Captives of the Night (39 page)

"I know." He was growing aroused again, though his body had scarcely quieted from the first tempest. Gently he released her and shifted himself up onto one elbow.

"You fire up in an instant," he said as he lightly caressed her breast. Smooth and white as alabaster. Full and firm. So beautiful she was, and passionate.

Made to make a man weep. "It is frightening," he added. "Luckily, I am Albanian, the son of a strong warrior."

"And the son of a sorceress." Her tawny gaze was darkening. "I suppose there's some comfort in that. At least I haven't disgraced myself with someone ordinary."

He clicked his tongue. "It is not disgrace. We care for each other. Neither of us belongs to another. We — "

"Neither of us?" she interrupted. "Aren't you forgetting your wives?"

With his index finger, he wrote his name over the smooth curve of her breast. "This matter of wives plagues you excessively," he said.

"I can understand a man having trouble cleaving only to one," she said. "But when he's allowed scores of them, it’s very difficult to understand what the problem is. Obviously, it's too late for me to object, but I am curious. Purely for intellectual enlightenment, I wish you'd explain. Why should a man of your cultural background stray? Or was it the circumstances? Were you obliged to leave them in Albania?"

He let out a sigh. "I vowed to myself that I would not respond to any more interrogations, at least for this night." He moved over her and eased himself between her thighs. "Perhaps I should distract you," he added, skimming his fingers down over her belly.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. I shan't survive another — Oh-h-h," she moaned, as his fingers grazed her tender woman's flesh.

"
Mtchant
," he murmured while he caressed the sensitive peak with feather-light strokes. "Wicked, curious cat. I give you everything you want, and it is not enough, ungrateful creature."

Her eyes were glazing over. "Dear God. Oh. Don't.
Oh-h-h-h
."

He bent and feathered a trail of kisses over her breast, then lightly took its trembling crest between his teeth. A low, surrendering moan answered, and she slid her fingers into his hair.

Smiling, he trailed down slowly, teasing her silken skin with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

She gasped, and tugged at his hair as he stole lower, to the center of her heat. She was damp already with wanting. Ready, vulnerable to delicious torment. He wanted to make it long and delicious. He had claimed her like a savage. Now he would enjoy his conquest at his leisure. He flicked his tongue over the delicate bud. This time, her moan pulsed through her muscles and on through him, to vibrate in his heart like the strings of a lute.

She was the night, and the night was dark, hot honey, thick with pleasure. She was his, hot and helpless under his tongue, and her soft, tremulous cries were for him. He toyed and tantalized, savoring the desire he drew from her, the moist warmth of her feminine secrets. Again and again he coaxed her to the crest of pleasure, and grew drunk with power as each climactic shudder pulsed through him.

"Please.
Ismal
." She fisted her hands in his hair. "Please," she gasped. "I need you
inside me
."

He rose to her, smiling his triumph and happiness while his swollen rod throbbed against her heat.

"Like this, my heart?" he asked huskily as he eased into her slick core.

"Oh. Yes."

Slowly, this time. Lovingly. She was his now, sweet and hot… and needing him… inside her.

Her body welcomed, opening gladly to him… surrounding him, taking him deep, and tightening, to hold him in the most intimate of embraces while she moved to the sensuous rhythm he set, and joined with him in lovers' dance.

She was the night, and the night sang in his heart, low and aching as the music of his homeland. She was the Ionian wind, singing in the pines. She was the rain streaming into his parched and lonely exile's heart to nourish his soul. She was the sea and the mountains, the soaring eagles and the rushing rivers… all that he had lost. In her he found himself. Ismal. Hers.

She reached for him, and he sank gladly into her welcoming embrace, and drank the heady brew of simmering kisses. Her passion was
raki
, a potent whiskey racing through his blood, inflaming him.

The music of desire grew louder, their rhythm stronger and faster, driving to
appassionato
.

She was desire, and desire was a mad dance, a wild
valle
with the night. She clung, surging with him in stormy harmony. She was lost, as he was, to feverish need, yet she was with him, holding him, even as they raced to
crescendo
.

Then she was eternity, and eternity was the vast night heavens where the stars blazed. His needy soul reached for her, into the void.
Leila. With me. Keep me
.

She was there, her mouth claiming his, her strong, beautiful hands holding him fast. She was there, a burning star, his, and rapture was a searing burst of gold fire. He blazed for an instant… then fell… into the void, consumed.

Despite orders to the contrary, Nick was waiting up when Ismal returned near daybreak.

"Herriard's back," Nick said as he took his master's hat and coat. "He — What the devil have you done to your neckcloth?" He scowled at the linen dangling limply from Ismal's neck. "I hope to heaven no one saw you like that. And where are your other things? You didn't
leave
them there, did you?"

Ismal remembered Leila in his silk robe, the sash draped about her head like a turban, the trousers clinging to her lush hips and long, slender legs. "They were stolen," he said. "How did you learn about Herriard? I thought he planned to be away until the first of April."

