by Diana Quincy
She moved with him, crying out softly. He used his fingers to coax her to completion. Within him, the pressure built, contractions rocked his groin. He wasn’t going to last. When he felt her stiffen, he let himself go, shouting some incoherent utterance of satisfaction as he released into her. Shooting his seed into this woman filled Hunt with a level of relief and pleasure that he hadn’t thought possible.
He took a few moments to catch his breath before leaning over to press a kiss against her soft belly, relishing the salty sweet scent of skin and femininity. Her hands caressed his head to pull her to him. As he settled between her breasts, an unexpected rush of tenderness engulfed him.
Hunt rarely allowed himself to be driven by physical impulses. He knew the damage such thoughtlessness could do. His late brother had followed his destructive urges enough for the both of them. But this evening, Hunt lost himself in this alluring woman who’d suddenly appeared in his life like some heavenly gift. As if destiny had brought them together for this one night.
Her skin was satin against his cheek. Unable to distinguish the erratic pounding of her heart from his own, Hunt reconsidered his need for order and distaste of surprises. He feathered his fingers over the tip of her beautiful breast and watched it peak for him.
Embracing the unexpected certainly had its merits.
Struggling to catch her breath, Leela stared up at the wooden nubby ceiling and absorbed what she’d just experienced.
She investigated the heat of his body against hers—the gratifying pulsations between her legs, the noisy rush of blood in her veins, the pounding in her ears. Townsend’s rumpled hair felt surprisingly soft against her fingers. She delighted in the sweet press of his weight against her body, not minding in the least the hard surface beneath her head and back and hips. His moist tongue flicked back and forth against her nipple, toying with it. She could feel the impact of his ministrations between her legs.
She’d traveled from Gaza’s beaches on the Mediterranean Sea to Jericho in the Jordan Valley, where she’d slept on rocky hillsides under the stars with Bedouin families. But she’d never done anything as outlandish as coupling with a stranger atop a rickety table at a country inn. Leela couldn’t make sense of it. She’d never enjoyed herself quite so much.
“You are quiet.” She heard the concern in Townsend’s voice. “Are you . . . Was it satisfactory?”
It astounded her that he needed to ask. “I’m such a fool.” She laughed. “It never occurred to me.”
He shifted onto his side, regarding her attentively. “What do you mean?”
“It never occurred to me that a wife could, or even should, be an active participant in the marriage bed.”
He pressed his lips to her shoulder. “I would not have it any other way.”
“I must have been such a disappointment to Douglas.”
“Douglas?”
“My late husband.”
“I gather the marriage bed was . . . not satisfactory?”
She studied his beautiful face. “It was nothing like this.”
He chuckled, his large hand still toying with her breast. This time she could fully appreciate the sensation of the skin-to-skin contact. “And we still have the entire night.”
“There’s more?” She had no idea a man could be so randy. But then she remembered this man’s youth.
He moved over her and began kissing her again. “So much more.”
“That is good. Because I shall definitely require another session before making a credible assessment of your talents.”
He chuckled, a low, intimate sound. “You’ve no idea how happy I shall be to oblige you.” She felt the tension in his body relax as he eased himself up off of her. “But perhaps we should try the sofa this time.”
He took both of her hands to help her up. She felt shy sitting naked atop the table, open to his interested gaze. But before she could fully consider her disrobed state, he swept her up and carried her over to the sofa.
She couldn’t help covering her breasts. She had never shown herself to any man in such a blatant manner. Not even her husband, Douglas, had seen her so.
Townsend took note of her discomfort. “Are you cold?”
“Yes,” she lied.
He immediately went to the fire, where he’d hung his cloak to dry, and returned to cover her. “Better?”
“Much.” Snuggling into the wool garment, she inhaled the masculine scent that clung to its silk lining, embracing her like a tender lover. She braced for regret to swoop in. To her surprise, it did not. The truth was that she felt no remorse. With the rain hammering away at the windows on this dark night in the middle of nowhere, the inn’s cozy little chamber felt quite apart from the world. She’d be obliged to return to reality in the morning.
“May I join you?” Townsend’s eyes twinkled as he loomed over her. “Or is your dagger hidden somewhere under there?”
“You might have to search me to find out.”
“With pleasure.” He grinned, showcasing white, albeit slightly crowded, rows of teeth. “And I will have to be extraordinarily thorough in my exploration.”
“I should hope so.” Leela resolved to enjoy herself for this one evening. She was unlikely to be with another man in this way for a long time to come. Wedding again would only hamper her ambitious plans for her life. After answering first to her father and then her husband, Leela was finally free to do as she pleased. She could see no place for a man, and certainly not a husband, in her vision of the future.
Her first, anonymously published, travelogue about her time spent in Arab lands was a surprise success. All of London clamored for the next volume of Travels in Arabia, scheduled for release several weeks from now. Her publisher eagerly awaited delivery of Leela’s third volume, which she was currently writing. Afterward, she intended to continue traveling widely and documenting her adventures for publication.
