He could have her later. After Marblethorpe or whoever had finished with her, he could soothe the hurt and show her what love was like. He was sick of this city--he could take her back to England himself. Or even Ireland, to the crumbling old castle that was hardly as bad as this crumbling city.
He was out of his mind. Yes, he wanted to have her. He wanted to stretch her out on the bed and taste every bit of her; he wanted to push inside her, so deeply; he wanted to hear her cry out her release in his ear. He wanted her mouth on him, he wanted to. . .
Damn, he was hard just thinking about her. It was absurd. She'd sold herself to the Heavenly Host for a pittance and a ticket home, and the sooner he stopped thinking about her the better.
Except he'd put her in his bed. Her skin was warm and pink from the bath, smelling like roses. His sheets would smell like roses.
Marcello was waiting outside the door, the ring of heavy keys in his hand. Despite the munificent sum he paid him, Alistair was perfectly aware that Marblethorpe paid him more. "Don't lock her in," he said.
"No, sir," Marcello said. And Alistair no more believed him than he would have believed Sir Wesley Marblethorpe.
He held out longer than he would have thought. It was late afternoon, and she'd slept at least four hours, while Alistair tried to distract himself with anything he could think of. In the end he gave in. He sent his valet out with instructions, poured an ewer of cold water over his head, and went to his bedroom.
She was locked in, of course. He didn't bother with Marcello--there were other ways. There was a narrow balcony overlooking the canal that ran along the side of the palazzo, one in front of each of the main rooms, with a few feet between them. He simply jumped across to the one in front of his bedroom.
He'd done it before, dead drunk. Sober, it was admittedly easier, and he landed lightly, then pushed open the windows.
She was a small lump in the middle of his bed. She hadn't done anything with her hair--it spread around her, and he wanted to wrap himself in it. She was still asleep. The fire had died, but the room was still warm, and he pushed the windows closed behind him, moving toward the bed.
Kathleen heard him come into the room, and she didn't move. She'd already realized that this was, indeed, his private bedroom. Perhaps he'd just come in search of something and would leave the way he'd come.
And perhaps pigs could fly and Venice had roads. She knew why he was here, and she'd been unconsciously waiting for him. Wondering what kept him so long.
She'd even been able to sleep, which astonished her. But when she slept she dreamed of Alistair, and not the sweet, innocent hero of her childhood. She dreamed of the beautiful, disso
lute rake, his hands on her breasts, between her legs, his body naked against her skin. She dreamed of heat and sweat and sex without even knowing what she was dreaming of, and when she awoke he was looking down at her.
"You're not doing it," he said. "Marblethorpe will have to find somebody else. "
"I have to," she said wearily, as if to a recalcitrant child who wasn't paying attention. "I have no other options. "
"I'm taking you back to England. My valet has secured passage for us on a packet ship that leaves tomorrow morning. "
She wasn't sure whether she felt despair or elation. "So I get to be your whore instead of a virgin sacrifice? How is that any better? With the other, I only have to put up with it one time. "
"Wretch," he said in his lazy voice. "Move over. "
"Now?" Her eyes widened.
"No," he said patiently. "You don't have to put up with anything you don't want. I told Simpson to book two rooms. If you don't want to share mine then Simpson can. "
"You're telling me you'll save me even if I don't become your mistress?"
He sat down on the bed, next to her hip, and she scuttled over, afraid to touch him. "I'm telling you. . . " he began, then stopped, staring down at her. "Why do you look so familiar? Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to take care of you whenever I look at you, when frankly I don't feel the slightest bit of responsibility for anyone else? Which makes life very difficult, because I also want to fuck you, and the two don't go together. "
She flinched at the ugly word. What would he say if she told him the truth? Would he remember? After all these years?
And if he did, what would happen? He probably had enough decency left in him that he would leap from the bed in horror that he'd talked that way to Jack Lunning-Strong's little sister.
It would be revenge. It would be rescue. It would be despair.
She'd come this far. She lay in his bed, practically naked, and even the touch of his eyes made her skin warm. If she told him the truth she'd get home safely, her virginity intact, and she'd die that way.
Author: Anne Stuart
"Make up your mind," she said, looking into his dark amber eyes. "What is it you want to do?"
He stretched out beside her, and his hand slid down her throat, brushing across the top of her breast, and she wanted to arch into it. "I want to render you unusable for Marblethorpe's little game. I want to get in bed with you and make love to you until you weep with pleasure, and then I want to do it all over again. And the thing is, my innocent little angel, that you really want it too. You just don't recognize it. " He pushed her hair away from her face in a gentle caress.