How the Scoundrel Seduces (28 page)

Desperate to touch him, she ran her hands over his chest and shoulders, marveling at the thickly hewn sinews.
He remained still as she caressed him, though his eyes glittered hotly at her the whole while.

Then he dipped down to brush a soft kiss to her lips. “I’ve never been with a virgin, sweetheart. Show me how to please you. Where you want me to touch you.”

“Everywhere.” She was already aroused by the feel of his member rubbing between her legs. “Anywhere.”

“All right then,” he said in a husky drawl. “Whatever my princess desires.”

Then he began a determined assault on her senses. He slid down enough to suck her breasts and then her belly, tonguing and kissing and nibbling her in places she’d never guessed could be so sensitive—her underarms, her ribs . . . her navel.

He seduced like a musician. Or an artist, painting her skin with lips and tongue and teeth, bringing her to life one hot caress at a time. Then his hand slid stealthily between her legs and delved into her tenderly, and she nearly exploded at that touch. Lord, he certainly knew how to play a woman, how to tease her until she went half-mad with wanting him.

When she squirmed beneath his deft strokes, needing more, he uttered a soft laugh. “You’re such a wonder, princess. I’ve never seen a woman take such unabashed pleasure in the physical.”

“Is that . . . bad?”

“God, no. Every man wants to know that his . . . efforts achieve the desired effect.”

He thumbed the little button down below that was so sensitive, and she jumped beneath him.

When that brought his old smug smile to his lips, she muttered, “You simply enjoy . . . having a woman in your thrall.”

“Not just any woman. You. I enjoy having
you
in my thrall.” He fondled her again, his gaze now a molten blue. “You’ve had me in your thrall for so long that I deserve a turn.”

“Have I?” Her blood roared in her ears. “For how long?”

He straightened until his upper torso towered above her and his thickened flesh stuck out over her lower belly. He used it to caress her damp flesh. “
This
is what I’ve felt for you since you ran from me in the woods the first day we met.”

Her eyes widened. “Even . . . then?”

“Oh, yes.”

He bent over her again, and a wildness gleamed in his eyes as he undulated against her down there in slow, maddening strokes that made her ache and yearn.

His breathing sounded as ragged as hers. “I knew you were a pleasant armful the moment I tugged you onto my horse, but when you faced us all down and demanded we help you, I wanted nothing more than to drag you off into those woods and take you. I remember thinking it was a shame that you were an innocent and I couldn’t touch you.”

It was her turn to be smug. “You’re touching me now.” She thrust up against him.

“And I’m liable to regret it, especially if your father gets wind of it.” He bent to whisper, “But it will be worth whatever punishment he demands.”

That brought tears to her eyes. “Take me, Tristan. Now. Please. Make me yours.”

An unholy light shone in his eyes. He searched her face, as if to be sure she meant what she said. But when her response was to try to pull him down to her, he seized her mouth in a kiss so deep and wanton that at first she didn’t notice that something other than his finger was pressing inside her.

She tore her mouth from his. “Oh!” No wonder the mares bucked against the stallions taking them. It wasn’t exactly . . . comfortable.

“Relax, princess,” he murmured against her cheek. “Let me in.”

She willed herself to stop tensing up.

“Yes, like that,” he said with a drawn-out sigh of pleasure. “You feel . . . so good.”

“You feel . . . interesting.”

He chuckled. When she glared at him, he said, “Sorry, sweetheart, but that was your oddest choice of words yet.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “You feel too big.”

“No doubt.” He inched in. “Do you trust me?”

She didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

“Then trust me not to hurt you more than is absolutely necessary.” He thrust deep and pain seared her, making her cry out and buck against him. He froze, a look of stark terror crossing his face. “My God, Zoe—”

“I’m . . . fine.” She breathed hard a moment. The pain was already subsiding. “Truly . . . it’s not bad.”

He looked skeptical. “Then why are you grimacing?”

