As the first wave passed he started to move again, and she murmured a strangled protest, one he refused to listen to, and this time when her climax came it was even stronger, and she cried out, begging him in strangled tones, but once more he held himself in deep, impaling her.

She was sobbing by then, unable to control herself, and when he began to move again she begged him. “No more,” she gasped, her body shaking apart. “I can’t take any more.”

“Yes,” He thrust deeper still. “You can.” He was moving faster now, and her body was accepting his rhythm, his dominance, in this at least, and she knew she was past fighting. She surrendered, letting her fingertips caress the corded scars on his back, her legs tight around his hips, and she told herself this was for him, now. The last of her had burned up in a storm of desire and there was nothing left.

Nothing left but his thick, heavy thrusts as she clung to him, nothing left but his final, powerful slam into her, and she could feel him, feel his climax, feel him fill her with his seed, and out of the darkness something took over, some dark, terrible, wonderful place, and she buried her face against his neck to muffle her scream as she was lost once more.

He was trembling, every nerve and muscle in his body suddenly weak, and he could only be glad he had the wall to brace her against, or they would have both collapsed on the floor in a comical welter of limbs. He could feel her face against his shoulder, the heated puffs of her breathing, the wetness of her tears, and he vaguely wondered how he was going to disentangle them. When he didn’t really want to.

He wanted to stay buried deep inside her. His cock was still twitching, still semierect, and he knew if he stayed that way he’d get hard again. Because no matter how thoroughly he’d fucked her, he still seemed to want more of her. He couldn’t imagine ever having enough.

But he pulled free, because he didn’t want her to know how much he needed her. Not that she would guess—for a ruined woman she seemed to have the sophistication of a nun. But he liked that. He liked that she seemed to know almost nothing about the intricacies of pleasure. He could thank St. John for his ineptitude after all.

He let her legs down onto the floor, carefully, then caught her as her knees gave way. He took her down onto the padded floor with him, letting her fall against his body, and he found he was cradling her in his arms as she wept silently. Her tears were hot against his already heated flesh, and he found he was stroking her back in wordless comfort, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Why she needed comfort after what had had to be as soul-shattering for her as it had been … almost had been for him.

No, he could understand. The power of it, the vulnerability. She was trembling slightly, just an errant shiver that ran over her body and had nothing to do with cold.

He was sorry there wasn’t some kind of shawl in here to pull over them. He hadn’t been thinking, at least, not much. He’d been so angry with her. He’d spent the entire day trying not to think about her body pressed up against his, about the smell of her in the fresh spring air, and then the sight of his appalling rooms had simply set something off. He’d come storming in, to find her soft and sweet and rosy in her hot bath, and all he knew was he needed to be naked with her. Immediately.

He’d had enough presence of mind to know that it was still light outside. And he didn’t let anyone see his back, the damage that had been done.

It was bad enough that she could feel it, and he’d wanted to pull away from her then, when he’d felt her hands on him. Almost. But her touch had been so gentle, her mouth so sweet, that instead he’d let her stroke him, hold him as he pumped into her body, let her dig her fingernails into him as she reached her final climax.

He could barely feel it—the scar tissue so thick that the top layers of his skin were numb. Though oddly enough, her gentle caresses had been unmistakable.

He tucked her head against his shoulder, wrapping his arms and his body around hers. He didn’t tend to fall asleep after sex; he was always too intent on escaping. But right now he felt he could close his eyes and drift off quite easily.

That wasn’t going to happen. He could feel her tears slow, feel her body relax into sleep, and he carefully pulled away from her, stifling his groan. He didn’t want to. Her dressing room was big enough, perhaps he’d have the servants tuck a small bed in here. Most dressing rooms had a place for a lady’s maid to sleep. Though he didn’t necessarily want to disport on a servant’s bed.

It took him a while to find his abandoned clothes in the dark, even though his eyes had become accustomed to it. He dressed quickly and quietly, then opened the door to her bedroom, letting in a shaft of twilight.

She was pretending to be asleep, but the tears on her face were fresh. He didn’t stop to consider the ramifications, he simply went and scooped her up in his arms, thanking God she wasn’t that big and his leg wasn’t that weak. He carried her over to her bed, setting her down as he pulled away the covers, then placing her under them, tucking her in. She was still crying. Pretending to be asleep, but he’d felt the heat and wetness on his skin.

