In Love With a Wicked Man (13 page)

“Kate, love, are you sure?”

She nodded, and reached for him. “Oh, Edward,” she whispered, “I am
so
sure.”

It was the sound of his name on her lips that nearly broke him.

“I am sure of you,” she went on. “I am sure this is right.”

God help him, but he was sure, too.

And even then, Edward knew that a part of him was holding the truth at bay. He felt in that moment as if he could have remained by her side forever, lost in the sweetness of her. Lost in the solitude of this place, and the steady warmth of Kate’s gaze.

And he knew, just as surely, that it would never be. That he was taking what he did not deserve. Tainting, perhaps, a pure innocence. And for an instant, he felt the hot press of tears behind his eyes again.

“Make love to me,” she murmured. “Pleasure me.
Please
.”

He hadn’t the strength to say the word that honor required. Perhaps he hadn’t any honor at all. He did not know.

“I will, love,” he assured her. “In time. But you’re the sort of woman a man should love slowly.”

She reached for him then, but he caught her wrist, gently restraining her. Then he pushed her over, dragging his leg over hers. “
Slowly
, Kate,” he said again, his tongue flicking out to stroke her nipple.

“
Aah
,” she said.

Capturing her breast fully in his mouth, Edward suckled her, drawing the plump flesh into his mouth, then stroking the tip with his tongue. Kate cried out in the darkness, her hips arching hard beneath the weight of his thigh.

“Be a good girl,” he murmured, brushing his lips down her breastbone.

Instead, she tangled her fingers in his hair on a soft, needy cry.

He forced her to still with the weight of his arms and legs, kissing and suckling each breast in turn. She whispered his name. He was lost in the sound of her voice.

She was like no other woman he’d made love to before; he knew this even though he could remember no woman before her. He had the feeling that, even were his memory intact, he still could not have remembered them.

Kate sighed again, artless and eager. He wanted her; wanted, he feared, more than this mere moment in time. And when her hips began to arch restlessly, Edward set a hand alongside her inner knee and drew it slowly upward, skimming along flesh so warm and so soft he wanted to drown in it.

He drew the hand higher, until he reached the nest of curls that guarded her center. Kate’s eyes were closed now, her mouth open on a soundless cry. He stroked deep, almost brushing her nub.

“Open your eyes, love,” he whispered.

They flared wide, her pupils dilated in the darkness. “Edward,” she murmured.

“I want to touch you, Kate,” he said. “I want to make you mine.”

“Touch me,” she whispered, her eyelids heavy. “Touch me, Edward.”

On that, he plunged one finger into her and felt her body spasm with the shock. She moaned, a sound that was not a sound but something that vibrated from her deep into him. He stroked again and again. Kate’s breath sped up, one hand fisting in the sheets.

His thumb found the wet, trembling jewel and lightly stroked. Kate cried out, then murmured his name again. He felt caught in the madness. And foolishly, he let that deep urge to dominate get the better of him. He let himself say the thing that was not true; let himself make the promise—or the threat—he could not keep.

“Kate, this is mine,” he rasped. “Do you understand?”

She shut her eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly, her hair scrubbing the pillow.

His breath was coming hard now, his body focused on just one thing.
Claiming her.
“Do you understand?” he demanded. “If we do this—no,
regardless
—this is mine.
You
are mine.”

“Yes.” The word was soft, thready with need. She swallowed hard, her throat working up and down. “I am yours, Edward. Make it so.”

He pushed inside her again, two fingers now, his thumb lightly circling. Kate cried out, and began to pant, her head turning a little into the pillow. Again and again he moved, the silken muscles of her passage tugging at him. Urging him.

Desire throbbed inside him now; not just his cock but the whole of his being. He could not wait. He dragged himself fully over her, and pushed her knees apart with his own. Guiding himself between her legs, he pushed himself inside and felt her stiffen at the invasion.

“It’s all right, love,” he whispered, drawing out ever so slightly.

“I know,” she whispered, reaching up for him.

Edward lowered his weight onto her and took her mouth in a kiss both fierce and unyielding. A kiss that truly claimed her. He thrust deep, parrying her tongue, intoxicated by her taste.

He drew back and thrust his cock again. Kate cried out, and drew up her knees to cradle him. He set his arms rigidly against the mattress, lifted, and rocked into her, praying for strength.

It was as if Kate knew just how to madden him. Tilting her hips, she let her warm hands slide down his back, then down his buttocks, drawing him to her with unerring womanly instinct. He felt his body shudder, thrust again, and squeezed his eyes shut.

