Winterblaze (11 page)

Now he was tired. The damned demon had eluded him all day. Jack craved a stiff drink and a short nap before heading out once more. Shrugging out of his coat and tossing it aside, Jack had taken two steps when he stopped
short. He wasn’t alone. His knife was in his hand and he was whirling around to face his bed in an instant, knowing in the back of his mind that he’d have already been dead if it was a true attack. When he saw what greeted him, all available blood within his body surged south, and his heart pounded. Great, hot fuck. His knife hand shook before he clenched it tight.

His gaze sought the particulars first, the lithe length of her legs, a tiny peek of a tawny nipple through gauzy silk, the dark, seductive shadow at the apex of her thighs. Reclined upon his bed like some sort of modern day Salome, wrapped in swaths of diaphanous gold silk and smiling with coy promise. Mary Chase. In his room. Ruining the sanctity of it.

He swallowed twice before his mouth worked. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Revenge, if he had to guess.

Her smile grew, and little dimples broke out on her cheeks. He wasn’t aware that she had dimples. Jack mentally shook himself and tightened his grip on the knife. His blood pounded through his veins, straight to his cock, damn it all.

“I asked you a question,” he said when she didn’t answer.

With her usual grace, she rose to her knees, and that thin fabric shifted, lovingly caressing her slight curves. “I should think that obvious, Jack.”

Jack? He wasn’t aware that she even knew his first name. He didn’t trust her an inch and would rather face a full-turned werewolf or a blood-starved demon before he touched her. But he could look. So he let himself, doing so with insolence, lingering on places that made him go hot. “I knew you’d have superior tits,” he drawled, hoping she’d slap him and get out.

She only smiled and slithered out of the bed, heading toward him. His skin grew tighter, hotter. Piss and shit, she was going to touch him. He backed up a step but halted when she grinned at the movement.

Her low, caramel-thick voice drifted over him. “I am tired of fighting, aren’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

Her cinnamon spice perfume surrounded him before she did. “I do wonder, Jack, why you deny what is so plain to see.” Slim, hot arms wrapped about his neck, and soft breasts pressed against his chest. He forced himself to look down into her eyes. Those wide, golden eyes could beguile a man in an instant. They gleamed now, not golden but her more human light brown. Petal soft lips touched his ear. “Why you don’t take what you want.”

“Because I don’t want you.” He didn’t. His insides twisted from being this close to her, but his body didn’t seem to care.

As close as she was, she felt the reaction, and a soft chuckle rumbled against his skin, making it twitch. “Liar.”

It wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She was too compliant. Too easy. A shiver of warning, touched with icy fear, lit down his spine an instant before her palm cupped his cheek, and she drew his mouth down to hers. Cold, dead. He reared back, a shout bubbling up, but iron-hard hands held him fast as a tongue snaked into his mouth and down his throat in a river of white-hot fire. Into his belly, tearing into his soul. And then he was screaming.

The heavy weight of silk satin settled upon Poppy’s shoulders, and she resisted the urge to squirm. There were worse things than getting trussed up in a dinner gown, she
was sure; she just could not think of them at the moment. The color of a pink rose in bloom, the gown Mary Chase laced her into was inarguably beautiful. Held up by sleeves that were thin enough to be called straps, the low squared-off bodice did surprising wonders to Poppy’s meager bosom. And while the style of the day, according to Daisy and Miranda, was to adorn one’s dress with as much frills and laces as possible—thus giving a woman the appearance of a flower, which really made Poppy want to roll her eyes—this bodice was utterly smooth and devoid of ornamentation. For which Poppy was thankful. The skirt, however, was another matter.

Mary gave the bodice a final tug, and Poppy expelled a pained breath as Mary moved on to fuss with the gown’s more problematic area, namely the overskirt, with its numerous drapings, train, and whatnot. Bloody hell, but there were so many yards of undulating pale pink that Poppy could barely feel her own legs. They’d been smothered.

In an effort not to panic, she smoothed a hand over the tight waist of her bodice and glanced down at Mary, whose mouth had a decidedly unhappy pinch about the corners. “You are certain that you do not want to join us for dinner?” Poppy could not give an apple in Eden about the rules.

“No, mum.” Mary fluffed the overskirt, her nimble fingers making certain the draping rested just so. “I believe it would be a good time to make another round of the ship.”

“Good thinking.” Poppy took a breath and, not getting nearly enough air in the blasted torture chamber of a dress, took another. “I wish I could go with you.”

Her palm still held the memory of Win, the weight and feel of him. Admittedly, she had played rather dirty. But the man knew precisely how to drive her to madness.
Which both vexed her and secretly thrilled her. Regardless, she wasn’t keen on coming face to face with him just now. He had to be… smarting.

Hands hovering around her middle, she took a light breath and glanced back down at Mary. “You will be careful.”

Mary rose in an effortless glide. “Of course. I intend to roam in the astral plane.” Which meant her body would be tucked safely in her room as her spirit slipped into all sorts of places Poppy could not go. Mary reached for Poppy’s evening fan, a confection of white lace, blush pink satin, and white painted cast iron supports that could crack a bone with one good whack. A clever little weapon, as most males viewed a lady’s evening fan as frippery. Their mistake. Mary turned back, and the lamplight shone on her slim upper arm. A scratch marred her skin, not a gash, but deep enough to have drawn blood.

Poppy moved to touch it, but stopped when Mary flinched and averted her eyes. “What happened?”

Looking away, she fiddled with Poppy’s evening gloves. “I lost my balance and had a run-in with a call box.”

She looked so thoroughly disgruntled that Poppy almost smiled. “Yes, well, call boxes have been known to be a nuisance now and then.”

Mary’s cheek twitched as if she were fighting a smile, or a frown, as she stepped back and looked over Poppy with a critical eye. Poppy refused to squirm but stood like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, hoping that she’d pass muster.

