Priceless (20 page)

“That’s the story all London believes.”

Incredulous, she held up her palm as if to halt his flow of words. “That’s the reason you give for no longer wanting me?”

“No longer want you?” He grabbed her outthrust hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches. “I want you so much I ache with it.”

She snatched her hand away from the heat, the hardness, and bunched it into a fist. “If you think I’m going to fall for a lame tale like this one, you’re mad. You may want me this minute, but by tonight you’ll be satiated and on your way. This is just an excuse to discard me.”

His eyebrows shot up. “An excuse? To discard you? Why would I want to do that?”

“Because I’m not beautiful like my sisters,” she answered, exasperated by his deliberate obtuseness.

“What nonsense. That’s an excuse to discard
me
.”

“Very funny,” she fumed. “Why would I want to discard you?”

“Because I’m the son of a counterfeiter and a possible counterfeiter myself,” he roared. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“I’ve been listening.” She lifted the weight of her hair from her shoulders, fanned the back of her neck with her hand. “Listening to a lot of drivel.”

“If my background doesn’t mean anything to you, why did you pay so little attention when the rumor of my counterfeiting came to your ears?”

She spread her arms wide. “What did you expect me to do?”

“When Judson told the tale of Madame Rachelle’s husband, you slapped him. You screamed at him. You threw him out.” Staring down the end of his nose, he said, “None of that righteous indignation spilled over for me.”

“Judson sought to do real harm to Rachelle. She operates a salon. She’s a foreigner. She could be harmed by these rumors—and has been. No such harm could come to you.” Prodding him, wanting to make him ashamed, she mocked, “If I’d known you were going to be such a baby about it, I would have kicked ol’ Sawbones and pulled Daphne’s hair. Would that have made you happy?”

Insufferably superior, he said, “At least when I went to Change Alley and the lowest scum shunned me, I would know I had the support of my mistress behind me.”

“Your mistress?” Wanting to get back at him, she leaned forward until her gown revealed her and enunciated, “I’m not your mistress anymore.”

His hands shot out and grasped the neckline of her gown. In a kind of triumph, he tore it from top to waist. “We’ll see about that.”

She looked down at herself, at her unadorned linen corset revealed by the shredded edges of her fragile blouse. She couldn’t believe this. She couldn’t believe his nerve. “Do you think you’re the only one who—” Grabbing the lapels of his shirt, she jerked down and out. Buttons flew in every direction, and she smiled tightly.

Her smile faded as he dipped into a pocket in his breeches, pulling out a long, thin leather case. It produced an efficient-looking knife, and he flipped it as he said, “A seaman goes nowhere without his blade.”

His narrowed gaze produced no alarm, only a pronounced thump of her heart. He wouldn’t hurt her. She knew that. Knew, too, that her dignity would suffer should she fight.

At least—that was what she told herself.

She stood motionless as he pulled out her waistband, panniers, and petticoats, and cut them. They dropped around her ankles, and in outrage she asked, “I suppose you’re happy now?”

“Not quite.” With a steady hand, he slit her corset along one whalebone until it gaped wide. He nicked her chemise close against her bosom, and then, inserting his finger into the hole, he tugged until the material tore.

The only garments on her body unaffected by his barrage were her stockings. Ignoring the relief the air provided, she stood in the ruin of her best working dress and sneered, “You’ve proved yourself to be a real man. Now let’s see if you’ll stand still for my retaliation.”

He grinned offensively and offered his knife, handle first. With the air of a queen receiving a tribute, she accepted it.

“Trust a woman to hold a knife incorrectly,” he sneered.

She looked down at the hand grasping the hilt, saw the fingers tighten. “Trust a man,” she sneered back, “to fear to teach a woman how to hold a knife.”

He jerked her around so her back met his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Give it to me.”

Heat flowed from him like a white-hot fire as she slapped the knife into his palm.

He flipped the knife, caught it. “Like this. See how my fingers are positioned?”

“I see, I see,” she replied in irritation. She wiped perspi
ration from her forehead with her shoulder, then wiped her palm on her shredded chemise. Grasping the knife, she imitated him exactly.

He said not a word of praise; he only grunted.

Irked by his nonchalance, she taunted, “Is there anything else you want to show me?”

He tried to take the knife, and for one insane moment she wrestled for possession. “Do you want to know how to throw?” he snarled. “Or not?”

She released it.

“Hold the blade with your fingertips. Balance it. Aim. And when you throw, don’t throw like a woman.” Disdain for feminine ability coated his tone. “Pull back your arm and make sure it sticks in your target. Here, you try it.”

