Tempted By the Night (20 page)

He only hoped his little Shadow was well away.

Rowan caught Bron by the leg and chomped down hard, growling in triumph. The derga howled, not that he was going to get any help from his brother. Dubhglas was completely intent on gaining eternal glory all for himself.

The mighty demon swung hard, his long arm and huge fist hitting Rockhurst with a blinding punch. He heard the crunch of bone as his nose broke, and blood sprayed everywhere as he went flying through the air and hit the wall behind them.

His head cracked against the bricks, and he slid down into the refuse, stars and the red haze of blood obliterating his vision.

Dubhglas screamed in triumph, but it was the other scream that Rockhurst heard through the howl of pain that was piercing his head.

Shadow
.

Demmit, she was supposed to be fleeing for her life, not watching him get pummeled.

Just the thought of her nearby, the possibility of one of them even coming near her, filled him with a rage he’d never known.

Shaking off his pain, he rose, reaching into his coat as he staggered to his feet. From within, he pulled out the long-bladed knife he kept inside. While the wicked steel would have been enough to deter a thief or ruffian on the street, to a hulking derga the sting would seem more of a mosquito bite than anything fatal.

But it was better than nothing, he told himself. He tipped his head and cracked his neck, settling all the bones back into place, feeling the great strength that was the legacy of the Paratus fill him.

Heal him.

“Beast, unhand me,” Bron growled down at Rowan, who tenaciously clung to the giant’s leg. The derga swung his meaty fist at the hound, but Rowan was too smart for him, dodging out of the way, and then barking once before he caught hold of the man’s other leg, digging in, and growling as if he hadn’t had so much fun in ages.

But Dubhglas had no such hindrance, and he towered before Rockhurst and smiled. “Melaphor will be so surprised to find that we’ve finished you off. He’s
claimed you were too dangerous, but I can see now you aren’t so fierce.”

“You’ve come without permission?” Rockhurst asked, setting his feet and trying to come up with a plan. Anything.

“So? What business is it of yours?”

“It’s just that I believe your master intended to kill me himself.”

Dubhglas leaned forward, his foul breath washing over Rockhurst as he said, “I haven’t permission. With you dead and by my hand, then Melaphor will have no hold, and
I
shall rule.”

“But how the devil—”

“Did we escape?” Dubhglas grinned. “There’s a new hole not even he knows about. Been having a grand time in that slum of yours, but tonight we feast on your heart.”

So this was who’d been killing in the Dials. Not Melaphor, but Bron and Dubhglas.

But who had opened a hole for them? And how would it get closed if he died this night?

Rockhurst swung back his arm and drove the dagger toward the derga’s heart, but it was a feeble attempt, for Dubhglas brushed it aside, and swept him off his feet.

He hit with a heavy thud on the cobbles. Winded, he struggled to catch his breath, to rise anew and fight, but once again all he could see were stars. Dubhglas was proving formidable, and he couldn’t recall any derga being this strong. Obviously the weeks of feeding had given him greater strength.

“Now you die, Paratus,” the beast said as he moved in for the kill.

Rockhurst knew there was only one thing that would bring this monster down. If only he had his—

Thwack!

Bron rose up to his full height, howling. His pained cries tore Dubhglas’s attention away from killing Rockhurst.

At least for the moment.

And as Dubhglas turned, Rockhurst could see what was causing Bron so much pain.

A bolt from his cross-bow stuck out of his shoulder, having come through his back and out the front. The derga clawed at it, crying and cursing in pain.

Thwack!
Came a second, this one piercing his side. Bron staggered around, looking for his assailant.

“Shadow,” Rockhurst whispered. The little fool. She’d succeeded in getting away, only to come back to the fight.

He should be furious, for he was the Paratus. This was his fight by right and duty. And though he’d fought battles like this countless times, with worse odds, there was a part of him that thrilled at the very notion of having someone, anyone, at his side.

Perhaps he had, as she’d said last night, been alone too long.

“I’ll tear you from limb to limb,” Bron bellowed, lumbering down the alley toward where the arrows were coming from.

