She was talking about far more than the temple. But she held her tongue as they made their way to the entrance. In the spell of the moonlight, the temple was even more beautiful at such proximity. They stopped before a closed door flanked with statues on either side. In the ethereal glow, she could see enough details to discern one was Apollo and the other was Artemis.
“Wait here for me,” he said as the door swung open. “I will see if there are candles within, or if that bastardo has robbed them as well.”
She did as he asked, remaining on the threshold. Moonbeams cut through the darkness of the interior, casting circular patterns of light on the stone floor. A series of windows lined the domed roof, allowing the illumination.
Alessandro’s shadowy figure was at the far end of the room. The familiar sound of him striking a flame echoed, and then, one by one, he lit the candles in a candelabra. Warm light glowed, flickering through the cavernous temple. But she only had eyes for her husband. He was handsome, so very handsome. The intensity in his gaze stole her breath.
He extended a hand to her. “You may enter, querida. Watch your step over the threshold.”
She moved inside, as inescapably drawn to him as ever. The interior of the building was circular, studded with alcoves bearing statuary. The effect of the moonbeams, the soft candle light, and the Greek gods and goddesses standing as silent sentinels, Alessandro in the middle of it all, was nothing short of magical. She placed her hand in his.
As always, the touch of his bare skin upon hers sent a jolt of desire straight through her. He emanated heat. His dark eyes devoured her.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said softly.
“When I was a lad, I would hide from my nurse here. It was one of my favorite places. The view of the lake is unparalleled.”
The notion of a young Alessandro touched her heart. “Why did you hide from your nurse?” She wanted to know.
“She was a miserable crone,” he said. “Chosen for me by the earl. She refused to allow me to speak en español, which was my mother’s preferred tongue. If I did not speak English, she rapped my knuckles with a wooden rod.”
Her fingers tightened over his, and the protective urge to hunt down his horrid nurse and break a wooden rod over her head could not be stymied. “How awful, Alessandro. Why would your father employ such a creature?”
“He was looking after the best interest of the earldom.” He flashed her a self-deprecating smile. “He was taken with my mother’s beauty, but he had always hoped his son would be born pale-skinned and fair-haired. I had my mother’s dark skin, hair, and eyes. He reasoned if he could not change the way I looked, he could at least control the rest.”
“I am sorry.” How awful it must have been for him not to be accepted as he was by his own father. Little wonder he had fled England. “I cannot believe he would allow that wretched woman to abuse you.”
“It was a long time ago now, querida.” He placed the candelabra on a ledge, at the base of a statue of Zeus. “I am a far cry from the helpless lad who needed to seek concealment here.”
Of course he was. He was all male, undeniably. Tall and strong, lean and harsh, masculine and muscled. But that did not mean he did not still bear the scars of his past. She could not shake the feeling that slowly, bit by bit, she was beginning to understand the man she had married.
There was nothing helpless about him now, and yet she still saw the boy he must have been. She stepped closer to him. “Alessandro—”
“No,” he bit out, interrupting what she had been about to say. “Do not. Do not look at me with your heart in your eyes. Do not look at me as if I am anything more than the man who married you to get an heir on you and then leave you. Because that is all this is. That is all we are to each other, Catriona.”
He was pushing back. Trying to create distance between them.
But he had kissed her. On the lips.
It was too late for the pretense he was not attracted to her or affected by her, and she was not about to allow him to get away with the suggestion theirs was nothing more than a marriage of convenience.
Her every plan previously constructed on the carriage ride to Marchmont flitted away. Feigning disinterest was impossible. Because she was not just losing her heart to the man who had led her here, she had already lost it.
She was in love with the Earl of Rayne.
“If that is all we are, then kiss me again,” she dared him, trembling. Emotion as vast as the seas overcame her. She had never felt anything like it. “Kiss me again and walk away.”
“Maldición,” he said. “You know I cannot.”
And then, his lips were once more on hers.
Chapter Eighteen
He did not know what his original intention had been in bringing his wife to the Temple of Artemis. All he did know was that she was too kind, too caring, too good. Far too good.
Just like her lips.
Cristo, this woman’s mouth.
Kissing Catriona was a revelation, lighting him up from the inside, just as the candelabra had illuminated the temple. His body was aflame. His cock was rigid, straining against the fall of his breeches.
He was awash in contradiction, too. His heart was confused. Coming here to Marchmont with Catriona had been a mistake. It stripped him raw. Memories, always memories. Of his sire, his mother, of the child he had been, of the injustices he had experienced.
Being here reminded him he had never had the chance to bring Maria.
But it also reminded him he was alive.
The same way kissing his wife did.
And she was responsive. So damned responsive. Her full lips opened exquisitely to the pressure of his. His tongue was in her mouth, claiming her, tasting her again. Sweetness and tea, mysteries and woman, and pure Catriona.
Nothing else mattered but her in his arms, her sweet mewls of pleasure, the way her fingers tightened on his hair. Nothing mattered but kissing her, having her, taking her.
For she was his, was she not?
He could take her, could he not?
