Never Deceive a Duke Page 7

  It was this place. Returning conjured up too many memories. He thought, strangely, of his grandmother, and of Cyril. His life here, by and large, had been one of childhood misery. But he had not realized how relatively pleasant misery could be until he’d ended up in hell—on the Saint-Nazaire.

  Abruptly, he tossed back the last of the brandy, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. Good Lord, Rothewell would laugh to see him now, cowering in the gloom like some timorous boy, and slightly sotted from a mere fraction of what the baron himself might put away before breakfast.

  Gareth, however, had never been much of a drinker. He’d always believed it a habit for blue bloods, men who need not rise at dawn to work for a living—a category which, he abruptly realized, now included him.

  On that thought, Gareth jerked from his chair and began to roam restlessly through the room. His grandfather had been right; he had never been meant for this sort of life. So how had it happened? For a time, he was lost in a whirl of thoughts and half-wrought memories; he could not later have said what, for at last he found something which could thoroughly distract him. He drew open the heavy draperies and looked out across the courtyard below.

  Selsdon Court had begun as a Norman keep, which had become a fully crenellated castle in the reign of William II. Eventually the castle had become an elegant mansion, which had retained many of its original features, amongst them the south and east bastions, which were connected by a towering curtain wall, the oldest part of the house. Gareth could see it looming across the inner courtyard, its rough stone walls yellow-brown in the flickering light cast upward by the gate lamps. From his vantage point just above, he could make out the crenellations, but the interior rampart was steeped in shadow.

  He peered higher, toward the sky. The rain was coming in sheets now, but with less ferocity, perhaps. Another bolt of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the house. Gareth’s gaze swept the curtain wall again. He had glimpsed something on the rampart. Motion? Light? Both, he thought. Another flash, this one more distant.

  This time, he saw her clearly. A woman in white. She was pacing like some ghostly specter, her white-draped arms lifted heavenward. Good God, was she begging to die? Again the sky lit, bathing her in pale, otherworldly light. She seemed oblivious to the nearing storm. Gareth had both slippers on before he knew what he meant to do.

  Later, of course, he realized that he should have summoned a servant. It would have saved him a pair of wet slippers and a vast amount of angst. But in the press of the moment, he rushed headlong down the twisting passageways, and up and down the stairs which led from one section of the house to another, and all the while praying he remembered how to find his way onto the wall. Surely he did? He and Cyril had played in the towers as children, battling one another up and down the spiral staircases.

  Suddenly, he saw it. An arched wooden doorway banded with iron and set at an odd angle in the wall. He pushed through into the bastion’s circular room. The stairs were just beyond. He went up half a flight and saw the next door, a narrow, planked affair. It gave onto the curtain wall. But the damned door was stuck.

  With a mighty blow, Gareth shouldered his way through. The door swung into the gloom on squalling hinges. On the rampart beyond, the woman was still pacing, her back turned to him. Again the horizon lit, throwing the east bastion ahead into stark relief. But he had no need to see her face. He knew at once who she was; he had known it, perhaps, from the first.

  “Your Grace!” His words barely carried over the roar of the rain. “Antonia! Stop!”

  She did not hear him. Gingerly, he approached, heedless of the puddles. Tension seemed to radiate from her body. Her pale blond hair hung below her waist, sodden from the rain. She looked shockingly thin and small.

  “Antonia?” he said softly.

  When he touched her shoulder, she turned without alarm and looked—well, not at him, but through him. It was utterly unnerving, especially when he realized she wore nothing but a sheer muslin nightgown which was now plastered to a pair of exquisite breasts.

  He forced his gaze to her face. “Antonia,” he said quietly, “what are you doing out here?”

  She pulled away, dragging a hand through her wet hair. “Beatrice,” she murmured, not looking at him. “The carriage—do you hear it?”

  Gareth grasped her forearm in a gentle but uncompromising grip. “Who is Beatrice?” he asked over the racket of the rain.

  “It’s late,” she rasped. “Surely…surely that must be them?”

  “Antonia, get inside! No one is coming tonight.”

  Obviously agitated, she shook her head. “The children, the children,” she muttered. “I must wait.”

