Chapter Twelve
King Heartless narrowed his eyes. Many, many wizards and doctors and seers had tried to find his heart, remake his heart, or gift him with a heart. All had failed.
“Very well,” said the king in a low voice that made the courtiers step back. “If you find my heart I’ll let you and your daughter go. If you don’t, I’ll have both your heads chopped off and set on the castle gates.”…
—From King Heartless
“Bridget?” Val said, aghast, some five minutes later.
It was the third or fourth time he’d said it, each time sounding a little more horrified.
Bridget had decided to ignore him. A bath, in a real copper bathtub that came up to her shoulders when she sat in it, and that was filled with steaming-hot water, was a luxury. She wasn’t going to let it go to waste just because Val was having some sort of problem with her first name.
“But Bridget,” he appealed to her. He’d shrugged off his coat and pulled up a chair to sit by the bathtub, clad in a full-sleeved, lace-trimmed fine linen shirt and a gold-embroidered waistcoat in cerulean blue. She would’ve been much more self-conscious had he not been so preoccupied with her name. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes.” She sank a little lower in the tub, letting the warm water lap over her upper arms. This really was Heaven. No wonder he was always calling for a bath at odd hours. She’d have one every day if she could.
“But it’s an Irish name,” he said. “And you told me you came from the North of England—practically Scotland—if—”
She tilted her head back and sank beneath the water, and his words were muffled as the water blocked her ears.
She emerged to him saying, “—unless you’re Irish. Are you Irish?”
“No.” She reached for the lovely milled soap, and then recollected her shadowy footman father and added, “At least, not to my knowledge.”
“It’s such a dissonant name. Brid-get. Brid-get. Brigitbrigitbrigit. It almost sounds like a birdcall. One of those irritating birds that live in bushes and chirp repetitiously and ruin one’s picnic. Not that I go on many picnics. Brigitbrigitbrigit.”
The soap smelled of roses and was smooth and creamy in her hands. She rubbed it through her hair, almost moaning at the lovely feeling after the dirt and cold and fear of the day. She closed her eyes and let the scent of the soap and his drawling voice roll over her as she massaged her scalp with the tips of her fingers.
It was really rather lovely.
But when she opened her eyes she found that Val had stopped complaining about her name. Instead his gaze was fixed on her, his eyes slowly trailing down her arms to her neck and farther, to where her breasts just touched the water. For a long moment he simply looked at her breasts, and she was aware of the pulse of her heart, of the drip of the water from her arm, and of her nipples, tightening in the cool air.
Then his azure gaze rose to meet hers, shining and intent, and she remembered his words. How I shall fuck you tonight.
Her lips parted as her heart began to thunder.
“Let me help you rinse your hair.”
His voice had deepened and it made a shock go through her, low in her belly. He rose and crossed to where a pitcher stood on the hearth. She didn’t turn, but she could hear him moving behind her, and it struck her that she’d seldom been waited upon before in her life—and never by a gentleman.
“Sit a little forward.” He was suddenly close. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.”
The water flowed over her scalp, warm and soothing, but her skin was prickled with goose bumps nonetheless.
“Once more, I think,” he said, his voice so near, his hands large and sure, and he poured again. “There.”
She sat back, wringing the water from her hair with fingers that trembled. She could hear him setting down the pitcher and she wasn’t sure what to do. This was so far outside any experience she’d ever before had or imagined…
Bridget cleared her throat, but her voice was husky when she spoke. “Can you hand me a cloth for my hair?”
“Let me.” He expertly wrapped a cloth around her head, keeping her clean hair out of the water. “Now you look like an Ottoman sultana.” His fingers lingered on the back of her neck, stroking.
She closed her eyes, feeling her nipples throb. Oh, God, he’d barely touched her yet.
She inhaled and tried a smile, but found she was too tense. “Is… is there another cloth with which to dry myself?”
