Page 21

“ Y ou’re bleeding.”

In the glowing lamplight of his bedchamber, Rhys flexed the fingers of his right hand. They were stiff and they ached, but they hadn’t cracked open. The blood marring his knuckles didn’t belong to him.

“It’s not mine,” he told her, trying to calm the raging swell of fury within him.

Her lips parted. She was even paler than usual, her jet-black hair coming free of its chignon to curl around her face.

“Oh,” was all she said, still lingering at the threshold of his chamber, though the door was closed at her back.

And that was when he noticed it. Her skirt was in tatters. Tears had rent the dove silk, revealing the petticoat beneath.

Fury ignited in his blood anew. If Viscount Roberts had torn her skirts, he was going to die this night after all.

“Did he touch you?” he demanded.

“I…yes, but nothing more than his hand on my arm.” She glanced down, following his gaze to her ruined gown. “I caught the silk in rosebushes. I was trying to get away from him, and my skirts tore.”

“He’s damned lucky.” He inhaled slowly, trying to force some of the anger roiling within him to abate and failing.

Right now, there was nothing he wanted to do more than break off Lord Roberts’s arms and beat him with them for daring to waylay Miranda in the gardens.

For presuming to blackmail her. For making her so fearful that she had been running like a spooked mare when she had slammed into his chest rounding that bloody corner on the path.

For perhaps doing far worse to her, if given half the chance.

Thank Christ Rhys had found her when he had.

“Thank you for coming to my defense,” she murmured, her hands clenched so hard at her waist that her dainty fingers were even whiter than the rest of her pale skin.

A tremor shuddered through her, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and reassure her she was safe now and that no further harm would come to her.

But he was also keenly aware she had just been propositioned and threatened by Roberts in the garden.

Also, he still had that bastard’s blood on his hand.

“You needn’t thank me,” he muttered, hating that she had been accosted. Feeling responsible. “It never should have happened.”

He stalked across the chamber to a pitcher and bowl. The water within was cold, but he didn’t care as he splashed his hand, scrubbing the blood from his knuckles.

“I should not have gone to the gardens in the midst of the night,” she said quietly from somewhere behind him.

“No,” he bit out, fury burning up within him anew. “This is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. You should have been able to take the night air without some horse’s arse threatening to make problems for you and trying to get you into his bed.”

He still had no notion of why she’d been wandering in the moonlit gardens.

When they had parted ways, she had looked as if she were exhausted and ready for bed, clad in her dressing gown and bare feet.

Somewhere along the way, she had donned her familiar armor of sturdy walking boots and gray gown, her hair neatly pinned up once more.

The sad, tattered state of the skirts suggested she was going to have one hideous sack less to hide her ample curves within. Rhys did not mourn its loss, but he despised the source of the damage to her dress.

“I should never have left my room,” she protested. “At the very least, I ought to have worn one of the masks you provided. I wouldn’t have been so easily recognized if I had, and then I daresay he would have left me alone.”

Rhys scrubbed at the last vestiges of scarlet staining the cracks on his fingers.

“Only a scoundrel would have all but forced himself upon you, threatening to cause a great deal of scandal. I’m going to speak with Richford, Kingham, and Riverdale about him in the morning and decide what punishment he must face. ”

“Oh, please don’t.” She was closer now, her husky voice wrapping around him like an embrace. Her scent too, floral and sweet.

He wanted her so badly.

But he was also furious at himself for bringing her here. For exposing her to a conscienceless rake like Roberts.

Rhys dried his hands and turned to face her, still unprepared for his body’s reaction to her, regardless of how beautiful he already knew her to be. Each time he looked at Miranda, a jolt went through him. It was like his soul was made of dry kindling and she was the spark that set him alight.

“He doesn’t deserve your mercy,” Rhys told her. “Nor do I. I’m as much to blame for what happened as Roberts is.”

“It was Viscount Roberts?” she asked.

“Yes.” His lip curled with distaste. “Are you acquainted with him?”

“Scarcely.” She shook her head. “I believe he is a familiar of Ammondale’s. We met on a few occasions in passing, but I doubt whether we ever exchanged more than a paltry number of words. He is married, is he not?”

