Beyond A Wicked Kiss Read online

  Ria's mouth was dry as dust. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

  "Will you take some wine?" Sir Alex asked. At her nod, he went to the adjoining door, knocked twice, and waited for it to open. He was gone less than a minute and returned with a glass of claret. "I will hold it for you." He placed the rim of the glass against her lips and tilted it carefully. He did not remove it until she had drunk deeply. The wine stained Ria's perfectly shaped mouth the color of rubies. "Lovely."

  Ria closed her eyes as he bent his head and laid his lips across hers. She tried not to give him the satisfaction of her resistance, but it was impossible not to hold herself still when he pressed himself hard against her and forced his tongue past her teeth. The hand that was on her hip slipped between her thighs, and she jerked wildly when the batiste gown proved itself no barrier to his probing fingers.

  Sir Alex lifted his head, but he did not remove his hand. "Well?" he asked. "What of Westphal?"

  * * *

  Beckwith slid the panel closed and opened the shutters on the lantern he held. Light bathed the small chamber and illuminated the hard features of the man at his side. "How do you think she answered?" he asked. "Will she flatter Sir Alex, or will she tell him that you will win the wager?"

  West's fingers uncurled slowly. They were stiff and very nearly bloodless from being held for so long in tightly clenched fists. "What do you want, Beckwith?"

  "It is not just for me, you understand. It is for the Society."

  "Yes. Name it."

  "You must prove yourself first, I think." He regarded West for a long moment, as though still considering his offer. "Then you will give us the colonel in exchange for your whore."

  Chapter 16

  Ria bit her lip to keep from calling after Sir Alex as he left the room. Her arms and shoulders ached from the unnatural position she was forced to maintain. To support her weight, she had to stand on pointed toes; the muscles in her calves and thighs burned with the effort. He did not say how long he would be gone, only that he had other matters to attend. She thought he would release her. He had toyed with her cuffs as if he meant to, but then he'd merely run his palm down the length of her arm, smiled with disarming appeal, and left her alone to contemplate what, exactly, was to be her fate.

  She wondered if she was being watched even now. Were the bishops wagering on whether she would try to free herself? It was tempting to glare in the direction of the panel, just as it was tempting to struggle against the iron bands, but Ria resisted both temptations because of Jane. No matter that Sir Alex tried to distinguish himself from Beckwith when it came to inflicting pain—Ria knew very well they were cut from the same cloth.

  She closed her eyes. There were other kinds of escape, she thought, ones the bishops could not so easily prevent. In her mind's eye, Ria saw the lake at Ambermede. The summer grass was high, and it tickled her knees as she ran for the water's edge. She plucked one of the blades and raised it to her lips. Her cheeks puffed as she tried to make a whistle of it. The note she hit was shrill to her own ears and perfectly annoying to those around her. Her mother called, "Ria. Ria, come here."

  She did not go, of course. She did not even consider going. The sun was warm on her face and a light breeze ruffled her hair. The water beckoned her more powerfully than her mother. She abandoned the blade of grass in favor of spinning like a top, arms extended wide as if she could embrace the entire world in them. "Ria," her father called to her. She paid him as little heed as she had her mother. "Maria." Ah, she must be behaving badly if someone was moved to intone her Christian name. "Reee-a!"

  She giggled. Why should she go to them? she wondered. It seemed infinitely more important that they should join her. She would take another blade of grass and play the pied piper for them. Her mother, her father, the duke... all of them would leave their blankets and step lively to her tune. She spun away, showing them as splendid a form as a Paris opera dancer, her arms gracefully curved above her, her long legs elegantly lifted en pointe. "Ria." A chorus of voices called to her, and she blithely ignored the accolades of her audience. Let them come to her, she thought again. Let them come.

  "Ria." West yanked on the pin that coupled Ria's cuffs. She moaned softly as her arms fell limply to her sides. He pulled her roughly against him and held her there, letting her use all of him for support. Her head rested heavily against his shoulder. His hard embrace was all that kept her standing.

