Chapter 4 #2
He’d clearly just pulled on a long, black silk robe, loosely tying the sash at the waist. She realized she was staring at his magnificent chest and hastily looked up. The sight was no less distracting. His brown hair curled loose to his shoulders, endearingly disheveled from sleep.
Something about his appearance made her think of angels, warrior angels such as Michael. As he stepped forward, the thin robe clung to his body, and even parted to show a warrior’s legs.
Elf stared, stunned by an alarming desire to kiss various bits of his magnificent anatomy.
“Come to your senses, Lisette?”
She forced her mind back to her purpose. “Oh, my lord. I’m in such discomfort. Will you please untie me?”
“Of course not. Is that why you woke me?”
“I can’t get any rest,” she sniveled. “Could you not at least tie my hands in front? I rolled like this and can’t roll back.”
His expression relaxed into a wry smile.
After placing his candles on a table, he settled on the edge of the bed to rub her back in a disconcertingly gentle manner.
“Poor Lisette. I suppose you’re thoroughly scared.
And, as you say, uncomfortable. You see what comes of going on wild adventures to Vauxhall. ”
“I do, my lord. I’ll never be so foolish again.” And that was true. After this night, Elf wanted no more adventures.
“But I can’t risk your running off, you know. I’m not sure you won’t tattle of things that can’t be spoken of. And there’s a chance those men are watching the house. I’ve no mind to have an innocent life on my conscience.”
Surprisingly, he sounded sincere. This was a Walgrave she did not know.
“I understand, my lord. But if you could just tie my hands in front . . .”
He rubbed her back for a few more moments, and when he stopped, Elf almost protested. “Very well,” he said, and untied her wrists. He rolled her onto her back, and even gave her a moment to stretch and rub away some of the pins and needles before seizing her wrists to retie them at the front.
Despite her discomfort, despite the danger, Elf couldn’t help appreciating the beauty of him so close in the candlelight. Framed in jet-black silk, the muscles of his chest and neck were clearly defined. She’d never thought men’s necks of any particular interest.
She would dearly like to see the whole of him, to see if it matched the promise of the visible parts . . .
“Changing your mind, sweetheart?” The lazy voice pulled Elf out of her wanton thoughts and she looked up at him, embarrassed. “By the expression on your face, you want to eat me.”
He’d retied her almost unnoticed! And even with the mask, he’d read her wicked thoughts. Perhaps she’d been licking her lips!
“Well?” he said, stroking her jawline. “It’s not yet one o’clock. We’ve plenty of night left.” Light as a feather, he brushed his thumb across her lips. “You’re ripe for it and you know it. You know I can please you . . .”
Could someone take over another’s mind, using a soft, persuasive voice to shape thoughts to his will?
Or was he merely speaking the truth of her desires?
Though she couldn’t quite form a denial, Elf managed to shake her head. Reluctantly. Very reluctantly. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted to accept his offer when but a short while since she’d fought him.
She’d never anticipated the power of unexpected kindness when applied to an awakened body.
Bodies could be very wicked.
He shrugged and stood. Then, with a disarming glint of mischief, he untied the belt of his robe and let it fall open.
Elf looked.
She looked up at his face, then down again, her mouth turning dry and her heart thundering.
He let the black silk slither down his arms, then caught it in one hand.
He reminded her of a statue, but not a stern Roman senator—a nude Greek athlete. Sleek, solid muscles were perfectly arranged around long strong bones.
“Are you quite sure, Lisette?” She looked up to see a gentle teasing that threatened to melt her reason. “As my lover, you’d be allowed to do all the wicked things you’re imagining, and some you haven’t even thought of yet.”
Oh yes. Oh please . . .
But then the many powerful reasons why it would be insanity managed to make themselves heard. Though she could have wept, she shook her head again.
He shrugged, picked up his candles, and strolled back to his room, his beautiful naked back constant temptation to change her mind. She could imagine the feel of his firm, round buttocks beneath her hands . . .
“By the way,” he said, presumably from his bed, “if you call me again, I’ll take it as a demand that I satisfy your all-too-obvious appetite no matter whether you shake your head or not.”
