On a Wild Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  His lips quirked. He thought back over the past weeks, over the vacillations, the qualifications. None seemed important anymore; they both knew where they were headed.

  Thinking of her had the inevitable effect, knowing he could go to her, now, tonight, and she would open her arms to him, welcome him . . .

  But she hadn’t yet given him her answer. The fact she’d felt it necessary to put miles between them just to think clearly . . . he couldn’t, in all conscience—in all wisdom—act as if he took her decision for granted, even if he knew very well what it would be. Regardless of how hard she thought.

  It wasn’t logic that bound them, and logic couldn’t tear them apart.

  The latch clicked; he glanced back at the door, expecting Colly on some errand. Instead, his houri, dressed in a soft robe, slipped in. She looked around and saw him, closed the door, then headed toward him.

  He turned, beyond surprise. He’d blown out the candles so he could see outside; the room was awash in moonbeams and shadows, elusive, mysterious, enticing.

  She came to him with a soft smile on her lips, a gentle, questioning light in her eyes. She said nothing as she walked into his arms, reached up to lay a hand against his cheek. As she had so often before.

  Their eyes met in the dimness—no demand, no command, nothing beyond the moment and them—the here and now of their reality.

  She tilted her face, lifted her lips, drew his lips to hers. He bent his head—their lips melded, then, with the familiarity of practice, their mouths fused. Tongues tangled as the world fell away. Reality shrank—to this room, then further, until their senses knew no more than each other, nothing beyond the inch of air that caressed their heating skins.

  Wrapped in the wonder she so effortlessly conjured, the promise of sensual delight, he sank his fingers into her curls, spread them wide—stood still as she unbuttoned his shirt, dragged it from his breeches, pushed it back over his shoulders. He shrugged, stripped the shirt off, flung it aside—reached for her. Captured her mouth again, drew her to him, molded her against him, then sent his hands skating, searching for the tie of her robe, easing the garment over her shoulders while she dealt with the buttons at his waist.

  It was cool in the room but when they broke apart, she reached for the hem of her ivory nightgown, bunching the long skirt, then lifting it up, wriggling it over her head. He sat on the window seat, stripped off boots and stockings, watching her, then stood and dispensed with his breeches.

  Naked, he reached for her as she emerged, tossing her curls free of the voluminous gown. She let it fall, drifting from her fingers to pool in the moonlight behind her as his hands closed about her waist and he drew her up on her toes against him. Skin to burning skin—need to aching need.

  Amanda wound her arms about his neck and gave him her mouth, took his, urged him on. Tonight was theirs—whatever else happened, nothing could change this. Their oneness was absolute, unshakable—on that she harbored no doubts. Being in his arms, feeling the abrasion of raspy male hair against her sensitized skin, sensing the strength in the muscles that flexed and locked about her, most of all sensing the blessing of the place—of the room, of the house, the estate, the cliffs and the valley and the moon beyond his window—it all came together, coalesced and sent her heart soaring on a wave of emotion too deep, too powerful to be mere delight.

  She was where she was meant to be—here, now, in his arms. She’d searched for so long to find her place—now she’d found it, found her future, found her life.

  She was his—her decision was behind her, commitment was upon her. That was why she’d come to him tonight, to make it plain her acceptance was unconditional—no if, no but, no maybe.

  He understood. She could feel it in the tide of possessiveness that rose through him and surrounded her. In the strength in his splayed hands as they held her to him, molded her provocatively to his aroused body—a promise, both of what he would give, and what he would take.

  That was echoed in his kiss, bold and commanding, an intent so blatant, so primal, it made her knees weak.

  Hands spread on his back, she clung, glorying in the powerful muscles flexing beneath her fingers, in the masculine power that, regardless of all appearances, existed, first and last, to please her. To take pleasure in her delight, to let her pleasure him in return.

