Her body convulsed and she tried to cry out, but nothing came from her throat but a strangled cry. She was out of control, lost, gone somewhere that she hadn’t known existed, and the only thing with her was Christian, his arms around her, shaking as hard as she was as he spilled himself deep inside her.
She didn’t know when she’d be able to breathe again. When she’d be able to think again. It was as if she drifted down from the darkness, back onto the tumbled bed, with his body sprawled across hers, powerful and hot and sweaty, and yet tiny tremors kept rippling across her skin, and she wanted to clutch him to her, drawing him in tighter, deeper, closer.
After a long moment he lifted his head, looking down at her. The strange, unbidden tears were flowing down her face, and his smile was wry, almost loving. He kissed her, whispering against her mouth, her ear, her cheek, soft, delicious words of praise and love, all in French, and she had no choice but to reply, to tell him what she’d already told him in English, half facetiously, but now, in French, with his body still inside hers, what felt like an eternal pledge. “I love you,” she whispered. “Je t’aime.”
“Encore,” he said. And began to move again.
She wouldn’t have guessed she had the capacity for that night. He made love to her, bathed her, kissed her, and started all over again, and each time her response came faster, stronger, until she thought she could bear no more and he proved to her that she could. He had her do things she’d never imagined, taking him into her mouth with wicked pleasure, moving into any position he wished, beneath him, above him, on her knees with her back to him like some kind of slave. And she would think he had done all he wanted, and she could rest, and then he would touch her again, and she would come alive once more.
She must have slept. Or fainted. She didn’t remember him leaving the bed, leaving her, but as she slowly opened her eyes to the murky predawn light she knew she was alone among the tangled sheets.
Someone had built up the fire. She moved her head, carefully, since everything felt weak and fragile, and she could see him, sitting on the bench beneath the window, staring into the flames.
He was dressed, or at least halfway there. He had his breeches on, and his shirt was half-buttoned. He must have finally run out of things to do with her, she thought dazedly. So why, when she looked at him, did her body still shiver in longing?
He must have known she was awake, though he kept his gaze averted. “Where do you wish to go?” His voice was flat, emotionless, a shock. He was speaking English once more, and those long, dark, indecent hours might never have existed.
“Go?” she said stupidly, forcing herself to sit up, pulling the coverlet around her. Of course, he was sending her away—hadn’t he made it abundantly clear that he had no feelings for her? At least, not when he spoke English.
He still didn’t look at her, but he was as casual as if he were discussing a wager. No, even more casual. Wagers involved money, and that was of a great deal more importance than one deflowered spinster.
At her continued silence he turned to look at her. He’d pulled his long hair back and tied it, but one shorter strand still hung down the side of his narrow, beautiful face. If she were closer she’d lovingly push that strand back behind his ear—or slap his face, she wasn’t sure which.
“You aren’t going to be tedious and cry, are you, dragon?” he drawled. But something didn’t seem quite right in his lazy tone. Not after the hours they’d just spent.
“I’m not going to cry,” she said steadily.
His smile was brief. “Of course you’re not. You’re ever a practical creature. I’ll make arrangements for you to go wherever you want. Back to Lady Prentice? Perhaps a short visit to a member of your family? Anywhere but Josiah Chipple’s.” He sounded no more than vaguely interested in her destination. He was sending her away, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Except debase herself still further. “I love you,” she said in her perfect French. “I can’t live without you. I’ll do anything you want if you let me stay with you.”
He didn’t even blink. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t speak French.” And he strolled out of the room without a backward glance.
23
She hadn’t made a sound when he walked out the door. If she had, he might have stopped, might have turned back to her like the idiot he was. But she was absolutely silent, and he closed the door behind him, closed her away from him, and slowly walked down the stairs.
It was a waste of time telling himself what a fool he’d been, what a selfish bastard—none of that was news. He’d known the first time he’d looked directly into the Honorable Miss Annelise Kempton’s clear gray eyes that he’d have her, and despite his occasional attempts at restraint he’d done just that.
And the sooner she got away from him the better.
He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t pulled out in time. That he’d spilled his seed inside her, something he took great pains never to do. The chances of her actually conceiving would be slight, but it wasn’t impossible. What would she do about it? How could he have ruined her even further?
She was a practical woman, he reminded himself, walking into the darkened library. The rain had finally come to a stop, and the fitful sunrise was spreading slowly over the tangled countryside. He would send her safely out of his reach, hating him enough to never want to see him again, and he could get on with his life without any unwanted responsibilities.
If she was pregnant she would probably be smart enough to find someone to get rid of it for her before she began to show. It was the levelheaded, practical thing to do, but knowing his fire-breathing dragon, he doubted she’d make that choice. No, she would do what most ladies did when caught in an embarrassing condition. She’d go for a long, edifying journey, and when she returned she’d appear just as she was, and some farm couple would have a new child to raise.
He’d always tried to avoid that. He didn’t want any bastard of his at the mercy of someone paid to take care of him. He’d known both sides—what it was like to grow up loved and to grow up with no one giving a damn about him. He wouldn’t let the latter happen to anyone of his blood, not if he could help it.
