Athena's Ordeal (14 page)

“Are you ready for bed?” His voice was a soft rumble.

“Yes.”

Quince watched Sabre in the pale lamplight and thought that perhaps it was fear of loss that made everything more poignant, more perfect. Even though his soul told him that there would be many more nights like this in their bedroom, nights to touch and love her, logic dictated that it couldn't be true. Usually he trusted his instincts but he found that any possibility of losing Sabre seemed like too much of a risk. The fear preyed upon his mind. But it also made every moment that much more precious.

He met her in the middle of the room. She looked up at him, confused and curious, but didn't speak. He untied the sash of her white silk robe and pushed it off her shoulders to pool on the floor. That earned him one of her smiles. He ran a finger over her cheek, along her jaw. His fairy queen. His beautiful, beautiful fairy queen.

Untying the ribbons on her lace nightgown, he sent that to the floor as well. She stood before him nude and lovely in the candlelight. Her nipples had hardened, begging to be suckled. In that moment he thought he finally understood all the poets. She was everything. The only thing greater than his want of her was his love. She could have him on his knees. She could make him beg. He would do anything to protect her. To please her. Rather than frighten him, these thoughts, these feelings, only made him feel stronger. Made him more certain. He had spent his life searching for meaning and somehow, unexpectedly, he had found it in her.

She lost patience and reached out to untie the sash to his robe. He wore nothing beneath and she stepped closer to wrap her hand around hi
m. Her small, warm hand stroking him felt like heaven. She moved closer still to kiss his chest, his throat. He tilted her face back and kissed her with all of his passion, all of his love. She returned the kiss eagerly. He backed toward the bed and she followed, bumping into him in their haste.

By the time they fell onto the mattress they were both laughing from the awkwardness. Their laughter slowed as they stared at one another.
 Stretched out next to her he ran his hand over her side and down her hip. As he caressed the top of her thigh she raised her leg to hook over his. They began kissing again. Slowly. Leisurely. He pulled her closer, his hand curving over her bottom and squeezing. It was tempting to believe that they would have forever, that nights like this would stretch out in their future endlessly. But that wasn't possible. For all he knew they might only have tonight. And if it were only tonight then he would do his best to please her.

He kissed his way down her throat, cherishing every mewl and shiver he wrought from her. As his kisses descended to her breast she rolled onto her back, arching toward him. She clutched at his hair as his suckled first one turgid tip and then the other. He wished that joining gave her the same impossible pleasure that it gave him, but as it didn't he would concentrate on what did give her pleasure, and his suckling and nibbling on her breasts made her moan breathlessly. Certainly that was a good sign. Her hand moved to clasp at his waist, pulling on him.

"Quince, please."

"Please what?"

"Make love to me."

"I am making love to you."

She huffed in frustration. "You know what I mean."

He raised his head to look at her. "Not tonight. I don't want to hurt you."

"I know it could hurt, but I want to."

He shook his head. "No, my love."

"I don't like that word."

"Which one?"

"No. It's a beastly word. It only means someone is going to try to stop me from doing something I want to do." The testiness of her words was undermined by the delighted gasp she gave at the end when he brushed his palm over her nipple.

"I would stop anyone from hurting you, Sabrina. Even you. And especially me."

"I thought you believed in a woman's right to make her own choices."

He chuckled. "You're in my bed, aren't you? Right where you chose to be."

"Almost," she whispered. "Almost right where I choose to be." She wrapped her fist around his cock again. He was so hard and ready that his hips instinctively rocked against her touch. She slid her hand up and down in a gentle rhythm that made his whole body tighten with need. She was such an amazing blend of innocent and knowledgeable.

He pressed his cheek into her shoulder. "Sabre, please stop."

"Wouldn't you rather be inside me?" she whispered.

God's teeth, yes! But he wouldn't hurt her again. Instead he focused on the intense pleasure of her hand caressing him and spilled his seed onto her thigh while grunting her name. When he raised his head to look at her she gave him a wry smile and pulled him down for another kiss. He sank into the delight of her lips. She was all he wanted. All he would ever want.