This was making love.

The thought flashed through his mind, clear as a lightning bolt.

This was rare. Singular and perfect. This, he dimly realized, was what it meant to be as one with a lover. Beneath him Kate was moving more urgently. Ruthlessly, Edward bit back his impatience and set a steady rhythm, matching his movements to hers. Kate made a sound of pleasure, and hitched one leg around his waist.

“Yes, love,” he crooned. “Show me what you need.”

“
You
.” Her nails raked his flesh, setting his back aquiver.

Each thrust was better, sent him spiraling higher, pushed him nearer the edge. He could fall in love with her, he realized; perhaps already had. He pushed away the truth that kept threatening, and followed her pace, determined to pleasure her. Determined to bind her to him.

She cried out, and arched hard against him. He stroked deep, and stroked again, urging himself against her at that sweet, perfect angle. And then her head tipped back into the pillow, and Kate shook beneath him, her flesh drawing his. Her fingers curled into the muscle of his buttocks, and her knees clasped his hips until the shuddering rush of pleasure finally slowed. Edward pushed deep one last time, and felt reality splinter.

It was as if his very soul rushed out of him with his seed, flooding like a relentless surge into Kate. He thrust again, felt the tendons of his neck and back draw taut as a bowstring. Felt Kate’s arms come around him, drawing him down and down and down.

Down into a cosmos that went beyond his understanding.

Down into her exquisite embrace.

CHAPTER 8

In Which Fendershot

Sets to Work

S
till a little heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, Edward dined the following morning with Miss Wentworth, a little troubled she might somehow see the truth in his eyes. What would she say, he wondered, if she knew what he and Kate had done last night—
all
of last night—save for those last three or four hours spent in sweet oblivion?

She would not approve.

Hell,
he
did not approve.

But he’d done it, and given the chance would likely do it again, despite the fact that he could feel himself sliding near a perilous precipice. Though he was sure he’d bedded many beautiful women—and likely without a great deal of forethought—Kate was dangerous.

Kate was worth forethought. And afterthought. Actually, Kate was becoming bloody near an obsession.

It should not be so, Edward reminded himself. She was not glamorous or even classically beautiful. She was quiet, almost demure at times. But he no longer believed her plain. No, not remotely.

Still, however lovely she was to him, a woman he’d just met simply could not constitute the whole of his life. It was not wise—especially for her. Sooner or later, reality would return to him whether he wished it to or not. And then, yes, he would have to leave her.

And what then? For either of them? What would be left save the ashes of a fire that had burned so fierce but so fleetingly?

But there was, of course, one thing far worse than ashes he might leave behind. He could leave Kate with child.

In the light of day, it chilled him to realize how cavalier he’d been about that. Kate might pay a terrible price for his recklessness; the price of bearing a child to a man she didn’t know.

If Kate could not see the horror in that, then he must see it for her.

“Edward, more tea?”

He looked up to see Miss Wentworth at the sideboard, the pot held aloft.

“Oh.” He smiled absently. “Thank you, no.”

She returned to the table and set her own cup back down with a clatter. “What can have got into Kate this morning?” she murmured. “My sister is never late for anything.”

“Strictly speaking, she’s not yet late,” he said, extracting his pocket watch. “She told me we would leave at eight.”

He had already given Miss Wentworth the good news about his ability to grasp numerals again. Now she spared her attention only for his watch, which was, admittedly, exquisite.

“Yes,” said Miss Wentworth absently, “but Kate never misses breakfast. Edward, may I see your watch?”

He lifted a curious gaze to hers. “But of course.”

He unfastened the chain and passed it to her. Miss Wentworth stared at the inscription, turning it this way and that in her hand.

“What is this mark?” she asked after a moment had passed.

“What, that little design?”

“Yes.” She turned the watch and tapped on the small engraving below the inscription.

He took out his eyeglasses and leaned nearer. “I believe it is properly called a lozenge,” he said. “It is a heraldic mark used by ladies in lieu of a full coat of arms.”

“I thought as much,” said Miss Wentworth. She turned it back around and stared at it. “This is the style used by a widow or a spinster, isn’t it?”

Edward considered it. “I have no idea,” he said. “Why?”

Miss Wentworth caught his gaze meaningfully across the table. “It must belong to your aunt who gave you this watch,” she said, turning around in her chair. “I suppose Kate and Peppie were so busy reading the inscription, they never studied the design. Jasper?”

The young man darted in from the corridor with a bow. “Yes, miss?”

