upstairs to my room, of course. In case you had not noticed, I am dripping water all over the foyer, not to mention being cold and soaked through.”

Without anticipating his own actions, he let his gaze rove in a long sweep over her body, slowing for several lingering moments as he stared at her breasts. Her nipples, already visible against the wet cloth of her bodice, tightened further beneath his perusal, hardening as if they were an extra set of buttons lodged between the braiding on her jacket.

“Yes,” he drawled. “That much is quite apparent.”

Her pale blue eyes sparked like the centers of a flame, her free arm coming up to cover her bodice.

A niggling twinge of guilt rose inside him over his ungentlemanly behavior, but Cade stubbornly refused to look away. “Well,” he said, redirecting the conversation. “It’s no more than you deserve for going riding when it was coming on rain.”

Her mouth dropped open, the arm holding her gown falling to her side to release the fabric in a great wet plop. “Of all the gall! And it wasn’t ‘coming on rain’ when the lieutenant and I set out. The sky was sunny, with only a few passing clouds.”

“I could have told you bad weather was approaching had you taken a moment to ask. But you rushed out of the house so quickly this morning, I didn’t even realize you’d gone until Mama and Mallory happened to mention it on their way out to the Oxborns’ breakfast party.” He paused and flexed his palm against the head of his cane. “Had fun with your lieutenant, then, did you?”

“He isn’t
my
lieutenant, but yes, I had a most enjoyable ride.”

“Better than your outing in Peacham’s phaeton? Or promenading with Lord Longsworth? Or how about your rowing excursion on the Serpentine with Astbury? At least the earl, even if he is a bone-brained macaroni, had the sense not to return you to the house drenched to the skin.”

She made a noise deep in her throat, a sound not dissimilar to a growl. “It seems to me you ought to be pleased I am so popular with the gentlemen, considering our arrangement. Now, if you are done with your interrogation…”

He thrust out his jaw at a mutinous angle. “I am not.”

“Well,
I am
.” In a turn-about, she was the one to sweep her gaze over him this time, her eyes narrowing in clear speculation. “You’re foxed, aren’t you?”

His brows drew together in a fierce scowl.

“If anyone needs a good soaking—particularly in the region of the head—it’s
you
, my lord,” she continued. “And a pot or two of strong black coffee as well. Perhaps if you drink enough of
that
, you might be fit company by dinnertime, although I rather doubt it.”

“I may have had a couple whiskeys,” he admitted, “but believe me, Miss Amberley, I am far from inebriated.”

“Just surly then, hmm? Well, you can take your temper out on someone else. As for me, I have had enough and am going to my bedchamber.” Gathering the wet hem of her riding habit inside a fist, she marched to the stairs, droplets of water appearing in a damp trail behind her.

“Meg!” he called. “Meg, come back here!”

She didn’t miss a step, but kept marching upward at a steady, determined pace, one riser at a time.

“Meg!” he ordered again, his hands turning to fists as he watched her round the landing and disappear from view. Without thinking, he took three limping steps forward before he realized what he was doing and drew to a halt.

Let her go
, whispered a voice inside his head.
Stop and simply let her go.
Yet as he stood there, his grip tight on his cane, he found himself wondering why the idea suddenly seemed so hard. Trembling, he forced himself to turn and go back to the library.

Inside, he crossed to the liquor cabinet and reached for the whiskey decanter. As if to prove to himself—and her—that he didn’t give a damn what she thought, he
splashed a full measure into his tumbler. But as he took up the glass, he made no move to raise it to his lips, studying the amber brew for a long, contemplative moment.

Abruptly, he set the glass on the table, firmly enough to send a few drops of liquor sloshing over the side. Striding to the bellpull, he gave the cord a tug before he had a chance to change his mind.

A footman arrived shortly thereafter.

“Coffee,” Cade ordered. “Bring me a pot of hot coffee.”

“Right away, my lord.”

“And have Cook add some rolls as well, since I missed breakfast this morning.” Skipped breakfast, he corrected silently, having opted to partake of a liquid meal instead.

Maybe Meg was right, he mused as he sank down into his chair. Perhaps he should try to take better care of himself. To his amused consternation, Meg was always slipping little tidbits onto his plate at family meals, subtly encouraging him to eat, as if she truly was his fiancée. Sometimes he didn’t think she even knew she was doing it. But his mother noticed, he knew, and approved.

