Mr. Bolder’s eyes never strayed from the knife. “Ye’ll pay fer this, all of ye!”
“ ’Tis time ye crawled back to yer hole, Bolder,” Wil- son said. “We’ll not be doin’ business wif ye again.”
“Tide is rising,” commented Lem. He lumbered to the small skiff and sat down, grasped the oars, and looked expectantly at Bolder. “Best put yer muffler on and tie it tight. If I thinks ye’re peekin’, I’ll put out yer blinkers and toss ye overboard.”
Bolder cast one last furious glance at the cask. “Damn ye all!” he snarled. With furious, jerky movements, he climbed into the boat and retied his muffler.
Wilson pointed a finger at Lem. “Jus’ drop ’im on shore and come back.”
Lem nodded and Twekes gave the small craft a shove. Mr. Bolder’s hands gripped the edges and he yelped nerv- ously as it righted itself. Lem grinned and began to row, slipping past the mouth of the cave and into the sea beyond.
Arabella unwrapped her muffler from her face as she turned to Wilson. “What a repulsive man.”
“A pain in the arse. But he don’t worry me as much as the constable.”
Arabella glanced at Twekes. “Did you have trouble?” “Well, the constable weren’t much help.”
“And jus’ what does that mean?” Wilson asked, send- ing a disgusted look at his nephew. “That he didn’t assist ye in loadin’ up the cart? Or that he was shootin’ at ye whilst ye were drivin’ away?”
“Neither. But he
was
sittin’ on the road from Whitby, watchin’ fer us.”
“And?” Wilson asked.
“Nothin’. He was jus’ watchin’. Lord Harlbrook was wif him, too.”
“We will have to keep an eye on him.” Arabella took a sheet of paper out of her pocket and smoothed it over the barrel. “You can begin deliveries after Lem returns. Two casks of cognac go to the Red Rooster, one to the King’s Deer, and four barrels to the Sad Nun.”
Twekes nodded, then slipped the list into his pocket. Water had crept into the far entrance and steadily seeped upward. Only a few more feet and it would reach the mouth of the tunnel that led back to the cliff path.
“We’d best go, Wilson,” Arabella said. “The tide’s ris- ing.”
Wilson and Arabella made their way out of cave, walk- ing quickly to outrun the storm they saw approaching. Arabella’s mind churned. The confrontation with the smuggler bothered her. The location of their cave could hardly remain a secret now. It would be difficult, but they would have to find another hideaway.
Wilson and Arabella reached the cliff path without mishap and retraced their steps past the old oak and through the garden. There, they separated without a word,
Wilson crossing to the barn while Arabella hurried toward the marble terrace. Just as she reached the bottom step, the rain broke and poured from the heavens, drenching every- thing with an icy lash.
She stumbled across the slick marble to reach the library doors, and it was with wet, numb hands that she managed to open the door.
Surprisingly, a gentle blaze crackled in the grate, warming the room. Teeth chattering, she crossed swiftly to the fireplace and stood shivering, water dripping to form a wet ring on the rug around her feet.
“Where have you been?” The voice cut through the silence of the room.
Arabella stiffened and turned. Sitting in a chair, wear- ing a red velvet robe over his breeches, was Lucien. His skin gleamed golden in the warm light of the fire; his eyes darker, richer. The robe hung open to the waist, exposing his broad chest and a fascinating trail of black hair that narrowed to a point that disappeared behind the belted tie. The draped material across his hips and thighs outlined every hard angle, every corded muscle. The sight sent a pang of heat through her that stilled her chat- tering teeth.
She cleared her throat. “I was in the barn, seeing to the horses.”
He stood with the grace of cat, his mouth thinned with displeasure. The light glinted off his black hair and played across the hard planes of his face. “I looked for you in the barn. You weren’t there.”
She felt vulnerable, standing there drenched to the skin, her hair plastered down the sides of her face. Vulner- able, yet eager. Lucien circled her, taking in the soaked, shapeless coat, the clinging line of her breeches, and her
muddy boots. Both hot and condemning, his gaze de- voured her.
Arabella lifted her chin. “I don’t have to explain my actions to you.”
Lucien grasped the lapels of her coat. Arabella took a hasty step away, but a low stool sent her teetering back- ward.
