Chapter 8 #2
Shame it wasn’t twenty. That he’d not suffered a bout of temporary insanity sooner. At least he’d settled Shadowmere on his only son before he loaded the pistol.
“If you want to attend the Autumn Masque, bring me a name and proof. I won’t host another gathering until I have the full list in hand and can verify every last one.”
A collective gasp echoed behind him.
Good. Let them scramble for a new den of vice.
Miss Harland slipped her arm through his and tugged lightly. “We should give Lord Templeton time to consider his options. You promised to show me the garden before it gets cold.”
“I promised to show you a lot of things.”
“Then take me outside. Be a man of your word.”
The veiled suggestion wasn’t lost on him. He might have groaned aloud but offered Templeton one last look instead. “Enjoy your evening. I know I intend to.”
He led Miss Harland through the terrace doors into the cool hush of night, eager to put distance between her and the reckless rabble.
The garden resembled Eden after the fall—perfumed with jasmine and teeming with sinners. Lanterns glowed amber among the trees, casting long, sultry shadows. The box maze had become a bordello of rustling hedgerows, moans drifting like incense.
“A maze. How marvellous.” Miss Harland’s innocent eyes brightened. “At Lady Huntington’s country party last Christmas, I reached the centre first.”
“The guests in there are of the same mind—being first to the post, that is. Linger long enough and you’ll hear their cries of triumph.” And a few colourful curses when they crossed the finish line.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me, sir.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Mock you? Never. And I told you, only call me sir in bed.”
She glanced at the burning braziers and the festoons of lights strung between the trees. “It’s rather romantic, given the circumstances.”
Her gaze settled on the polished oak floor laid over half the lawn. She said nothing. She looked up at the night sky, tilting her head as the strains of a waltz floated through the open terrace doors.
What must it be like to live in hope?
To dream and not wake with regret?
To be broken and still marvel at the stars?
“What are you thinking?” He wasn’t sure why he cared.
She sighed as she stared at the heavens. “That nothing is as beautiful as the sky above Shadowmere on a clear night.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed.”
She turned to him. “Then you must come to the cottage. I’ve a spare chair and blanket, but you’ll have to bring your own brandy.”
He pictured her outside, wrapped in wool and innocence. Of all the invitations he’d received, none was more tempting than this.
He offered his hand. “I know my name tops the list of men you’re meant to avoid, but would you care to dance, Miss Harland?”
“Dance?” She glanced behind, one brow lifted. “There’s not a soul on the floor. Who are you trying to impress?”
“You.” He caught her hand and didn’t let go, though he told himself he should. “I’m happy to top any list but that one. And since you’ve confessed to being a hopeless romantic, it would be rude to leave you unsatisfied.”
Amusement lit her eyes. “I thought you were in the habit of breaking hearts.”
He shrugged. “Not yours, it seems.”
“I suppose there’s no longer any need to hurt me.”
“Perhaps I convinced myself I was saving you.”
“In some strange way you did.”
He pulled her close, one hand settling at her waist, the other capturing hers with an ease that should concern him. Her warmth seeped through her silk glove into his skin, a silent sort of brand.
This wasn’t revenge.
Not anymore.
It felt like atonement. And something far more dangerous.
“Is this the dance that wasn’t quite over?” she asked as he swept her into the first turn. “What is it about us that seems unfinished?”
He laughed. Trust her to go straight to the heart of it.
“You tell me. You’re the one who lured me out here alone. Do you want another taste of me? Is that it? I should warn you. One more won’t be enough.”
Her fingers curled tighter in his. “I wished to berate you.”
“For not buying you the ruby?”
“I don’t care about the ruby. It’s the gesture, not the gem.”
“So you’re not annoyed it’s on loan?”
“No. I’m afraid. For a clever man, you’ve done a foolish thing.” She held his gaze, her tone serious now. “You hold the key to a vault of secrets. Once the parties cease, your guests will demand your silence.”
He couldn’t see the problem. “And?”
“We both know there’s only one way to truly silence someone. Hit them with a blunt object and toss them into the Thames.”
He might have answered with a quip, but no one had ever looked at him like she did now. As though losing him would leave a mark. As though she might mourn him in her dotage.
He didn’t deserve her consideration.
“You don’t need to worry about me.” He pulled her closer. “You’re right. I’m no fool. There are plans in place. Every guest who signs the contract knows exactly what’s at stake if they betray my trust. It’s in their interests to keep me alive.”
She searched his face, and he thought he glimpsed pity there. “There are other ways to hurt a man. You target those close to him. You take away everything he holds dear.”
His step faltered, his mother’s lifeless body still vivid in his mind. But he recovered. The villain hadn’t meant to destroy an eighteen-year-old boy. It had merely been the consequence.
“Why do you think I live like a monk? Keep only a few close friends?” Why the Brethren met in secret and plotted vengeance from the shadows?
Something he said struck a nerve. She drew a sharp breath, eyes shining with sudden tears. She stopped dancing, slipped from his hold, and stared as though he were the devil himself.