  She set her mind to that, eased back so she could run her hands over his bare chest. It had been too long since she’d had him like this, naked in her arms, hot skin beneath her palms. He let her have her way, slid his hands down to her bottom and cupped, kneaded, held her up, her hips against his thighs while his tongue and lips teased, tantalized, made all manner of explicit promises. She let her hands roam, filling her senses with the curves of muscle and bone, with the weight of him, with the heat, the solidity—with his maleness.

  He let her explore as she would, let her reach down and close her hand about his erection, rigid and burning, pressed against her soft belly. As before, the contrast of steel encased in peach silk fascinated; she stroked, circled with her fingers, slid them down, marveling, then closed her hand again.

  Kissed him more urgently—and was swept away by his reaction, by the surging, rolling tide of possessive need. It crashed over them, pushed aside all restraint, drove them before it.

  Not, to her surprise, to the bed, but to the bay window.

  He lifted her to the window seat. “Kneel facing the window.”

  She did, recalling another time, another place, when she’d faced a window and he’d appeared behind her. He urged her feet and calves apart, then stepped between; his hands closed about her hips as she shifted her knees to accommodate him. Then he pressed close.

  His hands rose, closed about her breasts, possessively kneading, then his fingers found her nipples, artfully teased, caressed . . . then delivered on the promise, fingers squeezing tight, tight—until she arched, her head falling back against his shoulder as she shifted restlessly before him.

  At her back, he was hard, ready, an eloquent assurance of all that was to come, but he didn’t immediately join with her. Instead, his hands roved her body, flagrantly possessive, stamping his brand on every inch of her skin until she writhed, on fire, hips pressed against him as she rocked, evocatively pleading.

  One hard hand splayed over her stomach, anchoring her as the other slid between her thighs. He stroked, caressed, opened her—exposed the entrance to her body—then probed. He filled her with his long fingers, worked them until she sobbed and sank her nails into his thighs.

  He drew his hand from her. She lifted her head, gasped, struggled to fill her lungs. Stared, dazed, at the moonlit beauty beyond the window as she felt him slide slowly, possessively, into her body. Felt every inch as he filled her, let her lids fall, felt her body ease and joyously accept him.

  And then he was there, sunk in her softness, his stomach flush against her bottom. She exhaled, one long sigh of contented expectation. His arms wrapped around her, one crossing her chest, hand closing about one swollen breast, fingers stroking the aching nipple; his other arm wrapped about her hips, hand splayed across her lower stomach. Holding her trapped, captive.

  Then he flexed his spine and sent pure delight rolling through her. Withdrew and thrust again. Sent a slow, repetitive undulation of hot pleasure coursing under her skin, spreading to every corner of her being, focusing every last fragment of her awareness on him, on them, on their joining.

  In the last lucid corner of his mind, Martin gave thanks to the carpenter who had created the window seat—it was at precisely the right height. So he could hold her like this, her bottom flush to his groin, only slightly bent forward, his chest to her silken back, his hands full of her bounty, and effortlessly love her.

  Effortlessly take her, all of her, slide so deeply into her and possess her so thoroughly that there would never again be any sense of separateness. Her body, hot, wet, yielding, closed lovingly about him; she rode his thrusts, each deep penetration, welcoming him in, encouraging
him to linger, reluctantly letting him go—so he could return again, press deeper still, make her breath seize. Fill her deeply, give himself to her and claim all she was, take and give again.

  It was elementally primitive, joining naked and free in the night. Feeling the burning heat of their bodies contrast with the cool night air. Feeling the mystery of the night enclose them, the caress of the moonlight on their merging bodies a gentle benediction.

  Feeling the hunger grow and swell and stretch, feeling it roar and race through their veins. Feeling desire explode and drive them, turning their bodies slick and hard and tight.

  They were both gasping, valiantly clinging to the last shreds of sanity, wanting, desperately, to prolong the moment, so intense, so intimate, so compelling, when he lowered his head, ran his teeth along the taut curve of her neck, exposed as she arched her head back. And thrust deeper still.

  “I’ll never let you go.” The words were gravelly and harsh. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Her “Yes” was a whisper, a silver surrender wafting on the moonlight.

