If Love Were Enough

by Quill, Suzanne

If love were enough, would she not have had Robert’s child and heir? She had developed a loving relationship with him over their ten years of marriage.

  If love were enough, would Thomas and Anne be at such odds, cheating, lying, and hurting one another? Wouldn’t they tell each other how they felt and build a deeper, more caring and lasting marriage.

  Brandon needed to go back to his dying father and marry Estella. He needed an heir of his own. A wife of his own. A life that would go on without her.

  She had responsibilities to the many people who had cared for Robert and her. She had to protect them from the destruction she had no doubt Damon would cause.

  She wrapped her arms around her pillow; snuggled her head against the sateen sheets.

  Maybe sleep would help. Maybe it would clear her head, ease her heart, regain her perspective and purpose. After all, she had come back to her childhood home for one reason.

  To conceive a son.

  What should it matter how she felt about the child’s father. Brandon would never know about him. And, more than likely, he would not care.

  She, after all, was just a momentary diversion for him until he returned home to mourn his father’s passing and marry his childhood friend.

  As her eyelids became heavy and exhaustion took her, she promised herself, tomorrow she would complete her task. No matter what, she would consummate her relationship with Brandon to beget the child, the boy, she needed to save Robert’s title and lands.

  Whatever she felt for Brandon and the loss of him, would just have to be the price she paid for her son.

  Chapter 17

  Priscilla threw herself on the back of her horse. No sooner was she seated than she rode off as if the fires of hell were after her.

  And were they not?

  She’d had a fitful night’s sleep filled with dreams of passion and Brandon, but upon awakening, the questions and the doubts returned. Could she go through with this charade now that her feelings for Brandon were growing so strong? Could she lie to him when she was learning so much, caring so much, about him? He was not the irresponsible rake she had expected, had counted on.

  She dared not stay in her room. She had no doubt Brandon would find her as soon as he could, either there or at breakfast.

  What would she say to him then?

  How could she excuse her behavior? What honest reason could she give him for shutting him out last night, especially after their lovemaking in the afternoon before Anne, once again, intruded into their serenity? How could she explain to him how she was trying to honor her marital vows and responsibilities when she planned to take his seed for her own purposes?

  What were those vows worth since Robert was dead?

  Was she avoiding the intimacy he offered? Or was she afraid of the other feelings that were intensifying?

  Her heart ached.

  If she gave herself over to him, could she stand it when he left to return to his father and his betrothed, or she was forced to go back to Northumberland and face what awaited her there with or without the child?

  Was it better to have loved and lost than never to have risked mind, body, and even soul?

  Wind rushed through her hair as her white mare, Shaharazade, raced over hills she had ridden almost daily as a child and young adult. Rather than guide her horse, she let the mare run free, jealous she could not grasp such freedom, such exhilaration for her own.

  All too soon, the horse tired herself out and headed back toward the stables for a good brushing and food.

  Priscilla was no farther along in her ruminations. She slid from the saddle, handing the reins to the groom. Without a look back, she headed for the rear entry to the manse.

  How long she could avoid her fate she had no idea.

  Brandon rang for his valet, Simpson, and got dressed. The skeptical looks he’d received from beneath his valet’s bushy gray eyebrows told him there was much discussion and apprehension from the recent events at the manor. Of course, the man knew his place and would be the last to voice his concerns. But it was enough to make Brandon wonder how all of this was playing out in the minds of those around him.

  He guessed the other guests were caught up in their own pleasures, but the staff was another story. Still . . .

  With his toilette complete and his person dressed and presentable, he made his way to Priscilla’s rooms. Knocking, however, did no good as no one answered the door. When he tried the handle it turned easily in his hand opening to an empty room which verified his quarry had already fled.

  He made for the dining room. On his way he met a number of maids cleaning and polishing. It must be earlier in the day than he had thought. He asked each about Lady Rutherford but each denied having seen her.

  The table and the sideboard were empty of occupants with the exception of the attending butler and footman when he entered the dining room. He ate and left to continue his search.

  Knowing she was not in the house, Brandon decided to take the shortest course to the stables. Just maybe she had gone riding again and he could catch her when she returned.

  He was in the back hallway heading toward the door when it opened.

  He had only moments to take in her beautiful, flushed face. Upon seeing him seconds later, it drained of all color. The riding habit she wore gave proof she had, indeed, been riding. Before she had blanched she had looked much the better for it. Rather as she had the afternoon before in the throes of her passion, before Anne’s latest drama had disrupted their intimacy.

  “My lady.” Brandon gave her his lowest most respectful bow.

  “My lord. I have just returned from riding the countryside on Shaharazade.” She was studiously pulling her riding gloves off long graceful fingers, her eyes averted, making no move to draw nearer.

  It took all of his concentration to keep his mind from developing that thought into a sexual encounter. “I have not been out, but understand it’s a fine day for a ride. Are you too tired for a walk in the garden, Lady Rutherford?” That would be the safest, most neutral place to talk with her at this moment. His room or hers would hold too much unvoiced innuendo and intimacy.

