Rakes Vow c-2 Read online

  His eyes opened wide, then filled with laughter-more laughter than she could stand.

  "Oh, no." He shook his head. "Not that sort of kiss."

  She didn't need to ask what sort of kiss he wanted. Patience focused on his lips-long, lean, hard. Fascinating. They were not going to get any less fascinating. Indeed, the longer she contemplated them…

  Hauling in a quick breath, she held it, stretched upward, shut her eyes, and fleetingly touched her lips to his. They were as hard as she'd imagined, very like sculpted marble. Sensation flared at the brief contact; her lips tingled, then throbbed.

  Patience blinked her eyes wide as she lowered her heels to earth. And refocused on his lips. She saw the ends curve upward, heard his low, wickedly teasing laugh.

  "Still not right. Here-let me show you."

  His hands came up to frame her face, her jaw, tilting her lips up as his descended. Of their own volition, her lids fell, then his lips touched hers. Patience couldn't have quelled the shudder that passed through her had her life depended on it.

  Stunned, poised to resist, she mentally paused. Strong, sure, his lips covered hers, moving slowly, langorously, as if savoring her taste, her texture. There was nothing threatening in the unhurried caress. Indeed, it was beguiling, luring her senses, focusing them on the practiced slide and glide of cool lips which seemed to instinctively know how to soothe the heat rising in hers. Hers throbbed; his pressed, caressed, as if drinking in her heat, stealing it from her.

  Patience felt her lips soften; his firmed in response.

  No, no, noo… Some small part of her mind tried to warn her, but she was long past listening. This was new, novel-she'd never felt such sensations before. Never known such simple delight existed.

  Her head was whirling, but not unpleasantly. His lips still seemed hard, cool-Patience couldn't resist the temptation to return the pressure, to see if his lips would soften to hers.

  They didn't, they only became harder. The next instant, she felt a searing heat sweep over her lips. She stilled; the questing heat returned-with the tip of his tongue, he traced her lower lip. The contact lingered, an unspoken question.

  Patience wanted more. She parted her lips.

  His tongue slid between, slowly, with his customary assured arrogance, quite certain of his welcome, confident in his expertise.

  Vane held the reins of his desire in a grip of iron and refused to let his demons loose. Deep, primal instincts urged him on; experience held him back.

  She'd never yielded her mouth to any man, never shared her lips willingly. He knew that absolutely, sensed the truth in her untutored response, read it in her lack of guile. But she was rising to him, her passion, her desire, answering his call, sweet as the dew on a crisp spring morning, virginal as snow on an inaccessible peak.

  He could reach her-she would be his. But there was no need for any hurry. She was untouched, unused to the demands of a man's hands, a man's lips, much less a man's body; if he pressed too fast, she'd turn skittish and balk. And he'd have to work harder to bring her to his bed.

  Angling his head over hers, he kept every caress slow, every plundering stroke deliberate. Passion lay heavy, languid, almost somnolent between them; as he claimed every sweet inch of the softness she offered him, he laced the heady sensation into every caress, and let it sink into her senses.

  It would lie there, dormant, until next time he touched her, until he called it forth. He would let it rise by degrees, feed it, nurture it until it became the inescapable compulsion that would, in the end, bring her to him.

  He would savor her slowly, savor her slow surrender-all the more sweet because the end was never in doubt.

  Distant voices reached him; inwardly, he sighed, and reluctantly brought the kiss to an end.

  He raised his head. Patience's eyes slowly opened, then she blinked, and stared straight at him. For one instant, the look on her face, in her eyes, had him puzzled-then he recognized it. Curious-she wasn't shocked, stunned, or thrown into a maidenly fluster. She was curious.

  Vane couldn't stop his rakish grin. Nor could he resist the temptation to brush his lips overs hers one last time.

  "What are you doing?" Patience whispered as his head bent to hers. Even at close quarters, she could still see his smile.

  "It's called 'kiss and make up'." The curve of his lips deepened. "It's what lovers do when they fall out."

  A vise locked about Patience's heart; panic-it had to be that-streaked through her. "We aren't lovers."

