19

I have made a dreadful mistake. X. Q., my viscount, has married. A dull girl with a long nose, she came with a staggering dowry. It was the final blow, and I swore I would have nothing to do with him again.

But he came to me one night in a frenzy of passion and angst. He had been a fool to listen to his father, he declared. To marry for duty and not to possess me as he wished. He could not live without me, he swore.

He pulled out a blade and put it to his breast.

I pulled it away. I declared my love, my true and undying love.

That night—oh, it was a precious night. Like an ornament spun of delicate glass. How it glittered at first, how lovely and perfect it was.

But it had to shatter, of course.

In the morning, he was gone.

But I had not taken the care that I should have, and in two months, my folly could no longer be ignored. I was with child.

I had to look forward to many months of being reminded of how dangerous it was to fall in love. And then, could I spend each day in the presence of a reminder of my most foolish mistake? Would not resentment follow?

Surely, the best I could do for both the child and for myself was to give the wee thing away.

To be a successful courtesan, a woman must be prepared to be a survivor. She must fight and struggle and never let herself be foolish with regard to love.

Indeed, that is the making of a successful courtesan.

It may not be the making of a happy woman.

 

—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous

 

 

“I need to see you stop the attack with my own eyes,” Sophie insisted. Angelique had hauled her to a black carriage. The hard muzzle of the pistol pressed into Sophie’s back.

She couldn’t give in to fear. Fear that the pistol would go off by accident. She stopped, lifted her chin, and spun to face Angelique. She wasn’t going to cry. Or give in to vapors. She was going to have courage—as Cary had when he had been a prisoner of war, when he had confronted a kidnapper. “Do you have to shove that thing into my back? I fear it will go off.”

Angelique, swathed in a rich black cloak, looked startled. She must have expected sobbing. Then a twisted, mad smile curved the courtesan’s painted lips. “That hardly matters, my dear. You will soon be dead. But I did want the pleasure of torturing Caradon. I do think it would destroy him to watch you die.”

But the horrid witch moved the pistol away from her back, still smirking.

There, Sophie thought, she had won a small victory. But she wished she could understand. Surely, even a madwoman could be made to see sense, to have empathy, to care, if only Sophie could understand why she was doing this. But first, she must ensure Cary’s family was safe.

Angelique motioned with the pistol for her to mount into the carriage, but Sophie went on. “Please,” she begged. “I want to know they will not be harmed. You can make haste with the carriage and call off your men. These are innocents. Please do this.”

“You think you will be able to escape. You won’t. You will not escape your death this time.”

Don’t believe that. Don’t. Don’t. “I just don’t want anyone else to be hurt.”

“By the end of tonight, my dear, many people will be hurt. But if you obey me, the victims may not include the duchess and her daughters. Perhaps.” Angelique laughed.

How she obviously loved having this power.

“Get into the carriage, you stupid girl.”

Sophie scrambled in. The man who had attacked her was acting as the coachman, and he had jumped up into the driving box.

Angelique had killed two innocent women—and had tried to kill her. The woman wanted to destroy Cary—and she was willing to do any ruthless thing to do it.

Two defenseless young women were gone, all because the woman sitting beside her in the carriage was obviously mad.

All her life, people had told Sophie she had a remarkably optimistic disposition. She had not hated her adoptive mother for treating her badly—she’d been happy to have a home. Even when she’d lost Samuel and had been thrown out, she’d been grateful for her son. She had looked at the bright side of becoming a courtesan—and she had found a wonderful man who she could love passionately.

She wasn’t going to die. She had too much to live for. Somehow she would escape. She would survive. And she would make certain Cary’s family wasn’t hurt.

Was there any way she could get a message to him?

The carriage stopped. Sophie looked out and saw the top of Cary’s beautiful house above the wall surrounding it. Angelique opened the window, leaned out, and made a strange whistling noise.

Two shadows, tall and lean, slunk out of the dark. Their caps were pulled low, so the street flare barely illuminated their faces. Sophie glimpsed stubble-covered cheeks. One had a scar that slashed through his upper and lower lips.

“Your business is done for the night,” Angelique said. “You are not to attack.”

