Megan Frampton (21 page)

Matthias’s death relieved her immediate danger, but those missing letters meant much more danger loomed in the future.

Who would Society believe? The charismatic darling of the ton, or the sullenly arrogant, opium-addicted lord?

He had to get those letters back for her. Before Hugh acted. He had to do something right for a change.

Anthony. Judith. His parents. He hadn’t killed any of them directly, of course, but the fact remained that all of them were gone. He couldn’t bear to lose Mary, too. Then he really would go insane.

“Are you going to sulk all day, or can we talk?” Her acerbic tone bit through his self-hatred.

“No.”

Her voice held a tinge of laughter. “No to the first question, or the second?”

He didn’t feel like laughing. He felt like sulking. But that would be behaving as arrogantly and selfishly as she already thought he was. He wanted, no he
needed
, to look better in her eyes. Because then he would look a little better to himself. “No, I won’t be sulking anymore.”

He turned back and met her eyes. “I am sorry for being such a difficult husband.”

She shrugged. “You’re no worse than any I’ve seen.” She looked him up and down. A flicker of laughter appeared in her blue eyes. “Better, actually.”

His cock stiffened in response to her eyes wandering over him. God, he wanted her, wanted to have her as fully and completely, as he’d never been able to have his wife. Judith had tolerated it, but he’d already experienced ten times the passion with Mary as he’d had with Judith, and it hadn’t even been a week. He wanted it more times than he could count.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because she let out a little gasp and her eyes widened.

He knew he wasn’t imagining her interest; she wanted him, too. That much temptation meant trouble.

Instead of intentions, the road to hell was really paved with good temptations.

“Finally,” he muttered, pushing aside the last of the trees. They emerged into an open field, which was lying fallow for the moment, but was likely about to be planted. He lifted his face up to the sun and squinted, eyeing where the sun would be if it weren’t for the clouds. “It’s probably about four o’clock.”

Mary stood beside him, very still, very close. If he reached out, he could touch her waist with his hand.

Stop thinking like that
.

“We should head there,” he said, gesturing to where a small group of buildings were clustered. “It’ll be the best place to obtain some sort of vehicle to get us to London.”

She followed his hand with her eyes. “We don’t have enough money, not to hire a carriage.”

His hand dropped as he turned to face her. “What happened to the money you took?”

She threw her shoulders back and glared at him. “It wasn’t that much in the first place. And I left some for the innkeeper. I meant to get change, but then you grabbed me.” She stopped and bit her lip.

“So we’re broke?” Her eyes widened at his jubilant tone. “We’ll have to have a plan for battle, love. You do appreciate a good plan, don’t you?” He raised his eyebrows and cast her a knowing grin. God, but he loved to see her blush.

***

“I thought you said I couldn’t act!” His fingers were on her bodice, yanking the fabric down lower. Just as fast, she yanked it back up.

“That was before we were in a race for time,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. He pulled her bodice lower. “If Hugh has the opportunity to spread his gossip before we arrive in London …” His lips tightened into a thin line.

He smoothed the fabric of her gown where it had wrinkled, and then, as if he couldn’t help himself, touched her skin with his finger. It burned like fire, and for a moment, all she could think about was where their flesh met. And how it had felt the last time he had touched her.

She watched and held her breath as his finger trailed into the valley between her breasts.
Touch me, touch me
, she wanted to say, but her words caught in her throat.

Instead, she took his hand and moved it so that it was on the outside of the gown, completely covering one of her breasts. Her nipples tightened, and it was as if she could almost feel them harden and thrust toward him.
Touch me
.

He pulled his hand away from her as if he was burned, and she met his gaze—hungry, desperate, anguished. “We should not,” he said in a low voice. She blinked at his intensity. And wanted more of it.

She was addicted as surely as he was.

“Should we not, my lord?” She deliberately affected the broad accent of a lower-class woman. “If I am to play a part, shouldn’t I rehearse first?”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Mary, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t I?” She took his hand again and placed it on her hip, wiggling closer to him as she did. “This is what a loose woman would do, isn’t it?”

