He fingered them gently above the waistband of her trousers, shifting the vis bulla that had been his against that of Aunt Eustacia, then releasing them back into the hollow of her navel. Still silent, but for the quiet rasp of breath, he spread his hands wide to cover her belly, curling long fingers around her hips and sliding them gently up her sensitive skin to cup one hand under each breast.
His touch raised little bumps on her flesh and sent tingles through her limbs, curling into the center of her belly. She arched up into his palms, her hands back on his shoulders, her hair tangling under and around them, as he bent down to her. Her breasts were tight, her nipples gathered into little round peaks, and when his mouth closed over one of them, she sighed. Closed her eyes.
Sharp pleasure-pain arched down from where he sucked and teased, coiling in her belly, then shooting lower between her legs. Victoria felt the gentle burn, the gathering of desire there, and when one long-fingered hand moved down beneath the band of her trousers, she gave a soft sigh of pleasure. He found what he was looking for, and slipped in and around languidly until she had lost all shame and was moaning beneath him, pressing closer, demanding what they both wanted.
After that, there was no more waiting, no more teasing. Trousers were ripped away, and his long, strong body covered her equally bare, ready one. She wrapped her legs around him as he settled against her, and they both gasped when he moved that first time. The fullness, the long, deep stroke made her mouth dry again, her eyes flutter closed, her fingers close over his shoulders, nails digging deep.
He lifted away just as slowly, then back again, and again, and more quickly and desperately, over and over, long and filling and deep . . . and suddenly the build exploded, leaving her shuddering and gasping and arching up again in a wave of pleasure and sunlight and stars. He groaned deep in his chest, and she felt him tense and tremble against her with one last, sharp movement.
He sagged over her, his face down, eyes closed, dark lashes and brows only a breath away from hers. One hand rested on the cushion next to her shoulder, the other cupped into the curve of her neck and shoulder, fingers curled around her neck . . . as though he had to hold on to her.
Twenty-three
Wherein Our Friends Are Horrified by Multiple Locks of Hair
Christ Almighty, what a bloody weak fool, was Max’s first thought. The second was, absurdly, Where the hell is Vioget?
Yet he had to touch her hair again. So dark and heavy, it was a wonder Victoria could hold her head up when it was piled on top. It spread over the pillows and coverlet of his bed, curling down over and between their bodies.
Good God . . . in his room?
But he couldn’t pretend not to remember how they’d come to be here, how, in the back of his lust-fogged mind, he’d decided to carry her to the bed in the small chamber reserved for servants. Not to hers. Not to the one she’d shared with Vioget.
And the rest of the night . . . for once in his bloody life, he’d not listened to conscience. In for a penny, in for a pound had been one vague thought as he went to her again. And again.
Now, early morning sun filtered through the window, here in the servants’ quarters on the upper floor where he’d cloistered himself for the last weeks. It brought reality, regret . . . uneasiness. And it cast enough light for him to see the curve of her ivory shoulder, the peek of a pink nipple, the rise and swell of her hip next to him. The glint of his vis bulla at her belly. Full red lips, swollen and crinkled in the aftermath of a passionate night.
Bloody hell.
Bloody damned hell.
He eased away from her, cold and furious.
She opened her eyes. Surprise, pleasure . . . and then her lashes swept down to hide the flush that colored her cheeks. Devil take it, had she seen the bald fear in his eyes?
“I trust you’re still drinking the potion from Eustacia,” he said calmly. His fingers didn’t want to release the thick curl they rubbed between their pads.
“How did you know about that?” She sat up and he looked. Christ, how could he not? All that dark hair fell forward and around, obscuring the details . . . but he knew every rise and fall of them. “Oh, yes, I forgot. You know everything. Yes, I’m still drinking the potion to keep me from conceiving. But I had already decided to stop taking it.”
“I think it a wise decision. You are Illa Gardella, the last of the direct line.” He drew subtly away, released the lock of hair. “And I think it best if we keep this . . . to ourselves.”
She blinked at him, her brown-green eyes all too shrewd. It was too blasted hard to hide anything from them. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s no bloody need to tell Vioget. Or anyone.”
“Max, you’re being obtuse. You can’t think I’d . . .” Her voice trailed off, understanding dawning. Thank God she was smart, and caught on quickly. It would be much easier if he didn’t have to explain. “This is like the time you kissed me, isn’t it? You’re going to walk away and pretend nothing happened. Pretend I goaded you into it.”
