When Sparks Fly Page 7

  Idiot—you’re letting your mind run away with you again. She couldn’t have come straight from bed—society females didn’t do that. Besides, her cloak was buttoned up with perfect propriety, and she wore boots and spectacles. Not the attire of a lady fresh from bed. Probably she’d been dressing when she’d heard him with the boys, and hadn’t waited to put up her hair.

  “At least tell me how a gentleman like you came to do experiments on explosives,” she prodded. “Was it because of your brother’s death?”

  He shook himself out of his distraction. “No. It began long before then.” She wouldn’t let it go, would she? And perhaps he’d be better off if she knew. Once she recoiled from him, he would no longer be tempted to keep her in his life. His dangerous, demanding life, where no woman belonged.

  With a sigh, he began. “I was always interested in chemistry, so when I was a boy Father would let me go with him whenever he consulted the mine manager. One day we arrived right after a bad explosion. I was ten. I saw things my worst nightmares couldn’t have conjured up: a miner whose arm hung by a tendon, another without—”

  He caught himself, realizing she had gone quite pale. “Anyway, I never forgot it. It galvanized me. So when Father gave me the usual choices for a second son—join the army or navy or clergy—I told him I wanted to study science. I’d read everything I could about mining operations. Explosives might be a necessary evil in mining, but I knew they could be safer. I just needed more knowledge to know how. To my surprise, Father agreed to let me pursue my interest.”

  “Didn’t he think it inappropriate for a gentleman?”

  “Yes, but he understood it. He’d witnessed plenty of accidents himself. So while he taught Rupert to run the estate, he allowed me to attend the University of Edinburgh. Once I came home, I worked on improvements to the mine. Ours was the first to use the Davy safety lamp.”

  “Your father must have been very proud of you,” she murmured.

  He had been—but only because he hadn’t lived to see what became of his sons. “After Father died, Rupert and I remained in our circumscribed roles. Though he was the mine’s owner by virtue of being the heir, he gave me full freedom to experiment with improvements. Everything was fine between us.”

  His voice tightened. “Until the Christmas he died.” How well he remembered the smell of evergreens and roast goose, the bursts of laughter and carol singing, the crush of people filling every corner of the house. “Rupert invited several guests here for the season. When his guests found out I was testing a new, less volatile explosive at the mine, they clamored to be allowed to watch. Rupert agreed, but I refused to take them. I told him it would be too dangerous.”

  Fixing his gaze beyond her, Martin saw again the mortification that had crossed Rupert’s face. “So we argued about it, and I left, telling him that if he brought anyone there, I’d throw them out. Which, of course, I had no right to do.”

  “Is that why he went there, to assert his rights?”

  “In a fashion. He felt I’d shamed him before his guests. He showed up at the mine drunk, though thankfully alone, and tried to take charge of the blasting. He kept saying he was the owner and knew just as much about it as I did.”

  Shoving away from the table, he began to pace. “He sorely roused my temper, so I told him to do as he pleased, then stormed off. The men didn’t know how to react. He was the owner, after all. When he ordered them to set the blast, they did so. But the black powder fizzled before reaching the explosives, which sometimes happens. He went to light it again, even though they cried that he should wait until they were sure the powder really had fizzled.”

  A shudder wracked him. “It hadn’t.” If only Rupert had listened. If only Martin hadn’t stalked off. If only . . . if only . . . if only. . . . The words tortured his nights. “It exploded just as he reached it. He was killed instantly.”

  The silence that fell between them sent a cold chill down his spine. He was afraid to look at her, sure that she was appalled. And why shouldn’t she be? He’d failed his own brother. He’d abandoned him in a rage, with horrible results.

  But Ellie was thinking something else entirely—that his story told a tragedy so wide and deep, she didn’t know how to begin easing his pain. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. He stopped pacing but didn’t speak, so she muddled on. “It must have been awful for you.”

  “Not awful enough, some would say, considering what I gained from his death.” His terse words were guilt-­laden.

  “Anyone who says that has no heart,” she hissed, her own heart breaking for him.

  He sucked in a ragged breath. “You don’t blame me for what happened?” he said, a note of surprise in his voice, though he still wouldn’t look at her.

  “Certainly not. Why would I?”

  “Because I was responsible, damn it!” He whirled to face her. “I didn’t set out to kill him, but I did it as surely as if I’d put a pistol to his head.”

  “Nonsense!” She hastened to where he stood as rigid and erect as one of the boys’ lead soldiers, carrying a weight much heavier than lead. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but your brother brought his death upon himself.”

  Martin gave a violent shake of his head. “You don’t understand. I shouldn’t have let him goad me. I should have stood firm. I should have—”

  “It wasn’t your fault!” She laid her hand on his arm in comfort. “Brothers argue, even under the best of circumstances.”

  He turned an anguished face to her. “But I shouldn’t have walked away. I should have tossed him off the property as I’d threatened to do to his guests.”

  “That would have incensed him even more. And the miners would have been put in the intolerable position of going against their owner.”

