She could feel his hot breath against her, and then the slightest brush of his teeth, his strong, white teeth, and she frowned. What was he doing? Why did he. . .?
She heard her own scream with shock, and she quickly slammed her hands over her mouth, as a fierce, hard response rocketed through her, strange and untenable. “Don’t—” she gasped, but he was past listening, and then she was past protesting as she felt a sharp energy begin to build, to suffuse her body with something that surely was wrong. She was past fighting it, past worrying about it, and when she felt him slide two long fingers into her as he licked and sucked and bit, then she was gone, unable to stifle her response as it took over her body, leaving no room for herself there.
It was like being thrown over a cliff, sailing through dark, powerful winds and ending in a storm-tossed sea, and she could do nothing but hold onto him like the life raft he seemed to be, the only thing solid and safe in her mad, swirling world. Every muscle in her body had seemed to lock, as those waves crashed over her again and again. She couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t control it, and then she no longer wanted to, giving herself over to the wash of feelings. She hadn’t even realized he’d moved up, over her, until she managed to open groggy eyes to stare at him, at the triumph, the satisfaction on his face, things she could rail at, except for that shocking streak of tenderness in his eyes.
“I hate you,” she said in a soft, broken voice.
“Of course you do,” he agreed amiably enough. “You’re about to hate me even more. Unless you tell me no.”
He was very still, resting just above her, but she thought she saw anxiety in his eyes. The moonlight had leeched them of color, but the blaze of feelings was a shock. He truly would stop if she told him.
She let her hands slide up his strong arms, her fingers clenching and grasping as she moved them, wanting to catch him in her strong hands, to keep him and hold him. It was madness.
But for now she was willing to run mad. In truth, she had no other choice. “Yes,” she said. “Now.”
This time she meant it, not because she wanted it over and done with, but because she couldn’t wait. She wanted that feeling back, the one that was just leaving her shaken and helpless when she’d sworn she’d never be helpless again. She could feel him against her, waiting, a shock in itself. Men thrust blindly, hurtfully.
But he was waiting, looking down at her expectantly. “Then touch me.”
She didn’t hesitate, afraid that if she did she might not go through with it, and her long fingers reach up to touch him. He was so different—warm, satiny skin over iron hard flesh that pulsed in her hand, and for once she didn’t want to pull back in disgust. He let her fingertips touch him, test him, the strength and resilience of him, and it was a marvel it seemed to fit in such a narrow space. Encircling it, her fingers barely able to close around him, she tugged slightly, as Mollie Biscuits had once explained to her.
“Jesus Christ!” he moaned, pushing against her hand. “You are going to kill me, love.”
Love. He called her love. For right now she would pretend that it was true. “Come to me,” she said, tugging at him, bracing herself, knowing that there’d be pleasure.
He didn’t slam into her. He was at her entrance, and slowly, so slowly he began to push inside her, his eyes locked with hers as each invading inch took possession of her, for now, forever. Pinpricks of reaction were running over her skin, and her body was responding on its own, tightening around him, clasping him, her very flesh seeming to pull him in deeper, deeper, until he finally rested against her, all of him sheathed deeply inside, filling every bit of her with thick, male power that should have disgusted her as it always had before. Instead she wanted more, wanted to own that power, own him as he owned her. He lay with his weight resting on his elbows, his brow resting against hers, damp with sweat, his eyes closed, and she could feel the tremors that ran across his body, small, involuntary jerks of that hard invasion within her softness. They stayed that way for a long moment, and then she felt him begin to withdraw, and she wanted to shriek in protest, to clutch at him with desperate hands. What did he want now, what test did she have to pass?
But when he pushed back in it was even more wonderful, and her hips rose to meet his, the walls of her sex tightening around him as her hands clutched his biceps. This was possession, but a different kind, a glorious one that she could hold in her heart. He took her, claimed her, but she took him as well, into her body, into her heart, into her soul, where he would always stay, no matter what happened. She finally let go, giving herself to him, to the rampant, building pleasure, to the joy of love that had cracked her guarded heart, as he thrust, each push a promise he couldn’t keep, but it no longer mattered. Deep and harder and harder and she wanted more, craved more.
“Yes,” she whispered fiercely. “Again. Again. More.”
The darkness that was closing around her split with lightning, and suddenly everything ceased to exist, only man and woman, elemental, eternal, as she seemed to burst apart in a shower of pure sensation. She could feel him with her, her love, her soul, joining her, flooding her, and she took everything in savage satisfaction and a guttural sob of triumph.
Brandon returned to himself, slowly, not certain he wanted to. Every part of him was weak, shaking, damp with sweat and perhaps even tears. She lay beneath him, her legs still locked around his hips, and he couldn’t even remember how they’d gotten there. He must be crushing her, and he pushed himself up quickly. He had never lost himself so utterly, so completely, and he felt odd, almost disoriented.
She lay beneath him, her beautiful hair framing her face, her eyes closed. When she opened them she looked as shell shocked as he felt.
“Are you all right?” he questioned urgently, his voice hoarse.
She closed her eyes again, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered.
