Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5 Read online

  Mam Tor beckoned, shining like a beacon in the distance. The smell of damp earth, leaves and pine filled her nostrils. If she went higher, the view would be better. She reached up again, pulling herself close to the trunk of the tree and kept going, unmindful of anything but the task before her.

  * * *

  Brendan whistled, boots crunching against the stones as he took the path leading back to Somerton. Lady Marsh, according to his mother, was much better this morning. Petra and her mother were scheduled to leave for Brushbriar today. By the time Brendan returned for tea, Petra would be gone. Before long, she would be reading a tome of poetry in Brushbriar’s garden while Pendleton hung on her every word. Simon might even take her hand, which would be something. Simon was a cold fish.

  Brendan hiked the rucksack up higher on his shoulder, ignoring the pain as the leather strap bit into his flesh. His pack was full of samples today, many more than he needed, but Brendan was trying to keep his mind from Petra. He didn’t care to think of Petra in the garden with Pendleton, nor the jealousy the image invoked. Petra wasn’t his, nor would she ever be. His was a life meant to live alone. Solitary. Having Petra would mean caring for Petra—something that could not be allowed.

  I still want her.

  Brendan forced himself to summon up a painful memory. His mother, dressed all in black, talking to the portrait of Reggie. Weeping, she had pled with his father to return to her. He’d been five or six at the time and he’d run to her, wrapping himself inside her skirts, begging her to stop being sad.

  He didn’t wish such a future for himself. Digging through caves was a far safer option.

  “Damn.”

  The unladylike curse sprung from the giant oak tree to the right. He’d been by this very tree hundreds of times and had never heard the oak swear at him.

  “Damn and blast.” A tearing of fabric sounded. Bits of bark and leaves fell from somewhere above him. “Bollocks.”

  Brendan craned his neck back, searching upward, delighted to see a pair of slim, stocking clad legs dangling above him. A tree nymph.

  Another burst of leaves rained down on him followed by a gasp of utter horror. The tree nymph had spotted him.

  A smile pulled at his lips. “Petra?” Desire bloomed in him, his fears of not a moment ago evaporating. It wasn’t only the sight of her legs, which were spectacular, but the knowledge she’d climbed a tree. What on earth would have possessed her to do such a thing? And she was cursing up a storm, something well-bred young ladies weren’t supposed to do. He doubted she’d learned those words from Lady Marsh.

  “I didn’t know tree climbing to be practiced amongst the ton.” Brendan spoke to the pair of legs.

  “As it happens, I am one of several young ladies who believe in challenging ourselves with physical feats of strength. We gather every Thursday in Hyde Park. In addition to tree climbing we are known to run foot races, sail boats and compete in other competitions.” Her voice floated down to him. “Obviously we don’t go around speaking of our…conditioning.”

  “I’d no idea the ladies of the ton were so interesting.” What a sassy little minx Petra was. A slow ache stretched across his heart, adding to the slow throb in his breeches. “And the cursing? Where you did you gain such a vocabulary? A governess?”

  A bit of bark and several acorns bounced off his shoulder. “Surely you are acquainted with your cousin’s wife? Her Grace would put a sailor to shame. Jemma’s profanities are quite colorful.”

  Brendan had never actually heard the Duchess of Dunbar curse, but considering her other eccentricities, he didn’t doubt Petra’s explanation.

  “I do hope you won’t mention my language to Mother. She’d be most distressed.” A feminine grunt sounded from above.

  “Perish the thought. I’ve no desire to give your mother a fit of apoplexy.” He looked up into the branches, admiring Petra’s calves and ankles. “Are you coming down?” She had lovely calves. Too bad she was wearing stockings. He would so adore pressing a kiss to the hollow behind her knee.

  “Of course I am,” she snapped. “I’m only working on how best to make my way, and I find it difficult to do so when you are distracting me. Feel free to be on your way.”