  She lifted one hand from his thigh, reached up, back, touched his cheek. Lovingly traced as she had so often before, the simplest communion.

  He turned his head, pressed his lips to her palm, then bent, pressed his lips to the base of her throat, tightened his hold on her.

  Slipped the reins and let them free.

  Let the power flow through him into her, felt it reflect back, thrust it back, felt the inexorable rise, the overwhelming rush, the irresistible escalation that caught them up, fused their souls, sent them soaring into bright ecstasy. Until they shattered.

  The power gently ebbed, leaving them floating on a golden sea.

  Martin woke before dawn as he had once before with Amanda’s soft weight snuggled against him. This time, he closed his eyes and let contentment wash over him.

  After wallowing for some moments, he sighed, turned on his side, and ran his hands slowly down her body. She murmured sleepily, arched, turned to him and wound her arms about his neck. He kissed her lingeringly, then murmured, “We’ll have to separate when we get back to town.”

  “Hmm . . . but not for long . . . and . . . not yet.”

  Eyes still closed, she drew him to her.

  He closed his arms about her, rolled her beneath him, and left tomorrow to take care of itself.

  It took them most of the day to drive back to London. Onslow’s arm wasn’t healed sufficiently for him to drive; they left him recuperating under Allie’s eagle eye, and drove down in Martin’s curricle. Martin handled the reins with Amanda beside him; Reggie sat behind in the tiger’s seat.

  As the curricle sped south, Martin and Amanda outlined all they’d learned, all they’d concluded—all they suspected. Reggie listened, then soberly said, “He won’t stop, y’know. If he was prepared to kill to see the matter left alone, when you appear again, he won’t just let be.”

  Expression grim, Martin nodded. “The question now is, should we let him know who he shot—or should we let him worry about that, too?”

  Reggie voted to increase the pressure. “In that case”—Martin flicked his whip and urged the horses on—“we’ll have to hide you.”

  They accomplished that by taking a roundabout route once they reached London’s outskirts; they approached the fashionable district along the south side of the park as the last of the daylight faded, slipped into the drive of Fulbridge House, and quickly rattled around into the coachyard behind it.

  “No one saw us.” Amanda scrambled down.

  “Not a soul who would recognize us, anyway.” Reggie climbed down from his perch more slowly.

  Martin handed the reins to a groom, then turned to Reggie. “How’s your head?”

  Straightening from stretching his back, Reggie thought, then replied, “Not as bad as it was—the fresh air seems to have helped.”

  “Good. We’ll have Jules, my henchman, take a look at the wound. He has tried-and-true remedies for all injuries.”

  Amanda slipped her arm supportively through Reggie’s and turned him to the house. “Presumably Jules knows how to make tea.”

  Later, when Jules had redressed Reggie’s wound after announcing it was healing well, then supplied them with a sustaining if somewhat exotic dinner, they took refuge in the library and settled to plan.

  On the drive down they’d agreed that the one other person they needed to involve was Luc Ashford. Martin wrote a note and sent it off to Ashford House, then they turned their minds to more immediate concerns.

  “Reggie can stay here, which will keep him out of sight and also mean there’s always one of us here—at the center of operations, so to speak.”

  Reggie had been wandering the room, looking at this and that; he considered, then nodded. “Everyone will know I left with Amanda.” He looked at her, curled up in one corner of the fantastically draped daybed. “If you say I went to visit friends in the north, no one will expect to see me.”

  “Except your mother,” Amanda reminded him, “who won’t believe me. And I don’t think you’ll want me to tell her you’ve a hole in your head.”

  Reggie blanched. “Good God, no! I’ll write a note. Tell her I’m going to see those friends. She’ll accept that.”

  Martin looked at Amanda. “I’ll take you home later tonight. Will your father have returned from his trip?”

  She counted, then nodded. “But why do you want him?”

  “Because he needs to know the truth.” When she frowned, he raised his brows. “I’m going to marry you, and I haven’t even spoken to him yet.”

