The Unraveling of Lady Fury Page 12

  “Yes. Having given the matter some thought, I realize it’s better if I don’t see your face and you don’t see mine.”

  He tightened his jaw, but his gaze didn’t freeze. He was getting better at this. “And why’s that?”

  “Forced intimacy is very difficult. Your face is getting in the way of the ceiling—”

  “My face?”

  “—which is what I wish to look at it. The ceiling, that is. I would have added it to the contract except I was uncertain it was possible physically. And as I can’t ask you not to get in the way of it—”

  “Not get in the way of it?”

  She held up a hand. “Before you say another word, as I know you’re going to do, I know how much you dislike me. How much you pretend. Since the feeling is mutual, I think it’s best.”

  In some corner of her soul, that wasn’t all that far, she knew this wasn’t the way to proceed and hope she would keep him, with his mile-high pride. But it was astonishing to think he believed he could do all that to her and she would still hold a candle in her heart for him. It didn’t matter he didn’t know all he’d done to her, which was maybe why he thought certain flames still burned.

  “What about you getting on top?”

  “Oh, I’ve been doing some research into that.”

  “And?”

  “And do you know—I never would have believed it—but it transpires that lying on my front is as good a way as any to conceive a boy. So long as you don’t stand up.”

  Where she got this from she didn’t know. But she thanked heaven for it anyway.

  “You saying Ma was wrong?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m sure she was right, a knowledgeable woman like her. But, as you always used to say to me aboard the Calypso, there’s more than one way of being right.”

  She’d liked to say his recovery was instant. It usually was. But the bruising way his gaze held hers, she wasn’t sure.

  “Fine. Turn over.”

  She tightened her throat.

  “You made your preparations, I’m sure.”

  She licked her dry lips. “Yes. I—”

  “Then just do it.”

  His fingers went to the fastening of his breeches and her mouth dried. This wasn’t the lazy Flint, the one who liked to coax, grin, and play—not that she had allowed him to do much of that.

  This was the other Flint. The one who settled an argument with sex. The one she’d sometimes fought, to no avail, on the Calypso. In his bed, wasn’t she? So, what was the problem? The one she shrank from now, because even then, she hadn’t been immune. Just wanting him to be nice to her, instead of in some black mood about something or other that had gone wrong on deck. And worried, if she slammed him with more than her fists, he’d next throw her overboard.

  She wasn’t on the Calypso, and yet it seemed no matter how far she’d come, it wasn’t far enough.

  “Very well. But I trust you not to look at anything else.”

  “Then lift your own skirt. That way you know it will be done to your satisfaction.”

  “I am grateful for your help. All of it. I just think it would be better if we didn’t look at each other, that’s all. It…it makes the conditions I set easier.”

  “I know what you think. Now turn around.”

  Her face burning, she did so. If she drove him away over this—oh, God, she must be harsh about this.

  “Sort your skirt, sweetheart, if you want this. I ain’t got all day and I’m sure you don’t either. Not if we’re to do it all again later.”

  Ain’t? The blood sank from her cheeks. He was angry. She angled her suddenly stiff body onto her knees and prayed he wasn’t going to hurt her, the way Thomas sometimes had.

  “I—” She hated herself for pleading. She didn’t plead as a rule. But suddenly this didn’t seem such a good idea.

  “You want to kneel forward or lie down?”

  Actually, him hurting her wasn’t the reason she prayed. Because, even angry, Flint wouldn’t do such a thing as hurt her. Not physically, anyway. The indignity of the position was suddenly apparent. Her kneeling with her backside in the air? He’d like that.

  “I—I will lie down. Once you’re fully inside, that is.” How mortifying to have to say so.

  “Whatever, sweetheart. But sort your skirt, you don’t want me seeing that nice little derriere of yours.”

  Was this happening? Yes. And she had chosen this position to ensure there would be no enjoyment. How could there be? Even the frisson of it? Not if she lay flat down on her face.

