The Wicked One (20 page)

She was breathing as hard as he.  Drowning in sensation.  And then his fingers found her nipple and she arced upward — even as she realized what she was doing.

And who she was doing it with.

Aghast, she shoved him back, yanked her jacket shut, and snatched up one of the pistols.  With a shaking hand, she thrust it against his chest, her pulse banging like gunshot.  "Don't," she said hoarsely.  "Just — don't."

Blackheath stared at her.  His eyes were dangerously still.  Bottomless wells.  The cobra's again.  He looked at her for a long, silent moment — then, very deliberately, he reached up, pushed the gun away from his chest, and returned to the other seat.

There he sat, watching her.  Just watching her.

Eva didn't know what to say, what to do, what to feel, where to go.  Her emotions were so tangled, her nerves so shattered, that she could only revert to her customary flippant bluster — especially in the face of that cold black stare.

She gave a shaky little laugh and shoved her hair off her face, finally daring to put the gun down.  "Look, Blackheath, there's no damage done, all right?  People often lose control of themselves and do incredibly stupid things in the wake of a scare, and certainly, seeing your precious heir in potential danger was enough to frighten even you.  I'm sure we can both forgive and forget your temporary lapse in restraint."

His eyes went even blacker.  Frighteningly so.  Eva tensed, knowing he had seen beneath her lie, for neither of them had lost control of themselves because of fear.  They had lost control because of raw, unbridled desire, and that desire went both ways.

"You just don't understand, do you?" he said softly, his voice so still that it sent shivers up her spine.

She shrugged and drew the blanket about her.  "Oh, I understand perfectly.  You're angry because you desperately want to ravish me, but can't do so in good conscience.  Really, Blackheath, don't be obtuse.  I know men.  I know how they think.  Of course I understand."

He didn't say a word.  Not one word.  And as Eva sank further down into the blanket's protection and stared into the gloom, she could only wonder why she suddenly felt so empty and alone.  Why her whole body felt as primed as a gun that had never been fired.  Waiting.  Wanting.

Yes, she knew men.

But maybe she didn't know herself as well as she'd thought she did.

Chapter 17

Though the air inside the coach was still and cold, Lucien had no need of a blanket.  Unrequited lust still pounded in his veins, swelled his loins; he was so damned hot he couldn't breathe.

Not just hot, but angry.

Not just angry, but downright furious.

Savagely, dangerously,
furious
.

He looked at the woman curled up on the seat opposite and didn't know what he wanted more:  to throttle her or take her like some conquering sultan.  He shut his eyes and relived the scene that had prompted his lamentable lack of control.  Eva, calmly confronting the highwaymen.  Eva, dispatching them with cunning and skill.  Eva, never wavering, never unsure, brimming with rare and beautiful courage . . . and returning to the coach as though she'd done nothing more than step outside for a breath of fresh air, her wicked green eyes glowing with unspoken invitation, her very words demanding the admiration he was so very willing to give her.

She was a tease.

A heartless, dangerous, tease.

And in that moment he hated her almost as much as he wanted her.

The miles passed beneath them, and he remained silent and still, imprisoned by his own torment.  Sleep was out of the question.  And there was nowhere to direct his gaze but on her, curled up beneath the blanket, one long tendril of hair falling from the hood she'd made of its folds and teasingly draping, lovingly curling around, one breast.  Damn her.  She was a beautiful, treacherous creature, Salome, Aphrodite, and Diana all wrapped in one.  And looking at her in sleep, it was almost possible to imagine her as something she wasn't — an innocent, trusting soul, untarnished by life and open to all the wondrous experiences it had to offer.

If only, he thought bitterly.

What had happened to make her the way she was?  Was it something that could be mended?  Something that could be overcome?  He looked at her, sleeping like the innocent child she must once have been, and felt his anger fading . . . only to be replaced by such fierce protectiveness, it was nearly too much for his heart to contain.  He wished she could be like this always, instead of guarded, distrustful and sarcastic; wished the barriers that separated them when she was awake could be banished, as they now were in sleep.