“Why not?” one whined. “Would have been right fun.”

“Aye,” said the other. “I was hoping to fondle a noble tit.”

“Be off with you,” Angelique snapped. “Disobey me, and you will both die.” She threw down some coins to them. “For your trouble tonight.”

“Enough for a few rounds and a few tarts,” the first one said as they both scrambled to pick up the coins, bumping each other.

“And if you do not hear from me again tomorrow morning, you are to carry out the original plan and kill the duchess and her daughters. That will be insurance for all of us.”

Then they tipped their caps to Angelique and ran off down the road, away from Cary’s house.

At least Cary’s family was safe for now.

“Now we have the long part of our journey,” Angelique said. “And soon Caradon will receive a note at the ball, telling him where you are. I have no doubt he will come to rescue you.”

“Why are you doing this? How could you hurt so many innocents? How can you hate Caradon so much?”

“He took something from me. Something very, very dear to me.”

“Do you mean your father?”

The inside lights of the carriage were off. They passed another street flare on the lane. The light painted Angelique with harsh precision. Her face had changed. Raw anger and gloating triumph had transformed it. Every line and wrinkle showed. Her age was apparent. “Your father kidnapped Caradon when he was just a child, and you were there.”

Angelique did not answer Sophie’s accusation, but Sophie saw the flash of surprise. “Where are we going?” Sophie demanded.

“To the house he was kept in as a child. I do not see how you knew this.”

“I figured it out,” Sophie answered. “But I still don’t see why!”

“We were poor, terribly poor. A footman’s wages could not support a family. The Duke of Caradon was fabulously wealthy, and my father saw a way to get his hands on some of that money. All we had to do was keep the child until the ransom was paid. But that was not to be. The horrible young brat escaped. After bludgeoning my father to death with a poker.”

“And you blame him for that?” Sophie cried. “A terrified five-year-old? He was fighting for his very life, and your father did terrible things to him. What did you think would happen? You committed a crime!”

Would Angelique shoot her now? Her heart thundered, but Sophie squared her shoulders. If she was going to be shot, she would face it bravely.

“Shut up, you wretched tart!” Angelique snapped. “Think you are so high and mighty? You are naught but a jade yourself. I had to scrape and fight for everything I had. I had to survive. And I learned early that the way for a female to survive is to allow a man to have sex with her. It’s the only way to guarantee a roof over your head. Then I realized I could get much more than just a roof! What was I to do? I knew I’d be thrown out of my house by my father if I didn’t do what he asked—” She stopped. Her hand stroked the muzzle of the pistol.

“Goodness.” Sophie had grown up in a doctor’s home. She had overheard tales of the worst kinds of abuse. “You are saying your father forced you”—she could not actually say it—“into his bed?”

“He came to my bed. Or cornered me in various places of our grotty little cottage.”

Pity and horror blended in her. “That is awful! Oh my goodness, what horror you lived through.”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t want your pity.”

“Well, you have it. I cannot imagine how horrible that must have been.” She remembered having been punished at times, though being locked in her room had seemed severe for simple, childish mistakes. Now she knew her adoptive mother had been punishing her for what she was, not what she’d done. She remembered how sad she had felt. How she had wanted to please. What about when love and the hope to please parents was all warped in a perverse way?

Then she thought. “But surely you would empathize with the duke! You should feel sorry for him. How could you hurt him this way? And those two women were innocent. You must have understood them too. You must have understood the need to survive.”

“They were hardly innocent. Sally Black, who thought she was so young and lovely, so arrogant. And you—you snuck in, defying the ruling queens of the Cyprian world. What loyalty should I have shown to the Fiery Rose? She was going to give my name to Caradon. You were all young and pretty. It is hardly any tragedy for me if a few lovely, young courtesans are no longer competing with me.”

“Well, that was not justification to take their lives,” Sophie said. “And this cannot be Caradon’s fault.”

“You argue with me? I’m holding a pistol.”

“Well, you are in the wrong. I must make you see that.”