He caught her, moving with the swiftness of a predator, his hands catching her just before she fell and pulling her upright. Once she’d regained her balance, he yanked her coat off and threw it to the floor.
“Do you know how cold it is out there?” He exuded a raw anger, and a potent sensuality that stole the last of her breath. “Only a fool would wander around in a winter storm.”
She calmed her thundering heart, her numb lips mak- ing it difficult to speak. “It wasn’t that cold until it rained.” His gaze drifted over her hair, her face, her mouth, to the nearly transparent linen shirt that clung to her breasts. Arabella crossed her arms, an embarrassed flush warming her momentarily. A fat drop of water trickled down her
cheek and threatened to spill over her mouth.
Lucien rescued the drop, his finger brushing across the curve of her lip. He lifted his gaze to hers, the thick lashes casting shadows until the green appeared black. “Where were you, Bella? What were you doing outside?”
It was so hard to make her brain work. “I—I went to visit one of the tenants—”
He gripped her arm in a painful grasp. “Don’t lie to me.” “Lucien, I—”
He jerked her against him and claimed her mouth with a furious kiss, overwhelming her so thoroughly that she melted, her chilled body instinctively seeking his heated
flesh. Desire washed over her, tearing down her resis- tance, destroying all thought.
His hands molded her to him, his fingers exploring, seeking through the wet material. Arabella shivered from the wild heat of his hands as they stroked her through her wet shirt, pulling her farther into his arms, her thinly cov- ered breasts pressed against his bare chest. She twined her arms about him and opened her mouth beneath his, losing herself to the raw power of his onslaught.
With a muffled curse, Lucien broke the embrace, his breathing harsh in the silence of the room. “God, Bella.” He cupped her face in his hands, his fingers sunk into her wet hair. Hungrily, he gazed down at her. “I want you.”
He whispered the words as if they were too painful to say aloud. Arabella slid her hands to the opening of his robe and her trembling fingers found the tie at his waist. Slowly, she slipped it loose, the brush of velvet against her bare hands increasing her desire.
The robe slipped from his broad shoulders and fell to pool at his feet. She stepped back to look at him, soaking in the picture of raw male virility. In that instant, she wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. She wanted to feel his arms about her, she wanted to taste the dark sweetness of his sensual mouth. She wanted him naked, fierce and passionate, boldly making love to her as he had done so long ago.
Arabella closed her eyes, remembering how she’d once reveled in passion, welcomed its presence. She wanted to burrow into Lucien’s strength and take it for her own. What did it matter if he left tomorrow? She would have the memories of tonight to hold to her long afterwards. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d dreamed of. She opened her eyes and drew his mouth to hers, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips lifting. She poured herself
into the kiss, thrusting her tongue into his mouth in reck- less invitation.
Lucien responded hungrily.
This
was the woman he’d lost; her arms wrapped around him, her body plastered to his. It was madness, but it was a heady madness. Like deep sweet red wine, her presence raced through his veins and sent his senses reeling wildly. He needed to have her closer, needed to feel her naked skin against his.
Never breaking the kiss, he placed her hand on his bare chest while he slipped his breeches free. His heart beat hotly against the coolness of her palm. Grasping her wrist, he pushed her hand lower, to his stomach, to his hip. He groaned when her fingers closed over his rigid shaft.
Desire poured through Lucien, heating his skin and swelling his manhood until he wanted to roar in agony. He tasted the salty sweetness of her skin and traced the deli- cate line of her neck with desperate nips and kisses. She moaned and gripped him tighter, her fingers jolting him with pleasure.
God, but she was so inherently honest in her reactions, every move igniting him further. Growling his frustration, Lucien slipped his hands to her waist and pulled her against him, rocking his hips against hers. He tugged impatiently at her shirt, pushing it aside until he could cup the fullness of her breasts. They filled his hands, the nipples already hardened. He groaned at the feel of those lush globes. Slowly, he backed her against the settee and lowered her to its cush- ioned softness. She lay against the pillows, her damp hair curling wildly about her, her eyes slumberous with desire. He loosened her breeches, then bent before her, rolling her wet clothing down, over her hips, down her thighs, his tongue worshiping each inch of dewy skin as it appeared.
When he reached the dark triangle at the juncture of her thighs, he stopped, his breathing harsh.
