Elizabeth Thornton (35 page)

That’s what really disturbed him. The attack on Abbie tonight had been carefully engineered. It had nothing to do with trading the book for George. She and only she had been Nemo’s target. He’d become obsessed with her, and the thought chilled Hugh’s blood by several degrees.

Gladiator
, she’d called him, and that stung. But that’s exactly what it might come down to. Two gladiators fighting to the death in a Roman circus. There would be no mercy shown, no quarter asked or given.

Hugh docked the boat at the Blackfriars Stairs. There was a tavern close by, and they heard the sounds of riotous singing as they approached it. But this wasn’t their destination either. There was a stand of hackneys at the top of the road. Hugh hailed one, and as Abbie wearily settled herself on the banquette, he gave the directions to a hotel in Gloucester Street.

They were returning the way they had come, all the way back, past Vayle House, to the edge of Mayfair.

H
ugh had no trouble renting a suite of rooms on the top floor. It was the beginning of March, and visitors to London were still scarce. Their servants, he told the landlord, would be coming later with their baggage, after they’d taken care of a repair to their carriage. He registered Abbie and himself as Mr. and Mrs. Sterne, then took the key from the landlord and said they’d show themselves up.

They had to walk up three flights of stairs to reach their suite of rooms.

“I’m sorry about the stairs,” said Hugh, “but this way if someone tries to find us, they’ll have to climb these stairs as well, and they’ll be easy to spot.”

He unlocked the door and followed Abbie into the suite. There was a small parlor, one fair-sized bedchamber, and two smaller rooms that were not much bigger than closets. He lit the candles in the parlor first, and while Abbie used a taper to light the fire in the grate, he looked over each room more carefully. There was another exit from one of the closet bedchambers, an exit that led to the back staircase. He’d particularly asked for a suite of
rooms with a back exit, because he had no desire to be pinned down in a position with no means of falling back.

He locked the back door and wedged a chair under the doorknob. When he turned, Abbie was watching him from the corridor.

“You really do know what you’re doing, don’t you, Hugh?” she asked softly.

His jaw set. “Yes.”

“You think Nemo will come looking for me?”

“He’ll try. He’s a cold-blooded killer. Don’t underestimate him, Abbie.”

“Did you come across him in Spain?”

“No. He and I are like Wellington and Napoleon. We’ve never had to fight each other. Somehow, our paths never crossed.”

“You sound as though you’re sorry.”

“What if I am?”

There was something about his expression, something about his voice—a taunt? a challenge?—that made her hesitate to respond.

“It was just an idle observation,” she said, and quickly turned away.

He followed her into the parlor. She removed her outer things, then kneeling in front of the grate, used the poker to lift the kindling so that the draft made the flames flare up. But all the time she was burningly aware of him standing just inside the door, watching her. Her heart picked up speed and her breath became audible. When she could stand it no longer, she put down the poker, rose, and slowly turned to face him.

“What’s the matter, Abbie?” he said. “Am I too much of a man for you? Have I too much red blood in my veins?”

She shook her head and managed a neutral, “No.”

“Maitland told me how you saw me. ‘A bumbling academic,’ I believe his words were. Good old Hugh, the Brain. Is that what you want? Shall I put my spectacles on? Will that make you feel safe?”

He was angry, and she didn’t know what she’d done or said to provoke him. “Hugh—” She stopped, unsure of what she wanted to say, then started over. “I liked the man I knew in Bath, if that’s what you mean. What’s wrong with that?”

His face went so taut that his bones stood out starkly. A shiver of feminine alarm chilled her skin. This was the man who had handed her over to the authorities in Dover.

He approached her with the slow, stealthy stride of a jungle cat. Trembles began deep in her belly and spread out, but she held her ground. He halted only an arm’s length away. She lifted her chin.

His voice was low and intense; his dark eyes were alive with fury. “What about the man with you now? How do you feel about him?”

“It … it isn’t the same,” she said weakly.

“How am I different?”

“You can ask that, after what’s happened between us?”

The bitterness in his voice lashed out at her. “I’m good enough to save your brother, good enough to stand up to Nemo. But I’m not good enough to be in the same room with you. Just look at you! You’re trembling in your shoes. You think I’m barely civilized. You think I’ll attack you, ravage you.”

