Worth Any Price (2 page)

Nick tried to sound matter-of-fact, but a tremor broke through his voice. “When I was a boy of fourteen, I was sentenced to ten months on a prison hulk.”

He saw from Gemma’s expression that she understood immediately. The wretched conditions on the hulks, the fact that men were chained together with boys in one large cell, was hardly a secret. “The men on the ship tried to force themselves on you, of course,” she said. Her tone was neutral as she asked. “Did any of them succeed?”

“No. But since then…” Nick paused for a long moment. He had never told anyone about the past that had haunted him—his fears were not easy to
put into words. “I can’t bear to be touched,” he said slowly. “Not by anyone, in any way. I’ve wanted…” He paused for a moment, floundering. “At times I want a woman so badly I almost go mad with it. But I can’t seem to…” He fell helplessly silent. It seemed impossible to explain that for him, sex and pain and guilt were plaited together, that the simple act of making love to someone seemed as impossible as making himself jump off a cliff. The touch of another person, no matter how innocuous, triggered a perilous need to defend himself.

Had Gemma displayed a dramatic reaction of horror or sympathy, Nick would have bolted. However, she only regarded him thoughtfully. In a graceful movement, she swung her long legs over the bed and slid to the floor. Standing before him, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. Nick stiffened but did not move away. “You must have fantasies,” Gemma said. “Images and thoughts that excite you.”

Nick’s breath turned shallow and quick as he shrugged off his waistcoat. Remnants of volatile dreams swirled through his head…lewd thoughts that had left his body charged and aching in the empty darkness. Yes, he’d had fantasies, visions of women bound and moaning beneath him, their legs spread wide open as he worked himself between them. He could not possibly confess such shameful things. But Gemma Bradshaw’s brown eyes contained an invitation that was nearly irresistible. “I’ll tell you mine first,” she offered. “Would you like that?”

He nodded cautiously, heat spreading through his groin.

“I fantasize about being naked before an audience of men.” Gemma’s voice was low and molten as she continued. “I choose one that captures my fancy. He joins me on the stage, and performs any sexual act I wish. After that, I select another, and another, until I am completely satisfied.”

She tugged the hem of his shirt from his trousers. Nick lifted it over his head and dropped the damp garment to the floor. His cock throbbed painfully as Gemma stared at his bare torso. She touched the heavy pelt of hair on his chest, much darker than the brown hair on his head. An appreciative sound came from Gemma’s throat. “You’re quite muscular. I like that.” Her fingertips ventured through the matted curls and stroked the hot skin beneath, and Nick took an instinctive backward step. Lazily Gemma gestured for him to come back. “If you want to make love, my dear, I’m afraid you can’t avoid being touched. Stand still.” She reached for the top button of his trousers. “Now tell me
your
fantasy.”

Nick stared at the ceiling, the wall, the velvet-draped windows, anything to avoid the sight of her hands at his crotch. “I…want to be in control,” he said hoarsely. “I imagine tying a woman to a bed. She can’t move or touch me…she can’t stop me from doing anything I want.”

“Many men have that fantasy.” The backs of Gemma’s fingers brushed the stiff underside of his cock as she attended to the last buttons. Suddenly
Nick forgot to breathe. The madam leaned closer, her breath whisking through the curls on his chest. “And what do you do to the woman, after she is tied?” she murmured.

His face darkened with a flush of mingled arousal and embarrassment. “I touch her everywhere. I use my mouth and fingers…I make her beg me to take her. I make her scream.” He set his jaw and groaned in his throat as her long, cool fingers encircled his shaft and freed it from the trousers. “God—”

“Well,” she purred, her clever fingers tracing him down to the hilt and back up to the tightly swollen head. “You are a most generously endowed young man.”

Nick closed his eyes, reeling from a powerful onslaught of sensation. “Does that please a woman?” he asked unsteadily.