  Brendan had climbed all his life. Rocks, peaks, trees. The roof of the tavern in Buxton. It was no secret why Petra hadn’t yet come down. Climbing up something seemed a wonderful idea until you realized you must come down at some point. “Petra, don’t look down.”

  “How should I make my way to the ground unless I look down?” she growled in frustration. “Now you’ll refer to me as the climbing pea-wit.” Petra lowered her voice in an imitation of his deep rasp. “She’s like a cat in a tree that can’t come down. I can just hear you now.”

  “I told you.” He struggled to keep from laughing. “I was angry about something else at the time. I don’t truly think you to be a pea-wit.”

  “You have yet to apologize. You also said my only purpose in life was to marry well, which isn’t at all true. I have a purpose.”

  “Your purpose?” He would have to climb up to her. “Now you’ve piqued my interest.”

  “I’m not going to discuss my purpose with you, of all people.”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t expect such a thing.” He was curious, though.

  “It’s of no import.” Another shower of leaves came down.

  He thought it might be, but now was not the time to ask her to explain. “I’ll come to you.” Brendan looked up at the stockinged legs above him. “Don’t move.”

  “You can’t come up here.” He heard a rustle of clothing. “I’m—” He heard her gasp as she realized her legs were exposed. Shrieking with panic, Petra swung precariously above him as she tried unsuccessfully to cover her exposed limbs.

  “Petra, I’ve already seen your legs. Stop moving about or you could fall.”

  “You are being overly familiar by remarking on my legs. A gentleman would turn away and ignore the sight completely. Nor would a gentlemen mention…them by name.”

  Another delicious ache fluttered across his chest. “I am climbing a bloody tree to rescue you. If I wish to look at your legs, I will.”

  “You are horrible. Truly. Very ill-mannered.”

  “I suppose so.” Brendan threw down his pack and started up the tree, finding the hand and footholds naturally to pull himself up through the branches. A few minutes later, he reached the thick branch Petra was holding onto for dear life. Her skirts were rucked up on either side and in addition to her calves she was showing a good bit of her knees and thighs. Slinging one leg over, he straddled the limb and faced her.

  Petra caught the direction of his gaze. “A gentleman wouldn’t look. Avert your eyes.”

  “I thought we’d established I am not a gentleman. Why haven’t you left for Brushbriar?”

  She was so fucking beautiful with a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and a twig sticking out of her hair, just above her right ear. Her bonnet was long gone and probably laying amongst the leaves below them. Thick strands of honey-gold hair fell over the tops of her shoulders. He wanted to kiss her senseless. But first he needed to get her down from the tree.

  “Mother had a bit of a relapse this morning. Though she is eager to continue our journey, she’s more concerned about appearing ill as she meets Lady Pendleton for the first time.” He didn’t miss the slight bit of satisfaction in her words. “We will leave for Brushbriar in the morning.”

  Brendan suppressed the surge of happiness that swelled inside him. He shouldn’t be happy, but the idea of Petra under his roof for another night did strange things to his heart, as well as other parts of his anatomy.

  Petra had stopped trying to cover her legs. She shot a wistful glance at Mam Tor and whispered, “Simon is expecting us.”

  Pendleton would never allow a tree climbing viscountess. He was too much of a prig ,as were most any gentleman of his station. Thankfully, Brendan wasn’t of that ilk. He was delighted to discover Petra’s reckless streak
.

  “The view of Mam Tor is amazing from this high up.” Petra’s hair blew across her face as a breeze took the long, golden strands. She looked wild and scandalous with her skirts hiked up and her legs dangling on either side of the branch.

  Brendan had never been so aroused in his life. He clutched the limb he sat on so tight the bark dug into his skin. “Are you ready to climb down?”

  “If I answered no, would you leave me here?” She kept her face pointed toward Mam Tor. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, sparking the bits of gold in the honey of her hair. He saw sadness in her lovely features. “Perhaps I could build a tree house.”

