The Uncatchable Miss Faversham (14 page)

    Embarrassingly, the book missed him by several feet – as he had prophesised it would – and before she knew what was happening, he had caught and pinioned her arms to her side.

    Ignoring her inarticulate cries of fury, Sallinger pulled her close, their chests touching, his head bent towards her.

    ‘Nell, my little Nell.’ He laughed, but without humour. There was a deep throbbing note in his voice that she recognised, knowing it only too well from the turmoil inside her own heart, a desire pulled tight as a bow string. ‘What made you come all the way out here today, unchaperoned and looking delicious enough to eat? As if I need ask.’

    ‘Take your hands off me!’

    ‘Not before you tell me the truth. And don’t try to pretend your being here is a coincidence. I saw you from the roof, clearly scouting this place out. I thought it best not to show myself until I was sure what you wanted.’

    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

    ‘Doing it rather too brown, aren’t you?’ Nathaniel stared penetratingly into her eyes. ‘Admit it, you knew as soon as you came up those stairs that I’d been sleeping here. In fact, I’d wager you knew I’d be in this tower before you came riding so innocently past. You knew all those things, and yet you made no attempt to beat a safe retreat before I found you.’ His voice deepened, almost shaking. ‘Because you wanted to be discovered, didn’t you? You came here in search of
this
.’

    Unexpectedly, he bent and kissed her throat, pressing his mouth hotly against her skin.

    It was a cruel kiss and Eleanor ought to have struggled against it. Instead, she closed her eyes, welcoming his intensity. She heard herself groan, a rush of desire surging under her skin. It was true, only too true. She had known what to expect if Nathaniel found her, and yet she had not been able to bring herself to leave.

    This was wrong, entirely wrong. They were not married. They were not even a courting couple, as they had been five years ago.

    ‘Oh stop, I can’t!’ she managed.

    ‘Why can’t you?’ Nathaniel raised his head and looked down into her face. To her dismay, the mocking smile that she hated was back on his lips. ‘You’re no virgin. You’ve nothing to lose by this. Why shouldn’t I enjoy what’s on offer to other men?’

    Eleanor wriggled one hand free and tried to slap him, but he caught it mid-slap and kissed her palm instead, his mouth punishing. Her cheeks were burning with anger, both at his insults and the sheer physical helplessness of her position.

    ‘The truth wrankles, does it? Of course it does. No woman likes to have her secrets exposed. But perhaps you should have thought of that before giving yourself away so freely.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘It’s odd, but I still didn’t believe you could be such a hardened flirt. Not until I saw it with my own eyes – you and Lovett, head to head –’ His throat suddenly convulsed, his mouth twisting in a savage smile. ‘Perhaps I shall feel more the thing when I’ve had a chance to sample your wares myself. You’ve less of a bloom about you than the first time, of course, but not enough to signify. I’m not exactly an Adonis, after all.’

    ‘Please, Nathaniel,’ she managed, hoping to mollify at least some of his bitterness. ‘Don’t do this. Please just wait a moment.’

    ‘Oh, that’s good,’ he said huskily, bending closer. ‘I like to hear you beg. Beg me again, sweet Nell. My sweet, duplicitous Nell.’

    Then his mouth was on hers, and there could be no further hope either of her begging or of him listening.

    His warmth was a shock at first, the pressure of his lips turning her blood to honey and her knees to jelly. Then she felt her traitorous body begin to lean forward, deeper into the kiss. Her mind shrieked a warning even as her limbs pressed languorously against his. Eleanor knew what she wanted from this man, and what she wanted was downright disturbing.

    Unnoticed by either of them, her bonnet fell away and her chestnut hair spilled out, eager not to be restrained.

    What was happening to her?

    Eleanor trembled in his arms, no longer unwilling but kissing Lord Sallinger back with a breathless abandon that surprised even her. Nothing would do but to surrender herself to him completely, as she had done once before.

    She did not know what lay ahead, nor did she care anymore. All she knew was how a horse must feel under the spur – unable to prevent its cruel pain, but leaping helplessly forward in response.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Precisely how much time had passed since their lips had met, he could no longer remember. Why was she not pushing him away?

