A Dangerous Man (36 page)

His eyes went black. His nostrils flared as though scenting her response, testing her fragrance for readiness. He withdrew his finger and touched her chin with the damp tip. He marked a leisurely trail down her throat, over her collarbone to her breasts.

“Here.” He made lazy circles around the dark areolas, teasing them hard and pointed with torturous languor. Then he bent and suckled—so gently, so lightly—flicking each nipple with his tongue until she moaned and bowed, flexing her breast more fully into his mouth, squirming in an effort to deepen his possession of her.

He lifted his head. His breathing was harsh, his face set in tense, controlled lines. “Not yet.”

“Do I beg?” she asked. The place between her thighs felt full and swollen and uncomfortable, replete with raw nerve endings, and each thing he did to her only made it worse, made her feel more frantic, greedier, needier. Only the hardness he’d held her to earlier had helped assuage the clamoring need, and he’d taken that away.

“Beg,” he said. “It won’t do any good. I’m going to please you. At my own pace. There are other places I need to kiss.” His fingertips continued their gossamer journey, feathering a caress over her belly, sculpting the jut of her hipbones, and sweeping
aside the lace-edged top of her pantaloons, exposing her.

“Here.” He touched the shallow indentation of her belly button and she tensed. He smiled, a slow predatory smile, and his hand drifted down over the exquisitely sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. She shuddered, clutching his hard biceps. “Please.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Pleasure.” He moved his hand upward and her hips jerked in an elemental response. She was going to faint. Her heart was thundering. He parted the soft folds between her legs and, with one long, graceful finger, stroked her. He did it again, and again, finally finding the pulsing cynosure of pleasure that nestled therein. He rubbed it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“Please, Hart. Have mercy.” She panted, straining into his touch.

“Yes.” He lifted his hand to his face and she watched in sensual fascination as he breathed deeply the scent of her on him and then slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, licked his fingertips, tasting her. “And there. Oh, God, yes. Particularly there.”

She could not take any more. She pushed her hands between them, fumbling at his trousers. He did not stop her. He did not try. His chest rising and falling like a pumping bellows, he sat back on his thighs, his legs bracketing her hips, watching her hands on his crotch, his face glazed with the sheen of self-restraint.

She found the closure and wrenched it open,
and then she felt him, satin heat and hardness, a thin cloak of velvet smoothness encasing a rock-hard length. She took hold of him in both hands and stroked him.

Once.

All control vanished. He came over her with a growl, suiting his mouth to his hand’s journey. Tasting and kissing and pulling her deeper into a maelstrom of sensation and pleasure. And after he’d pleasured her with his mouth and she shivered in the hot sunlight, drawn as tight as a violin string, suspended at the juncture of painful anticipation and exquisite sensual fulfillment, he pleasured her more, with finger and word and sigh, until her body was flushed and so sensitive, a butterfly’s wing would have seemed an abrasion.

He settled his hard body over hers and cupped her buttocks and lifted her. She met his thrust greedily, countering it with her own. She wanted him in her, filling her, stretching her. He took her in one deep movement.

She smoothed her hands over his back. His smooth, clear skin rippled over hard muscle. He panted hoarsely in her ear and she bucked against him, trying for a closer contact. She cinched his hips between her thighs and clung to the hard contours of his buttocks and he groaned deep in his throat and started … oh yes, oh yes, the rhythm, deep thrust, retreat, hard and filling, sliding heat, masculine potency, until she was there, cresting the wave of pure raw pleasure, riding the sensations out along the thick molten spirals of sensation.

She cried out with the sheer intensity of it and then he was throwing his head back, singing a deep hoarse cry of completion that echoed her own.

Hart touched her face, dabbing at the single tear that fell from the corner of her eye. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she denied immediately. “It was simply … it was … it was the most profound … it was—” She gave up. “Oh, Hart. I love you. I love you so much.”

He caught her close, but not before she’d seen the look of bedazzled incredulity. He cradled her against his chest, rocking her in his arms, his heart thundering beneath her ear.

“Say it again,” he asked weakly.

“I love you.”

He stroked her hair. “Sweet Jesus. To hear you …” and then, suddenly, fearfully, “Dear God, Mercy, you must know that I—”

“I know you love me. I haven’t any doubt.”

“I do love you,” he said reverently. “I have since you strode into my bedchambers and blackmailed me. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.”

“Hart—”

“Let me tell you. God, I want to tell you. Beryl asked me once if I could live without you. I said yes. It’s true you, know … I can. I would. But for the rest of my life I would regret it. Whatever gave
me joy, I would know it could have been a keener joy were you with me. Whatever caused me sorrow, it would only be a bruise because I had already endured the greatest sorrow.” He watched her intently, willing her to understand. “And when I finally died, Mercy, no matter how many years had passed, how many experiences, whatever happened, you would be with me, my last thought.

“God knows I love you, Mercy. I tried not to let it show. I tried so damn hard.”

