To Taste Temptation (22 page)

He stepped back so suddenly she nearly fell. His face was hard and flushed. “Let me in tonight, Emeline.”

He left her room before she could reply.

As she sank into her pile of ruined clothes, she had a blinding realization. She’d lost whatever control she’d ever had over this affair.

“C
RADDOCK HUNG HIMSELF
a month ago,” Lord Vale said later that afternoon.

Sam dragged his thoughts away from Emeline—her skin, her breasts, the fact that she didn’t want to see him again—and focused on the problem of the 28th. “You’d think that Thornton would’ve known that Craddock was already dead.”

Vale shrugged. “Thornton didn’t say when he’d last seen the man.”

“True.”

“Who’s next on your list to question?”

Sam grimaced. “No one.”

It was raining outside, which had sent their hostess into a flurry of despair. Apparently, Lady Hasselthorpe had planned an afternoon expedition to view the ruins of an abbey, a famous local sight. Sam was privately relieved at the rain. He would never have been able to hike over the hills today, not at least without a good deal of pain, and making an excuse would’ve drawn Rebecca’s attention. He was beginning to realize that his sister saw much more than he’d given her credit for. Having to explain to her why his feet were in ribbons would’ve been awkward indeed.

But instead the majority of the house party had retreated to a large sitting room at the back of the house. Emeline was noticeably absent, of course—she was obviously avoiding him—but most everyone else was in attendance. Some of their number amused themselves playing cards; others were reading or talking in small groups.

Like Vale and Sam.

“You don’t have anyone else to question at all?” Vale looked incredulous.

Sam grit his teeth. “I’m happy to take suggestions.”

Vale pursed his lips. “Ah...”

“Assuming you have any ideas of your own?”

“Well...” Vale found a sudden interest in the rain-drenched windows.

“Thought not,” Sam muttered.

Both men gazed at the windows as if transfixed by the terrible weather. Vale drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in an incredibly annoying manner.

Finally, the viscount inhaled. “If Thornton was the traitor, he’d have to have a reason to betray the 28th.”

Sam didn’t take his eyes from the window, strangely unsurprised that the other man’s thoughts had run along the same lines as his. “You definitely suspect him, then?”

“Don’t you?”

Sam thought of the unease he’d felt since meeting Thornton again in London. He sighed. “I might suspect him, but I can’t think why he’d betray the entire regiment. Any ideas?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Vale said. “Perhaps he was growing weary of all the peas porridge we had to eat on that wretched march.”

The viscount seemed to like him. There was something villainous in pretending friendship with a man when you’d just made love to that man’s fiancée. Sam would’ve avoided him, but Vale had sought him out as soon as he’d entered the sitting room.

“There’s always money, I suppose,” Vale mused, “but I don’t see how killing an entire regiment would benefit Thornton unless he was paid by the French.”

“Does Thornton speak French?” Sam asked idly.

“Haven’t a clue.” Vale drummed his fingers for a moment, apparently considering Thornton’s linguistic abilities. “Not that it matters—the note was written in English, you said. And besides, plenty of French speak English.”

“Was he in debt?” Sam watched as Rebecca tilted her head to listen to another girl. She’d found at least one lady to talk to.

“We should find out. Or rather I should find out. Haven’t been much help to this investigation so far. Ought to lend more of a hand, what?”

Sam looked over at Vale. The other man was watching him with his earnest, hangdog eyes. What kind of a man would betray a friend like this?

“Thank you,” Sam said gravely.

Vale made one of those mercurial transformations that he was sometimes capable of. He grinned and his funny, homely face lit up, his almost iridescent blue eyes sparkling. “Don’t mention it, old man.”

And Sam looked down, no longer able to meet the other man’s eyes. He should in all honor resolve to never see Lady Emeline again. Which must make him the most dishonorable man alive.

For he fully intended to find her and make love to her again tonight.

The giant wolf leapt for the baby’s cradle, its jaws gaping wide. But Iron Heart ran at the beast, his sword upraised to protect his son. Then what a battle commenced! For Iron Heart must remain silent—he could not call for help—and the monster wolf was a test of all his strength and skill. Back and forth across the room the combatants raged, smashing the furniture to splinters. The babe’s cradle was overturned and he began to wail. Iron Heart gave a mighty blow and struck the wolf’s hind leg. The beast howled with pain and lashed out, flinging the man against the wall with a crash that shook the castle. Iron Heart’s head hit the stone wall and he knew no more....

—from
Iron Heart

She’d argued with herself all day, even as she’d been careful to keep to her rooms for fear that she might see him. The reasons were well worn by now. They were of different classes, different worlds. She had a son and a family to think of. He was too intense, a man not easily led. She wouldn’t be able to hold the upper hand with him. And yet...

And yet...

Maybe it was because she’d spent all day debating and redebating herself. None of the arguments seemed to hold sway anymore. She shrugged them aside because they paled in comparison to her need. She needed to feel him inside her once again. Shocking, how animal she’d become. She’d never done this before—pushed reason aside, let her physical self rule. It was a frightening thing, to give herself solely over to the sensual. Frightening, and exhilarating at the same time. She’d always held herself in strict control,
been
the one in control. Someone had had to—all the men who were supposed to hold the family together had left. First Reynaud, then Danny, then six months later, Father, leaving her alone.

