What orders? What was he talking about? Her arm came free, and a momentary shaft of pain slammed down on her, leaving her breathless, sweating.
“Just breathe,” he said. “I promise I’ll be very careful.”
Careful doing what? Murdering her like he had his wife? They’d left her alone with him—how did she know he wouldn’t finally finish her off? If he killed once, killed twice, then he could easily kill again.
He’d discarded his coat and cravat, dressed simply in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He came around the other side of the bed and gently slid his arms underneath her, lifting her effortlessly. It wasn’t the first time he’d carried her, she thought, though she could barely remember the other occasions. She only knew that she’d felt safe in his arms, held high against his warm chest, his beating heart. She tried to keep her neck straight, but her head hurt, and it felt so much better to let it rest against his shoulder as he carried her through the dark hallway.
He pushed open a door, and suddenly she was enveloped in heat and light and a warm mist, and she lifted her head, looking around her in shock.
“Milady said she wanted a bath,” he said. “Do you think you can stand for a moment? I’ll catch you if you fall.”
She nodded, even though the move hurt her head, and he slowly set her down, letting her slide against his body, and if the aftereffects of being shot hadn’t made her knees weak the feel of his body would have done so. She stood in the circle of his arms, and it took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He was unfastening the buttons at her throat.
“No,” she croaked, but the way he held her, good arm trapped against her side, gave her no way to fight. He undid them quickly, efficiently, then slid the nightdress down.
“Don’t be juvenile, Bryony,” he said in a comfortingly matter-of-fact voice. “You can’t bathe in your nightdress—it’s the only one you have left.”
That was the last thing she wanted to think about. “The shift stays on,” she said. It provided scant modesty, but she’d take what she could get.
“Whatever you say, Bryony.” He picked her up and carried her over to the deep, steaming copper tub, started to put her in. At the last minute he somehow managed to pull off the shift, just as she was sinking into the blissfully warm water, and she had to swallow her instinctive shriek of protest.
The warm water felt so good she didn’t bother to argue. He’d held on to her bandaged arm, letting it rest carefully on the high side of the tub, and there was nothing salacious about his expression. She might have felt better if there was.
“Are you going to drown me?” She hadn’t meant for those words to come out, but she was still groggy from the drugs.
He laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a murderer, no matter what it looks like.”
She sighed, sinking further into the lovely water. Too late she realized her hair was flowing around her, and she tried to sit up, but he pushed her back, gently. “If you want the blood washed from your hair you’re going to have to let me do it.”
She considered it. But he was viewing her with all the passion of a man surveying a suet pudding, and though she couldn’t remember the details of that rapturous time on the kitchen table, she knew that she’d ended the night the way she started it, still a virgin. So clearly he’d lost interest in her. He was merely doing this out of the kindness of his heart.
Then again, she was under no illusion that Kilmartyn had a kind heart. Nevertheless, the warm water was drugging her far more pleasantly than the laudanum had, and she wasn’t going to fight. “Go ahead,” she said ungraciously. “Just don’t take the occasion to drown me.”
He made a sound of disapproval. “When will you learn to trust me, Bryony?”
“When hell freezes over,” she murmured, as he moved to the end of the tub and his hands cupped her head. “And don’t call me Bryony.” She felt faintly uneasy, but she had no idea why.
“What do you prefer?” he murmured, pouring water over her hair, carefully keeping it from her eyes. She closed them anyway, relaxing into the sensation. Her injured arm was throbbing, and she didn’t care, as long as his fingers were caressing her scalp, rubbing the soap into it, threading through her hair.
“Mrs. Greaves will do,” she said dreamily. She could lie like this forever, she thought. Besides, getting out of the tub would expose her body to his critical gaze.
“I like Bryony better.”
She purred as he poured fresh water over her hair, rinsing it. And then he lifted the length of it and draped it over the back of the tub, pouring more water to wash the suds away.
“You’re not letting that water get on the floor, are you?” she demanded suddenly.
“You’re not the housekeeper here anymore, Bryony. But there’s a basin behind the tub for just such a purpose.”
“Very clever.” And then his words penetrated. “Of course I’m the housekeeper here.”
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Harkins has taken over.”
“Then I must leave.”
This time his snort of laughter was genuine. “And just where would you be going in your current condition? Besides, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Someone’s trying to kill you, and I don’t intend to let that happen. You’re not going anywhere until I can make proper plans.”
“Who’s trying to kill me?” She focused on the most important part of all this.
“I’m damned if I know. Presumably the same man who killed Cecily.” His voice was blunt, matter-of-fact, with no sorrow in it.
She turned her head to look at him. “If you didn’t kill her then why were your clothes covered with blood?”
“Ah, so you’re the one who moved them. You relieve my mind—I was afraid the police had somehow gotten hold of them. My clothes were covered in blood, my precious, because someone took them and dowsed them in it. Presumably whoever killed her.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“You didn’t… don’t know Cecily that well. She’s entirely capable of buying gallons of pigs’ blood to set me up like that. I have no guarantee that she’s not enjoying herself in Paris, laughing at my expense.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No.” He moved around to the side, a cloth and a bar of sweet-smelling soap in his hand. “Let’s wash the rest of you.”
