The Rogue (27 page)

“Then you have no complaint with the words
my bride
?”

She drew away from his hold. “You don't say what I expect.”

“Perhaps because you expect me to be someone I am not.”

“I require assistance to remove my gown and stays.” Then with her hands she pulled his mouth down to her and kissed him.

His fingers were sure on the fasteners of her gown and on the laces of her petticoat and stays. When she stood before him in only a shift, she said, “Touch me.”

He knelt on the floor before her and his hands came around her knees. In this way he raised the thin linen of her shift, his hands surrounding her thighs and moving so slowly upward that every half inch seemed a victory.

“You are so soft,” he said as his hands curved around her hips, baring her to the glow of the moonlight. But he did not halt there. His hands continued upward, the fabric sliding with his touch, uncovering her waist and breasts. She lifted her arms and he swept the garment over her head.

His gaze took her in, from brow to feet, lingering upon her breasts and then her mouth.

“And yet,” he said, lifting his eyes, “there is a hardness within you. Tempered anger. You would make a fine warrior, I think.”

“Kiss me,” she said.

He obeyed. His mouth moved to her throat, his hands to her shoulders, then down her back.

“At present, however, you are a banquet.” His palms slid over her scars. “And I, a man who has been at sea for years.” He kissed her and his fingertips played the striped welts like a musician upon a lyre. “And don't you dare critique my metaphor, or I will utter another even more trite.”

She held tight to his shoulders. “Flames. The next metaphor must include flames. Or fire of some sort.”

“I am certain I can come up with something suitable. Lie down.” His hands marked every bit of her heated skin with need. But beneath it the cold was growing.

“I cannot.” Her fingers dug into his arms. “I
cannot
.” She broke away from him. “I cannot bring myself to it, even without bedposts.”

“Bedposts?”

“Bedposts, bindings, facedown,” she said upon a rush. “So that I could not see.”

“I would like to hold you now,” he said in an unremarkable tone. “May I?”

Her panic collapsed, leaving only shaking. She nodded. He drew her into his arms and held her against his warm skin, and she tucked her face into his shoulder.

“However much I am feeling inclined to murder at present,” he said, “I am feeling considerably more inclined to making love to you.” He lifted her face with his fingertips beneath her chin. “I don't need a bed, Constance. I don't need a chair. I don't even need the floor. All I need is your body on mine.”

She smoothed her palm over his jaw and kissed him. She did not stop kissing him for quite a long time then.

They went to the floor, to piles of bed linens hastily strewn there with hands that were impatient to return to touching. Kneeling before her he kissed her breasts with such lavish attention that eventually she was obliged to climb atop his lap to satisfy the craving this built to unendurable intensity. Silver light filled the sky and candles illumined his skin in gold as, bodies entwined, they found pleasure together.

Afterward, he held her in silence and he kissed her tenderly on her cheeks and brow and lips. When finally she drew away from him, her cheek was damp though she knew she had not wept.

She summoned a maid, and he left her to bathe alone and went to dress for their outing.

E
xcept for the dip of her eyes that revealed her weariness, when he took his seat on the carriage box beside her, she did not look like a woman who had fought a duel with a man and then made love to him twice afterward.

“Wife, you bedazzle,” he said as he snapped the horses into motion.

“I haven't any idea what one wears to devil-worshipping parties.” She tucked her cloak about her gown of some glittering gold fabric. “I settled on dress suitable for a regular evening's entertainment.” She tugged her hood up about her hair, which was bound again now in elegant coils. An hour earlier, before the fire, she had allowed him to unbind it and spread it over her shoulders and breasts. Now she would not take his arm or touch him in any manner, not even his hand for assistance into the carriage.

“You are sure to set the fashion now,” he said.

“Tell me about your new friends.”

“And who would that be?”

“Patience Westin and Miranda Hughes. Your cousin tells
me you have seen them every day since your sojourn in Calton Jail. You must be thick as thieves by now.”

“I was a thief, you know.”

In the lantern light, her face remained serene. “Thus your other such sojourns. What did you steal?”

“Nothing of lasting value, unfortunately. Bread, usually. Once I stole a live chicken. Difficult to hide beneath one's coat for any length of time, of course, and then it had to be cooked. Never tried that again.”

“Could you not find work as an instructor?” Her voice was cool like the midnight mists falling now.

“I hadn't the heart for it. War can weary a man of weapons, which is a vast understatement, actually.”

He felt her attention upon him now. “You ceased
fencing
?”

“For a time I could wield neither sword nor firearm. My hands shook too violently to do so. My commanders allowed me a leave of absence.” During which time, eventually, he had found enjoyment in the sword again, in teaching fighting skills to a friend whose character was far superior to the lot he had been given in life.

