What Wild Moonlight (18 page)

“Why does it seem that my fortune panders to your own base interests?”

He feigned a look of innocent surprise. “Does it?”

“I amuse you.”

“You fascinate me,” he corrected, astonished at having said it, yet meaning it sincerely.

She gave a sharp, startled laugh and pulled her hand free from his grasp. “You must fascinate rather easily.”

“Quite the opposite.”

He reached out and gently stroked his fingers along the velvety skin of her jaw. The gesture was entirely unplanned, yet almost unavoidable, as though his hand were moving of its own volition. Katya softly gasped in surprise but she did not pull out of his reach. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened as she watched him with a look of open anticipation. She stared at him without moving, as though caught in the same spell of profound sexual awareness that had fallen over him.

“Kiss me,” he said.

Her startled gaze flew to his. “What?”

“Kiss me, Katya.” When she didn’t move, he continued smoothly, “We can’t have you appearing too innocent, now, can we?”

“I thought you said that my appearance of innocence was my greatest strength.”

“True. But there is such a thing as carrying it too far. A chaste and virtuous mistress—how very appalling. Think of my poor reputation. People will wonder what I’m not doing. Or worse, if I am doing something, why I’m doing it so badly.”

A shaky smile curved her lips. “You have a remarkable way of rationalizing whatever you want, don’t you?”

“Is it always this difficult to coax a kiss from you?” he countered, then a thought occurred to him. “Do I frighten you?” he asked, searching her eyes.

In the wake of Allyson’s death and the scandal that surrounded him, he had developed a reputation as a possessive, passionate lover. A man of dark moods and intermittent fits of rage and jealousy. As a result, anxious mothers kept their daughters protectively removed from his presence, despite the potent lure of his wealth and title. Other women found the very air of death and danger that surrounded him sexually exciting. It sickened him, but he understood it.

Katya’s expression told him she hadn’t considered that at all. “I don’t think you’re as dangerous as you pretend to be,” she said softly. “Everyone else may believe it, but I don’t. You’re really not so terribly frightening.”

“Maybe you just don’t know me well enough.”

“Maybe.” Her voice came out slightly breathless, tinged with a husky timbre of desire.

“Touch me,” he commanded softly.

She blinked up at him as though confused by his words. Finally a look of skittish understanding showed in her expression. She swallowed hard and tentatively raised one small, delicate hand. Moving with cautious deliberation, she placed her palm on his chest. The steady beat of his heart instantly quickened. He could feel the heat of her skin through the light linen of his shirt, feel his muscles tense in response to her touch.

Nicholas felt a slight shudder run through him as she brushed her hand lightly over his rib cage, as though her touch were giving life and breath to his body. She traced her hand experimentally over his chest, down the rippled muscles of his stomach and back up to the broad lines of his shoulders. She moved with deliberate care, completely absorbed in her task. Although he doubted it was deliberate on her part, she was teasing him and enticing him in a way that was far more arousing than the most blatant sexual performance of a more sophisticated lover.

Unable to hold back any longer, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her tightly to him. He lowered his head, crushing her lips beneath his own. Using the pressure of his jaw, he coaxed her lips apart and thrust his tongue inside her mouth, tasting and exploring the sweet depths. There was no finesse in his motions, no loverlike gentleness. His need was too urgent.

After a shocked moment, Katya returned his embrace with a fervor that shook him to his very soul. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her hips locked against his. She mimicked the rhythm of his kiss, matching the play of his tongue with a fiery ardor that spread a slow heat burning through his veins.

The seducer was quickly becoming the seduced. Nicholas pulled his mouth from hers and let out a soft groan, burying his face in her neck. Katya softly sighed and let her head fall back, giving him greater access to her soft, creamy flesh. He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her ear, then pressed a fervent line of kisses along her collarbone. As he did, a slight tremor ran through her limbs. She clung to his shoulders as though she would otherwise topple over backward.

His prim little gypsy was a wealth of contradictions. Her responses were entirely genuine, no smooth veneer of worldly sophistication masked her need. That realization made him want her even more. He moved his hand along her thigh, against the rustling softness of her skirts. He captured her tiny waist, then lightly traced her rib cage. When his fingers brushed against her breast, however, Katya stiffened abruptly and drew back.

