The Rogue (30 page)

“I feel like I am ice,” she whispered. “A thin sheet of ice, and I am cracking.”

“Don't,” he growled against her neck. “Don't,” he said again. She ran her palms up his chest, and his mouth on her throat and hands on her hips forced her pleasure. “Feel this,” he said. “Feel me.”

She closed her eyes and let his body urge hers toward more.

“I would say find a room,” came Lord Michaels's voice. “But you're already in a room. You know, there are several bedchambers right around the corner.” Standing in the doorway in full Shakespearean costume, he leaned to peer at her from behind Saint who had turned to face him, blocking her. “My lady, I beg of you, forgive the interruption. It was Viking's fault.”

“It was
not
,” Mr. Viking threw over his shoulder, his back to the doorway. “I merely opened the door. My lord chose to barrel in and make this scene.”

“Get out of here, both of you,” Saint said, gripping the back of his neck.

“Well, I would, but I am in desperate need of a pen and paper,” Lord Michaels said, “and Viking assured me this was the place to acquire them. But it's a good thing I happened in. If you don't both get ready soon you will be late to your party. Tonight I aim to be a whirling dervish of information gathering.”

Smoothing her hair, she walked with outward calm to the door, not trusting herself to speak as she departed, thinking that Saint's idea of meeting at dawn in a wood was a fine one indeed.

W
ITH THE HELP
of her maid, Constance dressed in a silk petticoat with voluminous sleeves, a bodice that barely covered her nipples, and a heavy gown of slashed sleeves that was tied with laces up the center, making her breasts round above the square neckline. To complete the costume, Eliza set a jewel-encrusted tiara in her upswept hair.

“You should not be doing this,” Eliza said with a disapproving eye at her décolletage. “Mark my words, if you continue in this manner you will lose him.”

She gave her friend's stiff neck ruff a tweak and left to survey the preparations a final time.

Guests arrived with amusingly eager promptness. Footmen went about with trays of wine and musicians playing Italian dances filled the house with music.

Dylan's face was worried as he scanned the animated crowd. “What if he's taken her to the countryside? What if all of this is only wasting time while we should be searching elsewhere? Haiknayes, perhaps.”

She tucked her hand around his elbow. “If we discover nothing here tonight, we will turn our search outward. We will not cease until she is found. Now come, help me greet our guests.”

Saint was not present. She left her guests to the baron and went to find her husband.

He stood in the middle of his bedchamber, fiddling with his tight cuffs. The sleeves puffed out from a jerkin of indigo velvet that hugged his chest, and his breeches were tight to his legs. The antique rapier that she had purchased thinking of him—as she had purchased them all, for years—hung at his side from a long, doubled belt of gilded leather.

“You are very handsome,” she said.

“Why do you think they call it the Sanctuary?” he said without looking up, his graceful fingers fumbling on the buttons.

“Have you been standing here pondering that since our party began?”

“And attempting to fasten these blasted things. Where is that damn Viking when I actually need him?” He extended his wrists to her. “Would you?”

She went forward, endeavoring to ignore the wash of feeling inside her at the sight of his hands—simply his hands spread before her.

“You are
not
going downstairs like that.” His eyes were upon her breasts.

“I have already been downstairs.” She finished her task and turned toward the door with a swirl of heavy skirts. “Come along, Sir Knight. Your guests await.”

As she came to the landing, she went to the balustrade and looked down. The lights were low, the costumes sumptuous, and the breeze coming through the open front door heady with the scent of jasmine. Music rose to them, and laughter and the sounds of conversation.

“The solstice is but a month away,” she whispered.

“We will find her,” he said just behind her. “We will discover who is doing this, and I will put steel through his heart. And every other man down there.”

“Every one?”

“If the villain is not one of these, why are you throwing a party for them? I serve at the pleasure of my lady, but I would prefer spending my leisure otherwise.” His hand curved around her hip.

“Which leisure activities would you prefer?”

Air swished against her ankles. He was drawing up her skirts at the back.

“I daresay you can imagine,” he said as the cool air touched her calves. She did not halt him and beneath the fabric his hand covered her buttock. She bit her lips together.

“What are you doing?” she breathed as his fingers cupped her.

“My wife,” he said. “I should think that obvious.”

Her laughter was husky beneath the murmur of voices and music.

“Someone will see.”

“The light is below.” He caressed the crease of her thighs. “We are in darkness.”

Her fingers tightened on the railing and she fought the urge to ask him for more. She wanted his hands on her breasts. His mouth.

“It is too little,” she whispered.

“And yet this brings me pleasure. Along with the hope that someday you will allow me to put my mouth here.” He dragged two fingers across her most sensitive flesh.

“
Yes.
”

“Yes?”

She moved against him. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

He pulled her from the balustrade and swung her back against the wall. His lips hovered over hers, his eyes questioning and exultant at once.

“Anything,” she said unsteadily. “How unchaste you make me want to be, Mr. Sterling.”

His mouth found her throat, his body hers. Running her hands over his shoulders, she pressed to him and the pressure of his arousal against hers forced a moan from her throat.

“We
must
return to the party,” she said. “I should go readjust my gown first.”

