Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (9 page)

“Remarkable.” He studied her, impressed. “You speak both with full fluency?”

“Of course.” She glanced around, as though making sure they were out of earshot of any errant travelers. “But as you’ve already noted, after years in my Arthur’s pub, I’ve developed a particular ear for indelicate words. Phrases that would make a sailor blush. And not just English words, either. I’m able to swear in five languages.”

He wasn’t the least bit surprised. An angel with a devil’s tongue. “A skill that will doubtless put you in good stead with your charges,” he predicted. ”And who is the lucky gentleman who’s secured your services?”

“A Mr. George Ottweihler. His address is in the Mayfair district.”

Jonathon stumbled in shocked surprise. “I know him. Or rather, my employer knows him.”

“Really? How extraordinary. In that case, perhaps our paths will cross.”

Yes. Of that he had no doubt. He knew in that instant that if she was anywhere in London, he would contrive an excuse to see her. He would deliberately seek her out. After all, he reasoned, he’d given his word to Father Tim that he would see her safely to her destination. It was his duty to make certain she was properly settled.

Then the obvious occurred to him. If
he
was anywhere in London, he would be known as Viscount Brooksbank, not Jonathon Brooks. She would learn who he was. The realization settled uncomfortably on his shoulders. While he hadn’t deliberately set out to deceive her, he had done so just the same. When they’d left Liverpool he had not expected his subterfuge to matter. Now, inexplicably, it did.

He was guilty of a lie of omission, a lie of convenience, but a lie just the same. The sooner he remedied it, the better.

“Look,” Brianna said, gesturing ahead. “That must be the inn Mrs. Wintress mentioned. And just in time. It’s beginning to get dark.”

Chapter Eleven

Other than its convenient location just outside of the small hamlet of Duxbury, halfway between one coach stop and the next, the inn had little to recommend it. Although tidy enough, the establishment was in a state of genteel decay: worn rugs, peeling paper on the walls, cracked porcelain basins for washing. And it was well that Brianna had thought to save a bit of their luncheon for supper—no meal was provided.

The landlady herself showed them to their room, her attitude so dour and grim not even Mr. Brooks’ considerable charm could penetrate the cloud of gloom that hung over her head.

“Will you be wanting a lamp?” she asked.

As opposed to what
, Brianna wondered.
Bumping around the room in the dark?
“Yes, please.”

The woman removed a small brass can from her apron pocket and supplied the lamp with a minuscule ration of oil. She set two wooden matches beside the lamp, then stuck out her hand. “That’ll be two pence extra.”

Mr. Brooks’ brows shot ceilingward, but Brianna simply nodded and paid the coin. She moved to the empty hearth. “I don’t suppose you have wood for the fire?”

“Why would I waste good wood?” the landlady parried sharply. “There’s not even snow on the ground.” She gestured to the bed. “As to the linens and blankets—”

“Those are extra as well?” Mr. Brooks interrupted.

The woman scowled at him and drew herself up. “They have been thoroughly inventoried. Now that the days are becoming brisk, I’ve had trouble with people taking liberties with my good blankets. I expect to find everything here in the morning, or rest assured the local constable will hear about it.”

So saying, she exited the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Mr. Brooks stared after her in slack-jawed astonishment. “Good lord. Did that woman just imply that we are thieves?”

“I believe she did.” Their gazes met, and a giggle bubbled from Brianna’s lips. She couldn’t resist adding, “You do look rather unscrupulous.”

He gave a shout of laughter. Once their amusement subsided, he shook his head. “I don’t think she believed we’re married, either.”

“Well, we’re not.”

“Still. Insulting to have my good word called into question.”

Brianna decided to ignore that twisted bit of logic. She removed her bonnet, but remained in possession of her cape. She rubbed her hands briskly over her upper arms in an attempt to ward off the chill. “Should I inquire as to the price of a few logs?”

“And call our esteemed landlady back here? God, no. That woman frightens me.” He glanced around the room, then seized the blanket from the bed and tucked it about her shoulders. “How’s that?”

Brianna looked up and froze at his proximity. His lips were only inches from her own. His hands, gripping the blanket, rested lightly atop her shoulders. In that instant, his gaze changed, becoming both slumberous and slightly wicked—the exact expression he’d worn when he’d kissed her. The air felt thick with both suspense and anticipation. A frisson of nervous excitement shot down her spine.

