Seducing the Beast (8 page)

This was primal instinct, the pure, undeniable recognition of a mate preordained, and for the first time in thirty-five years, he believed in fate. It was as if she belonged there with him, as if they sat like this nightly and she poured his wine, chattering about her day.

Suddenly she cried out. “There’s blood on your sleeve. You’re wounded!”

He’d forgotten the cut. Now, as she made a fuss over it and over him, he mumbled that it did indeed sting very, very badly. Yes it did. She took charge of him at once, rolling up his shirt sleeve, exclaiming over the likelihood of infection. Gazing at her pale hands, so small against his thick, sun-browned arm, he felt larger and more cumbersome than ever.

“Water?” she demanded, taking charge.

He jerked his head toward the bedchamber, where a jug and basin awaited his evening ablutions. Fetching it, she knelt by his chair and washed his wound. He watched, dazed.

“Tell me what the earl is truly like,” she asked, gently wiping blood from his arm. “What is he like inside?”

He replied gruffly. “You’ve heard what they say of him.”

“That he has a foul temper? Yes.”

“And yet you’re not afraid to share his bed?”

“I enjoy a challenge.”

He shifted in his seat, hot and restless. “Whoever told you he will eat you alive was wise to warn you.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she declared firmly. “Like most men, he’s stubborn and stupid. Being a nobleman, he regards the rest of us like dirt beneath his boots. I daresay he believes women should not be educated, they should remain ignorant chattel, good only for bearing children, no better than beasts of burden. He abuses his privilege and hoards his wealth. He is never satisfied and always suspects others of mishandling his affairs, cheating him in some way.”

He coughed. “You have him down so accurately already. Are you certain you’ve never met the man?”

Looking around for a rag to bandage his arm, finding none, she tore a strip of cloth from her petticoat, briefly showing her ankles and lamenting her mud-spattered stockings, while he tried not to look. “I suppose the earl is stern and miserly,” she said with a matter-of-fact shrug, “like all men of vast wealth, who need please none but himself.”

“Exactly so. You’re amazingly clever. Remarkably insightful.” He rubbed his chin, feigning amazement.

“Does he have
any
teeth?”

“Not one,” he replied somberly, tilting forward again. “I thought you were interested in the inside, not just his appearance?”

“The condition of a person’s teeth reveals much about their character and personal cleanliness,” she replied primly.

Another low chuckle built in his throat and he struggled to contain it. “What are you doing here, wench? The truth now!”

His arm neatly bandaged, she sat back on her heels, sighing deeply, the eager swell of her bosom caressed by the gentle firelight. “Someone has to fight for justice.”

Warily perusing the woman kneeling before him, he wondered if she did this sort of thing often. How many others did she entice like this?

She smiled complacently. “Are you not glad I came to amuse you again, before I leave London?”

Leave London? Oh no, no, no. “Where do you go?”

“Somewhere.” She laughed, the lush sound invading his quiet chambers with so much sudden life the dark, staid, paneled walls trembled with indignation. He flexed his fingers, easing the tension, hastily regrouping his thoughts.

Returning to the little tapestry foot stool, she continued her interrogation that would put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. “Why do you serve the earl, if he’s so horrid?”

“I have no choice.”

“You’re an indentured servant?”

He nodded. “Some of us are born with a duty, a responsibility. Mine is to the Swafford name.”

“I think it makes you terribly unhappy.”

He managed a terse, “I’m no less happy in my life than any other man in his.” As he reached for his wine goblet, she leaned forward again at the same moment. Surprised, he fell back in his chair, empty handed.

“You never smile.” Her voice was almost musical, the timbre deceptively soft, but resonating deeply in each dark, neglected corner of his being.

He clamped his lips firmly shut.

“Do you not know how?” she persisted, eyes shining. “Shall I teach you?”

There was no escape, he was trapped. “Ridiculous wench. Leave me be.”

“It won’t hurt.” She chuckled. “Try it. One little smile.” Sliding forward she put her hands on the arms of his chair and he froze. How long had it been for him? Too long. If she came much closer she would put him over the edge. With narrowed eyes, he quickly scanned the distance to the woven straw rug by the fire. The bed might be more comfortable, with room to spread out, but the closer convenience of that rug would do to start. Very shortly the natural predator within would obscure any last gentlemanly cavil. She would discover the truth about his impotency, first hand.