Her third shot hit perfectly, right into the creature’s black heart. There was a moment of disbelief on the derga’s face as he looked down at his own destiny, and then he was gone, bursting into a cloud of dust, as old
as the thousand or more years he’d been terrorizing humanity.

“Come out where I can see you,” Dubhglas growled, striding down the alley. “Cowards only fight from the shadows.”

Her reply was a bolt that appeared out of nowhere, flew furiously through the alley, grazing the giant derga in the shoulder, and sticking in the wall behind him.

Dubhglas whirled around, from the force of the shot or in disbelief, which it was Rockhurst couldn’t tell. “What is this sorcery, Paratus?”

“The kind that will see you finished,” he said, having risen to his feet.

“Not if I kill you first,” the derga growled, his long teeth glittering in the night.

The earl braced himself, fists balled, ready for the fight, when he heard her call to him.

“Rockhurst!”

And then there it was. What he’d longed for just moments earlier.

Carpio.

The ancient sword appeared out of the night, flying through the air, arcing slowly around, almost hypnotically.

Dubhglas gaped at it, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Nor could Rockhurst, but he had more wits than a derga and snatched the blade out of the air and drove it into his enemy’s chest.

For a moment, they stared at each other, with only
the hilt separating them. But the gulf between them was now far wider, as death closed in on the ancient creature.

With his last words, Dubhglas said, “Now he has no choice but to come for you. I’ve killed you as surely as if I—”

Then it was his turn to share his brother’s fate, and he burst into dust.

Yet it seemed as if his last words still clung in the air, like unholy dust motes.

…
as surely as if I’d done it myself.

A clank at the end of the alley drew his attention, the cross-bow having appeared where she’d dropped it.

“Jiminy! You’re bleeding,” she was saying, her footsteps padding toward him. “Oh, bother, where did I tuck my handkerchief?”

There was a rustle of silk, then her hand curled around his, and she guided the linen square up to his nose. “Dear heavens, you are bleeding all over. There are cuts on your hands and a horrible one on your thigh. What did that devil do to you?”

“Tried to kill me, I imagine,” he said, glancing over what were ordinary wounds to him. They hurt now, but soon they’d heal over and be gone.

Not so his Shadow. She continued on as if he were on his deathbed.

“And whatever were you thinking?” she whispered. “That you could fight them alone?”

“I’ve done it before,” he said, marveling at the warmth of her hands. They quite stole away every last icy reminder of death that had connected him to Dubhglas.

There was a snort of disbelief, then a
tsk, tsk
as if such a thing was just, well, ridiculous.

“You shouldn’t have to. There are others, you know.”

Others?
He shook his head. Wherever had she gotten such a notion? Then he found out.

“But Mr. Podmore says—”

Podmore! Rockhurst cringed. The man was the bane of his existence. “That fool? Don’t believe a word of his. There are no others.”

Again with the
tsk, tsk.
But oddly, it wasn’t as annoying as when his Aunt Routledge did it.

“There are,” she insisted. She pulled his hand back. “You need some sticking paste for this.”

“My nose always bleeds like this when it gets broken,” he told her. “But it will be healed before long.” He pulled the cloth back and showed her. “See, the bleeding has already stopped.”

“Jiminy!” she whispered. “You’ve had this happen before?”

“Many times,” he said, shrugging.

“And that is supposed to ease my fears?” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself entirely against him, one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, while her breasts and hips rode against him.

He no longer had any thoughts regarding his aching head, rather it was another part of him that was throbbing now.

“You could have been killed,” she complained.

“I had the situation well in hand.” He caught hold of her hips and pulled her closer, marveling at the way she fit against him.

“Harrumph!
”

Well, she needn’t sound so skeptical. “I did,” he told her. “I’ve been in tighter spots.”

“Again with the reassurances,” she chided. “They aren’t helping your cause.”

“I don’t see that it is any of your concern.”

“Of course it is,” she shot back. “When I have to step in to save you—”

“Save me?” he sputtered.

“You at least have to concede that I saved you,” she said. “Therefore, you owe me a boon.” She took a little breath. “The Paratus is honor-bound to safeguard his realm and grant boons to those who aid his cause.”

