A Scandalous Lady Page 23

  His hand moved from her cheek to her nape and his fingers clenched in her hair. “Faith . . .” he moaned into her mouth.

  She tore herself away and, breathing raggedly, she pressed her hands against his chest. “Baron, stop.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must. You shouldn’t be here.”

  He stilled, then drew back.

  “I think it’s best you go.”

  “You want me, Faith, as much as I want you.” His brow furrowed, confusion swirled in his eyes. “Dammit, why are you denying us?”

  “Aye, I do want you, Baron. More than I ever thought it possible to want a man. But I told you before, I will be no man’s whore, not even yours. Nor can I be your mistress, or your lover. That’s the promise I made to myself.”

  He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe. For several long, crackling seconds he simply stared at her. “If I made you my lady, would you have me, then?”

  Faith’s heart leaped. Her breath caught. It was the brandy talking, she told herself. Or the moment. Whichever, she doubted he was even aware of what he’d said. Even so, if he did remember come morning, she wanted him to know that if his intentions were truly honorable, she would take him. “Aye,” she brushed a lock of hair from his brow and smiled tenderly. “I would have you, then.”

  And Troyce closed his eyes, feeling the bottom fall out of his stomach. They’d been right all along. She didn’t want him. She wanted his cursed title.

  Worse, he didn’t care. He’d give it to her, if he could, just to have her, just to hold her.

  He was no better than his father.

  He pushed himself off her, away from her, and headed for the door, aware that if he didn’t put some distance between them this moment, the self-control he’d always been so proud of was going to snap.

  “Troyce?”

  “Good night, Faith.” With a bittersweet grin, he added, “Sweet dreams.”

  Chapter 16

  He knew she stood behind him without turning around to look. Her scent drifted in the wind, soaked into the sands, saturated his blood. An iridescent moon hung high in the blackness above, and a briny wind blew in off the Channel, but it did nothing to cool the fever raging through his blood. He feared that nothing ever would.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she said at length.

  “Aye. My father loved this place. Unfortunately, my mother preferred Radcliff, so we never spent as much time here as he would have liked.” He pointed across the water. “On a clear day, you can see the outline of France in the distance.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “Often. It’s my grandfather’s homeland. Et tu?”

  “I was born there.”

  “You were born in France?”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Baron. I wasn’t always a pickpocket,” she reminded him.

  “Forgive me. It’s just that you don’t sound French.”

  “I’m only half-French.”

  I’m only half-Brit.

  Is that anything like a half-wit?

  “You’re angry with me,” she said.

  “Not with you.” Or maybe he was. He didn’t know anymore. He kicked a drift of white sand and squinted into the night. Moonlight played with a spray of waves, making the caps iridescent. “I shouldn’t have come to your room, Faith.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  Knowing that he couldn’t explain his actions to her any more than he could to himself, he squinted at a stream of moonlight on the water’s surface. “What brought you to England, Faith?”

  “A ship,” she said, and his heart jumped. He couldn’t remember a single time when Faith had joked about anything. She was always so serious.

  She strolled down to where he stood at the water’s edge, letting the waves roll over his bare feet, and crossed her arms about her tiny waist. “My sister and me . . . we used to play this game when we were little. One of us would hide and the other would go aseeking.” The cant of her upbringing slipped unbidden into her speech. “The day me mum died, m’sister was frightful upset, and didn’t want to go to the buryin’, but Papa told her that he needed us to be brave little girls. So we got into the carriage. There was a boy with us, a cousin I think; there were so many people that me head gets muddled. But I remember being at the cemetery, and I remember that I couldn’t find my sister. I remember thinking she was hiding, playin’ our game, so I went to seeking. No one noticed; they was all so teary.”

  He caught a glimpse of her profile, watched her work a knot down her throat.

  “I walked around for a long time, calling and calling, ‘Ho-ne-sty, come out, come out wherever you are,’ because it was part of the game we played. But I couldn’t find her. I went back to me mum’s buryin’ place, but there was no one there. Everyone had left.”

