Hot Silk Page 8

  She was not going to be a simpering victim.

  “If it weren’t for my brother’s servants being at risk, I would have unmanned you an hour ago,” she hissed.

  “Then I’m most fortunate that you can’t drive a carriage.”

  Gateposts appeared and he turned his horse there, muttering, “Thank God” beneath his breath. The dense copse of trees quickly fell away and the lane crested a rise.

  Grace gasped. A lovely estate was spread out before them—the house symmetrical and solid in gray stone, the gardens in full, lush bloom. A bubbling brook ran cheerily nearby. This pretty Georgian manor belonged to Devlin?

  Grace’s heart twisted. A woman looked after this house. It was evident in the lovely garden and the organized appearance of both grounds and house. Two years had passed—had the notorious highwayman found himself a bride? Was that why he’d captured her? Did he need ransom to care for a clutch of impish children and a lovely wife with expensive tastes?

  Why should it matter to her if he had a wife and a thousand children?

  He protected you from Lord Wesley’s cruelty, whispered a voice in her head.

  She bounced on the saddle and swallowed a scream of pain as her pelvic bones rattled.

  A young woman came running out of the house. Grace blinked. A sheet trailed after the girl, rippling in a gust of wind. Giddy laughter filled the air. The girl, who looked about her age, was nude, and her small, firm breasts bounced as she ran.

  Behind her, a man came running out. At least he wore clothing; he quickly closed in on the girl. Squealing, she tried to dart away and lost her grip on her sheet—which sailed across the lawn on a current of air.

  “Bloody hell,” Devlin grunted behind her.

  The man had brought the girl to the ground and was fumbling with his trouser buttons while she arched beneath him. “Hurry up, I’m so very wet.” The girl flung her leg around the man’s waist and gripped the lapels of his coat. She pulled his mouth down to hers and they kissed hungrily while he pressed forward.

  Grace couldn’t see the moment of penetration, but she knew it had happened. Her legs quivered at the sounds of a feminine squeal and a ragged male groan. Hot fire washed over her cheeks and her body went so boneless that she almost fell off the horse. She swallowed a moan.

  “Who’s this woman, Devlin? What have you brought her here for?”

  Grace jerked her gaze away from the grunting, rocking couple on the grass. Another woman stood in the doorway, but this one had auburn hair tied back with an emerald silk ribbon and her curvaceous figure poured into a low-cut gown of green sprigged muslin.

  Suddenly, the red-haired woman clapped a hand to her mouth. “Crikey, it’s her, isn’t it! Devlin, you damnable wretch!”

  6

  “What is it you want, Mr. Sharpe? A ransom for my life?”

  Standing in the west-facing drawing room of his home, bathed in rich afternoon light, Grace asked the questions without sarcasm, without rancor, and Devlin was taken aback to realize she seriously thought that was his intent. He tightened his grip on the glass in his hand, not tasting the fine brandy as it slid down his throat.

  Months of planning had gone into this, his goal simple and direct—to bring Grace into his life once more, to have her again, to—

  Hades, at that point his goals became hazy, a sensation that he’d experienced a long time ago and had never liked. He always decided exactly what he wanted and got it.

  He set down his glass with a clunk that rattled the table, then tore off the tricorn, mask, and wig. Damp with sweat, his hair was caught back with a leather tie. “I would never trade you for money, love.”

  Sunlight caressed Grace’s generous curves and played along the slender line of her neck. “Then what do you want?”

  Devlin’s throat tightened. He slung his leg over the arm of a wing chair and drank in her features—the exotic, expressive curves of her mouth, the pert nose, and the sparking green eyes that promised a fiery temper and bewitching sensuality. But she looked afraid of him and that twisted his heart.

  He glanced toward the window, a plane of reflective gold, and softly said, “I’ve seen you, sweetheart, over the last two years. At balls.” By revealing it, had he gone too far? He had taken a hell of a risk for a wanted man…but he’d been drawn to see her. He’d known men addicted to opium, addicted to drink. Damnation, but his desire for Grace was a merciless master, and he suspected he was addicted to her.

