Perilous Pleasures (5 page)

Should she grasp his organ now, and make it do its duty? Surely it was stiff enough to get the job done. She need only guide it to her
con
and in a matter of moments she would have achieved her goal. But she couldn't do it. Not yet. Perhaps in just a moment, when she calmed herself, and got control of her breathing, she could return to it. But for now, she could barely think straight. Her pulse was pounding, and the strangest thoughts were going through her mind.

She withdrew her hand and turned to something safer, stroking his muscled chest, marveling as she did how taut and unyielding his flesh was there, and how different from her own. Her breathing calmed, but not enough. He wanted her now, and she must take what he offered while she could. She ran her hand down his flank, forcing her fingers down to where they must go.

He groaned in his sleep, and as he clenched his jaw, his arms came up as if to push her away. In another moment he would waken. Would he be furious? With her free hand she reached into the pocket where she'd slipped her knife to make sure it was still within reach should she need it.

But Ramsay didn't waken, nor did he push her away. Instead, he pulled her closer. Her small breasts flattened against the hard muscles that rippled across his chest as he engulfed her. His breathing grew more ragged than her own. She could no longer delay. Steeling herself, she reached down and circled his organ with her hand, shocked by how large it had become.

She hadn't expected it to be this easy. She'd heard so much from her mother's friends about how hard it was to get their lovers' unreliable members to stand up. But this one needed no coaxing. It was hard and thick, and it swelled against her hand where she grasped it, so strongly she could barely encompass it. She squeezed it with her widespread fingers, in rhythm with the blood that pounded in her ears, sliding her hand up and down its length, amazed at how thin and flexible the skin was that covered it. Her mind began to fill with a strange madness, as pulsing waves of energy rose from his organ and made her fingers tremble.

He moaned and embraced her more tightly, nuzzling her ear with his lips and whispering something incomprehensible. His pelvis thrust against her abdomen, his organ a battering ram now, hard and demanding, and shockingly slick.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Oh yes!”

She was seized with terror. This wasn't what she'd imagined. He was too strong. She'd expected to be able to control him. After a lifetime of listening to the courtesans trade tales, she'd assumed the culminating act would be just another of the subtle negotiations she'd seen her mother engage in with the men who filled her life.

But there was nothing subtle here. She couldn't control it. She was enveloped in the smell of Ramsay's arousal and helpless before the power of what she'd unleashed in him. He pulled her closer, overwhelming her, and kissed her neck and her shoulders, even as his throbbing pole pushed insistently against her body, seeking to thrust home.

There was no room for negotiation here. He was mad for her. He ground his hips so her sex rubbed against his swelling tool until, to her shock, she felt herself swelling, too, and a burst of wetness gushed out of her most private part.

How could this be? She was as wild as he was and as hungry, possessed by animal passions she hadn't ever known she could feel. In another moment she'd no longer be a virgin. She'd have done what she'd set out to do, and found her freedom. But she wasn't free now, no, not with what he'd called out in her body. She wanted him. Desire flooded through her. She forced back the cry that rose to her lips, unbidden.

Then something changed. His grip on her relaxed and his hand began to gentle her. It moved over her rigid shoulder with a touch so light, she didn't know if it was his flesh that touched her or his shadow.

He murmured what sounded like endearments, though she didn't know the language in which he spoke them. His subtle hand caressed her arm, circled her wrist, and paused as if marveling at their slimness. Yet his eyes were still pressed shut, as if he were asleep. She found herself breathing in time with his longer breaths, until her pulse matched his. Though even as she calmed, she sensed him still wanting her and needing her, and caring that she find pleasure in his touch.

Only now did he reach for her cleft and push one finger inside her, gently, stroking the tip of her cunny with his thumb. It was so shockingly intimate an invasion that she had to fight against the urge to shrink away. She'd come to his bed for this and she must do it. And yet, as his finger continued to tease her, it stirred the most extraordinary sensations, as if he knew almost before she did what kind of touch would please her. His other fingers slid over the point where all her longing burned, filling the world with bright ribbons of sensation, until, unimaginably, she found herself wanting all of what he'd soon give her.

