The Hunger (19 page)

“Unlocked,” he announced before he even reached the gate. “The keepers grow careless.”

He
knew
it was unlocked. Was it still broken from her last assault upon it? How did he know? Had he . . . prepared for this?

The gate swung open. Fog hugged the grass, weighted by the dregs of the night. He swung up to his saddle and gestured her in. Dorrie sidled and jigged in anticipation. Beatrix kept her under tight rein. This would be only a stroll. The mare must learn to contain herself.

Beatrix was taken by surprise when the big chestnut gelding shot by her, Langley’s heels in his side. Damn him! She hardly had to give Dorrie the office to start and the mare was off in pursuit. Dorrie was swift and surefooted with experience of the park at night. Beatrix let her have her head. She thundered up behind the gelding. “Ha!” Beatrix shouted, the animal pleasure of a gallop thundering inside her in rhythm with Dorrie’s hooves. They drew abreast of Langley and his mount, but he had been holding the gelding in, and now he let him stretch out.

It will not be so easy as that, Langley
. She tapped Dorrie’s flank with her heel. The mare glided forward again. The two horses were neck and neck, racing on the graveled
track. Beatrix was hardly able to see a handbreadth ahead in the fog and the dark. The wet air plastered her hair against her head, soaking her garments. Foolhardy. She looked over and saw Langley grinning like a maniac and realized she was grinning, too. To sit the gallop was frantic sex, opening your hips and thrusting them forward to keep contact with the powerful plunge of the horse’s back. She felt invested in her body as never before.

Around the turn, clattering over the Serpentine Bridge, through the flower gardens, she and Langley plunged, their bodies giving with the stretch of the rein at every stride, as they leaned over their horses’ necks. First one led and then the other. The animals were evenly matched. Life surged down Beatrix’s veins. She had never been so attuned to her horse, or the horse next to her and the man riding that horse, and the night itself. A hard left at Rotten Row and then they were careering down the long straightaway. Another left at Broad Walk. If anyone were walking here, they would have been scattered like fall leaves. Beatrix was panting when the eastern gates loomed out of the fog again. She clucked once to Dorrie, who surged ahead.

Beatrix pulled up the mare, breathless and laughing. Langley slowed to a trot behind her, grinning and shaking his head, chest heaving. They patted their horses’ steaming necks.

“What a marvelous piece of horseflesh,” he gasped. “If you ever want to sell her . . .”

“Your boy is lovely, too,” she returned, stroking Dorrie. Both knew they wouldn’t sell.

They walked on in silence through the gates, listening to their horses blow. Beatrix felt . . . quiet inside. Not dull, as she had been of late, not anxious in dread of her memories, but quiet, almost content. She glanced at Langley. “I did not expect you to have the courage for a gallop.”

“I know,” he said.

“But you expected me to follow you.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t think you know me,” she warned.

“I shall take that upon advisement.”

Beatrix fell silent. She did not know him, either. That felt . . . interesting, for a change. After so long in the world, it was difficult to find something unexpected.

Either both of them were feeling that quiet contentment or both were afraid to speak for fear of quarreling. They walked back down Mount Street in silence. Carriages passed them. The watchman at the corner of the square argued with some drunken young men under the luminous halo of the street lamp in the fog. It didn’t matter. Nothing could touch the peace she felt inside.

As they came to the mews behind number 46, Langley leaped off Fletcher and tied the reins to a ring in an iron post near the door to the stables. Beatrix was perfectly capable of dismounting on her own, but she was strangely reluctant.

Langley turned, grabbed Dome’s reins and reached up for Beatrix. The burgundy wool of her habit seemed to melt, as if those strong hands on her waist clasped flesh direct. She could feel herself flushing. Thank God his vision at night was not nearly as good as hers. She put her hands on his shoulders. The bulge of muscle under his coat as he lifted her down sent a thrill through the part of her most recently intimate with her saddle. When he set her on her feet, her ankle turned and she fell against him.

“Damn!” she muttered as she peered down. The heel of her boot had broken.