Still intent on giving her at least a portion of the pleasure she gave him so effortlessly, he trailed kisses down her neck again on his way to her lush bosom. It was certainly no sacrifice bringing her pleasure by suckling on those beautiful breasts. He could feel his cock already twitching to life just thinking about getting his mouth on her nipple again.

"Quince?"

"Yes, love?" This time, instead of going directly to the nipple, he kissed around the side and underneath. She shivered and dug her nails into his shoulders.

"Shouldn't we talk about what we're going to do about the blackmailer?"

He stopped kissing her and drew back to rest on his elbow, looking down on her. "Beg pardon?"

"We haven't
discussed it all day. At lunch you were silly and tonight you've been thoroughly distracting."

He considered distracting her further. Squeezing and kissing her breasts until she writhed in pleasure. Finally sliding into her as she had already begged him to do this evening. He didn't want to talk about the blackmailer, think about the blackmailer. He wanted to be submerged in the pleasure of his... whatever she was. Mistress wasn't a fine enough word for her. Consort? The word wife crossed his mind. He looked down to see her brow furrowed while awaiting his answer, her skin flushed and rosy from their bed sport. He felt himself frowning.

Most likely frustrated by his silence, she said, "I've been thinking about it all day and we don't have enough information to plan an effective strategy."

"I agree. That's why I've decided to send a letter to your father."

"What? Why?" She sounded alarmed.

"He's the only one I know
who is in The Four. Receiving something directly from me will make him contact the others. It will cause some sort of movement outside the original plan."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "That is too dangerous."

"How is it more dangerous than what we're already facing?"

"This could be suicide. I forbid it."

"I'm sorry, did you say that you 
forbid
 it?"

She pulled the sheets over to cover herself. "Yes, I forbid it."
 Her skin had paled and her eyes looked huge and dark in her face. She looked far too upset for him to argue with her, even if her choice of words had left him irritated.

"Don't worry so much, love," he said.

Sabre moved from worry to outright panic with Quince's announcement that he was going to contact her father. She
understood the strategic possibilities. It could flush out The Four. She could ask her most trusted friends among the servants to tell her who her father spoke to after such a threat, what was said. But no. All day she had been trying to figure out how to get him out of the figurative valley he was in. Now, instead of retreating, he wanted to charge over the hill toward the enemy. Her entire body felt chilled. Her heart felt brittle in her chest. All she wanted to do was wrap herself around him and beg him to never, ever let himself get hurt. The realization was humbling. Frightening.

When
playing War while growing up, Jacqueline had always been frustrated that Sabre won all the wars. Sometimes it would seem that Jack was winning all the key battles, but inevitably the tide would turn and Sabre would win. Although they would discuss strategy at length, Sabre had never told her friend why she was really winning. It had to do with Jack's heart. Jack would always form an attachment to some of the "characters" in the war. It might be a historical general she particularly admired, or a soldier that had survived long odds in the present game. But Jack formed an emotional bond and would alter her play to protect the figures she had become attached to. It made her predictable. It made her weak. It made her easy to defeat.

Now Sabre had an attachment.
But this was no game. If she thought Quince would listen to her counsel she wouldn't feel quite so helpless, but she could tell by the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, he had made up his mind and wouldn't be dissuaded. If he had only confided in her while he had been thinking of this plan then she might have convinced him otherwise. But now he was committed and she was sure that it was the most dangerous thing he could choose to do. If it were just a game she might consider it. At times risky decision paid off. But this wasn’t a game, this was Quince. The man she loved. The man she couldn’t live without.

She couldn't let him continue without at least trying to help. "Certainly..." Her voice sounded dry and raspy. She swallowed and tried again. "Certainly there are some other alternatives. We should
discuss them before you commit to this course."

He curled his arm over her waist and settled against her side. As though this were just a friendly conversation. As though he weren't trying to break her heart. "I've thought about it quite a bit. Almost exclusively since I received the first note. With some," he smiled at her, "notable distraction."

"I believe it unwise to contact my father."

He narrowed his eyes at her, drawing back from the cozy posture. "So you've said already. Is there some reason you don't want me
contacting him? Are you and Robert planning something? Would contacting the viscount give me information you don't want me to have?"