He threw himself down on the sofa, groaning. He was certain of one thing—she’d be all right. Once she was away from his pernicious influence she’d be back to her usual starchy self and no one would ever guess she’d spent an endless, and yet far too brief night in the arms of one of the wickedest men in England. In the end it might even do her some good. Assuming there was no unfortunate result from the night’s work, she might be more open-minded when it came to courtship. In truth he couldn’t imagine that dozens of men wouldn’t want her. She could take her pick of them and end up with children and a husband and a happy life.
All thanks to him, he mocked himself. What a noble fellow he was, to kindly enlighten Annelise about the pleasures of the flesh. One might almost consider it to be one of his finer moments. If one was as deluded as he dearly wished he was.
He could still see the look in her eyes, the expressions that danced across her face when he touched her in a certain way, moved her just so, cajoled her into doing things the very thought of which would have turned her creamy skin red with embarrassment. He’d convinced her, and she’d reveled in it. And he was growing hard again just thinking about it, when any sane man would be sound asleep after such an energetic night.
He had to let her go. She might escape censure if she got away quickly, but time was of the essence. She’d already stayed dangerously long, and if he didn’t get her away from him…
The slam of crockery was enough to make him jump. He hadn’t even noticed that Bessie Browne had marched into the room with a tea tray and the expression of an avenging angel on her broad, plain face.
He sat up, looking at the jumbled tea things, the broken dishes, and then lifted his eyes to meet Bessie’s stormy gaze. “We don’t really have much of the good china left to spare,” he said mildly.
“You’re lucky I didn’t dump it on your head, Master Christian,” she snapped. “How could you do that to that poor girl?”
He stalled for time. There were few things that chastened him in this life, but Bessie Browne’s fierce temper was one of them. “What do you mean?”
“You left the door open, you shameless man! I saw the two of you sound asleep without a stitch of clothing on. You’re just lucky I didn’t come in and give you a piece of my mind, but I thought to spare the lady—something you clearly didn’t care about.”
“Oh,” he said blankly, at a loss for words.
“You promised her she’d be safe here! You swore on your honor that you wouldn’t touch her. She trusted you!”
“She never trusted me, Bessie. She’s much too smart for that. And she should have known I could never just let her go.”
“Do you have to bed every single woman you meet? Is no one safe from your wickedness? I’ve a good mind to find a horsewhip and teach you a lesson. Harry refused, though he’s sorely disappointed in you, but it’s not beyond my capabilities or your desserts.”
He glanced up at Bessie’s sturdy, work-honed frame, and half wished she would. “I don’t bed every woman I meet. I left that infant I eloped with entirely alone.”
“Then why Miss Annelise? It was a cruel, heartless thing to do, Master Christian. Not like you. To be sure, you’re feckless and selfish and irresponsible, but I’ve never known you to be cruel.”
He felt an unaccustomed warmth hit his cheekbones. It was nothing he hadn’t said to himself, but seeing Bessie’s stern condemnation made it even worse. She and Harry had given up everything to come work for him, and they seldom saw a farthing for it, but they’d always had an odd, classless friendship, and her good opinion mattered.
But it was too late. He shrugged. “I couldn’t resist her,” he said simply.
“Are you going to marry her?”
“Good God, no!” he said. “If I marry at all I should marry money. Besides, I doubt she’d have me. She’s much too smart for that.”
“True enough,” Annelise spoke from the doorway. “Mrs. Browne, I need to leave here as soon as possible. Is there any possibility your husband could see to some sort of hired conveyance for me, to take me at least as far as the next coaching stop? A farm cart would do.”
Bessie’s ire was forgotten as she rushed to Annelise’s side. “Don’t you worry about a thing, miss. My Harry will see to your well-being, if he has to steal a carriage himself. Ten years of living with Master Christian has taught us to disregard the law when necessary.”
She managed a tight smile, not looking at him. “That would be very kind. I’d need some sort of shoes…”
The three of them looked at her feet. They were bare, and she had surprisingly pretty toes. He’d never considered feet to be erotic before, but he was fast changing his mind.
She was wearing that hideous brown dress. He should have ripped it off her, as he had the chemise. What was she wearing underneath the scratchy wool, then? And why couldn’t he stop thinking about such things, when he should have clearly had his fill of her?
“We’ll take care of it, miss. Come along and I’ll make you some breakfast, and I’ll make certain you won’t have to see that miserable excuse for a man again.”
At that Annelise glanced at him, and to his shock she managed the very ghost of a smile. “Oh, he’s quite manly enough in certain ways, Mrs. Browne,” she said. “But I think he’s taught me enough by now.”
There was no sign of tears in her clear gray eyes. She must have found at least some of her discarded hairpins, for she’d managed to tuck her hair into a disordered bun at the back of her neck. The sort of thing that would come undone with just one deft pull.
He wanted to say something, to stop her, but there were no words. She gazed at him for a long, thoughtful moment and then turned and followed Bessie, out of his sight and his life forever.
