He moved them into the opening steps and she laughingly resisted. ‘What are you doing, Conall?’
‘Give over and dance with me, Sofia, like you did at Ferris’s ball,’ he whispered playfully and her resistance failed. He felt her body soften and comply, felt the current of the river lap at their feet. He gave her a hard turn and she laughed out loud. ‘We are cutting quite a swathe through the ballroom, my dear,’ he teased. He turned her again, bringing her up against him hard. Their pace slowed then to a quiet swaying, each of them aware of the other, their eyes lingering and sliding away, only to return.
‘What are you thinking?’ she whispered.
‘That this might be the most perfect waltz ever.’ He drank her in with his eyes: her blanket-clad form, the damp curls falling around her shoulders, the tentative enjoyment that sparked in her blue eyes as she struggled to trust him, to surrender to the moment. The sight of that battle woke the primal in him, an urge to protect her, this woman who was so used to protecting herself. Today, she was his. Today, he would ensure no evil could touch her.
Chapter Twelve
Conall took her mouth in an invitation to more, feeling the hesitation in her. It was not the hesitation of fear, it never had been with her, but the hesitation of caution and pragmatism. Would she let him continue? Kissing had always started with her and been an end in itself. Not this time. Kisses wouldn’t, shouldn’t, be enough. Accept, accept. The words beat in time to the rhythm of his rising pulse. Accept the invitation, accept me. Let me show you the difference between what could be and what you know.
His hand cupped the curve of her jaw, his kiss deepening, asking once more for her response and she gave it. He felt her open to him, felt her body relax against his, the tentative tension she carried with her leaving it. She whispered her assent against the rough stubble of his cheek. ‘Conall, will you be my lover? Here? Now?’
Conall whispered back, ‘Yes’, with no illusions as to the courage it had taken for her to utter those words, or what her request meant and how it would define them. He would be her exorcism and she would be his adventure. He would come to her this once, give of himself this once, dance on the edge of his fears. He would peer into the abyss of what might have been if he’d still believed he could trust another with his heart, his soul, and then he would withdraw. There would be no promises, no expectations beyond the river bank, and when they were through she would leave the next day or the day after that. There would be no revisitation, only now.
He took her hand and led her to their blankets spread beside the campfire. ‘Shall I take your robe?’ He played the gallant knight, but she refused to relinquish her blanket. Ah, Conall thought. Even within the boldness of her request, there were to be limits. Her courage had reached its boundaries. It was good to know from the start.
‘But you should make yourself comfortable.’ A spark flared in her blue eyes, the hint of a coy smile dancing on her lips.
‘Are you inviting me to strip, my lady?’ Conall teased. And why not? His shirt was already off and he’d been rid of his boots long since.
‘I imagine wet trousers are not terribly comfortable,’ came her rejoinder.
Nor necessary for what she’d asked of him, Conall wanted to remark, but thought better of it as he worked the fastenings. She might have reached the boundaries of her courage, but not the supply of it. There was plenty left. Good. He didn’t want their lovemaking to be a hurried, embarrassed affair hidden entirely beneath blankets. Half the enjoyment was being skin to skin, an enjoyment he felt was heightened out of doors. They would have some of that today, but he would not push her for more.
Conall pushed his wet trousers down past his hips, an act that lacked his usual finesse. But he was determined to come to her naked and honest, unashamed.
* * *
Adam before the fall. Those were the words that ran through her head as she stared. He would have been glorious in a bedroom but here, outside in the nature he navigated so well, he was extraordinary—not just the obvious proud, jutting length that so easily drew the eye as it claimed the centre of him, but the setting for that manly jewel: the lean curves of muscle in his arms, his thighs, the sculpting of his torso would have been the envy of the early anatomists who sought to define the body and its parts. Those parts were all on fascinating display here, whole, healthy and well-defined. Giancarlo had excellent tailors, she’d learned. He had not looked like this after his clothes came off. Perhaps it was poorly done of her to think of the past at a moment like this, but how could she not? The whole point of this interlude was to defeat the past and to do that she had to acknowledge it.
