He took note. He also could not fail to notice the manner in which she continued to harp upon his future plans. And for that matter, her plans after she had given him the requisite heir.
Alessandro told himself none of this should be his concern. None of it should bother him. He would set matters to right here at Marchmont, make certain an able and honest steward was in place, task Catriona with looking after the house and grounds in his absence, so that the line carried on after him and that the tenth Earl of Rayne was his son and not his loathsome cousin.
And he would walk away. Damn this return to Wiltshire and the sudden maudlin sentiments attacking him. They did not belong. He had neither the time nor the inclination to entertain them.
“Let us forget about all this for now, querida.” By the light of the moon, he could see they had almost reached his intended destination on the winding path from the main house. The glow overhead seemed to suggest the view would be good enough, in spite of the darkness.
“I cannot forget it, Alessandro. This is to be my life now, but it will not be yours. If you insist upon leaving me, the least you can do is to allow me to choose my own path. I will not allow you to simply cast poor Olly out and leave him without a home.”
His wife’s impassioned speech trailed off as they stopped in the clearing on the path overlooking the lake. Even in the darkness, the lake his father had created by damming the river running through the valley below glistened and reflected the light of the moon beautifully. On the hill opposite them, the Temple of Artemis stood in stark relief against the dark woods and grasses. The limestone of the columns took on an ethereal glow, the statues of deities standing proudly.
“Good heavens,” she breathed. “What is that?”
The night could not hide the splendor of the view. And even if Bramwell had pillaged the contents of the temple as Alessandro suspected he had, nothing could diminish the tranquil beauty of the scene before them. Overhead, the night sky was clear, an endless blanket of inky velvet laden with twinkling stars. Before them, the lake, the temple.
How had he forgotten how glorious, how calming Marchmont was? Or perhaps it was that distance, years, grief, and loss had somehow rendered him able to see what he had not seen before.
“That is the lake, and on the hill above it, the Temple of Artemis,” he said. “The last earl used the river to his advantage by forcing the water to collect. There are four temples here on the grounds. Artemis is the largest and the most stunning.”
“The last earl,” she repeated. “Your father.”
As always, she heard too much. Both the spoken and the unspoken. “Sí.”
His sire had married his mother, a free-spirited courtesan who was as loving as she had been beautiful. And he had resented her. He also resented Alessandro for not bearing the proper pale skin of an Englishman. For not looking like the son of an earl.
“Oh, Alessandro,” she said softly. “It is beautiful.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”
But he was no longer looking at the sheen of the moon on the lake or the beacon of the temple and its proud Corinthian columns and elaborate statuary.
He was looking at his wife.
She must have felt his regard, for she turned to him. She was still clutching his arm, which made drawing her nearer all the more natural. So very right. And sí, it was. After so many years of grief and torment, here, in the silver-kissed darkness, he found solace for the first time.
Because of her. What an astonishing discovery to make. Catriona gave him comfort.
Her hands settled upon his shoulders. Her head tipped back. The brokenness inside him shifted. Fused together, fracture by fracture. He cupped her face in his hands. The contact of her silken skin on his was a revelation.
An absolution.
The time for thinking was done.
Her mouth was his.
And he took it. Dios, how he took those lips. They were full and plump and soft, slicked with a hint of dew. Whether from the night air or from her tongue, he could not be certain. She made a sweet sound of surrender, and then she was kissing him back.
Having denied himself for so long, he was ravenous. His tongue demanded entrance, and she gave it, opening for him. He plundered. There was no other way to describe it. This was not the kiss of a man wooing his bride.
Rather, this was the savage claiming of a man who had not felt this deeply in…
Since…
Years.
Cristo, it had been years since he had been so moved. Since he had hungered for a woman’s kiss the way he did Catriona’s. He had already been inside her, and yet this was the greatest intimacy he had experienced with her.
Her tongue moved against his, and the last thread of his restraint broke.
One kiss was not enough.
One kiss would never be enough.
Mierda.
Chapter Seventeen
Her husband was kissing her.
Kissing.
Her.
On the lips.
And it was splendid. Not just splendid. Magnificent. Yes, that was the word. That was the most apt description.
Catriona kissed him back with all the ardor within her. She kissed him in spite of her plan to keep him at a distance. Kissed him though the day had been long and tiring and arduous. Kissed him even as her mind attempted to make her recall all the reasons why she should not.
How could she not twine her arms around his neck, lick into his mouth as he had done to hers? How could she not want every part of him he was willing to give? And all the parts he was unwilling to give her, too?
Surely, however, this was a victory of sorts. She recognized the significance of this kiss.
I do not kiss on the lips, he had told her. And he had held true to that assertion, never wavering. Indeed, he had consummated their marriage without ever once touching his lips to hers.
Something had changed. Everything had changed. She did not know. She did not care. All she could do in this moment was feel.
