Wicked Intentions

  Lazarus looked at Temperance. “What’s happened?”

  She shook her head, her beautiful golden-flecked eyes puzzled. “I don’t know.”

  The one-eyed serving girl emerged from the curtained back hall. Before the curtain fell, Lazarus counted three men in the hall. What had made Mother Heart’s-Ease triple her guard? The girl’s head was down, her face tear-streaked. She caught sight of them and ducked her head, sidling to the side.

  Temperance hurried to her without any urging from Lazarus. He watched as she seemed to plead with the girl, following as she shook her head and turned away. Temperance laid a hand on the barmaid and the girl shook it off, saying something sharply. Temperance straightened abruptly, her eyes wide.

  Lazarus was at her side in a second. “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “Not here.”

  Temperance led him back outside the gin shop, looking fearfully around. He drew her close, under his cloak, wrapping his arms about her. “Tell me.”

  She looked up at him, her face a pale oval in the night. “She wouldn’t even discuss Marie. There’s been another murder—a prostitute. She was found bound to her bed and her belly…” She gasped, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Shh.” His heart was beating fast, his senses alert to every tiny movement, every small sound in their vicinity. “I have to get you back to the home.”

  She clutched at him. “They’re saying it was the Ghost of St. Giles.”

  “What?”

  “Some think him a phantom, some think him a real man, but in either case they believe he’s the murderer.”

  He shook his head and began walking. “Why?”

  “They don’t know. There’s speculation that he’s seeking revenge of some sort, that he’s been sent to punish the sinful or that he simply enjoys killing.” She shivered again. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it? If he was the murderer, if he wanted us dead, he wouldn’t have joined you in defeating those attackers.”

  “No,” he murmured, “it doesn’t make sense.”

  It was another ten minutes before they were at her door again, and Lazarus was never so happy to see the home. When she unlocked the door, he followed her into the kitchen.

  He watched as she filled her little kettle and hung it over the hearth before stirring up the banked fire. “What evidence is there that the Ghost is the murderer? Did the barmaid say?”

  She shot him a perplexed look as she set out her tea things. “She didn’t seem to know. She was just repeating what everyone else said.”

  “Hmm.” He tapped his fingers on the kitchen table. “I wonder, then, if someone is spreading this rumor.”

  “But who?”

  He shook his head. “In any case, I can no longer take you into St. Giles. Not while this murderer is at large.”

  She nodded silently, her brows knit at his pronouncement. Was she that docile to his command, or would she disobey him later? The thought made him restless—that he had no real power over this woman. She could do as she pleased no matter what he thought or how he worried.

  The kettle came to a boil after a bit and she filled her teapot. He followed her into her little sitting room, squatting to make up the fire there as she sat on her stool. Then he lounged in the chair and watched, ridiculously content, as she poured herself a cup of tea and added sugar. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind spending every evening for the rest of his life thus, watching her take her first sip of hot tea, considering the way she half closed her eyes in relaxation.

  “How is your sister?” he asked after a bit.

  She looked up quickly, perhaps surprised, and that irritated him.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Silence, I think? Has she recovered from her confrontation with O’Connor?”

  “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I haven’t heard from her at all. Winter won’t talk to me; he simply goes about his work without discussing anything. Concord is quite angry—or perhaps disapproving is a better word.”

  “And the children?” he asked. “How fare they?”

  She cradled her cup between her hands. “Mostly they seem the same as usual. Mary Whitsun follows me about the house like a shadow, though, as if she fears I’ll disappear if she loses sight of me.”

  He nodded, unsure of what to say to all this. His experience with families—indeed, with feelings—was woefully inadequate.

  She inhaled. “And you? How is your shoulder?”

  “Almost as good as new.”

  She was silent for several seconds, and then she asked quietly, “Why do you think Marie never told you about her brother?”

  “Perhaps because I never asked her about her family.” He shrugged. “The fact of the matter is that we hardly talked at all. There wasn’t a need to in our relationship.”

  “So, when you saw her, you’d simply…”

  “Fuck. Yes.” He watched her, waiting for her revulsion. “I didn’t want or need anything else from her.”

  “And me?” she whispered.

  He inhaled. “From you I want much, much more.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Now Meg sat all alone in her tiny dungeon cell that day, for no one came to visit her. She busied herself tidying the cell and then washed herself in the bucket of water and combed out her long golden hair. She’d almost resigned herself to going to bed when there was a tap at the door to her cell. In came three lady’s maids and one very elegant hairdresser, and before she knew it, Meg was arrayed in a sparkling blue gown, her hair dressed with pearls, and fine heeled slippers on her feet.

  “Why, what is the meaning of this?” she cried in astonishment.

  The hairdresser bowed and replied, “Tonight you are to dine with the king himself.”…

  —from King Lockedheart

  Temperance watched him, this exotic creature, this man from a foreign world, saying that he wanted more from her. How much more? She wanted to ask but feared the answer.

  So instead she set down her teacup. “Very well.”