Sabre's lips felt stiff and cold but she forced them to continue speaking. "No. If Robert is planning anything I'm not privy to it. As for my father
," she paused and sighed. "There are stories. People who have disappeared. People who inconvenienced him."

"It's hard to make a duke disappear, love."

She wanted to throttle him. He seemed to have no regard for the danger the situation presented. She scooted away from him and stumbled out of the bed. Searching the floor she found her nightgown and robe. He stayed on the bed watching her. Ever patient. Ever willing to let her do as she liked. She almost sobbed as she pulled the nightgown over her head. She tied the sash with a double knot.

Looking at him one last time she raised her chin and said, "You're making a terrible mistake." With that she left the room. If he wanted to kill himself she didn’t think she had the heart to watch.

Quince watched her go, fighting every impulse to follow her, argue with her, make love to her, kiss and tease her until she admitted her feelings for him. He fisted his hand in the bedclothes, frustrated with how the evening had ended. But she had been upset with his plan to contact her father, much more so than he would have
predicted. It was best to let her go back to the Rose Room and cool down. He would see how she fared at breakfast.

Even though he hadn't slept well
, Quince awoke earlier than usual. Something was wrong. There was a terrible silence again. He checked the pillow beside him to make sure he wasn't imagining it. He was alone in bed. Rising from the sheets, he stood in the middle of the room and warred with himself. Should he ring his valet and prepare for the day? That would be the logical course, as surely he was only imagining that Sabre was gone. He was only upset that she hadn't been there, at arm's reach, upon awakening.

Or should he follow his instincts and search for her now? After another moment of indecision he found himself once again putting on the simplest of clothing to go searching for his love. At this rate he thought he would soon earn a reputation as the mad, barefoot duke. He didn't find her anywhere upstairs. Jogging down the steps he found Havers to greet him at the bottom. The butler seemed anxious.

"Where is she?" Quince asked without preamble.

"The Miss left this morning. In the wee hours." Havers was literally wringing his hands. "We didn't know if we should wake you."

Quince felt himself go cold. "If it has to do with Miss Bittlesworth you should always wake me."

The butler nodded, looking close to tears. "She went to the barn and had
a horse saddled. She didn't want anyone to go with her but Bill, the groomsman, followed her to make sure she was safe-"

"And?" Quince prompted, impatient to hear the conclusion of the story.

"He returned not thirty minutes ago, your grace. She's... she's gone to London."

Quince nodded and looked down at the floor, hands clenched. He understood now how dangerous a job it was to be a messenger. He wanted to rage. He wanted to hurt someone, anyone who stood in his way. He wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and weep. She had left. She had left him. Was she so frightened about him writing to
her father? Was it something else? How had he misread her so completely that he hadn’t expected her to leave? He realized he was still staring blankly at the floor and lifted his chin.

"Have my horse saddled."

"Yes, your grace. Do you want any outriders?"

Quince
had already turned to take the stairs two at a time. "I don't bloody care!”

In short order he was dressed, mounted, and on his way to London with four riders trailing him.
Bill the groomsman had received the shock of his life when the duke asked for him, then gave him a hug in thanks for ensuring Miss Bittlesworth's safe arrival at her destination. Bill's description of the house meant she had headed directly where he thought she would.

It had been near dawn when Sabre arrived at Robert's townhouse. She had felt slightly guilty rousing his groomsmen to take her horse. She made sure to tell them it was the property of the Duke of Beloin and that she would eversomuch appreciate it if someone could take it to the duke's London stable soon. Sneaking into the house, she made her way quietly up to her room.

This was one of the times when she partic
ularly appreciated her brother. Shortly after he had purchased the townhome one of the first things he had done was bring her and Charlie here to show them where their rooms were. To tell them that they would never, ever be guests. They were family and would always have a place with him. Only being fourteen at the time she had, of course, asked where Justin's room was. Robert had explained that however much he cared about their half-brother, it wouldn't be appropriate for him to have such an open door policy with a bastard brother, especially as their father had not made provisions for him to be acknowledged in Society. When she had fussed and stomped her foot Robert had promised that Justin could always come to him for anything he needed. Although Charlie had maintained his bachelor's quarters and hadn't, to her knowledge, made much use of his room here, she, on the other hand, had come to see the room as a sanctuary, her personal haven over the past year.

