Long torso, strong thighs, and a body more than ready for her. She took him in her hand, reveled in the soft skin and hard strength.
“It is to my benefit you were only half-clothed,” she murmured.
“And mine.” Wulf’s hands circled her waist, cupped her bottom and drew her close.
Bea abandoned her grip and pressed against him, the length of his arousal hard against her belly. She wanted him inside her, yet wanted this moment—this night—to last so much longer.
Wickedly, she grinned up into that lean, handsome face. “I have decided, Highrow. Making love is exactly what I will be doing tonight.”
Approval roared through him.
He had wanted more of her than just a few kisses, a few touches. Had struggled against the fierce demand for more. He would have only gone as far as she would have allowed, but he was ridiculously satisfied by her choice.
He may not have survived otherwise.
Fueled by the haze of lust rushing through his blood, Wulf slanted his mouth over hers, continued to press that warm, feminine body against his. But it wasn’t enough to drown in the scent of her, the taste of her mouth.
He had to touch.
Running his hands over rounded hips, over the soft waist, he aimed for the buttons on her waistcoat. Quickly unfastened the tiny fabric-covered discs. She shrugged out of it herself, in between feathering kisses over his jaw. The nibbling touches pulled a growl from him and he began to untuck her shirt before the coat had even dropped to the floor.
White cotton followed dark wool a moment later, and she quickly removed the simple shift beneath her shirt, then her breeches—until she was standing naked before him. Gold and pink in the firelight, gaze fixed on his and her full mouth lifting with wicked invitation.
The body hidden beneath the men’s clothing was alluringly feminine. Heavy breasts, soft thighs. Dangerously curved and rounded. This was no slender willow, but a magnificent, lush woman.
Woman.
She might be the embodiment of the word.
Gorgeously confidant, she prowled across the room to one of the trunks. He had the pleasure of watching her round bottom as she retrieved a pile of blankets. She quickly spread one, then another, on the floor before the hearth. The remainder she laid aside, neatly piled for future use.
Neither of them was cold now.
“Come.” Passion swirled in the word, seemed to rise from her skin as she held out a hand for him.
Wulf accepted, wanting his hands on every inch of her body. She drew him down to the blanket, then ranged herself over it. Stretched her arms over her head and let him look his fill at a body he had not known he would crave so deeply.
He did. Crave her. Want her. Need her, as he needed his next breath. Everything he knew had tumbled away with the whirlwinds of snow, leaving only this passionate, powerfully sensual woman.
He could not quite regulate his breath, or control the lust pounding through him. He slid his hands over her body, listened to her purrs of approval. He took one breast in his mouth, tugged lightly at her nipple, and reveled in the tremble of her thighs even as she gripped his hair.
So responsive, so uninhibited. A man could lose himself in her passion.
He forgot everything beyond the circle of firelight, beyond the velvet of her skin, the heat that gripped him when he entered her. Her sigh of welcome shook his soul, her soft limbs drawing him in until he did not know where he was—except with her.
When his mind whirled like the storm outside and his blood burned like the fire indoors, he allowed himself to be lost in her.
Chapter 7
The wood blazed once more as Wulf added fuel and stirred the coals back to life. Bea snuggled into the blankets he’d covered her with and let her gaze roam over his naked body. He was almost too exquisite to look at. Hard, lean, muscled. He had been a solder—a spy—and it showed still, even if he had been home for a few years. Certainly, he did not appear to be a duke.
But then, he was not supposed to be, until fate had played its hand.
“Do you miss your brother?” Bea wished she had not spoken the words as soon as they tumbled from her lips. The question was unpardonably rude, the answer entirely too private.
But he was staring at her over his shoulder, beautifully naked and carefully tending the fire. Everything about him had stilled, and she wondered if he had forgotten his important bits were not far from the flames.
“You know of my brother?” He set the poker aside and drew away from the hearth. Crawling over the pile of blankets and Bea herself, he settled himself beneath the covers and drew her close, leaving her near the warmth and his back to the cold room.
She resisted for a moment, but it was too pleasant to ease against his frame. To accept the heat of his body, the way his chest fit against her back. Watching the flames, aware of Wulf just behind her and doing the same, she said carefully, “I know you are not the firstborn.”
Crackling flames filled the silence.
“I am sorry, Highrow. I should not have asked.” Guilt rippled through her satiated body. “Please forget I did so.”
“No. It is a good question, and I do not shy away from the truth.” He dropped a kiss onto her bared shoulder, as if he had done such a thing a thousand times before. “I miss my brother very much, though not due to anything related to the dukedom. I simply miss my brother.”
Everything in her sighed with sympathy. Poor Wulf.
“You were close.”
“Very, but I rarely took the opportunity to return home once I became a spy. I had found a purpose in serving my country and pursued it relentlessly.” The arm around her waist tightened, drawing her closer still to his hard, heated body. “He was gone just a few years later. I received word it was a fever of some kind.”
“And so, you became the duke.” Bea stared into the flames, trying to imagine such a moment. She loved her brother, though she did not always like him. Still, if he were gone, she would be mired in grief.
