Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (16 page)

She arched her hips, meeting his thrusts, gasping when his penis stroked sensitive spots within her she hadn’t been aware she had. With each deep, driving stroke, a shiver of raw delight spiraled through her body. She dragged her nails down his back, clutched his tight male ass. Somehow sensing what she wanted, he drove harder, faster, plunging more deeply into her body.

A tremor built within her, tingling through her belly and down her thighs. Her body felt tightly strung, like a violin, the strings pulled so tightly they might snap. Then a flood of sensation racked her heightened nerves. Brianna panted and arched her back as spasms of pleasure burst between her legs and rocked up her spine. She gave a cry of startled release as her climax swept through her. She shuddered and buried her mouth against Jonathon’s shoulder, his skin slick and salty against her tongue.

The muscles of Jonathon’s back bunched as he drove into her one last time. A low groan escaped his lips. His body stiffened above her, then a shudder ran through his frame as with a final, deep thrust he poured himself into her.

His elbows abruptly buckled, and he collapsed on top of her. As Brianna roused herself from her dazed, sated wonder at their union, she became aware of several things at once. The way Jonathon's short, ragged breathing matched her own. The mingled, slick perspiration of their skin and the heady, potent scent of their lovemaking. The tangled mass of sheets beneath her back. The way the firelight cast odd shadows across the ceiling. And finally the weight—the heavy, rock-solid, pure muscle weight—of Jonathon's body on top of her own.

"Jonathon?"

"What?"

"I can't breathe."

"You always so hard to please, angel?" She heard the grin in his voice as he shifted off her.

He rolled onto his side and gathered her into his arms, spooning her against his chest as though he never meant to let her go. He brought up his hands—Lord, she’d come to love those hands—and traced them lightly over her ribcage.

They lay together in silence for several minutes, listening to the pounding of their hearts. He brushed a light kiss against her cheek, her ear, her hair. “Tomorrow,” he murmured. “We’ll sort everything out tomorrow.”

* * *

Pale lavender light filtered through the pale linen curtains, lifting the veil of darkness that enveloped the room. Brianna sat in a chair across from the bed, fully dressed, her valise packed and sitting at her feet. The sun’s early rays lifted the shadows and brightened the murky corners of the room.

She focused her gaze on Jonathon. He lay in the bed, peacefully asleep. Even in repose he was powerfully male—all corded muscle and sinew, without an ounce of spare flesh anywhere.

She committed his profile to memory. His broad forehead, smoothly sculpted cheeks, firm, sensuous lips. Lips that quirked in a smile, or spoke outrageous words to her, or kissed her with a searing heat that made her limbs melt. He shifted slightly and a few tendrils of golden hair fell across his brow. Brianna balled her fists, fighting the impulse to smooth back that hair. She knew precisely how it would feel. For all its thickness and wave, Jonathon’s hair was surprisingly silky to the touch, woven with shades of gold that varied from deep chestnut to pale blond.

Her eyes moved next to his clothing. (Lord Warwick’s clothing, she supposed, although she hadn’t bothered to ask.) The formal garments had suited Jonathon perfectly.

Tomorrow he would be in London. Back in the world where he belonged. She pictured him in his normal surroundings. An elegant home replete with fine furnishings and efficient servants. Entertaining fine lords and ladies. Seducing pretty parlor maids and the daughters of dukes.

Jonathon’s words tumbled through her memory:

A prince would never marry a lowly serving girl.

No, he wouldn’t. Nor would a viscount marry the illegitimate daughter of a British sailor and a Cantonese whore. Oh, he might dally with her for a while, but he would expect her to know when their grand adventure was over and behave accordingly.

For the fact was, the man with whom she had fallen in love, Jonathon Brooks, had never existed. Before her now was Lord Brooksbank. It would be so easy to fall into the trap of depending on him. Relying on his strength, his presence, his command, assuming he could help her establish herself in London. He would, of course. That was the kind of man he was. But his civility, his kindness, would kill her. She would relieve him of that burden. Of the over-reaching awkwardness that would hang between them at their parting.

