The Wicked One (22 page)

But no, she had no desire to escape the sensation of his tongue rasping over her fabric-clad nipple, no desire to escape the hot mouth into which the sensitive peak was being drawn, no desire but to melt even farther down into the carpet as he hauled up her petticoats.  His hand slid up her bare leg, higher and higher until his fingers hooked the garter.  He pulled the silken band down her thigh, her knee, her calf, peeling the stocking off with it, causing her to sigh at the delicious feel of his palm moving over her skin.  She felt that same hand stroking her calf, and drew up her leg so it could touch and warm her ankle, her foot.

 "Eva."

He had broken the kiss; dazedly, she looked up into his face.  His eyes were like the midnight sky, velvety, black, and almost mystical, their depths continuing on into forever.  "Eva.  Shall we stop?"

"Oh, hell, Blackheath, you've already proved your point."

"I asked you, shall we stop?"

"Eventually . . . not now."

His eyelids lowered, thick black lashes veiling any triumph he might have revealed, and he began kissing her once more. He pulled her shirt free of the waistband tapes of her petticoats and removed it and her jacket, then turned her onto her stomach and unlaced her stays, parting them, peeling them away, baring her body like some ripe, exotic fruit.  Her petticoats followed; there was only her shift left.  He pushed it up, revealing every inch of her legs.  She was nearly naked now, and his fingertips were running down her spine . . . his palm smoothing the dip in her lower back and caressing the upward curve of her bottom.  The carpet prickled her cheek; her hair lay tangled beneath her eye, her temple.  And now he gently turned her over once more, and Eva's eyes slipped shut in defeat as his head dipped again to her breast . . . kissing, suckling, loving.  She felt his hand bracing her hip; felt his fingers searing the soft inner flesh of her naked thigh . . . now moving toward the junction of her legs.  She was hot for him.  Wet.  She sighed and let her legs fall open as his fingers parted her soft, moisture-slicked curls and slowly, skillfully, slipped inside.

"Ohhhhh," she breathed, arching upward as he sucked and pulled at her stiffly peaked nipple, still sheathed in soaking-wet fabric.  "Oh, Blackheath . . . I don't know how I can allow you to do this . . . how you manage to strip me of control, of resolve . . ."

His hand was cupping her mound, his fingers sliding deeper within her hot folds, the thumb stroking her nub, his fingers moving up and into her until her head was buzzing with frenzied heat, her senses stifled in fog.  "The feeling, my dear, is mutual."

"Thank God . . . I could not bear the idea that our effects on each other are one-sided."

With his free hand, he took her hand and guided it to the front of his breeches, where his arousal swelled so hot, so huge, that she wondered why the fabric that fought to contain it hadn't split beneath the pressure.  "There, my dear Eva, is your proof that we are fairly matched.  You are my undoing, as you have been from the moment I met you.  Now be still.  Lie back and close your eyes, for I want to make love to you . . . to taste you with my tongue, to make you realize that sharing the bed of a duke of Blackheath is not the odious tenure you believe it to be."

If his fingers, buried within her warm silken cleft, hadn't sent her careening toward the edge, his words certainly would have.  Eva, flushed with heat, lay back on the carpet . . . or tried to.  It was hard, when Blackheath's fingers had replaced his mouth on her nipple . . . hard, when his other hand was stroking and readying her for his mouth, his tongue, that straining arousal that swelled against his breeches.  Hard . . . when he lowered himself fully down alongside her, his body heat searing her, his hand now splaying against her pelvis, covering the lowest part of her abdomen, while his thumb parted her . . . readied her . . . stroked her.

His mouth brushed the underside of her breast.

The apex of her ribs, the hollow of her belly just beneath.

The outer fringes of her silken red curls.

Eva tensed, relaxed, fought for control.  She felt his unshaven jaw there against the soft white skin . . . felt his lips moving through her mound, his breath against her flesh . . . and then the first gentle touch of his tongue, pressing warmly against that part of her that his thumb and finger held open, held exposed.

