Alec’s control was fast slipping. He didn’t know why Cressida wanted to seduce him tonight; he didn’t care. He was going mad over her, with her pert tongue and soft eyes and that contemplative way she looked at him with one corner of her mouth crooked upward and her head tilted to one side to tease him with the sight of her bare neck. Perhaps she had been contemplating…this, he thought, burying his hands in the silky fall of her hair. Lord knew he had thought about it long enough to be in danger of completely losing his head as she clung to him and ran her own hands over him. He wanted to make love to her tenderly, with all the decency and delicacy she deserved, and he wanted to rip the blasted nightdress away and ride her until they both expired from bliss. He suspected she wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t know, and therefore he should be more restrained, if not call a halt to things altogether—
“I want to feel you inside me,” she said in a throaty whisper that made him even harder and completely wiped away the thought of stopping. Her hands moved down and cupped him through his trousers, and Alec had to hold his breath to keep from coming right then. With a muttered curse he pushed her nightdress out of the way. Her knees rose beside him as he finally slid his fingers through the damp curls between her legs, right into the wet heat of her body. She arched her neck and her eyes rolled back in her head, and Alec was lost.
He wrenched off his boots and shed his trousers and undergarments. She sat up and pulled the shirt over his head, and then she was in his arms again, her smooth, soft skin against his. He touched her again, but she was already wet, lifting her hips and pushing against his fingers.
“Please,” she begged. She licked her fingertip and ran her hand over the plane of her belly to touch herself. Alec shuddered; the sight of her pleasuring herself was almost unbearable. He slid one finger, then two, inside her, stroking in and out while watching her swirl her finger over that secret, feminine spot until it seemed his eyes were burning. A fine sweat broke out on his brow and his hands shook. Abruptly he caught her hand, sucking her finger between his lips to taste her for a moment. She reached for him with her other hand, and he caught both her wrists, pinning her hands above her head as he finally took his erection in hand and thrust deep inside her.
Cressida gasped. Her arms tensed, but not enough to break his grip. He raised his head and paused, but she shook her head wildly. That gasp had been one of pure carnal pleasure. Incapable of speech, she hooked one leg around his waist and raised her hips to meet his next thrust.
It was needy and hungry, as if neither could hold back. He let go of her hands so he could cup her breast, flicking his thumb across the nipple before lowering his head to take it into his mouth. Cressida ran her hands over his shoulders and arms, scraping her nails along the muscles that bunched and stretched as he moved above her, inside her, filling her body and her heart.
She felt her climax begin to collect in her belly as her nerves strained taut. She gripped Alec’s arms until she must have hurt him but instead he just kissed her deeply, and changed his rhythm, angling his hips to drive into her differently. She returned his kiss and felt tears slide down her cheeks as release crashed through her in a wave of heat. Alec’s back went rigid under her fists and he shuddered in his own climax.
Neither moved for a while. Cressida kept her eyes tightly closed, clinging to the feeling of utter contentment and happiness. She didn’t want to leave his arms, or this bed. It had been a risk—still was a risk—to make love with Alec, but it was one she wouldn’t hesitate to take again. Again and again and again, if possible, and as often as necessary to secure his heart as he had secured hers. Cressida knew she was so deeply in love, she was willing to risk ruin and heartbreak for him.
Alec dragged up his head and looked down at her. Flushed with passion, smiling up at him as she held him in her arms, Cressida Turner was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He had been attracted to her from the moment she pointed a pistol at him in her stable. He had come to respect her strength, to admire her honesty and decency, to find her dry humor entertaining, to value her trust. Now he knew it was more than attraction and admiration. He was fascinated and charmed, unable to imagine life without her. Alec had never been a romantic, sentimental man, but when she smiled at him like this, his heart swelled with more happiness than he could ever recall feeling in his life.
“This is not over,” he said through ragged breathing. “This is not enough. I want you—not just tonight—”
“I know,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers through his hair. “I know, love.” That word was balm on his soul. He wasn’t making any sense anyway. With a deep sigh, he rested his cheek against her breast, listening to the rapid beat of her heart, and felt complete peace for the first time in years.
He came awake suddenly, with the sense that someone was watching him. From long habit Alec lay perfectly still, listening, only to realize within a minute who must be breathing beside him, watching him intently enough to wake him.
She had rolled onto her side and propped her head on one arm. Her hair fell in a glorious wild tangle around her bare shoulders and breasts. In the soft glow of dawn she was beautiful, and Alec’s heart took an unexpected leap at the sight of her in his bed. He could quickly become accustomed to waking up to this sight.
But her eyes were somber, and her lush mouth turned down. Belatedly he realized she was staring at the long scars that crossed his chest. It had been too dark to see them when she pulled off his shirt.
“They don’t hurt,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“They must have, once.”
That was obvious. “Long ago.”
Finally she raised her eyes to his. “You suffered much more than you want anyone here to know, didn’t you?”
Alec shook his head. “Not from these.” He touched the longest scar, the one that ran from his collarbone down over his ribs. “Not even this one.”
