Seducing the Beast (4 page)

Seduce
him
? Let her try. Let her do her worst.

Madolyn didn’t know, until they were already out on the river, that someone in the crowd had stolen her purse, leaving her no coin to pay the bargeman. Now he stoically refused to take her any further, oblivious to alternate pleas and threats. Desperate and in a foul mood, she decided to take the oars herself.

“Oy!” the bargeman bellowed, as she scrambled gracelessly to her feet, “Look out! You’ll tip the boat.”

She tripped on the hastily-pinned hem of her borrowed gown and with a solitary, surprised cry, went over the edge of the barge, landing in the river with a loud splash. Bobbing there, held afloat by Eustacia’s voluminous skirt, she was far too angry for tears. She struggled, spitting out a mouthful of filthy water, kicking against her skirt as it took on water and grew heavier, threatening to pull her under.

Suddenly another rocking boat drew alongside. One hand reached down, long fingers clawing for her sleeve. As the man hauled her to the side of his vessel, she heard an impatient sigh, suggesting this put her rescuer out far more than it did her, then, in one heave, he pulled her up, over the side of his barge and across his lap. Exhausted, she would gladly have laid there like a dead thing, but he poked her in the ribs and made her sit up.

“Astonishing what one finds polluting the river these days. All manner of flotsam and jetsam.”

The sun no longer in her eyes, she now recognized the interfering fool who’d earlier lifted her--a woman who, despite her size, was never rendered helpless in her life--clean off her feet. This time she made a longer study of the man before her, knowing she might have to rely on his help to row her back to her cousin’s house, and free of charge.

His hair, a dark, rich shade of chestnut, seemed almost deliberately limp and unkempt, discouraging anyone from running their fingers through it, but Maddie was not fooled. It might have been quite lovely hair for a man, if washed and brushed. Several days’ growth of beard darkened his chin, so while she usually prided herself on reading a man’s character by the shape and firmness of his jaw, today she looked for other clues. Under considerable time constraint, with little in his favor already, she made a speedy assessment. He sported neither the looks nor manners of a gentleman, and his hands were already proven dangerously presumptive, however, his was the only offer of rescue and sometimes one must make the best of a bad situation.

Resolved to thank him, she opened her mouth.

“I’ve already heard enough from you. Kindly shut that vast hole in your face and keep it thus.”

Just her luck, she thought, to be rescued by the rudest man in England.

Struggling to escape his lap, she was subjected to another rancorous bark, “Stay where you are and be still, unless you want another ducking.” A threat, rather than concern for her safety, and with one of his arms laid heavily across her knees, the other around her waist, holding her trapped, it was also redundant. He squinted at her warily, somewhat resentfully. Like tiny minnows in a fisherman’s net, sun beams reflected off the water became trapped under his dark lashes, and a wry bulge in his cheek where he tucked his tongue suggested he kept some words to himself, afraid they might misbehave when mixed with the fertile spring air.

She gathered her half-drowned courage. “Will you take me home? I suppose you may convey me the rest of the way, although you are, obviously, not the sort of escort to which I’m accustomed.”

His mouth twitched, his eyebrow quirked. “Did I not tell you to be silent? Women should be seen and not heard. Has no man ever taught you that?”

“None who lived to tell the tale!”

He stared.

“Will you take me or not? I’m an excessively busy person and have no time to waste. I need…”

“A damned good spanking. Bend over me again and I’ll deliver it.”

After the many disappointments of her day, this was the final straw. “Impertinent knave! You ever lay a violent hand on me, it
will
be retaliated. Make haste and do as I say. Pick up your oars.”

Disregarding her threats, he transferred both hands to her waist. Iron-hard, inflexible, bronzed fingers gripped her too tightly.

“Do you mean to sit there gaping, or will you take me down the river?” she demanded. “If not, row me to the bank side at once, you great, witless oaf.” Writhing in his lap, she plucked at his immoveable fingers, looking for escape.

He kept his hands on her waist, seemingly oblivious to her pinches. “You want a favor from me, you must give me payment in return, madam.”