“Fetch Fendershot for me, will you?”

A moment later, Bellecombe’s butler, a tall, stately man of at least sixty years, came in. “Mr. Edward, Miss Nancy,” he said, bowing. “How may I be of service?”

“You know a little something about heraldry, Fendershot, don’t you?” she said.

“My father was a clerk with the College of Arms,” he said. “I know a little. And his late Lordship kept a good collection of heraldic materials in the library.”

Miss Wentworth passed him the watch. “What do you make of this?”

He gave it the briefest of glances. “Those are the arms of a noble widow,” he replied. “The shape and the little ribbon tell us that.”

“And the symbols?”

“A combination of the lady’s father’s arms and her late husband’s arms,” he said, “or it should be, if done properly.”

Miss Wentworth’s gaze caught Edward’s again. “I think your Aunt Isabel is likely your mother’s sister,” she mused. “Were she your father’s sister, she would have used the family’s full coat of arms, wouldn’t she? But perhaps she wanted your grandfather’s arms on the watch?”

“I don’t know,” said Edward. “The etiquette of heraldry is beyond me.”

“It is beyond most people,” Fendershot murmured, still studying the lozenge.

Miss Wentworth returned her attention to the butler. “What are the chances, Fendershot, you could identify who this Isabel is?”

The old man shook his head. “Very difficult, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I would enjoy nothing so much as a morning spent perusing your grandfather’s old books. May I keep the watch today, Mr. Edward?”

Edward waved his hand dismissively “Oh, by all means,” he said, “but please do not put yourself out on my account.”

Indeed, a little part of him wished to snatch back the watch, and circumvent the inevitable. But the butler had already vanished from the room, his morning’s work in hand. A moment later, Kate dashed in, already attired in a carriage dress of dark blue, a cloak over her arm.

“Heavens, I overslept!” Her gray eyes flared with heat as they lit upon him. “Quick, Nan, pour my tea whilst I grab a piece of toast. I’ve sent Jasper for the carriage.”

Ten minutes later, Edward was helping Kate on with her cloak.

“I’ll fetch my wrap and my reticule,” said Miss Wentworth, rushing from the room.

Edward followed Kate to the open door. Then, at the last instant, his patience slipped. He caught her by the arm, and spun her around, setting her back to the wall. Kate’s eyes widened with shock.

Heedless, he kissed her until she was breathless, kissed her deeply and possessively, with his lips and his tongue and his hands, until his breath came rough and her arms were entwined about his neck.

Kate. Kate. Kate.
It was as if her name coursed through his blood, driven by the very beat of his heart.

She maddened him. He needed her. Desperately, he feared.

When at last sanity returned, he set his forehead to hers, searching for the words he needed. “Damn it, Kate,” he finally said, “I don’t know where this is going, but—”

“
Shh
,” she murmured. “Don’t talk, Edward. Don’t ruin it.”

“We have to talk about it,” he said. “This is not . . . This is not
nothing
, Kate. I don’t know what it is, but it is
something
. Something . . . vast and near incomprehensible to me.”

“Not now,” she said, brushing her lips over his cheek. “Jasper is coming.”

Edward forced his mind back to the present, and heard rapid footsteps approaching from the castle’s great hall.

He came reluctantly away from the wall, turned with a muted smile, and offered Kate his arm.

T
HE DRIVE TO
Taunton was not overly long. Kate had ordered her landau, which was driven by a coachman who looked to have been born a century earlier. The day was frosty, but the ladies wanted the top folded down. Edward was glad to oblige them, praying that a brisk drive might clear his head—or at least cool his ardor.

After a long drive through the Somerset countryside and half a dozen picturesque villages, they reached the outskirts of Taunton.

Edward could not have said precisely when it dawned on him that the passing shops and houses looked familiar; it was more of a slow, uneasy realization. When he saw a squat, stone bell tower in the distance, he was certain.

“What is that place?” he asked abruptly.

“Staplegrove,” said Miss Wentworth, pointing over the trees. “Richard’s cousin is vicar there.”

But Kate, more perceptive, had caught the unease in his voice. “Have you been here before, Edward?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I am very nearly certain of it.”

“Could you be
from
here?” Miss Wentworth’s pretty brow furrowed. “I really think not. Richard would have recognized you. Likely
we
would have recognized you.”

Since Richard Burnham had come twice to offer his prayers for Edward’s swift recovery, Edward expected she was right.

Burnham was an astute gentleman with a piercing gaze who had almost certainly come not to minster to Edward’s spiritual needs, but rather to reassure himself of his beloved’s well-being.