To his astonishment he slept, stretched out on the sofa, the broken crockery still in front of him as a stern reminder of his infamy. When he awoke it was bright daylight, and there was no sign of either Annelise or Bessie. He found Harry, but one look at his stern, disapproving face convinced him not to ask. Besides, he really shouldn’t care what happened to her once he’d left her in Bessie’s capable hands. They’d take far better care of her than he ever had.
He managed to get the grudging Harry to carry bathwater for him, though he barely brought enough and it was cold. He didn’t argue—the need to bathe was paramount. He smelled like her—sex and flowers, and until he could wash away the scent and the feel of her he wouldn’t be able to put her out of his mind.
He was dressing himself, ignoring his empty stomach, when he glanced at his reflection in the mirror and halted as he was buttoning his snow-white shirt. There was a bite mark at the side of his neck, and he remembered all too well when she’d done it, when he was goading her past bearing, prolonging her climax until she’d bit down on him rather than scream. He pulled his shirt free and looked at his chest, at the tiny marks and scratchings that had driven him over the edge. And he pushed back the foaming lace cuff to look at his forearm, at the bruises left by her fingers when he’d taken her from the back and she hadn’t been able to keep from making all the pleasure-filled sounds he’d been wanting from her.
Damn her. And damn him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let her go, not so quickly, he had to…
Harry had opened one of the windows facing out to the front of the house—probably in the hopes of having him contract a fatal ague, he thought to himself—and the sound of the rider was unmistakable, even on the muddy drive. He felt a sudden panic—she couldn’t have gone so quickly—and when he looked out he saw to his utter astonishment that Crosby Pennington was dismounting a bay mare that had clearly been hired at no slight expense.
Crosby never rode when he could help it—he loathed the exertion and hated the countryside even more. He’d been known to turn down offers for the most amiable of house parties if they were too far away from London. And now he’d suddenly shown up at Wynche End without warning? How very curious. Maybe his visit was just the thing to distract him from his foolish infatuation.
He finished dressing as quickly as he could, cursing the boots that would have gone on much more easily with Harry’s help, then sauntered down the oaken stairs just as Crosby was removing his dusty greatcoat.
“What brings you to the back end of beyond?” he greeted him as he reached the landing.
“Montcalm, thank God you’re here!” Crosby cried. Since Crosby did his best never to show any emotion other than ennui, Christian was becoming ever more curious.
“I’m here,” he said briefly. “What astonishes me is that you’re here as well. Not that you aren’t welcome, dear boy, but you never leave London.”
“I’ve the most astonishing news and I felt it couldn’t wait until you returned. I cajoled your direction from Henry and took off immediately.”
Every trace of charming sloth had been stripped from his voice, and Christian was instantly wary. “Come into the library and I’ll have Mrs. Browne bring us a bottle and we’ll discuss—”
“There’s no time for that!” Crosby cried, frustrated.
Now Christian was totally baffled. “There’s always time for a glass of wine—”
“Christian!” Crosby interrupted. “Your brother is alive!”
He froze. There was no other word for it—he could feel ice flow through his veins, rendering him as incapable of moving as Chipple’s damned statues. “What are you talking about?” he said finally, his voice strained. “My family died more than twenty years ago in the Terror.”
“One of them survived. Your youngest brother was taken by loyal servants and has spent the last fifteen years in hiding. He was finally able to arrange passage from France when someone informed on him. He’d been in hiding in a small coastal village, but he managed to get word out, begging for your help.”
The words were inc
omprehensible. Christian stared at him blankly. “How is this possible?”
“You know I have my sources. Freetraders brought the message—they were looking for you. Apparently they were promised a large sum of money if they found you. With such incentive they managed to find me, and of course I came racing after you as any true friend would after suitably rewarding them. By the way, you owe me fifty pounds for the bribe.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Crosby said, clearly affronted. “You accuse me of lying?”
“Of course not. It’s just…I can’t comprehend…”
“I’ve got passage waiting for us on the coast. Rough quarters, I’m afraid. The best possible passage is by smugglers’ craft, but I thought you wouldn’t object.”
Christian stumbled backward, sitting down on the landing. “Of course not,” he said, trying to take it all in. Charles-Louis, his laughing infant brother, still alive after all these years? There was still one member of his family he could save, and he’d damn well swim to France if he had to. “How soon do we go?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
He didn’t argue. “Give me five minutes.”
“Be certain to bring as much cash as you have on hand,” Crosby called after him. “You never know when we might need it.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“What are friends for?” Crosby replied with a wry smile. “You know you can count on me.”
“Five minutes,” Christian said again. And went off in search of weapons.
The small sitting room was warm, relatively dust free, and the love seat was surprisingly comfortable beneath the tattered coverings. The tea tray lay on the table next to a small marble statue of Diana that reminded Annelise of the Chipple household, and looking at it made her feel worse. She turned her back to it rather than have to stare and remember how she’d gotten into this mess in the first place. She was clean, dressed and well fed, and all she had to do was wait.