“And so, I became the duke.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Instead, a deep sorrow coated his words. “My brother loved the land, the family. The title was at risk, and the history that went with it. I came home—to honor him. The family.”
“You gave up espionage,” she murmured.
“Family is more important.” The hand circling around her waist drifted up to cup her breast. Easily, once again as if he had done so a thousand times before. But it was both the first time and the last, so Bea let herself enjoy the sensation of his callused hands on her skin. “Now Napoleon’s missives have been exchanged for the grain yield.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“I miss my brother more.” His fingers toyed with her nipple, each touch sending sparks through her. “Nor does it matter any longer. That life is gone. Forgotten.”
“Nothing is ever forgotten. It is only behind you.” Shifting within the circle of his arms, Bea turned to face him. Stared hard into those deep blue eyes. “Sometimes, you need to look behind you to determine where you are going.”
“A philosophical highwayman.” In the shadowed half-light, his face might have been carved from stone. Rough and strong, and blessed by the pagan gods.
“I am a highwayman of many parts.” She pressed her lips to his. Softly, because she felt the hurt that still reverberated through his body. “You did what was right, coming home. You will continue to do what is right as the Duke of Highrow. Your brother would be proud.”
“I hope so.” He nibbled at the corner of her mouth, sending little shivers right down to her toes. “The wind has died down.”
She had forgotten the snowstorm and the world beyond the warm cottage. It seemed as if, for a brief time, nothing existed outside the circle of golden firelight. Only the two of them, warm and naked and cocooned in blankets.
But morning would come, and with it a return to Lady Beatrice Falk, a spinster in her twenty-seventh year, and the commanding Duke of Highrow.
There
would not be another man like him in her life.
No lover before, no lover after, could compare to Wulf.
“Dawn is only a few hours away,” she whispered, cupping his cheek so the rough stubble brushed against the palm of her hand. “Will you make love to me again? Once more before the night is over?”
He did not answer her. Instead, he dipped his mouth to hers. Hot and firm and skilled, he seized the control she’d had only a while earlier. Heat swirled in her belly, clogged her lungs, as she ran her hands over his chest.
Mouth never leaving hers, Wulf continued to play with her tongue—teasing, tasting—as one hand drifted below to caress her hip, her bottom.
But his gaze had shuttered. He was different now, as though he’d reined himself in. From her body, from their conversations. She understood that. Knew he had lost himself the first time—and knew as if it had been she just how terrifying that was. Control was as necessary as breathing or eating.
Could she give it to him? She did not know if she wanted to.
When he trailed his mouth between her breasts, she sighed. Let the licks and nips and kisses stir her desire. Sliding her hands upwards, she gripped the edge of the blanket and bared herself to him. He settled between her thighs, created magic with his fingers and mouth.
She wanted to stop him, to make him bend to her will instead of being lost in the need pulsing between them. In his caresses. In the pounding of her heart and the singing of her skin. Instead, Bea let his mouth and hands draw her up, bring her to pleasure, and lay her down again.
She opened her arms as she had before, wanting to bring him close to her again. Wulf shifted above her, arms braced on either side. His eyes, so deeply blue they held her captive, stared into hers.
“Who are you?” he whispered. “I want more of you. I don’t want tomorrow to be the end.”
“No one.” A part of her soul broke away, the pain of it slicing through her. There was nothing for them, whatever she might want. “There is only tonight, Wulf. That is all.”
His body was poised just at the entrance of hers. Hot, heavy. He held himself still, waiting. Thinking. Oh yes, he was thinking. And wanting.
“It is not enough.” He pressed his lips to hers and thrust into her, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifting beneath his skin.
“Only tonight,” she repeated. Clamping her legs around his waist, she swung them around until she straddled him. Took him into her and rode him. “There is only tonight. We will make every moment count.”
Chapter 8
The thick blankets still enveloped him, but Wulf was alone in that warm soft wool. Morning light crept through the cottage windows, infusing the room with a white glow. The fire had died to embers, and the air had cooled enough he could see his breath.
Through the curling vapor, he saw her clothing was missing. The boots she’d set by the fire had disappeared.
The highwayman was gone. Without a goodbye, without a word.
Damnation! At the very least, she could have woken him. Instead, she’d stolen away in the dark.
Wulf shucked off the coverlet and rose into the chilled air to dress. Cursing again as the cold fabric touched his skin, he pulled on his breeches, then what was left of his tattered shirt. They had agreed to nothing, but the woman could have afforded him common courtesy at least and said goodbye.
Intent on leaving the cottage prepared for some other stranded traveler—or highwayman—he folded the blankets and replaced them in the trunk. She had already stacked the kettle on the shelf with its mates, so there was little to tidy. He spread the embers in the hearth and strode toward the door.
Setting his hand on the latch, he turned for one final look at the room. The simple table and chairs. The wide hearth. He would always remember her lying naked on the blankets, beautifully curved, her nipples a dusky pink.
That vision would be forever seared into his mind.
Part of him understood they should mean nothing to each other beyond shared passion. She was clearly a woman who went her own way. A highwayman, while he was a duke. They would not meet again, and that was for the best.