“For what purpose, you stupid chit? You are going to die. You want to know why this is Caradon’s fault? I knew what my father did to him was wrong. I would have simply continued on, keeping the secret. But then Caradon did something to me. . . . He took the last thing I had in the whole world. He had my son court-martialed and shot in Ceylon.”

“Your son?” Never had she seen such pain on a woman’s fact. Raw, agonized longing. “Your son was a soldier in Ceylon? But he—he attacked and strangled a woman.”

“He was a young man, barely more than a boy. Caradon should have understood why he snapped after the terrifying battles. And the girl was only a filthy member of the enemy. One of the wretched, horrid native people who were attacking British soldiers. She tried to sneak up and kill my son. Of course he had to defend himself! His friend returned from Ceylon in 1819, and he told me the truth about my son’s death. I knew I wanted to make Caradon pay. He’d stolen everything from me. My entire family. My son was my world!” Angelique cried with passion. “At first I thought I just wanted to kill him. But those attempts failed. Then I knew I wanted him to suffer. I wanted to do more than kill him. I wanted to destroy his name. I wanted it to be spoken with disgust for all time!”

Angelique was insane, but she was a woman who had lost her child. “I know you loved him, but he did something terribly wrong and bad. As his mother, you must still love him. Your loss was terrible, but you can’t hurt Cary.”

“Caradon cares about you so deeply, it is sickening,” Angelique spat. “But he is also getting too close. I wanted to tighten a noose around his neck little by little. I wanted to make him suffer, and I shall. For he is going to watch you die. Then I shall shoot him in the head and put the pistol in his hand. The poor, mad Duke of Caradon finally takes his own life, because he has been warped by the horrors of war and has become a monster. He will leave a note, explaining everything he has done. Not only will he die, but his name will be infamous!”

Angelique had not even listened to her. Spittle formed on the woman’s lips in her excitement. She was too far gone in her plan to be reasoned with.

Sophie’s hope wavered. But she knew, to survive, she could not give up. She had to cling to hope. Hope had landed her Cary, after all.

Hope—and keeping her wits and fighting to survive—might get her through this.

Then she understood what Angelique was doing. “You are luring Caradon to the place he was imprisoned, where he suffered hell.”

“That should hurt him deeply. Destroy his mind. Then I will kill him. I will kill both of you.”

 

Sophie stood at one of the two small front windows that looked out onto the lane leading from the highway to the cottage. The lane wound around shrubs and bushes, so the building was well hidden from the road. Her hands were bound in front of her, tied at the wrists with rough rope.

Cary had set a trap—but he would be the one walking into one.

She must warn him. She must protect him. Angelique thought it would be hell for him to watch Sophie die, but Sophie was already in hell—knowing Cary, who had done nothing wrong, was going to walk into Angelique’s clutches.

To save her.

Unless . . . perhaps he wouldn’t come.

Sophie remembered how he had so brutally beaten up the man who had attacked her—Angelique’s man who was acting as her coachman now. The man had been armed with a knife and was huge, and Cary had beaten him to save her without any thought to his own safety.

He would come. Because he was noble.

In her mind’s eye, she could see a small child being carried in here in the arms of his evil, horrible captor. Had Cary been blindfolded, perhaps even drugged? Did he see the cottage, a low structure with a rotting roof and walls of piled stones?

The floor was flagstone and cold beneath her feet as she paced in front of the window. Angelique trained the pistol on her.

The cottage consisted of two rooms—one big main room with chairs circled around the fireplace, and beds at the other end, and a separate kitchen room with a large hearth and a big wooden table for cooking. A low doorway led between the two.

It could have been a quaint, sweet little home once, but she looked around it and imagined a five-year-old boy held inside it as a prisoner. It made the house seem to breathe evil.

What nightmares would come back to Cary when he walked into this place?

She acted as though she were watching anxiously for Cary, but Sophie kept glancing around. Cary had escaped this hell, using the fireplace poker as a weapon. Her captors were armed: Angelique had a pistol. Her coachman—Angelique had called him O’Malley—was in the kitchen, drinking ale, and he also had a pistol.

