Kisses Like a Devil Page 6

  Chapter Three

  Meredith flexed her fingers around the crazy American’s neck, uncertain where to rest them. This wasn’t like either of her affairs, where matters had started in a dance floor’s corner after a good deal of beer. It’d seemed like the easiest thing in the world back then to kiss a man, since she was already in his arms.

  But now?

  He ghosted his lips across hers again, teasing her with the promise of pleasures to come. His breath brushed hers, offering warmth. His arms were strong, protecting cables around her, anchored by steady, impersonal hands, and his torso was a wall against danger. He hadn’t grabbed or mauled her.

  This was the man who’d run at the secret police to help her. He’d risked his neck for her.

  Cold washed through her again at the memory and a small sound escaped her. She pulled him closer, sinking her fingertips into his black hair. The strands trailed over her skin like silk, heavy and clean, caressing every inch. She murmured something hungry and shifted, opening her hips to his embrace.

  He took immediate advantage, pinning her against the tree as if they’d been lovers for hours.

  She gulped. She wanted more. She’d come to help him, as thanks for his aid at the beer house and because she could do nothing for those in jail. She hadn’t bargained for hunger lighting up her veins.

  “Steady, sweetheart, steady,” he crooned in Gaelic and lightly skimmed his fingers over her hair, soothing her.

  BRRRRRR!

  Dear God, the police. Her heart shot into a staccato beat which would have amazed a bumblebee. Shaking, she slid her hand down his shoulder and pulled him closer.

  He rumbled approvingly deep in his throat and his tongue tasted her, delicately at first then more deeply.

  She moaned and yielded, fire lancing from his mouth to her breasts and lower, moving rhythmically with the pull of his mouth. Oh, dear Lord.

  Heavy footsteps thudded around them.

  He cupped her head, supporting her, somehow linking them through the pressure of their bodies and the trees’ sweet fragrance. She couldn’t breathe anything but him, didn’t want to taste anything but him, just wanted to eat his kiss and feel the textures of his hunger coming through his lips and teeth. Even his coat’s fine wool reached through her suit’s linen to rasp her nipples into aching tips.

  “Oh yes.” She clung to him, stroking him with her thumbs, her knees.

  “Sweetheart,” he crooned, nuzzling her throat. She moaned and pulled his head back, desperate for more. Her heartbeat rose to meet them, deepening the fire within her.

  His cock was a hot, hard promise against her hips and his pulse thundered under her palm. She kneaded his neck and shoulders like a cat, instinctively sinking her nails into him to beg for more.

  He chuckled a little roughly and paused, his cheek against hers.

  Had the footsteps faded away? Did she care? She tugged at his hair, blindly seeking more of those drugging kisses.

  He gave a hoarse laugh and muttered something in a language she’d never heard before. He kissed her cheek. “We need to stop.”

  She blinked and instinctively tightened her grip on him.

  “Sweetheart, the police are searching the streets. We have to leave.”

  No more kissing. Of course. She closed her eyes and commanded her body to stop reliving the previous moments. There were more important things to remember, like—“Morro!”

  A very soft woof answered her and she looked down. Her oldest friend wagged his tail, almost invisible in the shadows between her skirts and the tree. She gave him a quick pet on the head, rewarding his fidelity.

  The American yanked her into motion, heading straight past the amorous couple. Why did she want to linger and copy their every motion with him?

  She barely managed to conceal her squeak of alarm when he snatched up the man’s bowler hat, which had been tossed on the ground a few feet away.

  “Why did you steal his hat? He’ll call the police!” she whispered, looking back over her shoulder.

  “It’s not theft when you leave twice its value behind. Besides, he never noticed.”

  The woman howled something foul and ecstatic, her eyes screwed shut. Meredith blushed, silently agreeing with the American, but rallied. “It was a hideous risk!”

  “We’d be stopped within moments as out of place, if I didn’t have a hat. You look every inch the proper young lady—”

  “Dusted with mud,” she countered. And etched with tearstains. How could the police have attacked in such numbers when they knew married couples would be present, not just workingmen? How many women had she seen go down under their truncheons before she’d had to flee?