  "Yet."

  His lips touched hers and she shivered. "We never will be." She might be giddy, but she was quite sure of that.

  He stilled, but his confident smile didn't waver. "Don't wager your fortune on it." Again, his lips brushed hers.

  Patience's head reeled. To her relief, he straightened and drew back, looking over her head. "Here they come."

  She blinked. "They who?"

  He looked down at her. "Your harem."

  "My what?"

  His brows rose in unlikely innocence. "Isn't that the correct term for a group of slaves of the opposite sex?"

  Patience dragged in a deep breath-she straightened, flicked him a warning glance, then turned. To meet Pen-wick, Henry, and Edmond, all striding up the aisle. Beneath her breath, Patience groaned.

  "My dear Miss Debbington." Penwick took the lead. "I rode over expressly to ask if you would care to essay a ride?"

  Patience gave him her hand. "I thank you for your kindness, sir, but I fear I've had a surfeit of fresh air this morning." The breeze was rising, whipping stray tendrils of hair across her forehead, teasing more strands free. Penwick directed a suspicious glance at the large presence looming by her shoulder. Half-turning, Patience saw Vane return Penwick's brief nod with one a great deal more supercilious. "Actually," she stated, "I was about to return indoors."

  "Capital!" Henry pressed closer. "I wondered where you'd got to. Thought you must have come out for a walk. Be a pleasure to escort you back."

  "I'll come, too." Edmond beamed an understanding smile at Patience. "I came to see how Gerrard's doing, but he gave me my conge. So I may as well go in."

  There would, Patience felt sure, have been a fight for the position on her right, to be the one whose arm she took, except that the position was already filled. "It seems we're quite a party," Vane drawled. He flicked a glance at Penwick. "Coming, Penwick? We can go by way of the stables."

  Patience drew in a deep breath, placed her hand on Vane's arm-and pinched him.

  He looked down at her, brows rising innocently. "I was only trying to be helpful." He turned her. The others jostled behind them as he led her up the nave.

  The route he took was expressly designed to try her temper. More specifically, to have the others try her temper; Vane wisely kept quiet and let them make the running. With her wet feet now positively frozen from standing too long on cold stone, Patience discovered her stock of fore-bearance had dipped dangerously low.

  By the time they reached the stables, and she gave Pen-wick her hand in farewell, it was all she could do to fabricate a smile and a polite good-bye.

  Penwick squeezed her fingers. "If the rain holds off, no doubt you'll wish to ride tomorrow. I'll call by in the morning."

  As if he was in charge of her rides! Patience bit her tongue on a tart rejoinder. Withdrawing her hand, she raised her brows, then haughtily turned away, refusing to fall into the trap of giving Penwick a nod-which could be construed as acceptance. One glance at Vane's face, at the expression in his eyes, was enough to confirm he'd read the exchange clearly.

  Luckily, Henry and Edmond drifted off without pushing once they entered the house. As she and Vane climbed the stairs, Patience inwardly frowned. It was almost as if both Henry and Edmond thought they had to protect her from Vane, and Penwick, too, but, once she was in the house, they considered her safe. Even from Vane.

  She could imagine why they thought that-this was, after all, Vane's godmother's house. Even rakes, she under
stood, had lines they would not cross. But she'd already learned she couldn't predict Vane's rakishness-and she wasn't at all sure where his lines lay.

  They reached the end of the gallery; the corridor to her room stretched ahead. Halting, she drew her hand from Vane's arm and turned to face him.

  His expression mild, his eyes gently amused, he met her gaze. He read her eyes, then raised a brow, inviting her question.

  "Why did you stay?"

  He stilled; again, Patience felt the net draw tight, felt paralysis set in as his predator's senses focused on her. It was as if the world stopped spinning, as if some impenetrable shield closed about them, so that there was nothing but her and him-and whatever it was that held them.

  She searched his eyes, but couldn't read his thoughts beyond the fact that he was considering her, considering what to tell her. Then he lifted one hand. Patience caught her breath as he slid one finger beneath her chin; the sensitive skin came alive to his touch. He tipped her face up so that her eyes locked on his.