She didn’t care that good society thought such behavior was scandalous for a woman, especially a daughter of the nobility. That’s why she needed to become financially independent, so that no one could stop her from pursuing her dream. During her marriage, she’d deferred her childhood ambitions, but she’d never forgotten them. And she would never abandon her aspirations. Certainly not for any man.
Townsend practically tore off his shirt and Leela instantly forgot all about her future goals. She couldn’t help staring. His chest was a thing of beauty, a landscape of defined ridges and hard curves. Her hungry gaze followed the dusting of hair that trailed down in a fine line over a hard stomach before disappearing inside the waist of his pantaloons.
She sighed with appreciation. The only other man she’d seen thus was her late husband. She felt guilty about the thoughts now swirling in her mind, but there was truly no comparison between the two men she’d known intimately.
It wasn’t that Douglas had been unhandsome. Indeed, in his youth, her late husband had been a much sought-after bachelor and an apparent rake. But the man she wed just after her seventeenth birthday had been well past his physical prime. In his late forties by then, age and debauchery had softened Douglas’s body and slackened his muscle tone.
Unlike Townsend. The man wasn’t a perfect specimen. He had the rugged look of a pugilist, and his slightly crooked nose suggested it had once been broken, but he also possessed beautiful eyes and a determined jaw. And his body. Well, Townsend was clearly an active man. Perhaps his employment was physical in nature. Maybe he really was a pugilist. That would certainly explain the splendid musculature of his arms and the defined architecture of his stomach.
A sharp rap at the door pierced Leela’s reverie.
“Your supper, sir,” the innkeeper’s muffled voice sounded through the closed door. Remembering that the lock did not work, Leela dived under Townsend’s cloak to shield herself. Peeking through a small opening, she watched Townsend bound over to the door just as the man pushed it open.
“I will take that.” He used his large frame to shield Leela fr
om the innkeeper’s view. “You may go.”
The innkeeper craned his neck for a look inside. “I will be happy to bring it in for you, sir.”
“No need.” Townsend liberated the food tray from the man.
The innkeeper absorbed Townsend’s state of undress, the bare chest and partially buttoned trousers. A salacious grin slid across his face. “Interrupting, am I?”
Townsend used his back to shove the door closed. “Get out,” he commanded in an icy, patronizing manner that made him sound more like a duke than a mere mister.
Leela sat up, hugging his cloak to her breasts, luxuriating in the intimate feel of the fabric against her bare skin. The garment was well-made, the fabric no doubt expensive. But it was also a bit threadbare. Maybe it had been handed down to Townsend from his employer. Or perhaps he’d picked it up in a secondhand shop on Holywell Street in London, where such establishments abounded.
Townsend set the tray on the table, the movement prompting the muscles in his arms and upper back to contract and slide under ivory skin. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished.” Her stomach made an insistent noise. Leela hadn’t eaten since morning. She slipped off the sofa, bringing his cloak along to cover herself. She adjusted her hair behind her; it was loose and she had no idea what had happened to the ribbon she’d used to contain it.
She scooped her dress up from the floor. The memory of Townsend tossing it away, the intensity and passion with which he’d made love to her, replayed in her mind. Desire clenched in her stomach. Turning slightly away from him, she struggled to pull her simple gown over her head without losing the coverage of his cloak.
Townsend returned to the door and fiddled with the latch. “There, that should hold. But just in case—” He dragged a chair from the table and wedged it under the iron mechanism. “We wouldn’t want any more interruptions this evening.”
From the corner of her eye, Leela tracked Townsend as he edged around the table, setting the food out, before crossing to the sofa and reaching for his shirt. Giving Leela his back and, consequently, her privacy, he slipped his white linen shirt over his head.
She felt a rush of gratitude for his consideration, and a pang of regret that he was no longer shirtless.
Chapter Four
Hunt sat across from Venus consuming boiled beef and cabbage served with beer.
Ravenous, he cut into his meat and tossed a generous piece into his mouth, chewing appreciatively. The mediocrity of the meal did nothing to curb his appetite.
Swallowing, he reached for his beer. “As it turns out, I’m famished, too.”
“You did work up quite the appetite,” she allowed with a mischievous smile. She bit enthusiastically into the meat. Her lovely bronze skin was flushed, and that spectacular hair cascaded about her shoulders in glorious untamed waves. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“I must keep my strength up for our next go at it.” Hunt was eager to bed her again. Next time he would pace himself, taking time to explore every part of that nimble body. She was tall for a woman, not at all fragile, and pleasingly curved in all of the places a man hopes to discover when he beds a woman. Her toned arms and legs suggested she regularly engaged in physical activity. “I would not want my performance to disappoint.”
Her dark eyes twinkled. “If the first encounter was any indication, you needn’t worry.”
Completely enchanted, he soaked in the sight of her. She glanced up from her meal and caught him watching her. Her bold brows shifted upward. “Yes?”
“I realize this is somewhat overdue, but do you suppose I could have the honor of knowing your name?”