There was no fireplace poker to hand—Angelique had sent it into the kitchen with O’Malley. Angelique had taken off her cloak and hung it by the door. O’Malley had pulled off his greatcoat. The fire was burning, but the cottage felt cold as a tomb. Sophie could not see anything in the cottage she could use to defend herself.

She looked out the window once more. Moonlight spilled onto the fields around the house. In the silver-blue light, Sophie saw movement. A horse galloped down the lane, emerging out of the shadows cast by trees. A large black gelding with hooves thundering. The rider leaned along the animal’s neck, urging it to great speed. Dust flew up.

Then the rider straightened and reined in his beast as they neared the cottage.

She saw his face in the pale light. Cary.

He jumped off, then tied the reins of the horse to a wooden post. He slowed as he walked toward the cottage, as if he were afraid to come to it.

He must be reliving all the nightmarish things that happened here.

He must be in hell.

She wanted to scream at him to go back. Angelique growled, “Do not move or make a sound, or I will shoot you now.”

Outside the door, Cary ran his hand over his face. Then he shook his head as if shaking off memories. He stalked to the door and hammered on it.

There was fire in the cottage fire grate and a lamp burning in the corner, but she wasn’t sure what Cary could see through the small dirty panes of glass.

Angelique shouted to her man in the kitchen. “O’Malley, come and answer the door to his Grace, the Duke of Caradon!”

The large man lumbered out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned the iron key in the lock and flung open the thick wooden door. “Welcome, Yer Grace. Why don’t ye step inside?”

Cary walked in, his face tense and expressionless. Then he saw her. “Thank God, you are all right, Sophie. Thank God.”

He came toward her, but Angelique leveled the pistol at him. “You are not to touch her, Caradon.”

He stopped. “So it was you. You were the daughter of the monster who kidnapped me. I used to beg you to help me, and you refused. You tortured me instead. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.” He peered at O’Malley. Frowned. “I recognize you also. You were in my regiment in Ceylon.”

“Ye’ll forgive me if I don’t put me weapon down to salute, Yer Grace,” O’Malley sneered.

Angelique pointed to the end of the room, to the corner beside the beds. “You were chained there. Do you remember how piteously you cried? Do you remember how my father tried to soothe you—?”

“Yes, I remember that,” he spat.

“Stop it,” Sophie cried.

“Shut up,” Angelique snapped. She stood in the center of the room. Cary stood with his back to the door. O’Malley had moved close to the kitchen door. Sophie was still near the window, and O’Malley had her in his line of fire.

“You did everything he asked willingly, Caradon,” Angelique said. “You were more willing than I ever was. Did you enjoy it? Is that why you’ve never married? Did you discover your true tastes? Perhaps you now hunger for young boys.”

“God no,” Cary muttered. His face looked like stone, but he’d gone pale.

“Why do you think my father touched you? He knew he’d found someone like him. Didn’t you try to please him?”

“No.” Cary’s voice was ragged. “I was afraid. Too damned afraid to fight.”

“That’s what you say, but we both know the truth.”

Cary was not believing any of this, surely?

“I was there, after all,” Angelique said. “I saw everything.”

Sophie wanted to scream that he was a child. But she was afraid she would be helping Angelique by reminding Cary he had been powerless. “You can’t hurt him, Angelique,” she cried. She hadn’t thought this through entirely, but she must go on. “Time has healed his wounds. He is a good, strong, noble gentleman. The reason he has not married is because he did his duty for his country and did it honorably, but now he is ready to find love and marry. Whatever you took from him no longer matters, because you only made him stronger.”

Cary was watching her, looking startled. Their gazes met. His softened. It was so intense, so bright, she lost her breath. Cary spoke. “Sophie is right. It was a long time ago. It’s over. In the past. That is where it should remain. Stop this now, Angelique.”

“It’s too late for that,” she spat. “You really have no idea why I hate you so much, Caradon?”

He stepped closer to her. Her hand trembled a bit, and she waved the pistol at him. “I will shoot you,” she said. “You will die tonight in this place where you were once a sniveling, terrified little boy.” She shrugged carelessly. “It would be disappointing to do it earlier, but I will do it.”

He gazed at her. “I see it now. Corporal Yew was related to you. Your brother?”

