He drew in a slow breath, his chest expanding, then he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm.
His hands firmed and he drew her closer.
Raising her head, sliding her hand to his nape, she stretched up, and their lips met.
The kiss was long, unhurried; confident and assured, they both savored.
She’d slept in his bed every night since she had placed herself so deliberately there. While she’d sensed, every night, that he’d been torn over allowing it, he had nevertheless fallen in with her wishes.
Had nevertheless succumbed to the temptation she’d realized she represented.
An affirming, confidence-building realization.
She moved with him now, sliding into passion, letting desire rise and thrum through their veins. Clothes fell, shed, whispering to the floor. They’d moved past the point of unnecessary modesty, at ease with each other’s bodies, and with their own.
But when they both stood naked, locked together in passionate embrace, and he raised his head and moved to draw her to the bed, she stopped him, her hand firming on his chest. “No. My turn.”
Thomas looked down at her, slowly arched his brows.
She smiled, sultry, sirenlike, then murmured, “My turn to script our play.”
He wasn’t sure what to think of that; searching her eyes, he got the distinct impression she had some purpose in mind, but . . . tonight they were safe, the long, rolling swell of the deck beneath their feet a reassuring reminder that for the next several days they were out of danger’s reach.
Traveling through an unexpected hiatus, their peace before the storm, for once they reached London, they would inevitably be plunged back into the heart of the action, into the cauldron of whatever might come, and the dangers would escalate.
But for tonight, for these next days, they were safe, free.
Free to indulge as they wished, as they pleased.
With an infinitesimal nod, he acquiesced. “So . . .” Dipping his head, he brushed her lips, rosy and swollen from their kisses, with his and murmured back, “What’s your intention?”
She smiled, soft and smug, and didn’t answer.
Not in words.
Instead, lids heavy, long lashes screening eyes that smoldered with a passion she had never sought to hide, she moved into him, against him, her silken skin and supple curves a potent distraction. The grip of her hands firmed, fingers pressing into muscle, over scars, then she bent her head and pressed her lips to his shoulder, traced the line of his collarbone, diverted to lick, lave, then press a hot, wet, openmouthed kiss to one nipple.
Hands riding on her hips, he closed his eyes and let his senses sink into the pleasure she wrought. With her kisses and caresses, her stroking, fondling, and blatantly possessive claiming, she opened his eyes to another dimension of what had grown, was clearly still growing, between them.
She showed him her passion, her possessiveness.
Showed him that her desires matched his own.
Extended his own; his reaction to her devotions, to the acceptance and open hunger she allowed to show, allowed to infuse her touch, burning him, branding him, took him unawares. Overwhelmed him and filled his mind.
He was beyond making any protest when she slid to her knees before him.
Beyond thought when he felt her breath, warm and full of promise, wash over the head of his erection.
Hands gripping her skull, fingers clenching in her hair, he rode the wave of unadulterated pleasure she evoked and, with a languid but deliberate sweep of her fingers, an achingly gentle brush of her lips, sent raging through him.
Rose curled her fingers around the heated rod of his erection; her breaths shallow, trapped in the moment, by the sensual magic she had so deliberately evoked, she touched and caressed.
And he stilled, caught, trapped in the sensual web she’d woven.
Triumph washed through her, a very feminine feeling.
Emboldened, she slowly licked the broad head and tasted the tangy salt of him; the sensation flashed like fire through her blood.
She bent her head, closed her lips about the velvet head, and slowly, savoring, drew him deeper.
He gasped and trembled.
His head fell back and his fingers tightened in her hair. Every muscle in his body locked, veins cording.
Inwardly smiling, a sense of feminine victory suffusing her, she focused on her task—on her intention.
Thanking him in words only went so far; even if, after her lecture about accepting thanks graciously, he allowed her to speak the words, even if he now listened, he didn’t truly hear. Didn’t truly believe that he was due such gratitude, because his actions—so he thought—were motivated by his need to atone for his past.
She understood that, in part, that was true, but was it the whole truth? His whole truth?
Or did some part of his drive to protect and care for them spring from some finer, purer source?
In her heart, in her soul, she felt the latter was true, and so she devoted herself to lavishing on him all the thanks to which she considered him due, for all his acts of kindness.
For all the things that didn’t matter, that made no difference to whether they saved William, but which Thomas still did. Went out of his way to do.
Because he cared.
For that, she thanked him, in a manner he couldn’t refuse to feel, to absorb and take in.
When he finally grated, “Enough,” broke the seal of her lips with his thumb and freed himself from the heat of her mouth, she rocked back on her feet, smoothly rose, and, taking the hand he held out to her, joined him on the bed.
They came together in heat and in passion, with steadily burning desire, and a hunger no longer so urgent, no longer uncontrolled, but unwavering in its depth and breadth, in its towering compulsion.
Confident, assured, they rode the waves of pleasure, let them sweep them up to the pinnacle of delight, and on into ecstasy.
Into the furnace that fused them, that shattered their senses, fragmented their realities, then forged them anew.
And left them spiraling through the void, until, buoyed on the golden sea of fading bliss, they floated in paradise.
