Taking her shoulders, he shook her. No.
“You can’t stop me. You exist only at night.” She was taunting him as she had never done before.
He knew why. He kissed her. Caressed her. Made her mad with passion, and every night left her alone to suffer. She was in love with a man who didn’t exist and with whom she could never have a real relationship, never marry, never carry his children. . . . He had given her hope, and at the same time taken it from her.
So she said, “I’ll dance with the prince tomorrow night. I’ll smile at him; I’ll drink with him; if he asks me to be his dinner partner, I’ll dine with him. And I’ll do it for you—but I’ll enjoy myself, too.”
His hands trembled on her shoulders; he fought to contain himself.
“Because some people believe women like me will do anything for security.” Her voice broke on a bitter laugh. “Perhaps I’ll marry the prince to keep you safe.”
No. No, you can’t.
Even through the mask, she must have seen his anguish, for she smiled, a cruel Delilah.
Finally, frustration and lust drove him mad, and he cracked. Turning to the bed, he ripped the covers off and flung them to the floor before the fire. He pushed the thin lace sleeves off her shoulders. The gown slithered down. She stood before him clothed only in fire-light and defiance.
She’d gained much-needed weight while working for Lady Fanchere, yet still her belly was flat and muscled from the labor she’d performed for so many years. Her waist was narrow, her hips lush, her legs long and lean. And below, a small dark brush of hair guarded her passage.
Lifting her, he laid her on the floor, on the crinkled mass of velvet and goose down he had tossed.
She sank into the plush coverings, her hair wild about her, and she glared at him as if he had done something wrong. “Are you teasing me again?” she snapped.
Wait, he gestured. Reaching into the depths of his costume, he loosened the ties that bound the top and pulled them apart. He shed the wrap of shroud and winding rags.
She gazed at his chest, tanned from his hours in the high mountain sun. “Beautiful,” she whispered.
He wanted to laugh aloud. There had been a lot of women in his life, experienced women, women who taught him skills, women who enjoyed those skills, Englishwomen, continental women, noblewomen, and commoners. None of them had ever called him beautiful.
But Emma’s awed gaze made him feel . . . beautiful. Strong.
She made him forget the nightmares.
He opened the ties at his waist and discarded the cleverly sewn trousers. The boots and socks went next, and he was naked. Naked except for the wrap around his throat, his hood, his mask, and the white powder that disguised his face.
He dropped to his knees beside her.
Her expression had changed. She was no longer haughty and angry. Rather, she looked curious and amazed and frightened and eager and wary.
She looked like a girl who faced her first lover, and found the reality more than she had ever imagined.
If he could have laughed aloud, he would have, for her startled gaze flattered him, made him grow harder, longer . . . made the press of passion imperative.
He had cupped her breasts, brought her to orgasm with his caresses. He knew the shape and texture of each sweet tit, yet to see them, full and firm, nipples pointing at him . . .
Cold? Nerves?
He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he wanted to stroke them, suck on them, until she writhed in desperation and begged him for his cock inside her.
Leaning down to her, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. She yielded as always, but his shoulders seemed to have acquired heat, for she touched him as gingerly as she might have touched a hot iron. And when she found the brand on his upper right back, her eyes grew big and she explored with her fingertips. “What is it?” she asked.
He looked away.
She sat up and looked at the red, raised mark in the shape of an eagle. “Oh, Reaper.” She kissed the brand, a soft caress that healed him even as she branded him with her own lips.
He took her down again, leaned against her breasts and slid his chest back and forth; she froze, closed her eyes, and breathed. Just breathed.
He’d learned so much about her body in the last week. She was sensitive and easily startled, innocent, with an instinctive knowledge of what would please him . . . and her.
Armed with that knowledge, he went to work.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Reaper slid his palms down the sides of Emma’s waist and over her hips, over and over, soothing her as if she were a lion and he the tamer.
As he caressed her, her ire faded, and she focused on him. On his face, hidden by the mask that, even now, he didn’t discard. On his body, magnificent and layered with muscle, smooth and tanned from the sun. On his intentions . . . Her eyes half closed.
He was generating new passions in her, building a madness that stripped away her control, and with nothing more than those long, slow strokes of comfort. Then his hands began to wander, to slide up to her wrists, lifting them above her head, exposing the tender undersides of her arms. Then down her thighs, where the skin perceived his passion and warmed at his touch. Her skin grew sensitive to the air, to the light, to his breath as he leaned toward her to kiss her lips.
Finally, finally, she had provoked him into giving her what she wanted. Finally. It was happening. She wanted to shout with joy, to twirl with excitement.
She wanted to be joined with him for all eternity, and if that wasn’t possible, she wanted to be joined with him now. Because although she knew nothing about men and women, she knew this: The Reaper had a way of walking, of standing, of being, that assured her he would not rest until she fell exhausted and satisfied into his arms.
This was nothing like her youthful imagining. She had thought making love would be romantic, something done between two people that would propel them into a gossamer world full of moonbeams and perfume.
