The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 11

  “Why? Don’t you want this?” One finger trailed along the edge of her dress’s neckline, and damn her body, but his touch lit it afire.

  She swatted at his hand. Ineffectually. His large palm curved around her shoulder, clamping like a shackle, leaving her virtually incapable of movement.

  She glared up at him, angrier than she’d ever been in his presence. Could he really think she was some wanton who seduced men to manipulate them? “What are you doing?” she grated out.

  “Giving you what you want.” He stroked her jawbone with his thumb.

  Her anger grew. So did her arousal.

  “And what is that?” she snapped. His touches did mad things to her body, but his words … they infuriated her.

  “Me.” He bent his head and brushed his lips over the shell of her ear. A deep tremble resonated through her body. “I’m burning for you, Élise. You’re driving me mad. I can hardly restrain myself from laying you flat on this bench and taking you right now. I want to rip this ill-fitting dress from your skin. I want to roam over your body with my hands and my mouth. I want to—”

  “Non! None of that is true. You avoid me.” Ever since she’d gone mad and kissed him like a starving woman with a feast laid out before her, he’d sat beside her, spoke to her, played his role as her gentleman jailor to perfection. But there was no doubt he’d been avoiding her ever since that moment he’d pulled away from her kiss.

  He gave a short bark of a laugh that held no humor. He lifted his head, and his dark gaze bored into hers. “And why do you think that is? If I touch you, I want to touch you more. If I look at you, I want to see more. When I’m away from you, I want you near. You’re driving me mad, Élise.”

  She was silent. Speechless. Her lips parted in shock as she stared back at him.

  “Isn’t that your intention? To become my obsession? If it is, you’ve achieved your goal, love.” His hand roamed over the top of her bodice, cupping her breast through the layers of material.

  Bon Dieu.

  She was on fire. Want, need, desire, lust—they all raged through her, a drowning swirl that threatened reason. She couldn’t help it—she pressed against his hand. It felt so good—so right—cupped around her like that.

  “What is your price?” he murmured.

  “My … price …?” she repeated through a thick haze of arousal.

  “Would you turn me traitor, too?” he rasped. “Would you have me reveal all the secrets I know? Would you have me kill the men I work for, those I work with? Would you have me slit Laurent’s and Carter’s throats in payment for one night of pleasure?” His hand slid around to the back of her dress. He began to flick open her buttons with expert skill.

  “You are a fool if you think that is what I am,” she managed.

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing? Kissing me four days after I killed your husband? What other motivation could you have? You want vengeance, I think. You’ve made me pay dearly; you know you have. You have cracked my control. My sanity. But it’s not enough for a life. You need more—everything I have.”

  “Non,” she whispered. Angry tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. “You think I offer myself in payment for … something.”

  “For everything. What is it you want besides vengeance? Your freedom? Our deaths? Information? There is so much for you to gain from your seduction, Élise.”

  She closed her eyes as he flicked the last button open and drew her sleeve down over her arm. His mouth went to her bare shoulder, his lips nuzzling. So soft, so warm, just like when he’d kissed her before.

  She loved the feel of his lips.

  But she did not like his words. His words were … terrible. They were wrong. The implications of them sent shards of ice slicing through all the heat his touch elicited. “You believe that is what I did? Forced Dunthorpe to become a traitor?”

  “Mmm …” His tongue touched the ridge of her collarbone. “Is it?”

  “Sam …” She groaned as his lips moved up the side of her throat. Her body moved without her approval, and she tilted her head to give him better access.

  She had been too flippant with him. Making light of her relationship with Dunthorpe, as she had with everyone since the beginning of her marriage. But Samson Hawkins wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

  “I did not turn him into a traitor,” she pushed out. She felt like sobbing … She wanted to shut out his words and focus on what he was doing to her, how he was touching her, how it made her body ache and scream for his touch … but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She needed to explain. He had brought the ugliness that was Dunthorpe into this moment, and she couldn’t ignore it.

  She didn’t want to speak of Dunthorpe to anyone. Not even to herself. If she could, she’d lock away the last eleven years into a place even she couldn’t reach.

  She drew back from his lips and scooted away from him as far as she could. But it was a small carriage and she couldn’t put nearly as much distance between them as she would have liked. “He was a traitor long before I married him. He thought … he thought marrying me would gain him influence with certain men of power in France.”

  He’d been wrong about that. She carried the blood of French royalty and was related to many key political figures in post-Revolution France. But she was an émigrée who had spent the better part of her life in England, and those ties that had once been so important in France held less weight these days. The English were slow to understand this basic shift in the culture of her country.

  The French had used Dunthorpe. They had seduced him with promises of power and money, but they knew him for what he was—a traitor. They paid him his money, they kept promising power, but in the end, they held no respect for him.

  Dunthorpe had always pretended this hadn’t bothered him, but it had made him furious. And of course, she often bore the brunt of his verbal whips, because she was French and she made a convenient object for his anger.

  “Was he right? Did you help him gain influence in France?” Sam’s strong arm slid behind her back, drawing her closer to him. He kissed along her jaw, then, ever so gently, his teeth grazed her earlobe. Something clenched inside her, warm and needy and wanting.