Somehow, her back found the trunk of a tree. Her fingers found her husband’s hair. They had not stopped for gloves or hats in their mad dash into the gardens. The upheaval of the day, combined with the informality of their arrival at Marchmont, had stripped them of the pretense of civility.
And she was grateful for it now, because she wanted nothing between them. She wanted to be wild, unpredictable. There was no place she would rather be than in her husband’s arms, in the moonlight, surrounding by eerie beauty and overwhelmed by the way his lips moved over hers.
Witchcraft, surely.
Shrewsbury had not kissed thus.
No man had.
Alessandro’s kiss was slow and languorous, as if he were savoring her taste, her response, the sensation of her mouth beneath his.
One of his hands was on her waist. The other clenched her skirts, dragging it higher. His touch glanced over her knee, up her outer thigh where there was not the barrier of stockings to keep his flesh from hers.
And then, as quickly as the kiss had begun, it was over.
His lips were gone.
The hem of her gown fell into place at her ankles.
His long, wicked fingers had fled from her thigh.
He was staring down at her, his breath furious bursts fanning her lips in a phantom kiss. She wished she could see his expression. But perhaps it was best she did not. Knowing him as she did, she suspected his lapse had aggrieved him.
Mightily.
Her own instinct kicked into action then. She could not allow him to withdraw. To retreat. He had crossed the divide, and she was not about to let him seek to erase it.
Catriona stepped forward, straight into his hard, lean form. A wall of masculine muscle embraced her, emanating heat and his scent.
She grasped a fistful of his shirt and hauled him to her until her breasts and his chest crushed together. Her other arm hooked around his neck, and then she drew his mouth back to hers.
This time, Ca
triona kissed him.
It was a kiss to banish her past. A kiss to banish his past. It was a kiss to expel anything that would come between them. It was a kiss of passion and plunder.
Suddenly, her back was thrust once more against the accommodating trunk of an ancient tree. Her husband’s tongue was in her mouth, his lips moving over hers. This was not just a kiss but a claiming.
An affirmation she was his.
And he, too, was hers.
Her fingers sank into the thick strands of his hair. Every part of him seemed a miracle. And she wanted to revel in him, to rejoice.
The man she had believed would never kiss her had broken. Or perhaps, he had healed. Whatever the case, she would not question it. She would only accept it. Take it.
Take him.
His tongue was in her mouth again. And she was braver than before. This time, one of her hands left his hair. She slipped it between them and found his hip and then traveled across his thigh. Her hand connected with the rigid length of him, his breeches the only impediment to what she wanted.
He made a low sound, his tongue licking deeper into her mouth, the pressure of his lips increasing over hers. Encouraged, she cupped his staff. He was thick and rigid and long, and now that she had experienced her wedding night…wedding morning…she understood what it meant. So too, she understood what her body’s reaction indicated. She wanted him inside her, filling her, bringing her to pleasure.
Everything else had fallen away. There was only hunger, raw and pure and primitive. There was only need and want, and along with it the undeniable sensation of rightness. The knowledge nothing between them would ever be the same after this night.
But he had brought her to this spot for a reason.
He had married her for a reason.
Duty and obligation had a place. But tonight, for the first time, he had shown her he regarded her as more than a mere marriage of convenience. He had shown her he respected her. That he cared enough to bring her here. To kiss her, at long last giving her the last intimacy he had withheld from her.
But she wanted more from him.
“Take me here,” she whispered against his lips.
“No,” he denied, but he did not withdraw his mouth. Nor did he make any effort to extract himself from her embrace.
She realized something else. He was trembling. The strong, menacing Earl of Rayne was trembling in her arms. Emotion vibrated in the space separating their lips. Their eyes were locked. In the darkness, everything seemed heightened. Her heart thumped so loudly, she wondered if he could hear it. Their breaths mingled. The night air around them was heavy and thick, sweetened with the scent of late-summer blossoms.
“You do not want me?” she asked, though the evidence of his desire for her grew beneath her hand. She dared to curl her fingers around him, to stroke.
“Catriona.” His voice was harsh. “I am not going to take you in the dirt.”
None of this had been part of her plan. But she could not shake the feeling that if she did not push him, he would retreat and withdraw from her for good. That her chance to keep him would vanish.
His anguish still seeped into her as if it were a tangible thing. Was it guilt which trapped him, or was it love? Or was it a combination of the two, weighed down by a heaping portion of fear?
Whatever the answer, she wanted it gone.
“We are not in the dirt. We are in the trees.” Gently, she pressed her lips to his.
She was a novice, it was true, but surely they could find an accommodating patch of grass? They need not lie on the gravel path. Perhaps lying was not a requirement at all. Perhaps the massive trunk against her back would do.
He kissed her back for a moment before tearing his mouth away. “No, querida. This is not right.”
“Yes, it is.” She caressed and kissed him again, gratified when his hips jerked, thrusting himself into her hand.
