What Price Love?

  He cocked a brow at her, but obediently lowered his arms. He stood passive as she set her fingers to the silver buttons of his waistcoat. She slid the garment off, flung it aside, then set to work on his shirt. The buttons dealt with, she wrestled the tails from his waistband, spread the halves wide—then paused. To admire. To gloat.

  All this could—and would—be hers. Lady Caverstone and her sisters could go begging.

  Dillon sucked in a long, slow breath, felt desire slide and coil through him as he watched her, saw in her face a possessiveness he hadn’t thought to see there. Why not, he couldn’t have said, but the sight…surely it could mean only one thing?

  Carefully, he reached for her, intending to draw her to him and learn what that expression truly meant.

  “No.” She batted his hands away. Frowned at him as she wrenched his shirt over his shoulders, trapping his arms. “Stay still.”

  They were speaking in whispers even though the room next door was unoccupied. Swallowing his impatience—she’d taken the role he usually played; he wasn’t accustomed to submission—he waited for her to free his hands. Instead, she spread hers on his chest, blatantly possessively caressed, then set her lips to his already heated skin.

  Her teeth came into play, distracting nips, a subtle grazing over one tight nipple. Then her tongue swept across it and he sucked in a breath; shifting his weight, he leaned down and tried to nudge her head up—for a kiss, not a touch.

  She avoided him, commanded, “Don’t move.”

  Impossible. There was one part of him not even she could command; it was already straining against the flap of his trousers, and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. “Pris…”

  She laughed, low, sensuous, the waft of her breath against his skin a subtle torture. “Wait.” She drew back.

  Jaw clenched, he sighed, and stared—martyred—at the ceiling, then he heard a muted thump—her robe hitting the floor—a second later glimpsed a flash of white nightgown. His eyes locked on her in time to see her wriggle the long gown off over her head.

  He stared; his chest ached. Grudgingly, he freed enough of his mind to breathe. He’d seen her naked only in bed, or shrouded in darkness. Now…

  Clothed in a seductive mix of moonlight and candlelight, she was the goddess he dreamed of. Pagan, wild, untamed. Her black curls cascaded over her shoulders, silken locks framing the furled peaks of her breasts. Her long limbs, graceful, skin pearlescent, were a deity’s bounty.

  She came to him, softly smiling, emerald eyes smoldering, and something within him shook. Broke. Then she was there, and her hands spread, her breasts touched, and he was lost.

  Lost in wonder as she pandered to a dream he hadn’t known he’d had. She moved against him, sinuously supple, her promise implicit, yet for the moment withheld.

  Behind his back, he freed first one hand, then the other from the tangle of his shirt, barely daring to breathe as she dealt with the buttons at his waist, then, crouching, drew his trousers down.

  At her direction, he helped her dispense with his shoes and stockings, at her prodding stepped clear of his trousers and allowed her to sweep them away.

  He sucked in a too-tight breath. He couldn’t think clearly, not enough to take control, not when she was in this mood. He had to see what more she’d planned; that she had planned had finally sunk into his distracted brain. Instead of the usual single candlestick on her nightstand, a four-armed candelabra stood there, shedding ample light over the bed.

  And her as, still crouched at his feet, she swiveled to him, and looked up—let her gaze travel slowly up his body, from his knees up his thighs, past his jutting erection, past his taut abdomen, past his locked chest to reach his eyes.

  For a heartbeat, she held his gaze, her own a blaze of emerald intent, then she smiled and slid to her knees; spreading her hands on his thighs, she sent them cruising. Upward.

  He nearly swallowed his tongue when she clasped both hands around his rigid length. Nearly lost his mind when she calmly leaned close, and licked. He literally shuddered when she followed one bulging vein with the tip of her tongue, then lightly traced the rim of his shaft.

  Then she smoothly took him into her mouth, and his brain died.

  He couldn’t breathe. Every muscle he possessed had locked tight. As she suckled gently, then drew him deeper, he closed his eyes, and felt his world rock.

