The Virgin Huntress (The Devil DeVere #2)(16)

“Pray don’t trouble yourself,” Hew said, always the gentleman. “I shall drink it anyway.”

Vesta held her breath, only releasing it when his empty cup returned to the saucer with a soft click.

***

“What did you give him?” asked Lord DeVere as he and Pratt loaded the unconscious Captain Hew into the chaise.

“Only a spoonful of laudanum,” Vesta answered. “I took it myself to help me sleep when Mama passed. It is perfectly safe, although I do recall the strangest dreams.”

DeVere raised a hand with a shake of his head. “Pray say no more. ‘Tis best I know nothing of your plans, as I have no wish to perjure myself when your father lands on my stoop.” He took Vesta’s hand and held it tightly between his own. “Just know this, my darling girl, if matters should somehow go awry and not turn out to your liking, I would not have you suffer even a moment for your intrepidity.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked with a puzzled frown.

“That should my brother be such an ass as not to recognize the priceless jewel laid at his feet, I would not have you ruined. If Hew fails you, Vesta, know that I would take to you wife myself.”

“La! Uncle Vic!” Vesta emitted a paroxysm of giggles. “How ludicrous you are! You are far too old for me!”

He looked mildly affronted. “Six and thirty is hardly ancient.”

She awarded him her most effulgent smile. “Nevertheless, you worry for naught, for I do not intend to fail. I vow to you that within three day’s time, Captain Hew will be mad for me.”





CHAPTER EIGHT




With Pratt riding postillion, the small and maneuverable chaise had made good time to Greenwich. After speaking briefly with the ship’s master, two hands followed to load her senseless cargo aboard the yacht. That had been over twelve hours ago, and yet Hew slept. Vesta worried now that she may have overestimated the dose, but then he stirred.

She had stayed up all the night long for fear he would awaken without her knowledge, but she still felt no fatigue. She studied his features, both manly and boyish in repose, and her heart seemed to fill her entire chest. How she had dreamed of this, being alone with him, albeit, he was a bit more conscious in her fantasies. Still, this was Captain Hew DeVere, the man of her dreams. And he was all hers, for at least three days.

Mesmerized, she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, but unable to contain the impulse any longer, Vesta perched upon the side of the bed and outstretched her hand to his face, gently tracing his scar from cheek to chin with her fingertips. Tears misted her eyes at the thought of the horrors that had wrought such disfigurement to what would otherwise be perfection.

She bent over his face, relishing his warm expirations against her cheek. The breath of his body that filled her own with the same warm tingles that always overcame her when she thought of Hew. The tingles that magnified now as she touched him. Her lips brushed first his forehead and then his cheek, the bristle of beard stubble abrading her tender lips.

He moaned and shifted and then...dear God in heaven...his lips touched hers. Vesta closed her eyes, praying for, willing his kiss. And then he gently brushed her lips, inciting tiny tremors of breathless delight that expanded into waves as his mouth grew more insistent, more demanding. His tongue darted out and stroked the seam of her mouth, and her heart galloped. She parted her lips for him on a sigh. It was heavenly to feel him with her mouth, to taste him with her tongue. It was wondrous. Dizzying. Overwhelming. But then he opened his eyes...

***

Although his head throbbed, Hew couldn’t recall the last time he had had such a pleasant dream. His nights were usually haunted by the staccato report of musket fire and the thunderous explosion of cannons punctuated by the agonizing screams of fallen comrades. It had been almost four years since his nocturnal fantasies had included murmured endearments, breathy sighs, and warm caresses. His cock sprang to life at the whisper of silky hair, subtly scented of violets, brushing his forehead, the pleasant sensation of light and feathery kisses on his face. It was heavenly. It was torture. It was so vivid, so real, yet the face and form of his seductress was strangely nebulous.

He felt the tender touch of her fingertips tracing the scar on his face and warm, moist breath against his cheek. He turned into the touch, seeking and finding it with his mouth, and then sought those luscious lips with his own. Timid and tentative, they parted on a murmured sigh for his exploration. He was growing harder by the minute, and by God, he didn’t want to wake up.

He reached for his aching cock and fisted himself. It pulsed in his hand, begging for release. He began languid strokes as his tongue grazed her mouth, probing the plump lips and finding her own, licking and sliding over them. She tasted delicious, an incongruous medley of sweet and sour, mildly reminiscent of lemon and honey, and he drank her in.

Lemon and honey! The tea. It was the last thing he remembered before the world had become hazy and his legs had gone weak. Hew’s eyes snapped open to find himself face-to-face, or better said, lip-to-lip with... “Bloody hell! Vesta!”

He jerked upright. She stepped back two paces, and he raked over her with a livid gaze. For the first time, he noted a hint of trepidation in her wide and deceptively guileless, hazel eyes.

He swung his bare legs over the side of the bed, realizing he wore nothing but his shirt. He remembered his activity of only a moment ago and instantly flushed with mortification at what she must have witnessed.