Page 64 of The Rogue’s Embrace

His hands clasped behind his back, Toren moved about the perimeter of the room. The study in the Alton townhouse was well-appointed. Classic furnishings with staid, thick chairs that wouldn't break under a man's weight, a wall of well-used tomes, a walnut coffered ceiling that matched the straight lines of the mantel, and centering the room was a wide mahogany desk with ledgers piled high on opposite ends.

After a painfully silent carriage ride to the townhouse, Adalia had quickly moved to the back side of the desk once in the room, sitting in the wide chair. Her back was ramrod straight, her elbows propped on the desk with her hands clasped, fingers entwined.

Toren hid the slight cock of his eyebrow at her movements by turning away from her to study the paintings on the wall. If Adalia needed to have twenty stone of well-oiled mahogany furniture between the two of them, then he would give her that. Her actions also told him exactly what he would be dealing with as far as his wife was concerned.

What had he hoped for? That she would see him and immediately fall into his arms? Declare her love over and over? Beg to come home? Apologize profusely for being so idiotic as to come to London and reopen her damn gaming house?

Fanciful notions, all of them.

But the lack of any and all of that hadn't stopped his own body from flying into a licentious rage. The second he saw her in the crowd at the Revelry's Tempest, he had wanted her pressed up against him, naked, her body writhing—no, not wanted—he needed her body on his. And then in the next instant, she'd been slammed onto that table, glass cutting into her delicate skin, and he had lost all rational thought, a guttural, ancient fury taking a hold of his body.

He had thought he had been prepared for anything with her.

But not that.

Not blood. Not Adalia's blood. Not his wife's blood.

Facing the wall, he closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath in effort to battle the fury exploding in his veins. She was fine. Cuts, nothing more. And she currently needed space. Space from him. He could give her that courtesy.

At least for a few minutes.

He opened his eyes.

An oil painting framed in gilded, delicately carved rosewood hung before him, a man and woman dressed in the most exquisite finery from two decades ago. He exhaled his breath slowly, concentrating on the thin strokes of cobalt blue along the woman's gown.

"These are your parents?"

he asked, not turning around to Adalia.

"Yes."

He studied Adalia's mother. She bore a striking resemblance to Adalia. Beautiful, the artist had captured an elegance—an innocent refinement about her. He wondered if that had been the artist's interpretation of the woman before him, or if Adalia's mother had actually possessed the same sharp cunning as Adalia.

Not that Adalia wasn't refined—she was, but she also possessed a fearless independence that skirted her to and fro along the line of propriety. Being raised by three brothers had prodded that peculiar trait to the top. A trait Toren had found, begrudgingly, that he enjoyed—until she had left him.

That was when his amusement of her independence had waned. When, night after night, his body had screamed out for her, unsatisfied—with nothing to calm the craving that had not dissipated in the slightest since she had left the castle.

He had grumbled through the first two weeks without his need for her sated. It wasn't until the moment in the middle of the third week when he had snapped at Josalyn at the breakfast table that he realized something had to change. He had never once snapped, never even considered speaking sharply to the girls. But in that moment, his voice still echoing against the stone walls of the breakfast room, he had watched Josalyn's tiny face crumble in front of him. Innocence turning into tears she stubbornly refused to shed, even as Mary took her hand and pulled her away from the table.

Stubborn. Josalyn was stubborn. And it only pointed out the fact that he was damn well more stubborn. He missed Adalia, and he hadn't allowed himself to admit it.

Hell, he more than missed her. It felt like his life had unraveled in a thousand disparate shreds, everything fraying a little bit more and more each day, until he had snapped and yelled at Josalyn.

Josalyn's reaction had been something he never wanted to witness again—never wanted to cause again. Especially when she hadn't deserved it—she had merely been chatting about the roses with an enthusiasm that reminded him of Adalia, and he had barked at her. He had apologized, of course, fearing he had irrevocably wounded her spirit. But she had forgiven him once he explained he wasn't mad at her, and that it wasn't her fault, she had merely stumbled in front of his misplaced anger. She even giggled at his words, all forgotten.

Also like Adalia. She forgave easily, dismissing anger with nary a look back over her shoulder.

He hoped to high heaven Adalia had not lost that trait.

