For one long, astonishing moment, she found total bliss.
But it was too much, too good, too magnificent.
The feeling began to slip away. Caroline began to subside, to sink atop him and rest.
But Jude wasn’t finished. He thrust beneath her, seeking the same bliss that had consumed her, and when the storm took him, he gave a shout. His eyes closed, and he moved with such fury as if everything that went before was as nothing.
She didn’t want to. She didn’t think it was possible. But his climax forced her to another, and another. Her body was no longer her own. Her pleasure united with his and this time…this time it was more. It was bigger. This time as she took him inside her, he came with a magnificence that shook the bed. Shook the earth. In his seed, he gave her his promise of forever and she gave him…everything. She gave him all of herself.
Jude woke at the first light of dawn to find his arms free and Caroline gone from his bed. He sat up and looked around, but he knew without being told she had left the house. “Damned woman!” He cast his pillow across the room, but it bounced and settled on the floor, which didn’t relieve his frustration at all. Nothing would do that except to have Caroline here, his arms free, and all the time in the world to exact his vengeance for her cruel and wonderful use of his body.
Springing out of bed, he looked down the length of his body. He had an erection. Of course he did. He always had an erection when he looked at Caroline, thought of Caroline, touched Caroline…now he’d possessed her. A smear of virginal blood that decorated it, proof positive last night had been real, but his cock didn’t seem to realize it. It still strutted and strained, trying to find its way back between her legs to rut again.
Jude’s fists clenched at his side and he stared, sightless, out the window, where London was slowly coming to life. How very odd that knowing Caroline carnally made him want her more…and not so odd that the manner in which she used him made him resolve to make her suffer as he had.
Yes, he missed Michael. Yes, he burned with the need to make those villains pay for that charred body buried in a land far away. But it was time to finish and move on, and he had not a doubt that the future somehow included her.
In a frenzy of activity, he rang for his valet and when the man stumbled in, half-dressed, Jude ordered a bath and his most absurd new outfit.
He had to get the matter of the Moricadians concluded so he could concentrate on dealing with Caroline—whatever that took.
Chapter 19
The streets were silent, waiting the first calls of the vendors and the creak of the street carts. Caroline walked toward her father’s house and smiled up at the sky. The sun had just risen, promising one of those rare days in London, clear and bright and warm. Of course. How could it not be? Last night, Caroline had taken control of her life. She was brave. She would never be afraid again. She…she smelled the stench of an un-washed body.
Belated caution grabbed her by the throat. At all times and everywhere, London was dangerous. No one knew that better than she did.
Whirling around, she found herself facing a hulking fellow, as tall as Jude, but he was swaying, dirty, and drunk. She backed up, terrified, but her ball gown wasn’t made for fleeing. “Back away!” she said in her best command voice.
The attacker laughed and reached for her with crusty hands.
She opened her mouth to scream—and caught a glimpse of something racing toward them low on the ground. She heard the clatter of wheels.
Harry.
The drunk looked down, aimed a kick—and yelled.
Harry went tumbling, but Caroline saw the bloody knife in his hand. He’d stabbed the drunk in the foot.
But gin made the brute immune to the pain, for he shook his head to clear it and started toward Caroline again.
Caroline kept moving. She stumbled. At her feet she saw an iron ring that had peeled off its wheel—and an opportunity. Grabbing it, she swung it as hard as she could into his chest.
He grunted and kept coming.
She swung again.
He yanked it out of her grasp and cast it across the cobblestones, clattering obscenely. His breath hissed through the gaps in his blackened teeth, and his red eyes flamed with rage. He lumbered toward her, his huge hands outstretched—
And Harry attacked from behind, his knife steady, and sliced him behind the knee.
The drunk’s leg went out from underneath him. He went down screaming.
“That’ll keep ’im down.” Harry wiped his knife on his sleeve and tucked it in its sheath beneath his arm. He offered his hand. “Let’s get out o’ ’ere before someone comes t’ see why ’e’s bawling.”
Caroline pulled him along as she hurried around the corner. Her head whirled. “I didn’t know you could fight like that.”
“Devil a bit. If ye want t’ survive on the ships, ’tis best t’ learn a thing or two. ’Aven’t ever been sorry, Oi ’aven’t.”
“Will that man walk again?” The screams were fading as they hurried away.
“Do ye think Oi care?” Harry asked.
No, she supposed he didn’t. Not when he wheeled his way through the mud and the refuse every day of his life, and took a kick because it was easy. “I thank you so much.”
“ ’Ave Oi taught ye nothing? Ye ’ave t’ pay attention.” He sounded exasperated and angry. “There’re always villains out ’ere, worse ’en me.”
“Not worse than you,” she teased, but her smile faded at once. She didn’t want to think about caution, but neither did she wish to lose her life on the very day she’d begun to live it. “I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful. Are you hurt?”
“A few bruises, that’s all. Oi’ve ’ad worse.” He cocked a knowing eye at her ball gown. “Nice duds. One would almost think ye ’adn’t gone ’ome last night.”
Caroline knew that Harry kept track of everything that occurred in London. He had eyes everywhere. She’d no doubt been seen leaving the ball last night, and just as likely been seen entering Jude’s house. “Do you blame me for what I did?” she asked in a low voice.
