Suzi Love (31 page)

“Others! How many others do you know?”

“Without seeming immodest, I’m acquainted with most of the proprietors of that category of establishments in central London. Naturally, I don’t visit all of them, especially the ones situated in the seamier parts of the city.”

“Oh, naturally.” At his sarcasm, she merely raised one haughty brow. “That could sully the reputation of a constrained and reputable gentlewoman, such as yourself.”

“Oooh! In return for my assistance in managing their funds, these ladies graciously gather evidence for us. I have, on occasion, visited their premises. More often, we meet with their friends in the park.”

Cayle, in the midst of slipping the saturated gown down Becca’s arms, felt himself pale. “You and your sisters meet with street girls, in the park?”

She ignored his irate questioning. “Please don’t refer to them by that lowering name. It’s not their fault they were forced to seek such occupations. They prefer to be called gentlemen’s friends.”

Cayle grabbed his head in frustration and groaned. “Jesus, Becca. What next? Your family is involved with men who think nothing of snuffing out the opposition. You consort with working girls — ” He sucked in a gulp of air. “Pardon me. Gentlemen’s friends. You visit brothels. The wonder is that no one’s shot at you long before this.”

“Oh, they have. Shot me, that is.”

Without a care, she tugged the gown off her waist where it had caught as it fell and stepped out of it, dropping it in a soggy heap on the floor behind her. In an instant, his mouth turned dry. He couldn’t swallow for the lump in his throat.

Now he was the one frozen to the spot as he watched her, all conversation forgotten in the delight of seeing her unclothed. Her wet chemise clung to every lush curve and the enchanting pink of her nipples was clearly visible. Just as his hand reached out, her words registered in his slow-witted mind.

“Did you just say you’ve been shot? Before tonight.”

“No. Tonight I was shot at, not shot. There’s a difference.”

Through gritted teeth, he asked, “Where were you shot?”

As from a distance, he watched her hand reach up and hook her fingers under the edge of her chemise and pull it down to expose creamy skin, soft skin that he dreamed of incessantly.

“There.”

Belatedly, he realised she wasn’t fulfilling his ultimate fantasy of undressing for him in the soft glow of firelight, but was indicating a puckered scar on the outside of her left arm. Although he must have been blind to not notice it before, it was a gunshot wound, and he should know. He’d suffered one himself and tended to others. Having suffered one, he understood the pain. Yet, this tiny bundle of womanhood exposed her wound for his examination as if it was an insect bite.

Before he could stop himself, he bent and gently kissed the scarred flesh, then lapped it with his tongue to soothe the ache and save her any more pain. The idea of anyone hurting such a wondrous creature frightened him. Even more than before, he wanted to swathe her in the thickest of furs and hide her in an enormous bed where he’d guard her with his life.

“Who shot you? Why?”

Whoever had done this to her would be in fear of their lives if he caught them. And he would.

“Oh, this one happened — ”

Incredulous, he asked, “This one?” He was ready to commit murder himself, yet he wasn’t sure if the majority of his anger was directed at her assailant, or her.

“Well, yes.” Her voice wavered at his unconcealed horror. “But I think one should only count being shot if you’ve a wound. After all, men who go to war are wounded constantly and don’t regard mishaps as important enough to recount. Unless you’re Major Townsend, of course.”

“And who is Major Townsend?”

He knew he was snarling but he couldn’t help himself. Never before had he been jealous, yet in his short reacquaintance with Becca, he’d become jealous of every male she mentioned. Wanting to do harm to his fellow man was becoming a common occurrence.

She was driving him to insanity.

Demanding an accounting of meetings with the opposite sex was the prerogative of married couples. It wasn’t something he’d ever done before. His mistresses, as Becca insisted on calling them, had been women with whom he’d enjoyed brief dalliances, without involvement. Once emotion was involved, women became paramours and he’d never had time for that. Never had the inclination.

“You’ve no need for jealousy. The major could never be my heroic knight like you. He’s far too stuffy. And he’s the only gentleman I ever encountered who regales people with tales of his injuries. Mind you, I know that his falling down when inebriated caused several of his so-called war wounds. Which is often. Anyway, between my catastrophe prone siblings and I, we devised a system — ”

“A system?”

