Sweet Fire Page 9

  Without a word passing between them, they inched closer, moving toward the middle of the bed. The hem of her cotton shift was twisted around her hips, pushed there by her movement and the movement of his hands. He caressed the outside of her thigh from knee to hip. His palm traveled across her skin in long, sweeping strokes, becoming slightly more urgent with its pressure and heat on each successive stroke.

  Frustrated by the barrier of his trousers, her fingers slid upward, spreading out as they moved up the center of his chest. His flesh changed under her touch and the accident of rubbing his right nipple was then deliberately repeated on his left. Her hand moved along his ribs to the underside of his arm. From there it slid to his elbow and then to his shoulder. Trailing along his collarbone, her fingers slipped around his neck and toyed with the ends of his dark hair, tugging and ruffling, raising prickles at his nape and sending an excited shiver down the length of his spine.

  His palm rested briefly on her hipbone, covering her, learning the shape of her body in the curve of his hand. His fingers fell lower, between her thighs now, and nested intimately in the warm and humid contours of her body. Gradually there was movement. First him, then her. He stroked. She responded. There was a sound at the back of his throat that could be taken as encouragement. Her sigh was acceptance.

  Her knee was raised, and slid between his thighs. His leg covered the bare length of hers, and when her exploring hand reached his waist again, he took her wrist and dragged it lower until she was cupping the fullness of his sex. He pressed his body against her so there was the friction of his trousers and her palm as she held him.

  Their legs tangled as they moved in unison, she on her back, he nearly on top of her. His mouth sought hers, capturing and silencing the small, agitated moan that had come to her lips. There was no nuance in the kiss. No sipping or delicacy of desiring. The kissing had been left too late for the sweetness of budding passion.

  Their mouths were hungry. Their tongues entwined in earnest battle and they shared a single breath. They each pressed their advantage, greedy for pleasure. They took from each other. It was more by accident than design that they gave anything in return.

  The pressure of his mouth kept hers open. His tongue swept along the sensitive line of her upper lip, touched the even ridges of her teeth. She drew him to her, unsatisfied with anything except the deepest of his kisses and the hardness of his passion.

  It was the gasp they shared, the harsh sound of it when they drew back for breath, that brought them abruptly awake.

  For a moment they simply stared.

  “Oh, my God.” Nathan fairly leapt away from Lydia. He rolled to the edge of the bed, taking some of the covers with him as he jumped up. He stumbled on the puddle of blankets at his feet, kicked them away angrily, and grabbed his snowy white evening shirt. He put it on inside out, jamming his arms into the sleeves with such force that he rent one of the seams.

  The drapes were open. Lightning flashed once, illuminating Lydia’s stricken features. It began to storm in earnest, and the sound of rain against the windows was as loud as marbles hitting glass. Nathan lit a bedside lamp and yanked at the drapes’ tiebacks, letting them fall.

  Lydia was sitting with her back against the walnut headboard, her knees drawn up to her chest and her shift covering her like a tent. She was staring at the far wall as if the flicker of light and shadow from the bedside lamp fascinated her.

  Nathan studied Lydia’s closed posture, the unyielding set of her mouth and the vacant expression in her dark eyes. Most of her hair had fallen behind her back, but a few sable strands touched her cheek and stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of her complexion.

  “I want to go home now,” she said dully.

  He found his vest and consulted his pocket watch. It was nearly four o’clock. “There’s still time,” he said. “We should talk.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Hunter. I think—”

  “Nathan,” he said.

  She ignored his interruption. “I think you should leave so I can dress.”

  “In a moment.”

  “Now.”

  His tone became hard and gritty. “We’ll talk now. I can imagine the kind of things going on in that virgin’s head of yours and I’m not going to stand by while you cry rape from the top of Nob Hill.” Perhaps she was more like her mother than he first suspected. With what he knew about Madeline, he should have exercised more caution with her daughter.

  Lydia finally turned to look at him. His eyes were cold and accusing, and Lydia felt herself recoiling even though she gave no outward sign. “You can imagine any sordid thing you want, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. I’m certainly not going to cry rape. Nothing happened.” She could still feel the heat of his hand on her breast, the caress of his fingers on her thigh and between her legs. Every time she spoke she was aware of her mouth and the things she had been doing with him that did not involve speaking. It wasn’t nothing, she thought, but she would never admit otherwise.

  “That’s right,” he said tightly, raking through his hair with his left hand. “Nothing happened.” He could still taste her in his mouth, feel the raspy sweetness of her tongue against his. His skin was warm where she had touched him with her fingertips, and between his thighs, where she had left him aching, he was still hot and hard. “And nothing’s going to happen,” he went on, “so stop looking at me as if you wish it would.”

  Lydia stared at him, horrified. “That’s a lie! I’m not wishing any such thing!”

  He was. He grabbed his vest, jacket, socks, and shoes and stalked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. God help him, he thought. He was handling it wrong. All of it. He’d hoped to gain her confidence, not her contempt. He’d never touched a virgin in his life, was never even certain he knew one until Lydia Chadwick, and in less than twenty-fours of meeting her formally he’d had his hands all over her.