Holding the blade with her fingertips proved more of a challenge than simply grasping the handle. Razor sharp, the point sank into her index finger as if it were butter. She tucked her lips tight against the pain and adjusted her grip until she duplicated his grip. She thought.

“Not like that.” He adjusted her fingers forcibly. “See? Like that. You know you’re doing it right when it feels like an extension of your arm.”

She doubted that.

“Let’s see how you prime yourself.” He stepped away. “And remember, don’t throw like a woman.”

If he’d stood in front of her, she could have done a smashing job. As it was, she pulled back her arm and threw as hard as she could. To her surprise, the blade sailed across the room, end over end, struck the chest of drawers, and stuck there, quivering with the shock of impact.

She, too, quivered with the shock. Pleasure and a sense of accomplishment brought her pirouetting to face him.

With an inscrutable expression on his face, he looked at the knife. “You forgot to aim.”

Screaming at him would accomplish nothing. But she knew how to make him cower. She stalked to the drawers,
jerked the knife out of the wood, and stalked back to him. “My turn to undress you.”

Her skill could not match his, and the side fly of his breeches lost its buttons helter-skelter. To his credit, he didn’t flinch as she slit the seam down to his crotch—but perhaps he feared to move, she thought with glee. Kneeling before him, she sawed through the buttons at his knee and jerked down the breeches. She looked up at him, up past the confirmation of his passion and to his stomach, his chest displayed through the white rags of his shirt. From this angle he looked like a god, fearless, imperious, demanding. Her gaze skimmed the muscles that rippled like ocean swells beneath his skin, lifted to the column of his neck, stared into his eyes.

The barbaric fury transformed itself in an instant.

Like a flash of lightning on this sunny afternoon,
Adam remembered. Remembered what attracted him to her. Remembered how long it had been since they’d embraced. Remembered how good love had been.

Her lips opened; her tongue slipped out to lick her lips as though she were a child who had been offered a sugarplum. The lightning had struck her, too.

Her hands crept up, skimming his calves, his thighs. The pleasure, too intense, too sudden, singed him. He caught her wrists and plucked her hands away. Her soft protest was lost as he dragged her to her feet.

Her shift was white, in shreds, and in the way. Desperately in the way. His need flamed beyond control. He yanked the shift from her so quickly that he heard a tearing sound, and the sound reminded him of the scene in the salon.

She’d ripped the scarf, the symbol of their accord, and her aspersion added strength to his recklessness. He twirled her toward the bed; somehow she served as a pivot, and he landed on his back on the mattress. Squares of sunshine lifted and fell on the white coverlet, writhing with their skirmish. The warmth from that bright orb seeped into his buttocks as he struggled up on his elbow, but Bronwyn leaped atop him before he could maneuver.

He forgot why he should be in command. Scooting to sit with his shoulders propped against the wall, he found that the sight of her appeased one longing, activated another. The scent, the savor of her orange perfume, wafted in with his every breath. She whispered his name, just “Adam,” but in tones of such desire that he shivered with elation.

She swarmed over him, took him inside her. And all along his length her body touched his, melded with his, until he was a part of her, yet whole in himself. Without understanding him, without reassuring him, she mended his tears, healed his hurts.

No finesse sweetened their loving. He grasped her hips, lifting her in a wild rhythm she already knew. They were close, so close her panting exhalations touched his cheek. Her eyes closed, opened, closed, as if the pleasure of all her senses overwhelmed her.

“Hurry, hurry,” she urged, and his elation rose with her snarl of impatience.

Her slight round bottom filled his hands. Sunshine lit her curves, turned the droplets of perspiration between her breasts to diamonds. Her garters scraped the side of his hips, yet it wasn’t discomfort but only another part of the friction that bit at him.

Exertion stung his biceps as he lifted her, rocked her. She fought to move quickly; he struggled to slow her, and laughed aloud as she clenched her teeth, flung back her head, scraped his shoulders with her fingernails.

Briefly her eyes opened, and she glared. “Too much,” she muttered. “Too hot.”

She sought restraint, but he would incite a frenzy. His head bent, he caught her nipple in his mouth, suckled until she cried out. When he felt the surge within her, the renewed dampness, the coming storm, he bit down lightly.

She screamed, spasmed, collapsed for a brief moment.

“More,” he commanded.

“I can’t.” Her teeth almost chattered with her tension. “I can’t,” she insisted as he rolled his hips beneath her.

His own needs drove him now, blocking thought and releasing an instinct that toppled her from one orgasm to another. Water splashed on his chest: perspiration, tears, he didn’t know. He knew only that when his own release seized him, he could scarcely restrain his shout of gratification.

