The Rogue's Return (11 page)

Contradictions he wasn't going to be allowed to explore tonight, so he settled to being grateful for what he had. His lovely wife, here with him.

J
ancy concentrated on the cards, trying to still her rapid heartbeat. She'd been impelled here against all her better judgment, unable to bear parting from Simon with angry words or losing the hours that might be his last on this earth. She'd known the risks, and a part of her had welcomed them. She couldn't bear the thought that Simon would die tomorrow without them at least kissing.

Kissing properly.

As lovers do.

Mostly, however, or so she'd told herself, she'd come to offer him company in what had to be a difficult time. She thought she'd done that, but she was aware with a purely Haskett instinct of the passion building in the room. She could almost smell it.

He'd never force her, but she knew she had only to signal with a look, with a gesture, to unleash the power that built in her as strongly as in him.

It was like a crescendo of craving. A need that could overwhelm every scrap of will and strength. Like the need for water when parched with thirst. Or for heat when the body ached with cold. The relief would be as shiveringly wonderful and all the reasons against it were evaporating like water drops on a hot griddle, sizzling away to nothing.

But she didn't want to do wrong here. She didn't want to make everything worse.

Perhaps the cards would be her guide.

She handed the pack to him. “Shuffle, please.”

Their hands brushed, and sizzle was exactly the word. Their eyes held for a moment, and Jancy felt the heat rise in her body and surely flame in her face. She broke contact of eyes and hands. He shuffled and then put the cards down.

Avoiding such contact again.

She fanned them on the table. “Take eight.”

When he did so, she dealt them in a half circle and then did the same with the next eight and the next, adding them to the piles until all the cards were in the eight piles. She turned up the first layer, stating each one in the detached way she'd learned as a child.

“Don't think, dearie,” Sadie Haskett had said. “ 'Tis not for thinking, the cards. Just let 'em speak through you.”

“The ace of spades brings you business affairs and problems, and the king of diamonds says that a man with fair hair stands your friend. The seven of hearts says that you are unsure of your path.”

She glanced up. She couldn't imagine Simon unsure. He'd slid down to lounge in his chair and was sipping his brandy, eyes mostly shielded by his lids.

She looked back at the cards, reminding herself not to think but only to let them speak. “The ten of clubs predicts a journey. The jack of diamonds warns of a young or fair-haired man who could betray you, and the queen of diamonds of a light-haired woman who can't keep secrets.”

“Not you, then,” he said.

She looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“Are you claiming not to have secrets?”

“Everyone has secrets.”

“True enough. Keep yours if you can, but I warn you, Jane, I intend to uncover them all in time.”

She looked desperately back at the cards and turned the next. “The eight of clubs. Good friends.” She turned the next and faltered. Almost she lied, but that wouldn't change anything. “The nine of diamonds. Be careful around sharp objects and firearms.”

Steadily he said, “Does that predict a deadly wound?”

“No.” But she wished that card hadn't turned up in the first rank.

“Does any card predict death?”

“They are never so specific. The nine of spades is a card of ill omen, and the ten and eight imply bad news.”

“You've turned up none of those, so all is well. Rejoice!”

True, it was a good spread, which eased her mind. Simon wouldn't die tomorrow. But she didn't like that nine of diamonds.

Her recent upbringing said that fortune-telling was superstitious nonsense, even devil worship, but in her youth she'd seen too many predictions come true not to have some belief. Over the years she'd secretly consulted the cards, and given their lack of specifics, they'd been right.

“Do you want to see your longer predictions?” she asked, knowing it was weak to want to know herself.

“Why not? The next layer?”

“No, the bottom layer.” She flipped over the piles one after the other. When she completed the set without the nine of spades, she breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone dies in the end, but a premature death would show in the bottom layer.

“The queen of hearts. A loving, fair-haired woman.” She couldn't help but look up and smile at that, and see his echoing smile.

“I'm coming to believe in these cards more and more. Go on.”

“Eight of clubs. You are and always will be rich with good friends.”

“Another hit.”

“The ace of diamonds predicts ample money in your future. Good news for me. The ten of clubs tells of a pleasant journey, and the seven of clubs of success and renown. The nine of hearts . . .” She paused, unsure how to phrase the nuance she sensed. “A treasure you do not want, I think. The king of hearts says again that a blond man will be your true friend, and we end with the king of clubs, which is you, reinforcing your many virtues.”

She swept the cards together and smiled at him. “It's an excellent spread, Simon. All will be well.”

“Good.” He rose. “So, if I'm going to live . . .”

She thought he was going to send her away, but instead he raised her to her feet and began to unbutton her robe.

S
he stared into his eyes, knowing that the slightest flicker of fear or rejection would end this now. Desire burned in her, however, flaring higher and higher with each touch of his hands, breathed on by the dark hunger in his gaze.

She shrugged off her robe herself as he worked on the buttons that fastened her nightgown up to the high neck. Then some Haskett part of her nature made her step back and lift it off herself to toss it aside. She shook her head so her hair spread around her.