  He studied her, her eyes, her face, for one instant longer. "I stayed to help Minnie, to help Gerrard… and to get something I want."

  He uttered the words clearly, deliberately, without any affectation. His heavy lids lifted. Patience read the truth in his eyes. The force that held them beat in on her senses. A conqueror watched her through cool grey eyes.

  Giddy, she fought for enough strength to lift her chin from his finger. Breathless, she turned and walked away to her door.

  Chapter 7

  Late that night, Patience paced before the fire in her bedchamber. About her, the house was silent, all the occupants retired to their rest. She couldn't rest; she hadn't even bothered to undress. There wasn't any point-she wouldn't fall asleep. She was getting very tired of missing out on her sleep, but…

  She couldn't get her mind off Vane Cynster. He commanded her attention; he filled her thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else. She'd forgotten to eat her soup. Later, she'd tried to drink tea from an empty cup.

  "It's all his fault," she informed Myst, sitting, sphinx-like, on the armchair. "How am I supposed to behave sensibly when he makes declarations like that?"

  Declared they would be lovers-that he wanted her in that way. Patience slowed. "Lovers, he said-not protector and mistress." She frowned at Myst. "Is there any pertinent distinction?"

  Myst looked steadily back.

  Patience grimaced. "Probably not." She shrugged and resumed her pacing.

  After all Vane had said and done, every precept she'd ever learned stated categorically that she avoid him. Cut him dead if need be. However… She halted, and stared at the flames.

  The truth was, she was safe. She would be the very last lady to throw her cap over the windmill for a gentleman like Vane Cynster. He might be caring in some ways, he might be so powerfully attractive she couldn't focus on anything else while he was by, but she could never forget what he was. His appearance, his movements, his attitudes, that dangerous purr in his voice-all were constant reminders. No-she was safe. He wouldn't succeed in seducing her. Her deep-seated antipathy to elegant gentlemen would protect her from him.

  Which meant she could, with impunity, satisfy her curiosity. Over those odd sensations he evoked, sometimes knowingly, at other times apparently unconsciously. She'd never felt the like before.

  She needed to know what they meant. She wanted to know if there was more.

  Brow furrowing, she paced on, formulating her arguments. Her experience of the physical was severely limited-she herself had ensured that was so. She'd never before felt the slightest inclination to so much as kiss any gentleman. Or to allow any gentleman to kiss her. But the one, amazingly thorough, astonishingly lengthy kiss she'd shared with Vane had demonstrated beyond doubt that he was a master in that sphere. From his reputation, she'd expected nothing less. Who better to learn from?

  Why shouldn't she take advantage of the situation and learn a little more-all within the bounds of the possible, of course. She might not know where his lines lay, but she knew where hers were drawn.

  She was safe, she knew what she wanted, and she knew how far she could go.

  With Vane Cynster.

  The prospect had consumed her thoughts for most of the afternoon and all of the evening. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep her eyes from him, from his large, lean frame, those strong, long-fingered hands, and his increasingly fascinating lips.

  Patience frowned and continued to pace.

  She looked up as she neared the end of her well-worn route-her curtains were still undrawn. Crossing to the window, she reached a hand to each drape to twitch them shut-in the gloom below, a light gleamed.

  Patience froze and stared down. The light was quite clear, a ball glowing through the fog shrouding the ruins. It bobbed, then moved. Patience didn't wait to see more. Whirling, she hauled open her wardrobe, grabbed her cloak, and ran for the door.

  Her soft-soled slippers made no sound on the runners or stair carpet. A single candle left burning in the front hall threw her shadow back up to the gallery. Patience didn't pause. She flew down the dark corridor to the side door.

  It was bolted. She wrestled with the heavy bolts, dragging them back, then pulled open the door. Myst shot out. Patience stepped quickly outside, and shut the door. Then she whirled and started out-into thick fog.