She will be sad when Meg finds another man and leaves. Mallory and Esme as well.
His sisters had taken a great liking to their new “sibling.” Even his brothers approved, including Edward, who sent him speculative glances every now and again, as if wondering whether he didn’t want to change his mind about his and Meg’s scheme.

Well, I don’t, he assured himself. The day Calida died, something died inside him as well, something that would never come back. Whatever he felt for Meg…well, it wasn’t love.

As for his irritation with all her gentlemen callers, he simply did not approve of her choices, that was all. None of them—especially that damned lieutenant—were good enough. Meg could do better, and he was just looking out for her best interests, as any thoughtful friend would.

Satisfied, he picked up his book and waited for his meal to arrive.

A
hot bath and a warm, dry gown went a long way to soothing Meg’s frayed temper over her infuriating encounter with Cade.

Seated in front of a roaring fire with a thick cotton towel over her shoulders, she combed her long wet hair, pausing intermittently to take a sip of the hot tea Amy had brought upstairs for her.

Outside, thunder crashed like cymbals, rain pounding in an unrelenting drumbeat against the roof tiles and window panes. Given the violence of the storm, she doubted it would end anytime soon.

As the afternoon wore on, she was proven right; Mallory and the dowager returned home with wet shoes and hems to declare that they would not set foot outside until the rain had ceased. With that decision made, plans to attend the theater were canceled, while word was sent to Cook that the family would be dining in that evening, after all.

The rain was still pouring a few hours later when they all gathered around the table for a simple yet delicious meal of boiled chicken, creamed potatoes, carrot pudding, and fresh buttered peas. Cade took his usual seat next to Meg, the two of them sharing friendly greetings for the benefit of the others before falling silent to concentrate on their dinner. As the meal progressed, Meg couldn’t help but notice Cade’s reserve, nor the fact that he drank only wine and no hard spirits.

A pear tart with a brandied ginger sauce was served for dessert. Afterward, the men agreed to forgo their usual ritual of solitary port and cigars in favor of removing to the sitting room with the ladies.

As Meg sipped a cup of hot tea, she turned her head and caught the set expression and wan cast to Cade’s face—an ashen look she had not seen for some while, she realized. A few minutes later he excused himself, murmuring that he planned to retire to his rooms.

Of course, she thought, the storm must be bothering his leg. If she’d cared to pay attention, he’d said as much earlier when he commented on knowing it was going to rain. That had to be the reason why he’d been drinking so early in the day. She ought to have realized it immediately, she mused, but had been too wrapped up in her own difficulties at the time. And then he said all those horrible things to her, and her temper had driven everything else out of her mind.

To her surprise, she realized that he must have taken her words about his intemperance to heart and was abstaining from the whiskey bottle tonight in spite of his pain. Given the circumstances, she wondered if she ought to have a decanter sent to his room. But alcohol was not the answer, nor was laudanum, she reasoned,
her cheeks warming faintly as her mind rushed back to that long ago night at his Northumberland estate.

No, she thought, as she offered her own excuses to the others and left the sitting room, perhaps there is another remedy I can provide.

“Are you sure there is nothing else I can get you, my lord?”

“Not at present, thank you, Knox,” Cade told his batman as he settled into a well-worn leather wing chair angled near the fireplace in his bedchamber.

The servant’s eyebrows twitched above a concerned glance. “As you wish. Good night, then.”

“Yes, good night.”

Cade waited until the other man closed the door, only then giving himself permission to sigh and rub his knuckles over the nagging ache in his thigh. Resting his head against the high back of his chair, he contemplated the pain and whether he was a fool not to seek out the nearest source of hard liquor. But after his earlier confrontation with Meg, he’d told himself he could do without an alcoholic crutch, and do without it he would—at least for one night.

And a long night it is going to be, he mused. But he’d suffered far worse in the past, and once the storm abated, so too should the ache. Actually, in the last few weeks his condition had shown surprising improvement. He still had painful bouts, and he knew he would always walk with a limp, but the bad days—like today—were gradually becoming fewer. Perhaps in time they would fade to the most infrequent of occasions, such as extremely severe storms. For now, though, he would simply have to endure.

