Echoes in Stone (32 page)

She hesitated, then nodded, leaning forward, reaching for him.

“No. Just lean back. Let me come to you.”

She did as he asked, leaning back into the pile of pillows. He moved forward, straddling her in the much the same way she’d straddled him earlier. This time, however, he drew her legs apart, his hands pushing against her knees. He meant to keep her exposed. Vulnerable. Hungry. He’d not let her find ease in clenching her legs together.

Her eyes were filled with concern, perhaps a bit of fear, but curiosity gleamed there as well. “May I touch you? Please. Let me touch you.” Her breathy voice almost undid him. He hesitated, then nodded.

She released the pillows, clutching his member with both small hands.

He gasped, harsh, but let her explore.

She scraped her nails lightly over his sac, then grasped his manhood, setting up the rhythm he’d shown her before. He flexed his hips, driving his member over and over through her hands.

“Your mouth, Jessa. I want to be inside your mouth.”

She looked up at him through her lashes, nervousness plain on her face. She locked her gaze on his, then opened her mouth. Took him inside.

Warm. Wet. Fire. The heat of her mouth surrounded him. Consumed him. He groaned,  threw back his head. Air. He couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs. He opened his eyes, staring down at the captivating woman beneath him. He nearly shattered.

Her eyes were closed. Her hands on him, she licked and sucked, drawing him inside. She hummed low in her throat. The vibration tore through him. He had to stop her before this went too far.

He drew back, eliciting a cry of protest from her. She opened her eyes, staring up at him. Her expression was dazed, almost drugged with desire. “I can’t take any more. Please, Dash. I’m on fire for you. I’m begging now, Dash. I’m begging.”

“Yes, Jessa. Now.”

No more words. No more thinking. No more time. His heart pounded, thudding like a blacksmith’s hammer. The sound of his blood thrummed in his ears. Jessa, sobbing with hunger and frustration. Her scent surrounded him. His cock throbbed to the point of pain.

He released her legs, lay on top of her, rolling onto his back once more, Jessa clutched in his arms. “Sit up. Take me inside you.”

She looked confused, but he helped her rise. She straddled him. The muscles of her inner thighs quivered against his waist. His cock probed the entrance of her body, before he drove it up, into her.

She screamed.

“Ride me, love.” He gasped the words. “Find your rhythm. Ride.” He seized her hips,  rocked her. He pulled his swollen member partway out, then thrust again, deeper than before.

She cried out again. She pushed herself up, and then down again on his body. Her beautiful breasts swayed, bounced with each movement. She writhed in his hands, grinding her sex against him. She panted. Moaned. A cry accompanied every thrust, each cry louder—longer—than the previous one. Her inner muscles flexed and released against his cock, drawing him deeper into her body.

His groans matched hers. He wouldn’t be able to go on much longer. His member pulsed inside her.

With one final, shattering scream, she found her release. She held her breath, then collapsed in his arms, melting around him.

Now. His turn at last. He rolled over, Jessa once more under him. The corded muscles of his forearms bulged as he lifted his chest off hers. He thrust into her hard.

Once.

Twice.

His body shuddered with the force of his release. He climaxed with a wild cry to match hers.

He stayed rigid, buried in her soft body, for what seemed an eternity. He reveled in the feeling of his hot seed mingling with the sweet juices flowing within her, surrounding his cock.

Dammit.

He’d taken all Jessa had to offer and once again, he’d failed to protect her. He collapsed beside her, drawing her against his chest, but didn’t withdraw from her tight body. It didn’t matter now.

It was already too late. For both of them.

41.

…the servants claim to have seen her ghost…

SOMETIME BEFORE DAWN, he made love to her again. They’d sated the knife-sharp edge of hunger earlier. This time, Dash feasted slowly upon Jessa’s body. He savored the scent of her wrapped in his arms. The taste of her mouth when he kissed her. The texture of silken soft skin under his fingers, the spread of satin hair on the pillows, the warmth of all her hidden places. When he rose to leave her, he left her curled in a drowsy, contented ball in the middle of the bed, the red and gold coverlet drawn over her.

He stoked the fire so she wouldn’t be cold when she awoke, then passed through the dressing room, into his own rooms.

