Lois Greiman (20 page)

“I’m not.”

Her eyes were steady and sure. Not a flicker of doubt showed there. “I’m sorry I can’t convince you.”

“I was sorry I ran out of Scotch. At the funeral.”

“Everyone needs to forget at times.”

“Perhaps some need to forget more often than others. Constantly, even.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But some find they no longer need that crutch. If they’re strong.”

Emotions curled up hard in his gut. “You think me strong?”

She shrugged and dropped her gaze to her lap. “I only know what I’ve seen.”

What had she seen in him?

“I think most might be convinced to give up drink rather than die of poison,” he said.

“On the contrary,” she argued mildly. “Many don’t.”

“I didn’t taste it in the Scotch,” he said. “Where’d you come by the potion?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I did no—”

“I admit that I rather resented it when I was spewing up my intestines, but now…” He watched her. “Now I find I can’t bear to miss a moment.”

Her eyes caught his.

“With you.”

Her cheeks went pale, her eyes wide and silver. “Don’t do this,” she whispered.

“I can’t resist,” he admitted simply. “And it’s strange, amazing really. I can always resist.”

“Please—”

“The thought of him touching you—”

“Don’t—”

“My lord.”

They jerked their attention to their server. She gave a tentative smile.

“I was but wondering if we would have the pleasure of your company this night.”

Their gazes met across the table. Neither breathed.

“We have a lovely room,” she continued. “Private, discreet. Clean as—”

“Yes,” Shandria said, not turning her eyes away for an instant. “We shall stay.”

P
erhaps it was a fine room, but Will failed to notice, for she was there, in front of him, within reach. Like a light in a dark place.

“Why?” he breathed. “Why would—”

But in that moment she kissed him. He tried to resist, to find some sense, to understand, but there was no hope. Her lips felt like heaven against his, her hand like a dream against his cheek.

She drew back slowly, her silver eyes gilded by the light of the fire behind him. “Because you’ve a good soul,” she whispered.

He shook his head with painful honesty, but she pressed her palm more firmly against his cheek, as if to stop the movement.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been touched by a man with a kind soul?”

“What about Poke?” Will murmured. “If he finds out—”

“I shall make certain he doesn’t,” she said, and kissed him again.

And he ached, throbbed to pull her tight against him and ease the pain. But there was so much at risk. “How?”
he asked, but the word sounded more like a moan and she smiled.

“I’ll think of a way, Dancer. I’m no innocent.”

He watched her eyes, alive with a thousand emotions. “Aren’t you?”

“Would I be here if I were?”

“I don’t know, lass,” he said, and it was true. “I’ll be the first to admit I’m confused. Why are you doing this? Why me?”

Her smile was almost whimsical. “Perhaps there have been scores of others.”

He watched her in the flickering light, watched the shadows dance across her delicate features. “There haven’t.”

“I meant for me.”

“I know.”

Her eyes were incredibly bright, and he wondered again, foolishly, he was sure, if she would cry.

“Surely I deserve a bit of pleasure,” she whispered.

But did he? Could he ever deserve this woman who lived with evil yet managed, somehow, to rise above it, to live outside it. “Aye, you do,” he murmured. “But, with me?”

She chuckled. “You do seem to be the only man in the room at present.”

“I don’t know what you think, lass. But…” She kissed his neck. “I’m no great…” She was unbuttoning his shirt, and there was something about that simple movement, the feel of her fingers against his chest, as if every nerve ending was buzzing with life, right there, beneath the humming surface of his skin. “I can’t remember the last time I did this…sober.”

She glanced up. “You’ll remember this time,” she said, and kissed his chest. “I promise.”

He laughed, but the sound was tortured. “I just…” He grabbed her arms. “Why here? Why now?”

She shrugged. “Memories maybe, of better times. Better people. I need…” She paused. “Please. Touch me.”

There were tears. In her eyes. Good God, there were tears. One glistened on her lower lashes, and there was nothing he could do but reach out and catch it on his thumb.

“Don’t cry, lass. I beg of you. I’ll do whatever you wish.”

“Even make love to me?” she whispered.

He laughed. Or maybe it was a sob. Who could tell? Everything was turned about, twisted into a strange parody of reality. “Yes. Even…Yes.”

She reached out, undoing more buttons and slipping his shirt from his chest. Her hands skimmed like velvet across the bandage and over his nipples, jolting him with glassy shards of desire.

“I like the way you look.” Her eyes lifted back to his. “Honest.” She touched his shoulders. Her hands were firm and warm as they slid down his arms, sweeping his shirt to the floor. “Noble almost.”

