Tilting her head, she looked into Rafe’s eyes. “What of your brothers and sisters? Are they married with families, too?”
His lips twisted. He leaned back in his chair. “They are, but I’ve been away so long … rejoining the fold will be like walking into an unknown world.”
“What about in India? Were you close to other English families out there?”
He shook his head. “I lived mostly in barracks, or in bachelor lodgings in Calcutta and Bombay. In between fighting, Hassan acted as … my majordomo, I suppose you might say. In the early years we spent a lot of time in the field, putting down uprisings and the like, then securing trade routes for the merchant caravans. And in the last months when we moved to Bombay, we spent all our days pursuing the Black Cobra and the cult.”
She approached the subject from every angle she could think of, but the answer remained the same. Rafe had no experience of married life to draw on—of the sort of married life his contemporaries might have. The concept of what she sought might well be a complete mystery to him.
Consequently she jettisoned any thought of asking him directly what he felt for her, yet him not knowing what love, the sort that applied in marriage, was did not in any way preclude him from feeling it.
Clearly discovering whether love could be the foundation stone of a marriage between them rested solely on her shoulders.
When the darkness outside had closed in and they rose to change for dinner, she headed for her cabin determined to prevail. To unearth the truth, for both their sakes.
After dinner, a rather relaxed affair now there were only the four of them at table, they repaired to the salon and, at Rafe’s suggestion, indulged in several games of whist. To Loretta’s amazement, Rose proved surprisingly adept; when questioned, she revealed that in Robert’s often quiet household, the staff had taken to playing the game to fill their evenings.
An hour sped by, then by general consensus, they retired to the lower deck, to their cabins.
But not to their beds.
In her cabin off the stateroom’s sitting room, Loretta, still fully dressed, vacillated over whether she was brazen enough to invite Rafe to her cabin and her bed—and, if so, whether to change into her nightgown first, or later, which presumably would mean not at all—when the sound of a door opening and quietly closing reached her.
Going to the cabin door, she eased it open—and heard the stateroom’s main door, the one into the corridor, quietly shut.
Emerging into the sitting room, she stared at the corridor door, then crossed to the other smaller door that gave onto the tiny cabin tucked behind the principal cabin Esme had occupied. Loretta scratched on the panel. When no answer was forthcoming, she opened the door and peeked in—confirming that Rose was no longer in the cabin. No longer in the stateroom.
Loretta smiled fondly. That made things simpler.
Turning to the corridor door, she opened it—
Rafe filled the doorway.
Swallowing a gasp, she reeled back, waved him in. He stepped past her. She shut the door, turned to face him.
His hands, already sliding about her waist, firmed. He smiled, blue eyes improbably innocent under raised brows. “Were you expecting me?”
Hands rising to his shoulders, she frowned him down. “I was coming to invite you here … to my cabin.”
“I decided to save you the journey.” He glanced at her open cabin door, at the bed visible beyond it. When he turned back to her, his expression had left innocent far behind. “Your bed’s bigger than mine.”
He drew her closer until their bodies met, until heat streaked through her, familiar and sweet. “And,” he murmured, seductively deep as he lowered his head, “there’s a great deal to be said for a good-sized bed.”
His intention to demonstrate didn’t need to be stated. Loretta twined her arms about his neck and met his lips with hers. Kissed him with all the beguiling passion she could muster, then parted her lips, invited him to take, boldly challenged him to conquer.
She was getting better at this, the giving and the taking, more confident and assured, and if her wits still suspended beneath the onslaught of his passionate response, they no longer vanished or vaporized.
Both wits and will were still hers, able to be deployed in the pursuit of her need. In pursuit of the answer, in pursuit of her goal.
She still gasped when his hand found her breast and closed, then eased and fondled. Even through the heavy silk of her winter dinner gown, she felt the heat of his touch, the passion that flowed as he caressed, the possessiveness when he kneaded her soft flesh, then found her nipple and tweaked, squeezed …
“The cabin.” The words came out as a sultry instruction, a directive more than a request.
