Wicked Intentions

“Pay attention.” His voice was ragged now.

Something wild and feminine thrilled at the roughness of his voice, at the knowledge that she was affecting him, despite his sophistication. She opened her mouth beneath his, biting back at him, and he inhaled sharply. Then his mouth was crushing hers, roughly, almost out of control, a male creature dominating a female. His female.

He shifted again, his penis drawing back, finding her entrance and notching into her. He raised his head only far enough to whisper, “Now.”

He shoved powerfully.

His hardness breached her soft depths, parting and burrowing, invading where she’d been empty for years. She gasped at the movement, at the sensation both physical and mental, but his mouth was on hers again, and he inhaled her breath. He shoved and shoved again until he was seated fully, her thighs stretched wide, his hips hard against hers.

She had a moment of panic. Who was this man? Why was she under him, letting the worst part of herself dictate her actions? Then he began to move and all thought fled her mind. He moved like a wave pounding against a beach, like the wind flying across the cobblestones, like a man on a woman. It was the oldest, most common movement in history, and at the same time it was new and pure. Because it was him and her and they’d never done this together before.

She arched under him, feeling his flesh part and merge with hers as he continued to kiss her deeply.

He ran his mouth over her cheek, never breaking his smooth, slow rhythm, and whispered in her ear, “Wrap your legs around my hips.”

She did and then they were locked tightly together. He hitched himself up a little on her and she gasped. On each downward thrust, on every slow, dragging withdrawal, he rubbed his flesh against the apex of her sex. She turned her head, suddenly too exposed, too vulnerable, even in the dark, but he followed her, pressing his mouth softly at the corners of her lips. It was unbearable, this slow, controlled, repeated invasion, this sure attack on her senses. She wanted to scream, to make him stop. To urge him to go faster. And as if he understood her anxiety, he increased his pace, thudding into her core with a strong tempo.

Driving her insane.

She tore her mouth away from his, panting, her wrists twisting under his hold. “Stop.”

“No,” he whispered, an unseen ghost. “Let go.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” He levered himself up a little more and began a slow twist of his hips as he drove into her, and somehow, the pressure, the pleasure, the heat, and the expectation all released at once.

She flew apart, sobbing, gloriously free, no mind, no soul, only a single throbbing point of shining beauty. Dimly she heard his breath catch, felt his rhythm falter and jerk, and then suddenly lose control. He thrust into her body savagely as she floated, and the movement sent her even higher.

He exhaled roughly.

His body made one or two more thrusts, and then he stopped, his head dropping as he kissed her tenderly. She had a wild urge to say something entirely inappropriate. To tell him what this had meant to her.

He released her wrists, but she was too worn out to lower her arms.

“Extraordinary indeed,” he murmured, his voice calm and deep, only slightly out of breath.

She knew she should analyze that, should make some reply.

But she drifted to sleep instead.

HE’D NEVER WOKEN beside a woman before.

It was Lazarus’s first thought the next morning. His usual lovers were, by definition, more in the way of business partners. They sold a commodity; he bought it. Simple, clean, and impersonal. So impersonal he’d sometimes not known their true names, even the ones like Marie, who he’d kept for years. Marie in whose name he searched for a killer in St. Giles.

Yet he’d never lain next to Marie. He’d never felt her sweet warmth beside him, never listened to the soft exhale of her breath as she slept.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to watch Temperance. She lay with her arms still thrown over her head. Her lips were a deep red, her cheeks flushed, and the dawning sun gave her skin a golden glaze. She was almost too beautiful, lying next to him, to be real. Only the tangle of her dark hair saved her from perfection. Thank God. He’d bought and used perfection before, and it no longer interested him. His blood stirred now for a real woman.

One untidy lock of hair trailed across a cheek, down her neck, sticking a bit sweatily, and curled at the top of one exposed breast. Round and full, the nipple a soft rose. He touched that nipple, wondering at the velvet texture of her skin, the instant tightening at the tip.

She gasped and his gaze flew toward hers. She looked at him wonderingly as if surprised to find herself here in his bed.

Well, perhaps she was.

“Good morning,” he began. Banal, perhaps, but what the deuce else was he to say?

But she threw back the covers and bounded out of the bed like a startled fawn. “Where is my chemise?”

He crossed his arms behind his head. “I have no idea.”

She turned a glare at him—entirely charming since she was nude. “You took it off me. You must know.”

“I had, er, other matters on my mind.” Pity. He had no need to look at his lap to know that his cock would’ve been more than happy to repeat their activities of last night.

He glanced at her. She was on her knees, her bottom in the air as she searched under a chair, presumably for the missing chemise. The view was astounding, but he had the feeling she wasn’t in the mood.

And, indeed, when she suddenly straightened and caught his stare, she glared. “I need to go home. I told Winter I was coming to see you, but I never expected to spend the night! He’ll be worried.”

“Naturally,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “But it’s just dawn. Surely you can stay long enough to break your fast?”

“No. I need to get home,” she muttered. “I can’t have my brothers thinking we’re lovers.”

