Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  His jacket and waistcoat were cast into the shadows. His shirttails were pulled from the waist of his breeches almost in the same feverish motion that he peeled the shoulders of her muslin gown down off her arms to expose the sheer layer of her chemise beneath. His mouth left hers to blaze a fiery hot trail down to the ribboned front closure, only to be distracted by the fullness of her breasts pushing over the upper edge. When the chemise was banished into the darkness, he bowed his head again, capturing each hard-peaked nipple and drawing as much of the silky flesh into his mouth as her cries of pleasure would bear. At the same time, he skimmed his hands down the satiny length of her thighs, parting them slightly and fitting her over the bulge at his groin so she could feel exactly how much he wanted her, how much she had affected him.

  With a deep and husky sound that was half groan, half growl, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, his mouth never leaving her flesh, his hands tearing at the last few buttons and bindings that kept him confined.

  Renée’s newfound rashness almost faltered when she felt his hands, trembling and eager on her knees, urging them apart. It all but deserted her entirely when his weight settled between her thighs and the formidable strain of his flesh began pushing forward. The initial thrust, delivered without preamble, was bold and invasive and startled her so completely with its depth and fullness that she did not even have the breath or wit to cry out. The second brought a groan to her lips when there seemed to be too much—too much flesh, too much heat, too many muscles in his back, his shoulders, his arms, his thighs. He was too big and she felt a momentary clutch of fear as he began to thrust hard and deep, seemingly oblivious to the differences in size and shape of their bodies. His hands even plunged beneath her hips to angle her higher into each vigorous stroke, and she had no choice but to move with him, to reach down and hold fast to the rapid rise and fall of his hips and to arch herself upward that she might be more easily able to bear the force of each thrust.

  Her first orgasm took her by swift surprise, bursting like a sudden flaring of heat and bright light throughout the length and breadth of her body. She gasped and stiffened beneath him, but when the wave passed, her flesh was still tight around him, gripping him with an eagerness that had become acutely sensitive to the heat and friction of moving flesh. She tried, through a series of breathless pleas, to pull him even harder and deeper inside, and he obliged her every cry, shifting his hands, his hips, his body to chase after every clenching spasm, groaning when her pleasure brought her rising desperately, frantically up beneath him.

  A moan, involuntary and uncomprehending, marked new levels of sensation for Tyrone as well. Feeling her squeeze around him, hearing her awe and disbelief as each wave was prolonged beyond any previous limits, he had to fight to catch each breath. It was not supposed to happen like this. He was not supposed to feel so out of control. His body was one massive raw nerve being teased and tormented by muscles so tight and wet and greedy he could feel the effects tingling in the tips of his toes. Even worse, he was displaying as much skill and savoir faire as a—as a fishmonger, for pity’s sake, but he could not help it. Not when she was beginning to shiver around him again and her cries were in his ears. Not when her hands, her body was begging him, urging him, demanding more.…

  His groan was couched in an oath as he rolled, first onto his side, then onto his back, thinking the shock alone might delay the inevitable. But it was worse, not better, feeling the silken drag of her hair across his chest, the startled clenching of her thighs as she straddled him, the near catastrophic eagerness of her body curling forward to take him so deep inside, he could feel her heartbeat thudding around him. She was shuddering, shivering, squeezing him in a constantly moving sheath, and he groaned with the pressure, with the compelling, rippling suction that seemed determined to draw his whole body inside out. He rolled again, while she was in the throes of yet another orgasm, and his passion swept through him with the power of a gale force wind. His body arched with one mighty thrust and the pressure flooded out of him in throbbing bursts, the ecstasy raw and savage and white-hot in its intensity.

  Tyrone continued to hold her and to shudder deep inside her, his flesh acutely sensitive to each lingering tremor as it dissipated within the velvety warmth of her body. She was still quaking beneath him, still panting, weak with disbelief, and he rested his head in the crook of her neck, his mind stunned by the total betrayal of his body. Even his hands seemed not to want to leave her as they stroked her hair, her arm, the smooth length of her thigh.

  Renée focused on each gentle caress as if it was a lifeline to reality, the only thing that kept her from drifting away. His flesh, she thought, was the only solid thing left inside her, for the rest of her body had become completely fluid, without strength or substance. Her legs were hooked up and over his but she did not have the energy to untangle them. Her arms were locked around his shoulders, her hands still clutched the muscles of his back, and although her fingers were beginning to slip on the dampness, they did not possess the initiative to let go on their own. It was just as well. She did not have the faintest notion what she was expected to say or do now that the fury of the moment had passed.

  She had just allowed a complete stranger to bed her. She had not only allowed it, she had been a willing participant, encouraging him to such haste he had not even taken the time to remove his breeches. They had been unbuttoned and pushed down just far enough to clear his hips and lay bunched around his knees. To her further mortification she realized she still had her stockings and garters on, and if she was not mistaken, her right slipper was dangling from her toe.

