Sweetest Little Sin (19 page)
Read Sweetest Little Sin Online
Authors: Christine Wells
Jardine’s gaze returned to her, glittering with heat. Slowly, he walked toward her. With each step, the tension in her body wound tighter. Her heart thudded in her throat. Her mouth abruptly went dry.
Her mouth. His gaze latched onto it, then traveled lower, down her body, and she felt it like a hot liquid caress inside.
“I—” Her voice came in a husky whisper. Determined, she cleared her throat. “I must go. We cannot afford to be seen together like this.”
She tried to sidle around him, but he caught her arm in a firm, inescapable grip.
He didn’t hurt her, but she winced anyway. His touch was torture. It was bliss.
“Why did you come here, Louisa?”
She bowed her head, swallowed, then lifted her chin. “I was curious.”
“You are not meeting someone?”
“What? No! Is it likely I’d arrange to meet anyone, much less in this locale?”
Jardine let go of her and shrugged. “I’m not altogether certain I know what is likely that you would do anymore, Louisa. I’m not sure I know you.”
She remained silent.
“Your betrothal to Radleigh.” He spread his hands. “That, I did not expect. And somehow, I still can’t believe you did it.”
“Believe it,” she snapped.
If only she’d never got herself caught up in this tangle. But the blue ribbon on that rug committed her even further to the cause. She couldn’t tell Jardine about her mission, or he’d whisk her away from the estate quicker than she could blink.
“Then what are you doing here, among these orgiastic delights, Louisa? Isn’t your future husband satisfying you?”
Before she could stop herself, her hand flew up to slap his face. But his reflexes were dagger sharp. He easily deflected the move, brushed her hand aside as if it were a fly. Moved closer with purposeful intent etched over his patrician features.
Those devilish eyebrows deepened in a frown.
Louisa started backward, a hand on the table to steady herself. He followed, and she retreated, until her back flattened against the wall.
The bumps and rough edges of the carvings dug into her back as she pressed into them. She swallowed, but it was as if a huge ball of stone wedged in her throat.
Jardine’s beautiful mouth formed a sneer at the way she’d so stupidly worked herself into a corner. There was nowhere to run. She had to stand and fight.
“If it becomes known that you and I were here like this, there’ll be a scandal. You’d have to take me as your wife.”
“It won’t become known.” He raised one hand, bare of a glove. His fingertips feathered her cheek. The gentleness of his touch lay in odd contrast to his harsh expression.
She shivered. Anticipation coiled tightly in her chest. “Don’t. I don’t want you to—”
He lowered his head to capture her earlobe in his teeth.
Ohh.
He knew that always drove her to madness.
He knew that always drove her to madness.
Briefly, he bit into the fleshy lobe, sending hot chills through her body, then released.
“No?” Warm air caressed her neck, made her melt inside.
His lips slid down her throat and more tingles cascaded through her. Her body flourished and opened like an orchid in the tropical heat.
“No,” she whispered. “Please don’t.” But she was already ripening, drinking him in like the sun.
He lifted his head to look into her eyes, pressed two fingers to her mouth to stop her protest. She was breathing rapidly, her mouth parted to suck in air.
He dipped his fingers into the moisture, running them over her tongue. Gently, he dragged his fingertips downward, drawing her lower lip into a sensual pout. Releasing it, he smeared her moisture over her upper lip, circling again to the lower.
She felt his gaze, intent on her mouth as he did this, slowly, carefully, over and over. By the time he bent his head to taste, her lips tingled with sensitivity.
The leisurely caress of his mouth on hers made her knees buckle. He caught her around the waist, pulled her against him.
She gave a shuddering sigh at all that masculine heat and hardness pressed against her. He deepened the kiss, tantalized her with slow strokes of his tongue. And she was his, as she always would be his to take.
How she’d missed this. She’d almost forgotten that wild sensuality he awoke in her, the need to give him everything, to do unspeakable things with pleasure and wholehearted trust.
Trust.
Could she bear to trust him again? He’d rejected her. He’d refused to acknowledge her as his wife.
His hands molded her hips, traveled up her waist to cover her breasts, teasing her aching nipples.
In spite of her growing unease, the place between her legs grew damp and needy. He seemed to know it, because his hand bunched up her skirts, reached beneath.
“Ah, Louisa. It’s been too long.”
Her heart twisted. How could he speak that way, with a voice so full of raw emotion? Yet he’d still discard her like a used mistress when he was done.
“No.”
He didn’t hear her. His hand skimmed up her thigh. “Jardine, I want you to stop.”
She shoved at his chest, suddenly frantic. “Jardine!”
She said it sharply enough to penetrate. His head jerked up. He was breathing hard, his lips a little swollen, his eyes glittering with passion.
Gasping for air, she rested her head against the wall. “I can’t let you do this.”
“Let me? You were begging me a moment ago.”
He closed in, as if to resume his assault, but she held him off. “You don’t want me.”
His incredulous look made her say, “I mean you don’t want me as your wife.”
He continued to stare at her as if he didn’t understand plain English. A small dart of satisfaction that he didn’t seem quite as knife-witted as usual sang through her.
She raised her brows, silent, though her blood still pounded through her veins, though she wanted to take his stupid, stubborn head between her hands and dash some sense into it, then pull it down to her for a kiss.