Winston waited for him, frowning. “If I may be so bold as to suggest a bath, sir? The scent of your evening’s…activities, is all over you. It would not do for the rest of the staff, or your guests, to have confirmation of what you and Miss Palmer have been doing.” He rubbed his nose, as if offended by the aroma of sweat and sex. “Of course, in a household this size, rumors already run rampant. Mrs. Penrose, of course, would never say a word, but—”

“Enough, Winston. You may have charge of the staff, and you may be my cousin, but don’t forget who’s master here.” He cocked an eyebrow, glaring at his majordomo.

Winston returned his glare, then had the good sense to drop his gaze and take a step back. “Of course, sir. My apologies. It’s been a long, rough night.” He raked a hand through his wavy blond hair, disordering the perfect arrangement of curls.

Dash sighed. “I’m sorry as well, Winston. I’d forgotten for a moment the mess I left you to deal with. Let me get that bath you suggested, then we’ll talk while I dress.”

All signs of last night’s bath with Jessa had been eradicated. Fresh towels hung by the stove, buckets of water already steaming. Dash poured one into the pool, then removed his robe, easing into the warm water. The clean scent of his lime soap revived him. Cleared his head. So different from the vanilla scent of last night, when he’d bathed here with Jessa.

Jessa. The woman was in his blood. He had to let her go. He had to make her leave. Someone was trying to harm her, trying to drive her away. He’d failed to protect her from whatever stalked her. Hell, he’d failed to protect her from himself. Even now, she might be carrying his child. Lily had nearly died giving birth. How much worse would it be for Jessa, who was so much smaller, more fragile? Yet, there was an inner strength in Jessa that Lily lacked.

What of his role in this? Jessa had been born illegitimately. Her mother gave her away rather than bear the shame of her birth. Would Jessa do the same? Would she give away his child?

He slammed the water with his fists, surging to his feet. By God, no. No child of his would be handed over to a foundling home. He’d not allow it. His chest heaved, his breath rasping harshly.

Calm. He had to calm down. He didn’t even know if Jessa was pregnant, yet he already imagined the worst. There were enough real life horrors awaiting him today. He’d get through those first. Jessa would have to wait.

Winston helped him dress, then gave him his morning cup of coffee. As if sensing his master’s troubled mood, he performed the services in silence.

Only after Dash sat, his face lathered for a shave, was he calm enough to speak. “What transpired after I retired last night? And what’s the mood of the house today?”

For a few minutes, the only sound was the scraping of Winston’s blade against Dash’s cheek. He removed the night’s growth, maneuvering carefully over the scar. When he finished, he wiped the remains of the soap from Dash’s face, then seated himself in a blue brocade chair across from his friend, pouring his own cup of coffee.

“It took awhile for the house to settle. As you instructed, I sent an extra maid to stay with Holly and posted two footmen outside the door.”

Dash raised a questioning eyebrow, but Winston’s raised hand forestalled him. “I’ve already checked on Holly this morning. She appeared quite cheerful. Unaffected. She was having breakfast, chattering nineteen to the dozen to that God-awful doll she calls Susanna.” Winston shook his head. “With all the pretty things she has, I don’t know why she insists on carrying that dirty, ragged thing about, but no one seems to be able to separate her from it. She insists her mother told her to keep it by her.”

Dash smiled. “Who knows where little girls get these notions? If it makes her happy, she can keep it. Although I’ve no idea where she got the ugly thing. I’d not be surprised to find it was a gift from one of the servants. Lily would never have tolerated such a disreputable-looking toy. For now, I’d not worry overmuch about it. We’ve greater issues to deal with than a doll.”

“You’re right,” Winston said. “The staff huddled together in the servants’ hall until late last night. Along with the expected mourning, there was also a good deal of discussion of what’s been happening here lately. Especially since Jessa’s—Miss Palmer’s, arrival. Both of you being ill. The fire in her room. Dash, there’s worse yet.” Winston shoved his hands through his hair again. Dash had never known him to display his emotions this way.

“What, Winston. What are they saying?”

