Within the boathouse something had, but even now he had no idea what. What it was, what power had connived to sweep him so far beyond his customary control. Looking back, it felt as if some fate had intervened and handed the reins to his beast, denying his rational mind any say in how he took her.
Not that she’d helped, let alone seemed to mind. She’d given no sign that gentleness and tenderness were what she’d come to the boathouse, and him, to find; she’d had her own agenda, and that agenda had had more in common with his beast’s wishes than his more calm and logical side.
Although he hadn’t planned it, he’d had a definite vision of how this engagement would go, that he, calm and in control, would teach her, show her, introduce her to her own sensual nature…instead, she’d shown him something he hadn’t known about himself, regardless of whether she’d intended to or not.
She couldn’t have intended it; how would she, an innocent, have known?
Regardless, despite his vow of how their next encounter would go, having once indulged without restraint, screens or shields, he wasn’t sure it was possible to retreat and come together in any mild and gentle, distant and controlled way, without igniting that raging heat.
Without succumbing to passion’s relentless beat.
For the first time in his life, with a woman, he was unsure. Uncertain of where he stood sexually with her. He stared out at the surging waves. He would have to wait and see what she wanted, how she reacted; he would have to play by her wishes, be reactive and responsive to them, rather than make and follow any plan of his own.
That was an utterly alien concept—to have a woman calling his tune. So alien that he stood at the windows, staring unseeing at the waves, and tried to find some way, some path, around it.
Madeline watched him, let her gaze play over him. She’d woken the instant his weight had left the daybed, but had lain still and watched from beneath her lashes. He’d seemed distracted, mentally elsewhere; she saw no reason to refocus his attention—not until she’d looked her fill.
Like all the males of her acquaintance, he was totally at ease naked. She wasn’t all that bothered over being nude herself; it was more perceptions of modesty that ruled her actions, but with him, there had seemed little point.
With the remnants of golden pleasure still coursing her veins, she lay back on the daybed and studied him—noted the proud set of his head, the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips, the tight buttocks above his long, strong legs. Rider’s legs, she’d once heard them called, long thighs heavily but sleekly muscled.
He was like that all over; she could appreciate anew the light she’d earlier noted as it played over him, over the dimples and hollows, the muscle bands that shifted and contracted under taut, lightly bronzed skin…as he turned his head and caught her staring.
Somewhat to her surprise, no blush rose to her cheeks. Instead, she watched as he turned from the windows and walked toward her. Mouth drying, she stared some more—still not blushing, instead battling to keep a cat-eyeing-the-unguarded-cream smile from her face.
She just hoped she didn’t look too hungry.
The thought stirred her to action; sitting up, ignoring the silk shawl that had materialized over her as it slithered down to her waist, she reached across to the side table. Selecting a small bunch of grapes, she sat back, plucked one, and lifted it to her lips—and let her gaze travel once more to him. Noting with interest that despite their recent engagement he was again aroused, she reluctantly raised her gaze to his face.
And with becoming confidence, arched her brows.
Her question was transparent: What next?
He halted by the daybed; hands rising to his hips, he looked down at her—as if unsure what to make of her.
Indeed, she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of herself; she felt…not new but different. As if during the last hour he’d freed the sensual woman who had always dwelt inside her, and somehow integrated that hidden self into her whole so that she could now without a blink, with calm assurance and a better certainty of who and what she was, sit there, naked, and watch him, naked too, and calmly wait to see what he would do.
When he didn’t do anything but stare, a frown forming in his amber eyes, she leaned back against the raised head of the daybed, looked him in the eye—then plucked a grape and held it up to him.
He held her gaze for a fraught moment, then knelt on the daybed and with his lips took the grape from her fingers, then slumped beside her. He chewed, swallowed, then reached across and took the stem and remaining two grapes from her hand, plucked one and held it for her to take.
She met his eyes briefly, then did.
