The Deepest Sin (21 page)

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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Deepest Sin
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Archer watched as she watched him. He slipped the buttons free at the neck of his shirt, pulled it over his head and threw it onto the floor. Then he pulled her over to the bed, and began with her heavy skirt, undoing the tapes until it slid to the floor. Tugging at the tie at her waist, he unwound the long strings from her rib cage. She slid her dress down her arms and abruptly stopped.
“We will go slowly,” Archer said. He couldn't remember exactly how he'd rid himself of his coat or what had become of her pelisse. She tried to steady her breathing and that only served to make him all too aware of the rise and fall of her breasts, of her slender arms still wrapped in the sleeves of her dress. She was even more beautiful than he'd imagined. Slender, with high breasts, and long legs encased by cotton stockings.
Stroking her arm, he kissed her, one hand cupping her breast, his palm filled with warm flesh. “Are you cold?” he asked, drawing the crisply pressed sleeves over her elbows and wrists. His hands caressed her skin and she gasped, letting her breath out in a hiss as his fingers lightly brushed the inside of her arm, up and down its length. He let his hands roam, reveling in her reactions to his softest touch. A nail traced lazily along her collarbone and she was shaking. She seemed to still, not even daring to breathe, each time he touched her.
He gently pushed her onto the bed, rolling her onto her back, placing a string of kisses along her neck, blazing a trail to the soft spot where her neck met her collarbones, biting down lightly, savoring the way her head fell back when he did, and the way she said his name in a small gasp. Moving lower, he laved her nipples through her chemise, making her twitch, running his tongue down the valley between her breasts.
Her arms were still imprisoned between them and she didn't seem to notice as he kissed his way down the soft skin, pulling the cambric along with his palms. A long pucker ran across the inside of each wrist, a perfect match, a silver slice marring the perfection of her skin. He had seen enough scars in his lifetime not to be shocked, and had earned a few in his own right. But suddenly he wanted to know,
would know
, who had done this to Meredith Woolcott.
Now was not the time. A shudder ran through her as he carefully ran his tongue down the inside of her wrist. Such a small action to provoke such a response. He studied her face, her beautiful face, taking note of what caused her to close her eyes and what brought her to trembling attention. She had wanted this escape, and he was going to give it to her, leave her wrecked and boneless with nothing in her head or her heart save for excruciating pleasure. She lay resplendent on the fur, eyes closed, clad only in her chemise and her pantalettes, as he leaned forward to run his tongue along the beautifully defined line of her hip. She clenched, the muscles in her stomach tightening. His hardness twitched and thickened, demanding attention.
But he wouldn't let her go that easily. His mouth slid up her leg, from the stocking covering her knee to the bare flesh above it. He licked the fine skin at the top of her thigh and she groaned, turning her face further into the soft fur. Knowing that she wouldn't protest, he slid his tongue up the valley between her thighs, parting and exploring. His hand came to rest against the skin of her abdomen, keeping her on her back as his mouth locked over the sensitive peak just covered by the fine silk of her drawers. Her fingers wound themselves in his, palms turned upwards as she writhed, trying halfheartedly to dislodge him.
No escape. Not now. Archer smiled to himself and flicked his tongue over her, first slowly and then faster, pressing in against the sensitized flesh. His mind stopped working, shutting out the realization that he'd wanted to taste her like that since the first time he'd met her. He would have done anything to get his mouth on her like this. She writhed beneath his ministrations, her panting mixed with groans, her body tensing beneath him. Her feet pressed against him, a knee pushing hard against his shoulder. He wrapped his hands around her hips and held her down while she made a series of protests, incoherent with need.
Archer's stomach clenched while his erection swelled more inside his breeches. Working under her drawers, he slid two fingers into her lavish wetness, locked his mouth over her, and took her to the precipice. Instinctively, her long legs wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing with a panting release that seemed to go on forever.
Her knees finally relaxed, legs splayed open, she lay silently taking great gusts of air. Unwilling to mar the occasion with talk or protestations, Archer stood, opened his breeches, and pulled her towards him, pushing her pantalettes down her legs and onto the floor. Her eyes widened, still dusky with desire, as his hands slid over her exposed bottom and gripped her hips. He leaned onto the bed, the head of his erection finding entrance to her body.
Meredith closed her eyes, her hands fisting in the fur. With excruciating slowness, he moved in a fraction of the way, then out again, repeating the disciplined motions with infinite patience. She was tight, tighter than he'd expected, the slickness of her warmth inviting him in. And then she surprised him as, without preamble, she arched up, rising to meet him, stockinged feet digging into the bed. With a shudder, she took all of him, encasing him in tight, hot flesh.
