Unlocked (5 page)

She tensed in shock as his arms snaked around her. She was so hot against his lips—blazing hot—and soft all over. He had just an instant to savor the taste of her.

She wriggled away from him, glowering. “I see how this is. The poor little spinster—I’m so needy and desperate that you think I’ll surrender my virtue at the first opportunity.”

“No,” he breathed. He was the needy one, the desperate one. He needed to think, but his thoughts were slipping from his grasp. It didn’t help when her breasts lifted with every inhalation.

She put one finger on the edge of her wayward sleeve. “Well.” Her words were sharp, but her hand trembled. “Maybe I am.” And then she slid the fabric down her arm, exposing creamy skin.

His lungs were in agony. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think anything except—
oh God, please keep going.

“Maybe I
am
desperate.” Her voice was low. “I have nothing to look forward to but decades of loneliness. Maybe all I ask for is one night of passion.” She glanced up at him through thick eyelashes. “Is that what I am supposed to say? I’m supposed to beg you for a night?”

“Yes.” The word came out before he could think better.

The corner of her mouth curled in distaste, but she didn’t draw back.

“I mean, no. I mean—” He wasn’t sure what he meant, but his erection was growing. He would mean anything, if he could just kiss her again.

“Maybe I am supposed to beg you to make a woman of me.”

“Hell.” Lust had always made him stupid. “You don’t have to beg.” His voice grew hoarse. “I’ve—look, I’ve always wanted you.”

Stupid he might be, but even he could tell that something was wrong. Her nose scrunched in an adorably pugnacious fashion and she glared up at him.

“Always,” she whispered, her voice silky. “Of course. How
obvious
. There is one little problem, isn’t there, Westfeld? I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t.”

“You see,” she continued, “I am very vulnerable—and you are not. Not at all.”

That brought another heated image to mind—this time, of how vulnerable he would be if he placed himself in her hands. Literally. He groaned, and tried to suppress the vision, but it was replaced by another—his kneeling before her, lifting her skirts—and another, in which she ran her hands all over him.

Not good. He needed to think with his brain, not his hardening prick. But she reached up and hooked her finger underneath her other sleeve, and all he could think of was her gown unfastened to her waist, her corset undone, and her breasts spilling out.

“Christ,” he swore aloud.

Remember: you hurt her. She doesn’t want you. She just wants to hurt you back.

“Here’s the way it is,” he said hoarsely, fumbling in his pocket for the key to his room. He turned the lock, opened the door. “I’m not going to ask you to come inside.”

The high flush of anger was beginning to fade from her face.

“At least not yet,” he amended.

He held his breath and strode into the room. He rummaged about in the dim light until he found the
rücksack
he’d brought with him. When he found it on the chest of drawers, he looked up. She stood in the hall, a foot from his door, watching him warily.

“You want me vulnerable?” He sat on the edge of the bed, pack in hand. “That’s easy enough to manage.”

He tossed the bag across the room. It landed on the floor in front of her and skidded to her feet. His evening shoes came off with little effort; the coat required a little more work, the fit being tight. But he undid his waistcoat buttons easily. He looked up from his task to see her watching in horrified fascination.

“What are you doing?”

“Making myself vulnerable,” he bit off. “Now open the
rücksack
.”

Her brows drew down at the unfamiliar word, but she bent and picked it up. She turned it around a few times before loosening the drawstring cord.

“What you’re looking for is on top,” he said. Was it too much to take off his shirt? He decided it was. Instead, he sat on the bed, watching as she gingerly reached in and removed a thick coil.

It was old habit that made him travel with rope—that, or some misguided desire for safety. That rope had saved his life more than once. She frowned at the heavy fibers and touched the ends, carefully waxed to prevent unraveling.

“There,” he said. “Want me vulnerable? Then tie me up.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You said you were curious. You said you wouldn’t trust me. Tie me up, and you can do with me as you please.”

And oh, how he wanted her to be
pleased
by him. Still, Evan had his own less pleasant suspicions about what she
wanted
to do to him.

