Surrender to Sin Page 17

  As she stood studying the effect of a saffron gown of very fine India muslin, she suddenly remembered that she still had Cary’s stockings. The night before she had carefully washed them in her room, inspected them for snags and ladders, of which, thankfully, there were none, and set them out to dry at the fireside. When they were dry, she had carefully wrapped them up in brown paper. Now she composed a short note, thanking the owner for their use, and went down to find a manservant to deliver the package to the gatehouse.

  As she tiptoed past Mrs. Spurgeon’s chamber, in which that redoubtable woman lay snoring, she saw that the door to Cary’s study was open. The beastly macaw would be able to escape if he hadn’t already. She looked in cautiously, planning to close the door quickly if Cato was still safely inside. Instead, her hand froze on the doorknob.

  The bloodstained corgi was relaxed at full length upon the rug, inside a ring of scarlet and turquoise feathers, his short back legs stretched behind him. With his strong jaws he was busily crunching on something. Abigail did not choose to speculate on what it might be. She could not pretend to mourn the loss of Cato, but this seemed a more painful death than he deserved.

  “Angel!” she cried. “You bad dog! What have you done?”

  Angel looked at her over his shoulder, feathers protruding from his mouth. Overcome with horror, Abigail closed the door, and ran blindly out of the house, as fast as she could, in the direction of the gatehouse, scarcely feeling the cold blowing up her saffron skirts.

  Before she could knock on the door, Cary opened it and pulled her aside.

  “Did anyone see you?” he asked, looking out the door quickly before shutting it tight.

  She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. There was a deep, painful stitch in her side. For a moment she could not speak. “Angel…” she finally gasped.

  “Darling!” he replied, to her astonishment. Without another word, he dragged her into his arms and kissed her.

  Chapter 10

  After a moment’s indecision, Abigail gave in, stretching her arms around his neck, and giving him her mouth. He moaned softly. This maddening girl had never responded to him before, never opened her mouth, never returned his caresses, but now he could feel her hands clutching his hair as her small, soft body pressed against his.

  It would be churlish of her to correct such a sweet misunderstanding, Abigail decided. After all, she might just as easily have been talking about him when she had said “Angel.” She could scarcely deny that she adored him. Abandoning herself to his kiss, she felt his tongue gently probing her until, as if possessed by him, her own tongue began to move into his mouth. Pleasure unlike anything she had ever experienced swept through her body like a tempest, and if he had not been holding her so tightly her legs might have given way. Her terrifying shyness seemed to leave her all at once. The shock of her first real arousal was almost too much for her.

  He broke the kiss first. “I knew you would come to me one day and release me from that damned stupid promise,” he murmured against the silky skin of her throat, brushing his firm mouth against her leaping pulse. “I have dreamed of this moment.”

  “Oh,” Abigail said, wishing with all her heart that this, in fact, had been the purpose of her coming. “Have—have you really dreamed of me?”

  “Yes,” he said. He was holding her by the shoulders, and there was a strange, dangerous light in his gray eyes that caused her heart to race. “Haven’t you dreamed of me?”

  Abigail simply nodded. She did not think this a conceited question at all; it seemed perfectly natural that she would dream of him, and that he would ask her about it. “We were back in Hatchard’s, and you kissed my hand.”

  A glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. “That’s very nice, monkey,” he said gravely. “Now let me show you my dream.” He molded the shape of her body with his hands. “You weren’t wearing this in my dream,” he murmured, fingering the golden brown muslin.

  “What was I wearing?” she asked anxiously. “It’s so difficult to find a color that doesn’t clash with my hair.”

  “You were naked,” he replied. As her mouth fell open in shock, he pulled her closer to him and began kissing her again, gently but thoroughly. “You usually are.”

  Abigail stared at him, mesmerized by his burning eyes. “Do you dream of me often?”

  “Every night,” he answered, brushing her lips with his fingertips.

  “And I’m—I’m—I haven’t got any clothes?”