Not because it would free her, no, but because he'd made her want it.

This was more shocking, still. She'd never known that the
woman
could want it. Surely her mother had never mentioned that in all her many lectures on the subject.

But she had no time to wonder. The hunger his hands were arousing was growing every second. The yearning that welled up now in her secret place flowed like warm honey through her entire body. His sliding fingers danced on the slickness that flowed from her desire, teasing her into madness. Then he raised himself above her and prepared for the thrust that would annihilate that need.

She braced herself for it. Huge as he was, how could she bear his entry? As she tensed, her arm jerked involuntarily, and her elbow gouged into Lord Ramsay's flank.

With a cry he awakened.

His arms, which had been holding her so gently, tensed into steel-hard bands. He twisted, nearly pushing her off the bed. Then, as if still trapped in a state between sleep and wakefulness, he shook his head, as if to clear it, and whispered in a tone of barely suppressed horror, “Who are you?”

“Zoe.”

She froze, then groped around her dressing gown's pocket for her knife; though when she found it, it felt so tiny in the face of his strength—and his fury.

“What the bloody hell were you doing in my bed?”

He must never find out.
She must feign a childlike foolishness, as her mother did when
her
schemes failed. So with trembling lips—which there was no need to counterfeit—she whispered, “I couldn't stand the suspense. It was only a matter of time until you made me your mistress. I wanted to get it over with.”

“I thought I'd made it damnably clear I did
not
wish to make you my mistress. The thought disgusts me. How could you ever have imagined such a thing?”

She fought back the pain his words evoked. She'd always been told no man would ever want her, but, even so, his revulsion taught her, too late, of the hope she'd been harboring that it might not be true. When he'd held her in his arms just now, he'd made her feel beautiful and desired. She'd allowed herself to dream. Now his words brought her back to earth, choking her with humiliation. But there was no time for self-pity. His anger was growing by the minute.

She forced herself to speak. “You said you might take my maidenhead, for revenge—if that was the Dark Lord's intent in fetching me.”

“But if you feared that, why seduce me? That makes no sense—and I thought you prided yourself on your sense.”

“I did.” The words came out as a squeak.

She hung her head, as if unable to face him. She must keep him thinking she was as flighty as her mother so he wouldn't guess the truth. “I was afraid,” she whispered. “I couldn't bear to wait until we reached Scotland to find out how bad it would be were you to take me—I had to find out now what kind of man you were, before there was no hope of escape.”

“And what kind of man did you find me to be?” He didn't try to hide his disgust. “One who would rape his ward in his sleep?”

“No! I came to your bed of my own free will.”

“And what did you find there. Tell me!”

“A gentle man. A man who whispered of love.”

“Love,” he said bitterly. “Only in my dreams would you hear me talk of love. I
was
dreaming, you know.”

“I know,” she said, contrite.

“I can't fathom it. What did you hope to gain by giving yourself to me like that?” He tilted his face so that the moonlight painted his stubbled cheeks with silver, heightening the sense that he was not of this world. His glittering eyes stabbed into hers, seeking an answer. She forced herself not to flinch as she returned his stare.

With a sigh, he let his eyes drop away first. “It wouldn't have been money. Not you. You were ready to send me away with my tail between my legs when I offered you that bracelet. But what, then, were you after? Are you so much your mother's daughter that you did it just to satisfy your lust?”

“No!” She shook her head, too ashamed to say more. He'd come too close to the truth. Whatever her original motivation had been, her idiotic scheme had taught her how strong her lust could be. She pulled her robe more tightly around her midsection, as if that could stop her shivering. “When I asked you about my fate, you wouldn't answer me.”

