by Lisa Manuel
“Ancient wisdom preserved on papyrus scrolls.” His fingertips grazed the cleft of her buttocks. Her heart tripped and pounded, then stood still, waiting. He leaned over her, bringing his heat to waft above her, his chest hairs grazing her spine. He traced soft kisses on her neck, leaving trails of hot moisture; he nipped her earlobe, licked her nape…
A sigh poured out of her. “Oh, yes, I remember how you like to lick.”
“Very true, but do you like it, my Moira?”
She could not but admit she did. Yes, there, at the curve of her shoulder and—ah—there, in the hollow beneath her ear. And—oh, my—when he set his lips there, near the base of her shoulder, why, she’d agree to anything, do anything…
Dizzy with leaping, burning desire, she moaned into the mattress. At his hands’ coaxing, she widened her legs, reached her arms above her head, and gave herself up to pleasure. To sinful, sacred, soul-baring indulgence. For in those next moments, she did, indeed, bare her innermost wishes and inclinations and needs, without ever uttering a single word.
He simply seemed to know, able to read her body’s responses as one might a favorite book, lovingly and ever so thoroughly. Her shoulders, her arms, the backs of her knees…her inner thighs…the ridges of her spine…Even the arches of her feet experienced the rising fever of his touch, his kisses, his breath, his tongue.
“Right to the edge,” he whispered. “Let yourself glide right to the edge, and I’ll hold you there. I won’t let you fall. At least, not yet.”
She surrendered to him, lay helpless in his arms as he showed her the brink, each time gently pulling her back an instant before she tumbled.
When she thought she could not bear another moment of it, he lay down beside her and tucked her back to his chest, her bottom to his hips, trapping her legs beneath one of his long, muscular ones.
If she had found the combination of satin coverlet and male hands scintillating, that was nothing compared to this, with his length snug against her back and buttocks and his arousal prodding between her thighs. Arching her in a way that heightened sensation, one hand fondled her breasts, reshaping her nipples into tight little buds. His other hand wandered lower, skimming flesh, combing the fine hairs at the juncture of her legs.
He touched—something. Hidden flesh. Swollen, sensitive, in dire need of…being touched exactly as he touched it. A sensation sprang instantly to life, like a flower bursting open. It was a marvel with the power to control all of her—her heart and pulse and breath and mind—as though all of her flowed from that very spot.
“Are you ready now, sweet Moira?”
She didn’t know what ready meant, but she nodded. He turned her onto her back. Gently he moved over her. In his tensed muscles, his taut features, she glimpsed the measure of his restraint, saw his need very much matched her own, but he had it leashed in tight control.
He pressed kisses to her neck, across her mouth. He dropped lower still, lips playing across her breasts. He used his tongue and sometimes his teeth, nips that wrought cries and whimpers from deep inside.
She experienced a rush of cool air as he disentangled his limbs from hers. She wished to call him back, implore him not to stop. He crawled crablike across the mattress, and she heard the sound of a latch opening. Puzzled, she remembered seeing his overnight bag on the chaise at the foot of the bed. What on earth was he doing?
He returned before she could hazard a guess, bringing his warmth to blot out thought, to press her female places until they begged, ached for all that could be shared between a man and a woman.
One spectacular memory…
He peered down at her, his eyes a churning sea clouded by passion and some deeper, raw emotion she’d never seen in him before. “I may despise myself for this. But, darling, I can pleasure you without—”
“No.”
“Are you quite certain?”
She nodded and framed his face in her hands. Her lips twitched; she couldn’t help grinning. “Unless, of course, you’ve decided to give in to those fears of yours—”
“Wanton creature.” His dimples danced as he reached between their bodies, his hand coming to rest against that simmering place between her legs.
At first he only pressed, and she pressed back, filling his palm, feeling their shared heat pass back and forth between them. With a hypnotic rhythm, he began massaging, manipulating, until moisture sizzled and coherent thought dissolved. Again.
