He was brushing against her sex, and she remembered then, the wonderful feel of him, filling her emptiness, and the dampness of both of them easing his way, and she wanted to hold on to him, but he was holding her bad arm down against the pillow, very gently, and there was nothing she could do. With a sharp jerk of his hips he pushed in, and she felt a tearing inside her. She cried out, and he covered her mouth with his, silencing her, holding very still within her, letting her get used to the feel of him.
It hurt. It burned. He lifted his head, and she stared up at him in accusation, her desire momentarily banked. “You lied,” she said. “It doesn’t work.”
“Yes, it does. And that was the worst part. From now on it’s all pleasure.” He pushed, and she felt him slide in deeper yet. He lied again, it still burned, but not as badly as that initial thrust. In fact, she could feel the first stirrings of pleasure return. “Look at me, Bryony.”
She did, her eyes staring up into his dark ones. She could feel herself slipping away, and she made one last attempt. “I still don’t trust you.”
He smiled down at her, so tenderly. “I know you don’t, love.” And he began to move, slowly thrusting into her.
She sucked in her breath. She could feel him everywhere, he possessed her, owned her, and she wanted to weep with the beauty of it. Because as she was his, he was hers, shaking in her arms, thrusting, a deliberate pace that began to grow faster. She was shaking again, and she waited for that wondrous little explosion he’d brought from her before, in the tub, in the kitchen, but it eluded her, and something else was taking its place, something darker, more powerful. She was right not to trust him—this was no simple pleasure, this would destroy her, and she had no defenses. She was losing herself, completely, to the steady thrust of him, the tension in his muscles as he held himself above her, and yet he managed to keep his fingers gentle on her bad arm. It was blazing hot, their bodies were covered with sweat, sliding against each other, and she was trembling, wanting to cry, to scream, to beg for something she didn’t understand, and he was shaking as well. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, as tears poured down her face in the darkness, and she wanted to beg him, but she didn’t know for what.
He cursed, a low, guttural sex word, and twisted his hips against her, and the darkness hit, turning everything into a cataclysmic explosion that rocked every inch of her. She was barely aware that he’d pulled out of her, that warm wetness spread over her belly, and she would have cried out, but her voice was strangled in her throat, and then he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the last of her protest, the last of her passion, and she wanted him back inside her. And then he collapsed against her, shielding her left side, breathing roughly, shaking.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Bryony,” he whispered. “It’s not supposed to feel that good.” A moment later he rolled off her, and she wanted to hold him, pull him back against her, into her. She wanted to curl up into his arms, to weep against him.
It was too dark for him to see her clearly, but she felt his fingers brush the tears away from her face. “Did I hurt you?”
“Yes. No. Yes,” she said.
“Poor little love.” He didn’t sound particularly remorseful. “It will be better next time.”
“Oh, God,” she muttered weakly. “I don’t think I could survive better than that.”
She felt the bed shake slightly with his laughter, and he kissed the tears from her face, her chin, then kissed her mouth once more, a sweet, almost playful kiss. “I need to clean us both up, my darling. And then I’d better check your arm and make sure you’re not bleeding again.”
He was so matter-of-fact about it all, as if the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis. “Yes,” she said meekly, thinking she shouldn’t admit such a thing.
“Good. I’ll take care of things, then sneak down to Mrs. Harkins’s kitchen and find the bandages and something decent to eat. You know, that woman was ready to wrestle me to the ground when it came to looking after you. She frightens me.”
Bryony managed a watery chuckle. “If I didn’t frighten you then I doubt Mrs. Harkins can do so.”
“Oh, my love,” he said softly, “you terrify me. Stay put.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”
“I’m not that big, love,” he said, and a moment later she heard the door click behind him.
