To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Read online

  “I’m sorry for how I behaved.” His expression was unreadable, but his words were sincere, heavy with remorse. “I… I simply couldn’t think. I was so consumed with Thomas, with sorrow, with how to keep my brother’s name from being dragged into some sordid scandal and… I couldn’t think, Matilda, about anything, and… I’m ashamed to say I didn’t care.”

  “It’s all right,” she said unsteadily, hearing the anguish in his voice.

  “No.” He shook his head, his anger palpable. “It is not all right. It’s hard to understand it myself now, but I… I blamed you. Your scandal put me at that bloody club when I needed to keep everything quiet. It made it so much harder to cover up the truth and I was furious with you. I hated you for that, and… I wanted to punish you for your own stupidity in being there at all.”

  He took a deep breath and Matilda tried to do the same, but her lungs did not seem to be cooperating.

  “I’m not proud of what I did, Matilda. The truth is I’m sick with shame, and I would not blame you if you could not forgive me. I don’t even know why… it makes no sense why I hated you so much. Only that… that you were so damned beautiful, so innocent in… in the place where my brother had died.”

  His voice broke and he closed his eyes.

  “Lucian,” she said softly. “Lucian, it’s all right. I had already forgiven you, and this… this makes it so much easier to understand. You were grieving for your brother. How were you to think of anything else?”

  He turned onto his good side, moving carefully and wincing, but pulling her into his arms. “You are too good, too forgiving. I believe you could forgive the devil himself.”

  “No,” she said at once, furious at the idea. She pulled back a little so she could look at him. “That I could not do. Pippin has told me, in part at least, about your uncle, about what he did to you, and to Thomas. I have never known what it is to hate someone before, not really. I believed I hated you for a long time, but it was nothing to what I feel for him. He won’t hurt you again, I won't let him.”

  She watched the astonishment grow in his eyes as she spoke. He reached out a hand and stroked her face.

  “You would protect me?”

  There was amusement in his expression, sorrow too.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled at that, his silver eyes as warm as she had ever seen them, yet she knew he thought it impossible. He believed she was the one who needed protecting.

  “You won’t even protect yourself, my love, which means I must do it for you. You cannot stay here. I can only imagine what is being said about me, but I do know it will not be flattering. If you are discovered here—”

  “I’ll be ruined. Yes. Yes, I know that.”

  “Then, for the love of God, pack your things and go, before it is too late.”

  Matilda stared up at him, wondering how she could ever do that. It had been hard enough before, when she’d not known the truth and believed only that he was wealthy, powerful, and titled, and needed to get his heirs with a woman equal in rank. Now, though…. How could she leave him alone, this man who had always been alone, and wanted so badly for her to stay, though he would no longer tell her so?

  “Is that what you want?” she asked, blinking back tears, wondering if he would lie to make her leave.

  “What I want?” he demanded incredulously. “When in the name of God did it ever matter what I wanted?”

  She jumped at the fury in his voice and he cursed, holding her closer to him, burying his face against her hair.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  “It’s all right,” she said, trying not to cry, clinging to him.

  He groaned, such misery and frustration in the sound that not crying was nigh on impossible. She didn’t want him to feel that way, not when she was with him. If she could do nothing else for him, surely she could make him happy. Not knowing what to do, she turned her face towards him and nuzzled against his neck, pressing kisses to his skin.

  He stilled utterly, his breath hitching. Encouraged, Matilda carried on, kissing the tender spot beneath his ear, rubbing her lips over his jaw, intrigued by the feel of his beard under her mouth. Her hand, which had settled on his arm, avoiding his injured shoulder, moved of its own volition, or so it seemed. Much to Matilda’s chagrin, in the past two days—now he was well enough to sit up and move about a little—his valet had been dressing him in a nightshirt The desire to touch him, though, to touch that beautiful body she’d seen so exposed when he was unconscious and out of his mind with pain, was a temptation beyond bearing. She hadn’t dared before. It had seemed a violation of trust when he was so vulnerable, but now….

