She smoothed her hands down his broad back, feeling the valley of his spine, the muscles on either side. Like being in hell. She ached for the part of him that had been in hell. “Were you in many battles?”
“A few.” He sighed and lowered his head as she dug her thumbs into the muscles above his hips.
She tapped his shoulder. “Take this off.”
He shrugged out of his banyan and shirt, but when he made to turn around, she firmly pushed him back. She pressed her thumbs in hard, small circles on either side of his spine. He groaned and his head fell forward again as he braced his hands on either side of the windowsill.
“You were at Quebec,” she said softly.
“That was the only real battle. The rest were skirmishes. Some lasted only minutes.”
“And Spinner’s Falls?”
His shoulders hunched as if she’d hit him, but he didn’t say a word. She knew that Spinner’s Falls had been a massacre. She’d comforted Emeline when word finally came back that Reynaud had not survived his capture there. She should push—this was obviously his weak point. But she couldn’t be so ruthless. She hated the thought of hurting him anew.
Instead, she took his hand and led him to her bed. He stood silently, passively, as she stripped him of his remaining clothes—although his cock was far from passive. Then she pushed him onto the bed and climbed in beside him. She propped herself up on an elbow next to him and drew her free hand down over his chest. She felt grateful that she had this man, at least for this time, for herself. Here, now, she could do with him as she wished.
It was a gift. A glorious gift.
So she leaned down and trailed soft, wet kisses along his side, licking the ridge of his ribs, nipping at the jut of his hip bone. Above her, he rumbled something, a warning perhaps, or maybe encouragement. She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t care. In front of her was her goal: his penis, bold and thick and hard. She touched it with just a fingertip, running along its length. Then she leaned down and softly, gently, kissed him on the weeping eye.
His hips arched, and he grabbed her hair, pulling her face up. “Don’t. You don’t have to. I don’t deserve it.”
There were beads of sweat on his upper lip, and his eyes were wild and sorrowful.
Deserve was an interesting choice of word, and she stored it away so that she could bring it out and examine it later.
so "3">Right now, though, she deliberately licked her lips, tasting his seed, and said, “I want to.” She wanted to bring him peace if she could.
His grip relaxed, perhaps in surprise, but she took advantage by dipping her head and taking his cock into her mouth. Then his hands tightened again, but she hardly thought it was to stop her now.
She sucked on the tip, a salty plum in her mouth, and ran her hand dreamily down the length. She hadn’t a lot of practice at this, and if there was a proper way of doing it, she wasn’t aware, but he didn’t seem to mind. He muttered something unintelligible and bucked his hips. She smiled secretly and let his cock pull out of her mouth with a soft pop. She tested her teeth against the meaty head, stroking faster below. There was no give in his shaft. He was hard and ready and—
He jackknifed up and flipped her beneath him. And then he was looming large and menacing over her, his face dark as he growled, “Do you think me a plaything, my lady?”
She opened her legs wide, planted her feet, and arched her hips off the bed. She rubbed her sex against his length, watching as his eyelids fell in reaction.
“Perhaps I do,” she whispered. “Perhaps your cock is my favorite toy. Perhaps I want my toy in my—”
But he thrust fast and hard, making her lose her words on a gasp of pleasure.
“Wanton,” he gritted. “My wanton.”
And she could only laugh in sheer erotic frenzy. She bucked her hips up, making him thrust harder just to stay on top. She laughed aloud as she rotated and ground against him, the sweat from his exertions dripping onto her bare breasts. He gripped her hips and held her firmly still as he thudded into her, galloping at an impossible pace. Stars lit behind her open eyes, and she threw her head back and gasped in ecstasy. She held on to his slippery shoulders, feeling the heat spread from her center, conscious dimly that she still laughed aloud even as she crested in glory.
It wasn’t until he shuddered in her arms, swearing steadily under his breath, that her vision cleared and she saw that above her his face was a mask of tragedy.
Chapter Eleven
All of the suitors set off after the ring of bronze, and Princess Surcease sighed and went back into the castle. But Jack found a quiet corner and opened his little tin snuffbox. And what should be inside but exactly what he needed: a suit of armor made of night and wind and the sharpest sword in the world. Jack put the suit on his stumpy body and grasped the sword. Then whoosh! Whist! he stood before a lake. Jack was just wondering if this was the right lake, when an enormous serpent rose up out of the water. What a mighty battle commenced! The serpent was very large and Jack very small, but he did have the sharpest sword in the world, and that suit certainly helped. In the end, the serpent lay dead and the ring lay in Jack’s hand. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
He’d apparently married a wanton, Ja ^CK
Of course, all that wonderfulness didn’t quite explain why he was riding away from his town house this morning, having once again eaten breakfast without his wife. This came perilously close to cowardice. But while his body was enthralled by her sensuality, his intellect coldly wondered where she’d gained her knowledge. She must’ve had at least one lover—possibly more—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine that thought too closely. The image of another man teaching her. Showing her how to take a cock into her sweet, warm mouth . . .