Edward had done his best to put the young man at ease, and to appear as unthreatening as a man of his height and bearing could do. The rector had gone away satisfied that at least his intended bride—if not Edward’s soul—was entirely safe. But Burham certainly had not recognized him.

“What about that inn, Edward?” Miss Wentworth pointed in the opposite direction. “Does it look familiar?”

“Nancy, let be,” Kate warned, settling back against the banquette. “Eventually Edward will remember, and until then, pressing him won’t help. Now, have you your shopping list to hand?”

Edward did indeed try to put it from his mind but he could not escape the uncomfortable sense of familiarity. He told himself that it was a good thing. But it didn’t feel like a happy thing. No, the familiarity carried a haunting sort of sadness, and brought with it that weighty sense of obligation that had been troubling him the last few days.

His mood notwithstanding, the visit was a commercial success for the shopkeepers of Taunton. It was a town of some size, and as Kate had predicted, there was no difficulty in finding haberdashers, hatters, and bootmakers sufficient for the average gentleman’s needs.

After graciously loaning him a generous sum of money—and teasing him that she meant to keep his pocket watch as collateral—Kate left him to his own devices, agreeing they would meet for luncheon at the hostelry where the carriage had been left. The ladies set off in the opposite direction along the high street, Kate casting him one last, heated glance over her shoulder as she went.

After recovering from the memories
that
engendered, Edward went from shop to shop ordering—and in some cases outright purchasing—those basic bits of kit that a country house visit might require, and giving Bellecombe Castle as the delivery address for those things requiring tailoring. But all the while he remained on edge, searching every face he saw, waiting for that inevitable moment when someone would recognize him and shout out his name.

It did not come.

He had been so very certain it would. That today would be the day. Why? Because of some squat church tower that looked vaguely familiar?

But there was no denying the familiarity of that scene, and no denying the heavy weight it left in the pit of his stomach.

Nonetheless, no one spoke to him save to thank him for his custom and to press receipts into his hand. Having deliberately left his stick in the carriage to keep both hands free, Edward went about his business, trying to take comfort in how little pain he felt in his leg. And that free hand came in handy; by one o’clock, he was carrying enough packages to put a simpering London dandy to the blush.

After they had dined on a luncheon of cold chicken and late vegetables, Kate sent for her carriage and the three of them returned in the direction from whence they’d come, Miss Wentworth teasing him unmercifully about his outrageous collection of boxes.

Having taken the rearward seat, Edward was watching Taunton vanish in their wake when the carriage went clattering over the railroad track. Just then, he caught sight of a gray-haired woman in brown descending from an open carriage near the station.

It was as if he’d been struck in the head by a lightning bolt. He realized at once that she was known to him.

Well
known to him.

Indeed, he was already groping desperately in his head for her name when she turned around to stare at him, her posture stiff as a statue, her hand held up to a girl of perhaps twelve years who remained in the carriage, waiting to clamber down after her.

Still seated, the girl, too, turned, as if to discover what had caught the woman’s attention. Her gaze caught Edward’s. Then, with an expression that was perplexed—almost injured—she lifted her hand in greeting, and gave a tenuous little wave.

It was as if he froze inside.

It was Annabelle.

Dear God.

Annie and her grandmother, Mrs. Granger. They were still staring after him as if he were a ghost. Which of course they might do, since he was supposed to be . . . be where? Where the hell was he supposed to be?

Where had he gone after leaving Mrs. Granger’s cottage?

The house. The damned house he’d taken from Reggie. What was the bloody thing called?

Heatherfields
.

Had he arrived there?

No. No, he had taken a wrong turn. Seen a magnificent castle down in a vale. Not Reggie’s little manor. Irritated, he had turned around and given Aragon his head . . .

Bits and pieces of his memory began to go
click, click, click
, sliding back into their logical places like beads on an abacus, making for a horrific sum total.

He had taken Aragon from his happy retirement in Mrs. Granger’s stable. He had been on his way to Heatherfields, to see what might be made of the estate he’d taken from Reggie.

Lord Reginald Hoke.

Lord Reginald Hoke
of Heatherfields.

He could hear Anstruther’s disgust in his head.

Left that dunderheid the hoose and three tenant farms to piss away
, he had said
. Not my place to say, mind, but I niver thought him a good influence . . .

He could see the picture being laid out before his very eyes. Knew his face must look white as a sheet. He could feel the hope and the joy draining out of him, and he knew without a doubt what that hard black knot inside him was. It was his heart.