Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (24 page)

It wasn’t his height, or his rock-solid stance, a warrior’s stance, a fierce protector and fiercer destroyer. It wasn’t even the kiss itself, a consuming, ravishing kiss that seemed to sap the strength from her and light up her heart.

It was his mouth. His soft, seeking sensible mouth, his lips so mobile, so hungry, so delicious that she found herself opening to him without coercion. She felt her arms lift to him as if of their own accord, doing their best to bring those strong, wide shoulders closer, woefully inadequate to encompass him, to even reach that fire-limned hair that curled at his neck.

Suddenly she wanted to wrap herself around him like a vine, climb him like a rampant weed. She wanted the taste of him on her, the scent of him, the scratch of his beard and the brush of his thumbs. She wanted fire. She wanted sweeping, swirling cataclysms so strong they left nothing behind but cinders.

Oh, sweet lord, she thought, coming up on her toes to get closer. He was so fierce, so gentle, so hungry, and it woke the same in her. She nipped at his mouth, brushed it, molded it, explored it like a dream she had just woken to find real. And it was warm and soft and pliant, that mouth, dipping, seeking, sipping, fitting more closely as he tilted his head, as he tilted her head in his hand to meet him more fully, to open to him, to invite him in. And she did, sliding her tongue along his lower lip, running it against his surprisingly straight teeth, tentatively tasting the rough pleasure of his tongue.

His tongue. His clever, darting tongue, dancing with hers, spearing her, seeking the deepest recesses of her mouth and taunting her with the faint taste of whiskey and smoke, which she knew she would wonder about later. Later when he took his broad shoulders away, his powerful hands and his clever mouth. Later.

As abruptly as he grabbed her, he pulled away. Panting, his forehead resting against hers, his arms still wrapped so tightly she could feel the thunder of his great heart and the jut of his erection against her belly.

“
That
is why I want you to come with me,” he growled, rubbing his cheek against her hair, his fingers tangled in her sensible bun.

She was trying to catch her breath, to drag her body back under control, when it was the last thing it wanted. She was swollen and pliant, hot and hungry and impatient. Her breasts ached and her womb wept, and she wanted nothing more than to pretend that she never again had to move from this place of safety that wasn’t safe at all.

Her heart sang with surprise at his hunger. At her own. How could she have known? How would she survive it? Suddenly the world was painted in more vivid hues, the colors of conflagration, and she didn’t know if she could bear to return to the grays that made up her life.

“That is why I will not,” she said into his jacket.

He held her close, stroking her hair as she clutched his coat, her body still shaking with the force of her desire. “I didn’t mean . . .”

She pulled back so she could see him. “Yes,” she said baldly. “You did.”

Fresh guilt darkened his eyes. “I think,” he said, his voice raspy, “maybe I did. I’m sorry, lass. I wasn’t being fair.” He shook his head. “I’m an honorable man. But all I’ve wanted since I first saw you is you in my arms, you in my bed. I’m dying for it.”

She wanted to weep. “Oh, Ian,” she whispered. “Don’t do this.”

She stepped back and wrapped her arms again around her waist, suddenly so cold without his arms to shield her. Wobbly at the loss of his solid support. Achingly, surprisingly alone without the feel of his body around hers. Oh, lord, and she had only been in his arms for minutes. How hard would it be if he stayed, even a while longer?

“I’ll rescind the offer that offends,” he said. “But I won’t change my mind about the other. You’ve put yourself in harm’s way for me. I canna leave you here to face the consequences alone.”

“You cannot force me to come with you either. You must get to Wellington. I must stay here so no one knows you enjoyed our hospitality.”

He reached out for her again. “I won’t let you.”

She evaded him, shoving her hands in her pockets. “You have no choice.”

“Ah,
mon cher,
how you excite me.”