  She tugged at the tie holding the shirt together, and slid her hand beneath the fabric. Wondering how she dared, she moved back a little so she could look up and see his face.

  He was staring down at her, his eyes dark.

  “Dangerous,” he said, his voice husky.

  “I don’t care.”

  His mouth found hers a moment later, urgent and hot, demanding, and Matilda sighed with relief. Yes. Yes. This, oh, please…. Her body seemed to sing the words out loud. Could he hear it as clearly as she could? She undid another tie, giving herself better access, and he made a low sound of contentment as her questing fingers discovered the flat disc of a nipple, which tightened into a tiny nub under her touch.

  “Take it off,” she demanded, tugging at the material.

  “Oh, God, Matilda,” he groaned. “Why did you work so hard to save me if you’re only going to kill me now?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  She laughed at him, but the look in his eyes suggested he wasn’t joking.

  “You don’t want to be my mistress,” he reminded her, a little tersely. “Remember? You said you deserved better than that, and you were right, but I’m not a saint, love. You’re alone with me, in my bed. Don’t ask me to be the arbiter of good behaviour here. I’m not cut out for the job.”

  Matilda looked up at him, considering his words.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you are. I trust you.”

  She did. He would not take advantage. She suspected he wouldn’t, even if she begged him to, which was becoming increasingly likely with every moment longer in his company.

  He closed his eyes with a mutter of exasperation, throwing himself back against the pillows. “That’s so bloody unfair.”

  “That’s what you get for being so honourable,” she teased him, sitting up and kneeling beside him. She tugged at his shirt again. “Take it off. I’ve been dying to touch you for days, and I will not miss my chance now.”

  Her only chance. She didn’t say it, though when she was thinking of leaving, she couldn’t imagine. She wasn’t thinking of it at all. She refused to. Good sense had been suspended, thrown out of the window along with caution, self-preservation, and any notion of propriety. She didn’t miss any of them.

  “Lucian!” she protested when he didn’t move.

  “Matilda,” he said, pleading in his eyes.

  She tugged at his shirt again and he sighed, sliding his good arm free before she helped him ease it over his wound. He sucked in a sharp breath, his lips compressing into a taut line for a moment as the movement jostled his shoulder, and then the shirt was gone, tossed to the floor.

  The bedsheet had fallen to his hips and, except for the bandage over his shoulder, she was free to look her fill, and to touch. His expression was wary now, watching her with caution as she took him in. God, he was perfect. His high cheekbones were a little more accentuated than usual, and there were shadows under his eyes. The morning sunlight caught him, gilding the hair on his chest and his beard, which was a darker gold than the pale gilt of his hair.

  “Come here,” he said, a measure of his usual cool control infusing his voice.

  Matilda shivered. She moved as directed, straddling his lap, though she hardly knew how she dared, but she wanted to be close to him too much to pretend a coyness she did not feel.

>   “You wanted to touch me,” he said, and there was a break in the insouciant remark that told her he was far from calm about it.

  “Yes.” She looked him over, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “I’ve thought about you so often, about kissing you, touching you. I once thought the only safe way to do it was when you’d been dosed with laudanum, but I never took advantage of it.”

  “Foolish of you,” he said, his voice growing darker.

  “Yes, wasn’t it?”

  She reached out and put a hand to his cheek, stroking the soft, prickly stubble, moving her thumb over his bottom lip. He nipped at it, catching at the skin with his teeth and making her gasp. She laughed, and carried on her perusal, leisurely, though the body beneath her touch was fiercely taut, alive with tension. He was holding himself still, allowing this. She slid her hands down his arms, over the curve of defined muscle and back up again, and then down over his chest. His stomach muscles flickered and contracted beneath her fingers, and she smiled. Moving her hands back up, she trailed through the scattering of hair at his chest, then followed the path down that slid beneath the sheet. Only that sheet stood between them, she realised too late. He was naked beneath it, not that she cared. Or, at least, she cared, but not in the way she ought to.