Gemma continued to stroke him as she replied. “Not all women. Some cannot comfortably accommodate a man your size. But that can be managed.” She released him gently and went to a large mahogany box on the bedside table, lifting the lid and searching through its contents. “Remove the rest of your clothes,” she said without looking at him.

Fear and lust clashed violently inside him. Eventually the lust won out. He shed his clothes, feeling vulnerable and painfully impassioned. Gemma located what she was looking for, turned, and tossed something lightly to him.

Reflexively Nick caught the object in his fist. It was a rope made of claret-colored velvet.

Perplexed, he watched as Gemma untied her dressing gown and let it fall to her feet. Every inch of her strong, supple body was exposed, including the wealth of vibrant hair at her groin. With a provocative smile, she climbed onto the bed, revealing her generously rounded backside in the process. Leaning back on her elbows, she nodded toward the length of velvet clenched in his fist. “I believe you know what to do next,” she said.

Nick was amazed and bewildered that she would make herself so completely defenseless to a stranger. “You trust me enough to let me do that?”

Her voice was very soft. “This will require trust on both our parts, won’t it?”

Nick joined her on the bed, his hands trembling as he tied her wrists together and anchored them to the headboard. Her sleek body was completely at his mercy. Climbing over her, he bent his head and kissed her mouth. “How can I please you?” he whispered.

“Please yourself this time.” Her tongue touched his lower lip in a light, silken stroke. “You can attend to my needs later.”

Nick explored her slowly, his apprehensions dissolving in a flood of heat. Lust roared through him as he found places that made her writhe…the hollow of her throat, the insides of her elbows, the tender undersides of her breasts. He stroked, tasted, nibbled at her skin, becoming drunk on her smoothness, her female fragrance. Finally, when his passion built to an unbearable height, he lowered himself between her thighs and pushed into the wet, warm
depths he craved so badly. To his eternal humiliation, he climaxed with only one thrust, before he had satisfied her. His body shook with unbearable pleasure, and he buried his face in the mass of her flaming hair as he groaned harshly.

Gasping in the aftermath, he fumbled at Gemma’s tethered wrists. When she was freed, he rolled to his side, away from her, and stared blindly at the shadows on the wall. He was dizzy with relief. For some unfathomable reason, the corners of his eyes stung, and he closed his eyes tightly against the hideous threat of tears.

Gemma moved behind him, her hand settling lightly on his naked hip. Nick flinched at her touch but did not move away. Her mouth pressed against the top of his spine, a sensation that shot down to his groin. “You have promise,” she murmured. “It would be a shame for your abilities to go undeveloped. I am going to extend a rare invitation to you, Nick. Come visit me from time to time, and I will share my knowledge with you. I have a great deal to teach. No payment will be necessary…only bring me a gift now and then.” When he did not move, she bit gently at his nape. “After I’m through with you, no woman in the world will be able to resist you. What do you say to that?”

Nick rolled over and pinned her to the mattress, staring down at her smiling face. “I’m ready for the first lesson,” he said, and covered her mouth with his own.

As was his long-standing habit, Nick entered Gemma’s private suite without knocking. It was Sunday afternoon, the time they met almost every week. By now the familiar scent of the place—leather, liquor, the hint of fresh flowers—was all it took to begin the low hum of arousal in his body. His desire was unusually strong today, as his work had kept him away from Gemma for a fortnight.

Since the first night they had met, Nick had followed Gemma’s rules without question. There had been no other choice, if he wanted to continue seeing her. They were friends, of a sort, but their interactions were strictly physical. Gemma had evinced no interest in what was in his heart, or even whether he had one. She was a kind woman, and yet on the rare occasions when Nick had tentatively spoken of matters
other than the superficial, he’d been gently dismissed. It was just as well, he had realized. He had no wish to expose her to the ugliness of his past or the complex tangle of emotions he kept locked inside.