But she moved first, tipping from the footstool onto her knees, forcing her way between his thighs. “Come, sir, I see the twitch, right…” she pressed a finger to his unshaven cheek “…there.”

It was not the only twitch she caused.

Her teasing ended in a startled yelp as he caught her trespassing finger and trapped it within his fist. “Very well then wench, let’s to bed. Or do you prefer the floor here, before the fire?”

“I told you--I’m saving myself for your master.”

He growled. “If you please me, I’ll speak to the earl on your behalf.”

She laughed again, a deep, husky, wanton sound connecting instantly with some needy part of his soul. Watching a faint pulse at the side of her neck, he wanted to press his lips to it.

“I think you drank too much wine,” she said, mischievous dimple appearing again in her cheek.

No. He hadn’t drunk any wine. She kept preventing it.

“’Tis not the wine, ’tis you.” The war drums of his heartbeat rumbled another call to advance. Why restrain it when she made no masquerade of her purpose there in his chambers? He sneered. “Lost your gumption?”

She clambered to her feet, brushing down her skirt. “Now you’re being silly.”

He scowled, outraged, speechless.

The rotten little tease headed for the door, leaving him without his permission. No one ever left his presence until he decreed it.

Especially not her.

He was tempting, devastatingly tempting to an inquisitive, healthy young woman who clung to her virtue with scant enthusiasm, and began to fear she would die a maid. There was also something inherently sad and lonely in his eyes and she wanted to help.

Pity about the Sainted Virtue. If she stayed longer she might succumb, then she would have nothing left of value to barter for her cousin’s pardon. “I must go.”

He shifted to the edge of his chair, a great lithe cat, ready to pounce. “Have you forgotten Nathaniel Downing’s pardon?”

It was late and dark, altogether too enticing to stay there with him, where it was warm and dry. As if to confirm her thoughts, the rain came down full force suddenly, blowing in through the window, knocking that valiant candle from the ledge, killing the flame. The chamber was lit now only by the glow of the fire.

Her hand on the door latch, she looked at him. Once she passed into the candlelit passage, she might never see this man again, yet there was a connection, raw and almost primeval, palpable the moment he’d touched her.

He challenged her with the suggestion of a little smile. It was not much of one, and rather stiff and rusty from lack of use, it seemed to surprise him that he even made the effort. Silky heat flowed down her body to the juncture of her thighs, where it turned into a fluttering beat of tiny wings.

Suddenly he was at the door, reaching for the latch, and she thought he meant to prevent her leaving.

“I can’t stay.” Then she added, “’Tis not courage I fear may fail me, only ladylike restraint.” Oh, but that restraint, no more than a slender thread, stretched to the point of snapping. Goosebumps prickled along her arms, the craving for discovery was alive in every pore. She was ready like she’d never been.

With a little cry, she flung her arms around his neck and he fell with his back to the door, slamming it shut again. A gasp of air rushed out of him as she stretched, reaching up on tiptoe, straining to press her lips to his. For a pulse beat he seemed too stunned to react. In the next gasp she was crushed between his body and the paneled door, his mouth on hers, covering it, ravenous and arrogant.

Pure desire, white hot and brand new, trickled through her veins, melting her insides. His lips moved wetly from her mouth to her cheek, as she squirmed and complained faintly, unaccustomed to a man taking the upper hand.

“I must leave,” she groaned, trembling, sliding down the door until his lips skimmed her brow.

“Like all women--daughters of Eve--you’re a menace, deceitful and cruel to lead me on and then leave.”

She protested. “My intention was not to tease! Let me go, fool.”

“Not yet, madam.” He bent his head, his breath tickling the hollow beneath her ear. “I am not of a mind to let you go, until you tell me your name.”

“I told you…” When his mouth brushed the side of her neck, she tipped her head back, trying to catch her breath. “…I can’t…”

“Why are you here?” He held her wrists between her back and the door, his body pressed to hers. “Tell me the truth and perhaps I’ll be merciful. Although my master would not be. Who sent you here? Who put you up to this?” He bent his head again to lick the curve of her ear.

