Reckless (5 page)

“You'll pardon my saying so, my lord, but you've given him the living hereabouts. Isn't he supposed
to help everyone else find God?” Dodson asked tentatively.

“Demme, but you're a nervy bastard tonight, Dodson.”

“Yes, sir,” Dodson said serenely.

Lina sank onto the tufted stool near the head of the divan where Montague lay, his body stretched out beneath a silken counterpane. “I imagine he was thinking of me,” she said. “You won't listen to the servants and someone must make you behave. Since I'm one of the very few people who can keep you in line, that role falls to me, and he didn't want me to relinquish my entire three days of fun.”

Montague surveyed her from beneath his lank blond hair. “Doing it a little too brown, my precious,” he murmured. “Dodson has a fondness for you, and he disapproves of all this. I expect he'd like nothing better than to keep you out of it.”

“My lord!” Dodson looked genuinely shocked.

“Oh, go away, Dodson. And when the vicar shows up send him straight on to the manse. I'm sure someone has arranged for a housekeeper for him.”

“Someone has,” Dodson said with real dignity. Since Dodson served as Montague's valet, butler and social secretary, that someone was certainly he. “Milady, would you care for a cup of a tea, or a glass of wine, perhaps?”

Lina smiled pleasantly. If she was to spend the night by Montague's side and not in bed with one of
the Heavenly Host, then she had no need to drink. “Tea would be lovely. And a cold supper? Bring enough for his lordship.”

“I don't want any demmed food,” Monty said fretfully. “Unless you can bring me a sirloin and a pint of ale.”

“A good beef broth, I think,” Lina said, ignoring him. “With some barley water.”

“Barley water? Faugh!” He fixed a glared on both of them. “You may as well kill me now. If Dodson can send for Adrian Rohan instead, you may return to the Revels. Yes, I know you had your eye on him for this occasion, but my needs take precedence. Adrian will understand I can't bear such pig swill.”

“Viscount Rohan will be just as strict, my lord,” Dodson said. “No one wishes you to die.”

A spasm of coughing shook Monty's frail body, and then he lay back against the pillows, exhausted, two bright spots of color on his cheeks. “Do you what you want.” His faint voice was querulous. “I don't have the will to fight you. At this rate you'll plague me to death.”

“Indeed, I hope not, sir,” Dodson said with great dignity before retiring.

There was silence for a moment. The tall windows were open to the cool night air, and in the distance Lina could hear music floating over the water,
accompanied by the sound of laughter. And because no one would notice, she breathed a sigh of relief. At least tonight she could be at peace.

“You're terrible to poor Dodson,” she said.

Monty sighed. “Yes, I am, aren't I? It never seems to bother him.” He paused, his long thin fingers plucking at the quilt covering his frail body. “You'll see to him, won't you, Lina? I've made what arrangements I could, but I worry about the old thing.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she chided him. “Dodson's twice your age—you'll outlive him by decades and then you're the one in trouble. You'll never find anyone willing to put up with you the way that brave soul does.”

Monty smiled faintly, but didn't bother to argue with her. Instead, he turned his head to looked toward the abbey ruins. The moon was bright overhead, the two spires of the ruined abbey stood stark against the night sky. “It's a beautiful night, Lina,” he said. “You know, I hate to admit it, but I'd rather be here with you than romping between the sheets with some lovely young thing. So would you.”

She didn't bother denying it—he knew her too well. Though there were times when she wondered how many others saw through her fevered gaiety. Charlotte, for certain. There were doubtless others.

“There will be other nights to romp, Monty,” she said, touching his thin hands.

Monty turned his hand over and clasped hers with weak affection. “More's the pity, love,” he murmured.

T
he moon had come out. In the distance Charlotte could hear the strains of music. There had been a small orchestra set up near the dais, and the music, simple and slightly sinuous, snaked its way into her consciousness. She could see Rohan a bit too clearly from beneath her enveloping cowl, and she swallowed nervously, unconsciously flexing her bare toes in the grass as she walked.

He held her hand. It was unnerving—she couldn't remember ever having held a man's hand outside of dancing. When she was young, her father had certainly never bothered with her enough to hold her hand, and all the servants who'd looked after her were female. Being a short-sighted, overgrown, ginger-haired and befreckled creature, she had obviously never excited the interest of a gentleman enough for him to take her hand.

In fact, disposing of Rohan's company would be
quite simple. All she had to do was drop the cowl to her shoulders and let him see just who he'd managed to capture. He'd drop her hand as if burned.

That was only as a last resort. His grasp was light, casual. She didn't doubt his fingers could tighten very swiftly, but the longer she allowed her hand to remain in his the more his guard would likely drop.

He wore no gloves. Neither did she. Another shocking circumstance—she'd barely touched anyone without layers of kid leather between them, back when she'd attempted to dance. She'd never been fond of gloves, except for riding or gardening. They made her palms itch.

But she could suddenly see the wisdom of them for social occasions. There was something so…intimate about skin on skin, flesh on flesh. His fingers, warm and strong, wrapped around her unresisting ones.