  "You came," she whispered. "I knew you would. The others, too. I said let them come to me and they did. I knew if I played for them, they would come." It was almost too great an effort to smile, but somehow her lips managed to press that sweet curve against his coat. "How simple it all is, really."

  "Shh."

  Was it a secret? she wondered. Or did he only mean that she shouldn't talk? It didn't matter. There was nothing else she wanted to say just now. He was lifting her in his arms and everything was just as it should be.

  West set Ria on the bed. She tried to hold onto him as he straightened, but he could see her arms had no strength left in them. She was able to keep them raised for only a few moments before they fell heavily back to the mattress. It was an agony for West to step outside of her reach. To reassure her, he said, "I'm not going anywhere."

  Ria regarded him with alarm. "Why not?"

  He placed one restraining hand on her shoulder before she could try to struggle up to her elbows. "Allow me to give you my coat."

  It was no answer to her question, and Ria was beginning to think clearly enough to realize it. "I want to leave this place."

  "No more than I want you gone." He removed his frock coat and helped her sit up long enough to place it around her shoulders. "You should put it on properly."

  "This is better," she told him softly. "As if your arms are still around me." Ria had not meant to cause him pain, yet that was the precise nature of what she saw cross his face and come to reside in his eyes. "It's all right. You have nothing to answer for." She was able to lay one hand over his just before he withdrew from her side. Turning her head so she could follow his movements, Ria watched him use the toe of his boot to nudge the logs in the fireplace. One of them turned over and blazed to life. She smiled as he jumped back to avoid the licking, leaping flames.

  West turned and gestured to the fire. "Would you like to sit here and warm yourself?"

  Ria shook her head. "Mr. Beckwith warned me that this garment flashes like a candlewick." She did not miss the grim twist of West's lips, even though it came and went in the space of a single blink. "It doesn't matter now," she said. "You have banished all of the bishops."

  "There are always bishops."

  "Then you have banished these bishops. It is a good beginning in some respects. A better ending in others."

  West approached the bed. One of the blankets lay in a mound at the foot, the other had fallen to the floor. He picked up both, spread them open between his arms, then covered Ria and tucked them around her. He saw that she expected something more from him—his arms under her, perhaps, lifting her, taking her first toward the door, and then beyond it. Sitting at the edge of the bed, West took one of Ria's hands in his. He brushed the iron wristcuff. She was watching him closely now, and he managed not to wince at the feel of this cold, alien hardware under his fingertips.

  "I would remove this if I could," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

  Ria's eyes darted to her wrist. She saw his thumb run across the edge of the cuff. Odd, she thought, that he had been touching her there and she had not known it. She looked back at him. "Sir Alex has the key."

  "Yes. I know."

  Her brow puckered slightly as she considered what this meant. "You were watching when he was here?"

  He nodded.

  Ria's fingers tightened in his. "For how long?"

  "You were lying here when I first saw you. I thought you were asleep, but I came to realize you were not. Miss Petty and Cotton came in shortly afterward, and you seemed to know it immediately.
"

  "But if you were there..." Ria realized she still did not understand. "Why didn't you—" She stopped because he was shaking his head.

  "I couldn't go to you," he said. "I didn't dare make the attempt." He could still hear Beckwith graphically describing what would happen to Ria if there was the slightest misstep on his part. Even now, if he was not careful, the end might be the same. Perhaps he had already said more than he should have. It was hard to know. Beckwith had not been clear as to how much leeway he would be allowed in negotiating this end for the bishops. The fact that the doors remained closed was a good sign that he was still within the limits they had in mind. West did not believe there would have been any hesitation to come in and drag him from the room.

  "We are not leaving, are we?" There was so little inflection in Ria's voice that it was hardly a question.

  "No. Not yet."