When his hand moved away, she wanted to cry out for its return, but something else took its place, hot and silky soft against her. Something that fit the burning folds of her body in a way nothing else could. He pushed, opening her a fraction at a time, allowing her to stretch, to fit around him, allowing each increment of pain to recede before sliding deeper.
She shut her eyes, afraid that beneath the glimmer of ecstasy he’d detect her pain and stop. He cupped her cheek, insisting she meet his gaze.
“Moira…”
She heard the question at the end of her name.
“No words. Only this.” She arched, burying him another excruciating, delicious inch, welcoming the pain with the pleasure, glad for it. It was a consuming pain, a deeply erotic pain, intensely arousing and sweetly satisfying. It was a pain that made her…
Love him.
The knowledge of it crashed through her as, with a resolute push, he relinquished restraint and filled her. Utterly. Something inside her moved, fractured. With a sweltering whoosh, her virginity bathed her inner thighs.
Graham went still, watching her, waiting. It must have shown on her face when the pain subsided, for he moved again, took up a new rhythm. Slowly, methodically, he swept her up, away from inexperience and discomfort and into a realm where her body knew what to do, how to move, to seek and take and return pleasure.
His strokes intensified, quickened, became furious. She thrust to meet him, welcome him, glory in him until a tempest gathered and raged. The world around her shattered. She shattered, as all the breath slid from her lungs on a silent scream.
And then she heard a deep rumbling that built to a roar, sealing the bargain between them and assuring her that whatever this wondrous thing he had done to her, she had done for him. It made him hers as much as she felt herself his. It took that little burst of love of moments ago and swept it the length and width and breadth of her heart.
Rational thought evaporated; control took to its heels. As if from a distance, Graham watched the gentleman he’d meant to be give way to a wild, insatiable buck. He was helpless—helpless—to prevent it.
She’d taken possession of him, drew him in, and wrapped him in silken, pulsating tightness. The perfect ecstasy of a perfect fit, rendering him powerless to do anything less than give all, take all, unable to prevent losing himself to sheer physical rapture.
No, not just physical.
Mere moments after collapsing over her, he gathered her in his arms and rolled onto his back. She pillowed her head on his chest, and her hair spilled across his lips, trailed over his shoulder. He would have been happy to spend the rest of the night and all the next day engulfed in her scent, her warmth, her slender arms. For the span of several heartbeats, he knew contentment in a perfect world.
But a single particle of truth nagged.
“Moira?”
“Mmm…”
“Darling, why didn’t you tell me you’d never before…that you were a…”
“A virgin, yes. Should that surprise you?”
“I, ah…” At his hesitation, she lifted her head to peer at him, brow creased. He hurried to explain. “I’d assumed that perhaps you and, uh, Nigel had…”
“Why would you assume that?”
As his tongue stumbled to form an answer that wouldn’t offend her unforgivably, she rather surprised him by draping her arms around him and snuggling her cheek against his chest. “Well, Nigel and I didn’t.”
She didn’t elaborate further, and except for a mild twinge of curiosity, he was glad. Bloody glad she had never w
andered into Nigel’s bedroom in the middle of the night issuing challenges. Yet he also couldn’t help enjoying a certain degree of one-upmanship over his cousin, a sentiment all the more petty, he must admit, because Nigel was, after all, dead.
So, what did she feel for him that she hadn’t felt for her fiancé? The question startled him, worried him. Made him consider the same question, but turned around. What did he feel for her? Physical elation, completion. Yes, but so much more. More than he’d felt for anyone in years.
Or ever, really.
But hadn’t he, just that afternoon, explained the myriad reasons he could not remain in England, why honor dictated he return to Egypt? Hadn’t he reiterated those reasons following her knock at his door?
Egypt. He’d learned many things there, some of which he’d shared with Moira this past hour or so. Although if the truth were told, many of those seductive arts had been gleaned from boastful stories exchanged around late-night campfires.
