He took her down. Down into a sweet, dark labyrinth of desire where he was her only light. The delicious sprawl of his weight didn't make her feel crushed but cherished as their kisses melted into something richer and more daring. His hand roamed down her side to the ripe curve of her hip and back again, gentling her to his touch until it seemed only fitting that he should cup her breast through the butter-soft linen of her nightdress, brush his thumb across the turgid peak of her nipple.
Laura gasped into his mouth, awakened to a thousand senses she never even knew she possessed. As he teased the throbbing bud between thumb and forefinger, pleasure danced along her nerves, culminating in a rush of liquid sensation at the juncture of her thighs. When she would have clamped them together, his knee was there, nudging those waves of pleasure deep into her womb.
Tangling her fingers in his silky hair, she arched against him, instinctively seeking any relief for the exquisite pressure building within her. He took that as an invitation to settle his hips between her thighs. He was hot, hard, and heavy, the thin sheath of his buckskin trousers barely able to contain him. He rocked against that sensitive cradle in a rhythm older than the ancient oak that sheltered them, all the while lavishing kiss after kiss upon her eager mouth, drinking in her sighs and moans as if they were the most honeyed of nectars.
Between one kiss and the next, Laura's world exploded. It was her cry that echoed through the forest then—a broken wail that seemed to go on and on, just like the rapture cascading through her in shuddering waves.
Nicholas threw back his head, thrilling to its music. Although his memory had failed him, he would have wagered his life that he had never seen anything quite so lovely as Laura in that moment. Her lashes were damp against her flushed cheeks, her lips moist and parted, the skirt of her nightdress pooled between her trembling thighs. In a motion more instinctive than breathing, he slipped one hand beneath that skirt, groaning in both delight and agony as his fingers glided through her damp, silky curls to the melting sweetness beneath. She opened like a flower to his touch, coaxing him to slide his longest finger deep within her.
Laura's eyes flew open. Although they were still dazed with wonder, there could be no mistaking her startled gasp or the quiver of shock that danced through her untried flesh. She was everything she'd claimed to be. She was innocent. She was his.
Or she would be in a few short hours when a minister of God would bless their union and give them dominion over each other's bodies. But Nicholas didn't want to wait for that blessing. He wanted her now.
And she wanted him. There was fear shining in her eyes, but there was trust as well. A trust so tender that he knew she would not stop him if he decided to betray it.
Nicholas was caught off guard by the bubble of amusement that welled up in his chest. As the laughter poured out of him, rich and cleansing, he wrapped both arms around Laura and rolled over until she was the one sprawled on top of him.
Bracing her forearms on his chest, she glared down at him, her expression unmistakably disgruntled. "I'm gratified to know that you find my inexperience so amusing."
"I'm not laughing at you, angel. I'm laughing at myself." He smoothed her hair back from her face, his hand still trembling from its near brush with ecstasy. "It seems you were right about me all along. I'm not the sort of man who would compromise my fiancée. At least not the night before our wedding."
Laura pondered that revelation for a moment, her freckled face losing none of its solemnity. "What about the night after our wedding?"
Nicholas grinned. "Then I'll be only too happy to let you compromise me."
The carriage rocked through the fog-shrouded London streets, its coachman swathed in a woolen muffler and tall black hat. Although the vehicle's passage was marked by curious stares from the drunken stragglers and bleary-eyed women who littered the narrow alleyways, its burgundy curtains were drawn and its imposing doors bore no coat of arms to identify its occupants.
If Diana were to be discovered racing through the night in a closed carriage with the notorious marquess of Gillingham as her only companion, it would do irreparable damage to her staid reputation. She took a rather perverse pleasure in the thought, imagining the pitying looks of the gossipmongers turning to scandalized shock. Let them whisper behind their fans about her for a change!
Smoothing her hair, she stole a resentful look at the man sprawled on the plush velvet squabs opposite her. Despite his indolent posture, he was, as always, impeccably groomed, betraying no sign that he had been dragged from his cozy home in the middle of the night just as she had. The rich fragrance of his bay rum cologne scented the air, making her feel slightly intoxicated.
