Devil's Daughter

He kissed her panting mouth, loving the damp, satiny insides of her lips, the little velvety tongue lapping at his. Every time he drew his cock partially out, her muscles worked frantically to close on him, tug him back inside. The delight was so intense, he was half afraid his essence was leaking from him, seeping into that lively, luscious channel. She was coming now, tightening, pulsing, milking his hard-swollen flesh, while he fought to keep every movement steady and controlled, to make it good for her. The weight of his bollocks drew up tight and heavy, his body primed for release. He held on, stroking hard and deep, making her ride the movement until she had stopped spasming.

Now it would be his turn. Except he hadn’t exactly prepared for this. He had no sheath, nothing to contain his seed.

“Phoebe,” he rasped, still thrusting, “Which pocket do you keep your handkerchiefs in?”

It took her a moment to reply. “This dress has no pockets,” she said weakly.

West went still, gritting his teeth at the sharp, protesting twinges in his groin. “You don’t have even one handkerchief?”

Looking apologetic, she shook her head.

He let out a guttural curse. Slowly he lowered her feet to the floor and eased his aching shaft out of her warm, succulent depths, his body aching in anguish.

“Why can’t you . . .” Phoebe began, and then understanding dawned. “Oh.”

Bracing his hands on the wall, West closed his eyes. “Give me a few minutes,” he said curtly.

He heard the sounds of Phoebe straightening her clothes. After a moment, he heard her say, “I think I can help.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Strangely, Phoebe’s faintly amused voice seemed to come from below him. “I may never have seen any erotic postcards, but I’m sure there’s something I can do.”

West’s eyes opened, and he froze in amazement as he saw her kneeling between his thighs. He couldn’t make a single sound as she grasped his shaft in her hands, graceful and ladylike. Her head bent, and her beautiful mouth was on him, full lips parting carefully as she took him inside. Her tongue stroked and circled, painting wetness on the sensitive tip, and in a matter of seconds he cried out in ecstasy, delivered and overpowered by her . . . possessed by her. Owned for life.

Phoebe yawned as she came upstairs from the housekeeper’s room, where they had spent the morning going over the monthly household inventory. There had been a discussion of missing dinner napkins—two had been scorched by an inexperienced housemaid and another was suspected to have blown off the line on a windy day. A concern over the new laundry-washing mixture had been broached—too high a proportion of soda was making the linens thin. The coal bill was acceptable. The grocer’s bill had been a bit high.

The task of doing household inventory was always tedious, but it had been especially worse since Phoebe had had so little sleep the night before. West had made love to her for what had seemed to be hours, arranging her in one new position after another, exploring gently, patiently, until she’d been exhausted from too many wrenching climaxes and had begged him to stop.

Perhaps she should go up to her room for a short nap. The house was quiet. West was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone somewhere, or . . . no, he hadn’t. She paused in the main hall as she caught a glimpse of his lean, powerful form in the front receiving room. He stood at one of the windows, looking out at the main drive with his head slightly tilted in that way he had. The sight him of him made her feel warm all over and sent a quick flutter of happiness through her stomach.

Walking quietly in her thin-soled slippers, she stole into the receiving room and sneaked up behind him while he was still at the window. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her breasts against his back and whispered near his ear, “Come with me, and we’ll—”

The room spun around her with stunning force. Before she could even finish the sentence, she had been seized and pinned against the wall. One of his hands clasped her wrists over her head, while the other was drawn back as if he were about to strike her. Oddly, the sight of that lethal upraised fist didn’t frighten her nearly as much as his eyes, hard and bright like the gleam of light on a knife blade.

Not West, her disoriented brain told her.

But this hostile stranger’s physical similarities to West alarmed her even more.

A high-pitched yelp jolted from her as soon as her shoulders encountered the wall.