  He stared at his hands. They were shaking. He dropped his clothes on one of the sofas, padded over the sideboard, and splashed a clean tumbler with bourbon. He raised the glass to his lips, felt the trembling, and finally admitted that he was scared.

  Lydia Chadwick held his life in her small, delicate hands and she didn’t even know it. An accusation of rape from her and…He couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t.

  Nathan knocked back his drink and set the tumbler down hard. In the other room he could hear the rustle of clothes and realized Lydia was dressing. He did the same.

  Lydia entered the sitting room some ten minutes later.

  Her face was freshly scrubbed and her hair had been ruthlessly pulled back, tied at her nap with a scrap of lace from her petticoat. “I’d like a glass of water, please,” she said, standing on the threshold.

  “Certainly.” His tone was as flat as hers and just as calm. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever taken place. Nathan poured her water at the sideboard and held it out to her. She crossed the room to take the glass. There was only the slightest pause as she accepted it, careful to place her fingers just so in order not to touch his hand.

  “Thank you.” She finished the glass quickly and held it out again.

  “More?”

  “Please. I can’t remember ever being so thirsty.”

  “It’s the alcohol. It does that.” He gave her back the glass. When she was finished this time she placed it on the sideboard. “How’s your head?” he asked.

  “Thumping.”

  He nodded, expecting nothing less. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to start an argument. I just want you to know that you do not have to escort me home.”

  Nathan did not want an argument, either. He chose his words carefully. “I know I haven’t given you any reason to think you’re safe with me, but I made a promise to Father Patrick and Pei Ling that I would see you home. Whatever you think you know about me, I’m a man of my word.” He paused a beat, waiting for her reply. She regarded him steadily and said
nothing. “I’ll get your cape.”

  Rain lashed at them during their entire journey. There were no cabs on the streets looking for fares, and not many drivers would have asked their horses to climb steep Powell Street under such slippery conditions. Nathan and Lydia were both wet and winded by the time they reached the mansion.

  He escorted her to the same side door she had used to make her exit earlier. They stood on the recessed stoop under an eave and caught their breath. The rain was falling so heavily now that it surrounded them like a crystalline curtain. They were facing each other. Nathan was trying to catch Lydia’s eye; she was doing what she could to avoid his stare.

  “I’ll come by at seven-thirty to take you to dinner,” he said, speaking softly so as not to wake anyone.

  That got Lydia’s full attention, and her features expressed complete disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” But she saw that he was. “I’m not going anywhere with you tomorrow or any other day.”

  “You’re reneging on the wager?”

  “After what happened a mere hour ago I don’t think your question merits an answer.”

  “I see. So you do blame me.”

  “I blame myself,” she said quietly. “I blame myself for misinterpreting your character. You’re not so different from any of the others.”

  “What others?” he asked.

  Lydia turned away, groping for the doorknob.

  Nathan took her elbow and spun her roughly toward him. “What others?” Even in the darkness he could sense her fear. Swearing at himself under his breath, he let her go. This time when he repeated his question it was done with forced calm and patience.

  Lydia rubbed her elbow where Nathan had grabbed her. She could still feel the press of his fingers. “The others who show any interest in me,” she said. “When I tell them I’m not interested in marriage, they try to find a way to compromise me so I won’t have any choice. I’ve fought off more advances than General Grant and I’m not about to succumb to the dubious charms of a foreigner. How much money do you need, Mr. Hunter? Perhaps I can make a draft for you tomorrow.”

  Placing his arms on either side of her shoulders, Nathan cornered her against the door. “You seem to be forgetting something, Miss Chadwick, and since it’s pertinent to this discussion, I find it necessary to point it out. As pleasurable as that little interlude in my suite was, it wasn’t initiated to compromise you. I’m not even certain I initiated it. You could have been any whore in my bed, snoring, stuporous, and smelling of alcohol. I seem to remember you crawling all over me, and I’ll tell that to anyone you go running to. Give me some credit for getting out of that bed as soon as I realized who you were.

  “As for wanting your money, put that thought away. Your money’s no good to me. I’m only interested in you, and my intentions are so honorable you’d probably find them insulting.”

  His declaration left Lydia unable to speak. He called her a whore in one breath, threatened her in the next, and very nearly plighted his troth in the third.

  “Good evening, Miss Chadwick,” Nathan rapped out as he pushed away from the door. He turned and started around the house toward the street.

  Lydia watched him go and then twisted the doorknob to enter her home. It wouldn’t open. She tried again. Nothing. Frantically searching the pockets in her cape lining, she came up empty-handed. She pushed at the door even though she knew it was useless. Oh, God, she thought, wanting to do nothing so much as drop where she stood and cry. Instead she swallowed every vestige of her pride and ran after Nathan Hunter.

  She caught him before he had gone very far. “Please,” she whispered, urging him away from the street and back toward the shadows of the mansion. “The door’s locked and I haven’t any key. Pei Ling either thought I had one or someone else locked the door after she went to bed. There’s no light in her room; she probably went to bed hours ago.”