She sucked in a breath. “I believe there is an expression about cows and giving their milk away that, though crude, is apt in this case.”
Men don’t buy the cow when she gives her milk for free.
Where had she heard it? From one of the maids, probably.
Where had she heard it? From one of the maids, probably.
He ran a hand through his hair. “That old chestnut,” he muttered. But he didn’t meet her eyes.
With a stab of pain, she noted he didn’t argue the point. How could she be alone in this, every time? Their passion had been so all-consuming, so right, she’d hoped he’d be swept up in it, as she had. That he’d beg her to come to him and be his wife.
Wife. Radleigh.
Oh, confound it! A fine time to recall she had a more obvious reason not to allow further intimacy.
Oh, confound it! A fine time to recall she had a more obvious reason not to allow further intimacy.
The deepening look of the satyr on Jardine’s face told her that the thought had struck him, too.
A slow smile spread over his face. “Well, well. At least I stand reassured on one point. Radleigh hasn’t laid a finger on you, has he?”
She wondered at his reasoning but didn’t ask, merely turned to pick up her lantern.
“You would have remembered him sooner if he had.” Jardine’s voice grew tight. “When’s this farce of a wedding supposed to take place?”
She didn’t owe him an answer, but she said, “Not until my mother returns.” She tried to steady her pulse, her breathing. “But he is impatient.”
“Don’t let him touch you. I
will
kill him if he does.”
will
kill him if he does.”
She gave a broken laugh. “Oh, pray, be my guest. And what about the next man?” Raising her gaze to his again, she whispered, “I don’t want to be alone anymore, Jardine. Can’t you see that?”
She turned to go.
“What were you really doing here, Louisa? What are you doing with Radleigh?”
She tensed. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me.”
“Then you are being willfully obtuse. Good night.” Before he could say more, she hurried from the temple.
JARDINE watched until the glimmering lantern light vanished, swallowed up by the forest.
His deception was like a vise around his chest. Should he have told her the truth? But if he did that, she would expect some sort of commitment, and he couldn’t give her one. Not until he’d finished off Smith for good.
It was also possible that she’d want to help. His gut gave a sick twist at the thought of Louisa running headlong into that danger. He’d worked so hard to keep her safe all these years. Now that Smith was back, a threat to everything Jardine held dear, he couldn’t possibly confide the real reason for his abandonment of her.
He couldn’t blame her for trying to make a life for herself when he’d so unequivocally cut her out of his.
And yet . . .
The sheer coincidence of her choice made it impossible for him to let the matter rest. Why had she come up here at such an hour? Prurient curiosity? His gaze alighted on the wall before him. This particular piece of frieze depicted a woman being serviced by two men. Slowly, he shook his head.
No. Not Louisa. She was up to something.
He held his lantern aloft and shone it slowly around the small room, his eyes searching every crevice for the reason Louisa had come.
Nothing. Bare walls, bare floor. The place must be tended regularly, as there was very little dust. Pity. If there were, it would be easier to see where the dust had been disturbed.
The only item of interest in the room was the table, covered in a brightly patterned rug.
Then he remembered Louisa’s pose as he’d seen her when he arrived at the temple. She’d been crouching, hadn’t she? Next to the table.
He emulated her pose, went down on one knee, holding his own lantern up to examine the cloth.
Suddenly, a detail leaped out at him. He stared at it, his brows knitted.
Then he swore viciously and long.
RADLEIGH hovered on the threshold of his father’s bedchamber, listening intently. The old man had to be asleep by now.
His enormous mahogany bed was set on a high dais, with ornate draperies hanging from a gold-tasseled canopy. It was a bed for a nobleman, a king. A sour taste pervaded Radleigh’s mouth. His sire had always enjoyed an inflated sense of his own importance.
Wealth, power. Those had come easily. He’d come by them dishonestly, it was true, but that didn’t diminish the old man’s insufferable sense of self-importance.
The once-fearsome criminal was now an invalid, confined to his bed, but he still held the purse strings, still wielded his power like a warlord.
Radleigh moved toward the bed, shielding the candle flame with a cupped hand.
He mounted the steps to the dais and set down his candle on the table at the bedside.
Careful not to make a sound, he drew back the curtain that shielded his father from stray draughts.
The candlelight barely illuminated that heavily lined face, now relaxed in sleep. The big chest rose and fell in a steady motion. A bank of pillows clouded beneath the old man’s head.
His hand trembling a little, Radleigh reached out toward his father, then snatched back his hand. With a deep breath, he tried again. This time, his fingers sank into a loose pillow. He eased it free.
Radleigh stood there, clutching the pillow for a long time, heart pounding, chest aching, his mouth parched and sore. Vignettes of his childhood flashed through his mind. The air, scented with spice, his flesh raw and aching from another beating.
The rage built and built until he shook with it, until his head was so suffused with fury, he thought it might explode. He reached a kind of tipping point, then. His arms unlocked and the pillow seemed to float over the old man’s slumbering face.
“You spineless little bastard.” The voice, deep and calm, came from the supposedly slumbering figure.
Radleigh staggered back, cold shock sliding through his body. The pillow dropped from his grasp. He nearly toppled down the carpeted stairs, but managed to regain his balance just in time.
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