by Gaelen Foley
“Mmm.” Maggie felt the tension of a moment ago dissolving. Indeed, any lingering fears flowed out of her entirely at his efforts. By God, she’d begged him—shamelessly—to make love to her, and now that was precisely what he did, with luxurious skill.
Soon, even the memory of shyness or the initial pain of her deflowering drifted far behind her. He kissed it all away, lipping her wrists, her arms, her shoulders, her neck, as his hard length glided in and out of her. Maggie felt her senses catch fire anew.
She wrapped her legs around him, moving with him now, as need, lust, hunger returned, while the storm crashed outside. His jaw tautened as he struggled to restrain himself, but he was losing the battle, and watching that, feeling it, thrilled her.
He rose on his arms above her, thrusting, claiming, taking her.
“Yes,” she told him breathlessly.
She gave herself over to wanton pleasure, knowing she was safe with him, so safe with this dangerous man. His every move intoxicated her, his every touch as he clutched her body and rocked her in his arms. He grew rough with her, but Maggie relished it, raking her nails down his back. She wanted nothing but to fulfill his every need, even as he shattered hers.
Soon she was writhing beneath him while the tempest buffeted the house. The rain lapping at the window panes was like his wet, warm kisses devouring her neck. His rhythm hammered at her breasts. She bit back a wild cry of ecstasy as he lunged between her thighs; the low grunt of savage pleasure that escaped him thrilled her to the core.
Wrenching cries of desire tore from her as he brought her to a white-hot climax, raining sensuous kisses all over her brow, her cheeks, then he joined her in frantic surrender. They clung to each other, both covered in sweat, as his big, hard body pulsed with release.
It was fortunate the night was filled with thunder, for its roaring crescendo drowned out Connor’s riotous groans of ecstasy.
Maggie’s pulse continued slamming away as he collapsed on top of her, all sixteen stone of him, pure muscle.
She laughed weakly. “Can’t…breathe.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Panting, he withdrew from her body with a wince, then lifted off her and collapsed onto his back beside her. “Good God.”
“Aye,” she agreed in amusement, then looked over at him, dazzled, and glowing with joy. She felt as though he’d turned all her bones to honey and replaced the beating heart within her with a bright, pulsating star.
He turned and held her stare, still catching his breath, his chest heaving. “When will ye marry me, woman?”
The blunt question startled but pleased her. But, truly, it was the best thing he could have said after what they had just shared.
Though she barely wanted to move, she could not resist rolling over to snuggle into his arms. “The sooner the better after that, I should think. You know, just in case.”
“Just in case, eh? You mean a child?”
“That’s what I mean,” she replied.
He kissed her brow. “That would make me very happy,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her. He glanced down and met her gaze, his heart, so brave and true, glowing in his eyes.
Maggie cupped his cheek in her hand and gazed at him: such a beautiful man. He looked dreamy-eyed with satisfaction, and she couldn’t help wondering how an ordinary girl like her had ever been so lucky.
He pressed another doting kiss to her head, then held her for a while in blissful silence while the rain drummed against the window panes and the fire crackled cozily across from the bed.
Though Maggie longed to stay with him all night, she did not wish to horrify the aunts, let alone offer a scandalous example to the two young girls.
“I should go,” she finally said with a sigh of regret.
As she sat up and started to move away from him, he clasped her wrist and pulled her back. “Pay the toll, lady.”
She smiled and dutifully kissed him, lingering with a low chuckle as his hands went wandering, then she barely managed not to get herself seduced a second time.
It was tempting, but she extricated herself somehow from his light, playful hold. He heaved a sigh of contentment but didn’t fight her, letting her escape. He watched her with a lazy smile as she climbed out of his bed and shuffled off toward the trifold wooden screen in the corner of his chamber to clean herself up in privacy.
“Cute bottom,” he observed.
She shot him a coy smile over her shoulder, “Why, thank you very much, Your Grace,” she replied, and shook it at him.
