Perilous Risk (48 page)

She heard the cane hit the floor and in the next instant he was at her back, lifting her into his arms. He brushed his lips against the top of her head. His hands were shaking. She was shaking.

A laugh welled up in her and escaped her mouth, but the sound was weak. She sobbed again and let him cradle her. He pulled back a little. She didn’t open her eyes. He traced the tracks of her tears.

“Christ, Rebecca.” His breath was hot against her ear.

He turned her back to the dresser and pressed her down upon it. She settled on the old quilt, letting herself go weak. He stroked her buttocks, lighting her with sensation and sending fire shooting into her sex.

She moaned and let herself go even limper. She’d been afraid she would dry up by now, but no, she was wetter and wetter by the moment. He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust into her cunny, filling her, stretching her. Claiming her.

She glanced up into the cracked mirror and saw herself, tears streaked down her cheeks, eyes dark and smouldering with desire. Her mouth open as she moaned and wailed beneath the onslaught of his fierce thrusting. Pain and pleasure alike rushed through her, humming in her blood. She was soaring, soaring, her cunny was drawing tighter and tighter then released in a series of savage spasms.

The spasms seemed to go on and on. She came so hard that when it was over, she collapsed onto the dresser and lay panting, her lower stomach convulsing with each breath until it ached and she grew faint.

He withdrew and pulled her limp form into his arms. She had no strength or will to resist, though if he attempted to fuck her any more, any harder, she’d probably die from it.

He put his lips to her sweat-soaked hair. “Rebecca…”

He carried her back to the bedchamber and laid her on the bed. Then he untied her hands and rolled her onto her belly. A brief moment passed whilst he massaged her arms, her wrists. Then he retied her hands behind her back.

She laid her cheek against the cool, soft quilt and watched as he retrieved the bottle of oil. Watched as he lavished his cock with a thick coating of it. He returned to her and pulled her up until she was on her knees. He grasped hold of her hips, his hands igniting the stinging pain in her flesh. He put his cock at her anus and pushed, hard, against the puckered ring.

She moaned and made an effort to bear down and take him, though she was weak, wrung out by pleasure and release such as she’d never before known. But she was his to use as he wanted. She was here to serve his needs.

He pushed harder and the tight ring gave way. He groaned, the sound harsh, as though it had been forced from him. “Take me, love, take all of me.”

She wailed softly and bore down more, willed her body to be pliant, submissive.

He pushed deeper and was accepted. He gripped her nape. “Good girl.” He swept his hand down her back, down to the base of her spine and over her still stinging buttocks. “My beautiful, perfect good girl.”

He thrust within her, long, slow, steady strokes, holding her firmly with one hand on her neck and one on her hip.

Feeling arose in her heretofore pleasure-numbed flesh. Incredibly, she was coming to life again. A wail of hunger, of need, forced its way up her throat. She arched her hips, trying to meet his downward thrusts.

He reached around her body and touched her nub. Rubbed it in a circular motion. Kept thrusting in those long, slow strokes. Her inner muscles drew tight, so tight, then everything inside her exploded, squeezing and squeezing.

He bucked his hips against her and shouted.

Moments later he untied her and lay beside her, stroking her wrists, her arms. Then, after he had smoothed oil into her still stinging buttocks, he gathered her into his arms and stared at her with a look that was equal measures elation, joy and just a touch of lingering bewilderment.

She remembered those feelings well. He would become more comfortable with this as time went on. Practice made perfect, didn’t it? And he had a more than willing partner for that practice.

She sighed, feeling close to him, feeling safe, feeling cherished. She closed her eyes and sleep drifted over her.

* * * *

“Rebecca, he’s not here, you’ve no need to pretend.” Jonathon Lloyd’s brilliant blue eyes fixed Rebecca with a penetrating stare. His thin lips compressed. Dressed in dark blue, wearing a tall black hat and exuding disapproval, he was a most forbidding silhouette against the grey sky.

She suppressed a sigh. Earlier, Stephen had taken the pony and trap to the village so he could post some letters and purchase sundry items. She’d felt somewhat tired from the night before and had chosen to stay home. After a nap, she’d grown restless and had gone to take a walk along the shore. But instead, she had found herself waiting at the edge of the drive, watching with incredulity as the Earl of Ruel’s carriage came to a stop.

It had been close to a fortnight since the afternoon when she and Stephen had played their game in the cellar. Uncle Frederick had worked hard to convince Stephen to delay his brief trip to London. Stephen had relented, saying that he would delay for the sake of his health only because he didn’t want to worry his new wife unduly.

In that time, Anne Lloyd had written, thanking Rebecca for the advice on the herbal teas and the programme of care that Rebecca had recommended for both herself and the heir. Little Jonny had not caught the scarlet fever and was currently thriving, eating much like a little piglet and finally putting on weight.

The lady reported that she had recovered fully from her illness and felt more energetic and enlivened than she had since before becoming pregnant with Jonny. And she added, with several ink smudges surrounding her script—showing that she had perhaps penned the words a bit shyly at first—that her lord was also most pleased.

And then she had repeated ‘most pleased’ in bolder script that was underscored several times.

The little confidence from the reticent lady, like that shared between the closest of friends, had warmed Rebecca in a most surprising way. She realized she felt something akin to affection for the young noblewoman.

But Rebecca had not been able to bring herself to write back and give any particulars about her marriage or life with Lord Drake. Yet, of course by now both Lord and Lady Ruel would have read the announcement of their marriage in the London papers. Still refusing to quaver under Jon’s scowl, she straightened her spine. “I am not pretending. I am very happy to be Lord Drake’s wife.”

