Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (38 page)

He smiled and cradled her face in his hands, kissed her with such exquisite sweetness. He was her man, her husband, her love. She wanted him, wanted this union that would seal their marriage and bind them together for ever.

He slid his hands round to the back of her bodice, unfastened the line of pearl buttons with unhurried fingers that tantalised every time they brushed against the skin beneath. The dress began to gape, slipping from her shoulders. She shrugged it off, letting the silk slide down over her legs to land at her feet. She reached to him, slid her fingers over his lapels, then opened his tailcoat, intent on easing it from his shoulders, but the fit was so perfect that she struggled.

He peeled off the tailcoat and threw it to land on a chair. His white-worked waistcoat followed.

She unfastened the knot of his cravat, unwound the length of pale silk and let it flutter to the floor, like a ribbon in the wind.

The open neck of his shirt exposed the bare skin beneath, making her blood rush all the faster. She stared at it, fascinated by the sight of him. Reached tentative fingers to pull his shirt free from where it was tucked into his breeches.

He shed the shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the floor.

‘Oh, my!' she whispered.

He smiled.

She reached for him, trailed her fingers light as feathers against his muscle-contoured chest, marvelling at the difference in their skin tones. Her fingers were golden olive against his paleness. She touched more boldly, exploring the unknown landscape of a man's body. She had thought him a warrior fully clothed, but half-naked, with his chest exposed like this, he was truly magnificent, all hard honed muscle, all long strong limbs, all power and strength. There was not an inch of softness in that granite sculpted frame.

The sight of him dried her mouth and sent her heart thudding in a frenzy. The feel of him made her shiver, made her thighs burn hot, sent urges and sensations and needs to throb through her body.

Her fingers trailed lower. Over the ribbed muscle that banded his stomach and abdomen. Over the thin line of scar that the tough's blade had left.

‘It has healed well.'

‘Thanks to you.'

The memory of that night whispered between them.

She felt the ripple and clench of muscle beneath her hand, felt how hot his skin burned beneath the chill of her fingers. She dipped a finger into his belly button and heard him catch his breath. Emma saw the blue fire burn all the hotter in Ned's eyes and realised how much she was affecting him. It was a heady feeling of power.

She laid her hand flat against his chest, covering his heart so that she could feel its beat, strong and steady as the man himself. Looked up into his eyes, the most amazing eyes in the world, that smouldered with a desire that was all for her.

He moved his hands slowly, stroked her shoulders before he untied her petticoats. The layers of linen fell away unnoticed. His gaze dropped to her lips and lower again to the swell of her breasts over the tight-boned stays, his focus so hot and hungry that she felt it as clearly as if he had touched her there. Her heart was thudding like a horse at full tilt, her blood rushing so fast to make her dizzy. Her breath was ragged with need and desperate anticipation as his eyes rose once more to hold hers.

Every second was a torture of waiting. Every second was an ecstasy of wanting.

She was desperate to feel the skim of his fingers against the exposed skin of her breasts, to feel his mouth hot and hard upon hers. But he did neither of those things. Instead, he turned her around and gently collected the lengths of her hair to bunch them over one shoulder while he unlaced her stays with firmer hands than any lady's maid had ever done. She felt them fall away, heard them tumble and land with a thud on the Turkey rug beneath their feet.

She trembled with anticipation. Wanted him to touch her. Needed him to take her. Maybe she was brave because she had her back to him, or maybe it was just her own boldness. Regardless of the reason, she slipped the straps of her shift from her shoulders and let its transparent fine silk slide down her body.

She stood there, naked save for her stockings and shoes. Stood there, waiting, until she felt the caress of his fingers against the bare skin of her back, felt their trail all the way from the top of her spine right down to its tip, sending shimmers to tingle in unexpected places. The breath escaped her in a soft gasp.

She felt his smile, felt the warmth of his breath against her shoulder blade, making her shiver, before his lips touched a kiss there.

Her breath came faster and harder.

His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer. His palm splayed flat against her belly, anchoring her to him, her spine to his chest, her buttocks to the hard muscles of his thighs. His body was so different from her own in every way, yet it felt like they had been moulded to fit together.

She felt him caress her hair again, felt him kiss the nape of her neck, the touch of his lips to that one small place making her gasp louder.

‘Oh, Ned,' she whispered as she closed her eyes and angled her neck to invite him to more.

He understood what she wanted, nuzzled kisses against her neck, her throat, did something wonderful with his tongue where her blood pulsed strongest and hardest.

His hands slid slowly up over her belly. ‘You have the softest skin,' he said as he stroked higher to her stomach.

Her breathing quickened, the rise and fall of her chest only making her all the more aware of those strong manly fingers that rested so close. Of their slow teasing caress, that was making it hard to think. Of their promise to reach the destination she craved.

‘Ned...' she whispered his name like a plea.