  Ria nodded. Her eyes darted toward the panel, and then she looked at West for confirmation of the thing she dared not ask.

  He squeezed her hand and saw, more than heard, her soft intake of breath. In that small way, she communicated her understanding.

  "They call it a tasting," Ria whispered.

  The words had barely any sound and West had to bend his head to hear her. "Yes," he said. "I heard Sir Alex tell you."

  "Of course. I forgot—you were there."

  West tugged at the blanket until it rested just below her breasts. He laid open one half of his coat and stretched the wide neckline of her shift over her shoulder so the bruise he had glimpsed before was laid bare. "Beckwith?"

  Her nod was almost imperceptible. She knew he saw it because he looked as if he might be moved to murder. Perhaps he would be, she thought. But not now. Now he was treading carefully, even with her, especially with her. Ria understood they were being observed, but it did not account for every aspect of caution that she sensed in West. He was uncertain of her, she realized. It hurt a little that he could not trust her responses entirely, but she also acknowledged his good sense. She did not think she would give the game away in the event he told her what it was, but she was not sure.

  Sir Alex told her this was the place where the bishops tested one's mettle. He had meant that in a very particular way, but Ria thought it might be true in many others. She removed her hand from West's and raised it to touch his cheek. Her fingers trembled a little, and she felt the weight of the iron cuff, but neither of those things held her back.

  "Go on," she whispered. "Whatever you must do, do it before I lose my resolve."

  He grasped her hand and brought her knuckles to his mouth. He pressed a kiss there, holding her in just that manner for a long moment before he released her. "Will you sit up?"

  She did. Whatever she had expected, it was not that he would throw off the blankets and remove his coat from her shoulders, nor that what he would take from the coat's pocket would be the iron pin that had coupled her cuffs. "What do you mean to do with that?" But even as she asked it, she knew the answer.

  West stood and carried the coat to the hook that had so recently secured Ria. It was not often, he supposed, that one of them was used in support of an article of clothing. He stared at it, steadying his breathing, before he returned to the bed.

  When he pivoted, he saw that Ria had already pushed herself flush to the headboard. She sat with her hands behind her back, her knees drawn toward her chest, and she was staring warily at his closed fists, trying to determine which one held the pin.

  "I won't fight you," she said.

  "I know." He felt as if his heart was in a vise. "Can you stand on your own?"

  Ria didn't know, and she didn't want to find out. How fast her resolve had crumpled she thought. He had only to show her the pin. She pushed back the sheet tangled around her ankles and slid her feet over the side of the bed. When she stood her knees held. Her chin came up a little as she pivoted in West's direction and fell again when she saw he was no longer standing where she expected him to be.

  "Here," he said simply. "I want you here."

  Ria blinked. He was beside the cheval glass. It was angled differently now, and when she turned, her full reflection came immediately into view. It was as if she were already standing at his side. She decided she would rather be there in fact than in fiction and closed the distance between them on surprisingly steady legs.

  "Here," he said again. "In front of the glass."

  Sipping a shallow breath, Ria took a single step sideways.

  "Look at yourself, not at me."

  With some difficulty, Ria dragged her gaze away from West and looked in the mirror, though not at herself. Her eyes fell on a point past her own shoulder. She could see most of the bed behind her. Her heartbeat tripped over itself, and when she drew her next breath it was too slight to fill her lungs.

  West came to stand at her back and placed his hands on her shoulders. When Ria's eyes flew to his, he shook his head and directed her back to her reflection. "Look at my hand." He raised his right one and watched her eyes follow it. She was wondering what he had done with the pin, but he was not prepared to reveal the sleight of hand that had hidden it from her.

  Ria fixed her blue-gray glance on West's fingers as they trailed along her collarbone. She felt his touch, but it was as if it were happening to someone else. His hand grazed her skin so lightly it could not properly be called a caress. If touch were sound, then his fingers were whispering.