  “At least he’d be alive,” Martin said.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Sometimes people do foolish things no matter how much we try to stop them.” She stroked his arm, fumbling for words to help assuage his grief-­born guilt. “And the inquiry absolved you of blame.”

  “Yes, but society didn’t. My brother’s guests were only too eager to run off and tell the world their version of events. That’s why everyone thinks I killed my brother for his inheritance.”

  “Hang society! Who cares what they think? I certainly don’t.”

  His expression incredulous, he searched her face. “You really mean that.”

  “Of course.” Tears stung the back of her throat to see him still so uncertain of her. “Just because your brother’s friends spread gossip about you doesn’t mean everyone in society listens. Or believes it.” She dropped her gaze from his. “Some of us are good people, you know.”

  Her wounded feelings must have been evident, for he said, “Oh, Ellie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you again.” Reaching up, he brushed back her hair, then tangled his fingers in it. “It’s just that I’m not used to having a woman think anything but ill of me. Especially one who tempts me so.”

  “I tempt you?” she said, hardly daring to believe him. He was too near, and his words were too sweet. It made her want everything he wouldn’t give her.

  His hand slid to cup her cheek. “I’ve spent the past three years hiding from the world you live in,” he went on in a rough voice, “sure that I didn’t want or need to be part of it. Now you come along, making me realize what I do want.”

  She lifted her gaze to his, which proved a mistake. Because he was looking at her as if he’d just found a treat he couldn’t wait to gobble up.

  Eyes darkening to pewter, he removed her spectacles with deliberate intent and set them on the table. Then his mouth covered hers. This time there was no hesitation, no agonizing uncertainty. He kissed her with the kind of hunger every woman lies awake at night dreaming about, the kind no man had ever shown her.

  His hands swept down to unbutton the cloak that encased her from neck to hem,
and she was so rattled by his kiss that she scarcely even cared. How could such a gruff man kiss with such feeling, give such delicious pleasure?

  And why must he do it to her? He said he didn’t want a wife, and for all she knew that hadn’t changed.

  A line from Michael Drayton’s sad sonnet drifted through her mind—“Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.” She didn’t want to kiss and part. That was why she shouldn’t let him kiss her at all, shouldn’t let him teach her to crave him. He would break her heart, and for what? To soothe his wounded pride? To give him a moment’s comfort?

  Why did he do it? Why did she let him?

  In a desperate act of self-­preservation, she tore her mouth from his, but he slid his arm inside her open cloak, dragging her flush against him as he trailed hot, openmouthed kisses down her cheek to her neck.

  “Please . . . Martin . . .” she begged.

  “Let me just hold you awhile.” His hand swept along her ribs before he asked with surprise, “Where are the rest of your clothes, love?”

  He spoke the word love with the rough intonation of a Yorkshire miner, but she didn’t care. No one had ever called her love.

  “I had no time. . . . I was in a hurry. . . .” That was all she could get out, for his hands were roaming farther now, along the undersides of her breasts, his thumbs brushing the bottom swells, making her heart race.

  “God help me,” he drew back to whisper, “you’re nearly naked.” His eyes locked with hers, so beautifully needy that it made her chest hurt. Then they flashed like quicksilver before he took her mouth again.

  This time his kiss was so hard and consuming that it left her no room to think of anything but how to wring every moment of enjoyment from his increasingly bold caresses. His thumbs now rose to tease her nipples through the thin cambric, rousing them erect, making them ache and throb.

  She knew it was wrong, but she didn’t care. He was turning her inside out, making her feel things she’d never felt.

  With a little burst of will, she broke their kiss. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “No,” he agreed, but instead of releasing her, he drew open her cloak to stare at her. “But I want to touch you, just a little. Will you let me?”

  “Someone might see,” she protested weakly, glancing toward the open door.

  “Not without coming inside. The boys won’t, your aunt can’t, and the servants know better than to go anywhere near this barn, much less enter it.”

  “Even Mr. Huggett?” she asked.

  His feverish gaze burned into her, making her blood run hot. “Even Huggett,” he rasped. Taking her by surprise, he lifted her onto the worktable, then reached inside her cloak to cup one breast.

  It felt soooo good, nothing like she would have expected. He fondled her breast shamelessly, and when she arched just as shamelessly into his hand, he pressed forward between her legs and began spreading ravenous kisses along her neck.

  She grabbed at his shoulders, and her cloak fell off. He took that as leave to unbutton her night rail so he could unveil one breast and seize it in his mouth.

  Lord in heaven . . . that was amazing. He sucked and teased, his tongue playing over her nipple, driving her insane with the pleasure of it. She ought to stop him before she was doomed forever, but instead she clasped his head in both hands, urging him to suck the other breast, too. Emitting a low growl from deep in his throat, he obliged her eagerly.

  This was madness. Anyone might find them.

  Would that be so bad? Then he’d have to marry her.

  No, she didn’t want that, either. But neither did she want to miss her chance to have a man touch her like this of his own free will without a care for her fortune. And not just any man, but Martin, who not only made her body sing, but treated her like a real person. He might not want her as his wife, but he did desire her as a woman, and that was more than she’d ever hoped for.