Eva's world began to swell and tumble upon itself, every ounce of blood in her body gathering in that one spot of assault.  But she held herself back, determined to hold out for as long as she could, her fingernails ripping into the carpet beneath her, the sweat rolling down her temples as the pressure of Blackheath's tongue became stronger, more insistent . . . more invasive.

She heard the tormented whimpers, the agonized moans coming from her own throat as he slowly dragged his tongue up and down that pebble-hard bud he held pinched and captive between thumb and forefinger; heard her own keening cries as if from a distance as he pressed the heel of his hand against the pit of her belly, spread her even wider, and lightly licked and nibbled the quivering bud.  She felt her womb contracting, her body going taut, all the muscles of her abdomen constricting . . . but still she resisted, feeling only the relentless, ruthless stroke of that tongue, the savage hunger that drove him as he pushed her legs even further apart and with a growl of defeat, buried his face within her honeyed warmth.

It was too much.  Eva lost all control over her body and arched upward, crying out in sweet agony as climax seized her in great wracking waves of intensity.  Later she would remember how much she had resisted this idea; later she would rub at her rug-chafed bottom; now, she could do no more than fasten her arms, and her legs, around Blackheath's magnificent body as he unfastened his breeches and lowered himself down atop her in the classic posture of male domination.

And Eva, for once, did not care.

She welcomed the sweet invasion pushing between her slick thighs, driving farther and farther into her until the root of him pressed against her still-throbbing womanhood, demanding more space, demanding more spread, when she had none left to give.  The sensation was exquisite.  All-consuming.  And then Blackheath, his fingers buried in her hair and anchoring her head, began to move within her, and Eva felt her body gathering itself for that rapid plunge into ecstacy once again.

He took her higher and higher, never losing control, setting the pace.  And then, just when Eva thought she would die of pleasure, he found his own release, driving into her with a final, savage thrust and sending her own body jerking and convulsing against the rug.

Hot, panting, and spent, she lay on her back beneath him, all but crushed by his weight, enjoying the lingering aftereffects of their coupling while his ragged breath stirred the damp hair that draped the side of her neck and lay fanned out and tangled on the rug beneath her.

It was a long time before she spoke.

"I ought to hate you, Blackheath."

He lifted her just enough to slide an arm beneath her neck and draw her up against his still-pounding heart.  "I daresay, madam, I would much prefer your charity."

And a long time before she realized that she had allowed a man to dominate her by being the one on top.

She fell asleep, still curious about this disturbing fact, too tired, too depleted, and yes, too splendidly satisfied to lend it the examination it deserved.

Chapter 19

Exhaustion also claimed Lucien.

For a long time he fought it, unwilling to give up these rare and precious moments with the woman who was damned determined to give him as few of them as she could.  He delighted in his seduction of her, but would not gloat about it.  Triumphed in the fact that she had not demanded to ride him in a skewed display of female domination, though that, too, was something he wouldn't mind doing whenever the mood might strike them.  Reveled in the sensations that engulfed him . . . the sweet, lemon-lavender scent of her hair; the feel of her in his arms; the gloriously curving, endlessly exciting length of her body lying alongside and beneath his own on the thick carpet.  What more could a man want in life?

He nestled his face deeper within her hair, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, kissing, nibbling her skin.  He loved its creamy whiteness; loved the silken feel of it, its slightly salty taste.  She purred with contentment.  He wrapped his arm around her and let himself relax, feeling his body's first involuntary twitches as sleep claimed him.  He did not fight it.

Down through the depths he sank, like a swimmer that has run out of air and given up the fight to stay afloat in a bottomless sea.  Images flickered through his mind along the journey down into nothingness.  Nerissa's accusing eyes . . . his brothers smugly informing him of the king's decree that he marry Eva de la Mouriére . . . and Eva herself, neatly dispatching the two highwaymen, crawling into his arms in the coach, denying her own attraction for him in a magnificent lie that hurt no one as it much as it hurt herself.

He hit bottom.

The nightmare.

