Chapter Four

He had expected her to balk, Emma realized. Perhaps he was more perceptive than most gentleman of her acquaintance. Her grasp on her courage had faltered there, just briefly, when the reality of the situation had settled in.

It wasn't that she didn't want to do this; it was that the fantasy had been so much different than the reality. It had been an easy thing to want—physical touch, pleasure—when the man involved had been a nameless, faceless stranger. When it had been only a secret longing that had lived inside her chest, within her dreams.

But now he was made real, and sitting beside her on the couch.

His name was Rafe, and he smelled of cloves and cinnamon, like a rich blend of spices that reminded her of a good mulled wine enjoyed over Christmastide. Of settling before a fire in winter while wrapped in a thick blanket, and of watching the snowflakes dance on the breeze without the windows.

He studied her with dark, intense eyes, as if gauging the veracity of her words. "If you're certain," he said, finally, in a voice a few shades darker than the one he had used in that idle conversation that had come before. A voice as rich as the brandy they had shared, heady and intoxicating. "Turn your back. I want to unbutton your gown."

"My gown? But should we not…I mean to say, my bedchamber—"

"Perhaps later." That hand, which had dangled just above her shoulder, settled upon it at last, turning her to face away from him, gently but inexorably. Then the strange new sensation of her hair being gathered into careful hands and draped over her shoulder. "For now, I don't want you there, in a room you shared with your late husband. There is no place for other memories in this."

Oh. Emma felt her brows draw together at the odd insistence within the words. "We didn't share a bedchamber," she heard herself say, just as she felt a light tug upon the topmost button of her gown, felt it slip through its closure. "That is to say that Ambrose often kept irregular hours. It wouldn't have been convenient."

A rough, disdainful sound that tickled her ear. Close enough, vibrant enough to provoke a shiver. "A poor excuse, that. I would not allow something so trifling as convenience to keep me from my wife's bed."

Emma's spine stiffened with the stirrings of outrage at the tiniest suggestion that she might be poaching, however unknowingly, upon another woman's territory. "Have you got one?"

A brief pause; his fingers stilling almost completely there between her shoulder blades. "No," he said at last. "Nor I would be here, in these circumstances, if I did."

Palpable relief swept over her. "I suppose your chosen profession would make maintaining a marriage a difficult endeavor," she said awkwardly. "Of course, wives are meant not to notice such things. But I can't imagine that there wouldn't be at least some measure of jealousy."

She felt the last button slip its mooring, felt the bodice of her gown loosen. A soft laugh, genuinely amused, stirred the hair near her ear. "And what is it, exactly, that you imagine I do to earn my living?"

"Well, I had assumed—" Her hand lifted in a general vague gesture, meant to encapsulate the both of them.

Warm fingers touched her back, splayed the material of her gown open, revealing the chemise beneath it. "I told you I was a friend of your brother," he said.

"I assumed that was an obfuscation, or perhaps a euphemistic turn of phrase."

"You assumed incorrectly." His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck, tracing a delicate pattern there. Almost as if—as if to acquaint her with his touch, to soothe her from her flustered state. "I told you. He speaks of you often."

"Highly, you said," she corrected him. "Not often." That, too, she had assumed was merely a polite lie, designed to set her at ease.

"He speaks of you often as well." Those warm fingers pushed the sleeves of her gown off of her shoulders, taking those of her chemise with it. "Do you truly think he would send just anyone to you?"

"I don't know," she said. "In fact, I didn't ask him to send anyone. I simply thought to prevail upon his connections for someone suitable." And somehow, he'd found a gentleman—or at least someone who could pass for one. "If you're not in Kit's employ, then why did you come?"

Those fingers curled at her nape like a brand, and for a long moment there was only stillness and silence at her back. "Because I wanted to," he said at last, and the words were heavy, as if a great weight had settled in his chest. Like they constituted a truth he was reluctant to admit even to himself. "Because above everything else, I wanted to."

There was the slight, prickly rasp of the beginnings of a beard against her shoulder, the heat of his breath at the curve of her neck. Her skin sizzled with the sensation; a touch unlike any she had known in the last ten years.