She gave a weak laugh. “I always grimace when . . . I’m being deflowered.”

Lifting an eyebrow, he murmured, “Hang on, sweetheart, and we’ll brave the maelstrom together. I’ll get you safely home, and make it well worth your while in the process.”

“You promise?” She looped her arms about his neck and tipped her chin up in challenge.

Hunger leapt in his face. “I swear it.” Never taking his eyes off her, he slid out with a slow, deliberate motion. And in. And out again.

While kissing her neck, he slipped one hand between them to find her aching flesh. He teased it as before, but with his “beast” now sliding in and out of her, going deeper each time, the effect was intensified.

“That feels . . . good . . .” she said, surprised.

“I should hope so. I do have a reputation to uphold.”

A laugh sputtered out of her. Everything instantly got easier, and she realized he’d made her laugh to relax her.

That touched her deeply, and she let go and gave herself into his hands. “Well, then, sir, show me your mettle.”

His eyes darkened, and he fell into a rhythm that warmed her below. Then roused her. Then made her clutch his shoulders and arch up into his thrusts.

“Ah, princess, I was wrong.”

“A-about what?” That interesting tingling had begun between her legs again, and she thrust up to meet him, seeking more of the feeling.

“We aren’t braving a maelstrom.” His jaw went taut
and his eyes blazed down at her. “You . . . sweetheart . . .
are
the maelstrom.”

How could that be? She was the one drowning . . . in his musky scent, his now urgent kisses and caresses, in the rocking of his body that swept her up on wave after wave, higher and farther until she lost herself in the rising. Until she went up and up and up . . .

And crashed on his shore.

She cried out. Or perhaps he did. She didn’t know which, because where he ended, she began. And as he spilled himself inside her and they clung together, their bodies quaking in the aftermath, she knew for certain that she’d found where she belonged.

He had indeed got her safely home.

♦ ♦ ♦

T
RISTAN STRETCHED OUT
beside her, his heart still racing like a skiff before a strong wind. He should leave. It was well past midnight; surely the damned groom who’d taken his horse was asleep by now.

But he couldn’t seem to drag himself from Zoe, who was curled up next to him, her body gleaming in the firelight and her hand resting on his chest with a possessiveness that seared his heart.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? By now, he was usually chafing to be gone from his bed partner, eager to escape whichever female clung to him after an hour or two of mutual pleasure.

But this was Zoe. She didn’t cling. And he didn’t want to be gone from her. Not now, not ever.

“Damn.”

He hadn’t realized he’d said the word aloud until she lifted her head to cast him a heavy-lidded glance. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. Everything. Nothing. He didn’t know. He hated not knowing. “I should go.”

With a nod, she took her hand from his chest. Which perversely made him want to stay all the more.

Stalling for time, he glanced around her room. It was pure Zoe—a riot of stripes and flowers in reds and greens and golds. “You really do like bold colors, don’t you, princess?”

“I like having a bit of dash around me, yes. What of it?”

“I’m merely making an observation.” He chucked her under the chin. “Don’t get defensive about it.”

That softened her. “Papa doesn’t approve of my taste in furnishings.” She made a face. “My entire room would be drowning in virginal white if he had his choice.”

Tristan chuckled. “He’s your father. He would rather keep you five years old for the rest of your life. And since he can’t, he’s trying to keep you on a pedestal with the other debutantes.”

“Too late for that.” She cast a glance to where blood smeared her thighs.

He sobered. “How well I know. I ought to apologize for taking your innocence. But I can’t. I don’t regret it.”

She pulled a sheet up to cover the evidence of her deflowering, then cast him a small smile. “Neither do I.”

He’d told her he couldn’t marry her, but of course he
must. He couldn’t leave her ruined. Even he wasn’t that much a scoundrel. Still, he must figure out how to do it so that she was protected.

She might not even
wish
to marry him. She was still an heiress, when all was said and done. To marry him would be to risk losing everything, if her cousin ever found out about her true lineage. And if Milosh had his way, that might happen sooner rather than later.

