The Gold Coin

  "And blackmail is what he's using to keep him there," Anastasia added. "Uncle George was quite clear in his threats this morning. Which is what kept Bates from walking out the door. As for the depth of his involvement, I'm not sure. Truthfully, I didn't stay to hear the rest of their conversation. I bolted as soon as I realized what Uncle George intended to do to me. But obviously Bates supplies the women—from where, I don't know. And Rouge, well, he's at the other end to receive them."

  "And I'd be willing to bet that Lyman supplies the ships, and maybe even lowlifes like Meade to captain them. That would explain the inflated receipts you found."

  Anastasia considered that, and nodded. "That makes sense. But it's all supposition. I don't know who else is involved, or how the payments are divided up. We'll need proof to determine that, and to guarantee they're all locked up, especially my uncle. What I do know is that in Uncle George's mind this is about more than money. He wants to punish me, to punish my parents."

  "For what?" Damen approached the settee, dropped down on the cushion beside Anastasia, and angled her face toward his. "Isn't it time you told me what caused this deep-seated grudge your uncle bears?"

  "It's not that big a mystery," Anastasia replied softly. "In fact, I'm sure you've guessed what it concerns."

  "I suspect it has something to do with your parents, with how deeply they loved each other," Damen replied, not even feigning ignorance. "I sensed that the day I asked you about them, and about George's feelings for your aunt."

  "He wanted my mother. She fell in love with my father instead. Uncle George never forgave either of them. His hatred festered over the years, turned into an obsession. After Grandfather died, Papa decided that putting distance between himself and his brother would be for the best. Perhaps he even hoped Uncle George would soften with time. He never did."

  "I see." Damen pursed his lips, contemplating Anastasia's revelation. He wasn't shocked. He'd guessed that something like this was at the root of George's bitterness. But to carry it to this extreme?

  "I'm sure this factored into your grandfather's decision," he murmured. "Since I imagine he was privy to all the reasons behind George's animosity—not only his greed and thirst for power, but his antagonism over losing Anne to Henry. That's why your grandfather was so adamant about leaving the coins—and the inheritance that was tied to them—only to you and Breanna."

  "Yes." A fond smile touched Anastasia's lips—the same fond smile that always accompanied mention of her grandfather. "Grandfather knew the facts. He also knew his sons. Thus, he concluded that any chance of seeing them bury the past and act like brothers was hopeless." Her smile faded, and that stunned disbelief returned to her eyes. "But I doubt he ever imagined Uncle George would stoop to the abduction and selling of women—including his niece."

  With a rough sound, Damen drew her against him, buried his lips in her hair. "That's not going to happen. You're with me, and you're safe. I'll kill him before I let him near you." As he spoke, a fierce rush of protectiveness surged through his blood, heightened the all-encompassing emotion he already felt for this woman. "Marry me, Anastasia. Now. Today."

  Anastasia started, leaning back to gaze up at him. "I can't," she whispered. "My birthday's still nearly two months away. I'd need Uncle George's permission—or Mr. Fenshaw's agreement to assign me another guardian, after which I'd need that guardian's permission."

  "We'll ride to Gretna Green. We can be married in a matter of days." Damen's fingers tangled in her hair. "Dammit, Stacie, don't you see it's the only way I can protect you?"

  "What I see is that you love me." She reached up, caressing his jaw with her palm. "Oh, Damen, I wish it were that simple. I want to be your wife. I want that more than you can imagine. But not under these circumstances." Her eyes begged for his understanding. "You said I was a romantic. Well, when it comes to marriage, I am. When you and I take our vows, I want it to be the most wonderful moment of our lives, not a rushed ceremony cluttered by worry and fear. Think about it. If we gallop off to Gretna Green, we'll be gone for nearly a week, leaving Breanna alone with that monster. I was reluctant to abandon her even for today, and I did so only after she promised to keep her pistol nearby. Lord only knows what Uncle George will do when he realizes I've gone. But whatever he does, he'll do it to Breanna. We've got to stay in London, find the proof we need, and bring this madness to an end. We've got to."

  Jaw clenched, Damen struggled for reason. "Yes, and I'm going to get that proof. Hopefully, it's already on its way. I sent an urgent letter to the head of my Paris branch yesterday, seeking information on this mysterious Rouge. With any luck, what I find out will tie Rouge to George, and to the women they're transporting. Hell, I'd break into Colby and Sons and steal George's damned appointment book and private ledgers if I thought they'd give us what we need. But your uncle isn't stupid enough to actually pen the word 'women' under the heading 'merchandise being shipped.' He probably uses some code word. It doesn't matter. I'll get him. That bastard will soon be in Newgate, along with all his colleagues. I promise you that."

  Anastasia sank gratefully into Damen's strength, rested her cheek against his waistcoat. "I believe you."

  He heard the exhaustion in her voice, and frowned. "How much sleep have you gotten this week? Next to none," he answered for her. "Come." He drew her to her feet. "There's nothing more we can do right now. You're going upstairs and getting some rest."

  "Rest? It's still afternoon."