Conall came to her, kneeling beside her on the blankets and something warm started in her belly, reminding her the whole point wasn’t only about defeating the past. There was far more to this than that. If not, she might have taken a lover before this. But that lover would not have engendered the depth of liking she felt for Conall. Soon, she was going to have to acknowledge that what she felt for him went beyond physical attraction.
She reached for him, drawing him down to her, along her length so that they lay side by side. ‘I want to touch you.’ Her hand skimmed the surface of his torso, running over the expanse of muscle, the tight buds of his nipples. ‘You keep yourself in shape.’
‘The country is good for that. City living makes a man soft.’ He laughed softly and pushed back hair that had fallen in her face. His eyes stilled on her countenance and the demeanour of the interaction changed. ‘I can give you pleasure, Sofia. Will you allow it? Will you allow me to run kisses up your legs, to trail my tongue along your thighs, to put my mouth on your sweet core?’ She nearly wept with the realisation. He was giving her control of the game.
This was her seduction to design and, with a single word, she did. ‘Yes.’ It seemed she’d been reduced to such utterances since he’d carried her from the river. Rendering her speechless was another of his hidden talents, something she could file next to cooking over an open fire and protecting damsels in distress.
Conall’s body shifted to the soles of her feet, his hands running softly up her bare legs. Every gesture implied he understood the rules. He was to leave her torso, her breasts alone, and he asked no questions. His hands were warm on her river-chilled skin, his touch heated from the fire and the pan of wine.
He bent her leg, kissing the inside of her knee, and repeated the motion with the other, his mouth kissing its way along the tender insides of her thighs until he reached the warm, damp wetness of her. She sighed at the first stroke of his thumb, the gentle insistence of his hands, holding her steady as he found his target: a tiny nub hidden deep. He stroked it first with the pad of his thumb, his eyes holding hers, searching, perhaps? For permission, for proof of her enjoyment? She let him see both in her gaze and then there was only the dark top of his head against the white of her belly, her thighs, as his mouth took the place of his hand, his tongue where the pad of his thumb had been and the pleasure began all over again, only more intensely, deeply, until she arched her back, her neck, her face upwards to the sun above the trees. Her breath came in pants now, ragged and gasping, her mind no longer able to logically process the sensation. It was all just feelings now, animalistic and primal, and it wasn’t enough. That was the only lucid thought emerging from the tangle of sensations. It wasn’t enough to have his mouth, to have his hand. The experiment could not end here.
She gave an inarticulate cry, her hands in his hair, tugging at him, wanting him up, over her, in her fully. Somehow he understood. He levered himself over her, matching his length to her, his hips fitting between the cradle of her thighs, his phallus at her slick entrance like a key to a lock. ‘Now, Conall, now.’ Only desperate strength wrung such coherency from her. At some point, she had outrun the past, outrun the future, she was simply here in this moment where nothing else mattered.
Conall slid into her, filling her, stretching her and then re
versed until she clutched at him, legs wrapped about him, desperate to hold him to her. His lips bussed her forehead, his voice murmuring words meant to soothe, to reassure. He was not leaving. He thrust again and she was ready for him, body arching, hips finding the rhythm. She began to move with him, the motion new but instinctive. She was not a passive participant in this interaction, her body picking up the nuances of his: the tautness of his arms as he held himself above her, the clench of his buttocks as he thrust in, the ragged pace of his breathing which matched her own. She would soon reach the limits of her pleasure. An incoherent grunt, a further tensing of his body indicated his release approached as well.
Sofia gasped, rearing against him, her body hungry for release, too, yet reluctant to yield this known pleasure for the unknown. Once, twice more, and there was no choice but to yield, to give in to the unknown. It was not a release so much as it was a shattering. With a final gasp she broke, a wave against pleasure’s rocks, and he broke, too, with a groan.
