Cheryl Holt (33 page)

“I’d love to give you a son.” She brushed the hair off his face. “I’d be so proud.”

“I’m so sorry that we can’t.” Even as he said it, his body leapt to readiness. Though he’d just emptied himself, his cock swelled to a rude, vehement length, arranged to commit an almost predestined, irrevocable mistake.

The bathtub!

The phrase screamed out as a mode of rescue from the deviant course his anatomy was imploring him to trek. He required involvement in a less ardent endeavor, although why he would view washing her flawless torso as
safe
was a question he didn’t stoop to meditate upon. His lurid reveries had to be instantly curbed before he did something reckless, something irreversible.

Hoping that space would allay his wanton urges, he stepped to the floor. He was covered with her blood, his phallus and crotch a red smear, evidence of the sin he’d committed against her, his semen a drying pile on her stomach and leg.

Grabbing a towel, he wiped her clean, then himself, and stuffed his irritated privates into his pants. Through it all, she observed his every move, and he liked how he felt revered and precious under her blatant scrutiny.

“Are you sore?”

Undecided, she shifted against the mattress, and her body emitted a wail of protest. “Ooh . . . yes.”

“Then let’s sit you in your bath for a soak.” He helped her up. “The water will ease the tenderness, and wash away the blood.”

“Am I injured?” She glanced down and scowled, not understanding the physical consequence.

“No, but you’re no longer a maid.” Insolently, he preened that he’d been the one to relieve her of her virtue.

“Will I bleed every time?”

“Just this once and”—he steered her toward the dressing
room—“when your lovely bottom is healed from tonight’s adventure, it won’t hurt ever again, either.”

“I feel as if you split me in half.”

She glared at him over her shoulder, and she was a charming vision, all shapely ass, long legs, and smooth, naked skin.

“I’m a very big man.” He shrugged, conspicuously overbearing, but like the cad he was, he couldn’t resist gloating over what he’d just purloined from her. He stole a kiss before she could whirl around. “You make me wild with passion. I couldn’t be gentle.”

“You are such an arrogant rogue. Maybe I won’t tell you how glad I am that it was you.”

Her comment delved far into the spot where he was so lonely and alone. They were at the edge of the tub, so he bent down and tested the temperature of the water, finding it to be warm and inviting.

Pretending a detachment he hardly felt, he casually mentioned, “Are you . . . glad . . . that it was me?”

“Very.”

He met her gaze then, and she was smiling at him with such an affectionate expression that he had to swallow three times before he could communicate further.

“In you go.” He stabilized her as she climbed in and slid down.

“Aah . . . I’m a tad tender.” Lowering herself, she winced as her beleaguered pussy coped with the heat, but then she rapidly acclimated, and she reposed, braced against the back, her knees spread wide.

For a few minutes, her body mended in the mild broth, and he knelt by her side, entranced by her loveliness and disposition. She turned toward him, her forearms on the rim, so that they were nose to nose, skin to skin, eye to eye.

“Will you let me wash you?” she appealed.

“Absolutely.”

“And will you make love to me again afterward?”

“All night long”—he took a cloth and swabbed her
breasts—“if you’re not too sore.” At the wicked wink she flashed, he ducked under her chin and nibbled at her neck, inducing her to squirm and giggle.

“I get to be on top.”

“Lord have mercy,” he grumbled.

Presently, a noise vaguely registered—a throat being cleared—but it was so out of place that many moments passed before he honed in on what it was. He hesitated, then his focus went to the door that connected the dressing room to her outer bedchamber.

“Well . . . well . . .” oozed a familiar, much-loathed voice, “look what we have here.”

“Bloody hell!” Michael cursed.

Sarah whipped around, gasped in dismay, and sank into the water, striving to shield herself.

Hugh Compton and Rebecca Monroe studied them, every decadent detail of their nude caper, and Rebecca’s mouth gaped open like a fish pitched onto a riverbank. The four of them were a frozen quartet, then her brother had the decency to shove Rebecca away, so that she couldn’t witness more of their lewd escapade.

Stationed by himself in the doorway, Hugh was framed by the threshold.