So terribly alone.

She tensed as she heard a footstep outside the door. She was ready for him, nude and already in bed, and she felt excitement shoot through her. Then he was opening the door. He closed it behind him, not bothering to disguise his limp once inside the room. In that moment before he saw her, she noticed the lines that carved furrows into his cheeks, the slump of his broad shoulders. He was weary, she could tell, probably not yet recovered from his punishing one-man race of the day before. And she didn’t care. She would have him tonight, would use him as he used her.

She saw the moment he noticed her. He paused, his coat half off, and she sat up in the bed.
His
bed. The coverlet slipped to her waist, revealing her bare breasts. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Have you?” He pulled off his coat. His tone was casual, but his eyes were on her breasts.

She leaned a little back on the pillows, which had the effect of thrusting out her breasts. She didn’t have to look down to know that her nipples had tightened in reaction to the night air—and to him. “Hours, it seems.”

“I’m sorry.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat, his fingers working nimbly, although he never took his eyes off her. “I would have hurried had I known.”

“I’d prefer you not hurry, actually.” She made a moue, as if displeased at the thought.

His fingers paused. “I shall keep that in mind.”

He flung aside the waistcoat and pulled off his shirt in a flurry of activity, then prowled toward her, bare-chested. He had a lovely chest, broad and muscled, the dark hair curling over nipples and in a line down his belly. Just the sight of him was making her wet, but she must not lose her advantage.

“Yes, you should.” Her gaze flicked downward, toward the breeches, leggings, and moccasins he still wore. “Yet you seem to be approaching me prematurely.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought she’d gone too far. His mouth thinned and he didn’t look particularly pleased. But then he grabbed a wooden chair and set it facing her, only a few feet from the bed. He placed a foot on the chair and began unlacing the moccasin. It was different from the ones he’d ruined; he must have more than that one pair. She watched tiny muscles in his arms and back work as he untied the laces. He pulled the first one off, glanced at her, and began on the other.

She swallowed. He was only taking off his shoes, yet she knew he was preparing himself, undressing himself, solely for her. The thought made her breath catch, and she was aware that her body was ready for him.

He took off the second moccasin and revealed that he’d wrapped his feet in linens. What she could see of his bare feet looked to be healing well, though. He straightened and untied a lace at his side. She saw that his leggings were held up by leather laces tied to a strip of leather about his waist. He untied the lace at his other side and stripped the leggings off. Then he placed his hands on the buttons of his breeches, and she quite forgot about his leggings. He looked at her, holding her eyes as he unbuttoned himself, the flick of his fingers precise and controlled. She thought about what those long, nimble fingers would soon be doing to her and nearly moaned. But she didn’t break the silence, and the rustle as he pushed down his breeches and smallclothes was loud in the room.

He stepped out of his garments and was gloriously nude, except for that band of leather riding below his navel. She held her breath and watched him unwind that as well and toss it atop his leggings. He was long and lean, his skin tanned where it had met the sun and naturally swarthy where it had not. She could’ve spent years just looking at him. He had dark hair on his calves, bony knees, and thighs that were thick and strong. There was that beautiful, secret male spot where hip met belly, just next to his groin. A muscle arched into his hip there. Above that a thin white scar cut across his belly, and another scar, small and puckered, marred his upper right chest. For a moment, her eyes lingered on the thin scar on his belly, and she remembered how Jasper had said he’d run for days with a knife wound in his side. How hard that must have been. How proud she was to have such a brave man want her.

Her eyes wandered down again—saving the best for last—to his manhood. She’d forgotten how wondrous a man’s genitals were. His penis pointed nearly upright, thick and hard, wrapped about with veins that bulged with his arousal. Below, his bollocks were tight and round, and the dark hair that curled at his lower belly merely served to emphasize all. She swallowed and had trouble catching her breath.

“Will I do?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence. He’d stood still, letting her take her time to examine him fully.

Her eyes rose to his and she inhaled unsteadily. “I think so.”

His eyebrows shot up, an arrogant male insulted. “
Think?
If you are unsure, my lady, let me help you make up your mind.”

He was at the bed in a second, a rushing pounce that made her jump with nervous feminine alarm. He crawled up and over her on all fours, like an animal, and when she thought he would kiss her, instead he dipped his head to her left nipple. And sucked. She arched, a sigh escaping her throat. He touched her nowhere else, just that single nipple, and he sucked strongly. Was it possible to feel so much from such a small bit of flesh? She reached up and wound her arms about him, reveling in what she’d been unable to do before. Touch him. Feel the heat of his skin beneath her palms, run her hands over the ridges of his ribs, smooth the broad expanse of his lovely back. She wanted to feel every inch of him, to taste him, and to take him into herself until she knew his body as well as her own.

