Miracle (28 page)

"He considers you a threat," she said loudly enough that His Grace could hear her. "Stallions are like that. They guard their property at all cost—even with their lives if they must."

"I'm well aware of a herd sire's behavior. I just find it a little odd that he would consider you his property. Normally, it's the other way around."

Miracle leaned against the wall. "You continue to astonish me, Your Grace."

"Good. Now will you call off your guard dog?"

"You're very bold to come here, to my chambers. Not a very gentlemanly way to behave."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Afraid of storms, your dukeship?"

"If I say yes, will you hold my hand?"

"No."

Miracle returned to her room and stood before the fire, hoping it
would
warm her. She was shivering suddenly and couldn't stop. She wanted to hurry back to the door and discover if he had retreated. Perhaps he had; she'd heard no footsteps. Napitov remained quiet. Ismail still played his flute. The melody of it lent a melancholy tone to the still chamber, causing a tightness in Miracle's throat that confused and annoyed her.

With a silent curse, she spun back toward the door and stopped. "What do you
think
you're doing?" she demanded. "If you don't leave these premises now, I shall call Ismail. Bedouins don't look highly on women in their care being bothered by outsiders."

"All right. Call him." Salterdon moved into the room, his hands in his pockets. The linen stock hung untied around his throat; his shirt lay partially unlaced. He looked as if he'd spent the last hours tossing in his bed. "Fascinating." He studied his surroundings. "But not surprising. I don't think anything could surprise me now—not after discovering your little harem tucked away in the belly of a deteriorating old castle. It all makes sense now, why you encourage the rumors of goblins that supposedly haunt the old place, perhaps why you often go to such lengths to foster the stories of your eccentricity. The more people fear you, the less likely they'll be to come snooping around Cavisbrooke."

He laughed softly; the sound was warm, but menacing, too, making her stomach quiver, her knees shake. With his dark face made bronze by firelight, his hair a tousled mess, he could have passed as a Bedouin himself—a wandering desert warrior capable of driving fear into kings.

"What do you want here?" she demanded.

"You, of course."

Her eyes flashed. She grabbed for her riding crop.

"Come, come,
Meri
Mine. You're not the violent sort." His hands still in his pockets, he moved toward her, backing her toward the fire so the heat became more and more uncomfortable on the backs of her legs. "I've decided it's time to negotiate like two reasonably rational adults. You can be rational on occasion, can't you?"

She swung with her crop, lashing him across his shoulder. He didn't so much as flinch, not even as a thin seam of blood began to soak the white cloth. A sickness sank in her belly at the sight, and dropping the crop, she tried to flee. He caught her in two strides, wrapped one arm around her waist, and hauled her from her feet.

She kicked and flailed.

He flung her onto the bed where she sank into the deep, feather mattress and scattering of tasseled pillows. He joined her, spread his body out on hers, his long, strong fingers imprisoning her wrists to the bed, his legs pinning hers against the tumbled sheets. She stubbornly stared up at him—his mouth that had so tortured her earlier, his unshaven jaw, his pirate's eyes that were fierce and sharp as a predator's. "I'll scream," she threatened and gasped for air.

"Will you?" he replied, breathing as heavily. "I've been lying in my bed for the last hour arguing with my reasoning. The logical part of me says I should continue to win you over with gallantry—hell, I practically got myself killed defending your reputation, and that got me nowhere—not really. Then it occurred to me that you're not the sort of woman to be won over with pretty phrases. You're too damned bullheaded for that. Too distrustful. You expect every bastard to be like your father, I think. You won't let yourself care for a man who may end up leaving
you . . .
like your father left your mother. Be still,
dammit
, and listen to me." He tussled with her again, pressed his body harder upon hers, until she could feel the length of him, from his stomach to his feet, wrap around her, mold into her. The leather of his boots cut into her calves that had become exposed in the fracas.

"Do you intend to rape me?" she demanded, her breath coming hard and fast against his lips that were so close to hers she could feel the warm whisper of his breathing.

"I don't rape women,
Meri
Mine. I don't have to."

"Arrogant bastard—"

"I'm going to tell you a story, Lady Cavendish. A legend, actually, about a ship that left Russia some five years ago for England. That ship was loaded with a priceless treasure for King George—horses. Arabian horses. Some of the finest mares and yearling colts ever bred in Russia. But the ship was lost—no survivors. A wealth of horseflesh sank to the bottom of the ocean. What a loss! Oh, there have been rumors, from time to time, of travelers coming across horses running wild on some deserted island—mostly greedy sea captains who would like to get their hands on the reward money being offered for the animals' return—but after five years, all parties have long since given up hope . . ."

Miracle turned her face away, buried her profile into the soft blanket beneath her. Weakness stole through her. She couldn't concentrate. All feeling seemed to be centered on the hard thumping of his heart against hers, his body—her body—warming against the other's, skin pressing became damp where they touched. He had just informed her that he knew about her horses—where they came from—that they had belonged to a potentate—that they had been a gift for the king. Yet the anger and fear that should have consumed her was being eclipsed by her body's response to his.

Oh, God, it hurt—there, where his knee pressed between her legs. "Please," she murmured.