She wanted to roll onto her stomach and bury her face in the pillow. She wanted to weep, this time from guilt and confusion. She’d told him nothing but lies, and he had no idea who she was. If he did, he never would have touched her. If being tipsy and being a virgin were enough to rouse his latent conscience, the fact that she was a properly reared young lady would have stopped him cold. There was no way she could tell him, no way—
The truth hit her so hard she sat up, stifling a cry of pain as her arm protested. Miss Russell. He’d called her Miss Russell. The… the son of a bitch really had no conscience at all. He knew exactly who she was, and it hadn’t stopped him from ruining her. So much for his latent nobility.
Thank God he had none. She lay back down, carefully, favoring her arm, and thought about it, and a slow smile spread across her face. She had been most carefully, beautifully, deliciously ruined, and she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. So he knew who she was, and he was playing games. She could play games as well; in fact, she had been since she entered this house.
She closed her eyes. She still felt faintly dizzy from the laudanum, but she didn’t blame that for her fall from grace. She had entered into that willingly, as he said she would. And given the chance, she would do so again.
The door opened, and he came back into the room carrying a basin of water. He was wearing a robe, but he stripped it off as he came back to the bed, and she let herself look at him again. Looking at the part she wasn’t supposed to look at—his cock. The part that was so very different from her, and yet, despite the odds, somehow made her complete. He still didn’t look like a Greek statue.
He sat down on the bed and pulled the covers away, then took a warm, wet cloth and began to gently clean her stomach, between her legs, and the slow strokes shouldn’t have been arousing. But then, everything he did, even the way he looked at her, was arousing.
“I don’t understand the Elgin Marbles,” she said suddenly.
He laughed softly. “What a completely random observation. What made you think of that?”
She looked down at him. He wasn’t as large as he had been, but he was still very different than the Greek statues. “Your… cock is so much bigger.” She felt odd using the word. “Even when you aren’t about to… I mean…” She let the words trail off under the sudden heat in his gaze, but when she lowered her eyes she found the member in question had grown larger.
“Actually, I am about to… I mean…” he mocked her gently. “And I’m afraid you saying the word ‘cock’ does powerful things to me.”
“Really?” she said faintly.
“Unless you’re averse to the idea.”
“Oh. No.” She could feel heat wash through her.
“That’s no, we’re not going to fuck again, or no, you’re not averse?”
That word, that indecent word, seemed to have the same effect on her that “cock” had on him. “Oh, no, I’m not averse.”
He smiled, putting the basin to one side. “A good thing. I think we’d better get creative with that arm. I don’t want to do it any more damage.”
“Creative?”
He grinned at her, a wicked, carefree grin that caught her heart and broke it at the same time. Because he could never be hers. “I can be extremely creative, my love. You’ll be impressed.”
And she was.
His darling Bryony lay half curled around her bad arm, a delicious, sleeping bundle of femininity, but even he couldn’t get it up a fourth time in that many hours, though his cock was doing its best. He left her in an exhausted little heap and bathed and dressed. At the last minute he remembered Collins, sitting in the storeroom, tethered
, and he grinned. He’d better let the bastard out or he’d wet himself.
Apparently Collins was more adept than he’d thought, or his miniature confederate had come back and untied him. There was no sign of him in the room, the bonds lying loose on the chair, and Kilmartyn cursed beneath his breath. He had more questions to ask the man, but once released he was going to disappear into the vast populace of London, never to be seen again.
Bryony’s arm seemed to be in good shape despite their exertions—there was no sign of fresh blood, but he decided he’d better rewrap it anyway, once she woke. He was starving, though as far as he knew all his servants had decamped along with Collins. Maybe they were all in the pay of the mysterious mastermind. No, that was hardly likely—Mrs. Harkins had been in residence for more than ten years, and the head footman, Bertie, had been there almost as long.
He didn’t bother ringing for anyone. He descended the winding servants’ staircase, pushing open the door to the basement kitchen, and watched with amusement as everyone froze.
Mrs. Harkins was at the stove, which made sense, and whatever she was cooking smelled delicious. The rest of the staff had been sitting around the table, including, to his astonishment, Collins, though there was no sign of the boy, and they all leapt up as if he were the grim reaper himself.