“Hello, sister,” Scarborough intoned with a mocking bow. “And Stevens! How damned
interesting
to encounter you with Sarah.” He tsked. “And in such a disgraceful condition!”

Michael had never felt so vulnerable, had never been caught so off guard. Warily, he vaulted to his feet. “What the hell are you up to, Scarborough?”

“I might ask you the same.”

Scarborough was leering, straining on tiptoe for a glimpse of Sarah’s breasts. The coarse attempt brought Michael’s temper to a fast boil, and he sprang to action.

“Get out”—he jumped in front of the tub, so that Scarborough’s glimpse was cut off—“or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“Bastard . . .” Scarborough ground out. “Of course, you realize what this means.”

“Go!” Michael shouted with such authority that both Sarah and Scarborough flinched. “Now!”

Not cowed in the least, Hugh straightened to his full height, which didn’t match Michael’s own, but nonetheless, he appeared threatening. And gleeful. The churl was ecstatic, and Michael longed to clutch him by the throat and squeeze until there was no air left in his lungs.

How had he, Michael Stevens—the most cautious and circumspect of men—fallen into an ambush set by such a despicable swine?

His heart plummeted as a horrid supposition cropped up, one he could scarcely give credence to, but he couldn’t silence it. He wrenched his angry glower from Scarborough to Sarah who was huddled down in the basin. As he speculated, and evaluated, old doubts and misgivings crept in, and he couldn’t help suspecting the worst.

Had she orchestrated this debacle with her brother? Had her seemingly gracious esteem been feigned? Scarborough wasn’t clever enough to initiate such a scheme, or to pull it off successfully. Neither was his cousin. But Sarah?

It must have been her.

There was no other explanation as to how shrewdly and effectively the trap had been baited and snapped shut, snaring him in a coil of his own creation.

Earlier, when she’d arrived in his bedchamber, he’d interrogated her as to whether she’d locked her door, and she’d adamantly said yes. He’d been so befuddled by her that he’d simply taken her word for it; he hadn’t gone to verify as was his custom. The depth of his enamoration had provoked him to act out of character, to trust and assume.

Such foolishness! Such stupidity!

He jerked his gaze to Scarborough, once again, and the earl laughed and nodded, confirming his excruciating deduction.

“My compliments,” Michael coldly declared. “Well done.”

“Yes, it rather was, wasn’t it? We’ve all worked so hard on this,” Scarborough observed smugly. “I’ll meet you down in the library. In fifteen minutes.” He spun around to depart, then cast a scathing glance over his shoulder at Sarah. “Leave our little whore to her bath. I’ll deal with her later.”

Hugh waltzed out, his egress marked by a resounding slam of the door as he exited into the corridor. For a brief moment, Michael glared down at her, his countenance a medley of fury, regret, and disbelief that was swiftly masked. Without speaking, he marched to the outer room where she heard the lock turning, and a heavy piece of furniture being dragged as a barricade so that no one else could surprise them.

Did he suppose that she’d contrived this fiasco? That she was in league with Hugh? She cringed. Of course he would! The blackguard!

Abruptly feeling not just naked, but exposed, she was desperate to cover herself, and she scurried from the tub. Not bothering with the towel, she was just tying the belt of her robe when he stormed back in. His sapphire eyes blazed with fire, his body trembled with controlled rage. Then, he checked himself, exhibiting the icy composure he displayed to the world. He’d reerected the protective walls that kept him safe from those who would maltreat him, and evidently, he now included her in that number.

“You assured me that you’d locked your door,” he reproached.

“I did!”

“Then, madam, how did your brother get in?”

“I have no idea.”

“So you say—”

“Yes, I say!” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare charge otherwise!”

They angrily stared at one another across a hopeless expanse, and she couldn’t have him suspecting that she’d betrayed
their relationship. Tendering her hand, begging him to take it, she reached out, but he didn’t so much as glance at it.

“Michael,” she beseeched, “don’t let’s fight. We must figure out what to do.”

“What to
do
?” He lurched away as if she’d admitted she had the pox.

“Yes, we’re intelligent people. We can devise a practical solution. I’ll talk to Hugh.”

