At Your Pleasure

  He straightened slowly, the movement sinuous, like a snake uncoiling. “Sit,” he said softly, “and shut your mouth.”

  “No.” He might recline like a pasha, indifferent to the ugliness of which he spoke, her brother’s violent end, but she was not fashioned from such cold clay! Damn him for bullying her into this hellish place, and then scorning her for trying for endure it! “What difference does it make to you what happens to me? I am a great inconvenience to you, so let my rashness be the cure! If you think me a drone, it will be a great fortune to you, no doubt, for the mob to find me!”

  He exploded from the chair. In one lithe move he lunged toward her and caught her by the shoulders. “Think me indifferent?” he said. “Let me correct you, wife.”

  A cry broke from her throat as he drove her backward, straight against the wall. His fingers flexing and firming on her upper arms, he loomed over her.

  The strangeness in his face froze her to the core.

  “Can you,” he said, in a voice of terrible softness, “can you be such a fool? Can you imagine that I have witnessed, indifferently, your loyalty to a man who, but for God’s grace or the devil’s own luck, would have blown you to smithereens for his notion of a lark? Can you imagine—”A muscle ticked in his jaw; he drew a hard breath through his nose. “Can you imagine,” he said, “that I would not gut him from gullet to groin, were it not for you?”

  A smile sharpened his mouth, dark as night. “Ah,” he whispered, lifting his hand to catch a lock of her hair, making her flinch. “But that would be an injustice, I think.” Her heart was pounding; she did not recognize this man who studied the hair that he lightly clasped. “For if I am rageful, Leonora”—his eyes speared hers—“then it is not so much for your brother, my love. The largest part of my wrath is for you.” Slowly he leaned down to her mouth. The brush of his lips sent chills over her skin.

  “My lovely little idiot,” he said against her lips. “Having risked all you held dear to suit your brother’s feckless whims—having housed gunpowder in the heart of your hold and kept silent the secret that might have killed you, and your whole household too—what else am I to feel? Tell me: shall I feel love? But in love lies no lesser a danger, for in such moods as this one, I find my love and rage combine.”

  His fingertips settled along her jaw, light as breaths as he directed her face upward. But as their eyes locked, some primitive instinct in her raised a shudder. He studied her so intently. A predatory heat infected his regard.

  “And so,” he whispered, “can you believe, for love’s sake, that if I thought striking you would knock your brother from your brain, I would use my fist? And I would not stop until you bled, Leonora. God help me, but I would count the drops of blood I spilled as though they were years I might add to your life.”

  He slammed his fist into the wall by her ear.

  Crumbs of wattle dusted her cheek. But she did not flinch, for his face was finally naked of its masks, and the desperation she saw in it caused her mouth to go dry and her heart, very briefly, to stop.

  My God, she thought. In his face now she saw the truth: it was not rage that drove him. It was fear. He feared for her.

  For her.

  In that moment it all came clear. Finally, horribly, she saw what power she had over him. How easy it would be to destroy him. He, who had seemed invulnerable, had made her his Achilles’ heel. He feared for her. Yet if in London she spoke awry—if she were ever to make good on her mad threats—on whom would it reflect but him?

  He had gambled his future, the future of his kin—all he held dear—on a woman who could undo him in a moment. He expected her to undo him now.

  And yet, if she baited him or accused him of brutality . . . she understood suddenly that he would not attempt to punish or curb her. He would strike walls and break chairs, and watch her lead the Ferrers to their end.

  My God, Adrian.

  Still it took courage—heart-thudding, breath-stopping courage—to grasp his face in her hands. Beneath her palms she felt the fine tremor that ran through him. Otherwise he remained perfectly still, his regard fierce, his face opaque. He had shown all of himself to her that he could; she sensed that he would give nothing more to her now.

  Not willingly, at least. He had some small instinct of self-preservation left to him.