  “That is how it ends,” he said. “Shall I show you how it begins?”

  Abigail felt her aching bones melt at the sound of his voice. She waited for her powers of reasoning to come to her rescue, but she could neither think nor speak.

  “You know what I’m going to do next, don’t you?” he said softly, and, mutely, she nodded, lifting her mouth for his kiss. “I want to feel every shiver of your body as I discover every secret. I want you to tremble when I touch you. I want you to cry out in pleasure. I want to be the one to make you a woman.”

  Abigail had merely expected to be kissed again, but this sounded delightful, too. She drew closer to his warmth and closed her eyes in trusting surrender.

  As if in a dream, she felt his hand on her throat and then her left breast. He cupped her gently. “I have dreamed of this and this and this,” he whispered, imprinting her throat with kiss after kiss. His hands slipped around her back, and then his head was on her breasts. With the point of his tongue he drew a line down the valley between her breasts, until her dress forced him to withdraw. He tugged at her gown with growing frustration, but Abigail was too lost in his caresses and her own pleasure to recognize his need. She thought everything was perfect; his dark, warm hands, his mouth. Her nipple tightened almost painfully as he drew it into his mouth, sucking it gently through the thin muslin of her gown. It was not what he wanted, but the dream of caressing her naked breasts would have to wait; he didn’t want to tear her dress.

  Holding her to him, his mouth glued to hers, he moved her over to the table. Still kissing her, he began drawing her skirts up. Here at least, he could feel the skin he craved. He found stocking. Very nice, white silk stocking purchased the day before, but it was not what he wanted. Abigail moaned softly into his mouth as he drew his hand up the length of her new stockings, from her ankle to her knee. He thought he would lose his mind. Above the knee, just where he ought to have found warm female flesh, he discovered drawers. Very fine lawn drawers with beautifully worked tiers, but it was not what he wanted.

  Grunting now, urged on by her voluptuous response to his kiss, he sought out her most secret treasure, almost humming with excitement at the joining of her thighs. The lawn was so thin he could feel her dampness, and the texture of the tight curls, and he pressed the soft mound fiercely with his hand. Abigail responded instinctively, rocking slightly back and forth.

  Cary could no longer control his desires. In the next instant, he had torn the buttons off her drawers and forced his hand inside the rent, cupping her mound. Their cries mingled together as they joined mouths. The little nest of soft red-gold hairs was sweet beyond his dreams. He felt the delicate lips opening to him, and Abigail suddenly went still.

  “Cary, what are you doing?” she whispered uncertainly.

  “Trust me,” he answered, finding the soft bud above her entrance and stroking it gently. Abigail thought she would die of pleasure as he caressed her, at first slowly, and then with greater and greater urgency, until, pressed against his hand, she reached the pinnacle of pleasure. Watching her face as she melted under his touch gave him tremendous pleasure but it was not enough to ease his painful erection.

  “I want you out of this dress,” he finally growled, startling her out of the clouds of her crisis. “Where in the bloody hell are the buttons?”

  Without thinking, she told him. “Here on the side.”

  At the same time, she became vaguely aware that he had laid her down on the rude planked table of the gatehouse, as if he meant
to make a meal of her. She smoothed down her skirts with a furtive hand, and willed her breathing to return to normal. What was that strange feeling that had wracked her whole body? It had frightened and confused her, but to him it seemed a matter of course. She wanted to ask him about it, but it was evident he was in no mood for questions. He seemed almost angry. Abigail suddenly felt she might burst into tears.

  “Why in hell’s name are they under your arm?” he asked, undoing her top button with one hand, while clearing off the rest of the table with the other. A tin cup bounced on the floor. He was desperate now for his own satisfaction. Most of all, after touching her sweetness, he wanted to see her body, her breasts, her soft belly, the succulent fruit between her legs. He wanted full possession of her, body and soul, and he could no longer wait. Consequences be damned.