“I don’t believe you.” She reached out. His muscles tensed as she touched him, running her fingers down the same scar.
“I was unconscious most of the time that one was at its worst.”
Her face crinkled up a little, and even though she smiled he sensed her hurt. “You won’t tell me, will you? You don’t have to tell me; everyone has their secrets, and we’re not even all that well-acquainted—”
Alec had to laugh then. “You can say that, as we lie here in bed naked together?” He turned onto his side, facing her, and brushed her hair back over her shoulder to expose her small, plump breasts. His hand lingered at her cheek, and her eyes half closed with pleasure. His body, already primed in the usual morning way, sprang to full arousal. God, how he could get used to this. He cupped the back of her alluring neck and rubbed slow, gentle circles. “I should say we’ve become rather intimately acquainted.”
She looked away, blushing. “Yes, in that way. But that’s not the same as knowing each other. Believe me, I know the difference.”
He dropped his hand from her neck. “Of course,” he murmured. “You’re right.” He took her hand in his and placed it on his hip, where the oldest scar began. “This one came in Portugal, after Vimeira. I came upon a French foot soldier who had stayed behind his regiment to loot. It’s hard to say which of us was more surprised to see the other, but he panicked first, leaping at me like a madman and slashing out with his sword. I was too dumbstruck to do more than yell, and the scoundrel got away.” He carried her hand to the long, faint line down his left forearm. “This was courtesy of a Spanish guerrilla whose aim wasn’t all it ought to have been. He was most likely drunk as a lord, but he didn’t even hit my shooting arm.”
“Did you shoot him then?”
He shrugged. “Had to. The ball went off my arm into my horse’s neck and killed the poor beast. I wasn’t sure I could outrun even a drunk Spaniard with blood dripping down my arm.”
She gave a shocked little gasp. “No!”
Alec grinned, a little shamefaced. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? I didn’t even kill the fe
llow. My hand was shaking so hard—from anger that he’d killed my horse, mind you—it was all I could do to pull the trigger. Fortunately for me, just returning fire was enough to send him running.”
Her fingers ran along the track the ball had left. “Good,” she said in a low voice. She touched the star-shaped mark above his hip. “And this?”
“Waterloo. A French lance.” He looked at it. “I don’t remember getting it.”
“And this is also Waterloo, isn’t it?” Slowly, she drew her finger along the longest slash, the one that probably would have taken off his head if the sword hadn’t hit his collarbone. Alec knew how ugly it was. The flesh had knit, but not smoothly at all. Still, the light pressure of her finger over each bump and pucker seemed to send sparks across his skin. He hadn’t been a monk, certainly not in the army and not even in the last five years, but he had never been to bed with a woman who seemed so intrigued by every scarred, battered inch of him. In fact, after Waterloo, he’d never taken off his shirt to make love to a woman. But then, he had never really wanted to be acquainted with them; it had been a hunger to slake, nothing more. This was something more, and he found he wanted to tell Cressida about his deformities.
She had traced the scar to its end. “Yes,” he said in answer to her question. “Nearly the last thing I remember about the battle itself. By then I had command of a brigade of dragoons under Uxbridge. We took them utterly by surprise when we charged; Bonaparte’s men threw down their guns and fled in front of us. The charge was so successful many dragoons overshot the objective and wound up directly under the French guns. I was attempting to turn my men back into position when a cuirassier caught up to me.” And for just a moment, he could feel again the icy burn of steel slicing his flesh and see the contorted face of the French cuirassier who slashed him. He had thought it might be the last face he ever saw, and remembered cursing that it had to be an ugly Frenchman instead of a pretty woman.
“It must have been dreadful,” she whispered, feeling his involuntary flinch.
“It was,” he agreed flatly. “Everything about Waterloo was dreadful.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no reason to be. It’s done and over with.” Alec shook off the memory, sinking back into the soft seduction of her touch and interest. “Although I never dreamed it would so fascinate you.”
She smiled slowly—almost shyly. “You fascinate me.” She shifted, somehow inching nearer. “What else?”
“Bloodthirsty wench,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s the worst of it.”
“What about your back?” He blinked, and she slipped one arm over him to stroke his shoulder. Alec winced as her palm crossed the marks left by the splinters of an earl’s town coach blown apart by a powder keg. He’d almost forgotten about those scars, which somehow were even more disgusting to him. He was glad the marks of his spying were on his back, where he never had to see them even if he could still feel them.
Cressida snatched her hand away at his expression. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” He sat up and twisted to turn his back to her. Even in the weak early light, she saw dozens of tiny scars spattered over his broad back. Unlike the others, none of these looked lethal or dangerous, but there were so many of them…“In London,” he said, watching her over his shoulder. “Just several weeks ago.”
She gasped. “In London! But how—?”
“Spying is little better than the army, in that regard.” He put his hands on his thighs and shrugged. “I had supposed there was less chance of being blown up, but then I was caught in the middle of an assassination attempt, and nearly didn’t escape it. If not for another agent shouting a warning to me, I would have been standing right next to the powder keg when it exploded.”
“What happened?”
