Steel's Edge (27 page)

Charlotte turned and walked toward the phaeton. She felt spent and empty, scraped completely dry.

“Lady de Ney,” Rose called out.

Charlotte turned again.

Rose bowed. It was a deep, formal, Weird bow. “I don't blame you. I blame them. Thank you for taking care of my grandmother.”

“You're welcome,” Charlotte told her. She just wanted to get away.

Richard swung the door of the phaeton open for her, and she climbed in.

“The ride won't be long,” he promised, and shut the door. She heard him get in the front, in the driver's seat, where an instrument panel waited. The horseless phaeton took off down the road.

Two years, she reminded herself. That's how long it took Richard to get to this point. She had only been at this for less than a week. It had been the most difficult week of her life, but it was only a week. Even if it felt like a lifetime.

Rain drenched the phaeton. She looked outside the glass window and saw a gray haze of water. The raindrops bombarded the roof, sliding along the smooth resin walls of the phaeton, as if she were under a waterfall and yet remained completely dry. Charlotte covered her face and cried. It was a wordless, silent sobbing born of pure pressure that squeezed the tears out of her eyes, more a stress relief than true mourning.

The phaeton came to a halt. The door swung open again, and she jumped out into the deluge, grateful that it would wash the signs of her weakness from her face.

Tall trees surrounded a narrow driveway. In front of her, a house crouched in the rain, like a shaggy bear. She could barely make out the dark log walls under the roof green with moss. Lightning flashed above. A moment later, thunder tore through the hum of the rain. Richard grabbed her hand, and they dashed across the driveway to the house. Charlotte ran up the stairs onto the narrow porch, Richard swung the door open, and she ducked inside gratefully.

TEN

“LIGHTS,”
Richard said.

Pale yellow lanterns ignited on the walls, bathing the cabin in their soothing light. Delicate frosted spheres, they dangled from the wood like bunches of glowing grapes. The layout of the cabin was open and simple: in the center, two large couches faced each other, flanked by an overstuffed chair, all in handsome, masculine brown. A classic Adrianglian fire pit sat between the couches, a rectangular construction of stone with a grate partially overshadowed by an exhaust hood venting outside the house.

To the left, wooden stairs led to a small loft supporting a bed. Under the stairs, a desk stood, filled with stacks of paper. A large map of Adrianglia decorated the wall, with hand-drawn arrows and annotations written in Richard's hand.

At the right wall, a kitchen occupied the far corner, complete with the ornate box of an icer unit and a small stove.

Richard walked past her, struck a match, and dropped it into the pit. Immediately, the flames surged up. He must've laid out the fire before he'd left.

Long windows offered a view outside the house, all of the forest soaking in the gray deluge of cold rain. Every inch of the wall free of windows was filled with bookcases. Volumes of all shapes and sizes sat on the shelves, interrupted by odd objects. He liked books. So did she.

The space felt warm and inviting, the crackling of the logs a soothing counterpoint to the rain. For some odd reason, she had expected the house to be austere, almost grim, but it was comfortable and inviting. He was letting her into his personal space, into his home.

“A towel?” he asked, offering her a green towel.

“Thank you.” She took it and stood there, looking at the towel like an idiot.

“Would you like to take a shower? The water is heated by the icer's coils, so it should be hot,” he told her. “It's through that door on the right. There are clean clothes in the cabinet.”

She could wash the Isle of Divine Na off her skin.

The bathroom was equipped with a standard Adrianglian shower. When the first drops of water hit her, Charlotte exhaled.

Ten minutes later, she rummaged through the cabinet and found a tunic that was too long on her and a pair of soft woolen pants, which were tight on her hips. She twisted the towel into a turban on her head and slipped out of the bathroom. Richard waited until she was settled on the couch by the fire pit and entered the bathroom with his own towel.

She watched the flames and tried not to think. If she didn't feel so broken, she would've walked along the shelves, caressing the spines with her fingers. She wanted to know what he liked, what books he had read, but defeat wrapped around her, like a thick, dull blanket, and she couldn't fight it off.

The heat of the fire warmed her skin, and she forced herself to enjoy the simple, meager pleasure of being clean, warm, and safe, at least for the moment. When she looked up, Richard had left the bathroom and was coming toward her. She pulled the towel off her hair and let it down.

He sat down across from her. For a few minutes, they sat silently, the fire crackling between them.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“We lost,” she said, hating the failure in her voice.

“We lost a battle. I intend to win the war.”

“How?” she asked.