“You’re very good at this”—he narrowed his eyes, scathingly assessing her—“and you play the innocent excellently, but there’s no reason to maintain the ruse. You’ve snared me most effectively.”

“You think I . . . that I . . .” She’d already deduced that he suspected her of duplicity, but his indictment stirred a surge of wrath. How could he distrust her! After they’d just lain together! “You bastard!”

The approbation spurted out before she could chomp down on it, and a dangerous, probing malice enveloped him. “I’ve never claimed to be anything but—”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean that,” she injected, yet he kept on, his voice brittle.

“—so why you would wish to tie your life to mine is a mystery.” He spun toward his room. “But I guess we’ll both have copious opportunity over the years to decide why you would agree to such a reckless path.”

He was nearly at the portal, and she was terrified that he’d step through and disappear, that these pernicious, vehement declarations would be the last they ever uttered. She hustled to his side and put her hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Michael . . . wait. Let me explain.” But as she’d had no part in what had befallen them, she wasn’t sure what her
explanation
could be.

“You needn’t justify your conduct”—his chilly façade was frightening—“and I won’t suffer through an accounting of your rationalization. Or your brother’s.”

“But that’s just it. None of this was my doing.”

“Lady Sarah,” he frigidly intoned, and his use of her title cut her to the quick, “the time that I would believe you is long past. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve an appointment belowstairs.”

“Give me a minute to prepare myself. I’ll accompany you.”

“Milady, your presence is neither necessary nor required.”

He bowed slightly, then shut the door in her face, and she was so dazed that, before she could react, he’d bolted it with a determined click. She pounded on the unyielding barrier, roaring, “Michael Stevens! Open up this instant!”

Her command was greeted with silence.

She beat on it again and again till her fists ached, but her attempt went unacknowledged, and she inevitably ceased, holding very still, putting her palm to the wood. On the other side, she could sense his movements as he dressed in his fastidious manner, readying to descend for the momentous showdown with Hugh.

How would they respond to one another? What would they say? Would Hugh call him out? She blocked the ghastly notion, unable to abide reflecting upon her brother and her great love dueling, perhaps to the death.

“Damn you, Michael,” she muttered, certain that he was listening. “I won’t let you walk away.” No rejoinder. “Do you hear me?” She kicked the bottom of the door so solidly that her foot throbbed from the impact.

Limping to the bedchamber, she cast about for some clothes, but she couldn’t don the dastardly garments on her own, and she declined to confront the two men unless she was completely contained and self-possessed.

Fuming, sucked into an inferno beyond her ken, she hurled her corset on the bed and rang for a maid, then paced by the clock, counting each agonizing second until the woman appeared. With a relief that bordered on madness, she seized the retainer and drew her inside, and the servant—prudently cognizant of acute distress—made no comment, but efficiently went about her task.

The final comb in her chignon was scarcely in place when Sarah grumbled an insincere platitude and hastened out. Though she vividly remembered Brigham and the perils of wandering the halls, she wasn’t worried. In her current mood, just let some brigand try to accost her! She was fixated on getting downstairs, and Lord help the gentleman who sought to detain her!

She was irritated at Michael for his proceeding without her. So much time had elapsed! Would he and Hugh still be conferring? What would be the topics? How could Michael mitigate what Hugh had witnessed?

Better than anyone, she understood Hugh, his mind, his disposition, his short-fused temper.
She
was the one who should be dealing with him. Not rash, imperious, benumbed Michael. What a disaster, to have two such intractable men at odds over a situation that was exclusively her fault! She had to intervene with Hugh before they exchanged so many insults that neither could back down.

Maneuvering her way to the bottom floor, she didn’t encounter anyone, and she looked a sight, but she didn’t care. As she raced toward the library, activity was audible in the various salons, the guests immersed in evening merriment, but who occupied them, or what they were doing, was a blur.

The door was just ahead, and she hurried to it, geared to knock once, then fling it open, but her desire for a grand entrance was spoiled as Michael emerged. Larger than life, he bristled on espying her, and she slid to a halt lest she plow into him. Behind them, Hugh’s grating laughter rang out.

“Come with me.” His dictatorial tone irked her, and he squired her away from the library and the battle she’d planned with her brother. She dug in her heels.