He whistled, and Maggie laughed as she ducked behind the tall wooden screen, rather shocked at herself. The rogue had turned a proper English lady into some sort of a wild woman, it seemed.
After a moment’s inspection, however, noting the blood on the inside of her thighs, she peeked back out around the side of screen. “Um, could you possibly bring me a basin of fresh water, some soap, and a washcloth?”
“Oh—of course.” He heaved himself up from the bed at once. That was when he glanced down at himself and must’ve noticed traces of her maiden blood on him, as well. “Er, does it…hurt?” he asked anxiously as he brought her what she’d asked for. “Now I feel terrible—”
“No, no, it’s all right. It’s natural,” she told him. “Besides, it was worth it.” She flashed a cheeky grin to reassure him, protective as he was, and then disappeared behind the screen again.
Nevertheless, unseen by him, Maggie winced as she wiped away the blood. He was a big man—everywhere—and her womanly parts were already sore.
At least she did not have to worry about incriminating evidence being left behind. Under normal circumstances, a bloodied washcloth and water would seem exceedingly strange to the servants who collected them in the morning. Indeed, it would provide the telltale evidence of what had taken place in this room tonight.
But since Connor was already wounded, that, at least, would help to hide the truth. Maggie did not like lying, but soon, she told herself, they wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore. She couldn’t wait until they could always be together. It wouldn’t be long now…
Maggie reemerged from behind the screen, clean and tidy, then it was Connor’s turn. While he went behind it, she glanced around, spotted her clothes on the floor, and went to put them back on.
She was dressed when he returned two minutes later, but to her surprise, he was scowling and looking unsettled, maybe even angry at himself.
At once, she knew why: because he’d made her bleed.
Beaming with affection, she went over to him and laid her hands on his still-bare chest. “I’m all right.”
“Are you sure?” he asked glumly.
“I’ve never felt better in my entire life!”
He smiled ruefully, then gathered her into his arms. “If you say so.” After a moment, he kissed her head. “I hate to let you go. But you need to rest, and I suppose I’d better get outside.”
She pulled back and gazed up at him with a frown, then glanced toward the window. “Humph.” She supposed she could live with him joining his men on sentry duty, since it sounded like the storm was moving a bit farther off now.
Still.
“Promise me you’ll be safe out there,” she said, resting her palms on his chest.
He wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. “I will. As for you, don’t get caught going back. My aunts will die of apoplectic fits.”
“Two of them will, maybe. But one of them can hardly talk, from what I hear.”
Connor laughed.
“For my part, I’m mainly wondering what the devil to say to Penelope. They set up a servant cot for her in the corner of my room. Maybe she fell asleep and I won’t have to explain where I’ve been.”
“Oh, I think she’s going to know.”
Maggie looked at him, and they both laughed softly, neither with the least trace of remorse.
He chucked her gently under the chin and smiled. “Good luck, sweeting.”
“Till tomorrow, Your Grace.”
He slung his arm around her waist, pulling her up onto her tiptoes to give her one last, lingering kiss goodbye. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” he whispered, then begrudgingly released her. “Sleep tight.”
He’d left her in such a state of perfect contentment that Maggie knew she would drift into dreamland the moment her head hit the pillow. “I love you. Good night.”
“I love you too.”
Reluctantly, she pulled away from him with a sigh and headed for the door. She tugged the cloth belt of her dressing gown tighter around her waist, then peeked out the door to make sure no one would see her on her way.
“Psst!” Connor said from behind her. She closed the door again without a sound and glanced over her shoulder at him in question. He pointed to her lantern, which she’d almost forgotten. “Better take that with you or you might get lost.”
“Oh! Yes, I probably would. Thank you. I’ve got a long way to go, and this place is a maze.” She whisked back to retrieve the lamp from the chest of drawers where she’d left it.
“If you meet any nosy servants on the way, tell them His Grace will reward them well for their silence.”