“My son.” Her voice broke. “He was my son. You murdered my only child.”

“He committed a heinous crime. He knew the punishment.”

“He killed one of the enemy’s women. He was a good Englishman, and you wanted to see him give his life because he killed a woman. A woman who belonged to the people massacring our soldiers.”

“Let me tell you what really happened.” He spoke with calm. Slowly.

Sophie shivered. The pistol pointed at his heart.

“Stop,” Angelique snapped. “Why don’t we talk of what happened to you here when you were a little boy?”

“I was kidnapped and forced to do unspeakable things by your father. I killed him. This is just a cottage, Angelique. That is in the past.”

He looked to Sophie. “I won’t let memories master me, Angelique. But I will tell you what happened to your son. It was the day after a long, hard battle. Indeed, we had lost a lot of men. Despair and anger were both whipping us. I tried to keep the men calm—I was afraid tempers would explode and something rash would happen. Your son was the worst powder keg of the lot—he seethed in rage at all times, and he had found the mutilated body of the youngest lad of our regiment and had vowed revenge. I understood how he felt, but I tried to make him see sense. To be honest, I was afraid he would get himself—or someone else—killed because he was being driven by blind fury.”

“He would never listen to you. He knew who you were.”

“Let me finish, Angelique. Your son stalked away, and I let him go—to give him time to clear his head. On the outskirts of our camp, he apparently encountered a Ceylonese woman. Perhaps she was acting as a spy or an assassin, or she had just innocently come upon us. I went in search of him. I found the girl sobbing, her clothing torn. His breeches were unfastened, and he was strangling her. I shouted out to him to stop, but by the time I reached him and pulled him off the girl, it was too late. He threw her body away. I was appalled. It is one thing to kill on the battlefield—another to destroy a defenseless woman. I intended to speak to my superior officers, but at that moment we were attacked from two sides. Most—hell, all of the other soldiers were killed. I thought I was the only survivor. I was taken prisoner, chained up in a cave.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Angelique said sardonically. But she was listening. “So, you are telling me my son was killed in the attack.”

“No, he wasn’t. He deserted and hid. Then he found me. What he did to me—he attempted to kill me. I was chained up, fighting for my life. He thought if I were dead, there would be no one to condemn him for the murder of that woman. It was he or I, Angelique. I’m sorry.”

“And when you were found, did you tell the truth? Did you admit to killing him?”

“I told the whole story. It was decided there was no need to reveal it all. He was dead and had paid the price for what he did. His name was protected—it was said he died in battle. What more would you want, Angelique?”

“Justice! What was wrong with what he did? He merely killed an enemy spy. And you—you act as though what he did was wrong! You murdered an Englishman. You will not get away with it!”

Cary took a step away from Angelique, toward the door. Sophie met his gaze, and he motioned with his head. She edged toward the door to the kitchen. She was against the wall by the doorway, and O’Malley was watching her.

Cary looked at Angelique. “Of course I will,” he said. “And so will Sophie.”

Oh dear God, what was he doing?

“No, you won’t!” Angelique screamed. In one furious motion, she pulled the trigger. A flash of flame. A roar that shook the room. Smoke spewed out of the pistol.

Cary jumped to his feet. He had thrown himself at the ground. As he got up, he shouted, “O’Malley!” to keep the lackey’s attention on him. He threw a knife, and it arced through the air, but with the warning, O’Malley was able to duck. Sophie was near the door. The key was still in the lock—

No. She turned to see O’Malley straightening, preparing to shoot Cary. “O’Malley!” she shrieked. “I’ve got a pistol, and you are going to die.”

He whirled to face her, and Cary lunged, shouting the man’s name to draw his attention again. O’Malley’s pistol exploded.

“Cary!” Sophie cried.

Cary slammed his fist into O’Malley’s face with such force, he knocked the man out cold.

Angelique. What was she doing? Then Sophie saw the courtesan wrench at her bodice. Silver glinted in her hand.

“She has a blade!” she cried, and she looked for some kind of weapon. Her hands were tied, but that wasn’t going to stop her.

