The Wild One (25 page)

After a time, he broke the contact and gazed
down at her, breathing hard, his brow nearly touching hers.

"I can stop this if you wish, Juliet," he
said hoarsely. "I told you I shall not force you; I swear to God I
shall not —"

But she shook her head, not wanting to
disturb this brief escape from her sorrows, this floating,
wine-lulled dreaminess of the moment. She drew his head back down
to hers, and their mouths met once again — hers, soft and moist and
pliant against his harder, increasingly demanding one. The point of
his tongue traced the shape of her lips, then teased them apart.
With a soft moan she pulled him closer, her other hand flat against
his waistcoat, finding the buttons, slipping them through their
holes until the garment fell open, one silken edge just brushing
her exposed breast. She plunged her fingers into the folds of his
shirt, thrilling to the feel of hard muscle and sinew just behind
the fabric and a heart that beat as fast and frantically as her
own.

"Oh, Juliet ... by God, you taste so good
... you are so very, very beautiful ... you don't know how much
I've wished for, waited for, this very moment ..."

His mouth slanted across hers, his kiss more
forceful now, his tongue driving deeeper against her own and his
breath hot against her cheek. Her fingers caught in his hair,
raking through the heavy mass of it to loosen the ribbon that held
his queue until the silken, golden-brown waves lay in loose
disarray across his shoulders. Fleetingly, unbidden, her mind took
her to another place, another time, when she had lain beneath
another man not so very different in shape and appearance from this
one — but the image faded, banished by the new memory she was
creating with this man who was her husband. She felt his fingers
brushing her breasts, one still clad in fabric, the other bare to
his touch; she felt his palm curving around each swelling crest,
grazing each taut nipple until she was arching up against him,
moaning softly and pushing herself into his willing hand. Bursts of
pleasure radiated from every place he touched, and her mind was a
spinning, whirling place of delight.

She explored him, as well. Her hand roved
over the rocky ridge of his shoulders, down the valley of his
spine, up over his bottom to one solidly muscled thigh. His
breathing quickened, growing hoarse and ragged at her touch. He
tore his lips from hers and buried his face in the hot curve of her
neck, his hand kneading, squeezing her bare, thrusting breast.
Engulfed in rising flames, she moaned and flung her head back,
feeling his breath hot against her collarbone, his kisses simmering
down the side of her neck, the base of her throat, the crest of her
breast — there to be replaced by the slick and raspy warmth of his
tongue. While he kissed the soft flesh, nibbled the sugary-white
skin, his fingers stoked and fired the nipple just beneath, and
Juliet felt her senses careening toward a violent explosion.

"Oh — oh, Gareth ..." She made a sound that
was half moan, half sob.

He laughed against her breast. "Ah, Juliet
... I have sorely underestimated you! You do know how to have fun,
after all."

He heard her beginning to whimper with
pleasure, making keening noises in her throat as he traced the
perimeter of her areola with his tongue, and his hand began to move
over the flat expanse of her stomach out over the prominent bones
of her pelvis evident beneath the shimmering satin — down, down,
down, toward her thighs. How sweet it was to hear his name on her
lips, to know her wonderful, wanton response to his touch! He
buried his face in her breast, his body quivering and his cock
aching with a need so fierce, he could barely think.

He felt her fingers threading into his hair
and clasping his head to her breast, urging him to continue,
silently conveying her need. Her other breast was already
half-exposed; freeing it, he kissed its milky curve, nipped and
licked and gently nibbled it until she was thrashing and making
little inarticulate sounds of desperation beneath him. She was
driving him mad. Wild. Insane. His hand moved back down her thigh,
and the long, silk-clad legs beneath their frothy tangle of skirts
and petticoat. She moaned and shuddered violently, and his own hand
was shaking as he pulled the heavy skirts up to the level of her
knee, his fingers drifting over that smoothly stockinged leg, up
the trembling inside of her calf, her thigh, moving closer and
closer toward the blushing center of her passion ...

