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The panel slid silently open and he peered into the Pewter Room. Rafael was laughing, tickling Victoria as he removed each article of her clothing. And then he was kissing each spot of flesh he uncovered. Her breasts—bared and glistening—were full and white as cream silk, her nipples taut and deep rose. And he, Rafael, was enjoying her, caressing those magnificent breasts, sucking her nipples, making her want him. She arched her back, offering herself more fully to him, and moaned, ever so softly, tangling her fingers in his black hair, pulling him closer to her.
Then Rafael was laughing again, cupping her glorious breasts, pushing them upward, lowering his head for more kisses. Her eyes were dark with pleasure, and she was laughing and moaning as he played with her. He watched her hands, her slender white hands, slip below the waist of Rafael’s buckskins, saw his eyes widen, his pupils dilate, saw his swollen sex against her caressing fingers.
Then she was naked, her clothes strewn about her feet on the floor, her chemise half-torn in Rafael’s hand. And she was so very lovely that it was painful to look at her. And to watch Rafael enjoying her. But she was protesting now, laughing, poking him in the stomach.
“This isn’t fair. Come, it’s my turn. This won’t be like the kitchen again at Honeycutt Cottage.”
And her nimble hands were unfastening buttons, pulling off his coat and his frilled white shirt. Soon he was sitting in a chair, Victoria’s naked bottom toward him, and she was tugging at his boots, laughing, and he was chuckling, and touching her buttocks, splaying his fingers over her, leaning forward to kiss the white flesh, running his hands down her thighs.
There was the jagged scar on her left thigh.
Ugly, he supposed, but her legs were long and slender, sleekly muscled. Beautiful as the soft nest of hair between her thighs, covering her, waiting to be probed by a man’s hands and a man’s mouth.
The boots were off and soon Rafael was as naked as she. They came together, she on her tiptoes, fitting herself tightly against him, her arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him more thoroughly. And there were her cries, her moans, and Rafael’s hands all over her, kneading her buttocks, then lifting her, fitting her legs around his waist.
He pulsed and swelled himself, and ached with wild pain, wishing it were he, hating Rafael for being the one to possess her.
He sucked in his breath as Rafael lifted her suddenly, his hand going between her thighs, parting her, he knew, and then without warning he came deeply into her and she screamed—not in pain—throwing her head back, her hair, loose now, a veil of pure chestnut down her back. Her legs hugged him, and her hands were frantic on his chest, his arms. And he was working her, plunging deep, then withdrawing himself, only to return completely into her.
She cried out, beyond herself, again and again.
He hurt now, a lusting pain so great that he moaned softly to himself.
Then Rafael pulled her tightly against him, drawing on lost control, he knew. More kisses and murmurs, and Rafael saying to her something about wanting her so much, about his mouth on her. Then she was on her back on the bed, her legs parted, and Rafael was coming over her, covering her, his hand between them, finding her.
And she climaxed wildly, endlessly.
God, he couldn’t bear it. He slid the panel closed, feeling the small wooden knob slip. His fingers were slippery with sweat. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His pants were distended with his need.
He fled down the dark, narrow passage, his breathing harsh in his own ears.
“Love,” Rafael said, “I can’t wait.”
She drew him deeper, and it seemed in that moment that she would want him forever. She told him she loved him and his eyes gleamed at her words, and she watched the cords tighten in his strong throat, his eyes close, his
back arch, and felt him filling her.
And she held him, holding him so closely that they were one, and he was now a part of her and she of him. She didn’t want it to end, ever.
He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. He was beyond words, beyond thought. He collapsed atop her, his head on the pillow beside hers. Never had he felt such profound joy.
The Ram read Johnny Tregonnet’s letter once again, trying to make sense of the less-than-cogent recital of Rafael’s approach to Johnny the previous night at the ball. Stupid sod, he thought, crumpling the single sheet of paper in rage. So Captain Carstairs wanted to join their little group, did he? Or he would destroy everything? That was his threat.
The Ram sat back in his comfortable leather chair and stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace. He was briefly tempted to let the captain loose on his threatened rampage. He would doubtless learn the identity of every member—if he hadn’t already guessed who they were. Except one. No one, not a single member, knew the identity of the Ram. The men thought the black hoods were all a lark, a ploy to pretend that they were anonymous so that their inhibitions were nearly nonexistent. But of course they all knew each other with or without the hoods. No, the black hoods were to protect his, the Ram’s, identity.
This was the first occasion the hidden box for messages had ever been used. The Ram had on an afterthought sent his man to the box to check. And there was the letter. At least Johnny had sobered up enough to remember the existence of the box. Now, what was he to do?
He remembered the one terrible mistake. That damned viscount’s daughter. It was more than a possibility that Captain Carstairs was here on behalf of the viscount, and if that were the case, there was no doubt that the captain was out to destroy him, regardless of the nonsense he’d told Johnny.
What to do? He rose from his chair, stretched his aching muscles, and poured himself a brandy.
He supposed there was only one thing to do. Not that he really wanted to; he’d never before considered himself that sort of man.
But there was the fact that Victoria would be dependent again, vulnerable, with no man to protect her. It was heady, that thought. He wanted her, had wanted her for so very long.
Still, he must move slowly, carefully. There must be no mistakes. He wouldn’t take the risk of informing any of the members of his plans. One of the fools just might ruin everything.
21