He lifted his head to gaze at her. She watched him, her eyes passion-glazed, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses. Her skin was flushed to soft shell pink, the flicker- ing light caressing the slopes of her full breasts. She looked like a painting, a luscious portrait of a woman who wanted to pleasure and be pleasured. Excitement glim- mered over her bare skin, urging him on.
Lucien bent to the tight curls and carefully parted them, finding the soft folds beneath. Her hands moved convulsively as if for one frantic moment she would stop him. But he reached up to lace her fingers with his, then he bent and blew on her damp curls. A quiver traveled across her body, and she gasped, her hand tightening on his. Lucien lowered his mouth. He tasted her sweetness, her erotic response. He savored the scent of her, the feel of her skin beneath his tongue.
Heaven was here, between her thighs. He strained with the need to bury himself here, to sink into her heat. With a groan, Lucien raised himself and covered her body with his. They lay, legs entangled, her arms about his neck, her breath hot on his neck.
For a long moment he savored the contact, riding the swells of his rising fervor. It felt so perfect, so right. She belonged to him; her body so attuned to his that he could feel her need as acutely as his own. It had felt this way before. But this time, Lucien wanted more. More than Arabella had to give. More, even, than he was willing to ask.
Arabella sensed the change the moment it happened. He stilled, his body suddenly rigid, his face set in unyield- ing lines. The length of his manhood lay against her naked thigh, so tantalizingly close that she had to use all of her force not to lift her legs and force him to sink into her.
He lifted himself on his arms and looked down at her, his face a mask of frustrated passion. “I want you, Bella. But not like this.” He placed a gentle, lingering kiss on her lips. Then he sat back and pulled the lap blanket from the back of the settee over her.
Arabella lay still. The heavy fabric of the settee was rough on her back, and her ankles were bound by the breeches that tangled about her feet. She bit her lip, so confused she didn’t know whether she was going to laugh or cry. Her body ached with need, but the hollowness of her heart pained her more. He was leaving again.
Lucien rose to his feet and watched her with a dark gaze, arrogant in his nakedness. “I don’t want you to wake in the morning and wish we had not been together.” He reached over and brushed a hand over her cheek. “I wish—” He broke off. “But not yet.”
He turned to gather his discarded breeches. Without a word, he pulled them on and then laid his robe across her lap. “Wear this back to your room. Your clothes are too wet.”
Arabella managed to nod, afraid she’d burst into tears if she attempted to speak.
Lucien tipped her face to his. “We will talk about this tomorrow, when daylight has dispelled this madness.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips and then turned and walked to the door. There, he sent her one last heated gaze. “Good night, Bella.” The door closed softly behind him.
The fire hissed, filling the silence that followed. Ara- bella remained on the couch, wondering blankly what he meant. Her mind refused to respond even as her spirit struggled to absorb his words.
For one instant, she had let her tiredness weaken the barriers she had painstakingly constructed around her
heart. Her face burned to realize how close she had let him come, how near they had been to making love. She should be thankful he had stopped when he did.
Sighing, Arabella forced herself to gather her wits and stand, scooping up Lucien’s robe. The soft fabric carried his scent and she rubbed it against her cheek. After a long moment, she placed the robe on the back of the chair and reached for her breeches. Somehow, wearing his robe seemed to emphasize her defeat. With nerveless fingers, she struggled to pull her wet breeches over her hips, though they adhered to her skin.
Arabella wanted to blame him, to say that he had lured her, but she knew that was untrue. She had
wanted
him to kiss her, to touch her, to make love to her. And if she were honest, she would admit that she still wanted him to do all that, and more.
She sniffed, her lips trembling as she pulled on her shirt and then buttoned her wet coat to her throat. She couldn’t handle honesty tonight. She needed to forget Lucien Devereaux, and focus on making the cognac runs even more profitable.
A deep, bone-weary sigh escaped her. Only one more year, and she would have everything she needed. The thought did little to slow the tears that seeped from beneath her lashes.
nm
Chapter 15
T
he Red Rooster was unremarkable in that it offered moderately edible fare, contained two damp and drafty taprooms of questionable cleanliness, and pos- sessed an equal number of large, smoking chimneys. What made the tavern such a popular locale was the guar- anteed quality of drink it supplied to its patrons in a seem- ingly endless quantity. To the inhabitants of Whitby, it was