And so once a week they joined each other in bed with their secrets safely intact…the instructor and her ardent student. In the luxurious cocoon of Gemma’s gold-papered bedroom Nick had learned more about lovemaking than he had ever thought possible. He’d gained an appreciation of female sexuality that few men acquired…the intricacy of a woman’s pleasure, the ways to excite her mind as well as her body. He learned to employ his fingers, his tongue, teeth, lips, and cock with both delicacy and strength. Most of all he learned about discipline, and how patience and creativity could make even the experienced Mrs. Bradshaw cry out until she was hoarse. He knew ways to keep a woman balanced on the edge of ecstasy for hours at a time. He also knew how to make a woman climax with nothing more than his mouth on her nipple, or with the lightest brush of his fingertip.

The last time they had met, Gemma had challenged him to bring her to orgasm without touching her at all. He had whispered in her ear for ten minutes, painting sexual images that became ever more exquisitely lurid until she had flushed and shivered beside him.

Thinking of her lush body, Nick turned warm with anticipation, and he strode into her parlor. He stopped short as he saw a young blond man seated on the
velvet-upholstered chaise, dressed only in a wine silk robe. It was, Nick noted dazedly, the same robe that he made use of whenever he came to visit Gemma.

She had made no promises of fidelity to him, and he had no illusion that he had been her only lover for the past three years. Still, Nick was startled by the sight of another man in her receiving room and the unmistakable tang of sex in the air.

Seeing him, the stranger flushed and sat up from his relaxed position. He was a stocky, fair-skinned youth, with enough innocence remaining to be embarrassed by the situation.

Gemma walked out of her bedroom, wearing a transparent green negligee that barely covered the crests of her rose-brown nipples. She smiled as she saw Nick, seeming not at all perturbed by his unexpected arrival. “Oh, hello, dear,” she murmured, as relaxed and friendly as always. Perhaps she had not planned for him to discover her new
cher ami
in precisely this manner, but neither was she distressed about it.

Turning toward the blond man, she spoke to him softly. “Wait for me in the bedroom.”

He threw her a glance of heated adulation as he obeyed.

As Nick watched the man disappear into the next room, he was reminded of himself as he had been three years earlier, callow and burning and dazzled by Gemma’s sensual arts.

Gemma lifted a graceful hand to stroke Nick’s dark hair. “I didn’t expect you to return from your
investigation so quickly,” she said without a trace of chagrin. “As you can see, I am entertaining my new protégé.”

“And my replacement,” Nick said rather than asked, while a cold feeling of abandonment crept over him.

“Yes,” Gemma said softly. “You have no more need of my instruction. Now that you have learned all I can teach you, it is only a matter of time before our friendship becomes stale. I would prefer to end it while it is still enjoyable.”

It was surprisingly difficult for him to speak. “I still want you.”

“Only because I am safe, and familiar.” Smiling affectionately, Gemma leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Don’t be a coward, dear. It is time for you to find someone else.”

“No one could follow you,” he said gruffly.

That earned a tender laugh and another kiss. “That shows you still have much to learn.” A wicked smile gleamed in her clear brown eyes. “Go find a woman who is deserving of your talents. Take her to bed. Make her fall in love with you. A love affair is something everyone should experience at least once.”

Nick gave her a sullen glance. “That is the
last
damn thing I need,” he informed her, making her laugh.

Drawing back, Gemma casually unfastened her hair and shook it free. “No good-byes,” she said, depositing the hairpins onto the table by the chaise. “I
much prefer
au revoir
. Now if you’ll excuse me, my pupil is waiting. Have a drink before you leave, if you like.”

Stunned, Nick stood immobile as she drifted into the bedroom and closed it with a firm click. “Jesus,” he muttered. An incredulous laugh escaped him at having been so lightly dispensed with after all they had done together. Yet he couldn’t summon any anger. Gemma had been too generous, too kind, for him to feel anything but gratitude.

Go find another woman
, he thought numbly. It seemed an impossible task. Oh, there were women everywhere, cultured, common, plump, lean, dark, fair, tall, short, and he found something to appreciate in all of them. But Gemma had been the only one with whom he had ever dared to unleash his sexuality. He could not imagine how it would be with someone else.

