The Rogue (39 page)

"No?"

"No."
He rose from the bed and stood with one arm braced on the bedpost as
he visibly fought for breath and control. His naked back gleamed. His
snugly fitted black breeches outlined his body, a body made to love
hers. Jane simply couldn't understand.

"But…
I… I need you so, Ethan," she gasped, too breathless and
deprived to speak. "P-please, come back."

He
whirled to glare down on her then. Jane drew back in shock. The dark
blaze in his eyes was something she'd never seen before. He looked
wild, furious, and deathly, blackly amused.

"She
begs." He wiped one arm across his brow. "I begged, too, I
think. Little good it did me."

A
bleak chill began to creep through Jane. She turned her head, unable
to meet that gaze. Her vision blurred behind a hot wash of tears. She
pulled against her bonds. "Free me," she demanded, her
voice thick. "Free me at once."

"Free
yourself, Lady Jane," he said flatly. "You're only trapped
in a bit of twist. A child could figure it out."

Jane
realized that he was quite correct. A mere swiveling of her wrist
untwisted the loop of cord enough for her to slip each hand free. She
hadn't truly been bound at all.

She
slid from the other side of the great bed, towing one of the cream
silk sheets to cover herself. She fumbled with her underthings and
drew her gown over her head, but could not manage the buttons. Her
hands were shaking from arousal and fear that she had done something
that Ethan would never be able to forgive.

Somehow,
she had struck him to the core—a deadly blow, by the look in
his hot, dark eyes.

When
she was as decent and armored by her clothing as she could be, she
took a breath and turned back to him.

He
was standing with his back to her, still half-naked, at the window
staring out into the night. One hand was braced on the embrasure, the
other held a nearly empty glass of brandy. As she watched, he tossed
the last swallow back angrily, then tossed the glass carelessly to
the cushion beneath the window. It bounced from the stiff horsehair
and fell to the floor with a shrill crack. The noise made Jane's raw
nerves jump.

"Oh,
look," Ethan said without a shred of concern in his voice. "I
broke it."

Jane
couldn't breathe. She felt as if an iron band were wrapped about her
ribs, constraining them like barrel staves. She swallowed. "Ethan—"
she began.

He
turned his head, putting his expressionless profile against the
night. "Why would you think we could marry?"

"I
thought—I hoped—I thought if I overcame your objections,
that…" She trailed off.

"That
what? That I would miraculously transform into the gentleman that I
am not and drop to one knee?"

Jane
stepped forward. "No! No, it was nothing like that! Ethan,
please don't think—"

He
turned then. Never had she seen such blank fury in his eyes. "Then
what was it, Jane? What did you hope to accomplish here tonight?"

"I
hoped… I hoped you would…" She shrugged
helplessly. "I hoped you would allow me in."

He
laughed darkly, shaking his head. "There is no 'in,' Jane. Even
if there was, there would be nothing of value to you there. You
persist in fooling yourself."

"Don't
say that, Ethan! I love you! I know that you care for me, that you
love—"

"Dear
God, Jane—
leave
me be
!"
His tormented howl echoed in the silent house. Jane recoiled.

His
breath came harshly as he visibly forced himself to calm. He ran a
frustrated hand through his hair, then raised his head to gaze at her
levelly. "Lady Jane, I don't know how to be more clear."

Jane
backed away a step. "Ethan, don't—"

He
straightened completely, his expression calm and his gaze even. "I
don't love you, Jane. I never will. Not now. Not ever."

Jane
felt her soul curling and dying around the edges. His gaze, his
manner—he was absolutely convincing. Could it be that he truly
didn't love her?

The
pain took her breath away. She wanted to turn and run from the room,
from the house, from his blank, vaguely pitying gaze. Yet she could
not stop fighting.

"You're
lying, Ethan." She fought to sound as sure as she desperately
needed to be.

He
shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I have
never lied to you. I never led you to believe that I would play a
part in the saga of Lady Jane."

Jane
gave a damp, angry laugh. "No, you've never lied to me. You have
only lied to yourself!"

"Meaning?"

She
looked away, drew a broken breath, then met his eyes once more. "You
tell yourself that you don't want more. You tell yourself that the
life you have carved out for yourself is all you want—or
perhaps that it is all you deserve, or are allowed—"

He
reacted, finally, drawing back in denial. "You have no idea what
you're talking about."

Jane
wiped a hand across her face, flinging her tears away angrily. "I
know you, Ethan Damont. I know that within you is trapped a man who
wants so much more from this world that he is fair to dying from it!"

He
paled then, the darkness in his eyes nearly frightening. She saw one
emotion chase another through that darkness. Hope and aching need
fled before killing self-loathing and denial.

Her
heart broke into tiny china chips when she saw denial take the fore.

"You
simply refuse to see it, don't you, Lady Jane? You cannot force this.
You cannot wave your elegant, aristocratic hand and command this into
being. All the stubborn will in the world will not overcome the fact
that
I
don't love you
."

The
cruelty of it struck her like a lash, but she would not fail him now,
now when he needed her the most. The man within could not—would
not even try to—prevail unless she convinced him that nothing
could drive her away. The only way to do that was to match his every
bitter blow with love.

