Desire

Chapter Eleven

Lucian dodged a blow and returned a punishing one of his own as he battled Gentleman Jackson himself. A crowd had formed around the ring, most of whom were watching in silent awe.

Jackson’s Rooms on Bond Street was one of the finest pugilist clubs in England. Stripped to the waist and breathing hard, the two opponents had already gone six rounds with their bare fists. Lucian’s shoulder muscles ached, and he was sporting various new bruises, but he’d had the upper hand for some time now.

Then he let fly another deadly punch, connecting with Jackson’s jaw and sending the former champion of England stumbling backward against the boundary ropes.

Regaining his footing with difficulty, Jackson wearily held up his hands and grinned. “Pax, my lord. I know when I’ve had enough.”

Nodding, Lucian hid his disappointment and shook hands, brushing off the Gentleman’s praise and the spectators’ accolades with strained patience. He was still hungering for blood as he picked up a towel and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Primal violence was supposed to relieve sexual frustration, but it had had little effect on his lust. Nor had it improved his mood in the least. He wasn’t sleeping well or concentrating on his work. He spent his nights tortured by his aching loins, burning to possess his elusive, tormenting wife. His days he filled with mind-numbing work or spent in places like this, soliciting punishing physical activity.

Despite his resolve to keep up his guard, he’d become much too bewitched by Brynn. And now he was suffering from another kind of arousal altogether: suspicion.

When he’d found her in his study this morning, he wondered if he was badly mistaken about her. He had thought Brynn uninvolved with her brother’s suspected treasonous activities, but after seeing them together-the guilty looks on their faces-he had to seriously question if he could trust her.

Lucian swore under his breath. It was grating enough that his agents in Cornwall had nothing untoward to report about Sir Grayson-no evidence whatsoever that his nocturnal activities went beyond simple smuggling. Worse, they had no further leads regarding the gold thefts or the alleged mastermind, Caliban. Such impotence galled Lucian, but the possibility that he would have to keep an eye on his own wife in his own home filled him with anger.

It was that dark thought that had driven him beyond his normal range of endurance when he’d fought Jackson, but he still hadn’t worked off his frustrations.

Clenching his jaw, he tossed the towel on a bench.

As he reached for his shirt, though, he looked over and spied the Marquess of Wolverton moving toward him. Dare wasn’t smiling.

“What brings you here?” Lucian asked when his friend reached him. “I thought you considered fisticuffs barbaric.”

“I do. Rapiers are far more civilized.”

“Well, if this is a social visit, I should warn you, I’m in the devil of a foul humor.”

“Then I regret to make it worse. I’ve heard a rumor I thought you would wish to know about.”

“A rumor?”

“Do you recall the contretemps that began at your aunt’s garden party?”

Lucian winced at the memory. “How could I forget? Two young whelps quarreling over who could best teach my wife to shoot.”

Dare nodded. “Pickering and Hogarth are still quarreling. The poet has challenged Hogarth to pistols, and they aren’t even planning to wait properly until dawn.”

“A duel?” Lucian said, raising an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with me?”

“They are fighting over your wife, Luce. It seems the two young sap-skulls have accused each other of impugning her honor. They are dueling over her as we speak.”

To save time, Dare drove, since his curricle was immediately available. They took the North Road, heading toward a field just outside London.

Lucian sat silently, his muscles rigid, his thoughts churning. They would likely arrive too late to prevent the duel and avert a scandal, but he had to try.

When they drew near, a sinking feeling claimed him. They might indeed be too late. Several carriages had stopped beside the road, and a crowd had gathered alongside the field.

What knotted his gut, however, was when he recognized a landau that bore the Wycliff crest on the door panels. Apparently it had only just arrived, for as it ground to a halt, a woman spilled out and began running toward the crowd.

Brynn. Dear God.

Riveted, Lucian watched as she pushed her way through the spectators and onto the dueling field, plunging directly into the fray barely an instant before shots rang out-

Fear slammed into his chest.

Leaping from the curricle even before it came to a stop, Lucian sprinted toward the crowd, terrified of what he might find.

They were hovering around a prone figure, he saw with dread. Upon reaching them, he shouldered his way through, then skidded to a halt, shock taking the place of fear. Brynn was there on the ground, kneeling beside a man’s body, holding his bloody hand.