She was too bloody damned smart. Dammit. “Victoria, you—”
And forever after, he wasn’t certain whether the knock on the door was a godsend or misfortune.
Regardless, the interruption catapulted their attention far from the matter at hand. A wiry orange puff of hair preceded the maid’s eye peering around the corner. She didn’t appear surprised to see Victoria there; in fact, Max was struck by the combination of satisfaction warring with trepidation on her face.
“Verbena? What is it?” Victoria must have sensed it too, for her voice was sharp. Or maybe the hardness was for him.
“I’m begging yer pard’n, my lady, but I foun’ this on the front stoop. I don’ know when it came, as there was no one to answer the door . . . Charley’s day off, y’know . . . an’ so I foun’ it when I went out to see . . .” Her voice trailed off as she offered a small paper packet around the corner of the door.
“What about Kritanu?” Victoria mused, reaching for the envelope. Of course she wouldn’t be uncomfortable being undressed in front of her maid . . . but here, in his bed? Perhaps this circumstance was more common than he thought. The maid seemed to have known where to find them.
“He’s not ’ere.” Verbena shrugged, spreading her hands. “Ol’ver said he didn’t return last night.” And Wayren was . . . well, Wayren. She was likely closed up wherever she chose to be, studying an old manuscript or scroll. She appeared when she needed to. Obviously, Brim and Michalas hadn’t yet arrived.
Victoria snatched the packet from her maid. It was thick, tied with a red ribbon and sealed by a familiar wax blob. And . . . “Christ,” he said at the same time as she drew in her breath.
“That’s blood.” Victoria tore off the ribbon and flipped the seal open. When she saw what was inside, she drew in her breath sharply.
Pressed into the folds of the stiff paper was a thick lock of shiny jet-black hair. And beneath it, a matching lock of tawny gold curl. Both were sticky with blood.
The folded piece of paper accompanying them was unmarked but for an ugly brownish streak. It was stamped with the seal of the Earl of Brodebaugh.
Twenty-four
The Stakes Are Raised
“I hope you don’t plan to go haring off—” Max began in that tone of his.
“I’m not about to go haring off,” Victoria replied sharply. All of the pleasure and contentment with which she’d awakened had evaporated. Now she was cold and angry . . . but most of all frightened.
She looked at Max, who’d moved away from her and was already dressing, building the wall back up, brick by solid brick. Pressing her lips together, she looked away from his tall, muscular body. Later. She’d deal with him, with this—whatever this was—later. But for now . . .
“I have no plans to go haring off, Max,” she said in a calmer voice. “That’s what they want me to do, and that’s what put me in Beauregard’s control three months ago. He offered an exchange as well.”
“But his copper armband was the deciding factor in your downfall,” he said in an ironic voice.
“He wouldn’t have had the copper armband to weaken me if I hadn’t brought it along. I left the Consilium withoutrealizing, haring off as you would say . . . but,” she said, frustration coloring her voice, and grief, for the reminder that Zavier’s life had been the casualty that time—quite possibly along with her own soul. She shivered. “What are they doing to Kritanu and Sebastian?”
“I should think it’s quite clear: holding them for ransom, so to speak. The only thing I’m not certain of is who it is they want to lure there. And,” he added, picking up a shirt, “I use the term ‘they’ simply because I cannot believe Brodebaugh is acting alone. Or if he is even willingly involved.”
“There we agree.” Victoria stood from the bed, neglecting to cover herself, and couldn’t help a bit of smugness when he had to tear his gaze away, his jaw clamping suddenly shut. He wasn’t a bad sight himself, standing there in only untied trousers that settled at his hips. “It must be your scorned lover Sara behind all of this, and George too.”
Max stopped suddenly and looked at her. “Victoria, Sara and I were never lovers . . . in the true sense of the word.” He pitched the bundle of cloth at her. “You’re cold. Put this on.”
“I’m not cold. And in regards to Sara—you made a good case for the contrary,” she retorted, catching the shirt. Did that mean he hadn’t loved Sara, or that he’d never been intimate with her? “And it doesn’t matter now.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I knew you wanted to know. And . . . you should.” He pulled out another shirt and shook it out, preparing to put it on. Then he stopped. “Victoria.”
She had started to pull on his shirt, ready now to return to her own room and dress, but his voice halted her. His hand was on the silver cross that pierced his skin. “This is yours.”