“But you returned to war. When we met, you had just come home.”

“I felt an obligation to the country that had given me solace after my mother's death. Also”—he smiled—“they expected me back. They were . . . insistent.”

“You were the greatest swordsman the cavalry had ever known.”

“No cavalry. I didn't even have a horse. I was a courier. I ran.”

“You ran? From battlefield to battlefield?”

“From general to general. I was very fast. And intelligent. Thus their insistence. But I was still a boy, really.”

“That must have been extraordinarily dangerous.” Her voice was subdued.

“Everything at war is dangerous.”

“Why didn't you use your skill with a sword, when you were able?”

“Because, Constance, I did not wish to kill anyone.”

“But it was war. You—”

“My mother was French. My teacher as well.”

Some minutes later, she pointed ahead.

“The Peppermill. You deflected my question before.”

“Mrs. Westin is sensible and somewhat shy. Although she does not lack intelligence, Lady Hughes is nearly the opposite. They are an interesting pair.”

“Have you enjoyed spending time with them?”

“I have. Did you hold back when you sparred with Viking?”

She turned to him abruptly. “No.”

“And yet you hit
me
.”

A smile transformed her face. “You inspire me.”

“I will have a bruise on this shoulder for a fortnight.”

“I didn't wish to injure you. I warned you should have worn padding.”

He laughed. “Of course you wished to injure me. You have wished to injure me since the day I arrived at your castle.”

The moon had disappeared and ahead in the darkness a muted lantern shone.

“There,” she whispered.

“The moment I have reason for concern, we leave,” he said, driving the carriage behind the building. “Do you understand?”

“You mustn't be overprotective,” she said. “It would ruin everything.”

“Trust me, I have great respect for your ability to defend yourself.”

“Help me down.” Now she allowed him to grasp her hand and assist her from the carriage. But she held on to him only briefly.

Two men came forward. One climbed onto their carriage and drove away. The other, of average height and frame, wore a hood obscuring his face.

“I'm Reeve,” he said. “The carriage is this way.” They
followed him to a vehicle without markings. The horses seemed fine enough. Reeve opened the door and Saint handed Constance in.

“The blindfolds, if you will,” Reeve said. A moment later, the carriage jolted into motion.

When they halted, Reeve instructed them not to remove the blindfolds until they had entered the Sanctuary. They did so within moments. Reeve shut and locked the door behind them, and Saint swiftly took in the space. Constance's face showed no indication that she had ever seen these stairs or carpet or finely carved wooden railing before. She looked curiously about as though she had not stood on the landing above and told him fervently to leave her alone. It was the duke's house, just as it had been on the night of his party.

“This way.” Lantern in hand, Reeve started up the stairs. He opened the first of the four doors on the corridor. It was a long parlor, dimly lit and warm from hearths at opposite ends. Like the rooms in the front of the house, the furnishings befitted a duke: fine wood, rich upholstery, elegant appointments. The people arranged about it were, however, a parody of polite society. Gowns were sheer. Postures were lax. And more than a few hands were in places they should not be, outside of brothels. But none of the duke's guests were prostitutes. Saint had taken tea with every titled woman and man present. The Duke of Loch Irvine was not among them.

“Welcome, darlings.” Lady Hughes glided toward them. Her smile, usually sweet, was slack-lipped, her eyes heavy. From across the room, Sir Lorian watched.

Constance accepted a glass of wine from Lord Hart, her eyes assessing, studying.
Not for long.
There was no scent of opium in the place, but these people were not drunk; there was a placid lethargy about them that spoke of another influence. Saint watched her sip the wine that must be drugged and wanted to tear the crystal from her fingers.

Instead he accepted a glass and swallowed the contents. Reeve had not taken his sword or even asked him to remove
it. The Master or Sir Lorian or whomever had sent their invitation must believe they were here eagerly. If he felt any effects from the drink, he could move before it overcame him entirely, with the advantage of surprise.

Constance played the part well. She smiled and flirted lightly, glittering, enticing, and he wondered how he had not seen it this clearly before: the vulnerable girl beneath this mask of gay sophistication she put on for others. Now he saw it and it made him ache.

Soon her eyes grew heavy and her motions slow. He took a seat in a cushioned chair and watched. Lady Hart came to his side, settled on the sofa languidly, and said nothing of interest.

He grew bored swiftly. The drugged wine in his veins softened the already dim lights, but his pulse remained regular. Then Reeve left the room through another door and conversations hushed.

“What's happening?” he asked Lady Hart.

“The Master has chosen,” she replied with lowered lashes. Everyone it seemed had drunk liberally of the wine. “In a moment we will be free to do whatever we like. And I like you, Mr. Sterling.”

