Fanning the Flame (27 page)

His hands smoothed over her bottom. He stroked between her legs and she knew he had discovered how moist and hot she was, how badly her body craved him. He made a sound of satisfaction in his throat, she heard the whisper of fabric as he unbuttoned the front of his breeches, then he found her softness again. Guiding himself into her passage, he caught her hips and thrust himself deeply inside. Pleasure tore through her, sweet and dark and forbidden. Jillian moaned as he started to move.

"I can give you pleasure, sweeting, unlike anything you've dreamed." He wasn't gentle, he gripped her hips to hold her in place, then thrust deeply inside.

He wasn't gentle and she realized, as her hips arched toward his, that gentle wasn't what she wanted. She bit down on her lip as Adam thrust into her again and again, heightening the pleasure until her knees threatened to give way beneath her.

As if he sensed her weakness, his hold tightened, steadying her and keeping her in place to receive him. She felt the heavy thrust and drag, felt the fullness of his arousal against the walls of her womb, and her body began to tighten. Her stomach coiled and contracted, and a wave of deep, saturating pleasure washed over her.

Her release struck hard, making her moan and tremble, but Adam didn't stop, just held her immobile and drove into her until a second climax shook her.

He had said he could give her pleasure. Dear God, the man defined the meaning of the word. Seconds later, his hard body tensed. Adam shuddered as he reached his own release and his rigid muscles slowly began to relax.

Time drifted. Adam eased her backward until she rested against his chest and his arms tightened around her. She didn't know how long they stood that way, Adam's presence surrounding her completely. A reluctant sigh seeped out when he finally pulled away.

A little embarrassed at the ease with which he'd aroused her, she retrieved her chemise and gown, holding the garments up over her breasts.

She expected to see smug satisfaction on his face. He had proven her need of him in the most elemental manner. He would be certain now that she would accept his proposal. Instead, when she looked at him, the dark centers of his eyes held a glimpse of desperation.

"You want me," he said softly. "Even now—after what we've just done—I can see it in your face." He reached for her, drew her toward him. "I can teach you more, give so much pleasure. Say you'll let me take care of you."

It was true—she
did
still want him. Just thinking of the wild rush of joy she had experienced had her trembling with need again. Yet the lure of sex was easy to refuse. It was one thing to make love to him, another matter entirely to become his kept woman.

She could resist her desire for him.

It was his eyes that she couldn't resist.

So dark, so turbulent. Intense blue eyes that had seen more suffering than any man should have to endure. They moved over her face and there was a yearning in them so powerful it seemed to touch her soul.

Dear God, she had never witnessed such need in another human being, and she realized in that moment that it wasn't merely her body that Adam wanted. He needed a woman to love him. He had enjoyed dozens of women, but none had ever truly loved him.

He needed her, and it was that need that cried out to her, destroying her resolve as if it had never existed.

"Say yes, my love . . . please. I promise you won't be sorry."

She reached up and cupped his cheek, felt the faint dark shadow of his late-evening beard and the thin line of his scar. She nodded and tears began to spill down her cheeks. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, for just as she had recognized his need, she had also recognized her own.

Adam Hawthorne had changed her, awakened something inside her. He had made her a different woman, and yet she felt more her true self than she ever had before.

And she didn't merely love him. She was wildly, passionately, madly in love with him, and she knew in her heart she would never love like this again.

"Please don't cry," he said, brushing the tears from her cheeks. "I'll make you happy. I promise you. You won't have to worry about anything."

She tried to smile, feebly managed. He didn't understand what she was feeling. How could he? He didn't realize what she had conceded, what part of herself she had agreed to give up.

She would never be his wife, never know which day he might tire of her.

He had no idea how terrified she really was.

Christopher Derry strolled through the garden early the following morning. The irises were blooming, and the daffodils. He loved daffodils. Loved just saying the word.
Daf-fo-dil
. It had a silly sound that made him laugh just to hear it. He leaned toward one, saw a butterfly of the same bright yellow hue land on one of the petals.

Chris stuck out a finger and the butterfly hopped up on the end of it. He watched the perfect wings descend, once, twice, then it lifted off and floated up among the trees.

Chris envied the butterfly. He wished he could lift himself up and simply float away. He would soar up into the air away from the city, go back to the country where the sky was blue instead of gray. He would leave this house where no one wanted him. Where people stared and whispered, and though Reggie and Maude were kind to him, they were careful to keep their distance, just like everyone else.

The lady, Miss Whitney, was the nicest. She came up to his room every night just to check on him. She hadn't seen a haunt yet, but she said that she was still looking. She was younger than his mother, and prettier. He felt kind of guilty for thinking that, though it was the truth.

He missed his mother. Not his father, though. Chris could never seem to please him, no matter how hard he tried. And lots of times Da drank too much and he could be awful mean when he did.

Chris kicked a piece of gravel as he walked along the path. He should be grateful to be here, he knew. With Mum and Da gone, he could be starving in the streets, or forced to climb into hot, smoky chimneys, burning off his fingers like some of the boys he'd seen in the alley.

And yet sometimes he thought he would rather be out there on his own than in this fancy house that belonged to a man who looked at him as if he weren't there whenever they happened to meet. Chris did his best to avoid him.

He had seen the earl ride off that morning, as he did most every day. Knowing he was gone, he decided to prowl around a bit, see what he could discover about the place.

That's how he stumbled onto the little glass shed at the far end of the stable. Through the steamy windows, he could see drops of mist formed along the panes and the hazy outline of plants inside. Glancing around to be sure no one saw him, Chris opened the door and sneaked in.