Suddenly he leaned forward until his lips were almost upon hers, poised a hair’s breadth from possession. Blood rushed through her ears like a violent stream over rocky terrain, bringing with it a strange, exultant giddiness. Perhaps it was spring in the air, or some other villainous sorcery, but in that moment of confusion she tipped her head to the left, felt his breath on her mouth and then…

When it began, she put her hands to his shoulders, ready to wield them as weapons, but somehow she forgot their purpose, and after the initial testing, a measuring of danger, he proceeded to take her mouth as if it and she were spoils of war. His tongue, verging on brutal, pressed between her lips, invading, plundering and forceful.

Men generally asked permission before they kissed her, and most often they were denied. Today she closed her eyes against the sun’s brilliant rays, setting all protests aside.

One arm drew her up against his chest, and she felt conscious suddenly of her overflowing bosom where it rubbed against the dried mud spattered across the sun-warmed leather of his doublet. Underneath, he was all male strength. The hard, thick muscle of his torso was separated from her bare skin by only a flimsy bit of linen and some worn leather. It was almost as if she lay naked in the arms of a warrior fully clothed and rapacious, a conqueror fresh from battle, seeking a pleasure hard-earned. His tongue flicked over hers, drew it into his mouth and delved again. Never had she allowed this much invasion, not even with her lost sweetheart back home, whose genial willingness to let her boss him about once served her unmaidenly curiosity to some degree.

When she thought him done, his tongue thrust again, a rapier wielded to subdue, claim, and harvest. She could blame it on her near drowning, on the sun in her eyes, on anything, but as the first shock subsided, her captive tongue swept over his in a manner that might almost be construed as welcoming.

Mortified by the lapse, she quickly blamed underhand trickery. When he released her lips, they were already in motion, “Knaves, rogues, and cutpurses! This rotten place is full of them. Has no man in this town any goodness or honesty? Are you all villains out to take advantage of poor, innocent …”

He was glaring at her lips, now surely bruised and swollen, branded by that potent kiss.

Gathering the tattered shreds of her dignity, she exclaimed, “That was supposed to tame me, was it? Put me in my place? A silly little kiss? I’ve known better.”

His eyes quickly narrowed. “Ought to put you back where I found you, ungrateful wench.” The deepening lines across his brow suggested he thought he’d earned some right to take that kiss. Afraid he might decide further rights were likewise his to take, realizing she was trapped there on his boat, she began to itch again, fingers groping for the spitefully elusive irritant thriving under her corset, making itself felt at the worst possible moment.

“You have your payment in advance,” she said, “now pick up your oars and start rowing…you…” Breathlessly searching for a suitable insult, she soon found one, “…ugly, ill-mannered beast!”

Then, because words were not enough to mollify her temper after the day she’d already endured, she paused her scratching long enough to slap his face.

Silence, except for the tip-tapping of little waves against the side of the rowboat. His eyes were aflame, his lips a thin, trembling line.

Turning the boat, he rowed swiftly to a set of mossy stone steps leading up from the water. “This aggravation, I can do without today.” The barge bumped to a halt and he shouted at her to get out. “Good riddance, mouthy wench
,
” he spat. “And good luck with your seduction!”

* * * *

Now he was definitely feverish. Was he poisoned? It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to do away with him. He’d long since concluded some feature of his face made people hate him on sight.

He couldn’t remember the last time a woman raised his blood heat to such a degree, if ever, but then there was never a surfeit of women in his life. And what she stirred within held only temporary resemblance to anger, for a certain slumbering part of his anatomy woke from a lengthy hibernation, stuck its head up and looked around with interest. How inconvenient it rose now for a strumpet he should’ve thrown back into the river, if not for this shockingly tolerant and apparently lusty mood. Yet it pulsed there, no diminutive sensation after so many years of famine.

When she’d bounced mercilessly in his lap, her hair, black as a tinker’s pot, had sprawled over her shoulders in long wet strands, wound around his sleeve and curled like the tentacles of a sea creature. He imagined those sinuous tresses spread out over his pillow, surrounding him. He saw her in his bed, tasted her in his mouth, felt warm silk embrace naked marble as her arms held him, her body sheathed him.

It was as if he’d been waiting for her.