"You gave my servants quite a fright pounding on the door that way," she said. "I only hope your discovery was worth rousing me from my bed."
Thane crossed his long legs at the ankle. Although the spacious footwell put him in no danger of touching her, Diana tucked her own feet beneath her skirts. "You have my most profound apologies for disturbing your rest, my lady," he drawled. "When I received word from this detective you had hired, I was also in bed, but not yet asleep."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" she murmured, keeping her expression carefully bland.
Thane's green eyes narrowed. "I was also alone."
Diana felt herself blush. Averting her eyes from his face, she tugged on her gloves and fastened the satin frog at the throat of her pelisse. "Do you think this Watkins fellow has a genuine lead this time?"
"I hope to God so. If not, we're left with the only other conclusion we've been able to reach in the past fortnight—that your cousin simply vanished into thin air, taking his horse with him."
The carriage made a sharp turn, throwing them both into silence. Diana eased aside the curtain. They were passing a row of abandoned warehouses, each more dilapidated than the last. The carriage finally drew up in front of a forbidding structure with shattered windows that gazed out upon the night like soulless eyes.
The coachman climbed down from his perch and threw open the carriage door. Diana quickly deduced that they couldn't be far from the wharfs. The dank stench of rotting fish was nearly overpowering.
"Wait here for us," Thane commanded the coachman as they climbed down from the carriage.
"Are you sure that's wise, sir?" the man asked, giving the deserted street a nervous glance.
"No, not at all," Thane replied. "But those were the instructions I was given."
As the shadows cast by the hulking ruin swallowed them, Diana shrank against Thane without realizing it, not even thinking to protest when his gloved hand claimed her elbow. He ignored the main door, escorting her instead down a narrow alley that ran between two crumbling brick edifices.
An unassuming wooden door loomed out of the darkness. Thane assailed it with a curt knock. Nothing happened.
"Could it be the wrong address?" Diana asked hopefully, peeping over his shoulder.
Before he could answer, the door began to creak open, its rusty hinges screeching. A vast bear of a man with pointed teeth and greasy side whiskers loomed out of the darkness, a huge bone with bits of meat still clinging to it dangling from his hamlike fist. Diana couldn't help but wonder if it was the thighbone of the last interloper who had dared to disturb his dinner.
To Thane's credit, he didn't even blink. "I'm here to see Watkins. He sent for me."
"This way." Droplets of grease went flying as the fellow jerked the bone toward the shadows behind him.
They emerged from a narrow corridor into a cavernous hall where their every rustle of movement produced an unsettling echo. Abandoning any pretense of pride, Diana clutched at the tail of Thane's coat. Feeling her panicked tug, he reached around and laced his warm fingers through hers.
A pair of lanterns rested on two rotting crates, giving the area between them the ambience of a poorly lit stage. A man slumped against one of those crates, his hands bound behind him. Diana might have thought he was dead had her involuntary cry of dismay not
brought his head upright.
He glared at them through the one beady black eye that wasn't swollen shut. Despite the fresh blood trickling from the corner of his gagged mouth and the vivid bruise staining his cheekbone, there was nothing beaten about his posture.
"Lord Gillingham," came a pleasant voice from behind them. "Thank you for replying so promptly to my summons." Mr. Theophilus Watkins emerged from the shadows, his dapper attire spoiled by the flecks of dried blood marring the pristine white of his shirtfront.
Thane wheeled on him. "What's the meaning of this, Watkins? The lady hired you to find her cousin, not rough up some scrawny old man."
The scrawny old man growled deep in his throat, earning a wide-eyed look from Diana.
Watkins's smile faded to a sneer. "Forgive me if I've offended your delicate sensibilities, my lord, but he knows where her cousin is. And he's not talking."
"I don't see how he can with that filthy gag shoved down his throat," Thane retorted.
