Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (6 page)

Her stomach chose that moment to issue a loud growl. Her eyes widened in shocked embarrassment as she clasped her hands tightly over her belly.

His lips quirked. Somehow he managed to maintain a courteous expression. He held out a chair and inclined his head. “Mrs. Donnelly, will you do me the honor of joining me for supper?”

She drew herself up and gave a regal nod. Summoning an inner poise worthy of a duchess, she strode to the small table and allowed him to seat her. Once he was seated across from her, she reached for her glass and drank deeply of the rich, ruby wine, as though needing something to steady her nerves. Next she lifted her fork and ate a bit of lamb. She chewed slowly, swallowed, then let out a sigh of rich contentment. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“Mmm. That’s delicious,” she breathed, in a husky voice that struck him as wildly, albeit unconsciously, erotic.

Sharply reining in his thoughts, he forced himself to focus on his food. It tasted every bit as savory and delicious as their landlady had promised. They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire, the soft clatter of their flatware against the ceramic plates, the rhythmic drumming of rain on the roof.

As he watched, Mrs. Donnelly seemed to slowly put herself at ease. “It’s been ages since I enjoyed a meal like this,” she admitted.

“Oh?”

“The food aboard ship was dreadful.”

“The clipper from Canton?”

She nodded.

They had finished eating, but neither of them was in a hurry to leave the table. Mellowed by the fire and the wine, Jonathon refilled their glasses and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”

“The ship or the food?”

“China. I’ve never been.”

Mrs. Donnelly toyed with her glass as she collected her thoughts. Haltingly at first, then with the fluidity of a natural storyteller, she described the exhilarating, noisy, tumultuous port that had been her home. She described the scorching heat and the press of bodies, the sounds, sights, and smells. How she had grown up running through Canton’s maze of streets, dashing in and out of market stalls, and racing down to the docks to watch the ships pull into port, their holds bulging with exotic cargo. How she’d picked up the languages surrounding her the way a sponge soaked up water.

She’d lived with her parents—her mother was Chinese, her father British—in a small flat in the foreign quarter. To their backs lay the sprawling, mysterious land of China, walled off and forbidden to foreigners. Directly before them was the South China Sea, which brought a steady influx of people, goods, and news from around the globe.

She touched briefly on the state of Indo-China trade. They bantered back and forth as to how to resolve the trouble between the nations. Of particular contention was the matter of whether Chinese officials had the right to search ships coming into their ports, seize and burn all confiscated opium stocks, or whether the drug, contraband though it might be, was the property of the vessel that carried it and therefore protected by the rights of sovereignty.

After a few minutes, she held up her hands and laughingly declared a truce. Then she rested her small chin in her palm and collected her thoughts.

“I can’t imagine a more exciting place for a child to grow up,” she said, her tone conveying both wistfulness and contentment. “I could see everything from the window in my room. I used to pretend I was a princess, poised on the edge of the world.”

He smiled. “Hence the search for castles.”

“Actually, that didn’t come about until after
The Prince of Thorncastle
.”

Ah. So that’s what had her searching for castles. He’d heard of the books, of course. Fanciful drivel about a cold-hearted prince abdicating his kingdom after falling madly in love with a lowly servant girl. Romantic adventures, they’d been called. Utter nonsense prettily packaged—they’d been all the rage a few years back.

“Have you read them?”

Read them? Good lord. He’d rather waste his time chewing boot leather. Aloud he replied only, “No.”

“Oh, but you should,” she enthused dreamily. “I used to read them aloud to Arthur at the end of the day, when we finished our work at the pub.”

“Arthur?”

“My husband.”

Her husband. Arthur. Now there was a subject that caught Jonathon’s attention. She’d mentioned earlier that he had died, but had volunteered no more information about him. Jonathon found himself intensely curious about the man. How had they met? What had he been like? Had he provided well for her, or had he mistreated her? Had he been mature and settled, or young and brash? And finally, had she been broken-hearted when he died?

But those were questions propriety wouldn’t allow him to ask. So instead he said, “Tell me about the books.”

She gave a small shrug. “Oh, I suppose they’re all the same. Another chapter in Philomena’s Grand Adventure.”

Jonathon shook his head. “I know I’ll hate myself for asking, but apparently I’ve imbibed enough wine to throw caution to the wind. What, pray tell, is a Grand Adventure?”