For a moment Lucian felt his mind reel. The image was so much like his nightmare visions… except that in his nightmares, he was the man dying.

He moved closer, his heart pounding. The prone figure was Pickering; the poet had clearly been shot but didn’t appear to be dead. An elderly man, evidently the surgeon, was inspecting his shoulder wound and elicited a groan.

Young Pickering grimaced in pain at the prodding of his raw, bloody flesh, even as he gazed up at Brynn. “My lady…” he rasped, biting his lower lip.

Tenderly she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “Hush, don’t speak. Save your strength.”

Lucian gritted his teeth, relief and jealous fury welling inside him. He wanted to wring Brynn’s neck for endangering herself that way, for scaring him half out of his mind, for gazing down so tenderly at another man, wounded or not-

When Lucian moved possessively to stand beside her, though, Brynn looked up, as if sensing his presence. She was crying; he could see pale streaks on her face, anguish in her green eyes. Lucian felt something twist painfully in his chest, warring with his darker emotions.

She froze for an instant when she saw him, but then the wounded man claimed her attention.

“I would endure ten times the pain,” Pickering murmured hoarsely, “for but one of your smiles.”

Brynn swallowed in a visible effort to hold back tears and might have answered, had not the doctor brusquely interrupted.

“He should recover, but I must take him away to remove the bullet. Stand back, please,” he said to the crowd that was pushing in to gape at the wounded man.

One young gentleman stood slightly apart-the poet’s opponent, Lucian realized. When Brynn rose unsteadily to her feet, Lord Hogarth stepped forward to address her in a pleading tone.

“Please forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to hurt him, truly.”

She whirled on him, her eyes heated through her tears. “I am not the one you should be begging for forgiveness!”

Hogarth first looked startled by her vehemence, then wounded. He opened his mouth to protest, but Brynn cut him off. “This must stop, Hogarth. It will stop. I never wish to see either of you again.”

“My lady…”

“Please just go.”

He looked stricken, but he seemed to comprehend her sincerity, for he took a step backward, then another, before turning and stumbling blindly away.

Dashing tears from her eyes, Brynn watched as the injured Pickering was carried to the surgeon’s carriage. The crowd dispersed then, sending surreptitious glances at Lucian.

Swallowing hard, Brynn risked a glance at him herself and felt her heart sink. His blue eyes were glittering dangerously.

She didn’t protest as he took her arm in a firm grip and escorted her to the Wycliff landau. From the corner of her eye she saw his friend Lord Wolverton waiting beside his curricle, but Lucian gestured toward the marquess, indicating he meant to ride with his wife.

He handed her into the landau, then settled beside her, shutting the door forcefully behind him. She could feel his simmering fury as the carriage began to move.

“What are you doing here?” she murmured, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’ve come to fetch my wife. And I’m the one who should be asking that question. What in hell were you thinking, running onto a dueling field like that? You could have been killed!”

“I wasn’t thinking…”

“Obviously not!” His voice dripped sarcasm. “What did you intend? To watch with glee while your beaux annihilated each other?”

“No, of course not. I was endeavoring to stop them.”

His eyes were brightly blue, furious, beautiful. For a moment Lucian held himself rigid, as if struggling for control. “You might have employed a bit more discretion,” he finally ground out. “Didn’t you at least think to take an unmarked carriage?”

He was referring to the Wycliff crest emblazoned on the carriage panels, Brynn realized. All of London would soon know of her presence on the dueling field.

She turned to stare out the window, biting back her hurt, knowing Lucian had a right to scold. She had been horrified to learn from another admirer about the impending duel. Her only intent had been to intervene before someone was hurt, but she had been too late. She bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her.

“I trust you’re satisfied,” Lucian said in a tight voice. “The scandal sheets will have a field day. What a spectacle-two fools trying to killing each other over my countess.” He reached across her and drew the shade down to cover the carriage window, then did the same on his side, as if to shut out prying eyes.

“I didn’t want this to happen,” she murmured.

“Don’t insult my intelligence by claiming you cared whether you turned me into a laughingstock.”

Brynn shook her head miserably. She couldn’t blame Lucian for being angry that she had sullied his name and her reputation. Even though she hadn’t purposely precipitated the scandal, she had known where the curse could lead. “I… I’m sorry, Lucian.”

“Sorry is hardly adequate. Either of those witless whelps could have died.”