Bronwyn withered down onto him. Clasping her, he reveled in the accord carried on the wave of physical pleasure. It was a false accord, he knew, for they had settled nothing in their fiery quarrel. Nothing, except that in the crucible of their passion they were melted into one entity.

For now that was enough.

He fanned her with a pillow he pulled from behind him, but she whispered, “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t.” She sighed and rubbed her face into his chest like a kitten seeking comfort. “It’s cooler.”

He looked out the window. The sunshine had vanished, blotted from the sky by an onslaught of clouds. The heat had broken at last. He could hear the city below them as it hurried to escape the first raindrops. He could hear, also, the distant shouts of an angry man, and he urged Bronwyn to look at him. “Your father?”

“Yes.”

“Will he come up?”

“If he hasn’t yet, then he will not. My mother, and Rachelle, I suspect, have restrained him.”

Her lips stretched in a smile he’d missed these weeks. “I never kissed you,” he mused.

“You didn’t,” she agreed.

“A grievous oversight.”

“Easily rectified.”

She incited him: with her teasing, with her warmth so close against him, with the shy gleam of her eyes.

Shy? After such a romp? He peered closer. Every inch of
her blushed, every inch he could see…and he could see quite a bit. Chuckling, he caught her neck in the crook of his arm, brought her lips to his, and as the first raindrops splashed to the thirsty earth, he began the long, slow seduction of a woman already seduced.

The evening crept in, gray, damp, sweet with the relief of autumn’s first chill. He lit the candles while she watched, her hand tucked under her cheek. “You have goose bumps. Odd to think that only a few hours ago, it was hot.”

“Very hot,” he agreed.

She turned her head into the pillow just enough to cover one eye. With that minor adjustment, it seemed she could block out the pieces of life that distressed her. Her focus changed. The room looked different. Adam looked different as he paced about. She didn’t want to think tonight, but she had a comment. “You’re restless.”

“I’m thinking.”

Thinking about their impossible situation. Thinking about the things she feared to think of. Thinking about Olivia. She covered her other eye.

“Yesterday,” he continued, “I discovered a lead, a possible break in this conspiracy.”

Conspiracy? His betrothal was a conspiracy?

“Robert Walpole believes there’s something odd occurring in the financial world.”

She suffered about their personal situation, and he thought about Robert Walpole and his stupid financial world. “How can he tell?” she said. “It’s all odd.”

“Something odder,” he clarified. “He heard rumors that puzzled him and asked me to use my connections to find the source.”

A giggle escaped her. What ghastly timing the man had!

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“No.” She struggled to contained herself. “No. What…what have you discovered?”

“That he was both right and wrong. There’s more to this than simple financial manipulation. Someone is seeking power.”

That brought her to a sitting position, away from the safety of her pillow. Power created greed, created danger, and Adam strolled right through the midst of it. “What kind of power?”

“Power over the king, I think. Power in Parliament. There’s a void within the government, and Robert wants to fill it. He’s capable of filling it, is the best man to fill it.” He splashed water on his face and groped for the towel. “If I can find the source of this conspiracy, it would help him immeasurably.”

Timidly she suggested, “You don’t suppose this is related to Henriette’s murder?”

He paused as he wiped his face, half turned to her. “Henriette?”

“Rachelle’s daughter.” She hugged her knees. “If you will recall, I told you she was murdered by someone who said he would kill a man by dropping a stock on him.”

“No, I don’t recall.”

Before he could remember the night when she’d told him, she said, “Yes, well, could this be part of your conspiracy?”

“Kill a man by dropping a stock on him,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting phrasing.”

“Henriette was French.” She watched him, yet she wouldn’t let her fondness for his long limbs and lean muscles distract her. “I thought Walpole was at his home in the country. When did he ask you to help him?”

“Months ago. The end of April.”

“April? April, and you have discovered nothing?”

A passing glance from his eyes scorched her. “Robert
wanted me to deal with it personally, and my private life intruded for too long.”

She remembered how she’d distracted him, was flattered she’d distracted him.

Watching her in the mirror, he dabbed at his chin. “Well might you smile. I’ve danced to your tune and neglected my duty to my country.”

Ignoring the conscience that spoke sharply, she lifted her hair and arranged it artfully over her chest. “I would never ask you to neglect your duty to England.”

He lifted a light, shone it on her silver tresses. “Of course not.”

A delicious thrill ran up her spine as he started toward her, candle in hand.

Placing the light on the nightstand, he accused, “You’re to blame. To blame that I neglect my duty, and to blame that I remember it.” He stretched, tensing the muscles of his arms, his chest, his stomach. Groaning, he flexed his thighs, his calves, cupping the old injury as if to protect it. “With quite irrational confidence, I know I will solve this mystery. You make me strong.”

The ardent tribute left her without a reply.

