The Last Wicked Scoundrel (11 page)

“Not of you. I’ve never been afraid of you. I know you’re a good man.”

Only he wasn’t. His past was a labyrinth of wrongdoing. His redemption rested with her, if he could only protect her from her husband, protect her from himself.

But she was making it so difficult when she stepped in closer, until her body was flush with his. She may have well have laid a hot brand to his flesh. He was acutely aware of every luscious dip and curve that comprised her.

He was familiar with the human body, had examined hundreds of them, had examined her, but he had never wanted to explore one with the patience and depths that he wanted to explore hers. He wanted to know the smallest of details, slide his tongue along the tiniest of crevices. He wanted to become lost in her until he forgot his past, until hers could no longer create a chasm between them. He wanted what he could not have, what he should not take.

But at that moment he needed the surcease she could offer, the balm of her innocence, the solace of her trust.

Cupping her face, he planted his mouth over hers. Triumph rushed through him as she sagged against him, an invitation he could no longer ignore. He would have regrets in the morning. He had little doubt she would as well, but tonight they were both raw and wounded, reeling from disappointment, despair. The unexpected turn of events.

He lifted her into his arms. “Not in here,” he said, “not in here where the ghosts from both our pasts linger.”

W
ith resolve in his stride, William carried Winnie through the house with purpose. She should have objected. Any decent woman would, but she wanted too badly what he was offering, and she wanted to provide comfort in return. She had thought tonight she would be dealing with her past, and it seemed he was dealing with his.

She was glad she’d had a chance to see him in anger—in fury, more like. She knew for certain that he would never take his fists to her, would never hurt her. She could trust him with her body—and in doing so, with her heart and soul. He would guard them, he would keep them safe.

It was late, and all the servants were abed. She was grateful for that, although she wasn’t certain it would have mattered. As she kissed the underside of his jaw, she realized how very desperately she wanted to be with him.

He opened the door to her bedchamber, walked through, then slammed it shut with his foot. Setting her down on the bed, he stretched out beside her, rising up on one elbow. As one of his fingers journeyed along her throat and stopped at the first button, she held her breath.

His eyes darkened, his breathing grew shallow. “It will be like seeing you for the first time.”

He’d seen her injuries, but not the scars that had formed. Could she share them with him? Could she share them with anyone? They shamed her and yet—

“I don’t find scars hideous,” he said as though reading her thoughts. Leaning in he kissed her brow. “The reason behind them perhaps, but they are a badge of survival.” He pressed his lips to the small one at her cheek. “But you have scars across your soul, and I don’t know how to heal those.” He touched his tongue to a small place beneath her chin.

Was there a scar there as well? It seemed he knew her better than she knew herself, but then he had treated them while she had avoided looking for any reminders of that night.

“Do you have scars?” she asked.

“A few, from when I was a boy, so they are faint now. You probably wouldn’t even notice them, but I still see them, feel them, know they are there. We look at ourselves more harshly than others do. We think people note the imperfections because they are glaring to us, when in fact they are nothing at all to others.”

With little more than a quick flick of his wrist, he freed the first button.

Stop him
, a tiny voice cried, but a louder one told her she would be a fool not to welcome his advances. She remembered how gently he had tended her hurts, how tenderly he had changed bandages and applied salve.

Now he cupped her face, leaned in, and captured her mouth in a deep searing kiss that sent all her doubts, her inhibitions to perdition. Within her he stirred a matching hunger that she couldn’t deny. She wanted his mouth, his hands, his body, every aspect of him touching her, becoming part of her. She’d never felt this way before, had never dared want anything this desperately.

She was vaguely aware of the other buttons being released. Pulling back slightly, he slowly peeled away her bodice, his eyes fastened on the skin he was revealing. She saw appreciation wash over his features, and she felt treasured, beautiful, accepted.

Within a few heartbeats, he had her stripped of her clothes. She watched in wonder as he quickly divested himself of his clothing. She saw no scars, but then the whole of him was distractingly marvelous. Hard muscles, flat stomach, narrow hips.

