Her mouth reached his crown and she opened it wide, fitting her lips around him, swallowing him whole.
“Phoebe, God, Phoebe,” he whispered above her, his voice a rough rasp.
This was in some ways more intimate than the other. This taking his most male part into her mouth. A mouth was for words, for eating, for more civilized pursuits.
And this was completely uncivilized.
She tongued him, tasting the bitter liquid seeping from the tip, feeling the slickness of his head.
She sucked.
When he cried aloud she knew she’d broken him with her uncivilized act and she rejoiced. This strong man. This brave man. Making incoherent sounds because she held him so sweetly in her mouth and nursed at his cock.
He moved suddenly, grabbing her arms and jerking her upright, and for one horrible moment she thought he would toss her across the room for her temerity and storm out the door.
Instead he staggered to the bed with her, muttering all the way, until he threw her down.
“Phoebe, dear God, Phoebe, what you do to me.” He crawled atop her, pulling apart her legs. “Where in hell did you learn that? No, don’t tell me. I still want to be able to sleep of a night.” He bunched up her skirts, pulling and yanking, baring her to the waist. “I don’t know why I thought I could ever withstand you. Ever think I could come out of this unscathed and whole again.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he slithered down her and thumbed apart her vulva, and then he placed his mouth right there, right at the center of her, and licked.
Oh! She’d never felt the like before in her life. It was an exquisite torture on flesh almost too sensitive to the touch. She arched beneath him, her hips moving involuntarily, but he placed his palms flat on her stomach and held her down.
Held her down as he flicked his tongue against her, driving her quite out of her mind.
He lavished worship on her, with tongue and lips, licking her trembling flesh. A week ago she would’ve died from mortification at the mere thought.
Now she reveled in his attention.
Her breath came in short pants, her lungs never quite filling, and she fisted her hands in her own hair, wanting him to stop, wanting him to continue until she went up in flames.
He lapped at her clitty, tender little licks, and at the same time thrust his thumb into her.
And for a moment she saw stars. Bright lights flickering behind her blind eyes, sparking and igniting as she burst into flames.
She was still gasping, still trembling and shaking, when he rose and mounted her, driving his flesh into her softness, grasping her legs and urging her to wrap them high over his waist.
“Phoebe,” he growled into her ear as he thrust hard. “Phoebe. You haunt me. You drive me. You possess me. I cannot—”
He arched, his penis deep within her, his big body shuddering on hers.
She gripped his shoulders, pulling him down to her, opening her mouth and swallowing his moan as he spilled inside her, pumping and thrusting against her.
When he at last stilled, he laid his head next to hers on the bed and whispered hoarsely, “You’ve ruined me. I don’t know if I can breathe without you. I don’t know how I can ever live without you.”
“Then don’t,” she murmured into the eternal darkness. “Then don’t.”
And knew that if he was ensnared, then so was she.
She loved James Trevillion, body and soul.
Chapter Eighteen
In the morning Morveren rose. She looked between the sea where her sisters called and Corineus and then held out her hand to him. “Will you come with me, mortal?”
“How can I?” Corineus laughed. “I’ve a newly won kingdom.”
Her eyes grew sad before she turned to wade into the blue sea.
As the water rose about her waist she said, “Should you change your mind, simply call my name.”
And then she dove beneath the waves.…
—From The Kelpie
Late the next day Trevillion stood as he often had in the last several months: at attention before the Duke of Wakefield in his study. Strange. His sojourn with Phoebe in Cornwall might’ve never happened.
Save for the fact that he’d made love to Phoebe. That he loved Phoebe. That he was going to do his very damnedest to fight for Phoebe.
“What,” the duke said, his hands steepled on the desk in front of him, his voice deadly quiet, “did you think you were doing, spiriting my sister away, hiding her—from me—and leaving that ragged urchin as the only one who knew of your location?”
“I thought I was protecting her,” Trevillion said, his gaze steady on the other man.
“Protecting her from her family? From me?” Wakefield’s glare could have turned boiling water to ice. “You have a goddamned cheek, sirrah.”
“Her maid told the kidnapper of her movements,” Trevillion said, fighting to keep his voice level. “There could’ve been any number of spies within Wakefield House.”
Behind the duke and to the side, Craven cleared his throat loudly.
An irritated grimace crossed Wakefield’s face. “In that at least you were right: we did have another spy in the house. One of the stableboys confessed to being paid by Mr. Frederick Winston—I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”
Trevillion shook his head.
Wakefield shrugged. “The younger son of the Earl of Spoke and quite deeply in debt. He confessed at once when we confronted him. He meant to force Phoebe into marriage for her dowry, apparently.” The duke’s upper lip curled. “He’s cooling his heels in Newgate even now while his father roars and threatens. I’ve given Winston the choice of leaving the country or hanging. I think we’ll soon see the back of him.”
He placed both hands palms-down on his desk. “But that doesn’t excuse you.”
“Doesn’t it?” Trevillion arched a brow. “Had she stayed in London, Lady Phoebe could well have been kidnapped again. I protected her—”
“By ruining her reputation!” Wakefield roared, slamming his hand down on his desk. “What were you thinking, man? Half the town is gossiping about my sister.”