No. A touch unlike any she had ever known, she mused, as his lips touched the sensitive skin there just beneath her ear. Ambrose had kissed her, of course, but it had always been more or less perfunctory. As if he had been crossing an item off of a list, an obligation to be seen to without much enthusiasm.

This was nothing like that. She could almost believe he enjoyed it, this leisurely exploration of the skin revealed above the loosed neckline of her gown. Almost.

Her voice trembled, just a bit. "You needn't…you needn't go to all that bother," she said, though some strange, aching part of her dearly wished he would.

A low laugh tickled her flesh. "Emma," he said, and she was struck wordless at only the sound of her name on his lips. "I'll make you a bargain. I won't tell you how to raise the children in your care—and you won't tell me how to do this. Are we agreed?"

"Yes." Though she could hardly think with the delicate scrape of his cheek against her skin. If he did not wish to be relieved of such actions, well, then, she was hardly going to stop him. Not when every nerve sang at the sensations they evoked. "Yes," she said again, though it had come out more like a sigh.

"Good." The word was warm and approving, like praise. A moment later his hands found her hips, dragged her back across the couch, and tumbled her across his lap. Perhaps it was the brandy she'd imbibed, or perhaps it was the heat of his body, or even some unholy amalgamation of the two, but—every last bit of tension slipped free of her body. Limp and pliant as a child's rag doll, she found herself nestled within the cage of his arms, the back of her head pressed against his right shoulder. Through the barriers of skirts and petticoats and chemise, still she could feel the evidence of his arousal prodding her bottom.

It surprised her. Probably it shouldn't have, given the nature of this assignation, but he worn such a carefully-contrived mask of civility in those moments when they had been idly chatting that this had never occurred to her.

"Come now," he said, his fingertips sliding along the delicate skin of her throat. "You knew what was meant to happen."

"Yes." Could he feel the frantic pounding of her heart there in the hollow of her throat where his fingers rested? "Yes, but I didn't expect—"

A light laugh, trickling over her ears with the smoothness of brandy. "Emma, I've been hard as steel from the moment I entered this room."

"I hadn't noticed." Those warm fingers followed a long swallow down her throat and dipped beneath the rumpled neckline of her dress.

"You weren't meant to notice. In the event that you reconsidered." His chin rasped against the smooth skin of her shoulder, and his fingers plucked at the tie at the neckline of her chemise, loosening the fabric. "No stays," he murmured, and again it sounded approving. Something within her—that withered bloom of desire that had been starved these long years of touch, of affection—strained toward the sustaining sunlight of it. Toward those gentle fingers that meandered, too slowly, toward the swell of her breast. "You can still reconsider," he said.

Even if she might, at some point, have entertained second—or even third—thoughts, still they would have been pushed from her head the moment that she had felt his bare fingers upon her skin. A sensation more intoxicating than brandy; more wicked than the lurid fantasies with which she had long shared her lonely bed.

Like a devil conjured up from her dreams. Sin and absolution both, blended with a velvety voice and hands that scorched her with tiny licks of flame. The sort of man who could drag a woman straight to Hell and make her relish every step of the journey.

"I've not reconsidered." There was a queer, breathy quality to her voice, and she pursed her lips against a sigh as those wicked fingers dipped deeper within the loosed fabric of her bodice, finding the point of her nipple and massaging it to a taut peak. Her head fell back, cradled against the curve of his shoulder, eyes drifting closed.

"Good." His lips brushed her temple with the words. "Put your arms around my neck," he said, "and raise your right leg over mine."

"Oh, but…" His erection still prodded her bottom. "Shouldn't we—"

"Emma." It was only her name, but it was a command in and of itself, given by a man who sounded accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed. She curled her arms around his neck, and the motion arched her spine and pressed her breast more firmly into the heated cup of his palm. Her skirts pulled as she separated her knees and she managed to slide her leg across his broad thigh.

"Good girl," he murmured, but the brief flare of outrage she experienced at the perceived condescension was vanquished by the cool kiss of air against her calves. There was the rustle of silk, the brush of it against her stockings as his left hand fisted in her skirts, dragging them away from her legs, until the bulk of the fabric settled in her lap.