  “Do … do not do this to me, Sam,” she pleaded.

  “Do what?”

  “Make me into something I am not.”

  “What are you then, little minx?”

  “Not a minx …”

  “But you are.”

  “Non.”

  “Why, then, Élise?” His fingers moved over the skin of her shoulder, his rough touch so erotic she nearly moaned. “Why did you kiss your husband’s murderer four days after the deed was done?” His tongue traced the shell of her ear.

  A tear squeezed out of her eye and trailed down her cheek. She swiped it away before he could see.

  “I … I do not know,” she pushed out. And that was the truth. She didn’t know. She’d been drawn to Sam, compelled by the strength and safety he offered.

  “Shall I tell you why?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Because you are a siren. You intend to lure me to certain death.”

  She shook her head. “That is not it.” She sucked in a breath. “It is true that I want my freedom. I do not enjoy being a prisoner. Does anyone?”

  “We haven’t kept you in shackles in a dungeon. We haven’t starved you or tortured you.”

  “But you have kept me prisoner.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “A pampered prisoner; that’s what you are.” His lips moved to her hairline, nuzzling along its edge. Her body was on fire, demanding to move closer, to push herself against him, to use her own lips and hands on him. Instead she contained herself, holding herself rigid, clenching her hands into tight fists at her sides.

  “But a prisoner nonetheless,” she said. “All I desire is freedom. All I want is to be away from all of this.”

  “All of what?”

  “Spies. Traitors. France and England. I never wished to be involve
d.”

  “Yet you were.”

  He was right. She’d been involved since before her parents’ and brother’s heads had rolled at the guillotine.

  “Not consciously,” she whispered. “Dunthorpe used me. Now you use me, too.”

  He pulled back, his eyes narrow, angry slits. “Don’t ever categorize me with him. I am nothing like him.”

  “Yet you want the same thing from me.”

  “No.” His voice was flat and cold, his expression harder than she’d ever seen it.

  “Even if I tell you everything I know—which is not very much—you won’t let me go. What motivation does that give me to tell you? You hold me prisoner, perhaps forever, perhaps until you receive orders to kill me, so why should I reveal any of my secrets to you?”

  He took her shoulders in his hands, his fingers pressing hard into her skin. “Tell me. Did you know what Dunthorpe was planning? Were you in on it?”

  “Which plan?” she asked dully.

  “The plan to assassinate the Prince Regent.”

  Shock slammed into her so hard, it took her breath. Sam shook her slightly, clearing the red haze from her eyes. “Did you know about it?”

  “No,” she croaked out. “I told you—I knew he’d planned something … something very big. I was married to that man for eleven years, and I knew he was evil. His hubris truly knew no bounds. I knew this scheme was one to surpass all his previous ones. His behavior had been so odd. There was an excited gleam in his eyes I did not like at all.

  “I thought if I hid there, his meeting with the Frenchman—you—would tell me what I needed to know. Then I could take that information to someone, perhaps … perhaps the Duke of Trent.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, closing herself to Sam—to the world.

  Silence.

  Then he said quietly, “The Duke of Trent?”

  “Yes. I have met him more than once, and I have spoken to him at length. I know he is a kind man and very loyal. He would have done the correct thing with the information I would have given him. He would have stopped Dunthorpe.”

  “Do you know what would have happened had the duke been given proof of Dunthorpe’s dealings? Your husband would have hung.”

  She drew in a stuttering breath, then whispered, “I know.”

  Sam groaned. “God, Élise. You don’t know how badly I want to believe you.”

  She gazed directly at him. “Believe me. Because it is the truth.”

  He stared at her, his face twisted with some emotion she could not define.

  Then he cursed, low and harsh. And he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  Chapter Eight

  She tasted sweet. Ripe. Like the grapes that grew so readily in the country of her birth.

  Like she had last time, she wrapped her arms around him. She emitted a little gasp and opened to him.

  The wrongness nudged at his mind—Why would she let him kiss her? Even now?—but he shoved it aside.

  He wanted this woman. He wanted to kiss her. To hold her, to touch her, to bring her pleasure, then to possess her.

  She was his weakness, probably his downfall. But at this moment, he didn’t care. He needed, on a primal, instinctual level, to make her his.

  He took her mouth first, exploring with lips and tongue, closing his eyes as the pleasure of her touch permeated his whole being. He’d hauled her petite body onto his lap, and she pressed against him now in all the right places. His cock hardened against her bottom. Her breasts pressed against his chest.

  So sweet. So damn beautiful. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted more.

  He dragged the sleeve of her dress farther down her arm, exposing the top mound of her breast, her stays just barely covering the top edge of her nipple. He brought his lips to that soft top curve and kissed her. She was so perfectly pale there, and God—so sweet. He could lose himself in her softness.

  She arched into him, her fists tightening in his coat, her body molding to his.

  He slid his fingers beneath the edge of her stays and yanked down. The stiff boning sewn into the material resisted the movement but gave a few inches to the strength of his tug, exposing her nipple.