His heart pounded in a painful thump against the wall of his chest as he braced himself for her answer.

“A categorising system, to evaluate the severity of wounds. Falling over when cup shot is a two. Being thrown from a horse in full gallop is a four, because of the danger factor, you understand. Being threatened with a knife rates an eight.”

Unable to believe what he was hearing, his voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

“How many have you … you suffered? On your scale.”

“Well, I’m not known for being cup shot. So, only some others. That may account for why my family considers me the most accident-prone. If you remember when we were younger, I seemed to get into the most scrapes. But my aunt assured me I’d grow out of it.” Her head fell to one side as she contemplated that. “I don’t seem to have grown out of it though, do I? You’re still rescuing me as you used to do years ago.”

“I’m almost ashamed to admit this, but I’m starting to follow your perverse reasoning, and your roundabout conversations.”

She smiled and patted his hand. “I’m not at all surprised, Cayle. You’re actually quite intelligent. Brilliant, in fact.”

Under his breath, he muttered, “It’s not brilliant to look at you and feel the way I do.” Out aloud, he said, “Becca, what am I going to do with you?”

A tongue poked out to moisten her lips in that way she must know drove him to distraction. Fingers danced down his chest to hover around his waist, sliding back and forth in a seductive motion.

“I can think of a few things you could try.”

Damn! He never knew whether to thank Madame Faberge or murder her. With her education of the Jamison girls, she’d unleashed their powers as women. Richard had best beware when Laura stopped arguing with him. The attraction those two avoided like the plague would explode and his cousin would be caught up like he was, in a Jamison whirlwind.

Becca’s dark red hanks of hair dripped water onto her already sodden undergarments and adhered them to every generous curve of her body. A lone rivulet escaped confinement to trickle under lacy-edged pantaloons, over the length of a stocking-covered leg, and spilled over dainty toes to pool, unheeded, on his stepmother’s Turkish carpet.

His mouth dried. He longed to follow the water’s meandering path with his tongue, lap up any moisture clinging to her shapely legs, and suck her damp toes deep into his mouth’s drying heat. Hell. Nothing had changed. Looking an almost caught-in-a-brothel-fire-mess, this lady still tantalised him far more than the well-groomed and well-schooled mistresses he’d passed time with during the four years he’d been abroad.

• • •

Cayle swivelled, swallowed, and stepped away to retrieve a cover from the settee. Not allowing himself to move closer than his outstretched arm, he dangled the rug before her.

“Here. Remove your wet things then wrap yourself in this.” He swallowed, hard. “I’ll turn away.”

“What if … ” Her fingers played with the shoulder ties of her chemise. “If I don’t want you to turn away?” She tugged and one bow unravelled.

With a groan, he spun away to face the wall. “Becca. Behave yourself, as I’m trying to do.” To distract himself from the thought of her undressing behind him, he picked up the thread of their earlier conversation. “Tell me what happened at the brothel. Before the fire started.”

“Must we discuss this now?”

“Yes. I need a distraction.” He gave a low growl. “To stop thinking about you wrapped only in a blanket.”

She giggled, the high-pitched girlish sound making him smile. Lady Jamison, who’d relinquished her dreams to support her family, tutored streetwalkers on investing money and dodged bullets, still remained a young girl at heart.

“Is distracting yourself working?”

“No, it’s not.” This growl was deeper, pained, as he listened to her wriggle inside the coverlet. “So.” He cleared his throat. “Explain what happened tonight.”

“I received a message from Mistress Duval saying you’d followed Arthur to that … eh … house. I’d asked her to inform me whenever Arthur met with consortium members, but when you followed him there she feared trouble and sent word immediately. While I was sitting outside deciding what to do, I watched a man slip into the alley. Naturally, I followed him.”

“Naturally,” he muttered.

“I saw the arsonist throw his lighted rags through the windows. The coachman spread the alarm and called for fire buckets.”

“So why in hell didn’t you run back to the carriage? Stay on the other side of the street.”

