Sweet as the Devil (5 page)

“Stop, stop,
stop
! You can’t
do
that!”

Recalled to reality by the sharp cry, Jamie instantly curtailed the forceful thrust of his hips, automatically said, “Forgive me,” and only then glanced down to discover the origin of the complaint. Ah—Bella, apparently she did have limits. “Sorry, darling,” he gently added as he untwined her legs from around his neck and withdrew from her body. “Did I do damage?” Inhaling deeply to bring his breathing under control, he dropped into a sprawl beside her, slowly exhaled, and schooled his expression to one of contrition.

“You might have,” Bella pettishly said, turning to him with a frown. “I’m not a bloody contortionist.”

Sometimes you are.
“My mistake,” he said instead, offering her a conciliatory smile. “Tell me what I must do to make amends.” Selfishly, he meant it. He’d been damned near to climax once again, his cock was still rock hard, and his train didn’t leave for another hour. He was quite willing to pay whatever penance was required. “I’m completely at your disposal, my sweet,” he murmured.

“Umm,” she said with a little pout, debating whether to tell him he must stay as the price of atonement.

He smiled faintly. “Anything within reason, puss.” He glanced at the clock. “You have forty minutes to order me about.”

She softly exhaled, recognizing her momentary lapse, recognizing as well why Jamie had discerned her thoughts. Women always wanted him to stay. “Very well, kiss me,” she said with the merest touch of imperiousness to soothe her ego. “Nicely.”

“Where?”

His grin was sweetly boyish, damn him; she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Someplace I’ll like, you incorrigible rogue.”

Coming up on one elbow, he leaned over and kissed her softly on her pouty mouth. “How’s that?”

She gave a little shrug. “Lovely, if we were thirteen.”

“Ah—you have something more carnal in mind.” His gaze was angelic as a choirboy’s. “Here for instance?” He slid his middle finger delicately up her sleek cleft. “Would you like a kiss here?”

It took her a moment to answer, for he’d gently invaded her vagina, slipping two slender fingers deep inside her slick passage, touching a particularly sensitive spot with exquisite delicacy. When she found the breath to speak, she whispered, “Do you really have to go?” Every frenzied sexual receptor, every overindulged nerve ending, every pulsating bit of flesh was loathe to relinquish his virtuoso talents.

“Not just yet,” he whispered back, and moments later when she was begging for more, for him, for his glorious cock inside her, he accommodated her frantic desire in a thoroughly conventional fashion, choosing the missionary position as most respectful of her comfort.

An orgasm was an orgasm after all. Several of which he afforded her in rapid succession, himself as well with less frequency, until time and his train schedule intervened.

With a light kiss, he slipped from the bed and quickly dressed under her sulky regard. Apologizing profusely, a custom of long standing on taking his leave, he moved toward the door, and in answer to her sullen query, promised to visit again soon. “Provided the empire doesn’t explode or some demented revolutionary doesn’t decide I’m the cause of his oppression. In which case, send flowers to my funeral.”

Then he blew her a kiss, opened the door, and escaped. He immediately broke into a run, traversing the long upstairs corridor in seconds. Reaching the stairs, he descended them in flying leaps and exited Minton House as though the demons of hell were on his heels. Dashing into the street, he brought traffic to a halt at some risk to his life and found a hackney cab to take him to Euston Station. “Get me there by five and I’ll give you fifty quid,” he called out and leaped inside.

After several near-death experiences, the cab reached the station, and Jamie jumped out before the vehicle came to a stop. Tossing the folded banknote into the driver’s outstretched hand, Jamie sprinted through the crowded station to the platform from which the London and North Western Railway departed. Gasping for air, he saw the caboose nearing the end of the platform and, racing headlong after it, managed to leap aboard. A fellow passenger out enjoying his cigar had kindly held open the back gate.

“Many thanks,” Jamie gasped, collapsing against the caboose wall.

“Dinna think ye were up to that leap,” the elderly Scotsman said blandly. “A right daredevil ye are.”

“My gillie’s—coming down . . . from the hills—to . . . meet me.”

“At Inverness?” Inverness was the gateway to the hills. Dragging air into his lungs, Jamie nodded.

“Ye dinna live up that way, do ye?” He tapped his ear. “A bit o’ accent I ken.”