The devil, he had to get this right. Say the right words to Adalia. He had no clue what they were, but he had to get them right.

He studied the slight smile on his mother-in-law's face. Adalia would have that same serene smile if she wasn't so canny. But no, not his wife. Her likeness would someday be painted with the grin that was so quick to her face. The grin that just waited for life to amuse her, and if life wasn't doing so, she would create the mayhem herself.

He had realized in the time she was away how the very air around Adalia spun with excitement. It always had. So much so, that the air had crackled around her on the silent carriage ride to the Alton townhouse.

His eyes flickered to Adalia's father. He looked like a slightly older version of Theodore.

"Your parents appear young here."

"They were, though not as young as one would think,"

she said, her voice soft. "It was the last portrait done of them. They had commissioned an artist to do one of our entire family after I was born, with all four of us and them. But their ship sank along the coast before it was started. Caldwell had told me he remembered my parents sitting for this painting, and it had been utterly boring for him. He remembered watching it being done with Theodore and Alfred, and that they kept stealing the artist's brushes and creating general mayhem. There are some smaller portraits of them in the house, but I always liked this one the most for the obvious pride on their faces. I imagine it was pride of their three boys."

Toren nodded, leaning closer to the oil painting to study it. "Your mother was with child at the time?"

"She what?"

Adalia's hands slapped onto the desk.

Toren glanced back to her and then stepped to the side, pointing at the painting. "These lines here, they look to be a swollen belly, yet your mother is slight in the rest of her frame. Her hand is splayed on her belly. It looks protective. I believe it is a common sign."

Adalia jumped to her feet, rushing around the desk and across the room to study the painting. For a long moment, she said nothing. "Yes. You may be right. I had never noticed that—I tend to look at their faces. Caldwell never said exactly when it was done."

"Maybe it was pride at the fourth babe on the way."

She looked up at him. "No…"

Her eyes went to the portrait, studying her mother's face. "Do you think?"

Her voice dipped small, vulnerable, an obvious lump in her throat.

Toren watched her profile, recognizing the hope in her green eyes. He set his hand gently on her shoulder. "I think it is very possible."

She awkwardly dipped away, dropping from his touch and skittering several steps from him. After a quick glance back to the safety of the desk, she looked at him, her feet holding her ground. "What are you doing here in London, Toren. Truly?"

"I came for you."

"Because I opened the Revelry's Tempest?"

"Yes. Because it is not safe for you here. It is not safe for you to be exposed to people in that situation—there is no control."

"I am perfectly safe there—your guards have more than made it so."

His look drifted down to her left hand, wrapped thick with the strip of white linen. "Yet that happened."

She glanced at her wrapped hand and then set it slightly behind her skirt out of view. "A mere skirmish that was being handled, Toren. I was safe."

Her green eyes pinned him. "Do you mean to shut down the Revelry's Tempest?"

"I do not know yet what I mean to do."

"Why not?"

He took a step toward her. "I thought I was here for one purpose, but I did not know everything I needed to. Not until tonight. When the guards I sent with you reported back to me that you had travelled to London and were preparing the gaming house for opening, I set off as soon as I knew the twins were secure."

His right fingers curled into a fist that he had to forcibly relax. "You were quicker than I, though, and opened it before I could stop you."

Her right hand went onto her hip as her eyebrow arched. "You think you could have stopped us?"

He shrugged. "I could have sufficed whatever needs you were attempting to satisfy. That alone should have done it."

"You don't understand the Revelry's Tempest in the slightest, do you, Toren?"

His head slanted to the side at her sharp words. Challenging. Always challenging. "What is there to understand?"

"That the house is about control over one's own future, Toren. You wouldn't have stopped us from opening it, because I wouldn't have allowed it. The Revelry's Tempest is the one thing that Violet needs right now. Control over her own future. Her life was decimated—everything around her had been a farce—and she hadn't known it. Merely paying off the debts would have solved one problem, yes, but I needed to tether Violet to a future she could want."

"Tether her to the future?"

Head shaking, Adalia's hand slipped from her hip, flattening on the front of her black silk gown, her thumb and forefinger pressing in against her ribcage. "How I found her, Toren…"

Her voice faltered for a moment before she took a quick breath and rushed on. "Violet needed something, anything, as a reason to wake up the next day. That is what the Revelry's Tempest is right now for Violet. A future she will wake up for. Do not take it away from us. I need my friend."

