The Sweetest Revenge (6 page)

He was close. Just ahead, just beyond his blindfold, he saw release and its promise of being sweet, hard, and fast. He sprinted toward it. He pumped his hips. She took him deeper, rougher.

With a small pop, she released her suction. Leo moaned and arched his back, searching for her. But she was gone.

He felt her distance. She was far away, across the room.

His cock ached, literally pained to have nothing touching it at this moment. He had already been contracting in her hand. It would have been over within the next few seconds.

Stay calm
.

If he was free, he would lunge after her, drag her to the floor, spread her legs, and plunge into her.

He clenched his bound hands behind him and disciplined himself to sound casual. “Come back, Mistress Jane.”

“No.” Her voice was flat.

“Why?”

“I am finished.”

“Neither of us is finished. We have only just begun. When it is over, I will repay you in kind.”

“I have no desire for your repayment, Leo. I might have once, but I would not make that same mistake again.”

He made his voice low, seductive. “I offer you pleasure of your own. Do you not desire to mount me, to ride me, to feel me inside you?”

“No.”

The word, spoken with such blunt intensity, stung. A hot flush rose from his chest. “You will not leave me in this state.”

“Why not?”

“It is painful.”

She snorted.

“You said you weren’t here to hurt me.”

“This hardly qualifies as hurting you.” Her voice was ice cold. “You might experience true pain within the next day or two, and you will laugh at your trifling complaints tonight.”

He ignored his wayward member’s command for him to beg. The pain came in the form of an intense, angry, demanding throb. Every muscle in his body was still tense, on the sharp edge of release. If she left him like this, he would not even be able to finish himself, not with his hands tied.

He took a deep breath. “I promise to bring you to the pinnacle, Jane. What kind of a woman denies herself pleasure?”

“The kind who knows the cost of that pleasure.”

“There would be no cost.”

“There is always a cost.” Fabric rustled as she retrieved something—probably her cloak from the floor. “Ah, Leo. If you could see yourself now. You fool.”

“I am not a—”

“Goodnight, Leo.”

He
was
a fool. He had known this would not end well. How could he give in to her so easily? How could he forget what she was?

Panic rose. She would leave him in this humiliating condition. “Untie my bonds.”

“Never,” she whispered.

The door creaked, and she was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

Leo dreamed of
her
. Many months had passed since she had appeared in his dreams.

Mirrors surrounded him. His form multiplied within the mirrors, reflections within reflections, each one diminishing in size. Leo turned slowly, calming a rising panic, searching for a door, for a way out.

He opened his mouth to shout, but before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of a silvery gown behind him. He stilled, staring at the figure, at the way she moved, and he instantly knew her. He also knew he dreamed, for he was resigned to never seeing her again. Not in this life.

Her face came into focus as she stepped behind him and raised her hand to rest on his shoulder. He had thought she might be an illusion, but the gentle pressure on his shoulder was firm. Real.

They stared at each other in the mirrors.

“I missed you.” He reached up to touch her fingers. Her flesh felt warm and solid beneath his fingertips.

Even in his dream, the thought of her name filled him with a profound sadness. He couldn’t say it, even when she stood behind him, multiplied thousands of times.

Slowly, he turned to face her. She gazed at him with wide, azure eyes, her lips slightly parted.

If he could only hold on to it, to
her
, everything would be all right.

He crushed her to his chest, threading his hands through her silky hair and pressing his lips to her forehead. “Leave this place with me.”

They’d escape together. He wouldn’t let her go this time.

The creak of door hinges and a shuffling movement conspired to pull him out of his dream and tug him back into reality. He held on to her desperately, even as she faded away like a ghost. “Noooo,” he moaned softly.
Don’t go.

Someone spoke.

Leo groaned, shifting his body to ease the ache between his legs, and pushed her out of his mind.

“Monsieur, would you like me to shave you this morning? Monsieur?”

Full consciousness settled in, and Leo tensed, remembering last night, remembering his indecent appearance. His trousers had slid halfway down his arse; his cock, now soft but certainly jutting cheerfully forth when Hercules had first entered, fully exposed.