“When you asked me about your fate, I told you the truth. I don't know what the Dark Lord's intentions were when he bought you from your mother, but I know my own. There are enough young harlots in the world, without my adding to their number. You behaved very foolishly, whatever you thought you were doing.”

She shrank back, frozen by his tone. Then his eyes widened, and a look of sudden realization swept over his face. “Or am
I
the fool? Of course, that's it! I must still be more than half asleep not to have thought of it.”

Beneath his blazing eyes, his pale skin had darkened with anger. Had he figured out her plan? She tightened her hold on the knife.

“You lied about being a virgin, didn't you? And when you realized you'd be caught out in that lie, you came up with a clever stratagem, so that
I'd
get blamed for deflowering you.” He lunged toward her and seized her by her shoulder, forcing her to look him in the eye. She clutched the hidden knife more tightly.

“That's why you came to me, wasn't it? You
are
a harlot just like your mother, and your innocence was nothing but an act. You hoped to trick me into thinking I'd taken your maidenhead in my sleep to cover up your lie.” His voice was like broken glass. “Did your mother sell you to some other man when you were young? She was eager enough to sell you to me. You can tell me the truth. I won't hold it against you. I know how little she cares about harming others. Just answer me. Did she violate the Dark Lord's bargain for a few golden sovereigns?”

She could say yes now and he'd let her go
. She'd have attained her object, without the sacrifice she'd been so close to making when she'd pressed herself against his demanding body. She wanted to say it, to grasp that freedom that was so near at last. But under the pressure of his steady gaze, she could not. Pinned by those gold-flecked eyes that gleamed in the darkness like meteors falling to earth, she was incapable of anything but the truth.

Perhaps the powers he claimed were more than a delusion. She gave up the struggle. In a whisper she said, “I came to you a virgin.”

“But are you one now, or did I ravish you in that accursed dream? Did I defile you?”

“I'm still a virgin.”

“Thanks be unto the gods. The work can still go on.”

He fell back against his pillow, the anger and energy fading from his voice. “Had I taken you, the fruit of years of labor would have been destroyed in an instant. As it is, the gods only know what purification I'll have to undergo to rid myself of this pollution.”

Her gorge rose. Disgust. Pollution. That was all he'd felt in those moments when she'd felt such ecstasy. An involuntary shudder wracked her, and her knife fell from her hand. It lay on the ground, glinting in the moonlight, its blade clearly outlined against the darkness of the floor.

“What's that?” His voice cracked like a whip.

“A knife.” She gulped. “Mrs. Endicott gave it to me. To defend myself.”

She hadn't thought his face could show more shock than it had when he'd awakened, but she'd been wrong.

“So
that
was your plan.” There was horror in his eyes. He drew his knees to his chest and pulled the bedclothes tight. “You looked like such a sweet young girl,” he whispered. “But you
are
Isabelle's daughter. I should've known what you were capable of.”

“I only meant to give myself to you. Not to kill you.”

“Oh, not to kill me, eh? Merely to emasculate me? To rouse me in my sleep and rob me of my manhood?”

It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. Then she shrank back, though his iron grip on her shoulder made it impossible to flee. If he'd been angry at her before, what must be his emotion now?

“That never occurred to me,” she protested. “And even if it had, I could never have done such a thing. I meant only to defend myself, if you turned out to be violent—in the sexual act.” She added weakly, “I'd heard of that happening—from my mother's friends. And you
are
a hot-tempered Scot. So I wished to be prepared. I didn't mean to harm you.”

Ramsay hauled himself up on one elbow and stared at her, unmoving, his eyes sweeping across her face as if he could read in her features the very secrets of her soul. He was prying into her most hidden thoughts and she felt terror knowing what he would learn when her soul was completely bared to him: not just the reason why she'd come to his bed, or how she'd lied to him about it, but of the shameful delight she'd felt, locked within his arms—before he'd discovered who it was he'd been making love to and sprang away from her in horror.