She laughed and turned along the path. “I have three older brothers. When we were children, they disappeared with their rods whenever they could.”
“And little sister followed?”
She inclined her head. “Whenever I could. Which was more frequently than my stepmother would have wished, but then she was one of the principal reasons I used to slip away.”
“You didn’t get along with her?”
“No, but my going fishing wasn’t only because of that. Much to her disgust, I was never particularly concerned with being a ‘proper little lady.’” She glanced back and caught his eye. “I was never little, for a start, and, of course, I was always being lectured that fishing was for boys, which only made me more determined to enjoy it.”
Jack smiled. He found no difficulty imagining a much younger Boadicea determinedly forging her own path through life. Elements of her background as James had described it floated across his mind; clearly willfull self-determination was a deeply ingrained trait.
She was drifting along the path, not strolling as they had been, but nevertheless moving on. He shifted, soundlessly followed. A beam of sunlight struck through the canopy and caught in her hair; it glowed richly, facets of blood-red garnet flaming in the dark mass of her chignon.
His fingers itched to slide into the silky weight. Burned to stroke the fine satin of her nape, the evocative curve exposed and vulnerable as she looked down at the path.
He closed the distance between them, caught her arm, drew her to face him, halted, and smoothly drew her into his arms.
She blinked, eyes widening as she realized. He smothered a gloating, too-hungry smile. “We haven’t yet celebrated our victory over Jones.”
She didn’t pull back, didn’t even tense; there was no recoil, no resistance in her. Her eyes searched his, then her brows rose lightly. “No—we haven’t.”
Her voice was a touch breathless, but there was no trepidation—no equivocation—in her lovely eyes. Her direct gaze sent desire lancing through him; she was waiting, calmly agreable, to see what he would do….
“I think we should.” He bent his head.
She lifted her lips. “So do I.”
Chapter 7
The kiss started innocently, a light brush of lips; that lasted for all of one second. Hunger erupted, unexpected, unprecedented, and roared through them both. Their lips fused, melded; she pressed closer as he gathered her to him.
Her lips parted beneath his, inviting, inciting; he plunged in, seized, plundered, and sensed her delight.
He molded her to him, urged on by the flagrant fire in her kiss, in the wordless but eloquent invitation she blatantly laid before him. She wanted as he did, with the same single-minded purpose, with the same urgency, the same need.
A need he for one didn’t fully understand, one that overwhelmed with just a kiss, that too easily—effortlessly—swept them into a conflagration that threatened and demanded but one end. An end they both transparently desired; she sank against him, her arms locked about his neck, her fingers spearing through his hair to hold him, to snare him, to willingly surrender to him.
Her wish was implicit in every shifting, seductive slide of her long, sumptuous body against his. In every shared gasp as they kissed, in every tantalizing stroke of her tongue against his. Desire answered, roaring through his veins, thudding in his fingertips.
Here. Now.
He heard the clamor clearly, sensed it not just in the throbbing hardness of his body but in the heated softness of hers.
But…the same instincts that had kept him alive through thirteen long years still functioned. It was unlikely anyone would venture by, yet they were in the open. Taking her here, now…no.
Such a coupling, however passionate and satisfying, would necessarily be restricted by their clothes, and when he first sank into Boadicea, he wanted her naked beneath him. Wanted to be naked, too, to feel her skin against his, feel the satin smoothness of her thighs grip his flanks as he rode her….
Not here, not now.
At least, not that.
Strategy, tactics, had long been second nature; he didn’t need to think but simply knew, as he toppled her hat from her head and eased her down to the thick grass, what would suffice for now, and pave the way for later.
Clarice sank to the grass, smelled the crisp tang as it crushed beneath them, felt the coolness of the earth only momentarily before it heated beneath her. And him. He was all hot, hard muscle, fluid strength and potent masculinity; at close quarters, he was devastating. She couldn’t think beyond the need to spread her hands across his naked chest.