He lifted his head, but his gaze remained on her breasts. “I’ve been thinking of this all day—your nipples, bare to me and what I would do with them. I could hardly walk for the cockstand in my breeches.” His eyes flicked to hers, and she saw that his expression was almost angry. “That’s what you do to me—turn me into a mindless, hungering cock.”

She squirmed at the words, so crude and explicit.

His nostrils flared at her movement and she froze. “Hold them for me. Offer your breasts to me so I can suck them until you come.”

Oh, Lord! She
mustn’t
let him talk to her this way. He would assume too much if she allowed him to order her about. But at the same time, she felt the moisture seep at her center from just his words. She wanted to offer herself to him. She wanted to let him suck her nipples. So she placed her palms under her breasts and lifted them, like a sacrifice to a half-animal god.

He growled low in his throat, a sound of approval, and attacked her breasts. Nipping and licking, grasping the rosy tips gently between his teeth, moving back and forth from one breast to the other, his day’s growth of beard scraping against her sensitive skin. Then he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked at it, worrying the opposite nipple with his fingers. And the two points of pleasure lit within her until she arched helplessly, gasping. It was too much. He would hurt her. She couldn’t stand anymore.

She shuddered, a light blinding her behind her closed eyes as warmth flooded her limbs. Her hands fell away, but he continued to lick, his tongue gently soothing on her breast, each rasp a separate spark. She felt the soft brush of his lips as he kissed her nipple.

She opened her eyes. She met his coffee-brown gaze, for he was right there, her breast under his mouth. His look was intense and not kind.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he muttered, and jerked the coverlet from her legs.

He pushed her thighs apart unceremoniously and sank between them, guiding his penis with one hand. He found her entrance and pushed, parting and breaching her. He pushed again, entering her and entering her until his entire length lay inside. His eyelids fell helplessly and he groaned, still and hard and in her.

She smiled. How could she not? He took such pleasure in her flesh, seemed so powerless to stop himself from enjoying her. She touched the side of his face with her palm, and he opened his eyes, shockingly bright.

“You’re laughing at me,” he growled.

She shook her head, opening her mouth to explain, but he’d levered himself up so that he was braced on straight arms, his hips pressing hers down into the mattress. And then he moved. He withdrew and jolted back into her, hard and fast. She closed her eyes, forgetting what she was about to say, not caring if he was offended or even angry with her, as long as he kept moving. His hardness was thrusting in her, rubbing against her sensitive flesh, relentless in its purpose—to pleasure him and her.

“Will this do?” he grunted.

She didn’t answer, lost in a sea of bliss.

He slammed into her and held still. “
Will
this do, my lady?”

Her eyes flew open and she glared at him. “Yes!” She clutched at his buttocks, trying to get him to move again. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Just
move,
damn you!”

And he complied, either chuckling or growling low in his throat; it was impossible to tell, because her eyes had fallen closed again. Besides, she just didn’t care anymore. All she cared about was the movement of his body in hers. The relentless pistoning, the relentless pleasure. His hardness and drive and the fact that she never, never,
never
wanted him to stop.

Until she came in wave after crashing wave. She felt his hand cradle the side of her face. She opened her eyes in time to see him arch, his pelvis grinding against hers, and she watched Samuel Hartley convulse as he came deep inside of her.

H
E WAS GASPING
, more out of breath than when he ran. She’d wrung him dry and it felt wonderful.

Sam collapsed onto Emeline, careful to keep most of his weight off of her but still wanting to feel her fully beneath him. Her breasts against his chest, her belly under his, and her legs tangled about his knees. Somewhere at the back of his brain, he knew that this was a primitive urge to dominate the woman—
his
woman—and that it was not a kind urge or one he should be proud of. But he pushed the thought away because he was too tired to reason; besides, the position was perfect.

Although maybe not to her.

“Get off me,” she mumbled.

He didn’t think he’d ever heard the so-proper Lady Emeline mumble before and he was delighted. “Am I crushing you?”

“No.” She was quiet for a bit, and he thought she might’ve fallen asleep. But then she spoke again. “But you should get off me, anyway.”

“Why?” He’d placed his head on the pillow beside hers and was enjoying lying face-to-face and watching her expression.

She wrinkled her nose without opening her eyes. “Because it’s the polite thing to do.”

“Ah. But I’m very comfortable where I am, so I’m not that interested in politeness at the moment.”

Her eyes snapped open, and she scowled at him in an utterly adorable way. Not that he would ever tell her, but he found her anger arousing.

“Isn’t my comfort of any importance?” she demanded in a haughty, upper-crust accent.

“No,” he told her kindly. “None at all.”

“Humph,” was her not-very-eloquent retort, and he smiled at that as well. He loved having reduced her to monosyllables.

She’d closed her eyes again, and now she said sleepily, “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“That’s because”—he leaned close enough to kiss her cheek and then whisper in her ear—”my cock is in your cunny.”

“Self-satisfied,” she mumbled.

“Yes, and so are you.”

She grunted. “Go to sleep, you vain man.”

He smiled to himself since she could no longer see and pulled the coverlet over them both. And then, still interlocked with her, he followed her orders and let himself sleep.