He opened his mouth, but some sense of survival kept him from pointing out that they were lovers.

Instead he said patiently, “I’ll ring for a maid to help you—”

“Oh, no!” She held up the remains of her stays.

He winced. “Ah. Allow me to send one of my maids to purchase you a new one.”

“That will take hours!” She was back to glaring at him again.

He sighed. He’d never particularly enjoyed rising early, but it was quite evident he wouldn’t be allowed to lie abed this morning.

Lazarus threw back the covers and rose, permitting himself only a moment’s satisfaction when she took one look at the tent in his breeches and blushed violently. He crossed to the cord and rang for Small. After a sotto voce conference at the door to his room—Temperance had retired to his bed—the valet acquired a set of stays from a maid, and in half an hour, Mrs. Dews was properly attired again.

Lazarus lounged in a chair, watching as she tied her cloak quite firmly under her chin. Every hair was in place, a white cap sat primly on her head, and she looked every inch the respectable matron of a foundling home.

He hated the look.

“Wait,” he said as she put her hand on the doorknob.

She turned impatiently but looked wary as she saw him prowling near.

“I need to make some investigations tonight,” he said. “I had word of a man I should question when I returned home last night.”

She bit her lip. “Of course.”

He nodded. “Then be ready at eight o’clock.”

“But…”

He bent and kissed her hard, his mouth forcing hers open, thrusting in his tongue as she gave way.

When he raised his head, she was looking at him in alarm. He smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Dews.”

And he watched as she turned and left his bedroom. Her spine was straight, and she never looked back. Perhaps she’d already decided to put their night together behind her.

If so, he pitied her. For he had every intention of bedding her again.

Chapter Thirteen

Meg spent the rest of the day quite happily combing out the tangles from her long flaxen hair. Early the next morning, she braided her hair and wound it about her head in a golden crown. She’d hardly put the last pin in when the guards came to bring her before the king. This time the throne room was filled with a bevy of lovely ladies. Each was more graceful than the last, their faces painted delicately to highlight their dazzling beauty.

In the midst of this feminine bounty, the king lounged, large and masculine and isolated. His gaze immediately went to Meg.

Without preamble, he asked, “Do you love me, my concubines?”

As one, the ladies turned and, with various simpering expressions, said, “Yes!”…

—from King Lockedheart

What had she done?

Temperance stared blindly out of Caire’s carriage as it rolled through the bright London sunshine. She’d succumbed to the temptations of the flesh, had lain with a man not her husband—for the second time in her life. She should feel guilt and sorrow and perhaps panic, and she did feel all those things. But at the same time, there was a spark of joy deep within her breast that stubbornly refused to be quenched by all her doubts.

She’d lain with Caire and she was happier for it.

Still, she was bracing herself to meet Winter’s disapproval when the carriage stopped near the home. And, indeed, when she descended, she saw that Winter stood outside the home’s front door. Oh, dear.

He watched her approach, his dark brown eyes intent, but when she drew near, he merely said, “Come inside, sister.”

Temperance followed him, subdued. She half expected him to quiz her on her absence the previous night, but he simply led her into the kitchen instead. There, Nell was supervising the cooking of the morning meal, Mary Whitsun in attendance. Nell rolled her eyes at Temperance’s entrance, obviously agog with questions she couldn’t ask at the moment.

Winter turned as if to go, but Temperance laid her hand on his arm. “Silence?”

He shook his head, turning his face from hers. “Neither she nor William have communicated since he sent word that the cargo was returned.”

Temperance released a breath. “And Asa?”

“I don’t know. He and Concord aren’t speaking. I fear he’s disappeared again.”

She nodded dismally. Their family had splintered apart in only a matter of days.

“I must go to the school,” Winter said.

“Of course,” she replied, dropping her hand.

He hesitated. “Are you truly well, sister? I worry for your welfare.”

She nodded, her eyes on her shoes. What must he think of her?

She felt the brush of his hand on her hair, light and comforting, and then he was gone from the kitchen.

“We missed you last night, ma’am,” Mary Whitsun said softly. She was busy stirring the porridge over the fire and would not meet Temperance’s eyes.

Temperance sighed and considered avoiding the issue. But that wasn’t fair to either Mary Whitsun or herself. “I’m sorry. I neglected you and the other children. I should never have left you so abruptly last night.”

Mary gave her an inscrutable look, much too old for a twelve-year-old child. “It’s all right, ma’am.”

Temperance winced.

“It’s just…” Mary had slowed her stirring until the big wooden spoon was nearly motionless in the pot. “Mr. Makepeace said that a lady was making inquiries about girl apprentices yesterday evening. He said it might be a good position for me.”

Temperance’s heart squeezed. She wasn’t ready yet to let go of Mary Whitsun, but she must face the reality of her position.

“I see.” She found she had to clear her throat. She smiled brightly to cover the pause. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it? I’ll discuss this with Mr. Makepeace and make sure the position is a good one for you, Mary.”