His Wicked Heart (36 page)

“I do mean it. I have this power, and I want
to wield it to hurt Gifford. Is that what you feel like when you
fight?”

His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she had
to battle to keep herself from succumbing to his caress. “Somewhat,
but my goal isn’t to inflict pain. I want to exert myself in a
strategic manner. Fighting takes thought and skill. Too much
emotion clouds your judgment. I’m afraid that’s why I didn’t fare
too well tonight.”

Olivia thrilled to his words. “What do you
mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Uncomfortable with his blistering stare, she
directed her attention to his wound. She kneeled up and peeled the
cravat away to check the bleeding. Slower now, but still flowing.
She rotated the fabric to a fresh spot and pressed anew. He
flinched and dropped his hand to his lap. She regretted the loss of
his touch, but it was for the best.

There was no help for it—she was falling in
love with him. And while he might feel something for her—had hinted
at it just a moment before—they had no future together.

“Earlier, you said you trusted me.” His voice
was low and rough.

She had.
She did
. When had that
happened? She’d even told him about living with her mother. She’d
never told anyone how isolated she’d felt. But she couldn’t hope
for something she could never have. “I don’t trust anyone. Not
really.” The words hurt her more to say than they could possibly
have hurt him.

His lips hardened, giving him that cold,
arrogant look she hadn’t seen of late. He gripped the side of her
head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I want you to trust me. I
need
you to trust me.” He pulled at her head, his fingers
twisting her hair. “Tell me you do.”

How could she ignore the anguish in his
voice? They’d both been alone for so long, without anyone to
trust…or to love. She couldn’t deny him. “I do,” she whispered.

They hit a bumpy patch of road and her hand
pressed into his shoulder. He sucked in a breath.

“Tell me again.” He pulled her head down.

She stared at him.

“Tell me.” His voice was ragged with
desire.

“I trust y—”

He swallowed the rest of the word with a
searing kiss, his lips drawing on hers in desperate need. She
shouldn’t allow this. She should move away, but she needed to keep
pressure on his shoulder…

“Your shoulder,” she said against his
mouth.

“Can burn in hell.” He palmed the back of her
head and licked at her mouth. Passionate, burning kisses meant to
ignite and excite.

The coach hit another large bump, and she
nearly fell from the seat. Against her better judgment—a judgment
that was really quite absent at the moment—she straddled his lap.
She stroked his chest, running her left hand up across the heated
expanse of flesh.

He opened his mouth and deepened the kiss,
seeking to own every part of her. She slanted her head and met him
lick for lick and thrust for thrust. She ground down against him,
relishing his hardness between her legs. The undulating movement of
the carriage created friction between them, sending delicious
sparks of pleasure through her thighs and belly.

He broke the kiss, but only for a moment.
“Olivia,” another breathless kiss, “I need,” he tugged at her lips
with his teeth, “you.” He moved his hand to her waist and pulled
her down while he arched up. She gasped into his mouth, straining
against him, using every muscle to appease the hunger growing at
her core.

Frantically, his hands searched beneath her
skirts, draping the silk around them like a curtain. He found her
slick flesh and stroked her opening, never releasing her mouth from
his. She rotated her hips against his hand, her knees pressing into
the sides of his thighs, all the while never loosening her pressure
on his shoulder. She gripped his uninjured shoulder as well, giving
her balance as she rode his touch.

He moved his wounded arm, but she didn’t
release the compress. With difficulty, he opened his breeches. She
would’ve helped, but adding her hands to the tumble of skirts and
his fingers—God, his fingers. He slid one deep inside of her and
she cried out, her teeth grazing his.

“Yes,” he coaxed, his finger pumping in time
with her hips.

“I need—” The wave crested higher, driving
her onward. She felt him at her opening, the damp head of his shaft
pressing into her. “Oh, yes.” She pushed down, sheathing herself on
him until she was stretched and full and lights danced behind her
eyelids.

His hands gripped her waist. She savored the
pleasure of having him inside of her, but only for a moment. His
fingers dug into her backside, urging her upward. She slid herself
up and then he brought her down again. Up, down, while he drew on
her tongue and suckled.