Mrs. Donnelly’s eyes sparkled with lively enthusiasm. “What isn’t it—that would be the better question. Fighting thieves, outwitting kidnappers, scaling castle walls, leaping over waterfalls, engaging in swordplay, securing runaway coaches, wrestling wolves—”

“Should I mention that wolves have been extinct in England for centuries?”

“Well, I suppose that particular volume was a bit far-fetched.” 

Jonathon nodded, only half-listening as she continued her lively description of the books. He liked the way her hands danced through the air as she spoke. He liked the way she used her voice—conveying an exciting thrill one moment, earthy delight the next. He admired her intelligence. Hell, very few members of the House of Lords could summarize the intricacies inherent in the China trade as eloquently as she had done.

Then there was her appearance. Amazing what candlelight could do for a woman’s skin. Or at least,
her
skin. The woman positively glowed. Warm honey, he thought, battling a ridiculous to press his lips somewhere against her person, to judge if she tasted as delectable as she looked.

He allowed his gaze to drift slowly over her features. Not fully English, nor was she fully Asian. Her look was subtle, elusive, and vastly more intriguing. Dark, luminous eyes. Plump, pouty lips. Delicate wrists and finely boned hands. And her smile. Endearingly lopsided, with a tendency to quirk upward on her right side. When she spoke, he caught glimpses of gritty determination, fierce loyalty, and strength of spirit. All in all, she presented a compelling mixture of unaffected femininity and rock-solid backbone.

Mrs. Donnelly was small in stature, and given to wearing large bonnets and plain, almost drab garments, as though to shield herself from unwanted attention. To a degree, the cloak of plainness she draped around herself worked. She was not the sort of woman who would stand out in a crowd.

But bloody hell, once a man
did
notice her, he would be hard pressed to pull his eyes away. She had the kind of look that drew a man in and kept him there. This was not a lady who would be easily intimidated—or easily forgotten.

Indeed, she was the sort of woman who could easily take London by storm. He pictured her dressed in the finery of a well-bred lady. Perhaps a gown of rich ivory silk to emphasize her unusual coloring, her hair swept up and away from her face, an elegant strand of pearls draped around her throat. He pictured her gracefully descending a staircase, shimmering sunlight flooding in behind her, a flock of eager suitors waiting below.

Then, once he imagined her thusly attired, his thoughts took a vastly more interesting turn: undressing her inch-by-scintillating-inch.

Shoes first. Not the practical lace-up boots she wore now, but a high-heeled satin slipper that fell easily away from her foot. A
red
high-heeled satin slipper, he corrected mentally. As this was his fantasy, he’d play it out the way he liked.

He’d slip her shoes off, his fingers caressing her ankle and calf as they worked their way up her leg. She’d wear ivory silk stockings, he thought, but they wouldn’t be as soft as her skin. Nor as warm. But he wouldn’t discover that until he reached the pale pink ribbon that held her stockings fastened in place around her thighs.

He would lift her up and place her on the bed. He pictured her fully clothed except for her stockings and shoes. Her back arched and her thighs gently parted in invitation. His mouth watered at the vivid fantasy. Her naked thighs. So lush and creamy. Just waiting for him to tickle and tease and kiss. He imagined the crinoline of her underskirts brushing against his cheeks as he licked and kissed her thighs… And the scent of her… the glorious, private, feminine scent…

His cock rose in olfactory anticipation. “So lovely.”

She looked at him in startled surprise. Oh, bollocks, what an ass. He’d said it aloud.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I meant the story,” he stammered lamely. “
The Prince of Thornly
. It’s a lovely story, isn’t it?”

She spared him the briefest of glances from beneath the sweep of her dark lashes, then pulled a frown. “
Thorncastle
,” she corrected. “
The Prince of Thorncastle
.”

“Oh. Didn’t I say—”

“Never mind.” She set down her napkin and sent him a reproving look. “If I was boring you, you should have let me know.”

She stood and began to stack their plates and gather the cutlery. In an unconsciously seductive gesture, she leaned forward, pursed her lips—God, those lovely, luscious lips—and released a soft breath to extinguish the candle flame. The movement revealed the long, smooth column of her throat and accentuated the subtle swell of her breasts beneath her plain linen shirtwaist.