“I visit in the summer.” Jamie’s breathing was partially restored. “May I buy you a drink?”

The elderly man smiled. “Ye’re a closemouthed scamp. Ye can share a drink with me”—he held up his cigar—“once I’ve smoked me fill.”

“My pleasure, sir. I’ll see you inside.” With a bow, Jamie opened the caboose door and made for the club car. The moment he entered the crowded lounge, he was hailed. “Blackwood, over here!” Lord Rothsay waved from the bar.

Threading his way through the throng to the bar, Jamie smiled and took the whiskey Rothsay held out to him.

“You smell of cunt,” the earl said with a smirk. “And you’re still in last night’s evening rig. She must have been good.”

“Afternoon, Dougal. Nice day. Traveling home to the wife and family?” The men knew each other from the summer war games they’d both competed in as youths. Rothsay was a Sandhurst fellow.

The earl grunted. “Have to occasionally.” He reached out and plucked a golden hair from Jamie’s shoulder. “Anyone I know?”

“I’m sure you do.” Jamie raised his glass. “Cheers.” He drained the liquor, set the glass down, and signaled for another.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No.”

“Bastard.”

“That’s my job.” Jamie turned to smile at the bartender, who held out another glass of whiskey.

“Speaking of bastards, how is that aging libertine Ernst doing?”

“Same as ever. Cheers.” Jamie tossed off the whiskey.

“I heard rumors he’s making himself amenable to Banffy in Hungary and the powers that be in Germany.”

Jamie nodded at the bartender and pointed to his empty glass before answering. “Ernst thinks he’s another Bismarck,” he said. “I keep reminding him that even Bismarck eventually overplayed his hand. Leave the bottle.” He handed the young barman a large banknote and picked up his refilled glass.

Rothsay’s brows rose. “Keep that up and you’ll have to be carried off at Inverness.”

Jamie grinned. “Care to wager?”

“Five hundred says you won’t last.”

“You’re on.”

“With most men I’d say they were drinking away some female entanglement, but with you I know better. Did you discover your conscience?” the earl asked with a chuckle.

“Not unless you discovered yours.” Rothsay preferred opera tarts, cancan girls, and his pretty maidservants more than his wife, not exactly uncommon in the fashionable world. Dougal and his wife had agreed to disagree in the civilized way of the upper classes and lived on friendly terms. Gossip had it Lady Rothsay found solace with a parade of young, handsome grooms, which might account for the increasing size of Rothsay’s family.

“Don’t have a conscience,” Dougal complacently replied. “Take after my father, who couldn’t remember our names or that of my mother come to think of it. We Rothsay men are a ramshackle lot all bound for hell, but in the meantime,” he said in the frank, easy way he had, “I’m indulging in my pleasures—the lovely ladies foremost—and the devil be damned.”

Jamie raised his glass. “A fair exchange. I’ll drink to that.”

“Amen and God bless all the willing jezebels,” Dougal returned with a lecherous wink.

In the end, Rothsay lost his five hundred, although Jamie was definitely feeling no pain when he quit the train at Inverness.

Davey Ross was waiting on the platform, his cap in hand, a broad smile on his face. “Mornin’, sair. You look mighty happy.”

“Damn right. I’m escaping civilization—and I use the word loosely.”

“You’ve come to the right place, sair. The ends o’ the earth we are. This way, sair,” he said, leading him toward the stables. “Yer flask is in yer saddlebags and a change of clothes if ye like.” This wasn’t the first time Jamie had come north from some woman’s bed. “Our sour mash turned out damned near perfect this season if I do say so meself.”

“Excellent. Perfect whiskey, comfortable clothes, and your fine company. Surely the gods are in the heavens.”

“Don’t know aboot that, sair. But the coverts and the salmon are prime this year. Along with that devil of a horse you like. He knew ye were acomin’ afor we did. He’s been right frisky of late.” He lifted his hand in the direction of the large black snorting and pawing the ground. “As ye can see.”

“Hello, Athol laddie,” Jamie softly said as he came up to him and gently stroked the stallion’s powerful neck. He briefly rested his forehead against the soft coat and inhaled before raising his head and smiling widely. “Ah—the smell of heather. Now I know I’m home. Hey, hey,” he said as Athol nuzzled him. “You think I brought you something?” Pushing the horse’s nose away, he slipped his hand in his pocket, withdrew some sugar lumps he’d obtained from the bartender on the train, and held them out on his open palm.