“I was assigned as a footman to an earl’s household. Some rabble wanted to kill him—and they nearly did so, not fifty yards from Carlton House.” She gaped at him. Alec smiled grimly. “So you see, perhaps you have not been sent the most successful agent. They ought to have sent Sinclair to help you. He unraveled the whole plot, and saved the earl’s daughter in the bargain.”
“But the earl?”
He shrugged again. “I dragged him down the street as far as I could and then fell on top of him when the keg exploded. There’s a bloody lot of wood in a coach; I thought it would never stop falling, and finally a bit of it caught me just right on the head. Or so they told me later. I seem to have a knack for getting in the way of anything dangerous.”
She rose up on her knees and put her arms around his shoulders before pressing a long, soft kiss at the back of his neck. “I’m glad they sent you,” she whispered. “I would have shot that Sinclair man on sight in my stable.”
Alec smiled. He shook his head. Then he broke into real laughter. “I doubt it. Harry’s a better-looking chap, and he’s got the devil’s own charm with ladies—although now that he’s to be married, I’m sure his wife will be very pleased you never had the chance to shoot him at all. But enough about my misadventures.” He twisted suddenly, and the next thing Cressida knew she was flat on her back with him looming over her. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs as his brilliant blue gaze moved over her. “Do you have any scars?”
“No,” she said. “I thought I did, here”—she touched her breast, right above her heart—“but it’s small and old.”
His absorbed gaze moved from where her hand lay to her face. “The navy lieutenant.”
“Yes.” Even now she felt a twinge of humiliation. “His name was Edward,” she said. “He was very dashing, and so charming. My sister had just married, and I was left much to my own devices. When he asked me to marry him…” She paused to gather herself. “Well, it was the first time a man paid me any attention and it went to my head. I was very foolish.”
Something in her voice must have given her away, for his expression grew still and dangerous. She forced a smile. “By the time he told me we couldn’t be married after all, I feared I was with child. Granny had warned us and warned us about girls who let gentlemen have their way, and there I was, about to disgrace myself and her.”
The muscles of his arms and shoulders flexed. Something changed in his face, subtly but ominously. “Any man who leaves a woman in that condition,” he said quietly, “should be shot.”
Her heart fluttered. “That is when I learned to use a pistol,” she told him. “But a week later, when I knew I was not expecting his child, I was glad he had gone. I was a fool, and I learned a hard lesson, but I didn’t have to pay for years and years…”
“Like your sister did,” he finished for her.
She gave a tiny nod. “Yes.”
He touched the spot above her heart, his hand sliding naturally around her breast as he stroked her skin, almost as if to rub away the hurt. Her breath caught. “I can’t feel the scar there at all anymore,” she murmured.
He smiled, a wolfish, predatory smile. “That’s the way of it, when they heal.” He molded his fingers to her flesh, pinching up her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and sending a ripple of shudders down her spine. “Has it healed?”
Cressida arched into his caress. “Yes,” she said breathlessly.
“Are you certain? Perhaps I should check.” He lowered his head, and her hands fisted in the sheets as he kissed her there, his breath hot on her skin. It’s healed, she thought as his mouth moved over her breast with tantalizing slowness. Completely, now that you’re here. She cupped her hands over his shoulders, holding him to her. Already warmth was spreading through her as he licked her nipple, then caught it between his teeth lightly.
He rose up on his knees and sat back. For a moment he paused, surveying her spread before him with unmistakable male appreciation. Of course they had already made love and his hands had been all over her—even inside her—but it had been dark then; Cressida blushed and squirmed, self-conscious at being so bare before him.
“Don’t,” he said, catching her hand when she made a motion to cover herself. “I want to see you.”
“I’m not much of a beauty,” she said, then wished she had kept her mouth closed. Why would she want to point that out to him now?
He raised his eyebrows. His hands were running down the insides of her thighs in a very distracting manner. “I beg to disagree. No—that is insufficient. You are absolutely, utterly wrong to say that when I find every inch of you beautiful.”
“Every inch?” She couldn’t help laughing.
“Indeed.” He took hold of her ankle. “Lovely ankles, trim and neat.” He stroked her calf. “Slim, strong legs, well-turned with exercise.” She laughed as he palmed her hips in his hands. “Lovely hips,” he said fervently. “A perfect waist.” She tried to push his hand away, and he brought her fingers to his lips. “Elegant hands, but strong and capable. Also very steady, which is helpful when aiming a pistol.” Cressida cringed, and he grinned. “Arms, the perfect length and diameter. Beautiful breasts…” He cupped one lightly. “More than beautiful, now that I consider the point.” Still fondling her, he cocked his head. “Stunningly beautiful.”
Cressida smiled, knowing her face must be four shades of red. She was not used to being admired, let alone so brazenly. It was arousing and awkward at the same time, but he stole another piece of her heart with his playfulness.
“And I could look at your face for the rest of my life and never grow tired of it.” She gaped at him, and he leaned down to press a kiss on her mouth. “Even if you will persist in looking at me as if I’ve just gone mad.”
“Perhaps you have,” she exclaimed.
For Your Arms Only Page 23