Brianna stood.

Soft pink haze seeped in through the slit in the curtain and the crack beneath the door, filling the elegant space with light and warmth. It was only a matter of minutes before he awakened. Brianna could picture it now. He would rise like the sun. Shake his golden head. Beam a soft, seductive smile her way. Reach to pull her into his arms.

And she would not be there.

Her chest constricted. Her throat tightened and tears pricked her eyes.
Go. Now
, her mind urged, before he woke and it was impossible to leave. She groped blindly for the doorknob, turned and slipped out of the room. She fled down the stairs, leaving nothing but the soft echo of her footfall in her wake.

Chapter Eighteen

“I’m sorry, my lord,” stammered the ancient butler. “But he is indisposed at the moment. Perhaps if you would leave your card—”

Jonathon’s arm shot out to prevent the door from shutting in his face. Ignoring the butler’s feeble protest, he stepped into the foyer of his cousin Richard’s home. “He will see me.
Now
.”  His voice reverberated off the walls. Jonathon was not normally a rude man. Nor was he a violent one. But he’d be damned if he’d put this off another second. He dragged his gaze about the space, taking in the worn marble stair, tired settee, threadbare rugs. “Where is he?”

The butler’s eyes shot past Jonathon to the two solemn-looking men accompanying him. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. “My lords, if you would be so kind—”

“No,” Jonathon said, releasing a curt breath of air. “I have no intention of being
kind
.”

A door swung open and Richard strode through. His mouth was open and his brows were knit in irritation, as though ready to deliver a stinging set-down to whomever was bold enough to intrude upon his privacy. His gaze landed on Jonathon and he froze. He blinked once, twice, then stretched his lips into an expression Jonathon assumed was meant to pass for a smile. “Why, cousin. How… what a surprise.”

“No doubt.”

The two men silently eyed one another. Then Richard’s gaze drifted lower, landing on the items Jonathon carried: a gentleman’s hat adorned with a gaudy crimson ribbon, an overcoat with a wilted red carnation tacked on the lapel. Richard visibly paled and took an involuntary step backward, as though Jonathon were brandishing the carcass of a recently slaughtered animal..

“Lucky Red, wasn’t it?” Jonathon prompted.

“What? Oh. Um, yes. You didn’t have to return them personally. I could have sent—”

“No trouble at all. In fact, it’s my distinct pleasure.”

“I see.” Their gazes locked again, then Richard tore his eyes away and surveyed the two men who stood behind Jonathon, both somber-faced and broad shouldered, their large frames blocking the front doorway. In a desperate bid at control, he pivoted to his butler, who’d been uncertainly watching the exchange unfold. “Well? What are you just standing there for?” he hissed. “
Take the bloody things
.”

The elderly servant sprang forward and relieved Jonathon of the items.

That accomplished, Richard drew himself up. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your trip. I can’t invite you and your friends to stay. I have a rather pressing engagement.”

“It can wait.”

Jonathon strode past Richard, ignoring his cousin’s shouts of protest as he shouldered his way into the study.

Once there, he found Lila Featherstone sitting on a crushed velvet settee, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She was dressed in a gown of vibrant apple green muslin. Buttery sunlight poured in from the window behind her, enhancing the soft glow of her pale skin and emphasizing the rich golden hue of her hair. She appeared deliberately posed, as though waiting for an artist, some Renaissance master perhaps, to capture her beauty for the ages.

Her presence solved the last piece of the puzzle. Jonathon had wondered about Lila’s complicity, see-sawing back and forth with doubt. No longer. Now he knew.

“Darling,” she trilled, coming to her feet. “Whatever happened to you? I expected you back from Liverpool days ago.”

She moved toward him as though to bestow a chaste kiss upon his cheek. His stare was enough to stop her cold. She gave a shrill laugh, her hand delicately fluttering to rest against her chest. “Why, Jonathon. I’d think you weren’t happy to see me.”

“On the contrary, my dear. I’m delighted to find you here. It makes everything so much simpler, doesn’t it?”