She studied him with a look of startled awareness, as though suddenly conscious of where they were and what was happening between them. A deep rose blush stained her cheeks as she lifted one hand and nervously brushed back her hair. Then she meticulously smoothed her skirt and blouse as if regaining her dignity could only be accomplished by removing any trace of Nicholas’s hands.

She took a deep breath and confidently announced, “That won’t happen again.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the parapet wall. “Won’t it?”

“Certainly not. And I would appreciate it if you—” She stopped short as her arm brushed against her reticule and knocked it over.

Nicholas shot forward, capturing the tapestry pouch an instant before it tumbled off the wall and into the sea below.

Katya paled and lunged toward him. “Give that back!” she demanded breathlessly.

He had been about to do exactly that. But her panicked demeanor made him hesitate. He held her reticule just out of her grasp, studying her curiously. “Of course,” he said slowly. “What did you think I was going to do?”

She searched his face, then lifted her shoulders in a bored shrug, as though forcing herself to assume a posture of cool indifference. “Nothing,” she said carelessly. It would have been an adequate performance, had her eyes not given her away. Her gaze moved from him to her reticule with a look that bordered on nervous terror.

“It’s heavy,” he commented, watching her face as he weighed the reticule in his palm.

She licked her lips and swallowed hard.

He smiled. “Let me guess. Love letters from dear, dependable William? No wonder you were so desperate not to lose them.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then appeared to seize his teasing statement as inspiration. “Yes,” she said. “My letters from William. Please return them this instant.”

Her words told him three things. First, she was a poor liar. Second, she was carrying something on her person that was of considerable importance to her, but she didn’t want him to know what it was. And lastly, he gained an insight that filled him with a perverse sense of satisfaction: dear, devoted William hadn’t entered her mind until he had mentioned the man, despite the torrid kiss they’d just shared.

“Perhaps I should check inside and make certain that nothing has been damaged,” he suggested.

“Go right ahead,” she invited tremulously.

“Very well,” he rejoined, calling her bluff. He pulled apart the strings that sealed the opening and lifted his hand.

She drew in a deep breath, as though bracing herself for the worst.

Although she had definitely provoked his curiosity, looking inside seemed an untenable breach of the meager trust they had established. To force the issue now was wholly unnecessary. He would infinitely prefer that she divulge the truth willingly. With these thoughts in mind, he abruptly dropped his hand and returned her reticule.

“On second thought,” he said, “I’ll let you keep your little secrets to yourself.” He paused for a moment, then finished significantly, “For now.”

They say the DuValentis are capable of great evil.

I do not believe it. Mother tells me I am a fool to give my trust so freely. She says the signs foretell much grief should the union between our families occur. She harps upon Father to disavow his pledge giving my hand in marriage to a DuValenti. Father will not break his word, of course, and they argue more fiercely every day.

No one seeks my opinion, but I am glad Father will not listen to her. Dare I admit it? Twice I have stolen away to meet Marco DuValenti in private. He seems as anxious to know his future bride as I am to know my future groom. At first his size and strength frightened me: his reputation as a warrior is quite fierce. But now that I know him better, I see a gentleness in him that no one else can see. Today he told me a story of magic faeries that live in the forest and dance atop toadstools when the moon is full. He smiled when I laughed at his childish tales. Then he kissed me.

Mother is wrong. Only good will come of this union.

Katya set aside the journal of Sacha Rosskaya with a sigh. So much hope and innocence wasted, she thought. Her ancient ancestor had clearly harbored nothing but faith and affection toward her future husband. In return, she had been rewarded with treachery and death.

Yet even as that bitter conclusion formed in her mind, another thought occurred to her. What kind of man would entertain his future bride with tales of dancing faeries, especially if his true intention was to betray her family and rob them of their lands and wealth? If their union was already a fait accompli, why would he bother to woo her with stolen kisses? That sounded more like a man intent on winning his betrothed’s heart than on doing evil.