Instead they were naked, and the very newness of this had her feeling shy and gawky, brought a sudden return of Miss Emma Chegwidden, paid companion, whose only real skill was foot massage. And according to Lady Lettice, she hadn’t even done that well.
It all came down to this: She had been raised in the country. She knew how farm animals mated. She’d been midwife to many a mother and baby. She understood how this was going to work, but she hadn’t expected him to be so . . . real.
She could smell him, smell soap and sandalwood and the desire in his veins. She could feel the heat he generated, and how seeing her, touching her, raised his temperature another degree. She could hear his harsh breath, the smooth sigh of their bodies as they moved together.
Could he smell the desire on her? He leaned close and took a long breath, as if he needed her scent to live. Could he feel her heat? Her skin glowed with warmth, with need. Could he hear her heart beating in anticipation? Could he hear the panting of her breath as he twined their fingers together, as she kissed his hand, his shoulder, his cheek?
She had no secrets . . . and for that very reason, she grew shy and wary.
They’d embraced, yes. They’d caressed. He had brought her pleasure every night. Yet every moment they had remained clothed.
Now he put his mouth to her breasts, and she pushed against him in instinctive denial.
He paid no heed.
Then, as joy began to grow, her hands smoothed along his shoulders, exploring the muscles she’d previously found only under his costume.
Silently, he encouraged her, lightly lapping at her areola, at the underside of her breast, at the upper slope. When her fingernails scratched him softly, he responded by pulling her nipple into his mouth and sucking strongly, rhythmically, until her back arched and her legs moved with desperate uncertainty.
The fire burned beside them, providing a glossy warmth to his skin. Outside, she could hear thunder ripping the curtain of night.
Inside she heard her he
art pounding in her head, heard the crackle of flames and the rustle of goose down shifting beneath their combined weight.
He assaulted her with caresses. He stroked the lobes of her ears as he nudged her legs apart; then lifting her legs and opening them wide, he looked there, until she writhed with embarrassment and . . . oh, desire, too, for a dampness grew under his appreciative gaze.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”
Still holding one leg, he slid his fingers up and down her cleft, lightly, the same kind of stroking he’d done on her sides, on her arms.
But this was not the same; in that other stroking there had been an element of comfort. There was no comfort in this. Agitation, yes. Passion, yearning . . . the need to demand . . . things . . .
If he would just press a little harder, caress a little deeper . . .
And he read her mind, pushing his finger inside, gliding along, using his thumb to circle her clitoris. . . .
She lifted her hips, whimpering, moaning, whispering pleas that he must have heard and understood, for he carefully, oh, so carefully, worked another finger inside her, stretching her to the point of discomfort, and then, as the constriction eased, pulling out and working his fingers in again.
He was manipulating her, using his skills to make her feel more than she expected or wanted.
She moved her hips, trying make him do what she wanted, to build her need into something greater.
But he took his hand away, pressed his chest to hers, applying weight like a tool designed to make her malleable, and used his thighs to spread her legs wider again. His fingers moved between her legs; then it was no longer his fingers, but his cock, long and thick, pressing inside, and she discovered the truth.
He was bigger than his fingers, and he hurt her.
“Wait!”
He didn’t.
She fought, shoving against him, trying to throw him off, but if anything, her motions pushed him deeper. He held himself still, let her struggle, let her wiggle, and when she was finished, he was all the way inside.
“It burns!” And she was mad about it. All that lush and glorious promise, vanquished by him. By his size and determination and refusal to quit.
He didn’t seem concerned about her anger. No, he smiled, a slow smile of promise.
Startled, she focused on him, on his face, his body, his scent, his strength. . . . How could he hurt her and at the same time make her want what he promised? What was he doing that made this more than the act?
He put her hands on his shoulders and shifted, slowly sitting up and back on his heels, holding her hips, bringing her with him. Lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
She was in his lap, face-to-face, looking into his eyes beneath the mask. She was straddling him, her legs around his hips, her feet planted flat on the floor. He was so far inside her it felt as if they could never be parted.
Had the burning sensation bonded them together?
No, because she could still move. With her feet under her, she could lift up . . . and she did.
And when she was almost free, he caught her hips and pushed her back down. She tried again, and again he pushed her back.
He watched her, smiling, challenging her.
She stopped, panting, angry and in pain and wanting . . . wanting what he’d tacitly sworn he would give her. With more finesse and without his help, she rose and fell, once, twice, stroking herself on him, riding him as if he were a stallion.
His smile vanished. His muscles grew taut. He leaned back, braced himself on his hands, and gave her the freedom of his body.
Self-consciousness became self-centeredness. Pain became desire.
Before, he had made her aware of everything around her. Now she was aware of only him, only her. Where they touched she felt the throbbing of desire, the desperation for release, a desperation that increased with each stroke. She could see the tension in his shoulders as he fought to hold himself in control.
He was sweating, grinding his teeth, trembling with the compulsion to move.
She was stroking faster and faster, not knowing what was she doing, not knowing where she was going, aware only that she drove toward satisfaction.
Her satisfaction. And his.
When at last climax swept her, when spasms of irresistible pleasure took her, she felt her body taking his, squeezing him.
