Midnight's Wild Passion Read online

  Tumbled prayers of gratitude filled her head.

  Surely she could revive him, send him on his way, forget tonight. One thing was for sure. After this, he’d never want to come near her again.

  Which should make her happy.

  But in this quiet room, she admitted something she’d never admit to another living soul—something heinous but starkly true. After so many dull, chaste years, she’d relished tasting a man’s desire again.

  And from such a man. Strong. Virile. Beautiful.

  She was irredeemably wicked. Ranelaw tugged at her senses the way a magnet drew a rusty nail. With steely determination, she mashed the unwelcome perception deep down in her soul, into the darkness where it would never rise to the light. Once, ten years ago, she’d stared into an abyss where whoring herself had loomed as the inescapable future. She’d never let herself sink so low again.

  She had to get him on his feet and send him on his way. Fast. She wiped again at the blood.

  “Wake up. Please.” Below the pooling redness, a long scratch extended. It didn’t look serious, but she wasn’t qualified to say with certainty. “Ranelaw, I beg of you, wake up.”

  “You called me Nicholas before,” he murmured, without opening his eyes.

  Her ministrations paused while thankfulness vied with aggravation. As so often when she was in Ranelaw’s presence, aggravation emerged triumphant. “You’re alive,” she said flatly.

  “Of course I’m alive.” He didn’t open his eyes. “It requires more than a slip of a girl to send me to my heavenly reward.”

  In spite of the giddy relief stewing in her belly, she gave a dismissive grunt. “There will be nothing heavenly about your final reward. Why didn’t you say something earlier? I’ve been sick with worry.”

  “You deserve to be. That was one hell of a whack.”

  “You wouldn’t stop,” she said, even as her conscience pricked her. She’d never before struck anyone in violence. Ranelaw brought out the absolute worst in her.

  At last he looked at her. Or at least he opened one eye. The side she’d hit was swelling. By tomorrow he’d have an impressive black eye. “You didn’t want me to.”

  Beating back another twinge of remorse, she pressed more forcefully on his injury. “You’re such a vain coxcomb.”

  He winced. “No need to try and kill me again.”

  “I’m cleaning up the blood,” she snapped. How could she have regretted trying to murder the clodpole? He deserved clouting with a poker. He deserved clouting with a ship’s mast.

  His lips quirked with familiar amusement. “Can’t you kiss it better?”

  “No, I can’t.” She wrung the cloth over the bowl. Despite her irritation, her gorge rose when blood stained the water bright red.

  He struggled into a sitting position. “You look a little pale there, Miss Smith.”

  Violently she wrung the cloth again. “It’s late. I’m tired. It would serve you right if I had killed you.”

  “If I died kissing you, I’d die a happy man.”

  She arched her eyebrows in disbelief and dabbed again at his wound. The bleeding almost stopped but the bruising became more spectacular by the second. He’d bear the memento of her assault for a few days.

  “Do you get results with lines like that?”

  He laughed, then winced, raising one long-fingered hand to press her palm to his head. “You’d be surprised.”

  She twisted her hand from under his and leaned back on her knees. She didn’t want him touching her. That was where the problem had started. Except of course that wasn’t true. The problem started the moment she’d met his eyes across that crowded ballroom.

  God rot him for being as addictive as opium. She could still taste his kisses, and Wild Antonia wanted more. She ignored Wild Antonia and injected a practical note into her voice. “I’ve done all I can. You need a physician and perhaps a stitch or two. You should put ice on that swelling.”

  He smiled at her as if she were the birthday present he’d begged for all year. “You’re a remarkable woman, Antonia.”

  Clearly, if he was well enough to flirt, he’d survive without her attentions. She dipped the cloth into the bowl and lifted it out sopping. She started to scrub at the blood on the rug. Fortunately it was nothing like the lake she’d imagined in the first, horrible moments after hitting him.