“I know,” Brynn whispered, aching inside. “I am to blame. I knew what could happen.”

“Apologies will serve you little purpose, even if I believed them,” Lucian gritted out, unmollified.

When she didn’t reply, he said even more harshly, “Mark me, Brynn, I won’t allow you to continue like this. You will behave with discretion, or I will remove you from London altogether.” He cursed under his breath. “Perhaps it was a mistake, bringing you here in the first place.”

Brynn swallowed her tears, her chin lifting defensively. “Our entire marriage was a mistake. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“It is far too late now to undo it. And I won’t tolerate your continued wantonness.”

“I have not been wanton.”

“What do you call luring helpless young bucks to pant after your skirts?”

“I call it the effects of the curse.”

“I can more easily believe you’ve been dallying behind my back.” Her husband grasped her upper arm tightly, forcing her to look at him. “I warn you, Brynn. I intend my heir to resemble me.”

Taken aback, she stared at Lucian in genuine shock as she comprehended his meaning. “I would never be unfaithful to my marriage vows.”

“No? You draw the line at driving fools wild? ”

Brynn felt a measure of alarm at the dark glitter in his eyes. She had seen Lucian angry before, but she had never been treated to the full force of his temper or his outraged sense of pride and male jealousy. He was wrong about her, though. She would never dream of cuckolding him. Nor would she be his doormat.

Brynn reined in her anger and hurt and stared at him rebelliously.

The atmosphere was suddenly charged with a new tension. Danger and desire.

He wanted her, she could see it in the fierce blaze of his expression. Against her will, Brynn felt a now-familiar curling sensation stirring in the pit of her stomach: sexual longing.

Their gazes clashed; hers defiant, his heated with primal emotion. His hands closed over both her shoulders in a tight grip.

“Don’t touch me,” she warned, trying to pull back.

The blue of his eyes became deeper, stormier. “Are you daring me, wife?”

She shivered, knowing the peril of challenging him, yet she couldn’t stop herself. “What if I am?”

Something dark and thrilling flared in his expression. In a single smooth motion, he raised the skirt of her gown.

“I shouldn’t think you would want to risk any more scandal,” she taunted.

His expression was hard and sensual, his eyes dilated and dark with arousal as he insinuated his hand between her thighs.

Brynn suddenly felt breathless, stunned by her body’s instinctive response. Lucian had only to touch her and she grew wet for him. A scalding heat flared between her thighs while her nipples tightened to rigid peaks. She had no doubt he could feel her readiness, smell her musky scent.

His finger brushed the bud of her sex and she had to stifle a moan. His bold touch inflamed her senses, igniting the explosive emotions simmering between them.

She drew a sharp breath as he released her to unfasten the buttons of his breeches. His erection sprang long and thick and hard from the base of his groin.

He was going to take her right there, she knew, yet she didn’t want to stop him.

Lost in the blaze of his eyes, she began to tremble, wild arrows of sensation shooting through her body, excitement coursing through her veins. There was an inevitability about it that frightened and thrilled her.

He reached for her again, pulling her against him. When his mouth slanted down upon hers, passion flared instantly between them. His tongue was wet and scalding as it thrust into her mouth, the turbulence of their clashing wills only adding to the heat.

Then his fingers found the center of her femininity and slid deeply inside her, as his tongue was doing to her mouth. Brynn forgot everything else in a fiery burst of pure, erotic hunger.

As did Lucian.

His temper had turned to burning fever. He wanted to shatter that cool control of hers with passion, wanted to turn her determined resistance to heated surrender.

Not giving himself time to think, he lifted her up and set her astride him, crumpling her skirts around her waist. Brynn gasped as he slowly impaled her, yet her body accepted him easily, sheathing him in silk fire.

And suddenly they were kissing with frantic intensity, all the tension of the past weeks exploding in the heat of animal hunger. His hands slid up her back to twist in her hair, while the rock and sway of the carriage drove him deeper into her.

His tongue delved into her mouth, devouring and demanding, the taste of her making him wild. He had expected a fight and instead found the fury of a consuming desire sweet on her lips. He kissed her more fiercely, stoking the fire that flamed between them.