Wished he could wake her with gentle kisses and caresses, and slake the desire that even now made his blood pound, his nerves raw, his skin damp and hot.

Her last words came back to him.

Really, Blackheath, don't be obtuse.  I know men.  I know how they think.

A wry smile twisted his lips.

You think you know men, do you Eva?  Well, you do not know me.  You do not know the lengths to which I will go to get what I want, the single-minded passion I give my every pursuit, the fact that every ounce of that passion, that pursuit, is centered on you.  I will have you, you know.  You cannot win.  You will not win.  Try as you might, you cannot reduce me to the repugnant creature you think me to be, will not taunt me into behaving like the unprincipled beast you think all men really are.  Make me furious, make me insane, but there is one thing you will never take from me — and that is my determination to have you.  You are magnificent . . . the equal of any man, the superior of any woman.  But oh, you can never know the rage that makes my temples pound, even now . . .

Rage that she had been hurt so badly that she refused to trust a person simply because he was a male.  Rage that she had the courage to face a pair of highwaymen, but not to let go of her own bitterly twisted notions about men.  Rage that she painted all men with the same black brush . . .  when his restraint, let alone her own observations about the way his brothers treated their wives, should have changed her mind.

He looked at her sleeping there, and felt cold, ruthless determination.

He would rout her devils before that innocent babe was born, and he would do all he could to heal her.