  “I have to dress myself,” she explained. “I can’t do the buttons if they are in the back.”

  “There’s an awful lot of them, and I can’t guarantee their safety. You’d better do it.”

  “I have no intention of undressing,” said Abigail, hurt and bewildered by the change in him. When he had driven her wild, he had been gentle and sensitive to her every response. Now he seemed cold, rough, and almost businesslike.

  “Fine!” he said, pushing her skirts up rudely.

  Abigail thought at first that he was going to bring her to another crisis, but he was opening her, first her drawers, and then the soft inner lips of her body, preparing her for his first thrust. He stood between her legs, bending over her as he unbuttoned his breeches. His face was set along grim, determined lines. His intensity frightened her almost as much as it excited her. Belatedly, she realized that he actually meant to ravish her right there on the table.

  “No, wait!” she cried, pushing him away. “Please! What are you doing?”

  His hand stopped in the act of pulling his weapon through the unbuttoned opening of his breeches. “What the devil—! Isn’t this what you came for?” he said, his jaw clenched.

  “No!” she said, scrambling away from him. “Certainly not.”

  With a stifled groan, he turned away from her and violently forced his engorged member back into the downward position, stuffing it back into his pants. He was coldly furious. He hated being teased, and he hated the sort of woman who would take a man to the very brink of ecstasy and then push him away. “You called me Angel,” he said harshly. “You came running to me. What was I to think?”

  “No,” Abigail said wildly. “No, I didn’t.”

  He swung around, his eyes blazing. “You certainly did, madam!”

  “I wasn’t calling you Angel,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. “I meant the dog. I’m sorry. You were mistaken.”

  “I was mistaken—!” He glared at her. “You expect me to believe you meant the dog?”

  Abigail hopped down from the table. “Well, I did,” she said stubbornly.

  His eyes narrowed. “So when you said ‘Angel’ to me in that low, husky voice, you meant Angel the dog? This you expect me to believe?”

  “Certainly I expect to be believed,” she answered curtly. “I was out of breath from running! I was not husky! You are the most horribly rude, conceited man I have ever met!”

  “I certainly hope so,” he muttered. “However, now is not the time to criticize one another. You came here for quite another reason, or so you would have me believe. Might a horribly rude, conceited man inquire what that reason might be, Miss Smith?”

  “Angel—the dog—has eaten Cato,” she said primly.

  He frowned at her. “Do you expect me to believe that you came here—ran here—only to report that—that—”

  “That your dog has eaten Mrs. Spurgeon’s odious, yet rather costly, bird!”

  “What the devil do I care? And you? You hate that bird.”

  “If Mrs. Spurgeon finds out, she will be well within her rights to demand compensation,” Abigail said. “I daresay she paid fifty pounds for that bird.”

  “Then you really didn’t come here to put me out of my misery?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t care three straws for your misery,” she declared, smoothing down her rumpled skirts. “If you are in misery, I’m quite sure it’s your own fault.”

  He fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he was resigned. “Fifty pounds. Where am I supposed to get fifty pounds?”

  “He might have been a very old bird,” Abigail suggested, relenting a little. “He might even have been dead when Angel—the dog—when he—Oh, it’s too disgusting!”

  Cary swallowed his disappointment and became decisive. “Take me to him,” he said, taking his coat from the row of pegs just inside the door. He eyed her with cool detachment. “Would you like a coat, Abigail? You must be cold.”

  Abigail shook her head. “We’d better hurry,” she said. “Mrs. Spurgeon will be getting up soon, wanting her tea. And her bird.”

  The unpleasant scene had already been discovered by Vera Nashe by the time Cary and Abigail arrived at the Manor. Angel had retired to the armchair in Cary’s study for a post-banquet snooze, and looked the picture of domestic innocence. He had even licked the blood from his paws. Vera had collected the feathers remaining on the rug.