But surely she realized that. After all, when he’d said he wouldn’t marry her, she’d claimed she didn’t want him to. Had she been telling the truth? He must determine that before they could go on.

He sighed. “We should probably discuss—”

A knock came at her bedroom door, startling them both. He froze.

“Zoe Marie Keane!” said the voice of doom through the door. “Open up this minute!”

Lord Olivier. Hell and thunder.

Leaping from the bed, Tristan scrambled to put on his clothes. Zoe started to do the same, then apparently remembered that she was supposed to have been in bed sick, because she grabbed a night rail hanging over a chair and slid it on.

“What is it, Papa?” she squeaked, her voice sounding unnatural even to his ears.

Tristan struggled to button up his trousers. Damn, damn, damn. This was not what he’d wanted—to force her into a marriage.

The banging on the door made them both jump.

“Open this door now, young lady, or I’m coming in!”
Clearly, someone had alerted his lordship to the possibility that his daughter wasn’t alone. Tristan didn’t know how or who, but he’d had to flee jealous gentlemen friends of actresses often enough to recognize the signs of an irate protector.

With panic in her face, Zoe moved close to hiss at Tristan, “Go out onto the balcony.”

“No.” He wasn’t going to run and hide like some ne’er-do-well. He’d taken her innocence, and now he would pay the price.

There was no time and no point to running, anyway. Her father was no fool—the first place he’d look was on the balcony, and Tristan didn’t fancy dropping three stories and breaking his neck. They had a few minutes at most.

He seized her hand. “Tell me one thing, Zoe. Do you
want
to marry me?”

Her eyes went wide. “We don’t have time for this!”

There was muttering from beyond the door, and the sound of a key in the lock. In a few seconds, it would all be moot. “Answer the question, damn it! Do you even
want
to marry me?”

“Yes!” She uttered a defeated sigh, then clutched his hand to her heart. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Thank God.”

And at that moment, the Major burst through the door.

19

Z
OE GLANCED TO
the bed. The bloodstain was covered up by the sheet, thank heaven. Not that it would probably matter. Papa looked fit to be tied. And of course, Tristan was standing there naked from the waist up, which was enough to let Papa know what they’d been doing.

Papa took in the scene with a grim frown. “I didn’t want to believe it, even after the stableboy told me your mare had been missing earlier, only to reappear miraculously in the stables.”

She groaned. So much for hoping that no one would check the stalls after the horses were settled in for the night.

“But after that fellow next door asked about a gelding wandering in the mews bearing a saddle stamped with the words
Manton’s Investigations
 . . .” He fixed a hard gaze on Tristan. “Choose your seconds, Bonnaud. We meet on the field at dawn tomorrow morning.”

The Major’s tone presaged war and terror and mayhem.
He’d probably used that tone with his soldiers in battle but she’d never heard it before, and it sent a chill to her soul.

“You cannot fight him, Papa.” Releasing Tristan’s hand, she flew to her father. “He and I are going to be married!”

That only softened his stance infinitesimally. “Over my dead body, girl.” He wouldn’t look at her, and that hurt more than anything.

“I will gladly meet you on the field of honor if that’s what you require,” Tristan said, his voice nearly as solemn as Papa’s. “But I don’t fancy killing the father of my future wife. I daresay she’d have trouble forgiving me for that.”

“
I
won’t be the one to die, you damned blackguard!”

When Papa started forward with murder in his eyes, she threw her full weight against him. “Please, Papa! I don’t want either of you dead! And I won’t forgive
you,
either, if you kill the man I mean to marry.”

That halted him. At last he looked at her, but to her surprise, there wasn’t disappointment shining in his eyes. It was guilt. “I should have warned you better about Bonnaud last night. If I’d had any idea that he and your cousin were friends, that Mr. Keane would have the audacity to bring Bonnaud here—”