He caught her hand, lifted it from him, and rolled, coming over her, pressing her into the bed, nudging her thighs wide and settling between. Ground out as he shifted, “We’ll take it slowly next time.”
Caro’s lungs seized; her heart leapt to her throat. The time had finally come; her question hovered, about to be answered. Unequivocally.
Her senses locked, focusing on the soft flesh between her thighs, feeling it throb as he reached down between them, with his fingers stroked, then probed, then parted her folds.
The broad head of his erection touched her, pressed against her, then eased in a fraction.
She nearly cried out; hips lifting in wordless entreaty, she closed her eyes, bit her lip, willing him to enter her. Every particle of her being strained, held poised on an emotional edge higher than any she’d previously climbed, acutely aware of the drop below her, of the ocean of disappointment that waited to swallow her if he didn’t…
Spreading her hands over his back, she held him to her, pressed her hips nearer, urged him on.
Beneath her hands, the long planes of his back flexed. With one slow, powerful thrust, he joined them.
Eyes closed, savoring every inch of her scalding sheath as it stretched, took him in, and enclosed him, Michael noticed the tightness, then the constriction as he thrust through it; caught in her sensual web, he might not have understood if it hadn’t been for the pained gasp she tried unsuccessfully to smother, and the telltale tensing that gripped her, held her.
Stunned, dazed, opening his eyes he looked down at her, into her eyes, molten silver looking back at him. Understood in that moment all she’d hidden, all she’d never told, him or anyone else.
Finally understood the truth of her past, the true reality of her marriage.
She was waiting, breathless…tense, nervous…he suddenly understood what she was waiting for.
Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew a fraction, then reseated himself fully within her.
Saw her eyes flare—with wonder, with a joy so profound he felt his own heart turn over. But this was no time for words or explanations. Bending his head, he covered her lips with his, and spun them both into the fire.
Into the intimate dance they both craved.
He didn’t spare her, didn’t try to be gentle, realized that that, assuredly, was not what she wanted, more, was very definitely not what she needed. He sank into her body, drove deep, then withdrew until he was almost free of her clinging heat and her fingernails had sunk into his skin, desperately holding him to her, before thrusting into her again, slowly, inexorably, so she could feel every inch of his throbbing erection as he buried himself inside her once more.
She pulled back from the kiss. Her sobbing gasp, echoing with relief, with pure happiness, urged him on.
He took her mouth again, pulled her ruthlessly back to him, back into the kiss, let his weight pin her, then sent one hand sliding down, around over her hip to cup her bottom, gripping, anchoring her at just the right angle beneath him, then he settled to ride her, to let his body plunder hers as he and she both wished. Let the driving rhythm take over, binding their heated bodies in an orgy of elemental lust, driven by desire, by the passion that swirled about them, unleashed and almost tangible.
She met him, matched him; not at any moment did he doubt that she wanted this. Every bit as much as he did.
It might be her first time, yet she was no wilting virgin; quite the opposite. She was a quick study; as their tongues tangled and their bodies strove, within minutes she’d learned how to meet his thrusts, how to most effectively ride them, how to clasp him within her body and drive him wild…he dimly realized that for her, this was a long-sought-after release—a freeing of all she’d held within her, trapped inside, denied outlet for so long.
A catharsis of passion, of desire, of the simple need for the intimacy of human mating.
He gave her all she needed, took all he wanted in return, conscious she surrendered it—all he wished to take—gladly.
It was certainly not his first time—he’d had more women than he could truly remember, all of them experienced ladies if not outright courtesans—yet as he sank into her body, into her mouth, plundered and gloried in her open welcome, there was something new, something different in the act.
Perhaps it was the simplicity—they knew each other so well, so completely in so many other ways, understood each other so instinctively that knowing each other in this way, skin to skin, hands searching, gripping, mouth to greedy mouth, tongues tangling, gasping, loins to heated loins, plunging, driving…all seemed so natural.
Meant to be. Without any veils or masks to disguise it.
Power, fueled by their joint passion, welled up, spilled through them both and took them.
Captured them, swept them into a sea of whirling, greedy need that suddenly, abruptly, coalesed.
Their skin was alive, nerves tense and tight; their bodies fused, driven by primal urgency. She pulled back from the kiss, gasped, eyes closed as she struggled to breathe.
He pushed her faster, harder; she strained upward, and with a cry touched the sun. Clutched, held tight to him as she shattered, then melted, pulsing around him.
Her release called on his own; he followed her quickly, drove deeper, harder, emptying himself into her, with a long groan finally collapsing atop her, sated to his toes.
13
Caro lay beneath Michael and exulted. His hard body, his heavy muscles and even heavier bones, pressed her into the bed; she didn’t think she’d ever felt so comfortable, so…simply happy.
So connected, physically and otherwise, to any other person in her life.
Tremors of excitement still racked her; aftershocks of glory still slid through her veins, leaving an indescribable sense of joy in their wake.
This, then, was intimacy. Something far more profound than she’d imagined it to be. Also a great deal more…primitive was the word that leapt to mind.
She smiled; she wasn’t about to complain.