He’d brought something else home from his travels, as well, something he had tossed into his overnight bag weeks ago and nearly forgotten. Tonight he had remembered, and as discreetly as possible had slipped the sheath over his erection before entering Moira’s body.
If not for that, his oath to Hakim al Faruq would be rendered null, for he would never consider leaving Moira if there were even the slightest chance of a child. Now he could honor his promise to Faruq. He would be able to leave England with a clear conscience.
Wouldn’t he?
Her breathing deepened, and her fingers curled lightly against his chest. He lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it against his lips, eliciting a yearning that bore the sting of a futile wish.
That he’d forgotten or had simply decided not to use that sheath.
“Out of the carriage, Moira.”
From across the plush seat, she leaned a little forward to look out at him where he stood in the morning sunshine beside the open coach door. She quirked an eyebrow and harrumphed.
“Out of the carriage, Moira, please.”
She faced front again and folded her hands on her lap. “I’m returning to London with you.”
“Blazing hell you are.”
“Don’t be silly.” She sniffed. “What did you think, that I’d be content to while away my days in the country and live off your largesse, while some stranger named Michael Oliphant made off with my mother’s inheritance?”
She narrowed her lashes as she mentioned her faceless adversary, then glanced again at Graham to bestow her disapproval equally upon him. “After last night, doing so would make me a kept woman, which is something I could never abide.”
“Oh, Moira, for heaven’s sake, I no more wish to make a kept woman of you than I expect you and your mother to live off anyone’s charity for the rest of your lives.”
He wanted to reach in and haul her out by the scruff of the neck. Instead, he gripped the edge of the open carriage door and counted backward from ten. She continued regarding him with that stubborn, superior, oh-so-Moira Hughes propriety that made him fear, greatly, that in the end he’d lose the argument.
“I thought we agreed Monteith would be the safest place for you and your mother,” he reasoned. “Why else did we come here?”
“I don’t know why you came here,” she said with a shrug, “but I came to ensure my mother’s safety. We’ve done that and then some. With all the guards you’ve set on the estate, no one can venture within a half mile of the house without being spotted. But more than that, Mother seems quite clear on where I’m going and why. She understands that I will, indeed, return and that Papa, sadly, will not. I owe that to you.”
Her voice had softened, and she offered a fond look that didn’t for an instant fool him into believing it was anything other than an attempt to wrap him round her finger.
“Must I tear my hair out, Moira? Dash my head against the wall? Fall to my knees and beg? Is that what you require of me?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Then don’t you be. Stop swashbuckling and stay where you belong. Where I know you’ll be safe.”
To his surprise she slid closer to the open door, but his sudden optimism that she would, in fact, listen to reason proved hasty. She pried his hand from the door and held it fast.
“Oh, Graham, after last night, do you really wish to put so many miles between us? Can you ride off so easily without me, or did last night mean infinitely less to you than it did to me?” Here her voice trembled and her eyebrows gathered in a display of imminent devastation.
Stubborn, clever woman. As she spoke, her fingertips stroked back and forth across his palm and even slipped beneath his cuff to caress his pulse point. Ah, yes, she’d been an apt pupil, becoming quite adept in the art of subtle and not-so-subtle seduction.
In fact, despite being wise to her ploy, he felt the effects of her little caresses and widened his stance to accommodate the sudden lack of room in his trousers.
“Well, my darling? Can you leave me behind with so little compunction?”
“No,” he replied through clenched teeth.
“Splendid, then it’s settled. Are we all set to leave, then?” Holding her skirts, she scooted back to the far end of the seat, presumably to allow him room to climb in. She squared her shoulders in preparation of the carriage lurching into motion. “I’ve already said my farewells to Mother, so if you’re ready, let’s be off.”
“One night and I’m lost,” he mumbled under his breath. “Hopelessly and irretrievably lost.”
“What was that?”
He scowled. “The footman is securing my overnight bag now.” He clambered in and closed the door.
