The Dark One (19 page)

“It drives me mad,” he answered. “You drive me mad. The sight of you alone. The scent of you.”

No man could stare so intently into her eyes and lie. Rosalind leaned in closer to him, close enough for their breaths to mingle. His hand suddenly cupped the back of her head. He kissed her.

There amid the steam and the heat from the water, he tasted her mouth, thrust his tongue inside to tease and dance and plunder. She didn't realize that her hand wrapped around his sex followed the movements of his thrusting tongue. She didn't realize he'd reached up and unfastened the buttons at the neck of her gown, all the way to her waist, until she felt his hand inside her bodice.

Her aching breast swelled into the fit of his palm. Her nipple hardened with anticipation. He rubbed his callused palm against it, beading it into a tight ball of sensation. Then his mouth was on her neck, forging a trail of hot kisses and soft nips at her skin all the way down her body until he pushed her gown aside and pulled her chemise down to expose her breasts.

“Lovely,” she heard his muffled comment before his mouth fastened greedily upon her nipple.

She arched her neck back, squeezed him with her hand, and heard his deep moan against her breasts. Suddenly his other hand closed over hers beneath the water. He ceased her up-and-down motion against his water-slick member.

“What are you doing to me?” He pulled back to look at her. “What have you already done?”

She didn't understand what he asked. “I don't know.”

“You know enough,” he assured her. “Enough to shake my control. You have to stop now, Rosalind. Stop before you see me shatter beneath your innocent explorations.”

Shatter? What did he mean? And she still ached for him. Not only her breasts, hungry for more of his attention, but also between her legs. She'd thought by having control she could control her own emotions as well. She was wrong. It was a trick after all. How could she have known that by his allowing her to touch him she would end up wanting his touch in return?

Rosalind removed her hand from his swollen member and stumbled back from him. She splashed water on her gown when she quickly jerked the gaping garment closed.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I-I can't.” That was all she managed before she scrambled up off the floor, ran to her room, and slammed the door.

She leaned against the door, fighting the temptation to open it and go back in, to demand that he “shatter,” whatever that meant. She halfway feared, halfway anticipated, that he'd test the door, possibly put his weight against it and send her stumbling toward the center of the room.

She'd acted brazenly with him, regardless that he'd invited her to do just that. Regardless that she was his wife and, she supposed, entitled to be forward if she chose to be. What could she expect? Nothing but for him to storm into her room now and do his worst . . . or perhaps his best.

Armond had resisted the urge to burst into Rosalind's room and finish what they had started. Instead he had dressed and gone out for the evening. He'd watched Chapman's carriage house, and when the man left driving his phaeton buggy, Armond had followed him. The hour was late, and it didn't surprise Armond that Chapman would be drawn to Covent Garden. The area was known as a gathering place for prostitutes.

Bess O'Conner had once frequented this area, Armond had learned eight months prior. He suspected the woman found recently in his stable was also a streetwalker. He was surprised that Chapman didn't have more expensive tastes when it came to female companionship. But then again, these women might serve his purposes better if he did indeed beat his women either before or after having relations with them.

Ahead of Armond, the phaeton slowed near a corner where four women stood. One of the women broke from the group and sauntered toward Chapman. Her gown revealed a good portion of her leg, as was customary dress for a woman of her profession. Armond closed his eyes and concentrated on hearing the conversation. It was an odd talent, but one that he now counted as an asset.

“Looking for company, love?” the woman asked Chapman.

“I am,” Chapman answered. “But not your company. Send the dark-haired woman in the red dress over. She's slimmer and more to my tastes.”

“She's skinny,” the woman argued. “I have a nice plump shape, more to a man's liking, I'd think, than her scarecrow bones. You'll want something more to hold on to, love.”

“Here's a coin to do my bidding,” Chapman snapped. “Now send over the dark-haired one and be quick about it.”

There was silence for a moment. Armond opened his eyes, squinting through the darkness to see the woman who'd approached Chapman speaking to another prostitute—a slim brunette wearing a gaudy red dress. The brunette joined Chapman.

“Molly says you have an interest in me,” she said. The woman glanced over her shoulder and muttered, “Fat cow. I have crib—”

“No cribs,” Chapman interrupted the woman. “I have a place where we can conduct business.”

The brunette placed a hand on her hip. “And how will I be getting back? I'm not walking all over the city—”

“I'll see that you find your way back,” Chapman assured her. “Now climb in.”

The brunette didn't hesitate. She walked around and climbed into the phaeton. Chapman had found a breeding ground for women who would accompany him without question, and without the good sense to know they shouldn't, Armond thought.

He supposed it was the opinion of many in London, the authorities included, that women like the brunette took their chances and usually got what they deserved for
selling their bodies on the street. That also worked to Chapman's advantage, if he indeed had murdered Bess O'Conner and the woman recently found in Armond's stable.

Chapman set the phaeton into motion and Armond followed, keeping enough distance behind the man to, he hoped, go unnoticed. Wherever Chapman was taking the woman, it wasn't in the direction of his residence. In fact, the neighborhoods grew progressively worse as they traveled. Had Armond's attention not been riveted upon the phaeton Chapman drove and keeping up with him, he might have noticed the danger that dogged him. He saw them too late.

Five men broke from the shadows and rushed him. His horse shied, and while Armond was in the process of trying to control the animal, one man managed to grab his leg and pull him off of the horse's back. Armond landed hard against the cobblestone street, knocking his head soundly against the stones in the process.

“Find his coin purse,” he heard a man say. “No sense in going to all this trouble not to make a little extra in the bargain.”