  It was surely the heat of a full body blush that brought his head up off her shoulder. The dark locks of his hair were flung forward over his cheeks, obscuring what little of his face might have caught the glow of the fire. He did not seem the least disconcerted by their haste or state of semi-undress. If anything, she could swear he was smiling as he elevated himself onto his elbows and forearms and stared down at her.

  “I must say, mam’selle,” he murmured. “You do surprise me.”

  A thin, silvery line of wetness shimmered along her lashes and collected at the corners of her eyes, slipping in two shiny streaks down her temples. He watched them trickle into her hair and saw the quiver in her chin, and he sighed.

  “That was meant in a most complimentary way, I assure you. If I were to mock anyone’s behavior tonight it would be my own, for I am not usually so … undisciplined.” He shifted an arm slightly and one of his thumbs brushed away the wetness at her temple. “I am not usually so blind either, mam’selle,” he added quietly. “You were not a virgin, but I think you were not so vastly experienced as you would have led me to believe.”

  She flushed again, from the tips of her toes to the verge of her hairline and tried to turn her head to avoid his gaze, but he would not allow it. “This … former fiancé. He was the only one?”

  “If he was?”

  He drew a breath and kissed her—kissed her deeply enough and thoroughly enough to convince her the question was not asked out of any sense of disappointment.

  When he lifted his head again, his hands continued to cradle her face between them. Her hair lay in scattered gold waves across the bedding, and his skin bristled with the memory of it sweeping across his chest. His gaze followed the slender arch of her throat down to where her breasts lay ripe and full beneath him, their whiteness a stark contrast to the dark hair that covered his chest. He had guessed her nipples would be palest pink, and so they were in repose: pale as rose dust, soft as velvet. They looked every bit as chafed and reddened as her mouth now, however, and while he was not a man given to making apologies for too many of his sins, he regretted his haste, his crudeness, his lack of delicacy. Not that he could have done anything about it at the time. He had definitely not been in full command of his senses, nor had he expected to be so utterly enthralled with the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her in his mouth. Even now, he could fee
l himself stirring again, wanting to know if it had just been an aberration inspired by the firelight and the honesty of her passion, or if he had indeed unleashed something here that was both unique and dangerous.

  “Dangerous,” he decided in a whisper. “I would definitely call this dangerous, mam’selle. And foolhardy and …”

  “Undisciplined?”

  He stared at the lusciously moist pout of her lips and allowed a wry smile to curve his own. “Definitely undisciplined.”

  “Indécent aussi,” she added through a small catch in her voice. “For I do not even know your name, m’sieur.”

  His thumb curved down onto her cheek. “It is Tyrone.”

  “Tyrone … ?”

  “Which you may call me instead of ‘m’sieur’ or ‘capitaine.’ Both seem rather formal under the circumstances, would you not agree?”

  “I suppose. Yes.”

  “And I will call you Renée, if I am permitted?”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Have we decided then, that we can trust each other?”

  "Yes.”

  “Completely? Absolutely?”

  She searched his eyes a moment. “I trust no one completely or absolutely. Only Antoine and Finn.”

  “Ahh. The stalwart Finn.” He smiled and his lips brushed hers on their way down to claim the bewitching, wine-red mole on her breast. “I have a feeling his conduct would not be too exemplary at the moment if he knew I was here.”

  Renée closed her eyes against the sensation of his lips roving down to her nipple. He drew it with almost apologetic tenderness into the suckling warmth of his mouth, and she wanted to stretch like a cat and purr beneath him. “He would not be happy, no.”

  “I imagine”—his mouth slid to her other breast and he lavished the same care and attention that had brought the first peaking to attention—“he would be quite incensed at the impropriety, and I do not mean only the fact that you are naked in bed with a man less than a fortnight before your wedding—though from what I have seen, I believe that would be enough in itself to cause the old fellow to inhale all the air in the room.”

  Renée had no doubt he would, but she also knew precisely what Tyrone meant. Even through the initial, blinding rush of desire, she had paused a moment to remind herself how shockingly inappropriate such a liaison was, however brief and passion-driven it might be. To a servant, whose opinions on class and social distinctions were often more rigid and unbending than those they served, such a lapse of judgment would be an affront in itself.

  “If you are worried about what Finn would say or do if he found out, rest assured, m’sieur, he would not betray you. Not if it meant betraying me or hurting me in any way.”

  His mouth released her nipple with a soft, wet fwithp and, after a long, considering look into her eyes, he shifted his body lower and ran his lips along the smooth, flat surface of her belly. His hands skimmed down to remove her stockings and garters and, after a brief tussle with linen and tapered wool, he cast his breeches away into the shadows. “M’sieur!” Her eyes widened as she realized his intent. “Do you think it wise—?”