He stared down at her, not certain what he should do. He could mock her—she would rise up and fight back, the tears forgotten. Perhaps.

But what if she simply cried more? He was usually impervious to crying women. Any women who spent time with him usually ended with tears, because he simply wasn’t interested in the little games they tended to play.

Miranda’s game was anything but little. And for some odd reason her tears bothered him, perhaps because the rest of the time she was so fearless. He opened his mouth to chide her, then closed it again, and for some damnable reason he stretched out his hand and pushed the damp strands of her hair away from her tears.

Christ, if he stayed any longer he’d probably climb into bed and start comforting her!

He turned, quickly, wondering where the hell he’d left his cane. He couldn’t see it in the twilight, and it was too dangerous to wait. Limping, he made his way out of her rooms as fast as his aching leg would let him, closing the door silently behind him.

23

Jane let him hand her back up into the carriage, closing the door behind her. He hadn’t done anything but offer her his hand when needed, and she knew a sudden lowering of spirits after the exhilaration of seeing Mr. Bothwell felled like a stone, and she sat back in her seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap as the carriage moved forward with a jerk. A faint, melancholy smile danced across her lips. He really wasn’t a very adept coach man.

He was, however, far more of a gentleman than her erstwhile fiancé. He wouldn’t stand by and let a lady be bullied, and he’d brought her safely home in the first place, when a king of thieves would certainly have more important things to do. Of course, he probably wanted to retrieve the ring that he’d quixotically put on her finger. But that was in the dark, when he hadn’t had a good look at her. Ever since he’d seen her clearly he’d been the soul of propriety, no doubt regretting that soul-searing midnight kiss.

Well, soul-searing for her, Jane amended with great practicality. Midnight kisses were most likely de rigueur for thieves.

She had to get to Miranda. If her husband was truly planning to bring her to a meeting of the Heavenly Host, then Miranda could be in grave danger. Everyone had heard the stories, the black masses, the drinking of blood, the orgies and devil worship and human sacrifice. It was of far greater importance than mooning after a man who was so inappropriate he wasn’t beneath her, he may as well be on the moon.

What would her parents say if she told them she’d fallen in love with a thief? Not that she had, of course! She would admit to a mild infatuation, but nothing more. Still, it was an interesting question. What would they do?

Most parents would beat their rebellious daughters and lock them up on a diet of bread and water. But her father had been a man of much experience, a reformed rake and gamester, a vicar before acceding to the title, a man of great compassion and understanding. He would listen calmly, and pass no judgments.

And her mother, who’d lived her own scarlet life before she’d met her father, would doubtless keep an open mind. She’d always said, “You never know where love might find you, but when you see it, grab it with both hands and hold on tight.”

But of course, she wasn’t in love. It was simply an interesting supposition to while away the time, the endless time she’d spent in one carriage after another. She’d be far better off worrying about what she’d do for clothing. It had been bad enough spending two days on the road with two dresses, clean undergarments and a bowl of cool water to freshen in. Another three days or however long it might take was lowering. She wanted to run away, to travel, to see different and glorious places and things. She simply wanted the occasional change of clothes, as well.

Was it so wrong for an aspiring adventuress to be fond of the small elegancies of life? Like cleanliness?

Would Mrs. Grudge accompany them this time? How was she going to respond to a former whore known as Long Molly? Well, presumably the same way she responded to a cheerful widow named Mrs. Grudge, she decided. No matter what else she did with her life, Mrs. Grudge was a good and affectionate traveling companion. Not to mention good at making up stories about Jacob the philandering house-servant turned coach driver.

The coach came to its usual abrupt stop, throwing her forward, and she caught the strap just in time to keep from hurtling onto the opposite seat. There was a great deal of conversation outside, most of it unintelligible, and then the door opened and Jacob Donnelly appeared.

She had automatically started for the door when he shook his head. “Not here, Miss Jane. I’ve got a couple of men watching the horses and at least four keeping an eye on the carriage to make sure no one disturbs you. But I’m not having you out among these rogues.” There was no mirth in his eyes. Clearly the term rogue was an understatement. “This is Beggar’s Ken, home to vagabonds and thieves for the last seventy-five years and no place for a lady. I’ll do my best to get my business done quickly, and then we’ll be on our way.”