One Night with a Prince Read online

  “Christabel,” he whispered against her lips, “God, woman, you’re driving me mad.”

  At least it was mutual. He seized her mouth again, but this time his hands roamed up her ribs and down to her hips, stroking, seeking, caressing…

  Someone passing by called out a coarse comment, and Byrne tore his lips from hers. “Come on,” he growled, then tugged her down the hall.

  She struggled to keep up with his furious strides. “Where are we going?”

  “My room.”

  She dug in her heels. “Now see here, Byrne—”

  “It’s high time we discussed tactics for regaining your damned letters,” he muttered. “And we can’t do it in your room, with Stokely right across the hall.”

  “Oh.” That made sense. Didn’t it? Or was she merely so eager to plummet to her doom that she would do whatever he said?

  She let him lead her down a series of halls until he ushered her into a lovely bedchamber where darkly burnished woods and antique brass created a decidedly masculine feel. Clearly he was a popular guest, for the servants had shown him the first attention. A fire blazed high in the hearth, a decanter of whiskey sat on a nearby writing table, and the vases overflowed with fresh flowers.

  He seemed to notice none of it as he shut the door behind her, his expression grim. “I nearly lost ten years off my life when I saw you closeted in Stokely’s study with him. I was certain he’d caught you going through his papers.”

  She sniffed. “I should hope I’m not so obvious as all that. I told him I was looking for a book, and he believed me.”

  “Did he?” Byrne edged nearer. “Then why was he so eager to change the wager? He’s playing with you, Christabel—”

  “If he is, I can handle him.”

  “You can always gut him with that blade I gave you, right?” he snapped, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “If I have to.”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to—that’s the point. Just do your searching during safe hours.”

  “And when would those be?”

  “After everyone’s asleep, before the maids come round.”

  “From 4 to 5 A.M.? Don’t be absurd. I’d never find them at that rate.”

  “Then at least make sure I’m with you when you go searching. We can always come up with some reason for being together in an odd part of the house.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You sneaky devil, that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re afraid I’ll find the letters when you’re not around. Then you won’t get your chance at them. So you’re trumping up this nonsense about the dangers—”

  “I’m not trumping up anything!” He strode up to her, his eyes alight. “What did Stokely do while you were with him? Did he touch you, kiss you, caress you?”

  “He kissed me, that’s all.”

  His jaw grew taut. “Next time he finds you alone he’ll expect more, especially now that you implied you might be willing.”

  He had a point. She thrust out her chin. “I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find me alone.”

  “When you’re sleeping across the bloody hall from him?” he shouted. “He can creep into your room at any time of the day or night, for God’s sake!”

  “I’ll lock the door.”

  “It’s his bloody house. He has keys to all the rooms, remember?”

  “Then I’ll…I’ll put a chair under the door or—”

  “You’ll sleep here, that’s what you’ll do,” he ordered. “You’ll sleep here with me, you’ll go out on your little searching exhibitions with me, you’ll—”

  “For a man who doesn’t care about the women he beds, you’re beginning to sound very much like a jealous lover,” she said quietly. “Do you hear yourself?”

  That brought him up short. “Don’t talk nonsense.” He raked his fingers through his hair again in increased agitation. “I’ve never been jealous of a woman in my life.”

  “My mistake,” she bit out. “And now that we’ve settled that, I’ll return to my room.”

  She got as far as opening the door before he slammed it shut. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Give me one good reason I should stay.”

  “Because I want you here.”

  “That isn’t—”

  He cut her off with a kiss, angling his body in close to trap hers against the door. But this time she didn’t return it. This time she wanted more from him.

  He was jealous and possessive of her, no matter what he’d claimed, and that meant he cared for her. But would he ever admit to feeling more for her than just desire?

  It suddenly seemed very important to make him admit it. To find out if there really was a warm-blooded, feeling creature buried deep inside the cold and calculating debaucher. A man with a soul.