He told himself doing so would be duty. He could not have an heir if he did not bed her. There it was. A reason. The guilt which ordinarily assailed him whenever he was in her presence was muffled now beneath the crushing tide of the inevitable. If he wanted to return to Spain and the war effort, he had to get a child on her. Kissing her with this in mind did not feel like treachery so much as it felt like duty. Delicious duty, to be sure. He had never been tempted to take another woman’s mouth. Not until her. In the years since Maria’s death, he had gradually found the ability to slake his needs. He had bedded women, much to his shame. But he had never kissed them on the mouth.
Catriona’s lips had been the first. And as if he were a dying man in the desert, newly led to water, he could not slake his thirst fast enough. He kissed her with bruising force, one of his hands grabbing her chignon and angling her to just the right position. His other hand was on her waist, anchoring her to him.
Her breasts were crushed against his chest. Her tongue met his, kissing with a fervor to match his. It proved his undoing. If she had stood still, allowing him to ravish her mouth, he could have controlled himself.
But she was as eager for him as he was for her.
Blood thundered through him.
His cock was so hard, he feared he would spend in his breeches if she cupped him once more as she had earlier on the path.
He told himself he was performing a duty as he moved them to the wall, kissing her as they went. But every part of him knew it for the lie it was. Catriona affected him in a way he had not anticipated. In a way he had not believed possible. And now that his lips had owned hers, he could not seem to stop. His mouth on hers was as natural as breathing.
He did not cease moving until her back was against the wall. His hand slid from her hair to her neck, cupping the base of her head as he deepened the kiss. But it was not enough. Never enough. He had to be inside her.
Both his hands f
ound her waist, and he withdrew his lips from hers with the greatest of self-restraint. Her breaths were as ragged as his. He stared down at her in the warm flicker of the candles. She was so beautiful, she made him ache.
He did not deserve this woman, and he knew it. He was battle-scarred and life-scarred. He was broken. Imperfect. Flawed. He would never be the proper lord his father had intended for him to be. He would never be the husband Catriona deserved.
But he was selfish. She was his.
And he had lost the reins of his control.
He spun her around. Dipping his head, he pressed a fervent kiss to the nape of her neck as his hands sought hers. Clasping her wrists in a gentle hold, he guided her hands to the wall.
“Brace yourself,” he told her. For a moment, his hands settled over hers.
To their left, the statue of Zeus towered, immense and forbidding. To their right, a marble of Venus proudly watched over their folly. The moment was perfect. The woman was perfect. He was imperfect.
Cristo, how very flawed he was.
But she was his, and he was ready to worship her. He released his hold on her and sank to his knees. With one hand, he pinned the hem of her gown to her waist. With the other, he found the delicate curve of her calf, following it all the way to the sensitive dip behind her knee. Over stockings and garters. Finding bare skin above it, her thigh, then higher still.
Mierda, her hips were luscious and beautiful. She was a miracle of femininity, her body a study in softness and ferocity, in supple grace and reluctant surrender. He could not resist memorizing every part of her with his lips and tongue.
First, his mouth.
A kiss on the back of her right thigh, just above the tie of her garter. Bare skin, warm and feminine and silken. Then her left thigh next. Gloriosa. His fist tightening on her trapped hem, he kissed his way to the treasure he sought, her sex.
He guided her thighs apart, kissing her center. He licked along her slit, parting her with his tongue. She tasted good. Musky, life-affirming, and sweet. His cock swelled as his tongue dipped inside her.
She made a soft sound of surprise, then a low moan. He stimulated the needy bud at the same time until she was arching her back, her knees buckling as she came on a wild cry of release.
With the taste of her sweeter than honey on his tongue, he stood. Alessandro undid the fall of his breeches, and his cock sprang free, rigid and ready. He held his breath as he guided himself to her entrance. She was slick and hot, kissing his tip with wetness and pure temptation.
“Are you ready, querida?” he asked against her ear.
She nodded, her breaths emerging as short little pants.
He bit her earlobe gently, tormenting them both by sliding home just a bit deeper. “I did not hear you. Tell me you want me.”
“Oh.” The word sounded torn from her, half-moan, half-sob. She pressed her bottom into his groin, seeking more.
He kissed her throat. “Say it.”
“I want you.” The admission was a plea now.
“Sí,” he growled, all he could manage.
In the next instant, he plunged inside her to the hilt. Cristo, she was all tight, slick heat. Gripping him with so much force he almost came after one pump. Reining in his rampaging lust, he withdrew from her almost entirely before rocking back into her.
Their rhythm was easy and tinged with desperation. They moved together in the semi-darkness, their ragged breaths and low sounds of need echoing in the stone walls of the temple. The pleasure bursting down his spine was so forceful, he could not resist. Pumping in and out of her, her silken depths welcoming him, he knew he would not last long. He wanted her too much. She felt too good.
His ballocks tightened. He moved faster, driven by the need to claim. He wanted to bury himself inside her so deep, to plant his seed in her womb. Duty, he told himself. El deber. Nothing more.
But she did not feel like a duty in his arms. Her cunny did not feel like an obligation. She felt like perfection. Like desire. Like raw need. He pumped harder, repositioning her so he could drive into her at a better angle. Even deeper.