  “Not too many flaws for a promenade on a rainy night,” he struck back. “But nobody would believe in a gentleman without a hat. Praise the saints, this one fits well enough.”

  She bit her lip and tried to concentrate on the current problem. But her restless pulse kept reminding her what he felt like, as if he’d imprinted her like a woodblock through her clothing. She could have announced where his cock would best fit, how his knees cradled her thighs, the grip of her thumbs into his shoulders…

  Her pulse was beating deep and fast, pushing her toward him in anticipation.

  She reminded herself to think about the bowler.

  She shuddered and forced her eyes to open far enough to consider the fashionable necessity. The trees filtered light from the hotel’s window into a golden haze. “True. It even matches your London suit, if nobody looks too closely.”

  “But we do need to wash up a bit.”

  He stepped into a small enclosure just outside the stables. There he found a water faucet, where he rinsed his handkerchief. Good heavens, he had strong hands, with long sensitive fingers. How could a rich man’s hands have become scarred? Warmth deepened inside her, reaching out to him. “May I?”

  He tilted her chin up and she froze. Tears had swum endlessly onto her face during that long run to intercept his captors. Her lashes were caked in saltwater and brine etched her cheeks, cutting into her mouth. Job’s wife had built herself a pillar of salt by looking back at the past. Had that been any more painful than seeing her friends and their guests maimed and injured?

  She nodded jerkily and he washed her face, as gently as if he dealt with a week-old baby. How absurdly easy it would be to lean on him.

  “Ready?”

  “Of course.” Looking back helped nobody. It was time to move forward.

  He drew her up closer to him, the path narrow and the air laden down by the formal garden’s dozens of roses. She automatically tucked her hand through his elbow in the proper style for accepting a gentleman’s escort, and matched her pace to his.

  He was warm, so warm, even through the layers of cloth. His hips powered his strong thighs forward, every movement transferred smoothly through her skirt and single layer of petticoat. For the first time, she understood her mother’s endless lectures about wearing stiff corsets and layers of frilly silks to signify virtue. If nothing else, they’d allow little chance for decadent thoughts to creep in.

  Such as admiring the understated elegance of his London tailoring. So many men in Eisengau wore uniforms that students in civilian clothing usually looked clumsy. But his suit was made from the finest cloth, smooth and supple under her hands—or pressed against her skin. His silk cravat had a very subtle pattern woven into it, which gleamed in the streetlights and made her long to slip her fingers inside it and caress the same strong neck it did. Such a foolish thought!

  He sauntered in exactly the proper style, too. Not so fast as to attract attention in one of the most fashionable venues in Eisengau and certainly not swiftly enough to satisfy her crackling nerves. She swore she could hear his watch fob rustling against his waist on that solid gold chain, as elegant and restrained as everything else.

  “Are you sure we want to go in here?” She tightened her grip on his arm when he started to lead her up the steps to the Grand Hotel’s rear ent
rance.

  “They’ll never look for us at the most fashionable hotel in town. Once we’re in front, we can catch a cab to anywhere we’d like.”

  Or run into someone she knew, other than the police.

  “We must get you to safety before you’re captured,” the American murmured.

  “They’d simply turn me over to my stepfather.” And I’d rather jump off a cliff. Despite her best efforts, Meredith’s voice wobbled. She’d always known she’d prefer the grand duke’s medieval prisons to her stepfather’s ideas of redemption.

  Her companion’s head snapped around for a moment, his cobalt gaze all too perceptive. He recovered quickly and touched his hat, honoring a pair of women exiting the doors. “It’s nothing you’ll have to endure, sweetheart; my word on it.”

  “Reckless foreigner.”

  He chuckled—and his warm masculine certainty made her stupid pulse leap. “Brian Donovan, very much at your service, miss.”

  What kind of adventurer was he, to be so calm? Still, where else could she go but with him? She did her best to match him.

  “Meredith Duncan, sir. Thank you for trying to help me, back at the beer house,” she added.