On a growl, he caught her wrist and moved her hand away. His breathing was harsh. Ragged. In the paleness of the moonlight, his eyes were almost onyx, burning into her.
But he did not break free of her as she feared he might. Instead, he gazed down at her, as if she were a cipher he desperately sought to comprehend. “Cristo. What do you do to me?”
If it was even a hint of what he did to her, she could well understand his plight.
Before she could form a suitable response, he laced his fingers through hers, tugging her as he moved down the path. “Come.”
“It is dark,” she protested, even though the moon was large and high in the sky, shining brightly enough to illuminate their progress.
“Stay close to me.” He tugged her into his side, keeping her near. “I know the way.”
They were not headed back in the direction of the main house. Her fingers tightened on his as she matched his long strides. “Where are you taking me?”
She knew she ought not to protest. That he was holding her hand in his and hauling her along for his impromptu journey was in itself as miraculous as his kisses had been. But she was so uncertain of where she stood with him. Her lips still tingled with the knowledge of his. Her body yet thrummed with desire.
“To the temple,” he said calmly, as if he had not just upended her world with his kisses. “I thought you might like to have a look inside.”
Such a thing could have waited for daylight. For a day when she had not spent hours traveling and frantically attempting to make Marchmont inhabitable. The Earl of Rayne escorting her, however, was a rarity indeed.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” She held her tongue about the rest, shivering at the realization of how different he was here. He was almost at home.
There was no doubt Alessandro did not find London to his liking. In Town, he had been a caged, wild animal. Here, he belonged. The land changed him. The home changed him. Even with the unexpected tumult and devastation they had arrived to, he seemed lighter somehow. More intense, though less unhappy.
Still a man at war with himself. But mayhap a man who could win the war rather than allow it to defeat him.
“You are shivering,” he observed into the silence, stopping on the path to shrug his jacket from his shoulders. “I am a beast to haul you all over Marchmont like this. Forgive me?”
She would have told him she was not cold at all, that rather it was her reaction to him and the subtle changes she noticed within him that made her shiver. But he was behind her, draping his coat over her shoulders, running his hands over her in soothing strokes to settle the garment into place. The jacket was warm from his body, and his scent drifted to her. Even had she been suddenly thrust into the midst of a sweltering desert, she would not have denied his coat.
“I will forgive you anything,” she told him.
“Ah, querida,” he said softly. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
She could not argue the point. “Very well. I shall forgive you most things. That is, perhaps, far more accurate.”
His hand was in hers again, and they were walking once more down the path.
“I am not even certain you should forgive me most things,” Alessandro told her, maneuvering them around a fallen branch obstructing the path.
One more sign of the lack of care the massive estate had been receiving in his absence.
“Half the things?” she suggested, seizing the sudden nonchalance of the moment, for she sensed it was what her husband needed.
“Which half?” he quipped, his tone rueful. “What would you not forgive me for?”
“I would not forgive you if you sent Olly away,” she said, returning to the cause which had so concerned her until he had distracted her on the path with the glistening lake and the looming temple and his soul-stealing kisses.
“What has the miscreant to do with either of us, hmm?” he asked, leading them to the left when the path before them diverged into two separate routes.
“He is a child,” she said, holding her breath after the words emerged from her. For Alessandro had told h
er he did not like children, just as he had told her he did not kiss on the mouth.
But he had kissed her tonight.
A child may be more than he could handle.
Particularly when the child in question was a rude, dirty little scamp with a pet mouse named Ashes.
“You want to keep the little pícaro?” he asked.
They wound around a bend. “What is a pícaro?”
“A rascal, a rogue.”
She frowned at him. “Olly is none of those things. He is a child. An innocent child, who cannot help the situation in which he has found himself.”
“A squatter with a pet rodent? You will have a child of your own soon. You would be better served to concern yourself with your future son.” His tone was cool, but his fingers had tightened on hers as he spoke.
Though something inside her melted at the mention of a child of her own, she was not about to give up her fight for Olly. There was something about the lad that tugged at her heart. “Surely you would not be so unfeeling as to send away a child in desperate need of a home.”
“I do not trust the little beggar.” Her husband’s tone was grim.
“Let it be my worry, not yours.”
“Enough talk of the scamp for tonight,” he bit out, leading her through a cove of trees and into a clearing.
Before them, the Temple of Artemis loomed larger than it had appeared from a distance, imposing in its grandeur. Breathtaking really, but not as breathtaking as the man holding her hand. The man whose jacket was draped over her shoulders.
Her husband.
“It is beautiful, Alessandro,” she said in awe.
Even through the darkness, she could discern the attention to detail. Corinthian columns, exquisitely carved statues, the entire temple rounded with a domed roof. She had never seen the like.
“I have not been within it since our arrival,” he said. “Judging from Marchmont, the interior may well be ruined.”
The most beautiful exterior could hide a damaged interior.
Alessandro was living proof of that.
“If it is, we will restore it to its former glory,” she told him, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.
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