She was slick and hot and wet, as he'd known
she would be. Still suckling her breast, he parted the rosy petals
and rubbed his thumb over her swollen bud, pushing down on it,
kneading it, flicking it back and forth until her head thrashed on
the bed and her heels drove into the mattress and frenzied little
moans burst from her lips.

"Oh, Gareth!" she panted, "Gareth ... please
... oh, sweet Lord above ... oh —"

He twirled his finger around her for a
moment longer until she was nearly over the edge. Then, drawing
back, he grasped the heavy, frilly layers of skirts and petticoats,
pulled them up and over her stomach, and let out a sigh of
appreciation at sight of the long, sinfully luscious legs laid bare
to his gaze. At the pale, lean thighs, the silken mound of dark
hair, the lush, sweet pink center of her. He could not help
himself. His thumb and fingers stroking her once more, he leaned
down, wanting only to taste her, to lick her, to tongue her until
she blew apart ... wanting only to plunge his throbbing rod all the
way to the hilt inside that deliciously swollen pink cradle.

He bent his head, parted her with his
thumbs, and touched the tip of his tongue to the quivering bud ...
and as he kissed and slowly licked her with long, torturous tongue
strokes in that most intimate of places, and she began to sob and
spasm, his gaze lifted, drifting over her stomach, her rising and
falling breasts and toward the door, where the subtlest of
movements had caught his eye.

It was nothing more than the light glowing
from behind the door's small, petal-shaped keyhole ... being cut
off ... being suddenly restored.

A fiery red haze blinded him. Fury seethed
in his temples, made every inch of him begin to shake, but he found
enough control to cover her with his body as her climax came,
clamping his mouth over hers and kissing her to muffle her
impassioned cries. Then, pulling her skirts back down over her legs
and swearing violently under his breath, he rose from the bed,
grabbed his sword, and stalked toward the door, his waistcoat
flapping open and his face thunderous.

"Gareth?" she breathed from somewhere behind
him.

But Gareth saw only the doorlatch.

I'll kill them.

Chapter 19

He tore open the door with such force that
one of the hinges gave.

And there they were. Several men out on the
landing, none of them known to him, all of them taking turns
peeping through the keyhole in hopes of seeing some flesh. Juliet's
flesh.

His wife's flesh.

Gareth went berserk.

"
You insufferable bastards!
" he
shouted and, blinded by rage, threw down his sword and went for the
one who happened to be nearest.

A saner man than Gareth would never have
tackled Joe Lumford, a behemoth who had roughly four stone and some
six or seven inches in height on him. A saner man than Gareth would
never have attacked someone built like a Clydesdale stallion. A
saner man than Gareth would not have chosen the undisputed king of
the London boxing scene with whom to pick a fight.

But in that moment, Lord Gareth de Montforte
was not sane.

His fist crashed into Lumford's jaw, and
with a grunt of surprise the giant fell backward, arms flailing,
his great body taking down several others who crumpled beneath him
like weeds under a falling tree. There was not much room at the top
of the landing, and someone, caught off balance, tumbled down the
carpeted stairs, screaming in fear and pain all the way down.
Gareth never saw him, never heard him. He had leaped upon his
opponent and saw only the battered, ugly face beneath him, the
broken nose and the mouth missing half its teeth, a mouth that was
now twisted in a snarl of rage and emitting a stream of gutter
curses as Gareth's fists pummeled it with the fury of a man
wronged. His knuckles split as they connected with the behemoth's
jaw, a tooth, the hard edge of his cheekbone. And then, bellowing
in outrage, the giant twisted, rose, and hurled Gareth violently
off of him and into the plastered wall behind him with force enough
to nearly break his shoulders and crack his skull. A picture
crashed down, just missing Gareth, but he, maddened, was already
up, throwing himself back in for more, his fists flying like cannon
shot. He struck, blocked a blow with his arm, and struck again,
hard and fast. Blood sprayed from the giant's lip, and he roared
like a great wounded beast, his eyes murderous. Downstairs, people
were shouting, yelling, and a mass of them came charging up the
stairs, Lavinia Bottomley huffing and puffing in the vanguard like
a flagship going into battle.

"Stop it, both of you! I'll not have this in
my house! I will not!"