He popped the last grape into his mouth, tossed the stem back into the dish, then sighed and settled back. Lifting one arm, he slid it around her; drawing her in, he placed a kiss on her temple.
Settling against his chest, her hand splayed over his heart, she waited.
After a moment he said, “You…I didn’t think it would be…like it was.”
“In what way?” Looking up, she met his eyes. “You have to remember I haven’t done this before.” Regardless, she wasn’t such a ninny that she didn’t know he’d been, at the last, utterly sated.
The look on his face was one to treasure; it wasn’t often he was lost for words. Or rather, that he encountered so much difficulty over choosing which of the many replies that had plainly leapt to his tongue to give voice to.
Eventually, he said, “It wasn’t supposed to be so fast and furious.”
She studied him, raised her brows. “I rather like the fast and furious.”
“Obviously.” He hesitated, then asked, “Are you sore?”
She looked across the room, inwardly assessing, then shrugged. “Not especially.” Not more than if she’d ridden hard astride for several hours. There was a small degree of chafing, a little heat, but…She met his eyes. “Nothing that would prevent me from doing it all again.”
He searched her eyes, then shifted around to face her. “In that case…” Lifting one hand, he brushed back her wayward hair, feathered his fingers over her jaw. “Let’s try it again. Only this time we’ll aim for the slow and gentle.”
He tipped her face to his and kissed her—so gently, so tantalizingly she nearly growled with impatience. She drew back enough to say, “I’m rather fond of the fast and furious.”
“Nevertheless, in the interests of your education, let’s try it with less heat.”
Inwardly wondering why he would want to, she mentally shrugged, kissed him back, and let matters take their course.
Chapter 9
The following afternoon, Gervase paced the clifftop path where it joined the track down to the boathouse. His face was set; despite his triumph—his victory in seducing Madeline—nothing had gone as he’d planned.
Not the first time—nor the second.
With less heat had been his dictate. Instead, going slowly had only intensified the firestorm that had raged between them, fueled by passions far more primitive, more urgent and powerful than any he’d previously felt. Why that was so, where such passions came from, why she and no other evoked them in him he didn’t know, but again instead of him teaching her, it had been he who had had to grapple with stunning and startling revelations.
Not that she was teaching him; it was lying with her—joining with her—that opened a door to some novel and disconcerting landscape. She was as new to it as he, but that didn’t seem to bother her—not in the least. She’d embraced every aspect—the fast as well as the furious in their heated-beyond-imagining couplings—with a wholehearted eagerness, an open delight, that had only dragged him deeper.
Further under the thrall of…whatever it was.
Until yesterday he hadn’t known he—not even his beast—harbored such powerful and primal cravings.
He’d needed her, needed to be inside her, needed to see her, feel her writhing in abandon beneath him—and in that moment, he’d needed that more than he’d
needed to breathe. Even to live.
In that ultimate moment of madness that she and only she could reduce him to, his entire existence seemed to hinge…on her. On having her, on proving incontrovertibly, in the most explicit way, that she was his.
Raking one hand through his hair, he paced, stalked, inwardly more uncertain than he could recall ever being in his adult life. He’d never been dependent on another person, not for anything; he’d been an excellent operative because he worked alone, entirely self-sufficiently.
Now…
He drew in a breath and looked out over the sea. He needed a wife desperately, but did he need Madeline?
Did he need her and what she did to him?
Hoofbeats reached him; he turned, looked. They hadn’t made any plans to meet again, yet some part of him wasn’t surprised to see her.
At least one part of him leapt at the sight of her.
He’d ridden down to the boathouse and left Crusader there, then walked up to pace the clifftop where the breeze was fresh. She halted beside him; he caught her chestnut’s bridle as she slid from the saddle.
“I was coming to find you. I wanted to speak with you.” She came around the chestnut’s head, tugging off her gloves.
Speak with him? Her features were tight, her expression serious. “About what?”
