To Seduce a Sinner
Then she was conscious of a warmth against her back. Of strong arms and the brush of lips that tasted of whiskey.
“Jasper?” she mumbled, still half dreaming.
“Hush,” he whispered.
His mouth opened over hers, and he kissed her deeply, his tongue penetrating her mouth. She thought she tasted salt. She moaned, caught between waking and sleeping, all her defenses down and in shambles. She felt him lift her chemise and pull it from her body. His hands explored her breasts, stroking tenderly, then pinched her nipples almost to the point of pain.
“Jasper,” she moaned.
She ran her palms over his back. He was nude, his skin so hot it almost burned. His muscles shifted under her hands as he lay atop her, his weight settling between her spread thighs.
“Hush,” he whispered again.
She felt the nudge as he found her center and thrust inside.
Her body was soft, yielding from sleep and his hands, but she wasn’t quite ready. He shifted back and rocked slowly, gently, each small thrust stretching her and pushing him deeper inside. He hooked his hands under her knees and lifted them up so he was cradled between her thighs. And then he kissed her, brushing his palms lightly over her exposed nipples. Tantalizing her and tormenting her at the same time.
She tried to arch up, to make him touch her more firmly, but she hadn’t the leverage or the strength. He was in control, and he would make love to her in the manner that he desired. All she could do was submit.
So she tangled her hands in his hair and hung on, kissing him back, moving her mouth lushly, submissively under his.
He groaned. His hips worked a little faster now, his cock crammed all the way inside of her. She felt each thrust, each stretch of her feminine flesh as she received him again and again.
He broke the kiss and lifted his head away from her, his breath coming in loud, harsh pants. She didn’t open her eyes; she didn’t want to disrupt her dreamy state. Then she felt his fingers sliding down her side, twisting between their bodies. He searched and found her, his fingers strong and knowing. He pressed his thumb down on her clitoris.
“Come with me,” he whispered, his voice a rasp of desire. “Come with me.”
She opened her eyes at last. He must’ve brought a candle into the room, for muted light played along his side. His shoulders were wide and bunched with muscle, strands of hair clinging damply to his face, and his wild turquoise eyes stared into hers, compelling her.
“Come with me,” he whispered again.
His thumb circled her, pressing with exquisite accuracy as his cock filled her. She was splayed before him, a prize all his own, and he kept whispering, “Come with me.”
How could she deny him? The pleasu kim?Comre was building inside, and she wanted to hide her face. He was in control in ways she hadn’t let him be before. He would watch. He would know the secrets she kept hidden from him.
“Come with me.” He bent his head to lick her nipple.
She arched her head and wailed. He caught the sound in his mouth. Licked it up and swallowed it, a prize of this battle. He pressed down on her and held her as she came, jolting with each bolt of pleasure. He held her down with mouth and hips and that thumb, brushing lightly, sweetly, madly now. She’d never experienced an orgasm like this one, nearly painful in its intensity. She opened her eyes, gasping, and saw he wasn’t done. She’d been reduced to shivering pleasure, and he’d only started. He propped himself up on straight arms and watched her as he surged into her, hot and heavy and without mercy. His mouth was twisted, his eyes mad with lust and something else.
“God,” he ground out. “God. God. God!”
He threw back his head, arching convulsively, and she saw him bare his teeth as his body jerked into hers. His seed flooded her, warm and alive. She felt a joy such as she’d never felt before. She’d given and she’d received from him.
It was nearly holy.
His head was tilted back above her, his arms still straight. She couldn’t see his face because of his hair. A single drop of liquid fell to her left breast.
“Jasper,” she whispered, and cradled his wet face. “Jasper.”
He pulled out of her, the loss of his flesh almost a painful wrench, and climbed from the bed. He bent and scooped up his banyan and flung it on. “The robber boy died.”
He left the room.
Chapter Thirteen
That night, the royal court was abuzz with rumor. The serpent was dead and the bronze ring gone, but no one had come forward with the ring. Who was the brave man who had captured the ring?
Jack, as usual, stood beside the princess’s chair at supper, and she gave him a very strange look when she sat down.
“Why, Jack,” she cried, “where have you been? Your hair is quite wet.”
“I have been to visit a wee silver fishy,” Jack said, and turned a silly somersault.
The princess smiled and ate her soup, but what a surprise awaited her at the bottom of the bowl! There lay the bronze ring.
Well! That caused quite a stir, and the head cook was summoned at once. But although the poor man was questioned before the entire court, he had no knowledge of how the ring had got in Princess Surcease’s soup. At last the king was forced to dismiss the cook, no wiser than before. ne o. . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
She must think him a ravening beast after the night before. It was not a happy thought to have over breakfast, and Jasper scowled at the eggs and bread the innkeeper’s wife had provided. They were rather tasty, but the tea was weak and not of the best quality; besides, he would take the smallest reason to feel out of sorts this morning.
