His Mask of Retribution (16 page)

‘Rafe,’ she whispered, watching in the glass as her hands closed over his, pulling him to her, wanting him never to stop. She was trembling with the force of the need throbbing through her. She moaned and her legs began to crumple.

His arm fastened around her waist, holding her upright as he turned her in his arms. The passion in his eyes when he looked at her razed all else in its path.

‘Marianne,’ he said, his breath as ragged as hers. And then their lips found each other, and what exploded between them was so much more than a kiss. It was filled with need and heat and passion, while at the same time exposing something vulnerable and intimate that only two lovers could share. And then he pulled back to look into her face.

She felt dazed, unable to think straight, like there was no one else in the world but them, no world at all beyond this room. She wanted the moment to last for ever. ‘Why have you stopped?’

He smiled and touched his thumb to her lips. ‘So that we might finish the rest of it later.’

‘Later?’ She blinked, unable to think about anything other than wanting his lips on her breasts and his hand between her legs.

‘I will be yours to command,’ he whispered against her neck. And then he helped her dress again and, wrapping the deep-blue cloak around her, he took her hand in his and led her down to the waiting carriage.

* * *

At the entrance to Lady Chilcotte’s dining room, lit by the light of a thousand candles within the two massive crystal-tiered chandeliers, Marianne felt the sudden stiffening of Rafe by her side. She followed the line of his gaze and saw her father across the room, standing by the French windows. Despite the open windows the room was overly warm and airless. The whole of the
ton
seemed to be present and she knew that they were watching both Rafe and herself. She heard the whispers and saw the stares and speculation, reminding her of why she had not wished to come here tonight. Her grip upon Rafe’s arm tightened ever so slightly. He must have felt it, for he slid a surreptitious thumb over her hand and his eyes met hers.

‘I had Callerton start the rumour it was a love match,’ he murmured for her ears only.

A love match. She looked up into the amber eyes of the man who did everything to defend her from the world. A man from whom even the toughest of criminals ran, a man who was much more fierce and powerful than anyone in this room could guess. Yet with her he had been only gentle. For Marianne this really was a love match. She wanted to tell him, but knew she could not. There were so many reasons why. What they had together, this strange connection, the overwhelming attraction—none of it could last. And were he to discover the truth...

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

His hand closed over hers, so warm and reassuring, and she felt his strength filling her.

They shared a smile and she felt safe and confident and happy.

And then together they stepped into the Lady Chilcotte’s dining room to face the whole of London’s
ton
.

* * *

Rafe watched Marianne speaking to Lady Fothergill across the room as Devlin pressed a glass of champagne into his hand. He wanted the evening to be over. He wanted to be alone with Marianne. He wanted to pleasure her a thousand times over, to touch her, to taste her as she lay naked beneath him. He wanted to hear her cry out his name as she came again and again, all through the night. He wanted to slide into her body, to love her, to ride together and spill his seed as she climaxed. He wanted to consummate his marriage. But he knew he must not rush this. In his own single-minded selfish pursuit of Misbourne he had not considered how frightened Marianne must have been when he abducted her. He had taken away her power, her control, her freedom, subjected her to his will through his own greater might. Now he would give her all of that and more. If and when they consummated their marriage was her decision. And for every night, every hour, every minute of his torture, he had only himself to blame.

‘Congratulations, old boy—or should I say commiserations? You have been well and truly caught in parson’s mousetrap. Now I know why you were asking those questions over Misbourne’s banking details.’ Devlin tapped a finger on the side of his nose. ‘Strictly hush-hush, of course.’ Devlin swigged half of his champagne down in one gulp. ‘Thought you would have waited for the answer before taking the plunge from bachelorhood.’

‘The matter was too pressing to wait.’ Rafe did not move his gaze from Marianne. The diamond chips sparkled around her neck. His eyes dropped lower to the sapphire that glinted dark against the smooth pale curve of her breasts.

‘Judging by the way you are looking at her, I think I can imagine just how pressing.’ Devlin smirked.

Rafe did not smile. Devlin had no idea of his feelings for Marianne, or of just how desperate his body was with the need for her. He turned his mind to other matters, shifting his gaze to meet Devlin’s, and took a sip of champagne from the glass in his hand. ‘So, were you able to access Misbourne’s details?’

‘No problem,’ said Devlin. ‘When one’s father owns the bank, no one asks too many questions. Kept it quiet from the old man, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Rafe gave a small cold smile.

‘You struck gold, quite literally, with Marianne Winslow, you sly dog,’ said Devlin. ‘Misbourne’s loaded and no mistake. He has a substantial quantity of bullion. And his safety deposit box was full of jewellery, mainly diamonds and rubies, one of the stones the size of an egg. Plenty of investments. A broad spread of stocks and shares, ownership documents for coal mines in the north and tobacco plantations in the West Indies. He also has a whole pile of bonds worth over a hundred grand, and the deeds for several properties around the country.’