Jonathon watched her, transfixed. A score of images filled his mind’s eye. Her hair unbound. Her lips parted. Her shirtwaist pooled about her waist and her thighs wrapped around his waist. He wanted nibble free the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse. He wanted to pull the pins from her tidy bun and watch her hair cascade past her smooth, naked shoulders. He wanted to kiss her throat, the soft pink lobe of her ear, the delicate skin of her inner wrist. He wanted to suck her nipples and thrust his fingers inside her quim.

The strain of his cock against his breeches was so great it hurt.

“Mr.
Brooks
.”

Judging from her tone, she’d been endeavoring to gain his attention for some time. “Oh, ah, yes. I do apologize. My attention must have wandered.”

She gave a fleeting smile. Kindness shimmered in her eyes. “It’s your injury. You need your rest, and I’ve kept you awake with my prattle.”

“No, you haven’t—”

“That’s quite all right. I understand.”

Her unexpected sympathy was his undoing.
 
Jonathon gave himself a mental kick.
Enough.
The woman deserved better than his vulgar fantasies and unrequited lust.

They would be together for five days. Surely he could keep his thoughts from wandering and behave himself for a mere five days. That wasn’t asking too much, was it? So long as he kept his distance, everything would be fine.

If only that were his nature. Jonathon recognized a losing battle when he saw one. He could resist everything except temptation.

Mrs. Donnelly lifted a tray laden with their dirty dishes and set it outside the door for the serving girl to retrieve. That accomplished, she turned back to him and surveyed the room. “Now then,” she said, “Where do we sleep?”               

Chapter Eight

Brianna grimaced at the nervous, breathy catch in her voice, praying he hadn’t detected her nervousness.

Mr. Brooks studied her for a moment with a look she couldn’t define, then turned away. His gaze swept the room as though seeing it for the first time. “I suppose the bed would be the most logical choice.”

“But we only have one.”

“One?”

“Bed.”

“Yes.”

“And there are two of us.”

“And here I thought you weren’t good with sums.”

She watched him struggle to contain his smile. Apparently the effort was beyond his capability. His lips split, showing a row of neat, pearly white teeth, bracketed on either side by a pair of mischievous dimples. The old adage rang through her mind:
Dimples without, devil within
.

As she watched, he stood and strode to the bed. “We’ll share it.”

“Share the bed?” she practically squeaked.

“It’s perfectly all right. I don’t mind.” His gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. “You’re not overly large. I’ll hardly notice you’re there.”

Ah, but she would notice
he
was there.

Brianna stood uncertainly, balking at the unexpected intimacy of the room. If only the space weren’t so
small
—or so completely dominated by presence of the enormous bed. Foolish of her to feel so undone by the situation when it was she who devised the ruse, yet her nerves felt entirely on edge.

She surveyed the man before her. Mr. Brooks stood in his stockinged feet, bruised, tired, yet still so handsome the sight of him made her teeth ache. A golden god who’d taken a tumble, but hadn’t given up the fight. She shook her head. Absurd. She was one and twenty. She’d been
married
, for God’s sake. She’d been close to men before. But never had she been so close to someone so shatteringly, devastatingly
male
. If virility were a cologne, Mr. Jonathon Brooks would positively reek of it.

His manners were impeccable, she’d give him that. But perhaps that was what made the moment so difficult. Everything about the man was a contradiction. Brash, cocky charm one moment, stiff formality the next. His gruff appearance countered by his educated speech. But upon consideration, it was his eyes that captivated her the most.  Framed by impossibly thick, spiky black lashes, his eyes were the color of rich indigo silk. The juxtaposition of the coolness of his eyes and the playfulness of his smile was entirely unnerving. And incredibly bewitching.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gave the space beside him an inviting pat. “Plenty of room for two.”

Brianna’s breath caught as heat rushed to her cheeks.

“You’re the one who suggested we share the room,” he reminded her.

She brought up her chin. “When we were traveling in the coach, it seemed a reasonable solution to our predicament.”

“And now?”

“Now we have one bed, and you’re in it.” She drummed her fingers in agitation against her skirts. “Perhaps you would be willing to—”

“Sleep in the barn, the coach, or standing upright in the cupboard. I believe we’ve already had this conversation.”

“The cupboard!” she exclaimed brightly, whirling around.