“I see you decided to stay with us, Collins,” he said, his voice laconic. “Who untied you?”
“I did,” Mrs. Harkins announced, once meaty hand on her hip. “Everyone makes mistakes. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
“Well, we certainly know I’m not without sin,” he said easily enough. “Any sign of the boy? Or Scotland Yard? Or my missing wife?”
“No, sir,” Collins said, the perfect manservant once more.
He made no comment. “Mrs. Harkins, I’m starving. Please send a massive breakfast for two up to my room in about an hour, and in the meantime I’ll take coffee and pastry in my library.”
“For two, sir?” Collins questioned.
“Don’t be disingenuous, Collins. Nothing happens in this household that you aren’t all aware of, and you know Miss Russell spent the night in my bed.”
Mrs. Harkins’s look of deep disapproval changed to confusion. “Miss Russell? Where is Mrs. Greaves?”
“Same person, I’m afraid. Our housekeeper hasn’t been completely honest with us. Which makes her fit right in with the rest of you.”
Mrs. Harkins cleared her throat with awful menace, but he wasn’t interested in placating anyone. “In the meantime, everyone keep away from the third floor,” he continued. “She needs her sleep.”
“My lord…” Mrs. Harkins began, and then she trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.
“Yes, Mrs. Harkins?” he said wearily.
“Would you be so good as to tell us what’s going on?”
Normally he would have put them in their place, but he’d never really been a man to stand upon ceremony, and he was the one who’d invaded their sanctuary. Besides, it would be easier to protect Bryony if they had an idea of the danger she was in.
“Miss Russell is the daughter of my business associate, Eustace Russell—” he began, but Mrs. Harkins interrupted him.
“That terrible man,” she said. “Do you know how many people lost their money when the banks failed…”
“I suspect Russell had nothing to do with it. Whoever was behind it murdered him, and seems to think his daughter should be his next victim. Right, Collins?”
Collins shifted his weight uneasily. “I was told to watch her, and send word when she was going out, nothing more. I didn’t figure it was my business, as long as he paid me enough money to send back home.”
“You have a wife and children back there, Collins?”
“No, my lord. I’ve never married.” The man couldn’t help but cast a longing look at Mrs. Harkins’s sturdy figure, and Kilmartyn could practically see her preen.
“Any more questions?” he said acidly. “Or may I retire to my library? And will my servants answer the bell when I summon them?”
“Yes, sir,” Bertie said nervously. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, but it wasn’t my idea to—”
“Bertie,” Collins said in a warning voice, and the young man flushed.
“Never mind, Bertie. Just behave from now on so I don’t have to turf you out. Miss Russell wouldn’t like it.” He gave Mrs. Harkins a speaking look. “Coffee and pastry. I’m…” He froze as he heard the heavy pounding on the front door, and sudden dread washed through him. He knew exactly who would make such an indelicate racket on his front door—he should stay where he was and force the men to use the servants’ entrance.
He sighed. “I believe that might be Scotland Yard again. Perhaps they have word of Lady Kilmartyn. Mrs. Harkins, I’m afraid I’m going to have to make do with a cup of your tea and a slice of your excellent bread. And let Miss Russell sleep another two hours. I expect I’ll be back by then.”
Bertie looked doubtful. “You want I should just ignore it, my lord?”
Kilmartyn gave him a faint smile. “Tempting as that thought is, I’m afraid the gentleman of the Yard are notoriously tenacious. They won’t go away, so I may as well face them. Take them to the library and tell them I’ll be right there.”
“My lord…” Mrs. Harkins paused, and then steeled herself. “Is her ladyship dead?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Harkins,” he said absently. “One can only hope.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BRYONY MOVED CAREFULLY, looking at her arm. It was heavily bandaged, but to her amazement there was no fresh blood, despite their exertions, and the pain was almost… bearable.