Cary was struggling with Angelique, trying to get the knife out of her hand. Angelique seemed to have the strength of a madwoman. She’d cut Cary’s face and his throat. Lines of dark blood welled.

Then Sophie saw it—the one thing she could use as a weapon. With her bound hands, she grabbed it. She lunged forward, just as she’d done to save herself with Lord Devars. Struggling against the ropes binding her wrists, she swung as best as she could and threw the thing—

Angelique’s cloak fluttered though the air. It fell short, missing Angelique. But it distracted her, and Cary grabbed the woman. With two swift moves, he had Angelique disarmed.

He held the woman with her arms pinned behind her.

Sophie’s heart still thundered faster than speeding horses. “Cary, are you all right? Were you not shot?”

“No, love,” Cary said. He breathed hard. “O’Malley shot the wall instead.”

Cary shoved Angelique away from him and pulled a pistol from his pocket. “Sit on the chairs.” He growled at Angelique. He motioned for Sophie to come to him. She knew he couldn’t look at her; he was watching the villains. But he sliced through the ropes securing her hands, holding Angelique’s knife in his left hand. He murmured, “Thank the Lord, you are safe. I was afraid—afraid I would be too late.”

“You weren’t.”

“I can’t believe you threw Angelique’s cloak. It was brilliant.”

She glowed at the praise. “It was all I could think of.”

“Brilliant,” he said again. And added, “The other dukes were traveling behind me in a carriage.”

Sure enough, she heard thundering hooves, rattling traces. Sophie ran to the door and opened it as the other Wicked Dukes leapt out of the carriage.

They would be able to tie up Angelique and O’Malley and give them to the law.

Sophie almost sobbed. They had survived, and they were safe.

“Sophie, are you all right?”

She found herself turned around and pulled into Cary’s strong embrace. But she drew back and faced him. “This place is just a house. A terrible thing happened to you here, but it does not have magical powers. Everything Angelique told you is rubbish. You were never willing; you must have been terrified. I know—why do you think I let Angelique put me in a carriage? She threatened your family. I was trying to protect them, and I was playing for time. I didn’t fight her every step of the way because, to save myself and you and your family, I had to wait for the right moment. Of course, it didn’t come. I needed you to save me. Here, when you were a child, you did the most amazing thing. You saved yourself, Cary. Angelique is going to pay for her crimes. You committed no crime, Cary. You don’t need to pay for the rest of your life.”

Sophie almost held her breath. What would he say?

“This place is the setting of my most hellish nightmares,” Cary said hoarsely. “Even being held prisoner in Ceylon, where I was certain they would kill me, was not as bad. But you are right—this place is just a building of stone. It has no special power over me.”

“Those memories don’t either. You don’t have to let them. You are not to blame.”

“I could have run away. I didn’t understand what was going on. I let the man approach me, and I should have run. My mother would have been spared hell too.”

“Stop blaming yourself. Stop tormenting yourself with nightmares. I have—I know what children are like. My friend Belle has children, and through them I’ve seen that children are innocent and trusting, especially at such a young age. They don’t yet understand that people can be monsters. Let us walk out of here and, at the same time, please walk away from your memories. You deserve some happiness.”

“So do you. Sophie”—his raspy voice cracked with emotion—“you are so precious to me.”

At that moment, the other Wicked Dukes entered. As they took over watching Angelique, Cary cupped Sophie’s face and drew her to him. Her hair was in tangles. With the palm of his hand, he pushed it back. He gently ran his thumb along her lower lip.

“I know what I want to do to you tonight,” he murmured.

“What?” she whispered.

But he wouldn’t tell her.

 

It was almost dawn when she rode with Cary to a nearby inn. With the Wicked Dukes, they had taken their prisoners to the nearest jail. Sophie discovered Cary had left his horse at the inn and had taken a strong, fresh gelding to gallop to the cottage. He engaged a carriage to take them home while Saxonby would ride his horse back. The other two dukes would use the carriage they had traveled in to the cottage. Grey was anxious to return to his wife.

In the carriage, Cary drew her close.

And he kissed her.

Such a kiss! It could have melted rock and turned it into boiling lava. A long, lush, heated kiss. She wanted more kisses, but the warmth and the pleasure relaxed her.