“How can you say that?” she cried out. “I’m grateful to you—” She flinched when he reached out and grasped her arms.

“I don’t want your gratitude! I want you to see me as I
really am. I’m a man, Abbie, with all a man’s strengths and weaknesses.”

“I know that,” she said quietly, hoping her reasonable tone would placate him.

It didn’t placate him. Her cool-eyed stare made his anger burn hotter. “You think you’re the only one who has feelings? You think you’re the only one who felt betrayed? You seduced me! You told me you loved me! Then you betrayed me!”

“You’re wrong! It wasn’t like that.”

“You would have done anything to save George. Admit it, Abbie.”

“He’s my brother,” she cried out.

He snarled the words. “And I’m only a gladiator.”

“Yes,” she hissed.

She regretted her outburst almost at once. She didn’t mean it. It had been a horrible night and she was still shaken from her encounter with Nemo. And she was grateful to Hugh for his offer of help, more than grateful. He deserved better than this from her.

“Hugh—”

“Then what have I got to lose?”

One jerk brought her against the hard length of his body. His arms clamped around her, then his lips claimed hers in a brutal, suffocating kiss that was far more punitive than loverlike. Her words of apology were forced back into her mouth. Her lips burned; breathing became difficult. He was using his body like a vise to subdue her.

This was Hugh. Why was he punishing her like this?

She thought she could offer him a passive resistance, but she was wrong. His hands slipped lower, holding her steady as he ground his body into hers. The intimate
contact made her gasp, not in shock, not in anger, but in sheer animal arousal.

Hugh recognized the sound for what it was. He should stop, he told himself, now that he’d made his point. He should let it go, let
her
go. But the wound she’d inflicted was still too raw. He was going to prove to her that in spite of who and what he was, she still wanted him.

She didn’t put up much of a struggle when he lowered her to the floor. She wasn’t betrayed by her own passion, but by his. It awed her, thrilled her, humbled her. It made her feel more of a woman than she’d ever felt in her life. They’d made love before, but not like this. This was primitive and darkly sensual. And she wallowed in it.

He absorbed the change in her through his senses. His mind had ceased to function a long time ago. Her desperation made him frantic to get at her. He wrenched her bodice open, spilling tiny pearl buttons over the carpeted floor. She wasn’t wearing stays and her chemise was quickly dealt with. Her breasts spilled into his hands. When he put his mouth on one sensitive crest and feasted on it, her back arched off the floor to give him more.

That one act of surrender ripped his control to shreds. He tore off his jacket and shirt and tossed them aside. Her fingers nimbly undid the rest of her buttons, and she fought her way out of her gown. In a matter of seconds, they were down to bare skin.

She cried out when he pushed her knees high. His eyes held hers with an intensity that she could hardly sustain. Then he was on her, and in her, and rational thought slipped away. She didn’t care about consequences; she didn’t care about right and wrong. This was what she was made for. She could only feel.

She tried to hold back to prolong the pleasure, but he
wouldn’t allow it. He wrapped her legs around his back and rode her to a fast and furious finish. She crested wave after wave and went soaring into a star burst of pleasure. He watched her eyes glaze over, then locking his body to hers, he gave himself up to his own violent release.

There had never been a silence like this one, thought Hugh, except perhaps the eerie silence that hung in the air after every battle. But this silence was a rebuke to him.

The last time they made love, she’d told him she loved him. He couldn’t expect those words now. How had it come to this? He’d whisked her out of Vayle House with only one thought in his mind, to protect her. Yet here he was, naked, sprawled on top of her like some spent, conquering Viking.

Not quite spent. He could feel his sex hardening inside her, and that had never happened to him before. And, he reflected with a kind of guilty defiance, it felt damn good. In fact, she felt damn good. If she didn’t like it, she had only to push him away.

When he flexed inside her, she lifted her hand limply in a half-hearted attempt to ward him off. She felt so shattered, she just wanted to go to sleep. Tomorrow, she would think of consequences, tomorrow in the clear light of day. Tonight, she was still dazed by her newfound knowledge that she could be as primitive as a cat in heat.

