In Bed with the Duke (20 page)

And she didn’t want that. She liked Brimley.
She
respected
him
. But like Durant, he had warned her against getting involved in Moricadian affairs. How could she explain her actions in a way that would make Brimley accept them as wise? In his book, what she was doing was the
epitome
of unwise.

So in a faltering voice, she said, “Yes, thank you. All is most satisfactory.”

“Tia pleases you as your lady’s maid?”

Emma darted a glance at Tia. The girl stood, hands folded before her in the manner of a docile servant—in the manner Emma had so often used herself—and stared at the floor. “Tia pleases me, yes.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Brimley bowed, head turned away, turned on his heel, and left.

The rest of the servants left with him. None of them looked at her—she was being snubbed by her peers. Because she was above herself? Or because it was the despised Prince Sandre who paid her court?

Only Tia remained, and she helped Emma out of her clothes and into the tub. While Emma bathed, the maid bustled around, building the fire higher, warming the towels, warming the sheets, pouring a crystal glass of deep red wine. She helped Emma wash her hair, and when she was finished, she helped her out, dried her, and held the nightgown so Emma could slip it over her head and the robe so she could put her arms into it.

Tia never spoke. Never looked at her.

Emma broke the stifling silence. “You may have the bath removed; then leave me to enjoy my solitude until the morning.”

Tia looked surprised, as if she had expected Emma to break under the unspoken criticism. But she did as she was told, placed the wine and the food tray on the table before the fire, and in only a few minutes, Emma was alone.

In the distance, she could hear the deep rumble of thunder, like a criticism about everything she thought and everything she did. In this large room, she felt small and dirty, and cheap. She had bought this luxury under false pretenses, and while she knew she was doing the right thing, she also knew how her acceptance of Prince Sandre’s courtship looked to everyone except the optimistic Lady Fanchere. She did look like a strumpet grasping at her chance to escape the hopelessness of her life. Not that women hadn’t done exactly that for all of history, but few had had to face so degrading and cruel a bridegroom as Prince Sandre.

Sitting down on the velvet chair, she pulled her comfortable old shawl around her shoulders, picked up her comb, and began to work the tangles out of her hair.

 

As he had for so many nights, Jean-Pierre sat on his drowsing horse, quiet, immobile, concealed by the brush beside the main road. He was alone; for too long the Reaper had evaded him. And the prince would not wait forever.

As he had so many times before, Jean- Pierre touched the whip slash that had opened his face to the bone. It was red, infected, a reminder, as Prince Sandre had hoped, of his failure.

So Jean-Pierre had shed the company of his men, the men who grew impatient with the long hours of waiting, who gossiped among themselves about Sandre’s obsession with catching the Reaper and, with their gossip, let servants know where they were going and what they were doing.

Now Jean-Pierre slept by day, and by night he watched the road, his rifle loaded and at the ready.

Tonight it was after midnight. The shadows were thick. The half-moon sailed high in the sky. In the distance, he heard the inevitable thunderstorm, and cursed viciously.

Every night, another storm rose over the horizon, bringing gusts of windblown rain and lightning flashes to set the world on fire. As if the damp weren’t miserable enough, he knew the peasants pointed to the tempests as proof that the Reaper controlled the weather. For didn’t he always appear in a clap of thunder and disappear in a flash of lightning?

Superstitious serfs.

He stiffened.

Nearer at hand, he heard the
clop-clop
of a horse galloping down the road.

Silently, he slid the rifle from the leather holster.

The rich Irishman, Mr. Gillespie Cosgair, rounded the corner, leaning over the neck of his gelding, glancing behind and urging him on as if in a panic.

In a panic? Because he was being chased by the Reaper?

Jean-Pierre put the rifle to his shoulder.

Another horse came around the corner in hot pursuit.

Count Belmont Martin raced down the road, his eyes fixed on Cosgair’s back, his face contorted in a killing rage.

Once again, Martin’s wife had made him a cuckold.

