Sweet Savage Eden (5 page)

And she shivered, for he suddenly did not sound at all like that gentle man with the golden head and appealing eyes.

“Mistress …”

The word was a whisper that was like a strange wind, quiet and yet savage, touching her flesh, filling her with a feeling of fire. Husky, it rose from the depths of him, like the deep caress of a warm summer’s wind. The soap was in his hands. She could not protest him, for she held the empty glass of rum in one palm—his coin in the
other. She trembled and blinked and held herself immobile. She felt the soap and cloth sweep over her, over her breasts. Slowly … his hands moved with an easy leisure. They moved upon her as if they had some right. As if they had known each other a long time. And she sat there and allowed the shocking intimacy. The soap and cloth coursed over her. Touching her nape, stroking against her throat, and then her shoulders, and then …

Her breasts once again. She shivered and trembled, shocked and staggered by sensation, feeling much as a cornered hare. The power in that touch was mesmerizing. Her eyes fell closed in confusion, and then she felt him move, move around, and touch his lips to hers.

Ah, so hot, coercive, persuasive. Consuming and expert, casting that trembling throughout her body. She felt her mouth part, the pressure of his tongue sweeping through it. And as she struggled against the overwhelming feel of it all, she was heartily sorry that she had swallowed the rum so quickly, since what had been sustaining warmth was now a rush that added to her panic and confusion. She was engulfed! Terrified suddenly at the absolute power of the man, terrified that it was all racing along in a heedless, reckless fashion and that she was quite near to losing all control.

She had never been kissed before. And this …

He seemed suddenly to be over her and around her, his lips upon her own, upon her throat. And his hands … delving into the water, sliding along her thighs, folded so crudely within the confines of the tub. Oh, now, now! She screamed inwardly. Now! She had to end it, else all would be lost.

His arms swept around her, lifting her from the tub. She let out a great startled gasp, instinctively clinging to him lest she should fall, yet somehow sure from his laughter that her weight was as nothing against his strength. His laughter … against the steam, against the mist, was neither light nor amused but still ironic, adding to her sense of panic.

“Please, please, sir,” she murmured, and her voice, though breathless, carried the right amount of quivering
pathos. Yet she discovered herself upon the vastness of the bed, the hardness of his form atop her, his dark head bowed over her breast.…

His hot, demanding kisses falling there.

She dug her fingers into his hair, trying to stop him. “No!” she whispered, for his mouth opened over the dusky rose of her nipple, drawing upon it, suckling it, and causing a searing to pierce into the very length of her. She could not bear it; she convulsed and trembled with the stunning sensation of it. Her flesh blazed and burned crimson as she felt that hot, liquid touch upon her, entering deep within her, shooting straight to her womb.

“No, please!” she said, fighting for coherency. “Please, gentle sir, kind sir! I thought that I could come here for you were ever so fair, yet I have discovered that I—”

She broke off in a gasp, for though her head spun with the rum and other shocking sensations and a growing panic, she had just realized her own thoughts. She stared at the hair she held, at the head of the man who so intimately used her.

Dark head. Dark …

“Oh! Oh, stop! By God …”

His face lifted to hers. No kind, light eyes with a gentleman’s civility surveyed her. Dark eyes stared down at her. Dark, cynical eyes that matched the tension of his whisper. Eyes like Satan’s own. Sharp and piercing, tearing into her with a scalding contempt. They were not even black or brown, as she had imagined. They were indigo and gray. Surely the devil’s own. Oh, surely … ’twas not Robert at all, she realized in awful horror, but the rude and arrogant Jamie who held her—naked—in his grasp!

“You!”

She forgot that she had actually toyed with the idea that to gain the money she had needed, she’d have even bedded Master John. Or perhaps it seemed that this was worse—this bronzed, indigo-eyed stranger who had already treated her with such scorn. Perhaps it was his
hated body upon her; his breath still scalding the dampness he had left upon her breast, his hand upon her hip.

“You!” she gasped out again in awful horror, and he smiled, a mocking curl of the lip, tight-lipped and grim, and he gazed upon her from narrowed eyes.