He nibbled kisses to her neck and finally moved his hands to capture both breasts.

She gasped a long low sound of pleasure and moved her arms behind, holding to him, her fingers gripping tight to the muscle of his lower back.

His weighed her breasts, stroked them, wove magical patterns upon them, but never let his fingers stray to their pebbled peaks.

She arched, driving her breasts all the harder into his hands, needing that touch, demanding it. And he finally obliged.

When he plucked her nipples for the first time her knees went weak, her fingers clung all the tighter to stop herself falling. She groaned aloud.

His strong arm snaked again around her hips, his hand covering her sex. And then those warm long strong fingers began to move slowly, enticingly.

She groaned again, opened her legs and felt him touch her there in that most secret of places. He did not stop. One hand between her thighs, the other going between her nipples. He pleasured her without mercy. Pleasured her until she was gasping, until she was writhing, until she was begging...

Only then did he stop and still his hand over her heart as she had done to him. ‘Emma.' Her name was a whisper on his breath. ‘My love.'

Her fingers moved to find his, clutched his hand to her heart all the tighter. ‘My love,' she echoed.

She turned in his arms and looked up into his eyes.

He swept her up and, carrying her over to the bed, laid her down upon it. He stripped off her stockings and her shoes. Stripped off the rest of his clothing.

She stared at the sight of him fully naked, at the huge wonder that made him a man, and felt a
frisson
of fear. But then he covered her body with his own, somehow taking his own weight so that he did not crush her, and she forgot the fear.

He kissed her and all she knew was her love for him and that she wanted him with all that she was.

He moved between her legs and showed her the full wonder of the love that was between them. Together they reached a place she had not known existed. A place of exploding stars and magic and ecstasy and all of it because she loved him and he loved her. A union not just of bodies but of hearts and souls. A union that could never be undone.

And in their loving she knew that they were meant to be together. That they had always been meant to be together. Destined to love. This man who was her heart and her soul and the very breath in her lungs.

His body merged with hers. And together, at last, they were as one.

* * *

Those first heady days following the wedding were the closest Ned would ever get to heaven. He wanted it to be special for her. He wanted to show her just how much he loved her. They spent every moment together; spent many of them in bed, making love. A cocoon in which only the two of them existed and there was nothing and no one else. No past. No future. Only the now, only their love.

Everything about her brought him joy. Her smile, her laughter, the sound of her voice, the way they could talk for hours and never grow weary, the passion that burned between them. He treasured each moment. Savoured it and etched it carefully on his memory so that he would never forget. As if he ever could. But even then there was a part of him that knew the transience of those moments. They were a dream. The world would not for ever stay locked outside. Reality was already knocking at the door. He did not want to let it in. But in the end he had his responsibilities, which could not be ignored. Reality knocked and Ned answered.

Chapter Fifteen

I
t was late by the time Ned got home from the meeting with his man of business. Emma had not eaten, but waited for him so that they could dine together. She dismissed the footmen and butler. Lifting a covered plate from the heater in the middle of the table, she brought it over to him.

‘I had cook make your favourite,' she said as she lifted the lid from the plate of lamb chops and fried potatoes. ‘And...' She smiled and produced a bottle of porter, unstoppered it and poured it into a new silver tankard which she set before him.

The candlelight reflected on the symbol engraved upon it, a diamond shape enclosed within a circle. He traced the outline with his finger and felt his heart expand to fill the whole of his chest and the threat of tears in his eyes.

‘The symbol from your lucky token,' she said softly.

He slipped the token from his pocket and laid it down next to the tankard. ‘You remembered it exactly.' His voice was low and gravelled with the strain to control all that he felt for her.

‘How could I forget, when it brought us together? Do you remember the night you dropped it in the Red Lion?'

‘I remember.'

She placed her hand upon his and followed the trace of the pattern. ‘What does it mean?'

‘It is a gaming token, Emma.' He had never told anyone in his whole life. But he told her. ‘And it is the only connection I have to my mother. She slipped it into my pocket when she left me at the Foundling Hospital. It was the only gift she ever gave me.'

Her hand closed around his, holding him, supporting him. ‘I am sure your mother would not have given you up lightly.'

‘She didn't. I was four years old when they took me. I still remember her, and that day.'

Emma's eyes glittered with tears, but what he saw in them was not pity but compassion.

‘She gave you to the best life she could. And the Foundling Hospital raised you well, Ned.'

He gave a wry smile. ‘They tried, but I was a troublesome child. I ran away, time and again.'

‘Why? Where to?'

‘To Whitechapel and its streets.'

‘To seek your mother?'

‘Whitechapel was my home, not some other unknown place on the other side of town miles away from everything I knew.'

‘That is why you can relax there. Because it really is your home,' she said softly.