“Indeed. His lady wife is a member of the club as well. When I saw her last, she was off to join in the charades.”

“Of course,” Miranda said dully.

“Some husbands and wives are both members of the club, and others keep it a secret from their spouses.” Explaining the rules of the Society felt somehow sordid and wrong, particularly in light of what Miranda had just endured. His gut curdled.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asked, sparing him further such explanations.

Rhys had just finished his bath when he thought he’d heard a sound outside.

He had gone to the window and noticed movement in the garden below.

The full moon had illuminated the entire expansive maze, paths, and roses with almost impossible detail.

And he had recognized her figure moving across the path at once.

“I saw you by chance,” he said. “I was at the window when I saw you walking along the path, or who I thought was you. To be certain, I knocked at your door. You didn’t answer. What were you doing in the gardens at this hour? I thought you were going to rest.”

He had meant what he’d said—she had done nothing wrong in venturing out to take the air.

But he also wanted her to take caution after what had happened with Roberts.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had brought an innocent lamb into a den of wolves.

Rhys would be damned if he allowed anyone to make her the sacrifice.

“I…I intended to rest,” Miranda said, pink staining her cheeks. “But I decided to get a bit of fresh air first. I am sorry that my recklessness led to what happened in the gardens. You are not injured, are you?”

He flexed his fingers. “Still in working order.”

She frowned, closing the distance between them and reaching for his hand, taking it gently between hers. “But are you in pain? Is anything broken?”

A rush of tenderness swept over him, along with a protective surge he’d never known before. He wanted to gather her into his arms. To shield her from all the evils in the world. To cut down anyone who dared to hurt her.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Besides, even if I were injured, I wouldn’t care. I’d break every one of my fingers trouncing any man if it meant protecting you.”

Her emerald gaze searched his, his hand still held tenderly by her. “No one has ever said anything like that to me before.”

He didn’t want to ask about Ammondale. To the devil with him. He hadn’t known what he had, or else he never would have let Miranda go. But Rhys couldn’t shake the impotent rage filling him that a man who had taken her as his wife had not vowed to defend her so.

“It’s a damned shame,” he began, but he was never able to finish the rest of his words.

Because in the next instant, Miranda’s lips were on his, smothering anything else he had been about to say.

It didn’t matter. At the first touch of her velvet-soft lips, he was lost to all thought anyway.

With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her waist, anchoring her to him, and kissed her back with all the frenzied longing that had been pent-up within him ever since the moment she had first pinned him with an icy green glare.

He had been hers then and there, in that instant.

He was hers now.

And as she opened for him to devour her hungrily, the wild notion he might forever belong to this woman drew taut around him, like a manacle on the wrist of a prisoner. That was how bound he was to her. That was how badly he wanted…needed Miranda.

His Miranda.

He showed her with lips and tongue and teeth, a man starved. She made a low, husky sound as he explored the satiny heat of her mouth, and he swore he could spend an eternity here with her just like this, kissing and holding her, her feminine curves crushed into him in all the right places.

She was a woman who deserved lingering kisses, a slow savoring. To be wooed. To be won.

He inhaled her heady scent, never once breaking the kiss, one of his hands leaving her waist to tangle in the silken cloud of hair at her nape.

It was cool and sleek, still slightly damp from her earlier bath.

He wanted it unbound, falling down her back.

Wanted it unfettered and free. His fingers traveled with a will of their own, plucking hairpins until the coil came undone, heavy and fat, and her curls spilled over her shoulders, lush and scented of orange blossom and rose.

Was it her shampoo, then? Her soap? He had imagined the source had been a perfume she applied sparingly to her wrists and throat. But now he wondered if every inch of her skin would be so decadently scented. It was a mystery he was determined to investigate.

Tonight, if she would allow it.

But he was also cognizant of what she had endured in the gardens, of what might have happened. With great effort, he forced his head up, his lips leaving hers. Her skin was flushed, her lips dark and swollen from his kisses, her eyes glazed with desire.