Lila and Richard exchanged a wary glance. “I can’t imagine what you mean by that,” she began.

Ignoring her, he turned to the two men who accompanied him. “I’d like to introduce my companions: Constable Harrow, with the Metropolitan Police, and my solicitor, Mr. Walker.”

“My goodness, this appears rather grave,” said Lila. She gathered her skirts in her hand and turned toward the door. “Surely it cannot concern me. I’ll leave you gentlemen to your—”

“Sit,” Jonathon bit out. “Both of you. Now.”

Richard, not understanding he’d already lost, puffed up his chest. “Now see here, Brooksbank. I don’t know what this is about, but you’re forgetting whose home this is. I will not tolerate that tone.”

“You will put your ass in that seat
now
or I will put you in it.” He turned to Lila. “That goes for you as well, my dear.”

“How unspeakably vulgar,” Lila huffed, but she complied, as did Richard.

Jonathon’s gaze raked over the two of them as they sat side-by-side. His handsome, smug, self-righteous cousin. Lila Featherstone, the privileged daughter of an earl, a woman of innate beauty, grace, and style. They would do well together. Such a fine pair of beautiful, amoral creatures.

“As time is of the essence,” Jonathon said, “I will make this brief. Constable Harrow is prepared to levy charges of conspiracy to commit murder against the both of you.”

“
What?”
Richard shot to his feet.

Lila clutched Richard’s arm. “Is this some sort of horrid joke?”

“A joke?” Jonathon raised a single brow. “I fail to see the humor in this situation. The truth is, my dear, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“This is preposterous,” Richard bit out, his face red with outrage. “I must insist you leave my home this instant, or I shall have no choice but to—”

“You should have taken greater care in hiring your assassins,” Jonathon said. “The two you hired were not only sloppy with their aim, but with their words as well—particularly after they’d had a few drinks.” He leveled Richard with a cool stare. “They talked. Rather copiously, I’m afraid, blurting out to anyone who would listen about the ‘bloke from London who paid good money to kill some fancy nob and make it look like a robbery.’”

It was all a bluff—little more than a well-reasoned guess. He certainly hadn’t gathered any evidence yet to prove it. But the presence of Constable Harrow behind him did add a certain credibility to his words. And judging from the way the blood drained from Richard’s face, his conjecture had been directly on the mark.

“You can’t prove anything,” Richard sputtered. “The word of two filthy thieves against mine?”

Satisfaction spread through Jonathon’s chest. No denial, just bickering over proof. Exactly the move he’d hoped his cousin would make. “Come now, Richard. The crimson ribbon, the red carnation? You marked me. Sweet Harry doesn’t exist. The barmaid saw you drug my drink. I could go on, but why? It’s all rather tedious now, isn’t it?”

“You can’t… I won’t… It wasn’t even my idea.”

“No. I didn’t think so.” Jonathon turned next to Lila. “How disappointing it must be that your lover failed you in such a simple task.”

Lila stared at him, looking entirely nonplussed. An ice princess regally seated on her throne. Her cool blue gaze locked on his. A beat passed, then two, three. Finally she lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

He almost smiled. A worthy opponent. What a fool he’d been not to have seen it sooner. The calculated embraces, the enticing smiles, the merry chase through formal balls, music recitals, and reading salons, deliberately leading him on. Keeping him just out of reach while she plotted with his cousin—certainly the more malleable of the pair, driven by greed, and so mindlessly smitten with the beautiful Lila Featherstone he would willingly do her bidding. Even when it involved murder.

Enough. He’d had enough of both of them to last a lifetime. He withdrew his pocketwatch and glanced at the time. “At the East India Dock there is a ship bound for Bombay. It departs in an hour’s time. I have booked your passage; you will be aboard it when it sails.”

Richard released a curt laugh. “I have no intention of sailing anywhere. Certainly nowhere as crude and Godforsaken as India.”

Jonathon continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “If you ever darken my door again, surface anywhere in England, or dare to bother my wife or I—”

Lila rose. She sent him a coy smile and softly purred, “Darling, if that was a proposal, it was a rather indelicate one.”