Not only for her sake, not only for his own —

But for his child's.

~~~~

Eva spent the night dreaming about sex.

Or, more specifically, dreaming about sex with the Duke of Blackheath.

When she awoke, hot and empty and full of a restless longing, dawn was bright behind the pulled shades of the still-moving coach.

She lay there for a moment, trying not to think of the vivid dreams, trying, instead, to concentrate on the present.  She was in Blackheath's arms.  She had no idea how she'd ended up there, though a dim memory of being cold sometime during the night, and seeking the heat of her companion's larger, stronger body, pervaded her conscious thoughts and flooded her with embarrassment.  To think that she'd sought him out after shoving him away at gunpoint!  What a hypocritical fool he must think her.  Now his arms banded her like iron strapping a wooden cask, making her feel snug, safe, and warm despite the fact that those were the last feelings she sought to gain from him, banishing the chill air inside the coach to something she felt only against her cheeks and face.

How nice it was to just lie here.  Her head rested against his chest.  His heart beat steadily beneath her ear.  She wished she could stay like this for a few moments longer, wished she trusted him enough to let down her guard around him, wished she were a different woman — one who didn't carry a legacy of pain and betrayal, one who could enjoy men for what they were, one who would follow the path of her own wicked desires . . .  Oh,
that
woman would bring this dangerously virile creature to arousal and spend the next five or ten miles enjoying the fruits of her efforts.  The hot throbbing between her legs returned, and her nipples peaked with longing. 
Damnation.

"Good morning," he murmured.

"Good morning, Blackheath."  With forced nonchalance, she moved away from him, reestablishing the distance that kept her safe and hoping he wouldn't mention what had transpired between them last night.  "Thank you for providing both bed, pillow, and blanket all in one."

"My pleasure.  I trust you were able to sleep?"

"A little," she lied, wary of his polite formality when she had expected chilling rage.  Already she missed the close contact with his strong, hard body, the feel of his arms around her — being held so had almost made her feel loved.  Cherished.  Too bad such illusions weren't for real, and never would be.

Banishing the fanciful longings, she opened the shade and peered out, blinking as sunlight shone down through high clouds and impaled her face.  Outside, she could see the knobby crests of endless green downs, valleys cloaked in frost, and, in the distance, a thin blue line that marked the sea.

Blackheath was watching her with a lazy but unnerving intensity.  Eva could not tell what was going on behind that inscrutable stare, and dared not ask.  He had wanted her last night, and she suspected he wanted her this morning.  Thank heavens he could not know she wanted him, too.

Or could he?

Oh, God.
  She redirected her gaze out the window.  Her nipples tingled against her chemise.  Her skin was hot beneath her clothes.  And she was wet down there — very wet.

She clamped her arms around herself.

"So how is your mood this morning, Blackheath?  Suitably improved over last night, I should hope?"

"Suitably improved.  But I daresay a meal will improve it further.  There is a coaching inn in the next village.  We will break our fast there."

"I shan't join you, I think.  I cannot stomach the thought of food at the moment."  Eva placed a hand on her suddenly queasy belly and watched some sheep grazing on a distant down.

"Would you like a peppermint, then?"

"Do you have any?"

"I always come prepared."  He dug into his pocket and produced one.

"You know, Blackheath, I've been thinking."

He quirked a brow.

"About this estate of yours, Gingermere.  I'm looking forward to seeing it."

"I think you will like it."

"I like the idea of complete freedom even more.  An independent income.  You will, of course, continue to work with American sympathizers such as Pitt and Burke, pleading on behalf of America in Parliament?"

"I give you my word."

"And thwart those who would see America oppressed?"

"Most assuredly."

Eva swallowed.  He was still eyeing her with that fixed, lazy gaze.  She had the distinct feeling that though he was engaging in conversation, his mind was occupied with other pursuits.  Carnal ones.  In fact, she could feel the heat of that black stare caressing the swell of her bosom, the still-tiny curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.

Her lower regions ached in response.

She clamped her legs together.

"I'm, um — not sure about some of the other, er, conditions of our bargain, though."

"Such as?"

"Sharing a bed when we're together."

He smiled.  "I daresay you won't find it to be the trial you anticipate."

"Maybe not for you."

He stretched his legs out, his feet touching hers.  "Come, now, Eva.  Do not play games with me.  I want you.  You — though you're loath to admit it — want me.  Why do you fight something so natural?"

She raised her chin and turned away.  "I have my pride.  You know that, Blackheath.  And these . . . these
feelings
I have for you — and yes, I will admit, I
do
have them — they come from out of nowhere.  It must be because of the pregnancy.  It has to be.  I mean, there's no other explanation . . ."

His smile turned into a lazy, knowing grin.  "I think you simply can't resist me."

"Can't resist you?  Codswallop, Blackheath.  I can resist you.  Easily."

"Ah.  And do you think you could resist me should I put my mind to seducing you?"

"I
know
I could resist you."

"And I think, that upon arrival at Gingermere, I shall put your convictions to the test."

Eva's head snapped up.  She stared into that smiling face, those dark and fathomless eyes, and knew she was trapped.  That he had won.  If she refused his challenge, he would think her a coward.  If she accepted it, he'd win the wager so quickly she would have to clamp her hands over her ears to stop her head from spinning.  Oh,
how
had she let herself be so neatly manipulated?

"Damn you, Blackheath, you don't play fair," she snapped.

"No.  I like to win.  Hence, I play by my own rules, fair or not."

"And when do you intend to carry out this absurd little test?"

"When we arrive at Gingermere.  Not before.  You see, I would like to savor the idea as I would a good wine . . . and besides, madam" — he smiled indulgently — "here in the coach would be most inappropriate."

"
Anywhere
would be most inappropriate."

He tickled her ankle with the toe of his boot.  "We shall see, my dear.  We shall see."

Chapter 18

Gingermere was beautiful.

But Eva, thinking of the impending challenge with Blackheath, was so tense she could not revel in her first sight of the manor house perched high atop the edge of a distant sea cliff.

Freedom,
she told herself. 
This is your ticket to freedom.  Your future.  Don't think about what Blackheath intends to prove within its walls.

Instead, she tried to focus on the house's stark, sea-swept beauty as the coach moved steadily up the winding track that led to it.  On the gently sloping fields that surrounded it, some newly planted with wheat, others dotted with sheep and cows.  Beyond the house, she could see a sliver of blue sea.  The house was isolated.  Windswept.

She loved it.

"What do you think, my dear?  Will it suit?"