Her legs were bared. Or—mostly bared. She had her stockings still, and her garters. Warm fingers settled on her thigh, just above the top of her stocking, and traced odd, nonsensical patterns on a leisurely journey up.

And up.

And up.

She felt more than heard the hitch of his breath in his chest as he found the cluster of curls between her thighs with just the tips of his fingers, ever so slowly sinking into the revealing dampness beneath. A muffled curse grazed her ear; a fitful, helpless tremor slid from his body to hers. Those wicked fingers delved, in a purely proprietary manner.

"Do you touch yourself like this?" he asked, the smooth tenor of his voice belied by the harsh rasp of his breath against her temple. One finger plunged into her depths as if he could coax the answer from her with the motion, and she swallowed back a gasp.

"Yes. Sometimes, I—" Oh, God, her thighs were already trembling with the encroaching climax, muscles strung tight. It had just been so long since she'd been touched by hands other than her own. "A woman has needs," she managed to say, though the words tumbled together in an inelegant slur. Somehow, her right hand had grasped a fistful of his hair, almost as if to brace herself for the oncoming storm, and the thick strands were so cool, so silky in the clasp of her fingers.

"Christ. I would do murder to see that." And since he was an associate of Kit's, he might truly have meant it. His right hand kneaded the soft flesh of her breast as his left played between her thighs with a sort of urgency she couldn't quite understand. Deep plunges of his fingers; a soft swirl of his thumb over the bead of her clitoris until she had to bite her lower lip against the odd little sounds that wanted to climb out of her throat.

He was a stranger. He could be anyone at all. A thief, a criminal. A murderer, even.

And yet she had never felt safer. Less inhibited. Freer.

Strong teeth nipped the lobe of her ear, nibbled gently. "You're going to come against my fingers," he said, "and then I am going to lay you down upon this couch and make certain you never look upon it again without thinking of me."

She shattered with a low, helpless sound of completion, her back bending with the force of it. Behind her closed eyes, a starburst of lights sparkled and shimmered as every muscle tightened and pulled in a burst of agonized pleasure.

She hadn't recovered before he'd rid her of dress and chemise and petticoats all. But the chill of the air hadn't yet had the time to cool her overheated skin before he'd laid her out in an ungainly sprawl against the velvet cushions and covered her with his body.

The fabric of his coat scratched across the flesh of her belly. The fine wool of his trousers rasped the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. His hands wrestled with the fall, wrenching at buttons until the length of him sprang free, heavy and hot and demanding.

With a muted growl, he slid his elbows beneath her knees, lifting her—holding her in place, her hips levered off of the couch entirely. She gasped at the stretch of being invaded, plundered, even as her body still pulsed with satisfaction. It didn't hurt; he wasn't careless or reckless or greedy.

But he was relentless. And she—she wasn't finished. Another climax beckoned, kindling deep in her belly with every masterful inward stroke. Each deep, powerful plunge drew it closer and closer to the surface, until she could only grasp at his shoulders, claw at his back with fingernails that scratched across the fabric of his coat, and whimper through the maelstrom that dragged her beneath it once more.

A low groan and a fierce shudder told her that he'd found his pleasure in her as well, and she thought—Good. He had deserved that.

And then she turned her face into the pillow of her arm and let a few tears slip free, her heart aching anew at the terrible realization that this assignation with a stranger had felt more like love to her starved heart than the act ever had with her late husband.

∞∞∞

He'd taken her with all the finesse of a starving man presented with a feast, but by God it had been satisfying to see her find her pleasure. To watch that passion-flush wash down the delicate, lightly freckled skin of her throat, painting her breasts a lovely pink. To see them rise and fall with each fractured breath.

He shouldn't have come inside her, but she'd not conceived in three years of marriage—and Ambrose had had at least one bastard that he knew of—so it was probably safe enough.

Rafe had never given much thought to children, but he'd have quite liked to plant his baby in Emma's belly. It was the thought process of a savage, primal creature; unworthy of the man he was meant to be. And still, as he slid free of her body and watched a trickle of his spend drip free, he found himself swiping it up with his forefinger and pushing it back inside her.