They found their rhythm, ridiculously, outrageously well matched. Fast, then hard, then exquisitely slowly, they lost themselves in the sensation of body meeting body, nothing else. When Meredith had been reduced to writhing sensation, Archer leaned forward, using his weight to hold her in place, running his hands up her torso. There was nothing but a layer of fine cambric between them. She twisted, the muscles of her back and waist alive under his hands. She moaned as he counted to ten somewhere in the wide universe. Giving in to the sensation, to the hot wetness, he was past coherence. He vaguely felt her nails digging into his back, her whispers in his ear. He changed the angle of his thrust and suddenly she was crying out beneath him, clenching around him as she found her release again. The muscles climaxing around him were all he needed. He shut his eyes, and with a few more rocking thrusts he came, pulling out of her in time as his own breath came in ragged gasps.
 
The sun hung low in the sky, turning the red roses at the cottage door to fire. Fluttering muslin curtains wafted gently in the summer breeze. It was a book-lined room, papers scattered on the polished wood floor. The center was dominated by an opulent bed, high and fitted with the finest sheets and damask coverlets, where two naked figures slept entwined, their bodies heavy with fulfillment. The woman lay on her back, her red hair fanned across the pillow, one arm falling loosely around the back of her partner. His dark head was pillowed next to hers, a leg flung possessively over her thighs, trapping her in the sumptuous feather mattress.
A small sigh escaped her lips, a muted sound of remembered desire that faded into a contented breath. Meredith felt the familiar body by her side, in tune with hers after long hours of passion. She kept her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, breathing in the scent of the summer breeze finding its way through the open door of the cottage.
Then the scene shifted. She dozed beside a sickbed, awakened by a rustle, like the sounds of a creature scurrying in the underbrush. It played at the fringes of her senses, getting louder, gaining momentum. She pulled herself straighter and took a quick glance at the bed. There was no one in it.
The noise was louder now, a building crescendo invading the room. A curl of smoke insinuated its way between the spaces of the open doors, curling toward the bed. Her stunned gaze took in the coiled plume of gray that expanded suddenly into every corner, clogging her throat, stinging her eyes.
She lifted her stunned gaze to find a figure wreathed in smoke, coming from the nursery next door. Only the blank stare of eyes behind a leather mask was visible, his arms raising a truncheon. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. And then he was gone, enveloped in the choking smoke. In the chamber of her mind, her scream continued as if her breath was infinite, the piercing cry matched by the clanging of a fire bell and the violent barking of hounds.
 
Meredith awakened drenched in sweat, shivering, her heart pounding and her throat hoarse. The sheets beneath her were damp with perspiration, her eyes wide with terror. Another man was at her side, one with broader shoulders, thicker muscles, the intense scrutiny of his blue eyes calling out to her. Not Faron.
Archer took up the coverlet beneath the fur rug and draped it around her shoulders, covering her nakedness. He said nothing, simply gathered her into his arms. He took her chin between finger and thumb and brought her face around. Immediately, she closed her eyes to hide her pain. “You're safe. You're fine,” he said, softly insistent. Her eyes opened reluctantly and they were shiny with unshed tears. She did not wish to weep, for Faron and the love she thought they'd had. Her pulse still raged in confusion and terror, afraid that somehow she was beginning to feel deeply for the man with whom she had just made love.
Archer stroked her back, bending his head to press his lips to the curve of her neck as his hand smoothed over her shoulders in a caress that gave warmth and reassurance. It was as though he understood her nightmare, absorbing the terrible confusion of emotions that had left her shaking. Harsh winter daylight poured through the unshuttered portholes.
He asked nothing of her, simply rocking her in his arms. She tried not to notice how broad and hard his forearms were or how his heavy, dark hair fell across his strong brow. His vital presence soothed her senses, drawing her away from her nightmare. She had not given a thought to how she would feel about doing with Archer what she had only done many years ago with Faron. When Archer had covered her body in kisses, she remembered other lips skimming the softness of her skin. When he moved his clever hands over her breasts and thighs, setting her aflame, she experienced a languid pleasure only vaguely reminiscent of a response long ago.
She was not ready for this. What had she done? She tensed at the hand on her back, and she turned her head aside, to the portholes letting in the daylight. They lay silently, her back spooned into his body for an eternity, the gentle lap of the water the only sound intruding upon their self-imposed silence. Meredith fell asleep first, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, his arm folded across her waist. Archer felt her irregular breaths ease as he lay awake listening to the familiar sounds of his yacht, adjusting to the ebb and flow of the water.
Chapter 8
H
ector Hamilton woke to the din of the coal man making his weekly delivery at the Watling Inn. An inauspicious hostelery in Charing Cross, it was all he could afford, what with his gaming debts. His leg pounded with every beat of his heart, with every moan of the creaking floorboards overhead and with the hoarse cry of the fishmonger seemingly right outside his window. He slowly rolled over, trying not to move his leg too quickly.
He blinked in the dimness of the weak morning light. The lumpy mattress protested every move he made and he suddenly wished to be back home in Cambridge, in his own bed, at his venerable college, waiting for the housekeeper to prepare his morning tea. He ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth was chalky and bitter. He had a vague recollection of the previous night, Burlington House, the footpads, Meredith Woolcott's ministrations and then the physician, Dr. Codger.