  Unease brought lines to bracket her lips. “I did not know you went into society. But why would you? Why would you want to see me?”

  “To see how you were coping in the world I’d ruined you for.”

  “A woman ruins herself,” she threw back and he winced at the cynicism, the bitterness in her voice. She’d aged much more than two years.

  He had stood on the fringes of society, in the shadows, and he’d watched her. She’d danced, but her eyes had been far away. She’d flirted, but would quickly retreat if the gentleman began to look too earnest. She’d fled from those who were apparently hoping for seduction, but also from those who looked obviously in love.

  Even with her sisters, the fiery auburn-haired Lady Trent and the gentle, beautiful Lady Swansborough, Grace had seemed reserved—she was hiding secrets, and he could sense the weight of them affected every word she spoke.

  “I never saw you,” she said. “But then, I never looked for you.”

  The admission hurt. Of course, he’d hidden damn well, and she had no reason to think he would go out in society. So why should he be hoping that she had pined for him?

  Devlin grinned, as he always did when he landed in trouble. “I was never formally invited. And I never went anywhere through the front door, love.”

  Grace moved to the window and laid her white-gloved knuckles against the pane. She stood with the sun behind her, the brilliance of it dazzling his eyes. Her profile was cast in shadow, unreadable. “You still have not told me what you want.”

  Simple answer to that. He wanted her in his bed. “Have you made love since the last time we were together? Since I ate your sweet cunny in the summerhouse?”

  Her gasp rippled down his spine. She spun around—he still could not see her features, but her sudden movement revealed how shocked she was. “What on earth do you think? Though obviously you have. There must be a dozen women in this house—and most of them are not wearing any clothes.”

  He shrugged. “There are six women and a lot of men in this house. The women keep them from shooting each other.”

  Easing off the arm of the chair, he prowled toward Grace. “You haven’t, have you? For two years, you’ve been lonely.”

  “Yes!” she hissed.

  “You could have taken a lover.”

  “You must be mad. And put some poor gentleman at risk? I now have powerful brothers-in-law who would kill any man who bedded me.”

  “I thought as much and that’s why I brought you here. I want you, Grace, and I suspect that you want me. Stay with me—a few days, a week. As long as you want. I will give you every erotic fantasy you’ve ever dreamed of.”

  As he got closer, she stiffened. Her perfume wrapped around him—now she wore an exotic scent, smelling of jasmine and lush spices, but she wore it subtly, and it hinted at the woman she really was. Not a prim English spinster, but earthy, voluptuous, carnal.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “And you thought I would agree? That I would want that?”

  “Yes, I think you do.” He reached out and pried her arms away. In her shimmering white dress with its jaunty green pattern, Grace was beautiful. All he wanted was to peel the gown off her and roll around—hot, sweaty, and naked—on a rumpled bed in the summer heat. “You don’t have to hide who you really are behind shields, Grace. For a few days, you can be the woman you were meant to be.”

  She would not look at his eyes, and it gave him hope. She must be afraid she would weaken. Why else would she not meet his gaze?

  Grace jerked
her arms away from his gentle grasp and lifted her thumb to her lips.

  “No one in society is going to know that you’ve been here,” he murmured. “My men do not know your name, and they’ll never go about in any place they might encounter you. Your servants won’t talk. You will be safe.”

  The silence stretched and uncertainty weighed on him. Did he say more? Did he touch her? He’d faced situations where one wrong move would result in death but felt just as nervous now.

  “You kept me safe from Lord Wesley and from Lord Wynsome…”

  That gave him hope.

  “But why kidnap me?” she demanded. “Perhaps you have more in common with your brother than simply a shared father.”

  He recoiled at the words. Christ, did she really think that?

  He gaped, nonplussed, as she wagged her finger at him. “It is easy for you to talk about being who I was meant to be. When society matrons learn I spent several days as the captive of the notorious Captain Sharpe, what exactly do you think they will gossip? That we whiled away the time playing chess?”

  “In a sense, we are,” he shot back. “But now we are just moving pieces aimlessly about the board. You’ve spent two years amongst the ton. How many marriage proposals have you refused? Rumor tells me it is at least two dozen.”

