Billy’s laugh followed him up the winding stairs. He was tempted, so very tempted to carry her to his own bed, to stretch her out there and finish what he’d started, remove her clothes, slowly. Ah, but he was a wiser man than that. This woman was his enemy, and the last thing he wanted to do was bed her before he knew exactly what she wanted from him.
He was going to need her to volunteer that information, and it didn’t appear that she was going to do it anytime soon.
He headed for the narrow stairs to the attic, then changed his mind. He’d lost track of what time it was, he was bone weary from his exhilarating fight with the storm that day, and he wasn’t in the mood to rescue her from bats if they decided to dive at her.
He pushed open one of the unoccupied bedrooms, half expecting it to be a disastrous dustheap. Apparently his upper-class maid had already been in there—even in the light from the hall he could see no dust, the curtains looked fresh, and the bed was turned down for the next guest to arrive.
He managed to pull back the covers before setting her down carefully, then went to turn up the gaslight just enough to see her. He sat down on the bed beside her. His trousers were crusted with dry saltwater, and he would have liked nothing more than to get out of them, but now wasn’t the time.
“It seems I have a habit of dressing and undressing you,” he said softly, reaching for the row of buttons that ran up the front her dress. “You know, this is a very ugly dress. You should have thrown this one at me this morning.”
She didn’t move, but he knew she was awake now and doing her best to pretend she wasn’t. He smiled to himself, continuing his gentle litany. “Not that that one’s much better. But then, maids don’t usually have Worth gowns and diamond pendants.” She gave a little start, and he knew he’d been right about that. Not that she probably still owned the diamonds. He’d gotten word from Wart, who’d reported that Russell’s three daughters had been stripped of almost everything, including most of their wardrobes. God only knew how they’d managed to survive the last few months.
By becoming domestic servants? Not likely—why would she just happen to end up at his house? No, she was here for a reason and he intended to find out why.
He pushed open the dress, exposing the very expensive corset. The laces were knotted, so tightly that his fingers, a bit clumsy after clutching at lines and sails in the lashing rain, couldn’t untie it. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the small knife he always carried when he went to sea and simply ran it up front of the corset, cutting through the laces so that it fell apart.
Her eyes flew open at that, and she took in a deep, desperate breath. “What did you do?” she demanded in a hoarse voice.
“Destroyed your corset.” Her skin looked crushed from the punishing contraption, and now that it was open he simply yanked it out from under her and tossed it on the floor.
“Do you know how much that thing cost?” she demanded in outrage.
“No. Do you?”
It silenced her. She lay there, dragging in deep lungsful of air. Good God, how long had the girl been struggling to breathe? All day, since she’d first fastened that instrument of torture? Finally she managed to speak. “My former mistress…” she began, but he cut her off.
“Supposedly your former mistress was Fulton’s mother, and she weighs fifteen stone at least. Come up with a better one, Mary Greaves.”
“It was her daughter’s.”
She was game, he had to give her credit for that. “Matthew doesn’t have any sisters.”
“It was…”
“Stop lying.” And he slid his hand behind her neck, pulling her up to meet his mouth.
She tasted sweet and warm, so sweet after the cold seawater he’d swallowed during his ignominious dunking. He put his other arm around her, pulling her up against him, and she felt so good, slight but solid, not a creature who would blow away in the first strong gale. For a moment she didn’t move, and then she opened her mouth for him, and he deepened the kiss, tasting everything, using his tongue, using his teeth, drowning in the sweetness of her mouth. He lowered her back onto the bed, slowly, following her down so that he could kiss her leisurely, leaving his hands free to catch her wrists as she tried to push him away.
But instead her hands turned in his, her fingers entwining with his own, and for a brief moment she kissed him back, thoroughly, with that lack of expertise he found somehow devastating.
He caught her knee seconds before it slammed into his privates.
He was fast, damn it, Maddy thought, as he flipped her over onto her stomach on the bed, covering her, holding her down. No matter how she struggled, he had her trapped, and she wanted to scream in frustration. It had been so hard to fight the drugging lassitude of his mouth on hers when she’d been thinking about it all day. But she had fought, refusing to give in to the sudden, carnal nature she’d never known she possessed, and with anyone else she would have managed to cripple him long enough to escape.
But she wouldn’t have kissed any other man, she thought. He was on top of her, holding her down, but she didn’t want to think about that, think about the various parts of his strong, hard body and what was pressing where. He moved his head down, so that his voice was at her ear. “Dirty tricks, my little liar. You’re just damned lucky I’ve already seen you in action. If you’d connected you’d be very sorry.”
“I’d be gone,” she said, her voice muffled against the pillow.
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said flatly. “And I wouldn’t be in a very forgiving mood. Now why don’t you tell me who you really are?”
His breath was soft, damp against her ear, and she wanted that soft damp breath in her mouth. She was just as glad she was lying on her stomach on the bed, because everything in the front of her wanted to be touched—her breasts, her stomach, between her legs. Pressing against the mattress was at least some relief. She tried to lift her head to look at him, but it was too difficult, so she dropped it back down again, closing her eyes. “I told you who I am. Mary Greaves, a maidservant.”
“And I’m Benjamin Disraeli.”
“No, you’re Luca,” she shot back, then realized that wasn’t the wisest move on her part. She had no idea what that name meant, only that it was secret, and secrets were dangerous.
“You heard that, did you?” He sounded unconcerned. “So why don’t you return the favor and tell me your real name?”