She made a soft, choked sound, swiping at her eyes with one hand. "If you are thinking a child might secure you a wealthy wife," she said caustically, "you're mistaken. That field has always lain fallow." Despite the acerbic slant to the words, still they sounded shaded with sorrow.

Probably, he thought, she'd welcome even a bastard child given to her by a stranger, if it meant having one of her own to love.

He'd given her pleasure, but he'd also given her the tears that she swiped from her eyes just before she flung her hand over the edge of the couch, rooting about for her discarded gown. If he let her, she'd recover herself within moments, stuffing down every bit of herself that had come loose this past half hour. She would retreat once again within the shell of the lady she was meant to be and bury the woman she was.

She would crawl into her lonely bed. Cry still more tears that Ambrose had never deserved from her.

He hadn't ever meant to let it go this far between them, had been certain she would come to her senses long before the act. Another misstep in a long line of them that had ruined him. Ruined her. But he was going to make yet another, and by God, he would enjoy it.

"Have you got servants wandering about this time of night?" he asked.

Emma froze, her fingertips brushing the rumpled skirt of her gown there on the floor. "No," she said, her auburn brows knitting. "No; they—they stay near the children. On the other side of the house."

"Good." He snatched the gown and chemise both out from beneath her fingers, balled them up, and tossed them somewhere behind him, provoking a protest from her.

"What the devil are you doing?" she gasped.

"We're not done."

"I beg your pardon." She levered herself up upon her elbows, those dark blue eyes imperious, agitation scrawled into the haughty purse of her lips.

"You will beg, before I am through with you." The thread of anger that wove itself into his voice as he butted himself back into his trousers was directed inward, though she couldn't know that. He hadn't even removed his coat. Before he left her, he meant to have her skin to skin.

Meant to make her forget why she'd cried.

She was silent, wary—but she threw one arm over her breasts, concealing the coral nipples that had gone to tight points once more.

He leaned closer, braced one arm above her head, and rubbed his chin against the curve of her shoulder just as he had learned she liked. He relished the shiver that wracked her, the soft panting of her breath with an arousal she could not quite control. Mastered by it in the same was he was.

"In a moment," he said, in a silky whisper right into the shell of her ear, "I am going to let you up. And you are going to run back to your bedchamber."

"You'll catch me." There was a faint whistle to the words, as if they had rasped over dry lips.

"Emma," he chided on a low snicker, "of course I am going to catch you. You're going to let me catch you. But not," he specified, "before you reach your bedchamber. Or I'll take you right where I catch you. Do you understand?"

A nod, half-agitated, half-titillated.

He let her up. She sprang upright, naked but for her shoes and stockings, pink and flushed and with knees that trembled like a newborn fawn's. She could have shouted the house down if she had a mind, brought every servant within it racing to her rescue. Instead she stared at him just for a moment, as if he were a mystery she could not quite grasp. Huge, luminous eyes, lips parted so slightly, hair a wretched tangle, long freed of its ribbon and hanging half over her shoulder.

And then she ran.

He leapt up and gave chase, and their footsteps thundered through hallways and up staircases and just once, he thought, he heard the faint echo of a wild, reckless laugh—hers.

He caught her barely a step over the threshold of her bedchamber, lifted her straight off of her feet, slammed the door shut, and tossed her onto her bed.

Not cold. Not lonely. Not tonight.

And then he satisfied her lusts and his own, until at last she had fallen into an exhausted slumber, her cheek cradled in the cup of her palm as she snuggled into the downy softness of the pillow beneath her head.

It hurt his heart, how badly he wanted to stay there beside her, to hold her as she slipped away into dreams—sweeter ones than usual, he hoped.

Instead he dressed quietly and went to work at the other half of his obligations here this evening. It wasn't hard. Emma was no spy, not skilled in the art of subterfuge and deception. Didn't even know she had something worth concealing.

The journal was in the very first place he looked, tucked away in the drawer of the nightstand beside her bed, as any competent thief would have expected of a sentimental, grieving widow. He could have just as easily picked a lock on one of the doors below, let himself in, and retrieved it without ever having touched her.

But he'd done it anyway.

He let himself out of her house in the wee hours of the morning, having gotten what he'd come for on both counts and feeling like the worst sort of villain imaginable.