“If you go anywhere near your bedchamber at this time, I won't be held responsible for your absence for the next several hours.”

“If we never appeared for our own party, people would talk.”

He released her, but his fingertips trailed along her arm as though reluctant to lose contact. “They would say that Lady Constance and her purchased man were too busy enjoying wedded bliss to show them proper hospitality.” He moved toward the stairs.

“Will you not offer your arm to me, sir?”

“Constance, I am as hard as an anvil at present. Allowing you to touch me again will not help me reach the ground floor otherwise, and these breeches are damnably tight. If
you wish, however, I am more than willing to display my desire for you to everyone below.”

She glided past him, smiling. “It seems that I was right when I called you Beast.”

“And you are my Beauty.” He gestured for her to precede him down the stairs.

My
Beauty. She went ahead of him and felt his gaze upon her all the way down the stairs.

S
he moved through the crowds of costumed revelers, chatting, flirting, fluttering her fan over her decadent bosom as though every man's attention weren't already there. Saint did not approach her. Their purpose tonight was to show themselves eager for a lark, whatever that might be. He spent time with the women from Loch Irvine's house two nights earlier, and several of the men, but learned nothing of value except that the next meeting at the Sanctuary would celebrate the summer solstice. Their theories seemed on target.

Each time his gaze found her in the throng of guests, her eyes seemed brighter. And Dylan's mask of conviviality could not entirely hide his anxiety. Time was short. Tomorrow they must mount an offense.

As the clock began its ascent into day, Sir Lorian Hughes sauntered to him. He wore a long doublet of gold, wide pantaloons, and a smallsword.

“Splendid festivities the lady of the house throws, Sterling.” He fingered the hilt of his sword.

“Doesn't she?”

Hughes's eyes were hooded. “You will hang for the murder of Annie Favor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Read's petition to have the accusation against you dismissed will not meet with success. Do you know how I know this?”

“Enlighten me.”

“I have proof that you killed her, proof that you buried a blade in her heart like it was butter and carved a mark on her face to match Loch Irvine's emblem.”

“And what proof is that?”

“I have the knife that you used and the testimony of the man who sold it to you.”

“That is hardly incontrovertible proof.”

Hughes's mouth twisted into a smirk. “Given the present fear of every family with a daughter in Edinburgh, I do not need incontrovertible proof. Only a public square with you in the middle of it, and a mob.”

So this was it. Now he knew. “And you call yourself a man of honor.”

“Don't be naïve, Sterling.”

“What do you want?”

“Her.” Saint followed his gaze to Constance. “I tried to do this the easy way, through an invitation to that pathetic little gathering. But I understand from what others are saying tonight that you and she will decline the next invitation.”

“The Sanctuary is not to our tastes.”

“And yet she is to my tastes. So now it comes to threats.”

Saint bit down on the fury building in him. “Could you be so sadly predictable? Your own wife is beautiful, and she is already yours.”

“Don't tell me that a man of your talent with a blade does not understand the thrill of a hard-won victory? Has she told you that I offered for her?”

No. Along with all the other secrets she held close. “How intrepid of you.”

“She refused me. She refused every man who offered for her. She preferred taunting us all.”

“Pity for you all, then.”

“She is a spirited filly. But perhaps she has had a change of heart. If she hasn't, it will be in your best interest to see that she does.”

“Hughes, this is not a game you should play with me. You will come to regret it.”

“She is far beyond your touch, Sterling, and everyone knows it but you.” He strolled away.

C
ONSTANCE WATCHED
S
AINT'S
spine grow stiff as he spoke with Sir Lorian. When they parted, he disappeared into another room.

She dove into gossip anew. As instructed, the footmen had refilled glasses liberally. But conversation continued exasperatingly dull. Most of her guests seemed unaware of the Sanctuary, and blithely optimistic regarding the accusation of murder hanging over her husband's head. It was wonderful and incredible and she wanted to laugh with him about it. But Lord Michaels's gaiety was forced, and when the guests trickled to a dozen, his face was grim as he retired.

Sir Lorian and Lady Hughes were the last to depart, lingering in the foyer over-long.

When they were finally alone, Saint grasped her hand and led her upstairs without words. He took her to his bedchamber, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

“Undress.”

She put her fingers to her bodice and, from the top, unfastened the tight overdress. It gaped and she drew it off one sleeve at a time. Ribbons untied, the silky petticoat slid to the floor. Her stays were next. When she drew the shift up and off, she wore only stockings. She reached to unfasten the garters, rolled the stockings down, and dropped them on the floor. She stood before him nude and his elven eyes consumed her.

“Take two steps backward and lift your arms.” He removed his coat and neck cloth.

She did as he demanded, and watched as he took up her stockings from the floor and came to her. Reaching up, he grasped her wrists and silk slithered around them.

“
Saint
—”

He ducked his cheek to hers and said quietly, “I will not harm you. I—” His fingers laced with hers. “Let me make love to you.”

“You will cease if I say so?”

“The very moment.” His lips touched the tender place beneath her ear. He drew the silk snugly over her wrist. “Yes?”

Tightness was gathering in her chest, of equal parts alarm and certainty. “Yes.”