“I’m not…”

She kissed his nipple. A nerve snapped somewhere in his gut, yanking him up hard.

“Noble,” he said and gritted his teeth.

“There are different kinds,” she murmured. Her breath whispered against his damp nipple. “Of nobility.”

“I’m no kind.”

She held his wrists in a light grasp. “You’re a horrid liar.”

“Only when I’m sober.”

“You’re always sober,” she said, and lapped his nipple with her tongue.

He gritted his teeth against the assault. “You seem to have that effect on me.”

“My apologies,” she said, and, easing upward, kissed the corner of his mouth. Her tongue touched his skin.

“Holy hell!” He jerked back. “Why are you doing this?” His voice sounded angry to his own ears. “Is this a trap?” Perhaps he had misjudged her. Perhaps he wanted to believe she was good. Perhaps he needed to believe she was good. “Do you wish to know who I am? Is that the way of it?”

She stepped toward him, shaking her head.

“Because I’ll tell you.”

She stopped, her expression somber.

“I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know.”

The room went deadly silent. “And what if I share that news with Poke?” she whispered.

Their eyes held.

“My full name is William Enton. I’m the third—”

But she had already pressed her fingers to his lips. “Hush. Please,” she said and closed her eyes to the harsh reality of the moment. “I don’t want to know. I can’t know.”

“Why?”

“It’s better this way.”

“Better?”

“Mysterious.”

He scowled at her. “Lass—” he said, but now her hands were on his trouser buttons. Easing them open. He tried to stop her, but he couldn’t seem to reach down. The feel of her knuckles against his erection was a sharp bite of ecstasy.

“Just this once,” she whispered. “Let me do something for myself.”

“For—” Holy damn, his pants were dropping to the floor.

“Look at you.” She sighed and smiled as she stepped back a pace. “You want me.”

“Dammit, lass, a damned block of salt would—”

“Then take me,” she said and suddenly her garments slipped down, baring her breasts, framing her waist.

He didn’t know how she had done it. It was probably magic, a sacred incantion. The firelight gleamed on her skin like sunlight on ivory. Her breasts were high and firm, capped with taut, dusky peaks. Her waist was tight, narrow, curved like a priceless statuette. And her navel. There was something ridiculously, painfully, arousing about her navel.

He stepped forward, not because he had planned to, but because he had no choice. She shivered as he brushed his knuckles across her breast.

“I’ll not hurt you,” he vowed.

She licked her lips, eyes closed, head tilted back. “I know.”

“How?” he asked, and skimmed his fingers up the elegant sweep of her throat. Her hair felt as soft as satin beneath his fingers. The pins came away effortlessly. Like one would dream. Her coif loosened, slipped and fell like golden shadows about his hands. Bending down, he held her face and kissed her lips. A thousand emotions struck him like fire. A thousand needs screamed. But he knew so little and there was so much to learn. “How?” he whispered again.

“I trust you.”

“Why?”

Perhaps the question was rasped, for she laughed. The sound was throaty and soft, like the irresistible stroke of her hand.

“I don’t need to know your heritage to know your character.”

“I have none.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, and kissed him.

There were no more choices then, no thoughts. He kissed her back. She wrapped her arms about his waist and retreated toward the bed. Her gown fell to the floor with fantastic ease. His fingers skimmed down the sweet firm curves of her buttocks, and she moaned, arching into him and sliding her own hands down his backside. His undergarment retreated happily, then became bound on his erection, scraping against the aching sensitivity of its head.

He sucked air between his teeth, and she rounded his body, slipping the fabric free and brushing him with aching gentleness. He gritted his teeth against her touch, and she skimmed her hand lower, down his shaft, cupping his balls. He jerked against the silken assault. Need slammed into him, and he grabbed her arms, but when he looked into her face, the world seemed to slow to a halt, for her eyes were as wide as eternity, as lost as a child’s.

“Lass, I don’t pretend to be in control here.” He shuddered again and tensed against the aching pleasure before lifting her hand away and desperately trying to decipher her mood, her needs. “But I’ll not have you regret this.”

“I’ll not regret—”

“Then tell me what you want.” Her lips parted silently. He kissed them. “What do you want me to do?”

“I thought I made that clear.” She tried to reach between their bodies, but he pressed up against her, and even that simple gesture was almost too much. He swallowed hard and held on to his control by a ragged thread.

“You’ve made nothing clear. Not who you are. Not
why you’re here.” He drew a careful breath. “Not why you’ve chosen me.”

“I told you,” she whispered. “I like the way you look.” She skimmed her hand down his spine, easing lower, between his buttocks.

Sweat beaded his forehead.

“Isn’t that enough?” she asked.