They were safe. It was all over—

The next thing Sophie knew, she was in her bed in her town house, naked and under warm covers. She sat up, confused. A roaring fire had been built, and Cary was prodding it with the poker. “Oh, what happened?”

He turned, and she lost her breath. He wore a white linen shirt, open at the throat, the tails hanging out, cuffs undone. Black trousers clung to his long legs, his taut buttocks. His blond hair was mussed, falling over his eyes.

He was en déshabillé, and she wriggled under the cover. She grew wet and achy just looking at him. “I remember you kissed me. It was a volcanic eruption of a kiss.”

His slow grin stole her breath again. “I’d intended to kiss you the entire way home, but you fell asleep on me.”

She flushed. “I’m so sorry. That’s not what mistresses are supposed to do.”

“You deserved it. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m not anymore.” Taking a deep breath, she pushed the covers off her body. Slowly. Suggestively, she hoped.

“What do you want to do?” She shifted so her arms squished her bare breasts together, making them look more full and round. “Would you like me to suck you?” she asked. “Or would you like to do that to me? Or something with toys again.” She knew she was blushing. “That was rather fun.”

“You ask that so cheerfully and sweetly, as if you’re asking what I want in my tea. You made me understand a lot about myself. Tonight, I realized something. You are utterly irresistible, Sophie.”

“I am?”

“You helped me face my demons, love. You never judged me. You never condemned me. Even when you were dragged into danger, because of me, you only wanted to help me.”

“Of course I did.”

He walked toward the bed. Propped his knee on the end of it. She couldn’t tell what he wanted. He’d kissed her passionately. Right now, in the glow of the fire, he looked so handsome. But also younger than usual. Vulnerable.

“I want to make love to you, Sophie. I still don’t know if I can. But I want to try.”

She held out her hand. “I want that very much.”

It was like dealing with an animal that had been abused. She knew that from life in the country, from living near farms. She couldn’t do anything too quickly. Push too hard.

She slipped out of the bed and walked around to him.

The fire crackled, and the light of it danced. It was warm in her beautiful room. He watched her come to him. This moment was charged, special.

She was almost afraid to speak, as if she might break a spell. She stroked his broad shoulders. “Let me help you undress.”

Together, they lifted the hem of his shirt, whisking it up over his flat abdomen. She could count each muscle if she wished. She could only lift his shirt so high. He took over, pulling it over his head.

More wetness rushed between her legs as he threw the shirt, his chest, arm, and back muscles flexing and moving as he did. Underneath, he was naked, the golden hair on his chest flattened in whirls. His skin was so smooth and the color of milky tea—just kissed with a bit of sun browning.

Sophie pressed her hands to his taut, flat belly. She ran her fingertips on his hot, silken skin, to his jutting hipbones, which flared up above the waist of his trousers. She ran her hand saucily along his hip. “This is going to be so much fun,” she said lightly. Tracing them made her shiver inside. Made her cunny ache for him.

They were going to try to make love. She was thrilled. And a little bit scared.

She had to make this perfect for him.

Cary caught her hands, lifted them from his hips. “I have to sit down and fight to get the boots off, angel.”

“I could help.”

Cary set his rump on the edge of their bed. That was how she wanted to think of the bed—their bed, not her bed.

“Hmmm. I have a bootboy. He puts his arse facing me, lets me brace against his backside to pull them off.”

“You are joking.”

“I’m not.”

“And gentlemen claim that women’s clothing is idiotic.” She turned, then pointed her naked bottom at him. She bent over and took hold of his right boot. “You brace and I’ll tug.” She turned to look at him. His eyes gleamed at her, and with a swift motion of his hands, he undid his trousers. He stood, shoving them down. His erect cock was caught in his trousers for a moment, then sprang upward.

“I can’t wait, angel,” he said hoarsely.

He helped her up, drew her back to the bed. He fell back onto the mattress, pulling her with him. She squealed with surprise as she landed on his broad, bare chest. His hand cupped the back of her head, drawing her into a kiss.