Her green eyes pleaded with him, and not for her own benefit, as he had thought this whole debacle to be. She was doing this for her friend, and Toren doubted he could ever sway her off that course.

Not that he would try. It was quite possible that he was actually, to his own amazement, beginning to understand his wife. "Your friend, Violet, do you consider her your family?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

His jaw shifted to the side. "I had always only believed family was by blood. That was the very direct meaning of the word that I understood."

"And now?"

Now? Now what? How could he answer that? He cleared his throat. "I am reconsidering."

She took a small step toward him. He could stretch out his arm, touch her now if he so chose. But he kept his hands firmly clasped behind his back.

"Why did you come to London, Toren? You could have easily sent word to your men to close down the Revelry's Tempest."

"I…"

He sighed. "I lied to you, Adalia."

Her eyes went wide, her chin bowing as she looked up at him with a mixture of bewilderment and trepidation. "What did you lie about?"

"When we first married you asked me why Theodore trusted me."

The suspicion thickened in her eyes. "Yes."

The one word left her lips, slow, drawn out.

"I lied when I said I did not know. I do."

"Why?"

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her green eyes still harbored heavy suspicion.

"Theodore and I were once drunk—near to oblivion—in a tavern a day's travel from London—don't ask why or how we ended up there."

"A Theo plan of mayhem?"

"Yes, and if I recall correctly it had to do with an actress and a certain bauble she wanted him to recover for her."

Toren waved his hand, dismissing the absurdity of the situation. "Regardless, it was not the most artfully designed adventure, and we quickly found ourselves in trouble that would not end well—at least for us. But then your eldest brother, Caldwell, appeared and he got us out of the tavern we were about to die in. All of it—the entire thing—was nothing but a grand time for Theo. And your brother was furious with him."

"As it always was."

Adalia's face had softened as he talked, a small smile warming her lips.

"Yes, and I saw it. I saw your brother's anger at Theodore, and I wanted it."

He stopped, his eyes closing as he envisioned the scene from years ago. "Wanted it to be directed at me. Wanted it to my core. It was the first thing I ever truly wanted in my life. Stupid really, to want someone to be furious with me. But I wanted it because all of that ferocity came from blood…from family."

"From love."

He opened his eyes to her. "I was drunk and I told Theodore as much as we were drifting off to sleep. That I wanted that. I wanted his family."

"You said those words?"

"Yes. And I didn't even think he heard me. But he did. And he knew. He knew if I ever had that—a family—there wasn't anything I would not do for them."

He met her wide green eyes fully, his voice rough. "I don't think Theodore could say the same about anyone else he knew. Which was why he extracted the vow from me to marry you, should the need arise. Why he sent you to me. He knew what you needed."

"And he knew what you needed."

She took another step toward him, her look not wavering from his as she reached up and set her fingers gently along his cheek.

Toren nodded. "Better than I could ever recognize it myself. Your brother was smarter than I ever gave him credit for."

He paused, glancing to the coffered ceiling for a moment, bracing himself.

How he just wanted this to be enough. He wanted to reach out and grab her, haul her up to his lips, kiss her, strip her down and let everything in his body say the things he could not.

But that would not be enough for her, and he knew it. She would still demand more. And he would fail her. The lies he had told guaranteed it.

Her hand dropped from his face, and his breath stopped in his chest. This was the moment she would walk away again.

He concentrated on the dark wood of the ceiling, manifesting indifference.

Let her go. This was not fair to her.

Her sudden hand on his chest, fingers slipping inward past the lapel of his dark tailcoat, startled him, and his look fell to her face.

She stared up at him, a wicked smile on her face. Wanton. Purely wanton.

"Well, I can be the one furious with you, Toren, if that is what you need of me."

The twitch of her grin showed pure delight at the prospect. Her fingers maneuvering, she unbuttoned his waistcoat in short order.

He exhaled, relief shuddering through him.

She hadn't disappeared. Hadn't turned from him. He hadn't given her enough—he knew that—yet she had accepted what little he had to offer. And this—this he could give her. His body had always known exactly what to do with hers.