She
met his gaze with level and relentless compassion. "Perhaps you
don't love me." She lifted her chin and squared off against the
enemy. "But I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here. So
you're just going to have to go on pretending that it's me you do not
love."

His
eyes flared. "Very well. I will." He approached her, his
step slow and implacable. Hot hard hands gripped her shoulders and he
drew her to him. It was like leaning into a furnace of pain and
contradiction. His body wanted her again, she could feel it. His soul
cried out for her, she could see it behind the demon in his eyes. But
his face— his beautiful dark angel face—was ravaged by
anger and disbelief. He had a formidable will, her Ethan. Her love
was more so.

Now
Jane would finally grasp that he was not the man she thought him. He
was not good. He was not honorable. He was
not
worthy.

When
he crushed her to him and drove his mouth down on hers, she did not
fight him or struggle against the discomfort he was causing her. She
only very slowly, very gently ran her hands up his straining arms and
across his shoulders, until she cupped his jaw softly in her palms.
When he would let her, she kissed him back. When he would not, she
suffered his bruising kiss unresisting. The fire began to build
within her even so, astonishing her with its heat. It could not be
that she enjoyed such treatment!

Yet
there was no denying the effect his touch had on her, even such angry
caresses. Perhaps it was because she could feel the need behind his
bruising grip on her bottom, she could feel the ache within him as he
rubbed his groin crudely against her.

"Do
what you will," Jane said, gasping as his hands wrapped over her
aching breasts. She covered his hot hands softly with her own. "I
will always be here."

He
flinched, the first crack in the wall he'd built so well about
himself. Softly she put her hands on his cheeks and turned his gaze
back to meet hers. The crazed shell of his certainty was shifting,
breaking, like a frozen river in spring. Soon he would flow freely
into her arms. She could not give up now.

She
gazed into his eyes with all the force she could muster against her
own hurt and trembling desire. "I will always be here," she
repeated slowly. "
Always
."

He
almost gave in. She could see the awe and faith flare behind his
eyes, like a new spark.

Thudding
footsteps sounded in the hall. They both turned in astonishment as, a
fraction of a second later, the door crashed in under the force of
several burly men.

Ethan
thrust Jane behind him, crouching in a fighting stance though he had
no chance against so many.

«
^
»

Ethan
stood bound and bloodied, held by two of Lord Maywell's least injured
flunkies. Jane was held in the grasp of another who bore battle scars
of his own. They'd been forcibly dressed as well.

Serena,
it seemed, had reassured her mother, who in turn had reassured her
fretting husband.

Maywell
paced before them. "You dared to touch a lady—ruin a lady,
at that. You've always reached too high, Damont. This time you lost
your footing and fell."

Ethan
gazed narrowly at Maywell. "So all your fine talk of equality
was nonsense. I should be surprised—but I'm not. You like your
privileges just fine, don't you?"

Maywell
glared. "Ideology is one thing. Presumption is something else
altogether." He gestured to his men to bring Ethan along. "You
want so badly to live like a gentleman, Damont. I'm going to give you
the chance to die like one. A duel at sunrise in Hyde Park. How is
that for an aristocratic end?"

"No!"
Jane struggled wildly in the hands of her captors. Ethan wanted to
tell her not to bother but she wasn't looking at him. She was staring
at her uncle, incredulity written all over her face. "Why? You
care naught for me. Why should you give a damn if I take a lover?"

Maywell
hooked his walking stick over his elbow and tugged his cravat
straight, a baffling glint of panic in his eyes. "A lady would
have suffered in Bedlam until the day she died, rather than be
unchaste," he said sadly. He cast Jane a look of pity. "The
inheritance is a sham, isn't it? There was no more in that account
than my daughters could go through in one day's shopping. Do you
think anyone will take you now, an impoverished, ruined lady? Good
God, girl! Don't be so naïve. Do you think this cit gives a damn
about you?"

Jane
didn't so much as glance Ethan's way. "He loves me. Don't bother
trying to convince me otherwise. If he couldn't, you've not a chance
in hell."

Maywell
tsked. "Such language. Oh, well. I suppose it isn't your fault.
I'm told that the mad have no control over their tongues. You've been
slipping away from us for a while now, haven't you, dear? This
penchant for unchaste behavior. Then, running away from your home and
loved ones?"

Jane
flinched. "You threw us together, remember?"

Maywell
shook his head. "A true lady would not have given up her virtue
in less than a week! You really are a brazen little thing, aren't
you?" He gestured his men to bind her hands behind her back. "So
it's back to Bedlam for you, Jane. I've put them on notice that
they're not to permit another escape. They've informed me that they
have the means to chain their more recalcitrant inmates. Of course,
you have Damont here to thank for Bedlam— that was his idea."

Jane
blinked. The flush of anger on her face paled so abruptly that it
hurt Ethan to see it. She looked at him, finally, staring at him as
if he were a stranger—as if he'd been moved from her side to
face her across that endless gulf once again.

He
closed his eyes. "Maywell, you're a vicious bastard."

Maywell
sighed. "Just like you, Damont. Two of a kind, remember?"