Scandalous Desires (37 page)

“Won’t you tell me, Michael?”

He shook his head, looking away and curled his fingers
into her cleft, sensitive now from her peak, and gently stroked.

She moaned, clutching at his coat.

His breathing had quickened as he felt her dampness. “Yer so wet, so hot and swollen.”

He flicked a finger across her bud and her hips jerked. “Michael—”

“I had meant this only for ye. I had meant to try and play the gentleman, but it seems I cannot.” His hand moved away from her and began working at the fall of his breeches. “I mus’ have ye.”

She watched him from half-closed eyes. She should protest, should tell him they must go inside and talk about why he’d looked so desolate after meeting Bran, but she found she couldn’t.

She simply couldn’t deny him when he needed her.

He drew himself out and her gaze dropped. He was fully erect, the veins standing out around the stem of his penis, the head ruddy and round.

“Come here,” he said, and took one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist.

This brought his hips close to hers and she felt him rubbing against her—just a bit too high.

She moaned in frustration.

“Hush, darlin’,” he murmured. “I’ll make it all better, I promise. Jus’…” He caught her other leg and she found herself braced against the wall, both of her legs wrapped about his waist now.

He had his hands on her bottom and was holding her full weight. She felt quite safe, but more importantly, his penis was now at the right height.

“Put me where ye need me, sweetheart,” he whispered.

She reached between them and grasped him, conscious of his muttered curse as she did so. She couldn’t help a quick stroke up and down. He was so hard, so beautiful.

“Silence…,” he warned.

She couldn’t wait any longer. She put him at her entrance, biting her lip at his heavy heat. It felt so good—so right. For a moment she stilled. Would she ever be able to recover from this height if he walked away from her someday? She felt as if she were giving a part of herself. Something that could never be taken back again.

He twisted and shoved and began to breach her and she looked up as he did.

Michael—her Michael—was watching her, his nostrils flared, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

She held his fierce gaze as she reached up and traced his cheek. “Make love to me.”

He expelled his breath in a gust as he pulled out of her nearly all the way and then slammed back in. His pace was fast, nearly frantic and she held onto his shoulders and fought to keep from wailing.

Oh, God, he was so powerful! She watched him. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, his lips curled back with his exertion. She wanted to kiss him, to embrace him and tell him he was everything to her, but all she could do was hold on and try not to fall apart when the explosion came.

For it was fierce—as fierce as he. A burning, ripping tide of pleasure nearly as violent as it was wonderful. She felt as if her world was tossed up in the air and came down completely re-pieced. This was earth-shattering.

This was love.

She gasped at the realization and watched as it took
him, as well. His head arched back and he shouted as he came, his body jerking against hers. He was magnificent, he awed her, but she felt a pang of melancholy. What did this act mean to him—if it meant anything at all?

He laid his head against her shoulder, gasping as he caught his breath, and at first she didn’t hear him.

Then the words rang too clear. “He betrayed me, m’love. Bran betrayed me.”

“We took out four o’ the Vicar’s stills in Whitechapel,” Harry said to Mick late that afternoon. “And we toppled one o’ ’is wagons fair full o’ gin barrels.”

Bert, lounging against the wall, grunted. “That were a pretty sight to see. Gin spillin’ everywhere and poor sods runnin’ to lap it up out o’ the channel in the middle o’ the street afore the soldiers came to drive them away.”

Mick winced. He’d never had any sympathy for those who made and sold gin, but the thought of gin drinkers actually trying to drink spilled gin out of a foul channel was grotesque. “What soldiers?”

Harry scratched his head. “There’ve been soldiers patrollin’ St. Giles, like, in the last few weeks.”

Mick frowned. Soldiers didn’t just turn up out of the blue. Someone ordered them. Someone sent them. “Who commands them?”

“Captain Trevillion,” Bert said.

“And who gives him his orders?”

“That we ’aven’t found out,” Harry admitted. “No one seems to know. But Trevillion’s a right prick. Strict about arrestin’ any gin sellers ’e finds, though they be mostly old bawds.”

Mick snorted. “The Vicar must not like that.”

Harry chuckled. “Naw, ’e don’t, and that’s a fact. ’Is men ’ave been arrested, as well.”

Mick leaned back in his chair, considering. The Vicar might be feeling harried by this Trevillion, but he’d dealt with soldiers before—most often by bribing them. They wouldn’t stop him for long.

He let the chair legs thump down. “Ye’ve done well, lads. But I’ve one more job for ye and it’s an important one.” Mick looked both men in the eye. “I need ye to guard Mrs. Hollingbrook and Mary—with yer lives.”

Harry and Bert exchanged cautious glances.

“O’ course,” Harry said. “But where will ye be, Mick?”

Mick set his jaw and said quietly, “I’m goin’ to London to put Bran on a ship to the farthest corner o’ the globe. And then I’m goin’ to kill the Vicar.”

Bert’s hairy eyebrows drew together. “Can’t ye send someone else to do the deed?”

“No, this is somethin’ that must be done properly,” Mick said grimly. “I’ll see to it m’self.”

Harry licked his lips nervously. “Why?”

“Bran said that the Vicar won’t stop until he kills Mrs. Hollingbrook or me Mary Darlin’, and I believe him.”