“Do ye care what Oi think?”
“Yes,” she said sincerely. “I value your good opinion.”
“And well ye should.” But a smile crossed his lips. “ ’E’s got a good reputation, does yer fellow. Good thing t’ see ye think o’ yerself at last. But will ’e marry ye?”
“Heavens, no! That was never my intention.” Last night hadn’t changed her purpose. She was steadfast in her intent. Jude had to be married. She might as well collect the fee for accomplishing that feat. “But right now I have three choices—to be a spinster my whole life, to live with my family in France, or to become a courtesan. Just once I wanted to do as I wished without thinking of my reputation or my plans or my family.”
“Hm.” Harry’s lips puckered.
The memory of his expertise with the knife rose in her mind. She knew he was fond of her, and alarm skittered along her nerves. “You…you won’t say anything to him, will you?”
“ ’Oo? Lord ’Untington? Nary a word, dearie. ’Tis yer business and none o’ me own.”
She didn’t know if she quite believed Harry, but they had reached her father’s house. She gestured. “Won’t you come in?”
Harry eyed the flight of stairs down to the kitchen. “No, Oi think Oi’ll give it a pass this time.”
Of course. “Can I get you some food or drink?”
“Now that ye can do. Something warm t’ eat, and a bottle o’ medicinal rum, if ye please.”
She opened her mouth to remonstrate, then decided that if the man wanted to dose himself with rum, she wasn’t one to dissuade him. Descending the stairs, she knocked, and when Cook answered, she hurried into the warm kitchen redolent with the smell of bread baking. “There’s a man out there. He has no legs, but he just saved my life. Dear Cook, could you give him a hot breakfast and a bottle of rum?”
Cook stood with her flour-covered hands on her ample hips. “Saved yer life,
heh?” She eyed Caroline’s ball gown. “I can see why ’twas necessary.”
Caroline ignored that. “I have to talk to Genevieve. Is Father out of the way?”
“Already left fer the office,” Cook said.
“Good.” Caroline collected two warm scones and devoured one as she flitted out the door.
The other she held under Genevieve’s nose until the sleeping child stirred and asked fretfully, “What do you want?”
“To see my sister.”
“Caroline?” Genevieve’s eyes popped open. “What are you doing here? Now?”
“I had to ask you a question. I’ve seen Father twice in a week, and he asked me to come home.”
“Really?” Genevieve sat straight up. “Are you going to do it?”
“Not if I can get Lord Huntington married instead.” A pang went through Caroline at the words. Sitting on the bed, she put her arm around Genevieve. “Do you know what purpose Father had in asking me home?”
“No, but he’s up to something.” Genevieve rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “He paced around here for a couple of days, and once he actually spoke to me.”
“And said what?”
“Told me I would never be as pretty as you, so if he gave me a Season, he still wouldn’t have a chance at a title.”
“He’s wrong.” Caroline pushed the hair back from Genevieve’s face and smiled into the piquant features. “You’re going to be much more than pretty. You’re going to be beautiful.”
“I hope so,” Genevieve said resentfully. “I didn’t used to care—”
A blatant lie, Caroline knew.
“—But now I want to be beautiful so I can catch a title and never, ever let Father visit me ever.”
“That’s a reasonable goal,” Caroline acknowledged. She hugged Genevieve. “I have to go back, but if you discover what he’s up to, send me a message.”
“I’ll look around,” Genevieve promised. “I’ll find out what he’s doing.”
Jude walked into Throckmorton’s office in the anonymous town house in London. “How did the operation go last night?”
Throckmorton looked up from his desk and shaded his eyes. “My God, man, do you have to dress like that to come here?”
Jude looked down at his fiery red waistcoat trimmed with jiggling gold fobs. “I’m on my way to see the Moricadians. I think this will distract them from any hint of intelligence I might display, don’t you?”
“God, yes.” Standing, Throckmorton walked toward the door. “Your valuables were retrieved, but Maltin found nothing in the way of information to give us a clue about the Moricadians’ plans. Yet he brought us something that could prove of great usefulness.”
Jude followed him. “What’s that?”
“Their valet. He walked in on Maltin. Maltin grabbed him and brought him back here. He’s being interrogated now.”
“That is good,” Jude said with satisfaction. “They’ll think he took everything and fled. What’s the interrogation brought out?”
“He won’t say a word.”
“Maybe he only speaks Moricadian.”
Throckmorton cast a significant glance at Jude. “That’s why we’re going to see him.”
They met one of Throckmorton’s hulking guards hurrying down the corridor toward them, and without ceremony, he said, “Sir, you’ll want to come and see this.”
Throckmorton and Jude exchanged glances. The guard, as tough a man as ever they’d met, looked disgusted and more than a little ill.
In a small room in the interior of the house lit by a few candles, they found the single chair occupied by a man so thin he was a stone away from a cadaver—the Moricadians’ valet.
Two men leaned against the wall; they straightened as Throckmorton and Jude entered. One of them said, “Sir, we’ve found out why he won’t talk. Take a look.”