His head dipped to her neck, inhaling the sweet smell of honey from her hair as his lips brushed her skin with his words. "You have already proven your capacity for anger at me, Adalia. Far too often for my liking, I daresay."

He started unlacing the ribbons along her spine that held her dark gown in place.

She moaned, soft and lusty as she angled her head to improve his access to her. "Too often, or not enough? Just remember it is because I am your wife and we are family."

He chuckled into her neck, her skin already hot to the touch beneath his lips. It had been far too long since he'd tasted her, felt her body under his fingertips.

Pushing off his coat, Adalia suddenly jerked away from his hands, holding his coat up. "What is that?"

In between them she draped the dark tailcoat over her left forearm and plucked an obnoxious pink and turquoise striped handkerchief from the inside lapel pocket. She snapped the fabric, sending it free from its square folds.

He chuckled, tugging the silk handkerchief from her fingertips. "The twins are working on their embroidery."

He pointed to the two "D"

initials on the opposite ends of the fabric. "Somewhat warped, but one can possibly make out the letter."

"You managed to convince Josalyn and Mary to embroider? That is a feat in itself."

He shrugged. "They discovered my mother's sewing box and were fascinated by the many tiny hidden compartments and shelves that swing open. The box was an engineering wonder. I said they could have it only if they knew what to do with it, so Miss Mable started giving them lessons. They gave this to me for my birthday."

She stared at the fabric in his fingers, a frown tipping the edges of her full lips.

"I apologize, Adalia, should I not have had Miss Mable teach them?"

She shook her head, her eyes lifting to him. "No. It is not that—that part is commendable. It is just…it was your birthday? While I was away?"

"Yes. Mary found the date of my birth recorded in the Bible in the library. They surprised me with the handkerchief."

"When was it?"

"A fortnight ago."

She fingered an edge of the silk, the tip of her forefinger brushing against his thumb. "And you are still wearing it?"

The tips of his ears tinged with heat. He shrugged. "Yes. I told them I would wear it unfailingly. So I do."

"It was thoughtful of them."

Her fingers slipped from the edge of the fabric.

"Yes."

He folded the handkerchief neatly, slipping it back into the inside pocket of his tailcoat that Adalia still held over her arm. "It was the first present I ever received."

"What?"

Her mouth widened in a disbelieving smile. "No. Surely you have had presents before."

His shoulders lifted again, the heat in his ears spreading down his neck. "No."

He took the coat from Adalia's arm and turned, moving to the simple wooden chair by the desk to drape it over the back rails.

A footstep behind him, her hand landed on his shoulder. "I am sorry I was not there. I am sorry I missed it."

"It is no matter, Adalia."

Her hand stayed on his shoulder and she stepped around him, planting herself in front of him, her sparkling green eyes intent on his face. "It does matter, Toren. It may not matter to you, but it does to me. It matters to me that you have lived your whole life without the joy of receiving something well-crafted from someone that loves you. Proof, however small, that you matter, that you are the world to someone else. Mary and Josalyn—they adore you."

"I am fortunate."

"You say that with bewilderment, as though you are surprised they could do so."

He shrugged.

Her head shook, a frown settling on her face. "I should have told you. Before I left I didn't tell you that you…matter…that you are worth loving. That was my failing. When I left Dellon Castle it was about me, about my love for you and how I needed to reconcile that. But I should have told you—about you—about who you are as a person and how I see you for the man you are. That you are a man that can be loved. How would you know that unless I spoke the words?"

She slipped both of her hands upward, wrapping them around his neck, even as traces of the frown lined her lips. "And as much as I wish it were not so for the pain I fear is ahead for me, I have reconciled nothing about my love for you. I thought…I thought I had. But then you appeared tonight and everything—everything I had been lying to myself about collapsed."

Toren stilled. This was what he had dreaded. This was the moment she decided what he could offer was not enough.

For a long breath she stared up at him until her frown slowly stretched, turning into a grin. "I adore you still, and I think I need to give you a delayed birthday present."

He gave a slight exhale. "There is no need, Adalia."

Her fingers went onto his lips. "Shhh. You will accept this gift. You will close your mouth and not deny it. No matter how you may want to scream out against it."

"Scream out against it?"