“You naughty boy.”
Connor grinned, then peeked out the door on her behalf. Finding the way clear, he beckoned her through, opening the door wider for her. He stole a kiss on her cheek as she slipped past him. Maggie giggled, turning left out of his room; she blew him a quick kiss over her shoulder, then stole off down the dark corridor.
Aunt Caroline had done her best to keep them apart by giving Connor the grandest chamber in the center of the Georgian wing’s second floor, while Maggie had been tucked away in the far corner of the Tudor wing.
His room was flanked on both sides by those of his trusty men. These were empty now, however, as all four were presently on guard somewhere around the grounds, along with most of Aunt Caroline’s footmen.
Maggie, meanwhile, had had to sneak past the guestrooms given to Aunt Florence and the dragon lady.
Over creaking, ancient floorboards.
Fortunately, both old ladies were so exhausted from the day’s journey that they were no doubt sound asleep—Maggie hoped.
For now, she padded down the hallway with stars still in her eyes from her first experience of lovemaking. Indeed, she could barely wipe the smile off her face. Ah, that man.
He gave her such joy. Now she could hardly wait to get married. She had not let herself think much about the actual wedding yet. But suddenly, she was buoyant with enthusiasm to start planning the big day.
Delia would probably make fun of her, but at least Portia would understand.
After passing Will and Nestor’s empty room, Maggie came to the stairwell and turned right. She steadied herself on the banister as she hurried down the airy classical staircase to a sort of atrium, where an attempt had been made to join the two distinct regions of the manor with well-placed columns.
She wasn’t sure if the atrium quite succeeded, but overall, she found the house with its two disparate parts thrown together like this charming and original. And out on the moors, the vicar-duke’s Thinkery in a third style entirely—the neo-gothic—seemed like a whimsical act of defiance.
Of course, Delia would’ve hated it all.
Reaching the bottom of the white marble steps, holding her lantern behind her for a moment in case anyone was out there, Maggie swept the atrium with a wary glance, and determined with relief that no servants were nearby to catch her at her mischief.
She quickly darted to the left-hand corner of the atrium, where another staircase—of heavily carved wood, old, dark, and dramatic—led up into the Renaissance side of the manor.
The three-hundred-year-old steps squeaked accusingly under her footsteps, refusing to be muffled even by her woolen socks. She might as well have worn metal patens.
With a wince, Maggie hitched up the long hem of her dressing gown and hurried up to the second floor as quickly as possible just to get it over with, squeaking all the way.
The carved angel on the newel post seemed to smirk at her as she exited the staircase, making a right into the dark, narrow, slightly wavy-walled corridor, at the end of which lay the rich Elizabethan chamber she’d been given.
Almost there.
Her heart pounded as she tiptoed past Aunt Lucinda’s chamber.
Meanwhile, her lantern’s tiny flame flickered over the faces of esteemed ancestors whose portraits hung along the walnut-paneled corridor. Garbed in antique styles of various eras, they all seemed to scrutinize her as she crept past.
So, you think yourself fit to be the Fourth Duchess of Amberley, do you? Carry on our bloodlines? Eager to get started on that part, though, aren’t you?
Lusty wench.
She frowned at their disapproving stares. Humph. This place was like all old houses in England: Definitely haunted.
Right on cue, a floorboard creaked, and Maggie mouthed an oath she’d learned from Connor.
After clearing Aunt Lucinda’s room, Maggie glided past dear Lady Walstead’s like a ghost, and finally reached the third door on the left: her own guest chamber.
As she reached for the door latch, she heard thunder rumble overhead again and wondered if Connor had gone outside yet. The thought of him warmed her anew.
But even as she lifted the latch, she floundered, trying to think of what to say to Penelope.
Her maid was not the judgmental sort. Still, even Maggie knew that her actions over the past hour had been scandalous in the extreme.
She herself could scarcely believe she had just lost her virginity.