Without being told, the prisoner opened his mouth—and where his tongue should be was an empty cavern. His tongue had been ripped out.
“God Almighty!” Throckmorton leaped backward.
“We didn’t kidnap the poor sod,” Throckmorton’s man said. “We rescued him.”
“Who the hell did this?” Throckmorton demanded.
In answer, the prisoner rolled up his sleeve and showed them a round red mark in his skin. Then another, then another. Some of them were scabs, some scars, a few were oozing.
“Bouchard and his damned cigar.” Jude lifted his appalled gaze to Throckmorton. “I did warn you about Bouchard.”
“So you did.” Throckmorton headed for the door. “Call a doctor. Fix this poor fellow up. See if he knows how to write—”
“Not likely.” Jude followed him back down the corridor.
“No, not likely. This puts a whole new complexion on the matter. The Moricadians must know he was too in timidated to leave on his own. They’ll suspect he had help. They’ll be nervous, ready to get the job done as quickly as possible.” In his office, Throckmorton went to his brandy decanter, filled a glass, and swallowed it without a breath. “I never get used to that kind of cruelty.”
“No.” Once again Jude wondered at the tortures Michael had endured before he died.
With a glance at Jude, Throckmorton filled another glass and handed it over. “Are you having luck using your governess as a cover?”
“De Guignard has fallen in love with her.” Jude swallowed his brandy, too, and hoped it would heat the chill in his blood.
“That’s good, because we’d hoped he would fall in love with Gloriana Dollydear. Apparently she’s too coarse to appeal to him.” Throckmorton filled Jude’s glass again, and the two men sipped their second glasses. “He’s definitely the weak link in those two. Can you use your governess?”
“Why?”
“As the crisis comes to a head, she might actively have to assist us. Can she do it?”
“Yes.” Jude put down his glass. Yes, Caroline was steady and courageous. But it was one thing to use her as camouflage. It was another to put her in peril, for he had tasted her innocence…taken her innocence. “Bouchard is dangerous. Deadly. Their valet has the scars to prove it. I have the scars to prove it.”
“I’m not putting a woman on the front line. You know that.” Throckmorton took a sip and added the corollary Jude knew was coming. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. Desperate times require desperate measures. If you get queasy about using a woman, take a look at your signet ring.”
Michael’s ring. Jude stroked the warped surface, stared at the glinting ruby. Everything in him rebelled at the thought of Caroline in the hands of Moricadians. Yet…yet these men deserved to hang for what they’d done and what they were going to do.
“Go visit them. See what you can find out. Tonight I’ll be at the opera putting on my play with Miss Dollydear for them to see”—Throckmorton looked disgusted—“and I’d like to get this wrapped up before the Moricadians can complete their plan to murder…whoever.”
“As do we all.”
“At least you don’t have to spend your time pretending to be infatuated with an opera singer. Let’s finish this matter before my reputation is blasted all to hell.”
“It’s far too late for that, too, my dear Throckmorton.” Jude took a chilly pleasure in pointing that out as he walked to the door, fobs jingling. “Far too late for that.”
Chapter 20
“We’re going to walk into this tea, smile graciously, and if someone asks about your ignoble retreat last night, we’ll say your sister needed you.” Nicolette snapped out Caroline’s instructions like Napoleon making an imperial declaration.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The carriage pulled to a halt before Lady Emma’s small town house.
“I’ll be at your side for the first few minutes. Then if all goes well, I’ll drift away, but I’ll never be out of the room. If someone dares to make an inappropriate comment, I’ll be back at your side at once. No matter what happens, you’re not to run away again.” The spark in
Nicolette’s eyes
did not invite discussion.
“No, Your Grace.” For Caroline’s flight had been seen as an admission of guilt and was already the scandal of London.
“Lady Emma is a dear friend and immensely respectable, and she has agreed to completely support us, but you must promise not to panic again.”
“No, Your Grace.” Nicolette had been furious when Caroline got home this morning. She’d been pale with worry and sure Caroline had been killed on the streets, and she’d shouted at Caroline in a way Caroline had never been shouted at. She shouted like…like a mother whose daughter had scared her to death. Caroline had never been so touched in her life, and when she broke down and wept, Nicolette had wept, too. The bond of affection between them was becoming something more, something different. Something stronger, although Caroline didn’t dare put a name on it.
Then Nicolette had made plans to rehabilitate Caroline’s reputation—again—and a few hours later here they were at a ladies’ tea to do just that.
“All right then.” Nicolette’s gaze swept Caroline’s pale green gown. “You look completely handsome and appropriate. You’re a friend of the duke and duchess of Nevett. You have no reason to fear, and you must not flee. One more time, and I can’t rescue you from your folly.”
“No, Your Grace.” Caroline climbed the stairs beside the duchess.
“Are you afraid?” Nicolette asked as they stood before the gleaming door.
“No, Your Grace.” She wasn’t. Last night, Caroline had allowed an awful woman to rout her, and she’d done as Nicolette accused—she’d run away. Then she’d seized control of her destiny—and of Jude—and now she wasn’t afraid of anything. Run? No. She had held a strong man in her hands and made him tremble. She was powerful. No one could change that. Not ever.