For long minutes, they simply lay entwined, trapped in each other’s arms, both aware the other was awake, yet both needing to catch their breath, mental as well as physical. Slowly, the realization that he had guessed her secret, knew and understood it, intruded.
Staring up at the ceiling, she searched for words, for the right thing to say, in the end simply said what she felt. His head lay across her shoulder. Gently, almost tentatively, for such tender touching was still new to her, she riffled her fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”
He dragged in a breath, his chest crushing her breasts, then shifted his head and kissed her shoulder. “For what? Having the best time of my life?”
So he was a politician even in bed. She smiled, wryly cynical. “You don’t have to pretend. I know I’m not particularly…” Words failed her; she gestured vaguely.
He lifted his shoulders, caught her waving hand, then pushed back enough so he could meet her eyes. He looked into them, then drew her hand to his lips. Turned it and placed a scorching kiss in her palm—caught her gaze as he did, then gently bit the mound at the base of her thumb.
She jerked. Realized he was still hard and solid within her…no…was again hard and solid within her. Puzzled, not quite sure, she refocused on his eyes.
His smile wasn’t humorous, more forbearing. “I don’t know what Camden’s problem was, but as you can feel, I patently don’t suffer from it.”
The more she thought about it, the more obvious that last became.
As if to further demonstrate, he moved a little, rocking rather than thrusting. Nerves that a minute ago had seemed dead with exhaustion sizzled back to life.
He shifted over her again, settling on his forearms, one on either side of her. “Remember”—he kept the gently rocking motion going—“what I said earlier about taking two hours?”
Somewhat stunned, her mouth drying anew as, to her considerable astonishment, her body responded—ardently, eagerly—to his, to the promise in that gently repe
titive motion and the rock-hard reality riding within her, she licked her lips, focused on his eyes. “Yes?”
His lips twisted; he lowered them to hers. “I thought I should warn you—I plan on taking three.”
He did. For three bliss-filled hours he held her captive in his bed, until they’d reduced the originally neat covers to a froth of silk and linen, a sensual battlefield.
On resuming their play, he spent the next half hour ensuring she understood that once was very definitely not enough—not enough to sate him, or her. While outside, the pulsing heat of afternoon forced even insects to drowsing silence, inside his bedchamber, intimately entwined with him on his bed, heat of a different sort drew gasps, moans, and passionate cries from her.
Until she tumbled headlong into glorious oblivion and he swiftly joined her.
He had no interest in any passive submission; when he stirred her a third time, the engagement extended into a journey of intimate exploration and discovery—for them both. He not only blatantly encouraged her to be as wanton as she felt, in her wildest dreams desired, but teased, even taunted her to go further, to forget any restriction she might have imagined might apply and respond to him as primitively as he did to her.
Not once did he seek to conceal his desire for her, not once did he fail to impress on her his hunger, the power of his lust, his driving need to slake it by joining his body with hers.
When at the last she convulsed in his arms, held tight against him as he knelt on the bed, her thighs spread wide over his, him sunk to the hilt within her, she had finally learned what mating was—a sharing of passions, a mutual giving and taking, a melding that went far beyond the physical, touching deeper things.
It was a lesson she had waited more than a decade to learn.
As she slumped in his arms, Michael let his reins slide and surged within her, racing toward the shattering release that with every rippling contraction of her sheath about his painfully engorged length beckoned. Her body, still thrumming, drew him on, pulled him over that glorious edge and into sweet oblivion.
He didn’t let himself sink too deep beneath the golden waves; couldn’t. Yet still he lingered, glorying in the feel of her body in his arms, in the hot wetness that so tightly enclasped him. Drawing the scent of her deep into his lungs, he let his hands soothingly roam her sweet flesh. She was flushed, dewed after their exertions, yet her skin remained a wonder, the finest, most delicate silk. He nuzzled the tender hollow between her neck and shoulder, drew his face alongside hers, feeling the springy frizz of her hair against his cheek.
Matters between them had shifted, not so much changed as grown deeper, developed in ways he hadn’t foreseen. Yet the changes had only made his ultimate goal all the more desirable, all the more precious.
Once his head had stopped whirling, he lifted her from him and laid her on the pillows. Eyes closed, exhausted, she slumped like one dead; wryly triumphant, he flicked the silk coverlet over her and slowly, reluctantly, left the bed.
Caro was dimly aware that this time he hadn’t joined her amid the rumpled sheets, that his large, hot male body wasn’t spooned around hers. Distant creaks, tiny rustles reassured her he was still in the room, yet many minutes passed before she could summon sufficient strength to lift her lids and see what he was about.
The sun was still strong, still beaming above the treetops, yet not by much; it had to be past four o’clock. Michael stood before the windows looking out at the trees. He’d donned his breeches, but remained bare-chested; as she watched, he raised his hand and sipped from the glass he carried.
His jaw was set. There was something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that told her something was wrong.
A sinking feeling assailed her. She closed her eyes…felt his hands on her, fingers sinking into her hips as he made love to her; opening her eyes, she resolutely pushed her fear aside.
If she’d learned anything about life, it was to face difficulties directly. Nothing good ever came from beating about any bush. She sat up. Her head spun once, but then steadied. She grabbed the coverlet as it started to slither down.