    Nathaniel’s mouth stilled on hers, then lifted reluctantly. ‘Nell?’

    Eleanor’s face seemed to echo his hunger – a fierce, wolfish hunger that threatened to overwhelm them both with its intensity. Her lips looked bruised, a darkish red. Her wide blue eyes had opened to examine him too in questioning silence, the lids pale and heavy.

    There was a flush in her cheeks, her riding bonnet had tumbled to the floor – when had that happened? – and her chestnut curls lay in glorious disarray, almost inviting him to run his fingers through them.

    Her mouth had been free several breathless seconds now, yet still Eleanor said nothing. He had expected anger, maybe even a slap. But perhaps she had grown tired of that response and was now resolved merely to suffer his ungentlemanly insults in silence.

    ‘So beautiful,’ Nathaniel muttered, distracted. He released her wrists and slid his hands further up her arms, though she was not exactly fighting to get away.

    His gaze slipped to the tantalising swell of her breasts, cupped and restrained by the striped fabric of her gown. If there was any irony in his voice, there was also a shade of sincerity, to balance it out.

    ‘Such womanly curves should not be hidden, however pretty the gown.’

    Deliberately, watching her face, Nathaniel released the string-ties holding her cloak about her shoulders; it dropped in a pool of damp material, joining the lost bonnet on the floor.

    Then, very slowly, almost insolently, he pushed down the dark velvet sleeves of her riding habit, loosening her bodice until more of her breasts were exposed, his mouth suddenly dry as he stared down at her pale skin.

    All this while, Eleanor neither spoke nor fought him, a slight shiver in her limbs as she swayed submissively before him.

    Her silence surprised and unnerved him. He had always secretly intended to seduce her again. But he had expected some token resistance at least.

    ‘What, finally lost for words? Not even a slapped face for the villain who would ravish the Uncatchable Miss Faversham? Have I caught you at last?’

    Her eyes closed momentarily at that, then opened to fix on his face. Were those tears in her eyes, or just a trick of the dying light?

    ‘Hush,’ she told him, then kissed him.

    Nathaniel stood still beneath her kiss, barely breathing. He had already used her once without paying the usual price of enforced matrimony, and knew the bitter aftertaste of such double dealing only too well. Did he really want to take her in this rough-and-tumble fashion again, like a simple country girl with no hope of a wedding ring on her finger?

    True, when he had seen her from the roof and realised that she was riding out completely alone, perhaps looking for his hideout, his first thought had been one of revenge. Her rejection five years ago had hurt him badly. They had spent one passionate night together, and he had ridden over to propose the very next day. He had been convinced that here was the woman for him, not a whit disturbed by the unsightly scars on his face and torso, nor this damned limp he’d been cursed with forever.

    Yet Eleanor had rejected his suit out of hand.

    Not only that, but she had fled to London soon after with barely a word of explanation.

    As though he were some kind of monster!

    Which perhaps he was, Nathaniel thought grimly, only too aware of his physical imperfections.

    Just looking at her before him now was enough to bring back those deep-scorched memories of rage and painful humiliation. But that was all they should be, if he could keep control of himself – nothing but memories. The flames of love had surely burnt away to nothing over the years, the hurt of wounded pride dwindling to a dull ache, and all that was left was a determination that no other woman would ever again be in a position to hurt him as deeply as Miss Eleanor Faversham had done.

    Surely he was strong enough to enjoy her body without descending into the darkness that had engulfed him last time?

    With this in mind, he tugged forcefully at the bodice of her loosened gown.

    ‘Let’s see the rest of you,’ he muttered, rather less seductively than he had intended.

    The material gaped now to reveal her full breasts. Another sharp tug brought the dark velvet gown to her hips. From there it took but a few seconds to descend in a rustle of fabric to the floor, leaving her in nothing more concealing than a thin chemise.

    The laces of her corset proved a more stubborn obstacle to his desire. However, he set to the task with a small frown of concentration, and it was not long before Nathaniel had flung that offending article to one side too.

    She stumbled, but neither cried out in indignation nor moved to cover her nudity, merely staring up at him as though in a trance. Her smooth skin gleamed in the fiery light of sunset, each nipple standing out high and proud, her navel softly rounded.