  She was sleepwalking. Or a little mad, perhaps? Certainly she did not know where she was. Damn it, he had to get her off this bloody wall. A bolt of lightning was apt to strike them both dead. “Come inside, Antonia,” he said, tugging on her arm. “I insist.”

  “No!” Her voice was panicked. “No, I cannot leave!” She jerked away, forcing him to lunge for her.

  She fought at him like a little hellcat then, striking out with both hands, clawing and struggling to throw off his grasp. Again, she escaped, and this time, he captured her against him, banding her to him with one arm, trying not to hurt her as she flailed. But Antonia’s body was lithe and surprisingly strong—and surprisingly lush, too, God help him. For what seemed an eternity he fought her as she twisted, writhed, and struck at him, high on the rampart, with the storm drawing ever nearer, and nothing but the low crenellations to keep them both from tumbling over, and onto the cliffs below.

  Finally he managed to pin her against the bastion with the weight of his body. “Antonia, stop!” She was breathing hard now. He clung to her, the rain running in rivulets down his face. “For God’s sake, hold still!”

  She had begun to cry—more of a gut-wrenching wail, really—and something inside him felt as if it was being wrenched from his chest with the sound. It was horrific. Heartbreaking. Her knees began to give, her entire body sliding weakly down the wall. Gareth drew her up, pulled her head to his shoulder, and let her sob. He had the other arm tightly around her at last, and the fight, he could sense, was going out of her. He drew her fully against him and felt the life or the consciousness or whatever it was slowly return to her body.

  “Antonia,” he whispered into her damp hair. “Oh, Christ Jesus, you scared the life out of me!”

  “I—I’m sorry!” she whimpered, still sobbing. “I’m sorry! Oh, God!”

  “Come, we must go,” he said. “The storm is nearing again.”

  But instead, she threw her arms around his neck as if she were drowning. “No, don’t leave me!” she whimpered. “Just…I cannot…” She began to sob in earnest, a sound like a wounded animal, and something inside his heart tore. “No one is coming,” she rasped through the tears. “I am sorry. I—I got mixed up.”

  “It’s all right, my dear.” He tightened his grip around her waist and shoulders and felt her lush, womanly curves press enticingly along his body. She felt wonderfully warm despite the rain and the chilling remnants of what had been blind terror. Good God, what a pig he was! But her head was on his shoulder again, and she was still sobbing as if her heart might break.

  “I won’t leave you,” he promised. “Come, Antonia, let’s go inside.”

  At long last, she lifted her head, her arms still entwined behind his neck. Their gazes locked. Her eyes brimmed with emotion; fear and anguish, and yes, something more. Something haunting and painfully inescapable. Her lower lip trembled. And against him, her body began to tremble, too, as if from desperation, and from that raw emotion which one often feels when danger has brushed too near. An emotion which could oftentimes take the form of a desperate hunger; a wish to be fully, reassuringly alive.

  Good God, this was ludicrous. And he was a cad. The rain was still trailing down their faces. Her breath was still hitching like a frightened child’s. But when her lashes dropped half shut, and
her face tilted ever so slightly, he did it. He kissed her. And in that surreal moment, with the rain pounding down all around them, and thunder rumbling ominously in the distance, it seemed as if that was what she begged him for.

  He had meant it as a gentle kiss. A kiss of comfort and of reassurance—or so he told himself. But when she opened her mouth beneath him, inviting him to deepen the kiss to something more, he accepted, sliding his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth as if he, too, was desperate. Perhaps he was. Gareth had not kissed a woman with this sort of irrational hunger in…well, perhaps never.

  He knew, of course, that it was wrong; that he was taking advantage of an emotionally vulnerable woman. And yet he was unable to stop himself. How could he? Antonia was kissing him back with a heated urgency, coming onto her toes, and allowing her breasts to press flat against him. She smelled of soap and rain, and of gardenia. The sodden nightgown clung to her every curve, lush and tempting, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  At that, he closed his eyes, and set one hand over the swell of her hip, telling himself it was what she desired. When he touched her, she made a sound deep in her throat and pressed her hips into his. Yes, she did want this. And it was madness. A madness he strangely understood.