But that wasn’t to be, not yet.
He lay beside her, propped on one elbow, one hard hand framing her face as, leaning over her, he plundered her mouth and besieged her senses. His body was close, yet not close enough. She ached to have him against her; she tried to draw him down, but he didn’t budge.
Instead he moved his hand from her jaw to her breast.
Pleasure, pure and sharp, arced through her, stole her breath, made her arch, pushing her breast more firmly into his hand, a flagrant invitation he accepted as his due. His long fingers firmed, stroked, caressed, through the fine muslin found her nipple and tempted, teased, then squeezed.
She forgot about breathing; it no longer seemed necessary. The sensations he pressed on her claimed her mind, claimed her senses. Set her wits whirling giddily, artfully pleasured as they’d never been.
So this was sensual delight.
At last.
Her body responded, unfurling, or so it seemed, like a rosebud beneath the sun. He was heat and she was yearning; he gave and she took. Or so it seemed.
She felt gentle tugs at her side, felt her bodice loosen.
Felt his fingers press aside the muslin and the fine lawn of her chemise to slide beneath and cup her breast. Skin to skin, the sensitive satin of her breast against his hard palm. She shuddered with sudden understanding, with anticipation and wonder.
Deep within, some emotion, some primal, until-now-buried compulsion stirred. Distantly aware of it, she let it rise, unconcerned, curious.
Then his lips left hers. Before she could summon enough decision to open her eyes, she felt the soft brush of his hair on her bare skin, immediately followed by the hot brand of his mouth.
His lips skated over the upper curve of her breast, and her lungs seized. Then he dipped his head; that scalding heat closed over her nipple, and she gasped, arched, felt more than heard a growl of male satisfaction and inwardly glowed, with a satisfaction of her own, one she’d never expected to feel.
Lips curving, she let her fingers firm on his skull, encouraged him to feast, caught her breath on a gasp when he did, rode out the blissful spike of pleasure, then let the desire that raced in its wake drive her, guide her.
She shifted, lifted beneath him; inexperienced, untutored, she might be, yet she knew enough, could guess enough. With her body she tempted him, lured him. There was no thought in her mind beyond seeing how much further the pleasure might stretch, how much more he might share with her.
He responded, not with any calculation but in instinctive reaction, with a shuddering gasp he couldn’t suppress, with a sudden tensing of muscles already tight, with a flaring of wholly male need.
His erection rode against her thigh, rigid, impressive, not threatening so much as tempting. She longed to reach down and caress him, to take that hardness into her palm and learn of it as he was learning her, but she couldn’t press her arm between them, not without pressing him back.
She cracked open her lids and glanced down, felt desire grip her as she watched him minister to her swollen flesh. From beneath his lids, his eyes flashed, and caught hers; he held her gaze as he slowly laved, then drew one nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth and suckled.
Her lids fell; a moan escaped her, a sound she’d never before made in her life. A sound of feminine need, of female entreaty.
He heard, but didn’t respond; all he
did was shift his attention to her other breast and make her moan again.
She wanted, throbbed with a need she’d never felt before, yet recognized. She knew what she wanted, was certain she could have it, if she dared. If she made her wishes plain.
Twisting beneath him, she slid one thigh against him, let her hip and thigh caress him, and was instantly rewarded. He sucked in a tight breath, held it, then he lifted his head, framed her jaw, held her face steady as his lips covered hers, as his tongue plunged between and ravaged her mouth.
Through her giddily whirling senses she felt the touch of spring air on her legs as he lifted her skirts and slid his hand beneath. Long fingers traced upward, over her stockinged knee, skated over her garter to lightly grip bare skin. For an instant, he savored, his palm running over the delicate skin of her upper thigh, then he reached higher, boldly touched her curls, stroked down, through, and parted her.
Slid one long finger into her.
