The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

She smiled at him.

They were entangled. It was already too late to avoid getting hurt. There was nothing to do now but hold out until the end. And so he let it happen. He kissed her neck, her br**sts. He held onto his own arousal, letting it peak, stroking her until she was as ready as he was. Until she was wet and desperate, until he could bear it no longer. Then he guided her down onto his shaft. She was good, so good around him.

He’d needed just this all these months. He held her hands as she discovered the pace she needed, the pressure she wanted. And when she was close, he touched her just where it mattered and brought her to pieces. When she was still shuddering, he turned her over and drove into her until all his thoughts shattered and fled. Until there was nothing but the two of them.

Until, at least for that one final moment, there was no but after the silent I love you that he gave her.

Oliver stood behind the house where Jane’s uncle liveed. The morning had been taken up with their journey to Cambridge by rail; it was mid-afternoon by the time they’d arrived. In the early summer heat, the residents had retreated inside to the cool. By his count, Dorling would just be meeting his cart driver. In a few hours, all would be over, but for now…

Oliver had taken off his shoes and his coat. A bit of ivy climbed the walls—a few pale, unhealthy strands, nothing he’d care to trust his weight to.

The past few days were beginning to catch up with him. It felt almost as if he had been woken briefly in the middle of the night and was being sucked back into the dream. Yes, he cared for Jane. More than he wanted to think.

And he’d volunteered to climb into her sister’s room in the middle of broad daylight.

“Why am I the one doing this again?” he asked.

“Because,” Jane whispered next to him, “I’m wearing skirts.”

He was going to get shot. Or captured. Or…

Or maybe he wasn’t. He hadn’t felt like this in…oh, years. His pulse beat with excitement. The house was silent.

“Don’t worry,” Jane said. “The kitchen garden hardly produces because my uncle doesn’t like setting snares for rabbits. If he discovers you, the worst he’d probably do is demand an explanation. A lengthy one.”

“And I’ll say, ‘don’t mind me, I’m just here to steal your niece. There’s nothing to worry about; I’ve made away with one of them already, so two will hardly slow me down.”

“Precisely.” She smiled at him, and suddenly, the climb to her sister’s window didn’t seem quite so long, nor the possibility of discovery so painful. He clambered up onto the window ledge on the ground floor, used it as a stepping stone, and then swung up to the top of the window frame.

The drainpipe buckled; he readjusted his weight, shifting onto the slick stones. He made his way up the wall carefully, until he could hook his hands over the window ledge that Jane had promised belonged to her sister.

He tapped quietly on the window and waited.

Nothing. He didn’t even hear anyone stirring in the room.

“Emily?” He didn’t dare speak much above a whisper, but his breath scarcely fogged the window. He tapped again, this time more firmly. “Miss Emily.”

“She’s not a heavy sleeper,” Jane whispered loudly, just below him. “And she never sleeps during her afternoon naps.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone inside.” He rapped his knuckles against the windowpane. “Emily,” he tried a little louder.

Nothing.

Nobody. He could see the bed from here, and while the shadows somewhat obscured his view, it didn’t even look as if there were a telltale lump.

“Jane,” he said softly, “when was your uncle going to have your sister taken away?”

He could hear her breath suck in. “Not so soon,” she said slowly as if trying to convince herself. “Surely not so soon. He would want to make certain I was out of the way before he moved. I’m…I’m almost positive of it.” But her voice wavered on the almost, and he suspected she wasn’t as sure as she felt.

He would have guessed it would take longer. But then, he’d been wrong before.

“Might she have gone out for the afternoon?” he asked.

“No, of course not. Titus never lets her, and if she had slipped out herself, she would have left the window ajar.” Oliver tried the edge of the window; it was closed all the way, but it hadn’t been fastened on the inside. It was difficult work, getting the leverage he needed to hoist it up a few inches; the window squeaked in the casement. But he finally managed to raise it.

“She really isn’t in here,” he reported. He’d already completed the breaking portion of breaking and entering. No point stopping now. He climbed through the window.

“Look in the clothespress,” Jane called from the ground. “See if her valise is there.”