Her eyes flew open when he lunged deep in her body, and slowly withdrew. When he lunged again, a shivery breath caught in her throat, and her fingers curled like claws into the carpet. She looked up at him and saw that nothing had changed. His face was set in harshly sensual lines; his eyes were banked with emotions she could only guess at.

Don’t ask for words
, she warned herself.
He’s incapable of giving you the words you want
.

When his body moved within hers again, she stifled a moan.

“Now tell me I’m not the man you want,” he said.

Not want him? She was so unbearably aroused that it was like a pain. She reached for him, her arms twining around him, locking him to her, and he laughed softly into her mouth. Then he slowly brought her up to the edge again, until the pressure inside her exploded, and she went spiraling down, down, down.

They were still trying to recover their breath when they heard the tapping on the door to their suite. Hugh cursed and reached for his clothes. “Harper and Tom,” he said.

Abbie wasn’t nearly as calm as Hugh. Before he pulled on his shirt, she was on her feet, gathering up her clothes, and had bolted through the door, along the short corridor and into the bedchamber. She heard Hugh cursing as he went to answer the door.

Harper’s voice, Tom’s voice, then the tread of footsteps. With a squeal of alarm she dropped her clothes and dove for the bed. She pulled the bedclothes up to her nose and listened. Something heavy was deposited on the floor outside her door. They spoke in low tones for some minutes. Finally, their footsteps receded and there was silence.

A moment later, Hugh entered her bedchamber. He was carrying a box. “They’ve gone,” he said and put the box on the floor. He left her and returned in a moment or two with her portmanteau.

Abbie said, “Aren’t they going to share the suite with us?”

His look was enigmatic. “No. Their room is on the other side of the hall. So you see, we’re quite alone.”

She assimilated his words in silence. “But there’s plenty of room here,” she said.

“Yes, but it’s not convenient.”

Her brow puckered. “Convenient for whom?”

He opened his own box and removed a two-edged blade and a set of pistols. As he began to load one pistol, he said, “Convenient for us. I’m sharing your bed, Abbie. It doesn’t matter to me if Harper and Tom know, but I thought it might matter to you.”

She watched him wordlessly as he loaded the other pistol. When he was done, he moved around the room. The knife went under one of the pillows, one pistol went on the floor hard by the bed, and the other went on top of the dresser. He really did know what he was doing.

He was watching her with an expression that was challenging and angry at the same time. She was in no position to run from him like an outraged virgin. She couldn’t cry “rape.” If she was a fallen woman, it was as much her doing as his, more, in fact, because he hadn’t been raised a Vayle.

“You want us to be lovers?”

“We
are
lovers,” he stated.

There was another challenge there that she didn’t feel up to answering. Why was he so still? Why was he staring at her with that shuttered expression?

“What, no arguments?” he asked lightly.

She shook her head. “No arguments.”

She caught the glint of masculine satisfaction in his eyes, and that almost got her dander up. But he crossed to the bed and pressed a quick kiss to her lips before she could marshal her thoughts.

“I must talk to Tom and Harper,” he said. “Try to get some sleep,” and with another quick kiss, he left the room.

She snuggled under the bedclothes, but no sooner had she closed her eyes, than she began to feel guilty, not about Hugh, but about George. It didn’t seem right that for the last half hour she’d been lost in a haze of sensual pleasure when the threat of death hung over her own brother. There must be something wrong with her, something depraved. Life shouldn’t go on as though nothing had happened to George.

She dozed, dwelling on that thought, and when she awakened, she heard voices coming from the parlor.
Harper
, she thought, and smiled. They were all together again, and they made a good team.

It’s all right, George
, she whispered into the silence.
Hugh and Harper are modern-day gladiators. They’ll save you
. She made a litany of it, and gently succumbed to sleep again.

She awakened to a rush of pleasure. There were no candles lit, and the fiery glow that cast odd flickering shadows on the walls and ceiling came from the red-hot embers in the grate. The covers had been pulled back, and Hugh was planted firmly between her legs, trailing random kisses along the inside of her thighs. Hot, wet random kisses that made her shiver in anticipation.