“We haven’t one,” came the disgruntled reply. “And I’m perfectly fine where I am, thank you.” He stretched his arms ceilingward, then grimaced in pain.

Brianna’s gaze narrowed on his arm. “Is your shoulder bleeding again?”

He flexed experimentally. “I don’t think so. It’s just stiff.”

“Here. Let me see.” She crossed the room, knelt beside him, and reached for the top button of his shirt.

He brought up his hand to stop her. “I can assure you that’s not necessary.”

“And I can assure you that it is,” she retorted, brushing his fingers away as she bent to her task. “I won’t have you bleeding on the bed. Not if I’m going to be sharing it with you.”

“Only if you insist, Mrs. Donnelly—sharing the bed, that is.”

Ignoring his teasing, she slipped off his shirt and set it aside. The bullet had skimmed his shoulder. She saw no sign of redness or swelling, but the barely healed scar had split open during their journey. The dreadful jarring of the coach, most likely. As a result blood had seeped into the bandage and dried.

Her gaze met his. “This will hurt. I’m sorry.” With one sharp tug, she pulled off the bandage.

He winced, letting out a deep breath. “I sensed you enjoyed that.”

Brianna bit back a smile. “It’s for your own good, Mr. Brooks.”

“No doubt.”

Fortunately she had thought to pack a fresh supply of bandages. She pressed a clean cloth against his wound to stop the bleeding, then poured water into a kettle and set it atop the fire grate. “It will take a few minutes to heat,” she said. She withdrew a packet of herbs from her valise and poured them into the kettle.

“Thank you, but I don’t want tea.”

“It’s not to drink. I’m making a poultice for your shoulder to prevent infection.”

She settled a stool beside the bed and pressed a damp, sudsy cloth against his shoulder. He was naked from the waist up. She had accustomed herself somewhat to the sight of his body, but she hadn’t anticipated that his skin would feel so radically different from her own. She silently thrilled at the rough, male feel beneath her fingertips, the way his muscles flexed and bunched at her touch. A fine dusting of flaxen hair coated his chest and forearms. His belly was tight and lean, his hips slim. But for all his relaxed attitude,  there was an animal strength about him, a coiled tension that seemed ready to spring at any moment.

Deliberately averting his eyes from his body, she pulled her gaze upward. His golden hair was messed in disarray. Flaxen, she thought, the color of pure spun gold. It glowed in the firelight like a halo.
Blast and bloody blue hell
, but he was gorgeous. She’d never known men could be beautiful. Just the sight of him did queer things to her insides. She felt tense in some places, loose in others. Heat pooled within her thighs. Her head went dizzy and her mouth went dry.

She needed to move away from him, to remove her hands from his skin, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She shifted slightly. Her breath fell against his ribs and her thigh brushed his. Mr. Brooks let out a soft moan.

She pulled back immediately. "Did I hurt you?"

"No... go on."

"I'll try to be more gentle.”

She leaned forward. As she did, a strand of her hair came loose and trailed across his chest.

“Are you deliberately trying to torture me?” Mr. Brooks asked, drawing in a sharp breath. Obviously the wound was more painful than it appeared, for his jaw was tense and clamped. His hands rested in tight, balled fists in his lap.

“Of course I’m not—”

“Your husband,” he bit out, a hint of desperation in his tone. “Tell me about your husband.”

“Arthur?”

“Yes. Arthur.”

“Oh.” Brianna drew back from him, thinking. As she did, Mr. Brooks visibly relaxed, the tension leaving his body like mist rising from a lake. “Well,” she began, “he was older than me.”

“How much older?”

“I was eighteen when we married, to his fifty-two.”

“Considerably older.”

“Yes.” 

She read the unspoken questions in his eyes, but he didn’t ask more. Oddly enough, she found herself wanting to talk about her past, and perhaps gain his advice on her future in London. The effortless familiarity they shared surprised her. She’d recognized that Mr. Brooks was handsome. Charming, persuasive, and intelligent, to boot. But she hadn’t expected to like the man, or feel so inexplicably at ease in his presence.

She collected her thoughts, unsure how to properly frame her relationship with Arthur. “Our marriage was an arrangement…”

“You mean, an arranged marriage?”

She shook her head. “No. A business arrangement. You see, after my parents died, I had no money, no home—“

“You were their only child,” he interrupted. “They left you no means of support?”