  What was mortifying for her plainly didn’t disturb him in the least. She sought to adjust her skirt. His voice was so brusque. She imagined the hard-honed way he stared. Sometimes it was hard to tell which had a greater effect on a woman, that or the lazy one. The virile purpose behind both was exactly the same.

  She’d be damned if she’d fumble as she hitched her skirt, though. Damned if she’d display anything to him either. This was the ideal position.

  Well, wasn’t it? But her skirt didn’t budge any better than it had the other way, because she knelt on it. She hadn’t thought about this. Not really. She didn’t want to wriggle any more than she wanted to look at his face. Wriggling would be undignified, and already it was undignified enough.

  She didn’t want him to see anything either. She suspected he was waiting for it, and that for the word nice he really meant tasty. Flint always had a nose, or rather, an eye, for such matters. He wasn’t the gentlemanly sort to look the other way. He would have stared at the Virgin Mary—a woman who did not grace the wall hangings—had she been unfortunate enough for the wind to catch her hem and drag up her skirt in public.

  Of course, had this been done with love, for pleasure, instead of in this burning, brittle silence, for monetary gain, it wouldn’t matter how she wriggled or what she showed him. But it wasn’t.

  In some ways the Virgin Mary had been lucky. She hadn’t had to suffer any of this.

  The mattress sank beneath him. “Kneel forward. Unless you want to kneel up.”

  Lucky? If only the lord had looked down from heaven and seen fit to grace Fury that way, with a handy passing angel. But he hadn’t. Instead he had sent her James Flint Blackmoore, who sounded angry enough to kill her.

  Maybe he would and it would be an end to this.

  “Hardly.” She hastened to obey. “Will this do?”

  His fingers, cool and skilled as she remembered them, reached under her skirt, and she bit back a shriek. The ideal position? Maybe not. But it was impossible to remind him to touch her as little as possible when his cool fingers brushed over her sex. Then, in the next instant he edged the tip of one inside her and held it just there.

  “You want to open your legs a bit, so I can get in there.”

  “I—”

  She wanted to but she couldn’t. The tip of his finger sitting inside her was unpleasant because of how cold it felt and how hot she must be to notice. And lush. Like some dockside hussy, with a warm, welcoming… She swallowed her gasp.

  Who would have thought that would happen? Obviously not herself or she’d never have suggested this position. She wouldn’t want him to edge his finger further.

  She prayed he thought it was the cream. She had used a lot. And it might even be he would believe it had heat-giving qualities.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” As if from a great height, she saw herself move. “There. Is that better?”

  “It’ll do, I suppose.”

  He tugged her skirt higher, and her heart nearly burst from her ribcage as he dipped his hips against her buttocks.

  “Lie down.”

  “But I don’t feel—”

  “You do now.” He removed his fingers, and she gasped as he jerked. “Unless you want to kneel.”

  She didn’t. But the shock of the hardened feel of him inside her made it impossible to move. She didn’t know either, she realized with a horrible shock, how she was going to lie down without dislodging him, unl
ess she held herself—and him. She couldn’t touch him. Not even the tiniest bit of him. Not there. Unless she did it through her dress. Or she clenched, hard.

  Again, had this been done with passion, with heat—actually she didn’t know about the heat, she felt she was burning—with love, these movements would all be natural. Instead it penetrated her scattered senses that to clench would be a response.

  “I—I—”

  Bunching her skirt she sprawled forward and strove to press her burning cheek against the pillow to cool it. Even then, though she didn’t want to feel him there inside her, his heat burnt as he thrust into her flesh. His elbows came down on either side of her. What had she said about touching her as little as possible? He was so angry though, she didn’t want to complain about the fact that he breathed too close to her hair.

  This wasn’t like those other times. This was… She forbore to think because whatever it was, he was still completely in control of himself and her. She bit the pillow to try to escape the rhythm he set, every muscle straining not to respond.