Watkins shot his captive a feral look. "He has an unfortunate tendency to talk when I'm not asking any questions. I thought perhaps you could make him see reason, you being a gentleman and all. I've told him about the reward, but he doesn't seem to be impressed."
After a brief moment of consideration, Thane snapped, "Unbind him."
"But, my lord, I don't think that would be very—"
"Unbind him," Thane repeated. "Now."
Watkins reluctantly nodded to his hulking henchman. The man drew out a wicked-looking knife and squatted behind their captive.
As the gag and ropes fell away, Thane said, "Mr. Watkins wasn't lying to you, sir. There's a substantial reward for the information we're looking for."
Rubbing at his chafed wrists, the old man gave Thane a mocking look. "And what would that be, m'lord? Thirty pieces o' silver?"
Before Diana or Thane could react, Watkins drove his booted foot into the man's ribs. "It won't hurt you to show the gentleman and his lady a little respect," he snarled. "But it will hurt you not to."
Appalled at the detective's casual brutality, Diana shoved her way past him and knelt beside the old man. She supported his shoulders while he struggled to catch his breath, then took his grimy hand in her own, heedless of the damage to her expensive white gloves. She was surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes, but even more surprised to feel Thane's steadying hand on her shoulder.
"Please, sir," she said. "My cousin has been missing for nearly a month now and I'm frantic with worry. If you know anything at all of his whereabouts, I beg you to tell us." The old man eyed her warily as she dug deep into her reticule, drawing out a miniature of Sterling that had been commissioned on his eighteenth birthday. She held it out to him, her hand trembling. "He's ten years older than this now, but it's a fair likeness."
His stony gaze slowly traveled from the miniature to her face. "Just who is this cousin o' yours, miss?"
"Don't you know?" Taken aback, Diana glanced over her shoulder at the sullen Watkins. "Didn't you tell him?"
The detective awkwardly cleared his throat. "In cases such as this, we try not to divulge our client's identity unless absolutely necessary."
"That way when me bloated corpse washes up in the Thames," the old man said with scathing pleasantness, "I'll be less likely to 'ave told any o' me mates who it was wot tossed me in."
It was Watkins's turn to growl. Ignoring him, Diana said softly, "The man we're looking for, the man who was last seen in London on Thursday, the twelfth of July, is Sterling Harlow, the seventh duke of Devonbrooke."
All the color drained from the old man's gaunt face, making his bruises stand out in stark relief. Although his mouth went slack, his grip on her hand tightened, squeezing painfully.
"Thane!" Diana cried, alarmed by his reaction.
Thane knelt beside her, bracing an arm around the old man's shoulders.
"God in 'eaven," he whispered, clinging to Diana's hand as if it was his only hope. "You've got to 'elp me! We've got to stop 'er before she sells 'er soul to the divil 'isself!"
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
I only wish she had a man
such as you to watch over her.
Nicholas awoke to the music of birdsong and bells. He sprang out of bed and threw the window open wide. A patchwork quilt of rolling green meadows dotted with fat, woolly sheep shimmered beneath a dazzling vault of blue. The joyful pealing of the church bells seemed to be calling his name, inviting him to partake in some wondrous celebration. Bracing his hands on the windowsill, he leaned into the sun-warmed breeze, breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
It was the perfect summer day.
It was his wedding day.
He grinned and stretched, flexing his stiff muscles. Although it had been near dawn when he and Laura had slipped into the house, struggling to muffle both their footsteps and their laughter, he didn't feel the least bit weary. She had finally confessed why she'd been wandering around the wood at that unholy hour. She'd been searching for wild rose petals to top the syllabub Cookie was planning to surprise him with at their wedding breakfast. He shook his head, marveling at the intricate and frequently baffling workings of the female mind.
Leaving the window ajar, he padded to the chair and slipped into his trousers, not giving the dressing table mirror a single glance. He'd been a fool to think he could find himself in its cold, polished surface. If he could be even half the man he saw reflected in Laura's loving eyes, he would be content. It no longer mattered who he had been before losing his memory. All that mattered was who he would be after today—a husband to Laura and a father to her children.