He could do nothing but attempt to bear the humiliation with dignity.

Dull pain crept through his head, and his every muscle ached. He needed coffee. Or, even better, a drink.

“No shave, thank you,” he said stubbornly. “Miss Juliette is the only one of you I trust with a blade.”

After Hercules removed the bonds at his wrists, Leo pulled up his trousers and fastened them before yanking off his blindfold. He gazed up at Hercules, expecting a sneer, or at least a knowing smile, but the giant had set his face in its usual passive mask. Looking carefully, however, Leo detected a telling set in his shoulders, a tension in the line of his jaw.

“Had a little visit from one of the ladies,” Leo explained.

“That is apparent, monsieur.”

“From the sharp-tongued one. The one who calls herself Mistress Jane,” Leo continued conversationally.

He found what he searched for—an infinitesimal relaxation in the other man’s face. So there was nothing between Hercules and Mistress Jane. But the giant seemed to possess a tendre for one of the others. It had better not be Miss Juliette.

Hercules thrust a slice of bread at him. “Your breakfast, monsieur.”

So they did not intend to starve him after all, only humiliate him to death.

The bread was just out of the oven, sliced thick and slathered with butter. Leo took a mouthful of it and sank into the sensation of the contrast between hot, moist bread and cool, sweet butter melting on his tongue. He had never known bread could be so heavenly.

He finished, licked the butter from his fingers, and went to take advantage of the chamber pot. Having one’s hands tied was a bloody inconvenience in more ways than one.

In the waking hours after Mistress Jane had left him last night, he had sustained himself by planning his vengeance. He would catalogue each bit of information, from the type of brickwork on the ceiling of the cellar, to the flooring, to the room’s dimensions. When they freed him, if he had to search every damned cellar in London, he would find this one. Then he would deal with its mistress and her friends.

He had begun to think that involving the authorities might not be such a good idea. He would rather manage these three himself. Make them suffer. Give them a taste of their own humiliating tactics. He had his own cellar, after all. And he could easily imagine his three ladies bound in it, naked and cold, tears streaking their faces as they begged to be released.

Perhaps he would parade in some of the more daring members of his crowd to see his naked captives. Maybe he’d allow some of them to touch Mistress Jane as she had touched him.

Fastening his trousers for the second time, he leaned against the wall and watched Hercules lean down to take the chamber pot.

What could he say to the man? Frankly, he was not as good with men as he was with women. Sutherland was his one true male friend, and the two of them always had a group of hangers-on, but otherwise, Leo rarely desired male companionship.

Hercules walked out with the sloshing chamber pot, and the bolt slid into place with its now-familiar rasping sound.

Leo rubbed his hands over his face and dragged them through his hair, looking over at the garish chaise.

Mistress Jane had kept her promise. A neatly folded blue silk blanket lay upon one of the cushions.

***

“…and then I turned on my heel and walked away.” Anna folded her arms over her chest, leaned against Isabelle’s bedroom door, and grinned.

Isabelle snapped her gaping jaw shut. She slid her hands into the folds of her gown and clenched handfuls of muslin.

Anna had so much nerve. More nerve than Isabelle would ever have. Never in her life could she imagine doing such things to a man. Never in her life had she imagined that such things were actually done. But by the way Anna spoke, they must be quite common. If Isabelle hadn’t been ruined, if someone had taken her as a wife, she would likely know this by now.

Anna’s encounter yesterday with Lord Leothaid had sent her reeling. Susan had, for reasons she could not decipher, encouraged her to go down to the cellar to observe him. Filled with blazing curiosity about how the passionate young lover she had known had turned into such a terrible man, she had gone, intending to watch him from the doorway. But the moment she had seen him arguing with Pierre, something had compelled her to intervene.

Touching him was a mistake. When her fingertips made contact with his skin, a warm flush had spread deep within her, melting the hard lump of anger that had formed during her conversation with Susan. Just as he had in the past, he annihilated all her resistance. How could he still have such power over her after so long? After what had happened between them?

