Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(69)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Always assuming, of course, that he wanted a future with her. Silence frowned at the thought. He’d not mentioned marriage, or indeed even making her his mistress. Did he have any plans for her? Or was he—

Michael’s breathing had been sonorous, but she realized suddenly that it had lightened. She stilled, suddenly cautious. What must he think of her tears last night? Surely he wasn’t used to such things? Her overabundance of emotion was gauche, she knew, but it was something she could do little to change. She’d lived so long with the fantasy of a perfect love with William, that putting it aside was a hard thing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked, his voice blurred with sleep.

“For weeping,” she said softly. “I know it must have irritated you, it’s just that—”

“I wasn’t irritated,” he said, his breath whispering against the back of her neck. “Never apologize for what we two do here.”

“But you must not want a weepy woman in your bed.”

He grunted and stirred, withdrawing from her. She only had a moment to be disappointed and then he flipped her to her back and rose over her, powerful and male. He casually parted her legs with his knees and thrust into her again, hot and hard.

She gasped at the swift invasion, the lovely feeling, and then his face was next to hers, his big palms cradling her cheeks.

“What I want,” he drawled, “is ye. Nothin’ else.”

She opened her lips to ask what exactly he meant by that, but his mouth covered hers, and all thought fled her mind.

He kissed her leisurely then rose, bracing his upper half on his arms and thrust into her. This position was an old one, a familiar one, though not with him. Somehow with Michael she felt much more vulnerable. More intimate. He watched her face as he inserted and withdrew himself, completely in control, arrogant in his dominant manhood.

“Yer mine now,” he whispered, his eyelids at half-mast. “D’ye understand, Silence, m’love?”

She didn’t, not entirely. She wanted to ask him to tell her more, to explain exactly what he meant by “mine” and if he envisioned it lasting for a week or the rest of their lives. She wanted details and explanations, but he was moving on her—moving in her—in the most wondrous way and she simply couldn’t form the words.

So instead she stretched her arms above her head, reveling in the heavy thrust of his hips. Her breasts jiggled with the movement and his gaze lowered to stare at her bosom.

“I’ve wanted to see these forever,” he murmured, and hooking his fingers into the neckline of her chemise, tore the garment from her.

She gasped, his casual violence somehow terribly erotic.

“Aye,” he growled.

He lowered his head and tongued her quivering nipple, his hips still moving rhythmically.

She felt a restless rising, a desperate yearning for something that might not be entirely physical. This lovemaking was wonderful, but it was not love. Was it enough? If he couldn’t ever find it in himself to love her, would she be content?

She pushed aside the thought and dug her fingers into his hair, sliding so silkily over his shoulders. Her touch seemed to spur him on. Suddenly he was pounding into her, his thrusts fast and sure. She wanted to raise his head, to look him in the eye and see if there might be something driving him on beside lust.

But her own ecstasy caught her and threw her high. She closed her eyes, gasping, feeling as if she were the recipient of some kind of pagan offering. She spread her legs wide, her toes pointed, and accepted everything he had to give her.

He groaned against her breast, his big body suddenly stiffening as the spasm took him. She dropped her hands to his shoulders and felt the ripple as his muscles tightened.

When she opened her eyes the very air seemed golden, crisp with promise.

For a moment he lay heavy upon her.

Then he rolled aside and propped himself on his elbow. Michael’s beard blued his jaw and his eyes were still lazy from their lovemaking as he watched her with tenderness. Was that love in his eyes? Or something close enough? But she felt too shy to ask him. She felt shy looking at him. He was so wantonly seductive it made her self-conscious. Surely her hair was mussed from sleeping, her face puffy from crying the night before. She drew the coverlet over her breasts.

A corner of his mouth curled at her action, making him even more sensuously handsome. “Bittner usually readies a bath for me in the mornin’—he knows me routine. Would ye like me to have one brought to yer rooms for ye?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she said shyly. A bath was a rare luxury, especially this early in the morning.

His half smile turned to a grin at her enthusiastic reply. He leaned down and kissed her—hard and thoroughly.

A knock came at the outer door.

Silence squeaked, embarrassed. “The servants—”

Michael shook his head, rising from the bed. “The servants know better than to disturb me—unless it’s important.”

He crossed to the door and cracked it without bothering to dress.

Silence couldn’t see who was outside the door, but she could hear his voice.

“A word, Mick,” Harry said.

And somehow Silence knew their imperfect idyll was shattered.

“ ’E BOLTED LAST night near midnight,” Harry said as he matched his stride to Mick’s. The two men were headed in the direction of the small stable behind the house. “We followed ’im like ye instructed, but we ’ad no notion o’ where ’e was bound until we fetched up ’ere this mornin’. Didn’t think ye’d want ’im showin’ up all unannounced, so I put a ’and on ’im and came for ye.”

Mick could feel his muscles tensing, his stride lengthening as he neared the one who had betrayed him. “Ye did well.”

They went out through the kitchens, ignoring the startled squeak of a single scullery maid bent over a mountain of dishes. Outside the day was gray as if the skies reflected this grim business. The stable was across a cobblestone yard and their boots rang on the stones. Inside the stable one of the carriage horses whickered in greeting. Bran was standing in an empty stall with Bert watching him narrow-eyed.

Mick looked at his former lieutenant. Bran no longer could be mistaken for a boy. Several days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw. His face had new lines about his mouth and his eyes looked sunken. Bran glanced at him and then away again as if too ashamed to meet Mick’s eyes.

“Wait for me outside,” Mick said to Bert and Harry without taking his eyes from Bran’s face.