Make someone love him? Nick smiled bitterly, thinking for the first time that Gemma didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. No woman could love him…and if one ever did, she would be the greatest fool alive.

She was here. He was certain of it.

Nick surveyed the party guests intently as they milled in the gardens behind Stony Cross Park. His hand slid into the pocket of his coat, finding the miniature case that contained Charlotte Howard’s portrait. Slowly his thumb caressed the glossy enameled side of the case while he continued to gaze at the crowd.

His two-month search for Charlotte had led him to Hampshire, a place of heather-carpeted hills, ancient hunting forests, and treacherous valley bogs. The western county was prosperous, its twenty market towns abundantly filled with wool, timber, dairy products, honey, and bacon. Among the Hampshire’s renowned estates, Stony Cross Park was considered to be the finest. The manor house and private lake were situated in the fertile Itchen River
valley. Not a bad place to hide, Nick thought wryly. If his suspicions proved to be correct, Charlotte had found employment in the earl of Westcliff’s household, serving as a companion to his mother.

In his pursuit of Charlotte, Nick had learned everything he could about her, trying to understand how she thought and felt, how others perceived her. Interestingly, the accounts of Charlotte had been so contradictory that Nick had wondered if her friends and family were describing the same girl.

To her parents, Charlotte had been an obedient daughter, eager to please, fearful of disapproval. Her disappearance had been a staggering surprise, as they had believed that she was resigned to the fate of becoming Lord Radnor’s bride. Charlotte had known since early childhood that the well-being of her family depended on it. The Howards had made a bargain with the devil, trading their daughter’s future for the financial benefits Radnor could provide. They had enjoyed his patronage for over a decade. But just as it had come time to give the devil his due, Charlotte had fled. The Howards had made it clear to Nick that they wanted Charlotte found and given to Radnor without delay. They did not understand what had prompted her to run, as they believed she would be well served as Lady Radnor.

Apparently Charlotte had not shared their views. Her friends at Maidstone’s, the upper-crust boarding school Charlotte had attended, most of them now married, had reluctantly described a girl who had become increasingly resentful of the way Radnor
supervised every aspect of her existence. Apparently the school staff, desirous of the generous financial endowments Radnor provided, had been happy to enforce his wishes. Charlotte’s curriculum had differed from everyone else’s; Radnor had chosen the subjects for her to study. He had mandated that she was to retire to bed an hour earlier than the other students. He had even determined how much food she should be allotted, after observing during one of her visits home that she had gained weight and needed slimming.

Although Nick understood Charlotte’s rebellion, he felt no sympathy. He had no sympathy for anyone. Long ago he had accepted the unfairness of life, the cruel twists of fate that no one could avoid forever. The tribulations of a schoolgirl were nothing compared to the ugliness that he had seen and experienced. He would have no compunction about bringing Charlotte to Radnor, collecting the remainder of his fee, then putting all thought of the luckless bride-to-be completely out of his mind.

His gaze chased restlessly over the scene, but so far there had been no sign of Charlotte. The great house was filled with at least three dozen families, all of whom were attending what amounted to a month-long house party. The annual event was hosted by Lord Westcliff. The daytime hours were devoted to hunting, shooting, and field sports. Each evening had entertainment, such as soirees musicales, and dances.

Although it was nearly impossible to gain one of
the sought-after invitations to Stony Cross Park, Nick had managed to with the help of his brother-in-law, Sir Ross Cannon. Nick had decided to pose as a bored aristocrat who needed to refresh himself with a few weeks in the country. At the request of Sir Ross, the earl of Westcliff had extended an invitation, having no idea that Nick was a Bow Street runner on the hunt for a runaway bride.

The myriad of lights hung from the oak branches caused the women’s jewels to glitter madly. A wry smile tugged at one side of Nick’s mouth as he reflected how easy it would be to strip these pigeons of their finery. Not long ago he would have done exactly that. He was an even better thief than he was a thief-taker. But now he was a runner, and he was supposed to be honorable.