  A fierce rush of protectiveness filled him. He sensed her melancholy and wondered at her feelings for Simon. He’d been under the assumption she wanted to marry Pendleton. After all, he was a most suitable match. But now, hearing the wistfulness in her voice, Brendan wasn’t so certain. He held out his hand, stretching out the fingers. “Take my hand.”

  Petra finally turned to him, fear in her eyes. Cautiously she inched toward him and reached out her hand, the slender length of her fingers intertwining with his. “Don’t let go.”

  The words echoed across his heart even though he didn’t wish it. He saw the trust for him shining in her face, despite her fear. Despite all he’d done to ensure her dislike for him.

  Damn it.

  Slowly, she moved forward. “Don’t let go,” she whispered again.

  “Never.” The word resonated with certainty, despite Brendan’s best attempts to discard the feeling. He wasn’t sure who was more afraid in that moment, him or Petra. “I won’t.”

  After several tense minutes, Petra closed the distance between them, shifting until their knees were mere inches from each other. Carefully, without letting go of her hand, Brendan wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her gently toward him. He held Petra much closer than he should have, though she didn’t protest. She was looking up at him, the color of the leaves around them bringing out the green in her eyes. Her gaze was focused on his mouth.

  Christ. Absolutely not a shred of self-preservation.

  The delicate palms of her hands reached out to flatten against his chest. “How are we getting down?”

  Could she feel the hammering of his heart against her palms? He inhaled her scent, wanting to bury his nose against her shoulder. “Very slowly.” His words were rougher than he’d intended. “I will inch down and then you will follow.”

  “No. I—”

  “Petra, listen to me. You are not to look down, keep your eyes focused on the bark of the tree before you. I will not let you fall. I promise. If anything, you’ll land on my head.” A vision of Petra’s stocking-clad legs hiked over his shoulders as he— Christ.

  “Trust me.” The words choked out as he struggled to control his breathing.

  “Right.” She lifted her chin with determination. “I’m ready.”

  Disengaging her fingers with care, Brendan turned and crawled to the trunk and secured a foothold in the bark. Motioning with his hand, he beckoned Petra to move toward him.

  She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself and then cautiously made her way to him, her fingers notched into the bark of the tree. She was poised above Brendan but still too far away. He moved up a few inches.

  “Don’t you dare look up my skirts.”

  “Petra, I’m much more concerned with getting you down safely then I am with your undergarments.” It was only a small lie. His interest in her undergarments was limited to imagining taking them off of her.

  Brendan moved up the trunk until Petra was between him and the tree. He tried to focus on getting her down safely, but if she so much as twitched, her rounded buttocks brushed against a certain part of his anatomy. Having her so close was pure torture, with her body so close and her scent filling the air. He had to restrain himself from nipping at her ear. “Now we move down together. My left foot moves down and so does yours.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You don’t have to sound so irritated with me.”

  Brendan was incredibly irritated—at her, because of her. He needed to control his craving for this slim young woman who smelled of roses and sugar cookies and he couldn’t seem to.

  Fifteen minutes later, his boots landed on the ground.

  Petra still hung onto the bark for dear life. “Where are you going?” She didn’t take her eyes from the tree trunk.”

  “Relax, Petra. We’ve made it down.” Brendan’s hands wrapped around her waist and lowered her the rest of the way until her feet brushed against the leaves covering the ground.

  Petra closed her eyes in relief as her feet made contact with the forest floor. Then she smiled brilliantly, her eyes opening with reverence at the oak before them.

  “I shall never forget this day.” She looked over her shoulder at him.

  Brendan doubted he would either.

  * * *

  Elation filled Petra as she looked up at the oak tree. For the first time in a very long time, she’d done something she wished. Not a proper something. Or a polite something. And Morwick had her neatly trapped against the trunk of the oak.

  He seemed in no hurry to release her.

  Morwick smelled so good, like the moors around them. His larger body, strong and vital, hovered over Petra, the breadth of his shoulders blocking the sun filtering through the trees. She felt safe and protected within the circle of Morwick’s arms. He’d been so gentle with her, both today and when she’d become so horribly ill all over his boots. Few gentlemen on such a short, antagonistic relationship as she and Morwick had, would have done the same.

