Any Wicked Thing (35 page)

“Nonsense. We thought it worth a try. You didn't hold us at gunpoint.”

She pushed away from the desk. “I'll do better tomorrow. Right now, I can't think.”

Each step upstairs rattled her bones. She didn't even bother turning down the coverlet as she stretched out on her bed. She was rarely ill—there wasn't time to be—but right now she wished she could stay in her room for the foreseeable future. But she didn't go back to sleep. Her mind was busy racing through the halls of the castle, imagining where a thorough rogue might stash a French fortune.

Sebastian didn't bother knocking when he pushed into the room three-quarters of an hour later, his hands filled with her luncheon tray. He had washed, but had not bothered with a neckcloth, waistcoat or jacket. The ends of his hair were still damp, curling up at his collar. She made a half hearted effort to sit up.

“I've brought you another draft of headache powder. Mrs. Holloway's, this time, and some catmint tea. Young Kenny's suggestion. Everyone is most anxious over you.” He set a toleware tray on her bedside table. Apart from the liquids, there was a soft-boiled egg in its shell, a small ramekin of custard and a slice of bread spread with apple butter. Simple, comforting nursery food, fragrant with vanilla and cinnamon.

“Thank you. You're being very nice to me.”

“I'm meant to. It is your day. Here, drink up.”

His arm swept around her and he pulled her to his chest. He smelled of her rose soap, clean and sweet. She should perhaps make something with a more masculine scent for him, but that would be a project for another day. He held the glass tumbler to her lips as if she were a child, and she dutifully swallowed it down.

“Ugh.”

“Yes, well, the alternative is worse. Mrs. Holloway thought something sugary might chase the taste away. Do you want me to feed you?”

Frederica blushed, remembering their wicked tea when she was helpless and blindfolded. “I can manage.” Though it seemed a sin to waste it, she left the quivering egg alone, but took a sip of tea, sharply redolent of the herb, a few spoonfuls of custard and a bite of bread. Sebastian stationed himself in a chair opposite, studying his hands. He'd not been able to completely eradicate the dirt from under his fingernails. Today was the first time since he'd been home that she had seen him disheveled.

Home.
No, Goddard Castle was not home to him and never would be.

She set the bread down on its plate. “Where will you go?”

“Pardon?”

“When you leave. Back to Roxbury Park?”

“Yes. I'm missing some spring planting. Now that I've proven myself with a shovel, my tenants might welcome me back with open arms. We Dukes of Roxbury are not very popular, you know.”

“Things have been bad there for a long while, haven't they?”

“Yes.”

“D-do you blame my father?”

Sebastian looked up, startled. “Of course not. I know I've been crude about our fathers' relationship, but neither one of them could help being who they were. They had more in common than most husbands and wives. All that mad medieval stuff to bind them together. It's just a pity my father roped my mother into his life. He could have been happy with his collections and his lover.”

Frederica's smile wobbled. “But then you wouldn't be here to feed me pudding.”

“Your wish is my command. At least for today.” He made as if to feed her, then put the custard in his own mouth, licking the spoon in a very provocative manner. He was teasing her, turning the conversation to steadier ground for him.

“And tomorrow. And the day after,” she reminded him.

“Cheat. Just because Cam is here, you think you have me over a barrel.” He picked up the ramekin. “Are you done? Please say yes, because this is quite good.”

“I'm done. Didn't you have your own meal?” She watched him spoon in like a greedy schoolboy.

“No. I was a bit worried about you and came right up after I had a wash.”

“That was kind.”

“Please. You'll ruin my reputation. You make me sound like someone's old aunt.”

Frederica pictured Sebastian with a little lace cap on his head and laughed. A mistake. “Do not be amusing. My head still aches.”

“I'll leave you, then.”

“No! That is, please don't go. I might have something planned you will enjoy.”

“Knocking down walls? Mucking the stalls?”

She wanted to lie in his arms, feel his breath on her cheek, his clean skin against hers. “Kiss me, Sebastian.”

He dropped the spoon with a clatter. “Right now? Aren't you ill?”

“Only from wanting you. You will kiss me and make it better.”

Mrs. Holloway's potion had made her brazen. She would blame it if things went bad. She patted the bed, but he didn't move.

“What game are you playing, Freddie?”

“No game. Take your clothes off.”

“And I just put them on. You surprise me every day, Freddie.”

She watched as he unfastened each tiny, flat ivory button on the placket of his shirt, grateful there were only two of them. His cuffs were next; then he pulled the linen over his head. She decided she would never get tired of him doing so—he moved with an easy grace she envied.

He deliberately turned his back to her and opened his falls, his trousers dropping to his boot tops. He was close enough to touch, and she did so. He hitched a breath but stood still as she gently fingered the longest raised scar.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“I am so sorry.” If not for that horrible night ten years ago, he would not have been driven away. His future might have been very different. He must blame her. Her hand trembled as a wave of nausea swamped her. He twisted about and caught it.

“I know what you're thinking. It's not your fault. Have you looked your fill?”

“Yes.”

He sat on the bed and worked at his boots. “Look. We were both young and stupid. You made a mistake. I didn't need to—Well, I did what I did. Thought what I did. Left, and on the whole had an enviable life, apart from those few months in prison.”

“I didn't take the money your father offered,” Frederica blurted.

“So he wrote. Again and again. But how did you come by your tidy little fortune?”