She laughed, her eyes sparkling. Seeing the effect humor had on that lovely face made Hunt feel like he’d won a prize. “Forgive me. It is just that I cannot fathom that I have lain with a man who does not know my name.”
Hunt knew exactly how she felt. Everything about this encounter was out of the ordinary and most certainly out of sequence. He never bedded a woman without both partners having a clear understanding of expectations. And he’d definitely never swived a woman after knowing her less than an hour. He always sated his appetites in an orderly manner. But with this woman, everything felt different. He couldn’t think rationally in her presence.
“My name is Leela.”
“Leela.” He rolled the name over on his tongue, enjoying the sound of it. “I quite like your name.” He held out his tankard. “And I am Elliot, as you know.”
She clinked her beer against his. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Elliot.”
“I assure you that the pleasure is all mine.”
“It most definitely was not, but I shan’t argue the point.”
He’d never met such a forthright woman. He appreciated her candor.
“This is all so unexpected,” she continued with a shake of her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe they were here together. “You’ve no reason to believe me, but I do not make a habit of bedding strangers. I’ve been with no man other than my late husband.”
He believed her. He admired the smooth planes of her expressive face, the defined cut of her cheekbones. A woman with her handsome looks would have no trouble finding a suitable second husband. “Will you wed again?”
“No. I have other plans for my future.”
“Such as?”
“I intend to chart my own course, and that requires never being beholden to any man again. What of you? Are you married?” She flushed, alarm shadowing her face. “I didn’t even think to ask.”
“I am not wed,” he gently reassured her. “At least not yet.”
“But there is a bride on the horizon?”
He nodded. “However, we are not betrothed as of yet.” He saw no reason not to be truthful. Leela had made it clear that the last thing she sought was a husband. And she was the one to insist they limit their intimate encounter to this one evening.
“I intend to be faithful once I am wed.” He wanted her to know he wasn’t a rake who casually bedded women. Despite what had just occurred between them—and would hopefully occur repeatedly before the night was over.
“That is commendable.” She studied him. “I wonder what sort of woman would you take to wife?”
“She is a very agreeable girl. Quite shy but clever, I think.”
“You think?”
“We are not particularly well acquainted.” It amazed him how easily the conversation flowed between him and a woman he’d met barely an hour ago. He’d never spoken so candidly to any woman. “I have not spent a great deal of time with the young lady, but I am confident she’ll make a suitable wife and mother.”
“Your passion for your future bride is not exactly overwhelming.”
“It’s not as though it’s a love match. I respect her, which is far more important. She seems nice enough. And I don’t expect we’ll be in each other’s pockets. Besides, I am not a man given to passion.”
“The last thirty minutes would suggest otherwise.”
He grinned. “It would, wouldn’t it?” He’d never acted so impulsively. Yet he was having the time of his life. “It’s quite unusual, I assure you. I am not normally ruled by carnal impulses.”
“Should I be flattered that you got carried away this one time?”
“You do drive me mad with lust,” he said happily.
“Do you not want a little passion with your wife? Especially considering that you intend to remain faithful to her.”
He grimaced and thought of his brother, a man whose entire short life had been driven by impulse. History suggested Phillip’s unrestrained nature wasn’t entirely his fault. The Townsends were a hotheaded brood. It was in their blood. Fortunately, the defective gene skipped a generation. For almost a century, the decorous generations had saved the dukedom from the destructive urges of the dukes who preceded them.
Phillip’s temperament had followed the family tradition. Hunt was determined that his would not. He would never be a wastrel like his brother.
> He set his tankard down. “Passion makes people do foolish things. I prefer a more considered approach. This decision will impact the rest of our lives.” He sat back, crossing his large arms over his chest. “Enough about me. I am far more interested to learn more about you.”
“What would you like to know?”
Everything. “Where did you get that knife?”
“It was a gift. It once belonged to my great-grandmother and to her mother before that.”
“An heirloom then.”
She nodded. “My great-great grandmother’s father gave it to her as a wedding gift. He taught her how to use it so she could always protect herself.”
“Her poor groom must have felt enormous pressure to perform admirably on his wedding night.”
“He seems to have survived the evening intact.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Have you had occasion to use the blade? Before this evening I mean.”
She shrugged. “No matter where a woman goes, she will always encounter a man who thinks he has the right to touch her. Whenever that occurs, I disavow them of that notion.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” His pelvis twitched. Instead of scaring Hunt off, the vision of Leela brandishing her strange knife, and knowing how to use it, aroused him. “Who taught you how to use the blade?”
“My cousin Jamal. But Hashem, my dragoman, has helped me hone my skills.”
“Dragoman?” A dragoman was a guide and interpreter. Hunt recalled the stooped older servant who’d brought Leela’s valise into the taproom. “Have you been traveling?”
“Yes. Extensively.”
“And it is just the two of you? Do you always travel without a maid?”
“Hashem’s daughter usually goes with us. But Hasna does not travel well here in England. She develops coach sickness.” Leela sipped her beer. “We left her at my brother’s house in Town.”