She managed not to gasp, not to tremble at the unexpected invasion. For one moment, her struggle to suppress any reaction that would scream of just how unused to such easy intimacy she was distracted her. Then he shifted his hand, pressing deeper, then stroked.
Her mind fragmented, senses spinning, then abruptly refocusing as he repeated the act.
Again, and again.
Suddenly nothing else mattered. Nothing beyond the heat racing through her, the flames consuming her. The conflagration built, and built. Although his lips remained on hers, his body shielding hers while he pandered to her needs, while he gave her one element of what she wished, some part of his mind watched, cataloged, and gave her the ability to do the same.
To override the distraction of her panting breaths, her fiery skin, her ever-tightening nerves, and view the exchange critically, and see what they each drew from it.
Pleasure. For her physical and sensual, for him the same but in a different way.
He knew what he was doing; never once did she doubt it. He didn’t rush, but drove her steadily up some peak of sensation, held her there so they could both savor the moment, then coolly, calmly, tipped her over the edge.
Into sensual abandon, a state where her senses disintegrated in rapture, leaving her floating on waves of delight and golden pleasure.
Jack let her slide into the glory of aftermath. He drew back from their kiss, lifted his head to watch. He studied her face—blissfully radiant, more than relaxed—and felt vindicated. They’d both wanted; they’d both got.
Enough, for now.
Momentarily disengaged, his mind wandered. He hadn’t foreseen this when he’d initiated their “celebration.” He’d been pursuing his well-thought-out agenda; he’d forgotten Boadicea would have an agenda of her own. Fortunately, their agendas had been highly compatible. When he’d steered her down to the stream, he hadn’t envisaged anything so explicit, hadn’t imagined that, together, mutually intent, they could by mutual consent dispense with the preliminaries and conjure…heat enough to cinder all sense, to make it near impossible to think.
That heat had risen and engulfed them, igniting desire, sending it searing down their veins, driving them on, demanding more, whipping their senses with a lash of expectation and the promise of estatic delight.
For them both, expectation and promise still beckoned, still waited, not patiently, in the wings.
Her lashes fluttered, rose to reveal eyes dark and lustrous with passion. Her hands, lax on his shoulders, firmed, gripped. She urged him back down to her, lifted her lips as he obliged, and kissed him.
With a wholly feminine confidence. Never had any invitation to intimacy been so explicit; he felt it to his bones, felt its potency slide through him. He fought to resist. Not here, not now.
She didn’t have the same reservations. She drew back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Come to me…now.”
The last word glided over his lips, distilled temptation. He felt himself literally harden, muscles growing rigid with the effort to hold back. He savored her lips, but kept his mental distance, then drew back and murmured, “Not here. Not now.”
She opened her eyes and looked into his, searched them. Then asked, “When then? And where?”
The simple, straightforward, oh-so-direct questions sent lust spiraling through him; no equivocation, no obfuscation, no falsity. She wanted him, and knew he wanted her. He shifted in a vain attempt to ease the ache in his loins. “Soon.” The tension in the word had a smile teasing her lips. He held her gaze for an instant, then suggested, “Tonight?”
She didn’t nod, but her eyes, her expression signaled her wholehearted agreement. “Where?”
That was harder. Concentrating was difficult. The warmth they’d generated wafted the perfume from her skin, from her gorgeous breasts, bared and still swollen, elementally tempting; it combined with the headier scent of the slickness he’d drawn forth, an even more evocative invitation to sink his body into hers. Hardly surprising he could barely focus.
“Hmm…” Reluctantly he withdrew his fingers from the heated haven between her thighs.
“Not the rectory, and not the manor either.” Helpfully she stated the obvious.
He couldn’t bring himself to lift back from her, from the promise she embodied. “The folly on the hill—is it still habitable?”
Her lips curved. “Yes. And yes, that will do very nicely.”
He studied her smile, tempted to ask why “very nicely,” but he’d learn the answer soon enough. “Tonight, at the folly, after dark.”