She pulled his hand around to the small of her back and tilted her head back. His throat was working, and she could see the tendons of his neck. Good. If he could concentrate on her, it would keep his mind from wandering to the past. To the drugs.

And to the desolation she’d heard in the tone of his voice, seen in the lines of his face, felt in the weariness of his body as he finally succumbed to sleep.

His hand slid away from hers onto her backside, and he grasped her with a firm grip, pulling her body completely against his. “This is what you want?” he managed to rasp before leaning his head down and taking her mouth, taking her whole soul with his kiss.

She leaned into him and reached up behind his neck to twine her fingers in his hair and pull him closer, even though the lengths of their bodies were already touching. It wasn’t enough. It might never be enough. His tongue dove into her mouth and explored, a wet, sensual exploration that stole her breath even as it weakened her knees.

But she didn’t fall. Instead, she slid her hand down his back, leaving the other cupping his neck to draw him close. She stroked the flexed muscles of his back, down to his waist, further down to the strong muscles of his buttocks. She could feel the muscles there, too, clenched as if he were thrusting. Oh, God, how she wished he were thrusting. She felt him hard against her, and had to touch there. Just there.

He groaned at the first impact of her fingers, lifting his head to stare down at her for a second before claiming her mouth again. His eyes blazed with a green intensity that made her shudder.

Dimly, she felt his hand at her shoulder, sliding the sleeve of her gown down, his fingers stroking, caressing. And still she moved her hand against the front of his trousers, feeling his flesh jerk and respond with her every touch.

He tore his mouth away from hers and bent down to place his mouth against her skin. Hot and moist, his teeth nipped her flesh in quick bites, soothed almost immediately by his tongue. And his hands—they roamed all over her body, his fingers teasing her nipples into stiff peaks, his hands grasping her to pull her up to him. He was so strong he had her on her tiptoes. She felt breathless, alive, wanted.

“Have I proven myself, then?” she asked in a husky whisper. His eyes widened, and then he smiled, a knowing, satisfied smile that let her know he wasn’t fooled.

She was trembling.

Still gazing into her eyes, he lowered his head to trail his mouth over her jawline. Her skin prickled, and she shivered. He chuckled, the sound of which sent a trail of fire up her spine. “You are very convincing, love. And we will have to see what else you can do,” he finished in a voice that held a dark promise.

***

He did not want to die. Not anymore. Not even after he’d had her again, which he promised himself would be as soon as they were out of danger. Of course, the way she made him feel, he was always in danger of forgetting everything, all the sorrow, the pain, the agony. For a few brief moments in the past few days—when she wasn’t completely aggravating him—he’d felt happy. He couldn’t recall the last time that had been true. It
felt odd, and he kept probing at it like a sore tooth, but it didn’t go away. And she seemed to enjoy him as well, his kisses, his touch, his supercilious attitude.

The perfect woman. Only he was not the perfect man.

“Should we go?” he asked, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. Wiping her taste from his lips, except he could still taste her.

She smiled up at him, her blue eyes dancing. “Unless you want more proof that I can act, my lord,” she said in a voice that made him want to fling her over his knee and spank her. Just thinking about hoisting her skirts up to reveal her lush, ripe arse—he grabbed her elbow and spun her around before he could act on his desires. Not until they were free of Hugh, he repeated in his head as he gritted his teeth. Not until then.

But then? Damned if he wasn’t going to do everything he could to her, just to hear her scream in pleasure.

“Let’s go, before your mouth gets us in trouble,” he said, wishing he didn’t have quite so active an imagination.

***

They walked silently through the tall grass toward the village, Mary with a little extra twitch to her hips as she walked. He wished she weren’t so … enthusiastic about playing her part. He couldn’t help noticing her curves, how she had finally let her bodice ride low on her breasts, displaying her creamy white flesh. He was having trouble swallowing.

Maybe he was catching a summer cold?

“Just to make sure,” she said, breaking the silence, “I will be the distraction while you steal—”

“Borrow,” he interjected,

“
Borrow
the carriage. And you’re just going to assume the horses will be all hitched up?”