Reeve reappeared and crossed to Lady Hughes. Rising, she went with him.

“What exactly has he chosen?” He readied his muscles for action.

“What a tease you are, Mr. Sterling.” Lady Hart's half-lidded eyes perused him. “Have you anyone in mind, or will you await Miranda? I understand that you and she have spent time together lately.”

He had heard enough. Miranda Hughes was not about to be sacrificed in a violent ritual, not if Lady Hart expected her to return shortly. Constance was moving toward him, her steps over-careful, her gaze firmly in his and—despite its hazy quality—definitely indicating that he was not to move. He waited for her to drape herself over the chair beside him.

“Here you are, darling,” she said. “How are you
enjoying this d'lightful party?” Her tongue stumbled over the syllables.

“Delightful.” For the twentieth time he scanned the room carefully, assessing the potential for taking her from the house without endangering her should they meet with resistance. “Constance,” he said quietly. “Where did you hide my knife?”

“Gallery. B'neath the display case.”

Shortly, the door to the Master's room opened. Into the candlelight came Lady Hughes. She wore a white robe that fell to the floor, the hood draped behind.

Constance's eyes flared.

With a slow, weaving stride, Lady Hughes went across the room. As she went, the robe parted at the front to reveal her petite, rounded, entirely nude body. Pausing before Westin, she stroked two fingertips along his shoulder. Without waiting for him, she drew the robe together again and walked out of the room.

Saint glanced at Hughes. His eyes were on Constance.

Westin rose and swaggered by them. “Care to come along, Sterling? If you're very good, I'll give you a turn with her.”

“I will come.” Mrs. Westin moved to her husband's side.

“That's right,” Westin said with a pat on his wife's behind. “My good little Patience wants her turn too. But only because I'll be there, m'dear. You know the rules.”

“The rules?” Constance said, her glassy eyes following them to the door.

“Once the Master has chosen, we ladies are free to choose whomever we like,” Lady Hart murmured, lifting her fingers to stroke them along Saint's arm, “as long as at least one man and one woman are present in every room.”

“For a man who keeps his club a secret,” he said, “it seems the Master has fairly conventional standards.”

“Disappointed? And I had imagined you the one-woman sort. Newlyweds. And so
unexpected
a match. You cannot think how surprised Hart and I are to see you tonight.” Her
fogged gaze dipped to his mouth. “Shall we summon my husband, Mr. Sterling, and see how unconventional you like it?”

He withdrew his arm. “Perhaps another night.” He took Constance's hand and drew her to her feet. “It's time we depart.”

“Wait,” his wife said muzzily as he led her toward the door. “Just the other day Lady MacFarlane was going on and on about her sister's faithless husband. Now look at her over there ogling everybody. The hypocrite. I want to see who she chooses.”

“Understandably. But that is not in the cards for you tonight, Madam Sterling.”
Or ever.

Reeve met them at the door. “Leaving already?”

“My wife is unwell.”

Constance immediately sagged upon his arm.

Reeve had removed his hood and peered at her down a nose that had been broken more than once. Saint studied his unremarkable features. “Have your blindfolds?”

“Darling,” Constance said with a giggle that was entirely charming and thoroughly false, “I am afraid you must tie mine. My fingers are numb.”

Alone in the carriage she sat apart from him and did not speak. When they arrived at the mill he removed her blindfold and she took his hand only to dismount the carriage. But her steps faltered as they went toward their own curricle.

“You must put your arm around me or I will fall off the seat,” she said, her eyes seeking purchase on his face but rolling away. “I do hope I won't be ill.” He took the reins in one hand and wrapped his other arm tight around her, but she gripped the side of the seat, not him.

As they entered the house she said nothing, and when he set his hand to her lower back to balance her ascent on the stairs, she pulled away. Inside her bedchamber, with the door closed, she stood in the center of the floor and swayed. As he undressed her, her eyes remained closed and her face slack. He led her to the bed and covered her with a blanket.
He had seen plenty of drunks, both men and women. This was not Constance merely drunk or even drugged. She had withdrawn from him again, as soon as the charade had not been necessary.

He sat on the edge of the bed, bent his elbows to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.

“'Tis all remarkably distasteful,” she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

“It is.” A servant must have closed the draperies and removed the bed linens from the floor. Nothing remained of what had passed between them earlier except a fierce ache beneath his ribs.

“Or p'raps simply sad. Do you agree?”

He thought of Patience Westin's serious eyes. “I do.”

“Good,” she said upon a sigh. “B'cause I don't wish to share you.”

Then she was asleep. She would remember none of this. So he savored the momentary satisfaction of hearing her claim him for herself alone. Then he went into his bedchamber, removed his gentleman's clothing, and slept for many fewer hours than he wished.