His firm jaw had pressed against her hand, so close to his full lips. How she had wanted to run her thumb over those lips. Deep trepidation had stopped her. But even now, the memory of touching him sent a tremulous heat skittering up her spine.

“Are you shocked, Isabelle?”

“Beyond…beyond words, I think.” She tried to laugh. “You are very brave, Anna.”

Isabelle remembered how Lord Leothaid had invaded her body so many years ago. She imagined him invading her mouth in the same way. Would he moan her name, beg her to stay with him, beg her to satisfy him? A heaviness gathered between her legs, spooling prickling threads of heat to spread beneath her skin.

Isabelle forced her fists to open, releasing the now-wrinkled fabric of her gown. She was not this sort of woman—she was shy, introverted, and reserved. Lust and desire were foreign sensations to her.

Except with Lord Leothaid.

Nay
. She could not allow those memories to creep in. They aroused shameful, improper feelings no decent woman ought to have. She must, she
must
, govern her passions.

But how could she when Leo was so near?

She hadn’t touched a man in seven years.
He
was the only man she had ever touched.

“Well, that is excellent!” Susan exclaimed, rising from the chair beside Isabelle’s bed. “Very good, Anna. Now he will know frustration. He will understand what it means to desire something unreachable, something impossible to attain.”

Isabelle blinked at Susan in sudden comprehension. Susan was right. After he’d left Scotland, she’d dreamed unceasingly of his return. But then his brother had found that letter Leo had written to her, and all had been revealed.

She’d been sent away in disgrace, but a part of her had still been confident in his love. She’d known he’d come for her. She’d waited. But he never came. Instead, he’d become a rogue and a rake, his conquests the subject of gossip throughout the kingdom.

He had gone to whores and loose women to slake his lust, had become involved in tryst after tryst, had taken different women to his bed every night, while she had been alone, still dreaming about him. Still wanting him but knowing that he no longer wanted her.

Anna’s revenge was perfect.

Isabelle looked into her dressing table mirror and smiled.

Behind her, Susan turned at the door. “Are you coming, Isabelle?”

Isabelle’s hand drifted toward her hair. It had half fallen out of its chignon this afternoon and, as usual, was in complete disarray. “I’ve rung for a maid to fix my hair. I’ll be coming down soon.”

More importantly, she needed to gather her wits about her before she saw Leo again. With a small, knowing smile, Susan followed Anna out the door, closing it softly behind her. The maid knocked moments later.

As the girl swept her hair up into a tighter twist, a small shagreen case at the edge of the dressing table caught Isabelle’s eye. Reaching for it, she turned it lovingly in her hand, then flicked its lid open with her thumb. A wee unopened bottle of perfume lay nestled in the red velvet lining.

Her great-aunt Mary, an accomplished perfume maker, had once supplied society with its stylish fragrances. When she was a child, Aunt Mary had created a scent just for Isabelle, with the subtle herbal-and-floral scent of heather and the slightest touch of sandalwood. When Isabelle arrived in London this past spring, Aunt Mary had given her this bottle, filled with the same perfume, as a gift.

She pulled the stopper and applied a drop to each of her wrists and another at her collarbone.

The maid’s round face broke into a cheerful smile. “’Tis a lovely scent, miss.”

Isabelle stared at her reflection, blinking against flooding memories of being young and happy and blindly in love.

The maid finished with a final tug on a strand of hair. Isabelle watched in the mirror as the girl bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.

Isabelle closed her eyes. The scent wafted around her, pervading her senses, and she remembered. She remembered lying in bed and gazing into his eyes. She remembered the last time they’d slept together, how he’d held her against him and whispered
“I love you”
into her ear until she came.

She turned and glanced at the door, making sure the maid had shut it securely.

Safely alone, she dipped a cloth in her basin and scrubbed away the perfume.

***

Leo had lain awake for hours, contemplating his predicament. Or rather, he was unsure of the length of time he had been awake. It felt like hours, but he lost track of time in this place. It was only his second day here, of that he was still sure. Certain the days would soon start to meld together, he’d scratched at a little place on the back of the chaise until he’d made two tally marks, promising himself to add one for each day he remained.