  He had forgotten the rain which still drenched them. He had forgotten that anyone, as he had done, might look out from one of the second-floor windows. That the two of them might be struck dead at any moment. His breath was coming roughly now. His head was swimming with the need to keep her close; to draw her into him somehow. To bind her to him.

  Yes, it was madness. Vaguely, he knew it would pass. But when she hitched one knee high, and let it stroke the outside of his thigh, he did it. He slid his hand fully beneath the lush weight of her buttock and gently lifted, parting her so that his fingertips might stroke deeper despite the wet muslin of her gown.

  Her mouth still open beneath his, she gasped, and then hitched her leg higher, wrapping it almost desperately around him. Good God, what was she asking for?

  He tore his mouth from hers. “Antonia,” he rasped. “What do you want?”

  She lifted her face to the rain. “Make me forget,” she whispered. “Like this. I want to feel…something else.”

  “Come inside with me.”

  “No.” Her eyes flared with alarm. “No. Now.”

  He let his mouth slide down her cheek, then skim hotly along her jaw. “Antonia, I don’t think…”

  “No!” she said sharply. “We…we cannot think. I want only to feel.”

  She kissed him again, hot and openmouthed, with a feverish desperation. She was an enchantress. A secret siren, calling to him. Oh, yes. Antonia had learnt the art of seduction well—and in that moment, he willed himself not to think of where she had learnt it.

  In the heat and the madness, he had somehow lifted her against the bastion wall. Her leg was all but around his waist now, her warm hands and honeyed mouth more than a little reckless. He could not think about the storm. The lightning. The utter incredulity of what he was about to do. She was desire incarnate. Blood thundered in his head and throbbed in his cock, readily apparent beneath his scant nightclothes.

  Antonia slid her delicately warm tongue into his mouth, thrusting and parrying with his own in a dance of rash desire. Spurred to urgency, Gareth fisted her wet nightgown in one hand and dragged it up. She did not resist but instead began to paw urgently at his dressing gown. He knew what she wanted. He pushed away his clothes and felt their warm flesh meet beneath the tangle of muslin and linen. He could not wait.

  “Your other leg,” he choked. “Put it—put it around—yes, my waist.”

  He set her back to the tower wall and, lifting her delicately in his hands, spread her wide. “Antonia, is this what you want?” he demanded.

  “Yes.” Her voice was feverish. “I want you. Desperately. Don’t stop.”

  He kissed her again, then let his cock slide into the welcoming folds of warm, creamy flesh. Balancing her weight against his body, he lifted her up, and thrust.

  “Ah!” In the gloom, he could sense her shock.

  “Antonia.” Gareth closed his eyes and prayed for control. “Oh, God. I—can’t—I don’t—”

  “No,” she said swiftly. “Don’t think. Don’t stop.”

  He thrust again, pulling her pelvis to his. It was all he could do to control his motions, to keep himself in check rather than ravish her like an animal. Antonia exhaled in a long, breathless sigh. A sound of yearning. Rain spattered all about them. Thunder rolled far in the distance. Again, he lifted her, thrusting deep. Then somehow, he found a shred of sense and managed to free one hand and slide it delicately between them. Her cry of shock had told him more than her bold actions had. He found her clitoris, sweetly firm beneath his fingertips, and lightly rubbed. In response, Antonia gasped again and let her head fall back against the stone tower.

  He pumped himself into her, watching the rain run down the swanlike length of her throat. Watched her swallow hard, then begin to moan. He sensed he ought not speak; ought do nothing to spoil the impulsiveness and the near-anonymity of what they did. The passion between them was palpable. Never had he felt so unrestrained; so desperate to possess a woman, body and soul. Deep inside her, his cock throbbed with heat and blood. His body cried out with the urgency of his need as he thrust.

  Antonia’s breath was coming sharp and fast. Lightning lit the horizon again, revealing her face, which was lifted to the sky in an expression of nearing ecstasy. He worked her more furiously, touching and thrusting, their bodies rain-slick and sweating. Antonia’s fingers dug deep into the flesh of his shoulders. Her entire body shuddered. She cried out like a wild thing, her gaze locking with his. And then she was lost to it.