  She shook her head at him and swept through the great wood and curving brass doors ahead of him. High brass chandeliers and sconces in every corner cast a golden glow over the smooth plaster walls and fine paneling. Great arches adorned the hallway inside, adorned with elegant stencils in brilliant colors. Ethereal brass railings lined the staircases leading to the upper floors, while oriental carpets rippled over the treads.

  Only a few expensively dressed patrons moved past them, heading for the hotel’s popular street-side café or the private dining rooms upstairs. If they were lucky, most of the nightly traffic would have already dined and left for the promenade, to enjoy the Citadel’s fireworks display.

  He paused in the central atrium, the space between a massive, square pillar and the railing providing an illusion of privacy. “Where do you want me to take you?”

  Or how? She smiled, wondering what her American adventurer’s reaction would be to that question.

  Morro rapped her knee with his head on the other side, the warning triggering a chill through her body.

  “My dear child.” The ice-cold voice, dripping with sugar and poison, silenced anything she might have said.

  “Mother.” Meredith threw her shoulders back a little farther. “Sir.” She gave her stepfather the barest possible acknowledgment.

  They eyed her coldly, the other hotel patrons giving them a wide berth. It was too late for the theater or a dinner party so they must have just come from a boating party at the hotel’s quay. An important one, no doubt, given their clothing.

  Mother was dressed in an expensive Irish lace dress, which clung to her abundant curves. She was extremely proud of her figure and took advantage of every opportunity to showcase it in the latest corset. Meredith had only once been angry—and foolish—enough to openly liken the result to a hunchbacked pigeon. The remark had earned her a severe caning, followed by bread and water for a week. Only Colonel Zorndorf’s intervention had rescued her from having to live on that starvation diet for a month.

  Mother surveyed her slowly, starting with her mudsplattered hem and lingering on her cheeks, which must still be faintly tearstained. She sniffed in disgust and tapped her beribboned cane impatiently, lifting her head until its multitude of ostrich plumes shimmered in echoing outrage.

  Oh no. Icy chills raced each other up and down Meredith’s skin. She donned her best polite mask and set about satisfying the formalities. At least Donovan would be able to escape, once that was done.

  “Mother, may I present Mr. Brian Donovan? Mr. Donovan, allow me to introduce His Honor, Judge Frederick and Mrs. Baumgart.”

  Donovan squeezed her fingers briefly before releasing them slowly, refusing to show any embarrassment. “Ma’am. Your honor.”

  Meredith’s stepfather, Judge Frederick Baumgart, was tall and narrow, a razor-edged knife beside his wife’s curvaceous flower garden—or hand-held rock. His suit was cut on crisply military lines, an impression heightened by his regimental tie and pin. He inclined his head, frowning slightly.

  Another group of merrymakers strolled down the stairs, led by a British officer with a cane and accompanied by two young women. They paused to watch Brian and Meredith’s party.

  Morro edged between Meredith and her mother, the closest member of the new pair. She refused to glance sideways at the hotel’s front door, in the vain hope she might be able to reach the house and her bedroom before her mother arrived. Donovan, after all, should be able to look after himself.

  “Donovan? Aren’t you the American observer for the summer maneuvers this year?” her stepfather asked abruptly.

  “I have that honor, sir.” Donovan’s expression turned unreadable, a radical transformation from her friendly companion.

  “What a very great pleasure it is to meet you, young man,” exclaimed the Judge, flashing his teeth in a shark’s enthusiastic grin. He seized Donovan’s hand and enthusiastically pumped it up and down. “My darling, do you see what our dear daughter has brought us?”

  Dear daughter?

  “The leader of one of the most influential delegations this year.”

  Influential? They must mean well-greased. Meredith’s lip curled at becoming useful to her mother for the first time.

  “My dear young man, we are so glad to be introduced to you.” Frau Baumgart beamed, instantly taking up her husband’s gambit. “Where did you meet my daughter?”

  “Mary,” added the Judge.

  “Meredith,” she corrected, bridling at the old insult and automatically protecting her first name.