Gareth neatly blocked his opponent's fist,
let fly with his right, and caught the other man just behind the
ear. The giant staggered, swung, and landed a blow to his ribs that
drove the air from Gareth's lungs and nearly made him vomit but
never slowed him. Someone let out a piercing cheer from just behind
his ear, and Gareth, insane with fury and still dazed from his
impact with the wall, swung impulsively, his fist striking the fat
onlooker a jaw-crunching blow that sent him reeling, senseless,
back into the arms of the others. "Damn you for a pack of voyeurs!"
he snarled as he lunged for the giant once more. "I'll teach you to
go spying on a lady, so help me God!"

The giant came staggering back, the yells
and shouts rising to a deafening crescendo all around. Fists
collided with flesh. Blood flew, spattering the walls, the carpet.
The behemoth was getting the worst of it. Gareth heard people
shouting, felt hands clawing at his shoulders like so many
spiderwebs as they tried to pull him off, but the interference only
enraged him all the more as he and the giant fought for room in the
small corridor. His face was damp, his hair in his eyes, his breath
coming in fierce bursts. Someone, maybe Mario, made a grab for him,
was deflected by one blow from Gareth's powerful fist, and did not
come back. And now the giant was nearly finished. His fist struck
out in a feeble, half-hearted arc; then his eyes rolled up in his
head and he pitched forward, and as he crashed heavily to the
carpet, Gareth saw Juliet's stricken face in the doorway just
beyond.

She was looking at him in horrified
shock.

Charlotte had woken and was screaming, fit
to bring the ceiling down.

And a crowd of people were all staring,
aghast, at Gareth, one or two of them even backing fearfully
away.

"Great
God
above! He just knocked out
Joe Lumford
!"

A low, awed murmur. Charlotte's last little
sobs. And then nothing but Lavinia Bottomley's piercing howls as
she stormed over the fallen giant and came charging through the
melee, coming straight up to where Gareth stood trying to catch his
breath. "How could you!" she cried. "I took you in, gave you free
room and board for the night, and you reciprocated by destroying my
hallway, my stairs, my painting! Damn you, Lord Gareth,
damn
you
!"

Gareth shook his still-dazed head and looked
around. Slowly, sanity came back to him, and with a sickening sense
of dread, he realized just what he'd done. Not that he regretted
it; his wife's honor had demanded nothing less. But he'd probably
managed to get them thrown out of the only place they had to stay
for the night. Worst of all, he'd horribly embarrassed his
wife.

Bloody hell. By tomorrow morning, this would
be all over London.

Oh, Juliet. I
am
sorry.

He lowered his bleeding fists, then bent his
forehead to them and leaned against the wall, his hair falling over
his raw knuckles. From what seemed like a great distance away but
was in fact only a foot or two, he could hear Lavinia hollering at
him, could feel everyone staring at him like he was some terrible
freak. God help him; honor dictated that dueling must only be
conducted with other gentlemen; otherwise, he would've called out
the lot of them and faced them outside with his sword.

A low murmur began among those gathered in
the tiny hallway, on the stairs. Someone tried to seize his
shoulder, and he angrily shook him off. Lavinia was still yelling
about the damage done to her wall, her painting, her carpet. Gareth
bent his head, driving his bloodied knuckles into his temple, his
face twisted by self-disgust and loathing for what he had done to
his wife.

And then he heard soft footfalls.

Hers.

And every person in the hallway went
quiet.

She came forward, walking with a firmness of
stride and purpose that would have done Boudicca proud. Her hair
was down around her shoulders, and she wore a look of stoic
resolve, of courage, of grace under the most terrible of pressures.
She came up to him, pulled his gashed and bloodied hands down from
his face and drew him, her warrior, against her slight form.

And then, holding him thus, she turned and
faced them all, her eyes hard and angry.

Not a person moved.

"My husband,
was
, after all, told
that we wouldn't be interrupted," she said to the glowering abbess.
"Not only does he have a temper but also a sense of honor that
would put the most chivalrous of knights to shame. Your little
peep-show was enough to make that combination lethal. You only got
what you deserved. Shame on you, all of you."