The smile widened on her face, the return of wantonness. She nodded, her fingers leaving his neck to remove his waistcoat and work his shirt upward on his torso, stripping him free of the cloth.

She started on the dip at the base of his neck, her tongue flickering, tasting his skin. Trailing down the center of him, her lips teased, tongue swirling along the swells of his muscles. Muscles that grew taut under her touch, fire building. With every caress he flinched, his body needing to grab her, needing to strip her free of every last piece of cloth on her body.

Lower and lower her mouth travelled.

Dropping to her knees, her fingers ahead of her mouth, she worked the buttons free on his trousers.

Just as she freed him to the air, her mouth pulled away from his abdomen and looked up at him. "Lift your foot."

Toren did as commanded with his right foot, and she pulled off his boot, followed by his left. Within seconds, she had stripped him, naked to the air. He drew a deep breath, his control frayed almost to the edge. He knew he was not long for just standing naked before Adalia on her knees, his cock hard and straining for her.

His fingers twitched.

She slapped his left hand, looking up at him, wicked. "No screaming. No ordering me about. You will suffer this."

Her hands went flat onto his stomach, splaying wide, rolling along the ridges of muscles. Watching her stare at his body, planning, he almost lost his balance as he fought to not yank her up and drive himself into her.

"Not yet. I can see you flinching."

She didn't look up, just said the words to his stomach, soft, as though she needed to seduce his skin to remain under her control.

Her hands slipped lower. Her right hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, holding him.

Warm. Strong. Commanding.

Her lips clamped around him, her tongue swirling along his cock as she took him deep into her mouth.

The devil take him. He almost dropped to his knees.

She sucked, hard, then withdrew, softly teasing. Diving forth, pulling his shaft deep into her throat.

Her lips had been on him before. But this—this was far different, for he had always directed her. She was in full control, and from the way his body shuddered with every movement she made, the growls erupting from his throat, she was enjoying every second of her mastery.

His hands dove into her hair, clutching at her, pins falling as strands fell freely down her back. She drew him deep into her mouth, again and again. A height he had never known. And hell. He could not stand it any longer.

He yanked himself from the torture of her mouth.

She would not get through this unscathed.

Looking up at him, eyes wide, she yelped as he dropped to his knees in front of her, grabbing her about the waist and flipping her onto her back. He hovered above her for a long second, taking in the swollen red of her lips, the lust flushing her cheeks. Reveling in the pure, wanton joy on her face.

He needed to be in her. But not yet.

His hand went down, yanking her skirts upward. "And I imagine I have missed your birthday. Or I am early for it."

Her hands lifted, attempting to stop him, take back control, but he would have none of it. Dipping down before she could alter his course, he pushed her skirts fully up, his thumbs running up her thighs.

"Dammit, Toren."

Not giving her a moment to fight it, he dove without preamble, his tongue finding her nubbin, already swollen and ready for his touch. Flicking, teasing. She jerked under him, throaty moans escaping her as her back arched, holding herself to his mouth. Resistance evaporated as she yielded every bit of control to him, letting him build, pull, take her to the edge before yanking her away.

He lifted himself up, ignoring her gasps, her grasping at completion.

"Toren."

The word was breathless, begging, demanding. She reached for his arms, fingernails clawing into his biceps.

"No, Adalia. I have waited weeks for this, and I am inside you, nowhere else."

"Yes."

The demand of a devil angel.

He slammed into her. Her body instantly started to ripple, gaining strength as he filled her.

"Toren."

She shook, her body arching, screaming, and he lifted her, steadying her body against his strokes pushing her through to completion.

"I have you, Adalia. Heaven to hell I have you."

He drove into her again. Fast. Withdrawing slowly. Her body contracted in brutal waves demanding he return. Again and again until he could take no more. Into her depths, his body lost control, the earth and skies and heaven and hell blending into one explosion.

The roar in his own ears deafened him, his eyes blinded to nothing except the green of Adalia's eyes. Wave after wave pulsated from him, emptying into her body, and he collapsed, gripping her body tight to his.

Even as the sensation infiltrating every shattered fragment of his body was foreign, he understood it instinctively on a raw, innate level.

He hadn't been wrong. His body needed hers—a vice that refused to release him.

But even more so—he needed her.