Not more Podmore.
He ground his teeth together. The insufferable fool was a thorn in his side. More to the point, now this creature was.

“I think you will find my terms quite reasonable,” she was saying.

And now she was dictating to him? That part of him, that very Paratus part of him, reared back its talons in anger. He wasn’t used to being prodded into doing what was his to grant.

Nor hers to demand.

That is, until he heard her request.

“Grant my wish, my lord,” she whispered, her hands tugging at the lapels of his jacket. “Take me this very night and ruin me again.”

They barely made it to the nearest inn.

Rockhurst had caught hold of her hand the moment she’d made her offer and dragged her down the alley, rife with need. Every few feet, he stopped, hauled her into his arms, and kissed her anew, hungrily, his hands roaming over her body, exploring her, awakening her.

And while every nagging doubt told him this was wrong, he couldn’t stop himself.

Ruin me…

He knew exactly what that meant, and now because of him, so did she. So why was he pursuing this madness, when he, Thomas, the Earl of Rockhurst, had always made it his rule to avoid innocents?

He, who was known for his mistresses, the high-flying Incomparables whose beauty (and price) put them out of
reach of ordinary men, of men with scruples. He adored those women because in their world, the rules were clear.

But this…some unknown Mayfair miss, well, this was uncharted territory for him, and what he should be doing was setting her down in the middle of Berkeley Square and running for his life.

Instead, here he was bursting into a barely fashionable inn and demanding a room like a madman.

The owner, who knew him, the earl having once removed a mert demon from his cellar, was only too glad to repay the Paratus by offering him the best room in the house and offering to send up a full tray for supper, but Rockhurst had waved off such generosity, asking only to be shown to a room, immediately.

The innkeeper nodded and ignored his lordship’s current eccentricity by shouting orders to his staff: for a boy with a bucket of coals to kindle his lordship’s fire, one of the maids to fetch a basin of hot water, and finally blustering at the cook in the kitchen to, “move your lazy arse and get a tray for his lordship.”

Rowan was greeted with the same fanfare, a spot near the fire cleared for the great wolfhound and a large bone plucked from the soup pot for his pleasure.

The last the earl saw of his beast of a dog, he was happily ensconced on the hearth, enjoying his well-earned supper.

“The room, my good man, the room,” Rockhurst said, nudging the innkeeper toward the stairs.

“Oh, yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” the man said. “But it will only be half-ready.”

“It will be ready enough,” he assured the fellow.

Rushing up the stairs with his unseen Shadow at his side, she whispered to him, “They think you are mad.”

“I am,” he replied.

“Excuse, my lord?” the innkeeper asked. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing, my good man, I just need a room.”

“To see to your injury? Is there someone I can call? A surgeon, perhaps?” he asked as he unlocked the door to a large, clean room that looked down on the stable yard. He hurried about the chamber, lighting candles and ordering the boy with the coals to see to the fire.

Rockhurst shook his head and all but pushed them both out of the room, taking the basin of hot water and cloths from the maid who was about to enter. “I need only some rest. See no one disturbs me,” he told them before closing the door in their astonished faces.

Then, with everyone banished, he scanned the room. “Shadow?” He put the basin down on a side table, the water sloshing over the sides.

“Yes,” came the seductive little purr as one of the candles snuffed out, then another, casting the room in only the glow from the coals in the grate.

Shadows for his Shadow.
He grinned. “I thought I’d lost you in that mob.”

“You very nearly did,” she said, her voice coming closer. “The boy with the coal bucket came quite close to clouting me, what with the way he was swinging it about.”

As her words drew nearer and nearer, his body tensed, waiting for the moment…the moment when she would touch him again.

And then she did, her fingers splaying over his chest,
her body sliding up against his like a cat. “I believe you owe me a boon, my lord.”

“How much of that demmed Podmore have you read?”

“Not as much as I would like to have,” she confessed, her hands winding around the lapels of his coat and pushing the Weston creation over his shoulders. “But much to my annoyance, I was too tired this morning—after such a long night—to read more than a few pages.”

“Bluestocking!” he teased.

“You sound like my mother,” she shot back.

“And she would be?”