He gave her a final kiss and rolled to his side, the intimate warmth of him leaving her even as he gathered her to him. She felt the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the sheen of a light sweat proof of his efforts. For her. All this glorious pleasure had been for her. The thought added to the contentment rolling over her in pleasure’s wake. When had she ever been so revered? So honoured? Not just with pleasure, but with seeing this man exposed, vulnerable in his exhaustion. His breathing began to settle. She reached up to kiss him. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, but Conall’s eyes were already closed.
Sofia sighed and looked up into the trees, the blue sky filtering through green leaves. She felt powerful, knowledgeable, like an ancient druid. Now she knew one of the great secrets of life; the pleasure that could exist between a man and a woman. But knowledge had a price. This could not happen again. Now, she had to fulfil the other end of the bargain she’d made with herself. She had eaten from the Tree of Life and now she had to leave Eden. She would give Conall his contracts and set him free before he could even realise the danger he was in.
Dark thoughts hemmed the bright cloth woven of her pleasure. If Giancarlo should ever find her, ever discover she’d taken a lover, he would be furious. While his infidelities were manly achievements, any infidelity on her part would not be looked at so amiably, never mind it had occurred under the legal protection of a divorce. She snuggled against Conall, willing the darkness away. She was borrowing trouble. Perhaps Giancarlo had given up? She might never know. She would only know that she was free one more day. Because of that, she always had to assume he hadn’t given up. It wasn’t the easiest way to live, but in the last six months since the first letters had arrived, it was the only way she could live without giving up, without surrendering to the past.
Conall stirred beside her, his brief nap complete, and she pushed away all thoughts of tomorrow—where she would go, how would she reinvent herself? There would be time for that later. Conall’s grey eyes opened, finding her immediately, and she traced a finger down his torso. For now it was enough to be with him, to collect memories for the lonely years of freedom ahead. She kissed him, long and slow, rolling astride him, hair falling forward as she whispered, ‘Conall, I want you.’
Chapter Thirteen
He knew what she wanted the moment he opened his eyes, well before she’d mounted him like Godiva on her steed, and against his better judgement he gave it. She wanted something to hold against an uncertain future, not unlike himself. There was safety in loneliness even if that safety came with emptiness. This was farewell. Already the day had slipped past them, the afternoon cooling into evening, shadows lengthening.
It came as no surprise. Leaving had been implicitly acknowledged between them from the start. She would come, make her decision and go. Only, when all this had begun, there had been no acknowledgement of each other as more than business partners. They’d merely been a means to an end. He should be thankful. He’d had her far longer than he might have.
She slid down his length, taking him inside with a replete sigh, and Conall groaned. Had anything ever felt better? Ever felt more right than lying beneath the skies with her—Sofia Northcott, a woman of no substantial pedigree or fortune, none of the things he should look for in a bride? And yet this was the woman he wanted; he wanted her intelligence, her joy, the energy that radiated from her whenever she was in a room, the way she looked at him, not only now in the throes of claiming her passion, but from across the dinner table, or a desk.
She didn’t see a title—she saw a man with ideas, a man with ingenuity, a man who loved his family. She saw him in a way the Olivia de Pughs of his world never would. Then again, the Olivia de Pughs couldn’t see him any other way, they hadn’t been raised to. But Sofia could. It had taken her own tragedies to strip away the lens English society had given her and replace it with a lens that allowed her to see and appreciate a man for who and what he truly was.
Sofia’s hips began to move and he gripped the soft rounds of her buttocks, guiding his own hips into the languorous rhythm she set. Sofia was in no hurry and neither was he. They both understood what lay at the end of this: impossibilities and partings because her tragedies—the very things that had made it possible for her to appreciate him, to appreciate life—had also put her beyond him. There was simply no way to go on from here except separately. It was for the best. He would not have to risk disappointing her or she him. They could keep their illusions.
