Bed changed everything. Ren’s blood ran hot with the thrill of deliberately taking a woman to bed, of watching her undress and undressing for her in turn. The mere prospect honed a man’s arousal to a sharp edge of anticipation. There was a titillating intimacy to the formal art of sex in a bedroom that was absent from hotter, more spontaneous encounters—the sort of which had populated their couplings to date.
He liked those encounters as well. They didn’t require thinking, only doing, only living in the moment of passion. One could be swept away, let oneself go and then use that very spontaneity as a carefully constructed excuse later to explain ‘the mistake’. One did not have such leniency in the bedroom where it was all clearly premeditated. One had to be honest with oneself afterwards.
A single lamp illuminated Emma’s bedchamber, casting a rosy-gold light on the walls. Like the other walls in the house, they were white stucco. Wallpaper didn’t last in the humidity. But the other items in the room leant the chamber its colour. A braided rug in oranges, pinks and reds lay on the polished hardwood planking of the floor. A quilt of matching colours lay folded at the foot of the bed.
Ah, the bed! It was a four-postered wonder done in teak, covered in an immaculate white quilt turned back to expose the thick mattress and tight fitted sheets. Pillows were plumped sumptuously against the headboard. But what stood out most to Ren was how high it was set up from the ground in what he was coming to know as the Caribbean style. His own bed in the garçonnière was set unusually high, too. Michael had explained it was for protection against anything that crawled or slithered: scorpions, snakes, stinging beetles. Necessity it might be, but it also precluded any romantic gesture of carrying one’s lover to bed since getting into bed required a mounting block. A laugh escaped him at the humour.
‘What’s so funny?’ Emma had sobered, too—perhaps she’d also realised what a bedding in the bedroom entailed.
Ren nodded towards the steps set beside the bed. ‘I was just thinking how appropriate it was to need a mounting block for mounting of another sort.’
She tossed him a hot look. ‘You have a wicked mind, Ren Dryden.’
‘It makes me more interesting.’ Ren tugged at the end of his cravat, pulling it loose and letting the yards of cloth slide around his neck, giving Emma ample warning of what was coming next. He tossed the strip of cloth on to the end of the bed. One never knew when a cravat could be put to other uses.
Emma took her cue and sat down in an upholstered lady’s chair by the window. She spread her skirts about her, managing to look both demure and worldly as she prepared to watch him disrobe.
Ren started with his waistcoat, making her wait as he took off his watch chain and cufflinks, setting them in a trifle dish on the table next to the bed. He undid the buttons of his paisley waistcoat and started on the studs of his shirt, pulling his tails out of the waistband of his trousers as he went. His shirt came off. He heard Emma’s breath catch at the sight of him.
* * *
He was magnificent! Emma’s hands fisted in the folds of her skirts, her breath catching at the sight of him. There was something poignantly erotic about seeing a lover revealed for the first time, a gorgeous package being unwrapped just for her. Ren Dryden in clothes was a sight to behold. Ren Dryden without them was beyond words.
The dark shadows of the cave had not done him justice, nor had their lusty half-clothed couplings. Here was a man who knew how to take care of himself. His chest was a sculpted atlas of muscles, his shoulders blatantly displaying their breadth. This was what she’d lain her head against at the beach, these were the arms that had held her against the wall and carried her up the stairs to bed.
Ren’s hands went to the waistband of his trousers, his eyes on her making it known that part of this seduction was this decadent voyeurism—him studying her studying him. A slow smile crept across his face. ‘Watch me, Em.’
As if she could do otherwise. Her throat was dry with anticipation, her eyes riveted on his hands, taking in every minute motion of those long fingers as he undid the fall of his trousers and pushed them down past narrow hips, muscled thighs and well-shaped calves. She couldn’t recall when his boots had come off, but they must have at some point. It was hardly important when there was so much more to look at, to wonder over. Her eye was drawn to the manly core of him, to that nest of dark hair and what was jutting up sharply from it. She needn’t be shy, he meant for her to look, to drink her fill. A trill of feminine possessiveness took her. Her lover was extraordinary.
Ren climbed the steps to the bed and stretched out, posing on his side and letting the lamplight fall over the length of his body; every plane, every angle, every muscle of him on display as he propped himself up on an elbow, resting his head on his hand, one leg bent. There wasn’t an ounce of modesty to him. He was all brazen male. He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. Now it was her turn.
