"Heartless wench," he growled, coming down on one knee on the bed. "Turn over. "
She stilled, looking up at him questioningly. "Turn over," he said again. "And get on your knees. You know I won't hurt you. Don't you?"
Yes, she knew. She did as she was told, for a moment feeling embarrassed, undignified. But there was no dignity to be sought in sex, and she felt his mouth at the small of her back, heard his sigh of dreamlike appreciation. "You're beautiful, you know," he murmured, his hands sliding over her back, pulling her forward so that she rested on her elbows. 'Tour skin is like cream. I want you every way I can. " His fingers slid over her buttocks, hard, caressing, then moved down between her legs, to the wetness there, and she jumped, her sensitized flesh quivering.
He rubbed her, spreading the dampness, and he slid his long fingers inside her, making her start. And then she pushed back against his hand, wanting more.
A moment later she felt his hard thighs at the back of hers, his cock nudging at her damp sex. And when he pushed in again it was tighter, deeper, rubbing against a different place that suddenly made her climax again, a long, powerful shudder. He held her, one hand palming the front of her to hold her steady.
'Try not to come so hard, love," he said in a shaky laugh. "You're pushing me out again. And I need to be deep inside you. "
His words made another paroxysm hit her, and she was powerless to do anything about it. "I can't. . . stop it," she said, dropping her head down on the heavy linen cover that smelted of bleach and sunlight and dust. "Just let me. . . " Her momentary breath was enough, and he pushed in, deeper than he'd ever been before, so deep she could taste him again.
His fingers tightened on her hips, and it was as if permission had finally been granted. He thrust into her, fast now, so hard she had to muffle her cries into the covers beneath her, again and again and again, and she knew if he pulled out she'd die, she needed him, spilling inside her, she needed him filling her, over and over.
He took one hand from her hip, slid it around in front of her and rubbed his palm against that magic place, just as his cock slid along a spot so powerful inside her that even the mattress couldn't muffle her shriek, and with a final, slamming thrust he climaxed, inside her, and her body pulled him deeper rather than pushing him away as she dissolved.
It seemed to last forever, his rigid outpouring that seemed to scald her very heart, her shivering, clenching, mindless release, and all she could think was more, more, more, and then suddenly it was enough, and they collapsed together onto the narrow, dusty bed.
22
Etienne de Giverney was a very unhappy man. He had spent a lifetime in search of the legacy he deserved, he'd broken the laws of God and man, and just when it looked as if it was in his reach that overgrown, red-headed bitch had thrown all his plans in the sewer.
It was impossible. Three weeks ago, when he saw Adrian head after her instead of sharing drink and decadence with him, he'd assumed he was perfectly safe. The girl was awkward, older than his cousin's son and heir, ordinary looking and too outspoken. He would fuck her once and abandon her.
But he hadn't. He hadn't emerged from that little room he kept, preferring his privacy to the audience most of the Heavenly Host preferred. And Etienne was there under sufferance. Not a member, not even a guest, but a hanger-on to be tolerated. Oh, they laughed with him, gambled with him. But he knew the English and their misguided sense of superiority.
Etienne had finally chosen to interfere. It hadn't been that difficult, to tease Adrian into leaving her behind. And just to make certain she didn't cause any more trouble he'd arranged her tumble down the cliff before he caught up with Adrian.
She hadn't hit her head, or suffered more than a few bruises. More damnable luck. And the men he'd hired to finish Adrian for good had bungled. They'd waited too long. He'd turned away from home instead of coming toward them, and their necessary pursuit had ruined everything.
Etienne had been waiting at Adrian's house, prepared for the tragic news, when that stupid English vicar had helped him into the house. It had taken all Etienne's sangfroid to keep from screaming in rage.
And then the moment Pagett had informed Adrian that Charlot
te Spenser would be in Sussex what must he do but go haring off almost immediately, like a love-starved moonling. Who would have thought Etienne had done everything he could to stop him, but for some reason his influence over Adrian was waning. It wouldn't be long before he was dropped, and he'd lose his entree to anywhere in English society.
He wasn’t going to let that happen.
Indeed, it wasn't his fault. The heir, Charles Edward, had been too much like his father, with a neck-or-nothing style in all of life. He rushed into things without thinking them through, and it hadn't taken long to goad him into riding Etienne's favorite horse, Meutrier. With typical English arrogance he hadn't known that the horse's name, and temperament, meant "murderer. " The horse was mad, there was no other word for it. He'd been abused, and only Etienne could ride him.
But Charles Edward didn't like being told he couldn't do something. The fall had broken his back. The pneumonia that followed had carried finished the job, leaving Francis Rohan with only one heir.
It had been child's play to corrupt Adrian. He was already well on his way by the time he was twenty-five, old in the ways of sin and decadence. It wouldn't take much for Adrian to succumb. Opium was a dangerous drug, the interesting concoctions he made from plants could be even worse, and he had watched Adrian use them indiscriminately, with his help, of course.
An overdose would be so easy, but he preferred not to help things along. Adrian had been doing just fine by himself. His wretched father, Francis, was old now, close to seventy. He couldn't live that much longer, though he seemed damnably healthy. If Adrian predeceased him Francis would quickly follow, and there would be no one but Etienne to step into the title, the house, the monies.
He intended to be kind to Francis's wife. He would remove her from his houses, of course, but he would settle a small amount on her, enough to keep her relatively comfortable if her needs were few. And what needs would she have? She'd be in mourning, unable to attend social functions, which made things a great deal simpler. After that time was up he expected her to simply fade away without her husband. They were far too attached to each other—Etienne considered it bad ton to be so besotted, particularly after so many years and six children. No, she would die soon and he wouldn't have to worry about even the tiny stipend.
Author: Anne Stuart
But none of that would happen, that rosy future would vanish if Adrian lived long enough to reproduce. And Etienne could no longer afford to be patient.
The small village of Huntingdon boasted an indifferent inn, but they were used to the strange comings and goings connected lo Hensley Court, and no one paid any notice to the big Frenchman. They weren't even concerned about traitors. Most of the stupid English expected him to sell them out the first chance he got. They didn't realize that the so-called French government would rather have his head on a pike than theirs.
Fortunately he knew Hensley Court and its grounds very well—he'd been most observant on the
few occasions when he'd been invited to join their silly games. It would be easy enough to slip in unnoticed, once he'd decided how he was going to handle the situation.