  She felt him watching but refused to look up. He’d uncovered too many secrets tonight. She needed to restore the distance between them. Difficult when her lips tingled from his kisses and her heart pounded with a stormy mixture of fear and desire.

  “Will you help me up?”

  She didn’t look at him. “Will you go home?”

  He laughed, and despite everything, her resistance melted at that soft, deep sound. “You’re not exactly the kindest of nurses, are you?”

  With an irritated gesture, she plopped the cloth into the dirty water. She rose to carry the bowl toward the washstand. “You shouldn’t be here. You should never have been here.”

  He still smiled. His ruined beauty made the smile more precious. When he attended society events, he was almost too perfectly turned out. The disheveled, bruised man lounging at her fireside set her heart cartwheeling with helpless yearning.

  Helpless yearning? She needed to get rid of him before she lost her mind completely.

  “Should, should, should. The woman who kissed me wasn’t such a martinet.”

  “No, she was insane,” Antonia said in a discouraging voice. “And a gentleman would never refer to a lady’s lapse in judgment.”

  He laughed again. “You told me I was no gentleman.”

  Amazement stifled her retort. Even after tonight, she hadn’t imagined that plain Miss Smith had left an indelible mark on his attention. Yet he remembered exactly what she’d said the night they met.

  “Antonia?” He extended a hand, and for once didn’t sound mocking or superior. Instead he sounded something she’d never heard before. Vulnerable. “Will you help me?”

  She was a thousand times an idiot, but she responded to the sincere appeal in his beautiful black eyes. “Here.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gripped her hand and staggered as he stood. She realized with a lurch of sick guilt that he wasn’t as whole as he strove to appear. She rushed to put her shoulder under his arm. “Can you make it to the bed?”

  “Miss Smith, I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Don’t be a rattlepate,” she said without venom.

  He was heavy and his height made him awkward to support, even for a tall woman like her. With shuffling and grunting and a good deal of ungentle pushing, she managed to get him to the bed.

  He collapsed with a groan. Sitting on the floor, he’d seemed a little more like himself. Now he was pale and blood oozed from his temple. Reclining against the headboard with a nonchalance that didn’t conceal his pain, he looked cursedly romantic, like an injured hero from a Minerva Press novel.

  “Do you have any brandy?” He sounded exhausted.

  “Of course I don’t have any brandy.” Her sharpness wasn’t totally to keep him in line. Alarm streaked through her at his waning stamina. She retrieved the cloth and knelt on the mattress to wipe the fresh blood from his face.

  “Pity. You look like you need it.”

  She rose and poured him a glass of water. “You can’t stay.”

  He accepted the glass with an unsteady hand and took a long drink. “I can’t climb down the tree. I’m dizzy on my own two feet, let alone a dozen yards up in the air.”

  “You can’t go through the house. Mr. Demarest left strict orders to post a man at the door every night.”

  “Well, the only other exit is up the chimney.”

  She hoped his hint of asperity indicated returning strength. For all her wish to have him gone, right now he wasn’t fit to negotiate the tree. “Rest awhile. But you have to go.”

  “Soon.” With visible discomfort, Ranelaw stretched out and gingerly settled his head on her pillow. He looked big and dangerous against her white sheets.

  How odd to have a man in her bed. An alien presence in this eternally feminine domain. But there was no shifting him and she knew for all his bravado, he wasn’t pretending weakness. She’d knocked him unconscious, for heaven’s sake. She was lucky she hadn’t killed him.

  Antonia didn’t want him dead. She just wanted him out of her life. Although she hadn’t spent such an interesting evening in years. She frowned and struggled against the impulse to smooth the thick golden hair from Ranelaw’s forehead. He wasn’t a helpless child. Anything but. “You need a doctor.”

  His eyes closed and he looked remarkably at home, damn him. “Unless you intend to summon one, the sawbones must wait.”

  Frowning, she drew the blankets up around his chest. He didn’t stir as she extinguished the lamp, leaving the fire to light the room. She shut the window, took another blanket, and curled up in the padded chair near the grate, determined to watch over him.

