Scandalous Desires

  But he allowed it, for she was a fair prize, this soft-hearted woman. And if she were his woman, well then, he supposed in a way he must be her man.

  “Hush, darlin’.” He tongued the back of her neck tasting salt and womanly allure.

  She bumped her hips demandingly into his and he chuckled low. At last he touched her where she wanted his fingertips. He pressed firmly, rubbing and circling until a high wail came from her throat. The sound was a balm to his blasted soul.

  She would’ve jerked away then, but he was having none of it. He anchored her hip and tethered her in the most basic way possible. He lifted her upper leg, draping it over his own hips, and thrust into her warm, welcoming wetness.

  Then he went back to playing. He bit at her shoulder as he stroked her pretty cunny, his own body still. He had what he wanted: her pinned to him, unable to escape. He slid his fingers through her sweet folds until he touched the base of his own flesh where it met hers. His cock was buried within her body as his hand played upon her delicate flesh. She moaned low and he licked where he’d bitten her shoulder, then moved to catch her earlobe. She tried to rub against him, but he was stronger and he easily held her still.

  Fingering. Softly tapping.

  She was swollen now, his hand drenched with her readiness. He could feel her flexing about his rod and the sensation was an exquisite torture. He treasured her, treasured her tears, treasured her love for others. Her heart might even be big enough to fill that empty space in his own chest. Perhaps she could be his heart as well.

  “Michael,” she whispered, a siren unaware of her song.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Michael, please.”

  “Turn yer head to me, love.”

  She did and he devoured her mouth, licking salt tears from her lips, thrusting his tongue deep within, a pirate demanding tithe.

  She arched and he could no longer hold himself back. He flexed his hips and drove deep within her, holding her cunny in the palm of his hand. He speared within her clenching valley, plundering all that was sweet in her. She opened her mouth wide in a silent scream and his release caught him, hard and fast as he kissed her openmouthed. He tore his mouth from hers and shouted his triumph. She was his, now and forevermore, until the end of time, until the seas ran dry and man no longer roamed the earth, amen.

  His and only his.

  She slumped against him, the scent of their passion musky in the night air.

  “Sleep,” he murmured to her, and held her against himself, his cock still buried deep.

  She was caught and he had no intention of ever letting her go.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rainbow bird swooped low from the sky and flew in happy cartwheels around Clever John’s head before alighting and turning into Tamara.

  She threw back her rainbow head and laughed merrily. “Clever John, you have gray in your hair and your strong back has begun to bend! Has it been so many years, my friend?”

  But Clever John was looking toward his castle with worry. “I wish for a chest of gold and jewels that is always full.”

  Tamara smiled a little sadly and raised her arms to the sky. “As you wish!”…

  —from Clever John

  Silence woke to the feel of a man’s body around her. It was such a nice luxury that she sighed in pleasure. His broad shoulders cradled hers, warming her all the way through. The soles of her feet were against his calves and she flexed her toes, feeling the rough hair on his legs.

  Only then, with that small movement, did she realize that he still lay within her. Silence froze, her eyes wide in shock. She’d slept linked with Michael. Even now she could feel the twitch of his penis within her depths. The sensation was utterly decadent.

  Utterly wonderful.

  In one night she’d shared more with Michael than she’d ever had with William. It was more than the fact that Michael was a slow, thorough lover. He’d listened to her weep without male embarrassment. Had stroked her and comforted her. The thought gave her hope. If he was able to listen to her tears and disappointment, then surely if they argued, if they disagreed, he’d talk about it with her—not turn aside as William had. And if Michael was able to talk to her…

  Well. Then they might have a future together.