Hands rifled through Armond's pockets. He allowed the fondling until his senses cleared. The men's faces looming over him were still somewhat blurry due to the knock to his head, but he reached up and grabbed one man by the collar. Armond pulled back his fist and punched the man squarely in the nose. Blood gushed, splattering Armond's clothing.

The man stumbled back. “Bloody hell! He broke my nose!”

Something about the blood, the scent of it, roused him, gave him the strength to push four men off of him and gain his feet. Armond had been trained in gentlemen's boxing when he was only a boy. That wouldn't do tonight. Not
with these men. All were burly, street-hardened-looking chaps. They circled him, like a pack of hungry wolves.

“Take him from behind!” one man yelled to another.

Armond turned, kicked, and landed a solid blow to the man's head behind him. The thief went down. Armond quickly turned back to the men in front of him, raised his fists, and waited.

“See him move?” one man asked the others. “Never seen a man move like that before.”

“Get him!” someone yelled, and two men stormed Armond from the front, while one jumped on his back and tried to lock his muscular arms around him. He took a blow to the jaw, but he threw his head back and smashed into the man holding him, connecting with his face. The man howled in pain and released Armond.

Free from his restraints, Armond threw his fist into one man's stomach. The air left his attacker's lungs in a loud
whoosh.
Another man came at Armond and he swept the man's feet with his legs, tripping him. Armond's blood sang in his veins and he realized he fought as he had never fought before. His senses were so heightened that he almost felt as if he could read the men's intentions before they could carry them out.

He knew the man in front of him would rush him again before he did it. But Armond didn't expect the man to suddenly draw up, or his face to pale in the darkness.

“Good God, look at his eyes. Never seen eyes like that.”

Nor did Armond expect, while he was focused on the man and wondering what it was about him that had frightened the thief, that a man behind him would suddenly smash something against his skull. The pain sent Armond to his knees. The shapes of the men standing around him blurred; then he saw only darkness.

Rosalind was in the process of trying to sweep her hair on top of her head when she noticed the marks. She leaned closer to her mirror. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she turned her neck so that it was better visible to her. Odd, she thought. Two red marks stood out against her pale skin. Teeth marks perhaps, only she didn't think normal teeth could make the two small red indentions. They looked more like, well, like bite marks. Like marks canine teeth might make.

She remembered Armond kissing and biting at her neck yesterday while she had so boldly attended him in his bath. The memory brought a blush to her cheeks. She had expected Armond to come shoving his way into her room and to demand his husbandly rights, but he had not. In fact, she had not seen her husband since the incident between them took place.

Her gaze strayed to the still closed door that adjoined their rooms—or separated them, however a person wanted to look at it. She hadn't heard him stirring about in there. She walked to the door, pressed her ear against it, and listened. Nothing. Rosalind placed her hand on the knob. She tried to turn it slowly so it wouldn't make noise. The door squeaked slightly when she pushed it open. She walked into the room. Her husband wasn't there.

The bath from the previous day had been removed. The room was tidy, the bed made. She sat upon the bed. This was where Armond slept. Where, when she felt the time was right, which she supposed would be when she thought Armond cared more for her than in a physical way, they would consummate their marriage. A vision of him naked came to mind. She fanned her face with her hand, suddenly too warm.

She hoped it wasn't a sin to think about a man and wonder how it would feel to have the whole naked length
of him pressed against her. Then she remembered the man was her husband, so she supposed it wasn't a sin. Rosalind rose from the bed and smoothed out a wrinkle that evidenced her presence in Armond's room. She walked around, stopping to study his brush, his shaving items, several of his personal belongings.

A soft rap sounded upon the door before it opened and she saw Hawkins standing outside. “Good morning, Lady Wulf,” he said formally, looking unsurprised to see her in his Lordship's bedchamber. He glanced past her. “I wanted to tell Lord Wulf that breakfast is served.”

“He isn't here,” Rosalind said. “Isn't he downstairs?”

The man frowned. “No, my Lady. I haven't seen him since he left the house last night.”

Rosalind glanced toward the bed. “Is Armond, Lord Wulf, in the habit of making his own bed?”

“Hardly,” the man answered.

The implication hung in the air between them. Armond had not slept in his bed last night. Rosalind didn't know how to react. She didn't know Armond well enough to know if this was his usual behavior or if she should be worried about his whereabouts. It occurred to her that, being his wife, she should be worried about the fact that he hadn't spent the night in his bed regardless. If not in his bed, then whose?

“Breakfast is ready, you say?” she asked, because the moment grew awkward.

“Yes, my Lady. Will you be coming down, or should I bring a tray up to you?”

“I'll come down,” Rosalind decided. She followed Hawkins out, regardless that she hadn't dressed her hair as she'd intended to do. Putting it up would only call attention to the strange marks on her neck.

She found herself hoping as she entered the dining room that Armond would suddenly appear. His place remained
empty. She seated herself and made a go of having breakfast. After a while, she realized she was only playing with the food, not eating it. Hawkins strode past.

“Hawkins,” she called. The man retraced his steps. He lifted a brow. “Has Lord Wulf returned?” she asked.

Hawkins glanced away from her. “No, Lady Wulf.”

“Thank you,” she dismissed him, a little embarrassed that she had to inquire about her husband's whereabouts only two days into her marriage with him. Rosalind gave up on eating her breakfast. The longer Armond remained missing, the more her stomach churned. Her thoughts strayed to the house next door. She hoped Franklin was not somehow responsible for her missing husband. If Armond didn't arrive home soon, she might have the nerve to march across the lawn and ask Franklin.