Emma rose from her chair, thankful she’d inadvertently chosen a dress she could get off by herself. She’d not planned this when she’d dressed for dinner. The idea of taking Ren to bed had been spontaneous, a product of the warm night and their quiet disclosures and, to be honest, a product of distraction. His questions were getting too close to disturbing subjects she’d rather not discuss until she must. Already, she’d told him so much. And yet, a secret or two remained.
Emma reached behind her, freeing the three hooks that fastened the gown. She let the dress slide over her body and down, leaving her in the soft, thin cotton of her undergarments. ‘Move into the light,’ Ren instructed in low, hoarse tones from the bed. ‘I want it to play behind you, my very own erotic chiaroscuro.’
‘Ah, an artist’s distribution of light and shadow.’ Emma replied, complying. She knew full well what the light would do, what it would expose: the deep rosy brown of her nipples pressing against the thin linen of her chemise, showcasing the dark juncture between her legs.
Emma lifted a leg to the middle step of the mounting block and began to peel off her stocking. She felt Ren’s eyes following the roll of silk down past her knee, down slim calves. She did the second one, hearing the sheets rustle as Ren shifted his weight. She was careful not to look at him, inviting him to participate in a different sort of voyeurism than the kind he’d invoked. She undressed as if she was alone in her room, unaware of a man watching her private ablutions.
Emma raised the chemise over her head, letting the lamplight catch her breasts in profile. She discarded the undergarment and cupped her breasts, lifting them, palming them as if studying their suitability, something she’d done a hundred times in front of a mirror, testing her own attractiveness. But in front of a man, the act took on something bolder, wilder.
‘Goodness, Emma. You’d drive a saint to sin,’ Ren growled appreciatively from the bed, lust lacing his words. She pretended not to hear, her hands moving to the delicate string of her pantalettes. She turned her back to him and moved her hips, drawing the loosened pantalettes downward over the slim curve of her buttocks until they pooled in a white puddle at her feet.
‘Come to bed, Minx.’
‘Not yet,’ Emma said softly, knowing he was enjoying the view from behind as much as he’d enjoyed the other views she’d presented. She reached up to her hair and pulled out the pins, letting the heavy tresses fall down her back, a dark curtain. She heard Ren moan. After a moment more, she turned to face him for the first time, fully naked, enjoying the desire that flared in his eyes, knowing she’d been the one to put it there. ‘I shall take pity on my poor subject and grant him a boon. What do you want? Name anything.’
‘I want to be your steed, my lady. Will you ride me?’
Emma climbed the steps to the bed and straddled him, her knees sinking into the soft mattress. ‘Gladly. I will ride you and more,’ she promised. His hands were warm where they framed her hips. She lifted herself over him, rising over his rigid shaft and lowered, slowly slipping on to him, letting herself savour the slide of him as she took him inside. Oh, this was exquisite! This was power! One look at Ren’s face and she knew he shared the sensation, too. There was awe and amazement written there, as if nothing had ever felt this good, this right.
Emma began to ride, up and down the length of him, his hands holding her hips so she didn’t stray too far. She clenched about him, delighting in the gasp of surprise that claimed him. Ren had not anticipated such a show of feminine strength. She did it again and felt him respond inside her. His grip tightened on her hips and she gave a little scream as he rolled her beneath him, a swift move that kept them joined. ‘I thought you wanted me to ride you. You lied!’ Emma protested, looking up into his blue eyes.
‘I didn’t lie. I changed my mind,’ Ren clarified with a wolfish grin.
She adjusted her legs about him, shifting ever so slightly to accommodate this new position. ‘You’re a most demanding subject.’
Ren bit at her neck. ‘You’re a most tempting queen who needs to be taught a lesson about provoking said subject.’
Emma raised her hands above her head in surrender, her voice a husky whisper. ‘Then teach me.’
Ren didn’t have to be asked twice. He stretched out his arms, reaching up to capture her wrists in his grip. Using her body as leverage, he began the rhythm she craved; thrust and withdraw, each cycle building the delicious tension. She felt herself die a little each time he pulled back and live again when he surged into her, her body flowing about him until the tension he’d wrought was unbearable, pushing her to the breaking point. Ren’s voice was harsh at her ear, a victim of his own efforts. ‘Let go, Em.’