He looked stunned. She shouldn't have done that—

But then he crushed her to him for the kiss she'd longed for, dreamed of, starved for over weeks, months, a year. She surrendered to instinct and him, swept into the flames by every touch of his urgent hands. Then she was in the tent of his bed, a place well suited for the hot mysteries of his mouth at her breasts and then nibbling up her inner thighs, creating aching, burning hunger deep inside.

She gasped his name, clutched his hair, cried out, and arched, but knew what she wanted, wanted above all. She fought free and began to tear at his breeches' buttons. He took over, stripping quickly.

He lowered himself over her, settling between her thighs, the most perfect weight imaginable. His cock—a good Haskett word, that—pressed at her . . .
cunny,
she
thought. Another good Haskett word, banned in Abbey Street. She'd felt wanting there before and known what it was, but not like this. Not with yearning, and needing, and a kind of demanding pain.

Then he sucked her nipple and she gasped at a sensation she'd never even imagined. He laughed and at last began to push into her, even as he licked and sucked and teased. She laughed, too, as she raised her hips to him.

Then it hurt, making her catch her breath.

They both stilled, but urgently she said, “Go on, go on!” She'd die if he didn't complete her now.

He broke through her maidenhead.

“Give me a moment,” she gasped. “It feels wonderful, but I need a moment.”

As he stroked her and murmured things she could hardly hear never mind understand, she shifted to fit. He was breathing like a runner, but still talking. “Lovely Jane. Darling bride. Celtic sun. My love, my love . . .”

His love? Hunger roared to cover pain and she rose to join with him, ignoring soreness, rolling her head back to breathe, to gasp in air.

She should probably be speaking love to him, but she was dumb. Blind, dumb, and numb to everything but the wild pleasure of their sliding together, slapping together, humping and bumping accompanied by little screams she couldn't help.

And then locked in an astonishing explosion. It rippled on through her gasping breaths until he and she were tangled together, limp and sweaty.

Ah, Tillie, no wonder you liked the men so much.

His mouth was at her breast again, tonguing lazily. “My wife,” he murmured, sounding perfectly content. Then again, “My love.”

She cherished his hair and his shoulder, unable to be anything but content as well. This was what she'd promised not to do, but she'd brought him pleasure and forgetfulness, and it had been spectacularly wonderful.

And he loved her.

How could she give him up if he loved her?

He moved to look at her, stroking hair from her face. “Did it hurt a great deal?”

“No. Well, a little, but I didn't mind. And now it's over.” She smiled into his smiling hazel eyes. “Like getting a tooth drawn.”

Delight danced there. “Horrid woman. You must be sore, though.”

She supposed she was. Every sensation down there seemed overwhelmed, but yes, there was soreness. Then she realized what he was asking. “We can do it again?”

“Undoubtedly, but don't let me be a brute.”

Hunger was already growling. “You'd be a brute to deny a poor lady her pleasure.”

He laughed. “You are a splendid woman, Jane St. Bride.”

He moved over her and off the bed to walk in gorgeous nakedness to their glasses and the brandy decanter. She shifted to her side, head supported on her hand to watch.

“And how come there's not a pasty white spot on you, sir?”

He turned back, already half ready for her. “I swim naked—most men do—and the sun here is hot in summer. I'm sorry I don't have anything but brandy.”

He strolled back to the bed to put the decanter and one glass on the floor and then lay on his back and gave her the other glass. “Dribble it on me and lick it off. You might like it better that way.”

She bit her lip but did as he suggested. “Mmmm. I see what you mean.” Licking his torso was certainly the most delicious taste ever, brandy or not. When some pooled in his navel, she sucked it out and he bucked beneath her. She glanced at him and then repeated the treat.

“Why not dribble some lower and suck there?” he said, watching her with heavy eyes.

She looked at his jutting cock and then dipped her finger in the brandy and stroked it onto him. Slowly she
licked it off, feeling him move, quiver. Then she did the same with the bag below.

Baubles, the Haskett women called it.
Pretty baubles,
she thought, inhaling a musky scent.

His thighs tensed and she knew he was fighting himself. Wickedly she sucked there. Heard him curse, but not in a bad way. Smiling, she licked over his pretty baubles and up his hot, hard cock, right to the tip.

His lips were parted, his eyes looked drowned, but he said, “Where did this wild, wanton witch come from?”

Panic flashed through her, but before she could think what to say, he rolled her onto her back and slid into her again.

He didn't seem able to hold back this time but raced to his pleasure. It was like riding out a wild storm at sea. It left her dazed but wanting, but she didn't mind. To give him pleasure was enough.

But then he stirred and kissed her, his hand sliding between her thighs to exquisitely sensitive flesh. She flinched and his touch gentled.

“I only want to pleasure you, my love, my precious. Relax and tell me if it hurts.”

She felt the war in her body between pleasure and pain, but she did tell him and he found the right sliding touch, circling and circling as his mouth made magic on her breasts and lips so that the dizzying fever built again.

