Ask for It

  Flat on his back, Marcus stared up through the darkness to the canopy above. Against his side Elizabeth curled, her thigh atop his, her arm across his waist. The warm, soft feel of her curves was heaven after the loneliness of their wedding night. Dawn had arrived without him sleeping a wink. He’d paced for hours, fighting the urge to return to her, to hold her, as he had during the nights of their affair. He’d thought the physical distance would help him find objectivity, but when he awoke to find her gone, he’d realized how hopeless that endeavor was.

  Their row, and the gulf it created, had shown him the folly in pushing her away. Damn it, she was his wife! He’d waited all these years to have her, only to turn away from her once she was his.

  Elizabeth stirred, and then sat up. Heedless of her nakedness, she settled back on her heels. She presented such a vision of loveliness Marcus almost forgot to breathe. Wanting to see her in all her glory, he slid from the bed to light the bedside taper.

  “If you walk out that door, don’t visit me again,” she said coldly.

  He stilled, fighting the urge to snap back. While her threat to bar him from her bed was not one he would accept, ever, he understood it was his own churlish behavior that prompted her to throw down the gauntlet.

  “I simply wish to throw some light on the situation.”

  She made no sound, but he could sense her sudden relief and closed his eyes. He had every right to protect her, and his goal had been worthy, but the execution had been a terrible mistake. How much damage had he inflicted? She said nothing of St. John to him . . . she didn’t trust him . . .

  “Are you still angry?” she asked hesitantly.

  He sighed aloud. “I haven’t yet decided. What happened today? Tell me everything.”

  Behind him, she shifted uncomfortably and his hackles rose. “St. John approached me. H-he claims to want to help me. I believe he—”

  “In what way did he offer to help?”

  “He didn’t say. Your mother arrived. He was unable to finish speaking.”

  “Dear God,” he exclaimed, horrified at the thought of St. John in such close proximity to his wife and his mother.

  “He knows who desires Hawthorne’s journal.”

  “Of course he does.” His voice was gritty with renewed anger. He should have killed the pirate.

  Leaving the bed, Marcus took a moment to stoke the fire and relight the extinguished taper. Then he returned to Elizabeth and eyed her suspiciously. “You are not the type of woman who succumbs to fits of vapors. You forget I have seen you shoot a man without a qualm. You are hiding something from me.” He arched a brow in silent query.

  Her gaze met his.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Elizabeth?”

  “I was feeling cross.”

  Marcus narrowed his gaze. He knew she could be spiteful when angered, but she was not stupid. Anger alone would not prevent her from protecting herself. Something was amiss, he could feel it. She was attempting to conceal information and he considered all possibilities. Perhaps the pirate had threatened her in some manner. If so, he intended to discern the cause and attend to it directly. More than he already had.

  “Where did you go?” she asked when the silence stretched out.

  “To locate St. John, of course.”

  Her eyes widened and then dropped to his torso. She gaped. “Look at you! You’ve been hurt.”

  “He revealed even less information than you, dear wife. But I’m certain he now understands the foolishness of approaching you again.”

  “What did you do?” Her fingertips drifted with heartening concern to the spreading bruise that marred his ribs.

  He shrugged, completely unaffected by her horrified gaze. “St. John and I simply engaged in casual discourse.”

  She poked brutally into the swelling and he winced. “That does not come from talking,” she argued. “And look at your hand.” She examined his swollen knuckles and shot him a chastising glance.

  Marcus grinned. “Better you should look at St. John’s face.”

  “Ridiculous. I want you to stay away from him, Marcus.”

  “I will,” he agreed, “If he stays away from you.”

  “Aren’t you curious as to what manner of help he’s offering?”

  Marcus grunted. “He made no offer of assistance to me. He is deceiving you, love. Attempting to win your trust so you will give the book to him.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue further, then thought better of it. It was best if Marcus didn’t dig too far into Christopher St. John. It was miraculous that nothing more than blows were exchanged. She marveled at her husband’s restraint. That the pirate continued his activities chafed Marcus, she had no doubt, but he forced himself to wait. For what, she was not certain. There must be something Eldridge wanted with St. John, or they would have disposed of him long ago.

  She was startled when Marcus reached for her hand and tugged her face-first onto the bed. He rolled over her, caging her to the mattress. It was then she noted his erection, the tip of it pressing into the curve of her derriere.

  “You are my wife,” he growled in her ear. “I expect you to tell me of the things that happen in your life, to share things with me, even if they seem inconsequential, but most especially when the matter is so dire. I will not tolerate your lying to me or withholding things from me. Do I make myself clear?”

  She pursed her lips. The brute.

  He thrust his hips forward and his cock glided through the valley between her buttocks, his path eased by the weeping head. “I will not have you putting your life in danger. You should never leave the house without me. Can you understand how worried I was? Wondering if you were in danger . . . wondering if you needed me.”

  “You are aroused,” she replied, surprised.

  “You are naked,” he said simply, as if only that was enough. “You must learn to trust me, Elizabeth.” His lips moved against her shoulder as he stroked himself with her prone body. “I will try to be worthy of it.”