Her smile deepened. She held his gaze, her own mysterious and yet open and direct. After a moment, her gaze lowered to his lips. “Are you going to let me up?”
Her tone suggested she was in two minds about what answer she wanted.
So he gave her the answer they would both prefer. “Eventually.”
Then he bent his head and again set his lips to hers.
Twilight was fading from the sky, leaving it a deep indigo flecked with brilliant stars, when Clarice slipped out of the rectory. She paused on the porch to draw in a deep breath, to savor the sweet smell of night-blooming flowers, then calmly flicked her shawl about her shoulders and set off down the drive.
The spring night closed around her, familiar yet, tonight, faintly exotic, spiced with the subtle thrill of impending adventure. She often walked in the evening; no one would miss her until morning, and she would be back long before then.
Her expectations of the coming hours wound her nerves tight, sent excitement sliding down her veins. Normally she walked simply to ease the energy pent up inside her; tonight, she turned out of the gate accepting that when she returned, she might well be exhausted.
She didn’t truly know what to expect, not specifically. She didn’t even know whether she would enjoy the exercise, but she wanted to find out.
With Jack Warnefleet, she could. With him she would finally learn about those aspects of herself, the sensual, elementally female aspects that she’d thought would remain forever untried, unbroached.
She’d parted from him when they’d reached the rectory; he’d gone to talk with James while she’d turned her attention to the numerous household matters awaiting her decree. Countless times over the ensuing hours, she’d asked herself whether she was mad, or if it was a case of her reckless, hedonistic streak, the one her stepmother so deplored, overcoming her good sense.
Viewing the question dispassionately, she rather thought the latter was indeed true. But what she couldn’t quite fathom was why, after all these years of quiet, even docile existence, it had taken Jack Warnefleet less than twenty-four hours to bring that long-buried part of her not just back to her surface, but back in full strength.
Back in mature strength; she felt the impulse to act, to seize and wrest from life what she wanted, far more powerfully than she had before, seven and more long years ago.
She crossed the stream at the stone bridge, then left the road. Climbing over a stile, she unerringly followed the path through the lower me
adow and up the gentle hill that commanded the upper reaches of the valley; built high on stilts, the folly sat within a small wood just below the crown. From the valley, the folly was all but invisible, but from the single room high in the canopies, the views were extensive, an arcadian panorama of quiet valley and distantly burbling stream, of woods and orchards and green pastures.
The folly belonged to the manor; it was on manor lands, but no one from there or anywhere else visited any longer. She’d discovered it within a month of coming to Avening, on one of her first nighttime walks. It had fallen into disrepair, so she’d claimed it as her place, something no one from either the manor or the rectory had thought odd, or had questioned. She’d spent her own money to have the shingles repaired and the leaks in the roof patched, the windows reset and the floor restored. Howlett had volunteered furniture from the manor’s attics. Connimore had taken to sending up two maids every few weeks to dust and sweep, while she had brought what comforts she wished—a rug, books, cushions, and more—from the rectory.
Passing into the cooler, denser shadows of the trees surrounding the folly, she looked ahead, senses sharpening, anticipation digging in its spurs.
He would have come via the other path, the one that led directly from the manor. Both paths cut through the trees to converge before the folly; as she stepped out from the shadows into the small clearing, she noted the door at the top of the wooden stairs was open, propped wide.
No candle glowed, no shadow stirred behind the wide windows of the room high above, but she was the only one who ever came this way; he was already there, waiting.
She climbed the stairs; they still creaked, an oddly comforting sound. The door at the top opened directly into the single room that was the folly; she went in, and, through the gloom, saw him. Waiting, as she’d supposed.
He was sitting in one of the cane armchairs, shoulders wide against the chair’s broad back, one booted ankle balanced on his knee, elbow on the chair arm, jaw resting on his fist, his eyes fixed on the doorway, on her.
A Fine Passion Page 13