She wasn’t feigning her desire; he felt it in her kiss, in the frantic, melting way she clung to him, in the hoarse sounds of pleasure she was making. Their tongues mated in a fever of need, and he arched his hips, burying himself even deeper inside her quivering body. He was feverish, but no more so than she. She matched the primitive force of his passion, moving with him in a frenzied rhythm.

Her eagerness shattered Lucian’s restraint, shredded any remnant of self-control. He was helpless to resist-but so was she. Breaking off their kiss, she threw back her head and gave a raw cry.

She was beautiful, hot and wild, her face flushed with passion, her mouth open. It was only an instant later when Lucian followed her in a fiery climax.

His chest rising and falling as he gulped air, he came slowly to his senses. Brynn had collapsed in his arms, her face buried in his throat. He was shuddering in the aftermath, roiling with the turmoil of emotions he’d felt-still felt-tenderness, fury, fire.

It was shocking how swiftly he had lost control. His explosion was the culmination of weeks of frustrated lust, and of jealousy as well. He’d been driven by possessiveness, by the primal need to stake his claim to her… Yet his violent reaction had been stronger than mere possessiveness, Lucian knew. It was stark fear that Brynn could have been hurt. That he could have lost her. Once she was safe, all his feelings had come spilling out. He’d taken her with primal urgency, not even knowing when anger had turned to desire, to ravenous hunger.

Devil take it, he knew better. He knew how to be gentle. Knew how to rouse her slowly, to make his caresses so sensual she would nearly die of pleasure before he took his own.

He drew a ragged breath, fighting for control. His muscles still trembled with the burning need to possess her. And Brynn… She would no doubt regret their explosive passion even more than he did. God, but he wanted to turn that regret to willing surrender.

His lips grew soft on her face, his fever mellowing to tenderness as he held her and stroked her, sliding his palms slowly down her naked thighs…

“You’re a witch,” he whispered huskily against her hair. “A beautiful, sweet witch.”

It was clearly the wrong thing to say. He felt Brynn’s sudden stiffening, as if he’d doused ice water over her heated body. Pushing against his chest, she detached herself from his embrace and scrambled off him.

Retreating to her corner of the carriage, Brynn smoothed out her disheveled skirts with trembling hands.

“I am not a witch,” she murmured unsteadily, hating that designation. For much of her life she’d attempted to live down that tainted label.

“No, of course not,” he replied in a low voice that was unexpectedly conciliatory. “It was merely a figure of speech… an endearment spoken in the heat of the moment.”

Brynn sent him a despairing glance, feeling the silky wetness of Lucian’s seed slicking her inner thighs. Shame, desire, hurt, dismay all swirled in her breast. Her gown was rumpled and stained, yet Lucian hadn’t even wrinkled his perfectly tailored coat. And he thought her a witch.

Forcing back the pain, she tried to respond with indifference. “You just informed me that you wouldn’t countenance my wantonness, Lucian. It is hardly fair of you to demand unimpeachable conduct from me and then promptly contradict your own commands.”

“Wantonness with me,” he said carefully as he fastened his breeches, “is not the same as wantonness in public, Brynn. I am your husband, after all.”

“Perhaps so, but I prefer not to be mauled as you have a penchant for doing.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “Mauled? You can’t pretend you were an unwilling participant, siren. Your raw cries of pleasure would argue otherwise.”

Brynn felt dark color flush her cheeks. She hadn’t expected that wild hunger in herself. Lucian had turned her into a wanton creature, little different from her passion-crazed suitors. He had a deplorable talent for drawing intense reactions from her, whether passion or fury. Her heart twisted with despair. Whatever had happened to her plan to remain totally unmoved and indifferent to him?

“Well, you are hardly better than those fools you profess to disdain,” she retorted, forcing coolness into her voice.

It was all she could do not to wince at the darkening expression on Lucian’s handsome features. Brynn averted her gaze from the scorching intensity of his eyes. He was regarding her with disdain, as if they hadn’t just made forbidden love with frantic, explosive need. A sudden ache welled up in her throat.

Just then she felt the landau rolling to a stop. They had arrived home, she realized, blinking back tears. Thank God they hadn’t a few minutes earlier.

Without waiting for a footman, Brynn reached for the door handle, intending to descend from the carriage on her own. But Lucian put a hand on her arm to detain her.

“I meant it, Brynn. I’ll send you to my family seat to rusticate in the country if I must.”