The dueling field.  Eva was there, engulfed in morning mist, the grass wet with dew.  She held the handkerchief as the paces were counted off.  Lucien tensed; his gut tightened and he spun on the final count, already leaping forward with his sword, hoping to change an ending that was as fixed as the path of the sun across the sky.  Over and over again he rehearsed this dance of death, as he had done every night all these weeks, knowing it was a dream, knowing the outcome would be the same no matter what he did — terrifying, merciless, and brutally final.

And there was his opponent, dressed all in black, masked, hooded, dreadful.  It was an apparition; it had to be, for no earthly being could fight with such unrivaled skill.  No mortal man could toy with him so, drawing out the impending agony of death.  And no human combatant could so easily get past his guard, only to send the rapier piercing shirt and skin and bone, impaling his heart with one thrust, and twisting it into a butchered ball of pulsing, dying flesh.

He fell to his knees in agony, the tinny-metallic taste of blood bubbling up in his throat, filling his mouth, leaking out between his clenched teeth.  The ground came up to meet him.  He lay there gasping on the wet grass.  Choking.  Dying.  And as he dragged open his eyes for the last time, he saw Death, triumphant, standing over him — reaching up now to finally draw back the hood —

"
Lucien!
"

And yanking it off that terrifying face.

Lucien's own scream jerked him awake.  His heart was pounding.  Sweat rolled down his back.  Inches away, a pair of anxious green eyes stared into his own.

Eva.  Gingermere.  The drawing room.

He flung an arm across his brow.  No dream.

She was there beside him on the warm, sunlit carpet, her hair down around her shoulders, her face white as paste.  He sat up, driving the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to banish the terrifying images.  There was movement beside him, and then he felt Eva's strong, slim arms go tentatively around his shoulders.  He dropped his hot forehead against her breast.

"My God, do you always have such horrible nightmares?" she asked, her voice shaky.  "I've been trying to rouse you for the last several minutes.  You really know how to scare a person, Blackheath!"

He could say nothing; his heart was still pounding, and he was breathing too hard to gather enough air to speak.  Instead, he just sat there, the pulse booming in his ears, his brow resting against her chest as her arms lost their frightened stiffness and instead wrapped comfortingly around him in a way that made him wish this moment would never end.

"Look, Blackheath — I'm sorry.  I didn't realize that even the big bad wolf has nightmares, too.  It's all right.  I'm here now.  There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Don't leave me."

She pulled him closer.  "I'm not going anywhere.  Relax.  Just take a few deep breaths and everything will be fine."

He did just that, though the nightmare was fast receding into the inky depths from which it had come, taking the terror with it.  It would stay there until he sought sleep again; would stay there until the death these dreams foretold finally caught up with him.  Gradually, his body calmed, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion.  But he didn't want to move.  Not just yet.  He had not been held like this, had not been so comforted, shown such tenderness, since his long-dead mother had last held him in her own loving arms, all those years ago . . .

It was a sensation he wanted to drown in.  One that he could easily come to crave, if he was foolish enough to imagine it would ever be repeated.

"Do you want to talk about your nightmare?" she asked gently, pulling back a little and searching his face with what appeared to be genuine concern.

"Yes, but first . . . first I have a need to affirm life, the continuation of my own existence."  He pulled away just enough to rest his hand atop her abdomen.  "It comforts me, knowing our child lives."

Her face filled with horror.  "Oh, Blackheath, surely you didn't dream that it died —"

"No.  No, nothing like that."

She eyed him with confusion, then leaned back on her elbows and let him rest his hand there on her still-flat belly.  Lucien closed his eyes.  At least the baby beneath his palm would be here when he was gone, carrying on his name, carrying on his own flesh and blood.  The knowledge soothed him, brought a raw ache to the back of his throat.  Slowly, he removed his hand, closing the fingers around his palm to try to hold the sensation in.

"I will tell you about my dream now, Eva.  But do you really care so much?"

She shrugged, but even the negligent gesture could not mask the concern and compassion in her slanting green eyes, and for once, she didn't try overly hard to fool him into thinking she felt something she did not — though she did give it a token effort.  "Care?  Of course not.  But really, Blackheath, you can't wake a woman from a sound sleep with such frightened ramblings of the unconscious mind, and allow her to go about her day with no explanation whatsoever."