Tempted By the Night (15 page)

Her hands ran down his back and came to his breeches and there they stopped as if unsure what to do next.

Undo them,
his red-hot passions clamored.
Demmit, take them off.

And as if she heard him, she did so, her fingers trembling as she undid the buttons, and then tentatively pushed them down over his hips.

Her fingers were warm on his skin and only drove him further into madness. Having listened to her moans and soft gasps, then that final breathless moment when she’d given in to her crisis and come, he’d nearly been swept along with her.

With a hasty shrug and quick tug, he tossed his pants aside. He was rock hard, and it was all he could do not to bury himself inside her.

Madness,
he told himself. This was utter madness, but he wanted her like he’d never wanted any woman before. Forgotten was his plan to seduce, long tossed aside was any sense of reason and his usual calculated reserve.

That is, until his hands slid up her arms, his fingers twining with hers, and he remembered exactly why he was here.

The ring.

Even as he touched it, it seemed to tremble on her hand.

And it called to him.

Take me,
it seemed to whisper.
Take me any way you can.

His eyes glazed over with a blackness, and his passions turned to a lust of another kind.

A blood-lust.

How easy would it be to kill her now…
a niggle of voice whispered to him.
Kill her, and it will be yours.

Beneath him, her hips rose up to meet him, to tease his erect manhood. “What do you want?” she whispered.

The ring. I want that bloody ring,
he nearly shouted.

And then his eyes wrenched open, and he knew how close he was to just taking it. Taking everything that could save his soul. Save his life.

But it would mean taking more than just her innocence. It would mean taking her life.

Yet even that horrific thought didn’t stay his hand from moving up toward her throat.

It would be such a simple thing…

Rockhurst wrenched himself up from the bed. He fled to the farthest reach of the room and shuddered, his breath coming in unsteady, ragged heaves.

What had he been about to do? He’d been about to…

There was a rustle on the sheets. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“Everything,” he told her, trying to shake the wayward and dangerous darkness from his very soul. “Everything about this is wrong.”

It took some time for Rockhurst to regain his senses. He’d taken refuge by the window and put his back to her.

There was no doubt that the ring on her finger was Milton’s Ring. It had to be.

He’d listened to her gathering up her clothes, quietly straightening the room, as if she too had heard and seen the darkness that had passed through his heart.

After what felt like an eternity, she broke the uneasy silence between them by saying, “I suppose you are right—no one would believe me. About who you are and all of this.”

He cocked a brow but didn’t turn around. “Quite so.”

“It wasn’t always so, was it?” she whispered. “There was a time when the citizens of London would pay you tribute. Well, not you exactly. But your ancestors.”

Rockhurst glanced over at where he thought she was standing. She’d been reading Podmore.

Here was a first. He’d brought a bluestocking to his bed. Then again, the sensible boots and dull gown should have been his first warning.

Well, he’d indulged her passions, why not indulge her mind a little. “There was an age when everyone understood the balance of light and dark in our world,” he told her. “Now…well, we live in enlightened times.” At least so he’d thought up until a few minutes ago.

Just before he’d been seized by an unholy desire to commit murder.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the entire subject, he
parted the curtain to look out into the darkness of his realm, trying as he could to make sense of this implausible night.

“You make it sound as if it is wrong to be modern,” she said, following him. She’d brought his wrapper with her and eased it over his bare shoulders.

He glanced over at the hook where it had come from, about to offer her his other one, but saw that it was missing. Then he heard the telltale rustle of silk, and knew she’d pulled it on. Good, better to have clothes on, something separating them.

“Modern?” he mused, wrapping the robe on tight. “No, not in the least. It just makes my work more difficult.”

“Because you have so much to conceal.”

Astute
, he realized glancing over his shoulder at her, though to him it was only an empty space. But what if it wasn’t? What if he could see her?

“What do you look like?” he asked. He had a fair idea of her height, and her proportions, but what color was her hair? Did she have freckles?