“My father assumed his pension and the flat we owned would go to me. Unfortunately, the East India Company did not recognize his marriage to my mother.” She gave a small, wistful smile. “That made it very convenient for them not to recognize
me
. Lacking legitimate heirs, everything my father owned reverted to the Company upon his death.”

Anger flashed through Mr. Brooks’ eyes. “Bloody thieves.”

“Yes. My thought as well.” She pushed the dark memory away and resolutely continued, “As everything in Canton is owned by the Company, I was determined to leave as soon as possible. That’s where Arthur comes in. He’d been a friend of my father’s. He needed me as much as I needed him.”

“How so?”

She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and passed a single object across the table. “Here. This should explain it.”

A pocketwatch. Not a particularly fine one, at that. Brianna watched as he turned the piece over in his hand. Brass rather than gold, scratches on the bezel, no crystal to protect the face. It had been engraved, but constant wear had smoothed away the design.

He looked at her and frowned. “A broken watch?”

“It is
not
broken.” She bristled in affront. “It belonged to Arthur, and is in perfect working order.”

She reached across the table and wrapped her small hands over his larger one, enclosing the watch in his fist. “Now then,” she said, “Close your eyes and tell me what time it is.”

“Close my—”

“Please.”

Mr. Brooks reluctantly obeyed. He fumbled for a moment with the timepiece, searching for the tiny knob that would spring open the brass cover. Once he’d accomplished that, he brushed his thumb over the watch face. Then understanding showed on his features. The crystal hadn’t been broken, merely removed. Deliberately carved, tiny Roman numerals had been etched into the bezel. He traced the hour and minute hand, then opened his eyes and looked at her.

“It’s half past eight,” he said, then, “When did your husband loose his sight?”

“Shortly before we were to leave Canton. You see, our plan was to sell the pub and use the funds to set ourselves up in London. But as Arthur’s vision faded, we realized how impractical that would be.”

“In what sense?”

“Our world shrank to the familiar,” she replied with a shrug. “A trip halfway across the globe?” She gave a rueful smile and shook her head. “Arthur knew the exact arrangement of the furniture within our flat, and the precise path to the pub. He knew each customer’s voice, the weight of every coin, and his way through the market stalls. With my help, he could still run the pub and make a living. So we stayed.”

“I see.” He seemed to consider that. “Was it awful?”

“Awful?” She hesitated, weighing the question. “No. There were difficult days, of course, particularly for Arthur as his world went dark. But that took years, and we adapted.”

Mr. Brooks regarded her silently, with an expression she hadn’t before seen. She’d seen his glib smile, teasing laughter, his gruff impatience, and his haughty stare. But now his face looked stripped, bare of everything except naked concern. For her. He reached for the strand of hair that had fallen loose and tucked it behind her ear.

“Was he good to you?” he asked, in a voice that was low and husky.

Brianna’s heart did a queer little somersault and her pulse drummed wildly. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find any words. Impossible. She was too close to the man, and he was still half-naked. She stood abruptly and moved away, needing distance. “I think the water’s ready,” she stammered. “I can make that poultice now.”

“Was he good to you?” His question took on an urgent edge, as though the answer were of tremendous importance to him.

She managed a slight nod. “Yes. Arthur was very kind.”

But he’d never made her blood boil the way Mr. Brooks did. The scent of his skin had never made her nerves tingle with desire. She’d never traced the line of his lips with her eyes, and wondered how his mouth would taste. She’d never thrilled to the touch of her hands on his chest, blushed at his gaze, or longed to know how it would feel to drag her fingers through his hair.

Brianna pushed the unbidden thoughts away. She stirred the poultice and brought that, along with his ragged shirt, to the bedside. “This might sting a little,” she warned as she applied the medicinal herbs to his shoulder.

“It’s fine.” A beat, then, “Thank you.”

She nodded. Needing something to divert her thoughts from his physical presence, she said, “You had such beautiful clothing. I’m sorry Sister Mary Louise and I judged it all beyond repair. You would have known how to properly clean and stitch it.”

“Me?” He released a breath of laughter. “I barely know which end of the needle holds the thread.”

She pulled back and frowned. “Surely that’s one of your duties. You told Father Tim you’re a gentleman’s valet.”