  “Your family left you at the cemetery?”

  “I expect so.”

  “What did you do?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I think I fell asleep. The next thing I remember is a man standing over me. The sun was behind him, and I couldn’t see his face. I thought it was my father, so I called out to him. It wasn’t my father though.”

  “Who was it?”

  She looked down at their feet. Sand stuck to his toes and to the tips of her shoes.

  “A fellow named Cappy. He said that my family didn’t want me anymore, and I was supposed to live with him. Only him and his lady didn’t want me either. She put me on a ship. I don’t remember much after that.”

  “I’m surprised you remember that much.”

  “There’s some things in life you can’t forget, no matter how hard you try.” Like him, she squinted into the distance. “Sometimes I can still smell the stench of the hold, though. And I remember the orphan house. But mostly, I remember how Mama smelled, and how Papa cried when she died.”

  She looked at him, her expression confused and lost and adrift. So much like he felt at this moment that it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and never let go. “Why didn’t he want me anymore?”

  His gut twisted into knots and his heart wrenched. “I don’t know, Faith,” he answered helplessly, wishing he had the answers she sought. “But I want you.”

  “I want you, too. More than I ever thought it possible to want a man.”

  “What if I told you that I’ve nothing to offer you? Just me. Just now. Would you still want me then?”

  She knew what he was asking. It was there, in his eyes, that same need she felt, to simply be accepted for the man he was. What had he told her once? Most only knew the title, not the man?

  “With every breath. I have since before I met ye.” The acknowledgment should have shamed her. But it didn’t. When he’d left her room, she’d been so afraid that, like so many others in her life, he’d just disappear. And she’d never know what it was like to be loved. Deeply. Passionately. Completely.

  Without considering the consequences, without examining her reasons, she’d quickly donned her clothes and followed him.

  “What if . . . what if I told you that I want you to be the man who makes love to me. The man who feasts upon my lips, buries himself in my body, brings me to the highest of heights?”

  He spun around, grasped her upper arms in his, and drew her against his chest. His breathing came in harsh, labored gasps. For a moment she thought he would kiss her again and her heart soared.

  Instead, he hissed, “Go back to your room, Faith, before I lose what little will I have to resist you.”

  “I don’t want you to resist me, Troyce.”

  “Damn you, I’m trying to be a noble man!”

  “Who said I want you to be a noble man?”

  She watched the battle wage on his face for just a moment before he tugged her to him and covered her lips with his. Sparks exploded in Faith’s head, and her arms wrapped around his neck to keep from sinking. The kiss was not gentle as it had been under the staircase. No, this kiss was wild, hungry, almost desperate. His tongue thrust into
her mouth, slewed across her tongue, explored the sensitive recesses with an authority that had her bones melting. Faith could hardly breathe, and she didn’t care. He was her breath, he was her heartbeat, he was her dream come true. Every touch, every look, every word wrapped around her and tied her to him with a bind she couldn’t deny and no longer wanted to resist.

  She pushed herself closer, clung tighter to his neck, plunged her fingers into the soft, midnight hair at his nape. She ached for him in places she’d never dreamed could ache. Just when she thought she couldn’t endure another moment of his assault on her senses, he drew back, his chest heaving, his eyes like pitch.

  “Will you come with me?”

  Anywhere, she thought. Even if it meant being cast away again. The promise she’d made to herself so long ago, the vow she’d made on her mother’s soul, seemed so unimportant when he reached out to her. Faith nodded, then took his hand. She had no idea where he meant to take her, or how she followed him. Her legs trembled so badly that she could hardly stand.

  He walked backward, his hand clasping hers, his eyes dark as a stormy sky. She couldn’t look away. Liquid heat pooled in her belly and that same, mysterious throbbing from before pulsed between her thighs. Every brush of her starched skirt against her skin seemed to set off tiny sparks.