He hadn’t thought of that. When he saw a carriage, it was always after he’d called for it, and it was prepared to take him wherever he wanted. “Of course they will be,” he said in his most obnoxious voice.

“Of course,” she echoed. Her tone indicated she had no idea, and he felt guilty
that he had caused her to assume she was wrong.

“And then we leap into the carriage and take off at a breakneck pace toward London, hoping we can escape our old enemies, and our new enemy, the carriage owner?”

“And here I was thinking you were just another pretty face,” he replied. “Here, help me.”

He removed his cravat and bunched it in his hands, wrinkling it even more than a few days on the road had. Then he knelt down, scooped up some dirt, and rubbed it on his face. His hair was already disordered; he knew he’d been running his fingers through it constantly in the hours since she’d walked out the door.

“Am I suitably disreputable?” he asked, planting his hands on his hips. She regarded him with a wry smile on her lips.

“Hardly,” she said. “I don’t think you could look disreputable if you tried.” She slid her gaze down his body. He felt it like a caress.

“Never mind, then,” he said in a rough voice. He took her arm and led her toward the edge of the village.

***

Mary knew she wasn’t playing fair; he was attracted to her, but he’d also promised to leave her alone. And, in addition to having seduced him on their wedding night, she was continuing to act the coquette with him, making his green eyes spark with desire.

She had to admit it wasn’t just to keep his mind off the drugs, and Lord knew what else; his attention, the intensity of his gaze, made her knees weak, made her body crave his touch. And since this was only for a short time, she should enjoy it while she could. At least, that’s what she told herself.

The fact was, she’d never felt so alive. So dangerous. So wanted.

“Over there?” Mary pointed to where a gig stood on the main thoroughfare, one potbellied pony hitched to it.

Alasdair grunted. “It’ll have to do.” He looked at her and motioned for her to be quiet, then took her hand in his strong grasp and walked forward.

Closer up, the gig looked capable of making it to London, although the pony appeared less energetic. Alasdair looked in either direction and with deft hands unhitched the pony from the post it was tied to, then sprang up onto the seat. “It appears your distraction won’t be needed after all. Come,” he said in a low voice, holding his hand out to Mary.

She stepped forward and placed one foot on the runner—

“What’cha doing?” an irate voice called out.

Mary froze. Alasdair tried to yank her up, but her skirt hooked on the bottom of the runner. She was suspended in air, Alasdair’s hand holding her up toward the seat while the runner and her skirt were conspiring to bring her down.

“Get offa my property before I harm you somethin’ fierce,” the man said. His voice was closer than before, although Mary couldn’t see him on the other side of the gig.

Presumably, it was too late to distract him from what they were doing.

“Get up here,” Alasdair commanded, turning to look at the presumed owner. “Sir, we are merely borrowing your property,” he called out in his most lordlike tones. “It’s a wager, you understand.”

“I don’t care if it’s to meet the king,” the man retorted.

“Not a loyal subject, then,” Alasdair muttered. He managed to pull Mary up onto the seat, tearing her skirt in the process.

Please don’t let us get caught. Please don’t let us get caught
, she chanted in her head as she leaned against him. The gig took off with a jerk, and Alasdair guided them onto the road at a fast clip. The pony went surprisingly quickly, and Mary was able to catch her breath. Her prayers had been answered.

The next moment, another voice rang out. “Halt, thief!”

“Hell,” Alasdair muttered, slapping the reins harder on the pony’s back. Mary clutched onto the side of the seat and looked back.

A man was riding toward them on horseback at an impossibly fast pace. His expression was intent, deadly, and determined.

So much for her prayers.

As Mary continued to look back, she saw the man lift a pistol and point it at them. Too startled to yell, Mary shoved Alasdair sideways. The bullet whizzed by. Alasdair started to lift his head.

“Stay down,” she yelped, pushing him again. And then the pony faltered. They were flung onto the road, the pony stumbling onto the ground, a red blossom appearing on its side. It screamed, an unearthly cry of pain.