  The way he thrust she had only to reach down and touch herself to be plunged into ecstasy, stronger and darker than she’d experienced in years. Ecstasy that—she grasped the pillow, clinging with every ounce of strength—she wouldn’t lose a shred of her self-control to experience now.

  This would be over soon. His body stiffened and a gasp almost of distaste issued from him. Then she would look herself in the eye in the mirror and that was more important. She would never look at herself in the mirror if she allowed herself to enjoy this. She had managed not to before, hadn’t she?

  If only he would remove himself though. But he held himself there as if he wanted to make sure of everything. For a second she sprawled, trying to savor the crisp cotton of the pillowcase, cool and somehow calming against her face, to grasp a breath into her parched lungs. In the same second, he pulled himself out. His rough exhalation sounded even more disgusted.

  “Now, I don’t care what Ma said, you get out of here.”

  He probably found it disgusting having sex with a woman he despised, who did nothing to make him like her, but her mind still reeled.

  “Yes.” She would, even though this was her house. Her room, if not her actual bedroom. How could she do otherwise? She’d infuriated him, hadn’t she? Not even the solace, the great lover usually found in sex, had softened him. His clothes rustled behind her. He fumbled as he fastened up his breeches.

  She stood. That she did, when her legs felt like shaking leaves, and between them felt numbed, was a miracle. Bending down she edged on her shoes. As she did a hot trickle oozed down her leg. She would indeed be fortunate to have conceived the Beaumont heir this morning.

  Did it matter though? Right now it was more important she left with her head high and—as she straightened, the trickle became a gush—no stains down the back of her dress.

  In her chamber she would bathe, rest, and recover herself. It would be pleasant. Something to look forward to. Then she would consider her next move. Maybe after all, with what stung her eyes, it would be better to find a cushion, a foundling, and a doctor she could bribe. So long as she could first manage to the door.

  She reached it when his voice, even grittier than a second ago, sanded her skin like glass paper.

  “Just tell me one thing.”

  She almost didn’t answer. She felt too broken up inside. And the door handle stood inches away. It made better sense to grip it than indulge with him in another fencing match. But this was one encounter she didn’t want him to win.

  Weary, she raised her chin. “What?”

  “Where’d you get them?”

  She strove not to let her shoulders sag. What had she said about Flint’s nose? How like him to have found or spotted something left by some previous incumbent of the room. Like Malmesbury. Or…

  She tried to rake her thoughts, to remember who else had stayed here. But her mind was a frightening blank. In truth she felt very weary. But she made herself sound stalwart.

  “Get what?”

  “Them bruises.”

  She froze. “Bruises?”

  She heard him leave the bed and stride toward her. She edged her hand to her shoulder. A pity she’d forgotten the gown had a low back, and her hair, which she had tied at the side with a ribbon, didn’t cover it.

  “I didn’t. I… Dye marks.”

  Why give him what he didn’t need? The opportunity to say that if Thomas had beaten her, it hadn’t been hard enough? But Flint stepped between her and the door, and for the first time she saw how rail thin he was about the waist and hips. Attractive, as Flint was always attractive, in fact, possibly more so, because it made him seem even taller than he was. But thinner than the man she’d known.

  He’d been starved. By Malmesbury? Or in prison? Was it any wonder he was so hungry she had to pawn the candlesticks and more? She swallowed the fugitive thought.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Dye marks? Let me see that.”

  Before she could stop him he reached for her wrist. She fought the desire to squeal as he dragged her hand from her shoulder. His touch—she’d suffered his touch and the lack of it a lot in the last thirty-six hours—was second to the knowledge of her own pride. She took his seed. She took his help, because she had no choice but to. But she could not take him knowing what Thomas did and laughing about it.

  He touched the shoulder of her gown before she could stop him. “Did he beat you?”

  “For goodness sake, take your hands off me. Thomas wouldn’t harm a hair on my head. He loved me.”