  As if sensing her urgency, as if sharing the sudden haste for privacy, Troyce turned on his heel to walk forward along the shore, his stride long and purposeful through the sand. They reached the path that would take them to the cove.

  As he led her toward the door to the boathouse, a pang of doubt assailed her. Then she was inside. The door slammed shut, the bolt slid home. And Troyce took her face in his hands and pressed her back against the cool stone wall. She could barely see him in the dimness but she could feel him. His legs flanking hers, his hard and swollen manhood eagerly jutting against the apex of her thighs, his breath ragged and oh-so-sultry against her lips.

  And doubts scattered to the four corners of the earth, replaced by need so potent she nearly wept. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers, wild and hungry. She wanted his hands on her body, exploring the most intimate recesses of her body.

  But he simply stood there, his hands on her face, his body taut with a restraint she didn’t understand. “Please,” she, who never begged, then begged him.

  “Please, what, princess?”

  “Please make me yours.”

  And that was all it took. His mouth fell on hers, devouring her. Faith wrapped her arms around his waist to keep from sinking. With deft, practiced movements that would make even the most talented knuck cry with envy, he released the buttons of her collar. His fingertips seared her throat, her collarbone, while her breasts strained against the confines of her bodice in eager anticipation of his touch. Then lower he went, to the inner curves of her breasts, his fingers fumbling now, his knuckles brushing the tender flesh of her ribs, then her belly. At last he stopped at the waistband of her skirt.

  A breeze blew in through the gap in the fabric, and Faith’s nipples tightened.

  “I want to see you,” he whispered.

  “I want to feel you,” she whispered back.

  His eyes narrowed and a growl rose in his throat. “Keep talking like that and this won’t last nearly long enough.” He gripped the panels of her shirt and peeled the fabric away. He sucked in. Faith glanced down. Her nipples poked against the sheer muslin of her chemise.

  She knew that a proper lady would shield herself.

  But then, a proper lady wouldn’t be here in the first place, either.

  She felt wicked and scandalous and desired. And she loved it. Because she loved him.

  She watched as he brought his hands before him, palm out, and brushed them across her protruding nipples. Faith gasped. Stars exploded behind her eyes.

  “Oh, God, you’re beautiful.”

  Again his palms brushed her. She nearly went through the stone. It was torture. Sweet, glorious torture to stand against the cold wall and feel his hot hands against her, touching her. Her clothes became stifling and she wanted them off. At the same time, she wanted him to continue his exploration.

  “Oh, Faith . . .” And he opened his mouth against her neck. Her pulse went wild. His chest flattened against her breasts and she whimpered. He suckled her neck. She grabbed the muscles of his back. “Troyce, enough, please . . .”

  “What do you want?”

  You!

  “Do you want this?” He thrust his pelvis against her hips. She cried out, “Yes!”

  “Or this?”

  He cupped her breast with his hand and squeezed gently. “Oh, God, yes.” And a rhythm began, thrust and squeeze, thrust and squeeze. The earth beneath her quaked, the sky above her fell. Powerful currents of sheer sharp pleasure coursed through her body.

  She didn’t think sensations inside could get any stronger; then he dropped down and wrapped his lips around her nipple.

  “I can’t, I can’t . . .” The back of her head rocked back and forth against the wall. If he stopped, she’d no longer exist, she swore it. Her fingers dug into his scalp. He pulled and tugged with his mouth through the moist material until she thought she’d die if he didn’t get her clothes off.

  Faith yanked at the ribbon herself then tore at the fabric, sobbing her frustration when it wouldn’t give. “Help me, Troyce . . .”

  “Is this what you want?”

  And with both hands, he ripped the shift down the middle. Her breast spilled free, heavy swollen, needy.

  And he was so hungry.