He'd never felt worse in his life. Not even when Cressida's tears began to flow, her rosy little hands coming up to cover her pale cheeks, when he'd told her that he no longer wished to make her his wife. Hamilton stared across at the cold grate and considered whether he was suffering from a fever, given his fit of tremors. The wound must be kept clean, the doctor had cautioned, to avoid sepsis. An unpleasant taste lingered in his mouth, the result in part of the bitter medicine the doctor insisted he take and the remnants of outrage that he had sunk so low... .
Lady Meredith Woolcott was nothing like he'd imagined. Truth be told, she was something of a temptress and he blushed at the thought of her vibrant hair and that full mouth spouting ideas that were absolutely brazen coming from a woman. Her lecture at Burlington House was outstanding and, if she were a man, she would definitely take her place beside scholars at Cambridge or Oxford. She was a woman totally outside his ken, so different from Cressida Pettigrew that she might be another species entirely. He burrowed under the covers, cursing himself for having the weakness that had caused him to hurt two innocent women who, he had to admit, had a hold on his conscience and his plummeting self-regard.
The gambling curse. It was the only reason he finally clambered out of bed, his head swimming. He would wager his last one hundred pounds for coffee and a piece of dry toast to still the rumbling in his stomach. He dissolved back into the thin pillows, draped an arm over his thigh and imagined the scent of coffee wafting into the room.
His leg throbbed, a reminder of his humbling weakness, a devouring beast that demanded to be fed. Unbelievable that he, shy and retiring Hector Hamilton, son of a rector, was willing to risk life and limb, not to mention self-regard and pride, in order to feed the beast. He covered his head with a pillow when he heard a knock that seemed to make the whole room shake. Head pounding, he removed the pillow just as he heard the doorknob turn.
“What in hell's damnation went wrong last night?”
“Wrong?” Hamilton sat bolt upright. The pain in his leg was staggering. The man standing at the foot of his bed was almost as startling.
“You damn fool.”
Dear God, no. Crompton, short, wide and aggressive, stared down at him. “Meredith Woolcott was the one who should have incurred injury. Not you.” Crompton's dark eyes narrowed with irritation under his low brow.
Hamilton clenched his teeth and counted the brass buttons on Crompton's coat. He was a henchman made to order, delighting in carrying out his directives to the letter, despite his unsuccessful attempt at adopting the affectations of a gentleman. Hamilton tried to straighten, aware of the pitiful figure he must make in his nightshirt.
He attempted to explain. “When I received the message to rendezvous at Charles Street with Lady Woolcott, I had no idea that you were planning to do her physical harm. You had arranged our first meeting on Rotten Row and I expected more of the same. Merely a scare, not—”
Crompton scratched his scalp, visible through his closely cropped gray hair. “What did you think, Hamilton, that we were inclined to meet you both for tea?” Crompton sputtered to an end, unable to find words excoriating enough to make his point. A vein popped out on his forehead.
Hamilton pressed his lips together to keep both his nausea and outrage in check.
Crompton was just gathering a head of steam. “There is nothing I can do to make your marching orders any clearer, but I see that I must,” he said, addressing Hamilton like a dog called to heel. “Yours is not to wonder why, Hamilton. But if you must know, your throwing yourself in front of the Woolcott woman only served to get yourself in the way of a knife.”
“You never intended to injure Lady Woolcott?”
“Don't get softer on me than you already are.” Crompton's gaze was contemptuous. “The idea was to frighten her and have you come to the rescue. Instead, and truly, it comes as no surprise, she saved your lamentable hide. The woman has more bollocks than you.”
“The end result is the same,” Hamilton persisted weakly. “She is now indebted to me.”
“Right. You took a knife wound to your person on her behalf.” Crompton sneered. “The reason for my visit, if you haven't determined it already, was to help you see your way out of this tangle. I trust that she is still eager to visit with you in Cambridge. And that your injury does not keep you from returning to the university, sooner rather than later.”
But to what purpose? The pain in his leg seemed to sharpen his mind. “Lady Woolcott has expressed an interest in journeying to Cambridge, but given the circumstances, and our short acquaintance, we require more time to solidify our relations.”
“For a scholar, you can be terribly thick.” Crompton's eyes shot daggers. “We do not have time at our disposal. At this point, the woman probably pities you, so I should suggest you find a way to work that to your advantage. You appear as though you require a nursemaid at your side.”
Crompton raged on. Hamilton let the tirade wash over him, his vision blurring. Arguing was pointless as the man at the foot of his bed was accustomed to having his own way. Better to allow him to wear himself out, if such a thing were possible.
“Tell her it's a country weekend, at Warthaven Park, your uncle's residence.”
“Uncle's residence?” Hamilton blinked. Clearly, he'd missed something.
“Don't you recall? George Crompton, your uncle, at your service.” Hamilton's mouth slackened in disbelief. “You cannot expect to entertain the lady in your humble rooms at your college. I trust that you will make a proper show of courting her, acquaint her with your work at the Fitzwilliam Museum, a sure way to a bluestocking's heart.” Crompton grunted an afterthought. “
The Book of the Dead
and all, what with her interest in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Make sure of it.”

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