She delicately cleared her throat. “Mr. Brooks?”

“Mrs. Donnelly?”

“There seems to be a bit of tension between us.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“I did.”

“I suppose we could simply ignore it.”.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Like a Chinese firecracker—simply wait for it to explode.”

His lips quirked. He cast the briefest of glances at his britches. “I don’t think I’m in danger of exploding. At least, not quite yet.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks and she twisted away. Absurd. Ridiculous.
What was she thinking?
Although she wasn’t hungry in the slightest, she found herself in desperate need of something to occupy her mind and hands, and so she began to unpack their supper. She stopped in the middle of the chore, glancing around the room in dismay. No table and chairs awaited her. Just a wobbly washstand, a rough pine chest of drawers, and a bed.

“Looks like we’ll enjoy another picnic,” she announced with false brightness, spreading the cloth they’d used earlier that afternoon upon the floor. They seated themselves with their backs resting against the footboard of the bed and commenced to eat. The meal was a stilted affair, with none of the conversational ease they’d enjoyed earlier. Soon enough, the light supper was ended.

It being too early to sleep, and having no other diversion at hand—not even a deck of cards between them—Brianna volunteered to continue
The Prince of Thorncastle
from where she’d left off. In no time at all the story swept her away. Falling into a familiar rhythm, she acted out the parts in grand, sweeping melodrama, reading as though she were back at the pub and a crowd was listening. So caught up was she in the adventures of Philomena and Prince Harold, she didn’t fully realized the direction of the scene she had ventured into until the moment Prince Harold (after a harrowing chase through a dark forest) pulled Philomena into a torrid embrace.

Brianna stumbled in her narration and firmly shut the book.  

Mr. Brooks glanced at her and raised an inquiring brow. “Do continue. The story is finally beginning to hold my attention.”

“Oh? I wasn’t certain you were enjoying it.”

“Of course I was. Except for that bit about the prince abdicating his throne and asking Philomena for her hand in marriage.” He shook his head. “That would never happen. A prince would never marry a lowly serving girl.”

Brianna bristled. Perhaps the story was not to his taste. Fine and well. That did not mean she would allow her beloved book to be mocked. “Need I remind you,” she said, “you’re a valet. You might have learned how to mimic your betters, but that doesn’t make you an authority on how the titled conduct their private lives.”

Amusement softened his features. “Is that so?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” She stewed for a moment in the drafty room before deciding a bit of education was in order. “Prince Harold offered his hand in marriage to Philomena because he
loved
her. He was willing to do whatever it took to have her.”

“Ah. Love.” Again, that dry, slightly mocking tone.

“You’ve never been in love?”

“I take it you mean with someone other than myself?” He assumed a thoughtful expression. “Hmmm, well let me see. When considering the fairer sex, I will admit to having been infatuated. I’ve been intrigued and occasionally infuriated. I’ve even indulged in several intense, intimate interludes, but alas, no, I’ve never been
in love
.”

Of course not. The man was simply too good-looking, too charming to have to put in any real effort. And why should he? Women likely dropped at his feet like rice at a wedding.

Aloud, Brianna simply shrugged and said, “Your loss.”

“What about you?” he countered. “
Mrs
. Donnelly. Were you head-over-heels in love with your husband when you exchanged your vows?”

“Certainly not. I’ve already told you as much. Ours was a marriage of necessity. We were both in a difficult place in our lives. He needed me. I needed him.”

His eyes lit with an emotion that looked remarkably like satisfaction. “But that’s all it was.”

“It was enough,” she protested loyally.

“Was it?” He shifted slightly, leaning closer. Their shoulders brushed. Speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Allow me to let you in on a little secret. Men all over England will brand me a traitor for revealing it, but I think you deserve to know the truth.”

“Oh? What truth is that?”

“Love doesn’t exist.”

“Is that so?”

“At least, not the kind of love that’s in that book of yours.” He shook his head. “Love is nothing but a fabrication invented by men, designed with no other purpose in mind than to fool women into believing we are worthy of you. We aren’t.”

She brought up her chin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a truer statement—the last part, at least. But you’re wrong in the first part. Love does exist.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Afraid. Interesting word choice, Mr. Brooks.” She tilted her head and studied him.