“Easily remedied,” he growled, low in his throat. With one arm under her knees he swept her up and, carrying her, walked Dorrie and Fletcher into the stable. She was perfectly able to walk, but suddenly she wanted only to put her arms around his neck. The faint scent of soap filled her nostrils. His hair was dripping from the fog. She
was practically breathing into his ear. Indeed, her breast was turned into his chest and pressed against him. His blood beat in the great artery under his jaw. What a strong throat he had . . . The throbbing between her legs ramped up.

The towheaded stable boy appeared, rubbing his eyes and bobbing.

“Take these,” Langley muttered. He handed over the horses’ reins. “Rub them down well.”

“Shall I have the big ’un ready at any special time?” the boy asked.

Langley stared into Beatrix’s eyes, almost as though he didn’t hear. She should have looked away, but she could not. The longing she saw there was not the simple lust she knew so well. Nor was it the unquestioning adoration she had tired of. What was it?

“Take him round to the livery off Pall Mall as soon as it is light,” he said, without looking at the boy. “I’ll walk home.” He turned and carried her into the house through the rear door.

She laid her head on his shoulder as he carried her upstairs. The servants had gone to bed. No darkness stalked her now; it was reassuring. Still, she was afraid. Tonight she might break an abstention of six hundred years. What was wrong with her? She could lose herself and turn into Asharti if she gave in to her desire. Confusion churned inside her. She had probably forgotten how the thing was done. But she wanted this—wanted it for the first time in centuries. Not for the sex. Lord knew she had proven she could do without that. Then why? Because she felt some kind of kinship with him? Because she wanted . . . connection? She
wanted
to care about him, that was certain. It was almost a hunger. Not like her hunger for blood; it was deeper, more disturbing.

If she made love to him, she must give up his blood. Asharti had taught her that sex and blood don’t mix. If
she managed that, perhaps she could win through with some shred of herself intact. Could she resist?

“Here,” she whispered as they came to her boudoir.

John pushed open the door. A single candle burned on the night table, a fire burned in the grate. It cast a dim, flickering light on rich draperies, a painting of a rounded Venus attended by cherubs, the cut crystal on her dressing table. All were secondary to the great bed with red velvet hangings and brocade coverlets. He was about to make a fool of himself again. The countess did not know the meaning of the word “virtue.” She had bedded more men than he counted as acquaintance. Yet she kept a core of herself separate.

The vision of her that had sustained him in the hulks filled him. He was just stupid enough tonight to think that vision and the real woman before him might be one; that his version of her was what she held apart, unknowable by any but him, the part that loved Blake. He
wanted
it to be true with something almost like hunger. His cock swelled against his breeches. She would know the effect she was having on him the instant he put her down. Her breast swelled against his chest, her breath hot on his neck. Ambergris. That was what she had said her elusive scent was. Cinnamon and ambergris. Here they were at the bed and he did lay her upon it, but not with the intent of letting her go for long. Her gaze rose to his. There was such heat, such life there that he felt it like a throb in his spine that passed straight down into his already-swollen cock. How did one begin with a woman who knew everything? Would she think him clumsy?

Breathe
, he told himself.
Leave it to her. She is a courtesan. She’ll set things in motion
.

But she didn’t. She looked away and flushed, almost reticent. He had seen the heat in her eyes. She was not unaffected. He swallowed and pulled on his cravat. It was up to him, then. He struggled out of his coat and unbuttoned
his waistcoat. She made no move to undress. She meant to watch him. Very well. He cleared his throat, though he had no intention of speaking. He kicked off his shoes and bent to the buckles at his knees. There he was in breeches and shirt. She watched him with quickening breath. Yet she still seemed unsure. He slowed down, unbuttoned his cuffs and pulled his shirt over his head. It dropped to the floor. Nothing she hadn’t seen before, but she looked almost fearful.

God! He suddenly realized what she must be seeing. Scars. He could explain those with his reputation for dueling. What would a woman know about slashes instead of bullet holes? But what of the lashes? She would shortly see those. Why had he let himself take off his shirt? He reached for it. “I’m . . . I’m thinner than I’d like at the moment and the scars . . . I’ll cover up.”