"Lady Brentmor came looking for you not ten minutes after you left. Bursting with news for you. Only you weren't here and she had to collect Mrs. Beaumont from Lady Carroll's and. take her to a card party."

Ismal headed up the stairs. "I trust her news can wait until morning."

"It is morning, in case you haven't noticed," Nick said, trailing after him.

"Tell me after I sleep, then. I am rather weary."

"Well, so am I. Only I had to stay up, didn't I, because you won't let me write things down, and if I fell asleep I might forget some important detail."

Ismal ambled into his bedroom and, pulling off his cravat, sat on the edge of the mattress. "Tell me then." He began to tug off his boots.

"Evidently, the old lady got some reports from her informants late in the afternoon," Nick said. "Item one: Late in December, the Duke of Langford paid two thousand quid for shares of a company that doesn't exist."

"Ah." Ismal set his right boot down. "This makes sense. Lord Avory is kept on a relatively modest allowance. It was more profitable for Beaumont to bleed the father. Also, much more dangerous."

"Suicidal, I'd say. Because — and this is item two — the Duke of Langford has some interesting friends in the demimonde. Some burly fellows you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. And a talented courtesan by the name of Helena Martin. He's her landlord."

"This is
very
interesting." Ismal placed the left boot beside its mate. "According to Quentin, Helena in her youth had a brief but very successful career as a thief." He had not considered it unusual or significant. Hundreds of children in London's slums stole and whored to survive. Helena Martin was one of the very rare cases of upward mobility. A skilled — and discreet — thief could prove very useful at times. Certainly Beaumont had employed such in Paris.

"That's item three," Nick said. "But I told her you already knew. Item four is a reminder that Quentin's men didn't find a single document in Beaumont’s house that could be used to blackmail anybody."

Ismal nodded. "Either none were left or someone stole them." He looked up at Nick. "So it is possible Helena stole them — for Langford."

"An experienced thief would know where to look, wouldn't she? Not to mention it’s possible Helena had been in the house before. Beaumont did take tarts home when his wife was away."

"The trouble is, once the papers were stolen, it was unnecessary to kill the blackmailer." Ismal pulled off his shirt and tossed it to Nick.

"Maybe Helena had reasons of her own — or Langford felt it was safer to be rid of Beaumont once and for all."

"An interesting theory. But no more than that. We need something more substantial than speculations."

Nick was frowning down at the wrinkled shirt. It took him a moment to respond. "Yes. Well. Speculations."

"Is that all? May I rest now?"

Nick shook his head. "Item five."

"No wonder you were afraid to sleep. The old witch came with a very long list, it seems."

"The old witch has been busy," said Nick. "Unlike some people I could mention."

"It is a tiresome case." Ismal yawned. "I prefer to let you and her do all the boring work. Perhaps you would be so kind as to proceed more concisely with the rest of your items, and keep the editorial comments to yourself."

Nick's jaw clenched. "Very well.
Sir
. Item five: Lady Brentmor — by means she doesn't choose to explain — has obtained information regarding Mrs. Beaumont’s finances. Thanks to the financial acumen of her man of business, Mr. Andrew Herriard — "

"I know his name," said Ismal.

"The dowager says every last ha'penny is accounted for. Mrs. Beaumont has an ample income, thanks to a series of sound but canny investments. A few risks that paid off very well. No oddities or discrepancies. No skirting the bounds of ethics."

"Just as we already knew."

"Indeed, all was in order. Except for one thing."

Ismal waited through the obligatory dramatic pause.

"Mrs. Beaumont started out with only a thousand pounds," said Nick.

"That is not so surprising." Ismal's stomach was a bit queasy, though he was certain the dowager would not have breathed a word to Nick about the secrets of a decade ago. "It was my understanding that her father was bankrupt."

"Apparently, Lady Brentmor thinks there should have been a lot more money, not less. I'm to inform you — this is item six — that she intends to contact sources at a bank in Paris. She seems to think Beaumont got his hands on the money before Herriard turned up to take charge."

"I do not see what Her Ladyship hopes to accomplish," Ismal said with a trace of irritation. "It was ten years ago — and stealing from an orphaned girl would fit Beaumont’s character. It would be but one in a long list of injuries he did her. However, since she did not kill him, it is irrelevant to the inquiry."

"I did point that out to Lady Brentmor. She told me it wasn't my business to think, but to listen. Item seven," Nick began.

"Heaven grant me patience!" Ismal fell back on the pillows and shut his eyes. "When will you be done with your accursed items? I shall be an old man before you finish, I think."

"Next time, I'll make the old lady wait," said

Nick. "I'd like to see you make
her
stifle editorial comments. I haven't told you the half of what she — "

"Item seven," Ismal coldly reminded.

"Christ. Item seven," Nick grated out. "News from abroad. From Turkey."

Ismal's eyes flew open.