  She knew better than to argue, but made a mental note to be present at any discussion between her sire—a Cynster born and bred—and her soon-to-be husband, another rigidly protective male. She had no wish to find herself somehow excluded from the pending excitement.

  Martin made three copies of their list of suspects. He was blotting the last when the front doorbell pealed. Picking up the lists, he rose, crossed to the daybed and handed a copy to Amanda; Reggie came up and took another.

  The door opened; Jules stepped in. “Viscount Calverton,” he intoned in his heavily accented English.

  Luc walked in, his gaze swiftly roving the room before coming to rest on them, gathered before the hearth. Jules stepped back and quietly shut the door. Luc blinked, surprised to see Amanda and Reggie—even more surprised as he took in the bandage swathing Reggie’s head.

  “Good God! What happened to you?”

  Reggie frowned. “Some relative of yours shot me.”

  “What?” Luc glanced at Martin; reserve infused his expression. “I received your . . . summons, Dexter.” He gestured. “So here I am.”

  Martin grimaced, and waved him to the chaise. “My apologies for the phrasing—I needed you here.”

  Luc’s brows rose. When Martin said no more, he came forward and sat, effortlessly graceful as ever, opposite Amanda. He shot her a hard, considering glance, then looked at Martin. “Why?”

  Martin met his gaze. “I’ve just returned from Hathersage.”

  Concisely, Martin related all they’d learned. Luc listened, his concentration absolute. He didn’t interrupt; Martin seemed to anticipate his questions, digressing here and there to fill in details. He ended his recitation at the point where he’d discovered his parents had realized the truth, and tried without success to find him. He concluded with his resolution to discover which of their joint relatives had committed the dastardly deed.

  Martin fell silent, waited. Luc dragged in a huge breath. “My apologies. I should have known better, but . . . at the time, I honestly didn’t know what to think.”

  Martin’s lips lifted wrily. “As it happens, I can say the same to you.”

  Luc thought, then stared. “You thought I did it?”

  “Well, I knew I hadn’t. And I didn’t know until yesterday that Sarah had been forced. If not me, then the most likely to have swept her off her feet was you.”

  Luc pulled a face
. “I thought of her as you did—like a younger sister. To do that . . . it would be like casting covetous eyes on Emily or Anne.” He shuddered.

  “Quite.” Martin sat on the daybed, stretching one arm along its back so his fingertips touched Amanda’s frothing curls. He set the remaining two copies of their list on his knee, gestured to them. “We’ve made a start at defining the field—the murderer, presumably also Sarah’s defiler and Reggie’s attacker, must be one of these men.”

  He explained about his father’s ledger; Luc remembered it. Taking one list, Luc scanned the names. “It can’t be Giles or Cameron.” He glanced at Martin. “I’d stopped at the Millikens’ near Derby, so I reached Hathersage mid-morning. I didn’t make it to the house. As I was crossing the yard, Giles and Cameron came out carting guns and a hamper; they challenged me to join them and I did. I was with them all day. We didn’t get back until dusk.” He grimaced. “When the commotion was over and the decisions made. We were told not to attempt to speak with you. They took you away an hour later.”

  His face impassive, Martin nodded, and considered the list. “That leaves nine.”

  Luc rescanned the list. “All were at the house when we got back that day.” He glanced at Martin. “It’s not going to be easy checking where people were, who remembers what, ten years after the fact.”

  “True, but we have something more recent to check. Who was on the Great North Road three nights ago?”

  Luc looked at Reggie, perched on an ottoman. “They actually shot you?”

  Reggie looked at him. “Would you like to see the furrow in my skull?”

  Luc winced. “I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at Martin. “But why?”

  “My guess is that he assumed I would be the man in the coach. Amanda and I were back down the road, before the curve before the turn-off, discussing matters. Reggie took the coach around the bend, intending to halt and wait for us. When the coach slowed, the murderer no doubt assumed it was turning for Hathersage. You know the place—it’s an ideal ambush.”

  Luc nodded. He looked down at the list.