She sat up, so quickly her arm went into a painful spasm, so quickly the water slopped lower, exposing the tops of her breasts. “I can wash myself.”
“I’m sure you can. Are we going to have a wrestling match? Because I intend to win, and I don’t mind getting wet.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he said, and she felt the bar of soap brush against her collarbone. “Close your eyes, Bryony. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know you don’t. But right now you’re injured and you have no choice.”
He was right. His hand was moving lower, over her stomach, and she realized he’d skipped her breasts entirely, thank heavens, except they were tight and aching and she wasn’t quite sure why as his soapy hand traced leisurely circles on her stomach. He moved closer, his other hand behind her back, supporting her, and she let herself lean into him, letting him touch her, giving in to the pleasure of his hands.
His hand slid lower, brushing against the soft hair between her thighs, and she jerked for a moment, then calmed. What could he do to her in a bathtub, for heaven’s sake? And why would he want to?
And then, to her horror, he moved his hand between her thighs, touching her intimately, and she let out a strangled cry, arching up.
“Hush, sweetheart. I know, it’s unfair. But the problem is, I can’t resist you. I’ve been trying very hard, but I’m not the kind of man who’s made for noble sacrifice, and I think I’ve about reached my limit.”
She opened her eyes to look at him, aroused and frightened and longing. “I don’t…” she began
, knowing she should protest, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “I don’t think…”
“Don’t think,” he said, and covered her mouth with his, swallowing her arguments, as his fingers delved deeper. She jerked against him, startled, and the water splashed up against them, but he simply held her still with one arm around her shoulders, cupping her neck with his hand, while he began to rub against her sex, sliding in the deep, warm water, slippery, seductive, moving inside her, and she arched her hips against his hand, reaching for him, wanting more of him, letting him do whatever he wished, as shameful as it was.
It didn’t feel shameful. She couldn’t understand the heat building inside her, the fierce, gnawing need that was taking over, filling her with raw wanting. She’d seen lust in Kilmartyn’s eyes, and she wondered what it would look like in her own. Because this was the only possible explanation for the powerful longings arching through her body, the only possible explanation why she slid her tongue against his when he kissed her, why she didn’t fight against him, but fought to get closer.
And then she stopped thinking, only felt, as she gripped the side of the copper tub with her one good hand and dissolved into sensation, a shiver, and then an explosion, and there was water everywhere and she didn’t care, she just hid her face against his damp shoulder and let the feelings ride her, a cataclysm of impure delight that stole her breath, her will, her heart.
“That’s my girl,” he said in a low, hypnotizing voice. He took his hand from between her legs, trailing it up her body in the warm water, moving it to brush against one tightly beaded breast, and she jerked again, squeezing her thighs together as still another explosion rocked her. He moved on, pushing her wet hair out of her face, cupping her chin as she hid against his shoulder and she made a sound of protest.
He laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll give your perfect little breasts the attention they deserve. I’m saving them for my mouth.” She made another sound again, a moan of mortification and desire. “Now I’m going to pick you up, wrap you in a towel, and carry you back to my bedroom. And then I’m going to do a proper job of taking the virginity you lied about, and you’re going to say yes. I told myself I wouldn’t, I’d be a gentleman, but I’m afraid I’m simply too weak to resist you.”
She tried to find her voice, her pride. “No, I won’t,” she managed to choke out.
He smiled at her, a smile of peculiar sweetness. “Yes, you will. Because you want me just as much as I want you. Your mouth may be full of lies but your body betrays you.”
“I don’t lie,” she said weakly.
“Of course you don’t,” he said softly, scooping his arms under her and picking her up, setting her on her feet.
“I’m making you wet,” she said, as he wrapped a towel around her.
“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to be in these clothes for long.” He picked her up again, and she knew she should protest, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to go to his bed, she wanted him to take her, show her, love her, even if it was temporary, a physical lie. “And I have every intention of making you wet,” he said.
She knew what he meant—she’d read enough Italian to understand that part of his wicked book, the long list of elaborate techniques to ready a woman for the intimate act. She already felt hot, liquid inside, ready for him, and he carried her through the hallway, into his newly refurbished bedroom.
The gaslights were turned low, the wide bed turned down by one of the maids, and he put one knee on the mattress, lowering her down, pulling the covers over her before he took the towel away. “You’re going to catch a chill and we can’t have that,” he said. “Just lie there and get warm while I start a fire.”
She wanted to protest. She knew she should scramble out of the bed the moment he turned his back, and she knew she wouldn’t. For one thing, her legs wouldn’t hold her, not because of the gunshot wound, but the wicked thing he’d done in the bathing room, turning her every bone and muscle to jelly. For another, she didn’t want to. She wanted to finish this, her one chance at experiencing what most women took for granted. What most women avoided, if she were to believe the stories she’d heard. What women craved, if she were to believe her own body.