There was a lilting bit of laughter from her. “Someone you generally avoid.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. Oh, yes, that narrowed his search down quite a bit—to every mother in London with a marriageable daughter.

She took his hand and led him to the chair near the table. Then the cloth disappeared into her grasp, and she wrung it out in the bowl. Ever so tenderly, she began to clean his face.

“Does it hurt,” she asked, her fingers tracing carefully around his jaw.

“Not in the least,” he told her. “Not now.”

“But how?” she asked. “It looked broken before.”

“It was.”

“But it couldn’t have been. How could it just
—”

“It just does,” he said, taking the cloth from her hand and wiping his face clean. “Simple things like broken bones, or flesh wounds heal almost immediately.”

“I would hardly call those ‘simple’ injuries.”

“I suppose not, but it is how a Paratus survives.”
What he didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, was that he would survive, until something so grievous struck, something so irreparable, that not even the magic that aided him could save his soul from being wrenched from his broken body.

No man, not even a Paratus, liked to think of that inevitable reckoning.

“’Tis all part of the curse,” he told her instead.

“If it saves your life, I would call it a gift.”

He caught hold of her and pulled her into his lap, kissing her anew. “You are my gift.”

“My boon, Rockhurst,” she said, having worked his coat off and begun unwinding his neckcloth.

“I don’t even know your name,” he told her. “I make it a rule always to know a lady’s name before…”

“Before you make love to her?” She shifted in his lap. “We are well past that, my lord,” she whispered as she rose and slipped into the shadows. There was a rustle of her gown as it hit the floor.

He couldn’t see the color of it, for she’d cast it into a dark corner. Not that he looked overly much, for just then the bed creaked as she climbed into it.

His body went hard as he imagined her there. Naked and lithe, her lush breasts full and tight, her lips parted and waiting to press them to his, to kiss him wherever he desired.

He rose and crossed the room, undressing as he went, pulled by the very thought of her. When he got to the bed, he leaned over and slid his hand across the top until it nudged into her shoulder, then he leaned over to nuzzle her neck, inhale her perfume. He tugged her
closer and kissed her right behind her ear. The little chit shivered and purred in delight.

“Now my boon, my lord Paratus.”

It was enough of an invitation for Rockhurst, his blood still boiling from their interlude earlier. He sealed her request with a kiss, one that fused them together.

No longer shy, she responded with enthusiasm, clinging to him, her hips riding up against his erection.

He took one last furtive glance at the corner where her gown lay, hoping he’d recognize it. For he’d also spent a good part of the afternoon memorizing nearly every gown there, and the lady within it.

“Rockhurst,” she whispered, pulling his attention back to her. “My boon.”

And any thoughts of her gown flitted away. He’d find the demmed thing in the morning. For now, he had a boon to repay.

And so much more.

Hermione’s body came alive the moment Rockhurst joined her in the bed. His weight tipped the mattress, and she rolled into his arms.

His mouth found hers, and he kissed her with a desperate hunger. She understood, for she felt the same.

He lived tonight, but what about the next time? Or the time after that. What if his next wound wasn’t a “simple” one?

Hermione felt a rare desperation—she wanted him to live forever more. Always. So that every night she could know this bliss of tumbling into a bed with him, of feeling him take such heady possession of her.

His tongue explored her mouth, running over her lips, pressing inside her, and she shivered, for it was like a taste of what was to come…when he entered her.

Her hips rose, and he caught hold of them and held them close.

“God, woman, what is it that you do to me?” he gasped, before his head dipped down, and he captured one of her nipples in his mouth and sucked it to a hard peak.

The same thing you do to me.
Her fingers raked down his back, over his buttocks, and around to the front of him, where his manhood was hard and erect.

She slid her hand over it, running from the wet tip all the way down to the base.

Now it was his turn to become insensible, as he groaned, his hips moving up to meet her hand as she stroked him again.

Not one to be undone, he reached down and teased her legs open—and open they did, quite willingly. For she knew what his touch could do. Where it could take her.

And it did, his fingers finding first the taut nub there and teasing her into a torrent of desire. With each touch, each slip of the rough pad of his thumb, she moaned and arched.