“It’s foolishness, of course. Silly nonsense. But then, the Cornish ever were a superstitious lot, with their piskies, spriggans, and knockers.” Winston sniffed his disdain. “It’s Lily, Dash. Several of the servants claim to have seen her ghost. One said she heard Lily’s laughter, coming from Jessa’s burned bedroom. Another insisted she saw Lily’s ghost near Holly’s rooms. They claim to see lights in the east tower. The footmen are worse than the women. When they went to shift the mirror to Jessa’s room, they both insisted they saw Lily’s face in the mirror. They said she was angry. That her ghost growled at them. It’s a wonder they didn’t break the mirror in their pell-mell rush to get away from there.”

“I wondered if you were the one responsible for that mirror being in Jessa’s room.” Dash cocked a brow at his servant, who had the grace to blush.

“I thought it would give her pleasure. How was I to know you’d have reason to be in that room? I didn’t mean—”

Dash halted the torrent of speech with a raised hand.

“You were right, Winston. I believe it gave her pleasure.” He gave Winston a small smile. “I believe it did us both good. I wish you’d asked first, but, given the circumstances, I can understand why you didn’t. No harm was done.”

He rubbed the scar on his cheek. He hadn’t touched that place since the night he stitched it closed. Winston shaved over it daily, but didn’t touch it otherwise. No one until Jessa, with her bold, searching hands, her gentle fingers, touched his face. He harrumphed, clearing the lump suddenly lodged in his throat. “No, Winston. You did well to give Jessa the mirror. And our guests? Have the doctor and the dead girl’s mother arrived yet?”

“Dead girl?” The voice came from the door of the dressing room. Dash rose from his chair, spinning to see Jessa standing there.

She’d already dressed for the day. For once she’d given up the swaths of drab half-mourning attire. Her dress, of some frothy white material, sprigged with blue, fell in graceful folds. She’d braided her hair, pinning it into a gold coronet. Stray tendrils already escaped, framing her face. She looked like a summer day after a long, bitter winter.

Desire slammed through Dash. His manhood hardened against his pants flap. Damn. Would he never get enough of her?

Other than the slight flush on her cheek, she gave no evidence he had the same effect on her. Her brow furrowed. She nibbled her lip. “What dead girl? Who has died?” She gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. “Is Holly all right? Has something happened to her?” She rushed across the room, skidding to a quivering halt in front of Dash. He seized her shoulders, stilling her.

“Holly’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She drew a deep breath, relaxing under his hands.

“One of the servants died yesterday. The cook’s assistant, Melwyn. It must have happened while you were exploring the east wing.”

“You mean while I was locked in the stairwell.” Jessa’s voice blended bitterness and fear.

Dash dropped his hands, stepping back. “Yes, Jessa. While you were trapped there. You’re right, of course. Before I could release you, I had to remove a wedge. It’d been jammed under the door.”

Winston chimed in. “There was a similar jam at the door at the foot of the stairs. I checked last night. Something very wrong is going on here, Dash.”

Dash spun, glaring at his servant. “What do you suggest I do about it, Winston? I’m trying to investigate. I’m trying to keep everyone safe. What more do you expect of me?”

“I suggest you leave here, Dash. Take Holly and Miss Palmer. Go to London for a few weeks. Take a holiday at Brighton. Go visit Miss Palmer’s sunny little cottage in Littleton-upon-Puddling. Get clean away from the miasma of death shrouding this place.” Winston’s clenched fists,  and the vehemence in his response, startled Dash.

“No, Winston. I’ve never run before. I’m not about to start now. Lily’s ghost does not haunt these halls. Someone of flesh and blood means harm to those I love. If I have to tear down every stone in this place to find them, I’ll do so.”

He turned to Jessa. “Winston’s right on one count. You need to leave. You’re not safe here. Your arrival stirred up whatever evil thing is stalking this place. Pack your bags, Jessa. I’ll send a messenger to make arrangements for your travel.”

“Not without Holly.” Jessa’s voice was calm, but her pointed chin was thrust up, her eyes flashing daggers at him.

“No. You will not take my daughter from this house.”

“And I will not leave my niece alone here while some lunatic is on the loose.”

“She won’t be alone. She’ll be here with her father, where she belongs.”

“She won’t be with her father, she’ll be in the care of feather-brained, superstitious servants while her father is off hunting a madwoman.”

Dash narrowed his eyes, glaring at the stubborn little woman in front of him. “What do you mean, ‘hunting a madwoman’, Jessa? Surely you don’t believe—”