  “Enough,” he said, reaching for her, pulling her close. She tumbled forward, only just saving him from steadying herself against his injured shoulder. She was braced on her arms, looking down at him, still sat up on her knees. He tugged at her hips, and she sat, discovering him hard beneath her, and how intimately he pressed against her. She gasped as a jolt of pleasure surged through her.

  “Oh!”

  His hand slid into her hair and tugged her head down, his mouth finding hers. Then both hands settled at her hips, pressing her firmly against him as he arched his body and the pleasure spiked again. Desire burst through her, the aching need to be closer to him—to be as close as two people could get—eating her alive. She wanted his skin against hers, for him to fill the hollow sensation that clawed inside her. She was hungry for him, wanted him with such fervour. The kiss grew hotter and his hands moved to the fastenings at the back of her dress. Good heavens, he was better than any lady’s maid, she thought with chagrin, as she found herself coming undone with startling speed. Dress, stays, and chemise all fell to beneath his nimble fingers. His mouth left a fiery trail of kisses down her neck as he pushed the sleeves of her gown down her arms until….

  She’d hardly had a moment to realise she was exposed to his view from the waist up before his mouth was on her, hot and wet, consuming her. He suckled at her breast and pleasure rolled through her with such force she could not halt the cry that left her mouth. Good lord. Thank heavens the walls of Dern were good and thick. She pressed against him, tilting her hips to find that exquisite burst of pleasure again, and this time he moaned, a wicked sound that thrilled her to her core. His head tipped back, eyes closed, and she stared down at him, entranced by the look of him beneath her, like some pagan god of pleasure, pure wickedness, unadulterated sin. His eyes flicked open, almost black with wanting, a narrow rim of sliver glinting.

  “More,” he said, the word rough.

  His hands yanked at her skirts, tugging them from beneath her, bunching them until only the linen sheet separated their bodies. She could feel the fierce heat of his arousal through the fabric, the shape and the strength of him. The desire to tear the sheet aside was so ferocious that she felt she might die with wanting him, but then he moved, and any thoughts of any kind were obliterated. More, more… her body sang the same song and she moved against him, again and again, until they were both breathless, mindless with pleasure. His hands stroked the exposed skin above her stocking tops, then slid around to caress her bottom and pull her harder against him until she was giddy with it. She rocked her hips harder, seeking more as the world began to glitter and white out.

  “Holy Christ, stop… stop,” he said, the words gritted out.

  “No…! Oh, Lucian, please… please….”

  “Wait, love… wait….” He sounded desperate now.

  Matilda could do little more than whimper as his hands stayed her movements, but she did as he asked, though she was trembling and beside herself.

  “Let me touch you,” he whispered, and Matilda stifled a hysterical giggle at his request.

  Silly man, did he seriously think she would refuse him?

  The impulse to laugh fled as he touched her. Matilda gasped as his fingers trailed through the curls between her legs, sliding between the delicate layers of skin to the aching heat beneath.

  “Oh, God, love. I have wanted you so badly, for so long….” His voice cracked, everything she had ever wanted to hear from him so blatant with every word. “I dream of you. You fill my days and my nights with thoughts of you. I never want you to leave. I want you here with me… always….”

  She wondered if he knew what he was saying or if it was just desire talking, but his clever fingers were seeking, sliding inside her, caressing and teasing until she could hardly comprehend words at all, too lost in his touch, in the overwhelming heat that was burning her from the inside out.

  “Yes,” she whispered, writhing beneath his fingers, the pleasure becoming so intense she was torn between retreating from it, wanting to escape, and begging for more. “Yes. Oh… oh, I can’t… oh, yes, please… please….”

  His free hand held her in place, not allowing her to run from him, not that she wanted to. She was too greedy for that. She wanted all of it, everything he would give her, everything he had.

  “Come here. Come to me….”

  She moved closer at his insistence, leaning down over him as he nuzzled her breasts, rubbing his cheek against the silky skin, kissing and trailing his tongue over her until he sought and found a rosy nipple and closed his mouth over her. The sound that tore from her throat was shocking—the sound of a wanton, abandoned woman—and she didn’t care. Not one bit.