Jean-Pierre slid his rifle back into the holster.

And waited.

T
he Reaper slipped into Emma’s room through the door that connected to the next-door sitting room, and moved soundlessly to the middle of the room.

She sat before the fire, wrapped in her favorite old shawl, leaning forward to capture the heat of the flames and sliding her comb through her long, dark hair. The sight of her pensive silhouette made his heart melt even while the fire backlit the thin material of her nightgown and showed him the outline of her long, slender legs.

She put her comb down. Took a sip of wine and ate a handful of grapes. The shawl slipped off one shoulder, and he saw that she wore a new nightgown with lace straps and a lace bodice. Lace! As if her beauty needed any enhancement.

Unbidden, a raw sound escaped him.

She turned and saw him, clad in his costume of rags and shredded scarf, mask and white powder.

Slowly, she straightened. The other nights, his appearance had given her joy. Not tonight. Tonight she seemed uncertain, and rushed into explanation. “We had to leave suddenly. I didn’t dare leave a message, and I was afraid you couldn’t find me. I didn’t want you to think I was . . . that I was avoiding you.”

He wished he thought that. He wished she were less honorable, less determined to do what she thought was right.

He wished he desired her less. He wished . . . he wished one of them could walk away. Instead, they met in secret, drawn together by mutual desire.

He strode to stand before her. Taking the comb out of her hand, he ran it through her dark hair, lifting it as if he were spinning ebony.

Outside, the thunderstorm rumbled closer, flashing heat and light into the soil, igniting trees and slashing the earth with hail.

She sighed and relaxed, as if his ministrations gave her pleasure. “When I left England, the length was down to my hips, but when I realized how difficult Lady Lettice would be, I cut most of it.” It hung down just past her shoulder blades now. “As Lady Lettice said, it’s not as if it’s a pretty color.”

Dropping the comb to the floor, he put his knee on the wide seat beside her. Gathering handfuls of her hair, he crushed it in his fists like a miser with his gold, then used it to tilt her head back for his kiss. He probed her mouth, seeking pleasure in the taking.

She tasted of red wine and ripe fruit. She smelled of lavender soap and warm woman.

God, he wanted her. It seemed as if he’d always wanted her, that all his life he’d been waiting for her, for the moment when they would meet and fall in love, and he would take her in his arms and make her his.

He ran a fingertip across the low, off-the-shoulder neckline, then lightly touched each nipple as they strained against the lace inset. He observed the blush that rose from beneath her neckline, felt the press of desire, and knew that only his restraint kept them apart. She was in love with him, had fallen easily for the romance of his deeds and his dark masquerade. But she loved an illusion, and until he could reveal himself, he had to hold back from the final claiming.

She tilted her head back, silently inviting him to touch her with his lips, to take what was his.

He had to leave now, before he succumbed to her enticements.

He turned away.

She stood and grabbed his arm.

He looked back.

She shook her hair away from her face and glared at him, one hand clutching his arm, the other lifted in a fist. “You kiss me. You caress me. But it’s a game with you. You always run away, and you always leave me frustrated. Why should I think tonight is any different?”

He wanted to answer, but he couldn’t break his silence.

“I won’t be here tomorrow night.” She lifted her chin, angry and defiant.

He turned back, spread his hands to ask why.

She threw off her shawl. “I’m going to the prince’s ball.”

This silence that imprisoned him drove him mad. He wanted to speak to her, to beg her not to go, to forbid her to pursue this dangerous course. But he couldn’t.

So she kept talking. “That’s why we came back from Aguas de Dioses. I’m going with Lord and Lady Fanchere as the prince’s guest.”

He shook his head.

“You know why I’m going to the ball. This last week . . . every night with you, it’s been wonderful. But every morning I wake up, terrified you’ve been shot, imprisoned, killed. You don’t even . . . You wear white. White! At least you could wear a black cape over your costume while you ride. The tourists would still see you, hear about you. They’d still be afraid. They’d still run away, depriving Prince Sandre’s treasury of their gold. But no. You won’t listen to me. You
have
to stand out as much as possible, be the brightest target you can be. I can’t stand it.” Her fingers gripped him more tightly. “I know you don’t like it, but I will continue to encourage the prince—I must know what his plans are. It’s the only way.”

