To Beguile a Beast (18 page)

Sometimes she’d watched other little girls, pretty, carefree, talkative little girls, and wondered why her own child was so moody and sensitive. And then she would look into Abigail’s pale, worried little face and a wave of love would wash over her. This was her daughter, difficult or not. She could no more stop loving her than cut off her own arm.

Helen paused outside Alistair’s room.

Love—physical and emotional—had been her life’s downfall. Was she merely letting herself sink back into debauchery by seeking Alistair out? She knew most would certainly think so. But there was a fundamental difference between what she intended to do with Alistair and what she’d had with Lister. She’d never been in control with Lister. He’d been the one to set the pace, to make all the decisions. However arrogant and surly Alistair might seem, he wasn’t making any decisions for her.

This was her choice and hers alone.

Taking a deep breath, she gently knocked at the door. Silence. She fidgeted, rubbing one cold slippered foot over the other. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he wasn’t even here. Perhaps he’d gone to his tower for the night or forgotten her promise this afternoon or changed his mind. Good Lord! How embarrassing if—

The door suddenly swung open, and Alistair grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside his room.

She gave a startled squeak.

“Shh!” He frowned down at her even as he untied her wrapper.

The room was dim; only a few candles were lit, and the fire had died to embers. Alistair wore a blue and black striped banyan that was frayed about the cuffs. His dark hair was down, and she noticed that his cheeks were damp.

He’d shaved for her.

The realization sent a shiver of delight through her middle. She stood on tiptoe to run her fingers through his hair and found it just a little wet. He’d bathed for her as well.

“I love your hair,” she murmured.

He blinked. “You do?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s…” He frowned as if unable to think of what to say.

“And I love your throat.” She pressed a kiss right there, feeling the beat of his pulse beneath her lips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath the banyan, and his chest was delightfully available.

“Would you, ah, like some wine?” he asked. His voice had deepened as she trailed kisses down the loose V of the banyan.

“No.”

“Ah.” He quickly stooped and picked her up in his arms. “Just as well, I suppose. I don’t want any, either.”

He took three giant strides and deposited her on his great bed. She sank a little, and then he made the bed dip more by setting his knee on the mattress.

She sat up and placed a restraining palm on his chest. “Take this off.”

His brows shot up.

“Please,” she said sweetly.

He huffed but rolled off the bed to discard the banyan. And there was his chest, as lovely as she remembered it. Broad and strong and hairy, but this time was better than the last time she’d glimpsed his chest—the night he’d brought home Puddles—because
this
time she could touch it as well.

And she intended to.

When he made to mount the bed again, she shook her head at him.

He paused. “No?”

She flicked her fingers imperiously at his lower anatomy. “The breeches as well, please.”

That
made him scowl.

So she simply removed her wrap. Underneath she wore her chemise. She let her shoulder drop, and the sleeve slid down.

He stared hard at her half-revealed breast and hastily removed his breeches. He paused, his fingers at the waist of his smallclothes, to look at her.

She arched an eyebrow and slowly pulled the ribbon on the neckline of her chemise. The neck opened, fully revealing that one breast.

He inhaled and shucked his smallclothes, stockings, and shoes. Then he straightened, nude and gloriously engorged.

Helen swallowed, staring at that part of his anatomy. It was just as well that she hadn’t gotten a full view this afternoon, because he was larger than Lister—
considerably
larger. His penis stood proudly erect, magnificent veins vining about the shaft, the head gleaming and almost purple. Below, his balls were tight and heavy between muscled thighs.

She sighed.

He cleared his throat. “I believe it’s your turn.”

“Oh!” She’d quite forgot the game they’d been playing. She hastily knelt on the bed and drew her chemise over her head.

His gaze immediately dropped to her chest, and a wicked smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “There they are.”

She glanced down at herself. “Are you referring to my bosom?”

He strolled forward and placed a knee on the bed. “I am.”

She frowned a little. “You sound rather… possessive.”

“Indeed.” He leaned down and licked a nipple, making her inhale sharply. “You have the most splendid breasts I have ever seen.”

“Thank you,” she said rather breathlessly. “Am I allowed to comment on portions of your anatomy as well?”

“Mmm,” he murmured against her breast, sending little shivers down her spine. “Although I don’t know what you’d find to interest you. My body isn’t beautiful like yours.”

“Of course it is,” she said in surprise.

He arched an eyebrow skeptically. “My body is big and ugly and hairy—like all men.”