Now forced to embark on the longer route to her cousin’s house, Madolyn walked with her head down, carefully dodging piles of steaming horse muck. She was only vaguely aware of a litter drawing alongside, until she heard, “You there! Wench!”

Lord Jessop stepped out of a litter, narrowly missing a puddle, out of breath as he accosted her. “Where do you go, my dear?” His smile stretched, cracking across the lower half of his face, having no effect on his cool, gray eyes. “Let’s walk together. I’ll be your escort. ’Tis not safe, you know, for a young lady to walk alone on these streets.”

“Why? Because some man might proposition me for a quick tumble?”

His eyes gleamed, his smile stiffened. “You wanted to discuss your petition. Did you expect a favor of that magnitude for nothing? You’re no fool, neither are you a child. Dressed in such a fashion, I can only conclude you meant to be admired.”

She pursed her lips. It was truly no one’s fault but her own for wearing this damned gown. Seeking attention, she got it, unfortunately from the wrong folk, and having missed her target entirely. Grace would say she learned a lesson.

“I’ve seen you before somewhere, have I not?”

He didn’t remember her as Grace’s sister. Apparently his attention wandered as much as his eyes. “Possibly.”

“Let me see, the Pickled Parrot? In Southwark? You must be one of the new girls.”

Dryly amused, she replied, “Aye, sir. The Pickled Parrot. I’m flattered you remember me.”

“My dear girl, you’re soaked to the skin!” Now overly solicitous, he offered to dry her off with an ineffective, lace-trimmed kerchief. “What have you been up to? You’ll catch a deathly cold.”

“I never caught a cold in my life,” she said peevishly, for she would quite like, occasionally, to be the one over whom others fussed and fretted. Alas she was born with the unromantic constitution of an ox.

He offered his arm. “I may be able to get you an audience with the Earl of Swafford, if you still desire it?” He licked his lips. “Walk with me, eh? We’ll discuss the favors we might do one another.”

Of course this gilded, strutting cockerel didn’t baste his words in mead for her. Why would he? He spoke to her in plain terms because she was a plain girl, and squashed into Eustacia’s old gown, she apparently bore resemblance to a plain whore.

“We’ll help one another, you and I. We both have what the other needs, do we not?”

She kept her face bland, holding her temper at bay.

“Trade is the way of the world you know, and in your occupation, you’re surely aware of that,” he added. “We have much to offer one another…goods to barter.” His eyes strayed over her damp gown. “There’s no harm in a simple give and take.”

“What do you suggest, my lord?” She sighed deeply. “If you can help me to an audience with the Earl, I should be most grateful of course.”

He smiled slowly.

* * * *

As Griff crossed the tavern yard, still mulling over the odd little strumpet on the river, he heard a familiar, merry shout, “At last! You are returned!” Gabriel suddenly appeared at his side, a jovial spring in his step.

“Not a moment too soon, it seems.”

Ignoring the sharp-edged remark, Gabriel embraced his brother’s stiff shoulders. “Journey was good I trust?”

“Fair enough.”

“You look….well, brother. The Spanish sun was good for you.”

“Hmph. It took the aches out of my bones, if that’s what you mean. I daresay the English rain will put them back again.”

His brother laughed, trying for another embrace like a lanky pup attempting play. “Come share an ale with me. We’ve much to catch up on.”

Although Gabriel Mallory inherited the family height, his shoulders were not so broad as Griff’s. His coloring was lighter, his features refined, even boyish, in marked contrast to those of his brother. Griff knew he could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called handsome. In fact, he had little in common physically with Gabriel, and saw even fewer similarities in character. Where Gabriel had a frustrating, easy-going nature, content to drift along with the tide, Griff believed in swimming against it, never one to placate or stand down from a fight. But despite their differences, they shared one bond - a lonely childhood of privilege, devoid of parental affection. Griff remembered their mother as a distant woman, uncomfortable with motherhood. Their father was an unforgiving man, who never rewarded accomplishments, but quickly and severely punished mistakes. Often, Griff had taken the beatings on his younger brother’s behalf and he was grateful now for the toughened skin.

Gabriel stood aside to let his brother enter the tavern first, both men stooping to fit under the low lintel.