He grabbed her, tilted her backward until her shoulders touched the floor. He knelt, held her hips up to him, and thrust into her, deep thrusts that claimed her and demanded she yield everything to him.
And she cried, and clasped him between her thighs, and welcomed him inside, and made him hers.
Chapter Twenty-six
“For the ball gown, I had a difficult choice. Our little English rose has a fair complexion, dark hair with auburn highlights, and most unusual eyes. By themselves, the eyes, they seem to be hazel with starbursts of gold—the eyes of an enchantress.”
Hands wrapped around a bedpost, Emma listened while Madam Mercier spoke, and held on for dear life while Tia pulled the strings on her corset tight. Behind her, she knew Madam’s seamstresses were straightening the tangle of her new petticoats, while Lady Fanchere and Aimée hovered by the fireplace and watched Madam Mercier personally unpack Emma’s ball gown.
It was evening, time to prepare for the ball, and Emma felt numb with anxiety and wild with excitement. It was as if she were making her debut in society—Emma Chegwidden of Freyaburn in Yorkshire. And as if that weren’t enough, while she was making her debut, she was also spying for the man she loved . . . the man whose body she had worshipped, but whose face she had never seen.
She was tired and sore, happy and worried.
Madam Mercier continued. “Miss Chegwidden’s eyes change colors with the clothes she wears. A blue cotton and they appear sky blue. A green satin and they’re pea green. So I wanted a material that would allow her unusual coloring to shine without influence. I decided on this.”
Emma heard a rustle of silk, and Lady Fanchere and Aimée ahhed in delight. Emma strained to see, but Tia hissed at her and pushed her around to face forward again, and the seamstresses hissed at Tia to hurry.
“I sent out runners to Madrid, asking for this particular silk. I didn’t know when it would arrive, and then, the prince’s sudden decision to throw a ball proved a challenge beyond even my humble services. I doubted we would be able to make it up in time. Then I realized—the richness and color of the silk is usually worn by women of, shall we say, experience. Miss Chegwidden is young and virginal, so to contrast with the material, the gown itself needed to be simplicity. That, we were able to do, and on time.” Madam Mercier sounded as pleased as a purring cat.
“It’s perfect,” Lady Fanchere said.
Tia turned Emma to face the room. She got a glimpse of a dark gown laid across the bench; then Tia lifted her arms and the seamstresses threw the petticoats over her head. By the time she had fought her way out of the starched and rustling confinement, the gown had been hung behind her and the ladies were discussing which jewelry she should wear.
Madam Mercier forbade them anything but a simple pair of earrings and a thin silver ring. “No! No! Simplicity. Trust me. You’ll see!”
At last Emma was trussed into the undergarments, and Madam Mercier herself pulled the gown over Em-ma’s head.
Emma looked down, trying to view what had so pleased the ladies.
Madam Mercier took the long braid of hair at the back of her neck and pulled. “Young lady, no peeking! You may see in a moment. Fils, fasten the buttons; then I will do her hair.”
The girls seated her on a low stool.
Madam Mercier took the comb away from Tia and said, “I was a lady’s maid.”
Which she might have been, but she’d lost any subtlety in the years since, for she tugged Emma’s hair back so hard Emma’s eyes felt slanted, and used hairpins with such precision Emma felt as if she were the donkey in the children’s game.
When Lady Fanchere said, ?
??Perhaps fresh flowers . . . ?” Madam Mercier said, “Non! Diamond hairpins placed here . . . here . . . and here, like stars in the midnight sky.”
Everyone oohed.
Emma itched with starch and curiosity.
Tia placed ballroom slippers on Emma’s feet, and she was allowed to stand.
The seamstresses made fussing noises as they straightened the long, slim sleeves and adjusted the low neckline.
Lady Fanchere and Aimée clasped hands and gazed at her, tears in their eyes.
“Turn, mademoiselle. Turn!” Madam Mercier had Emma spin in a circle. At last she, too, smiled. “Bon!” She pushed Emma to stand in front of the full-length mirror.
Emma stared. And stared.
“You see, I am right. The material is Japanese silk, completely new to the continent. The color is a rich maroon shot with silver thread. In the daytime, it would be garish, but in candlelight . . .” Madam Mercier kissed her fingertips.
Emma turned her head to see the upsweep of dark hair gathered at the base of her neck, and the twinkle of diamond pins among the strands.
“You’ll note the way the silk shimmers as Miss Chegwidden moves, a jeweled setting for her beauty.” Madam Mercier’s satisfied voice bounced along the surface of Emma’s consciousness. “With her hair drawn back from her face and secured at the back, her hairline is revealed. The widow’s peak on her forehead is echoed by the heart-shaped neckline. With the plain bodice, the plain sleeves, and the gathered waist, every male will be transfixed by her magnificent figure.”
“Hush, madam.” Lady Fanchere put her hand on Emma’s sleeve and spoke to her. “You’re very quiet, my dear.”
“Don’t you like the gown?” Aimée asked gently.
The room grew silent.
Emma stepped toward the mirror and touched the reflection of her face. “You have made me beautiful.”