“Lord Sydney.” A man’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Nick turned away from the terrace to face Marcus, Lord Westcliff. The earl possessed a formidable presence. Although he was of only average height, his form was broad and exceedingly muscular, almost bullish in its heavily developed power. His features were bold and decisively formed, his shrewd black eyes set deep in his swarthy face.

Westcliff looked nothing like the slender, fair peers who occupied the first circles of society. Were he not dressed in elegant evening clothes, one would assume he was a dock-worker or journeyman. However, Westcliff’s blood was unquestionably blue. He had inherited one of the most ancient
earldoms of the peerage, a coronet that had been won by his ancestors in the late 1300s. Ironically, it was rumored that the earl was not an ardent supporter of the Monarchy, nor even of hereditary peerage, as he believed that no man should be insulated from the toils and concerns of ordinary life.

Westcliff continued in his distinctive gravel-scored voice. “Welcome to Stony Cross, Sydney.”

Nick executed a shallow bow. “Thank you, my lord.”

The earl regarded him with an openly skeptical glance. “Your sponsor, Sir Ross, mentioned in his letter that you suffer from ennui.” His tone made it clear that he had little tolerance for a wealthy man’s complaint of excessive boredom.

Neither did Nick. He chafed inwardly at the necessity of affecting ennui, but it was part of his ruse. “Yes,” he said with a world-weary smile. “A debilitating condition. I have become decidedly melancholy. I was advised that a change of scene might help.”

A surly grunt came from the earl’s throat. “I can recommend an excellent cure for boredom—simply apply yourself to some useful activity.”

“Are you suggesting that I
work
?” Nick summoned an expression of distaste. “Perhaps that would do for someone else.
My
kind of ennui, however, requires a careful balance of rest and entertainment.”

Contempt flickered in Westcliff’s black eyes. “We
shall endeavor to provide you with satisfactory amounts of both.”

“I look forward to it,” Nick murmured, taking care to keep his accent clean. Although he had been born a viscount’s son, too many years spent in the London underworld had given him a lower-class cadence and woefully soft consonants. “Westcliff, at the moment what would please me most is to have a drink, and to find company with some delightful temptress.”

“I have an exceptional Longueville Armagnac,” the earl muttered, clearly eager to escape Nick’s company.

“That would be most welcome.”

“Good. I’ll send a servant to fetch you a glass.” Westcliff turned and began to stride away.

“And the temptress?” Nick persisted, smothering a laugh at the way the man’s back stiffened.

“That, Sydney, is something you will have to obtain for yourself.”

As the earl left the terrace, Nick allowed himself a swift grin. So far he was playing the part of spoiled young nobleman with great success. He had managed to annoy the earl beyond bearing. Actually, he rather liked Westcliff, recognizing the same hard-driven will and cynicism that he himself possessed.

Thoughtfully Nick left the terrace and wandered down to the gardens, which had been designed with both enclosed and open spaces, providing countless pockets of intimacy. The air was dense with the
smells of heather and bog myrtle. Ornamental birds trapped in an aviary chirped wildly at his approach. To most it was doubtless a cheerful clamor, but to Nick the ceaseless trills made a desperate sound. He was tempted to open the door and set the damned things free, but it would have little effect, as their wings had been clipped. Stopping at the riverside terrace, he surveyed the dark sparkling flow of the Itchen River, the moonlight that washed through swaying filaments of willow and clusters of beech and oak.

The hour was late. Perhaps Charlotte was inside the house. Casually exploring his surroundings, Nick wandered to the side of the manor, a residence built of honey-colored stone and cornered with four towers that reached six stories in height. It was fronted with a distinctively large courtyard sided with stabling, a laundry, and low buildings to house the servants. The front of the stables had been designed to mirror the chapel on the other side of the courtyard.