“Of course. It all makes perfect sense now.” Her voice cracked. She touched the ruby at her throat, then recoiled as if it had burned her. “My father always said I was a naive fool.”
Confused, he shook his head.
She stepped back, the space between them a chasm.
“It explains everything. The necklace. The dress.” She tugged on the silk as if it offended her. “The kindness you’ve shown me. If they believe we’re lovers, they’ll hurt me to punish you.” A brittle laugh escaped her. “You didn’t kill my father, but you could destroy me instead.”
“For heaven’s sake, woman. Have you lost your wits?” He edged closer. She edged back. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d give Templeton permission to pursue you.”
“Perhaps you have and he’s part of the plan.” She muttered under her breath, rambling like a bedlamite. “That’s why you agreed to this partnership. To trick me. To lure me into a trap.”
“A trap?” His jaw tightened. “I’d kill them if they touched you.”
He meant it. Every word.
But promises from a scoundrel weighed nothing.
“I need to leave.” Her voice broke on a sob. “Get as far away from here—from you—as I can. Is nowhere safe?”
“Take a breath,” he said, the plea cloaked as a command.
But she turned, hitched her skirts, and ran full tilt towards the garden’s edge, towards the wrought-iron gate that led to the mews.
He gave chase, boots pounding the ground, ignoring the gasping couple hidden behind the oak—the man’s pale arse gleaming like a ghost in the moonlight.
“Daphne!”
It was the first time he’d spoken her name.
He’d imagined it under very different circumstances.
She glanced back over her shoulder, panic in her eyes, and missed her step. Her foot caught on a root, and she went down hard.
“Daphne.”
Even as she fell, something twisted in his chest.
He was at her side in a heartbeat, lifting her gently, brushing dirt from her gown, tugging off her glove to examine her hand.
“You think I planned this?” he said, his voice rough with disbelief. “That I meant to put a target on your back? That hurting you once wasn’t enough?”
“What else should I think?”
She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip on her wrist. Words he didn’t want to say clung to his tongue.
“You’ve no defence?” she asked, her anger palpable.
But all he could see were her lips wet with tears, the leaves tangled in her hair, the dirt smudged across her cheek. He should’ve let her go. Instead, he was drowning. And something inside him cracked.
“Perhaps I wanted you close so I could protect you.”
He drew her in, their mouths just inches apart, her warm breath melting the last of his resolve. “So I could right a wrong. So I could ease this blasted craving.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just looked up at him like she already knew he was lost.
One kiss, and he could be rid of this fever.
One kiss might silence the storm inside him.
Then he could be done with this madness.
“What craving?” she asked softly.
“This one.”
He kissed her, his mouth brushing hers slowly, giving her time to pull away, stamp on his toes or knee him in the groin.
She didn’t. Her fingers curled into his coat and she leaned in, her lips parting beneath his.
That was all the invitation he needed.
He took her mouth with a hunger he scarcely understood, one that had clawed at him for days, growing teeth the moment he’d heard her singing as she bathed. The lazy ripple of water and the low, breathy notes of her voice had driven him half mad with need.
To be in that room.
To be inside her.
He’d imagined her through the door, soap sliding over the curve of her thigh, the creamy swell of her breasts rising from the water, visions that left him aching then and made his need a furious, inescapable thing now.
His hand slipped to the small of her back, dragging her close until he felt the press of her breasts and the maddening heat of her body. He should pull away, throw water on the flames.
Instead, he angled her head and took the kiss deeper, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, claiming stroke that made him throb with the promise of more.
That’s it, angel.
Taste me. Taste me like I know you want to.
She moaned into his mouth, a greedy little sound that nearly finished him. His cock ached, rigid with the want of her, the burn of it almost cruel. God help him. One stroke of her hand and he’d spend like a schoolboy.
He forgot himself.
Forgot she was an innocent, not his rampant lover.
He’d never kissed a woman like this.
Like he wanted to lay claim to her soul, drive a placard into her heart and protect the land with swords and rifles. Like he wanted to part her legs and rut like a beast. Fast and so bloody hard.
He shifted, one knee sliding between hers, the brush of her skirts making him curse the layers that separated them.
Her sweet whimper said she wanted him there.
There was nowhere on earth he’d rather be.
The thought proved sobering.
Dominic Hawke didn’t lose himself over a woman. He didn’t paw at flesh in the dark. He didn’t slake his lust like some depraved libertine. He could control his hunger. He could master his emotions.
So why the hell was he still kissing her?
He dragged his mouth from hers with a breathless curse.
“Tell me that was a mistake,” he rasped. “Lie to me. Say you hated every second. Say kissing me turns your stomach. Makes you sick to the pit. That you’d rather die than do it again.”
She blinked, still a little dazed and confused.
Then a woman’s sultry voice drifted on the breeze. “Au contraire, Mr Hawke. From my vantage point, Miss Harland looks like she delights in sin.”