Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

"Because you need my help," she said. "Admit it. You wouldn't have known about the stickpin if I hadn't told you."

Ismal sighed. Then he came off the sofa to kneel beside her. She stiffened.

He bent nearer and grew drunk on the clean fragrance of her hair, mixed with the exotic combination of jasmine and myrrh and the elusive scent that was herself. He could not be wise and honorable. He'd given up fighting with himself the instant she'd come to him with her insolent apology and taunting golden eyes.

Effortlessly, without intention or guile, she'd shattered his resistance.

All that mattered to him now was wearing down hers.

"I need you," he said. "I admit this."

She stared straight ahead. A faint color washed over her high cheekbones. "I sent for you to discuss the case," she said. "To pass on information. That’s all."

He said nothing. He waited, focusing every iota of his will on what he wanted.

There was a long, thrumming silence. Then Esmond leaned in closer, and her breath caught as his lips grazed her ear.

Don't. Her mouth shaped the word, but the only sound was her own too rapid breathing.

He brushed his cheek against hers, nuzzling, as a cat would. And please don't, she silently pleaded, while she fought to keep from reaching up to stroke his neck, to feel the silk of his hair against her fingers.

She'd had all her weapons ready, prepared for any assault, but this wasn't assault. His scent, the warmth emanating from him, and the teasing friction of his skin against hers worked some insidious spell, turning her weapons against her. All her muscles were taut and aching, fighting her, trying to break free of reason and self-control.

And he knew it. She saw that in the glance he slanted at her. He was waiting, aware of what he was doing to her. He didn't move, scarcely seemed to breathe, yet she could feel the pressure increasing.

Will. His against hers. And his was more potent. Dark, masculine, relentless. She strained against the pull, but it was useless.

She'd been born weak. Sin was in her nature.

He was strong and beautiful, and she wanted him.

His lips brushed her cheek, promising tenderness. And that promise opened a rift inside her, an emptiness she'd hidden from herself, successfully. Until now.

She lifted her hand to his sleeve, instinctively, to hold onto him, as though the aching loneliness were a treacherous sea, and his strong body a lifeline.

Then he caught her, as though she were, in truth, drowning, and swept her from the footstool, and drew her into the haven of his arms.

This time, when his lips met hers, there was no hot punishment. This time, as though aware of the emptiness she felt, he filled her with pleasure. His mouth played with slow sensuality over hers. A delicious game...so tender. No fire, but warmth and ease and languor.

All the world quieted and softened, and lulled, she was easily led, to part for him at the first light coax of his tongue and welcome him deeper. She'd tasted fire the last time, quick, fierce, and frightening enough to jolt her to reason. This time, no blaze burst through the darkness of desire. This time, the darkness was warm, rich with sweet sensation...the velvet stroke of his tongue, caressing, idly exploring, playing with her softness, stealing secrets and hinting of his own.

Beguiled, she wordlessly told too much, and soon, she asked too much. She wanted more warmth, and pressed closer. She wanted his strength and weight, to be crushed, overpowered. She answered his idly seeking tongue with demand: More. Need me. Take me.

And still he played, as though there were nothing else in the world, no other time but this, as though one deep, lazy kiss could go on forever. While she grew desperate, craving more, he toyed contentedly, as though he needed no more.

Except, perhaps, to make her beg, warned a voice at the edges of consciousness.

Then she realized what he'd done, that she'd been led, deliberately. She was still gently cradled in his arms like a child, yet somehow he'd brought her down to the carpet, and she was tangled with him, like a wanton, her body clinging to his. And she wasn't warm, but hot. Because he'd built the fire by slow, imperceptible degrees and she had never noticed until she was feverish with lust.

Poison, Francis had warned. So sweet...just pleasure. So it had been.

Like human laudanum, he'd said.

And she had been drugged.

She pulled away and, struggling against unwilling muscles, dragged herself up to a sitting position.

Slowly, he sat up and gazed at her. All blue-eyed innocence.