  Always assuming, of course, that he wanted a future with her. Silence frowned at the thought. He’d not mentioned marriage, or indeed even making her his mistress. Did he have any plans for her? Or was he—

  Michael’s breathing had been sonorous, but she realized suddenly that it had lightened. She stilled, suddenly cautious. What must he think of her tears last night? Surely he wasn’t used to such things? Her overabundance of emotion was gauche, she knew, but it was something she could do little to change. She’d lived so long with the fantasy of a perfect love with William, that putting it aside was a hard thing.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “For what?” he asked, his voice blurred with sleep.

  “For weeping,” she said softly. “I know it must have irritated you, it’s just that—”

  “I wasn’t irritated,” he said, his breath whispering against the back of her neck. “Never apologize for what we two do here.”

  “But you must not want a weepy woman in your bed.”

  He grunted and stirred, withdrawing from her. She only had a moment to be disappointed and then he flipped her to her back and rose over her, powerful and male. He casually parted her legs with his knees and thrust into her again, hot and hard.

  She gasped at the swift invasion, the lovely feeling, and then his face was next to hers, his big palms cradling her cheeks.

  “What I want,” he drawled, “is ye. Nothin’ else.”

  She opened her lips to ask what exactly he meant by that, but his mouth covered hers, and all thought fled her mind.

  He kissed her leisurely then rose, bracing his upper half on his arms and thrust into her. This position was an old one, a familiar one, though not with him. Somehow with Michael she felt much more vulnerable. More intimate. He watched her face as he inserted and withdrew himself, completely in control, arrogant in his dominant manhood.

  “Yer mine now,” he whispered, his eyelids at half-mast. “D’ye understand, Silence, m’love?”

  She didn’t, not entirely. She wanted to ask him to tell her more, to explain exactly what he meant by “mine” and if he envisioned it lasting for a week or the rest of their lives. She wanted details and explanations, but he was moving on her—moving in her—in the most wondrous way and she simply couldn’t form the words.

  So instead she stretched her arms above her head, reveling in the heavy thrust of his hips. Her breasts jiggled with the movement and his gaze lowered to stare at her bosom.

  “I’ve wanted to see these forever,” he murmured, and hooking his fingers into the neckline of her chemise, tore the garment from her.

  She gasped, his casual violence somehow terribly erotic.

  “Aye,” he growled.

  He lowered his head and tongued her quivering nipple, his hips still moving rhythmically.

  She felt a restless rising, a desperate yearning for something that might not be entirely physical. This lovemaking was wonderful, but it was not love. Was it enough? If he couldn’t ever find it in himself to love her, would she be content?

  She pushed aside the thought and dug her fingers into his hair, sliding so silkily over his shoulders. Her touch seemed to spur him on. Suddenly he was pounding into her, his thrusts fast and sure. She wanted to raise his head, to look him in the eye and see if there might be something driving him on beside lust.

  But her own ecstasy caught her and threw her high. She closed her eyes, gasping, feeling as if she were the recipient of some kind of pagan offering. She spread her legs wide, her toes pointed, and accepted everything he had to give her.

  He groaned against her breast, his big body suddenly stiffening as the spasm took him. She dropped her hands to his shoulders and felt the ripple as his muscle
s tightened.

  When she opened her eyes the very air seemed golden, crisp with promise.

  For a moment he lay heavy upon her.

  Then he rolled aside and propped himself on his elbow. Michael’s beard blued his jaw and his eyes were still lazy from their lovemaking as he watched her with tenderness. Was that love in his eyes? Or something close enough? But she felt too shy to ask him. She felt shy looking at him. He was so wantonly seductive it made her self-conscious. Surely her hair was mussed from sleeping, her face puffy from crying the night before. She drew the coverlet over her breasts.

  A corner of his mouth curled at her action, making him even more sensuously handsome. “Bittner usually readies a bath for me in the mornin’—he knows me routine. Would ye like me to have one brought to yer rooms for ye?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” she said shyly. A bath was a rare luxury, especially this early in the morning.

  His half smile turned to a grin at her enthusiastic reply. He leaned down and kissed her—hard and thoroughly.

  A knock came at the outer door.