  There was no sign of Cato’s beak or his claws, but Cary assured them his dog would have no difficulty devouring even the hardest parts of the bird. “He’d eat the tables and chairs, if I let him. How do you feel about lying?” he went on to ask, looking at Vera.

  The widow understood him instantly. “In a good cause, Mr. Wayborn, I’m all for it.”

  “Abigail?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. “What?”

  “Do you think you could tell a lie?”

  “I think we must, dear,” Vera told her gently. “I know Mrs. Spurgeon. She will not rest after this, until the poor little beast is put down. And he was only doing what comes naturally.”

  “Put down!” cried Abigail, scooping Angel up. “Oh, Mr. Wayborn, you can’t let Angel be put down. It’s not his fault, after all.”

  “Not his fault at all,” Cary agreed. “Cato oughtn’t to have been so tasty! Right,” he went on, turning to Vera. “Open the window and place the feathers on the windowsill. With any luck, Mrs. Spurgeon will think the bird has flown its prison.”

  “But how could he have got out if the window were closed?” asked Abigail.

  “Cato is a very clever bird,” Cary told her. “He opened the latch with his beak.”

  “Yes,” Vera approved. “That she easily will believe. Shall we leave this door open or closed? Closed, I think, or we shall have to search the whole house.”

  The other two conspirators agreed, and Cary followed the women out of the study.

  “I must wake Mrs. Spurgeon now,” said Vera, starting down the dimly lit hall.

  “And I should check on Paggles,” Abigail said quickly, but Cary caught her by the hand and pulled her into a room that proved to be the linen cupboard. Angel woofed softly as Cary took him from her arms and set him on the floor.

  “Well, Smith?” Cary said, cornering Abigail against the shelf. “If you can forgive this godforsaken cur for devouring a tasty bird, can you not forgive me?”

  “He’s not a cur,” Abigail protested. “He’s just a tiny bit carnivorous, that’s all.”

  “So am I,” he said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Am I forgiven?”

  Abigail looked away in confusion. “I suppose…if you are apologizing to me—”

  He laughed aloud. “Indeed I am not apologizing to you. You’d never forgive me if I did.” He traced the line of her jaw with his finger. “What is it about you, anyway? Why can’t I give you up?”

  Abigail blinked at him. “Have you tried giving me up, sir?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied, sending little ripples of excitement up and down her spine. “But it’s like trying to square a circle. I can’t understand it. I ought to despise you.”

  Abigail was bewildered. “De
spise me? But why?”

  He grinned at her. “Because I know who you are, Smith. I got it all out of dear old Paggles. She loves talking about her young lady. So, you see, I know all about your connection to Dulwich.” He laughed at her expression of horror. “Now I understand why you hid behind the sales counter at Hatchard’s!”

  Shocked, Abigail stumbled back into the shelf, knocking some neatly folded sheets to the floor. Her thin disguise had been stripped away and she felt horribly exposed. “You know…everything?” she whispered, getting down on her knees to retrieve the fallen linen. “You know about Dulwich…and me?”

  “It’s the strangest thing in the world,” said Cary. Gently pushing Angel away with his foot, he took the linens from Abigail and restored them to the shelf. “I hate Dulwich more than any other mortal man, but I cannot hate you. I suppose he brags about what he did to me?”

  Abigail shook her head, unable to look him in the eye. “What did he do to you?”

  “It was when I was in Spain. He was there with some Home Office friend of his, taking a review of His Majesty’s troops in the field like a pair of bloody tourists. Well, he recognized me the moment he saw me. Thought it would be fun to order a flogging for the enlisted man.”

  Abigail recoiled in horror. “Did he do that?”

  “He provoked me, until I hit him,” Cary explained. “Then, of course, I had to be flogged. I don’t blame my sergeant. We can’t have enlisted men attacking civilians, after all. Then, as a coup de grace, after I’d been flogged, his lordship reported me to my colonel, and I was shipped back to England in disgrace. Apparently, it’s a tiny bit illegal to enlist under a false name.”