  Elizabeth’s hands fisted in the sheets and she hid her sudden tears. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”

  Marcus nuzzled her throat. “I apologize to you, as well.”

  “I accept, on the condition you share my bed.” Elizabeth moaned as he thrust again, a slow deliberate glide that left a damp trail behind. Heat blossomed instantly. With a forlorn sigh, she closed her eyes. She should have told him the truth when she had the chance. Now he would always wonder why she hid it from him.

  “My bed is bigger,” he drawled, slightly breathless.

  Her heart swelled with tenderness. The urge to tell him about her kinship with St. John was nearly overwhelming. But now was not the time.

  She arched her hips upward impatiently. “If we switched locations, would you hurry?”

  Lifting enough to allow her to her knees, he entered her from behind with a single powerful stroke.

  “Sweet Elizabeth,” he groaned, his cheek to her back. “We can switch rooms tomorrow.”

  Elizabeth waited in the far reaches of the garden. Pacing with impatience, she spun about quickly as she heard approaching footsteps.

  “Mr. James! Thank God, you’ve come.”

  Avery stopped before her, frowning. “Why have you sent for me?” He glanced around. “Where is Lord Westfield?”

  She took his arm and tugged him behind a tree. “I require your assistance and Westfield must not know of it.”

  “I beg your pardon? Your husband is the agent assigned to assist you.”

  She gripped his arm tighter to convey her urgency. “Christopher St. John approached me yesterday. He claims to be brother to Hawthorne. I must know the truth.”

  Avery was stunned into silence.

  Looking over his shoulder, she watched the path behind him. “Westfield was furious when he learned of the meeting. He left the house to search for St. John.” She lowered her voice. “They exchanged blows.”

  Avery’s mouth quirked with a rare smile. “Well, then.
All was well.”

  “How can you say that?” she cried.

  “Lord Westfield was merely making a point. And releasing some steam in the process.”

  “How can you condone such rash behavior?”

  “I do not condone it, Lady Westfield, but I can understand his motivation. Your husband is an excellent agent. I am certain he did not go into the encounter without careful planning. He would never have allowed emotion to rule his actions.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “I assure you, he was highly strung when he departed.”

  Avery tried to look reassuring. “I believe Lord Westfield is more than capable of handling this matter, if you will just trust him to do so.”

  “I cannot go to him with conjecture.” She clasped her hands together imploringly.

  “What is it you would ask of me that you would not ask of your husband?”

  “I need you to research St. John’s story. If what he says is true, we must wonder at the irony of two brothers working on opposite sides of the law. Hawthorne was killed and my brother wounded while investigating St. John. That cannot be a coincidence.” She clutched his hand. “And Lord Eldridge must remain ignorant of this development.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he would certainly tell Westfield. I’m not certain how my husband will take the news. I need some time to sort this out.”

  “You sound as if you believe.”

  Elizabeth nodded miserably. “I have no reason not to. The resemblance between St. John and Hawthorne is startling, and the tale is so fantastic how can it not be true?”

  “I fear you may be doing a disservice to his lordship.”

  “A little more time,” she begged. “It’s all I ask. I promise to tell him everything you discover.”

  He released a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I will investigate, and keep my silence in the interval.”

  Elizabeth’s heart gave a tiny leap of grateful relief. “Thank you, Mr. James. You have always been a dear friend to me.”

  Flushing a dull red, he said, “Don’t thank me just yet. We may both end up regretting that I agreed to this business.”

  Over the next few weeks, Elizabeth accustomed herself to married life with Marcus. The Ashfords remained in residence at his insistence. He rested easier knowing she was not alone and Elizabeth appreciated the company while he attended to his affairs.

  At Eldridge’s insistence, they attended the occasional Society event, ones most likely to attract St. John. The pirate had managed to throw off the agents tracking his whereabouts and hadn’t been seen in London since the afternoon he’d spoken with her. His sudden departure was a mystery that set them all on edge.

  The threat to her was always on Marcus’s mind. Guards were stationed in and around the house, dressed in Westfield livery to avoid arousing the suspicions of his family. The endless waiting made her husband as restless as a caged animal. She’d known from their very first dance together that he was a man who held a tight rein on his passions. He unleashed them fully on her.

  He held nothing back. When he was angry, he yelled. When he was pleased, he laughed. When he was aroused, he made love to her, regardless of what time of day it was or where they were at the moment. Twice he left the Lords in the middle of the afternoon to seduce her. She had never felt so important to someone, so necessary. Blatantly possessive, he showed no hesitation in speaking harshly to any man who acted too familiarly with her.

  For her own part, Elizabeth found that her jealousy did not ease with her new ownership. It was a miserable personality flaw to be cursed with in a society where dalliance was not only widespread, but expected. Marriage only increased Marcus’s appeal to other women. His vibrant energy was now mellowed to the slow, languid grace of a man who was well-loved often by a passionate woman. It made him irresistible.

  One evening, during a masked ball, Elizabeth’s jealousy finally got the better of her. As Marcus moved toward the beverage tables, she noticed several women choosing the same moment to replenish their own glasses. Looking away in disgust, Elizabeth spied the Dowager Duchess of Ravensend coming toward her.