He growled. A passing chimney sweep shot him a startled glance and shied away.
Jasper pushed the thought from his mind. He hunched his shoulders and drew up his collar against the misty drizzle. The good weather had finally broken, and London was a gray, gloomy world this morning. His mind drifted back to last night. He remembered his wife reflected in the black window as she drew her chemise from her tall, slender body. She’d looked pale and otherworldly, her light brown hair swirling about her hips.
She probably thought him a coward or, worse, an imbecile. He’d left her after they’d made love, without so much as a good night, and spent the night on his pallet. He was an ass. But those eyes, watching him as she kissed his chest, watching him as she asked about Spinner’s Falls. God. She’d had no idea what she’d married. Perhaps it was best that he’d left so ungraciously. Better not to give her hope of something more when he didn’t have it in him to be anything more.
And now he didn’t even make sense in his own mind. He looked up to see Matthew Horn’s town house, glad that he could escape these maudlin musings.
Jasper dismounted Belle and handed the reins to a boy, then leapt up the front steps. A minute later, he was prowling Horn’s library, waiting for him to come down from wherever he was.
He’d just bent to peer at a large and dusty volume when Horn’s voice came from the door. “Looking for some light reading?”
“Just wondering why anyone would want a history of copper mining.” Jasper straightened and grinned.
Horn made a wry face. “My pater’s. Not that it did him any good. The mine he picked to invest in failed.” He strolled into the room and flung himself into a large chair, looping his leg over the arm. “The Horns are not exactly known for their financial sense.”
Jasper grimaced sympathetically. “Bad luck, that.”
Horn shrugged. “Want some tea? Seems early for whiskey.”
“No. Thank you.” Jasper wandered to a framed map of the world and tried to make out where Italy was.
“Come about Spinner’s Falls again, have you?” Horn asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” Jasper agreed without turning. Was it possible Italy wasn’t on the map at all? “Have you heard about what happened to Hasselthorpe?”
“Shot in Hyde Park. They’re calling it an assassination attempt.”
“Yes. And right after Hasselthorpe agreed to think about helping me.”
There was a brief silence, broken by Horn’s incredulous laugh. “You can’t think the two are related?”
Jasper shrugged. He wasn’t sure, of course, but the whole thing was a very strange coincidence.
“I still think you ought let Spinner’s Falls go,” Horn said quietly.
Jasper didn’t reply. If he was capable of letting this go, he would.
Horn sighed. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it.”
Jasper turned and glanced at Horn. “Have you?”
Horn waved a vague hand. “Here and there. What I don’t understand is why someone would betray the regiment. What would be the point? Especially if it was one of us who was captured. Seems like a good way to get yourself killed.”
Jasper blew out a breath. “Don’t think he meant to be captured—the traitor, that is. Probably thought to lie low and avoid the fighting.”
“Every one of us that was captured fought and fought well.”
“Aye, you’re right.” Jasper turned back to the map.
“Then what possible reason to betray the regiment and get us all killed? I think you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, old man. There wasn’t any traitor. Spinner’s Falls was just bad luck, plain and simple.”
“Perhaps.” Jasper leaned so close to the map that his nose nearly touched the parchment. “But I can think of one very good reason someone might betray us.”
“What?”
“Money.” Jasper gave up on the map entirely. “The French had made it known that they’d pay good money for information.”
“A spy?” Matthew’s dark eyebrows shot up. He didn’t look particularly convinced.
“Why not?”
“Because I and anyone else who was there would tear the bloody bastard limb from limb, that’s why,” Matthew replied. He jumped up from his chair as if he couldn’t stay still anymore.
“All the more reason to make sure no one found out,” Jasper said softly.
Matthew was looking out the window now and merely shrugged.
“Look, I have no more love of the idea than you,” Jasper said. “But if we were betrayed, if they all died from one man’s greed, if we marched through that forest and endured . . .” He stopped, unable to say the rest.
Jasper closed his eyes, but in the blackness, he still saw the glowing stick pressing into flesh, still smelled the stench of burned human skin. He opened his eyes. Matthew was watching him without expression.
“We need—I need—to find him and bring him to justice. Make him pay for his sins,” Jasper said.
“What about Hasselthorpe? Have you seen him since the shooting?”
“He refuses to see me. I sent a message this morning asking for an interview, and he sent it back saying he intends to retire to his country estate to recover.”
“Damn.”
“Quite.” Jasper brooded over the map again.
“You need to speak to Alistair Munroe,” Horn said from behind him.
Jasper turned. “You think he’s the traitor?”
“No.” Matthew shook his head. “But he was there. He might remember something we haven’t.”
“I’ve tried writing him.” Jasper grimaced in frustration. “He doesn’t write back.”
Matthew looked at him steadily. “Then you’ll just have to travel to Scotland, won’t you?”
MELISANDE SAW HER husband for the first time that day at dinner. She’d actually begun to wonder if he was avoiding her, if something was the matter, but he seemed perfectly normal now as he forked up peas and joked with the footmen.