"Please what,
Meri
Mine? Please don't leave at dawn and return to London and inform good cousin George that you're harboring his trove of priceless horseflesh? Please what,
Meri
Mine?"

"What do you want from me?" she cried.

"We both know what I want—"

"Then take it, damn you. I can't bear this another minute."

He stared down at her with his wolf eyes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arms, his knee turning her insides to hot liquid, then, with no warning, he rolled, dragged her atop him, and buried his fingers in her hair that spread across his neck and bleeding shoulder. He gripped her painfully, forcing her head back, exposing her throat to his lips. "You disappoint me,
m'lady
. Where is your fight and fire? Will you capitulate so easily? Do you love those damn animals so much? Would you sacrifice your innocence to keep them?"

Her eyes closed, she groaned, shook her head, unable to reason beyond the feel of his body against hers. "Kiss me," she heard someone plead, then to her shame realized it was herself. "Kiss me again, like you did on the cliff.

Here, on my mouth—I want to taste you again, with my tongue this time. Kiss me, Your Grace, or I shall—"

She lowered her mouth to his, felt his lips stiffen, then part, become hot and supple and wet, allowing her entry, meeting her tongue with his own and drawing it deep inside him while his hands left her hair and twisted into her clothes, grasping, tearing, running up and down her back, then cupping her buttocks through the thin material of her sleeping gown and pulling her fiercely against his moving hips while he made sounds of pleasure and pain deep in his throat.

Ah, yes, this was flying, this freedom, this abandonment to the senses. She wanted to experience his hands on her breasts, thrill to the feel of his rough fingers squeezing then releasing the sensitive flesh and their tingling nipples. She arched her back and offered them to his mouth, and he breathed hot, quick, panting breaths through her gown and closed his teeth gently on the nubs that were little hard points that felt on fire when he licked them.

She felt .. . consumed. Abandoned.

Opening her legs, she straddled him. The sudden infinite pleasure of her private body brushing upon the coarse, taut material covering his made her gasp and quiver and ache. It was a moment before she realized he had become perfectly still—not so much as breathing. She opened her eyes.

His gray eyes were fire-bright, his face flushed and sweating, his lips pulled back slightly as if he were in pain. His fingers gripped her arms fiercely. He said, "For God's sake, don't move. Don't even breathe." He swallowed—or tried to. His body felt rigid beneath her— dense and hard as stone.

"But I don't want to stop," she replied honestly, then added in a husky whisper, "I like what I feel. Nay, Your Grace, I don't care to stop."

"Yes you do. Oh, yes you do. Ah, God, what the hell am I doing here? No! Don't move or I'm going to forget that I'm supposed to be a gentleman and . . .
Meri
Mine,
there is a certain etiquette to proper lovemaking—steps a man goes through to seduce a woman—proper responses a woman enacts so the whole affair doesn't become so . . . torrid."

"Torrid is bad?"

"Torrid is . . . stevedores and tavern wenches."

"Proper ladies don't experience these feelings?"

His body relaxed somewhat, and his fingers gripped her less fiercely. Salterdon grinned. "A proper lady wouldn't acknowledge torrid, even if she wanted to."

"Then I'm glad I'm not a proper lady, Your Grace, because these feelings you've aroused are quite extraordinary, if not disarming. I've thought of nothing but your kiss since this afternoon—"

"And you're too bloody honest for your own good."

He rolled her away and sat up, shoulders sagging, his loose stock draping down his back, his dark hair a mussed cloud of waves and curls. His shirttail had pulled free from his breeches, exposing a small triangle of his back. Miracle noted the skin looked as dark as his face and hands, and she smiled.

Salterdon cleared his throat and stood up, smoothed back his hair, straightened his stock, all without looking at her. At last, he said, "Cover your legs, please."

Raising one eyebrow, Miracle tugged her gown hem down over her ankles. "Your Grace, I fear you're priggish."

"Hardly," he replied, and moved toward the fire, continuing to comb his hair with his fingers. "I'm simply attempting to remind you who we are—"

"And who are we, sir? I shall tell you now, that you are not the same man who graced Cavisbrooke before."

He suddenly turned and looked at her with so fixed a stare she forgot to speak for a moment. Sliding from the bed, gripping a
tapestried
pillow to her stomach, hoping it would somehow give her the strength to confess what had been plaguing her mind the last hours, Miracle walked toward him, watched as the intensity of his stare grew. Indeed, his entire countenance took on a most unusual unease and cautiousness.

"Meaning?" he demanded in a dry voice.

"That you've changed. I cared not a whit for you before. I despised your callousness, your crassness, your arrogance. But while you've been here these last days, I've seen none of that, and I've asked myself why. How can a man simply change his personality—indeed, his heart and manner of living? And I've come to only one conclusion."

"And that is?"

"Mayhap you acted the way you did because of your friends. Perhaps while in their company you're forced to act out your pretentiousness—"

He laughed mirthlessly, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "My God, you are naive, aren't you?" he said softly. "Don't you realize I'm standing here now because I had every intention of blackmailing you? Agree to marry me, or I'll tell the entire goddamned world about your beloved horses . . ."