Sweet as the Devil (17 page)

Far from calm, Jamie was struggling hard to steady his nerves. Although there was little he could do to still the thudding of his heart or arrest his rising erection with Miss Eastleigh resting voluptuous and docile in his arms. Every libidinous impulse in his body was urging him on, every sensory receptor was responding instinctively to a familiar stimulus: a female in intimate contact.

Unfortunately, his normal response was inappropriate, although curbing his quickening lust was a Herculean task. Standing stud as he did for beautiful, importuning women the world over, the relative arguments apropos duty versus lust, conscience versus morality or the lack thereof had never been in dispute. And now they were—in spades.

Damn it—the lady was too close, too desirable, too available.

And abstinence had never been his strong suit.

He glanced at the clock, knowing there were limits to his self-control, knowing he must end this well-intentioned embrace—quickly.

But just as he was about to make some tactful excuse and rise, Sofia impetuously reached up, knotted her fingers in his hair, pulled his head down, and kissed her savior and protector—passionately, feverishly, with a complete lack of gentility. With the magnanimity of someone freed from fear.

No novice to female overtures, Jamie’s body instantly responded to Sofia’s brazen act, his erection swelling, surging higher, the rigid length pressing hard against her bottom in seconds flat.

How gratifying
, Sofia pleasantly reflected, and no novice either, her uncommon fair-maiden-rescued-from-harm persona gave way to the more authentic, nonconformist female who lived by her own rules. Her kiss deepened, took on new urgency, shifted from ardent thankfulness to tantalizing provocation. Freeing her fingers from the tangle of his heavy hair, she moved her hands to hold his face lightly captive while she devoured his mouth in a wild, wet frenzy.

Such bruising kisses presaged well for her passions in bed, Jamie thought. When he shouldn’t think anything of the kind, when he should force Miss Eastleigh to stop, toss her off his lap, and concentrate on leaving London.

But her flagrant assault undermined his devotion to duty or perhaps his contrariness, and he yielded to her beguiling play out of courtesy, possibly, or habit or idle pleasure. Kisses were harmless enough sport, he told himself.

Until what he perceived as innocent play abruptly ended moments later.

She shoved her tongue deep into his mouth, wanting more, willfully and explicitly goading him to respond.

He did.

He sucked in a breath, her forceful, probing tongue triggering every randy nerve and impulse. Violent, hot-spur lust savaged his self-control, his pleasant detachment underwent a perfidious transition, and rampaging passion rode roughshod over reason. He jerked his mouth away, the price too dear, the danger too great. For a heartbeat. Then, rejecting piety even as his inner voice screamed
No-o-o!
he picked Sofia up roughly by the waist, swung her around, and as her half-spread thighs settled on his legs, he flexed his hips and jammed his cock upward into the soft cushion of her sex.

He shut his eyes, restless, shaken, knowing what he
should
do and what he shouldn’t.

Meanwhile, she was thinking,
How unspeakably lovely!

The exemplary soldier had feelings after all.

While Jamie debated chair or sofa, and more crudely, timing—Sofia came up on her knees and settled more comfortably on his lap. Locking her hands around his neck, she leaned in close, her breasts crushed against his chest, her mouth brushing his. “It feels as though you really like me.”

His reply was a soft grunt—whether affirmation or repudiation was unclear. But what was perfectly clear was his steely grip on her waist and his insurgent cock that was immune to conjecture, wielding authority, motivating him to kiss her again. For a long, heated interval, ignoring all but delirious sensation, the unorthodox couple fueled their respective libidos with kisses that were no longer kisses, but a prurient, gluttonous prelude to something more.

Until Sofia made the mistake of declaring with neither tact nor delicacy, “I need
more.
Hurry! Now, now,
now
!”

Jamie’s spine went rigid.

Whether it was her imperative tone, the bracing air of morality suddenly cooling his brow, or her blunt command, he irritably said, “Fuck this,” and rising with startling swiftness, set her on her feet.

“Damn you,” Sofia exclaimed, her body strumming with sharp-set desire, her passions trembling on the brink, her frantic cravings left unsated, damn it—for no
good
reason. “You can’t say you don’t want it,” she snapped, flushed and shaking.

“I sure as hell can,” he snapped back.

She softly swore, tried to bring her twitching nerves under control, and shutting her eyes briefly, thought about revenge.

He didn’t dare touch her, his own go-for-broke urges not yet completely leashed.

The silence lengthened.

Blighted hope and heavy breathing a miasma in the air. Sofia opened her eyes and spoke first. “Forgive me for making demands,” she said with a smile, having sensibly concluded that it was just a matter of time before Jamie Blackwood succumbed to his libido if not her allure—a belief based on personal experience. “I do thank you for your kind attention, though,” she amiably added, dropping her gaze to the bulge in his riding pants that put the lie to his refusal. “As a matter of fact, I’m wonderfully tingly all over—inside and out—
inside
mostly and
very
much so, thanks to you.”

Jamie was currently a universe beyond tingly and dubious of any apology with a codicil such as hers. In addition, hot-blooded lust was still hammering his senses with unprecedented force, the hard, pulsing spasms vibrating through his body with every beat of his heart. No novice to degrees of horniness, he recognized that Miss Eastleigh’s fiery disposition might lead him to take undue risks.

And that he would not do. “We must go,” he said. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

“A final kiss?” She smiled, a small sweet smile. “For good luck?”

“No,” he harshly said, then more graciously, “Don’t ask. I can’t.”

But his erection had swelled and lengthened at her words, and before he could stop her, she’d reached out and touched it.

“Don’t.” He stepped out of range.