A moment later Estella Foster’s face appeared at the open carriage window. She reached an arm inside, extending a letter to Moira. “I very nearly forgot. This is for Benedict Ramsey. When you arrive in London, do deliver it for me as soon as you may. It conveys my congratulations.”
Moira leaned around Graham to take the missive from her mother’s outstretched hand. “Congratulations for what?”
“You mean he didn’t tell you when you visited with him?”
“Yes, well, my visit with Uncle Benedict was cut suddenly short.” She eyed Graham askance.
“Why, dear cousin Benedict is finally to gain a seat in the House of Lords,” her mother explained. “He’s been hoping for years, but as I’m sure you know, clerical seats are limited, and newly created bishops must wait for, well, for someone to die.” She conveyed this information in an undertone, as if it held the taint of scandal. “Benedict has finally gotten his chance.”
“So the old cobra’s to be a peer,” Graham murmured several minutes later as the carriage proceeded through the gates and onto the main road. “Heaven help us all.”
Moira shook her head at him. “I understand that he did you a bad turn years ago. But can you not allow that a man can change over time, and perhaps Uncle Benedict may regret the past?”
“Have you forgotten how he spoke of me that day in his house?”
“No. Nor have I forgotten you were eavesdropping outside the window.”
As the carriage bumped along the country road, they said little else, the silence taut between them. He slid low on the set, arms crossed, one leg thrown across the other knee. Moira bounced stiffly against the squabs, chin up, bottom lip slightly protruding.
This wasn’t right. They should be happy, laughing, holding hands. Last night they’d shared something extraordinary. He’d taken her virginity, a precious and irreplaceable commodity, albeit she had given it willingly. He should be offering something in return, a gift equally valuable, equally earnest. Otherwise he didn’t deserve last night, didn’t even deserve to be sitting beside her now. Perhaps he should tell her the truth, a truth that had been quietly creeping up on him only to thunder through him last night.
He cleared his throat. “Let’s not be angry, Moira.”
“I’m not.”
Then why the self-righteous furrow above
her nose? But he said, “Good, because there’s something I wish to tell you. It’s about last night.”
Before he could say another word, she placed her hand over his where it lay against his thigh. “I know.”
He felt a jolt of astonishment. “You do?”
“Of course. I understand you’re not a family man. You don’t believe in it, and besides, your obligations in Egypt prevent you from forming commitments here. I promised I wouldn’t try to trap you into anything you couldn’t give, and I’ve no intention of going back on my word. But that doesn’t make what we shared any less special, at least not to me.”
“Nor to me.” His teeth clamped the inside of his lip. He hadn’t been about to say any of those things, yet they were right, each one. He wasn’t a family man; he didn’t believe in it. Witness how much damage he’d done his own family through the years. What right had he, then, to even contemplate loving a woman for whom family meant everything?
No right at all. Good God, blurting the truth would only make their inevitable parting that much more difficult; would very likely break her heart. And his.
A good thing she’d headed him off by speaking first. Except…
It didn’t feel like a good thing. He only knew, on an intellectual level, it was.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to say,” he lied. “Last night was very special to me, too. You’ve become very special to me.” He stopped, considering his words. They seemed safe enough. Correct enough. People could be special to one another without having their hearts broken.
He fought past a crippling disappointment and somehow found a grin, the one that displayed his dimples and so often produced that shivery reaction in Moira. “I only hope last night made you happy. That I didn’t—”
“You didn’t hurt me in the least.” She held his gaze and smiled. “Last night was a grand adventure I’ll never forget.”
Adventure? The irony of the word burned like a brand against his chest. Apparently she couldn’t see past the adventurer he was, and didn’t see their lovemaking as anything more than a daring exploit.
Her fingers tightened around his hand. “You will always have a special place in my heart, Graham Foster. But you and I are so very different. You are an explorer, and I am a homebody. You have obligations in distant lands, and I am bound here. You are reckless and daring and bold. I am cautious and practical.”