“I was thinking that Phoebe’s life was more important than her reputation,” Trevillion bit out, and as soon as he said it, he knew his mistake.
“Phoebe?” Wakefield’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you—”
“I dare because I’m the one who took her to safety,” Trevillion said, his voice rising. “I’m the one who kept her safe until—”
Wakefield stood, this time ignoring Craven’s throat-clearing. “You are dismissed.”
“No, I’m not,” Trevillion said through gritted teeth. “Phoebe and I have an understanding. I’ll be calling upon her tomorrow and—”
“You’re a goddamned gold digger,” Wakefield bellowed. “And I want you out of my sight.”
To hell with it.
“Don’t you ever,” Trevillion ground out, “ever so malign your sister again. I love Phoebe for the woman she is, not her money. And if you should decide to disown her, be assured I can take care of her.”
“Get out. I won’t be disowning my sister and you won’t be seeing her ever again.”
“Tell me, Wakefield,” Trevillion said quietly. “Do you truly fear for your sister—or your own reputation? Phoebe is safe because of me. What is that against a bunch of petty tattle-tongues?”
Wakefield stared at him.
Trevillion nodded. “She once told me that she didn’t want to be thought of as a precious thing. You might want to think on that.”
He turned and limped to the hall.
Phoebe had already been sent to her room—supposedly to rest and recover, but Trevillion now wondered if Wakefield intended to keep her under lock and key. He’d never thought the duke that much of a despot, but he’d heard of worse in the aristocracy.
He turned to the front door and found the duchess standing at the door to one of the lower sitting rooms. “Your Grace.”
??
?Mr. Trevillion.” Her gray eyes looked distressed. “I heard shouting.”
“Indeed, Your Grace, your husband did not approve of my methods of keeping Lady Phoebe safe.”
Her lips tightened. “He’s been very worried about her.”
He inclined his head. “Your husband has already dismissed me and told me not to come back.”
“More fool he,” she said, making Panders, the butler, hiss an indrawn breath. She glanced briefly at the butler. “Don’t tell me you aren’t thinking it as well.”
The butler blinked. “I couldn’t say, Your Grace.”
She snorted. “No, of course you can’t. None of you can, but I certainly will. Phoebe comes alive in your presence, Mr. Trevillion. I see it and so does everyone else, even my stubborn husband. Keep that in mind, Captain. Please.”
Trevillion bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
And, turning, he made his way to the front door.
So he had the duchess’s good word. That was something, though hardly everything, for without Wakefield’s approval, he might well have lost Phoebe forever.
PHOEBE SAT IN her bedroom that night, her hands folded together on her lap, and thought.
About her life.
About Trevillion.
About what her life would be without Trevillion.
She’d heard the shouting below, heard the whispered words of the maids as they’d brought her water for the bath she’d taken earlier. Sadly, she hadn’t been surprised. Trevillion was stubborn and brave, but she’d known Maximus all her life, and while she loved him deeply, she had no illusions about him.
He wouldn’t take anyone courting her well, let alone an older former dragoon not of the aristocracy.
Maximus had probably never stopped to understand her situation. On many levels questions of station and age didn’t pertain to her. She couldn’t see a person’s looks. She couldn’t tell at first glance what a person wore or how they carried themselves. Yes, she wore silks and jewels, but when wool and linen were just as comfortable—in some cases more comfortable—did it really matter? She was, on a fundamental level, apart from her peers.
Why then couldn’t she choose a man different from those her peers were wed to?
A knock came at the door.
“Yes?” she called.
The door opened and she listened as Maximus’s distinctively sure tread interrupted her solitude. “Phoebe, I have the names of several gentlemen I can hire to guard you. It’s been… erm, suggested to me that it might be wise to let you help pick one.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “A guard? But didn’t you say the danger is past?”
“The danger of that particular kidnapper,” he replied, a hint of impatience in his voice. “But there is always the possibility of another. And of course there are the everyday dangers—footpads, crowds, that sort of thing.”
Phoebe lowered her head and the thought came to her—if her brother had his way—of years and years and years with her hands shackled, followed everywhere by different faceless men, for her own good.
Her protection.
And at that moment something snapped inside her. Maximus had decided—entirely on his own—what was best for her and really, truly, she was tired of it.
“No.”
“Now the first one—” Maximus interrupted himself at her word. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, no,” she repeated, quite politely.
“Phoebe,” Maximus began in his stern ducal voice—a voice she’d heard and obeyed all her life.
Not tonight.
“No,” she said, less politely now. “No, I will not help you pick out my own prison guard, Maximus. No, I will not have a guard at all, in fact. No, I will not consent to be followed around and told where I may go and where I may not. No, I’ll not let you tell me what I must and must not do.”
She gasped, slightly out of breath, but feeling quite giddy with the freedom of telling her brother her mind.
“Phoebe!”
“And,” she said, “I might very well fall—I’m warning you now—I might fall, but I’ll get up again because I can. I’ll dance and trip, I’ll talk to men and women I shouldn’t, I’ll attend salons where we discuss theater and scandals, I’ll shop on the most crowded of streets and be jostled, I’ll drink beer if I’ve a mind to, and I’ll like it.”