    By God, she was a beauty!

    Nathaniel reached out to stroke one of those exposed nipples. The dusky skin tautened to a rosebud, her stifled gasp enough to arouse him from his stupor. His gaze lifted to her face, noting the deep scarlet blush on her cheeks, the wild light in her eyes.

    Before she could change her mind, he bent his head, claiming her mouth for his own.

    Her hands moved then, flying to his shoulders and gripping as though she were afraid to fall. ‘Nathaniel,’ she whispered heatedly against his mouth. ‘Make love to me.’

    The past five years were stripped away, and he was deep in the first flush of love again, trembling and unable to believe what she was offering him. The taste of her lips nearly finished it for him. No mistress of his, however skilled or beautiful, had ever brought him to the shuddering edge of the abyss so swiftly.

    He half-pulled, half-dragged Eleanor to the mattress that had been his bed the night before.

    She tumbled back onto it, her pale body gleaming, her blue eyes wide with some powerful emotion – longing, excitement, fear?

    This was what she had come here for, and he would not disappoint her. She would not stop him, that was clear from her silence. Nor did he want to stop.

    Yet he was still a gentleman, surely?

    She had seen his hesitation. Her voice was husky, using his first name like a caress. ‘What is it, Nathaniel?’

    ‘Why did you come here?’

    No fool, she understood his stark question. Her blush deepened. Now, at last, she seemed aware of her nakedness, covering her breasts with hands that shook.

    ‘Must there be a reason?’

    ‘You want me,’ he said flatly, searching her face.

    ‘As you see.’

    ‘You want me, yet you would not marry me when I offered you marriage. You would not accept my name and my protection. Instead, I will do to divert the society flirt when she is bored and stuck in the country.’ He stopped short in his tirade, controlling himself with an effort. ‘I am not known for my skills as an entertainer, madam. Unless it is this mask you have come to see, like a freak at the circus?’

    She looked at his face, the unsightly scars, and shook her head mutely.

    His gaze raked her exposed skin, the provocative tilt of her naked breasts and the softly rounded stomach below. He was still aroused by her beauty, but he would not stoop to Miss Faversham’s level, becoming her special flirt while she was in the wilds of Warwickshire, only to be dropped like some hay-sucking provincial as soon as she returned to Town.

    He still had his pride!

    ‘Put your gown back on,’ he managed to say, finding it hard to breathe, ‘and get out of here before I change my mind. Your body tempts me, I will not deny it. But I already have a mistress, thank you, and one whose loyalty to me has never been in doubt.’

    This was a lie, of course. However, Eleanor was unlikely to realise that. Indeed, he guessed from the look in her eyes that his remarks had wounded her deeply.

    Nathaniel knew he must not weaken now. Eleanor had played a dangerous game with him tonight, and if his rejection made her think twice before throwing herself at any other men, most of whom would not hesitate to broadcast her availability to the world, he would have done the little fool a service.

    ‘Did you not hear what I said, madam? Or do you need me to repeat myself?’ His voice was harsh. ‘I thank you for your kind offer, but I am no longer available.’

    Eleanor lay there on the mattress, staring up at him. She was still covering her breasts with her hands, her long bare legs drawn up to her chin.

    For a moment, in the darkening glimmer of twilight, Eleanor looked part-street urchin, part-princess, still proud and disdainful for all that she had just suffered a humiliating defeat.

    He was reminded again of the poor girl who had gasped her last breath in his arms at Corunna, defiant even in the face of death. He had not known her name, nor why she had been fighting the Spanish cause alongside the English, but her beautiful dying face had been branded forever on his mind. It seemed to him, not for the first time, that Eleanor Faversham might be made of the self-same steel as that unknown heroine. Though he was less sure he would care to kiss such a weapon until it had been tempered in the waters of love.

    ‘I heard you perfectly, sir,’ she said, regal even in nudity. ‘I simply find your change in mood incomprehensible. One minute you strip me of my clothes; the next you are wishing me at the devil, and I must get dressed again and leave. Is it not women who are considered inconstant as the moon? Yet you, my lord, would appear to be making an art of indecision.’