She glanced up at him, pure Valkyrie, shield up, fully armored. “About yesterday.” Looking down, she tugged her glove free.
“Yesterday.” A chill inched down his spine. “What about yesterday?”
“Well…” Lips tight, she brushed back a lock of hair the wind had blown across her face. “I came to acknowledge your victory, and to tell you that while I enjoyed the interlude, I believe it would be unwise—seriously unwise—for us to indulge again.”
He opened his mouth—
She silenced him with an upraised hand. “No—hear me out.” She paused as if recalling a rehearsed speech, then went on, “I realize that you…that your interest in seducing me stemmed from boredom, as we originally discussed. You clearly saw me as a challenge, in your words ‘a conquest.’ However, now you’ve succeeded, no matter how…exciting and instructive the result, given who we are, given we’re so prominent in the neighborhood, given my brothers and your sisters, let alone Sybil and Muriel, given all those things I believe we should call a halt.” Drawing in a deep breath, she met his gaze. “Neither you nor I should court the sort of scandal that would ensue should a liaison between us become common knowledge.”
Gervase stared at her, struck dumb, not by her words but by his reaction, by the storm of emotions her intention had unleashed; they clawed and raged, threatening to swamp his mind and spill from his throat.
When he said nothing, she frowned. “I take it you agree?”
No! He scowled. “We can’t talk here.” Catching her hand, he changed his hold on her horse’s bridle. “Come to the boathouse.”
She tried to hang back. “Why can’t we talk here? There’s no one about and we can see for miles.”
“And someone miles away can see us.” Thank Heaven. He tugged until she stepped forward, then towed her along.
With an irritated humph, Madeline acquiesced. Reluctantly. She’d imagined having this discussion in the castle library; after all that had transpired in the boathouse yesterday, it was the very last place she would have chosen in which to bring their liaison to an end. But…he’d thrown her off-balance. After yesterday, she’d thought he’d be crowing, at least obviously smug. Instead…he looked grim, unhappy, dissatisfied. Why?
This was not a good time for her curiosity to raise its head. It should have had enough to keep it occupied after the events—and the consequent revelations—of yesterday. But no. So she allowed him to lead her to the boathouse, tie Artur up next to his big gray, then usher her inside.
He shut the door. She turned and faced him. “Now—”
“Not here.” He gestured to the stairs. “Upstairs.”
But at that even her curiosity balked. She frowned. “There’s no reason we can’t talk here.”
“Don’t be daft. I can barely make out your face.”
She couldn’t see his clearly either, but…she lifted her chin. “This won’t take long.”
Through the dimness, he met her gaze. A moment ticked by during which he plainly weighed his response; unbidden, an image of him tossing her over his shoulder and carting her upstairs popped into her mind. She blinked, instinctively tensed.
He growled and swung away. “I won’t discuss anything while I can’t see your face.” He made for the stairs and went up them two at a time.
Slack-jawed, she stared after him. Then she set her lips. “Damn it!” Going to the stairs, she climbed them—gracefully. It would be childish to stamp.
But she was determined not to go beyond the post at the stairhead. Luckily he’d stopped just along from the newel post, leaning back against the railings above the stairs. His arms were crossed, as were his ankles; he regarded her through narrowed eyes as she halted beside him.
“Let me see if I have this right.” He pinned her with a cuttingly sharp gaze. “After yesterday, your first foray into lovemaking, you’ve decided you’ve had enough and don’t need to learn anything more—is that correct?”
She steeled herself to utter the necessary lie. “Precisely.”
His gaze grew even sharper. “Didn’t you like it? What we did on the daybed?”
Eyes narrowing, she studied him; his face gave little away, but his eyes seemed unusually stormy. She remembered he’d been strangely bothered by the, as he’d labeled it, “fast and furious” tenor of their joining. Surely he couldn’t be worried over his performance, couldn’t be feeling guilty? She might have snorted, but she knew boys—men—well. “If I said I hadn’t enjoyed it, I’d be lying—as you’re perfectly well aware. However”—looking down, she tucked her gloves into the waistband of her riding skirt—“whether I enjoyed the interlude or not has nothing to do with my decision.”
