Sweetest Little Sin (28 page)

Louisa barely suppressed a shudder. She certainly would shoot him if he tried to lay a finger on her with amorous intent.

The carriage slowed and finally came to a stop. Between her teeth, she said, “Perhaps you ought to untie me if you wish me to look like a willing bride.”

Laughing, he did so, not troubling to be gentle. She hissed with the sting of small nicks from his knife as he sawed through her bonds. Eventually, the ropes fell away and Radleigh opened the carriage door and got out, leaving Louisa chafing her wrists. Even through gloves, the rope had burned.

Though it took a great force of will to allow Radleigh to touch her after all she’d seen last night, she gave him her hand and alighted.

He kept her hand and kissed it with gallantry that would have been romantic coming from another man. Thank goodness her glove stood between his lips and her bare skin. She thought of the pistol under her bed. If he came near her tonight . . .

“One more condition,” she said. “I don’t wish to see you until the wedding tomorrow.”

“You are a coy damsel, aren’t you? Very well, then. I suppose I might curb my impatience for twenty-four hours if that is your wish.” Spreading his hands, he added, “You see how well we will deal together, my love? How accommodating I can be? I trust you won’t mind if I lock your bedchamber door.”

She swallowed, then managed to say lightly, “Not at all. Until tomorrow, then.”

He smiled into her eyes. “Ah, but the wait will be an eternity.”

RADLEIGH had been right. The wait
was
an eternity.

Louisa slept for some hours, the weariness of her body finally overtaking her spirit. She woke to the fading light, wondering where Jardine could be. She hoped he was safe. Part of her longed for him, yet part of her wanted him to stay away and not disrupt her plans.

Apparently, not all of the servants had left their posts due to the typhus rumor, or some had returned upon finding that it was untrue. Merry came in shortly before the dinner hour to ask Louisa what she needed.

According to the maid, Radleigh had left the house and was not expected to return for dinner.

Merry gazed at her with sympathy at such shabby treatment by her prospective spouse. Louisa could hardly restrain a skip of joy.

“A quiet night, I think.” She ordered a bath and a dinner tray to be brought to her room.

The bath was pure, unadulterated heaven. A Chinese screen blocked the view from the peephole, in case Radleigh returned unexpectedly.

Louisa trailed a hand through the water and watched the drips fall from her fingertips. She turned her head to speak to Merry. “Thank you. I can manage for myself now. Lay out my night rail, please, and then you may retire.”

The door soon closed behind the maid, and Louisa sank deeper into the steaming water.

The lavender scent she’d poured in soothed and calmed her a little. She closed her eyes, and her aches loudly voiced their presence in her joints and muscles. She massaged them, kneading deeply with her fingertips. She made herself concentrate on the physical, every sensation, every twinge, every slow release of pain.

Worries and doubts clawed at her mind, but for this brief space, she refused to allow them purchase. She needed calm and rest to face the following day.

The water temperature had dropped a little. Louisa was in that languorous state where getting out of the bath seemed far too much effort, while staying in the gradually cooling water would spoil the entire effect.

A scrape of sound made her eyes snap open, to find the candlelight snuffed, the room plunged into darkness. She gasped as two hands shoved under arms and plucked her from the bath as if she weighed no more than a child’s doll.

“Damn you, Louisa.” The soft growl was all she heard before a savage, beautiful mouth found hers.

I thought you’d never come.
The bleat of her little girl self drowned in a flood of pleasure. He filled her senses, beat like a drum in her heart, throbbed in her blood.

His arms enfolded her, and the damp chill down her back was a sharp contrast to the furnace inside her, to the heat of his mouth and hands.

He feasted on her, claimed her mouth as he’d long ago taken her heart. She gave him back everything with equal force, slid one hand up to his nape and urged him to delve harder, farther.

He kept kissing her as he palmed her breasts, kneaded her peaked nipples, caressed and traced his fingertips over them until excitement snapped and fizzed through her bloodstream.

She groaned softly as his mouth replaced his fingers. His hands slid down to hold her hips firmly, forcing her to surrender to this delicious assault. He gave no quarter, drove her into a frenzy of desire.

Between her thighs, sensation heated and pooled, intensifying to a sweet ache. This was heavenly, sublime, but it wasn’t enough. When he touched her there, it wasn’t enough. He went to his knees, put his mouth on her, licked into her, and no, it wasn’t enough, wasn’t . . .

She shuddered, her climax powerful, overwhelming, rocking her body. And he was merciless, prolonging the agony when she begged him to stop, sending her over again.

He let her go, briefly, to shuck his clothes. She turned from him, panting, clutching at the edge of the bed to steady herself.

She felt his presence behind her, solid and silent. His flesh touched hers as he bent over her. She felt the warmth of his breath in her ear, the faint roughness of the hair on his chest brush her back. The smooth, incendiary heat of his skin, his erection pressing against her. The strength in his hands as he gripped her hips, silently urged her to climb on the bed.

She crawled over the coverlet and would have turned, but he stayed her, pulling back a little so that she supported herself with her elbows, her rump high, presented to him.

In the darkness, he couldn’t see her, but she felt vulnerable all the same. She twisted a little and gave a soft cry of protest, but he held her there, without speaking, waiting for her submission.