The burning ache in her throat intensified, but she locked her jaw, determined not to cry in front of him.

“Then do so,” she replied. “I would welcome the respite.”

She fled then, before her tears threatened to spill over.

Lucian found himself biting back an oath as he watched his wife run up the entrance steps and disappear inside his house. The hurt he’d seen in her eyes flayed him with guilt.

Against his better judgment, he found himself following her, all the while arguing with himself over the wisdom in prolonging their latest battle.

He received no reply when he rapped softly on her bedchamber door. When he opened it, his heart leapt in alarm. Brynn was on her knees, her face buried in a chair before the hearth, sobbing as if her heart were broken.

For a long moment, Lucian stood there, wondering if he had been the cause of such anguish. Finally he shut the door behind him and crossed to her.

When he reached down and touched Brynn’s shoulder, she gave a violent start and looked up, her tears arrested.

She wiped furiously at her cheeks, as if ashamed of being caught by him. “What do you want?” she asked hoarsely.

“Did I hurt you?”

She looked away. “No…” She took a shuddering breath. “Yes. That horrible name…”

“What name?”

“Witch. The village children used to call me that. Even my friends… I heard their whispers behind my back after James died.”

Feeling his defenses crumble, Lucian withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and sank down beside her. “James?” he murmured gently as he wiped her face.

“My suitor. I killed him.” Her eyes welled with fresh tears and spilled over before she covered her face with her hands.

Lucian hesitated, recalling what Brynn had once told him. “I thought you said your suitor drowned at sea.”

“He did.”

“That isn’t an uncommon fate for a Cornishman, is it?”

“No. But he died because I came to c-care for him.”

When her voice broke in a sob, Lucian felt his heart melt. Brynn was agonizing about something she had absolutely no control over, yet she clearly believed she was to blame for causing a man’s death. She must have lived with her burden of guilt for a great while, he realized-

Lucian felt himself flinch as he recognized the parallel to his own situation. He understood guilt. He’d killed one of his closest friends with his own hands. But Brynn was condemning herself without real cause.

Almost against his will, Lucian reached for her. He knew the danger of touching her, but his need to comfort her was stronger than his need for self-preservation.

Drawing her into his arms, he settled back against the chair and pressed her face into his shoulder, offering solace. It was a measure of her distraction, he knew, that she permitted such closeness.

“I suspect his death was just an accident,” Lucian said quietly into her hair. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for an act of nature.”

“I wish I could believe that.” She was silent for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice shook. “Perhaps I am a w-witch. Those two men today… they could have died… because of me.”

He could feel her tremble, and his arms tightened instinctively around her. “I doubt you were to blame for that, Brynn. Those witless hotheads fought over you because you’re a beautiful woman. If not you, they would have found another reason to duel.”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said, but I was angry… and concerned for you. You could have been hurt, intervening the way you did.”

She drew back, studying his face. “You don’t believe in the curse at all, do you? ”

He managed a smile. “I’ve told you, I’m not the superstitious sort.”

“Then how do you explain your dreams, Lucian? How do you explain mine? ”

He didn’t immediately reply, having no explanation for his disturbing dreams of Brynn. “You have dreams?” he asked finally.

“I dreamed about James before his death. And you… sometimes I see images of you.”

He saw the helplessness in her eyes, the vulnerability, and he reached up to touch her cheek-

Abruptly Brynn drew back, as if suddenly becoming aware of the impropriety of his tenderness. Averting her gaze, she rose to her feet and crossed her bedchamber to the door between their rooms. She hesitated for a long moment. Then, opening the door, she stood to one side, clearly inviting him to leave.

“I think you should go,” she said, her tone once more holding a distinct chill.

Rising more slowly, Lucian went to her, but then paused, reluctant to abandon their unsettling discussion. “I’m certain there is a logical explanation for our dreams,” he said finally.

Brynn tilted her head, her look almost one of sadness. “Oh? And what about Giles?”

Lucian flinched involuntarily. “What about him?” he asked, suddenly wary.

“In my dreams I saw you fighting him, Lucian. I saw what happened between the two of you.”

You saw me kill him.

Lucian forced himself to relax his rigid muscles. “I have nightmares about Giles sometimes, I admit. No doubt you heard me calling his name in my sleep.”

Her smile was bleak. “Perhaps. And then perhaps I am a witch after all.”