Wicked Intentions

He looked knowingly at Lazarus, as if they shared a dirty secret. Except Lazarus had held his “secret” so many years he’d lost any shame he’d once had in it.

He stared back stonily at the man. “Do you know the names of any of her other callers?”

“Perhaps.”

Lazarus studied the man a moment, and then said without looking at St. John, “Take Mrs. Dews to the carriage, please.”

Temperance tensed beside him, but she went without protest as St. John led her from the room. He shut the door behind them.

Lazarus hadn’t taken his eyes from Faulk the entire time. “Now. Tell me.”

* * *

“SHOULD WE LEAVE him alone with that man?” Temperance whispered anxiously to Mr. St. John.

He didn’t break stride as he descended the town house steps. “Caire knows what he’s doing.”

“But if Lord Faulk should call more servants? What if he overwhelms Lord Caire?”

Mr. St. John handed her into the carriage and then sat across from her. “I expect Caire can handle himself. Besides, it didn’t look like Faulk had any more servants than that half-witted girl.”

Temperance gazed nervously out the window, not exactly convinced by this vague reassurance.

“You worry about him,” St. John said softly.

She looked at him in surprise. “Well, of course I worry about him.”

She saw suddenly by the satisfaction on his face that worry had a far more significant meaning for him.

She looked down at her hands and repeated more softly, “Of course I worry for him.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “No one has worried about him for a very long time, I think.”

“Except for you,” she said quietly.

He frowned a little, and she noticed for the first time that his thoughtful gray eyes were rather lovely in a remote sort of way. “I worry about him, but it isn’t the same, is it? I have my own family.” He blinked suddenly and his head jerked as if he’d remembered something. “Or I had one, at least.”

There was an awkward silence then, for he was obviously suffering from some kind of grief and just as obviously didn’t want to discuss it.

After a bit she inhaled. “He still hasn’t come out.”

St. John crossed his arms. “He will.”

“Did you know her?” she asked suddenly. “Marie?”

Mr. St. John’s cheekbones were high and sharp, and she saw them pinken slightly now with flags of color. “No, I never met her.” The color deepened. “He kept—keeps—that part of his life well hidden.”

“And he’s never married?”

“No.” He frowned, thinking. “As far as I know, he’s never even been interested in a respectable woman.” He looked up at her. “At least not until now.”

It was her turn to examine her hands while her cheeks heated.

She felt more than saw St. John sit a little forward. “Look here. He may seem hard and cynical and, well, brutal sometimes. But remember, there’s a part of him that’s vulnerable. Don’t hurt him.”

Her head jerked up, appalled at the very thought. “I would never hurt him.”

But he was already shaking his head. “You say that now, it’s natural, but keep it close to your heart. He can bleed. Don’t make him.”

The carriage rocked as Lord Caire threw open the door and entered.

St. John shot her a warning look, then sat back against the squabs. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Indeed.” Caire thumped against the roof and settled himself beside St. John. “Faulk knows of at least three other men.”

St. John raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “It’s not much to go on.”

“But it’s more than I had before,” Caire replied.

St. John scoffed. “And how do you propose going about finding these fellows?”

“I’ll inquire,” Caire said loftily.

“Dear God, inquire.”

They were bickering, but Temperance had the idea that both men enjoyed it, thought they’d die a thousand deaths before admitting it. She looked out the window and half drifted as she thought about what St. John had said earlier. Surely he must be mistaken? How could a man like Caire have any vulnerabilities at all? She glanced at him from under lowered lids. His attention was on some point he was making to St. John, but he caught her look nevertheless. His eyelids drooped and a corner of his mouth curled sensually even as he argued with his friend.

Temperance caught her breath and hastily looked away. Dear God. If he could affect her with a mere look, surely it was she who should be warned?

They pulled up at St. John’s house shortly thereafter.

“Good night, Caire, Mrs. Dews.” St. John nodded.

Temperance inclined her head.

“Good night and thank you,” Caire said.

St. John shrugged. “Any time.”

The door closed behind him and then the carriage jerked into motion again. Temperance half expected Caire to cross and sit beside her, but he seemed content to watch her from across the carriage. She fidgeted a moment under his eyes, and then a question that had been hovering at the back of her mind for days now tumbled out.

“Did you know she saw other men?”

The question was abrupt, she knew, but he had no trouble following her train of thought. “No.”

“But”—she frowned down at the folds of her cloak, rubbing at a spot on the edge—“she was your mistress. Surely you expected fidelity?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” Her voice verged on the strident, but she didn’t moderate it. How could he not care?

“She was my paid mistress,” he said coldly, “nothing more.”

“For how long?”

“Nearly two years.”

“And how often did you see her?”

He stirred impatiently. “It was my habit to visit her twice a week.”

