England's Assassin (15 page)

“You’re so beautiful lass.” Monsieur Damont reached in front of her and tugged at the towel, causing her to roll on her back as he intended her to do.

She stared up at Daniel Damont as he braced himself on his left elbow. The heat of his muscular chest warmed her right breast and Nicole heard the towel drop to the floor. She closed her eyes waiting for the panic to seize her, but his fingers were caressing the left side of her face and she felt secure.

“You’re so beautiful,” she opened her eyes. “How could any man flaw such beauty?”

But she was flawed, not by the marks on her back but by the manner in which they had gnawed away at her soul, shredding it until Nicole was capable of killing a man, of killing nine men. But as she stared at the masculine symmetry of his features, the clear, warm blue of his eyes, she did not feel defective.

He let his chest settle against her breasts, the warmth of him eliciting from her a soft moan. His eyes closed momentarily then opened more determined, more focused.

“I want ta make love to ya, lass,” Daniel Damont breathed, his sexual desire thickening his Scots brogue. “But I will not,” He met her eyes, imploring her to understand. “I cannot touch ya further if you will not have me.”

Monsieur Damont’s jaw set and he waited for Nicole to answer, but she could not speak. No man had ever asked for permission to bed her and she was not sure how to respond to his request.

The silence grew and the anticipation drained from his stunning eyes, filling with disappointment as he pushed himself away, severing their bodily bond. Nicole felt the loss and her hands darted out to counter his retreat, settling on the tense muscles of his broad back.

“Make love to me, Monsieur Damont.”

His brows furrowed, confusion plainly written on his features. “Daniel,” he said with force. “My name is Daniel.”

The stunning man dipped his head, his succulent lips skillfully parting hers. His tongue swept into her mouth leisurely, savoring the taste, the heat, the pliant texture of her lips as she savored his. Each stroke of his tongue was built upon the last until finally their explorations were complete.

He dragged his mind from her mouth and ministered to her neck, pressing his lips just above her collar bone. Nicole turned her head to give him more room to roam as she breathed in the man who was making love to her. Daniel Damont smelled of distant soap and leather, overcome by the power and potency of a man in his sexual prime.

She was awash with his scent, claimed by it and Nicole felt herself responding, felt her nipples hardening and her back arching as she offered herself to him. He took her lure, his head lifting to view one breast and then the other, unable to decide where his loyalties lie.

The searing heat of his mouth descended on her right nipple as his hand covered her left. The virile man voiced his pleasure in the back of his throat as he laved and suckled, his long fingers kneading her sensitive breast. Daniel Damont nipped at the hardened peak of her nipple and Nicole gasped at the pleasure he elicited.

His right hand rolled her nipple between his fingers as his tongue and teeth continued to incite her lust. She was aching and could feel herself opening to him, preparing for him. His left hand skimmed her hip, using it as a map to find the globes of her backside.

He gave a primal grunt of approval and then relinquished her breast, his large hands holding her hips down as he tasted his way down her belly. His mouth descended further but when Nicole realized his intention she protested.

“Stop!”

He lifted his head, his chest heaving, his masculine mouth falling open.

“Why?” Daniel Damont met her wide eyes and he gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Did your husband never…?”

Nicole shook her head and he grinned, his eyes lighting with anticipation. “I’ll be your first then.”

“Don’t,” she whispered embarrassed.

The man smiled again, but this time it held none of the triumphant glint of before, only the kindness of compassion. “Trust me lass.” Daniel Damont crawled over her and kissed her on the lips, rubbing his thumb across her left cheek as he stared into her eyes. “Trust me.”

He waited and Nicole nodded her assent. Monsieur Damont smiled, kissing her again then allowing his head to drop to her breasts. His fingers roamed over her, working to rekindle the heat between them and then his hands were on her hips. He lowered his head between her thighs and she closed her eyes, trusting him.

The heat of his mouth pressed against her moist petals, stealing her breath. He ran his tongue ever so lightly over her until the tip of his tongue danced over the protruding crux of her sensuality.

Her hips came off the bed but he held her down, probing deeper, laving longer. Monsieur Damont groaned and the masculine reverberation added to the desire mounting to new and undiscovered heights. Nicole was sure she would burst and she wanted him, needed him to contain her.

“Please, Daniel.” She did not know how to tell him, but he knew.

He stripped of his pantaloons and she had but a moment to glimpse the beautiful man that would have her. Sharp lines and masculine angles softened by the heavy padding of lean muscles. All of which complemented his thick and unrepentant sex that thrust forward seeking a home of its own.

Nicole’s body ached to accommodate him as he lay on top of her, his flat stomach and muscled chest amazingly gentle as he pressed her into the comfortable bed. He kissed her again and then she felt him easing into her. She sucked the air from his mouth and he push forward, stroking deeper, stretching her further than she could have thought possible.

“My God,” Daniel Damont said above her, his jaw resting at her temple. She felt the small of his back arch as he withdrew and then she was being pressed into the mattress as he surged into her once more.

It was sensual torture and every time he left her she held her breath until his return. Nicole reached for his powerful backside, entreating him to increase his tantalizing pace, his force.

He did and she moaned, closing her eyes to concentrate on the place where they joined. Time was lost as he stroked deeper, faster. His right hand reached back, capturing her behind the left knee.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he grated.

Nicole locked herself around his trim waist and they both gasped at his penetrating depth, the pleasure of the increased closeness and then she was being consumed.

“Daniel,” she said, panicked.

“I know, lass. We’ll go together.” He stroked faster and then he wasn’t breathing and with a blinding flash behind her eyes, neither was she.

She was falling into the bed and he was plunging after her, reaching to stay with her. His arms circled around her, pulling her to him and then she was safe, tucked away in the warmth of her bed as she fell back to the present.