The fingers left as he reseated himself, his cheek propped on his knuckles. “But you haven’t washed yourself, sweet Brid-get.” He snapped off the t of her name with a click of his tongue. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss…” His gaze seemed to penetrate the now-clouded water before rising and meeting her own eyes with a devilish gleam. “Well, everything.”
She felt heat rise from her throat. He meant to watch her—was already watching her—as if she were some sensuous, lovely nymph. A lady of leisure and self-indulgence.
Bridget swallowed. She was used to washing with a pitcher and washbasin. How much more voluptuous to do it in this great bath. He’d led her to this—oh, not the nudity, not what they might do afterward in his bed. No, this right here. This reveling in the pleasure quite literally of the flesh. The pleasure of hot water, of soft soap, of subtle scent, of the feel of her own skin, of her hair down and clean.
Could she truly be bought for so little?
And yet it wasn’t little. Not this. She served others who thought it so. Who regarded a tub full to the brim with hot water as nothing unusual because they’d never had to haul the water, make the fire, fill the pitchers, and carry them up the stairs one after another, bloody, backbreaking work.
She stood in between.
She saw both sides: the life of luxury, summoned at the snap of one’s fingers, and the toil and sweat and work that made it possible.
Besides. She wasn’t selling herself. She knew that. He knew that. Even if others might think money was what lay between them, she knew it was far more complicated than that.
So, having come to that conclusion, she stretched her arms above her head, reveling in the steam, in the rose scent surrounding her, and met his satyr’s gaze frankly.
And smiled.
His exotic azure eyes widened and his eyebrows arched as he murmured, “Oh, Séraphine, you are magnificent.”
Her smile lingered as she picked up the washcloth and wet it, passing it over the lovely, lovely soap again before rubbing it on her neck.
Heaven.
“Is there more clean water?” she asked.
“I can ring for more,” he replied, his voice husky.
“Please.”
He got up and went to the door, opening it only far enough to talk to someone outside, presumably one of the footmen. For a moment she wondered what the other servants would think, and then she shrugged.
That she knew already.
He came back with a tray of food.
“It seems I must play footman since I’m too jealous to let any other man in here.”
She glanced up, somewhat surprised. He’d never been worried over his own nudity. “Thank you.”
He resettled in the chair, lounging back this time, eyes half-closed, legs sprawled apart. “You’re welcome.”
There was a thickness in his breeches. For a moment she stared witlessly.
Then her gaze rose to meet his.
His face was side-lit by the fire, beautiful and otherworldly, like a fairy prince’s, and his lips curved as his eyes seemed to glow. He waved his left hand indolently. “Please. Continue.”
She took her washcloth and wet it again, trailing warm water over her collarbone. The scent of roses enveloped her, heady, almost overwhelming.
She could hear his breathing deepen, but she dared not look at him.
The soapy water streamed between her breasts and she followed it down with the washcloth, rubbing gently, sweeping under each breast and then under her arms. She let the washcloth soak in the water and then wrung it out. She lifted her arm to wash it.
Her skin seemed to gleam golden in the firelight.
A knock came at the door and Val swore foully under his breath.
She smiled secretly to herself when he jumped up to get the door. This was an odd sort of excitement that she’d never thought to find within herself. To hold the Duke of Montgomery enthralled while she bathed.
She was washing her other arm when he set the pitcher of hot water down and resumed his seat. She saw him wince and farther widen his legs as if seeking comfort, and that made her duck her chin and smile again. Oh, she was very wicked, but he had only himself to blame for luring her into a world of decadence. For stripping her housekeeperly trappings from her. For revealing the woman beneath.
For revealing what she was to him.
She rinsed the washcloth and then soaped it well before propping her foot on the edge of the bathtub and thoroughly scrubbing her toes.
For some reason that was when he moaned.
She glanced at him in mild surprise, which was a mistake.
His head was cocked back, his eyes mere azure slits beneath lowered lashes as he watched her. His bottom lip was caught in strong, white teeth and his cheeks were lightly flushed. One arm was flung behind his head and the other…
The other was pressed frankly on the placket of his breeches, the heel of his hand grinding down.