  Her injunctions held no power against his reaction; as she freely and wantonly pleasured him, no power on earth could have stopped him from tangling his fingers in her silky mane. She suckled more powerfully, and his fingers spasmed, clutched as he fought not to thrust into her hot, wet, welcoming mouth.

  Her hands drifted, circled his thighs, rose, caressed his buttocks, then tensed, flexed, as her lips and tongue played…

  She might be a goddess; he was only human.

  Smothering a groan, he dragged in a labored breath. “Pris! Enough.”

  He didn’t know whether he felt relief or disappointment when she obeyed and released him.

  Breasts rising and falling, she looked up at him, the expression in her eyes frankly calculating.

  Before she could return to her recent obsession, he reached for her. To his relief, she let him draw her to her feet, but planted her hands on his chest, held herself from him. She met his eyes, met his experience with determination. “No—not enough.”

  He frowned, arched a brow.

  She arched one back, more pointedly, very much a goddess in control. “How much are you willing to give? To surrender?”

  For me. For my love.

  Pris let her eyes say the words, with them told him unequivocally what the prize she was offering was.

  His palms curved around her shoulders, gripped. He was breathing as rapidly, as shallowly as she; heat poured from him and lured her, drew her, but not until he paid, and admitted he did, would she appease them both.

  He’d been studying her eyes; he hauled in a tortured breath. “How much do you want?”

  The right answer. She smiled. Intently. And prodded his bare chest with her fingertips. “Lie on your back in the middle of the bed.”

  He hesitated, but, his hands falling from her, did as she asked.

  She watched while he arranged himself, head on the pillows, hands by his sides, legs slightly spread. Smile deepening, she clambered up on the bed, then around to kneel between his feet.

  She paused to admire the view, then set her hands to his calves, sent them sliding slowly upward—and followed, lowering her body to his, feeling muscles harden, contract, and shift as she slid skin to skin over him, up to where she could angle her knees to either side of his waist and rise up, straddling his abdomen as she caught one of his hands, lifted his arm and pushed it back—over his head and out to where the silk scarf she’d left tied to the headboard lay waiting.

  He turned his head, stared incredulously as she swiftly secured his wrist. Mouth open, jaw slack, he turned his head, watching as she did the same with his other hand, leaving him, theoretically at least, helpless. At her mercy.

  He narrowed his eyes at her as, delighted, she settled back across his lower chest. “What are you about?”

  The tone of his voice assured her he wasn’t intending to argue.

  She smiled; placing her hands on either side of his chest, she leaned low, and licked. “Possessing you.” She breathed the words across the spot she’d moistened, and felt the hard body beneath her react. Without taking her eyes from his, she added, “As I will. As I wish.”

  She let her eyes add the As you deserve.

  He looked deep, read her message, then groaned and closed his eyes.

  She smiled even more, and set her lips to his skin. And set about fulfilling her sentence. Set about taking all she wished of him, all that he willingly surrendered. All that he usually demanded of his lovers, she demanded of him; all he usually gave them, she gave him. With lips, tongue, and teeth, with her hands, with her body, with the tips of her breasts, she caressed him, and drov
e him wild.

  Drove him mindless. As mindless as he usually made her, as wild and reckless, as urgently, openly needy. Greedy.

  What she hadn’t counted on was his rising hunger feeding her own.

  Heat raged as she moved over him, as she twisted and twined, explored and caressed. As he answered every demand, gave her his mouth when she wished it, then when she moved lower, closing his eyes, setting his jaw, and letting her have her way.

  Without restriction letting her take every shred of his self into her, then letting her give it back. Over and over, a worship unending, until neither could wait any longer, and she rose over him and sheathed him and took him in. And rode him.

  Wild, uninhibited, paganly wanton in the moonlight, abandoned and erotic as the candlelight flickered and gilded her skin.

  Dillon watched her, barely able to believe what he saw, what he sensed, what he felt reaching through the thundering in his veins, an emotion deep and true. Reaching for his heart, closing about his soul.