Stricker was so excited he could hardly see her. She was beautiful. She was lush and smiling and wrapped tightly around him, her hand down his pants. She was in the rooms he’d taken over the green grocer, and she was naked as dawn. And he was going to have her. “You make me very happy, Minette,” he said.

Her smile was as old as sin. “As you make me,
cher.
And you will make me even happier very soon.”

He smiled at her and took hold of her breast. He wasn’t suave about it. He was too bloody hungry. He wanted to take her up against the wall. He wanted to have her on the ground, driving into her like a stallion. He wanted her bent over a chair, her pretty round derriere pushed against his groin as he pounded into her.

He was so busy imagining what he was going to do that he could barely get his placket unbuttoned. She was chuckling, her voice earthy and sensual. Her cloud of thick, curling blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. She held her hands behind her back, which just thrust her breasts forward even more. Stricker could barely contain himself.

He probably should have. Because his distraction was so great as he focused on his shaking hands that he failed to hear the
snick
of Minette’s knife. He never did get his buttons open. Instead he ended up twitching on the floor, his throat slit and pulsing blood all over the hooked rug as Minette watched.

She bent over him, her knife still dripping, her exquisite face pursed in a
moue
of disappointment. “Aaaah,” she sighed, bending to wipe the blade on Stricker’s pants. “Too slow. Too slow. Minette, she is not allowed to enjoy her work.”

It had been quite an argument with the old man, but Minette had finally agreed that if she left her usual calling cards on Stricker, they could never blame the murder on Ferguson. So no pretty designs on the little man’s face, no souvenirs taken. Just a workmanlike slit of the throat. She sighed again, thinking about how much of Ferguson there was upon which to practice her art. That was what finally brought a smile.

Stepping around the congealing pools of blood, she slipped back into her clothing and opened the door to be met by two working men.

“Check him for any inconvenient papers,” she purred, exchanging places. “Then make sure this is cleaned up and he is found down by the Cobb so they think the Scottish brute killed him.”

The room door closed, and she stepped up to the cracked, tarnished hallway mirror. Winding up her hair, she inserted a pair of improbably sharp hairpins before strolling down the stairs, humming to herself.

Sarah spent dinner in a daze, so overwhelmed by what happened that day that she missed most of the conversation and all of the food. When the ladies rose, she followed by rote. She knew she should escape to her book room to work on accounts. Heaven knew she hadn’t had much time for them in the last few days. But her roiling emotions so battered her, she couldn’t concentrate on anything except the urgent need to get Ian away from Fairbourne.

There was no more time to wait on his friend. He would have to leave the next night during the dark of the moon before either Martin or Madame Ferrar could find him on her land.

She was restless and fractious. She needed to draw a decent map for Ian to take with him. She needed to pack a rucksack with staples to keep him from stealing from any more henhouses. She needed to get hold of George to help ease his way. She could do nothing until the women were asleep. So when they retreated to the Oriental sitting room, she settled by the fireplace and took out her mending.

A red-papered room with a surfeit of Oriental screens, black lacquer chairs, and a gold settee, the Oriental sitting room was the last room redecorated before the money ran out. The jade was real, the Japanese artwork a clever copy from memory by Lady Clarke. Sarah had always liked the room, a true reflection of Lady Clarke’s taste.

The dowager was seated at a card table with Miss Fitchwater, perusing a portfolio of the dowager’s artwork they had spread across the table. Red and black cinnabar moths and peacock butterflies danced across the papers, dog orchids, cowslips, curling ferns, foxglove. And there, at the top, the dull brown Lulworth Skipper butterfly.

Sarah could usually ignore the watercolors. Tonight they filled her with frustration. Life could have been so much easier the last four years if only Lady Clarke had sold some of her paintings.

Sarah had slipped one of the watercolors out of the house once to see if Lady Clarke was the artist she suspected. Better, Mr. Yardson at the bookshop had told her, comparing the drawing to the folios they already had. Brilliant.