  Nathan doubted that. Lydia’s maid seemed loyal to a fault and possessed of a little more common sense than her mistress. Pei Ling was far more likely to have fallen asleep in Lydia’s room waiting for her mistress to return. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Help me get inside, of course.”

  “Of course. You’re talking about breaking and entering.”

  “It’s my home.”

  “It’s my neck,” he said coldly, “and your reputation.”

  “My reputation will be in shreds if I can’t get back inside by morning. My father’s up at first light and Pei Ling can’t keep him away from my room forever.”

  “That’s supposing she’s been successful thus far.”

  Lydia tugged on the upper portion of Nathan’s sleeve. The hood of her cape fell back and the rain quickly wet her hair, making it dark and sleek on the crown of her head. “Please,” she repeated. “I have to get back inside. Won’t you help me?”

  Nathan was silent for a while, turning over the choices in his mind. Finally he said, “I’ll be here at seven-thirty to take you to dinner. I expect that you’ll be ready.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  He shrugged. “That’s my condition.”

  Her hand dropped away from his arm. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll go with you.” When he didn’t move, she added, “You can trust me, Mr. Hunter. I know something about keeping one’s word.”

  “Very well. Show me the other entrances.”

  Lydia took him around the house. Every door was secured and without so much as hairpin or penknife between them, Nathan couldn’t pick a lock. All the windows on the ground floor had been closed against the rain. He tested every one and found them all to have their latches in place. Not one could be budged.

  “It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” Lydia said forlornly.

  “Not necessarily. Show me which windows lead to your bedroom.”

  “But my room’s on the second floor.”

  Nathan put his hands on her shoulders, turned her

  around, and gave her a light push in the general direction they had to go. “Show me.”

  Lydia’s room was at the rear of the house on the northwest corner. Nathan felt their luck changing when he heard something flapping above him and realized that the drapes had been drawn outside by the wind. That meant an open window. He showed Lydia where her drapes were slapping wetly against the side of the house, but she wasn’t encouraged. It was an incredible height to scale and there were no means of doing it that she could see.

  A downspout hugged the face of the mansion, but Nathan knew it would never support his weight. Twenty years ago he would have shimmied up the thing and never thought twice about it. The granite blocks that made up the house’s outer walls were smooth as glass and much too large to make climbing from seam to seam possible.

  His eyes strayed to the portico. Its flat roof was also a balcony for some of the rooms on the second floor. If he stood on the stone balustrade, perhaps, just perhaps, he could haul himself up there. “Whose rooms are those?” he asked, pointing to the row of windows and French doors that opened on the balcony.

  “The ones farthest from us are my mother’s. The next one belongs to the dressing room she shares with my father. And those last two windows and door are part of my father’s room.” She sighed. The window that was open, the only one they couldn’t reach easily from the portico’s roof, was the one that belonged to her.

  “What about the dressing room?” Nathan asked. “If I got up there and found the window wasn’t secured, would I be able to get into the hallway?”

  “Not without going through either my mother’s or father’s room.”

  “But if they’re—”

  Knowing the direction of his thoughts, she held up her hand and cut him off. “My mother and father share a dressing room, not a bed…not anymore. It’s not the sort of thing they’d tell me, but the servants talk. I’ve heard things,” she finished inadequately.

  “All right,” he said, “we won’t rely on a sudden passionate reunion to make our task any ea
sier. The dressing room’s not an alternative. We’re back to your room.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Let me worry about it.” The first thing he did was to go to the nearest flower bed, choose a few smooth stones, and fling them at Lydia’s window.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, trying to stay his arm. “Who do you think will answer if I’m not there?”

  “Your maid.”

  “Pei Ling’s not there.”

  “Then what about her room? Maybe we can rouse her. It’s better than taking an unnecessary risk.”

  Lydia shook her head.

  “Why not?” When she didn’t answer immediately, Nathan pressed her again.

  “Because she sleeps with my father, that’s why.”

  “I see,” he said, whistling softly under his breath. What he saw was that Lydia Chadwick knew a great deal more than Madeline and Samuel probably suspected. It was too dark to see her eyes clearly, but he hadn’t imagined the pain in her voice, the necessity of saying something quickly because it hurt to express it any other way. “Very well,” he went on. “The balcony it is.”

  He led Lydia back to the portico. “Once I’m inside your room, go to the side door and wait for me.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t do it like that. The door’s not merely latched, it’s locked. The keys are kept in the kitchen pantry. You can’t go traipsing all over the house for them. You’ll drip water and leave a trail everywhere you go. I’ll never be able to clean up after you. I’m going in the house the same way you are.”

  Lightning seared the sky again and the low roll of thunder covered Nathan’s sarcastic reply. “Wonderful,” he said. “That’s just bloody wonderful.”

  Nathan stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the balustrade. He stretched his arms, working them like windmills until he was limber. He was used to hard labor, digging and hauling, walking and riding, but it had been a long time since he’d been called on to do something this strenuous and inherently dangerous. He made several tentative jumps, testing the spring and stamina of his legs. When he thought he was ready, he stood on the flat stone railing.