“Jardine,” she whispered, but one hand covered her mouth while the other parted her thighs a little wider, then spread the folds between her legs, caressing, exploring with gentle, insistent fingertips.

The tip of his member nudged into her, and she moaned, forgetting her dignity, opening her mouth against his hand, feeling the heat and wetness of her own harsh breathing.

He eased into her, letting her feel every slow, hard inch. She moaned again and licked the hand that covered her mouth, grazed the flesh of his palm with her teeth.

His agonized groan in response made her bold. She squeezed him with her inner muscles, longing to take more of him, while she laved his hand with luxurious abandon.

His other hand came down on her lower back, pressing, holding her still. He was determined to draw this out. She wished she could touch him, but in this position, exploration was impossible.

The hand against her mouth relaxed and lifted, then his fingertips ran over her lips. She licked the pad of his thumb, heard his breathing become harsher. His thumb pressed, insinuated into her mouth. On instinct, she closed around it and ran her tongue along it, stroking him as he stroked his hard length into her.

She made love to his hand as he made love to her, sucking each finger in turn, glorying in his possession.

Shifting a little, he thrust into her, and Louisa gasped as he hit a particularly sweet spot. Both hands gripped her hips now, holding her steady as he plunged and stroked deep that same place that had drawn her gasp.

The fast build of sensation scattered her senses. She could only focus on the heat and slide of him, the beat of blood, the inevitable surrender. She wanted it, yet it was too much.

Illogically, she tried to move away, but his hands anchored her and she had to take it—take
him
—beyond her endurance, beyond reason or thought.

Finally, she surrendered, shuddering with it, allowing herself to be carried away as the pleasure swept over her in wave after wave.

His release came then, and he collapsed over her, biting hard into her shoulder to stifle his own cry.

When his shudders had subsided, he shifted his body from hers to lie beside her, his lungs heaving.

She ran her palm over the hard muscles of his chest in a gesture of wonder and thankfulness. He turned to her, lashed an arm around her waist, and kissed her softly.

“My wife,” he said, a husky rasp to his cut-glass accent.
“Mine.”

A thrill pierced Louisa’s pleasure-struck haze. She’d known it, hadn’t she? Deep within her, she’d known he’d lied that awful morning at his house. Their marriage had been legitimate; they were husband and wife. They were one.

She couldn’t seem to muster the fury she ought to feel.

They lay side by side, face-to-face, long legs tangled. Louisa could discern the barest outline of him in the deep black of night. If only she might transport them to another time and place. There was no leisure for rebuilding foundations or for planning the future.

If they could get out of this mess . . .

She reached up and smoothed the inevitable stray locks of hair from his brow. “You bastard, Jardine.”

Silent laughter shook him. “Such language!”

“No, it’s not funny. Why did you lie to me about our wedding? It was unnecessary and cruel.”

He growled. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“And yet, here I am, betrothed to a traitorous sadist,” she murmured. She wouldn’t stoop to apportioning blame, but the chain of events was irrefutable. She would not have been so unwise and adventuresome had Jardine not rejected her, cast her adrift.

Did she regret the intervening incidents? Perhaps not, if they brought her this.
Him.
Assuming they didn’t both die ugly deaths here, of course.

Softly, Jardine said, “Despite his disgusting tendencies, Radleigh is a small-time villain. There’s someone mixed up in this who is far more dangerous than Radleigh could ever be. He’s after that list.”

“How do you know that? Was he one of the guests?”

Grimly, Jardine said, “No. But the woman you know as Harriet Burton saw him here.”

“You spoke to her? When?”

“Today. She couldn’t say much. I asked her where you’d gone and she said the name ‘Smith.’ It was enough.”

Jardine bent his head closer. “He wasn’t one of the guests. I’d have recognized him. But I think he’s nearby. I’ll get that list—”

“I don’t think Radleigh had any intention of selling it to you. He has agreed to give it to me if I wed him tomorrow. I’ll go through the ceremony, but since I’m already married . . .”

“Forget it. I’ll not have you compromise yourself like that. Do you want to be labeled a bigamist?”

“I had no choice,” Louisa said coolly. “It was either agree to marry him or be forced. Or perhaps shredded to ribbons like Harriet. I don’t think he’d decided which.”

Jardine’s hold tightened around her. “He would have double-crossed you, anyway. If I sum up Radleigh correctly, he would have taken back the document and sold it to me later.”

“Why are you so intent on finding this Smith?”

“It’s a long story, one I don’t intend to regale you with now. But while Smith lives, you and everyone . . . close to me are in danger.”

How convenient for you.
The treacherous thought seemed to come from nowhere.

“Jardine—”

“ Shh.” He tensed and laid a finger over her mouth. What had he heard? She strained to hear but couldn’t discern any noise beyond her own breathing.

He launched out of bed and pulled on his shirt in one swift motion. The faint glimmer of moonlight caught the whiteness of the fabric as he listened at the door, then opened it.

Louisa scrambled to cover herself with the bedclothes as a swift exchange of murmuring ensued. Then Jardine closed the door.

He bent toward her, spoke in her ear. “That was my man-servant. Radleigh’s back, heading upstairs. Get dressed, Louisa. I need to finish this now.” Before she could protest at his high-handedness, he added, “I’ll need your help. Pin up your hair.”