  Holding him, embracing him as she shattered above him. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, he held to sanity and watched as passion took her, as for that timeless moment glory filled the void and rushed through her, and him.

  She slumped over him, then eased down to collapse on his chest.

  Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, prayed for control, then lifting his lids, he looked down, and nudged her head with his jaw. “My hands.” His voice was barely working. “Untie them. Pris—please?”

  For a moment, she lay dead, then he felt her breasts swell as she drew in a huge breath. Then she shifted, reached for one wrist, stretched, and tugged.

  The instant he felt the silken shackle give, he wrenched his hand free, reached across, tipping her on his chest, and with one yank had his other hand untied.

  Then he caught her, kissed her, claimed her mouth, and let all he felt for her free. He rolled, and she was beneath him; deep in the kiss, he reached for her thighs, spread them, lifted them, and sank home.

  Deep. Where he belonged.

  She thought so, too. On a gasp and a sob, she wound her legs over his, tilted her hips, and pulled him even deeper.

  He filled her, savoring every inch of her tight clasp, of her complete and willful surrender. Then he took, filled his soul, his heart, his senses with her. Let the thunder in his veins drive them both. Felt her join him, felt her clutch, heard her moan.

  Then they were flying far beyond the edge of the world, well beyond perception’s reach, one heart, one soul, two merged minds, two bodies in thrall to that elemental hunger. Driving, reaching, striving, wanting.

  She fragmented, came apart, and took him with her; hand in hand, fingers tightly laced, they gained their private heaven. And felt the glory close around them, welcoming them in, assuring them beyond words, beyond thought, that this truly was their home.

  That this was where Us belonged.

  Ask me again.” Pris lay slumped, exhausted, beside him, the glory of aftermath a golden warmth in her veins.

  He lay spooned around her, cradling her against him, her back to his chest. “No.” A mumbled rumble.

  She tried to frown, failed, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Why not?”

  “Because neither of us is thinking straight—capable of thinking straight. I’m not going to risk you giving me the wrong answer, or, heaven forbid, later forgetting what answer you gave.”

  Flick’s words whirled in her mind; Pris managed an inelegant snort. “You thrive on taking risks, especially with what matters.”

  “Not when I might lose more than I’m willing to lose.”

  She thought that over and realized it was a statement with which she couldn’t possibly argue.

  She also realized she couldn’t recall ever winning an argument with him. She grumbled on principle, but he held firm, finally silencing her with, “Besides, you’re not the only one who can plan.”

  Before she could decide if that was a threat or a promise, she fell asleep.

  The next morning, Dillon was seated at Horatia’s dining table, happily alone, even more happily putting the final touches to his plans for the day, when the knocker was plied with considerable force.

  Highthorpe strode past the dining room door; Dillon heard voices, then Barnaby walked in.

  A disheveled, bedraggled, exhausted Barnaby.

  “Good God!” Dillon sat up; setting down his coffee cup, he waved to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. What the devil happened?”

  Through two days’ growth of beard, Barnaby grimaced wearily. “Nothing a cup of strong coffee, breakfast, a bath, a razor, and a day of sleep won’t cure.”

  “We can start with the first two.” Dillon nodded as Highthorpe placed a cup before Barnaby and filled it.

  He waited until Barnaby had taken a long sip, eyes closed, clearly savoring the relief. When he opened his eyes and looked over the breakfast dishes spread on the table, Dillon said, “Help yourself—just talk while you do. You’re hardly a sight to calm nerves.”

  Barnaby fleetingly grinned and pulled a platter of ham his way. “I drove all night. And most of the day and night before that.”

  “Martin?”

  Barnaby nodded grimly.

  Dillon frowned. “You found him?”

  “Yes, and no.” Barnaby stabbed a piece of ham. “Stokes and I visited the house in Connaught Place.” He put the ham into his mouth, waved the empty fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “It wasn’t Martin in the house, but a family renting from Mr. Gilbert Martin. We found the agent, and Stokes persuaded him to give us Martin’s address.”