Mary smiled with satisfaction. “More than enough to make Mr. Lane remember.”

Poppy expelled a nervous laugh. “I do not believe Mr. Lane has a faulty memory.” No, it worked all too well.

Mary shook her head slowly. “He is suffering. Anyone can see it.” Her grin was cheeky then. “I’d wager that he will suffer a bit more before the night is out.”

Poppy might have answered but Winston walked in. How he always knew to appear the precise moment she was ready was a mystery. One that she put aside in favor of looking at her husband. Fitted out in crisp white-and-black evening kit that outlined his lean frame, he stood tall and just a bit defiant in the center of the room. His shaggy hair had been tamed and swept back from his strong face. And while she was sure there were those who would stare at his scars and not the man beneath, all she saw was a man who’d been to hell and back, and was tougher for it. Like steel wrought and forged, he’d transformed into something more than before.

Soulful eyes of blue-grey travelled over her, taking in her elaborate coiffure and evening gown with one glance. Not a glimmer of appreciation or emotion in that look. His voice was as crisp as his suit. “Shall we?”

Suffering, was he? Hardly. Poppy stiffened her spine. “Of course.”

P
ink. She was wearing blasted pink. Poppy never wore pink. Never wore much of any color other than brown or grey. He hadn’t cared either way; he never really looked at her clothes, just her. But now. Now, she had to wear pink. Win stared down at his plate, at the pale slab of whiting fish swimming in cream sauce, and tried not to think of pink. He and Poppy had not exchanged more than a few words since their “chat” earlier, both of them clearly still angry, and his cods still egregiously sore. Which ought to have been enough to put him off lustful thoughts for a good while. But no, his baser self simply flew past that unpleasantness and went straight to the fact that Poppy had held him in her hand.
Stroked
him. And that it had been three months since he’d tupped his wife. Suddenly, it was imperative that he do so. Which was about when logic returned to tell him he hadn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell.

Poppy moved beside him, a slight adjustment of her seat, and he heard the rustle of that satin. Undulating
yards and folds of shining, pale pink. Pink ought to have clashed horribly with her red hair. It did not. Instead it made him think of other places she was pink and red.

His fist curled around the cool, thick handle of his fork. The table and those around him faded in favor of another vision, of a nest of vibrant red curls and petal pink folds, glimmering and wet. Long, white legs spread in supplication, leading the way to that gorgeous pink and red offering. His cock rose hard and insistent against his trousers. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grunting, God help him. He stabbed at his food, making hash of the fish.

Poppy was saying something, her low erotic voice stroking his sensitized skin. Something about being pleased that parliament passed the Explosive Substances Act, which seemed a fitting subject to hold her interest, given her secret work. Personally, he didn’t give a fig. The scent of books and lemons drifted across their small divide, and his lids fluttered closed.

“What say you, Lane?”

All eyes were on him. Win forced his head up. Mr. Babcock was looking directly at him, his bulbous and veiny nose quivering as if smelling Win’s weakness. They didn’t want him here. Every averted glance, the stiffness in which they held themselves around him, cried out that fact. English gentlemen did not have ruined faces, and if they did, they kept them politely out of sight, hidden away like Quasimodo within the bell tower. His words came out slow and as sluggish, it seemed, as his heated blood.

“I find I have no opinion.” It was a rude and unconscionable response, but he did not care. He was tired of pretending. Tired of everything save forgetting himself in the hot silk of pink and red.

Poppy’s gaze on him burned stronger than the rest. He
ignored it and took a bite of what was before him. Only after he began chewing did he register that the waiter had replaced his fish with a plate of beef and mushrooms. He bloody hated mushrooms. His throat closed but he forced the bite down, gagging on the slimy feel of it.

At the periphery of his vision, her arm moved, and her hand came an inch closer to his plate, as though she thought to touch him.

Do not do it, sweet. Or I shall pull you down beneath this table and fuck you senseless.

The violence of his own thoughts shocked him. And perhaps she felt his disquiet as well, for she made no further move toward him. Even so, he felt her gaze remain on him as the conversation started up again, stilted and confused. Good Englishmen did not respond as he did. It upset the balance. Now they all sought to cover his gaffe. That small bit of pity he heard beneath it all squelched the desire that ran amok in his veins. And thank God for that, as his cockstand mercifully subsided. He’d had concerns of being stuck at the table indefinitely.

Win laid down his fork and pushed back from the table, and all those pairs of eyes followed his every movement. “If you will excuse me.” Carefully, he placed his linen next to his plate. “I fear I am not well at the moment.”

He did not wait for a reply but quit the table.

Mrs. Babcock’s voice chased after him as he went. “It’s seasickness. Happens to the best of travelers at times.”

Mrs. Babcock had no idea.

Poppy’s knees wobbled as she walked back to her stateroom. It was a humiliating thing to acknowledge, but true. She feared what she would find when she finally tracked Win down. His behavior at dinner unnerved her.
Win always said the correct thing, always. And the way he sat, hunched over, his expression brooding, was almost frightening in its intensity. Jesus, the man had eaten a mushroom.

Her stride lengthened and became more natural, or as natural as the blasted evening gown would allow. At the stateroom door, she found herself faltering. She could almost feel him within. Her cold hand curled around the door handle. Taking a deep breath, she entered.

He was pacing the floor, his powerful body eating up the space with quick, controlled movements. He glanced up at her entrance, but then went back to pacing, his shaggy hair hiding his eyes from her. Win in a temper was a display to which few were privy, for he had always held his in so brilliantly. Poppy found them fascinating, a small peek at the man behind the proper façade.

Madness must run in her veins because his ire made her so very hot. Her breath hitched before she could speak. “What is wrong?”