He peered over his teacup at his lady wife. She didn’t look like a woman who had been ravished in the night. On the contrary, she appeared fresh and rested and with every hair in place, which for some reason irked him even more.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, possibly the most mundane of conversational openings.
“Yes, thank you.” She fed a bit of bun to Mouse, who sat beneath the table. He knew this, although she neither moved nor changed expression. Indeed she continued to gaze steadily at him. It was something in the very steadiness of her gaze that let him know what she did.
“We shall enter Scotland today,” he said. “We should be in Edinburgh by tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
He nodded and buttered a bun, his third. “I have an aunt in Edinburgh.”
“You do? You never said.” She took a sip of tea.
“Yes, well, I do.”
“Is she a Scot?”
“No. Her first husband was a Scot. I believe she is on husband number three at the moment.” He laid his butter knife down on the plate. “Her name is Mrs. Esther Whippering, and we will spend a night with her.”
“Very well.”
She paused over her teacup. “Why? What had you done?”
“Nothing at all. She said it was good for me.”
“No doubt it was.”
He opened his mouth, about to defend his youthful honor, when he felt something cold and wet on the hand in his lap.
He’d been reaching for the butter knife with his other hand, and he nearly dropped it again. “My God, what is that?”
“I expect it’s only Mouse,” Melisande said serenely.
He peered under the table and saw two eyes gleaming back. They looked a little devilish in the dark. “What does he want?”
“Your bun.”
Jasper looked at his wife, outraged. “He shan’t have it.”
She shrugged. “He’ll only bother you until you give him some.”
“That’s no reason to reward bad behavior.”
“Mmm. Shall we have the innkeeper’s wife pack a luncheon for us? She seems to be a good cook.”
He felt another nudge against his leg. A warm weight settled on his foot. “An excellent idea. We may not be near an inn at luncheon time.”
She nodded and went to the door of the little private dining room to make arrangements.
Jasper shoved a piece of egg under the table when her back was turned. A wet tongue licked it from his fingers.
Melisande came back in the room and eyed him suspiciously but did not say a word.
Half an hour later, the horses were hitched, the lady’s maid was perched beside the coachman for a change, Melisande and Mouse were in the carriage waiting, and Jasper was having a last conversation with the innkeeper. He thanked the man and leapt up the steps to his carriage, then knocked on the roof and sat.
Melisande looked up from her embroidery as the carriage jolted forward. “What did you say to him?”
He glanced outside the window. Fog was rolling down the hills. “Who?”
“The innkeeper.”
“I thanked him for a perfectly lovely night without fleas.”
She simply looked at him.
He sighed. “I gave him enough money to pay to bury the boy. And a bit more for his trouble. I thought you’d want me to.”
“Thank you.”
He slumped in his seat and canted his legs to the side. “You have a soft heart, my lady wife.”
She shook her head decisively. “No, I have a just one.”
“A just heart that gives succor to a boy who would’ve shot you without a qualm.”
“You don’t know that.”
He watched the hills. “I know he set off last night with older men and a loaded gun. If he did not mean to use it, he should never have loaded it.”
He felt her gaze. “Why didn’t you shoot last night?”
He shrugged. “The highwayman’s pistol went off and used the shot.”
“Mr. Pynch told me this morning that there are pistols beneath the seat.”
Damn Pynch and his loose tongue. He glanced at Melisande. Her expression was curious rather than condemning.
He sighed. “I suppose I should show you so you can use them if need be. But for God’s sake don’t take one up unless you intend to use it, and always keep it pointed at the ground.”
She raised her brows but didn’t comment.
He moved across to her seat an sto ut d pulled up the thin cushion from his own. Underneath was a compartment with a hinged lid. He lifted the lid to reveal a pair of pistols. “There.”
She peered at them and Mouse jumped from the seat where he’d been dozing to take a look as well.
“Very nice,” Melisande said. She looked at him frankly. “Why didn’t you take them out last night?”
Jasper shoved the dog gently aside before closing the compartment lid, replacing the cushion and sitting back down again. “I didn’t take them out because I have an unreasoning dislike of guns, if you must know.”
She raised her brows. “That must’ve been a handicap during the war.”
“Oh, I shot a pistol or a rifle often enough when I was in the army. I’m not a bad shot either. Or at least I wasn’t—haven’t picked up a pistol since I returned to England.”
“Then why do you hate guns now?”
He used his left thumb to rub hard at the palm of his right hand. “I don’t like the feel—the weight maybe—of a pistol in my hand.” He looked across at her. “I would’ve gotten them out, though, if there was no other way. I wouldn’t’ve risked your life, my heart.”
She nodded. “I know.”
And that simple sentence filled him with a feeling he hadn’t felt in some time—happiness. He stared at her, so sure of his competence, so sure of his courage, and he thought, Please, Lord, let her never find out the truth.
SHE WISHED SHE could simply tell Vale that she didn’t want to sleep apart from him, Melisande thought later that night. She stood in the courtyard of another inn—this one fairly big—and watched as the hostlers unhitched the horses and Vale talked to the innkeeper. He was procuring a room for the night.