Sliding his spectacles onto his nose, he reached for his book and began to read, hoping the diversion would keep him from forsaking his resolution not to drink. He finished one chapter and was starting another when a knock came at the door.

He sent a scowl toward the portal and the unknown offender on the other side. Probably Edward, he decided, though why his brother would seek him out tonight, he had no idea.

Muttering under his breath, he marked the page and set his book aside before levering himself to his feet. The knock sounded again.

“Wait a bloody damned minute, will you?” he called as he thumped his way across the room. Turning the knob, he opened the door on a forceful pull, the fresh curse on his tongue dying an abrupt death. “Meg!” he said, his fingers moving to wrap around the edge of the door frame.

“My lord.” She met his gaze for a brief instant before glancing away. “I apologize for disturbing you. I…um…did not anticipate that you might have prepared for bed already.”

Dressed in nothing more than his favorite black satin robe, he was well aware how he must appear, including the realization that the scar around his throat was visible. But considering the fact that Meg had seen him, and his scar, in a similar state of dishabille before tonight, he made no attempt to cover himself further. “I decided to retire early,” he said in answer to her comment.

“Your leg, of course.”

So, she knows, he mused, somehow not at all surprised at her having correctly interpreted the source of his volatile disposition.

“Which is why I brought
this
for you,” she continued before he could respond, indicating the covered dish she was holding balanced atop a tray.

He studied the blue and white porcelain tureen, his brows furrowing. “What is it?”

“A poultice for your injured limb. I have been doing a bit of investigating in your brother’s library, reading a number of the medical books and treatises on herbal remedies, and I believe this mixture may prove efficacious.” She bit the fleshy part of her bottom lip, a move that took his mind in directions it had no business going.

“At least I hope it will help,” she told him. “Shall I…um…bring it inside?”

He raised a brow, then after a long moment pulled the door wider to let her pass.

Her steps quick, she crossed into the room, the skirt of her pale yellow silk evening dress moving in a seductive swirl around her ankles. His gaze fixed for an instant on the curve of her hips and buttocks as she leaned forward to set the tray and its contents onto a table. He raised his eyes only seconds before she turned to face him.

“There,” she pronounced, moving a few steps back. “You should use it right away while it is still hot. I would suggest you place a thick towel beneath your leg since the poultice is damp and may leak a bit. From everything I’ve read, you should place it directly on the area where you are experiencing the most discomfort, then leave it on for twenty minutes to half an hour. Or at least until all the warmth is gone.”

Although his leg still hurt, he suddenly wasn’t sure if his injured limb was still the part of his body giving him the most discomfort.

Lord, what am I thinking? he considered, giving himself a hard mental shake. And why am I thinking it? It was not as if Meg was doing anything provocative. Then again, she’d never come into his bedroom before and talked about having him place a hot compress on his naked thigh. Unless he counted that one night at his estate, of course…

“Yes, all right,” he said, his voice like gravel. To distract himself, he moved to the tureen and lifted the lid, a pungent burst of steam wafting upward. “What’s in it, anyway? It smells like the brown mash the stable lads use for the horses.”

“That’s probably because it is that brown mash with several other ingredients added in, such as mustard seed and turmeric. And put that top back on before you ruin it! I got into enough trouble rousing the stable boys and the kitchen staff after hours as it is.”

“Did you really?” he asked, rather amazed that she would go to such effort for him, especially considering what had happened between them only that morning. He replaced the lid.

“Well, I should go, so you can try the poultice,” she said. “I hope it proves helpful, my lord. I do not like to see you in pain.”

An unfathomable sensation burned in his belly.
Dyspepsia, most likely
. “Do you not?”

She shook her head. “No. All creatures deserve ease, even you.” Turning, she padded on silent slippers to the door.

“Meg,” he called.

She stopped and turned back, lifting an inquiring brow.

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

A smile brightened the pale blue of her eyes. “It’s nothing. I would have done the same for anyone.”

But as he stood gazing at her, he knew she was lying. She had done this for him—and him alone.

“Good night,” he said.

“Sweet dreams, Cade.” On a whisper of silken skirts she was gone, disappearing like a wraith along the candlelit corridor beyond.