Bert hawked as if to spit and then glanced about the orderly study and thought better of it. “ ’E was a fuckin’ traitor was Bran. Can ye trust anythin’ ’e says now? Per’aps it’s some type o’ trap.”

Mick studied the papers on his desk without seeing them. Bran had been pale and sweaty—sick with remorse, if Mick was any judge. “He betrayed us all, aye, but in this, I believe, he spoke the truth. He has no love for the Vicar now, I’m thinkin’. Fionnula died by the man’s order, mind.”

Both Harry and Bert looked troubled at that reminder.

But it was Harry who spoke for both of them. “Ye can count on us, Mick.”

“Good,” Mick said quietly, “because I’m trustin’ me most precious possessions to ye.”

“Right ye are, then,” Harry said.

“They’re upstairs,” Mick said, “in the nursery. I don’t want ye to let them out o’ yer sight once I’ve gone, d’ye understand? I’ll leave tonight after supper.”

The big man nodded and stumped out, followed by Bert.

Mick sighed and studied the papers in front of him. With Bran gone and both Harry and Bert occupied guarding his lasses, getting into the Vicar’s house was going to be a delicate matter. He leaned back in his chair to think.

By the time Mick left the study it was evening and he had a plan that should prove effective. But he was still mulling over the problem of a lack of men he could truly trust when he entered the dining room.

Silence was already seated and for a moment all thoughts of his raid disappeared. He remembered her
insistence that he tell her about Bran, her worried concern when she heard that he’d been betrayed. She soothed his soul, this woman.

She wore a light green dress he’d had made for her, and the sight brought him a deep satisfaction. The dress was more modest than he would’ve liked—she’d wrapped a lace fichu over her shoulders and tucked it into the low neckline—but he’d provided it for her and she’d worn it. His eyes narrowed, studying the pretty picture she made sitting at his table. He’d have to order more gowns. Several morning dresses and at least one more elegant gown she could wear to the opera.

She smiled suddenly, the sight bringing a rush of warmth to his heart. “Why are you looking at me like that? Should I be nervous?”

He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “I’m thinkin’ on the gowns I’ll have made for ye.”

The smile remained on her face, but her eyes somehow looked sad. “Are you? Then you think I’ll be living with you for some time?”

He froze in the act of lifting his wineglass. “D’ye have any doubt?”

She shrugged. “We haven’t discussed the matter and I don’t know your mind. You are an extremely hard man to read, Mr. Rivers.”

He took a sip of wine while he considered her words. She hadn’t said she was against living with him, simply that she hadn’t known his mind.

“I do wish ye to stay,” he said slowly, setting his glass down. “I can give ye many fine gowns—rooms full, if it’s yer wish.”

“That’s quite generous of you,” she said in a gentle voice.

He looked at her sharply. There seemed to be some subtext of this conversation that he was missing. “Ye can live here wi’ little Mary Darlin’ and do as ye wish with yer days. I’ll buy ye a carriage and there’s the garden to tend.”

“How kind.”

His mouth tightened. Pushing. She was always pushing him. From this afternoon’s argument over Bran to this now. He’d already let her in, already offered her his house and himself. “What more do ye want? It’s more than yer husband provided for ye, ye must admit.”

“Yes,” she said coolly, “but William married me.”

His head reared back as if she’d struck him in the face. He started to say something more, but Mrs. Bittner and the maids entered at that moment with their dinner.

He waited until the servants left, thinking hard on his reply.

When the door at last shut, he said, “I do not wish to quarrel wi’ ye on the memory o’ yer husband. I know he meant much to ye.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“If ye wish for somethin’ more from me,” he said carefully, “books or clothin’ or even a lady’s maid, ye have but to ask. I’ll fulfill yer every wish to the best o’ me ability.”

There was no mistaking the sadness in her eyes now. “Yes, I know that, Michael.”

“Ye’ll be the mistress o’ Windward House. I’ll place it in yer hands to do wi’ as ye like.” He felt a rising panic, a desperation that he’d never encountered before. “I’ll come to see ye as often as I’m able, perhaps three or four days o’ the week.”

She set her fork down very carefully. “You do not intend to live here permanently?”

“Ye know that’s impossible.” His jaw flexed. “Me business is in the city.”

“You mean the business of pirating.”

He stared, confused and angry. “Yes.”

“You will continue to rob people for your living,” she said. Her face was so still it might’ve been made from carved marble, but her sweet hazel eyes seemed to burn.

Burn like his mam’s. He couldn’t give her what she needed. Couldn’t prove himself worthy.

He lifted his head proudly. He’d not simper and whine for something she wouldn’t give. “Aye, I’m a pirate. I’ve never hidden the fact.”

“No, you’ve never hidden your sins, have you, Michael?” Her lips were thinned, her face strained. “I had hoped, though, that now with Mary Darling and myself in your life, you might consider retiring. For us. For
me
.”

“Haven’t I changed enough for ye?” He laughed, short and hard. “Where d’ye think the money comes from to pay for this house, the food we eat, the clothes upon yer back? From piratin’!”

“But I don’t need your money, Michael.” She shrugged and looked around his fine dining room. “It’s very nice, but it’s not necessary.”