Jon’s mouth twisted sceptically. “Your Father told me everything—”

“Wait!” The word exploded from her and yet she could hardly catch her breath to speak. “Father dared contact you about me?”

Jon frowned. “Why shouldn’t he?”

“It is a private family matter.”

“He is deeply worried about you.”

“It is a private matter. None of your concern.” She drew her pelisse closer to her neck and glanced about. Oh, she did not wish to be spied, speaking with a strange, obviously wealthy man. All she needed was some salacious talk attached to her as a new wife. “Come, let us walk on the shoreline.”

He scowled, his customary fierce features growing ever more so. But he followed her around to the path behind the house and apace down to the sea. . “What your father had to say disturbed me.”

She stopped and whirled to face him and clutched her wrap to her collarbone. “So, you left Parliament, your wife and children to come and play the stern guardian with me?”

“My wife was alarmed by what your father told us.”

“He told Lady Ruel!” Mortification swept over her.

“She insisted that I come and find out the truth for myself.”

“Well, you’ve come here for nothing. I am quite happy to be Baron Drake’s wife.”

“Come, Rebecca, as I have said, you’ve no need to hide the truth. Your father told me how Drake intimidated you into this farce of a marriage. How he continues to intimidate you and how he ordered your father from his house and forbade him to ever see you again.”

She was so stunned she couldn’t gather her wits to speak. Imagine! Father had some gall to go telling tales to her former lover. The screech of a gull cut the silence, making her startle.

Jon crossed his arms over his chest and began to tap the fingers of one hand on his arm.

Under his continued foreboding stare, she lifted her chin and refused to cow. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Well, then tell me what happened.”

“You know how my father is.”

“You’re evading me.”

“I am. Why? Because the events of the past few weeks are none of your affair. I wrote to your wife. I told her of my marriage to Stephen. You need know nothing more.”

Jon sighed. “Lady Ruel and I have discussed this. We will give you every aid and all of our protection. We can finance a trip to America where you can obtain a legal divorce. You can relocate completely if you want. I have contacts there, I can find Edwin a position—”

“Oh, so now, because I had the audacity to be your lover, years ago—” Her voice shook with her rising anger. “N-now I must go away, disappear because I am inconvenient to you.”

“It is not like that.”

“Then please, tell me how it is, for it certainly seems that way to me.”

“I think you need to be far away from Drake’s influence.”

“His influence? Am I still a witless girl who is easy prey to the seduction of any man?”

“Rebecca, I know you. I know your drives. A man like Stephen Drake—”

“This is most improper talk between us. I am another man’s wife now.”

“You can obtain a divorce.”

“So, because you do not like my choice of husband, I must live the rest of my life in disgrace as a divorced woman?”

“In America, they see these things somewhat differently. Do you remember Mr Bramson?”

Oh, yes, Mr Bramson and his wicked green eyes. They had fascinated her endlessly. Despite her vexation, her cheeks heated. “What has Mr Bramson to do with any of this?”

“Every time I correspond with him, he asks about you. How are you doing? Are you wed yet?”

She held up a hand. “Jon, please, don’t.”

“He is not so ill-favoured, is he?”

“That’s not the point.”

“He is only forty, unwed and wealthy.”

“Jon, please stop.”

He frowned. “I am trying to help.”

Anger and frustration welled in her so strongly, she had to ball her fists and grit her teeth to keep from screaming.
Damn you, Father. Damn you!

“You’re shaking. Are you cold?” he asked, concern contorting his expression.

“I am not cold.” She rounded on him. “I am bloody angry!”

His eyes widened and he stepped back. “Aren’t we still friends?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you fighting me?”

She took a deep breath and tried to modulate her tone. “Because I don’t want a divorce. Lord Drake did not intimidate me into marriage.”

He offered her one of his most charming grins. “Now Rebecca, please—”

“No!”

His grin vanished. “Now see here—”

“No, no, no, do not ‘Rebecca, please’ me. I am a grown woman and despite my
drives
, I am able to make my own decisions and I am not so prey to temptation that I would simply offer myself in wedlock to any man who—”

Burning pain exploded in her chest. She fell backwards.

Jon shouted her name.

She struggled to open her eyes. Jon stood over her, his face white, his eyes huge. She had never seen such surprise on his face. Pain lashed her. Bloody hell! It hurt just to move her chest to breathe. Weakness, oh damn, such weakness. She had to close her eyes.

Staring at Rebecca’s ashen face as she lay unconscious upon the bed, Stephen warred against the impulse to go back to the parlour and strangle the Earl of Ruel. It wouldn’t be wise. He didn’t have all the facts yet and Ruel had been the sole witness to the shooting.

Sick dread twisted through his guts. Christ. What the devil had happened? Had Addison or someone attached to the Home Office decided to exact revenge for a job poorly done?

No, Charles Addison was incapable of such an emotional reaction. And in the end, they had no true cause for unhappiness with Stephen. They would be able to tarnish Barnet’s reputation with the personal letters and diaries he had left behind.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Frederick’s proclamation cut into Stephen’s thoughts.

“Tell me,” Stephen demanded.

“They missed her heart. If it had not glanced off a rib, she would now be lying in state, not in recovery. As it is, she has a badly broken rib and a nasty wound, but if there’s no infection, she should make a complete recovery.” The older man’s voice shook and his eyes were becoming glassy. Stephen reached for her hand. God, it was cold. She had to recover.
She had to.
He was the one who was dying, not her. He had prepared so carefully to provide for her. She had to live on and enjoy her wealth, her freedom.

But for Stephen to be the one to live on, alone? He had lived without her before. He could not do it again.