Her eyelids fluttered open and Nicole listened to his rhythmic pants, felt them in the gentle rising and falling of his stomach. She glanced from his corded neck to the heavy muscles of his chest, amazed that his chest was wider than her shoulders. Daniel Damont was powerfully built, beautiful formed and she could not help but think that this was what God had intended between man and wife.

What she had missed, what she would never know.

Tears welled in her eyes and Nicole let her hands fall away from him. Daniel Damont no doubt elicited such passion from every woman he took to his bed. Silly notions of a loving husband, a home full of children born of that love. Ridiculous thoughts that would die the moment she was executed. Her body was rocked by the idea and she shook with it.

Her a mother? A wife? It was ridiculous. 

“Well, that was—“

Daniel lifted himself, startled by the racking of her fragile frame. He stared into her violet eyes and verified that the lass was indeed crying.

But he could scarcely blame her, he too was having a difficulty comprehending what had just happened. Daniel had poured himself into their lovemaking, driven by desire to ease her many wounds, hoping, as he stared at her tears, that he had not just added to them.

“I dinna hurt ya?”

The woman shook her head and then snorted.

His head jerked back and Daniel stared at her face as she swiped her eyes, realizing that she was laughing. His face contorted with confusion as Nicole Beauvoire met his eye and she laughed harder still.

Daniel felt the sting of… embarrassment, perhaps, and then rose from where he had lain cradled between the warmth of her soft thighs. Daniel sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to retrieve his breeches. He felt the slight dip of the mattress as the woman sat up and propped herself against the multitude pillows as she struggled to control her laughter.

“It’s not you, Monsieur Damont.”

Daniel closed his eyes, sure that if ever there where words to shrivel a man’s pride, it was those. He thrust his right foot into his prissy pantaloons and then rose, hauling them over his bare backside.

“Oh, then I suppose yer snickering at other bloke you just rogered?” he asked, looking down at her before leaving the enormous master suite.

“No. No, no, no, you miss understand entirely.” Daniel heard her scramble from the bed and he glanced over his right shoulder as she trailed after him wrapped only in a cerulean sheet. “It is not you I found amusing, Monsieur Damont.”

“DunDonell,” Daniel said. Any women with whom he had shared such profound intimacy could bloody well call him by his proper title.

“What?”

Irritated, he stopped and looked into her lovely eyes framed by thick, black lashes that were splayed across her flushed cheeks like a decorative fan that fluttered in miscomprehension.

“My name is DunDonell.”

“Monsieur Daniel DunDonell?” she asked, her nose crinkling with apparent distaste.

“Daniel McCurren, ack, never mind.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes more at himself than to her. “Forget I said anything.” Daniel spun and continued walking toward the decanter of Brandy in his bedchamber. “Call me what you bloody well like. What difference does it make?”

“It does indeed make a difference. I want to address you as you wish to be addressed,” Nicole Beauvoire was running after him trying to keep up with his angry strides. “I am just a bit confused. Monsieur McCurren?”

Daniel laughed. The entire subject was so painfully preposterous. “Oh, Christ almighty, just drop the matter.”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Every time I look at you I shall have names bouncing about in my head. So, which is it? Monsieur Damont, McCurren or DunDonell?”

Daniel clenched his jaw and spun around so quickly that Mademoiselle Beauvoire was pressed to the wall by his ominous anger.

“Lord DunDonell,” He watched, satisfied by her shock. “Viscount DunDonell, if we’re bein’ accurate.”

“You’re a viscount.”

“Aye,” Daniel grinned. “Lord DunDonell, heir to Malcolm McCurren, Earl of DunDonell.”

The woman stared at the wooden floor as her right hand felt round for the chair she knew was there. Her fingers hit the padded wood and she sank into the brocaded cushion.

“You’re to be an… ,” she blinked.

“Earl,” he finished for her. “So, you may call me Monsieur Damont in public, Lord DunDonell in private,” he paused, waiting for the lass to look up to meet his mind. “And Daniel in bed.”

Mademoiselle Beauvoire paled, her pretty mouth hanging open as her eyes dropped to search the floor. Her breathing became audible, labored and Daniel’s satisfaction turned quickly to concern.

“How could he do this?” Tears spilled on her alabaster cheeks and her nostrils flared as the lady fought to take air into her lungs. “How could he do this?”

“Who, lass?” He dropped to his haunches and she jumped to her feet.

“Falcon.” Her brows pulled together and Nicole Beauvoire looked at him as though he were mad. “You have to leave.”

She darted to his bedchamber and threw open his armoire, reaching in and grabbing stacks of costly garment and tossing them on the bed.

“Calm down. “ Daniel gestured with his right hand, but she was not listening.

“You must leave Paris, tonight.” She spoke to the armoire. “I know a man who can take you as far as—“

Daniel grabbed her gently from behind, whispering, “It’s alright, lass.” But Nicole Beauvoire tossed her right elbow back, refusing his embrace.

“No, it is not alright, Viscount DunDonell!” She turned to face him. “Have you
any
idea of what the French will do to you if they discover that you are a viscount? Because I do.” The scores of scars on her back were raised to the forefront of his memory. “And I know exactly how long it will take them to do.”

His teeth clenched and his eyes shut as Daniel tried to obliterate the ugly pictures that flooded his mind, pictures of a woman forced to endure God only knew what.

“You’re leaving. I’ll not have another…” she paused. “You’re leaving.”

Mademoiselle Beauvoire bent over and dragged out a trunk from beneath his bed.

“No, I’m not.” He could not. Daniel could not allow her to be captured, could not allow her to go through it all again.

“Yes, you are!”