  His index finger trailed along the edge of her neckline, sometimes slipping under the material, scoring her skin lightly with the tip of his nail. He bent his head once and kissed the bruise on her shoulder before he straightened and used both hands to begin removing her shift.

  Ria's hands came up. She flinched when she saw the iron cuffs so plainly held in front of her. For a few minutes she had forgotten them, yet here they were, hard and heavy and black, a stark and frightening contrast to the soft, nearly transparent shift.

  "Put your hands down," he said.

  She lowered them slowly. "It's not because you told me to," she said with quiet dignity. "I'm testing my mettle."

  He smiled then. It was faint, briefly held, but it touched his eyes. "I know your mettle." He placed his lips against the pale, silky hair next to her ear and told her that he loved her.

  Ria's eyes flew to his, but when he raised his head, he was no longer smiling. Neither was he catching her glance in the mirror. His eyes were on the lowered neckline of her shift. She looked down at herself, then at her reflection. He eased the material over her breasts, first the high, full curve, and then the puckered aureoles. The shift fell to her waist, but his hands stayed where they were, cupping her breasts. His thumbs passed over the tender nipples, teasing them to full arousal. She sagged a little in his arms, moaning softly as a measure of heat began to uncurl inside her. Her eyes fluttered closed.

  "No," he said. His hands quieted. "Watch."

  It was with no small effort that she lifted her lashes and stared at the images in the mirror. Her breasts felt heavy; they fairly filled his palms. She wondered what it would be like to see his mouth there, to watch him suckle her, to feel the draw of his tongue and teeth at the same moment she was seeing his lips on her flesh. Her breath hitched.

  His hands slid from her breasts to her waist and rested on the curve of her hips. His fingers were long and slender, the nails buffed and squared off. Her skin flushed pink where his fingertips pressed. He made no comment about the bruises that were just becoming visible on her thigh and below her rib cage, but Ria did not miss the way his hand paused as it passed over this evidence of abuse. Afraid of what she might see in his eyes, she did not glance in that direction.

  Instead, she watched him lift his hands so that her shift could complete its descent to the floor. She stepped out of the cloud of fabric at her feet when he ordered her to, though she was hardly aware of doing so. She didn't notice that he pushed it away with the toe of his boot.

  West's hands dropped to his sides, but he supported Ria so
lidly when she leaned into him. The curve of her bottom rested snugly against his thighs; the crown of her head fit under his chin. Judging by the darkening centers of her eyes and the vaguely disquieted gaze, West doubted she had ever studied herself in so frank a fashion before.

  "Lift your hands."

  Ria blinked. She watched threads of her hair ripple as her body fairly vibrated in response to West's uninflected command. She raised her hands slowly to the level of her breasts and crossed them at the wrists in the manner she knew he would ask her to. She saw him rake back his hair with his fingers, then the pin was there in his hand again, and he was slipping it between the cuffs, coupling them just as Sir Alex had.

  "Come," he said.

  She hesitated, uncertain where he meant for her to go. He had stepped away from her but not indicated a direction.

  "The bed."

  Ria glanced back at the bed, quite certain she could not retrace her steps to it. She gasped softly as the choice was taken from her. West lifted her off her feet and carried her the short distance. He laid her down, then pulled the pillow from under her head.

  "Lift your hips."

  Biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood Ria concentrated on that pain instead of what she was doing. She did not know the pillow was under her until she felt the gentle, insistent pressure of West's hand on her hip, pushing her down. Her skin retracted as his palm ran up the flat of her abdomen and came to rest between her breasts. He slipped his fingers under her linked wrists and raised them.

  "What are you—" Ria cut off her question, craning her head around to see the truth herself. Embedded in the headboard was a hook like all the others in the room. It would be like the illustration in Beckwith's book, she realized. That was how he had known the hook was there. He meant to fix her wrists to the headboard, spread her thighs, and climb between them. Even the pillow was positioned exactly as it had been in the drawing.