She allowed herself a furtive glance up at him from beneath her enveloping hood. She could see the ruined spires of the abbey behind him, and for a moment they looked oddly like devil's horns. She blinked, then wanted to laugh. She was being ridiculously fanciful. Adrian Rohan was nothing but a man. A spoiled, wicked, far too pretty man, but human. By coming here she hadn't somehow managed to sell her soul to the devil.

Should she dare attempt to speak? If she could manage some kind of low-throated rumble of a voice, it might serve to further convince him she was a man.
There was no way he could suspect who she really was—the very proper Miss Spenser would hardly be cavorting with the Mad Monks of the Heavenly Host.

Not that she'd yet cavorted, and she had no intention of doing so. This had all been in the service of a very ill-judged curiosity. Really, couldn't her imagination have sufficed? And who would have thought she'd run into Adrian Rohan? She had.

The truth came flooding in. She had known perfectly well he would be here, indulging his debauched appetites. She had come here to see him, watch him, if possible, from behind the safety of the disguise. She wanted to see him naked, flushed with desire, so she could capture that in her memory.

She supposed she wouldn't be happy seeing him direct that powerful licentiousness toward some other woman, and if Lina succeeded in bedding him she would walk away, go back to the house and try to forget.

It might even break the powerful hold Rohan had over her mind and her emotions. Because nothing else had managed to have any effect so far. Her longing for him was unbearably painful.

In truth, she looked at the beautiful, spoiled, self-indulgent man and saw a wounded, angry child. One who needed her.

She mocked herself silently. This man didn't need
her at all; he needed the next willing body and open bottle and game of hazard. He had no use for someone like her, even though she knew she could be the making of him.

No, if Lina had taken him it would have all been over. Her cousin would have moved on, and Rohan would find other beauties to flirt and dance with, to bed. Nothing would change.

She'd been a fool and a half to come here.

She gave a faint tug on her hand, just to see how alert he was, but his fingers tightened immediately, not to the point of pain, but just short of it. She had the impression that he knew how to judge his strength perfectly, which made her even more uneasy. For him to have such intimate knowledge of pain he must have a fair amount of experience, and that was most definitely one thing she had no intention of witnessing, much less participating in. She should have suspected that would be part of his particular interest.

It was a good thing he hadn't realized the smaller, softer hand in his belonged to a female. In truth, her hands were probably larger than those of many shorter men, and she never used unguents or whitening agents on them, unlike many in the ton. At least that part of her anatomy wouldn't betray her, and that was the only part of her he was going to touch. They were in a cul-de-sac.

The earth had risen around them, leaving them in a landscaped depres
sion, reinforced stone walls all around them, and only one door in the impenetrable fortress.

There was no escape, she realized with sudden panic, only back the way they came. She was certain he must have sensed the immediate tension in her body. His hand tightened on hers, and she knew there was no way to take him unawares.

Kicking him would be useless in bare feet. She could use her elbows, her knees; she could use her fingernails and teeth. She wasn't going to submit to…

She took a deep, calming breath. He was under any number of false assumptions. Once she explained he would let her go. She'd hoped to escape without having to say a word, but escape she would, whatever the price.

She hadn't moved, and he didn't try to rush her, seeming content to take his time in the cool night air. The bright moonlight was unkind—it lit the planes and hollows of his face, only accentuating his dangerous beauty, and for a moment she was back in her dreams where he held her, kissed her, stroked her body until she woke up alone, convulsing, her own hands between her legs.

The memory shamed her, even as it enticed her. But it was her own fantasy, as those hands, embarrassingly enough, had been her own hands fisted beneath her body as she rocked against them. His touch would be anathema.

Fear finally galvanized her. “I'm not what you think I am,” she said in a low, gravelly voice in one last attempt to deceive him.

He looked amused, not surprised. “It speaks!” he said in a marveling tone. “And how do you know what I think you are? Believe me, child, I was under no illusion that you were truly a monk under a vow of silence. I'm pleased you've decided to talk—we can't negotiate until you're willing to parley.”

“Negotiate?” The word caught her. “What have we to negotiate?”

“Why, the terms of your surrender.”

The fear was arcing through her now, threatening to overpower her. “I surrender,” she said promptly. “Now let me go.”

“I'm afraid you don't understand the concept of surrender, my pet. There is no true surrender until I am thrusting inside you, finding my own completion and yours. There is no surrender until you take me into your mouth. There is no surrender until you beg me for my touch, my kiss, my cock.”

Panic washed over her full force, and she tried to yank herself away. But his grip was too strong. Painful now, just a little bit.

“You don't understand,” she said, breathless, her voice a notch higher in her panic. “I'm not a man.”

“You don't understand,” he mimicked. “I never thought you were. I only like to fuck women.”

The deliberate crudeness of his language made
her flinch. She knew that word, even if some of the others were unfamiliar. That had been the hardest word Meggie had taught her. That he would use it with her was shocking.

Her resolve grew stronger still. “Not this woman,” she said firmly. No one gets forced, Lina had promised her. All she had to do was say no and he'd release her. “We'll go back and find you someone more amenable. As for me, the answer is no.”