She managed to sit up on her own, though she hissed in pain, biting her lip. A lip that felt swollen, sensitive, reminding her of things she needed to put out of her head.
Cradling her arm, she looked around her. It was hard to decide which hurt worse—her head or her arm. Most people had thought it was strength of character that had enabled her to get through a broken leg and a case of fever without resorting to laudanum, but they hadn’t understood the vicious effect it had on her.
She waited until the dizziness passed, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Everything about her felt slightly abraded, her breasts, between her legs. And wicked girl that she was, she liked it. She managed to find his discarded robe and pull it around her, and by the time Mrs. Harkins pushed open the door she was sitting in a chair by the open window, breathing in the rain-drenched air.
“My goodness, Miss Russell, what are you doing out of bed!” she cried in a voice just a trace too loud for Bryony’s aching head.
She winced. “Getting some fresh air.”
“Well, you get right back in bed, young lady,” the cook said sternly. “His lordship said I was to let you sleep, but I was thinking you might be hungry. I’ve got some beef broth, and another dose of laudanum might do you some good.”
Did Mrs. Harkins know how she’d spent her night? Of course she did. She was in Kilmartyn’s bedroom, now decorated in a deep blue that supposedly matched her eyes, wearing nothing but his robe. Bryony started to shake her head and then thought better of it. “His Lordship has no idea how quickly I heal,” she said. “I have every intention of getting dressed, and I’m starving. No beef broth, and definitely no laudanum.” To prove her point she rose, able to hide the slight unsteadiness of her legs. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me where my clothes are?”
“Not the ones you wore when you were shot,” Mrs. Harkins said, not in the least bit cowed. “You’re going to need new sleeves on that one. And don’t be thinking of getting those clothes yourself. I’ll send Emma,” she added with a sniff. “Otherwise you’ll be back in bed in a trice, wishing you hadn’t been so stubborn. And let’s just hope you don’t take a fever and die from getting up too soon. Then you’d be sorry.”
“At that point I’m not certain I’d notice,” she said in a practical voice.
“Oh, his lords
hip would notice all right. He said I was to bring you breakfast, and he’d be back in an hour or two. Personally I think they might hold him a bit longer this time, but—”
“Hold him?’’ she echoed, filled with sudden panic. “Where is Lord Kilmartyn?”
“Why, Scotland Yard came and got him again,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Didn’t I tell you? Though why they’re making such a fuss of it I’ll never know. That Lady Kilmartyn goes off whenever she pleases, never leaving so much as a word for the staff or her husband. Why they think she’d been murdered is beyond me.”
Maybe because they know about the destruction I hid, the bloody clothes I threw away, she thought guiltily. It couldn’t be Kilmartyn—he couldn’t make love to me like that, kiss me, days after slaughtering his wife. He’d have to be some kind of monster.
Then again, making love to her was a sure way of sealing her lethal case of infatuation, so that she’d never say anything. Making love… no, he’d called it fucking… was more enjoyable than killing. At least, to some people. Why would he want someone like her, why…
She stopped. Foolish, hurtful thoughts. Why was it that she was the one who was so cruel to herself? No one else, save perhaps her mother, long ago, had ever made her feel ugly. And last night, this morning, Kilmartyn had made her feel… radiant.
“Emma will bring your clothes, and she’ll assist you in bathing and dressing, though she has little training as a lady’s maid.” Mrs. Harkins’s bearing was stiff, affronted, and too late she realized how she’d addressed her. Miss Russell.
“Mrs. Harkins,” she said tentatively, “I’m so sorry I lied to you.”
“That’s neither here nor there, miss. We’re here to serve, whatever you might need.” There was no change in her affronted dignity.
“I need your friendship.”
Mrs. Harkins unbent, just the tiniest bit. “Quality and staff aren’t friends, miss.”
“They are if they want to be. We’ve worked side by side. We scrubbed pots, I peeled carrots and potatoes for you, I drank tea at your table.” That wasn’t all she’d done at her table, but she wasn’t about to tell the woman about that.