The candles were extinguished and silence fell.
Elf lay on her back, shaken by lust and consumed with embarrassment.
Vague hungers based on kisses and men’s clothed bodies had now taken concrete form. Her desires were no longer dreamy. They were firm, urgent, and centered on Fortitude Harleigh Ware, Earl of Walgrave, the least likely man to satisfy them if he discovered who she was.
Well, she tried to tell herself, she’d known she was feeling this restlessness, this dissatisfaction. Mere accident had thrown her in with her brother-in-law tonight. Her feelings would surely have been the same for any other handsome man who’d rescued her from death.
She wasn’t sure she believed it, and the temptation to take him at his word and call out again astonished her. He would strip off her clothes until she was as naked as he. Then he’d lie beside her and touch her as he’d touched her on the boat, but more so. He’d suckle her again, and stroke her.
And she would be able to touch him, to enjoy the rough and smooth of him, the hard and soft.
The taste.
The smell . . .
No!
Elf blew out a long breath and concentrated on lying still, on listening to the clocks in the house sound one, and then the quarter, then the half.
Then she began her escape before she did something impossibly wicked.
First, she reached up to work her dagger free. That was when she realized that the cunning man had tied her hands back to back so her fingers couldn’t work together.
She worked away with just her right hand, thankful that the dagger fit on the outside of the wooden stay down the front of her stomacher.
At least she couldn’t stab herself in the heart.
When she had it free of its sheath, she lost her grip so it tumbled onto the bed.
In fumbling for it, she jabbed her hand and hissed at the pain.
She hadn’t realized just how sharp it was!
But she had it at last.
Then she discovered that with it in the grasp of her right hand, she could not reach the garters binding her wrists. Blast the cunning man’s eyes! She could reach her ankles, however, and soon had her legs free.
She sat on the edge of the bed in almost pitch darkness, trying to find a way to cut through the garters binding her wrists. All she managed was to pierce her skin again and again so blood ran down her arms. She needed to get the blade between her hands to cut there.
It was impossible.
Then she had an inspiration. Gripping the hilt of the small dagger in her teeth, she brought her bound wrists up to work against the blade.
It was surprisingly difficult, and she could have screamed with frustration.
Her teeth couldn’t hold the dagger steady, so she couldn’t apply much pressure.
Saliva gathered, and she kept having to take the knife out to swallow.
It was hard to find the right angle, and she nicked herself again and again.
Despite the mass of burning cuts, she would not, could not give up.
The silk parted so suddenly that she gasped and the knife tumbled to the floor. She froze, listening intently to the next room.
Only the ticking of clocks broke the silence.
With a deep shuddering breath she flexed her hands, pressing at the sore cuts with the sheet. In the dark, she couldn’t see the damage, but she didn’t think it was serious. Just painful.
Re-sheathing her dagger, she slipped off the bed. She considered leaving her hoops behind, but without their support her skirts hung perilously long, so she took the time to tie them on again. Then she put on her cloak, dark side out, pulling the hood up over her white-powdered hair.
Her stockings and garters were beyond hope, but she considered whether they might identify her.
She couldn’t imagine how. She was dithering, so she picked up her shoes and faced her challenge.
She had to leave this room and escape the house, then cross London in the middle of the night, with murderers quite likely lurking in the shadows.
She was tempted to go into the next room, Walgrave’s room, where she might find a pistol. She couldn’t take such a risk, however, even though she would have loved to have a weapon.
Shrugging, she reminded herself she was a Malloren.
As her brother often said, with a Malloren, all things are possible.
She crept across the room and tried the door to the corridor. The knob turned in well-maintained silence, and the door opened without a sound into almost total darkness.
Feeling her way toward the stairs, she tried to convince herself that no one would leave an obstacle in the middle of the corridor. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure, however, and so crept along with tiny steps, hands extended. The last thing she wanted was to crash into anything.
By the time she reached the top of the stairs, her heart was pounding and her nerves were in shreds. A fine adventurer she was turning out to be. If she had a way of calling for her brothers to come and protect her, she’d take it in a moment!