Quietly opening the door and slipping inside
, she smelled the lingering scent of her perfume. It reminded her of innocence, youth, and her own strong-willed nature. But it didn't smell like lemongrass and the duke. For a frantic moment she wished she had taken his shirt or cravat. But wouldn't that make it worse? It felt like there was a band tightening around her chest and her throat was choked with unshed tears. She didn't take off so much as the jacket of her riding habit, just walked straight to the bed and burrowed face down in the pillows. Pillows that didn't smell like Quincy. She finally shed the bitter tears she had been holding back. How had she fallen in love with a man who had no sense? A man who would most likely be dead before the month was out.

Within an hour Sabre heard a knock on her door. "Go away!" she protested.

The door opened and she knew it must be Robert. It sounded as though he lingered in the doorway.

"The staff said you had arrived." His voice was soft. Perhaps out of deference to the early hour, perhaps because he sensed from her posture that something was amiss. When she didn't respond he prompted her. "Sabre?"

"I heard you," she said, her voice still thick from her crying jag. "I have arrived."

She heard his footsteps come closer, then felt the bed tilt slightly as he sat on the edge. He placed his hand on her back. "Sabre, what is wrong?"

His voice was clear, calm. Kindly, even. She recognized it as his first stage of extracting the information he wanted. "Nothing is wrong, Robert."

That received a wry laugh. "We both know that's not true. What did he do?"

"Nothing. And we both know that I have no patience for a person who won't do anything."

"So he didn't do... anything?"

Sabre knew what Robert was asking. And knew that she couldn't answer honestly. But thinking about what they had done only caused her a new batch of tears. She missed him already. They had been together only hours before but she missed him as though it had been days. Months. She wanted to answer her brother, but couldn't th
rough her sobs.

"Sabre?" Robert moved to kneel beside the bed near where she had buried her face in her pillows. His voice had an edge of panic. "Sabre, please look at me."

She didn't want to, but knew that a contest of wills between them would quickly make an unpleasant situation worse. She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve and looked over to him in the pale light of the early morning. His expression of concern hardened into something more dangerous.

She grabbed his hand where it rested on the edge of the bed. "Please don't hurt him," she said. "Please?
Swear to me."

He looked at her for a long, silent moment.
 She knew that tears continued to leak at the corners of her eyes. His hand was warm but tense in her own.

"Please, Robert. Don't hurt him. And if it must be said, don't have anyone else hurt him." She furrowed her brow and held back another sob. With a small voice she added. "If possible, don't let anyone hurt him at all."

He rose and tried to extract his hand from hers. "I'll let you rest."

"No!" she said, clinging to his hand tenaciously. She could hear hysteria in her own tone. "Promise!"

He sighed, using his free hand to smooth her hair. "I promise," he said softly.

"Don't let him be harmed," she insisted.

"I'll do my best," he agreed.

She finally let his hand go. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. "Get some rest, Sabre."

She nodded and burrowed into the pillows again. Pillows she wished smelled of lemongrass.

Quince arrived at Robert Bittlesworth's townhouse shortly after dawn. While his men milled in the street he sprinted up the steps and pounded on the door. It was promptly opened by none other than Robert himself. The younger man did a credible job of looming in the doorway considering that they were of a size.

Quince tried to push through anyway. "Is she-"

"She won't see you. You aren't welcome here." Bittlesworth's stance was solid. His stare flat and implacable. The stare of a predator.

The duke blinked. "I don't understand."

"That's hardly my problem." Bittlesworth began to close the door.

"Wait, stop! What happened? I don't even know why she left!"

Robert planted a hand on the duke's chest and pushed him back. "That's hardly my problem," he said again, closing the door with a solid snap.

Quince pounded on the door for a good five minutes but there was no other response from the occupants. Backing up he stared at the second floor, wondering if any of the windows were to Sabre's room. Realizing he was being a good deal more foolish than he should be, especially
for a public street, he rejoined his men to lead them to the ducal London home. His gaze stayed on the Bittlesworth townhouse until it was out of sight.