The man’s face softened instantly, his fist dropping, all threat of violence disappearing. He released her wrists and gave her a remorseful glance. “I beg your pardon sincerely, my lady,” he said in an Irish brogue. “Whenever someone approaches me from behind, I . . . a reflex action, is what they call it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe said breathlessly, inching away from him. “I thought you were s-someone else.” His eyes were identical to West’s, a singular shade of dark blue rimmed with black, surmounted by the same thick brows. But his complexion was fair-skinned, and his features were more narrow, and there was a thickness at the bridge of his nose where it had once been broken.

They both turned as West came into the room with swift, ground-eating strides, heading straight to Phoebe. He took her by the shoulders, his gaze raking over her. “Are you hurt?” he asked shortly.

The intense concern in his eyes and the familiar gentleness of his touch relaxed her immediately. “No, just startled. But it was my fault. I approached him from behind.”

West eased her close and ran his hand up and down along her spine in slow, calming strokes. He glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who must have gone to inform him of the visitor’s arrival. “That will be all, Hodgson.” Turning back to the stranger, he spoke in a pleasant voice, his gaze murderous. “Is this how you introduce yourself to aristocratic ladies, Ransom? A word of advice: generally they prefer a polite bow and ‘How do you do’ to being thrown about like a parcel post delivery.”

Ethan Ransom spoke to Phoebe penitently. “A thousand apologies, my lady. On my honor, it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” West agreed, “or I’ll come after you with a reaping hook.”

Despite the lethal sincerity in West’s tone, Ransom didn’t seem at all cowed, only grinned at him and came forward for a handshake. “My nerves are still a bit dodgy after this summer.”

“As usual,” West said, gripping the other man’s hand, “a visit from you is as soothing as a blister.”

Phoebe was struck by the easy familiarity between the two, as if they had known each other for years instead of months. “Mr. Ransom,” she said, “I do hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company for dinner. You’re welcome to stay the night, if you wish.”

“I’m obliged, milady, but I have to be back on the next train for London.” Ransom went to retrieve a small traveling bag that had been set beside a chair. “I’ve brought some materials for you to have a glance at. Make all the notes you like, but I have to take the original documents back with me and replace them before anyone notices they’re missing.”

West gave him an alert glance. “Did you find anything interesting in the account records?”

Ransom’s mouth curved slightly, but his expression was deadly serious as he replied. “Aye.”

Chapter 29

As Phoebe led the way to the study, where they could speak in complete privacy, she noticed Ethan Ransom absorbing every detail of his surroundings. Not in the way of someone who appreciated interior décor, but rather like a surveyor examining distances and angles. He was pleasant and polite, with a guarded charm that almost made her forget the flash of ice-cold brutality in the first few moments of their disastrous meeting.

Even without having been told about Ransom’s appointment with the Metropolitan Police, Phoebe would have known he held a position of responsibility in some potentially dangerous profession. There was something almost catlike about him—a quiet and lethal grace. She sensed that West’s relaxed presence helped to make him far more approachable than he ordinarily would have been.

Once inside the study, Phoebe and West sat at the table, while Ransom stood on the opposite side and began to lay out documents. The review of the loan and initial expenses began predictably enough: there had been checks made out to brick and tile manufacturers for field drainage systems, and other checks for installation. There were also checks for land work such as hedge removal and leveling, and waste land reclamation. But soon they reached a run of checks written for less easily identifiable purposes.

“C. T. Hawkes and Associates,” Phoebe read aloud, frowning as she saw a draft in the amount of five thousand eight hundred pounds. “What kind of work do they do?”

“It’s a residential building company,” Ransom replied.

“Why would Edward Larson pay such a large sum to a house builder? Do they also repair farm buildings?”

“I don’t believe so, my lady.”

Frowning, Phoebe scrutinized the next large entry. “James Prince Hayward of London. Who is that?”

“A coach builder,” West said, his gaze moving farther down the list. “Here are expenses for a saddler and harness maker . . . a domestic employment agency . . . and more than a few charges at Winterborne’s department store.” He gave Ransom a sardonic glance, shaking his head slowly.