Sophie wanted to play. She threaded her fingers in Cary’s silky hair. She parried her tongue with his. She knew how to kiss now. The beauty of kissing was it wasn’t just about kissing him with skill, but about sharing something exciting and sensual together.

She let her mouth caress his. Gently. Teasingly. Then she kissed hard and passionate and thrust her tongue into his mouth. When she backed off, he was breathing hard. His blue eyes were hazy with lust.

He pursued her, kissing her, holding her so tight to him that there was no air between them. They were both essentially naked. Two now warm bodies pressed together. She felt steam rising between them.

She almost wanted to sob. With happiness.

She loved Cary. She knew she did.

Cary rolled her gently onto her back, then he got on top of her. She sank a little into the soft mattress. She wanted to be so close to him. As he kissed her, she hooked her leg around his legs. Wrapped her arms around him.

He kissed her mouth. Her cheek. Even her chin, which made her giggle.

His head rested in the crook of her neck, and he kissed a spot under her jaw. Oh God! That one made her shiver and gasp.

She touched his back. Felt his warmth. She pressed her hand against his chest to feel the beat of his heart. Ooh, fast.

His lips closed over her right nipple. He knew just what to do. Lick. Suck. Tug. Flick with his tongue. He would tease her like this until she was ready to explode—

He stopped. His mouth skimmed lower. Down to her navel, and each kiss along the way made her wind up more, grow more aroused. Lower and lower he was going—

Then he suckled her clit. She was so ready. She felt her juices flow. Smelled them and blushed.

Something bumped her inner thigh. Heavens, it was his cock, so rigid that it felt like being prodded with a cricket bat.

She wrapped her hand around it. So thick. So hard. Pulsing in her grip. But he unwrapped her fingers. He took his cock in his own hand.

Once, they had pleasured themselves in front of each other. That had been shocking . . . and deliciously fun.

Did this mean he wanted to do that instead of making love? Had he realized he couldn’t do it? She would share this with him no matter what.

She let her fingers slide down through her nether curls—

Cary got between her legs, and he pressed his erect cock against her pussy lips. She moaned at the wonderful tug as his cock tried to push between her lips. Her hand was trapped between their bodies, pressing on her clit.

Slowly, he parted her wet, sticky lips. She was almost holding her breath! His hips thrust, and his cock slid in a few inches. She gripped his shoulders. He was big, stretching her, but it felt so good. He shifted his hips and hit that magical place inside her. She clutched tighter to hard muscle, quivering.

“Oh!” She gasped.

Deeper and deeper he went. His eyes were half shut, and she didn’t want to look into his eyes in case she spoiled this moment.

His groin bumped hers. He was all the way inside her. Filling her.

Her eyes were wide. Every sensation—she wanted to know every sensation.

His mouth caressed her nipples, his finger stroked her sensitive, aching clit, his cock thrust deep. So deep. Sometimes so deep, the agony was both pleasure and pain, and her nails gouged his skin.

He thrust faster, and she moved with him. His hips flowed like silk over her. She closed her eyes. Heard his rasping breaths.

Yes. Oh yes.

She moved faster. His fingers played with her, he kissed the sensitive place on her neck, and she cried out, “I’m going to come. Just do this. Keep doing this.”

A rough laugh against her neck. But he did. Bliss built in her, bubbling and boiling, and then her orgasm welled up and rushed through her.

She clung to him. Sobbed as she curled to put her head against his.

“Sophie.”

When he said her name like that, he was going to—

He bucked against her. A rush of heat filled her. Heat and wetness, and he rode out his orgasm with a look of intense agony and low, soft groans. Then he slumped on her. Half on his side so he wasn’t crushing her.

“That was beautiful,” he said. He brushed back his golden hair, darkened to amber with sweat.

“You did it.” She gazed at him. “It means you are healed. You did it!”

“Did I do it well?”

“Of course. But what does that matter?” she asked ingenuously. “All that matters is that you now can! Which means you can be married—” She broke off abruptly.

He rolled up onto his side. Kissed her forehead, then the top of her nose. Gently. Sweetly. Cary lifted from her, then got out of bed. “Yes,” he said. “I can.”