She bit her lip, turned to glance down the hall. Moments passed while she seemed lost in contemplation. And then slowly she came forward. She pulled the door almost shut behind her and then paused, her fingers resting on the handle, as if waiting for him to spring forward. There was a strange quality to her movements, purposeful and yet uncertain. She didn’t speak as she advanced, did not say a word as she wound the rope in a loop round his left hand.

“That,” Evan said as she completed the knot, “is an excellent version of a middleman’s noose.”

She looped the rope to the left post of the bed, and then pulled the rope taut.

He felt a hint of nerves, and continued. “So-called because when three men are roped together, it’s the knot you’d tie to secure the man in the middle.”

She wound the rope around the post to his right, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Don’t worry.” He flashed her a smile. “We shall be just fine with only the two of us. No need for a third.”

Her head bowed, and her loose hair spilled over her face, hiding her expression. But the knot she tied round this wrist was tighter, her hands jerking the ends of the rope into place.

He really couldn’t move much at all, just wiggle his arms a little and twist his hand about. He hadn’t thought she would tie him quite so tightly. But when he shifted, the friction of the rope burned against his skin.

He wanted her to trust him. And for one brief second, she leaned over him, her hair brushing his throat. She could touch him anywhere, and he’d not be able to do anything about it. Her throat contracted in a hard swallow.

But she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes.

“And what,” she asked quietly, “do you think I am going to do
now
?”

He was scarcely capable of thinking at all.

“Well,” he said, “I can tell you what I
want
you to do. I want you to kiss me.”

Her pupils dilated.

“I want you to run your hands under my shirt. I want you over me. I want to taste you, and I definitely want to be inside of you.”

“Do you?” Her voice shook.

“If I’m to list the things I want, I want to own your quiet possession,” he continued, “and drive the wariness from your eyes.”

She swayed just a little at those words.

“But you didn’t ask me what
I
wanted. You asked what I thought you would do.”

“And what do you think I will do? Do you think I will kiss you? Touch you?”

He smiled at her. “No. I didn’t really think you had planned to lose your virginity to me over a wine spill. I think you are planning to walk out that door, leaving me tied to my own bed.”

Her eyes widened and she took a step back. “If you knew, then why did you agree?”

He couldn’t even shrug properly. “You wanted me vulnerable. I suppose I owed you that much.”

“No.” She shook her head violently. “No. You can’t trick me into this. I know how you are. You’ll pretend to be kind. All the while, you’ll coax me into exposing myself, and once I do—”

“And what if I don’t?”

She didn’t hear him, though. She paced away, and then turned back to him, her cheeks flushed once more. “It is not going to be easy for you, not any longer. I am done being the butt of your jokes.” She glared at him.

“That much,” he said quietly, “I can safely promise you.”

“I don’t know why I ever feared you.” She gave him a wintry smile. “You always were a bit slow around me. And…you always did watch my bosom. If I had realized you were so easily led years ago…” She shook her head. “But never mind that.” She took the last steps to the door and then opened it. “Good night,” she said.

The door shut behind her.

Evan inhaled night air and pulled at his arms. There was barely any give in the rope. He was burning from head to toe. But it was not just the fire of want that he felt inside him.

He turned his hands in his bonds, feeling the fibers rub against the naked skin of his wrists. He didn’t bother to try to break free. The rope he used could hold more than two thousand pounds; he’d always insisted on good gear. For all that he wanted to swear in sheer frustrated lust, he felt a grudging smile play over his lips.

Damn, but she was good. He hadn’t actually supposed she could tie a knot—but she’d surprised him. She had always surprised him.

Ten years ago, during that awful first Season of hers…

But remembering what he’d done was enough to rob him of all enjoyment of the evening. That thought was less comfortable than the ropes that bound him. Still, he twisted his left hand about and got to work.

Elaine eased open the door to their small upstairs sitting room once more.