  “Do you see the way women follow my husband?” she complained, rising from a quick curtsy.

  Her Grace shrugged. “Masked events give license to cast off what little restraint Society clings to. Note the shaking palm tree in the far right corner? Lady Grenville and Lord Sackton have abandoned their spouses in favor of some exhibitionist sport. And Claire Milton returned from the garden with twigs in her hair. You should not be surprised they sniff after Westfield like mongrel bitches.”

  “I’m not,” she announced curtly. “But I won’t tolerate it. Excuse me, Your Grace.” With rapid strides, she moved into the next room to find her husband.

  She located him near the refreshment tables, a glass in each hand and surrounded by women. He shrugged innocently when he saw her, his lips curving wickedly beneath the edge of his half mask. Pushing through the small crowd, Elizabeth claimed one of the glasses, and then linked her arm with his. Her spine stiff, she led Marcus back to the ballroom, all enjoyment in the evening gone.

  The duchess took one look at her face, and excused herself with a smile.

  Marcus chuckled. “Thank you, Lady Westfield. To my recollection that is the first time I have ever been rescued.”

  “You have never wanted to be rescued,” she snapped, hating that he could be so nonchalant in the face of her upset.

  He lifted a hand to caress a powdered curl. “You’re jealous!” he crowed.

  She turned away, wondering, as she often did, how many women in the room knew him carnally as she did.

  Marcus stepped around until he faced her. “What is it, love?”

  “None of your affair.”

  Uncaring of their audience, Marcus traced the bottom curve of her lip with his gloved thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong, or I cannot fix it.”

  “I detest every woman who knew you before.” Blushing, she lowered her head and waited for his laughter.

  Instead, his deep, velvety voice swirled around her, encasing her in warmth. “Do you remember when I said intimacy and sex can be mutually exclusive?” His head lowered to hers, his mouth brushing her ear as he whispered, “You are the only woman I have ever been intimate with.”

  A tear escaped. Marcus brushed it away.

  “I want to take you home,” he murmured, his emerald gaze hot behind the mask. “And be intimate with you.”

  She left with him, desperate to have him all to herself. That night he was so tender in his lovemaking, adoring her with his body, giving her everything she asked. His gentle ardor brought tears to her eyes and afterward he held her in his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

  Every day brought her closer to him. She was beginning to need him, not just with sensual craving but for so much more. It was a passion that would take a lifetime to sate.

  She could only pray fate would give her that chance.

  Chapter 19

  “You should not have come to my home.”

  Christopher St. John vaulted into the unmarked Westfield town coach. The pirate’s overwhelming presence dominated the interior and added a palpable energy to the air, forcing Elizabeth to retreat into the squabs. Glancing out the window, she remained surprised at the elegance of the small townhouse he resided in. It was conspicuous in the unfashionable part of town where it was located. However the two burly henchmen at the door betrayed the seediness of the goings-on within.

  He took the seat opposite her. “It’s not a fit place for a lady and this ostentatious equipage is attracting the kind of dangerous attention you don’t want.”

  “You know I had no choice. As soon as I learned your direction, I had to come. I have no other way of reaching you.” She arched a brow. “You, Mr. St. John, have questions to answer.”

  His full mouth curved wryly, as he leaned back and adjusted his coat. “No need to be so formal. We are related, after all.”

  “As i
f I could forget.”

  “So you believe me then.”

  “I had your claim investigated.”

  St. John glanced around, taking in the opulence of the dark leather interior with one sweeping glance. “Such a shame you married Westfield. Looks as if the man could use a lightening of his purse.”

  “I strongly suggest you find other sport, if you don’t wish to anger me. I am not pleasant when I’m cross.”

  St. John blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “By God, I do like you. Rest assured, I am loyal to members of my family and Westfield is something of a family member, is he not?”

  Rubbing between her brows in a vain effort to ward off a headache, she muttered, “Westfield knows nothing of this and I prefer to keep it that way.”

  St. John reached over and opened the small compartment door by his seat. Withdrawing a glass, he poured two fingers of brandy, which he then offered to her. When she refused, he put the decanter away. “I realized you hadn’t told him about us when he came to see me. However, I did think you would have told him since then.”

  Studying him more closely, she noted the faint yellow of a healing bruise around his left eye and the small scab on his lip. “Are your injuries from Westfield?”

  “No other man would dare.”

  She winced. “I apologize. I had no intention of telling him about our meeting, but I neglected to tell my mother-in-law to keep quiet about it.”

  St. John waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No lasting harm done. Quite stimulating, actually. After years of doing nothing more strenuous than exchanging barbs, it was time for us to get to business. I was glad he found me. I was curious to see how he felt about you. The man has never had a weakness in his life. I regret you are one I cannot exploit.”

  “What is your grievance with Westfield?”

  “The man is too arrogant, too titled, too wealthy, too pretty—too everything. He’s as rich as Croesus and yet he cries foul when I take a tiny bit of his blunt.”

  She snorted. “As if you would have a party should someone steal from you.”

  He choked on his brandy.