Wicked Intentions

“Her cunny?” he drawled against her cheek. His hips surged instinctively against her at the word, as if seeking out that part of her.

“Yes, that. She’s completely exposed.” She whimpered as he licked the side of her throat.

“And?” he prompted.

“Oh!” She took a breath as if to steady herself. “She has a scarf tied over her eyes.”

“The man?”

“He’s tall and dark, and he’s completely dressed; even his wig is still in place.”

He smiled against her skin, grinding his hips into her bottom. He would raise her skirt right now, seek that soft, wet place at her center, if he was not sure it would draw her from her trance.

“What is he doing?” He bit gently on her ear.

She gasped. “He’s kneeling between her legs and he’s—Oh, God!”

He chuckled darkly. “He’s worshipping her cunny, isn’t he? He’s tonguing her, kissing her, licking right through her pink lips, tasting her essence.”

She moaned and pressed back against him—but not in escape. Her bottom rubbed his hard cock, and triumph leapt within him.

He tongued her ear, licking around the delicate outer edge. “Would you like that? Would you like my mouth against your center, my tongue against your bud? I’d lick you there, tasting you, savoring you, until you bucked beneath me, but I wouldn’t let you go. I’d hold you down, your thighs widespread, your cunny open to me, and I’d lick you until you came over and over.”

She struggled against him then, half turning in his grasp, and he bent and kissed her hard, his mouth grinding hers open, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as savagely as he wanted to thrust his cock into her body. God! He was in danger of coming in his breeches, and he didn’t give a damn. She was finally breaking, his little martyr, and her surrender was sweeter than any honey.

He jammed his leg between hers, high so that she was forced to ride him. He caught at her skirts, yanking them up, his entire being on but one goal. He no longer cared where they were, who she was, and who he was and his own damnable past. All he wanted was her warm, wet flesh around him. Now.

But she dug her nails into his hair and pulled suddenly, surprising an exclamation of pain from him.

It was all she needed. She darted, a fleeing hare before a hawk, wildly dashing down the dark corridor.

HE’D BEWITCHED HER.

Temperance panted as she rounded the corner of the dark passage. Panic was a live thing in her throat, fluttering and threatening to choke off her air. To drive reason itself from her mind.

How had he known? Was her shame a blaze upon her face for all men to see? Or was he a wizard who could discern the sensual weaknesses of women? For she’d been weakened. Her legs had quivered under him; her center had turned liquid with shameful want. She’d gazed through that awful peephole and described the scene within, and dear God, she’d liked it. The terrible words he’d whispered in her ear as he thrust against her bottom had left her hot and lusting. She’d wanted him to mount her like a rutting stallion in the sordid little passage of a brothel.

Perhaps she’d already lost her mind.

The door to the outer hallway was unlocked. It sprang open at her touch, and then she was flying down the stairs, the heavy tread of Lord Caire’s boots right behind her. She made the square little hall and heard him curse and stumble. Thank goodness! Whatever his delay, it gave her a few extra seconds. She flung open the door to the brothel and fled into the night.

The wind took her breath, and something small and mean and four-legged scuttled from her path. She ducked into a tiny covered alley, her footsteps echoing against the ancient stone walls. She ran without direction or thought, panic beating at her breast. If he caught her, he’d kiss her again. He’d press his length to her, and she’d taste his mouth, feel his touch, and she wouldn’t be able to break away a second time. She’d succumb, wallowing in her own sinful nature.

She couldn’t let that happen.

So when she heard him call her name behind her, she made herself slow down, made herself move more stealthily. The covered alley opened into a tiny courtyard. She glanced behind her and darted across it. Her breast was burning, and she wanted to gasp, but she made herself breathe slowly, softly, and look behind her. The courtyard was empty. His voice had been distant. Perhaps she’d lost him.

Temperance crept through an alley, ducked into a side street, and then turned down another passage. The moon was out, giving her some feeble light. She’d run so fast and in such a rush that she had no idea where she was now. The buildings to either side were dark. She crossed a street, running fast again, a thrill of fear bolting up her back. She paused for a moment in the shadows of a house, peering behind her. She couldn’t see Lord Caire. Perhaps he’d given up the chase? Except that didn’t seem very like—

“You fool!” he hissed into her ear.

She yelped, an ignoble sound, but he’d scared the wits out of her.

He took her upper arms and shook her, his voice rasping with rage. “Have you no sense? I promised your brother I’d take care of you, and then you go running willy-nilly into the worst part of St. Giles.”

She gaped up at him, stunned, her only thought that he was enraged because of fear for her. She’d thought he’d chased her out of sexual frenzy when all the time he’d been concerned for her safety. Temperance couldn’t help it. She threw back her head and laughed, the wind taking the sound from her lips and spinning it high.

Lord Caire frowned down at her. “Stop that. It’s not funny.”

Which, of course, only made her laugh harder.

He sighed in male frustration and shook her again, but it was halfhearted. He began to pull her toward himself, and her fears of his attraction flooded back, sobering her. She placed her palms against his chest in weak protest.

And then he shoved her roughly behind him.