‘Any gaming debts? Any vowels or secret letters?’ Rafe asked nonchalantly and took a sip of his champagne.

‘Nothing like that, you’ll be glad to know,’ said Devlin.

Rafe smiled at just how wrong Devlin was with that remark.

‘Didn’t think you cared much for Misbourne—or Linwood, for that matter.’

‘I don’t,’ replied Rafe coolly.

Devlin raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a cold-hearted bastard when you want something, Knight.’

Rafe smiled.

‘Don’t underestimate old Misbourne. He used to run with m’father when he was young.’ Devlin threw him a significant look. ‘I’ve heard some wild stories—of women and gaming tables. Doesn’t gamble any more, but still likes the women. Got a temper on him like the devil himself. Not a man you should cross...especially over his daughter. So have a care and be discreet if you mean to dally.’

‘I have no intention of dallying,’ said Rafe. His eyes shifted to Marianne again. She seemed to sense his gaze and glanced round to meet it, holding his eyes for a few seconds across the floor and then looking away with a telling blush.

Devlin looked from Rafe to Marianne and back again. ‘Good God, it’s true what they’re saying.’ Rafe could feel the weight of Devlin’s shocked stare on him. ‘I thought it was about the money, but it isn’t, is it? You
do
want her.’

‘Oh, I want her, all right,’ said Rafe, and set his barely touched champagne on the tray of a passing footman. ‘Thank you, Devlin.’ He made his way across the room towards his wife.

* * *

At supper Marianne had only picked at her lobster and pushed the creamed potatoes around her plate. The butterflies fluttering in her stomach had quelled her appetite. And when they did settle she just had to glance in Rafe’s direction for them to start all over again. She had fielded Lady Routledge’s questions over the speed and secrecy of her courtship with Rafe, kept up a steady and polite conversation with Mr Dobson seated on her right, and felt her cheeks warm and a secret pride in her heart at the many looks levelled between her and her husband. She glanced over at him and saw that he was making his way towards her and the spirals of excitement low in her belly danced and burned at the sight of him. And she thought of what would happen later between them, when they returned home.

Chapter Twelve

S
he was sitting on the edge of the easy chair by the fireplace, still wearing her white-and-silver ball gown when he entered their bedchamber. He walked to where she sat and placed the branch of candles on the mantelpiece.

She rose to her feet, her eyes scanning his face. And he could see the desire in them and the slight nervousness as she wetted her lips. He reached to her and touched the silver-blonde tendrils that dangled against her cheek.

‘Is it later?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘What do you want me to do, Marianne?’

‘Kiss me,’ she said.

So he stepped closer and, sliding his palm to cup her cheek, he looked into her eyes and kissed her, as gently as he had kissed her that very first time.

Her whole body seemed to give a sigh of relief. She came into his arms.

He slid the pins from her hair and kissed her until her lips were swollen and pink and moist. He kissed her until her eyes were black with passion and her breath was uneven and fast. He slid a caress over her shoulders, down the length of her spine, over her hips, against her stomach, but not once did he touch her breasts.

Her arms were wrapped around him, her hands splayed against his back, the pressure light at first, then harder as the desire began to pulse stronger through her body. He felt the glide of her hands over his hips, then up the front of his coat before they slid beneath the lapels. She hesitated for a moment, her hands resting lightly against his waistcoat.

‘I am yours, Marianne,’ he whispered against her ear, then grazed his teeth against the soft lobe before taking it into his mouth and flicking his tongue against it.

Her fingers slid within his waistcoat, palms against him, and her hands crept against his chest.

He touched her breasts then, feeling for her nipples through the layers of her clothing as she felt for his through the fine linen of his shirt, mirroring every press of her thumb, every slide of her fingers until she understood what he was doing.

She squeezed harder at his chest.

His hands closed more firmly around her breasts.

She scraped her nails against his nipples.

He licked along the delicate line of her jaw as his nails flicked against the silk of her bodice.

She opened his coat and pushed the lapels back as if she would wrench the coat from his shoulders.

‘Take it off,’ she whispered.

He released her long enough to do as she said, dropping the coat to the floor and never taking his eyes from her.

She watched him and he could see the pink flush of excitement and desire in her cheeks, the sparkle in her black eyes and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts bound tight by the white-and-silver bodice.

‘And your waistcoat too.’

