The Return of the Prodigal. Кейси Майклс

I once again plan my return to England. But if there’s more? If they are also the ones, if he is still with them—?”

      “Then the heart, dripping in your hand,” Lisette said, wishing she herself didn’t feel so likewise bloodthirsty. Clearly the nuns had failed badly with her…or she had badly failed the nuns. “And Becket? What happens to Rian Becket?”

      “As best we can tell, Becket is the one who cost me a large portion of my business. Remember, we got the name from one of my former associate’s associates. What do you think happens to him, ma petit? A pat on the head and a wish for a long and pleasant life?”

      “No, I don’t think that. I also think he would be dead now, like the others, I’m sure, if I hadn’t been here. Thanks to those vile potions.”

      “But we might have had all our answers. A child, allowed such sway. The tail, wagging the dog. It is a shame to you, my master.”

      Lisette looked toward the corner. “You say that from a distance. Would you care to come out of the shadows and say it to my face? To his face?”

      “Again the cats in the sack. We will probably have to deal with this animosity between you, some day. Not a pretty prospect. But not now. Lisette, ma petit, I still don’t care for the fact that you crawled into his bed. Was it pity that propelled you? The wounded soldier? Or curiosity? The girl from the nunnery, locked away for so many years? Or perhaps it’s that he has but one arm, and you feel you can best him if necessary? One but wonders.”

      “One should wonder about himself, and not those who serve him the best they can,” Lisette said, getting to her feet, not wishing to prolong this particular conversation. Not when it included talk of Rian Becket’s death.

      “If he hadn’t been so gravely wounded by those idiots sent to capture him. If you hadn’t been here when he arrived…”

      “Then I would have no answers to your questions, would I? Not that I plan on answering any of them, in any event. It was my decision, the events cannot be changed, and there is nothing to be gained by further discussion.”

      “And the boy. You feel nothing for him?”

      Lisette looked straight into the man’s eyes, her blue gaze unwavering. And told him what she was sure he wanted to hear. “No. Nothing.”

      “How fortunate for you, ma petit, as no matter how the game plays out in this small adventure, bearing fruit or not, Rian Becket dies.” He opened the small suede pouch he always carried with him and extracted a dark green leaf, pressed it between cheek and gum. “No one touches my daughter without my consent and lives.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      LISETTE LINGERED in the upstairs hallway until she heard the tall clock in the downstairs foyer strike out the hour of midnight, and then depressed the latch and entered Rian’s bedchamber. Was careful to lock the door behind her, remove the key.

      He was waiting for her.

      Candlelight flickered from the tall silver holders on the bureau, a half-dozen small tables. Firelight flickered in the fireplace grate.

      The heavy draperies were drawn close together, obviously by a male hand, as some of the material on one window, that should have puddled on the floor, had been caught up against the back of a chair, and the second tall window still showed the white under-curtain at its center, allowing some of the light from the full moon to slice against the deep carpet.

      But he had set the stage for her.

      And now she would perform.

      Her gaze traveled along the floor, and then climbed the foot of the ornately carved bed, slid upward to see the silk sheet he had dragged over his body as he lay propped against a half-dozen pillows, carefully keeping his abbreviated left arm hidden beneath that sheet.

      Foolish man. When she could look at that face, that beautiful face, those sad, speaking eyes, and know she would soon be able to slide her fingers through the wonder of his thick hair, taste him, touch him, feel him—the arm was of no consequence.

      “I didn’t think you were coming,” he said quietly, returning her look.

      “I said I would. I don’t lie, Rian Becket.”

      “I didn’t remember.”

      “Do you remember this?” Lisette asked as she untied the satin ribbons at the throat of her dressing gown and then shrugged back her shoulders, sending the dressing gown sliding to the floor, revealing her sheer white night rail.

      Rian sat up higher against the pillows, smiled. “Vaguely.”

      “You try to be amusing? And this?” she continued, slowly walking toward him as her fingers worked the small front buttons of the gown. She stopped, smiled, eased one wide strap from her shoulder, then the other. She looked straight into his eyes, and allowed the night rail to join the dressing gown on the floor.

      “Oh, yes. I believe I remember now. A white witch or an angel. I’m never quite sure.”

      She joined him beneath the sheet, careful to approach the bed from the left, join him to his right. She would do nothing to remind him of his injury, what he seemed to consider his shame. “Does it matter which I am, Rian, witch or angel? As long as I am here, yes?”

      Rian had already positioned his good arm so that she lay against it now, moved toward him obediently as he pulled her closer against his chest. “Strange how I can’t seem to care for anything, yet I dream of you, of touching you. In my dreams, I can feel the curve and weight of your breasts against my hands. Lightly rub my thumbs across your nipples, watch them tighten at that touch. Perfection. I hold you, and I taste your sweetness. First one, then the other. Like offerings on an altar, blasphemous as that is.”

      Lisette stroked his strong chest, her palm sensitized by the sprinkle of soft hair. “You dream of having two hands again? Poor Rian. I never meant to torture you.”

      “Sweet torture, Lisette,” he whispered, pressing his lips against her temple. “Pretty pictures in my mind.”

      She’d come to him that first time a virgin. Perhaps at least partially deliberately, definitely fearfully, not quite knowing what was about to happen, having heard only of the pain, the obligation. But that was the way to the marriage bed, as spoken of by the nuns.

      Perhaps the trail to a bed of mortal sin was easier to travel? Or else Rian Becket was unlike other men. Kinder. More gentle. Careful of her, mindful of her nervousness, more eager to please than be pleased.

      There had been pain, most assuredly, but it had been quickly soothed, and the pain had slowly grown into pleasure. Desires, unknown, had been awakened in her. Needs, hungers.

      But she wouldn’t think of that now. She’d think of what he’d just said. His dream of her, of the two of them together.

      His words had put a picture in her mind as well, and with the newfound freedom she felt each time she joined him in this bed, Lisette slid her hand across his chest, to grasp his shoulder, and then pulled herself across his body, her legs straddling him as she then pushed herself up, sitting astride him.

      She shook her head, shaking back her hair. Lifted her arms and tucked that hair behind her ears, to get it out of her way. The better to see him, because he was truly beautiful. Almost too beautiful to be real.

      Perhaps that was her salvation, to believe that none of this was really happening, none of this was really real. And, in dreams, anything was allowed, anything was possible.

      “I have two hands, Rian,” she told him as she slowly ran those hands down the sides of her neck, slid them, fingers spread, down over her breasts, cupped her breasts in her palms.

      “Oh, God,” Rian breathed beneath her. “Yes, Lisette. Now touch yourself. With your thumbs. Your nipples, Lisette. Stroke them. Yes. Ah…sweet. Feel it, Lisette? Do you feel it? Look at yourself. See what you’re doing. Like small, hard pebbles. Now squeeze, Lisette. Yes, like that,