A man and a woman entwined in each other’s arms, exhausted and sated, content with themselves, and at peace with the moment.
They rattled into London in the early evening. Favored by the winds, the Andover had sailed up the Solent and into Southampton Water earlier than anticipated. Thomas had hired a carriage and four for the journey on, and they’d made good time on the road.
Their days at sea had passed in comfort and without incident. Pippin had been content playing with her dolls in the cabin, while Rose and Thomas, freed from immediate concerns, had relaxed, strolling in the fresh air, talking and making the most of those moments. Homer had been in his element. His eager questions and polite manners had quickly made him a favorite with the crew; he’d spent most of the journey learning about the ins and outs of sailing a modern ship.
The last stretch up the Solent and through Southampton Water, one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, had fascinated them all; there’d been so many ships to see, so many different styles and types of sails, all gleaming white against the blue-gray sea gilded by the silver brilliance of early morning.
Once they’d disembarked, bowed off the ship by the beaming captain, Thomas had led them to a nearby hotel, once again one of the more expensive variety. After arranging for the carriage to take them to London, he’d surprised Rose by hiring a room, leaving their bags there, then escorting her, Homer, and Pippin on a shopping expedition.
As Thomas had explained, given they were going into London society and would, at some point, be reclaiming their true identities, they needed the clothes to support that claim. Rose hadn’t thought of the necessity, but he had.
Now, becomingly clad in a new deep-brown pelisse trimmed with gold ribbon, Rose stared at the façades lining Kensington High Street, then glanced across at the trees of
Hyde Park, visible through the window on the other side of the carriage. London. They’d reached there safely, in very real comfort, and without having to weather any danger or challenge.
All thanks to Thomas.
She glanced at him where he sat alongside her, like her, rocking slightly with the movement of the carriage. He, too, was wearing new clothes, a well-cut coat of pale gray over darker gray trousers, with a silver-and-gray striped waistcoat.
When she’d asked, he’d told her that, via the letters he’d sent from Falmouth, he’d arranged rooms for them at a London hotel. He hadn’t mentioned which hotel, or where it lay.
As she didn’t know London well—had only spent two Seasons there, and during both had lived at Seddington House in Mayfair—she hadn’t pressed him for details; after the last months, let alone the last week, she trusted him to have made the best arrangements for them, on all fronts.
In due course, the carriage turned up Park Lane, then into the quieter streets of Mayfair. After rolling slowly across the northern side of Grosvenor Square, the carriage turned left up Duke Street, then slowed even further, coming to a halt at the curb before a pair of large, glass-paned doors; the gold lettering across the doors proclaimed them to be the entrance to the Pevensey Hotel.
The hotel lived up to her expectations of Thomas. Its subdued and elegant decor, the thickness of the rugs scattered over the polished floors, and the pervasive hush that blanketed the foyer testified to the establishment’s exclusivity.
Keeping Pippin and Homer close, Rose looked around while Thomas, beside her, signed the register and obtained the key to the suite reserved for them from the very deferential manager.
Pleased with Drayton’s arrangements, Thomas accepted the two letters that had been waiting for him. Turning from the counter, he nodded to the hotel footmen waiting to ferry their new bags and boxes to the suite, then gathered Rose and the children and ushered them to the stairs. The manager handed the overseeing of the reception counter to a colleague and quietly followed in the footmen’s wake.
Their suite was on the first floor and looked out over Duke Street. Thomas swiftly scanned the accommodations and pronounced himself satisfied. Under Rose’s direction, the footmen deposited the bags in the correct rooms, then they and the manager bowed themselves out.
The door shut. Thomas arched a brow at Rose.
Tugging off her new gloves, she smiled. “Yes, this will do very nicely.”
He hesitated, glanced at the doorway to the smaller bedroom into which Homer and Pippin had already disappeared, then looked at Rose. “They’re known for being very protective of their guests’ privacy, which means you and the children should be safe here, or at least as safe as it’s possible to be. And regardless, your names don’t appear in the register, so short of someone recognizing you or Homer, there’s no reason anyone should come looking for you here.”
Rose nodded. Sinking onto the sofa, she looked pointedly at the two letters he held in his hand. “What do they say?”
Thomas sat beside her; setting one letter aside, he broke the seal of the other. “This one’s from Drayton—he organized the suite.” Thomas scanned the letter. “He says he’s started investigating Richard Percival’s finances but has as yet turned up nothing of note. However, as he states, it’s early days yet.”
Setting that letter down, Thomas picked up the other, broke the seal, and read, saying, “This one’s from Marwell, my solicitor.” He paused, then reported, “If you recall, I asked him for his assessment of Foley.”
Rose met Thomas’s quick glance and nodded. “What does he say?”
“That Foley is sound—a rigid adherent of the strictly conservative approach to the law. In Marwell’s view, Foley is entirely trustworthy.”
When Thomas looked at her, brows rising, Rose grimaced. She thought for a moment, replaying her few meetings with the ageing solicitor, but, in the end, still shook her head. “He might be entirely trustworthy, but that doesn’t mean he won’t assume that everything Richard Percival says is correct, and that any suggestion that Richard might be a villain must be a ridiculous fabrication.”