He gave a nod. ‘And despite all, I miss it. And I never want to forget. It is dirty and gritty, but it is the real world in a way that this place can never be.'

‘This beau monde of wealth and luxury. But you are right, when one has seen men and women and children fight for survival and savour the smallest things in life...' She shook her head. ‘If there is nothing of substance beneath, the sparkle and glitter soon tarnishes.'

As ever, she put into words everything that he felt.

She glanced again at the token where it lay on the table. ‘It must be the most precious thing in the world to you.'

‘It was, Emma. But now I have something much more precious.' He raised their joined hands and kissed her fingers. ‘I have you.'

‘Oh, Ned,' she whispered as she leaned down to him and pressed her mouth upon his. ‘Do you know how much I love you?'

He closed his eyes. Felt his chest tighten with the strength of emotions that fought and vied within him, love and guilt and shame. She loved him, but he was not the man she thought. If she knew who he was... That he was not her saviour, but her nemesis—the man who had caused all of her troubles. That he had married her under false pretences. That by loving her, by continuing to allow her to blindly love him, all the while not knowing the truth of who he was, what he was, was making a mockery of all that was between them.

It felt like the shadows of guilt were gathering, to whisper from the corners of his mind, taunting him for the charlatan he was.

It felt like the dark secret was starting to devour him from the inside.

* * *

Every night Ned loved her. And it was wild and sweet, and afterwards when they lay together in the big four-poster bed in their bedchamber her heart thumped in unison with his. And everything had a brilliance and a wonder, enough to overcome all else, so that she could only marvel at this love that was between them and think that beside it everything else was as nothing. And he stroked her hair and he looked deep into her eyes, and told her that he loved her, again and again, as if it would be the last time he would ever have the chance. Only then did that look appear in the back of his eyes; that veiled worry he thought she could not see.

She cupped a hand against his cheek. Looked deep into his eyes and tried to reassure him. ‘We have each other, Ned. Nothing else matters, does it?'

He smiled and kissed her again. Kissed her until she forgot the question she had asked.

It was only later, much later, that she realised he had given no answer.

* * *

Ned stood by the window of his study looking out over the Square—the magnificence of the mansions, the neatly kept gardens whose shrubs and trees and flowers cost more than families in Whitechapel had in a year to live. Luxury and splendour and riches beyond what he once would have been able to imagine. It should have made him happy. And once it had, before he had realised the cost that went with it. Now every time he looked at it, it reminded him of the truth. Not that he needed any reminding. The knowledge was like a burr in his side, needling him, never giving him peace.

He sipped the gin from the glass in his hand, the juniper-berry smell filling his nose, the heat hitting the back of his throat and travelling all the way down to his belly. But it did not ease the weight of the burden that sat upon him, nor deaden the pain of the knowledge.

Dishonour. Deception. The accusations whispered in his ears and would not be silenced. Not now. Not ever. He had to tell her. He knew that. She had a right to know the truth. She deserved to be treated as an equal and not patronised as a simpleton or a child. But how did a man tell the woman he loved that he was not the man she thought him? How did he tell her without hurting her beyond belief?

He would lay down his life to protect her. Take every hurt upon himself to save her. How could he then plunge a knife in her heart?

They were wedded. Bound together in law. For ever. She could not just walk away from him. Move on with her life. Meet someone else. Marry. All of those options were gone.

A part of him told him to keep quiet, to shoulder the burden himself. If she never knew, she would never be hurt. And the temptation was great. So great. She had been through so much, he could not bear to hurt her. And yet, if he did not tell her, that only made him all the more despicable.

He had to tell her. For honour. For integrity. Because everything she thought him was a lie.

He had to tell her. It always came back to that. He had to tell her, because he loved her and it was the right thing to do.

Ned had spent a lifetime doing the difficult thing. He had never shied away from doing what he had to. Right or wrong. No matter how hard, no matter what it cost him. Until now.

Now, standing here, with Emma asleep in their bed upstairs, he did not know if he could do this hardest of things.

* * *

Shafts of rich autumn sunlight spilled through the window of the private sitting room that adjoined Emma's bedchamber in the mansion house in Cavendish Square. It shone warm against her back where she sat at the little bureau, writing the letter to her father. The nib was a heavyweight silver and so smooth and precise that it glided across the thick white paper without so much as a snag or a scrape. The ink flowed fine and even without a blob. She dipped the pen into the inkwell again and signed her name. She glanced over at where Ned stood by the window, staring out with a hard, distant look in his eyes.

‘You have something on your mind.' She did not blot her letter, just left it to dry. Walked over to him, concerned at his preoccupation that seemed to grow only worse as the weeks passed.

‘I always have something on my mind.'

‘You work too hard, Ned.'

‘Not hard enough,' he said and picked up the battered little oval miniature painting that sat upon the side table, the gold leaf of the frame worn smooth. Her eyes moved to the beloved miniature.