She swallowed, feeling heat rising in her.
“Oh, Séraphine,” he whispered. “Your plump little toes, the arch of your instep, the curve of your luscious calf…” He groaned as if in pain and actually writhed in the chair before stilling again. “I think you taunt me apurpose with that washcloth. My oath: I’ll give you my title and all I’m worth if you’ll but do it once again.”
He sounded so very earnest.
Slowly she drew her washcloth over her ankle and up the rounded calf of her leg.
He shuddered.
When had she ever held such power?
She lifted her leg and washed behind her knee, without flourish or seduction, and he gritted his teeth and rotated his wrist on the bulge in his breeches.
Carefully she lowered that leg and lifted out her other foot to the rim of the tub, washing each toe just as diligently. The heat of the water and the rose perfume of the soap had made her almost drowsy. Lax and slow. She felt soft at her middle, warm and liquid, and after she’d finished with her legs, after he was panting in his chair and muttering under his breath, she closed her eyes and dipped the washcloth beneath the water.
Over her belly, through her curls, between her legs. She tilted her hips, swirling the washcloth in her cleft, parting her folds, delicately rubbing down, and then back up, to that little gathering of muscle, nerves, and skin at the top. She circled that spot gently with her washcloth, and felt a smile lift the corners of her mouth. So warm, so clean, so very, very good…
He gave a great shout and then she was being lifted out of the bathtub, water streaming off her everywhere. The fire hissed and she dropped the washcloth into the bathwater with a splash.
He wrapped her in a huge drying cloth and bore her to the enormous bed, talking all the while. “Séraphine, Séraphine, Séraphine. Will you drive me mad? Scatter my wits to the wind like so much chaff? Leave me a shell of a man, broken, hollowed of brain and soul, left with merely a throbbing prick like a mindless goat? Have mercy, I plead, O siren of chatelaines and unlovely bonnets! Let my famished mouth feast upon thy sweet, sweet flesh. I am awash in yearning spunk.”
She stared up at him as he laid her on the freshly laundered sheets, still wrapped in the towel, and would’ve laughed except for the fact that he did look half-maddened, his eyes glaring, his brow gleaming, his fine nostrils flared, his beautiful mouth in a stern line. Gone were the flippant smiles, the indolent gestures, and the graceful laziness.
He knelt over her, still in waistcoat and that extravagantly billowing shirt, his muscles taut, his every nerve seemingly on edge.
Dangerous.
Was this what he was like? Underneath it all, the bare man? Was this what he was when he made love? No laughing aristocrat, but a man compelled by his own most primitive urges?
Was he like this with other women?
She watched, fascinated, aroused as he reached out lace-draped fingers and flicked the cloth away from her, unwrapping her like a cocooned butterfly.
“God,” he said, “God.”
He attacked her throat and she was so startled by the sudden move that she squeaked. He was laving her with his tongue, openmouthed, and she moaned, arching, wondering wildly if this was the same man who wore pink silk coats and black velvet bows. This seemed so base, so animal. Not at all like the effete aristocrat she thought she knew.
He bit at her collarbone, licked down across a breast and suckled frankly on a nipple, drawing strongly and suddenly.
She grasped for his head, off-balance as if she were falling, even though she lay on a solid bed. His hair was silky beneath her hands, curling around her fingers.
But then he pulled away, tonguing under her breasts, each one, and down her belly, pausing to mouth her navel, and then thrusting her legs apart, climbing nimbly between, and thumbing wide her labia.
But he’d already laid his mouth against her flesh, licking her there roughly as if he did indeed intend to devour her.
She’d never… that is…
She screamed, thrusting her hand into her mouth to muffle the sound as she came hard and fast.