“Your body is big and beautiful and, yes, hairy. And I don’t know about most men, but to me it’s quite lovely.” She ran her hand down his chest. “Lovely and hairy. I like the way your hair is so thick here”—she patted his chest—“and then thins
here
”—she trailed her fingers over his stomach—“and then it thickens again down here, where—”

But she wasn’t allowed to finish. Even as she grasped that most masculine part of him, he took her shoulders and pushed her back in the bed, kissing her quite masterfully. When he raised his head to inhale, she looked at him with mock reproach.

“I hadn’t finished.”

“Well, I was about to,” he muttered.

She smiled and gently squeezed the penis she still held.

His eye closed for a moment and then opened, brighter than before. “And if you want this to last more than a minute, you’ll desist doing that.”

He gently pried loose her hand and shoved a muscular thigh between her legs. She could feel the hair on his leg rubbing against her moist flesh. She swallowed and arched up, grinding her pelvis against him.

“Witch,” he whispered against her neck.

He pressed down more firmly, holding her nearly immobile as he licked across her chest to a breast. This he took into his mouth and suckled leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world to savor her.

Helen squirmed.

“Stop that,” he growled, his voice vibrating against her damp skin.

“But I want to move,” she gasped.

“But I want to taste your nipples,” he retorted, and moved to the other breast.

She looked down, seeing only dark skin and darker hair moving over her white body. A shiver of erotic anticipation shook her. “I think you are obsessed with breasts.”

“No,” he murmured, levering himself up a little so he could cradle both her breasts in his big hands. He flicked her nipples idly as he talked, and she bit her lip. “I have an obsession with
your
breasts. I want to lick them, suck them, perhaps”—he leaned down to scrape his teeth over the curving side of one sensitive breast—“bite them.”

“Bite?” she squeaked.

He smiled, slowly and wickedly. “Mmm. Bite.”

And he lowered his head to take her nipple very gently between his teeth. She held her breath, the threat making her clench internally. He looked into her eyes, his hair falling forward like a pirate about his face, and raked his tongue against the tip of her nipple.

Her breasts had always been extremely sensitive. Helen could feel her breath coming quicker and quicker as he tortured that nipple. But when he closed his eye and sucked it into his mouth, drawing strongly, she clenched her thighs around his big leg and held on.

For long, passionate minutes, he licked and sucked and bit at her nipples until they were swollen, red, and glistening with his saliva. She moved agitatedly beneath him, entirely aroused yet unable to fulfill quite yet.

He reared up over her and studied what he’d done to her. His high cheekbones had a flush across them, his eyelid drooped lazily, and his lips were reddened from his ministrations yet were held in an almost cruel line.

“You look like a pagan sacrifice,” he growled low. “Prepared and laid out for some god to”—he leaned close and whispered in her ear—“
fuck.
”

She moaned at the forbidden word. No one had ever talked to her thus, made love to her thus. She was in a frenzy of neglected need.

“Touch me,” she begged, trying to widen her legs so that part of her could rub against his thigh.

He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a particularly interesting specimen. Only the rock-hard length of his cock, pressing against her thigh, belied his dispassion.

“I don’t know if you’re ready,” he murmured.

She glared. “I’m ready.”

“Are you?” He licked the side of her neck, sending anxious shivers along her oversensitive skin. “I wouldn’t want to engage you too soon. You might not experience the full effect of our lovemaking if I did.”

“You,” she panted half-hysterically, “are a
devil.
”

He grinned almost boyishly. “Am I?”

“Ye-sss.” Her assent ended in a moan because he’d shifted suddenly, bringing his penis in direct contact with her drenched folds. “Oh.”

“You like that?” he inquired solicitously.

She could only nod as he slowly drew himself through her. He thrust with a small, controlled movement, his cock tunneling against her. She swallowed, not even caring about the wet, squishing sounds they made.

“Then,” he purred, “perhaps you are ready. For
this.
”

And he reared back and shoved himself full-length inside her. She arched her neck at the shock, the thrill, of being filled so suddenly.

Then he was hitching himself up her, pushing apart her legs to their widest point and grinding himself down on her. Down on her clitoris.

Oh, bliss!

She was incoherent, past speech, past thought, past humanity. All her being was centered there, experiencing, receiving, his exquisite lovemaking. She didn’t even know when she started to come. It was one long, endless implosion of heat. She trembled uncontrollably.

And somewhere—sometime—during all this, she heard him growl and opened her eyes. He was on straight arms, levered above her, watching her as he made love to her. But now there was no way to mistake his expression for disinterest. Now his upper lip curled back in an erotic sneer. Now his face shone with effort and sweat. Now his one eye gleamed with dark intent.

Masculine intent.

