“La, there’s a fond father.” Lady Nora shook her finger at Lord Gaynor and called to Bronwyn, “Did you hear what your father wants to do? Isn’t it absurd?”
Bronwyn nodded numbly. Her parents spoke, to Rachelle, to her, but she couldn’t understand the language. They stood. They kissed her cheeks, preparing to take their leave, so she supposed an arrangement for her care had been worked out. Still, she didn’t understand anything. With Holly, her parents walked to the door.
Bronwyn looked to Holly. She moved her lips: “Please.”
Holly’s big blue eyes teared in sympathy, and she shook her head sadly.
It was true.
Bronwyn caught a chair and held it, fighting to maintain her balance against the wave of pain sweeping over her. When she opened her eyes, she found intense gray eyes anchored on her. Adam still stood in the doorway, still armored in his indifference.
Her heart had been torn out, and he was indifferent.
Eyes locked with his, she pulled out the scarf that, at his request, shielded her bosom, and ripped it across with the hiss of tearing silk. She threw the shredded cloth to the floor. She wasn’t restrained. She wasn’t adult. She lifted her foot and stomped on it. She ground it into the floor. She jumped on it, and then she stalked to the stairs, where she looked Adam up and down. She sniffed in contempt. She snapped her fingers under his nose, then with one hand on his chest she shoved him aside. She would go to her room and pack. No, she would go to her room and never leave. She’d lock herself in and they could pass food under the door.
No, she’d go to her room and dress for the salon, and come down and charm everyone and Adam would be sorry—
Adam let her set her foot to the first step before he called, “Please remember, you don’t want to marry me.”
Bronwyn didn’t throw her patch box on purpose; it simply flew out of her hand at high speed. Adam dodged, and she shouted, “Damn you!”
Skirts gathered well above her knees, she raced up the stairs. She didn’t know if he followed her, but she hoped he did. She hoped he did, for when next an item flew out of her hand, it would hit him. She swore it would hit him.
Bursting into her room, she found the maid picking up her clothes. “Get out!” she yelled, holding the door open. The stunned girl ran past her, and Bronwyn shoved the door just as Adam’s palm slammed against it. She put her shoulder against it. He pushed it open without effort.
Her fan burst from her grip and made contact with his forehead.
A spot of blood appeared, and he touched it with his finger. He stared at it in amazement, then slammed the door shut behind him. “You little termagant.”
Awash in grief and fury, she shouted, “How could you do this to me?”
“Be logical, Bronwyn.” He grinned, baring his teeth. “You don’t want to marry me.”
“I don’t have to be logical.” Arms crossed over her chest, she turned her back on him. “You came to Rachelle’s knowing who I was, knowing you were betrothed to my sister—my sister!—and you still seduced me—”
“You seduced me,” he corrected, infuriatingly calm.
“And I liked it.”
“Of course.”
His acknowledgment did nothing to restore her temper. She swung around to face him again. “Do you feel no shame?”
“None.” He twisted the key in the lock and lifted it to show her.
She sucked in the stifling air. “If you believe you can debauch me any time you wish, you’re due for a sad awakening.”
His tones were heavy with surprise. “Debauch? That’s not what you called it before.”
She tossed her head.
Weighing the key in his hand, he came to a decision. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the key onto the chest of drawers. “I can debauch you any time I wish. It’s what you’ve been wanting these last three weeks, is it not?”
“You!” Taking deep breaths did nothing to alleviate her fury. Indeed, it only made her sorry for tearing the scarf, for her breasts strained against her low neckline, and he didn’t fail to notice. Nor did he try to hide his appreciation. “Two and a half weeks! And I only wanted you when I believed you free of entanglements.”
With his gaze still on her bosom, he removed his waistcoat. “I told you I would do anything to get you to marry me, and a lively night life seemed an ostensible persuasion.”
“You’d do anything but end your betrothal to my beautiful sister.”
“Did you want me to cry off?” He moved toward her, stalking her, discarding his cravat as he came. “Such conduct is impossible for a gentleman.”
She wanted to scorch him with her disdain. “When did you ever worry about your reputation as a gentleman?”
Grinning offensively, he said, “I doubt your sister will appreciate being the center of such a tidbit of gossip.”
“Oh, I see.” Too angry to be cautious, she stood her ground until he stood so close, she had to tilt her head to look into his face. “You were being considerate of Olivia. It couldn’t have been that you hoped to land in her bed, too?”
His hands, reaching out for her, stopped, dropped to his side. “I have no interest in Olivia. You of all people should know that.”
“Olivia is one of the Sirens of Ireland. Olivia is as lovely as the rising sun. I’ve seen men fall and worship at her feet with their first glance.” Her lip curled. “Do you expect me to believe you don’t want her?”
“Foolish woman, I fell and worshiped at her feet with my first glance, and stood up on my second.” He laughed, brief and bitter. “Don’t think you can fool me. You use this betrothal as a way to tell me you want me to leave you alone.”
“Leave me alone?”
“Believe me, I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“I always knew you would be horrified when you discovered my family history. I tried to keep the stain of it away from you. I failed. Why would any woman stay with the son of a criminal?”