She leaned upward and kissed his eyelids, his mouth, and his throat until the despair seeped from his haunted gaze. “You did a very good job too,” she said finally in a gruff little voice, and won a smile. “You are so remote, so reserved. I was quite sure you loathed being in the same room with me, and later, when I suspected you might return my feelings, why, even then I might not have been absolutely certain except for one thing.”

“Mercy?”

“You missed.”

“Missed?” he asked.

“In the alley. You missed. You
never
miss. You said so yourself. Only a very strong emotion could make a dangerous, coldhearted man like yourself miss an easy shot like that. I’m convinced it was love.”

He didn’t argue. Instead he rolled her onto her back. “Coldhearted?”

“Yes,” she purred, feeling his body swell against hers once more. “And dangerous.”

“I would not say coldhearted,” he said. “But as for dangerous, the greatest danger you face, my love, is when, or if, you’ll ever get out of this room.”

Epilogue

“A
ny interesting letters?” Hart asked, dropping into the leather chair across from his wife.

Mercy flicked a finger in the direction of the correspondence she’d already read. “Beryl writes that Annabelle has finally achieved an heir for Acton,” she said.

“Bully,” Hart said.

“Now, Hart. She is your sister. And you do have to admit her determination to achieve her goals is … amazing.”

Hart snorted, unconvinced. “She’s amazing, all right. But at least some justice has been served. Having snared her duke, she is forced to share a
breakfast table with her mama-in-law each morning. I seriously doubt the Dowager will ever fully relinquish her title.”

“Eventually she will pass on,” Mercy said.

“And give up her claim on her son? I doubt it.”

Mercy laughed. “Someday we will have to visit Annabelle. She’s been asking for some time now.”

Hart shrugged. He still hadn’t forgiven his sister for refusing to attend his wedding to Mercy. Mercy was working on him, but she didn’t expect any tangible results for another decade or so.

Hart had an incredibly protective streak where she was concerned. Not, she thought, that she minded. He looked fit and relaxed and masculine sprawled in the chair like that, his muscular thighs wide, his big hands resting on his knees. The nightmares he’d garnered in his youth still occasionally plagued him, but now she was there to hold him when he awoke. And they slept in a bed … most of the time, she thought, her interest turning from domestic matters to other things.

“Anything else?” he asked, distracting her.

“Oh,” she said, grinning. “Father has written asking when we will keep our promise and spend another year in Texas.”

“Oh, Mercy …”

“I know. But you did promise. Two years in Texas, two in England. A far more reasonable arrangement than you deserve.”

“Hm.”

“Besides, Father sent you a present.” She
tossed him a brown-paper-wrapped package. He caught it one handed. “Your latest exploits.”

“What the hell …” Hart ripped the package open. A small yellow-covered book dropped into his lap. He turned it over and sputtered disgustedly.

“Can’t we sue the publisher or something? For God’s sake, that makes three in the last two years.”

She smiled innocently. “I don’t think so, Hart dear. After all, who could have guessed when you decided to reveal your history that society—with Beryl and Henley’s invaluable aid—would embrace your past as titillatingly delicious. You yourself say that American and English society are incestuously close. It only stands to reason Americans would be eager for the latest gossip from their cousins across the seas.”

“This isn’t news, this is libel.” He waved his hand at the book on his lap.
“The Mercenary Marquis
, for God’s sake.” He sputtered in disgust. “They can’t even get the damned title right.”

“That
would be libelous,” she said, noting the high color on his lean, handsome face. “Be nice. After all, you are a dangerous and fascinating character,” she said, lowering her voice to a melodramatic whisper. “So cold. So controlled and so—” She started giggling when he sprang up from his seat. He strode across the room and swept her up into his arms. She caught him around the neck and nestled closer.

“I’ll show you how dangerous I am,” he promised meaningfully.

“Your Ladyship,” a frantic voice hailed them from the hall. Hart swore but made no move to lower Mercy to the ground. A breathless young woman appeared in the doorway, her cap askew, her face flushed.

“What is it, Brenna?”

“It’s the neighbor’s girl.”

“Viscount Sheridan’s chit?” Hart asked impatiently. “What of her?”

“She’s crying.”

“Is she hurt?” Mercy asked in concern.

“I don’t think so, M’lady. Mostly she’s mad as a hornet and screaming that she’s going to tell her daddy.”

“Tell her daddy what, Brenna?” Hart asked, his hand moving immodestly nearer Mercy’s breast.

“That young Master William shot her.”

“What?” Mercy and Hart shouted in unison.

“With the slingshot what Her Ladyship made for him. He shot her straight in the bum.”

“Oh,” Mercy said, meeting Hart’s eyes. She started to chuckle and Hart answered her amusement with his own unrestrained laughter.

“Fine fer you to laugh, but what am I to tell Lord Sheridan,” Brenna asked, “about Master Will shootin’ his daughter?”

“Tell him he’d best look into reserving St. George’s Church,” Mercy said.

“M’lady?”

“That is how all the earls of Perth begin a courtship.”