  Then his hand started moving up her thighs, as if lighting a trail of black powder that headed ever closer to the place that awaited the spark, that threatened to erupt any moment in the depths of her belly.

  “I should stop this,” he rasped against her ear. “Make me stop, love.”

  She heard him dimly through the haze of pleasure swirling about her. “Why?”

  A groan escaped him before he lifted his head to take her mouth again. While his free hand took over caressing her breast, his other hand swept higher between her legs until he was cupping her in her special place, the one she never touched except when washing.

  Goodness. Gracious. He was fondling her down there! Worse yet, she was letting him. What a wicked creature she was!

  But his passion consumed her. She never dreamed men could convey such passion, like a poem full of words so strong and rich she could scarcely keep from bursting into song. He rubbed her as a servant rubs kindling to start a fire, and heat engulfed her, flaming, flaring up, making her ache and quiver and squirm beneath his hand.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, his mouth dropping to take more wild liberties with her breast. “Let me show you. . . . You’re so . . . incredibly sweet. . . . I want to . . . God help me. . . .”

  His finger delved inside her, and she nearly leaped off the table. “Martin!”

  “Shh, shh,” he gentled her, nuzzling her breast and her neck, breathing soothing sounds in her ear. “I want to make amends for hurting your feelings.”

  “You’ll ruin me,” she whispered, half hoping that he would.

  “No, I swear. I’ll give you only a taste. But I have to touch you or go mad.”

  And all the while, his fingers were working her, tormenting her with the promise of a conflagration she’d never known. “Martin . . . you . . . oh, heavens . . .”

  “You’re so wet, love, like ripe fruit. . . . I want to pluck you and devour you. . . .” Each word came more dimly to her ears, for she was nearly to the point of exploding, the heat so fiery that she could only moan and thrash beneath his hand.

  Suddenly an eruption hit her with the fierceness of wildfire, tearing a cry from her throat that he silenced with his mouth.

  As her body quaked and trembled, then finally settled back down to earth in his arms, she realized that this was what she wanted—this thrilling intimacy with a man who cared for her.

  Now if only she could figure out how to keep him. For after tasting passion with Martin, she could never be satisfied with anyone else.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Charlotte,

  I suppose you think it amusing to taunt me about my arrogance, but you and I are more alike than you admit. You have a tendency to be rather haughty yourself.

  Your cousin,

  Michael

  As Martin felt her honeypot convulse about his fingers, he wanted to crow—then weep. He’d never desired a woman so much in his life. And he’d never been less free to indulge that desire to its fullest. Instead he had to stand here aching for her, knowing he would never have the chance to fill her flesh with his and claim her for his own.

  He must have made some frustrated sound, for she drew back from him, her face pleasingly flushed, and whispered, “Are you all right?”

  Hell and blazes, he doubted he’d ever be all right again. Wiping his fingers on her night rail, he managed a smile. “I should ask you that.”

  Her hands still clutching his arms, she kissed his chin. “I don’t think ‘all right’ begins to describe it. I . . . I feel drunk, but my mind is clear.”

  A rueful chuckle sounded deep in his throat. “How strange. My mind is shattered.” Pulling back from her, he drew down her night rail regretfully. “But I didn’t mean to go so far.”

  She was staring at him with alarm. “We didn’t . . . you didn’t . . .”

  “No. You’re still chaste.”

  Laughter bubbled out of her. “Chaste? It felt
too good for chastity.”

  The sparkle in her eyes made him want to go right back to what they’d been doing. The heavy cock in his trousers intensified the urge.

  He fought the impulse, drawing her cloak up over her shoulders. He’d never had such shaky control over his desires, especially with a virgin. Ellie was as dangerous to him as blasting powder.

  But she wasn’t his for the taking, except in the marriage bed—and that was impossible. “That’s precisely why it was wrong of me—”

  “Don’t say that.” She touched her finger to his lips. “It was wonderful.”

  His heart swelled. The adoring look on her face was so sweet that he blurted out without thinking, “Oh, God, how will I ever let you go?”

  The minute he spoke the words, he wished them back, because clearly she welcomed them.

  Her words confirmed it. “You don’t have to let me go,” she said softly.

  What fresh torture was this? It had been much easier to resist her before. He’d been sure she would lose interest once she heard how Rupert had died. But with her still wanting him . . .

  When he didn’t answer right away, she dropped her gaze and added, “Of course, that’s assuming you would want to marry me, which clearly you don’t.”

  As a flush of humiliation spread over her cheeks, she tried to leave the table, but he wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t bear to have her think him such a cad. “You’re the only woman I’d ever consider marrying,” he murmured, bending his forehead to hers. “But I can’t.” He couldn’t risk having her here. It was too dangerous.

  “Why not?” she asked in a small voice.

  Isn’t it obvious? he wanted to shout as he pushed away from the table. Look around you, look at what I spend my time doing!

  She wouldn’t care. Women always tried to deny the risks. Or worse, eliminate the problem by putting conditions on things. And he refused to end his experiments. He was tired of watching people die or be maimed in the mines.