  “Not—not that many. And how can I accept? On the wedding night, my husband will know the truth.”

  “To be honest, I suspect most of those clods wouldn’t figure it out with a little artful maneuvering on your part, and I think you know it. There’s another reason—”

  “Of course!” she cried. “You’ve discovered my secret. I am pining with love for you, Captain Sharpe. A horrible, consumptive, unrequited love that I know can never be returned, that can never be fulfilled. I spend my days doodling hearts on my letters and fill my books with flowery renditions of ‘Mrs. Captain Sharpe’—”

  “Gah!” He threw his hands in the air.

  “You want me to stay. You want us to spend a few days together in your bed. And what is there in this for me?” she demanded.

  Her question shocked him and his tongue failed him. He didn’t know. Pleasure? Fun?

  “I will tell you what,” she said, her back to him. “Fleeting pleasure and then too much pain—that horrible feeling of loss again. I can endure frustration. But I cannot live with pain.”

  “Sweetheart,” Devlin said. “I cannot live without you.”

  Grace put her hand to her heart as a tight pain clutched at it and turned to face Devlin. “You know exactly what to say. But of course I don’t believe you.”

  Somber and brilliant blue in the light, his eyes held hers. “It’s the truth, Grace, love. Of course I have to live without you, but I’m not bloody pleased about it.”

  “I should think you barely have time to think of me at all. Do the six ladies here take turns in your bed? Does each one have a night, or do you have more than one at once?”

  Of course, he looked astonished. He had no idea who her father was. No idea that she had seen Rodesson’s erotic books and she knew exactly what exotic naughty pleasures men enjoyed.

  She knew exactly what men did sexually when they had power.

  At least the bold image she’d described had distracted him from what she’d done with her sharp words—reveal her jealousy, her vulnerability.

  “Forget about them,” he growled. “All I can see is you.” He stepped close to her, until her awareness of him overwhelmed her. He touched her—of course, he did. He must know she wanted to melt as he skimmed the back of his hand along her breast. A shift, a corset, a muslin dress, and a pelisse covered her skin, but his touched burned through them all.

  “Why don’t you undress?” she purred. Naked, he would be at a disadvantage. He could not chase her down the lane without a stitch on.

  She had to escape. Her grandmother was waiting and she had to—absolutely had to—go but it was more than that. For two years, she’d been haunted by memories of Devlin.

  Her blood was like molten wax, so hot beneath her skin that she was soaked with sweat. Her cunny ached with yearning and, really, she doubted her heart could beat any faster. She wanted him so much, so badly…she would never recover from this. She would never forget!

  Firm, tempting, his mouth grazed her forehead as he calmly undid his elegant cravat. Grace stepped back, needing distance between them, but as he mercilessly yanked open the diamond buttons, she saw how vulnerable she was now.

  Now she had to watch.

  With his coat gaping, she caught a tantalizing glimpse of a pure white shirt beneath it as he paused to pull out the tie in his hair. His hair flowed like honey over his shoulders, far longer than it had been two years ago. Sweat made it darker, like molten amber.

  Confidence burned in his grin, and he cast aside his beautiful coat, then dragged his shirt over his head. Scars blemished his broad shoulders. He seemed bigger than he had been before, his muscles more prominent, the hollow at his throat a deep shadow.

  It was torture to look and she yearned to explore his textures—damp skin, soft swirls of golden hair, hard, velvety nipples.

  “Do you approve?” He asked it even as he opened his breeches of fine buff-colored fabric.

  “You know I do. I am sure every woman you keep does. Why do you need to hear it?”

  “It matters to me to hear you say it. To know you feel it.” One push sent his breeches down past the lean bones of his hips, and they paused at the tops of his bulging thighs. The flap shielded his cock from her curious, hungry gaze.

  She really should not want to see him naked. But she did.