She stared at him, a rising tide of some emotion swelling in her breast, threatening to break the barrier of her silence. “You saw Marie for twice a week for two years. You made love to her hundreds of times—”

“What we did was not making love,” he cut in sharply.

She waved away the interruption. “You once said you didn’t love her, but you must have felt something for her.”

He simply looked at her.

“You’ve gone to great trouble and risked your life on more than one occasion to find her killer.” She smacked her open palm against her seat. “She must’ve meant more to you than a mere mistress.”

“So you believe I must have loved her?” he asked softly.

She leaned forward, enraged for no discernible reason. “I believe that you wanted to love Marie—that you’re enamored by the idea of love—but that you have no concept what love is. I think that’s what you’re searching for in St. Giles—some source of emotion, some inkling of what human feeling really is.”

“How terribly perceptive of you, Mrs. Dews,” he drawled horribly. “You’ve known me less than a month and you’ve already plumbed the depths of my soul.”

All her anger left her instantly. “Lazarus…”

“What?” A muscle twitched on his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”

She closed her eyes. “Something. Anything. Tell me she was the love of your life. Explain to me how it is she was your mistress, but you had no idea she had other lovers or even a brother. Tell me something, Caire. Feel something.”

“Perhaps there’s nothing to tell,” he murmured, apparently unmoved. “Perhaps my actions are on a whim only. Perhaps I’ve never loved another human being in my life. Perhaps I can’t.”

She stared at him, feeling wounded, feeling weary. “I don’t believe you. All people can love.”

He threw back his head and laughed, not at all nicely. “All? What a very childish thing to say. Do whores love? Do murderers? Tell me, does the man who raped your sister feel love?”

She was across the carriage before she thought about it, flailing at his neck, shoulder, and face, anywhere she could reach. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

He caught her flying wrists deftly. “I’m sorry. I know what you want me to say, but I can’t give you that. I can only give you this.”

And he wrapped his black cape about her like the wings of a bird and kissed her.

Chapter Fourteen

King Lockedheart turned to Meg, his eyebrow cocked in challenge.

But Meg merely said, “This is not love.”

“And what is it, then, fair Meg?”

Meg’s lips twitched as she hid a smile. “Lust, Your Majesty. Your concubines lust after you.”

The king swore loudly, making the blue bird flutter on her perch. “Away with you again, Meg. And be sure to wear a gown more befitting a throne room when next I call for you.”

Meg curtsied. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I only have the clothes upon my back and no others.”

“See to it that she is properly attired,” King Lockedheart commanded, and once again Meg was led back to the dungeons….

—from King Lockedheart

Temperance struggled against Lazarus even as he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Her rage was desperate, baffling, and she wanted to scream and weep at the same time. Why couldn’t he feel? Why couldn’t he love? Why couldn’t he give her what she needed?

But his mouth was heavy on hers, his lips drugging. She found herself grasping at him instead of trying to free herself. If he would not let her go, then she’d take from him as he took from her.

She knocked his hat to the floor of the carriage, speared her fingers through the silver threads of his hair, dislodging his ribbon. She loved his hair, gloried in the shining silken strands. She fisted her hands in his hair and tugged, pulling his head back. He groaned as their kiss was broken, then groaned again as she slid her open mouth down his throat. She didn’t care if she was causing him pain. His skin was cool from the night air, salty and sweet. She licked him, tasting, wanting to bite. Wanting to devour this man she could neither let go nor fully possess.

She opened her mouth over the tendon at the side of his neck and bit down hard.

He cursed, the sound loud in the carriage. He took her head between his palms as if to forcibly dislodge her, but then abandoned the attack. Instead his hands were suddenly at her skirts, pushing, shoving them upward as he continued to curse steadily.

She clutched at his shoulders to keep her balance as he jostled her, bringing her legs to either side of his hips. She could feel her skirts up around her waist, but she had her eyes closed, savoring the taste of his flesh in her mouth. He fumbled between their bodies, his hands knocking against her bare inner thighs, and one corner of her mind wondered if he really thought he could accomplish anything in this close space.

And then she felt his naked erection probing.

She opened her eyes and reared back, staring at him in shock.

He watched her, his eyes silently locked with hers as he guided himself between their bodies. She felt as he rubbed her lips, felt as he found her entrance, felt as he lodged his head there.

Felt as he paused.

She looked at him, balanced atop his cock, only the barest tip inside her. She was empty and waiting.

“You do it,” he rasped.

She blinked, as if coming out of a daze, glancing about them. They were in a moving carriage, for goodness’ sake.

“No.” He laid one palm against her cheek, turning her face to look at him again. “It’s far too late for doubts. Stay with me. Put me in you.”

“But…”

He slid his hand up until his fingers were right against her feminine flesh.

Her eyes widened.

He held her gaze as he deliberately circled the part of herself that was holding him, then moved up and pinched her clitoris between thumb and forefinger.