"You did...that...on purpose," she said, fighting for breath.

"Assuredly. You could not think I kissed you by accident."

"That's not what I mean. You wanted to make me witless."

"Naturellement," he said with maddening calm. "I strongly doubt you would make love with me if you were in full possession of your reason."

"Love?" she echoed. "Make love?"

"What other possible purpose could there be?"

"That's not what you wanted." Reminding herself that the "love" he referred to was generally called fornication, she staggered to her feet. "You wanted to—to prove something. Teach me a lesson."

"I cannot think what I would teach you. You were wed for ten years. One assumes you know how to make love. Certainly, you are adept with the preliminaries."

Then he smiled up at her, a boy's disarming smile. But it wasn't mischief she saw glinting in those midnight blue eyes. It was guile.

"Not half so adept as you, obviously," she said.

"C'est vrai. No one is, as it happens." He rose, graceful as a cat—unlike her. Even now, she felt weak and clumsy, her limbs rubbery, threatening to give way.

"Still, your will is formidable," he went on. "Very difficult to overcome. Most vexatious—so much work for one small kiss." He gazed at her thoughtfully. "It was easier when you were angry, but then I was angry, too, and it is impossible to be comfortable when one is in a rage. Next time, perhaps I must contrive to enrage you while remaining even-tempered myself."

Her eyes widened. The fiend was not only planning his next maneuver, but he had the audacity to describe it.

"There isn't going to be a next time," she said, with all the icy command she could muster. But her heart was thumping anxiously all the same. What would she do if he persisted? How the devil could she stop him? She didn't understand how he did whatever it was he did.

"There shouldn't have been a first time," she added quickly. Straightening her posture, she moved a few steps away, toward the fireplace. "It's unprofessional. And inconsiderate of me—of my wishes. In case I didn't make it plain some time ago—which I'm sure I did—I don't want an affair, with you or anybody. In simple words, the answer is no. Not maybe, or sometime. NO. Non. Absolument. Jamais."

He nodded. "I understand. There is a great resistance."

"Ther

e is a great refusal, confound you!"

"Ah, yes. That is what I meant. My English is not always so precise as I would wish, yet I comprehend very well."

She had no doubt whatsoever that he did comprehend, all too well. "I'm relieved to hear it," she said. "And now that we've settled that matter, and I've told you all I know regarding Sherburne, you'll want to be on your way."

"Yes, that would be best. You have given me a great deal to reflect upon." He gave her a considering, head-to-toe survey that made her skin prickle.

"Quite," she said. "Sherburne. The stickpin. You'll want to find out for sure whether it belonged to Francis."

"Avory should be able to settle that question," he said. "I shall arrange that he comes to you in about three days' time. It would look odd if he called again sooner than that. Does this suit?"

"My appointment calendar is not overcrowded at present," she said stiffly.

"I have engagements tomorrow night and the next," he said. "The night after, I must dine with His Majesty. I doubt I can escape him much before dawn, especially if he is in a talkative humor. In any event, I assume you prefer I do not return until we have something to discuss. Regarding the case."

She nodded. "Good night, then." She smoothed her skirts, to avoid giving him her hand.

He bowed. "Au revoir, Madame. May your dreams be pleasant ones.”

¯¯

As Ismal had promised, Lord Avory called on Madame three days later. And just as Ismal had predicted, the marquess came to him shortly thereafter. After a short discussion—apologetic and embarrassed on Avory's part—Nick was sent out to retrieve the box of Beaumont's belongings from the carriage. At present, the marquess was arranging the last of the items upon the library table.

"She was wise not to throw them out," Ismal said as he put down a watch he'd been examining. "Many of these are quite old and the workmanship is fine. A valuable collection."

Lord Avory did not seem to be listening. He was gazing at the now-empty box in puzzlement.

"Something is missing?" Ismal asked.

The marquess looked up in surprise. "Sometimes I do wonder if you can actually hear me thinking," he said.