She stumbled at the sudden movement, then caught herself and looked up. A group of men had walked into the street, all of them armed with cudgels. Caire twisted and broke apart his walking stick. The short sword was in his right hand, the remainder of the stick in his left, and he didn’t hesitate but flew at the attackers.

“Run!” he bellowed to her as he charged the men.

They hadn’t expected such an abrupt offensive. Two of the men fell back, one hesitated, but the remaining two closed on Caire. Temperance felt for her pistol. She’d tied the sack she usually carried it in to her waist under her skirts, and she began hauling up the material.

There was a short scream, horribly cut off. She looked up in time to see one of Caire’s attackers fall back, his face awash in blood. Caire was whirling gracefully, his cape flying out about him, as he thrust at another man.

“Temperance! Obey me now. Run!”

Abruptly, a thick arm wrapped around her neck, choking off her scream.

“Throw down yer sword,” a rough voice said near her ear, “or I’ll break ’er neck.”

Caire turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw her plight, and then the man holding Temperance grunted and went limp. She scrambled away as he fell to the ground. She gasped and looked up and saw…

An apparition, moving silently and swiftly past her. The attackers never even knew he—it?—was there until one was run through. Was she dreaming? Had she been killed and not even known it? For the thing that fought silently and deadly beside Caire now was like nothing she’d ever seen.

He was tall and lean and wearing a black and red motley tunic. His breeches, jackboots, and wide-brimmed hat were all black. A black half-mask covered the upper part of his face, the nose grotesquely long, and eerie lines carved around the eyes and protruding cheeks. He held a glittering sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other, and he used both at once with deadly agility, skipping nimbly over the cobblestones as he fought.

Caire stood back-to-back with the apparition, both figures fighting with grim precision. Caire blocked a blow with the stick in his left hand and followed through with a jab from the sword in his right. The remaining attackers circled the two men like a pack of rabid dogs. But Caire and the harlequin moved together as if they’d fought like this all their lives. No matter how the attackers tried to breach their defenses, they could find no hole. The apparition slashed a man across the chest even as Caire stabbed one in the thigh. One of the attackers gave a shout, and suddenly they fled, disappearing into the St. Giles night. Even the man who’d caught her from behind had recovered enough to run away.

In the silence, Temperance could hear her own breath rasping in her throat. The pistol in her hands shook violently.

The apparition turned gracefully, his boots whispering against the cobblestones. He swept the hat from his head as he bowed low. A scarlet feather fluttered in his hat as he replaced it on his head.

Then he was gone as well.

Temperance stared at Caire. “Are you badly hurt? Who was that?”

“I have no idea.” He shook his head. His silver hair had come down from its customary tie during the fight, and it fanned against his black cloak. “But it would appear that the Ghost of St. Giles is no rumor.”

Chapter Ten

Meg shook her head. “That, Your Majesty, is not love.”

“What?” The king looked ominous. “If not love, then what is it?”

“Obedience,” Meg said. “Your guards tell you what you wish to hear out of obedience, Your Majesty.”

Well! You could’ve heard the drop of a pin within the throne room. The little blue bird chirped, and the king let out a sigh.

“Return her to the dungeons,” he ordered the guards. He added to Meg, “And when next you are in my presence, see to it you are properly washed.”

Meg curtsied. “To wash, I’ll need water, soap, and cloth, if it please Your Majesty.”

The king waved a hand. “See that it is done.”

And the guards led her away….

—from King Lockedheart

“I knew the Ghost of St. Giles was real!” Nell exclaimed later that evening.

Temperance turned to stare at the maidservant, aware that Winter, across the kitchen table from her, had turned at the same time.

Nell flushed at their combined stares. “Well, I did! Did he have bloodred eyes?”

Temperance smiled wearily at Nell’s excitement. Caire had escorted her home after the attack, and she’d been set upon by Winter and Nell shortly thereafter. She’d spent the last quarter of an hour answering Winter’s disapproving questions, interrupted now and then by Nell’s exclamations.

“I couldn’t see his eyes well,” she answered truthfully. “He wore a black half-mask with a long, curving nose.”

Winter snorted.

She glanced at him. “And he was wearing red and black motley, like a harlequin.”

Her brother raised his eyebrows at that, looking vaguely interested. “A theatrical costume? He sounds like a madman.”

“A mad actor.” Nell shivered with delight.

“He fought very well for a madman,” Temperance said doubtfully.

“Perhaps he’s merely a footpad with a flair for the dramatic,” Winter said drily.

“Or he really is a ghost, come back to avenge his death in St. Giles,” Nell said.

Temperance shook her head. “He was no ghost. It was a flesh-and-blood man I saw tonight, tall and lean.” She smiled whimsically. “Actually, his figure was rather like your own, brother.”

Nell stifled a giggle.

Winter merely sighed.

“Well, whoever he is,” Temperance said hastily, “I owe my life to him.”

“Which is why it is only prudent that you not see Lord Caire again,” Winter replied.

Temperance winced, knowing she’d just supplied ammunition for this argument. If only she weren’t so terribly tired! She rubbed at her temple. “Winter, please, can we save this discussion for the morrow?”