“There was a little when my father died. And my mother's aunt remembered me in her will. Your father invested the money for me. And then when the books sold—oh, Sebastian, he gave me
everything
. When he could have used the money himself.”

“That seems only fair. You wrote them, did you not?”

Frederica was stunned at his reaction. “How did you know?”

“I looked them over last night. They were much too interesting to have been written by my father. He was as dull as ditchwater, Freddie. Knew a great deal but put one to sleep in the telling of it. Cam said the series is rather famous in academic circles. Chock-full of facts, yet accessible for even the layman. Even stupid schoolboys such as I once was can read them. Cam has a set himself and is anxiously awaiting the sequel.”

Frederica felt her face warm from this secondhand praise. “The only reason the publisher bought it was because your father's name was on it. He did all the outlining. I just filled in the details.”

Sebastian threw his head back in laughter. He was gloriously naked now.

“Please don't tell anyone.”

“Does this publisher think my father's writing from the grave?”

“No, but he believes I'm just polishing up the last of Uncle Phillip's writings. And he wonders what's taking so long.”

His nimble fingers were at the hooks of her dress. “May I?”

She nodded.

“I don't suppose,” he said, pushing her bodice down, “that our arrangement is helping you speed up any.”

“It's all right.”

He looked up at her. “No, it's not. I'll sell you the castle anyway, Freddie. Let's rip up our agreement.”

She could hardly find her voice. “You don't—want me for the month?”

“I didn't say that. But my presence here is unnecessary, and I really should get back to Roxbury Park. After Cam's week is up, we'll go and leave you alone. I'll get someone to draw up the proper sale papers.”

Her nipples were between his circling fingers now. Then this meant nothing to him. She could be any woman, and he'd be as efficient in his lovemaking. It was what he did.

“Why the change of heart?”

“Something Cam said. I really shouldn't punish you for the past.”

So sex with her had been meant to be a punishment. Unfortunate that now she craved it. She supposed the punishment ultimately had been very effective indeed.

She said nothing as he continued to unwrap her from her layers of clothing. She could have told him to stop—it was her day. But knowing there would be few more encounters like this stilled her tongue and swallowed back her tears.

She had begun to hope that he liked her again. He seemed to have reached some accommodation for his father. But it had probably been too much to hope that he would become enthralled with her.

And did she even want that? She had her books to write. Her people to take care of. Her garden to tend. Her independence to maintain and cherish. She didn't need him or any man.

He tipped her back on the bed and kissed her as she had demanded. His eyes were closed, his thick dark lashes crescents on his sunburned cheeks. His tongue and hands dealt with her in a ruthless, professional manner, so that in the shortest amount of time she ceased to think about the past or the future and concentrated solely on the present. His kiss was flavored with the custard, and as smooth. He coaxed her tongue to his, his fingertips lightly massaging her temple. The dull throbbing in her head vanished and she relaxed beneath him, floating in a sea of surrender. There was no point directing him—he knew just what to do, and did it well. She would be a fool to alter a single sweep of his hands or thrust of his hips.

She was not tied, so could return his strokes, feel the textured scarring on his back, rumple his still-damp hair, see the way his dark eyebrows met as he anchored himself. He entered her with care, as if the clock were winding down and all time was in slow motion. There was none of the wildness of the hill in the storm, none of the precise scene-setting of her usual submission. Frederica felt like a fragile china cup, filled with the most delicious temptation. He eased in and almost out of her with such control that she soon lost hers. Clutching his shoulders, bucking her hips up, digging the heels of her feet against his buttocks, she took charge and forced him to match her abandon.

Their coupling was no longer a delicate, regulated waltz but a vigorous mazurka with no fixed steps. Improvisation was all. She could not be sorry for her lack of finesse—the urge to be closer, to somehow be inside
him
, spiraled into a fierce orgasm for them both. But mindful of their parting, he withdrew and spurted his seed onto her belly. Frederica forced herself to keep her disappointment from showing. What was wrong with her? He was only heeding her lecture, doing exactly as she had asked. But his regard for her wishes did not bring her the satisfaction she expected.

He lay atop her, panting, his heart thudding against hers. His mossy eyes were closed. She had watched him throughout, a privilege she was usually denied. Sebastian's face had been impossible to read, but his body at least had seemed fully engaged. She felt his lips brush a kiss on her shoulder, and then he rolled away.

“Are you all right?”

She managed a smile. “Yes. My headache is quite gone.”

“An unusual cure. I don't imagine it will be found in most medical textbooks.” He took her folded napkin from the lunch tray and gently wiped her stomach clean.

“You should go to your friend.”

“Cam's all right. He's taken the diary and is wandering about. Now that he can see the places described, maybe he'll unearth something beyond catnip and bugs.”

“I'm sorry. When I read that the earl put new plants along the foundation, I thought he had an opportunity to conceal something else. Everything is back in place?”

“Good as new.”

“I'll have to cut the stems back next month.”

“We could have done that today. You don't have to wait until the castle's yours.”

Frederica felt a shadow fall across her heart. “No,” she said lightly, “June's the month for cutting back catmint. Then the plants grow bushy. And I mustn't let the flowers go to seed, else they won't last through the winter. We have our routine.”

Sebastian began to dress. “My father was lucky to have you as chatelaine. I just hope you're happy up here.”

“Oh, I will be.” She had to be. She had no choice.