He shrugged it off and saw her swallow. She bit at her lip, looked at him with both daring and hesitation. He kissed her again, a full rich kiss on her mouth. She hesitated no more, but pressed her mouth to his chest, kissing first one nipple, then the other, licking him through the thin linen of his shirt, scraping her teeth there. And when she was done she raised her mouth to his and kissed him. She broke the kiss to look into his face, searching his eyes for a moment before she stepped a little out of his arms and turned around, presenting him with her back. With one hand she swept up the curtain of silvery waves, holding them high, baring the nape of her neck, exposing the line of buttons that ran down the back of her dress.

He moved closer, let his breath stir the wisps of fine hair around the nape of her neck and saw the tiny shiver that rippled through her in response. Then he let his mouth follow his breath, touching his tongue to that tender skin. He felt her inhalation, watched as she dipped her head, allowing him great access to the sensitive spot. He teased his tongue there, kissed it.

‘When you touch me there I can feel it right through me, all the way down to the soles of my feet,’ she whispered.

He bit her lightly and she moaned in pleasure.

He kissed her neck, while his fingers traced slowly down the line of her spine until he found the first small silk button of her dress. Her head lolled to the side and he bit her again and slowly, one button at a time, began to unfasten the bodice of her dress. It gaped wide long before he reached the final button. He kissed her ear and then helped ease the dress down. She slid her arms free from the small puff sleeves, and in a soft rush of silk the dress landed around her ankles. She wore only one petticoat—plain white cotton. He stroked it from her until it lay on top of the silver-and-white silk.

Breathing in the scent of her, he pulled the tape of her corset loose from its securing bow. As his fingers began to unlace it his mouth traced kisses along one shoulder to the edge of her shift, then the other, kissing the soft white skin until the corset fell away to land on the floor with a thud.

He stilled his lips where they were, feeling her breath, feeling the rush of her blood. She stood very still, then she slowly turned and looked at him.

The white shift was plain and loose, covering her all the way down to mid-shin. But through its fineness he could see a hint of the flesh and shadow of her body.

He took her in his arms, kissing her mouth, their tongues entwining, dancing, mating. And while his lips made love to hers, he placed one hand flat against the small of her back, arching her body towards him, tightening the shift against her breast as he slid his hand over it.

She moaned against his mouth as his hand found first one breast, then the other, feeling them fully freed from the confines of her corset for the first time. He trailed the kisses over her chin, down the centre line of her neck by the side of the sapphire-and-diamond necklace, over her
décolletage
, to the edge of the shift. His mouth paused there while his eyes sought hers.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes.’

He moved against her breast, kissing all round the small mound, teeth scraping lightly through the linen, teasing round the nipple without touching it. She arched more, thrusting her breast to his mouth, her fingers winding in his hair, clutching him tighter. He touched his tongue to her nipple, feeling it bud hard against him. He licked it once and felt her heart leap beneath it. And then he closed his mouth over it, tasting it, suckling it, flicking his tongue again and again against the tip until he could see it pink and straining through the wet translucent linen.

Marianne could not think. She could only feel. And what she felt was Rafe and her need for him, and the wonder he was bestowing on her body. Her thighs were burning, the secret place between her legs slick and wet and filled with a strange dull ache.

He brought her upright again, one hand resting lightly against the small of her back, the other on her hip. His eyes were a rich dark mahogany in the candlelight; she stared into their depths, and touched her hand to his jawline, trailing her fingers along its edge, rubbing against the roughness of the faint shadow of beard stubble that had grown there since the morning. She felt the bob of Adam’s apple as she touched it and could not help herself placing a kiss there, caressing it with the tip of her tongue before drawing back. Then her fingers touched the end of his cravat, touched the knot that was tied there and she remembered the warehouse: removing his neckcloth and cutting the sleeve from his shirt and all that had passed between them then and since.

I am yours, Marianne.
The knowledge seeped through her like the soft streaming smoke of a candle extinguished in the darkness. She breathed it in, allowed it to permeate.

Her fingers struggled with the collar of his shirt; he came to her assistance and the buttons opened. The lawn of his shirt was fine, soft, white. Through it she could see the darkness of the hair that grew across his chest. She laid her hand lightly against it, feeling the soft spring of hair and the hardness of the muscle beneath. And her eyes moved to his left arm, to the sleeve beneath which she knew the bullet had sloughed. Her gaze moved back to his.

‘Take off your shirt,’ she whispered.

He pulled it free of his breeches, peeled it off over his head and stood there before her. The candlelight flickered across the hard lines and muscle of his chest, his stomach, his shoulders and arms. She looked at the nakedness of his skin, at the size of him, at how very different his body was to hers, at the strength, the power, the potential. His arms were loose by his side, allowing her to do whatever she would.

I am yours.