His smirk returned. “What are you implying I’m afraid of, Mrs. Donnelly?”

“Being swept away by something you can’t control.”

“Hardly.”

Perhaps it was the cocky confidence she read in his expression—a confidence she was determined to take down a peg or two. Or perhaps she was acting on some shameful, base desire deep within herself. In either event, Brianna responded without thinking.

She clamped her hands on either side of his head and drew him down to her, then pressed her lips against his own. It was a clumsy beginning to a kiss. Thoroughly inept. She felt him stiffen in shocked surprise (the way a man might if the floor beneath his feet suddenly gave way and plunged him into an icy body of water).

Mortification swept through her. She would have pulled back, but Mr. Brooks, who accommodated himself to her advance with greater speed and finesse than she could have dreamed possible, wouldn’t allow it. He gave a low moan and wrapped one strong arm around her waist, drawing her onto his lap.

She might have begun the kiss, but he was determined to guide it.

He coaxed her lips apart and swept his tongue into her mouth. His kiss deepened, becoming hard and insistent. Not allowing her to pull away, he caressed her lower back, silently encouraging her to surrender to his sweet, sensual assault. Her senses reeling, she absorbed the press of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue against her own. Pleasure curled her toes and spiraled up her spine. She melted into him, lost in a dizzying vortex of heat and desire.

He held her firmly against his chest, her bottom snuggled up against his long, masculine thighs. Brianna wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with reckless abandon, losing herself in the lusty rhythm. He brushed his hands hungrily down her back, caressing and exploring as though memorizing her every curve. Following his lead, she recklessly explored his body, caressing his shoulders, his back, his chest; all while locked in their deep, sensual kiss.

Jonathon lifted his hand and gently cupped her breast through the fabric of her gown. Brianna started in surprise. She felt her nipple peak. Her stomach fluttered and heat built between her legs. So this was passion. How utterly marvelous. Without thinking, she leaned into him, issuing a soft moan that held both pleasure and acquiescence.

He nibbled the lobe of her ear and licked the sensitive column of her throat. Shivers of delight ran down her spine. Then, just as she was certain she couldn’t take anymore, when her response to their embrace veered from pleasure to driving, aching need, he tore his lips from hers. He reached for the topmost button of her gown and unfastened it.

Brianna suddenly came to her senses. “What are you doing?” Her voice sounded strained and breathless even to her own ears.

“Doing?” he repeated. He leaned closer, his breath fanning her cheek. The warmth of his body and the rich, masculine scent of his skin swirled around her, making her senses swim. “I don’t think that’s the right question.”

“What is the right question?”

“This.” His gaze locked on hers. “Do you want me to stop?”

Brianna caught her breath. “Yes…No,” she confessed. She fought to clear her thoughts. What she was doing was wrong, entirely improper. There was no excuse for her behavior. Yet longing coursed through her, carrying with it a need so deep she couldn’t keep her curiosity buried another second. “I don’t know what I want.”

A slow, sinful smile curved his lips. “Yes, you do. You know exactly what you want.” He kissed her neck and worked another button free, then another. “Tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“Tell me what you want.”

Bloody hell
. For the first time in her life, words failed her. She’d never felt this way before. On the few occasions when Arthur had exercised his marital rights, he had been a kind and courteous lover. She had been a dutiful wife. But this—this was something thrilling and new. Never been swept up in a current of longing so intense it drove all sensible, rational thoughts from her mind, leaving her aching, desperate for more..

“Tell me,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

“You,” she said, a whispered confession. “Your hands. Your lips.”

“Where?”

In answer, she clutched his shoulders and tilted back her head, offering him greater access to the tender skin of her throat.

He caught her earlobe between his teeth, nuzzled the sensitive column of her neck. His breath was warm, yet his kisses caused shivers to course through her body. Her heart hammered unsteadily. Heat pooled between her thighs. Need, hot and achy, built within her.

He lifted his hands. They were large, powerful, masculine. How odd for such a beautiful man to have such rough, thoroughly male hands. How thrilling to watch his fingers move to the front of her gown and work free the tiny buttons that ran down the front of her bodice. Her pulse drummed in her ears as he edged her gown past her shoulders. It pooled about her waist, leaving her in just her white silk chemise.