by Deb Marlowe
Cautiously, she reached out, questioning him with her eyes, but he groaned in approval. “Yes. Do it. Touch me.”
She did and reveled in the soul deep moan he let out when she wrapped her fingers around him. She made a noise of her own—one of appreciation at the velvet weight of him. Shockingly, he grew larger and harder. His hips thrust forward, silently asking for more. So she moved her hand, as he had done for her, exploring the length of him, wondering how he could be both soft and firm.
He laid her back again and edged her legs apart. Their caresses continued, slow now, then quick, faint as a feather and then more aggressive as they learned how to please each other.
“Now,” he said, suddenly. Loudly. “Francis.”
He braced himself above her. Her mind raced. At last.
But suddenly a look of horror crossed his face.
“Rhys?”
“Damnation. I nearly forgot.”
It dawned on her then, too.
“The French Letter!” they said in unison.
He was gone and rummaging through a drawer, but back in moments.
“God in heaven.” He fumbled and struggled with it.
“Let me help.” She tied the small ribbons and then lay back, meeting his gaze directly.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Let us be clear and honest with each other.” He sucked in a breath. “I ache for you, Francis, perhaps more than I ever have before. But you must say it. Tell me that you want me.”
“I do. I want you. All of you.”
He was there, then, over her, breaching her folds, poised at her entrance. She held her breath as he pushed in. He moved slowly, a look of utter concentration on his face.
For a moment, she froze. He was so large and it all felt so . . . tight and full.
“All right?”
She concentrated. Her body was adjusting and it felt . . . “Saints!” she said weakly. “Yes. Yes, all right.”
More than all right. She was awash in . . . discovery. And amazement. And the strongest feeling of want that she’d ever experienced. And that was saying something.
He looked concerned. “What is it?”
“More,” she said. Insisted.
Brightening, he accommodated her, the color rising in his chest and up across his cheekbones. But she had no more than a moment to notice, because she was busy marveling at what was happening. Heat grew within her as he worked himself in deeper—until finally he was fully seated—and she was . . . delighted.
Look at what they’d done.
Feel it.
They were joined.
“Rhys,” she whispered. His name escaped on a surge of wonder and dizzy excitement. She didn’t think anything could be more perfect.
And then he moved, proving her oh-so-wrong.
Her pulse was pounding, her sex fluttering in time with his movements. He gripped her hips in excitement, settling even deeper, and she was lost. Utterly in his thrall.
He leaned down to kiss her once more. “My God. You are perfection.”
And the world narrowed to just the two of them. Only this mattered, the curling tension between them. Only this existed.
He reached a hand between them, found the slick, wet nub at the center of her.
It was the last, perfect note. Almost more than she could process. It released . . . something and a storm broke over her, spiraling outward from that spot. She arched into it, every muscle coiled.
Rhys cried out as well, his head thrown back, and they rode the edge, glorying in the tempest.
Together.
Chapter Seventeen
Each portrait contained the elegant shape of a curved half moon. A charm on a bracelet, a pendant hanging from a necklace, a carved hair ornament.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Boneless, Francis lay sprawled, her head tucked onto Rhys’s chest, one leg thrown over his. The comforting sound of his heartbeat added to her sense of peace.
She could have stayed in that position for hours, wallowing in the languid aftermath of pleasure—except Rhys was mumbling. It echoed strangely in the ear pressed against him—and most definitely disturbed the calm she was trying to hold on to.
The rumbling grew louder. She tried to ignore it.
“Berry,” he suddenly said. “Scary. Hairy.”
“Shhhh...” She nudged him. “I’m trying to file away every delicious moment.”
“I cannot,” he declared. “You have inspired me to new heights. What I would like to do would be to paint you—frozen forever in the throes of passion. But never could I part with such a piece—or even display it—so I am composing an ode in your honor, instead.”
“No need,” she said wryly. “Let’s immortalize the moment in silence.”
“Impossible! I am caught up!” He looked down and grinned at her. “I need something to rhyme with ‘velvet-tipped breast, sweet as a cherry.’”
She winced.
“No? Perhaps I’ll turn it around and end that couplet with breast. Now, what next, then? Fest? Lest? Ah, yes! Crest!”
Groaning, she tried to roll away, but he laughed and gathered her close. “No, you are right. The moment deserves solemnity. Never has there been such a coupling.”
She brightened. He had so much more experience. Had this one, with her, ranked so high?
“And never will there be again, no matter with whom you share it,” he finished.
And her high spirits dropped, just like that. It felt like a blow, how easily he spoke of her doing this with someone else. She rolled over onto her side, away from him.
He followed, pressing against her back and reaching around to cup her breast. “There is only ever one first time,” he said, tucking in close. “I’m proud to have been part of yours—and pleased you won’t ever have to associate it with the smell of cows.”
She laughed despite herself, and felt a little better, knowing she’d misinterpreted him. But it was perhaps a good reminder after all. She may have crossed that line, but she still needed to protect herself. Especially because a part of her wished for Rhys Caradec to be her last coupling, as well as her first, with a great, goodly number thrown in between.