  Had. Petra reminded herself. What she felt now was the furthest thing from dislike.

  Acting on impulse, Petra stood on her tiptoes, the rough scrape of his unshaven jaw chafing her lips as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered against the tanned skin, holding herself up for a moment, before standing down. It was an incredibly brazen thing to do.

  Morwick’s body vibrated like a tuning fork at her touch, tightening sinuously, like a large snake stretching itself. His gaze burned into her, the sapphire orbs flaming, like the embers of a fire stoked to flame. No other man had ever looked at Petra the way Morwick did, and certainly not with such wicked intent gleaming in his eyes. He was going to kiss her, knew he shouldn’t, and didn’t much care.

  Petra didn’t blush or stammer, nor turn away from the look in those blazing eyes. A truly demure young woman would make a polite excuse and escape to the safety of her chaperone. Or perhaps run all the way back to Somerton as if the devil were at her heels. But Petra had no such inclination. A part of her had been locked away, lying dormant until Morwick stormed into her life, like a whirlwind, to overwhelm her.

  Simon didn’t once enter her thoughts as Morwick’s lips brushed gently against hers. He was tentative at first, as if making sure Petra wouldn’t scream and run away.

  Nothing could have been further from her mind.

  Petra’s hands slid up Morwick’s torso absorbing the warmth of the skin beneath the rough work shirt. Her fingers found the hills of his ribs, ran along the ridges of hard muscles sculpting his chest. Morwick was strong and solid. Vibrant like the leaves in the tree above them.

  Beautiful.

  “Petra.” He murmured against her lips as he moved closer, effectively pinning her against the tree. “You should run as fast as you can and as far away from me as possible.”

  “No,” she murmured, allowing her fingers to sink into the folds of his shirt. “Stop warning me. I already know how horrible you are. There’s no need to go on and on about it.”

  An amused chuckle came from deep in his chest even as his mouth slanted over hers. The press of his lips became more insistent, pulling Petra’s very soul from her. This was not the hard, almost angry kiss he’d bestowed upon her at Rowan’s wedding. This kiss spoke of longing. And hunger.

  She moved into him, like a tiny vine wrapping around a much stronger, stu
rdier tree to survive. A spool of desire slowly made its way down between Petra’s breasts, her nipples peaking to chafe against his chest. A dull ache, demanding and pleasurable coursed between her thighs. Petra arched against him, grasping the rough cambric of his shirt. She rubbed herself against him like a cat, begging for his touch.

  Morwick complied, moving his big hands from the curve of her waist to wind around her back.

  Petra could feel the hard length of him even through her skirts, thick and heavy. He wanted her. Desired her. As Morwick’s arms tightened and the kiss deepened, a tiny whimper came from her lips.

  One hand moved down to cup her backside, lifting her and pushing her more firmly against his arousal. His other hand wound through Petra’s hair, keeping her mouth captive. Nipping at her bottom lip, he coaxed her mouth open, his tongue flitting out to touch hers.

  Petra trembled at the unexpected invasion, clinging to his shirt as her knees buckled. Unsure what to do, she moved her tongue in unison with his, matching his movements.

  A low growl erupted from Brendan at her response. He kissed her with a lazy sensuality, drawing out her surrender to him until Petra sagged against him. Her hands moved up to touch the silken curls tangled against his collar, sinking her fingers through the strands to trace the curve of his skull. Petra had never felt so…intoxicated in her life.

  When he pulled back, Petra bit out a low sound of disappointment. He pressed a small kiss to the corner of her mouth before dropping his arms and releasing her. Lust, irritation and resignation were all stamped across his handsome features. His passion was swiftly replaced by his usual annoyance—Morwick’s way of dismissing her.

  Petra didn’t consider herself to be particularly intuitive or experienced, but even she surmised this was his way of shutting her out.