But he didn’t stop. He was pressing against her clitoris now with his tongue, firmly circling, and his thumbs… his thumbs were stroking her as well, burrowing deeper, gently seeking until one thrust frankly inside her and then out again. He kissed down, licking around his thumb, tonguing the flesh around her entrance, slowly building the pleasure again and it seemed…
She opened her eyes, staring dazedly at nothing, feeling the rolls of delight mounting…
It seemed as if he could do this forever. As if he took pleasure from what he was doing—such a low thing, such a dirty thing.
As if he loved what he was doing to her.
The thought sent an exquisite jolt through her and she closed her eyes on it, half drawing up her legs. He was… She had both hands tangled in his beautiful hair now, the ribbon had somehow gone and he was suckling on her clitoris and she was crying, moaning, as she came again, this time in a long, near-painful twisting wave.
Oh, God.
He was doing something, moving, but she’d lost her bones and could only half open her eyes.
She looked up in time to see him kneeling upright, his eyes gleaming, as he ripped open his falls. His penis was dark red and angrily erect, standing to his navel. He caught her hips and pulled her until she was on his lap, then he bent and, without ceremony, thrust himself within her.
“Now,” he rasped, no grace, no drawl, no civility at all. “Come again for me now.”
And he pulled her on and off his cock, rotating his hips all the while, his eyes on her, watching, waiting, as if she were the last drop of water in a desert.
As if she were his only hope of life.
His thick cock rubbed against her as she lay, sprawled and nude, a pagan sacrifice to his lust.
His lips parted and he panted, shoving into her faster, harder. “Come.”
She shook her head against the sheets, her breasts heaving. She felt herself tingling, quivering, quickening, as if her veins ran with lightning.
His head fell back against his shoulders, his hips still thrusting, his hands hard on her bottom as he kept her wedded to him. “Please. Come.”
She pushed her hand to the juncture of her thighs, where his penis rubbed in and out of her, and touched herself.
But he batted her hand away, replacing her fingers with his thumb, pressing down hard.
And she arched, screaming, the lightning blazing from her center, sparking through her limbs, flying out her fingertips.
She was incandescent.
He fell atop her, heavy and male, pulling her legs up around his narrow hips, and ground down into her, once, twice.
His cock jerked within her and she could feel every muscle in his body tense. He groaned into her ear like a man dying and then fell senseless and limp.
And as she followed him into exhausted slumber she heard his single word:
Mine.
THIS MORNING COPERNICUS Shrugg was attired in a brown coat over a high-necked, long, dark-red waistcoat, both of expensive material but of such a cut and with so few embellishments that they were nearly Puritan in style. In contrast his white wig sported a row of delicate little curls framing his sad hound’s face.
Hugh found his gaze kept straying to those fairylike curls.
“I thought the matter finished, Your Grace,” Shrugg was saying, his brows drawn together lugubriously as he poured tea. They were in his office at St James’s Palace, though this time, since he hadn’t been sent for in secret, Hugh had availed himself of the front entrance. “It didn’t work out the way we would’ve liked, but you did your best and Himself is satisfied that it is over.”
They both glanced reflexively overhead.
Hugh’s gaze dropped back to the other man. “But is it?”
“What do you mean?” Shrugg asked, handing him a cup of tea.
Hugh nodded his thanks, though he’d never much liked tea. He sat back, holding the fragile teacup carefully in his big hand. “I’ve done some discreet questioning.”
“And?”
Hugh ran his tongue over his teeth. “Did you look at the letter? The one Montgomery delivered in exchange for the King’s nod?”
Shrugg looked nervous. “That was destroyed. There can be no point in—”
“Shrugg,” Hugh said.
The other man stopped speaking.
“Humor me. What was in the letter?”
Shrugg licked his lips and motioned Hugh forward.
Hugh sighed and leaned in.
The older man whispered hoarsely. “It was a letter written in Prince William’s own hand, discussing the Lords of Chaos and their next meeting. It talked of two very dissolute aristocrats and of the desecration of a church by satanic rites. There was”—Shrugg grimaced—“a rather graphic reference to the deflowering of a girl.”
“And?”