“Aye, yes, me. You thought to snare Robert in your little trap, eh, love? Why, you mewling little petty thief. It’s a pretty game, I must say. Come like a seductress, pick a man’s pocket, then cry innocence!” He made a ticking sound of disgust. “Curious. I had thought there was something special about you. I’m disappointed. You’re nothing but a common whore and a thief.”

“I am no thief!” she said, refuting him desperately. Dear God, she wanted to die.

“Not a thief?” His arrogant head tilted to one side.

“Get off me!” she cried. She tried to twist but found that his leg was cast over her own. She tried to strike him, but her hands were too quickly caught. She could not dislodge him from her naked body. “I’m not a thief—”

“The money, mistress, in your palm. I saw you delve your dainty little hands into my pocket. Alas! And you haven’t earned it yet! Of course, I will give you that opportunity.”

“No! No!”

Madly, with a strength and energy born of fury and desperation, she fought him. She struggled, swearing, to free her wrists. She arched but managed only to come closer, more surely against him. She kicked and flailed and managed to draw more than a grunt from him, but nothing else. His fingers were like steel bands, his body was immovable. It was hard as rock but hot, like the summer sun, and she could feel all his strength too keenly as she lay there naked. Vulnerable. And caught in the act of robbery. She could not win. She could only touch him more and more. Know more and more about him, as a man.

In the end she lay panting, vowing not to cry, deadly still beneath him, her wrists secured by his left hand, his right leg cast over her thigh, pinning her beside him.

She did not look at him. This was not the kind, gentle, shining, golden man of her dream. This was the other, hard and ruthless, and she would give him nothing. She would not plead. She would not tell him that she was desperate. She could not act out any charade, for he had already called her bluff. There was nothing to do but lie there and withdraw, despise him, and think herself far, far away—and pray that he did choose to call the magistrate.

He stared at her. She could not withdraw so completely that she could escape the fact that he stared at her. She was too aware of his muscular body, clad yet somehow savage to her, and her own nudity. If one could die of humiliation, she thought, she would surely perish then. Yet hatred, she had heard, was a sustaining reason to live. Perhaps she did not die because she hated him so. More determined, she stared straight into the night and waited, quivering despite herself.

He moved suddenly and she cried out, but he ignored her, securing her wrists with one of his own. He leaned over her and with his free hand opened up her palm.

And found his money within it.

She did not respond but stared straight ahead.

“Have you no excuse?”

She did not reply, and he laughed harshly.

“Ah, if I were but Robert! You would turn to me with tears in those lovely eyes and swear out your innocence. Or perhaps I should hear some story about a child needing a meal, or some other such rot! But I’m not Robert—and you did seem wise enough to know that.”

“You are a despicable, ruthless bastard,” she said smoothly, still addressing the ceiling. Oh, God. She had nothing, and she was in his power. If he called the hangman, she didn’t think that she would give a damn. She had failed miserably.

“Ah, my love, I do protest! I tend to be fond of your fair kind, ladies and whores. ’Tis thieves alone I abhor!”

He spoke with a certain edge, and though she had just convinced herself that she did not care what came, be it death itself, she emitted a strangled gasp when she
discovered him moving against her. Curtly, roughly, brusquely, rebalancing his weight—forcing her thighs apart with blunt and unyielding force.

She had thought that nothing could humiliate her any further, yet this did. She strained against him in renewed fury, swearing out her hatred, as his hand touched her, as his fingers probed her with a ruthless intimacy. She twisted her head; color and a profusion of heat filled her; mortified, she longed for death.

“I shall scream. I shall scream rape—”

“A whore who knowingly came to me?” he inquired with a certain amusement.

“Oh—God! Stop!”

The plea came from her in a ragged gasp. She could not escape him, could not escape his touch. She tried to twist, to hide, yet he surveyed her mercilessly as he examined her so insolently, ignoring her protest. Had she only had a weapon, she’d have surely slain him. He gave her no quarter, no compassion. It was not that he hurt her; it was simply that he explored where he would, his touch entering even inside her.

And then … his touch was gone. He still held her prisoner; still clamped her to the bed. But the terrible intimate exploration of his long bronze fingers was gone, and she was terrified to breathe.

“A virgin?” he inquired. The sound of his voice was curiously polite and distant, as if they were discussing the weather.