  "Then you'll be awake in plenty of time for dinner." Gently, Damen guided her across the sitting room and into the hallway, which was still deserted. "I'll take you up," he announced, looking unsurprised by the utter lack of activity.

  "Where is everyone?" Anastasia asked. Her attention diverted, she glanced about as they ascended the stairway, curious over the odd, absolute silence.

  "Occupied elsewhere, if they're smart."

  Anastasia blinked, shot him a quizzical look. "Did you tell your staff we wanted privacy?"

  "I didn't have to. They're very astute."

  "I see." Anastasia was starting to become irritated by Damen's glib responses, and their implications. She frowned as they rounded the second-floor landing and headed down the hall. "Are you in the habit of entertaining women here?"

  A corner of Damen's mouth lifted, and he came to a halt outside the bedchamber his housekeeper had prepared for Anastasia. "No," he replied, a self-satisfied gleam lighting his eyes. "Although I'm delighted by the fact that you're jealous."

  "I'm not jealous. I'm…"

  "Jealous," he supplied. His knuckles caressed her cheek, and he moved closer, stopping only when mere inches separated them. "You have no cause to be." He traced the bridge of her nose, his voice husky. "I've never brought a woman here before. As for my staff's perceptiveness, it isn't coincidental. It's based on the fact that I called them together last night to say there would be some changes occurring here soon."

  "Changes?" Anastasia sounded breathless.

  "Um-hum." Damen's thumb grazed her lips. "I told them that this manor would, within the month, be acquiring a mistress. And that that mistress would be Lady Anastasia Colby, who would, by then, be the Marchioness of Sheldrake…" He lowered his head, his lips brushing hers. "Mrs. Damen Lockewood," he clarified, kissing her again. "My wife."

  "Oh," Anastasia managed.

  Damen smiled at the wonder in her voice, her eyes. "Any further questions?"

  Mutely, she shook her head.

  "Good." He turned the handle and pushed open the door, gesturing for her to enter. "I hope you'll be comfortable here." He watched her cross the threshold; then, after a heartbeat of a pause, he followed her in. "At least for now. These quarters are only temporary. After we're married, your chambers will be adjoining mine."

  "I can't wait." Anastasia turned to face him, never even glancing about to view her surroundings. Her gaze—a luminous jade green—was fixed on him. "Although I can't imagine I'll be using my bedchamber much, not with yours right nex
t door."

  The tension that had permeated the day intensified, shifting its focus to something equally powerful, but far more inspiring.

  "Shall I send up a maid?" Damen inquired, hearing the jagged edge to his tone.

  "Definitely not." Anastasia reached up, tugged out the few hairpins she wore. "I'm very efficient at dressing and undressing myself. I lived in America, remember?"

  "I remember."

  "Still," she added with a siren's smile. "I suppose some assistance would be nice." She shook out her auburn tresses, making no attempt to disguise her growing anticipation. "Better than nice—wonderful. But not from a maid. A maid is the last person I need—or want—right now."

  Blood pulsed through Damen's veins, pounded at his loins. "And the first person you need—and want—right now?"

  "You."

  He shut the door, threw the bolt before he could stop himself. "I should leave—now, while I'm still able." Even as he spoke, he was disregarding his own words, walking toward her. He reached her side, taking over her task and freeing her hair until burnished waves tumbled over his hands. "Beautiful," he murmured, caressing the silken strands. "So impossibly beautiful." He brought a handful to his lips, savored it, as his other arm clamped about her waist. "Send me away."

  "No." Anastasia stepped closer, gliding her hands beneath his coat, unbuttoning his waistcoat with trembling fingers. "I can't do that."

  "Stacie…" Damen's fingers were already dispensing with the buttons of her gown. "I didn't intend…"

  "I know." She stood on tiptoe, kissed the strong column of his throat as she untied his cravat. "Neither of us did. But it's so right." She sighed, opening his shirt and pressing her lips to his chest. "Don't leave me—not now."

  "Leave you?" He gave a hoarse laugh, dragging her gown off her shoulders, letting it drop to her feet. "There's not a prayer of that. I'll never leave you. Not now. Not ever."

  His mouth found hers, covering it, his lips parting hers with a hunger that was too powerful to stave off with light, teasing kisses. He grasped handfuls of her hair, angling her face closer to his, possessing her with his tongue, his breath, devouring her mouth totally, voraciously—again and again. Anastasia moaned, leaning into him to give him better access, clutching at his shirt and returning his hot, open-mouthed kisses with her own. Their tongues intertwined, melded and caressed with dizzying sensuality.

  They broke apart only to gasp in air, and Damen's gaze burned into hers, his fingers shifting to the ribbons of her chemise, yanking them free until the scanty garment joined her gown on the carpet.

  He paused then, his ravenous stare raking her from head to toe, lingering on the burnished nest between her thighs, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he struggled for control.

  Anastasia wrested it away.

  Boldly, she shoved off Damen's open coat, waistcoat and shirt, letting them drop to the floor. Her palms smoothed up the hard planes of his bare chest, exploring the hair-roughened texture, the solid muscle beneath. Then, she reversed her motion, her palms traveling down to his waist, lingering at the buttons of his trousers.

