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“Yes, Bram.”

He finally touched her, another stroke of his fingers over her bottom, a tease between the lips, and then back again. A hard squeeze. And finally, a light slap. She jumped. Another slap, slightly harder. It didn’t hurt, not really. It stung, in a good way that made her writhe and moan. A third slap, his palm connecting with a satisfying crack of sound. She gasped. Her breasts felt fuller, pressed against the table. Her bud swelled, tingled. “Bram.”

And then there were no words, only mouths and hands and panting breaths as he hauled her up. They came together in a frenzy, pulling at any remaining clothing, kissing all the while. She’d never felt like this, desperate and alive, impatient for more. Wicked. Free.

Clara pulled at the placket of his pants. When he sprang free into her waiting palm, he was hot and hard and it made her moan again, even before his fingers found her, dragging through her slick folds. He strained against her hand, sucking at her throat in short, devastating pulls. It was everything and not nearly enough.

He hiked her up, setting her back against the wall, working her until she was so wet and keening with need. He positioned himself at her entrance, holding still. “Take me inside,” he demanded.

She settled on the tip of him, lowering herself carefully. He filled her so thoroughly that she clenched around him until he groaned into her neck. Another inch, and another, until he was fully seated and she was pinned to the wall, filled with his hardness. His big hands spanned her hips, steadying her. “Ride me, pirate,” he growled. “Take your pleasure.”

She found a pace that made her shiver and whimper, up and down, up and down, stretching to accommodate him, slippery and deep. Little gasps escaped her as she rode him harder and deeper, the coiling low in her belly, searing in its intensity. It built and built until it shattered her and she came with a sob. He groaned into her damp skin, hips stuttering, following her to climax.

They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, before he let her down gently. Her legs were weak, her knees soft. He used his handkerchief to clean her up and then himself before tucking back into his pants. She had mostly regained the feeling in her legs by the time he was finished. He tipped up her chin. “All right?”

She nodded. “Better than all right.”

“All the same, you’ll indulge me.” He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the chair by the low fire. She rested against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.

“A threat to you is a threat to me, Clara,” he said darkly. “And it will not stand.”

She tried not to melt, she really did. Was she supposed to be angry? Irritated? Frightened of the blackmailer? How could she be with this man standing with her, fierce and protective? She felt less alone than she ever had before, and it was astonishing. Incredible. Emotions she could not even name swirled inside her.

She smoothed her hands down his big arms, just because she could. “Thank you.”

He frowned. “What now?”

“Thank you for caring. I know it’s simply in your nature, but thank you all the same.”

He lowered his forehead to hers. “You are infuriating, little pirate. And precious.”

“I’m not,” she said softly. “And that too is fine.”

“You are. You’re also stubborn and reckless and far too self-deprecating.”

“Bram, I know what I am.”

He snorted. “You do not.” He kissed her, quick and hard. “We do this together.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The day leading into Devil’s Night pulsed with expectation and impatience.

The guests kept mostly to themselves, resting, pampering themselves as more and more carriages rolled up the driveway. Mrs. Meadows sent several trays by harried housemaids. Clara could have constructed a castle of her own out of the shortbread alone.

Bram searched every tray, glowered at every person who dared to walk by. He searched the dower house from top to bottom. He questioned Mrs. Meadows; he talked to the stable master and the footman in charge of delivering messages. He did not find another blackmail note.

Clara laid her two best gowns out on her bed and sighed. Loudly.

Never mind her blackmail and the looming demise of her career. She was going to embarrass herself at Devil’s Night. Guests had been instructed to wear red. Clara did not own a red dress. The best she could do was wrap a red bandeau around her hair and ribbons through the tops of her gloves.

It shouldn’t matter. There were so many more important things to worry about. Abduction, the rules of card games she had memorized but never actually played, blackmail.

A plan she had not shared with Bram.

But even so, she wanted him to remember her as anything but a pale waif of a woman ignored by others. Just this once. Despite her best efforts, it rankled.

On top of it all, she was still short one red stocking ribbon. She had searched everywhere.