  Gareth drew out and thrust deep again. Over and over he pounded his flesh into her throbbing sheath, his head thrown back in release when at last his seed flooded forth, spurting inside her in waves of guilty pleasure. Spent, they clung to one another in the rain, her legs and arms still about him, their bodies still throbbing. For a time, Gareth shut out all thought and simply felt. Felt the heat of her slender body through their wet clothes. Felt her warm sheath relax about his cock. The softness of her breath on his ear. And then he felt vaguely ashamed of what he’d just done.

  Antonia’s spine still rested against the tower wall. “The stone,” he finally managed. “It must hurt.”

  She said nothing. As if by mutual agreement, they unwrapped one another, Antonia sliding down his length until her feet touched the wet flagstone of the rampart. His wet robe slithered damply down his legs. Antonia dropped her head, and tenderly, he restored her clothing to order. The rain was slacking off now. The storm had passed.

  Gently, he slid a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. The blank look was returning to her eyes. Dear Lord, what had they done? Everything about this troubled him. Even the seductive anonymity no longer felt right.

  “Antonia,” he rasped. “Antonia, I want you to say my name.”

  In the gloom, he sensed uncertainty sketch across her face. He set both hands on her shoulders as if he might shake her. “Antonia, who am I?”

  Suddenly, a faint light trembled inside the tower beyond. Shuffling footsteps echoed far below in the stairwell. Antonia moved as if to go, and he caught her arm.

  “My name,” he repeated. “I just want to hear it once from your lips.”

  “Gabriel,” she whispered, looking back at him. “You are…the angel Gabriel.”

  He let her go.

  Gabriel. It was not his name. Not any longer.

  “My lady?” A servant’s voice called gently up the stairwell. “Your Grace, are you up there?”

  She slipped through the bastion’s opening, then vanished down the dark and twisting stairs. She was safe. She was gone.

  So what was he waiting for? Gareth turned and walked swiftly back along the rampart to the opposite end. The drizzle was cold on his face now, his slippers and clothing were sopping.
He was chilled, he realized. But all the anguish and all the physical discomfort could not shut out that one awful question—what in God’s name had he just done?

  Chapter Six

  G abriel’s grandfather led him by the hand through the labyrinthine alleys of Moorgate. Dusk was fast turning to night, and shopkeepers were drawing their shades.

  “Are we far from home, Zayde?”

  “Almost there, Gabriel,” he said. “Did you enjoy your visit to the bank? Impressive, eh?”

  “I guess so,” he answered. “It was big.” Just then, a door further up the alley flew open, flooding the cobbled passageway with light. A rowdy gang of men burst out. The one in front was cursing and struggling to break free, but his arms were pinned.

  “Sha shtil!” whispered Zayde, yanking Gabriel into the shadows.

  Pressed against a cold brick wall by his grandfather’s body, Gabriel could see nothing. But the shouts and the sound of a man’s boots being dragged past he could too easily hear.

  “Let me go, damn you!” the man shouted. “Help! For God’s sake, help!”

  “Bugger it, Nate!” grunted one of the men. “Thought you said ’e was too sotted ter fight!”

  “Tie his feet then, damn you!”

  “No! No! I’m a sailmaker!” the man bellowed. Gabriel could hear him struggling to throw off his captors. “I have a letter! I have protection! You cannot take me!”

  “Oy gevalt!” murmured his grandfather. “Poor devil.”

  Soon the commotion was gone. Zayde grabbed Gabriel’s hand, and hastened away. The gang had vanished into the gloom. “What did that man do, Zayde?”

  “Drank too deep with men he did not know,” he said. “The English need sailors, and to the press gang, almost anyone is fair game.”

  “But…but they cannot do that,” said Gabriel. “They cannot just take you away—c-can they?”

  “Oy vey, Gabriel!” said his grandfather. “This is why I tell you, stay away. Keep to yourself, tatellah, and to your own kind. But do you ever listen? Do you?”

  He waited for her at breakfast; waited until the flames beneath the chafing dishes had sputtered their last and the coffee had gone cold. Waited until the footmen began to shift their weight uneasily, as if duty called them elsewhere. Still Antonia did not come.