Never Kiss a Rake (36 page)

“Not with a gun, Miss Russell. I do my hunting in the countryside.” He waited to see if she’d react to her true name, but she didn’t notice. “In the meantime, can I get you something?”

“There’s nothing you can get me,” she said, and he recognized the slight grogginess in her voice from the effects of the laudanum. Clearly someone had managed to get some in her, probably in the barley water he’d given her.

“Try me.”

She was too groggy to appreciate his double entendre. “I want my arm freed from this damnable board. I don’t like being trussed up. I want a bath—my hair is caked with blood, and I want people to stop giving me laudanum. It gives me a headache. Most of all, I want this to have never happened.”

He surveyed her calmly. “I can’t do anything about the last—even I can’t turn time around, but I expect I can manage the rest.”

Her eyes were drifting closed. “Just let me sleep,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

He allowed himself the odd pleasure of watching her. She did look terrible—her hair had dried blood in it, her skin was parchment white with a blue tinge to her eyelids, the smallpox scars were turned toward him, and he surveyed her dispassionately. Why had she allowed such a minor imperfection to control her life? The Bryony Russell he knew was no fainting violet, content to hide away from life. She was a fighter.

And yet she’d done just that.

There were still a great many mysteries to unravel about his little spy. He only hoped he’d have the time to do so before he did what he had to do, the absurdly decent thing, and send her away.

Someone had given her laudanum again, and she wanted to scream. Her head was pounding, her body aching, and something was tugging at her arm. She opened her eyes and turned her head, only to see Kilmartyn there, untying the knots that kept her strapped to the board and to the bed.

She was so relieved she didn’t say anything, simply watched him as he went about the business with surprising efficiency. And then she remembered she didn’t trust him.

“What are you doing?” she croaked.

“Following your orders.”

What orders? What was he talking about?
Her arm came free, and a momentary shaft of pain slammed down on her, leaving her breathless, sweating.

“Just breathe,” he said. “I promise I’ll be very careful.”

Careful doing what? Murdering her like he had his wife?
They’d left her alone with him—how did she know he wouldn’t finally finish her off? If he killed once, killed twice, then he could easily kill again.

He’d discarded his coat and cravat, dressed simply in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He came around the other side of the bed and gently slid his arms underneath her, lifting her effortlessly. It wasn’t the first time he’d carried her, she thought, though she could barely remember the other occasions. She only knew that she’d felt safe in his arms, held high against his warm chest, his beating heart. She tried to keep her neck straight, but her head hurt, and it felt so much better to let it rest against his shoulder as he carried her through the dark hallway.

He pushed open a door, and suddenly she was enveloped in heat and light and a warm mist, and she lifted her head, looking around her in shock.

“Milady said she wanted a bath,” he said. “Do you think you can stand for a moment? I’ll catch you if you fall.”

She nodded, even though the move hurt her head, and he slowly set her down, letting her slide against his body, and if the aftereffects of being shot hadn’t made her knees weak the feel of his body would have done so. She stood in the circle of his arms, and it took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He was unfastening the buttons at her throat.

“No,” she croaked, but the way he held her, good arm trapped against her side, gave her no way to fight. He undid them quickly, efficiently, then slid the nightdress down.

“Don’t be juvenile, Bryony,” he said in a comfortingly matter-of-fact voice. “You can’t bathe in your nightdress—it’s the only one you have left.”

That was the last thing she wanted to think about. “The shift stays on,” she said. It provided scant modesty, but she’d take what she could get.

“Whatever you say, Bryony.” He picked her up and carried her over to the deep, steaming copper tub, started to put her in. At the last minute he somehow managed to pull off the shift, just as she was sinking into the blissfully warm water, and she had to swallow her instinctive shriek of protest.

The warm water felt so good she didn’t bother to argue. He’d held on to her bandaged arm, letting it rest carefully on the high side of the tub, and there was nothing salacious about his expression. She might have felt better if there was.

“Are you going to drown me?” She hadn’t meant for those words to come out, but she was still groggy from the drugs.

He laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a murderer, no matter what it looks like.”

She sighed, sinking further into the lovely water. Too late she realized her hair was flowing around her, and she tried to sit up, but he pushed her back, gently. “If you want the blood washed from your hair you’re going to have to let me do it.”

She considered it. But he was viewing her with all the passion of a man surveying a suet pudding, and though she couldn’t remember the details of
that rapturous time on the kitchen table, she knew that she’d ended the night the way she started it, still a virgin. So clearly he’d lost interest in her. He was merely doing this out of the kindness of his heart.

Then again, she was under no illusion that Kilmartyn had a kind heart. Nevertheless, the warm water was drugging her far more pleasantly than the laudanum had, and she wasn’t going to fight. “Go ahead,” she said ungraciously. “Just don’t take the occasion to drown me.”

He made a sound of disapproval. “When will you learn to trust me, Bryony?”

“When hell freezes over,” she murmured, as he moved to the end of the tub and his hands cupped her head. “And don’t call me Bryony.” She felt faintly uneasy, but she had no idea why.

“What do you prefer?” he murmured, pouring water over her hair, carefully keeping it from her eyes. She closed them anyway, relaxing into the sensation. Her injured arm was throbbing, and she didn’t care, as long as his fingers were caressing her scalp, rubbing the soap into it, threading through her hair.

“Mrs. Greaves will do,” she said dreamily. She could lie like this forever, she thought. Besides, getting out of the tub would expose her body to his critical gaze.

“I like Bryony better.”

She purred as he poured fresh water over her hair, rinsing it. And then he lifted the length of it and draped it over the back of the tub, pouring more water to wash the suds away.