  Distant thunder disturbed Ranelaw’s restless dreams. He blinked into gold-tinged darkness and wondered where he was.

  He was accustomed to waking in unfamiliar rooms, but rarely alone and never in a bed that smelled fresh and clean. He turned his head, only to close his eyes as a legion of demons clashed cymbals inside his skull.

  He remembered.

  He’d climbed a cherry tree then kissed that termagant Antonia Smith. And she’d walloped him with a poker.

  Huzzah, Antonia.

  The fearsome dragon was asleep in an armchair beside the fire. Carefully, partly because of his pounding head and partly because he didn’t want to wake her and her defenses, he rose. He fought back a wave of dizziness.

  The redoubtable Antonia didn’t look like a fearsome dragon right now. She looked young and heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

  He edged nearer and only then realized what was different. Somehow through all the chaos, she’d kept those disfiguring spectacles in place, but she’d removed them before sleeping. Her exertions had loosened her lovely hair. The plaits sagged and loose tendrils of silver formed a firelit halo. One long strand trailed over her shoulder toward her lush breasts. His hand curled as if it still cupped that breast, stroked the budded nipple.

  Who would imagine that under her spinster armor, such spectacular curves lurked? He was delighted she hadn’t fastened her dress. She’d been too terrified she’d murdered him to notice, he guessed. He’d heard her fear when she’d begged him to live. Manipulative bastard he was, he’d pretended unconsciousness long after returning to alertness.

  Her breasts sloped above that ugly corset. If he was responsible for dressing her, he’d burn every garment she owned. He’d deck her in black lace. Or scarlet. Something to set off her skin’s creamy purity.

  He reached out to grab the mantel. He wasn’t as sure on his feet as he’d prefer and his head ached like the very devil. His gaze didn’t shift from the sleeping woman who had proven such an unexpectedly luscious armful.

  Why did such a gorgeous creature hide her bounteous attractions? Why did a filly like her settle for such a restricted existence?

  His temperamental mother had employed a string of companions, none of whom lasted more than a few months. To Ranelaw, the life had always seemed a thankless one. At someone’s beck and call. A tiny wage in return for a modicum of respectability and a roof over one’s head. He guessed the Demarests treated Miss Smith with more consideration than his foolish, flighty mother had ever treated her companions. But in essence, there was little difference between Miss Smith and those faceless women.

  Surely Antonia had a choice in the matter. Thousands of men would gladly trade their fortunes for a wife so lovely. She’d have her own house, her own life, children, a husband to warm her chaste bed.

  Except she’d shocked him, he who claimed to be unshockable. Antonia Smith didn’t kiss like a virgin. She kissed like a woman who thrived upon a man’s touch. He’d meant to coax her inch by inch into revealing her delights. But after the slightest hesitation, she’d responded with a fervor that had nearly blown his head off.

  Absently he scooped the spectacles from the side table where she’d left them. He twirled them idly, then lifted them, wondering how shortsighted she was.

  The lenses were plain tinted glass with no magnification.

  Well, well.

  Miss Smith became more intriguing by the moment.

  After tonight’s revelations, he wanted her more than ever. She wouldn’t fight him if he seized her now. Or she might fight at first, but she’d yield soon enough.

  So why was he standing mooning after her like damned Romeo instead of demonstrating how explosive sex would be? It made no sense.

  It also made no sense that he found pleasure in merely looking at her. Even asleep, her face was full of character and a vivid, womanly beauty.

  Why had no other man seen what he had? Her disguise was rudimentary. Hair scraped up under that cap, glasses, the unflattering wardrobe.

  Forcing back the banging drums in his head, he bent over her. She couldn’t sleep in that chair all night. With a gentleness he refused to categorize as care, he slid his arms under her and lifted her high against his chest.

  She was tall, but slender. Normally carrying her would take little effort. His head swam and the room whirled around him. Briefly he wondered if they’d both end up toppling to the rug. Since she’d knocked him out, he wasn’t up to carrying slumbering dragons.