He bent to kiss her nape and at the same time thrust his hips into her bottom, where she felt the ridge of his manhood rising again. “Shall we take care of your second time, while we are at it?”
“So soon?” She looked over her shoulder and couldn’t help but smile at his suggestive grin. “I’ve always heard that a gentleman needs time to recover.”
He pulled her over onto her back and smiled down at her. His hair hung loose, framing that chiseled face and suddenly she marveled at her good fortune. “I’m no gentleman,” he murmured. “And it’s a good thing, too, eh?”
“Good enough for me,” she whispered, reaching up and tracing a finger along his cheekbone. Then she tucked her hand behind his head and pulled him to her.
The kiss was long, languorous and sweet. Another surprise—how easily repletion could turn back to lust.
He touched her again, everywhere, and this time she made sure to do the same and explored him as thoroughly, running curious fingers up and down the fascinating length of him, finding the tender spots, making him gasp and shiver.
What delicious power.
And then he was tossing her back, pulling her legs up and around his waist. She met him eagerly and soon they were both breathless and pulsing with the pleasure of release.
Afterwards, she lay unmoving, tired and happy and in his arms. He fell almost instantly asleep. With a sigh of mingled wistfulness and contentment, she followed him.
Despite their late night, Rhys awoke early the next morning. Because of it, he awoke in a heartily cheerful mood.
Francis slept on. She had every reason to be tired, the poor mite. Feeling utterly self-satisfied, he crept carefully from the bed and covered her well. Dressing quietly, he headed downstairs.
His good mood lasted through breakfast and carried h
im out the front door of the inn afterward. In the courtyard, he stretched and smiled and walked out to stare at the city beyond the galleried walls. He was nearly finished with Francis’s portrait. What would Edinburgh offer to inspire him next?
Not the castle. Andor had taken care of that subject magnificently. Rhys had the urge to paint something smaller, more intimate. Something that spoke to the proud spirit of the people who lived here. One of the parks, perhaps. Or a pretty little kirk.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He dropped his arms and turned to face a lad who stepped away from a corner of the inn.
“You are Mr. Caradec?”
“I am.” He waited—and watched. This was not one of the boys he’d seen with Francis that first day. How long ago it seemed, although it had not even been yet a fortnight.
“My name is Jasper. I work for Mrs. Spencer.”
Rhys cast back in his head, trying to remember . . .
“She has a store just off High Street. Ribbons and notions and things.”
“Oh, yes.” He was here for Francis. Damn.
“She has a young guest. He did not return home last night. We know he’s been working for you, running errands and such . . .”
“Oh, yes.” Rhys nodded, silently acknowledging that slight emphasis. “The poor youngster was so tuckered out last night he fell asleep sitting up, waiting for me to finish work.” He lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes I get caught up in a painting and work into the night. I made a makeshift pallet for the boy and he’s up there, sleeping still.”
“Oh. Fine, then.” By the look on his face, it was anything but fine. “Just send him home when he wakes, then?”
“Actually, I’m right in the middle of a portrait. I could use his help today. But I’ll make sure he returns home this evening.”
After a hesitant nod, the lad turned and left.
Awkward, that. His mood deflated, Rhys turned back into the inn. He’d never before entered into a liaison with someone not as free and unfettered as he was, that was all. Francis was his first innocent. Some things were bound to be different.
He stopped off in the kitchen for a tray, and then climbed the stairs, lost in thought.
Francis was just awake when he entered, still in bed and entirely delectable.
“Is that breakfast?” She asked it with such happy eagerness that he threw aside his intention of crawling in with her and keeping her there a bit longer.
“It is, indeed. Come and eat, lay-a-bed. We have work to do today.” He set the tray down and beckoned. “I’m nearly finished with your portrait.”
She bounced out of bed and grabbed a roll while he poured coffee. “When can I see it?”
“When it is finished,” he answered firmly. “Now eat up and let’s get to it.”
A short while later, he had her back in one of his shirts, and perched on a stool in the sun. “No, don’t straighten your hair. I like it mussed.”
She made a face, but dropped her hands. “What will you paint next? A landscape, perhaps? It would be nice to get out of the studio.”
He’d just asked himself the same question, but hearing her ask it gave him pause. He’d been in Edinburgh over a month. Long enough, in the normal course of things, for the first restless stirrings to begin. Granted, he’d been uncommonly busy—two paintings nearly completed in such a short time. In another city he might have started another, but he’d also likely have begun thinking about moving on, choosing his next destination, started to make plans.
Yet he hadn’t had so much as a thought of leaving. Granted, the city had beauty and interest to keep him occupied for much longer than this. But perhaps it was mostly because his thoughts had been so busy with Francis lately—and that gave him pause too.
“I’d thought one of the smaller kirks. Something with a cemetery. Or perhaps something to do with Calton Hill . . .” His words trailed away and he tried to focus on his work. “Stretch your neck, just a bit?”