  As if he sensed her withdrawal, he increased his erotic assault, letting his mouth drift down her jaw to her neck as his hands found the ties of her gown. “Stay with me tonight, my sweet.” His tongue traced the curve of her ear, sending her pulse racing. “Share my bed. Enough of this foolish abstinence.”

  His hand slid inside her gown to thumb her nipple, and every muscle in her body came to life, wanting more. She choked down a sigh. “Admit that you were jealous when you saw me with Lord Stokely. Admit it, and I’ll stay.”

  He paused in his caresses, then continued. “I won’t admit something that’s not true.” He worked the ties free, and she felt her gown fall off her shoulders.

  “Why not? You could lie, and I’d never know the difference. Go ahead, lie.”

  “I’m not going to bother lying about something as foolish as that,” he bit out. But he wouldn’t look at her as he shoved her chemise down far enough to bare her breast, then seized it in his mouth, sucking so greedily, it sparked her own greed. For him. In her bed.

  “You won’t…lie about it,” she choked out, “because you know it…wouldn’t be a lie.”

  “Think what you want.” He swiftly turned her around so he could undo her laces, then strip off her corset. When she faced him once more, his eyes scoured her, hungry, needy…possessive.

  “Admit it, Byrne,” she prodded. “Admit that—”

  He shut her up with a kiss, probably so he could remove her chemise and drawers without her protesting. Then he shamelessly fondled her breasts and her belly, sliding his clever, seeking hand between her legs…

  Wrenching her mouth from his, she caught his hand to stay it. “Say the words. ‘I was jealous.’ Three words.”

  His eyes looked almost black in the dimly lit room. “I’ll say it if you promise to spend your nights with me. To do your searching only with me.”

  “You know I won’t promise that.”

  “Ah, but you will, my sweet,” he rasped. “I’ll make sure of it.” Taking her by surprise, he caught her naked body up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

  When he tossed her down atop the coverlet and tore off his coat, she considered whether to run, to escape him while she still could. But she wasn’t ready to give up on him. Tonight she’d seen a glimmer of another Byrne, an uncontrolled one consumed by anger and jealousy.

  And passion. He stripped quickly, raking her with a gaze so fierce and raw that it made her nipples ache. Yet she didn’t fight the heated wine of desire flooding her senses. She lay there, relishing the sight of him baring his body in great strokes, like a painter working in a frenzy to reveal a corded thigh here, a bent elbow there.

  For days, she’d worried that if they made love, he’d gain the power over her that he needed to discover—and exploit—her secrets. But might it not work both ways? If Byrne were capable of true caring, satisfying his desires might give her power as well. Power over him. The power to convince him that helping her was more noble than seeking to use her letters.

  A power she might already have. “Admit that you were jealous,” she pressed him. “Admit that you hated
the sight of me with Lord Stokely.”

  “Promise me you’ll never go off alone,” he countered gruffly. Now naked, he joined her in the bed, lying on his side so he could caress her breast. “Promise me, lass.”

  “First admit you were jealous.” Turning onto her side, she ran her hand down the line of hair on his belly until she reached the heavy length of him. As she clasped his magnificent erection, she whispered, “Admit it, Byrne.”

  Before she could even stroke him once, he caught her hand. “Oh, no, we’re not playing that game again, you teasing wench.”

  Pressing her back, he used one of his hands to imprison both of hers above her head. Then he bent his mouth to her breasts and began to suck and tongue her nipples while his other hand found the yearning spot between her thighs and tormented it with silken touches and teasing caresses that were never enough to satisfy.

  “Promise me,” he tore his lips from her breast to growl. And all the while he roused her to a fever pitch of need, making her squirm and writhe and beg for more with thrusts of her hips against his too-gentle hand.

  Yet still she managed to gasp, “Admit it…admit it and…I’ll promise…whatever you wish.”

  “Damn you,” he ground out as he hovered over her, inches from her mouth. “Damn you for being a stubborn minx.”