  She murmured something incomprehensible that might have been his name—he was sure it couldn’t be—and curled into his body. His hold tightened and something shafted through him that in another man he might call possessiveness. He stood still, relishing her warm weight for all that his knees threatened to give out under him.

  Her familiar scent teased his nostrils. He still couldn’t place it, although it made him think of everything that had no place in his life. Innocence. Joy. The open beauty of the countryside. Spring flowers. Rain. As if to confirm the thought, rain dashed against the windowpane, rattling the frame.

  He stared down at her, transfixed by how lovely she was. In this moment, Antonia seemed as young as Cassie Demarest and much more vulnerable. If he had any drop of pity, he’d let her go. He’d only end up destroying her.

  It was too late. He wanted her and he’d have her. She wanted him too, although he couldn’t imagine her admitting that this side of Hades.

  The short distance to the bed felt like miles, but strangely it never occurred to him to wake her and make her walk. Carefully he laid her upon the sheets so when the maid arrived in the morning, Antonia would be where she was supposed to be. Just for tonight, he didn’t want her suffering for his reckless invasion. He’d already caused her trouble. He didn’t miss the signs of sleeplessness and strain on her face, even in repose.

  He should take her gown off. But he didn’t trust good intentions that far. She’d have to invent some excuse about dropping off half dressed.

  Reluctant to release her, but knowing he must, if only because the urge to hold her was so strong, he slid his arms free. She settled upon the mattress with another of those damned arousing sighs.

  He must go. The servants would be about soon. Already he’d have to take care not to alert the stable hands to his presence. And he still had to accomplish a climb in the rain with a head that ached fit to explode.

  She sighed again and her eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes were ice blue like the sky on a clear January morning.

  He shouldn’t be shocked. From her pale, silvery hair to her white, white skin, hers was a wintry beauty. But the purity of that unaware glance cut like a knife. His hands clenched at his sides.

  “Nicholas . . .” A drowsy smile curved her mouth.

  He knew she still drifted in slumber. But he couldn’t stop himself leaning down and whispering. “Sleep, Antonia.”

  She turned her head and pressed her lips to his briefly. The sweetness pierced him to the bone. He endured the kiss without deepening it, although his gut lurched at the silent invitation.

  “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” he forced from a constricted throat. Unable to resist one last taste, he brushed his mouth over hers in a kiss hardly less innocent.

  If he didn’t go now, he wouldn’t go at all. He hoped to hell he made it down the tree. After the wet night, it would be as slippery as a greased pig. If he fell on his arse, Miss Smith would still have explanations to make, however he’d tried to protect her reputation.

  Slowly he straightened and cast her one last, lingering look. He wanted to imprint this Antonia on his memory, to hold against next time he saw her decked out like a damned scarecrow.

  He turned and prowled toward the window.

  Antonia opened her eyes to a sunny morning. She lay in her black bombazine dress on top of her bed. There was no disorientation. She remembered exactly what had happened, although details toward the end turned fuzzy. Strangest of all, she had a vague memory of Lord Ranelaw kissing her tenderly before leaving.

  She must have conjured that from her imagination. Even if every other unbelievable event was real.

  Groggily she sat up and pushed tangled hair away from her face. Exhaustion weighted her limbs. A cup of chocolate sat congealing on the bedside table. She’d been so deeply asleep, she hadn’t heard the maid. An unusual occurrence for Miss Smith, who usually bustled around the house well before breakfast.

  A soft knock before Cassie dashed in, wearing a muslin dress the color of sunshine. “Toni, you slugabed. I’ve been up for hours.”

  Antonia placed her feet on the floor and struggled to force her tired mind to function. “Good morning, Cassie.”

  Antonia’s focus remained on last night. Was Ranelaw all right? She hoped the poker hadn’t done serious damage. What did he make of her this morning? She wasn’t optimistic enough to imagine he’d disregard what he’d learned. He was too clever for that, blast him.