She swallowed an incapacious cry of protest.

“Tell me,” he repeated gruffly, holding her hard against the door, the words partly muffled in her hair.

“You know why I came. I told you my purpose.”

“There must be more to it. You would give yourself away for so little?”

“So little?” she gasped, as his tongue boldly caressed the pulse at the side of her neck.

“Captain Downing means much to you.”

“Yes. Do you have no loyalty, no devotion to anyone except your master?”

His lips ventured lower, traversing the upper curve of her quaking breast. A light touch, little more than a warm, whispering breeze, it still left a mark on her, the tracing of his damp tongue.

“You put yourself in great danger,” he said, planting another kiss to the base of her throat. “What if the earl decides to keep you here as his prisoner?”

“I’m far too disagreeable for any man to want for long.”

He paused. She thought she heard him laugh. It was an odd, stilted sound she longed to encourage out of hiding. He needed to laugh. She’d sensed that almost from the first.

“My lord?” Someone knocked at the door briskly, breaking through her balmy daydreams. The loosened bolt rattled, but her captor paid no heed to the noise.

He kissed her hot cheek and then reclaimed her lips. Eyelids fluttering shut, she arched toward him, her body yearning. She wanted to put her arms around his neck again, but his fingers were unrelenting iron cuffs around her wrists.

The visitor at the door knocked harder.

With little kisses he brushed one eyelid, then the other, his breath blowing playfully on her lashes.

She wanted to cry out, beg him not to stop. Instead she whimpered pathetically, “Someone comes for your master.”

“Ignore. I’m not done putting you in your place for slapping me today.”

“You’d best make haste. I haven’t all day.”

“Are you always so irritating?”

“Irritating?” she muttered wryly, “I thought I was on my best behavior.”

“I’d like to see you at your worst.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” Heat radiated from her belly now; lust held her ransom against the door.

He growled gently in her ear. “What is it you want from my master? Say the word and I’ll see that you have it. Anything.”

“Captain Downing’s pardon. How many times must I say it?”

“There must be more.” His tongue swept over her mouth again as if he couldn’t resist, yet when she parted her lips, ready for him, he left her waiting this time. “What could he give you? What could he do for you, not for Downing?”

A third, insistent knock rattled the door.

“Is there nothing you want? No fine pearl earrings? No purse of gold? No silk petticoat?”

She’d never thought of anything like that for herself. Earrings she would undoubtedly lose, a petticoat she would tear, and a purse of gold would only make her terrified of robbers. Where did one keep a purse of gold safely? She knew spending it all at once would be quite impossible. Even sixpence caused her palpitations, trying to decide what to spend it on.

“I want nothing else,” she mewled, raising her lashes.

His breath was ragged, her own even less steady. In his eyes, pure gold gleamed through layers of dark and shadow, but despite the riches they held, they were the strangest, saddest, neediest two creatures she’d ever seen. She shivered.

His eyelids lowered slowly, shielding his thoughts and likewise that priceless plunder from her captivated gaze--as if it was not too late for modesty. As if her ideas didn’t mirror his in that tense moment.

* * * *

Griff contemplated keeping her there. She was, it seemed, conflicted, and he was certainly loath to let her go. The sparks in her wide eyes lured him with promises of bounty he’d never believed in. He should know better. Glancing down at her full bosom, straining against his leather doublet, he expelled a quick groan of frustration. She was temptation incarnate. He was rigid with this torment. His seed surged vigorously with too much life after an extended dormancy.

If he didn’t send her out now, he would embarrass himself like a green youth.

“Best leave now, wench,” he muttered.

She hesitated.

“Go,” he snapped, clawing through his hair.

She opened the door and pushed her way by the man who stood there, waiting impatiently. One hand clutching her breast, she ran as if the devil himself was on her heels.

“Who was that, milord?” asked Wickes, shuffling in.

“Nobody.” He strode to the window, retrieving the fallen candle. The wine goblet rolled across the floor, almost causing him to trip. He swore.