Jonathon started. He’d been thinking of Brianna, only Brianna, but he’d gotten a little ahead of himself. First he had to finish this ugly business, then find her. He looked directly at Lila. “My wife? You? My dear, obviously you have a much more highly developed sense of humor than I gave you credit for.”

Her eyes darkened. Spots of heat flashed on her cheeks. “I will not stand here and be insulted. My father—”

“Is up to his elbows in debt. His estates are mortgaged, his payments to his clubs are in arrears, and his servants are all due their back pay. I know. I checked. He is dependant on you to make a good marriage and alleviate his financial stress. When you fell in love with Richard, it seemed a simple enough matter to remove me from the picture entirely. He would have inherited it all.”

Lila shot back a stream of insults, but Jonathon barely registered her words. He wanted this done and over with  Turning, he motioned his solicitor forward. At his nod, Mr. Walker removed an envelope and set it on Richard’s desk.

“A draft note in the amount of fifty thousand pounds, payable upon receipt at the Mercantile Bank of Bombay,” Jonathon said. “That should set you both up nicely. You will live quite comfortably among the British colonists. Take it and go.”

Lila and Richard stared at the envelope, then exchanged a glance. Richard straightened his cuffs, then brushed an invisible speck from the lapel of his coat. “What do you expect me to say to that?” he inquired haughtily.

“I expect you thank me for my extraordinary generosity and Christian forgiveness.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Don’t?”

“Don’t choose to allow ourselves to be bullied by you?”

“Bullied,” Jonathon echoed, shaking his head. “Very well. In that event, I will remain fifty thousand pounds richer, and I will have the satisfaction of seeing you both delivered to Newgate, where you will remain until you are hanged.”

A shimmer of fear flashed through Lila’s eyes. “You cannot be serious. You would not do that to me.”

“I can and I will. You have two choices: you may take the draft and leave with Mr. Walker, who will see to it you are put aboard the
Constantina,
headed for Bombay. Or you will leave in the custody of Constable Walker and find yourselves escorted directly to Newgate.”

Lila lifted her chin. “Impossible. I require a minimum of three days to properly pack and put my affairs in order.”

“I think not. I will send you off in the same manner you bid me farewell: with only the clothes on your back. You, however, will not be left bleeding and unconscious. I would not treat a dog in such a fashion.”

Icy stillness settled over the room.

Jonathon glanced over his shoulder. “Constable Harrow, it appears they are electing to refuse my generosity—”

“
Take it
,” Lila hissed, driving her elbow into Richard’s side. “Take it.” Poke. Jab. Prod. “Take the money, you
idiot
.”

Richard pocketed the envelope. Jonathon stood back as they swept out of the room, out of the house, and into Mr. Walker’s carriage. Relief poured through him. From across the room, he felt Constable Harrow watching him curiously.

“Would you really have done it?” Harrow asked. “Sent them both to prison?”

“Absolutely.”

Harrow nodded. “Glad to hear it. Most folks in your position wouldn’t want the scandal.” He stepped toward the window and joined Jonathon in watching the carriage pull away. “If either of them has the nerve to set foot again in England, you let me know.”

“Thank you, Constable. I will.”

The constable departed, leaving Jonathon alone in Richard’s study. He glanced around the room in disgust. It was a fine home, excellently situated, but he wanted nothing to do with it. The property and contents would be sold forthwith.

Richard’s ancient butler greeted him in the foyer. He held out the top hat with the crimson ribbon and the overcoat with the withered flower. “Your garments, my lord.”

“Burn them,” Jonathon said, then stopped himself. “No. Send them to Constable Harrow’s office. He can hold onto them for me should they be necessary.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Jonathon moved to leave, then stopped. He studied the elderly man. “You may have overheard our discussion. Your employer will not be returning.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Jonathon wished he would quit saying that. “Did my cousin have any other servants who should be notified their services are no longer required?”             

“Just my wife and I. We’ve been in his employ for the past dozen years or so.” Tension crossed the man’s face, but his voice gave nothing away.