He heard the rustle, glanced around.
She caught his gaze. “What is it?”
He hesitated. The sinking feeling started to swell again, but then he moved, came closer, and she read enough from his face to know seeing her naked in his bed wasn’t any part of the problem he was wrestling with.
He halted at the foot of the bed, sipped again from the glass. She could now see it contained brandy. Lowering it, he fixed her with a steady, almost considering stare. Almost pensively said, “Someone’s trying to kill you.”
Michael had wondered how she’d react; his guess proved accurate—she started to smile reassuringly. Her lips curved, her eyes started to light—then the transformation paused. Faded as she read his face, and realized he was serious.
Eventually, she frowned. “Why do you think that?”
Inwardly, he gave thanks his marital lust had settled on an intelligent woman. “Consider these facts. One—that day when your horse, Henry, was spooked and you nearly came to grief in your gig, Hardacre found evidence that Henry had been hit with pellets, most likely from a slingshot.”
Her jaw fell. “What?”
“Indeed. There seemed little point in worrying you at the time— Hardacre and I both reasoned it was some nonlocal lads larking about. Highly unlikely it would happen to you again.” He nodded. “And it didn’t. Something else did, or almost did.”
She blinked, thinking back.
He watched, then told her, “Those men who attacked Miss Trice.”
She focused on his face. “You think they were after me?”
“Think back. You were the first to leave the drawing room. If it hadn’t been for me arguing, detaining you in the hall until Miss Trice had gone out, and then taking you up in my curricle, you would have been the first lone female walking down the village street. And there wouldn’t, in normal circumstances, have been anyone close behind to aid you.”
Realization sank in, chilling her; Caro shivered and pulled the coverlet closer. “But if they were intending to attack me—and I still can’t see why”—she looked at him—“how could they have known I was about to leave, and that I’d be walking alone?”
“You’d walked there alone—reasonable to imagine you’d walk home alone, too, as, indeed, you’d intended. And the doors to the back garden were open—easy enough for anyone to have crept close and kept watch.” He held her gaze steadily. “You made your farewells to Muriel, then headed for the front hall—the signs were clear.”
She grimaced.
He went on, “And now we have an arrow striking a tree in precisely the spot where you’d been resting a mere instant before.”
She studied his face, knew all his facts were true. “I still can’t credit it. There’s no point, no possible reason.”
“Be that as it may, I believe there’s no alternative but to conclude that someone, for what reasons we have no clue, is set on, if not killing you, then at the very least, causing you serious harm.”
She wanted to laugh, to push the idea aside, to flippantly dismiss it. But his tone, and even more what she saw in his face, made that impossible.
When she said nothing, he nodded, as if acknowledging her acceptance, and drained his glass. He looked at her. “We need to do something about it.”
She noted the royal “we.” Some part of her felt she should be bothered by it, yet she wasn’t. She wasn’t convinced, either, yet knowing he would be by her side in dealing with whatever was going on reassured rather than unsettled her. Yet…her mind rapidly took stock, then she looked up and met his eye. “The first thing we need to do is get back to the fete.”
They dressed; somewhat to her surprise, assuming their outward guise of tonnish lady and gentleman did not diminish the newfound sense of closeness, not just physical but more profound, that had infected not just her, but him, too. She experienced it as a heightened awareness of
his body and his thoughts, his reactions; she sensed it in his gaze as it rested on her, in the light touch of his hand on her arm as they left his bedchamber, in the more definite, possessive engulfing of her hand by his as they threaded through the orchard.
Presumably three hours of naked play rendered reverting to any socially acceptable distance impossible. Not that she cared. Their new closeness was far more appealing, far more intriguing, and there was no one around to be shocked.
At her insistence, he harnessed his gig and drove her back to the fete in more conventional style. Leaving the gig in the secondary clearing, they rejoined the crowds still ambling about the stalls, now largely engaged in last-minute purchases and protracted farewells.
No one, it seemed, had missed them. Or if any had, none sought to remark on their mutual absence. Caro deemed that just as well; she had enough to do to appear normal, to keep a silly, far-too-revealing smile from her face. She kept banishing it, yet if she relaxed her vigilance, it crept back; on top of that, while she could walk well enough, she felt oddly exhausted, as if every muscle in her body had unraveled.
For the first time in her life, swooning delicately away—or at least pretending to—held considerable appeal. Instead, she applied her formidable skills to putting on a good show, chatting here and there as if she and Michael had, indeed, been present the entire afternoon.
Michael remained by her side, her hand anchored on his sleeve; although he was attentive to all those with whom they spoke, she was conscious that he was, if anything, being even more protective, alert to all around them as if on guard.
He confirmed that last when they moved away from the woodcarver’s stall, murmuring, “The Portuguese have left.”
She raised her brows. “The others?”
“No Prussians or Russians visible, but the Verolstadts are just leaving.” With a nod, he indicated the small group gaily gathering to one side. Together, they strolled across to make their farewells.
The Swedish ambassador and his family had been delighted with their day; they were effusive in their thanks and good wishes, promising to meet in town later in the year.
The Ideal Bride Page 24