Shrugg stared. “And? What do you mean, Your Grace? Is that not enough?”
“Was there any mention of Prince William’s initiation?”
“No, not that I can remember. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” Hugh said grimly, “according to my sources the Lords of Chaos always have an initiation for new members. And whatever happens at the initiation binds the man to the Lords forever.”
Shrugg shook his head. “I don’t—”
“Damn it, man, think,” Hugh said impatiently. “Whatever they do, the initiate is afraid to leave the Lords of Chaos lest they inform others about both his involvement in the heinous cabal and the terrible act that was done at the initiation—and Montgomery has this information on Prince William. He can still blackmail the King should he wish to do so.”
“I don’t…” Shrugg blinked rapidly. “I don’t follow. He gave us the letter. That was the blackmail material.”
“But was it the only blackmail material Montgomery had?” Hugh thrust his dainty teacup onto the desktop and set his elbows on his knees as he thought aloud. “He always keeps something back, Montgomery does—most blackmailers do—and you must admit the letter he did surrender, as you tell it, sounds damnably weak.”
“But the deflowering…” Shrugg muttered.
Hugh shot him an exasperated look. “If deflowering maidens were blackmail material, the entire aristocracy would have its pockets to let. No”—he shook his head, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the protesting creak it gave—“this entire matter has been a mess from the start. Mostly my fault, I realize—I shouldn’t have tried to burgle Montgomery’s house, though there wasn’t much choice at the time—but whoever gave the order to have him poisoned was a rank fool.”
Shrugg started. “What?”
“Ah. Didn’t know that, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
Hugh arched an eyebrow. “Montgomery was vomiting and shaking for three days. Almost didn’t make it, as I understand it.”
For a moment the older man had a vague, calculating look in his eye, as if he were doing sums in his head.
“It must’ve been…” But whatever name Shrugg had been about to say was cut off when he pressed his lips firmly together. He shook his head. “You know how these things work. Upstarts with their own circles of information, jockeying for favor. Someone thought he could simply cut out all the intrigue and diplomacy and kill the root of the problem. Literally, unfortunately.”
“Yes, well, imagine had he succeeded,” Hugh replied. “That would’ve done nothing but rouse interest in Montgomery—and, through him, possibly Prince William. Who knows where he’s put his blackmail letters? What if they’re with a man of business and set to be published on his death? The whole thing could’ve blown up in our faces.”
Shrugg actually shuddered at the thought.
“As it is,” Hugh murmured, “we only have to wonder what happened to the footman.”
“I… what?”
Hugh looked at him. “The footman, my informant—and someone’s paid poisoner. He’s missing and I’ll lay money on what’s happened to him.”
“Surely not.” Shrugg looked truly distressed, which rather amused Hugh, considering how much scandal and intrigue the man must’ve seen in his lifetime in his position. “Montgomery’s a duke. He can’t be a murderer.”
Hugh lifted his shoulders. “He’s also a blackmailer. Many would prefer the former to the latter, given the choice.”
Shrugg had gone white to the lips. “Dear Lord.”
“Probably the bottom of the Thames,” Hugh mused. “If he was weighted well enough.”
There was a short silence.
Shrugg broke it finally, looking just a little green around the edges. “Wh… what do you suggest we do, Your Grace?”
Hugh raised his eyebrows. He would’ve thought it was obvious, but maybe not to a deskman such as Shrugg. “I’ll have to keep after him, won’t I?” He stood, looking down on Shrugg’s little curls. “We can’t rest until the Duke of Montgomery is stopped.” He thought a moment more, and added, “And the Lords of Chaos as well.”
VAL WOKE TO a cold, empty bed and the realization that he’d done something incredibly stupid.
It was an odd sensation—he rarely if ever regretted a decision or action once made. Why bother? What was done was past changing. But this one… well, he had the feeling this one might very well haunt him.
And where the hell was she?
He stared at the indented pillow beside his head. He had the memory of a warm body in his arms all night, round buttocks snuggled tight to his loins, hot and soft, and now?