“I was terrified you’d be trapped inside. I ran to the door. Called
‘Fire’
. You came out. Someone fired a pistol and … That’s all.”

“That’s all? If not for your calm thinking, and the heroic actions of you and your coachman, those inside would have been trapped. Many would have perished.”

“I wasn’t calm in the least. Not picturing you trapped inside that brothel. Oh, Cayle, if not for Mistress Duval, I might not have arrived in time.”

“I don’t know whether to murder her, or thank her. The same way I feel about you. Frequently. Following me to a brothel, Becca? What were you thinking?”

“As soon as your spies informed you Arthur dined with me, I knew you’d follow him.”

“My sp — . What do you mean?”

“You paid men to follow me.”

“Yet you said nothing? Amazing restraint.”

“I understood. You were protecting me. But we can discuss it later. Turn around, Cayle.”

He muttered, “I hope you’re covered,” though it was too late. He’d already turned.

For the second time, she stood proudly naked before him. Though the blanket was clutched in both her hands, she held it below waist level so it drooped on either side of her bare feet to pool in folds on the floor. Her breasts, full, high, and bared to his view, robbed him of breath. Cool air pebbled goose flesh over her arms and her nipples stood to rigid attention while he stared, open-mouthed, awed, and reverent.

A tiny tremor rippled down her exposed body, yet she proudly presented herself, a mix of sweet innocence and knowing seductress, while he satiated his hungry senses with the sight of her. He muttered a grateful prayer he’d been granted the chance to gaze upon the perfection of her body. The first time he’d seen her like this, he’d prayed for the fortitude to refuse her offered innocence. This time, he wasn’t strong enough to resist. He was merely a man and she was … Well, she was a beautiful siren.

She swayed and he automatically reached out for her. Being with her would drive him insane. Yet, at the same time, he craved this madness.

“You should sit down. Here, move closer to the fire. Are you warm enough?”

She chuckled. “Cayle, I’m hot. Burning hot.”

She took his hand and placed his palm over her breast, holding it there. He traced the shape of her curves with his fingers. Slowly caressed, worshipped them. With his other hand, he mirrored the movements on her other breast, delighting in her panted, “Yes, yes.”

“Is that good, sweetheart?”

“Cayle … ”

“Yes?”

“If you stop this time, I swear I’ll shoot you.”

His hands still caressed her breasts. “This time, I can’t stop. I really can’t. I want you so much.”

“Thank heavens.”

“And thank God you want me too.”

Other areas of their relationship remained uncertain, as only the night before she’d declared their association finished. Yet in this sensual area, he felt no hesitation. Becca wanted him, and that was all that mattered at this particular point in time. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

He felt her echoing need in the short pants of her breath against his chest, smelt it in the scent of her arousal. He bent his head and covered her mouth with his, kissing her as he’d wanted to for far too many weeks. With no hesitation, and happy to at last reveal the depth of his about-to-be unleashed passion. As he slid down to draw one pouting nipple into his mouth, to suckle her breast with a strong and unvaried rhythm designed to make her knees quiver and her body shake, his own body shuddered.

He loved knowing he could do that to Becca, knowing his touch could make her shiver and shake with need. The force of his own desire may come as a shock to someone who’d tried to deny his own emotional entanglement for the first weeks of their reacquaintance, but he was past denying anything now. He needed her returned caresses and the touch of her hands on his bare skin so badly he could think of nothing else. Not the consequences, nor the problems they would have to face on the morrow. Desire had driven all rational thought from his mind. As a gentleman, he swore to make it right for his lady tomorrow before society. For tonight, he simply wanted her, man to woman.

Laying her on his thick carpet before the fire, he threw off the remainder of his own clothing. At last, he felt free to worship every inch of her delectable body. He licked and sucked each delicious part until she writhed and chanted his name in small tense gasps. With questing fingers, he tested her readiness, running his fingers through her soft red curls and her swollen cleft. Over and over again, he touched her until she clutched at him in desperate urging.

“Please. I need you. Now.”

Ignoring her pleas, he concentrated on her pleasure and stamped down his own fast rising desire. He touched her in ways that made her hot, made her squirm, made her his pupil. When he drew forth her first climax, she screamed.