‘It is a portrait of my brother, Kit, painted not six months before he was taken by Devlin and Hunter and the rest of that rakish gang to lose my family's fortune.'

‘You blame Devlin for what happened that night.'

‘I blame all of them. They took him to that gaming hell. They let him gamble his everything.'

‘Maybe they chose the lesser evil.'

‘What more could he have lost? Tell me, for I do not know.'

Ned said nothing.

‘They should have stopped him. True friends would have stopped him.'

‘They were not the ones who took his money.'

‘Even so,' she said, unconvinced by his words.

There was a small silence.

Ned returned the miniature to its place on the table, but his eyes lingered upon it. ‘Do you ever think of the man that your brother played against?'

‘Oh, I think of him,' she said with feeling. ‘To win a fortune is one thing. To take the coat from a man's back, his home, his dignity, to take his all... I do not know how the villain can live with himself.'

‘Maybe he can't.'

She gave a cynical laugh. ‘Somehow I doubt that. I bet he could not believe his luck when he saw my brother sit down at his table. A rich young fool ripe for the fleecing.'

‘Perhaps. But he could not have realised the far-reaching repercussions of his actions that night. He could not have seen the family behind the rich young fool. Or the wreckage caused to their lives. He could not have known the fool had a sister or how much she would suffer.'

‘It does not excuse him,' she said.

‘It does not,' he agreed. His gaze returned to the miniature. ‘You do not look so very like him.'

‘I have the likeness of my mother, God rest her soul, whereas Kit favours our father.'

‘But there is something of a similarity in your eyes.'

She smiled at that. ‘My mother always said he had mischievous eyes.'

‘So do you,' he said, but he did not smile. Instead, his focus remained fixed on the portrait, the expression on his face closed and unreadable.

‘Kit was a rascal of a child. Always dragging me into scrapes and adventures. Teasing me, when he grew older, in the way only a brother can do.'

‘You are close to him.'

‘I am,' she said. ‘Although not so much in the months before he left. I could not seem to reach him then. No one could. He was...troubled over what had happened.' She glanced away at the memory of those difficult days.

‘You love him very much.'

‘He is my little brother. There has not been a day when I do not pray he is safe and that he will come home. I swore a vow to my mother as she lay on her death bed that I would find him. It is why I did not wait for you, Ned. Why I had to accept the position with Lady Lamerton. Her son works in Whitehall—he has connections—and is trying to trace Kit as a special favour to his mother. But as the time passes and there is still nothing... Sometimes, I fear that perhaps...it is in vain.'

She saw something tighten in Ned's jaw. ‘Sometimes hope is all that keeps us going,' he said. His fingers still held Kit's portrait. His eyes stared at it with an expression that was brooding and dark. As if he were not seeing her brother's portrait, but something else all together. As if he were locked in some other world of worry and unhappiness and danger. ‘My connections may be of a different class to Lamerton's, but I swear to you, Emma, I will do all that I can to find your brother.' But he did not look at her, only at the tiny painting still gripped in his hand.

She gave a nod, knowing that if any man could find Kit it was Ned. And yet, knowing, too, that things were not right with him.

She took the miniature from his fingers. Set it upon the table once more. And took his hand in hers.

Her thumb caressed his. She looked up into his face. ‘What is wrong, Ned?'

He did not look at her for a moment. His gaze still lingered on the miniature. There were shadows beneath his eyes, a tight tension within his jaw.

‘Ned?' she prompted softly.

His eyes met hers at last and what she saw in them was a glimpse of something tortured, something at which what she had seen in Misbourne's hallway after the card game had only hinted.

He shook his head. Looked away again.

‘You are not yourself.'

‘I'm not. I'm someone else all together.'

The words disturbed her, reminding her of the taunt Devlin had thrown at her—
What do you really know of Edward Stratham?
Unease whistled like a cold draught through her.

‘You are frightening me, Ned.'

‘I would not have you frightened for all the world.' He looked at her then. Raised their joined hands to his lips, pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles. ‘You're right. Forgive me, Emma. I have too much on my mind these days.' He smiled a smile that did not quite touch his eyes.

‘Ned Stratham, what am I going to do with you?' she said softly and pressed a tender kiss to his rogue's eyebrow.

He took her in his arms and held her. Where her cheek lay against his chest she could hear the beat of his heart and feel the warm protection of his arms around her.

‘That is the question I ask myself, Emma,' he murmured against her hair. But there was nothing of jest or tease in his words. He pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head and he held her, just held her as if he were afraid to let her go.

* * *

Each night he loved her. Loved her as tenderly as if it were for the first time and as passionately as if it were the last. He took her with gentleness and reverence. He took her with urgency and fire. Driving into her, hard and fast as if this act purged away all of the worry she saw in his eyes. She wanted him. She needed him. And she knew, too, that he needed her.