“You’re not letting that water get on the floor, are you?” she demanded suddenly.

“You’re not the housekeeper here anymore, Bryony. But there’s a basin behind the tub for just such a purpose.”

“Very clever.” And then his words penetrated. “Of course I’m the housekeeper here.”

“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Harkins has taken over.”

“Then I must leave.”

This time his snort of laughter was genuine. “And just where would you be going in your current condition? Besides, I’m not letting you out of
my sight. Someone’s trying to kill you, and I don’t intend to let that happen. You’re not going anywhere until I can make proper plans.”

“Who’s trying to kill me?” She focused on the most important part of all this.

“I’m damned if I know. Presumably the same man who killed Cecily.” His voice was blunt, matter-of-fact, with no sorrow in it.

She turned her head to look at him. “If you didn’t kill her then why were your clothes covered with blood?”

“Ah, so you’re the one who moved them. You relieve my mind—I was afraid the police had somehow gotten hold of them. My clothes were covered in blood, my precious, because someone took them and dowsed them in it. Presumably whoever killed her.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“You didn’t… don’t know Cecily that well. She’s entirely capable of buying gallons of pigs’ blood to set me up like that. I have no guarantee that she’s not enjoying herself in Paris, laughing at my expense.”

“Do you really think so?”

“No.” He moved around to the side, a cloth and a bar of sweet-smelling soap in his hand. “Let’s wash the rest of you.”

She sat up, so quickly her arm went into a painful spasm, so quickly the water slopped lower, exposing the tops of her breasts. “I can wash myself.”

“I’m sure you can. Are we going to have a wrestling match? Because I intend to win, and I don’t mind getting wet.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he said, and she felt the bar of soap brush against her collarbone. “Close your eyes, Bryony. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I know you don’t. But right now you’re injured and you have no choice.”

He was right. His hand was moving lower, over her stomach, and she realized he’d skipped her breasts entirely, thank heavens, except they were tight and aching and she wasn’t quite sure why as his soapy hand traced leisurely circles on her stomach. He moved closer, his other hand behind
her back, supporting her, and she let herself lean into him, letting him touch her, giving in to the pleasure of his hands.

His hand slid lower, brushing against the soft hair between her thighs, and she jerked for a moment, then calmed. What could he do to her in a bathtub, for heaven’s sake? And why would he want to?

And then, to her horror, he moved his hand between her thighs, touching her intimately, and she let out a strangled cry, arching up.

“Hush, sweetheart. I know, it’s unfair. But the problem is, I can’t resist you. I’ve been trying very hard, but I’m not the kind of man who’s made for noble sacrifice, and I think I’ve about reached my limit.”

She opened her eyes to look at him, aroused and frightened and longing. “I don’t…” she began, knowing she should protest, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “I don’t think…”

“Don’t think,” he said, and covered her mouth with his, swallowing her arguments, as his fingers delved deeper. She jerked against him, startled, and the water splashed up against them, but he simply held her still with one arm around her shoulders, cupping her neck with his hand, while he began to rub against her sex, sliding in the deep, warm water, slippery, seductive, moving inside her, and she arched her hips against his hand, reaching for him, wanting more of him, letting him do whatever he wished, as shameful as it was.

It didn’t feel shameful. She couldn’t understand the heat building inside her, the fierce, gnawing need that was taking over, filling her with raw wanting. She’d seen lust in Kilmartyn’s eyes, and she wondered what it would look like in her own. Because this was the only possible explanation for the powerful longings arching through her body, the only possible explanation why she slid her tongue against his when he kissed her, why she didn’t fight against him, but fought to get closer.

And then she stopped thinking, only felt, as she gripped the side of the copper tub with her one good hand and dissolved into sensation, a shiver, and then an explosion, and there was water everywhere and she didn’t care, she just hid her face against his damp shoulder and let the feelings ride her, a cataclysm of impure delight that stole her breath, her will, her heart.

“That’s my girl,” he said in a low, hypnotizing voice. He took his hand from between her legs, trailing it up her body in the warm water, moving it to brush against one tightly beaded breast, and she jerked again, squeezing her thighs together as still another explosion rocked her. He moved on, pushing her wet hair out of her face, cupping her chin as she hid against his shoulder and she made a sound of protest.

He laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll give your perfect little breasts the attention they deserve. I’m saving them for my mouth.” She made another sound again, a moan of mortification and desire. “Now I’m going to pick you up, wrap you in a towel, and carry you back to my bedroom. And then I’m going to do a proper job of taking the virginity you lied about, and you’re going to say yes. I told myself I wouldn’t, I’d be a gentleman, but I’m afraid I’m simply too weak to resist you.”

She tried to find her voice, her pride. “No, I won’t,” she managed to choke out.

He smiled at her, a smile of peculiar sweetness. “Yes, you will. Because you want me just as much as I want you. Your mouth may be full of lies but your body betrays you.”

“I don’t lie,” she said weakly.

“Of course you don’t,” he said softly, scooping his arms under her and picking her up, setting her on her feet.

“I’m making you wet,” she said, as he wrapped a towel around her.

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to be in these clothes for long.” He picked her up again, and she knew she should protest, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to go to his bed, she wanted him to take her, show her, love her, even if it was temporary, a physical lie. “And I have every intention of making you wet,” he said.

She knew what he meant—she’d read enough Italian to understand that part of his wicked book, the long list of elaborate techniques to ready a woman for the intimate act. She already felt hot, liquid inside, ready for him, and he carried her through the hallway, into his newly refurbished bedroom.