God yes. But he watched her face in the flickering light and found that he could almost read her emotions. “Is it, lass? Truly?”

Quiet stole in for the briefest heartbeat, then, “I may die tomorrow, Dancer. Why not take pleasure where we can?”

“You might die?”

“And so might you,” she added quickly. “Life is short. Unpredictable. Lie down.”

“I—”

But she kissed him full on the mouth. A kiss filled with passion and lust and bursting, aching life. “Lie down,” she breathed.

He did, without volition, without thought. He lay on his back, propped on his elbows to watch her, his feet draped down the side of the floor, still bound in his clothing.

She lifted them onto the bed, and he turned obligingly to stretch out along the mattress. Her breasts gleamed as she shifted in the firelight, then she mounted the bed so that her knees straddled his and she faced away. Firelight danced along her back, glowing on her buttocks.

She unlaced his shoes. Her bottom nestled against his thigh, wet and warm and achingly seductive.

He dropped his head back in abject agony, but not so far that he couldn’t watch her. Not so far that he couldn’t see the timeless hourglass shape of her as she gripped his legs between hers as though she couldn’t wait to feel him
slip inside. As though she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her.

His second shoe dropped to the floor. His clothing followed. She leaned forward, raising her bottom from his leg and baring her moist, glistening core.

His throat felt hopelessly dry. His mind utterly empty. Only one part of his anatomy was functioning properly, and that part ached with impatience.

Turning, she glanced over her shoulder. Her hair brushed his thigh, tightening it on contact, and he growled, throbbing with need. He curled his hands around her legs, and she arched her back, open and ready. He could mount her, take her, but not before he felt the curve of her buttocks against his palms.

Drawing up his legs, he rose to his hands and knees and slipped his hand over her thigh. There was a scar there. He kissed it, then moved sideways, to lick the hot, damp cleft of her. She straightened with a gasp and twisted about, but he captured her breasts and drew her back up against his chest. Sliding his hand upward, he skimmed her endless throat and tilted her face toward him. Their lips brushed, slow now with heat and anticipation. Her nipple peeked out between his fingers, cherry red and erect as a palace guard. He teased it with his thumb, and she tightened her buttocks around the throbbing length of his erection.

He bit back a groan and slid his hand over the hollow of her belly. Tilting her head back beside his, she arched her back, opening her stunning beauty to him. He slipped his fingers into the tangled triangle of her hair. She was wet and warm, soft and inviting, and he could wait no longer. Turning her in his arms, he kissed her. Her breath was quick and shallow. Her lips trembled. With desire? Or was it fear? The idea struck him like a blow.

“Lass?” he whispered, but she was already pushing him down. Her hand felt small but irrepressible against his chest and he fell back with her atop him, straddling him, controlling him, and though her lips may tremble, her eyes were steady. She reached between them and captured him. He gritted an aching moan and pressed his head into the pillow. He felt her shift lower, but nothing could have prepared him for the jolt of her lips against his erection. He grasped the blanket in clawing fingers and gripped his control with the same ferocity, but her tongue flicked along his shaft, and for a moment he thought he might explode like a cannon.

He swore as he grabbed her arms and dragged her up his body.

“Lass!” Was he panting? Surely the baron of Landow did not pant. But what of Slate? “You’re driving me mad…” She was straddling him again, shifting his attention from his words. “But if you’re not ready…”

Her eyes were huge. She tilted her body slightly, canting her heat against his shaft. He sucked air between his teeth and let his eyes fall closed for a moment.

“I am ready,” she whispered, and leaned forward to lick his nipple. “I but ask one favor.”

His body jerked of its own accord. “Yes!” he rasped.

“What?” She whispered the word against his damp skin, glancing up.

“Yes,” he repeated.

She wriggled slightly. He felt restless and tight and moments from utopia. “You don’t yet know what I would ask.”

He held himself absolutely still. “I fear it may not matter,” he said, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she raised her hips and gently slid around him. He entered the moist gates of ecstasy the tiniest amount.

He groaned at the silky paradise, but remained perfectly still, letting her play.

“I would have your vow,” she said, tilting up and down so that the bursting head of his desire was whetted and extracted with excruciating slowness, “before we—”

“Holy hell!” he rasped. “Ask then!”

She went perfectly still, hovering just out of reach. “You must leave,” she whispered.

The world went absolutely silent. He found her eyes. “What?”

“You will leave this place,” she murmured, “and never return to Darktowne.”

His body trembled, but he kept himself focused, balanced on the knife-edge of desire. He drew a careful breath, steadying his nerves. “That’s your stipulation?” he asked.

She felt as tense as a tightrope above him. “Yes.”