  He nodded, staring into the flames of the fire. He seemed content with their pact, whatever it was, but she felt heat unfurling in her belly. She wanted more as well.

  “You haven’t told me about your family.”

  He shook his head irritably. “That’s not true. I’ve told you about my sister, about my mother.”

  “But not about your father,” she said in a low voice. She didn’t know where it came from, this sudden need to know all his secrets. Perhaps it was the knowledge that a murderer stalked the streets of St. Giles; perhaps it was the subtle brush with death. All she knew was that she wanted to know him, this man she’d taken into her body.

  He stiffened. “My father was an aristocrat. There’s nothing more to tell of him.”

  She cocked her head, watching him. His eyes were back on the fire, and there was quite obviously much more to tell.

  “What did he look like?”

  He glanced at her, startled. “He was… a big man.”

  “Taller than you?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He frowned. “No, that’s not true. I was taller by the time I returned from Oxford. He just seemed… large.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said abruptly.

  “But you want more from me,” she said. “Shouldn’t I, in turn, want more from you?”

  He smiled crookedly. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Dews. What do you want to know of me?”

  “Maybe I want to know everything,” she said boldly.

  “Ah, can anyone ever know everything about another person?”

  “Probably not,” she said, rising.

  He stilled, watching as she took two steps to stand in front of him.

  “Probably we remain separate, lonely individuals for all of our lives,” she murmured, perching on his spread knee. She touched the folds of his neckcloth and then began unwrapping it. “We can never know another truly. Isn’t that what you want me to say?”

  H
e cleared his throat. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Of course you have,” she mocked gently. “You’re a gentleman of intellect, a very cynical one. I think you spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about the world and how very alone you are in it.”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving beneath her fingers. “Aren’t I?”

  “Perhaps.” She flicked a look at him, then concentrated on slipping off his neckcloth. “Is that why you tie them?”

  “Who?”

  “Tsk. I never thought you a coward, Lazarus.”

  He sighed and closed his eyes. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  She began on the buttons of his waistcoat. “You don’t know why you tie them, or you don’t want to admit it?”

  “How very stern you are, madam.” His voice held a hint of warning.

  “Yes.” She nodded, her eyes on her work. “But I think I would never get any answer from you otherwise. Does their nearness give you pain? Does the thought of how apart you are from them—from everyone—cause you the anguish you feel when others touch you?”

  “Your perception terrifies me.” He helped her remove his waistcoat. “I don’t know why I feel pain.”

  “Is the pain physical or mental?”

  “Both.”

  She nodded as she began to unbutton his shirt. She could feel the heat of his skin, and his dark chest hair was shadowy beneath the fine linen. She felt her insides clench. “Then perhaps you tie them so they will not cause you pain.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Or”—she lifted her eyes to meet his—“perhaps you tie them so that you have no need to acknowledge their humanity.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that make me the devil?”

  “Would it?” she asked softly.

  His eyes slid away from hers.

  “Are you afraid of their gaze? Is that what the blindfold is for? So you can’t see their eyes?”

  “Perhaps I don’t wish them to see my eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps I don’t want them to see the black at the center of my soul.”

  She stared into his amazing blue eyes a moment, and he let her as if he was telling her something silently.

  Then she looked away.

  “You don’t tie me.” She felt her pulse speed. She wanted to take off his shirt, but then again, she had no wish to cause him pain. She smoothed her hands over the linen, feeling his warm muscles beneath. He had a lovely chest, broad and fine, the mounds of his shoulders flowing smoothly into the bunched muscles of his arms.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Is it because I’m more important than those others or less?”

  “More. Most definitely.”

  She nodded, watching her hands on him. The thought that she was important to him made tears prick in her eyes.

  “Am I more important to you?” he asked softly.

  Of course he was. But she brushed aside the question. She was interested in his vulnerabilities, not her own. “Does this pain you? If I touch you through the cloth?”

  “No.”

  She leaned forward and softly kissed his shoulder. “I’m glad.”

  “I answer your questions, but you don’t answer mine.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. Don’t push.”

  “What—” His question was cut off as she leaned forward and delicately licked one nipple through his shirt.

  He inhaled. “I’ll need to know someday.”

  “Perhaps.” She traced around his nipple with her tongue. The wet fabric was nearly transparent, and she could see the brown nipple beneath his shirt.

  “Ahh.”

  She smiled against his shirt.

  “Temperance.”

  “Don’t push.” She held the shirt flat against his chest to more clearly see him. His puckered nipple made a tiny peak.

  “As you push me?”

  “Am I pushing you?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  She tugged on a strand of his hair in reprimand.

  He grunted. “Do you ask yourself why you have a need to push me?”

  “No.” She traced downward to lay her hands flat against his belly. It felt firm and hot.

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Hmm.” She was distracted for a moment by the waistband of his breeches and the fall beneath.

  “Temperance…”

  “No.” She slid off his lap and to her knees between his legs. She flicked open the buttons of his breeches. “Do you feel pain now?”