  “You need not strike me,” she murmured, her voice unsteady, overwhelmed by her revelation. “For if you strike out that part of me that cleaves to my own, you will strike yourself from me as well.”

  His caught breath spelled its own message, despite the silence of his tongue. She smoothed her palm along his cheek, into his hair. Once, long ago, she had fantasized of his force. She had dreamed that he would return, and seize her from Lord Towe’s side, and carry her away. Later, so much later, he had seized her, and she had reviled him for it. But he had always possessed some part of her . . . even when the distance between them had been greatest.

  She had loathed that missing piece of her soul as a weakness. How astonishing now to see that his weakness was the same. His weakness was her.

  “I love you,” she said. “Never doubt that, Adrian. No matter what comes, I cannot act but as my love for you guides me.” She would never betray him. There had to be some other escape from this conundrum.

  His face changed. The terrible blankness loosened from his features. “You will remember you said that,” he whispered.

  She swallowed. Such a low, growling note in his words, and she did not mistake its meaning: he was not comforting or reassuring her. He was warning her.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will never forget it.”

  His hands drove through her hair and pinned her against the rough wall. As he stared at her, she held perfectly still, her heart in her throat.

  And then his hands slid behind her back, down over her buttocks, which he palmed openly, in a show of bold, shameless effrontery.

  “Remember,” he said, and lifted her, making her gasp. With the edge of his hip he knocked her knees apart, and stepped into the lee between them, using his body to press hers against the wall as his mouth came over hers.

  He devoured her. He devoured her gasp. His hands massaged her buttocks as he ground against her, the thick length of his erection pressing insistently through her petticoats. His savagery stirred some primal alarm in her, but the force of his mouth did not allow her to turn away. Then his open mouth fell to her throat, his teeth nipping her collarbone, and with no warning he swung her away from the wall.

  She clutched tightly to his shoulders as he carried her in three long strides to the bed. He spilled her onto the mattress and then planted his knee by her hip and his hand by her shoulder, crouching over her, his hair spilling down.

  “Lie still,” he said very softly.

  She swallowed from nerves and forced her eyes shut. His hands slid up her belly to the neckline of her bodice and yanked. A sharp tug, a ripping sound; she felt the cool air spill across her breasts, bare to the world over the tops of her stays.

  A low, rough sound came from him. She opened her eyes in time to see him fasten his mouth to her nipple. He suckled her forcefully, as though to punish her, but it was no punishment, it was the furthest thing from it. His wildness called to her. She cupped his head, arching into his mouth, the strong pull of his lips causing her body to grow loose and compliant.

  His hand ran up her calf and knocked apart her legs. His hot, rough palm slid up her thigh, found her wet folds and parted them. With one long finger, he penetrated her.

  The shock of sensation caused her to jerk.

  “Be still,” he said through his teeth.

  She held her breath as his hand set up a slow, rhythmic penetration. His head lowered again to hers to seize her mouth. With tongue and fingers he ravished her, licking and rubbing, sucking and stroking. His hip against her inner knee urged her legs apart more widely; she felt his minute adjustment as he brought his body into the cradle of her thighs. His hand, now damp, released her tender fl
esh and made quick work of baring him. The heavy head of his cock slid down her slick channel; and then, in one sure, hard stroke, he thrust into her.

  She cried out. He caught her arms and held them out to either side, pinning her with his hands and his tongue in her mouth and his cock deep inside her. Again and again he thrust into her, long, hard strokes that rubbed some hidden, terribly sensitive place she had never felt before; it swelled and ached more fiercely with every pass. He muttered into her mouth, then into her cheek and hair, words she could not decipher, only—ah, God, she had never been used so hard, and her own pleasure began to frighten her. With each flex of his hips, each demand, his teeth on her earlobe, his biting kiss of her shoulder, she gasped more and more loudly, and then a grunt tore from her. She was lost to anything but the slap of his body into hers.