  “Kiss me,” he demanded, sounding as crazed and out of control as she felt.

  She did, pressing her breasts against his chest, finding his mouth and kissing him with fierce passion, with all the frustration and longing that she’d held inside herself for so long. Matilda broke away with another cry, frenzied now as his fingers slid over her, caressing and circling before easing back inside. She buried her face in his neck, hardly able to stand it.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  It was the hardest thing to raise her head, to meet his eyes, but she did as he wanted.

  “Matilda.” He spoke her name on a sigh, his eyes dark and blazing with raw emotion. “My beautiful girl. I love you… I love you so much… let me see your pleasure.”

  The shock of his words tangled with a burst of sensation so intense she could do nothing but clutch at his arms as her body moved beyond her control. She shuddered and trembled and cried out his name as it tore through her with such force she felt she had left the confines of her own body. Over and over it rippled through her, in never-ending waves of joy. Lucian gentled his touch, wringing every last precious jolt of pleasure from her tender skin before he drew her back down. She lay sprawled over him, too stunned and sated to care how she must appear in her tumbled gown, her hair all awry. Her bones seemed to be saturated with honey, sweet and heavy, and she was blissfully tired.

  Dimly, she became aware of Lucian, of his hand stroking her hair, of his hard body beneath hers, still rigid with unspent desire. That hardly seemed fair.

  “Lucian,” she tried, but it was too great an endeavour and she closed her eyes.

  ***

  Lucian tried to breathe. It seemed a tremendous effort. His lungs were tight, his body achingly sensitive and hard as iron. Breathe in, breathe out, he told himself severely, but his head was filled with the scent of her, the faint trace of orange blossom and the warm, heady perfume of her arousal making him tremble with the force of his desire. He would not take her innocence, not when she’d already given him so mu
ch, too much. Just breathe…. He could do this. He wasn’t a mindless beast who had to slake his lust no matter what, but a man. A man who felt as if he was about to lose his mind, admittedly, but still a man.

  He glanced sideways at Matilda and stifled an outraged laugh as he saw she’d fallen asleep. Well, damn. Wasn’t that his job? She shifted a little, sighing against his neck. Her warm breath slid over his oversensitive skin like a caress, making him shiver, and then she moved on top of him. He sucked in a tortured breath, smothering a groan as she fidgeted in her sleep, shifting her body so it fitted his perfectly, his cock cradled intimately against her sex.

  “Breathe,” he muttered fiercely, squeezing his eyes closed. “Don’t think about it. Do. Not. Think about it.”

  Naturally, he could think about nothing else. He was so close to where he wanted to be, and they fit together so perfectly. Desperately, he tried to concentrate on the pain in his shoulder, which was throbbing in concert with the rest of body. It didn’t help at all. Oh, God. It was not possible to die from unfulfilled desire, he assured himself, though he remained entirely unconvinced. It felt like an absolute certainty. She would kill him. Well, he’d rather it this way than any of his other near misses with the reaper.

  With no relief in sight, he allowed himself to remember the last moments, the sounds of her pleasure, the feel of her hot, sweet body. She had been so ready for him, wet and wanting him so fiercely, and he’d wanted to be inside her so badly he was ready to weep with frustration. Yet this was more than he’d dared to hope for of late, to indulge in the wicked pleasure of having his love with him here, in his bed. It was wickedness, he reflected, and that knowledge killed his own desire more effectively than anything else could. Guilt bloomed inside him.

  This beautiful woman deserved so much more. She wanted the safety and security of marriage, to be a wife to a man she could love and be proud of, and a mother to a noisy, happy family that she would love and protect with the heart of a lioness. Instead, she was here, with him, risking her virtue, her reputation, even her life, because she was too loving, too generous to do what she should and run from him. She’d never run from him, not from the start, not when she had hated him and ought to have feared him, and not now, when she loved him and ought to be as far from him as it was possible to get.