  Barnaby looked at his plate. “Northampton. Stokes went with me. When we got there, it was the same story. Someone else in the house, renting via an agent from Mr. Gilbert Martin. And so we found that agent, and went on to Liverpool.”

  Dillon held his tongue while Barnaby ate.

  “After that, it was Edinburgh, York, Carlisle, Bath, then Glasgow.” Barnaby frowned. “I might have missed one or two towns, but the last was Bristol. That’s where we ran Mr. Gilbert Martin to earth, entirely by accident, through an acquaintance in the town.”

  Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “Mr. Gilbert Martin is seventy-three years old, has no son, knows of no other Gilbert Martin, and although he does indeed own the house in Connaught Place and rents it via that first agent, Mr. Martin hasn’t the faintest idea about his supposed new address in Northampton or any of the other houses.”

  Barnaby paused, then added, “The rental monies from the London house are paid into an account in the city, and Mr. Martin draws on that. There’s been no change there, so he had no idea anything was going on.”

  Dillon’s frown deepened. “So we have no idea who that other Mr. Gilbert Martin is?”

  “Other than a devilishly clever cove? No, none.”

  After a moment, Barnaby went on, “During our travels, Stokes and I had plenty of time to dwell on various scenarios. Once we learned what a goose chase Mr. X had sent us on, and how neatly it had been arranged, more or less guaranteeing that even the head denizens of the underworld would never be able to trace him, it became clear just what danger you, especially, now face.”

  He looked at Dillon. “If Mr. X decides on revenge, we’ll have absolutely no idea from which direction the blow might come.”

  Impassive, Dillon nodded. “Yet there might be no blow, no revenge. I can hardly go through life constantly expecting it. Mr. X has to have been savaged financially. He might already have fled the country.”

  “There’s that, but…” Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “It doesn’t feel right. He went to all that trouble to hide his identity—what are the chances he’s one of us, a member of the ton?”

  “Gabriel’s continued searching, but as of yesterday, he’d found no trace, no trail, not an inkling.”

  “Just so. Mr. X is a past master at hiding his tracks. He could be the gentleman at your shoulder next time you stop by your club, or at the next ball you attend. I don’t suppose
you’d consider repairing to Newmarket?”

  “No.”

  Barnaby sighed. “I told Stokes so, but, like me, he’s sure Mr. X will have a try at you, even if he then scurries off overseas. He’s probably planning to, so killing you just before will fit nicely into his plans.”

  Dillon couldn’t help his smile. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  “Yes. Is it working?”

  “Not quite as you imagined, but…I have an idea. As you’re both so convinced Mr. X will come after me, doesn’t that suggest we have an opportunity—possibly our last opportunity—to lay our hands on him?”

  Barnaby blinked. “You mean use you as bait?”

  Dillon raised his brows. “If I’m the one lure we’re all agreed he’ll come after…why not?”

  He called for Pris at eleven, bullied her into her pelisse, then drove her to his chosen place.

  As he led her through the doors and down the nave, she looked around, then leaned close to whisper, “Why are we here?”

  About them, the sacred peace of St. Paul’s Cathedral held sway. “Because,” he whispered back, winding her arm with his, “I wanted a place where despite being alone, we wouldn’t run the risk of distracting ourselves. We need to talk, and for that we need to think.”

  She considered protesting, then thought better of it; she looked around with greater interest. “Where?”

  He’d planned that, too. “This way.”

  The day was cool, clouds scudding overhead, a brisk wind debating whether to unleash some rain or not. An assortment of sightseers wandered both nave and transept, studying the plaques and monuments, but when he escorted Pris through the door at the rear of the side chapel, as he’d hoped there were no others enjoying the peace of the ancient courtyard beyond.

  A narrow, walled rectangle, in days gone by the courtyard had provided herbs for the infirmary attached to the cathedral. Now it was simply a quiet place for contemplation.

  The perfect place to consider and decide the rest of their lives.

  He led her to a gray stone bench thickly cushioned with thyme. Gathering her skirts, she sat and looked up at him. After an instant’s hesitation, of gathering his thoughts, he sat beside her.