“Your father?” She began to understand his babblings. “Are you talking about the story ol’ Sawbones and Daphne told me? That you’re counterfeiting South Sea stock?”
“That’s the story all London believes.”
Incredulous, she held up her palm as if to halt his flow of words. “That’s the reason you give for no longer wanting me?”
“No longer want you?” He grabbed her outthrust hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches. “I want you so much I ache with it.”
She snatched her hand away from the heat, the hardness, and bunched it into a fist. “If you think I’m going to fall for a lame tale like this one, you’re mad. You may want me this minute, but by tonight you’ll be satiated and on your way. This is just an excuse to discard me.”
His eyebrows shot up. “An excuse? To discard you? Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I’m not beautiful like my sisters,” she answered, exasperated by his deliberate obtuseness.
“What nonsense. That’s an excuse to discard me.”
“Very funny,” she fumed. “Why would I want to discard you?”
“Because I’m the son of a counterfeiter and a possible counterfeiter myself,” he roared. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“I’ve been listening.” She lifted the weight of her hair from her shoulders, fanned the back of her neck with her hand. “Listening to a lot of drivel.”
“If my background doesn’t mean anything to you, why did you pay so little attention when the rumor of my counterfeiting came to your ears?”
She spread her arms wide. “What did you expect me to do?”
“When Judson told the tale of Madame Rachelle’s husband, you slapped him. You screamed at him. You threw him out.” Staring down the end of his nose, he said, “None of that righteous indignation spilled over for me.”
“Judson sought to do real harm to Rachelle. She operates a salon. She’s a foreigner. She could be harmed by these rumors—and has been. No such harm could come to you.??
? Prodding him, wanting to make him ashamed, she mocked, “If I’d known you were going to be such a baby about it, I would have kicked ol’ Sawbones and pulled Daphne’s hair. Would that have made you happy?”
Insufferably superior, he said, “At least when I went to Change Alley and the lowest scum shunned me, I would know I had the support of my mistress behind me.”
“Your mistress?” Wanting to get back at him, she leaned forward until her gown revealed her and enunciated, “I’m not your mistress anymore.”
His hands shot out and grasped the neckline of her gown. In a kind of triumph, he tore it from top to waist. “We’ll see about that.”
She looked down at herself, at her unadorned linen corset revealed by the shredded edges of her fragile blouse. She couldn’t believe this. She couldn’t believe his nerve. “Do you think you’re the only one who—” Grabbing the lapels of his shirt, she jerked down and out. Buttons flew in every direction, and she smiled tightly.
Her smile faded as he dipped into a pocket in his breeches, pulling out a long, thin leather case. It produced an efficient-looking knife, and he flipped it as he said, “A seaman goes nowhere without his blade.”
His narrowed gaze produced no alarm, only a pronounced thump of her heart. He wouldn’t hurt her. She knew that. Knew, too, that her dignity would suffer should she fight.
At least—that was what she told herself.
She stood motionless as he pulled out her waistband, panniers, and petticoats, and cut them. They dropped around her ankles, and in outrage she asked, “I suppose you’re happy now?”
“Not quite.” With a steady hand, he slit her corset along one whalebone until it gaped wide. He nicked her chemise close against her bosom, and then, inserting his finger into the hole, he tugged until the material tore.
The only garments on her body unaffected by his barrage were her stockings. Ignoring the relief the air provided, she stood in the ruin of her best working dress and sneered, “You’ve proved yourself to be a real man. Now let’s see if you’ll stand still for my retaliation.”
He grinned offensively and offered his knife, handle first. With the air of a queen receiving a tribute, she accepted it.
“Trust a woman to hold a knife incorrectly,” he sneered.
She looked down at the hand grasping the hilt, saw the fingers tighten. “Trust a man,” she sneered back, “to fear to teach a woman how to hold a knife.”
He jerked her around so her back met his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Give it to me.”
Heat flowed from him like a white-hot fire as she slapped the knife into his palm.
He flipped the knife, caught it. “Like this. See how my fingers are positioned?”
“I see, I see,” she replied in irritation. She wiped perspiration from her forehead with her shoulder, then wiped her palm on her shredded chemise. Grasping the knife, she imitated him exactly.
He said not a word of praise; he only grunted.
Irked by his nonchalance, she taunted, “Is there anything else you want to show me?”
He tried to take the knife, and for one insane moment she wrestled for possession. “Do you want to know how to throw?” he snarled. “Or not?”
She released it.
“Hold the blade with your fingertips. Balance it. Aim. And when you throw, don’t throw like a woman.” Disdain for feminine ability coated his tone. “Pull back your arm and make sure it sticks in your target. Here, you try it.”
Holding the blade with her fingertips proved more of a challenge than simply grasping the handle. Razor sharp, the point sank into her index finger as if it were butter. She tucked her lips tight against the pain and adjusted her grip until she duplicated his grip. She thought.
“Not like that.” He adjusted her fingers forcibly. “See? Like that. You know you’re doing it right when it feels like an extension of your arm.”
She doubted that.
“Let’s see how you prime yourself.” He stepped away. “And remember, don’t throw like a woman.”