  “No. I do not think it wise at all, mam’selle. In fact, I think it very unwise for me to stay here one moment longer than necessary. On the other hand,” his hands coaxed her legs apart then slid around to cradle her bottom while he bowed his dark head between her thighs, “there is the matter of defining what is necessary.”

  Renée’s mouth fell open. He was the cat now and she felt his tongue lapping her like a bowl of cream. Instinct bade her to try to wriggle herself higher on the bed, but his hands were firm, his tongue devilish as it mocked her efforts to escape him. “M’sieur—! You mustn’t—!”

  He lifted his head a moment. “You did say you trusted me, didn’t you?”

  “Y—yes,” she stammered, “but …”

  The unruly waves of his hair brushed the skin on her inner thighs as he murmured something against her flesh. She thought he said something about discipline and fishmongers, but then it was nearly impossible to think at all. It was enough just to be able to twist her hands into the bedsheets and hold on for dear life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Renée felt the bedding rustle and the mattress jostle slightly beside her. She was incredibly content, drifting in a state of semi-sleep, and resented the need to open her eyes. But then she remembered … and came awake so fast, she almost gasped out loud.

  The room was dark. The fire was reduced to a bed of glowing red cinders and did not allow for much more than a vague impression of a shadowy figure moving to and fro, gathering up scattered articles of clothing. Renée was sprawled naked, facedown on the bed, half blinded by the veil of thick blond hair that was scattered over her eyes.

  Careful not to move anything other than her hand, she pushed the hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. Even so small a gesture made her aware of subtle changes elsewhere in her body. She felt flushed and warm, her skin so keenly sensitive she could identify every fold and crease in the bedsheets. The flesh across her breasts felt deliciously chafed, her inner thighs were wondrously achy, and deep inside, she was all soft and slippery and still throbbed tenderly with the lingering effects of expended passion.

  Mon Dieu, she thought, but he had certainly made up for his initial haste and lack of control a hundred times over. Subsequent lovings had been exercises in sensual torment, lasting half an eternity and culminating in such prolonged and protracted torrents of pleasure, she had very nearly fainted from the excess. There was not one square inch of her body he had not explored with meticulous care, not one sensation he had left a guarded secret, not a single cry or gasp or plea he had not obliged with chivalrous extravagance.

  If she thought about it, she should resent the fact that he could still stand and walk and dress as if nothing untoward had happened. On the other hand, if she thought about the things he had done, the things she had allowed him to do, she would surely melt into a puddle of shame and never be able to lift her head again.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and did not open them again until she was able to focus on the moment at hand.

  A surreptitious peek at the window confirmed it was still dark outside. He would, naturally, want to be away before any hint of dawn light betrayed his presence to any servants rising early to tend their chores. She could have set his mind at ease somewhat by assuring him that none of the servants at Harwood House was overly conscientious. Not even Jenny ventured up the stairs with hot water or a pot of chocolate before mid-morning.

  Renée turned her head slightly, repositioning her cheek on a fresh puff of feathers in the pillow. There was, she realized, another pillow under her hips, but she curled her hand into a small, embarrassed fist and refused to dwell on how it came to be there, or why.

  Tyrone moved in front of the remnants of the fire and bent over to pull on his drawers. She had never watched a man dress before. Granted, it was difficult to see now, but there was enough of a glow behind him to gild the taut muscles of his thighs and buttocks as he drew the linen garment up his legs and tightened the drawstring around his waist. The muscles in his arms bulged and the veins stood out in prominent relief; the lean and tempered plane of his belly folded in hard, layered bands as he bent over again to repeat the motion with his breeches.

  His chest was a magnificently sculpted display of curves and contours, and her hands tingled with the memory of running through the forest of crisp, dark hairs, of feeling the thunder of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. He had encouraged her to explore his body as thoroughly as he had explored hers and she had done so, shyly in the beginning, but then with increasingly bold strokes and forays that had revealed some breathtaking pleasures … and some unsettling surprises. The number of scars he bore had disturbed her. Marring the broad plates of muscle across his back and shoulders were varying levels of raised welts, suggesting he had been subjected to a lash on more than one occasion. There was an ugly, round pucker
on his thigh and another shiny trough on his arm, the results of a bullet and sword respectively, she guessed, for he had not answered her questions when she had asked how he had come by the marks. He had deftly distracted her with his hands and his mouth instead, branding her body in ways that would be invisible, but no less indelible.

  Tyrone’s movements startled her thoughts back to his dark silhouette. He stood in his breeches and boots and was shaking the folds out of his shirt to separate the tails from the collar. Pulling it over his head gave him substance, made him a ghostly white blot against the darkness, and when he started groping about him, searching for something else in the shadows, she bestirred herself to sit upright.

  “You may light the candle, m’sieur, if you are having difficulty finding everything.”

  He straightened slowly and turned his head toward the bed.

  “I am managing. But thank you.”

  She did not give voice to her suspicions, but it occurred to her that he likely had a great deal of experience locating his clothes in the dark.