Heat rose to burn her cheeks.
‘However...I cannot be sorry you ran away.’
‘I did not run away. I merely...merely...’
‘Yes? You merely...?’
‘I acted, as I thought, with discretion.’
‘Discretion. Ah, yes.’ He looked around, then brought his unsettling gaze back to her face. ‘I can see that.’
Indignation battled for supremacy over an irresistible desire to giggle. The giggle won. Leo laughed and relinquished his hold on Kamal’s rein.
‘I suggest we keep moving.’ He peered up through the bare branches laced over their heads. ‘I wonder if it’s cold enough to snow.’
Rosalind shivered—stopping for those few minutes had allowed the chill to penetrate her warm cloak. Leo wore a caped greatcoat, its collar pulled up against the cold. She urged Kamal into a canter and Leo followed suit.
Hector had been busily ranging far and wide amongst the trees, lost to sight for minutes at a time but now, with the increase in pace, he bounced on to the track in front of the horses and loped ahead of them.
Several minutes later the trees grew denser and the track narrowed. Leo held Conqueror back and allowed Rosalind to ride ahead. She steadied the pace, giving them both time to duck under the occasional low-growing branch. After a few minutes, even a trot was too fast, the low branches becoming more frequent. Rosalind slowed Kamal to a walk and, as she did, she heard a muttered curse from behind her. She twisted round and reined in Kamal with a gasp of horror. Leo had a nasty gash on his head.
‘You’re bleeding!’ She unhooked her leg from the pommel and slid to the ground. She barely noticed the mud that sucked at her half-boots. She was by Conqueror’s side in an instant, fumbling through the slit in her skirt for the handkerchief inside the pocket tied at her waist. ‘Here.’ She handed it up to him.
He took it, glanced at it and handed it back with a laugh. ‘I am far too badly injured for that scrap of lace to help.’ He brought out his own handkerchief. ‘In the absence of a bedsheet to staunch such a flow of blood, however, I shall have to make do with this.’
Rosalind laughed up at him, relieved he wasn’t badly injured, although the cut on his forehead bled freely, leaving a red trail down the side of his face. Whilst Leo staunched the flow, Rosalind trudged back along the path to collect his hat, which had been knocked from his head.
As she handed it back to him, she said, ‘I can tell the hunt has been this way. This path was not this badly churned when I walked here last week. I’m surprised it is not firmer underfoot with this cold weather.’
Leo scanned their surroundings. ‘The tree cover helps protect the ground from freezing.’
As Rosalind turned to head back to Kamal, the mud clung to her boot and she overbalanced. She flung her hands out and managed to stop herself falling flat on her face, but her gloves and the cuffs of her jacket were now covered in thick, sticky mud. Leo appeared by her side, supporting her elbow as she wriggled her foot to free it.
‘Ugh. Thank you.’ She trudged over to Kamal. ‘Sorry, lad.’ She wiped her gloved hands over the horse’s rump, leaving brown smears on his light grey coat. ‘I’ll clean it off when we get home, I promise.’
She gathered his reins and two large hands settled at her waist. Cool lips feathered a kiss beneath her ear, setting her pulse pounding and sparks of pure pleasure racing through her veins.
‘You need me.’ His breath whispered over her skin, raising a shiver.
Rosalind turned. He was so close. She tilted her head to look at him and he captured her lips as he snaked one arm beneath her cloak and around her waist, hauling her against the hard length of his body. She melted against him, his musky scent surrounding her as she wound her arms around his neck, reaching up on to her tiptoes as she clung to him, parting her lips in response to his demands.
This... Her heart swelled and she poured everything into her kiss, tasting him, revelling in the sensations that tugged deep inside—hot and exciting—committing them to memory. This was her chance to discover...she might never again be alone with him. She tugged her gloves off, heedless of where they fell, and spread her fingers through his thick, soft hair, mirroring the play of his tongue as he explored her mouth.