Thomas studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Sadly, in that you may well be correct. In my experience, villains can, indeed, be represented by entirely righteous men.”
Realizing he was speaking of his past self, Rose reached out and squeezed his hand.
A patter of feet had them both looking forward as Homer and Pippin came rushing up. “Is it dinnertime yet?” Homer asked.
They settled in, and the hotel proved every bit as comfortable as Rose had imagined.
The children had separate beds in the smaller bedroom, and, as on the ship, were out like lights the instant they settled under the covers.
Leaving Rose to quietly close the door, cross the sitting room, and retreat with Thomas into the larger bedroom.
They undressed, him on one side of the large bed, she on the other. Nightgown donned, she went to the dressing table and picked up her brush. As she brushed out her hair, she smiled to herself; she still half expected the floor to rock.
Finally laying aside the brush, she turned and saw Thomas already in the bed, the covers across his chest, his arms folded behind his head, his gaze, steady and somewhat pensive, resting on her.
Lips lightly lifting, she crossed to the bed, turned down the lamp burning on the side table, then raised the covers and slid beneath.
She turned to him. He unfolded his arms, closing them around her as she settled against him. She lifted her face and he met her lips, covered them with his, and together they sank into the never-fading joy of the kiss . . . but, this time, the underlying resistance that from the first she’d sensed in him solidified.
Became manifest.
When she would have pressed closer, he drew back—held her back. Their legs were tangled, their bodies in contact, their arms cradling each other, yet instantly there was space between them.
He looked into her eyes; even through the dimness she could feel the weight of his gaze. He drew breath, then quietly said, “We . . . need to speak about this.” He paused, searching her eyes, then went on, “I want you, you know I do. But . . .” His gaze steadied. “I have no future—no certainty to offer you.” He brushed back a lock of hair from her cheek; his hand, his fingers lingered, cradling her face. “I might want to promise you the moon and the stars, a future of togetherness, of living together . . . but I can’t. I simply can’t. I don’t know what Fate has in store for me . . . what if you get with child?”
Something in her leapt; her heart expanded but felt crushed at the same time . . . then a surge of emotion, of determination and will, rose and steadied her. Shored her up and strengthened her. She held his gaze, then shifted to frame his face with both hands, forcing him to keep his gaze locked with hers. “Understand this.” She spoke slowly, letting her determination resonate in her tone. “I don’t care.” She paused to let each word strike and sink in, then continued, “What I do care about is us, this, what’s grown between us.” Drawing breath, she forced herself to admit, “No, I don’t know where this might lead us, but I’m willing to go forward and find out—and make the best of whatever comes. And if that means that we will, in the end, part—and make no mistake, I will fight that to the last—but, if it should come to pass that there’s no other choice, and I am by Fate’s decree left with child, a child of yours and mine, then I will treasure and love that child until my dying day.”
She paused; her words, uttered with such conviction, all but echoed in the shadows. Still she held his gaze; following his thoughts, she added, “I’m wealthy enough that you don’t need to worry. Once I regain my identity, I will be able to live more than comfortably and care for any child we might have.”
He didn’t attempt to shift his gaze. “But you will be alone.”
She found the answer on her tongue. “I’ve always been alone, until you came.”
Thomas heard her words, and all she hadn’t
said. Her wish to live her life with him, her determination to, if at all possible, do so. He wasn’t averse—oh, no! Living the rest of his life with her, growing old with her—having children with her—was now his most yearned-for dream.
A dream he was certain he would not live to make real. Would not, one way or another, be allowed to commit to.
She seemed to understand; as had happened so often, she seemed to see deeper into his soul than he, himself, could.
Shifting, her gaze still locked with his, she reached out and clasped his hand with one of hers, urged him to twine his fingers with hers and grip. “Give me your todays.” She rose to lean over him; her head above his, she looked down at his face, into his eyes, and whispered, “And if Fate takes your tomorrows, at least we’ll have had . . . this.” Dipping her head, she brushed her lips over his, then sank into the kiss.
And he followed.
Held her, and loved her, and followed her lead, seized their today, and left tomorrow in Fate’s hands.
Chapter
9
Four days later, Thomas leaned against the railings of a town house in Albemarle Street and studied the house across the street and two doors down.
Idly twirling his cane as if he was waiting for some friend to join him, he reviewed, yet again, the events, or rather the lack of any significant achievement, over the past days. Despite Drayton’s best efforts, nothing he’d uncovered in Richard Percival’s finances could remotely be construed as providing sufficient motive for murder. The only thing Thomas, himself, had been able to confirm was that, if one inquired in the right quarters, it was common knowledge that Percival was, and had been for years, pushing hard to have his nephew hunted down.
That much was definitely true, which meant that the threat to William was very much an ongoing one.
Thomas hadn’t been in any position to further pursue who Richard Percival had hired to do his hunting; there was a limit to how far he could press without alerting those he was seeking—and that he was in no hurry to do. As matters stood, if anyone grew suspicious enough to follow him, he would, ultimately, lead them to William. Of course, he routinely took steps to ensure he wasn’t followed, but errors could be made, even by him.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 17