“I swear you must be a monk”—her gaze flicked downward—“to ignore that.” Amiability forgotten, more prone to temper than reason, she could not conceal the frustration in her voice. “Or are you afraid of me or my father—of what people might say?” Still wanting what she wanted, she taunted, “I wouldn’t have thought you so timid.”

“This isn’t a game,” Jamie coolly replied, his brief madness overcome, saner counsel once again in command. “This is bloody serious. And I could give a damn what anyone thinks, you included. What I
am
afraid of is finding us in the crosshairs of Von Welden’s killers if we don’t leave quickly enough.” Taking her by the shoulders, he spun her around and gave her a nudge in the direction of the door. “So while you’re damned tempting”—he placed his hand in the small of her back—“you’re not worth getting killed for. Now move or—”

A hard knock on the door cut him short.

“The horses are getting restless, sir.”

He recognized the voice. “We’ll be right there, Douglas.” Only the twitch over his cheekbone gave evidence of his temper as he spoke. “They’re high-spirited bloodstock, Miss Eastleigh. After you.”

Good Lord, she had to give the man credit. He was cross as a bear yet astonishingly restrained, a virtual flesh-and-blood knight-errant while she was acting like a petulant child, she ruefully admitted. She turned back. “A last question,” she said, taking pains to be equally civil, yet not entirely resigned to meekly submitting to prolonged abstinence. “Would you ever consider giving in to impulse—say of a sexual nature?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t now. Survival trumps sex in my book, Miss Eastleigh. Although, I admit, under other circumstances,” he added in the same cool tone, “you’d be lying on that sofa over there and I’d be fucking you. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

“Why not do it then?” Her voice was honey sweet. “It wouldn’t take long.”

“Maybe I don’t like to rush.” He unconsciously flexed his fingers against an almost overwhelming urge to pick her up and toss her on the sofa.

She contemplated his erection still evident beneath the tan twill of his jodhpurs, then looked up. “Why don’t we find out whether you do or not?”

“Out.” He indicated the door with a jab of his finger. “Now.”

“Would it make any difference if I said no?”

He exhaled softly. “We’re wasting time.”

“Someday I’ll get my way.”

“I’m sure you will. But not on my watch.”

Whether she was more galled by Jamie’s intractability or her lack of control in the deteriorating chaos of her life, of one thing she was certain. Drawing herself up to her nominal height next to Jamie’s strapping size, she said, “I insist we stop to see my mother. I’ll brook no opposition in that regard. Do you hear?”

“Yes, of course. I said we would.” He pushed her toward the door.

“And I suppose you always keep your word,” she scoffed.

“Mostly.”

She looked sideways, then up, and her sudden smile appeared bright as a rainbow after a storm.

Oh Christ
, he thought.

“Do you mean to say,” she softly queried, “that you might actually
consider
straying from the path of righteousness?”

“No.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?” she purred.

He inwardly groaned.

One evening with Miss Eastleigh and his defenses had damned near collapsed. It didn’t prophesy well for the days ahead, or more to the point, the coming days were going to be a living hell.

Maybe he’d have to reconsider his scruples apropos sex with the prince’s daughter.

As if he needed any more problems.

T
WO TRAVELING CHAISES drawn by four-horse teams were waiting at the curb. After helping Sofia in, Jamie stood at the open door, his hand resting on the latch. “I’ll be riding tonight.” He looked away at a word from one of his troopers, nodded, then turned back to Sofia. “Sleep if you can.”

He shut the door and walked away.

They traveled fast, but the well-sprung carriage softened the impact of any rough patches for the single passenger inside the lead chaise. At first Sofia watched the city streets race by, wondering when next she’d see them, wondering with a degree more apprehension whether they were being followed.

But once they reached the outskirts of London—the city lights distant now—the carriage came to a halt. The sound of jingling harness and men’s voices was heard as the troopers dismounted, and then the quick tread of spurred boots was audible and drawing near.

The door opened and Jamie stood within the dim glow of the carriage lamp, booted and spurred, the width of his shoulders filling the doorway, a quick smile flashing white in the gloom. “I thought you’d like to know that we’re quite alone on the road. No one is following us.”

“You must be clairvoyant. I was just worrying about pursuit.”

“Leave the worries to me,” he pleasantly said, as if he were in his element, as if fleeing from killers in the dark of night were exhilarating. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, very. Thank you.”

“There’s food if you wish, books”—he glanced at the inside carriage lamp. “You can turn up the wick if you like. We’ll be stopping toward morning for breakfast. We’ll find a hotel with, er—washing facilities unless you require them sooner.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

He dipped his head and smiled again. “Sweet dreams, Miss Eastleigh.”

The door closed on his stark beauty, professional competence, and unexpected cheer, and with a disgruntled sigh, Sofia lamented his unfortunate sense of duty. But wishes weren’t horses, as everyone knew, so she busied herself inspecting her sumptuous prison.

A very luxurious prison indeed, it turned out with numerous amenities tucked away in compartments under the seat: a fur carriage robe, several silk-covered down pillows, a hamper of exquisite picnic fare, one of chilled wine, a small stock of books, a brush, comb, and silver-backed mirror, a toothbrush and toothpowder, and a change of clothes, underwear included, that appeared to have been purloined from a maidservant.

Blackwood was indeed efficient as the principessa had noted. He’d thought of most everything, Sofia marveled. Opening another small cupboard under the seat, she stared wide-eyed at the stack of clean, white flannel. Not just
most
everything, she thought, smiling despite herself—
everything
. . . the indispensable necessities for her monthly courses conveniently on hand.