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“Slayde?” Courtney’s expression was quizzical. “Are you keeping something from me?”
“No.” He forced himself to remember the fundamental issue at hand. “I asked a lot of questions, got the names of three merchants who were reputedly adept at forgery and were rumored to handle disreputable business transactions. However, two of them are in prison and one has relocated to Paris to bleed fresh prey. None of them was in Dartmouth this past month and therefore none could have been Armon’s contact. There was a f
ourth fellow mentioned, a John Grimes, an unsavory merchant who apparently sells everything from valuable paintings to gems. Unfortunately, he has conveniently been out of town since yesterday, not due to return until next week. I didn’t leave my name, only the fact that I’m in search of a particular painting and that he was mentioned as a possible source. This way, he won’t be forewarned and try to bolt. But when he returns from his little holiday, I’ll be waiting.
“As for Armon’s known contacts,” Slayde continued with a disgusted frown, “I was in and out of every pub in Dartmouth, handing out pound notes by the dozens. The lowlifes that frequent the places took my money, admitted to knowing Armon, then proceeded to tell me precisely what we already knew: that Armon captained the Fortune; that he and his men were notorious for the booty they obtained at sea; that of late, Armon had taken to bragging that very soon he’d be coming into a huge sum—enough to keep him fat and happy for life. None of which is any great revelation. So, effectively, I have nothing concrete to report.”
“I see.” Beneath his hands, Slayde could feel Courtney’s shoulders tense.
“We’ve just begun,” he told her quietly. “We will unravel this mystery. Remember, I gave you my word.”
That wrenching smile. “I haven’t forgotten. ’Tis what keeps me going when all else seems hopeless.”
“Cutterton said you’d collapsed.” Slayde’s voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears, “That he carried you back to the manor.”
“ ’Tis true. He was extremely kind.”
“And you are extremely weak.” Slayde’s hands glided up to frame her face. “What must I do to keep you from jeopardizing your recovery? Lock you in your room?”
“That depends. Would you stay locked in with me?” The instant the words were out, Courtney looked positively mortified, as if she wanted to sink through the floor and die. Her face grew hot beneath Slayde’s palms, twin spots of crimson staining her cheeks nearly as red as her hair. “Forgive me…I…”
“Yes,” he heard himself say, touched by her heartfelt candor, propelled by something far stronger than his resistance. “Yes, I’d stay with you.” With that, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.
It was as natural as it was overpowering, their hearts and bodies hurtling to life, clamoring simultaneously for more. The kiss sizzled, burned, exploded, and preliminaries were cast aside, unwanted, intolerable.
With an inarticulate sound of joy, Courtney flung herself into the embrace, opening to Slayde’s penetration, rising onto her toes to give him better access.
Ardently, Slayde seized what she offered, frantic to hold her, to taste her, to absorb the miraculous balm she provided, to fill the unknown void within him that seemed suddenly endless, unendurable. “Courtney.” His fingers clenched in her hair, handfuls of rich, cool silk, his tongue possessing her mouth, melding with hers. He felt a shiver run through her, her arms entwining more tightly about his neck, deepening a kiss that was already out of control.
Control be damned.
Slayde pulled Courtney against him, his lips leaving hers to blaze a heated trail down her neck, her throat, the upper swell of her breasts. He could still remember the way her naked skin had felt against his palm, her nipple hardening, her breast swelling to his caress. God he’d driven himself half crazy remembering, fervently wishing he’d never touched her, more fervently wishing he’d never stopped.
“Oh, Slayde.” His name was a breath of a whisper, vibrating against his lips as they traced her bodice. “That feels so…”
“I know.” His mouth returned to hers, devouring her with an urgency that precluded all else. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned her gown, finding the smooth skin of her back and shuddering at the unbearable agony of desire spawned by even the simplest, most innocent contact.
Unthinking, uncaring, Slayde swept Courtney to the bed, followed her down, desire coursing through him in wide, hot rivers of need. “I want you,” he rasped against her mouth. “God, Courtney, I’ve never wanted like this.”
If she answered, he didn’t hear. Having slipped her gown from her shoulders, he tugged down her chemise, nearly insane with the need to see her, taste her, touch her again. He could scarcely breathe past the pounding in his chest, a pounding that intensified at his first glimpse of her utterly flawless beauty. For an endless moment, he just stared, transfixed by the soft, delicate mounds, the pale pink nipples that were hardening beneath his gaze.
“Slayde?”
Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind he heard her. “What?” He virtually tore his gaze away, forced himself to meet her shy, uncertain look.
“Am I all right?” she whispered.
“All right?” He could scarcely speak. “You’re…” How in God’s name could he find the right words when they had yet to be invented? “You’re a miracle.”
Courtney’s eyes filled with tears. “So are you.”
A stab of guilt lanced Slayde’s heart. “No, sweetheart, I’m not.” He lowered his head, kissed the hollow between her breasts, steeling himself to stop at that. “I’m anything but a miracle.”
“You saved my life,” she whispered, her fingers sifting through his hair. “And awakened feelings inside me I never knew existed. If that’s not a miracle, what is?”
Her poignant declaration gave Slayde the strength he’d lacked.
Slowly, he raised up, met her misty gaze. “I’m a Huntley, sweetheart. That’s a curse, not a miracle.”