It was like but unlike the ecstasy she'd felt before, because she was so aware of it this time, free to concentrate on the coiling tension and deep ache and the wild fever of longing that eventually climaxed in spasms of absolute pleasure that left her heart-poundingly blank.

Eventually she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Marriage is a very wonderful thing, isn't it?”

“In all honesty, my Celtic jewel, I have to point out that marriage isn't essential.”

“That's very sinful, sir.”

“I consider my sinful past training for you, Jane.”

The name jolted her. “Would you call me Jancy, Simon, here in our bed?”

“Jancy?”

“My childhood name.” It wasn't really a lie. “A fond name, you might say.”

“Jancy, then. It suits this wild, wanton wonder better than plain Jane. I could call you that all the time.”

“No.” No one in her Carlisle life knew the name Jancy, but still, it felt dangerous. “It's . . . it's a baby name. Not suited for a wife.”

“That's foolish, but I like the idea of a private name. I'm sorry I don't have one to offer you.”

“No one called you Sim?”

“That's my father. First sons are always called Simon in our family, and we alternate between Simon and Sim.” As they cuddled close he said, “My oldest brother's Rupert, after my mother's father, and the youngster's Benjamin. Lord, he's fifteen now. Almost a man. I wonder if he still lets people call him Benji.”

She understood that he needed to talk about his family now.

“Two brothers and three sisters, I think?”

“Four. Ella's married with a child of her own. Then there's Mara, Jenny, and Lucy. She was an infant when I left. I'll be a stranger to her.”

“But she'll soon learn she has an excellent brother.”

He rubbed his head against hers. “I hope so.”

“Are they all at home, other than Ella?”

“I assume Benji's at school, but yes. Even Rupert and his wife. He's Father's estate steward, on the assumption, I think, that I will never take on that job.”

“Do you mind?”

“Lord, no. It's most unnatural of me, but agriculture bores me.”

“What about when you inherit?”

“Perhaps I'll mellow with age, but I hope Rupert's there to carry on.”

“What do you plan to do, then? Travel again?”

Despite love, this distressed her. She'd sealed her fate here and joined with him for life, but she really didn't want to wander the world's wildernesses.

“I've burned that out of my system, but I need battles to fight. I'm thinking of standing for Parliament.”

She rolled onto his chest, looking up at him by the light of the guttering candles. “Shaping the laws of the land. That's wonderful.”

He drew her closer for a kiss. “With you by my side, Jancy St. Bride.”

They made love again and talked more of his dreams until sleep claimed them. Claimed them too well. They were woken by Sal knocking at the door, saying, “Captain Norton's here to see you, sir, right urgent, and it barely seven!”

Simon cursed and rushed out of bed and into his clothes, apologizing to Jancy and the universe. She sat there, clutching the covers to her, cold as much with shock as because the fire had died long ago. She managed to say, “Are you late?” but it came out from a strangled throat.

“Not yet.” He hastily brushed his hair and then turned an anguished look on her. He pulled her to him for a ferocious kiss. “I fully intend to be back here for breakfast, but if I'm not, you're to go to Brideswell—Hal will take you—and let my family take care of you. Promise me that.”

“I promise. God go with you, Simon!”

“If I were God I'd have no part in this sort of thing, but yes. Pray.”

Then he was gone. He couldn't die. He couldn't possibly die!

And yet he could.

Jancy couldn't bear to wait here for news. She scrambled out of bed, pulled on her robe, and rushed to her room to drag on clothing. She left the house to run toward Elmsley's Farm as she had once before.

As before, the morning was chilly and overcast but
this time with no threat of rain that might prevent the duel. As she reached the edge of town, the sun broke through to illuminate the distant group of men. It didn't look as if the duel had started yet.

She couldn't race there directly as she had before but had to circle to where some trees provided concealment. As she did so, two of the men took positions, facing each other.

Simon, Simon!

She came to rest behind a tree, panting. Simon looked so calm and steady. McArthur, may he rot, looked less so, but she could tell how he burned to kill. She read it on his face and had to clench her hands over her bitten lips to stop herself from screaming at them to stop.

The cards had promised Simon would be safe.

But there was that nine of diamonds.

She heard the count, saw the guns raised and aimed, the pale handkerchief fluttering in Captain Norton's hand.

McArthur's pistol flamed before it dropped.

Simon staggered.

Jancy began to race to him, but he steadied, even though hunched and with his left hand to his side.

She froze as he slowly straightened and raised his pistol.

McArthur backed, raising his hands as if to ward off a shot. “No, no. It was an accident. . . .”

Jancy expected someone to stop Simon, but all the men stood still. Norton finally let the handkerchief waver to the ground.

Simon fired.

Lancelot McArthur clutched his chest, letting out a cry that sounded as much shocked as agonized. Then he crumpled into an ungainly, twitching heap.

The pistol fell from Simon's hand, and he sank to his knees and then to the ground. Jancy ran to fling herself down beside him. He still breathed but in a way that spoke of agony. Blood oozed from his side.

She remembered the talk about Isaiah's wound. How no one survived a belly wound. This was surely higher. To the side.

Don't be dying, my love. Don't be dead.