  She surrendered to it. She gave herself over to him, let his body master hers, and at some point her wrists came free. She wrapped her arms around him, tightened her thighs’ grip on his hips, and sank into his mouth like air into the fire that consumed it. Dimly she was aware when his arm slipped beneath her knee, when he hoisted her leg higher, and the depth of his penetration straddled a line between pleasure and pain that made her groan—and then sigh as her climax seized her.

  The sound of her pleasure seemed to alter something in him, for he kissed her knee and then lowered it, slowing to a more leisurely pace, rocking into her gently now, lifting her hand to his mouth to kiss her fingertips, to paint and suckle them with his tongue. Their eyes met, and something passed between them, hot and tremulous. She caught his face, putting her mouth to his ear, whispering against it, “I am yours.”

  A gasp broke from him. His arms came hard around her, and she felt him shudder in his little death.

  They lay locked together as their breathing slowed.

  Silence now from the coaching yard; the evening had grown peaceful. She reached up to stroke his hair, to run her thumb along the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

  His eyes fluttered opened. He kissed her softly, a kiss grave and sweet and full of portent. A shiver passed through her. The echo of unimaginable pleasure, perhaps . . . or a premonition.

  May God show mercy to all whom she loved, this man as much as her brother. For in London, no one would.

  21

  As they drew closer to London, the roads grew choked with traffic, and the hills gave way to rolling fields neatly bordered by hedges. The sense of the nearing city began to grew oppressive. It seemed to lurk just beyond the horizon like some great, unseen monster, waiting to devour all that Nora held dear.

  And yet, she found an unexpected peace in riding by Adrian’s side. The occasional grip of his hand over hers, and the steady looks and occasional smiles he gave her, reminded her of the night that had passed. They had reached a silent understanding in that dusty little room, and it rose in her now like a wonder, astonishing, precious: no matter what they rode toward, they rode toward it together.

  As they passed through the gates to Manston House, where they would stay this final night before reaching town, Lord Barstow came into the yard. Adrian left her with their host to attend to his men and her brother.

  Barstow led her toward the house, Grizel trailing, as he apologized prettily for the absence of his wife. “My son,” he said with a chiding look toward Lord John, who was walking with them, “did not give proper notice, otherwise Lady Barstow would be here to receive you. Alas, she is at Bath with our daughter, who takes the waters for her health.”

  Nora murmured some pleasantry, but her attention was caught by the scene transpiring by the mews. Adrian’s men were helping her brother from the saddle, for with his hands bound behind his back he could not dismount on his own.

  Lord Barstow, following her glance, sighed. “An unhappy sight for you, no doubt. An unhappy fix.”

  A woman less versed in the ways of courtiers might have heard an offer of friendship in his voice. But the closer they neared to London, the more Nora recalled of its ways. With a leaden heart she said lightly, “You are kind to think of me.”

  “Oh, but ever since I received my son’s extraordinary tidings, I have thought of little else,” Lord Barstow said. His thin white brows knitted. “Such untoward doings! I would speak frankly—but I would dislike to offend you.”

  “You could not offend, my lord.”

  “Could I not? Then allow me to observe that you do not wear the bridal glow. Perhaps the road has tired you? You must look on Manston as your own home, and me as a kind of father. Certainly I do hope, my lady, that I may be of some use to you.”

  With his liver-spotted jowls and his hunched posture, he looked more the grandfather to her. But some instinct pulled her suddenly to distrust his kindness—entreating her to break from his hold and wait for Adrian.

  She looked again over the yard. A group of newcomers had joined her husband and his men. In the dying light Adrian’s pale hair shone bluish and his back was turned to her, straight and tall.

  The pang of tenderness that speared through her closed her throat. Was not love a terrible thing? One thought one had learned to manage it, and then it sprang free again, rattling its claws in one’s liver.

  God shield us both, for I do love him, beyond aught else.