Not a complete lie; it wasn’t her enjoyment per se but what she’d finally realized that enjoyment and the quality of it meant. Falling in love with Gervase Tregarth when she knew perfectly well he wasn’t in love with her was the very definition of unwise.
“I wanted to tell you—and have you agree”—she glanced at him but he was looking down, gaze fixed on a point in front of his boots; his jaw was set; he looked decidedly mulish—“that yesterday would be a solitary incident, never to be repeated. We—I—cannot afford to undermine my position in the district, not while I remain Harry’s surrogate.”
“No.” He lowered his arms, lifted his head.
She stared into hard hazel eyes. “What do you mean, no?”
Gervase drew in a breath, and recklessly embarked on the biggest gamble of his life. “I mean: No—that’s not why you’re running away.”
Her lips set; her eyes narrowed to slits. “I am not running away.”
“Yes, you are. You found yesterday exciting, fascinating, enthralling—and you’re frightened.”
“Frightened?” Eyes widening, she spread her hands. “Of what?”
“Of yourself. Of your own passionate nature. Of your own desires.” He held her gaze relentlessly and spoke clearly, dispassionately—with just a lick of contempt. And watched her spine stiffen, watched her temper spark.
With total deliberation, he uncrossed his legs, straightened away from the railing to face her—and poured oil on her fire. “You’re afraid of what you might learn if you continue to meet with me. You’re afraid of the woman you become in my arms, a woman whole, complete—all she could be.”
Her face blanked; she seemed shocked by the words that spilled from his lips, essentially without thought. Naturally. Although he was attributing the panic and fear to her, it was his own fears he was describing.
“You’re afraid of learning more, of what you might feel once you learn it all—experience it all. All that might be between us.”
With one hand he brus
hed back the hair haloing her face. She tensed, but allowed him to move nearer. Surprise and incipient anger warred in her eyes; had he been in control, his usual persuasive self, he would have capitalized on her temper, prodding it until she did as he wished, but having given voice to what was swirling inside him, having drawn this close to her, the focus of his roused and abraded emotions, he was no longer thinking clearly. Could only respond to the wariness in her eyes. “Don’t be afraid.” He leaned closer, brushed his lips to her temple. “There are times in life when one has to take a chance—make a leap of faith. When we simply have to…”
When he eased back, searching, she offered, “Step off the edge of a cliff?”
His lips twisted. “Nothing quite so fatal. More like setting sail and letting the winds take us where they will.”
In convincing her, he was convincing himself.
Her eyes remained on his, searching them, searching his face. He’d drawn close enough to trap her if he wished, but with an effort he kept his arms relaxed; she had to come to him willingly for him to win her.
Again her eyes narrowed. “You’re very good with words.”
He let his lips curve. “I’m even better with actions.” He held her gaze from a distance of mere inches. “Trust me.”
Moving slowly, he fastened his hands about her waist, let his gaze lower to her lips. “Just try it and see. There’s so much more you’ve yet to learn, yet to experience—and why not with me?”
A heartbeat passed, then two. He held his breath, not daring to look into her eyes in case she saw how important her answer was to him. How much she already meant to him.
Unexpectedly she sighed, long and resigned, then moved into his arms. “All right.” She tilted her face, lifted her lips. “But this is very definitely not wise.”
He accepted her offering with alacrity, covered her lips with his; the wave of relief that flooded him nearly brought him to his knees.
She was right; this wasn’t wise. It wasn’t even merely dangerous. It was unmitigated madness, on his part certainly—possibly on hers, too; Heaven knew he would never be an easy husband, but he couldn’t draw back, couldn’t deny this madness its due.
Stephanie Laurens - B 6 Beyond Seduction Page 18