  He could almost see the relief flash across her face. “Yes, my lord, it’s a lovely day. A walk in the garden would be most genial.”

  He walked toward her, his arm raised in invitation. He stifled a sigh of relief when she placed her ungloved hand upon his sleeve. He ushered her through the still open door, then shut it behind them.

  “I think the rose garden should do,” Priscilla said in a quiet voice. “The path to the right will take us there. With the warmth of the day the scents should be heavenly.”

  Wanting to win back her friendship and trust, he said, “Roses it will be. The aromas will be wonderful after being cooped up in the manse all morning.”

  They walked in silence. Upon reaching the roses, they meandered down the different paths and over a small bridge. The stream below gurgled its way down to the nearby river.

  The other side held a huge, old oak tree and offered a shaded bench. Brandon took her hand and pulled her beneath the branches into the dappled shade. Taking a moment to see if anyone was watching them, he settled her on the bench then followed suit beside her. Priscilla’s face was turned away from him.

  “Cilla, we must talk about last night.”

  She still did not face him, only lowered her head as if regretful. Her hand went to her pendant once again and she worried it along its chain. “I’m so sorry, Brandon. I was too exhausted and confused to continue what we had started earlier. Thomas and Anne’s relationship and my own with Robert make me question what a woman and a man should mean to each other.”

  “I think you had the best of intentions, Cilla.” Now her face turned toward him. “I regret you would not let me comfort you. Talk to you. Try to understand wha
t you were thinking, feeling. I’m sorry.”

  “You are not at fault, Brandon.”

  He raised her face by lifting her chin with his forefinger. “Cilla, I want you. You know that. But I am willing to wait until you are ready, or at least stay as long as I can until my father calls for me to go home.”

  “But I have little to offer. I have been a failure as a woman and a wife. Why would you want to even bother? I cannot even offer you the experience Anne has had to be a tolerable mistress.”

  “You are much too hard on yourself, Cilla. How can you take fault when your husband was old and sick and thus impotent. Did he ever accuse you of lacking?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide, stunned at his question. “No. Never. He was always kind to me. I did all that he asked, anything he asked.”

  “Then you have more experience than many. And, even if you had none at all, it would not matter as whatever happens between us will be ours alone.”

  Brandon took in a deep breath as he stared past their shelter into the garden. The scent of blossoming roses filled the air around them. The sky was a pure spring blue with just a scattering of soft-looking, fluffy clouds floating by beyond the leafy limbs sheltering them from the sun.

  He took another breath, deep and full, girding his loins before he asked the next question. With thumb and forefinger he tipped her face back to his so he could look into the depths of her eyes.

  “Cilla, have you never looked at a man and wanted him, wanted to make love to and with him?”

  Her answer came out in a whisper he might not have heard if she had not been facing him. “No. Never. Never . . . until you.”

  As her answer filled his entire being with hope, he lowered his lips to hers. This time he did not brush her lips. He pressed his firmly against hers, slid his arms around her to pull her lithe body against him. He exalted in the feeling of her breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth trembling against his.

  With delicacy learned from his prior years as a rake, he teased her lips open then captured her mouth to stroke her tongue with his own.

  He felt the tremor that coursed through them both, but could not tell whether he had responded to her or she to him.

  When he felt her arms lift to encircle his neck and heard the small gasp, he deepened their kisses, marshaling his need in his tenuous grasp.

  “I want you, Cilla,” he confessed, his lips still close to hers, their eyes locked. “I want you like I have never wanted any other woman. And, there is not a woman here, Anne or any of the others, who can sate this need I have deep inside of me. It has to be you. Only you.”

  He lifted a hand to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

  “Let me be the one, Cilla. Let me be the one to be first to make love to you, with you. I promise you will not regret it. And, I will cherish the memory the rest of my life.” He knew he was holding his breath, waiting for the answer that would either devastate or elate him.

  “Yes, Brandon," she said, her voice still a sigh. "It was meant to be you. I cannot hold out any longer. I want you to want me, to need me, to take me.”

  He kissed her again, a long sensuous retreat into intimacy. The he rose from the bench, his hand extended, his gaze intent on her.

  With the slightest of nods, she placed her hand in his, rose from the bench and followed him in silence toward the house.

  Chapter 18

  Moments later, Brandon opened his bed chamber door then turned to extend his hand to Cilla in invitation. He wrapped his fingers around hers when she gave him her hand, then she followed him in.

  The room was warm and welcoming, with a small fire in the hearth to take the chill off the cool morning air coming through the open French doors. All had been put to rights and the bed newly made up with fresh linens.

  He paused to close and lock the door behind them.

  This time there would be no interruptions.