“Nothing very special,” she demurred.

“Modest?”

“Hardly. Just used to being compared to the Miss Burkes of the world and coming up lacking. Not all of us are Originals, my lord.”

“An honest woman. And that, my little Shadow, makes you a novelty and an Original—whether you want the title or not.”

There was a huffy sigh right near his elbow, so he had to surmise she didn’t want the crown he’d offered.

Oh, yes, she was an Original, invisibility aside.

She shivered, and, without a word, he reached awkwardly for her, and when he found her, he swept her into his arms and glanced over at his bed—where he could lay her down, his hands could touch her, his lips could explore hers…so he could finally take…

A dark veil began to cloud his vision, and it was all he could do to shake free of it. What was he thinking? Hadn’t he learned his lesson earlier?

And yet, he kept finding himself drawn to her.

Or was it the power of the ring?

Absently, he caught up her hand and kissed her fingers, until he came to the one with the ring. The ring tightly affixed to her finger.

Cricks had said the ring could come off one of two ways. By her wish coming to fruition, or…

By her death.

He let go of her hand.

Get the ring,
his reason urged.
How hard would it be?

He released her and turned back to the window.

You’ve killed before.

Only that once
, he argued back. And he’d had no choice. Not that it had made the act any less chilling…or less haunting.

But then again, he’d never once considered having the chance to break the Covenant. To live a normal life. To love a woman and raise children without always being shadowed by the dark forces he was bound to stop.

His thoughts ran wild, dark and tangled by the possibilities, all hinged on one thing.

This woman’s life.

The silence in the room grew disconcerting, so he asked, “What else did you learn about me today?”

She shifted behind him. “Pardon?”

“Podmore,” he supplied. “You must recall it. The volume you stole from Cricks—”

“I haven’t the vaguest notion what you—”

“You were at Cricks’s this afternoon.” He turned to face her.

For a moment she remained silent, and he had to wonder if she was actually considering denying it.

Well, she didn’t quite deny it, rather argued around the point. “
If
I was at this Mr. Cricks’s shop this afternoon, I’d like to see you prove it.”

He went back to his original theory that she was the daughter of a barrister. “In a few hours I’ll prove it by escorting you back to Cricks’s, where you can return the book you stole from him.”

She ruffled up, the sheets moving. “I didn’t steal it. I bought it. I left every coin I had to pay for it.”

“I think he would have rather preferred to keep his book.”

“He can have it back when I am done reading it.”

“I wouldn’t bother. ’Tis nothing but lies and fabrication.”

Now it was her turn to make a very unladylike snort. “So says you. I rather like it.”

“Bluestocking!”

The floorboards creaked violently as she stomped toward him. “Oh, now that is beyond the pale,” she snapped. “I am no bluestocking.”

He could almost see her hands fisted to her hips. “Demmit it, minx, don’t get your garters in a knot. I know you aren’t a bluestocking.”

“Well, that’s better.” Then she paused, before she sat back down, the mattress dipping where she’d planted herself. “How do you know I’m not a bluestocking? You’ve never seen me.”

“Well, having seen your boots and gown it would be easy to see why I would think such a thing,” he teased. “Hardly the first stare of fashion.”

There was a sputtered sort of reply before she managed to get out her defense. “I wore those on purpose. And it is entirely your fault.”

“My fault you chose that hideous gown and fishwife boots?”

“I wasn’t about to let you ruin another pair of my slippers! And you should see the gown I did have on last night. Beyond repair. Not to mention my…”

Rockhurst crossed his arms over his chest and realized he was quite enjoying this verbal joust. “You need not have followed me.”

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice. If I hadn’t wished
—”

Wished?
Rockhurst straightened. Had he heard her correctly? Ever so carefully, he stilled his racing heart, then asked as nonchalantly as he could muster, “You wished this?”

She sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I…”

He shook his head and waved his hands at her. “I think of anyone in London, I’d be the one you could explain this to.” He tapped his chest. “The Paratus? Remember?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” she conceded. “Well, you see
I made this wish, a rather imprudent one,” she began to say. “And now here I am.”

“Until sunrise?” he prompted.

The bed shifted as she got back up, obviously having forgotten her ire. “Yes…Oh, how did you know?”

“Cricks surmised as much—since he could see you during the day, and I’d been unable to at night.”

“Hmm,
” she murmured as if weighing what to say next.

Sunrise! Now he knew the parameters of her wish. So there was nothing left to do but wait for the morning to answer the rest of his questions. Starting with her identity. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking another question. “Does anyone else know about this wish?”

Now here would be the real test as to whether or not she did “prattle on.”

The bed shook as she answered. “Oh, no! Who’d believe me?”

Who, indeed! He was in the same room as her and still found it rather unbelievable.

“Let me see,” she began. “You and Mr. Cricks, obviously.”

“Yes.”

“And Quince, of course.”

“Quince?” This was a bit of a wrinkle. “Who is Quince?”

“I don’t really know who Quince is,” she told him. “She has this rather disconcerting ability to appear when I least need her, and she’s rather high-handed about its being her ring. Oh, and she mentioned someone else—Milton.”

Milton’s ring.

Rockhurst closed his gaping mouth.

No wonder Melaphor had tried so hard to coax this chit into his realm.

For with Milton’s Ring…

Rockhurst shuddered. He didn’t even want to consider what could happen if this ring fell into the wrong hands.

Meanwhile, his little Shadow was prattling on. “…I’ve tried and tried to take it off. Soap. Lard. Why I’ve pulled on it until I thought my finger would come off
—”

“That won’t work,” he told her, knowing that more than her finger would have to be removed to gain the ring.

“I know, or so Quince says. I thought it might come off after you…well if we…”

The blush in her words caught his attention. If they did what? Then it struck him. “If we made love?”

“Yes, that. But it didn’t, then again I don’t think we entirely—”

“No, we didn’t,” he told her, only half-listening to her, but suddenly her confession tumbled together. “You wished for me to make love to you?”

“No-oo-oo. Not exactly. Oh, heavens, this is so mortifying.” She paced about, and he had no idea where she was other than by the soft tread of her feet as she padded along.

“You and I are well past mortifying,” he advised.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed, coming to a stop, he guessed, near the fire.

“What exactly did you wish for?” Given what he already knew of her, he was almost afraid to ask. He got up and walked toward her, until she reached out and stopped him before he ran her over.

“You’ll think I’m foolish.”

“Hardly that,” he said. His blood began to race anew, for this close he could smell her, could almost see her outline.

“You’ll think I’m such a bluestocking.”

“I thought we already settled that,” he teased. “Besides, I know you aren’t a bluestocking from kissing you.”

“You do?”

“Most decidedly. That and Cricks told me you weren’t exactly…How did he put it? Oh, yes. He claimed to have old coppers with more sense than you.”

“Why, of all the—” She sucked in a deep breath, indignation in every bit of it, and he laughed.

“Don’t be insulted,” Rockhurst told her. “He also said you had a bonny pair of green eyes that made him wish himself a much younger man.” He winked in her direction.

She muttered something about “keeping Cricks’s smelly old book” before she finally settled down.

“Now about your wish…” he began. For if it was nothing more than making love to her, she could have her boon in a trice. Then he’d have the ring, and this Mayfair miss could toddle back to her
maman
with a knowing little smile on her lips.

“Must I?”

“How am I to help you solve this…this…nightly
dilemma of yours if I don’t know what it is you wished for?”
For if I can grant her wish, then I can set aside this dark temptation of what I’d have to do if I cannot…

After a few moments of silence and one large sigh, she whispered the words that changed his life.

“I wished to know all your secrets.”

Hermione’s words hit like a cannon ball, and the earl reacted as if it had landed at his feet.