Katya wrapped the brittle parchment in a soft cotton cloth and returned it to its hiding place in the bottom of her trunk, which had been transferred from the theater to Nicholas’s home after her performance that evening. Once the ancient documents were secreted away she turned toward the window and stared out over the moonlit gardens. A soft breeze stirred her filmy white dressing gown and gently caressed her skin. It was past midnight and a heavy stillness echoed through the villa. The servants were long since abed. The only sound was the faint chiming of the clocks downstairs.

Despite the lateness of the hour, she was too restless to consider sleep. A nervous energy gripped her and would give her no peace. The afternoon she had spent with Nicholas still seemed to hold her in its spell. Like a wave crashing again and again against the shore, her every thought turned incessantly back to him.

She had heard all her life that the DuValentis were evil. That they had stolen the Stone of Destiny from the Rosskayas, thereby setting in motion a bloody feud that had lasted for centuries. That the Stone rightfully belonged to her family and that it was her duty to retrieve it. Initially she had used these rationalizations to justify her deception, and for a time it had worked. But no longer.

It would be so easy to lose herself completely in Nicholas Duvall, just as she had nearly done that afternoon. Was she truly so weak that it took nothing more than a few stolen kisses to break her resolve? Or was there something greater between her and Nicholas, some fated destiny toward which she was being inexorably pulled?

The high-pitched screeching of a bat fluttering in the trees outside her window interrupted her thoughts. Glancing outside, she saw that the light scattering of clouds she had noted earlier had been swept away by the soft spring breeze. The sky was inky black and filled with thousands of twinkling stars that seemed to beckon her outside. Her room suddenly seemed suffocating, too small to contain the enormity of her thoughts.

Eager to escape, she drew on a dressing robe and fastened the sash tightly around her waist. She slipped out the bedroom door and into the quiet of the hallway. No candles or gas lamps were lit, but the soft glow of moonlight trading in through the windows gave her ample light by which to see. She padded softly down the grand circular stair that led from the bedchambers to the formal receiving rooms below.

Once she reached the lower level she turned to her right, intent on retreating to the rear gardens. She moved in that direction, but found herself stopping outside Nicholas’s study. Periodically she had heard Nicholas working within, presumably taking care of correspondence or other personal affairs. At other times the door was shut but the room sounded empty. Now the door was opened wide. She hesitated, reluctant to invade his privacy, but curiosity loomed too large for her to resist. After glancing twice over her shoulder to assure herself that no one else was about, she stepped cautiously inside.

The room was thoroughly masculine with thick tables made of dark woods and chairs upholstered in rich burgundy leather. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes. An enormous desk cluttered with papers. She tiptoed toward the desk and glanced at the papers. The documents covered a wide range of concerns ranging from shipping and insurance, freight and bills of lading, to other mundane business affairs. The ledgers looked as though they had been carefully scrutinized, for a series of small check marks were penned beside the columns. It occurred to her for the first time that Nicholas actually worked to maintain his wealth. Until that moment, she thought it had all just been handed to him. Like most men of his stature, she assumed he would leave the running of his business affairs to others. Apparently not.

Other than that surprising discovery, there was not much for her to see. She turned to leave and was stopped by two enormous portraits staring down at her.

Her eyes moved first to an enormous portrait of a man sitting astride a huge black stallion. He wore a dramatic black cape lined with deep crimson satin, and it billowed about him as though stirred by a savage wind. She knew at once that the man was Nicholas’s father, for the resemblance between the two was striking. Like Nicholas, he was large and powerfully built. He had the same dark hair and aristocratic features, the same piercing, coal-black gaze. But unlike the cool, sardonic expression Nicholas usually wore, his father’s mouth was turned down in a disapproving frown, as though the world didn’t quite live up to his standards. There was a subtle harshness and lofty arrogance about him that the artist had managed to capture. Katya guessed it was no idle coincidence that his portrait had been painted from a perspective that forced the viewer to look up. The elder Lord of Barrington was clearly a man of wealth and stature, but—if the painting was any guide—a man devoid of kindness. She gave a slight shudder and turned to the second portrait.