  Silence squeaked, embarrassed. “The servants—”

  Michael shook his head, rising from the bed. “The servants know better than to disturb me—unless it’s important.”

  He crossed to the door and cracked it without bothering to dress.

  Silence couldn’t see who was outside the door, but she could hear his voice.

  “A word, Mick,” Harry said.

  And somehow Silence knew their imperfect idyll was shattered.

  “ ’E BOLTED LAST night near midnight,” Harry said as he matched his stride to Mick’s. The two men were headed in the direction of the small stable behind the house. “We followed ’im like ye instructed, but we ’ad no notion o’ where ’e was bound until we fetched up ’ere this mornin’. Didn’t think ye’d want ’im showin’ up all unannounced, so I put a ’and on ’im and came for ye.”

  Mick could feel his muscles tensing, his stride lengthening as he neared the one who had betrayed him. “Ye did well.”

  They went out through the kitchens, ignoring the startled squeak of a single scullery maid bent over a mountain of dishes. Outside the day was gray as if the skies reflected this grim business. The stable was across a cobblestone yard and their boots rang on the stones. Inside the stable one of the carriage horses whickered in greeting. Bran was standing in an empty stall with Bert watching him narrow-eyed.

  Mick looked at his former lieutenant. Bran no longer could be mistaken for a boy. Several days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw. His face had new lines about his mouth and his eyes looked sunken. Bran glanced at him and then away again as if too ashamed to meet Mick’s eyes.

  “Wait for me outside,” Mick said to Bert and Harry without taking his eyes from Bran’s face.

  The two men left.

  Mick took one giant stride forward and hit Bran in the jaw, putting all the force of his shoulder—and his pain—into the blow.

  Bran staggered, struck the back of the stall and abruptly sat.

  “Why?” Mick rasped.

  Bran had his hand to his face. A blow like that could break a man’s jaw, make it impossible to properly eat or talk ever again.

  Mick didn’t care. “I brought ye up from the streets, boy. Took ye into me own home, fed ye me food, put clothes on yer back. And this is how ye repay me? By betrayin’ me to me enemy? By lettin’ his men into me house to kill an innocent lass?”

  Bran licked at the blood seeping from a split on his lip. “I didn’t know he’d kill Fionnula.” His voice cracked on her name.

  Mick shook his head. “What did ye think he’d do?”

  Bran shrugged, glancing about the stall vaguely. “Take you down.”

  “Ye wanted me crew.”

  Bran looked at him finally and Mick was surprised to see defiance still in his eyes. “You told me, over and over again, about how you’d made your way. About how you’d taken down the leader of that pirate crew when you were merely a boy. What did you expect from me but that I would do the same?”

  Mick squatted on his haunches, feeling weary to his soul. “I expected loyalty.”

  “Loyalty?” Bran shook his head and then winced at the movement. “You told me never to trust anyone. That any man who does so is a fool. You taught me that no one would champion me but me. That I must look out for myself and only myself. I could recite your lessons in my sleep. Not once did you mention loyalty, but now you expect it from me?”

  “Aye!” Mick remembered those offhand remarks, the lessons given casually as they’d raided ships and analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of their men and of their enemies. But he’d considered Bran one of his own—his lieutenant, damn it. His friend. How could Bran have taken his words and turned them against him? “I expected loyalty from ye and every man under me command.”

  “Under your command, exactly,” Bran said. “I had no way of bettering myself. I wanted to be like you.”

  “Ye were like me,” Mick roared. “I took ye into me confidence, made ye a man. What the fuck were ye thinkin’, Bran?”

  “I was thinking of freedom!” Bran shouted. “You kept us under your thumb, made us live in your house, eat at your table. You dealt out the spoils as you saw fit and consulted no one else. You never listened to my suggestions or plans. I was nothing but a lackey to you when what I wanted to be was your equal.”