  As he plied gentle kisses on her sensitive throat and his tongue caressed the shell of her ear, his hands drifted around her to untie the tapes of her gown, slide it off her shoulders. As the garment slid to the carpet, his palms were filled with the warm heat of her breasts, sheltered by the sheer pale silk of her chemise. He massaged, kneaded.

  Priscilla moaned as she leaned against him.

  He pulled the ribbon to release the sheltering fabric, then slid his hands beneath the silk to fondle her sensuous breasts, delighted there were no other layers to hinder his attentions.

  Her nipples pearled from his ministrations.

  His body ached for her, made all the more painful since he was still fully clothed.

  “Let me get some of these clothes off.” He hardly recognized his own voice it was so rough with his passion.

  “Let me do it.” Cilla slid his fitted jacket down and off, tossing it away when it was free. She unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, tearing the shirttails out of his trousers as he shifted to assist, then removing both in one languid move. He led her to the bed.

  She paused, looking at his body in the firelight.

  “You are so beautiful, Brandon.” She placed her soft hands on his chest then moved them about, touching, feeling, caressing, and discovering. “You are so hard.” She squeezed his shoulders, his upper arms.

  At that moment, those were not the places he was thinking of. Her attentions were bringing him close to the end of his tether.

  “I want to taste you. All of you.” She leaned forward and swirled her tongue across one of his small nipples. Then she pushed him backward onto the bed, laying down next to him and pressing her weight along his length.

  His mind was lost to thought. He could only feel. He could only feel her.

  She kissed him . . . wild, wet kisses on his chest, his throat, his ear. When she took his mouth her kisses were bewitching, enticing, demanding.

  He drew her to him moaning when the firm, lush skin of her breasts pressed against his chest.

  But she broke the kiss, pushed back and trailed her lips down his body. She nibbled at his skin. Took the fine, coarse hairs of his chest between her teeth and tugged.

  His sex was throbbing. His need escalating.

  Her hands slid up his thighs, over his trousers to the waistband. He lifted his head, watched her, entranced as she unfastened his pants and slid them down his legs, lifting his hips, her breasts rubbing his skin along the way. She slipped off his shoes, his hose, then dragged off his trousers.

  She sat at his feet, looking down upon him. Naked as the day he was born, she studied him. His sex stood like a sword waiting for its owner to grasp the hilt and wield it.

  Then she dragged her body up his legs again.

  He groaned.

  Then her hot, wet mouth took him in, suckled, licked, and caressed.

  He dropped his head to the bed. He had not the strength to hold it up while she pleasured him so.

  He reached his hand into her hair, stroked her head.

  His lips called her name. “Cilla. Cilla. Cilla.” Over and over in a desperation filled with his need and passion.

  He could take no more lest he spill his seed too soon. He sat up and grabbed her upper arms pulling her up over him, glorying in the feel of their bodies brushing together. When the length of her lay over the length of him, he ravished her mouth and rolled her onto her back.

  She broke their kiss. “I was not finished yet.” Her voice sulky and seductive.

  “I would have finished too soon if I let you go on.” He answered as he moved down her body. Taking one nipple into his mouth, he suckled and taunted while his hand squeezed and caressed her other breast.

  He could feel the tension rise in her; she was moving under him, touching him, pressing up to him.

  He trailed his fingertips along her skin. Her body quiver
ed under his touch.

  When he came to the fur that sheltered her treasures, he released her breast to lean back on his hips and watch.

  The fine muff was red in the glow from the hearth. He stroked it and watched as she writhed beneath his fingers.

  She wanted more.

  And he was going to give it to her.

  He would give her everything. Everything she had been denied for more than ten years.

  His fingers slid between her thighs, pressed lightly. She spread her legs slightly, still cautious, or maybe embarrassed by their intimacy.

  He pressed them wider then stroked the flesh, hot and wet, revealed.

  He felt a tremor course through her entire body as a soft moan escaped her lips.

  Encouraged, Brandon slid two fingers over the pearl of her passion. The contraction had her hips lifting from the bed.

  He smiled. She was so passionate.

  When she resettled, he slid his two fingers deep inside her, stroking, caressing, inciting.

  She crooned his name. “Brandon. Brandon. Please.”

  “Yes, my love. Soon. Very soon.”

  He stroked her faster, deeper, feeling the fine barrier with the tips of his fingers but not penetrating it.

  “Brandon!” She was so close. But there would be pain and he wanted to make sure he could get her past it.

  “Brandon, please.”

  He moved over her then. Nudged her legs a little farther apart so he could settle between them.

  At first, he lay still over her, his sex nestled in the warm, wet thatch at the apex of her legs, his weight on his elbows beside her head so he would not crush her.

  “Kiss me, Cilla. Kiss me now.” He took her mouth urgently; her tongue surged in to meet his.

  He thrust into her in one deft movement. He did not stop when he felt her body jerk back from the momentary pain. He thrust in again stroking her, pressing his hips to hers, his tongue battling hers for control in her mouth as their joining reached for conjunction, completion.