  Five impulsive steps from the door, she stopped. Shivering, she swung her cloak over her shoulders, quickly tying the cords at the collar. She glanced back. Only by straining her eyes could she make out the wall of the house, the blank eyes of the downstairs windows, and the darker patch that was the side door.

  She looked toward the ruins. There was no sign of the light, but the Spectre, whoever he was, could not have reached the house, even using the light to guide him, not before she'd reached the side door.

  In all likelihood, the Spectre was still out there.

  Setting her back to the house, Patience took a few cautious steps. The fog grew denser, colder.

  Tugging her cloak more tightly about her, she set her teeth and forged on. She tried to imagine she was walking in bright sunshine, tried to see in her mind's eye where she was. Then the first of the tumbled stones dotting the lawn loomed out of the fog, a reassuringly familiar sight.

  Dragging in a more confident breath, she continued on, carefully picking her way between the toppled stones.

  The fog was densest over the lawn; as she neared the ruins, it thinned, enough for her to make out the major structures, from which she could judge her position.

  Cold, damp streamers of thick fog wound their way in and out of the shattered arches. A drifting mist obscured, then revealed, then obscured again. There was no real wind, yet a fine thread of sound seemed to whisper through the ruins, like a distant keening from ages past.

  As she stepped onto the lichen-covered flags of the outer ward, Patience felt the eerieness close about her. A denser drift of fog wafted about her; one hand outstretched, she felt her way along a short wall, part of the monks' dorter. It ended abruptly; beyond was a large gap giving onto the flagged corridor leading to the remains of the refectory.

  She stepped toward the gap; one slipper slid on crumbling masonry. Stifling a gasp, Patience leapt forward onto the corridor flags.

  And collided with a man.

  She opened her mouth to scream-a hard hand clamped over her lips. An arm like steel locked about her waist, trapping her against a long, hard frame. Patience relaxed; her panic flowed out of her. There was only one body within ten miles like the one she was pressed against.

  Reaching up, she pulled Vane's hand from her lips. She drew breath to speak, opened her lips-

  He kissed her.

  When he eventually consented to stop, he only lifted his lips a bare fraction from hers. And breathed: "Quiet-sound travels very well in fog."

  Patience gathered her wits. And breathed back: "I saw the Spectre-there was a light bobbing about."

  "I think it's a lantern, bu
t it's gone or shielded now."

  His lips touched hers again, then settled, not cool but warm against hers. The rest of him was warm, too, an oasis of heat in the chilly night. Her hands trapped against his chest, Patience fought an urge to snuggle closer.

  When he next lifted his head, she forced herself to ask, her words still no more than a whispered breath: "Do you think he'll come back?"

  "Who knows? I thought I'd wait for a while."

  He followed up the tantalizing brush of his breath against her lips with a much more satisfying caress.

  Patience's head spun. "Maybe I'll wait, too."

  "Hmmm."

  Some unknown minutes later, while taking a necessary pause for breath, Vane commented: "Did you know your cat's here?"

  She hadn't known if Myst had followed her or not. "Where?" Patience looked about.

  "On the stone to your left. She can probably see better than us, even in the fog. Keep an eye on her-she'll probably disappear if the Spectre returns."

  Keep an eye on her. That was difficult while he was kissing her.

  Patience snuggled closer to the warm wall of his chest. He adjusted his hold; his hands slid about her waist, beneath her cloak. He drew her more firmly against him, shifting so she was trapped-very comfortably-between him and the old wall. One arm and shoulder protected her from the stones; the rest of him protected her from the night. His arms tightened; Patience felt the strength of him down her length, felt the press of his chest against her breasts, the weight of his hips against her stomach, the solid columns of his thighs hard against her softer limbs.

  His lips found hers again; his hands spread over her back, molding her to him. Patience felt heat rise-from her, from him, between them. They were in no danger of taking a chill.

  Myst hissed.

  Vane raised his head, instantly alert.

  A light flashed through the ruins. The fog had grown denser, making it difficult to tell where the lantern was. Reflections bounced off the cut faces of broken stones, setting up distracting glows. It took a moment to locate the strongest source of light.

  It shone from beyond the cloisters.