  Troyce dropped to his knees, filled his hands with her breasts and, greedy for the taste of her, pulled one distended nipple into his mouth. His palm formed to the curve of her, shaped her, molded her. She writhed and whimpered as he pleasured her, and her reaction drove him wild. When he felt his restraint reach the breaking point, he lifted Faith into his arms and carried her down the path, then up the stone steps before he lost control and took her against the wall. He had no idea how they reached the deck, but once there, he laid her upon the smooth, varnished planks. Her breasts, exquisite, golden mounds, the areolas dark and puckered, remained eager.

  He reached behind him, grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt, and tried unsuccessfully to pull the garment over his head. His knee between her legs, lost among the layers of petticoats and skirt, he braced himself above her. “Your turn. Touch me, Faith.”

  Her hands were tentative at first as she reached for him, then the touch of her palms against his ribs had every muscle in his torso tightening to the point of pain. His nerves quivered and his head spun. A fine sheen of sweat beaded on his brow.

  Moving against her, wanting inside her so badly, he longed to hike her skirts up to her waist and drive his sword home. But he held himself in check as she explored the feel of his midsection and chest. Troyce finally could take no more of her sweet torment and wedged his hand behind her and found the button of her waistband. She rocked her body to give him access and the skirt went slack.

  Raining kisses upon her breasts, down her belly, he worked the skirt and its accompanying undergarments past her hips and down to her knees. Faith kicked the material away and reached for him, and he laughed huskily at her impatience. Never had he more enjoyed a woman wanting him. And he wanted to savor this moment, savor her.

  With his hands on her knees, he let himself feast upon her body. She was still too thin, but not like the first time he’d seen her nude.

  She raised up on her elbows and looked at him, her eyes drowsy. The blouse she still wore draped her breasts and waist in a curtain of white, her hair was gloriously tousled, her lips puffy and a deep, cherry red. He could do naught but stare in wonder. That she would give herself to him, no promises, no titles, no fortune, made him dizzy with awe.

  Her lashes fell, and she started to pull her shirt closed.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, stopping her.

  “It’s all right, Baron. Ye’ve changed your mind. I understand.”


  Bloody hell, was she crying? “Faith?” he leaned over her and tipped her chin toward him. Her eyes were shiny. “Why would you think I’ve changed my mind?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “Because I’m not—”

  “Not what?”

  “Not a lady.” Again, she tugged at her shirt to cover her nudity. This time, Troyce let her, even though every nerve in his highly aroused body screamed in protest and urged him to take her before he lost the chance. “What does being a lady have to do with what’s happening between us right now?”

  She didn’t answer right away, and when she did, he had to strain to catch her words. “Every man wants a lady. No man wants a guttersnipe.”

  And his heart fell, shattering into a thousand pieces upon the deck of La Tentatrice. “Jesus, Faith. Where do get such ideas?” Then he got angry. At her damnable family, at Jack Swift, and yes, even at Devon. But most of all, he was mad at himself. To see this strong, scrappy street girl broken and cowed . . .

  He seized her hand and pressed it to the front of his trousers. Electric shock slammed through his groin. “Does this feel like I don’t want you?”

  Her eyes widened, her mouth parted. “Then I’m not an amusement?”

  “Do I look amused?” he growled.

  No, he looked . . . hungry. Powerful. On-the-edge dangerous.

  And Faith’s heart unfurled. Lucy was so wrong. The baron did want her. With her hand pressed to the front of his trousers, with the iron length of him pulsing against her palm, a boldness infused her, empowered her, awed her. She slid her hand down the proof of his need and smiled when his eyes fell shut and his head dropped back. He moved his grip to her wrist and guided her motion, up nearly to his flat stomach, down between his thighs, groaning when she picked up the rhythm. She’d never known a man could feel so . . . delicious. So hard, and yet at the same time so soft. So firm and so swollen. Touching him, watching him enjoy her touching him, caused her breath to quicken and a damp heat to spread between her thighs. “Troyce, take them off.”