  The Judge’s head swung around, his mouth opening to snap out a retort.

  “Miss Meredith,” Donovan interposed, lingering over the last syllable, “has been teaching me about Eisengau’s history, especially its ability to satisfy its commitments in guns. Washington will be very glad to hear these details.”

  The Judge gave a narrow smile, sharp teeth very much in evidence.

  Meredith tried to look as innocent as she had on the few occasions she’d been hauled to debutante balls.

  “I say, Donovan, glad to finally run you down.” The British officer limped over, his two ladies hovering solicitously at his side.

  “Blackwell.” Donovan nodded to the newcomer but hardly seemed relaxed. He certainly hadn’t eased his grip on her hand. Introductions were quickly made, lighting a predatory blaze in the Judge’s eyes. His tongue flickered across his lips and Mother smiled, openly assessing both men from head to toe.

  “Please come home with us for drinks, gentlemen,” Mother purred. “We can promise you good wine and good conversation with friends of ours.”

  Meredith flinched at the open attempt to grab both men for social triumph. Donovan stiffened beside her and an unreadable glance passed between the two men.

  “Unfortunately, ma’am, I’m afraid Captain Blackwell and I have been planning to meet up with each other. Now that I can hand Miss Duncan into your care, I’m free to join him. But with your permission…”

  “Yes?” The Judge was breathless, drat it.

  “I’d like to see Miss Duncan again after summer maneuvers are over.”

  Now it was Mother and the Judge’s turn to study each other soberly. Meredith held her breath, startled by their reaction to a simple request.

  “If we’re still in town, you certainly may,” the Judge finally pronounced his decision.

  “Thank you, sir. Miss Duncan.” Donovan kissed her fingers, lingering over them a little long. She had to stiffen her knees.

  Morro rumbled contentedly, drat him.

  A minute later, a cab was carrying him away from the Grand Hotel toward the Citadel.

  Mother and the Judge were silent for a long moment before calling for their carriage.

  Chapter Four

  Sunlight peered hesitantly into the grand
duke’s private office through the heavy windows, barely enough to outline the gilded pipes straining to heat the cavernous room. Certificates and photographs honoring the current resident’s accomplishments were scattered over the walls—a lion hunt, a repeating rifle’s number of rounds fired, and so on—but added nothing to the warmth. The walls were the Citadel’s original stone blocks, unsmoothed by plaster. The floors were stone, barely softened by a few jewel-like oriental carpets which had been given as bribes by oriental potentates.

  Pyotr calculated their value and bit back another curse. How much more of a gentleman would Grand Duke Rudolph be after a year in Siberia…He might even become trustworthy.

  The morning gun boomed one last time from its embrasure below them, sending echoes sighing around the valley. Pigeons danced and wheeled in the sky. The lord and master of everything in this tiny, godforsaken country blew on his monocle and polished it with a handkerchief.

  Grand Duke Rudolph was wasp-slender and immaculately turned out in his top cavalry regiment’s glittering uniform. His mustache was heavily waxed to a hornet’s sharp points and his bald head gleamed under the weak, early morning light. Pyotr never willingly turned his back on those pale blue eyes.

  Nicholas, his only living son and heir, stood silently beside the windows, his attention focused on the quays below. He wore the dark green uniform of Eisengau’s crack Rifle regiment, forming the traditional balance to the older generation’s equine interests. He’d surprisingly chosen the workmanlike field uniform for today’s departure on summer maneuvers, rather than the fancier service uniform.

  Rumor said his beard concealed scars from a cougar, gained during his sole American hunting trip. Pyotr doubted that, given the boy’s proven fondness for Oxford University, but couldn’t disprove it.

  Shouted commands and thuds from below marked the steady progress of luggage being loaded onto the railroad cars. The foreign observers would enjoy every luxury, in hopes of encouraging them to buy Eisengau’s finest arms. Even the finest European courtesans would pamper them, arriving tonight when the wives had been left behind in the capitol to rummage through the shops and theaters for the next two weeks.