Nick was fascinated by the magnificence of the stables, unlike anything he had seen before. He entered through one of the ground-floor archways and found a covered court hung with gleaming harnesses. A pleasant mixture of smells filled the air; horses, hay, leather, and polish. There was a marble drinking fountain for horses at the back of the court, sided by separate entrances to the horse stalls. Nick walked across the stone-flagged floor with the light,
almost soundless step that was habitual for all Bow Street runners. Despite his quietness, horses shuffled and snorted warily at his approach. Glancing through the archway, Nick discovered rows of stalls filled by at least five dozen horses.

It seemed that the stables were empty save for the animals, and Nick left through the west entrance. Immediately he was confronted with an ancient ironstone wall almost six feet high. There was no doubt that it had been built to protect unwary visitors from falling over the steep bluff overlooking the river below. Nick stopped in his tracks at the unexpected sight of a small, slim figure poised atop the wall. It was a woman, standing so still that at first glance he thought she was a statue. But a breeze stirred the hem of her skirts and teased a lock of pale blond hair free of her loose topknot.

Fascinated, he drew closer, his gaze riveted on her.

Only a reckless fool would balance on that uneven wall, with certain death awaiting if she lost her footing. She did not seem to recognize the fatal drop looming before her. The tilt of her head indicated that she was staring straight ahead, at the night-darkened horizon. What in God’s name was she doing? Two years earlier, Nick had seen a man standing with that peculiar stillness just before he had jumped to his death from a bridge over the Thames.

As Nick’s gaze raked over her, he saw that the hem of her long skirt was caught beneath her heel. The sight spurred him into action. Moving forward
in a few stealthy strides, he lifted himself easily, soundlessly, onto the wall.

She did not see him coming until he had almost reached her. She turned, and Nick saw the flash of her dark eyes just as she lost her balance. Seizing her before she could fall, Nick hauled her against his chest. His forearm locked securely just beneath her breasts. The simple action of pulling her body against his was strangely satisfying, like a puzzle piece snapping neatly into place. She gave a low cry, automatically clutching at his arm. The loose lock of fine blond hair blew across Nick’s face, and the fresh, faintly salty fragrance of female skin rose to his nostrils. The scent made his mouth water. Nick was startled by his instant reaction to her—he had never experienced such visceral response to a woman. He wanted to leap from the wall and carry her off like one of the wolves that had once roamed the medieval forests, and find some place to devour his prey in private.

She was rigid in his hold, her breath coming in gasps. “Let go of me,” she said, prying at his arms. “Why the devil did you do that?”

“You were going to fall.”

“I was not! I was perfectly fine until you rushed at me and nearly knocked me over—”

“Your heel is caught in the hem of your skirts.”

Moving cautiously, she lifted her foot and perceived that he was correct. “So it is,” she said shortly.

Having rescued people from every conceivable
situation, Nick was accustomed to receiving at least a perfunctory show of gratitude. “Aren’t you going to thank me for saving you?”

“I have excellent reflexes. I could have saved myself.”

Nick let out an incredulous laugh, both annoyed and fascinated by her stubbornness. “If it weren’t for me, you would have broken your little neck.”

“I assure you, sir, that this so-called rescue was entirely unnecessary. However, since it is obvious that you are going to persist…thank you. Now please take your hands from me.” Her tone rendered the words devoid of appreciation.

Nick grinned, appreciating the fearlessness of her manner, despite the fact that her heart was pounding wildly against the inside of his wrist. Carefully he loosened his arm and helped her to turn by slow degrees. She wobbled a little and dug her fingers into his coat sleeves in a spasm of anxiety. “I’ve got you,” he said steadily.

She faced him, and they both froze as their gazes locked. Nick forgot the wall beneath his feet. It seemed as if they were poised in midair, in a blue wash of moonlight that made everything look unreal. Recognition shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Incredibly, he found himself staring into the features that had almost become more familiar to him than his own.

Charlotte.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated with a faint smile.