Now there was only cold.
He had the vague recollection that it was the chill that had waked him, and that was her fault as well.
He sat up and met the green eyes of the demon cat, standing upon the tray of cold food from the night before. It had a chicken wing between its fangs and at his yell it jumped down and dashed away out the cracked doors.
The inner door that led to a dressing room opened and Mehmed and the dog came running in. The dog immediately rushed to the tray and tried to gulp down the rest of the food.
“Duke!” Mehmed exclaimed as he attempted fruitlessly to pull the terrier away from the tray. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Val ran his hand over his head, feeling the tangles in his hair. She’d threaded her fingers in his curls last night as he’d tongued her. She’d tasted of salt and woman and want.
He pushed the memory aside as he climbed from the bed. He still wore his clothes from the night before, rumpled and—he sniffed beneath his arm—sadly smelling. He buttoned his falls.
“Call the footmen. Tell them to empty the bathtub and send up fresh hot water, tea, eggs—” He waved his hand impatiently. “And all the usual. Damn it, where is Mrs. Crumb?”
Mehmed shrugged. “I don’t know, Duke. You take her to bed, huh? Maybe make her your sultana now?”
“What?” For a moment Val stared absently after the boy as he went to the doors and spoke to the footman outside.
When he returned Val was frowning. “It’s duchess. And no, Mrs. Crumb won’t be my duchess. She’s a bloody housekeeper.” Despite that telling white streak in her hair. Oh, Séraphine, what secrets you have kept from me…
Mehmed began picking up the debris from the night before. “Many great sultanas come from lowest ranks of the harem. They are slaves when first they enter the harem.”
“Yes, well, that is in the lands where the Ottomans rule. This is England, which is entirely different,” Val said, feeling increasingly irritable. “And besides they are allowed three wives while we poor Christians are accorded but one.”
“Is sad for Christians,” agreed Mehmed. “Maybe you become Muslim, yes? And then you can take Mrs. Crumb as wife and also two others.”
Val winced. “Thank you, Mehmed, but I rather like my foreskin where it is. That price is rather too rich for my tastes. Not to mention I’d probably have to forfeit my dukedom.”
“You not notice,” the boy said earnestly, throwing his arms wide. The dog took the opportunity of his distraction to steal the last bit of cheese off the supper tray. “I not notice when they cut it off me.”
“You were a baby,” Val shouted, and then, in normal tones, “Oh, thank the gods,” as the footmen finally brought in fresh hot water.
With them, though, came the butler, whose name Val had already forgotten. The man’s face was dolorous. “Your Grace.”
“What?” He really wasn’t in the mood for more bad news. He watched avidly as a parade of footmen drained the tub—taking away the cold water—and began filling it with fresh hot water.
The butler cleared his throat. Perhaps he had a cold. “The… erm… master of the hounds bid me tell you… erm…”
Slowly Val swiveled his head, pinning the butler with his gaze. “Ye-es?”
The butler went into a paroxysm of throat-clearing and coughing. Perhaps he had the ague. Perhaps Val would need a new butler soon.
“I…” The man finally got out, “I… I… I… he couldn’t find her. The lady on the moors. She disappeared and the master of the foxhounds couldn’t find her and is too much of a coward to tell you so himself. Erm. Your Grace.”
For a moment Val only breathed quietly, his eyes turning to slits as he stared at the bringer of very bad news indeed.
Then he flung his arms wide and bellowed. “Away! Away, you pestilence, you flies, you midges of ruination! Get thee back to thy kitchens of destruction and God damn thy lips and thy words and thine eyes! Away, I say, and never come again! A plague and a flood of amphibians upon the lot of you!”
There was a general rush to the door and then silence.
Mehmed, who hadn’t moved, looked sorrowfully at the bathtub and the surrounding steaming pitchers. “The bath, it is only half-full, Duke.”
“Well, then fill it,” Val snapped, and went to sulk in the bed over the perfidy of women and one woman in particular.