The fire had already been laid, and it was the work of a moment to turn it into a warming blaze. And then he turned to look at her. The white shirt was plastered against his chest, and he began to unbutton it in a leisurely fashion, his eyes never leaving hers. A moment later he’d pulled it over his head, and there was nothing but skin underneath, shocking in itself. He reached for the fastening of his trousers, and she turned her face away quickly, and he laughed softly.
“It’s not that terrifying, angel,” he murmured, and she heard the sound of fabric dropping to the floor, his footsteps coming closer to her. “Half the population possess one.” She felt his hand on the covers, lifting them. “Move over, precious. It’s chilly out here. Unless want me to…” She tried to scoot out of his reach, but her arm got in the way and she let out a cry of pain.
In a moment he was in the bed, pulling her gently into his arms, exquisitely careful of her wound. “Poor baby,” he murmured. “I’m a bastard and a half to even touch you while you’re still hurting. We should wait until you’re better.”
She turned to face him. It was growing warm from the fire, the spring chill leaving the room, and the dim light cast his face in shadows, and she believed he’d do just that. Except that he was warm and naked in the bed, his legs brushing against hers, his arms reaching for her, and she felt that hard part of him against her thigh. “If you do, I’ll die,” she said simply, her eyes looking into his with no artifice, no guile. “You’ve brought me too far to simply leave me again.”
His smile was crooked. “The only reason I stopped last time was because you were both tipsy and a virgin, two rules trained into a gentleman from early on.”
“I never thought you were much of a gentleman.”
“You were right,” he said, covering her mouth with his. It was a long, slow, deep kiss, leisurely, as if he was ready for this to take all night. His tongue danced against hers, and he nibbled on her lower lip, biting, and the sensation exploded inside her. Heat, she thought dizzily, and damp.
She was breathless when he lifted his head, and she could feel him all around her, the rough texture of his legs, the smoothness of his chest, the pressure of that strange, unknown part of him against her. He kissed her eyelids, her jaw, then fastened his teeth on her earlobe, making her jerk in reaction.
“You need to lie back, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt that arm any more than necessary, but I have to touch you. Taste you.” He gently pushed her onto her back, arranging her painful arm on one of the pillows before leaning over her. “Your job is to try not to move too much. You’ll like it better when you can move, but I promise you’ll like this well enough to want to try again.”
Try again with whom? she thought, but then pushed the thought away. She would leave tomorrow, hurt arm or not. She’d been a fool to come back. She needed to get away and hide, from Kilmartyn, from whoever had tried to kill her, whether they were two or simply one deranged person.
He was arranging her with such care that she didn’t even notice that he’d moved between her legs, pushing them apart, that he was kneeling there, watching her with an intensity that only made the fires burn hotter. She looked at him, and then looked down at his sex, and she let out a little screech.
“Oh, no,” she cried, trying to scoot out of the way. “That’s impossible.”
He laughed, pulling her back. “You’re going to hurt yourself, love. And trust me, it’s very possible. Just relax and let me take care of things.”
“Relax?” she echoed, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “You’re out of your…” the word trailed off as his hands covered her breasts, and she swallowed a groan of intense pleasure. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Of course it is,” he said, bending down, and she felt the
wetness of his tongue dance across her nipple, and everything inside her seemed to contract. “But we’re going to do it anyway.” And then he fastened his mouth on her breast, sucking and pulling at it while his fingers toyed with her other hardened nipple, and she began to shiver in response.
This was desire, this was madness. Lust and insanity, wrapped together into a tight grip of impossibility, but she no longer cared. His hair fell over her as he sucked at her, and that impossible part of his body seemed to twitch and grow larger still against her, and she knew he lied, knew it would kill her, and she no longer cared. She’d gotten past the point of worrying, she was nothing but need incarnate.
He lifted his head and blew on her damp breast, and she cried out again, this time a moan of pleasure and dismay that he’d stopped, until he caught her other breast in his mouth, swirling his tongue against the tight nipple, and then she felt the soft brush of his teeth, and another flurry of pleasure shook her.
She was panting, the room was now warm, and he’d shoved the covers back. He was levered over her, and he took her hand and drew it down, down, to touch that part of him. She tried to yank away from him, but his grip was unbreakable. “It’s a cock, love. A John Thomas, a member, a dick. Whatever you want to call it, it’s nothing to be afraid of. Touch me. Yes, like that. Oh, God, yes, like that,” he whispered, wrapping her fingers around the smooth length of him. He was like iron beneath the silken skin, and he moved her hand up and down, slowly, pumping at him, and he was shivering too in the hot room. He released her, but she didn’t stop. She let her fingers play with him, touch him, learn him. He was damp too, the head of his… cock was damp, and she remembered the night on the kitchen table. What would he taste like? Would she ever know?
He groaned, catching her wrist and pulling her gently away. “Too much of that and it’ll be over before it begins,” he said wryly. “We need to dispense with your tiresome virginity before I have one of my rare attacks of conscience again. Lift your hips just a tiny bit, love. I’ll try not to make it hurt too much.”