He was reaching for his shirt when a small furry head butted him in the ankle. The yellow kitten twined herself around his leg, her raucous purr making her sound more like a miniature tiger.
Nicholas scooped her up, cradling her plush warmth against his naked chest. "You know I can't resist you, you insatiable little vixen, but I must warn you that this is your last morning to have me all to yourself."
A heavy knock sounded on the door.
"You may come in, Cookie," he called out. "I'm not dressed."
Cookie poked her head in the door, blushing beneath her mob-cap. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Nick, teasin' an old woman that way. If I was to barge in here with you wearin' nothin' but that naughty grin of yours, I doubt my poor old heart could stand the shock."
"I'd wager that poor old heart of yours is stronger than you let on. And what's this?" he asked, surveying the neatly folded pile of garments in her arms. "I was expecting a tray of crumpets."
"I haven't spent all my time on Miss Laura's gown, you know." She held out her offering to him, ducking her head shyly.
He accepted it, discovering a stylish tailcoat cut from deep Spanish blue broadcloth and a pair of buff-colored trousers.
"Why, Cookie, what have you done?" he murmured, running a hand over her painstaking stitches. "I don't believe I've ever seen a more handsome suit of wedding clothes."
She waved away his praise. "It was just some old fabric I found in the attic. I wanted you to do my girl proud today when you stood up with her in front of all them nosy villagers." She gave his hips a worried glance. "I do hope the trousers'll fit. I had to guess at your size."
Nicholas slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze, blinking innocently.
Blushing anew, she backed toward the door, shaking a finger at him. "Go on with you, you shameless flirt! If you don't mind them wicked thoughts of yours, I'm goin' to run straight to Miss Laura and tell her you can't marry her 'cause you're so besotted with me."
Nicholas threw back his head, laughing aloud. "Then Laura would be wrestling Dower for his pitchfork and I'd be right back where I started." As a shadow passed over Cookie's face, he sobered. "Tell me, has there been any word from him?"
She mustered a brave smile. "Don't you fret about that old heathen of mine. He'll do anythin' to keep from settin' foot in a church. J
ust you wait and see—he'll come trottin' over that hill out there as soon as he smells the ham at the weddin' breakfast."
Laura inclined her head, holding her breath as Lottie crowned her with a circlet of woven rosebuds. She straightened, catching her reflection in the standing mirror George had dragged down from the attic. Although the rest of her hair had been gathered in a loose topknot, shimmering ringlets framed her face, coaxed into place with a pair of blistering hot curling tongs and a few impatient tears.
All the pin jabbings she'd endured in the past two weeks had been well worth it. The high-waisted gown fit her to perfection, its puffed cap sleeves trimmed in Brussels lace baring her slender arms. On her feet she wore a pair of delicate kid slippers fastened with ribbons of cream satin.
Laura didn't feel like a bride. She felt like a princess.
"Do pinch some color into my cheeks, won't you, Lottie? And make sure and have some hartshorn at the ready in case I should swoon during the ceremony." Laura hugged herself, trying to still the churning of her stomach. "I never knew it was possible to be so happy and so terrified all at the same time."
"You have every right to be happy," Lottie said firmly, giving Laura's right cheek a stern twist. "In just two days you'll be twenty-one and Arden Manor will be yours forever."
Laura stared down at her little sister as if she'd just sprouted an extra head. Not only had she forgotten about her birthday, she'd nearly forgotten why she had dragged Nicholas back to the manor in the first place. Since that day, the stakes had climbed much higher. Now she knew that no crumbling pile of bricks, no matter how dear, would be a home without him in it.
She was searching for the words to explain that to Lottie when George appeared in the doorway, his face scarlet with distress. "Laura! Cookie put too much starch in my collar and it's poking me in the ears!"
"Don't turn your head, George," Laura warned. "You'll put your eye out." She turned back to her sister, giving Lottie a brief, but fierce, hug. "I suppose there's no need to explain my happiness to you. Someday you'll understand for yourself."