  She stretched up to kiss him, and he seized her mouth with a groan, slaking only some of her thirst with bold thrusts of his tongue. He insinuated one knee between her thighs, and she parted her legs to accommodate him.

  Still kissing her, he braced himself above her so that his erection lay on her, warm, thick, promising release as he stroked it up and down against that tender little spot that throbbed and ached for him. “Promise me,” he rasped against her mouth. “Promise me, lass.”

  She slid her freed hand down between them to grab his shaft, then gave it a long stroke she knew would drive him mad.

  “Stop that,” he hissed.

  “Admit it.” She matched his earlier, too-gentle strokes, caressing him as if he were as fragile as glass. “Admit you were jealous.”

  His gaze seared her even as he thrust against her hand. “No.” He tried to pull her hand free, but she had a firm grip and wasn’t letting go this time.

  She rubbed her hard-tipped nipples against his chest, then arched up to his ear to whisper, “Admit it, Byrne.” Remembering what he’d done earlier, she laved his ear with her tongue. “Come on, admit it.”

  When she capped her sensuous assault with a torturously slow tug on his aroused flesh, he moaned, then said hoarsely, “All right, damn you, I admit it. Now let go.”

  She did, but though he probed between her legs with his shaft, she shifted her pelvis away, not quite satisfied with his answer. “Say the whole thing.”

  With jaw taut and eyes ablaze, he snapped, “Promise me you won’t go anywhere here without me.”

  “I promise.” She should at least give him that much.

  Satisfaction filled his face. Reaching down, he found her entrance with his fingers, then drove his aroused flesh deep inside her. A groan of sheer pleasure erupted from his lips. “You’re so tight and hot, my sweet. It feels so damned good to be inside you.”

  “Byrne,” she begged, while she could still speak. “Say…the words…”

  He withdrew, then thrust again, hard, furious. “I was jealous,” he bit out. “I am jealous. Jealous of all those bloody idiots…in the card room. Who leer at you and…watch your arse while you walk—”

  “Do they?” she whispered, surprised.

  “And Stokely.” His gaze bored into hers. “I hate the idea of Stokely touching you.” He drove inside her again, so fiercely it made her gasp. “I’m the only one who should touch you. I’m the only one who should kiss you.” His breath rasped against her ear. “I’m the only one who should…put himself inside you…like this—” He nipped her earlobe, then soothed the nip with heated swaths of his tongue. “If I believed…for one moment that you…would really countenance another man’s—”

  “No, never,” she vowed against his cheek. “It’s only you I want.” She wound her arms about his neck, arching up against him to find more of the glorious pleasure his delicious thrusts were rousing. “Only you.”

  “Christabel,” he said hoarsely, then cast openmouthed kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “My God, Christabel…”

  Byrne matched his kisses with wild, thundering thrusts, reaching down between them to rub her sensitive nub until she was falling, falling…falling into hell with the angel of darkness, the Prince of Sin himself. The man with no soul was plundering hers over and over, mercilessly, thoroughly, branding her with himself in every vein and muscle and limb, until she forgot where he ended and she began.

  Now she was truly in trouble. She fancied she could feel the heat of hellfire on her face, smell the brimstone in the air, yet it was as sweet as fragrant roses to her. Lord help her, she didn’t care where Byrne took her. Let hellfire consume her and the devil steal her soul. Because any hell with Byrne in it was better than a heaven without him.

  “Damn you, lass,” he whispered, his voice harsh and guttural. “Christabel…my sweet…my darling…mine…mine…mine!”

  It was the exultant cry of the devil claiming her soul, yet all she could think as he spilled himself inside her and her body burst into flames was, Mine, too, Byrne. You’re mine, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I found it wise never to ask a lover about

  his former mistresses, in case I did not like

  his answers.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  Gavin lay sprawled on his back, staring at the canopy above them as Christabel’s sweet form curved against him. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t still the thundering of his heart. And it had nothing to do with his exertions of the past few minutes.