He was still hard within her, or maybe he was hard again, but he knew she’d reached her limit. He might have as well. He withdrew, slowly, reluctantly, and he saw the momentary distress that crossed her face as he left her.
Pulling her into his arms, he rolled on his side, taking her with him, tucking her against him with exquisite care. “I love you, Harpy,” he whispered in her ear, stroking her hair back from her face, stroking the worried expression her face.
She put her arms around him, trusting, but when she opened her eyes he could see the doubt and sorrow in the deep gray depths, the mournful acceptance, and he waited for the words he knew were the truth, the words that never came.
Instead she kissed him, and it was no longer an untutored, nun like kiss. It was a woman’s kiss, deep and full and sure, a woman in love, and then she sank back against him, closing her eyes, and they lay that way until the early hours of the morning, neither of them sleeping for a long, long time.
Chapter 26
Emma slipped from the bed, determined not to wake him. He’d held her the rest of the night, and she’d pressed her face against his shoulder, burying herself in his skin, his scent, his body, letting the temporary peace fill her.
It wouldn’t last. Nothing lasted, neither the good nor the bad, and she would survive this, the loss of him, as she survived everything else. It didn’t matter that this loss would be the hardest.
He didn’t want to let her go. In sleep, his body relaxed, but he still held her, and she moved by small increments until she finally slipped from his protective grasp. She stood in the early morning light, not reaching for anything to cover herself, and looked down at him. The unscarred side of his face was against the pillow, and she looked down at the war’s devastation and wanted nothing more than to climb back into the bed, to stay there, to stop fighting, stop trying.
She couldn’t do that. Not to him. Not to herself. He would marry quiet Miss Bonham and learn to love her, he would live a good life without the shame Emma would bring him, even as his whore. And she would have been his whore, gladly, sold herself on the streets for him, die for him.
But
she would only bring him disaster. She loved him, had loved him, probably from the first night she’d seen him, and she would love him until the day she died. Loving wasn’t about selfishness and pleasure, it was about wanting the best for someone. It was about letting them go.
They had ended up in his old bedroom, though she couldn’t remember how. Her clothes were hanging in the clothes press—she moved swiftly, gathering them in an armful and then slipping back through the adjoining door. No one had brought fresh water or tea—they probably had strict orders not to disturb either of them. Mrs. Patrick was a wise woman who saw more than most people, and no one would bother them until they were called. At least there was an ewer of cool water in the basin, and she washed herself quickly, doing her best to ignore the tenderness in her breasts, her hips, between her legs, sensitivity that squeezed her heart and brought back a shocking arousal. It would pass, she told herself, pulling on her clothes with shaking hands. It had to.
She almost escaped the house without notice. She’d stayed there often enough to know that the servants would be down in the basement having tea at that hour, and she was almost at the door when a familiar voice startled her.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”
She turned to face Noonan’s disapproving glower, keeping her own expression blank. “I doubt it’s any business of yours, Mr. Noonan,”
“Anything that affects the boy is my business,” he growled.
“He’s hardly a child,” she said briskly. “He doesn’t need your protection.”
“He’s got the heart of a boy, true and good, even though he hides it. I won’t have you troubling him.”
“Trust me, I won’t have the slightest effect on his heart.”
“Trust me,” he mocked her, “you already have. We do just fine up in Scotland without a bunch of women running around. You’re no’ good for him.”
“I know that.”
Noonan looked startled. Despite the hard night of drinking Brandon had mentioned, he looked no more ill-tempered and craggy than usual. “So what are you planning to do, then, miss?”
“I’m planning to let him be.”
She expected satisfaction in his faded blue eyes. Instead his frown deepened. “And if he doesn’t want that?”
“It’s not his choice. Goodbye, Mr. Noonan.” She hesitated. “Look after him.”
“I’m thinking he won’t want you leaving without a word.”
“Then tell him I said goodbye.”
The old man was already racing up the front stairs by the time she closed the massive front door, and she knew she had to hurry. Within a matter of moments she’d blended with the crowds, gone before Noonan could wake his precious “boy.”
Her precious boy. Her angry man, her broken soldier, her salvation and destruction. Let him go, she thought fiercely. Let him go.
She had never taken a hackney cab in her life, and this wasn’t the day to start. She could walk for miles, in both city and country, and she knew the way to Temple Hospital well enough to cut through neighborhoods and alleyways and shortcuts, reaching there in half the time a vehicle might take, well before Brandon might arrive, if he even wanted to. She paused in the shadows of the old hospital, built by one of the Stuarts hundreds of years ago, and stared up at its imposing stone walls. She’d been happy there, fulfilled, infuriated, heartbroken. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Fenrush and his underlings, her life would have been perfect.
But that time was gone as well. Taking over from Fenrush would mean a battle she was no longer willing to wage—and if she didn’t care, then she would never win, even with Benedick’s power and money behind her.
It was time to find a new place, a new way to bring her gifts, such as they were, to people. Melisande would be hurt and furious if she disappeared, but perhaps, after a few years, Emma would be able to contact her, beg her forgiveness. By then Brandon would be settled in his new life, her existence forgotten once more.