The lights had been doused and nothing but navy-blue shadows awaited her. Her mother must have gone to bed and sent Mary away. Elaine sighed and fumbled with her gown in the darkness. Mary had already loosened it; she needed only to push it over her petticoats before it slid to the floor in an ignominious heap. And what did it matter if the silk crumpled, stained as it was?

She attacked the more delicate matter of her corset, twisting so as to undo complicated laces in the dark. And then a figure near the window straightened.

“Elaine?”

“Mama.” Elaine paused, uncertain of her reception.

“Oh, Elaine.” Her mother moved closer, reaching out. Their fingertips met in the darkness, and then her mother pulled her close. She could feel her mother’s heartbeat, the desperate tide of her breathing.

Any other parent would have demanded to know where she had been. Her mother was just glad to have her back—with no uncomfortable questions about what she’d been doing in that state of dishabille.

And thank God that she didn’t have to answer queries as to her whereabouts. With her mother’s arms around her, she could remember what she’d let herself forget these last hours: that even though her mother would never comprehend the complexities of society, it brought her grief to know her daughter was unhappy. Her mother stroked her back, and in return, Elaine held her tightly. She wasn’t sure who was comforting whom. She didn’t know whose pain it was anymore.

“I never knew,” her mother murmured into her ear. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand when people laugh. I always thought they laughed because they were happy.” She spoke in rueful bafflement.

“There, there,” Elaine heard herself say.

“I know there are some things I don’t understand. Maybe, if it hadn’t been for me, you
would
have been the belle of the Season. Although—” Elaine could almost
hear
her frown “—I still do not understand why you are not. Are you sure you are not?”

“If it hadn’t been for you, I would have given up years ago.”

“I won’t give my lecture tomorrow.”

Elaine swallowed and thought of what might await her on the morning. Not so far away, Lord Westfeld was tied to his bed. She’d left him there. She still didn’t understand what had happened between them. She’d thought him so arrogant, so sure of himself and his own golden attraction. She had thought him so confident that he could despoil her, if only she gave him a little trust.

She had meant to teach him a little lesson.

But he’d made even her revenge feel flat. It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It wasn’t just that once he’d shed his jacket, the muscles of his arms were visible through his shirt. She could easily imagine him as a mountaineer, holding onto a bit of rock and pulling himself up with one hand. But as strong as he looked, when he had been tied up before her, she’d felt full-blown want. She could have touched him anywhere, done anything to him—and he couldn’t hurt her back. A dangerous thought.

An illusion, too. He’d never made her fear any physical danger—not even tonight. No, the danger in him was precisely the opposite: that he made her want to trust him, want to believe in him. But he was her enemy. And when tomorrow came, he would be angry and more implacable than ever.

On the morrow, her mother was supposed to deliver a lecture on comets. What would he do about that?

“We can leave,” her mother said. “It would just be a day early.”

She could flee.

But no. Elaine took a deep breath and set her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “We’ll stay. You will face them all, and you will tell them about your comet. I shall applaud you in all sincerity.” If nobody else clapped, she would cheer loud enough for everyone. What was the worst that could happen?

Westfeld could ruin her if he told anyone she’d been in his chambers alone. But at this moment, the thought of being cast out of polite society seemed more blessing than curse.

Her mother’s arm tightened about her. “If you want me to do it,” she said, “then I shan’t care about anything else.” And so for the second time that evening, Elaine was kissed—this time, just the dry touch of her mother’s lips against her forehead, sweet and without complication.

It was amazing how different the world looked to Elaine when she stopped dreading the future. She didn’t have to pretend to join the ladies at breakfast—although the conversation she overheard was sadly devoid of gossip about a certain earl being found tied to his bedposts. She went walking with her mother in the morning; in the afternoon she helped her prepare for her lecture. When evening came around, she sat in the front row.

The chairs had been set up in the ballroom, but tonight Elaine had no desire to contemplate the walls. Instead, she took pleasure in hearing the brilliant Lady Stockhurst speak. Everyone else might giggle at the light that came into her mother’s eyes, or the excited way she jumped from topic to topic. But Elaine drank in the sight.