  Then his breeches dropped to his boots, revealing that he wore no small clothes. Her throat tightened. She should have known. She’d seen his cock before, had thought about it every night when she went to her bed. When she slid beneath her covers and then slid her fingers down to her quim. At night, as she pleasured herself, as she worked off the yearning, the heat, the near-maddening lust, she would run her tongue around her lips and imagine the most shockingly erotic thing she could—licking the swollen head of his cock.

  Devlin sank to the arm of the wing chair, tugging off his boots. Falling over his face, his hair hid him, and he drew off boots and pantaloons so casually it was as though she was not in the room. He leaned back, supporting his weight with both hands behind him. The position let sunlight follow his sculpted body and made him look strangely vulnerable.

  Her throat dried as he grinned. “I’m nude, love, but you have not surrendered a stitch.”

  “Stand up and turn around,” she breathed. “I want to see you from the rear.”

  She intended to back away and run for the door, but as light and shadow played across his straight shoulders, across his powerful arms, she could not move. She could only stand, her heart racing, her breaths shallow, and play voyeur. Heat raced up, teasing her skin beneath her demure dress.

  Breaking the spell, she stepped forward. Grasped his tight arse and squeezed. Each cheek was hard and muscular and perfect. Soft hairs teased her palms and his firm flesh barely gave beneath her pressing fingers.

  Laughing, he twisted at his lean waist, watching her explore his rump. “I’ve never had a woman’s hands caress me with such enthusiasm.”

  “I rather like your bottom, Mr. Sharpe,” she teased.

  She met his gaze and caught her breath at the intoxicating mix of laughter and lust there. “In fact,” she added saucily, “It’s so tempting, I would like to do this—”

  Shock lifted his golden brows as she bent. Those curving cheeks beckoned her. She pressed her lips to the base of his spine, to the lovely bronze hollow. She kissed him softly, then swirled her tongue over his salty, warm, delicious skin. She could not believe she’d done such a thing, but his warm flesh was intoxicating.

  “Grace, love—”

  He sagged forward on a hoarse groan and grabbed the arms of the chair. She trailed the tip of her tongue over his round cheeks, tasting the hot, salty skin, brea
thing in his ripe, earthy scent. She was on her knees at his rear, and she stroked her hands up his hard inner thighs. Higher and higher she skimmed her fingers, delighted when his breath came harsh and fast.

  His spine arched, a beautiful strong curve, as she licked him all over his enticingly tight arse.

  She couldn’t leave. She wanted to stay. She could not resist.

  She would never have this again.

  He made her daring. Brave. Wild. She gently tapped his heavy ballocks against her open palm. Soft, dangling, and surprisingly large. What did it feel like to have those round, furry things dangling there? She brushed the tips of her gloved fingernails over the wrinkled, velvety skin. His ballocks jerked up toward his body.

  “Your turn,” he promised. His deep, rumbling voice wrapped around her, setting her heart racing.

  She stared up. “What do you mean?”

  “I want to taste you,” he growled. “Everywhere.”

  He clasped her hands and helped her to her feet with the easy charm and formality of a gentleman raising a young woman from a curtsy. His dimple deepened as he sank down to his knees in front of her.

  “Oh no, you mustn’t—my legs will melt and I’ll fall.”

  Raw, masculine laughter teased her. “I would never let you fall, Grace.”

  She looked down, both touched and aroused by his smile, his almost boyish delight as he lifted her hems. “No, you tried to raise me up, didn’t you? To give me courage. And you did.”

  He stood, taking her skirts up with him. In welcome, she parted her thighs. She watched his large, scarred, tanned hand slide into the lacy white slit of her drawers.

  “You were one of the most courageous woman I’ve known.”

  “I can hardly believe that.”

  “I admire women who defy idiotic rules to take what they want and deserve. I’ve had women hold a pistol on me to protect their ship, to protect children—not knowing I’d never hurt an innocent. Hell, I admired those women. Just as I admire you.”

  His finger rubbed over her clit, pressing to the very peak, and her legs melted like butter beneath a scorching sun. Grace grasped his wrist. She should push him away, but instead she clung to him, aware of his long, fine bones, soft, bronzed skin, and silken gold hairs. His finger drew slow, deliberate circles.