She stood, a little unsteadily, true, but on her own two feet. “It’s not my blindness that cripples me, it’s everyone else deciding I can’t live because of my blindness. If I stumble, if I run into things and fall and hurt myself it’s because I can and I’m free to do so, Maximus. Because without that freedom I’m just a dull, chained thing and I won’t be that woman anymore. I simply won’t, Maximus.”
She made her way to the door, her fingers trailing over the backs of familiar chairs and tables, and there was absolute silence. Perhaps she’d struck her brother dumb.
When she got to the door she opened it pointedly. “And one more thing: I intend to marry Captain James Trevillion, with or without your permission. I love him and he loves me. I only tell you my plans as a kindness so that you might get used to the idea.”
And for the very first time in his life the Duke of Wakefield was forced to leave a room without the last word.
THAT SAME NIGHT Trevillion sat eating a rather dispiriting supper of cod soup in his rented room and missing Phoebe when there came a knock on the door.
He looked up warily, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t know all that many people in London, despite his twelve years there. Phoebe should be safely tucked in her bed. No doubt Wakefield would be making more threats soon, but it seemed a bit early yet for that. He’d only left the man a few hours before.
Trevillion rose with a pistol gripped in his hand.
When he cracked the door he was surprised to see the Duke of Wakefield on his doorstep.
For a moment he merely stared.
“Might I come in?” The duke lifted his eyebrows at him.
Trevillion silently waved him in.
Wakefield glanced about curiously and then took a seat on the bed without asking.
Trevillion thought about offering him something, but besides the cooling cod soup and a rather dismal wine he had nothing.
“I’ve come,” the duke began in his usual proud tones… and then oddly he stopped.
It was Trevillion’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Your Grace?”
“Maximus.”
Trevillion cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”
“My name is Maximus,” the duke said wearily. He took off his tricorne and set it on the bed. “Yours is James, is it not?”
Trevillion blinked. “No one calls me that.” Lie. His family and Phoebe called him that.
A corner of Maximus’s mouth kicked up. “Trevillion, then.” He sighed. “She lectured me tonight, did you know that?”
The question seemed rhetorical, so instead of answering Trevillion took his own seat.
“Without ever raising her voice,” Maximus said thoughtfully. “And gave me a rather long speech about her rights.” His gaze flicked to Trevillion. “She said she was going to marry you.”
Trevillion nodded. “Yes, she will, Your Grace, with your blessing, I hope.”
“Maximus,” said the duke absently. “I’m not entirely sure she wants my blessing, actually, but I’m here to give it.”
Trevillion’s eyebrows shot up. What exactly had Phoebe said to her brother? He had opened his mouth to inquire when the door burst open.
Trevillion stood, recognizing two footmen from Wakefield House.
“Your Grace,” Hathaway burst out. “Lady Phoebe has been taken!”
Chapter Nineteen
Now Corineus was crowned king of that new land and he ruled it wisely and well so that the people prospered there. But though many other rulers sought to give him their daughters’ hands in marriage, he never took a wife. Years passed and King Corineus’s beard turned from blackest pitch to bone white.
&nbs
p; And sometimes in the midnight hours he dreamed of waves crashing and uptilted green eyes.…
—From The Kelpie
Really, she ought to be used to this by now, Phoebe pondered as she sat in yet another carriage surrounded by men of highly dubious reputation. All she’d wanted to do was visit Hero and pour out her difficulties with Maximus to a sisterly ear, and somehow she’d been snatched right in front of Wakefield House.
And now once again she was being trundled into some awful part of London. Two things were different this time at least. One, they hadn’t bothered with the hood, for which she was very grateful. And two, Mr. Malcolm MacLeish sat in the carriage with her.
The latter she was less grateful for, particularly since Mr. MacLeish seemed to be under the impression that he would be marrying her.
“Please, Lady Phoebe,” he said. “It’s for the best, really. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. It’s just that we cannot go against him. He’s powerful in ways you’ll never understand.”
Phoebe yanked her fingers out of Mr. MacLeish’s hand. “Well, I’ll certainly not understand if you won’t explain in plain language. Who is the man you’re afraid of? Are these men holding a gun on you as well, Mr. MacLeish?”
One of the kidnappers guffawed.
“In a way, yes,” Mr. MacLeish said rather stiffly. “I’m as much a victim as you.”
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe you, sir,” Phoebe shot back. “Who, exactly, is making you marry me—and for goodness’ sake, why?”
“I’ll take care of you,” Mr. MacLeish replied, conveniently not answering her questions. “I’ll be sure you don’t ever want for anything.”
“I think I might want for making my own decisions,” Phoebe muttered as the carriage jerked to a halt.
She thought briefly of trying to run, but besides the obvious difficulty, she was a bit afraid of the men who held her. They’d fired their pistols when she’d been grabbed in the street directly outside Wakefield House. It had been impossible to tell, but she dearly hoped they hadn’t shot Hathaway or Panders.