A half-smile quirked her lips. Sans regret, she opened the door to her chamber, but immediately frowned to find the room pitch-black.
That’s odd, she thought. Penelope must have nodded off, for she had let the hearth fire burn down to embers.
Maggie stepped into the chilly chamber, shut the door behind her, and held up her lantern. “Pen?”
Pausing where she stood, she let the dim illumination of her lantern lick over the various quarters of the room as she lifted it higher and moved it about, looking for her maid.
Its feeble glow revealed the dark, spiral-carved posts of the canopy bed, draped in heavy green velvet bed hangings. It reflected off the colorful diamond panes of the mullioned windows.
Maggie frowned. I thought I closed those drapes.
They were bunched up on both sides of the window now.
As her gaze traveled on, a fading unicorn stared back at her from the ancient tapestry on the wall.
An uneasy feeling filled her as she took a few steps deeper into the chamber, reaching the edge of the jewel-toned rug. She looked at the servant cot stationed in the corner, and the chair beside the massive Tudor wardrobe.
But Penelope was nowhere to be seen.
Maggie furrowed her brow as she walked slowly into the center of the room. Surely she’s not out there with Sergeant McFeatheridge.
Penelope had mentioned taking her new friend some food. Had she never come back from her errand to the gatehouse?
My goodness. Maybe Penelope was the one who had some explaining to do! Maggie thought. Could her normally well-behaved companion have proven as wayward tonight as she had?
There’s just something about a soldier, I guess, she thought with a grin.
Still, this seemed very unlike Penelope.
With deepening curiosity over her trusty maid’s whereabouts, Maggie began crossing toward the fireplace to see if she could nurse some flames back to life. But then, as she rounded the bed, she stopped cold, and a horrified gasp escaped her.
Penelope was lying unconscious on the floor.
At once, Maggie flew to her side, dropping to her knees. “Penelope?” she exclaimed. “Are you all right? Penelope?” Heart pounding, she laid a hand on her maid’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. “Penelope? Can you hear me?”
Then Maggie drew in her breath, spotting some blood on her maid’s blond hair, as though she had fainted or
fallen somehow and struck her head near her temple.
“Oh God,” she breathed. What on earth happened?
Nestor, she thought at once. The surgeon would know what to do. She had to find him.
Half panicking, Maggie left her lantern on the floor and shot to her feet, but even as she drew breath to shout for help, a hand clapped over her mouth, roughly silencing her as she was captured in a viselike grip.
“Good evening, Lady Margaret.”
Her eyes flew open wide with terror and the blood in her veins turned to ice.
She had heard that voice before.
“Would you be so good as to come along with me and my father?”
CHAPTER 33
Two Lanterns
Outside, the fullest violence of the tempest had passed. The slashes of lightning had dwindled to distant flickers of blue light, and the rumbles of thunder had moved off to the north. What remained of the storm now was a strong, steady rain that poured from the dark skies and soaked deep into the thirsty earth.
The rain felt good to Connor, the smell of it drenching the turf, the feel of it on his face, the roaring music of the swollen brook rushing through the boulder-strewn chine nearby.
Draped in a loose black oilskin cloak, rain pouring off the brim of his old shako, Connor rode one of the manor’s hack horses at a plodding walk down the drive to the gatehouse, checking first on Rory.
“Anything to report?” he asked, throwing back the loose hood of his dripping cloak as he joined his friend inside the little stone tower.
Rory shook his head. “All’s quiet. You want a smoke?”
Connor accepted a cigar but only took a few puffs from it, savoring his experience of this night as he stood beside his friend, gazing out at the dark landscape. Yet he saw only Maggie in his mind’s eye.
God, but he still felt absolutely glorious after their joining. He hadn’t a care in the world. He knew he was a smitten fool, but he couldn’t stop smiling to himself about how shy she’d been that first night in his sitting room at Amberley House, back in Moonlight Square.