Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

Above the gradually slowing beat of their hearts, Ismal could hear the tick of the clock, the crackle of the fire and, beyond, outside, the hiss of the rain. Cautiously, he eased his body from hers. She winced.

He brushed a kiss against her swollen lips and, moving onto his side, gently gathered her into his arms. She was warm and soft, limp with exhaustion, her silken skin damp in passion's aftermath.

She was his at last.

She loved him, she'd said. He feared it was a costly possession, her love.

He had, perhaps, a superstitious fear, barbarian that he was. He had, often enough, accepted the love others offered. He had done so without letting it touch him, because he'd understood long ago that love was a treacherous thing to give and receive. It could turn the world from heaven to hell in an instant and back again, again and again.

So had his world changed moment to moment since last night, when she had made the gash in his heart with her small, despairing plea for his name. It was not a mortal wound, perhaps, but near enough—deep and searing as the hole Lord Edenmont's bullet had torn into his side a decade ago. This time, however, even Esme's salves could not have eased the hurt.

The remedy Ismal needed was in the keeping of the woman who'd done the damage. She'd offered love, and made a terrible magic with that gift. When he'd come this night, he'd known that her love was a serpent that could turn upon him in an instant, spitting revulsion, fear, contempt.

Yet he had given her what she wanted because there was no choice, and stoically he had waited for the serpent to strike. Rejection would not kill him, he'd told himself. It would release him at last, after a year and more, and he'd be free of her. The need, in time, would fade like any other.

But Fate had not written it so.

Fate had given her into his keeping. And all his peace, he saw with a terrible clarity, was now in hers. It was too late to fear the treacherous magic of this woman's love. All he truly dreaded now was losing her.

He drew her close and nuzzled the soft tangle of her hair. She stirred sleepily. Then she tensed, drawing her head back to look at him in bewilderment.

"You fell asleep," he chided, smiling because he couldn't help it. "The tigress at last is sated—and falls asleep. Selfish cat."

Color flooded her cheeks. "I couldn't help it. I was—that was—you are—"

"Very demanding," he supplied. He kissed her eyebrow.

"Yes. But..." She bit her lip.

"Tell me."

"I don't know, exactly."

"Tell me approximately, then." He stroked down her smooth, supple back.

She let out a small sigh. "That never happened before." With her thumb, she traced small circles in the center of his chest. "I don't know whether it's you...or whether I had it completely wrong. Lovemaking," she explained, darting him an embarrassed glance. "I thought it was like—like a rash."

"A rash." His voice was expressionless.

"The more you scratch, the more you itch."

In other words, her husband had failed to satisfy her, Ismal interpreted, not altogether surprised. Opiates and drink took their toll on a man's stamina. Furthermore, being Beaumont, he must have made it out to be her fault.

"This is what happens with Englishmen," he said. "They are not properly trained regarding women. A strange delusion is bred into them that women are weak and inferior, consequently, unworthy of the trouble of understanding. Albanian men are not so ignorant. From the cradle we learn that women are powerful and dangerous."

"Are they, indeed?" An uncertain smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Is that why you keep them locked in harems?"

He grinned down at her. "Aye—and to keep other men from stealing them. Women are like cats. Independent. Unpredictable. You give a woman all she asks—you die to please her. Then, one day, another man passes her window and calls to her, 'Ah, my beautiful one. Your burning eyes make roast meat of my heart. Hajde, shpirti im. Come, to me, my soul, he beckons. And so your woman goes, forgetting you, just as the cat forgets the carcass of the poor sparrow she ate the day before."

She laughed, and the sound was delicious, tickling his skin, warming his heart. "Roast meat," she said. "Sparrow carcasses. How romantic."

"It is true. A woman cannot be controlled. Only appeased. Temporarily."

"I see. You told me your story to shut me up—"

"And to entertain," he said. "As I would amuse a cat with a ball of string."

"But you succeeded," she said. "I was utterly captivated, enthralled. And appeased."