“We know who runs the slavers. We have the names of five people. We study them, then we go after them,” he said.

Go after them? After the bluebloods with money, after the peers of the realm with power, after the cousin to the king . . . “You make it sound so simple.”

“Charlotte?” he asked quietly. “Are you giving up?”

“No. I have to see this through to the end. I just . . . I feel spent. I thought it would be over.”

“But it isn't.”

“No.” She faced him. “The truth is that I'm weak, Richard. Despite all my determination, the moment I saw a way out, I leaped at it. When we found the ledgers, I felt this overwhelming relief. I felt hope. I haven't gone over the edge yet. I could stop and never use that side of my magic again. I glimpsed a new chance at life, but now it's gone.”

“It's a strength, not a weakness. Despite everything you've seen and done, you retained your humanity. I admire that.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing worthy of admiration here. I'm simply a very selfish woman. We've been robbed of our victory, and even though I barely began the fight, I'm already in despair at the first setback. How can you keep going? I thought you would be more dejected.”

“I am. I'm used to setbacks by now, but this one is crushing.” His damp hair, almost black with moisture, fell over his face. The light of the fire played on his skin. “I struggled with it, but I'm also a very selfish man.”

“What does that mean?”

He glanced at her. “I realized that if this were over, you would leave.”

The slavers, Brennan, and the insurmountable obstacles to bringing them to justice faded from her mind. He was right there. All she had to do was get up and take two steps forward or invite him in. He could be hers.

Charlotte raised her chin. “I'm here now. In your house.”

Richard stopped moving. She had his complete attention.

She leaned forward and ran her hand through her long blond hair, letting it fall over her shoulders to frame her face. He focused on her completely. She read admiration, desire, and a touch of hard male possessiveness in his gaze. It made her giddy.

“The question is, are you going to do something about it, Richard?”

Richard cleared the distance between them in one rapid step, then his arms were around her. She saw him leaning down and closed her eyes. The first touch of his lips made her shudder, not in fear or excitement, but in desperate, all-consuming want. His lips told her everything she needed to know without making a single sound: that he wanted her just as desperately, that he hoped, that he wouldn't force her. That he thought she was beautiful.

His tongue brushed her lips, and she tilted her head and opened her mouth, letting him know that she wanted him, too. He tasted her, kissing deeper, seducing with a promise of more but holding back. Her body tightened. Her breasts pressed against his chest. A deep-seated desire sparked inside her. Suddenly, she felt empty, and she wanted to be full of him. He sensed it, as if they were perfectly attuned, and pulled her tighter, possessive.

His hands stroked her back, under her tunic, and the roughness of the calluses on his fingers scraping lightly against her skin sent aftershocks through the sensitive muscles of her back. Wrapped in his heated strength, she let go of words and self-awareness, and just kissed him, delighting in the simple pleasure of having him. He tasted of sandalwood and smoke and the promise of bliss.

“So beautiful,” he whispered in her ear, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, then her neck, coaxing her to melt. It was too slow. A sudden fear that he would change his mind gripped her.

“Bed,” she whispered to him.

He picked her up like she weighed nothing and carried her up the stairs to the loft, depositing her on the covers.

The bed was huge.

The full reality of what she was about to do dropped onto Charlotte's shoulders, like a crippling burden.

She swallowed. The blood spatter on her clothes flashed before her. She wanted to forget it. The clothes she wore now were clean, but she still wanted them gone because she knew her skin was free of blood.

She started to pull the tunic off herself, then his hands touched the bare skin of her stomach and slid up, along her back, stroking places she never thought erotic but which now sent small pulses of desire through her. He kissed her neck, slipped her tunic off, and kissed her chest, moving down in a slow, confident seduction. Her husband used to do this.

She swallowed and pulled away.

Richard stopped.

Her confidence evaporated. She felt so vulnerable sitting there with her shirt off, painfully self-conscious.

Richard swallowed. She sensed he was about to step back and grasped his hand. “No.”

He stopped.

“I want you,” she told him. “I . . .” She tried to make sense of the tangled ball of feelings.

Richard crouched by the bed. “A woman once told me to use words.”

“I'm barren,” she said with brutal honestly. “Sex was about making children. I want to be loved.” She sounded so needy and desperate. “I'm afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of intimacy.” She swallowed. “I need it to be different than it was with him.”

She killed it. She ruined it, she brought the shadow of her ex-husband into the bedroom, and now Richard would have the burden of being different from him without knowing what it was like. It was unfair and selfish. He would walk away from her.

“Do you want me?” Richard asked.

