The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(59)

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his words sharp and bit off. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. If only”—something nudged against her—“later. Ahh.” He closed his eyes as if in pain.

And invaded her. Pushing and widening. Burning.

She froze.

“I’m sorry.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. At the same time, she was oddly touched by his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Something tore quite explicitly, and she inhaled but didn’t make a sound.

He opened his eyes, looking stricken and hot and savage. “Oh, God, sweetheart. I promise it will be better next time.” He kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “I promise.”

She concentrated on steadying her breath and hoped he would finish very soon. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but this was no longer pleasant for her.

He parted his mouth over hers and licked her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

His hand moved between them and caressed her lightly where they were joined. She tensed, unconsciously expecting pain, but instead it was pleasant. And then it was more. Heat began to flow from her center. Slowly her thighs relaxed from the rigid arch they’d assumed when he’d entered her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice deep and lazy.

His thumb brushed against her nubbin of flesh. She closed her eyes and sighed.

He circled. “Sorry.”

He moved very slowly within her, sliding. It was almost . . . good.

“Sorry.” He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she sucked it.

She let her legs drop open to give him better access. He groaned into her mouth, incoherent, and suddenly it was beautiful again. She arched her hips to meet that thumb, to demand more pressure and dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders. He moved faster in reply. He broke their kiss, and she could see his silver eyes, pleading and taking at the same time. She smiled and wrapped her legs about his hips. His eyes widened at her movement and he groaned. His eyelids fluttered closed. Then he was arcing back, the tendons in his arms and neck straining to meet an invisible goal. He shouted and heaved against her. And she watched him, this powerful, articulate man driven to helpless, wordless pleasure by her body. By her.

He fell to her side, his chest still heaving, his eyes closed, and lay there until his breathing calmed. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but he reached out and gathered her to him.

“Sorry.” The word was so garbled, she wouldn’t have known what he’d said if he hadn’t been repeating it all along.

“Shh.” She stroked his damp side and smiled secretly. “Go to sleep, my love.”

“WHY DID YOU SUMMON ME HERE?” Sir Rupert glanced uneasily around the park. It was very early morning and cold as the devil’s heart. No one else was in sight, but that didn’t mean Walker hadn’t been followed or that some fashionable lordling might not be out riding. He pulled the brim of his hat lower to be on the safe side.

“We can’t wait for him to make the next move.” Lord Walker’s breath steamed as he talked.

He sat his mount like a man who’d been bred to the saddle, as indeed he had. Six generations of Walkers had led the hunt in his home county. The Walker stable was renowned for the hunters that came out of it. He’d probably sat a horse before he could toddle on leading-strings.

Sir Rupert shifted on his gelding. He hadn’t learned to ride until he was a young man and it showed. Add to that his crippled leg and he was damned uncomfortable. “What do you propose?”

“Kill him before he kills us.”

Sir Rupert winced and looked around again. Fool. Anyone listening would have blackmail material at the very least. On the other hand, if Walker could solve this problem for him . . . “We’ve tried that twice and failed.”

“So we try it again. Third time’s the charm.” Walker blinked at him with bovine eyes. “I’m not waiting like a cockerel to have its neck wrung for the supper pot.”

Sir Rupert sighed. It was a delicate balance. As far as he knew, Simon Iddesleigh still wasn’t aware of his part in the conspiracy. Iddesleigh most likely thought Walker was the last man involved. And if Iddesleigh could be kept from finding out, if he could bring his revenge to its inevitable bloody conclusion with Walker, well, all and good. Walker wasn’t such a very important piece of Sir Rupert’s life, after all. He certainly wouldn’t be missed. And with Walker gone, there would be no one else alive to connect him to the conspiracy that had led to Ethan Iddesleigh’s death. It was a seductive thought. He’d be able to rest, and God knew he was ready for it.

But if Walker talked before Iddesleigh got to him—or, worse, when Iddesleigh found him—all would be lost. Because, of course, Iddesleigh was really after Sir Rupert, even if he didn’t know it. Hence, Sir Rupert’s indulgence of Walker’s melodrama and this meeting in the park at dawn. The other man must think they were together in this.

His hand drifted toward his waistcoat pocket where the Iddesleigh signet ring still lay. He should’ve gotten rid of it by now. He had in fact nearly thrown it into the Thames on two occasions. But each time something stopped him. It was illogical, but he fancied that the ring gave him power over Iddesleigh.

“He married yesterday.”