If he’d stood in front of her, she could have done a smashing job. As it was, she pulled back her arm and threw as hard as she could. To her surprise, the blade sailed across the room, end over end, struck the chest of drawers, and stuck there, quivering with the shock of impact.
She, too, quivered with the shock. Pleasure and a sense of accomplishment brought her pirouetting to face him.
With an inscrutable expression on his face, he looked at the knife. “You forgot to aim.”
Screaming at him would accomplish nothing. But she knew how to make him cower. She stalked to the drawers, jerked the knife out of the wood, and stalked back to him. “My turn to undress you.”
Her skill could not match his, and the side fly of his breeches lost its buttons helter-skelter. To his credit, he didn’t flinch as she slit the seam down to his crotch—but perhaps he feared to move, she thought with glee. Kneeling before him, she sawed through the buttons at his knee and jerked down the breeches. She looked up at him, up past the confirmation of his passion and to his stomach, his chest displayed through the white rags of his shirt. From this angle he looked like a god, fearless, imperious, demanding. Her gaze skimmed the muscles that rippled like ocean swells beneath his skin, lifted to the column of his neck, stared into his eyes.
The barbaric fury transformed itself in an instant.
Chapter 15
Like a flash of lightning on this sunny afternoon, Adam remembered. Remembered what attracted him to her. Remembered how long it had been since they’d embraced. Remembered how good love had been.
Her lips opened; her tongue slipped out to lick her lips as though she were a child who had been offered a sugarplum. The lightning had struck her, too.
Her hands crept up, skimming his calves, his thighs. The pleasure, too intense, too sudden, singed him. He caught her wrists and plucked her hands away. Her soft protest was lost as he dragged her to her feet.
Her shift was white, in shreds, and in the way. Desperately in the way. His need flamed beyond control. He yanked the shift from her so quickly that he heard a tearing sound, and the sound reminded him of the scene in the salon.
She’d ripped the scarf, the symbol of their accord, and her aspersion added strength to his recklessness. He twirled her toward the bed; somehow she served as a pivot, and he landed on his back on the mattress. Squares of sunshine lifted and fell on the white coverlet, writhing with their skirmish. The warmth from that bright orb seeped into his buttocks as he struggled up on his elbow, but Bronwyn leaped atop him before he could maneuver.
He forgot why he should be in command. Scooting to sit with his shoulders propped against the wall, he found that the sight of her appeased one longing, activated another. The scent, the savor of her orange perfume, wafted in with his every breath. She whispered his name, just “Adam,” but in tones of such desire that he shivered with elation.
She swarmed over him, took him inside her. And all along his length her body touched his, melded with his, until he was a part of her, yet whole in himself. Without understanding him, without reassuring him, she mended his tears, healed his hurts.
No finesse sweetened their loving. He grasped her hips, lifting her in a wild rhythm she already knew. They were close, so close her panting exhalations touched his cheek. Her eyes closed, opened, closed, as if the pleasure of all her senses overwhelmed her.
“Hurry, hurry,” she urged, and his elation rose with her snarl of impatience.
Her slight round bottom filled his hands. Sunshine lit her curves, turned the droplets of perspiration between her breasts to diamonds. Her garters scraped the side of his hips, yet it wasn’t discomfort but only another part of the friction that bit at him.
Exertion stung his biceps as he lifted her, rocked her. She fought to move quickly; he struggled to slow her, and laughed aloud as she clenched her teeth, flung back her head, scraped his shoulders with her fingernails.
Briefly her eyes opened, and she gla
red. “Too much,” she muttered. “Too hot.”
She sought restraint, but he would incite a frenzy. His head bent, he caught her nipple in his mouth, suckled until she cried out. When he felt the surge within her, the renewed dampness, the coming storm, he bit down lightly.
She screamed, spasmed, collapsed for a brief moment.
“More,” he commanded.
“I can’t.” Her teeth almost chattered with her tension. “I can’t,” she insisted as he rolled his hips beneath her.
His own needs drove him now, blocking thought and releasing an instinct that toppled her from one orgasm to another. Water splashed on his chest: perspiration, tears, he didn’t know. He knew only that when his own release seized him, he could scarcely restrain his shout of gratification.
Bronwyn withered down onto him. Clasping her, he reveled in the accord carried on the wave of physical pleasure. It was a false accord, he knew, for they had settled nothing in their fiery quarrel. Nothing, except that in the crucible of their passion they were melted into one entity.
For now that was enough.
He fanned her with a pillow he pulled from behind him, but she whispered, “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t.” She sighed and rubbed her face into his chest like a kitten seeking comfort. “It’s cooler.”
He looked out the window. The sunshine had vanished, blotted from the sky by an onslaught of clouds. The heat had broken at last. He could hear the city below them as it hurried to escape the first raindrops. He could hear, also, the distant shouts of an angry man, and he urged Bronwyn to look at him. “Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Will he come up?”
“If he hasn’t yet, then he will not. My mother, and Rachelle, I suspect, have restrained him.”
Her lips stretched in a smile he’d missed these weeks. “I never kissed you,” he mused.
“You didn’t,” she agreed.
“A grievous oversight.”
“Easily rectified.”