His lips curved against hers. “As my lady commands.”
Somewhat to her surprise he stepped back, but then he caught her hand, and with his other hand still at her waist she was twirling. Whirling. He waltzed her, literally, around, then through her cabin’s door, swirled and nudged it shut behind them, then slower yet no less powerfully, he continued to dance with her in the moonlight.
To circle and glide, press closer and retreat, moving her effortlessly around the small room.
She’d forgotten what an excellent dancer he was, how gracefully and powerfully he moved. One hard thigh parted hers as he swung her, holding her tightly, close, as the smallness of the cabin limited their turns.
Their bodies shifted, silk against suiting, a sibilant herald of impending delight. A promise. The wide window spilled moonlight into the cabin, limning them in silver, casting his eyes in mesmerizing shadow as, moving to a beat that resonated in her blood, he … seduced her.
She laughed softly and gave herself up to it, this new dimension in which he wanted to play. Curious, she followed his lead, let her body speak for her as they whirled tighter and closer, faster, more intent.
Then he stopped.
And kissed her.
Framed her face and filled her mouth.
And fed her passion.
Whipped up, stirred up, heightened by the dance. Raised and stoked and brought to a heady simmer. Distilled and condensed to an intense liquor that slid, all fiery heat and glory, down her veins.
His hands left her face, slid away, then glided down her back. Drawing her in, settling her against him, molding her to him. No gentle touch but a claiming. A seizing accomplished with grace, with skill.
He held her with the kiss, his tongue a hot brand against hers, stirring and stoking the passions that rose, inexorably, to his call.
Buttons at her back slid free. Her gown eased. Cool air washed over her heating skin as with an expert’s touch he opened the gown all the way down to the curve of her hips.
Easing back from the kiss, he raised both hands, curved them about her shoulders, then slid the gown down, eased the sleeves down her arms, helped her draw her hands free. Their breaths mingled. Their breathing was rushed, pulses already racing. She glanced at his face, saw his heavy lids shielding the blue of his eyes as his gaze lowered, following the folds of material down as his hands eased the silk over her hips.
The gown fell with a soft whoosh to the floor.
Forgotten.
By him as his eyes feasted on her curves, on her breasts, already peaked under the near translucent shimmer of her chemise.
By her as she watched, fascinated anew at the naked desire that limned his features.
Chest expanding, he drew a tight breath, then raised his head, raised his gaze, to her eyes. Looked into them for an instant, then stepped nearer, closer. His hands rose and once more framed her face, tipped it up so he could kiss her again. Could with lips and tongue draw her into the magic again, into the slowly whirling spiral of desire.
He only touched her face, her lips, her tongue, her mouth, yet she felt the kiss, its warmth, its heat, its ineffable promise slide through her body.
Felt its touch, and quivered.
Her body sensed him, his nearness. Like a beacon h
is warmth called to her, drew her like a lodestone. She edged nearer, raised one hand and skimmed it across his chest.
Realized he was still fully dressed.
Raising both hands, she gripped his lapels.
Releasing her face, he caught her wrists. Breaking from the kiss, murmured across her lips, “Not yet.”
“When?” was on the tip of her tongue, but he kissed her again, hotter, harder, with just enough conquerorlike domination to keep the word unsaid.
He drew her hands up, draped them over his shoulders, drew her nearer, into him. Set his hands to her body, screened only by gossamer silk, locked her hips against his thighs. Angled his head, sank into her mouth, set a beat that thudded through her veins, and commenced a dance of a different sort.
One that screamed of passion, of lust, of desire so potent it swept her into a furnace of hungry, greedy need. Straight into a maelstrom of heated yearning that left her gasping and clinging, needing and wanting.
Waiting for fulfillment.
Aching for completion.