If she'd hoped he'd look abashed she was disappointed. “It's a bit too late for that, my precious. The moment you stepped through the Portal of Venus you signified your willingness to take on the first man who claimed you. Just be thankful I wrested you from Reggie. He's not particularly nice in his notions, and he would have hurt you.”

“And you won't?”

A faint smile curved his elegant mouth. “Only briefly, and I'll endeavor to make it as painless as possible. Losing your virginity always hurts a bit, or so I'm told, but I expect I can soon make you forget all about it.”

Oh, God. “What in the world makes you think I'm a virgin?” she protested in her falsely deep voice. “This is hardly the place for innocence.”

“Which is why you're so delectable,” he said. “And I can tell by the way you walk, the way you flinch when I touch you, when I tell you what we're going to do together. Only a virgin would be so plainly
terrified. As to why you're here, I have absolutely no idea. I've been trying to figure it out for some time now.”

“Momentary insanity,” she said. “I'm recovered now.” She pulled at her hand, knowing it was useless, fighting anyway.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding the slightest bit regretful. “We've already come too far.”

She could push back her cowl, shock him into releasing her. But she still held off, hoping there was some way to escape this terrible mess she'd gotten herself into without betraying her identity. And the dismal truth of it was that she wasn't so much afraid of the social aftermath of him knowing she'd been there. She was afraid to see that light in his eyes flicker and fade with disappointment once he saw who he really had in his net.

She reached up her free hand to tug the cowl lower over her face. “As for this Portal of Venus you keep going on about, it was a mistake. My…my dear friend who brought me here was going to point it out but she got…distracted. How was I to know what the Portal of Venus was?”

“I regret Lady Whitmore didn't have a chance to show you,” he drawled, shocking her. He knew she'd come with Lina. Well, there was nothing remarkable about that—they'd been standing together during that ridiculous ceremony with its terrible Latin. “But that's hardly an excuse. All you had to do was look.
The Portal of Venus,” he said patiently, “is the round entrance to the first garden, surrounded by boxwood and maidenhair ferns. It resembles…”

“Oh, how
revolting!
” Charlotte cried, with no need for him to continue.

“On the contrary, I tend to find it quite…hmm…stimulating. But I believe I did mention that I reserve my attentions for women, did I not?”

There was no other way out, she thought desperately. Where the hell was Lina when she needed her? Off enjoying the attentions of who knew how many, her idiot of a cousin forgotten.

“Yes, you did,” she said calmly, dropping all effort to disguise her voice. He wouldn't recognize it anyway, not from one short conversation in a noisy ballroom. “But Viscount Rohan is known for his excellent taste. His mistresses are some of the most beautiful women in the world.”

“Now, how would you know of my mistresses?” he murmured, amused.

She ignored the question. “You would hardly lower your standards to…to…bed an unwilling antidote, a plain old maid.”

He surveyed her figure in silence for a moment, and she had the odd notion that he could not only see beneath the enveloping hood, but also see through to her flaws and imperfections. “The word is
fuck,
” he said deliberately. “And you wouldn't be unwilling.” There was a calm certainty in his voice, as if he'd
been privy to her awful dreams. “You greatly underestimate your charms.” His hand tightened, and he pulled her toward him, slowly, inexorably. She tried to put her hands between them, but it was already too late to fight him, and he simply clamped her against him, against his strong, hard body. She could feel him, as she had in her dreams, and she wanted to cry. So close, so tantalizingly close, and all she had to do was pull back her cowl and he'd release her, shocked, horrified, perhaps disgusted at the thought of the mistake he'd almost made.

But she couldn't get her hands free—they were trapped between their bodies. He'd managed to restrain her with just one arm, and his hand reached up toward her hidden face.

“You don't want to do this,” she said desperately.

“Of course I do. I've wanted to for a long time, Miss Spenser.” And he pushed the hood from her head, caught her stubborn chin in one strong hand and kissed her.

 

Lina heard the sound first. A grating noise, like some strange bird, she thought. A jackdaw or perhaps a crow. She opened her eyes and realized she'd fallen asleep beside Monty's chaise. She was sitting on the floor, fully dressed, her head cradled in her arms, and Monty slept on, oblivious to the most irritating bird that was…

“Ahem.”

No, that wasn't a bird. That was someone clearing his throat, and she lifted her head and turned, not bothering to rise, assuming it was simply Dodson with some tea and toast.

It wasn't. It was a man she'd never seen before, soberly dressed in black with white linen. No lace, no jewels, no ornament of any kind, and he was looking down on her with a shadowed expression that doubtless signaled deep disapproval. She felt herself flush. She, who prided herself on being shameless.

She started to rise, and he held out one hand to assist her. She'd planned to ignore it, but her legs were cramped and gave way beneath her, forcing her to reach to him for support. His was a strong hand, and not soft like those of the aristocrats who touched her.

“Has Montague converted to Catholicism without telling me or are you some part of his depraved activities?”

She was still wearing the wimple, though by now it was on crooked. She snatched it from her head, shaking her long black hair loose around her shoulders, and surveyed him for a moment. “I'm a part of his depraved activities,” she said in a cool voice meant to deflate pretension. After all, he was only a vicar, not someone who had any right to judge her.