“Oh, for the love of God and all the saints—!”

“Mistress, do cease,” he said, interrupting her. “You came to me, remember? I made my intent quite clear when I spoke to the other bar whore.”

“I’m not a whore!”

“So it seems. You are a thief.”

“And you are a despicable, arrogant bastard, a vile defiler of women, a—”

“Have you as yet been defiled, little thief?”

“You’re touch has defiled me!”

“Ah, mistress! There is so much more that can be
shared between a man and a woman!” he assured her.

“Shall we explore the possibilities?”

“No!”

“So you did come with the sole purpose to rob me blind. Ah, no. My mistake. You came to rob poor Robert blind.”

“Yes, and I have failed. So let me go.”

She lay there trembling in desperate fear. He was so casual, and so at ease! His hand rested very low upon her belly, his leg still blocking her escape. She might as well have been in chains beneath him. She should cry, she should act out some sweet penance. But she could not act before him. She had already discovered that. And any minute now he would take what he wanted from her. He surely would enjoy taking her brutally, for he truly seemed to hate her and he had already proven that he had no compassion.

“You think that I should let you go?” he asked quietly. His knuckles grazed her belly and she bit hard into her lip, praying that he would not delve within her again. Her flesh burned anew. She swore against him and breathed a silent prayer.

He laughed dryly, rolling from her, resting his weight upon an elbow to stare at her. For a moment she could not believe that she was really free. She returned his glare and saw fully his face. The bronzed, rugged planes, the indigo eyes—the long, arrogant nose. The lips, full and sensual, twisted into a mocking sneer. Dark hair, tumbling over his forehead. His throat, bronze against his shirt, his shirt caught tight against the corded muscles of his shoulders and chest. A medal, a golden St. George slaying the dragon, lay cast against the darkly haired section of his chest where his shirt lay open in a vee.

“Are you reconsidering, wench? Shall you stay? Ah, I see, you are enamored of me, after all. You are free, and still you remain at my side!”

Free … he had released her. What did she care if he stared at her so?

“Oh!”

She bolted from the bed like a hawk in flight, nearly tripping over herself to procure her clothing. She ignored her shift, petticoat, and stockings, stumbling into the harsh wool of her gown with nothing beneath, barely slipping into her shoes before she was grasping for the door. “Enamored of you! I shall hate and loathe and detest you until my dying day! Were I a man, I would slay you. Had I the chance and ability, I’d slay you, anyway, so beware, sir, lest we ever meet upon the road!” With that, she spun for the door. Hot tears were burning behind her lashes.

“Girl!” he thundered suddenly, and despite herself, she stopped, her back to him. She obeyed the raw command in his voice, and she hated herself for doing so.

Something struck the door. The coin she had taken.

“You went through quite a bit for it. Take it.”

She swallowed. Oh, how she wanted to refuse that coin! How she longed to spit in his face!

She could not. Her mother was dying.

She stooped, shoulders slumping wearily, to retrieve it. She vowed in wretched silence that someday, someday she would come into affluence, and so help her, she would find and repay this man for the awful humiliation he had heaped upon her.

She jerked the door open and went stumbling out. For a moment she was totally disoriented. She stood there, desperate just to breathe, and then she rushed down the stairs mindless of the hussy Megan watching her, and of the ogling stare of the barkeep.

She rushed out of the Towergate’s front door, then stopped, glad, oh so glad, of the snow that cast her into chills, of the cold breeze that seemed somehow to cleanse her.

She walked a few steps, stumbling, then stopped to stare at the money in her hand. She need only get back to the attic. Blessed Tamsyn—he would find the chemist and buy her the quinine. Any humiliation would be worth the price, for Linnet would live, and she could quickly scorn that atrocious black-hearted man!

She started to walk again.

“Mistress! Mistress Dupré!”

She stopped again, in awful pain. How had she missed the voice! Oh, how had she been such a fool? For she knew his voice now—gentle Robert’s voice—beckoning her to stop.

She turned, and the red of a summer rose stained her cheeks. The gallant, handsome blond was rushing toward her, her cloak, petticoat, and stockings cast over his arm. He knew. He knew where she had been. She thought that she would die of the shame.