Between the elbow and the shoulder of his left arm was a patch of pink puckered skin. When she looked at it her heart swelled to fill her chest and she felt the prickle of tears in her eyes. She leaned forwards and touched it with her lips, light as a feather, letting them rest there against the newly healed scar.

‘I am yours, too, Rafe,’ she said softly as she kissed the scar. Her hands slid slowly against the muscle of his chest, feeling the roughness of the hair and the warmth of his skin, feeling the beat of his heart.

And then she stood back.
She was his.
She stepped out of her shoes. Unfastened the tape of first one stocking to slide it from her foot, then the other. Her gaze met his and held it. She pulled the end of the bow in the ribbon that threaded through the neckline of her shift. The ribbon unfastened. She pulled the shift over her head, letting it fall to the floor, and stood there naked before him.

‘Marianne,’ he whispered, the same whisper of a highwayman a lifetime ago. His gaze moved over her. She could see the bulge in the front of his breeches, the way it strained against the material. She knew what he could do. But she trusted him.

He slipped off his shoes and stockings and came to stand immediately before her. She glanced down at their bare feet, at his and at hers, and stepped closer so that the tips of their toes were touching. And then she looked up at him.

‘Kiss me,’ she said.

He kissed her mouth until she was breathless, kissed her breasts until she was panting. And when he laid her on the bed she pulled him down with her so that their mouths shared and tasted and breathed as one, so that his lips were hot and hard, teasing and stroking against her nipples until she was gasping and pulling his hair, until her thighs gaped open to him.

‘Take me,’ she said, needing him, wanting him. Her body tensed with the knowledge of what lay ahead, the sharp penetrating pain, the invasion, yet even knowing it, she needed him; she wanted him and whatever it encompassed.

‘Not yet,’ he said, then she felt the touch of his hand on her, the slide of his fingers against her moisture. He stroked her, his mouth kissing hers, keeping time. She opened her eyes and looked up into his. He stilled, his hand resting against her woman’s place as if he would shield it, protect it from all intrusion. And his gaze on hers was dark and smouldering with passion and desire.

‘Take me,’ she said again.

But he shook his head and he kissed her again, a deep rich, thrusting kiss that matched what was in his eyes. Then he began to stroke again between her legs, massaging that same part of her that he had touched in the stables. A magical steady rhythm that made her gasp with the pleasure that was building, that made her blood rush and her heart thud harder and faster, and her body strain and chase something she did not understand. She opened her legs wider, exposing her vulnerability to him. But his fingers worked that same rhythm that was so tuned to everything her body strove for, teased until her hips bucked up off the bed and she was gasping aloud for need of him and everything exploded in shards of light and colour and a pleasure so immense that it took over all of her mind and body and soul. She could do nothing other than tumble headlong into the surge of it, to give herself up to the roaring of it all around her, sweeping her up, taking her out of the bedchamber, taking her out of her herself to another place she did not know, overwhelming her with its ecstasy. Gasping for breath, clutching at Rafe, pulling him to her, kissing him as the furore ebbed, and the crashing waves gentled until, like a receding tide, they washed over her, rhythmically, leaving only the echo of the pleasure pulsing through her.

He blew out the candles and lay down by her side. He stroked the long mess of her hair from her face and he kissed her, then he settled her in his arms and pulled the covers over them. And they lay together in the darkness and she wondered at how much he had given her and taken nothing himself, wondered at how much she loved him, until at last, safe in his arms, she slept.

* * *

Rafe sat at his desk the next night, his cravat hanging loose around his neck, his collar unfastened, his waistcoat abandoned. The tumbler of brandy had barely been touched. He ignored the glass and continued to stare at the rows of neatly penned numbers in the books that lay on the dark polished wood before him. It did not make any sense, yet Bradley was right: the evidence was there in the figures before him. Had he not instructed the man to audit all of his affairs as part of the process of amending his will in favour of Marianne, the anomaly would never have been discovered.

Marianne.
He thought of his wife in bed upstairs and wondered if she would be awake. And the memory of the passion between them the previous night stoked the desire in his blood. She was all that he wanted, all that he needed. She was the light in a lifetime of darkness, the cooling touch to the fire of his anger, the balm to his pain. But always in the background, even though he did not let himself confront it, lurked the shadow of Misbourne and the burden of duty. And Rafe knew he could not hide from it for ever.

A quiet knock sounded at the door and he knew it was her even before she entered.

Her feet were bare, her pale hair hanging long and unbound, soft as silk, and he wanted to wrap his hands in it, bury his face in it. Her nightdress was expensive, embroidered in white work, high-necked and loose, hiding what he knew lay beneath. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, long and silken, the silver-threaded fringes swaying and glinting in the light of the candles from the branch she held in her hand.