  With a wonder and curiosity too arousing to bear, she descended lower, her fingers brushing the rigid length of him, reveling in discovery, then shifting impatiently to the buttons that separated her from her goal.

  It was too much.

  With a strangled groan, Damen shoved away her hands and dragged her against him. He lifted her in his arms, nuzzling the warm valley between her breasts as he carried her to the bed.

  In one unsteady motion, he yanked back the bedcovers, lay her on the sheet, and stepped away only long enough to finish the task she'd begun, kicking free of his remaining clothes. He was literally shaking with need, his hands trembling so badly he could hardly believe this was he.

  Naked, he loomed over her, slipping her stockings down her legs and off, already making love to her in a way that made her breath come in shallow pants.

  "You're exquisite," he muttered in a raw voice. "My fantasies pale in comparison."

  "And you're magnificent." She scrutinized his body with open fascination, shivering as he reached down, cupped her breast, his thumb rasping over the taut nipple.

  "Damen." His name was a wisp of sound, a glimmer of heated longing. "Please." She opened her arms to him.

  Another filament of control snapped.

  "God, I want you," Damen ground out, coming down beside her, watching her breasts swell to his touch, unable to tear his eyes away. "There aren't words…"

  "Then don't search for any." Anastasia stroked his shoulders, the muscled planes of his back. "Just make love to me."

  A hoarse sound vibrated through him, and Damen covered her body with his, tangling his hands in her hair and lifting her mouth to receive his kiss. His mouth ate at hers, and his chest rubbed across her breasts, teasing her already hardened nipples with slow, tantalizing strokes.

  Anastasia whimpered, shifted restlessly beneath him, her thighs instinctively parting to make room for him.

  He nudged his hips into place, nestling within the cradle of her thighs and continuing to kiss her, fighting the urge to relinquish the next glorious minutes and just plunge into her, join himself to her in the most fundamental way possible.

  This was one fight he intended to win.

  Not only to avoid causing her pain—although he was determined to eclipse whatever pain was unavoidable with a deluge of pleasure so acute she'd remember nothing else—but to prolong what he inherently knew would be the most breathtaking of preludes.

  One that would lead to the most breathtaking of joinings.

  "Not yet," he murmured, shifting his weight to his elbows, staring into her beautiful flushed face.

  Anastasia's eyes flew open, her expression rife with confused disbelief.

  "Soon," Damen promised, answering her unspoken question, kissing her hot cheeks as he continued to fight the instinctive motion of his hips. "Very soon." He kissed a slow path to her breasts, drawing first one nipple into his mouth, then turning his attentions to the other, teasing each with whisper-light strokes of his tongue.

  He was rewarded with a shuddering moan.

  Easing himself upward, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her—slow and deep—his tongue gliding forward to entwine with hers. Simultaneously, his palm drifted over her breast, his thumb circling the nipple, still damp from his mouth, then dropping lower, defining the curve of her waist, her hip, finally slipping between her thighs to claim the moist haven he craved above all else.

  Anastasia's grip on his shoulders tightened and, reflexively, her back arched, her hips lifting to receive his caress.

  Damen's thighs pushed hers farther apart, opening her completely to the heated stroke of his fingertips.

  Too far gone to withstand tentative explorations, he slid two fingers inside her, nearly wild with his need to feel her softness close around him. "Yes," he muttered thickly, savoring her warmth, her wetness, her quivering welcome to his penetration. He stroked softly, his thumb teasing the tiny bud that cried out for his touch.

  Abruptly he needed more.

  He tore himself away, shoving himself downward on the bed. He felt her start of surprise, but he didn't—couldn't—pause to explain. In a few jerky motions, he raised her legs, draped them over his shoulders.

  And buried his mouth in her sweetness.

  Anastasia stifled a scream, nearly coming up off the bed as sensation slammed through her. Her fingers laced through Damen's hair, and her head tossed from side to side on the pillow, her hips arching wildly, lifting her closer to Damen's mouth, his seeking tongue.

  Damen's own need surged inside him like a drowning wave. He gripped Anastasia's bottom, hauling her upward, anchoring her so she couldn't escape a fraction of the havoc he was lavishing on her senses. Her scent, her taste, were driving him insane, taking him so close to the edge, he wondered if he'd survive. He deepened his caresses, felt her body grow taut, tauter still, clenching and tight
ening as he drove her to the brink of climax.

  "Damen … no…"

  It took him a full minute to realize she was struggling, her hands shoving at his shoulders as if to push him away.

  He raised his head, passion pounding through his brain, and stared at her in stunned noncomprehension.

  "Not alone," she whispered, her entire body trembling with a need she refused to give in to. "Please … not this time, this first time. I want us together."

  Damen sucked in his breath, blind desire transforming to comprehension.

  "Stacie…" Rasping her name, he capitulated, crawling over her and hooking his elbows beneath her legs. With unerring precision, his throbbing shaft found the welcoming entrance to her body.