  He drew back to look at it. A perfect circle of pink, with the taut bud in the center, already rigid from his attentions. He brought his mouth back to her breast, rubbing his lips over her flesh. She pressed into him, panting now, so receptive, so hot for him … He circled his lips over her and suckled.

  God, how he needed this. He didn’t think he could stop it. As he kissed her breast, he tugged her sleeve all the way off. He drew his fingers up and down her arm, unable to get enough of her silky skin. He could touch her all day and want to touch her more.

  Her nipple puckered, grew tighter beneath his ministrations. She released one hand from his coat and thrust her fingers through his hair, cupping the back of his head and pushing him tighter against her.

  While he stroked her soft, smooth skin with one hand, he palmed the curve of her bottom with the other, drawing her ever closer, shifting beneath her in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure in his cock. There was no relief to be had … The only place to find it, he knew, was inside her.

  He groaned against the plump flesh of her breast, imagining plunging inside her, how it would feel to have her hot, wet, velvet flesh close around him.

  “Ahem.”

  The sound of a throat clearing jerked Sam’s head up. He whipped around to see Laurent had opened the door and was staring at them with wide eyes. Élise scrambled to get her clothing in order, yanking the cotton back up over the nipple that glistened from his attentions.

  Sam just wanted Laurent’s gaze off her. “Give us a moment,” he snapped out.

  “Er. Yes. Of course.” Pink-cheeked, Laurent slammed the door, and Sam turned back to Élise. In silence, he helped her draw her sleeve up over her arm. Then he murmured, “Turn round so I can do your buttons.”

  She did so mutely. He quickly buttoned her up, then took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. He looked into her smoky blue eyes for a long moment. Then he tucked a few stray blond hairs behind her ears.

  “We’re here,” he told her. He hadn’t been aware of turning down the drive, of the carriage stopping. His entire focus had been upon her.

  He couldn’t lose himself like that again. Damn it—he was smarter than this.

  She slipped her hands behind his neck and pulled him forward until his forehead touched hers. “Do you believe me, Sam?” she whispered. “Tell me that you believe me.”

  “I … want to.” God, how he wanted to.

  She held still for a moment, then pulled back and gave a little nod as if to say his desire to believe her was enough … for now.

  She tidied her skirt, which had bunched up over her legs. “I thought I’d be so happy to finally arrive, to finally have my freedom from this little prison. But I find I am not as happy as I imagined. I wish …” She hesitated, then met his gaze and murmured, “I wish we had more time.”

  Time for what? he wondered. Time for pursuing their desire or time for pursuing the truth?

  Either way, they’d have time. They were in a remote location, and they’d be here for several days, at least until Adams sent further instructions.

  “Come.” He slipped his hand over her sleeve until he closed his fingers over hers. “I’ll show you the house.”

  He helped her down from the carriage. As soon as her feet hit the ground and she saw the cottage, she gave a little gasp.

  “It is lovely!”

  He agreed. His mother had owned a house on Lake Windermere, and some of his happiest childhood memories had been on this lake. It was probably because of his familiarity and pleasant feelings about the place that he had chosen this particular cottage as his northernmost safe house in England.

  From where the carriage was parked beneath a leafy tree, they faced the small, square stone structure beyond the clearing. The clouds had cleared while he’d been overcom
e by Élise inside the carriage. Beyond the cottage, the lake glimmered deep blue under a bright spring sky.

  Daffodils and other bulb flowers bloomed in a border around the house, lending bright splashes of yellow, red, orange, and purple. Far in the distance, green hills rolled along the horizon—the other side of the lake a mile away, clearly visible on such a brilliant day.

  A breeze rustled the leaves in the forest of trees behind them, but otherwise, there was a calm about the place. A sense of peacefulness Sam tried to soak in whenever he was here.

  “This is Hawk’s favorite place,” Laurent told Élise.

  She did not seem embarrassed about the scene Laurent had discovered in the carriage. She flashed him a smile. “I see why that is. It is a most beautiful setting.”

  Sam squeezed her hand. “Come inside. I’ll show you the rest.”

  “I’ll take care of the horses,” Laurent said. “You go ahead.”

  Sam turned his gaze to the lad. He seemed somber but accepting. In the close space they’d shared over the past few days, the tension between Sam and Élise had grown stronger. Surely Laurent had sensed it, but he had never mentioned it.

  Sam was grateful the topic hadn’t been raised, because he knew what he’d say to Laurent if the situation were reversed—if Laurent were the one being beguiled by their prisoner.

  “Don’t be a bloody fool. Keep your distance.”

  God knew, Sam had tried. But she was forbidden fruit, sweet and ripe and utterly tempting. His attraction to her was dangerous for both of them, and it needed to be squashed. But he wasn’t sure if he could squash it. There was no denying the essential nature of his growing need for her.

  He turned away from Laurent and led Élise into the house. The place smelled unused, somewhat stale, but he remedied that by opening some windows.

  They entered into a tiny parlor, which opened into the salon. A window overlooked the lake to their right, and straight ahead was a stone fireplace. The space was carpeted and furnished comfortably with small tables and chairs and a chaise longue. At the far end of the room a staircase led up to the second level and a doorway led to the kitchen and dining room.