For a moment he just stood there, amazed at the bounty he had discovered. Pots overflowed with flowers—the most beautiful he had ever seen. Some had ruffly white and purple petals, others were a smooth dark pink. There was a yellow flower so bright it made his eyes hurt to look at it.

The room was warm and miserably damp, but the steamy feel was worth it. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. He wondered if the petals of the flowers were as soft as they looked and couldn't resist reaching over to touch one.

"What the hell are you doing in here!" The earl's booming voice cut through him like a knife. Chris whirled away from the plant, but his foot caught on a brick and he jerked forward again. His hand snaked out to break his fall, landed on the beautiful white ruffled flower, and the pot toppled over. Chris scrambled away, backing into the corner, his stomach tied in knots.

"Now look what you've done!"

He was shaking as he watched the earl kneel down, very carefully scoop up the plant, set it back into its container, and tamp down the soil.

Unfortunately, one of the blooms had been broken in the fall. Chris knelt, carefully lifted the bloom up in his palm, and held it out to the earl. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break it."

Blackwood ignored the offering. "You should have thought of that before you came in here. It's ruined. You can't put it back now."

The flower trembled in Chris's hand. He set it down very carefully next to the earl's black boot.

"These plants are extremely delicate. Don't come in here again."

His stomach churned. He had hoped to come back and look at the flowers again. As he backed toward the door, Chris took a last glance around. "I never saw anythin' like 'em."

"That's because they don't grow in this country. They're orchids. They grow in tropical regions in other parts of the world."

"Orchids," Chris repeated with undisguised awe.

Blackwood glanced up from his survey of the plants, one of his slashing black eyebrows going up. "You like flowers?"

He started to lie. His father had birched him more than once for being a sissy-boy. He said he was a real Miss Molly for liking the same stuff girls did, like flowers and butterflies and birds. He opened his mouth, remembered the way Lord Blackwood had handled the orchid, and found himself nodding instead.

"I love 'em. I like to watch things grow. Me Da didn't like it, though. He said that kind of stuff was for girls."

Blackwood frowned. Chris didn't know why. The earl made a sudden, unexpected movement and Chris's hands instinctively came up to ward off the blow.

The earl went very still. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly.

A lump swelled in Chris's throat. He didn't know why it had, or why his eyes were stinging like he might be going to cry. "I'm sorry about the flower. I wish I hadn't broke it."

The earl studied his face, then he reached down for the broken white blossom and held it out to Chris. "Here, you can have it."

Chris took the flower from Lord Blackwood's hand. "You think Miss Whitney would like it?"

For a second Chris thought the earl was going to smile, but he didn't. "I imagine she would."

Chris turned and started walking toward the door.

"I come out here in the mornings," Lord Blackwood called after him. "Maybe you'd like to help me with the plants sometime."

Chris blinked at a second unwelcome burning. "Yes—I would like that oh so much."

The earl said nothing more, just turned back to his flowers.

As Chris walked through the garden toward the house, he saw another yellow butterfly, but this time he didn't think of flying away. He wanted to learn about the orchids in the shed, and the earl had promised to teach him.

Chris looked down at the ruffled white flower he held in his hand, and he smiled.

Chapter Nineteen

Adam worked for another hour in the small glass shed he had built to house the plants he kept in London, separating and repotting several different varieties of orchids. He found solace in working with the plants, a peace he often found elusive. He'd been surprised to stumble across the boy.

Since his disastrous attempt at home and hearth with Caroline, he had given up any notion of family, and over the years had come to think it was probably for the best. He wasn't good with children. He had rarely been around them.

An image returned of little Christopher Derry holding the orchid blossom as if it were a precious gem. Was there a chance Christopher was
his
son and not Robert's? Surely, it couldn't be. He had to admit the child had the swarthy complexion and lean, wide-shouldered build of a Hawthorne, but Chris' hair was the same deep brown as Robert's. Then again, Adam's grandfather had also had brown hair.

Still, remembering the care he had taken to avoid an out of wedlock child, Adam discarded the notion. So what if the boy loved flowers just as he had when he was a child? It didn't mean a thing.

Adam frowned, thinking of the way Chris Derry had recoiled in fear, believing Adam had meant to strike him. Robert's son or not, it angered him to think what the boy might have suffered at his foster family's hands.

Adam carefully blocked the thought of how he would feel if the boy were truly his son.

Finished with the final planting, Adam left the greenhouse. As he traveled the gravel path, he glanced up at the wrought-iron railing around the balcony outside Jillian's bedchamber. This afternoon he would contact an agent, find a suitable place for her to live. In the meantime, with the boy in the house, he would have to stay away from her.

This morning, before he had come to the greenhouse, he had saddled Ramses and gone for a ride in the park. Something was bothering him, something about Jillian, but even the brisk spring air couldn't clear his mind enough to figure it out.

He had finally persuaded her to become his mistress. With Colin Norton in prison for murder, she could begin a new life. He wanted a place nearby where he could see her whenever he liked. Which, the way his body stirred to life every time he thought of her, would undoubtedly be often. Damn, he was glad he had finally convinced her.

And yet when he looked into her eyes, he saw something there that disturbed him, something he hadn't seen before. Adam was afraid he knew what it was. Though her father had been a professor, a man of little wealth, Jillian had been reared as a lady. If Professor Whitney had lived, she would have married. She would have had the husband and children every woman seemed to want.