Nothing mattered but this act between them.
This giving and taking, this primitive need to both vanquish and
surrender. Her pleasure built to a white-hot frenzy. She gripped
his shoulders, heedless of his wound. The cravat slipped, but she
was too close to euphoria to care.

He drove their movements, sensing the loss of
her control. Faster, with rapid precision, his hips rose to meet
her as she began to dissolve. He thrust deeper, grinding her down
against him, the sound of their bodies filling the small, hot
coach. She felt him stiffen and allowed herself to let go. Her
limbs quivered in ecstasy. She cast her head back, emitting a
series of ragged breaths and a low groan she was sure couldn’t
belong to her.

He buried his face in her neck, his lips
moving against her skin in crazed utterances of half-words and
cries of joy.

Moments, or perhaps hours, later she slumped
against him. He twitched, and she straightened. “Your shoulder!”
She plucked up the cravat and quickly found a non-saturated stretch
of fabric to press on the seeping wound. “That was, perhaps,
ill-advised.”

He arched a brow at her. “I disagree.”

She pulled her leg back, releasing him from
her body. The wetness on his sex rubbed against her thigh, and she
dabbed at it with her skirts. “We should be arriving shortly.”

He nodded, refastening his breeches while she
situated her skirts. They rode in silence, the musky scent of the
coach and still-rapid beat of their hearts leaving no doubt as to
what they had just done. Olivia ought to be shocked, at least by
her own behavior. However, the truth was she’d wanted this, even if
she hadn’t expected it.

The coach slowed. Olivia ran a hand over her
hair.

“You barely look ravished. Not at all like
that first time.”

She recalled the mess of her hair that
afternoon and blushed.

The coach halted. She pulled the cravat away
when the door opened and gathered up Jasper’s discarded clothing.
She couldn’t look at the coachman as he helped her down. Next, he
aided Jasper, saying nothing of his torn shirt or giving any
inclination of what had occurred. Olivia led them into the house,
hoping the doctor would arrive shortly.

She informed the butler of Jasper’s injury.
The staff bustled to prepare his room and provide the implements
necessary to treating his wound.

Jasper sat propped up in bed, his shirt gone
from his torso. The wound had finally stopped bleeding.

Olivia stared at his bare chest and arms,
dusted with pale blond hair. He was muscular and fit, his broad
chest tapering to lean hips. She would have looked farther, but the
coverlet obscured her inspection.

She raised her eyes to his. His mouth
quirked, then his lids drooped in silent invitation. Her body
quickened, answering his seductive call.

A maid arranged a basin and bandages on the
table next to the bed. A footman brought steaming water while
another positioned lamps around the room to provide ample
illumination for the doctor.

Olivia inspected the wound under proper
lighting. It was a neat slice. He ought not suffer any ill effects,
provided it didn’t fester.

He turned to the footman arranging lamps.
“Whiskey, if you please.”

“Of course, my lord.” He left the room.

The maid also departed and the second footman
had gone to get more water.

Alone with him, the air in the room
thickened. How could she desire him again with even more ferocity
than half an hour ago?

Bernard entered, as unflappable as ever. One
would think he was announcing tea instead of caring for a wounded
gentleman. “Your footman sent word that Dr. Marsden is not
available. He will call upon you as soon as possible.”

Jasper pinned her with a hard stare. “You’ll
have to do it. Fetch your needle.”

Olivia’s pulse raced as anxiety tripped along
her nerve endings. “I can’t do that.”

“You can. Your skill is unparalleled. Pretend
I’m just another piece of embroidery.”

She flushed and her hands shook. “I
can’t.”

He grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes.
“You
can
. I trust you.”

Her heart squeezed. If he was willing to
trust her, she couldn’t turn him down. She forced herself to relax
and nodded.

The other footman arrived with a tray bearing
a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He placed it next to the basin,
now full of steaming water.

Olivia turned to him. “Will you please fetch
my sewing basket? It’s in the Rose Room.”

“Yes, miss.” The footman hurried to complete
the errand.

To busy her quaking hands, she poured Jasper
a glass of whiskey. The decanter clanked against the glass, and she
shot him a sheepish look.