As she watched, he speeded his thrusts until the bed thumped against the wall. She spread her legs farther and wrapped them high over his hips, watching his struggle until his face twisted as if in agony. A cry ripped from his throat, and he jerked against her one last time.

And she felt his strength fill her with warmth.

She’d left sometime the night before. He’d been so exhausted from their lovemaking that he wasn’t even entirely sure when. Of course, she’d had to leave. There were the children to think of, propriety, and his sister still in the castle, but damn, he wished she were here now. Not just so that he could make love to her again—although he wanted that, too—but he also wanted to lie with her. To feel her warm curves against his body. To hold her in his arms while he slept and to wake to find her still there.

While she let him. Because although she’d never said anything, he knew she wasn’t the type of woman who could live simply for the moment. Sooner or later, she would start to wonder about the future, perhaps question if she could spend it with him. And then, inevitably, she would discover that he had no future to offer her.

Then she would leave him.

Lowering thought. He pushed it aside, at least for the moment, because he’d learned that there was no use fighting fate. Eventually she would leave him; eventually he would mourn her, but not today. He threw back the covers, washed, retied the eye patch carefully, and dressed. Sophia had said that she’d be leaving this morning, and he fully expected her to be downstairs, impatiently waiting while her bags were loaded into the carriage.

The hallway downstairs was deserted, however, when he stepped into it. He checked the front drive, but although the carriage did wait there, his sister was nowhere about. Perhaps she was taking breakfast. He strode back into the castle and made his way to the dining room, where he found one of the maids laying out silverware. She curtsied when she saw him.

“Is Miss Munroe about?” he asked.

“She hasn’t come down, sir,” the maid replied.

Alistair grinned. Sophia had overslept—a rarity and an occasion for ribbing. “Go up, please, and rouse her and Miss MacDonald. My sister wanted to make an early start this morning.”

“Yes, sir.” The maid curtsied again and scurried from the room.

Alistair found a basket of warm rolls on the sideboard and took one; then he wandered into the hallway again. He wanted to be present when his sister made her belated entrance. He munched on the bun, strolling down the hall toward the kitchens, and then he heard it. The sound sent a prickling chill down his back and turned the bun in his mouth to ashes.

Weeping. A child weeping.

Helen hadn’t gotten to this part of the castle yet, and there were several unused rooms off the ancient hallway. He strode from door to door until he located that forlorn sound, and then he pushed it open. The room was dim, dust motes floating in the feeble ray of sun creeping in from a dirty window. At first he couldn’t see her, until she moved and whimpered.

Abigail crouched in a corner, next to a sheet-draped settee, the puppy clutched in her arms.

He started forward slowly, not sure of the problem or if he could do anything about it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wiggins sneaking from the other door at the far end of the room.

Red washed over his vision.

He had no memory of moving, no memory of intent, but when next he was aware, he had Wiggins’s scrawny neck in his grasp, and he was throttling the life from the man and knocking his head against the flagstones in the hallway.

“Alistair!”

Someone close by called his name, but he was interested only in the foul, reddening face in front of him. How dare he? How dare he touch her? He wouldn’t again. Never,
never
again.

“Alistair!”

A soft, feminine palm was laid against his scarred cheek. Gentle pressure turned his head. Then he was staring into harebell-blue eyes. “Don’t, Alistair. Let him go.”

“Abigail,” he rasped.

“She’s fine,” Helen said slowly. “I don’t know what he said to her, but he didn’t physically harm her.”

That, finally, was the only thing that restored reason to his brain. He abruptly let go, straightening and backing up a step. Only then did he see that Sophia and Miss McDonald stood at the bottom of the stairs, still in their wrappers. Miss McDonald had one arm around a wide-eyed Jamie. Helen stood shivering only in a chemise. She must’ve run down the stairs without even stopping to put on a wrapper. And Abigail was behind her, her face tearstained as she held the puppy in her arms.

He took a deep breath to steady his voice and asked low, “Did he touch you?”

Abigail shook her head mutely, her eyes locked with his.

He nodded and looked back to Wiggins, who was gasping for breath on the hall floor. “Get out. Get out of my castle, get off my lands, and make sure you never show your face near me again.”

“Ye’ll regret this!” the little man rasped. “See if ye don’t. I’ll be back. I’ll take that little bitch—”

Alistair balled his fists and took a step toward him. In a flash, Wiggins was on his feet and running out the castle doors.

He closed his eye, trying to regain his civilized mask, and felt little arms encircle his waist. He knelt, his eye still closed, and wrapped that small body in his arms.

“Never again,” he whispered into her hair, so like her mother’s. “I’ll never let another hurt you again. I promise.”