Rejoining her, he took his mouth on a sojourn over her body, pressing a healing kiss to each scar, the ones along her ribs, her collarbone, her thigh. He licked, kissed, murmured sweet words. Then he kissed the whole of her. Every inch, every nook and cranny, every hidden cove.

When he returned his mouth to hers, she was heated with need, burning with desire. She plowed her hands into his hair, relishing the feel of the soft curls claiming her fingers, wrapping around them. She turned her body into his, skimming the sole of her foot along his calf. She moved in rhythm with him, rolling one way and another, striving to touch all of him as he touched all of her. There was no complacency from either of them.

For the first time in her life she felt as though she were an equal partner in the lovemaking. Nothing she did disappointed him. Nothing she did was incorrect. She explored to her heart’s content. Exultation swept through her when he groaned deeply, and she felt the vibrations of his chest. She had caused that reaction, and she felt triumphant. He cradled one breast. His eyes fluttered closed, long dark lashes resting on his cheeks. He lowered his head and circled his tongue around her nipple, taunting and teasing.

The first gentle tug almost had her coming off the bed. No pain, just sweet sensations surging through her. He gave his attentions to her other breast, to the valley between, to her stomach, and lower. Everywhere he touched cried out for release, she cried out for release.

Then he rose above her, gazed down on her. She locked her eyes onto his as he eased himself inside her, withdrawing slightly, pushing with more determination, over and over until he was nestled deeply inside her.

He rocked against her. She met each thrust, the pleasure increasing, until she was writhing beneath him and screaming out for release. It came in a glorious rush that had her bucking against him, as he groaned hoarsely and drove into her one last time.

Exhausted and replete, she lay beneath him, skimming lethargic fingers over his damp back, aware of the trembling in his arms as he kept his weight off her, a consideration that touched her deeply. He pressed his lips to her temple before rolling off her. He drew her up against his side, stroking her arm as though he was as loath to lose contact with her as she was to lose it with him. As his breathing slowed, he kissed the top of her head. “I’m not leaving tonight, so sleep as deeply as you want.”

Inhaling sandalwood and the musk of their lovemaking, she closed her eyes.

W
innie decided that she rather enjoyed being made love to in the morning. It was a glorious thing to wake up to. Then they’d enjoyed breakfast in bed before satisfying each other once again. She couldn’t recall if she’d ever known such happiness.

She also discovered that she liked being dressed by a man, even if her hair was nothing more than a simple braid. Sitting at her dressing table, she watched as William put on his shoes. She’d never observed a man getting completely dressed before. She rather liked all these new experiences.

“I suppose you have to take your leave now,” she said.

Standing, he walked over to her and brought her to her feet. “I’m taking a day of leisure, to do nothing beyond being with you.”

“What of your patients?”

“No one is knocking on death’s door. My housekeeper knows where I am. If a hospital needs me, they’ll send word ’round to her and she’ll send word to me.” He cradled her cheek. “I want to be with you.”

“I promised Whit I’d take him to Madame Tussaud’s.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

She couldn’t deny the pleasure that his offer brought her, although a secret part of her had to admit that she’d rather stay abed with him. She’d never in her life felt so treasured, so appreciated, so cared for. This was how it was supposed to be between a man and a woman. If Avendale hadn’t died, she’d have never known.

But she also recognized that there was more to William’s treatment of her. It made her stronger, it made her believe that she should be treated better. A small part, a very small part of her wished she could confront Avendale and show him that she wasn’t the cowering girl he’d married.

“Let’s share the news with Whit.”

But before she could leave the room, William took her into his arms again and kissed her as though he hadn’t spent a good portion of the night doing just that. She wound her arms around his neck, knowing she would never tire of this. Although she had secured no promises from him, she understood now that she didn’t require marriage to be happy. It was enough just to be with him.

When he broke away and opened the door for her, she knew a secretive little smile played over her lips and hoped that Whit couldn’t interpret its meaning.