Wanton with need, she no longer wanted just his touch, she wanted him. Rolling onto him, the mattress creaking as she went, Hermione drove herself down atop his manhood.

“Oooh,” she gasped as he filled her, and she rode him all the way down. It was like heaven.

She drew back, slowly, sliding over him and enjoying every bit of his hard length, until just his tip sat
at her cleft, then she slid back down, sighing loudly.

Beneath her, Rockhurst chuckled. “Wanton.”

“Don’t you feel it?” she asked, as she slid over him again, rocking her hips as she went.

This time his body rose up to meet hers, fill her, going farther than she’d thought possible, and he groaned in pleasure.

Oh yes, he felt it.

Back and forth they teased each other, him pulling out slowly until she’d gasp for fear he’d be gone, and her riding him back down, rocking her hips and taking her time, until the heat of their play changed the rules.

Hermione felt the shift as her desire became rife, an aching need to find completion—not just for herself, but for Rockhurst as well. He caught hold of her hips and began to stroke her in earnest, until she was past reason.

“Rockhurst,” she gasped. “Oh, please. Now.”

And he knew what she meant.

He wound his arms around her and rolled her with him, so he covered her. His body now atop hers, he pushed deeper and harder into her, and Hermione’s heels dug into the mattress so she could rise to meet him.

Her world spun round, the shadows and flickering light a blur, and the roar in her ears was her own moans, her desire coming to a fiery head.

He moaned, deeply and passionately as he found his release, and those uninhibited, frantic strokes that followed carried her along as the room disappeared and she melted into his arms, into the only world she ever wanted to know.

As Hermione drifted back down, Rockhurst rolled to one side, and she made a mew of displeasure at losing the heat of his body. There was something about being inside the circle of his warmth, his strength, that made her feel as if she—no,
they
—were far from the dangers that she now knew lurked in the night.

He laughed and tugged her into his arms, and she nestled into the crook of his shoulder and laid her head down on his chest where, just beneath her ear, his heart still hammered wildly.

She sighed happily. She’d done that. Made his heart beat in this haphazard tremor, made him wild for his release.

His fingers toyed with her hair, wandered over her shoulder, and traced a lazy circle around her nipple.

“I love your breasts,” he said, leaning down and nuzzling her there. “I would love them better if I could see them.”

His hand trailed down her arm and over her hand, until it came to the ring on her finger. Playfully, he tugged at it, but it held fast to her hand.

“Obviously you weren’t trying hard enough to tell me all your secrets,” Hermione teased.

“I would rather show you them,” he said, kissing her deeply.

And then he did. Show her. Again. And one more time after that, until they both fell into a lover’s slumber, spent and happy, and safe in a world all their own.

Some hours later, Hermione stood on a street corner near the inn and wondered how the devil she’d ever be able to hail a hackney when she was still unseen?

It was pure luck that she’d been able to slip out of Rockhurst’s arms, don her gown, and escape the inn in the final hour of darkness, but she still needed to get home before dawn.

Bad enough she’d lied to her mother the night before at the Belling garden party, telling her she was going to the opera with India and not to have Dorcas wait up for her. But she needed to be home before their ever-vigilant maid got up.

“Where have you been?” a voice said over her shoulder.

Hermione nearly leapt out of her skin. She whirled around and found Quince, hands fisted on her hips and looking, well, none-too-pleased. At least Quince could see her. Perhaps she could prevail upon this try-as-she-might fairy godmother to help her.

But one glance at the disapproving furrow of Quince’s brows suggested that helping Hermione was the last thing she wanted to do.

Strangle her was probably more at the top of the odd lady’s list.

Too bad, for Hermione felt glorious. She’d never imagined, never realized that a man could…She shivered at the memories of being in bed with Rockhurst.

Of his kisses, his touch, the way he’d stroked her until she’d…

She heaved a sigh, which was met by a disgruntled “
harrumph
” from Quince, who took her by the elbow and steered her down the street to the corner, where the early-morning traffic was beginning to pick up.

London, Hermione marveled, never slept, and who
would want to when one could spend the night in such glorious pursuits?