"Ah, no," he said sadly. "For you wanted me, still, and I saw my fate. 'It must be done, Ismal,' I told myself. 'Recall your father, the mighty warrior. He would not shrink, even from certain death. Be strong like him. Take courage. The goddess demands a sacrifice. Lay yourself upon her altar, and pray she will be merciful, And so I did." He licked her ear. "Though my heart drummed with terror."

She squirmed and pulled away. "Don't. That makes me demented."

"I know." He was growing aroused again, though his body had scarcely quieted from the first tempest. Gently he released her and shifted himself up onto one elbow.

"You fire up in an instant," he said as he lightly caressed her breast. Smooth and white as alabaster. Full and firm. So beautiful she was, and passionate. Made to make a man weep. "It is frightening," he added. "Luckily, I am Albanian, the son of a strong warrior."

"And the son of a sorceress." Her tawny gaze was darkening. "I suppose there's some comfort in that. At least I haven't disgraced myself with someone ordinary."

He clicked his tongue. "It is not disgrace. We care for each other. Neither of us belongs to another."

"Neither of us?" she interrupted. "Aren't you forgetting your wives?"

With his index finger, he wrote his name over the smooth curve of her breast. "This matter of wives plagues you excessively," he said.

"I can understand a man having trouble cleaving only to one," she said. "But when he's allowed scores of them, it's very difficult to understand what the problem is. Obviously, it's too late for me to object, but I am curious. Purely for intellectual enlightenment, I wish you'd explain. Why should a man of your cultural background stray? Or was it the circumstances? Were you obliged to leave them in Albania?"

He let out a sigh. "I vowed to myself that I would not respond to any more interrogations, at least for this night." He moved over her and eased himself between her thighs. "Perhaps I should distract you," he added, skimming his fingers down over her belly.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no. I shan't survive another—Oh-h-h," she moaned, as his fingers grazed her tender woman's flesh.

"Mediant," he murmured while he caressed the sensitive peak with feather-light strokes. "Wicked, curious cat. I give you everything you want, and it is not enough, ungrateful creature."

Her eyes were glazing over. "Dear God. Oh. Don't. Oh-h-h-h."

He bent and feathered a trail of kisses over her breast, then lightly took its trembling crest between his teeth. A low, surrendering moan answered, and she slid her fingers into his hair.

Smiling, he trailed down slowly, teasing her silken skin with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

She gasped, and tugged at his hair as he stole lower, to the center of her heat. She was damp already with wanting. Ready, vulnerable to delicious torment. He wanted to make it long and delicious. He had claimed her like a savage. Now he would enjoy his conquest at his leisure. He flicked his tongue over the delicate bud. This time, her moan pulsed through her muscles and on through him, to vibrate in his heart like the strings of a lute.

She was the night, and the night was dark, hot honey, thick with pleasure. She was his, hot and helpless under his tongue, and her soft, tremulous cries were for him. He toyed and tantalized, savoring the desire he drew from her, the moist warmth of her feminine secrets. Again and again he coaxed her to the crest of pleasure, and grew drunk with power as each climactic shudder pulsed through him.

"Please. Istnal." She

fisted her hands in his hair. "Please," she gasped. "I need you inside me."

He rose to her, smiling his triumph and happiness while his swollen rod throbbed against her heat.

"Like this, my heart?" he asked huskily as he eased into her slick core.

"Oh. Yes."

Slowly, this time. Lovingly. She was his now, sweet and hot...and needing him...inside her. Her body welcomed, opening gladly to him...surrounding him, taking him deep, and tightening, to hold him in the most intimate of embraces while she moved to the sensuous rhythm he set, and joined with him in lovers' dance.

She was the night, and the night sang in his heart, low and aching as the music of his homeland. She was the Ionian wind, singing in the pines. She was the rain streaming into his parched and lonely exile's heart to nourish his soul. She was the sea and the mountains, the soaring eagles and the rushing rivers...all that he had lost. In her he found himself. Ismal. Hers.

She reached for him, and he sank gladly into her welcoming embrace, and drank the heady brew of simmering kisses. Her passion was raki, a potent whiskey racing through his blood, inflaming him.