“That there brute squealed like he caught the scent of a filly in heat when I saddled up my mount. He weren’t about to be left behind.”

Jamie had raised Athol from a colt. “We’re friends,” Jamie murmured, “aren’t we, laddie?”

As if he understood, Athol lifted his head and softly snorted.

“There, you see?” Rubbing the stallion’s ear, he grinned at Davey. When the thoroughbred was finished eating, Jamie wiped his palm on his pants, unbuckled his saddlebag, and extracted his worn flask. Drinking a long draught, he handed it to Davey, undressed in the stable yard, and soon was wearing his Highland uniform: buckskin pants, riding boots, a homespun shirt, and a jacket made from his family’s hunting plaid. “There now. I feel whole again,” he said with a smile, taking back his flask and shoving it in his pocket.

“Ye’ll feel even better, sair, once you get a good night’s sleep. Ye’re a wee peeked, sair, from a tad too much o’ civilization—eh?”

“A tad too much of everything, Davey,” Jamie said, swinging smoothly into the saddle and nudging his mount into a turn. “I’m looking forward to a good long rustication.”

The two men rode slowly through town. Once into the open country, Jamie set Athol into a canter, a pace their mounts could sustain for the hours necessary to reach the hunting lodge. Travelers didn’t as a rule brave the high mountain trails, but then none of them had Davey Ross for a guide, nor bloodstock that could navigate the treacherous paths with sure-footed competence. Although the owner of Blackwood Glen could have found his way to his hunting lodge blindfolded and drunk as a lord.

The latter very much the case that morning.

 

 

A
S THE SUN rose high in the sky over the spring green hills of the Highlands and the two riders had finally entered Blackwood land, events were unfolding halfway around the world that would seriously impact Prince Ernst. By extension, Jamie. And more extraordinarily, Sofia Eastleigh.

Earlier that day, Rupert, Ernst’s heir, along with a small party from Vienna, had been feted with all the pomp and circumstance of the Nizam of Mysore’s opulent court. The Europeans had been splendidly entertained with sport commensurate to their rank and particular to India—a tiger shoot.

Before dawn, Rupert and his companions had been transported in gilded howdahs atop richly caparisoned elephants through a jungle teeming with blooms and redolent with sweet scent, finally coming to a halt in a clearing cut from the lush undergrowth. A limpid pool lay beyond a screen of bamboo. It was the water source for the animals in the surrounding area, and just prior to the rainy season, with water scarce, a great variety of game came to drink.

Skillful organization was required for a tiger hunt, along with accomplished shikaris (hunters) who knew the country and the animals’ habitat and temperament. Most crucial was the necessity of safeguarding the nizam and his guests. Nothing was more dangerous than a snarling tiger breaking from cover at a full gallop. The man-eating beasts were known to attack elephants, even charge the howdahs in a flying leap, and they could carry off a man at lightning speed. A mother with cubs was particularly fierce, liable to take the offensive without provocation. The Europeans had been warned.

At the sound of a single gunshot signaling the beginning of the drive, a sudden tension filled the air. And a moment later, blaring horns and banging drums indicated that the nizam’s vassals were on the march, forcing the beasts of the jungle to flee before them.

As Prince Rupert and his colleagues waited under the blazing sun, a native shikari stood behind each howdah, ready to hand over the loaded guns. The elephants had been prodded by their mahouts into a line facing the oncoming drive. Regardless of the oppressive heat, the advancing drumbeats prompted a cold sweat on tyro brows.

After what seemed an eternity to the novices from Europe, flocks of frightened birds abruptly burst from the jungle in a frenzied cloud, the shrill cries of monkeys terrorized by the tigers underfoot rose into the air, and the hunters were warned of the imminent approach of game.

The shikaris quickly passed over the guns, and short moments later eight roaring tigers broke from the jungle and scattered in every direction. The well-trained elephants stood firm, a dozen guns opened fire in a wild explosion, and the indiscriminate slaughter commenced.

The bag that day was thirteen tigers, six leopards, four cheetahs, and several score lesser game. Afterward, pictures were taken by the nizam’s court photographer; the smug foreigners, their guns in hand, lined up behind the splendid array of exotic animals spread at their feet.