“Yes.” He had no idea how much.

Richard pulled off his tunic. Underneath, his body rippled with strong, carved muscle, his bronzed skin lightened with old scars. She watched mute as he took off his shoes. His pants followed. He was aroused.

Oh gods, he was so aroused.

Richard sat on the bed, leaned against the carved wooden headboard, and rested his muscular arms on its top edge. His spare, hard body looked almost decadent against the sheets.

“Come,” he invited.

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

“You want it different. Come, make it different.”

“Me?”

“You.”

He was giving her control. She wasn't sure what to do with it.

She would do
something
.

Charlotte stripped, shook her head, letting her blond hair fall over her in a cloud, and sat on the bed.

He was looking at her with such unrestrained, almost feral need, that she blushed. All of his brakes were gone. This was Richard without manners, without proper etiquette, without restraint. She thought he was ice. She had no idea he was fire.

The awkwardness fled, leaving sheer excitement.

“What can I do?” she asked him.

“Anything you wish.”

Anything she wished. She raised her hand and touched his chest, drawing her fingers along the narrow hollow between the hard panes of his pectoral muscles. He strained, his body tightening under her touch, but kept his hands on the headboard. She felt so free and . . . wanton. Yes. That was the word.

Charlotte slid her fingers lower, caressing the hard bulges of his abdominal muscles, sliding her hand lower, past his navel, tracing the long line of dark hair pointing down.

“Richard?”

His voice was strained. “Yes?”

“How good is your control?”

“How good do you need it to be?” His voice sounded strained. His biceps bulged as he gripped the headboard.

“Can you keep your hands on that headboard?”

“If you want me to, yes.”

She touched the smooth head of his shaft, and he flexed in response, raising himself slightly off the covers.

“Let's find out,” she whispered.

She stroked the hard length of him and lowered her head to kiss his neck. The rasp of his stubble scratched her tongue. She tasted a hint of sweat and soap. He groaned. She smiled and kissed him again, his lips, his chest, running her tongue over his nipples, over his hard stomach. An insistent liquid heat spread between her legs. She really could do anything. He would let her. She had complete control. Her excitement spiked.

She trailed a line down from his navel with the tip of her tongue, feeling the muscles tense, like hardened steel under the skin.

She slipped his shaft into her mouth.

His back arched, as he flexed his arms, lifting himself and her. The headboard creaked.

She licked him, testing his discipline. His body shuddered. He groaned again. “You may not want to . . . do . . . that. It's been a while for me.”

“For me, too.” She straddled him, her breasts inches from his lips. She felt him press between her legs. He was looking at her, his gaze like a heated caress. Everything about him was so unbelievably erotic, from his strong muscular body, to the way his skin, warmed by the fire, burned under her touch, to the way he looked at her.

She tilted her hips. The hot hard length of him slid inside her in a rush of pleasure, stretching her from the inside. Charlotte gasped, arching her back, feeling the full extent of him inside her. She felt tight, but flexible, pliant, warm, and so impatient for more.

“Gods, I want you,” he growled.

She began to rock forward, sliding over him. It felt like heaven, but she wanted more.

“Touch me now,” she whispered. “Please.”

He pushed off the bed, grasping her hips, grinding up, deeper into her. His mouth found her breast, then her nipple, still cool from the shower. His tongue slid over it, and she tightened in response, the rush of sensation so intense it almost hurt. He sucked on her, and she shivered atop him, bending back, riding him faster. Her joints turned liquid.

He slipped his hand down between her legs and touched the sensitive knot of nerves there. Bliss cascaded through her.

“Please,” she moaned. “Please.”

He kept caressing her, his fingers skillful, adding just the right amount of pressure, matching her movement. The combined sensation overwhelmed her, lifting her higher and higher. Her head swam, but she felt every moment, every caress, as she was hovering on the precipice.

Her breath was coming in quick whimpers. His body was so hard under her, each muscle taut with strain. He let out a masculine half growl, born of pure lust. It triggered some deep feminine instinct inside her that told her his pleasure was as intense as hers.

And then the waves of euphoria crested inside her, met, and she fell over the cliff. All the strength went out of her spine. She slumped forward, her eyes wide, lost in erotic bliss.

He flipped her back onto the covers. She kissed him, running her hands down his back. He pinned her down, pretending to keep her from moving, and looked at her, her mouth, her breasts, the swell of her hips. There was something so deeply gratifying in the look of male satisfaction on his face. She realized that he must've wanted her for a long time, and now he had finally gotten her.