She pushed herself forward. She needed her book on anatomy, the most important one, and some of her instruments, but most of all she needed the change of clothes and the cache of money she kept hidden in her private changing room. Leaving anything of value in her rooms by the dock had never been an option—here, everyone had kept their distance as if she’d carried a plague. They would avoid her today as well as she retrieved her necessary possessions.
But in this, at least, she was mistaken. Emma had no sooner set foot inside the door that had been allotted for her use when she ran into Mr. Grimley, the young surgeon she’d stabbed with a scalpel when he’d tried to interfere with her. Not the best luck in the world, she thought, but she had given up any hope of luck long ago.
He was a plump young man with a red face, soft hands, and watery blue eyes that always seemed filled with petulance or lust or occasionally both, and he’d been wanting revenge for a long time.
“What are you doing here?” He also had a nasal, high-pitched voice and a tendency to lisp his r’s, and she honored him with the haughty expression that had always infuriated him.
“I believe I work here. I assume the hospital still has the misfortune to employ you?”
He was rubbing his hand, the spot where she’d pricked him that time, and she felt a moment’s regret. Her own pain didn’t give her the right to hurt other people, even someone like Grimley, and she was about to apologize when his eyes narrowed in triumph.
“You’d best not let Mr. Fenrush see you,” he said. “The trustees told him you were going to be in charge of the students, and he was . . . displeased.”
Emma could imagine it. “I have no interest in meeting with him. I’m simply here on an errand. I don’t believe I’m scheduled to work for. . .”
“You won’t be working here again,” Grimley said triumphantly.
Emma had concluded the same thing, but irritation managed to sneak through her misery. “Is that so?” she said coolly. “According to whom?”
“You’ll see.” He turned away from her, addressing an approaching figure. “Here’s Mrs. Cadbury, Collins. She just showed up without warning.”
“I hardly think I have to give notice. . .” she began as Mr. Fenrush’s huge manservant loomed in front of her, and she took an involuntary step back before she could stop herself.
He put one heavy hand on her arm, and she looked down at the bruised knuckles, the scratched skin, before searching his face. That was bruised as well, as if he’d suffered at the fists of someone in a fury, and a strange sense of familiarity washed over her. Of course he looked familiar—she’d seen him skulking around the hospital building for the last two years she’d been training there. But it was something else, the dark eyes like currants in a pasty face, the. . .
“No,” she said, frozen in shock. Those eyes had been staring into hers as those hands tried to choke the life from her. But it was impossible, it made no sense. . .
“She’s going to faint, Collins,” Grimley said.
The hell I am, Emma thought, but she felt her knees dip slightly as if she were about to collapse, and immediately those huge, vicious hands yanked at her.
Clearly, not a man who learned his lesson. Even hampered by her skirts her kick hit her target, and Collins doubled over with the same girlish scream she’d heard a few short days ago. Grimley stumbled back in gratifying panic, and she thought she might have a chance to escape when Collins rose up in a roar, launching himself at her and then she was falling, falling and everything went dark.
It was the smell. Horse dung, urine, unwashed bodies and something else that she couldn’t quite recognize, pushing into her mouth, her nostrils, her lungs. It was the motion—she was cramped, restrained, unable to catch herself as she rolled back and forth in what had to be some kind of conveyance. It was the darkness—everything was an unbreathable blackness. Her arms were clamped to her body with heavy rope, her wrists tied even tighter.
Someone had thrust a gag in her mouth, and if she thought about where that rag might h
ave come from she would vomit, and then she could very easily choke and die. She’d seen it happen in patients who hadn’t been carefully tended. Her stomach was roiling with an onslaught of revulsion, but she willed herself to think of cold, cool things as she was tossed back and forth in the blackness and filth.
Her first sense that she wasn’t alone in whatever instrument of torture they’d placed her was when someone kicked her, hard, in her already bruised ribs. “Can’t you keep her away from me?” came Amasa Fenrush’s fretful voice.
“Could have finished her back in London,” the slow voice of his manservant answered. “Then when I dumped her in the river this time there’d be no one around to fish her back out again.”
“And when is the riverside ever deserted?” Fenrush’s tone was waspish. “She’s the one who created this debacle, and you’ve failed time and time again. We can’t risk another mistake.”
“Your mistake in the first place, telling a whore about your side business,” Collins said. “Anyone knows you can’t tell a whore anything, but no, you had to go and talk about our side business while you were having at her. What did you think, she was some holy nun and you were making your last confession?”
“She was a whore,” Fenrush said stiffly. “She shouldn’t have known what I was talking about, and besides, most trollops are dead by the time they reach twenty-five. I never thought I’d see her again.”
Collins made a disgusted noise. “Life doesn’t work out so nice, gov’nor. It’s a good thing that toff sent her to your hospital to learn her trade—else who knows who she might have told. You’re boneheaded, is all I can say.”
“May I remind you that you are my servant?” Fenrush said frostily.
“And may I remind yer bleedin’ worship that I’ve killed for you, time and again, and if those Rohans find out you have something to do with this bitch’s problems then you may as well kiss your comfortable life goodbye.”