He seemed to expect none. The supple line of her back attracted him, and he stroked up its length with the care of a man caressing a kitten.

Purring, she savored the ripple of vitality that stole through her veins. “Come to bed, I’ll warm you.” She brushed her palm up the side of his body, delighted as more goose bumps blossomed.

He shifted, pressing one knee into the mattress to ease the weight on his leg. “I suspect you of ulterior motives.”

Dropping her gaze to his thigh, she leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his old scar. “Did it hurt?”

“Like fire.” Running his finger along the curve of her shoulder, he said, “That wormhole of a surgeon wanted to amputate.”

Wincing, she shook her head.

“No, I wouldn’t let him, but there is still a bit of the ship’s deck inside. It troubles me occasionally.”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” she retorted. “Would you like me to kiss it better?”

“I’d like to rest.” At his emphatic statement, her lower lip drooped and she peered at him with the soulful reproach of a street singer who’d been cheated. He lifted his knee atop the bed. “What the hell. I can rest afterward.” He sank onto the bed and let her pull the sheet over him, adding, “After you’ve killed me. That is your plan, isn’t it?”

She didn’t deny it. In a husky voice she promised, “Slowly.
Very
slowly.”

“My sister!” She rolled over and grasped a handful of chest hair, pulling him to wakefulness by the ungentle tug on his roots. “Why are you betrothed to my sister?”

He shoved her hand away. “Ouch, damn it.”

“That’s no answer.” She reached for him again, and he fended her off.

“Do we have to do this first thing in the morning?” Shielding his eyes against the sun which peeked through a brief break in the clouds, he peered around the room.

“Yes.” She flounced into a sitting position and crossed her arms across her chest. “We do.”

“All right.” Wearily he pulled himself up. “We do.” Rubbing his head with his hands, he said, “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re upset.”

“I would never knowingly sleep with my sister’s betrothed,” she answered, flaunting the lofty ideals that had started this attack.

His gray eyes mocked her fury. “You just did.”

“It was a mistake,” she protested.

“Not just one mistake. Several mistakes. Over long
hours.” She turned her head away, and he brought it back with his palm on her chin. His words and gaze pierced her soul. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you abandon your principles so readily when you’re hungry and remember them so indignantly when you’re satiated.” Lip stuck out, she refused to answer, and he dropped his hand. “My betrothal to Olivia stands until the day you demand I be released.”

“How can
I
demand you be released?” She waved her arms in a windmill. “I’m Olivia’s sister.”

His glare seared her before he rolled off the mattress. His feet hit the floor with a thump.

He was displeased with her. All the satisfaction of the night had dissipated. He acted as though the injustice were hers, and somewhere in back of her mind a disturbing thought niggled at her. Was she wrong? True, she’d left him, she’d wanted him to take Olivia in her place, yet somehow, deep inside, she’d never believed he really would. The Adam she’d first met had worn a mask, hard, brittle, cold. But on Midsummer Night, under the moon, he’d convinced her of his sincere passion—for her, for Bronwyn. Had she thrown away a love to last a lifetime, all for foolish pride?

At the mirror, he lifted his brush and stroked it through his hair, easing the wildness into some semblance of decorum and tying it back. “Does that look civilized?” he asked, making conversation, saying nothing.

She tugged the sheet up over her shoulders. The chill in the room was not solely from the air. “Not in the least. You look like a seaman with a thin facade of polish.”

He attempted a simper, but his reflection didn’t lie. He couldn’t accomplish it, and he scowled instead.

“Where are you going?” she asked. Are you coming back? she meant, but she didn’t dare ask.

“To Change Alley.”

With the greatest delicacy she inquired, “To find out the truth about this conspiracy?”

“Yes.”

“You say Walpole spoke to you about this in April? Well, this is September twentieth. Perhaps there’s nothing to discover.”

He turned from stranger to enemy as she blinked. His sharp white teeth snapped as he snarled, “If there were nothing to discover, why would fake stock be circulating, passed by one who styles himself as Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson?” He stalked toward her. “Has it occurred to you that the board of directors of the South Sea Company perpetrated one of the biggest frauds ever to take place in the history of mankind? They have stolen millions of pounds from unsuspecting, foolish people, ruined good lives and bad, and are taking the English government to the brink of chaos.”

She considered. “But I don’t believe in conspiracy by committee.”

If he hadn’t been so angry with her, he might have smiled. “You are a very intelligent woman about finance. In matters of the heart, you’re incredibly stupid.” As she gaped, he adjusted the large rings that adorned his fingers. “I do not believe in conspiracy by committee, either. If I were to point at one man, I would say John Blunt, newly created baron, is the culprit.”