“You’ll do fine,” he assured her as he
accepted the whiskey. He promptly drained it and handed the glass
back for a refill. Olivia obliged, filling it a second time. She
would not begrudge him spirits. In fact, she wondered if a swallow
might do her some good.

The footman entered bearing her sewing basket
and handed it to Olivia. She set it on a chair set aside from the
bed and extracted a needle and thread. Her fingers quivered, which
made the simple task of threading the needle quite difficult.
Relax, she told herself, and took a deep breath.

At last, she pushed the thread through the
tiny hole. When she turned to face her patient, a chill washed over
her. She must’ve reflected her anxiety because Jasper reached out
and touched her hand.

“Don’t doubt your skill, Olivia. You’ll
stitch me as well or better than Marsden.”

That wasn’t likely, but she didn’t say so.
The bed’s height was perfect so that she could stand at his
shoulder and sew the wound together. Blood had welled again. She
dipped a cloth into the hot water and cleaned the torn flesh as
well as she could. Jasper didn’t make a sound.

She took a deep breath and set the needle in
place. Jasper’s suggestion sounded in her brain:
pretend this is
your finest piece of embroidery
.

She pushed the needle through his flesh.

Louisa bustled into the room. “Good heavens,
Jasper!”

Olivia jerked, pulling the needle with less
care than she would’ve liked. Jasper flinched.

Louisa rushed to stand beside Olivia. “What
happened? Lord Sevrin said you’d been stabbed.”

“And so I was, Aunt.” He looked at Olivia.
“Please continue. I’d prefer you finished quickly.”

“Yes, of course.” Olivia set another stitch,
thinking eight or ten ought to do the trick.

“Louisa, pour me another whiskey if you
would.” He gritted his teeth as Olivia pulled another stitch
tight.

Louisa handed him a rather full glass, which
he gripped so tightly, Olivia feared he might break it. “Why is
Olivia suturing your wound? Where’s the doctor?”

“Unavailable,” Olivia said. “Jasper insisted
I could do just as well.”

“An excellent notion.” Louisa peered over her
shoulder.

Olivia pierced his flesh again. She had to
admit it wasn’t as bad as she thought. If things didn’t work out
with Louisa, perhaps she could reinvent herself as a surgeon. What
nonsense,
of course
things would work out. Jasper had
ensured that all of her secrets would remain buried.

Louisa shook her head. “I can scarcely credit
you being stabbed at Vauxhall.”

Jasper drank half the whiskey. “Footpads are
everywhere, I’m afraid.” He gave Olivia a look that clearly stated
it was best if they didn’t tell Louisa the truth. He was probably
right, but oh, how she hated lying.

Olivia set the last stitch and tied off the
thread. “Done.”

Louisa handed Olivia a small pot of lumpy
paste from the tray. “It’s good you came here. Cook’s remedy will
keep the infection away. Noxious stuff, but Bernard swears it works
wonders. He employed it for some blisters a while back.”

Olivia dolloped the poultice on his shoulder
and spread it atop the sutures. The tray also bore small pieces of
fabric, one of which Olivia draped over the wound. Then she took a
length of linen and wound it around his shoulder and under his arm
several times. She bound it tightly, but not so much that he
couldn’t move his arm.

Louisa studied Olivia’s handiwork. “Well
done, dear. Now we must add healing to your repertoire of talents.
You will make some lucky gentleman a splendid wife.”

Olivia glanced at Jasper. His blue eyes were
vivid in the brightness cast by the numerous lamps. Vivid, but
inscrutable.

Jasper finished his whiskey and handed the
empty glass to Louisa. He twitched his shoulder, testing the
bandage. “Louisa’s right. You could have a future as a healer.”

“No, I said she’d be a brilliant
wife
.” She smiled and took Olivia’s arm. “Come, let us allow
Jasper his rest. The servants can tend to his needs.”

Olivia reluctantly left, but not without a
backward glance. His gaze was intense, but he said nothing. Three
times now they’d surrendered to temptation, but what did it mean?
He had no intentions toward her and neither did she expect any. As
far as she knew, he still planned to marry…and soon.