Dios, it was so good. She felt so good. Too good.
She tightened around him, convulsing as she spent once more.
And he was lost.
On a roar, he thrust, filling her with the torrent of his release. He came so hard he thought his heart would pound out of his chest. So hard, a blinding flash of light exploded across his vision.
Struggling to catch his breath, he leaned against her back, holding both of them upright against the wall of the temple. One of the tapers on the candelabra burned itself out. Then another.
He withdrew from her body at last, using a handkerchief to clean first her, and then himself. The sight of her pale, rounded arse and legs in the moonlight were unbearably erotic. She said nothing as he tended to her. With a muttered curse, he flipped her gown back down, then restored his breeches to proper order.
Artemis mocked him from across the chamber.
El deber, he reminded himself pointedly.
“The hour grows late,” he told Catriona as yet another candle burned itself down to a nub. An omen, perhaps. “We should return.”
She spun around to face him at last, and even in the dim light, he could see the faint rose in her cheeks. “Alessandro?”
“Sí, querida?” he bit out, angry with himself for his lack of control.
“Gracias,” she told him with a tender smile, and then she threaded her fingers through his once more.
And with that lone word and gesture, the anger burning inside him sputtered out just like the next candle.
Mierda.
*
Hours after he had taken his wife, Alessandro was prowling the dark halls of Marchmont. He had escorted Catriona back to the main house, seeing her to her chamber before doing the cowardly thing and leaving her to settle for the evening alone.
Though he was beyond weary, exhausted from travel and the trials of finding his home pillaged and abandoned, and sated from the heights of pleasure he had reached with his wife, sleep eluded him. His mind was a jumbled confusion of past and present, of regret and guilt, of need and desire. His chest was heavy with the weight of knowledge.
Tonight, he had crossed boundaries with Catriona he could not uncross.
Biting back a curse, Alessandro stalked to the study that had belonged to his father. Like every other part of Marchmont, he recognized each creaky floorboard, every last stick of furniture, even though it had been years since he had last been within these walls. This chamber was no different as he settled the brace of candles he had been carrying with him upon his father’s desk.
He skirted the mahogany, Grecian-inspired monstrosity. The heads of the gods were carved on each of the four legs supporting it. His father had requested his own likeness carved into the chair. Alessandro slid his fingers over the familiar dips and planes, the fleshy pad of his forefinger finding the almost indiscernible crack in his father’s prominent nose.
Once, when he had been angry at the former earl as a child, he had lopped the nose right off with one of his knives. In a fit of panic, he had later returned and glued the nose into place without his sire ever being the wiser. Indeed, his father had died without ever knowing the nose upon his prized chair had once been savaged by his only son.
Alessandro lowered himself to the chair, staring into the flickering play of light and shadow before him. The art in this room remained hung upon the walls, he noted now. There had not been time to investigate earlier, pressed as he had been to attempt to find some suitable staff to work Marchmont back into its former state of elegance and grace.
But how ironic it was that his thieving steward had only stolen the portraits from the gallery, where he had clearly presumed the most valuable paintings hung. The last Earl of Rayne had kept his most treasured paintings within this very chamber, and thank Dios they had not been the victim of water damage, flame, or outright thievery. The Titian and Caravaggio still ornamen
ted the wall in the same place of honor he remembered from his youth.
Sitting in his sire’s chair felt damned odd.
Wrong.
As wrong as kissing Catriona on the mouth should have felt. But kissing her had not felt wrong at all. Rather, it had felt necessary. It had felt like the beginning and the end, all at once. It had felt as if he had always been meant to feel her lips move beneath his, as if he would perish of hunger without the chance.
Hell.
He stood as if the chair had been fashioned of flame, and in a sense, it was. The burning pain of his past. The boy he had once been confronting the man he was. If he recalled correctly, his father had always kept brandy on his sideboard. Years had passed, but it was possible, he reasoned, his bastardo of a steward had not stolen the liquor stores as well.
Raking his fingers through his hair, he reached the sideboard and plucked up a decanter.
“I would not, were I you.”
The voice, unexpected and small, coming from somewhere within the shadows at the opposite end of the room, had a sudden and intense effect upon him.
“Cristo!” he bit out, slamming the decanter back atop the sideboard with so much force he was surprised it had not shattered. “Who is there?”
“Bramwell was fond of blue ruin,” added the voice, unrepentant. “But his swill is sure enough to make you ill. I drank some of it myself one night, and I spent the evening casting up my accounts in the gardens.”
Gritting his teeth, he searched through the darkness for the source of the voice, for he already instinctively knew its owner.
The little beggar.
Olly.
The dirty, unkempt creature his wife was determined to take under her wing. The same dirty, unkempt creature he was determined to send to the village.
“And what were you doing, drinking gin, pícaro?” he asked. “You can have no more than eight years of age.”
“Twelve,” said the lad from a far corner of the room.
“Twelve?” he raised a brow, scanning the darkness for signs of the imp. “Surely not. When I was twelve, my voice was becoming a man’s, and I had already begun to grow whiskers.”
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