He tied her to the bedpost.

When his hands came down he put them around her waist. “Tug, and you can free yourself at any time.”

She was cold with sweat. “I can?”

“Try it now.”

She took a thick breath. “
No.
”

His hands tightened on her waist. “You are magnificent.”

“I am waiting,” she whispered.

He kissed her neck, then her shoulders as he held her breasts in his hands and took every bit of breath from her. Then he kissed her breasts, marking a journey of teasing, languorous devotion on her skin. When his mouth closed around her nipple her fingers clamped around the bedpost. The knot was indeed no match for her; his teeth grazed her nipple and she writhed and the stockings slipped away. But she remained stretched out for him, waiting, wanting. The ache was unbearable, the need to have him touch her and satisfy the craving too great.

Then he did, with his mouth. Soft, hot, wet, he kissed her, his hands parting her thighs so he could deepen the kiss. She had not known
this
. She had not known that a man could be this tender. She clung to the bedpost, her hips rocking to him, and begged him not to cease.

S
HE WAS SHAKING
as he took her up in his arms and laid her on the bed. He removed his shoes, then came to her side. She watched him with half-lidded eyes.

“Are you a pirate?” she said softly.

“Why? Have you found a hidden chest of jewels and gold doubloons in my private quarters?”

“Where did you learn to tie that sort of knot?”

“I ought to be shot.”

“Because you stole a chest of jewels and gold? Then you are a pirate after all.”

He wanted to touch her, to stroke the strands of damp silk from her cheek and trace the curve of her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Quite all right. Will you do that again, sometime, but without the stockings?”

“This moment, if you wish it,” he said less steadily than he liked.

She smiled, a sweet grin at odds with her unfocused eyes. “I think I might never have a wish other than that.” Her voice quieted. “But not with the bonds.”

“Shall I ask forgiveness of you?”

“No.” She slipped a hand across the mattress and to his collar. Beneath her fingertips, his pulse was quick. “Why are you dressed? Do you have an assignation later, a meeting to plot diabolical rituals, perhaps? Could you have been so successful with our guests tonight?”

“Constance, you humble me.”

She spread her fingers, five spots of noble pleasure upon his skin. “It was tiresome pretending to want everybody else's husband tonight. I don't know how those women do it all the time.”

“They are not pretending.”

“Everyone pretends.” She stroked two fingers down his chest. “Except you.” She laid her palm flat over his heart. “I should like to pretend right now that we are wed and that you wish to claim your conjugal rights of me immediately. Here. On this bed.”

He turned her onto her back and took her into his arms. “No pretense necessary.”

Her lips were welcoming, her arms tight around his shoulders, and her body open to him. He took his time giving her pleasure. When she cried his name, finally he allowed himself the release he needed.

He stroked a golden tress from her brow, watching her fall into sleep.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“My knight,” she murmured.

S
HE AWOKE TO
silver light blazing through the bedchamber window. He was there, sitting at the foot of the bed, his skin and every contour of muscle gloriously lit, and she thought she must be dreaming.

“Is it morning?”

“Not for several hours yet. You have slept only a short while.”

“The moonlight is brilliant. Haven't you slept?”

He offered her a half smile that curled inside her.

“It seems I cannot,” he said.

She pushed tangled hair from before her eyes and turned onto her side.

“Lady Hughes did not want to leave last night,” she said, watching his face.

“I don't wish to talk about her. I don't wish to talk about any of that.”

“I think she hoped you would invite her to stay,” she said because his gaze upon her was so peculiar, at once longing and distant.

“If you had invited her to stay, she would have been even happier.”

In a moment's clarity, the truth occurred to her. She leaned up onto her elbow. “Do you think that she and Patience Westin—”

“Yes.”

“But at the Sanctuary, Miranda chose Mr. Westin.”

“Choice is a peculiar thing, isn't it?”

“How cryptic you are. Miranda said something to me only yesterday about choice, too. She is flirtatious, to be sure. But Patience is so shy.” She looked into his eyes and her throat abruptly tightened. “Oh, Saint. At the Sanctuary, Miranda chose Westin so that Patience would not be forced to be with
another
man.”

“I imagine she did.”

Tears leaped up behind her eyes. “She was protecting her.”

“Yes.”

“Sanctuary . . .” He had known about Patience and Miranda, or suspected, but he had not told her. “Will you share with me your conversation with Sir Lorian last night?”

“He believes himself slighted by you,” he said.

“He said that to
you
?”

“He is determined to have you, Constance. You must take care with him.”

A flare of panic stole through her. She struggled to sit, pulling up the bedclothes to cover herself. “You say that as though you will not be here to aid me.”

“If I weren't, you are more than capable of defending yourself.”

“That is not an answer.”

“You asked no question.” He came to her, and she knew her eyes were wide but she had no will to dissemble. “My wife,” he said, kneeling before her and curving his hands around her face. “Let us for once not speak of these things. Let us for an hour forget them entirely. Shall we?” He stroked his thumb across her lips softly.

“Return to the edge of the woods at dawn?” she whispered, and felt that somehow he was saying good-bye to her.

He kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him and drew him close.