  He lifted his chin and looked into her eyes for a long moment. “This is me you’re talking to. So just quit lying.”

  She wished she could take issue. Say how dare he think Thomas didn’t love her. That no one would. But then she realized that wasn’t what he meant.

  A tight knot formed in her stomach. This, no matter how she wished not to see it, was a man she might like. A man she might trust. And a sweat, cold and icy, yet hot and prickling, formed along her palms.

  “He hit you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” It was better to admit it and keep control, than let that knowledge surge further. “It was Lady Margaret’s fault. Putting down that silly condition. So, he did hit me. I know you’re going to say not hard enough.”

  “I’ve never hit a woman. I don’t hold with it.”

  She supposed he hadn’t. She supposed she couldn’t think he had ever hurt her that way. With the cool feel of his fingers on her shoulder, expressly as she’d told him not to touch her, and the way he looked at her, she was going to start seeing him differently, and let him in. Already he stood too close for comfort, trapping her between him and the door.

  She gritted her teeth. “I’m surprised about that. I thought you did and held with most things.”

  She felt so bad saying it, she fought the urge to wipe her palms down her dress. But what other choice did she have?

  This man had turned her into gray stone. She had come back from that. But sunshine had never flickered on her until this moment. Memory and lust perhaps, the things that made the tightrope so perilous to walk.

  Yet not so perilous she couldn’t keep her eyes trained on the true reason her deepest self must remain unmoved.

  But this might dazzle her and there were only rocks below.

  “Now, you asked me to go.” She met his gaze without flinching. “So, if you don’t mind.”

  The words were not an invitation. He would take his hand off her. He would keep his blue eyes to himself.

  “Fury.”

  He would keep his lips. No matter how close they hovered.

  “Thomas just couldn’t, you see.” Her throat clogged, her body tensed. For one dizzying moment she thought she would meet his lips, but she continued. “Conceive the heir, that is. Because he was so very ill. But it didn’t stop him trying. And getting frustrated. And that’s all there is to it. Now…”

  Never mind his lips. What about hers? Sh
e couldn’t. She mustn’t kiss him. Not here. Not now.

  “All right, sweetheart.” He released her. But while relief flooded, she didn’t miss the way he still stared. “You get me the money for the boat. I’ll do what I can.”

  “The boat? But you said—”

  “Give him the send-off he deserves.”

  The bastard was no doubt the word he wanted to use. She swallowed. It wasn’t like him. Not over her. She wished he’d never seen those marks. But with everything that had happened today, she hadn’t thought to cover them.

  “You mean?”

  “I’ll do it. No questions asked. Come and tell me when you’ve got it. All right?”

  The Beaumont heir was her prime consideration. But she did not think she could do this again today. That might propel her toward the rocks. She must gather her mettle first. But she could not afford to make it look like retreat either.

  “Of course. I’ll send Susan. You—you are, of course going to help me this evening. It’s enough to do, and you may be out late. We’ll forgo the other, till tomorrow.”

  She waited for him to protest or grin.

  Instead he glanced at her sidelong. “Is that how Thomas fell?”

  “What?”

  “On the stairs? Because he was beating you?”

  The rocks drew closer. He was not going to let up, was he? And not only was she in his debt, she saw with a sickening clarity, she only had control because he had let her.

  “He fell because I pushed him.” She shut the door behind her.

  Chapter Eight

  Genoa was a seaport like any other, so far as Flint was concerned, and being accustomed to seaports he knew where to find the kind of place he sought. A simple little inn, on the simple little harbor front, catering for the needs of men like him, which forty-eight hours ago were the same as the inn and the harbor front. Simple. Little.

  He entered and then sat down at one of the tables. Bustle and noise surrounded him. The contrast to the quiet dark along the bay where he’d slipped Thomas’s body into the water couldn’t be more complete. Or his thoughts at that moment when he’d done it either.