Sofia leaned forward, her mouth taking the nub of his nipple, her teeth raking it with tantalising gentleness, and his body tightened, release finding him. She laughed, a sultry sound full of confidence and pleasure, He would hold that picture of her in his mind always: Sofia, her golden hair no longer forward, but streaming down her back in silky waves, her head thrown upwards to the sky, the ancient joy of joining with a man evident on her face as climax took them both. Conall knew without doubt that whatever else happened today or tomorrow, she had found a piece of herself even as he had lost a piece of him.
Conall held her as long as he could, as if by holding her, he could hold the sun in the sky for another minute and then another minute after that. As long as it was daylight, he could hold on to the fantasy that he could be loved for himself by a woman who truly knew him.
No, she doesn’t. You’ve hidden things from her—important things. The whispers began at dusk. The fantasy began to weaken. You’ve lied to her. She doesn’t know how desperately you needed that investment. Perhaps she thinks you have money, perhaps she still sees the title and the fortune that’s supposed to go with it. Test her, tell her that everything at Everard Hall is a sham concocted for her enjoyment and then see what she thinks.
But he didn’t tell her. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he didn’t have that kind of courage, not when it would cost him these moments of paradise and for what? She would leave anyway. Why ruin it when these moments clearly meant so much to her?
Because she’s been honest with you, came the reply. She’s told you about her husband, about her marriage. Those disclosures were not easy for her. You have repaid her confidence in you with lies.
But in the end, telling her could change nothing. So as the shadows lengthened, and the last sands drained from the hourglass of his fantasy, Conall said simply, ‘Come, I’ll take you home.’
They drove in silence—perhaps she was as busy with her thoughts as he was with his. Everard Hall, aglow with evening light, came into view. For the first time he could remember, the sight of his home caused a knot to form in his stomach instead of a rush of joy. Conall stopped the gig on the little rise and stared into the spring twilight. What if the contracts were waiting for him? A few weeks ago the thought would have filled him with elation, would have sent him speeding home. But that was before...her.
Sofia reached for his hand. ‘You’re thinking about the contracts.’
He nodded. He was thinking about the contracts, about her, ab
out how everything was tied up together in a knot so tight he couldn’t separate out the strands. The alpacas, the lies, the contracts, her—they were all inextricably linked in one unseverable Gordian knot. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
It doesn’t matter, his conscience reminded him—if those contracts are not there, they will come and soon. You knew you were on borrowed time. Conall blew out a breath. This was the real danger of fantasies. They always ended and when they did, they betrayed those who participated in them because they weren’t truth. Hadn’t his father’s death proven that? Up until last year, his entire life had been one long fantasy of wealth and comfort. He’d promised himself he’d never fall for such an illusion again. And here he was, already falling for a fantasy of his own making.
‘Where will you go? Will you go back to London?’ Conall set the gig in motion.
‘I might travel a bit,’ Sofia answered obliquely. ‘Summer is lovely for travel and business is slow until October.’
‘And then London?’ Did he sound as desperate to her as he did to himself? Pressing her for a location, somewhere permanent where he might find her again? It would not be enough to have the occasional business letter as she checked in on the mill. ‘I’ll be up to London for the Michaelmas session of Parliament. I have to take my father’s seat now that I can’t claim mourning as an excuse.’ He chuckled, but it was forced. It was an excuse. Any excuse to see her again and she saw right through it.
‘Do you think it’s wise? To see me again?’ Even as she said it, she tucked her arm through his as if she, too, were reluctant to let the intimacy of the day go despite her realism. ‘You will be a lord in Parliament, a pillar of society.’ She paused. ‘You needn’t worry, Conall. I won’t seek you out. I won’t embarrass you with our association. I wouldn’t dream of hurting Cecilia’s chances. You’ve all been so kind to me during my stay. Kindness has been a rare thing in my world.’
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story Page 12