But his mood continued to fluctuate. Hoping to focus his thoughts and quiet his anxieties, he began to talk, to tell Francis of his ambition to visit Florence.
“How long have you thought of going there?” she asked. She’d grown quiet and thoughtful.
“Since I first learned to wield a brush at my grandfather’s knee. He was an artist, you know. My first teacher. He told me of the bridges, the buildings and their great history of patronage of the arts. As I grew, I learned the work of the masters and I knew I had to walk where they once did, see the sights that inspired Botticelli and Verrocchio, Raphael and Michelangelo and all the rest.”
She nodded. “Of course, you must go.”
“I will.” He painted quietly a while longer, but then tossed down his brush and stretched out his shoulders. Shaking his arms, he flexed his fingers before taking up his brush again. “Come, Francis. I need a distraction this morning. Talk to me while I work. Tell me something . . .” He glanced at the image on the canvas. “Tell me about something that you love, something that makes you happy.”
She stiffened. “No.”
“No?” His brush paused.
Frowning, she shook her head. “I said it. I meant it. No. Everything between us is upside down. The balance is shifted in your favor—and believe me, I am not used to it.”
He thought about that.
“You know a good deal about me—more than most people,” she continued. “About my past and my present. And what do I know about you? Your ambition is to live without strings, you like pastries and you want to go to Florence.”
“And I’m good in bed,” he offered innocently.
She laughed. “Very good, I concede that.” She sobered. “As you remarked once before, we are much alike in our desire for privacy—and in preferring to have the upper hand.” She shrugged. “I’m not interested in furthering your domination of . . .” She waved a hand. “Whatever this is.”
He put down the brush again. “I’m of two minds about an answer to that. First—honestly, I can say that I never thought about it in terms of dominance. I’ve always been reserved in what I share about myself, but it’s always been more in the way of protecting myself.”
He chuckled at the doubt she conveyed. “Don’t look so skeptical. You, of all people, know that knowledge can be used against you.” He set down his palette. “And in any case, it’s easier to make a clean break when there are fewer . . . entanglements.”
“And thus you prove my point,” she muttered.
“But, second—I’ve never before been in this sort of arena with a woman who so richly deserved an equal footing.” He left the canvas and crossed to her, taking in her disheveled beauty. It was true. He’d never met a woman who met him toe for toe before. Who somehow managed to be both caring and independent. And who stood her ground and kept to her word, even when it was difficult.
He touched her chin with a paint-stained finger. “I trust you, Francis Flightly Headley. So, would you feel better if I were to share a secret of my own?”
Her mouth twitched. “If it were good enough.”
“Good enough?” He raised a brow in mock indignation.
“Yes. A good secret.” She wiggled her fingers at him. “Ripe. Juicy.”
He laughed. “You may dress like a boy, but you are so much a woman.”
Her chin lifted. “I know.”
Unable to resist, he planted a kiss on her sweet lips. “Such a woman.” He sighed. “Now, wash up my brushes while I mix some new greens and golds? And I’ll think of something suitably scandalous for you.”
He knew what she was hoping for, but he had no intention of speaking of Hestia, of the little he remembered of her—or the pain she’d left in her wake.
“Hmmm,” he began. “Well, you recall how I told you of my first commission—the gypsy wagon.”
“Yes.” The smell of turpentine wafted over to him, but he kept his face positioned away from her.
“I was thrilled to get the chance to paint anything, really, but I was also hap
py when they offered to barter my services for a baby goat.”
“You were happy about that?” She sounded skeptical.
“Yes. My mother—my foster mother—had long talked of wanting a goat for milk and cheese.”
“Oh, how sweet. She must have been touched when you brought it home, your first professional compensation—and all for her.”
“You would think so,” he sighed. “But suddenly the thing she’d most wanted was transformed into a burden. The little goat was a darling too, but she declared it nothing but another mouth to feed and she declared me nothing but a fool.”
“Surely not!”
He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder. “Some people just won’t be pleased,” he said with a shrug. Especially not if he was the one attempting it. “And she didn’t like the way her wish had been fulfilled.”
She fell silent a minute and the splash of water ended too. “Ah. She didn’t wish for you to paint.”
“No. Not at all. Her father was the one who taught me—and she hated growing up a painter’s daughter. She told us many a time how horrible it was growing up, never knowing when the next commission would come, when they would eat and when they would starve. She married a solid, respectable farmer and that’s what she wished of us—that we would carry on with the farm and perhaps expand it.”
“Us?”
“My brother and I.”
“You have a brother?” She sounded shocked.
“Well, not by blood, of course. Sebastian was born to my foster parents when I was still in leading strings.” And Sebastian had always been regarded as the true son of the house. But Rhys didn’t say it out loud. He’d never complained, never protested the unfair treatment he’d received.
“So the goat was sold and I was left back in my usual life, laboring where I was needed and sneaking an occasional few hours to practice with my grandfather. Until a lady came to the village. She took a room at the inn and scandalized all the gossips because she travelled alone with just her dresser.”