His hands touched, traced, and fire bloomed beneath her skin. Passion rose like a hound to its master’s call and fell on her, devoured her.
Consumed her.
Physical sensation was his to command as his hands roamed and the fires raged …
When she was all but incandescent with need, when she grasped his face and kissed him like a fury, pressing her demands, telling him of her need in language as blatantly flagrant as his touch, Rafe set his fingers to the ribbon ties of her chemise, with two quick tugs stripped it from her.
Set his hands to her naked skin and felt her burn.
For him.
It was a giddy moment, but he clung to his purpose. Lost in her mouth, with her body a flame between his hands, his senses lost in the wonder of her, it was tempting to let his reins fall, let her passions and his sweep them on, but still he clung. To that small voice of sanity that yet lived in his reeling brain, beneath the clouds of lust, the ever-thickening fogs of desire.
He’d come to her cabin with a plan. One he needed to follow.
She was trying to see too much, trying to see beyond his emotional shield, but that way lay disaster.
He knew what she was looking for, what she sought to find amid the caresses and the gasps. It would be better, infinitely better, if she never found it, never saw it—if she did, he wouldn’t be able to pretend it wasn’t there.
Yet she was determined and dogged. He needed to distract her—and romance and seduction were his only options.
But it was winter. No flowers.
They were on a boat. No music.
And he couldn’t sing worth a damn.
Which left seduction.
And the passion that flowed in its wake.
He was determined to give her both. In quantity. In soul-clutching, heart-stuttering quality.
Deliberately he closed his arms around her, locking her nakedness against his fully clothed form. He knew the effect feeling his woollen suiting against her sensitized skin would have on her. Was banking on her response.
It was everything he’d wished for. She shuddered, her breath hitching as she surrendered and greedily pressed nearer, the raspy abrasion of fine wool igniting fires beneath her skin.
In seconds she was so hot and desperately eager she made no demur when he drew his mouth from hers, closed one hand about her swollen breast. His other arm banding her waist, he bent her back over it, lowered his head and set his mouth to her breast.
She shrieked at the contact. Clutched his head and moaned as he drew the turgid peak deep into his mouth and suckled.
He feasted, ruthless, relentless, and impossibly greedy, feasting not only on the taste and texture, on her wild heat and passion, but on the sounds he drew from her, the inarticulate sounds of delight that fell from her lips and spiced the night.
Rose and Hassan were tonight in the cabin furthest away. For the first time he could freely rejoice in the sweet sounds of her surrender.
The fingers of one hand rolling and tweaking one tortured nipple, his mouth latched about its mate, he suckled fiercely. At her shattered cry he shifted his other hand from her waist, sent it gliding lower. Hand splayed, fingers spread, he cupped her bottom, kneaded possessively, then tipped her, locked her hips against his thighs and suggestively rolled his hips, thrusting the heavy rod of his erection against her belly.
And felt her nerves unravel.
Felt her will, her ability to do anything but follow, but appease any and all demands he might make, crumble.
The bed was at her back, close. Unlike his bunk, hers was a proper bed, with headboard and footboard and a mattress piled with feather quilts and comforters, with pillows mounded at the head.
But the mattress was too high.
He tore his mouth from her breast, found her lips again, kissed her deeply, possessively, felt her melt.
Nearly as desperate as she, from beneath the screen of his lashes, he scanned the room, searching.…
There—thank God. The chair from the dressing table. The seat, he judged, was the perfect height, and wide enough, deep enough for their purpose, the low, wide, arched wooden back perfect for her to cling to.
They’d nudged the chair aside when they’d waltzed. It now stood positioned before the window seat, spotlit by moonbeams.
The heat in his blood was a pounding roar, one that found a ready echo in her.
He steered her, backed her to the chair.
Wrenched his lips from hers, spun her around, gripped her hips, and lifted her. Set her down, kneeling on the chair, facing the window.
She gasped, shivered. Straightened as if to turn.