  The twilight was darkening, or else it was her own worries besetting her and closing her away from the light. All at once she felt tired. “I would like to rest,” she said.

  “Excellent. And there is no call to look so glum, my child, I promise you. Look, my men are even now seeing to your brother’s comfort.”

  Sure enough, they were leading David away by the arm. “Where do they take him?”

  “To a comfortable room,” Lord Barstow said soothingly. He gave a nod to Lord John, who slipped away toward the stable. “I have no business to pass judgment, my lady; that will be the task of Parliament. While here, he will be housed as a guest—time enough yet for gentle treatments, to steel him against the future.”

  His gentle voice implied that he found that future a pity.

  “That is gracious of you.” She cleared her throat. “I hope Parliament might prove so gracious when my brother’s case is put before it.”

  Lord Barstow clucked and patted her hand. “Only place your faith in the Lord our God and your brother’s wits, and all will be well.”

  The advice echoed her brother’s words to her. How odd.

  She stepped over the threshold into the house. Her feeling of disquiet suddenly sharpened, although she could see no cause for it. Double doors opened into a moderately sized hall with a low coffered ceiling lit by mullioned windows. Along the walls loitered a handful of men, plainly dressed and idle—peculiarly so, for servants.

  Puzzled by the prickle down her spine, she nevertheless heeded it. Turning to Grizel, she said, “Go bid my lord come speak with me—I have forgotten to tell him something.”

  Lord Barstow took no note of the maid’s departure. “My son gives me to understand that your family has known Lord Rivenham since his youth.” He guided her past one of the knots of idle men, aiming her toward the staircase. “Is that so?”

  She nodded.

  “And do you think it likely that Lord Rivenham shared with your brother the names of his many friends in France?”

  Again a sense of ominous familiarity seized her. She came to a stop, her skirts swinging around her. Something was wrong here. Lord John laughing with her brother on the road—his father asking the same questions that Lord John had put to her that night at dinner, now so long ago, which had opened her eyes to his dislike of Adrian . . .

  She pulled free of Lord Barstow’s grip. He gave her a puzzled, frowning smile, but she did not wait to hear what he would say. Turning on her heel, she strode back toward the door, a rectangle of glowing blue light amidst the gloom of the hall.

  Steel scraped without.

  She picked up her skirts and ran.

  At the doorway she grabbed onto the frame, the scene outside imprinting itself with
paralyzing vividness:

  Some strange man held his sword to Adrian’s throat.

  Twenty paces away from him, too far across the yard, his men had realized the trap. Their swords were drawn but they were encircled.

  Grizel cowered against a wall.

  A hand closed on her arm. “You will want to step out of the way, my dear,” came Barstow’s kindly voice, and then he matched action to advice, pushing her aside as plain-clothed men tumbled past, brandishing swords.

  For a moment that seemed to freeze and then grow more complex, like the formation of an ice crystal on glass, blooming before her eyes, Nora divined how it would go:

  Lord John and David, in pursuit of a common enemy, had reached some private accord.

  The cost, somehow, would be Adrian’s life.

  She would profit by her brother, but lose her husband in the bargain.

  The stillness shattered. Adrian threw himself backward and came up with blade in hand; his opponent lunged and Adrian twisted away, raising his sword to stop a blow that otherwise would have beheaded him. Across the yard, swords clashed as his men gave fight.

  Freed of her dread vision, she saw the truth in her own heart. To have her brother at the cost of Adrian was no bargain at all.

  The fight raged across the yard, drawing more men from hidden corners. What horses had not been stabled were shying as swords danced past and nicked them. One broke free to make a frantic gallop around the edges of the yard.

  Adrian and his men were more than outnumbered. They were being fought two to one. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried to Lord Barstow.

  He was watching the melee with a faint smile. “Why, justice for your brother.” He cut her a sly glance. “And for you as well. For was it not your husband who persuaded your brother to adopt James Stuart’s cause?”