As they walked down the hallway, William said, “I’d have not expected you to be a fan of Madame Tussaud’s.”

“I must admit that I think I might have gone mad making wax creations of the deceased, but I find it fascinating to see people as they were. Although I do avoid the torture chamber.” She knew enough about the grisly room to know she had no desire to see instruments of torture or to see them demonstrated on wax figurines, even if they could feel no pain.

“It’s my understanding,” William said, “that ladies aren’t allowed in the room because of their delicate sensibilities.”

“Have you ever been in there?”

“No, I’ve seen enough suffering in life not to want to see it in wax.”

“How do you bear it, all the suffering you’ve seen?”

“By focusing on happier things, like moments spent with you.”

He said such lovely things to her. She was half tempted to forego the trip with Whit and spend the entire day in her bedchamber with William, but she wanted him to have some time with her son. She knew they’d gotten along famously while she and Whit had stayed at William’s residence during her recovery, but she thought it a good idea to reacquaint them as she suspected she would be spending a good deal more time with William.

She walked into the nursery, although it seemed odd to refer to it as such when Whit was all of seven years old now. He would soon be exchanging the nursery for the classroom, but for a bit longer he was hers.

Whit was sitting at a small table, frantically scratching a pencil over his art pad. Several sheets of paper were scattered around the table. His governess was sitting in a nearby chair reading. She quickly stood, but Whit carried on.

Winnie knelt beside him. “Good morning, darling.”

“There were so many animals. I’m trying to draw them, before I forget what they looked like.”

“You’re doing a marvelous job. Perhaps you’d like to share them with Dr. Graves. He’s visiting this morning. You remember him, don’t you?”

Whit looked up then, his dark hair falling across his brow, his dark eyes—his father’s eyes—focusing on William. “You took care of Mummy when she was hurt.”

She did wish that he didn’t remember that particular aspect of their time with William. Whit had been only four. She hoped he’d have forgotten the worst of if by now.

“You carried me on your shoulders in the park,” Whit continued.

William crouched beside her. “Yes, I did. I’d like to take you and your mum to the park again sometime, but I understand you already have a special trip planned for today.”

“Have to finish these first.”

“Did you like walking through the zoological gardens?” William asked.

Whit nodded, his hair flapping against his brow. He pointed to one of the papers. “That’s the lion. He roared.”

“It’s a very good drawing,” William said, picking it up and holding it so Winnie could see it clearly. The lion’s mane was almost larger than the lion himself. Off to the side was a tree. Near it was something that appeared to be an obelisk: tall and dark, no features. With a quick glance over the other sketches, she saw that it appeared in several of them. She didn’t know why she found it odd, but she did. In one of the drawings, it seemed to have arms.

“What is this, darling?” she asked.

Whit’s tiny brow furrowed as he studied where her finger rested, before darting his gaze up to her. “It’s the shadow man.”

Everything within her stilled while he returned to his endeavors as though he hadn’t said anything monumental. “What shadow man?” She hated the slight tremor in her voice. She was very much aware that William hadn’t moved, but he seemed alert, barely breathing.

Whit lifted a slender shoulder. “I’ve seen him about. Sometimes in the park. The garden.”

“Our garden?” Winnie asked.

Whit nodded.

She looked over at the governess. “Have you seen him?”

“No, Your Grace. The young duke has mentioned him of course, but he has such an active imagination that I assumed the shadow man was an imaginary friend.”

Yes, that was probably it, Winnie thought. Just a figment—

“He was in my room last night,” Whit said distractedly, his attention back on his drawing. “I woke up and he was in the shadows. I couldn’t see him very well, but he said he was watching out for me and not to be afraid. This is the elephant.”

He held the paper out to her, and she took it with trembling fingers. Last night, dear God, last night when she was crying out in pleasure, he was in her residence, in her son’s room. “He’s a very interesting creature with that long snout. So your shadow man, did he say anything else?”