He stepped behind her, close, reached around and closed his hands about her breasts, and reminded her of all she’d already learned.
Of the heat, the yearning, the sensations evoked by his hands, his fingers, his lips and his tongue, and the flaring need that burned in their wake.
Loretta felt it all, wits and will all but drowned beneath a turbulent sensuous sea, beneath waves of need that welled, swelled, and crashed through her.
This wasn’t merely possession but passion unleashed, unbound and unrestrained, given free rein to plunder.
Head back, eyes closed as his hands moved freely, flagrantly over her sensitive skin, blatantly stoking the fires anew, she knew no more than a pounding erotic need to feel him within her.
She felt no chill even though the air was cold, felt no modesty, poised naked before him while he was fully clothed.
Felt nothing more than the need that scoured her and left her hollow and hot and waiting, panting, gasping, head swimming as with the long fingers of one hand dipping between her thighs, stroking and teasing the swollen flesh, then circling her entrance, he sent his other hand stroking over her bare bottom, caressing, fondling, assessing.
Heated dew flashed over her skin. Her flesh burned in the wake of his touch. The abrasion of his trousers shifting against her was an erotic stimulation all its own.
So sunk in the sensations he sent rolling through her, she was only dimly aware when his hand left her bottom and his hips shifted behind her.
A second later she realized he’d opened the placket of his trousers, that he’d released his erection.
Her hands gripped the back of the chair tight as he eased her up on her knees, his fingers gripping and anchoring her hips, tipping her torso forward.
Anticipation flashed. Her nerves ratcheted tighter than an overwound spring.
She lost her breath when the rigid rod of his erection pushed between her thighs, when the broad head nudged into her softness.
Then he thrust in, with one long powerful stroke filled her, and she rose on her knees on a keening cry of pure passion.
He drew back and thrust in again, powerful and sure.
She sobbed, and clung, arms braced, fingers clenched, overwhelmed by the pleasure.
By the sensual delight of feeling him there, of feeling full and filled
and taken as he rocked her. Completed her in this most primitive way, thoroughly and deeply. Overwhelmingly.
The shifting friction of his trousers against her naked skin punctuated every thrust, heightened every sensation, deepened the claiming.
She understood it now—why he’d chosen this position, this way, this path. If she could have smiled she would have, but command of her features was far beyond her.
All that mattered as she rocked and rode the pounding beat of his thrusts was feeling this, knowing this, letting the passion and the moment take her, fill her, sweep her away.…
The sense of clamping about him, about the solid length of him, was so much more evident in this position, impinging much more strongly on her mind, rising through the haze, making her infinitely more aware of her own sensual self, of her own real involvement, her own taking, her own giving.
Her sheath’s clutch and release, acceptance and claiming, was both instinctive and deliberate. She shuddered under the onslaught of his passions and hers, writhed and rode the escalating beat, the heavy pounding tattoo of their joining. Tipping back her head, she shook back her hair, gasped as he pushed her on.
And then they were there—at the pinnacle of sensation. High and bright, where the air seemed rarefied and cataclysmic pleasure beckoned. If she would reach for it, if she would dare …
He thrust deep and hard and pushed her over—tipped her into a searing web of scintillating sensation that cinched tight, then ruptured, exploded and fractured, shattering her into sharp glittering shards, those myriad fragments of exquisite delight all that was left of her body and her mind.
Esctasy rushed in to fill the void.
To fill her, soothe her, buoy her, leaving her floating in sensual bliss.
Her body no longer hers but his, she waited, only dimly aware, for him to find his pleasure and join her.
Instead, his thrusts slowed, then he withdrew from her.
She was too wrung out, too physically drained to protest when he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Rafe had no idea why he was doing it, why, instead of seeking release in her wholly surrendered body, there in the moonlight before the window, some part of him was insisting he needed this instead—to feel her beneath him, surrendered and open, willingly and knowingly his to take.
The Reckless Bride Page 29