  Mick stared. He’d spent years never knowing where his next meal would come from. He’d made the palace into a fortress, not only to guard his wealth, but to guard his men. And now Bran threw back his generosity in his face?

  Mick turned his head away in disgust and stood. “Try and put the blame for yer betrayal on me, but it won’t work. Fionnula is dead because o’ ye and ye alone.”

  “Oh, God.” Bran squeezed shut his eyes, moaning so low Mick had to lean close to hear the words. “Oh, God, don’t you think I know that? Her pretty face was burned off. I keep seeing her in my dreams. I can’t sleep at night.”

  Mick grunted. “How did ye find me house?”

  Bran shook his head. “I snuck a look in Pepper’s book.”

  “And have ye told the Vicar where I am?” Mick asked, low and deadly.

  “No!”

  “Why come here?”

  Bran opened his eyes, the tears stark upon his face. “I thought to warn you about the Vicar. He wants Mrs. Hollingbrook. He talks of nothing else now.”

  Mick laughed though he felt no mirth. “And don’t ye think I know that well enough? Why did ye really come, Bran?”

  “I’m sorry, Mick,” Bran whispered. “I didn’t know what he was like. If you’d told me…”

  “What?” Mick sighed. “If I’d told ye he was mad ye wouldn’t have betrayed me to me own father?”

  Bran stared, the color leeching from his face. “Your father? The Vicar is your father?”

  “Aye.” Mick inclined his head, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Come full circle, hasn’t it? Betrayed by me father, and betrayed to me father. The old man’s probably right pleased.”

  “Mick—”

  Mick threw out a hand, stopping the other man’s words. “Get out o’ me sight afore I kill ye.”

  Bran rose wearily. “Will you forgive me, Mick?”

  His words cut a cord within Mick, letting loose the grief within. Mick drew his dagger and before Bran could move he had the knife at his throat.

  Bran froze as a drop of blood welled under the dagger.

  Mick looked into the face of the boy he’d held dear as a friend. “I can’t forgive ye, Bran, no. Ye banished that hope the moment ye put Silence and Mary Darlin’ in danger. They might’ve died because o’ yer stupidity. For that, for puttin’ them at risk, I should slit yer throat here and now and throw yer rotten corpse in the river.”

  For a moment he stood, the knife against Bran’s neck, staring into the other man’s light blue eyes. They’d once laughed together, drunk brandy, and planned raids. Bran had been as close to him as
a brother… or a son.

  It could’ve been Silence with that ruined face.

  Abruptly Mick swung away, putting the length of the stall between him and Bran as he strode to the stall door.

  “Harry!” he roared.

  The guard appeared a second later. He glanced in the stall and blinked, looking confused to see Bran still alive.

  Well, and hadn’t Mick killed for far less than Bran had done to him? “Take him.” Mick jerked his head back at Bran.

  “Take ’im?” Harry asked cautiously.

  Mick winced. He wouldn’t put the burden of Bran’s death on Harry, either. No, Bran was his own responsibility and he’d see him out of England himself. He sighed and stretched his neck. “Take him to the cellar and lock him in well. I’ll be bringin’ him back to London and a ship bound for a distant shore tonight.”

  The relief was plain to see on Harry’s face, but it was fleeting. When the big man turned to Bran his expression was as cold as Mick had ever seen it.

  “Come on, then.” Harry took a firm hold of Bran’s arm and marched him from the barn.

  Bran cast one helpless look over his shoulder, but Mick ignored it. He’d made up his mind.

  Mick waited, listening to the retreating footsteps, then stayed many minutes longer, trying to get his anger under control. He didn’t want her to see him this way. She wouldn’t understand. She came from a foreign land where people could forgive one another, where it wasn’t weakness to let live the boy you’d taught to be a man.

  Mick threw back his head and stared blindly at the dusty rafters of the stable. He couldn’t change who he was. He’d been bred from the loins of a demon in human form and there was only so much humanity in him.