  It was her and the things she’d forced him to admit. Had that humiliating litany of jealousies really come out of his mouth? And he hadn’t even been lying to get her to share his bed—he’d meant every word. Damn the chit. Damn her!

  Plenty of his mistresses had used lovemaking to coax him into giving them jewels or gifts or excursions to exotic places. But none had ever used it to turn him confessional. Of course, none had ever made him want to strangle a man just for looking at them with lust, either.

  What the bloody hell had come over him? He might as well slice open his chest and offer her his heart for the plucking. Here, my sweet, rip it out. Colonel Christabel wasn’t satisfied with only his body, oh no. She wanted everything. If he weren’t careful, she’d turn him into a besotted fool.

  He turned to stare at her, and his anger abruptly vanished. She certainly didn’t look like a wily temptress bent on his destruction. More like a purring kitten curled up against him, her face softly content, sleepily happy.

  He was in trouble now. Because the truth was—he’d speak every humiliating word again just to see that look on her face. Imagine what it would be like to wake up to that look every morning. To have that smile shine for him every single day of his life.

  His breath caught in his throat. Damn her for doing this to him! He mustn’t let her guess what she’d done, or next thing he knew, he’d be married to her and surrounded with a passel of puling babes—

  “Bloody hell!” He jerked up in bed. “I can’t believe I forgot to use them!”

  “Use what?” she asked, her contentment abruptly fading.

  “Too late this time anyway.” He settled back against the pillow, drawing her up to lean against his chest. “I forgot to use my French letters to prevent children, my sweet.” Something else that had never happened with any other woman.

  “Well,” she said in a small voice, “it probably doesn’t matter. I suspect I can’t have children anyway.”

  A strange tightness seized his throat. “Why not?”

  “I never conceived in all my years of marriage. So I’m probably barren.”

  “How do you know yo
ur husband wasn’t the one at fault?”

  “Men never are, or so the doctors told me.”

  He snorted. “What else would they say? If men could be at fault, women might start abandoning their husbands for not giving them children, and they couldn’t have that. But if it takes two people to create a child, then it seems to me either person could be at fault for not creating one. That’s merely logical.”

  “And you’re nothing if not logical,” she said dryly.

  “Which is why we’ll use my French letters from now on. And you’ll use a sponge. I’m not taking any chances. I can’t believe I took one this time.” He stared down at her tumbled hair with an ironic smile. “That’s what happens when a man goes days without a woman. He loses his capacity for logic.”

  She eyed him askance. “That would certainly explain why you never fail to be logical. I doubt you’ve ever gone more than one night without a woman.”

  For some reason, her assumption annoyed him. “I’ve gone weeks without a woman. I do have a life outside of the bedroom.”

  “I’d never know it, to look at Lord Stokely’s guests. How many of your former mistresses are here? Two? Three? Ten?”

  “Four,” he grudgingly admitted.

  She dropped her gaze from his, her hand tracing faint circles on his bare chest. “And…Lady Kingsley? How would you characterize ‘Anna’?”

  He stiffened. “What did Stokely tell you? I know he told you something.”

  “He said that you wanted to marry her, and she refused you.” Her voice lowered. “He said you wanted her fortune.”

  “Damn the bloody arse. That’s just like Stokely to speak half the truth. I didn’t need her fortune, for God’s sake.”

  “Perhaps he misunderstood her. He said he got the story from Lady Kingsley herself. Or perhaps that’s how she looked at it. Especially since you’d just begun your club, and—”

  “If she said I was after her fortune, she lied,” Gavin ground out. “My club was already doing pretty well for the small concern it was, and she knew it. Nor did she refuse me, not at first. We were engaged. Secretly engaged. I’d already arranged for us to elope to Gretna Green, and she was ready and willing.” He gritted his teeth, remembering. “Then the lofty Lord Kingsley came along, and her family pressured her into accepting his suit. And that was the end of our plans.”