  “Hmm?” he murmured. He seemed enthralled by the sight of her fingers working at the opening to his breeches. Beneath, his erection strained at the cloth. Her mouth was dry, anticipating the sight.

  But she wasn’t going to let him go that easily. “Lazarus? Am I hurting you?”

  “If you are, it is exquisite.”

  “Good,” she said as she laid his breeches open. His cock was tenting the front of his smallclothes. “Lazarus…”

  “Yes?” he answered. “Ah…”

  She wrapped her hands about his penis inside his smallclothes. She glanced up at him under her eyelashes. “Would you like to tie me sometime?”

  He blinked as if awakening from a daze, his eyes growing wary. “No. No, of course not.”

  “Now who lies?” she murmured as she gently squeezed, testing his hardness. “Would it hurt you if I took this out and touched it?”

  He inhaled. “I think I could bear it.”

  “Could you?”

  “Please.”

  His husky plea decided her. Carefully, delicately, she unbuttoned his smallclothes and pulled back the flaps. And then she simply looked.

  He was truly magnificent, sitting in her worn armchair, his legs spread, his penis enormously erect. The fact that he still wore his shirt and breeches, hose and shoes, made the sight of his black pubic hair and ruddy cock all the more arousing. The sight was shockingly intimate. He looked like a king, arrogant and sure of his power.

  “I love to look at you,” she said.

  “Indeed?” he whispered, his voice a deep male purr.

  She glanced up at him and at the same time wrapped her hand about his cock. “You’re sure you wouldn’t want me spread upon your bed? Powerless, helpless to your desire?”

  His eyes had half closed, his cheeks flushed with sexual hunger. “I… I… perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” she murmured, her attention drawn back to the prize in her hands. Truth be told, her interest in the game had waned. “I’ve never known you to be uncertain as to your wants. Your desires.”

  She squeezed very carefully, feeling the softness of his skin, the iron hardness underneath.

  He gasped, arching his hips so that his cock thrust into her hands. “Damn it. Put it in your mouth.”

  She bit her lip, a little shocked. She’d never done such a thing before. She stroked her finger over the tip of his penis, where a tiny slit leaked liquid. What would that liquid taste like in her mouth?

  “Temperance,” he said, his voice very deep and very clear in the quiet room. “Suck me.”

  She bent her head and stuck out her tongue hesitantly. And licked. She wrinkled her nose. It was salt and musk, not unpleasant, but not what she’d expected either.

  Above her, he moaned. “Please.”

  Oh, to hear him beg. There was something in her, something wicked and base that lapped up that plea in his voice. She opened her mouth and placed the head of his cock inside.

  Sucked.

  His hips jerked, jamming his cock farther into her mouth. She almost backed off, but then she held him more firmly and flattened her tongue against him, sucking gently. His hands came up, stroking her head. She felt him take the pins from her hair, wrapping his hands in the locks, pulling gently. She wasn’t sure he even knew what he did. She leaned back a little, letting him slide from her mouth so she could look up at him.

  He was watching her.

  The knowledge made her
wet. She laid her tongue against him and, locking her eyes with his, licked all the way around the head of his cock.

  “Jesus.” His jaw gritted, flexing in the firelight.

  She stroked down on his penis and opened her lips about him, sucking gently on the very tip.

  His face was strained, the muscles standing out on his arms. “Take it deeper.”

  And she did, swallowing as much of him as she could, her eyes still on his even as his hips moved under her. He covered her hand with his own to help her stroke faster.

  He was gasping now, his cheeks furrowed, his face flushed. “Do you want it?” he whispered. “Stop now if you can’t take it.”

  She couldn’t talk—her mouth was full of his cock—but she wanted to see this. Wanted to bring him to the inevitable end. She watched him as she felt his cock swell in her mouth. Watched him as his hand jerked powerfully on his length. Watched him as he bared his teeth.

  “Ah, God!”

  She tasted salt and warmth. Felt tears fill her eyes as he spasmed helplessly. He was big and strong, but she’d brought him to this point.

  She licked him as he softened, feeling tender, feeling somehow lost.

  “Come here,” he ordered, and pulled her into his arms.

  He tucked her head under his chin, and they lay there for long moments as he stroked her hair. Then he began to pull her skirts up. Wordlessly, relentlessly, he uncovered her limbs until she lay sprawled on him, the fabric of her skirts around her waist.

  He looked down and she followed his gaze. Her dark curls were a shocking contrast to the whiteness of her skin. She wasn’t used to this, to a man examining her in the firelight, and she started to pull down her skirts to cover her nudity.

  “Don’t.” He stayed her hand, his eyes meeting hers in command. “I want to see you.”

  She shook her head, but the movement was weak.

  He moved his hand to the juncture of her thighs, and she turned her head, hiding her face in his shoulder. She felt him pet her, stroking through her curls.

  “Open your legs,” he said quietly.

  She complied, swallowing shallowly, waiting for his touch.

  It was so delicate when it came that she almost missed it. He skimmed her inner thighs, up close to where her center waited for him. But then he skirted up, around her mound, touching only the edges of her hair.