That was when she broke, taking him with her over pleasure’s cliff. A strangled cry escaped her. She was falling, falling with only Ren to hold on to, her anchor in the free fall into pleasure’s oblivion. Her one cogent thought, brief and fleeting: how was it that a game of seduction, a game she’d designed to counteract his own efforts to render her vulnerable, a game designed to protect her, had failed her completely, leaving her exposed to the very things she sought to avoid?
How, in heaven’s name, had this happened? But she knew the answer in part already. This was what happened when one dared to use sex as a weapon, forgetting that quite often weapons are turned on those who wield them.
* * *
‘How the hell has this happened?’ Arthur Gridley brought the palm of his hand down hard on the polished mahogany surface of his desk. The inkstand jumped, the heavy paperweight gave a shudder.
The man standing before him played with the brim of his straw hat, too nervous to meet his gaze, as well he might be. The man had nothing good to report. Ren Dryden had turned out to have a voracious sexual appetite if the man’s information was to be believed. But then, Dryden couldn’t take all the credit. Arthur imagined Emma Ward could bring out the best in any man’s more intimate appetites.
‘They went out into the gardens and when they came back in, they went upstairs.’
‘Which room?’ Arthur interrupted.
‘Second room on the right in the front.’
‘Her room.’ Arthur nodded his confirmation, his groin tightening at the image of Emma taking a man into her private chambers.
The man coughed discreetly. ‘There was a lamp, sir, there were shadows visible from the front lawn. There’s no doubt what they got up to.’
‘And what was that?’ Arthur Gridley pressed. He was making his messenger uncomfortable, but he wanted the details, wanted to know exactly what Emma and Dryden had been doing. He listened intently, his mind providing the erotic images of Emma undressing against the light, her hair coming down, her hands on her breasts, teasing Dryden in ways she ought to be teasing him instead; Dryden stripping out of his trousers, his naked, muscled body covering Emma. Dryden was a well-made man. Arthur was flexible enough to appreciate Dryden’s physical features, although he’d appreciate them more if they weren’t being used to seduce Emma out from under him.
In fact, once his lurid fascination was appeased, there was only anger left; anger at Emma, who had betrayed him by throwing herself after an Englishman she barely knew, yet again; anger at Ren Dryden who fashioned himself a gentleman and ought to have known better than to accept the offer. Arthur pulled a quill from the inkstand, playing with it. A gentleman didn’t take advantage of a woman on her own, especially when the gentleman in question had been told she was taken. The quill in his hand snapped. Well, the gloves were off now. If Ren Dryden didn’t feel the need to act like gentleman, neither did he.
It was difficult to strike against Emma as he would like. To destroy her cane crop, for instance, would bring her to her knees financially and quite possibly in other ways. She’d be begging him to help her through the season. But the move seemed illogical. To hurt Sugarland would be to strike against himself. He would ultimately pay for any destruction he did to the plantation and that defeated his purposes. He wanted Emma Ward in his bed, but he wanted Sugarland in his bank account. He would have to pull the financial rug out from under her in other ways.
He doubted Ren Dryden would be as eager to take her to bed if she wasn’t a plantation heiress. The reported activities of the last two days suggested Dryden had not yet taken his advice and looked at the books. Arthur tapped the broken end of the quill against the desk. It was time to make sure Dryden did. A glimpse of financial reality might also encourage Dryden to join the cartel regardless of the pleasures Emma provided in bed. When money talked, men usually listened. He would be there first thing in the morning to make sure Dryden didn’t prove to be the exception.
Arthur undid his trousers and put a hand on himself. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, his mind conjuring up a vision of Emma on her knees before him, her hair unpinned, begging him, pleading with him. His hand slipped up and down as a dialogue formed in his head. She was sorry she’d given herself to the wrong man. He’d been right; Dryden had only wanted her for her money. Dryden had made a whore of her with his demands. She’d forgotten how powerful Arthur was, how she should have come to him from the start, how he’d always been there for her. If he would only forgive her, she would spend her life showing her gratitude.
Arthur began to jerk in his excitement. In his fantasy, he saw himself place a priestlike hand on her head, offering absolution. ‘Take me in your mouth, Emma, and all will be forgiven.’