out her deep creamy skin and
round curves, the large coral nipples that had firmed under the
amber lamplight. The sight of her thighs, milky, soft, parted—and
the sounds he knew she’d picked up from their ventures out at the
brothels and exhibitions. Worse yet, he tried to blot out the image
of her not acting, but sitting on her bed, no more the waif, but a
woman grown, exotic, with that something more in her brandy eyes
that tried to pierce places in him he refused to allow.
It was all merged and mingled, the years, the
thousands of hours, when the world was just the two of them on
their quest, their mission. He told himself he was cold blooded
without apology. He was giving her what she wanted too. Had she
gone after Stratton on her own, she would be dead already.
He was fixed on his purpose, his goal, and
there was no ulterior motive toward Gabriella. They were clear
about the ends they worked toward.
Raith squeezed his eyes tight, tighter, until
that erotic image vanished. He used the same tool he always did,
Suzette in death, to make it vanish.
It left him chilled.
He fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped his
face and mouth. Standing, drawing in several breaths, he turned his
back from the building, and lit a cheroot, savoring a bitter taste,
cupping the lit end, before turning again, letting his shoulder
lean against the iron post.
He drew in, letting the smoke inside like
wraiths and ghosts amid the fog. He could not forget. He could not
think of Gabriella as anything or anyone outside his own need of
her assistance. If he let himself imagine…as when he’d spied those
marks on her shoulders, he’d think of what he’d made her, what role
he’d written for her to play—trained her for. He would not trade
one woman for the other. He would be giving up the only thing he
lived for.
Suzette deserved revenge.
Gabriella wanted this as much as he, for her
own retribution. She had known the danger and agreed. She was in
control and knew how much risk to take, and how to protect
herself—
If Raith did not tell himself this, he would
loathe himself—even more than he had for not protecting his
wife.
He should have enlightened Suzette about
London and about things a protected and naive country lass would
not know of. When he decided to bring her to the city, she had been
excited, wide eyed, and he did not have it in him to dampen that.
In truth, he had spun a dozen lies for Suzette about who he was and
what his background was, because he had wanted to hang onto the
purity and love she had offered.
From the moment, he had met her, an
accidental meeting on a country lane. Her angelic beauty captivated
him. Moreover, from the moment, she opened her mouth and he began
to listen, Raith knew he had never met anyone who saw so much
goodness in everything.
It hurt still. It twisted him up inside to
think of it. Of her shy wonder at his kisses, her complete
submission and trust at lovemaking—something they had not done
right after marriage, but that very night—the night before she went
missing.
If he thought of her giving herself to him
that night, rising early, likely thinking she could go to the shops
alone, as she did in her village. And…if he imagined Marcus spying
her, charming her….holding her for the time he’d searched for
her…He had gone mad. Even the worst he had imagined then was not
the worst that had happened to her.
He was insane, he was sure. The sight of her
in death had snapped that final thread inside of him that was
frayed to begin with.
When he had taken her body home to her
father, the man had wept. Raith could not. His last words to him
had been, forgive me. Because he knew, he should have never taken
her from her home and family.
What drove him, existed from those years of
boyhood, never belonging, fitting, and being loathed and invisible
to everyone. Those things the Duchess said to him….a child of
violence and rape, made him nauseous. Sick, because the father he
had so
round curves, the large coral nipples that had firmed under the
amber lamplight. The sight of her thighs, milky, soft, parted—and
the sounds he knew she’d picked up from their ventures out at the
brothels and exhibitions. Worse yet, he tried to blot out the image
of her not acting, but sitting on her bed, no more the waif, but a
woman grown, exotic, with that something more in her brandy eyes
that tried to pierce places in him he refused to allow.
It was all merged and mingled, the years, the
thousands of hours, when the world was just the two of them on
their quest, their mission. He told himself he was cold blooded
without apology. He was giving her what she wanted too. Had she
gone after Stratton on her own, she would be dead already.
He was fixed on his purpose, his goal, and
there was no ulterior motive toward Gabriella. They were clear
about the ends they worked toward.
Raith squeezed his eyes tight, tighter, until
that erotic image vanished. He used the same tool he always did,
Suzette in death, to make it vanish.
It left him chilled.
He fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped his
face and mouth. Standing, drawing in several breaths, he turned his
back from the building, and lit a cheroot, savoring a bitter taste,
cupping the lit end, before turning again, letting his shoulder
lean against the iron post.
He drew in, letting the smoke inside like
wraiths and ghosts amid the fog. He could not forget. He could not
think of Gabriella as anything or anyone outside his own need of
her assistance. If he let himself imagine…as when he’d spied those
marks on her shoulders, he’d think of what he’d made her, what role
he’d written for her to play—trained her for. He would not trade
one woman for the other. He would be giving up the only thing he
lived for.
Suzette deserved revenge.
Gabriella wanted this as much as he, for her
own retribution. She had known the danger and agreed. She was in
control and knew how much risk to take, and how to protect
herself—
If Raith did not tell himself this, he would
loathe himself—even more than he had for not protecting his
wife.
He should have enlightened Suzette about
London and about things a protected and naive country lass would
not know of. When he decided to bring her to the city, she had been
excited, wide eyed, and he did not have it in him to dampen that.
In truth, he had spun a dozen lies for Suzette about who he was and
what his background was, because he had wanted to hang onto the
purity and love she had offered.
From the moment, he had met her, an
accidental meeting on a country lane. Her angelic beauty captivated
him. Moreover, from the moment, she opened her mouth and he began
to listen, Raith knew he had never met anyone who saw so much
goodness in everything.
It hurt still. It twisted him up inside to
think of it. Of her shy wonder at his kisses, her complete
submission and trust at lovemaking—something they had not done
right after marriage, but that very night—the night before she went
missing.
If he thought of her giving herself to him
that night, rising early, likely thinking she could go to the shops
alone, as she did in her village. And…if he imagined Marcus spying
her, charming her….holding her for the time he’d searched for
her…He had gone mad. Even the worst he had imagined then was not
the worst that had happened to her.
He was insane, he was sure. The sight of her
in death had snapped that final thread inside of him that was
frayed to begin with.
When he had taken her body home to her
father, the man had wept. Raith could not. His last words to him
had been, forgive me. Because he knew, he should have never taken
her from her home and family.
What drove him, existed from those years of
boyhood, never belonging, fitting, and being loathed and invisible
to everyone. Those things the Duchess said to him….a child of
violence and rape, made him nauseous. Sick, because the father he
had so
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