Taking her shoulders, he shook her.
No
.

“You can’t stop me. You exist only at night.” She was taunting him as she had never done before.

He knew why. He kissed her. Caressed her. Made her mad with passion, and every night left her alone to suffer. She was in love with a man who didn’t exist and with whom she could never have a real relationship, never marry, never carry his children. . . . He had given her hope, and at the same time taken it from her.

So she said, “I’ll dance with the prince tomorrow night. I’ll smile at him; I’ll drink with him; if he asks me to be his dinner partner, I’ll dine with him. And I’ll do it for you—but I’ll enjoy myself, too.”

His hands trembled on her shoulders; he fought to contain himself.

“Because some people believe women like me will do anything for security.” Her voice broke on a bitter laugh. “Perhaps I’ll marry the prince to keep you safe.”

Even through the mask, she must have seen his anguish, for she smiled, a cruel Delilah.

Finally, frustration and lust drove him mad, and he cracked. Turning to the bed, he ripped the covers off and flung them to the floor before the fire. He pushed the thin lace sleeves off her shoulders. The gown slithered down. She stood before him clothed only in fire-light and defiance.

She’d gained much-needed weight while working for Lady Fanchere, yet still her belly was flat and muscled from the labor she’d performed for so many years. Her waist was narrow, her hips lush, her legs long and lean. And below, a small dark brush of hair guarded her passage.

Lifting her, he laid her on the floor, on the crinkled mass of velvet and goose down he had tossed.

She sank into the plush coverings, her hair wild about her, and she glared at him as if he had done something wrong. “Are you teasing me again?” she snapped.

Wait
, he gestured. Reaching into the depths of his costume, he loosened the ties that bound the top and pulled them apart. He shed the wrap of shroud and winding rags.

She gazed at his chest, tanned from his hours in the high mountain sun. “Beautiful,” she whispered.

He wanted to laugh aloud. There had been a lot of women in his life, experienced women, women who taught him skills, women who enjoyed those skills, Englishwomen, continental women, noblewomen, and commoners. None of them had ever called him beautiful.

But Emma’s awed gaze made him feel . . . beautiful. Strong.

She made him forget the nightmares.

He opened the ties at his waist and discarded the cleverly sewn trousers. The boots and socks went next, and he was naked. Naked except for the wrap around his throat, his hood, his mask, and the white powder that disguised his face.

He dropped to his knees beside her.

Her expression had changed. She was no longer haughty and angry. Rather, she looked curious and amazed and frightened and eager and wary.

She looked like a girl who faced her first lover, and found the reality more than she had ever imagined.

If he could have laughed aloud, he would have, for her startled gaze flattered him, made him grow harder, longer . . . made the press of passion imperative.

He had cupped her breasts, brought her to orgasm with his caresses. He knew the shape and texture of each sweet tit, yet to see them, full and firm, nipples pointing at him . . .

Cold? Nerves?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he wanted to stroke them, suck on them, until she writhed in desperation and begged him for his cock inside her.

Leaning down to her, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. She yielded as always, but his shoulders seemed to have acquired heat, for she touched him as gingerly as she might have touched a hot iron. And when she found the brand on his upper right back, her eyes grew big and she explored with her fingertips. “What is it?” she asked.

He looked away.

She sat up and looked at the red, raised mark in the shape of an eagle. “Oh, Reaper.” She kissed the brand, a soft caress that healed him even as she branded him with her own lips.

He took her down again, leaned against her breasts and slid his chest back and forth; she froze, closed her eyes, and breathed. Just breathed.

He’d learned so much about her body in the last week. She was sensitive and easily startled, innocent, with an instinctive knowledge of what would please him . . . and her.