“This work compares with the great Adenson,” he enthused, setting the dowager’s painting beside a large folio of similar works with shaking hands. “The color, the setting. Exquisite.” He lifted the delicate rendering of a sulfur yellow brimstone butterfly as it emerged from its chrysalis. “Just this painting could see you a profit of twenty guineas. And think of the money we could garner from prints. If we gather them into a folio, your artist could well be the first great British natural artist. When can I see more?”

She had hated to burst his bubble. She hated even more returning home with a painting she knew the dowager would miss. These were her children, and she cared for them with a gentleness never afforded her real children.

Sarah had attempted to convince Lady Clarke to put up even a fifth of her collection. The older woman had been outraged even at the thought of selling her artwork. It had smelled of the shop, after all. Miss Fitchwater had smiled at Sarah in commiseration, but she would never think to contradict her dear Winnifred.

Perhaps, Sarah thought, she should suggest the idea to them again. After all, if she were taken up for aiding Ian, they would need another source of income.

Ian. Sarah briefly closed her eyes at the thought of him. Her body still seemed to thrum with residual energy. She felt restless and a bit giddy, as if she’d stood next to a lightning strike, and had trouble following the simplest conversation. She wanted to be back in that cellar. She wanted to be back in his arms. She wanted, God help her, to meet him skin to skin and discover every inch of his broad, strong body with her hands, her mouth. Her tongue. She wanted to understand the current that seemed to run so strongly between them.

She was a grown woman. A widow. And yet she had never experienced the like in her life. She didn’t know how to set it aside or ignore it. She didn’t know how
not
to want it.

It was a good thing he was leaving, she thought. She didn’t need any more trouble. She certainly didn’t need a man who failed to trust her at the first turn. A man whose offer of help was nothing more than
carte blanche.

Sarah pressed her hand to her chest, where the pain still twisted in her. How could he have even made the suggestion? Was that all he thought of her?

“Sarah, are you listening?”

Sarah blinked and turned to see Artie standing behind her, bouncing on her feet.

Sarah snapped back to attention. “Yes, Artie,” she said, returning to her work.

Her features cast in a suspiciously innocent expression, Artie handed over a letter. “I found this on the hall floor when I went by your office. I thought you might want it.”

For a second Sarah stared uncomprehendingly at the paper. It was a letter from Lizzie. Sarah’s heart stumbled. She had asked Lizzie not to respond, hadn’t she?

“I think it was in with the mail that you put on your desk,” Sarah reminded her. “I only went in because I thought there might be a letter for me. And there was. There were two, which you should have given me right away, you know.”

Sarah put aside her sewing. “Yes,” she said absently, turning the letter over in her hands. “I’m sorry. You say you already got your letters?”

“Yes, I was about to read them.” Artie pointed an accusing finger at the frank on Lizzie’s letter. “That is the Duke of Dorchester’s frank,” she said. “I know, because he franked Cecily’s letter.”

Sarah nodded. “Mmmmm.”

She wishing Artie would go away. Instead Artie sat right next to her. “You mean you are in correspondence with a relative of the Duke of Dorchester?”

“Not really. Certainly not enough to get us invited to the house party.”

Artie pointed at the paper as if it were a bloody knife. “But you never told us!”

Sarah smiled. “You have never wanted to know about my friends, Artie. Besides, Lady Elizabeth was never a close friend. An acquaintance, merely.”

It was all Artie needed to know. All anyone needed to know.

“But what could she want?” the girl asked, leaning close.

Knowing she could put it off no longer, Sarah broke the red wax seal, only to have a slim packet slide into her lap. She froze. Oh, heavens.
Please,
she thought.
Let it be anything but what I think it is.

Even without opening it, she knew better. Someone had decided to bypass the route Ian had suggested for his message and sent Ian’s reply through Lizzie. Sarah’s heart galloped. She could feel her palms go damp. Could that be why an assassin was here? Had Lizzie said something? Could Minette Ferrar know about the Clarkes?