After closing the door, he studied the dish, then shrugged. Even if it did nothing for his pain, the concoction surely couldn’t hurt. Limping across into his bathing chamber, he retrieved a thick towel as she had suggested, then moved to his bed to arrange it.

A couple minutes later he stretched out atop the mattress with a very comfortable pile of goose down pillows at his back. Opening the tureen he’d moved to his night table, he lifted out the steaming poultice, then with a cautious breath set it on his bared leg.

Breath hissed between his teeth, the heat nearly as intense as having a shovelful of smoldering coals dumped onto him—or so he imagined. Yet his skin didn’t burn, warmth spreading through his thigh in a deep, penetrating wave. As the initial shock faded and his muscles began to relax, the sensation turned from uncomfortable to pleasant, heat radiating further into his damaged flesh. A sigh eased past his lips—only this time from a sense of relief rather than misery.

To his distinct surprise, the merciless ache that had plagued him since first light that morning slowly began to recede. At length he reached down and tugged the coverlet over his other leg and a portion of his torso before reclining again more fully against the ocean of pillows behind him.

Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to the comforting warmth, wondering vaguely if this was how injured horses felt when they received similar treatment—the scents of mash and mustard and the other exotic ingredients Meg had used teasing his nostrils.

Sinking further, he drifted in a state somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, memories and half dreams sliding through his mind without reasoned awareness or control.

A fist struck him, pain exploding in his skull as his head snapped back on his neck. A second blow fell only seconds later, the taste of fresh blood blossoming with a metallic sweetness against his tongue.

“Enough,” said a voice, the command silky and emotionless. “Let’s give the major a chance to speak. Surely, he has something to say.”

Cade suppressed the need to groan but stayed silent, refusing to give even that much of a response.

“He must want us to play a bit more with his little friend, hmm? I’m sure she has some spark left in her yet. Can you hear her, Byron? Even now she’s moaning in eagerness to have another one of these fine soldiers between her legs. Shall we give her another taste of what a real man can do?”

But her moans were those of incoherent agony; even her earlier hysterical weeping had ceased.

“Stop,” Cade said through swollen lips. “Stop hurting her.” Something burned his eyes, wetness leaving cool trails against his cheeks.

“Are those tears, Byron?” the voice told him in precise, upper-class English. “You can end this, you know. You have only to share the information we require, and I personally guarantee you will both be set free.”

But they would not, Cade knew, realizing that the only freedom either of them would ever know again was that of death. It was only a matter of hours now, maybe not even that long, before they both passed into the grave.

Maybe if he’d told them earlier, she would still be whole and untouched. If he’d betrayed his honor and country, they would have left her in peace. But even in his current state of physical and emotional anguish, he knew there was nothing he could have done to save her. He’d condemned her to death by the simple act of knowing her.

His eyelids were forcibly wrenched open as her screams began anew, as the English traitor, whose features he could not see, made him watch.

He began screaming, too.

“Shh,” whispered a gentle voice, not the hated one, but another—soothing, familiar, female. Her hand stroked over his hair, along his cheek. He turned into her touch, needing it, needing her.

“Meg?” he whispered.

“Shh,” she crooned, feathering her lips over his forehead and temple, rubbing her satiny cheek against the roughness of his own before angling her mouth to meet his. His arms came around her as they kissed, the passion between them as hot and untamed as a tinder set against dry wood.

Impatient, he lifted her so she sat astride him, her arms and legs entwined around his hips. She made no protest at his boldness, pressing her body closer, opening her mouth to accept the dark possession of his kisses and the ravenous ardor of his roving touch.

Yet it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

Reaching for the neckline of her nightgown, he ripped the delicate fabric, silk falling to shreds inside his hands. Tossing the pieces aside, he gorged himself upon the lithe curves of her naked flesh. Cupping her breasts in his palms, he stroked her before moving along the silky length of her back to her finely rounded bottom. He kissed her with wild abandon, wondering if his brain would go blank from a surfeit of pleasure.

Opening his robe, he positioned her for his penetration, spreading her thighs wider to seat her as fully upon himself as she could go. Her breasts bounced, her lips parting on an inhalation of ecstasy as their gazes met. He stared into the lake blue depths of her eyes and shuddered with emotions he didn’t dare let himself understand.