Bugger that. He wanted more than one night. Wanted more from her.
He opened the door to the cottage, the chill of the morning bolstering his sudden fury instead of cooling it. He would find her—find her, explain that one night was not enough, and make love to her again. Then once more.
Because she had made him think, made him feel. Made him want more deeply than he’d ever wanted.
She was his highwayman. For good or ill, and for how long, he did not know—but at least for a little while, they would belong to each other.
Assuming he could find her.
Pulling the door shut with a snap, he studied the clearing in front of the cottage. White blanketed everything, bringing with it a still winter silence. Small boot prints disturbed the smooth surface of the snow, pointing toward the shed. A little farther beyond, horse tracks arrowed toward the north. Toward the forest path, as far as he knew.
He followed the tracks, each step in the ankle-deep snow increasing his discontent as the outside world crept back in. His stallion had disappeared, his shoulder was aching again, and his cursed highwayman had left him stranded. He did not know precisely how far he was from his own estate, nor where the nearest tenant or villager’s cottage might be.
Looking down at the horse tracks, he continued to follow them.
At least he knew where she was, and when he found her, he would wring the neck of that discourteous, beautiful, irritating, clever, sensual—
A wagon appeared on the path, bringing with it creaking wood and the muffled sound of hooves. A sway-backed mule led the weather-worn wood vehicle, its driver wizened and hunched against the cold—all three of them might be a century old.
“Yer Grace!” The driver reined in the mule, raised a hand, and wheezed, “I’m ‘ere to get yer!”
“Is that so?” Wulf eyed the piles of fresh hay in the wagon bed, then the wrinkled face, red with cold. Surely the man was one foot in the grave and did not deserve to be out on a morning like this.
“The ‘onest ‘ighwayman sent me, Yer Grace. I’m to take yer home on me way to find work.”
“I see. Thank you, then, sir.” At least the blasted woman hadn’t abandoned him entirely, though her gesture did not even his temper. “I would prefer to return to Falk Manor. Would you be so kind as to see me there?”
“’Spose.” A frowned creased the old man’s face. “I was going t’other way to pick up some work, but the ‘ighwayman said as ‘ow I ought to git you, and the jobs aren’t plentiful anyhow. So, work can wait.” He jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. “I’ve put out fresh hay.”
“That is kind of you.” Favoring his aching shoulder, Wulf pulled himself into the wagon and braced for the jolting ride. Even as he did so, he noted patches on the jacket draped over the hunched, frail shoulders in driver’s seat. Surely the threadbare garment would not be warm enough for this bitter cold.
Yet the man was looking for work, despite shoulders bent with age.
Wulf thought of the Honest Highwayman’s words the night before, of the poor and the old and infirm she provided for. Was this man one of Wulf’s own tenants? He did not know, and could not say he would have paid attention before. He would not have looked. Really looked.
That shamed him, though he doubted he would ever fail to notice those around him again.
“My good sir,” he said, turning in the wagon and leaning against the planked wall. “Might I ask how long you have been acquainted with the Honest Highwayman?”
“Fer some time.” The driver clucked to the mule and did not turn around. “I came to git yer, because I was asked. I won’t say no more, for the ‘ighwayman ‘as done well by me.”
Wulf had thought as much. The ancient man was one of the recipients of her thievery, and from the look of his frail frame, he could use it. “You are looking for work, you said?”
; “Aye.” The word carried a cautious tone. “Cutting ice, dragging it to the ice houses. The big families will want it come summer.”
“Hm. Well, I’ve a need for another man in my stables, if he’s good with animals and vehicles. Light repair to wheels and such, a bit of polish to the carriage lamps, currying the horses.” He rubbed at his chin, as if he wasn’t thinking about that frail body hauling huge blocks of ice through the winter cold. “If you’ve the interest.”
“Could be.” The man clucked to the mule again, the sound inattentive rather than meaningful. “In the stables, you say?”
“Yes.” He waited as the man glanced over his shoulder, consideration moving over weathered features. “Just present yourself at the rear door of Highrow Place if you’ve a mind.”
The sound the aged driver made as they passed beneath the gate to Falk Manor was part grunt, part assent. Wulf accepted that as noncommittal, but noted he needed to speak with the head groom about finding a place for another set of hands should the offer be accepted.
The wagon trundled to a stop in front of Falk Manor’s double doors, and the butler quickly opened them. Eyes wide, he examined the rough vehicle and the less-than-respectable appearance of both its occupants.
“Your Grace!” The butler called out as Wulf jumped from the wagon to stride up the front steps. “Has there been an accident? Are you injured?”
“I was delayed by a highwayman last evening and my horse bolted.” He knew he sounded irritated and gruff, and smoothed his tone. “If I might seek assistance?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The butler glanced behind him as the lord of Falk Manor staggered across the parquet floor of the entryway, muttering something unintelligible “His lordship,” the butler murmured, “would be willing to offer whatever assistance you require.”
“Thank you.” Wulf eyed his host of the evening before.
The man still reeled from the effects of brandy and smelled like a perfumery. He appeared to have been sleeping, as his gaze was heavy-lidded and vague, and there were crease lines across his cheek.
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