Beatrix felt her tension go with a sigh. She hadn’t been sure whether she would let him make love to her or not until this moment. But to see such a strong and willful man so uncertain of himself, so wanting to please her . . . All sparring and jousting for preeminence between them fell away. She would make love to him because she wanted to do it for him, because his desire to please her said he just might care. She must just keep her Companion in check.

“It’s all right,” she said as she softened into a smile. “I think you are beautiful.”

He swallowed, still unsure. “If you would rather . . .”

She rose, still smiling, and took his shirt gently from him. She felt the blood throbbing in his loins as well as her own. “I like making love naked.” Was that true? It was now . . .

God help him, if that’s what she wanted, that’s what she would have. He could keep his back away from her. She
need never see the pink new skin. The scabs were gone, were they not? He unbuttoned his breeches and slid them over the fullness of his erection. That at least was well made, he knew. His sex was heavy, so engorged he felt light-headed with desire.

Her smile grew. “Very beautiful.” She dropped his shirt to the floor.

He pulled breeches and stockings off in one move for each leg and stood there before her, naked. No woman had ever asked this of him. He firmly put down all thoughts that naked, she would know too much about him. “And you?” he murmured. Her riding habit had frogs and covered buttons down the front in a military style. “Shall I undo your buttons?”

She sat up and he moved in. “Too much trouble. I never liked mis habit anyway.” She grabbed the bodice with both hands and pulled. There was a rending sound as the frogs parted. John was shocked. What woman would rip such a beautiful garment? She had torn her chemise as well. Her breasts spilled out as she shrugged off the wreckage. Her shoulders were delicate, her breasts heavy, with dusky aureoles around the fine, small nipples. It was not possible to be more aroused, but his balls tightened. His cock quivered in expectation.

She pulled the habit out from under her, kicked off her boots, and tossed the wool on the floor in a burgundy pile. She did not bother to roll her stockings down but slipped them off over the curve of her leg and tossed them after the habit. And all the while her eyes never left John’s.

If John could hardly breathe, she seemed to be doing fine. Watching the rise and fall of her breasts was almost torture. She raised her arms, took several pins from her hair and shook it out. It fell in red-black profusion over her shoulders and down her back, glowing with reflected firelight.

John could not stand here resisting the urge to plunge
his cock into the dark thatch between her legs forever. He thought he might burst even now and he wanted this to be a slow pleasure, not some rushed release of fluids. She held out her arms.

Somehow, he only took her hands. She scooted to the center of the huge bed and lay back. He crawled across the richly patterned gold and red brocade and laid himself gently beside her. His cock brushed her thigh. He could feel it pulse against her. She twined her arms around his neck. Her breasts brushed against his chest, the nipples teasing him. His breath hissed in through his mouth. The blood pounding in his genitals was almost painful. He bent to her lips.

The shock of touching her lips almost set him off. How could lips touching lips feel more sensual than the touching of even more intimate body parts? Soft, yielding. Her tongue touched the inside of his mouth, gentle and profound. He spread his hand over her buttocks and pressed her against him as he, in turn, explored her mouth with his tongue. She pushed her thigh between his and his own thigh slid over her hip, capturing her and bringing them even closer together. They were entwined, a single entity where electric need shot between them and around them, engulfing what they had been moments ago. He ran his hands over her shoulders and splayed his palm over her back. The feel of her smooth, fine skin made his own feel coarse by comparison.

Her hands strayed to his hip, smoothed over his buttocks, and then sneaked down between their bodies to cup his balls. She must feel how tight they were with need. She pressed behind them, just at the base, and stroked deep. He gasped. No one had ever touched him just there. It felt as though she were touching the core of his maleness. Then, gently massaging the twin stones in their sac, she came to the base of his cock. Again she pressed deeply to its root and rubbed there. She did not
touch the shaft itself, which only made him want her touch the more.

He was busy, too. He bent to her throat and kissed it as his hands rubbed her hip. She bared her neck and moaned in some kind of ecstasy as he suckled there. Then his lips strayed to her breast. He drew on it gently. She arched into him, her nipple hard in his mouth. The pleasure of feeling her nipple on his tongue was only heightened by knowing the pleasure it gave her. When he thought he would burst, she pulled away. Her eyes were serious. What was wrong? She looked so . . . concerned.