He cupped her bottom, pulling her hard against him, and she felt a solid ridge against her belly. A strange, aching pleasure gathered at the juncture of her thighs. She pressed closer still. Leo tore his lips from hers. Rosalind searched his face, spine-tinglingly aware of every inch where their bodies touched. His hat had fallen from his head again, but at least his wound now only trickled blood. She touched the wound with her forefinger.
‘That cut needs bathing. There is a stream at the end of this path.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘I remember.’ His voice deepened. ‘There is a shepherd’s hut nearby.’
Her insides tumbled crazily and her breath caught in her throat. She knew the place he meant: a single-roomed building at the edge of the wood, overlooking pasture. She had discovered it on one of her walks. Old Tom, Sir William’s shepherd, used it when he needed to stay close to the sheep at lambing time. She covered her reaction by stooping to pick up her discarded gloves. When she straightened, Leo settled his hands on her waist and swung her on to Kamal. Even through the thickness of her cloak each one of his fingers seemed to brand her flesh. Her throat constricted as a mixture of nerves, anticipation and yearning assaulted her—a flood of pure desire.
As the end of the path drew nearer, Freddie’s words whispered through her head, struggling to be heard above the headlong rush of blood through her veins.
‘Do not forget he believes you to be a widow.’
But the bit was tight between her teeth... She wanted more... She wanted this...wanted him. She was thirty years old and, until yesterday, had never even been kissed. And Leo’s kiss had awoken within her such longing...such need... How could she go to her grave without ever knowing what love...passion...felt like?
They reached the hut and Leo tethered the horses in a lean-to at the side whilst Rosalind hurried to the stream to dip her handkerchief in the water. When she returned, Leo was nowhere in sight. The horses stood quietly, side by side, mouthing at a few wisps of hay that littered the floor. Hector cast her a baleful look, but did not move from where he was curled in the corner. She walked around the hut to the door and went inside.
The hut was small and windowless, with a floor of beaten earth. The lime-washed stone walls reflected the light admitted by the open door, allowing Rosalind to discern a dark shape crouched by a hearth. A flame flickered, casting an orange glow over Leo’s face as a bundle of twigs caught fire. The spicy tang of wood smoke drifted across to tickle Rosalind’s nose, masking the not-unpleasant earthy smell inside the hut. As the fire flared, the smoke began to draw up the chimney.
‘Close the door, sweetheart, and come to the fire. The room will soon warm up.’
He spoke without looking at her, reaching to one side of the hearth to select a few larger sticks to add to the fire. Then he regained his feet and faced her. He radiated raw masculinity, his sheer presence dominating the hut, filling her vision, causing all her senses to come alive. Her stomach clenched and she clutched at her cloak, drawing it closer around her as the wood flared and crackled.
He tilted his head to one side. ‘Shall we leave? Do you not want to be here?’
If we leave, I shall never...
‘No. I do not want to go.’
She shut the door and skirted around the table in the middle of the hut, halting in front of Leo. She was close enough that he could scoop her into his embrace if he chose to do so, but he made no move to touch her. He held her in place with that mesmeric gaze of his and smiled. She took off her gloves, then reached up to remove his hat, putting them all on the table. In the light of the flames, she cleaned the blood from around h
is wound.
This was her choice. He had made that clear.
Rosalind cast her soiled handkerchief on to the table and then she took his hands.
‘You are sure?’
His deep voice was soothing. He stroked the backs of her hands with his thumbs. Reassuring. He released her hands and he, in his turn, removed Rosalind’s hat. Her lids drifted shut as he cradled her head and feathered tiny kisses, gentle as the brush of a moth’s wing, over her upturned face.
Slowly...excruciatingly slowly...his lips travelled across her skin until his mouth covered hers. Long fingers pushed through her hair, and she felt her hastily applied hairpins relinquish their grip and scatter. Her lips parted and he accepted the invitation, plundering relentlessly as his fingers teased her hair until it fell down her back in a heavy mass. He hefted it in his hands, a low growl vibrating through his chest, then combed his fingers through her tresses, spreading them around her shoulders.
‘Exquisite,’ he murmured. ‘You have no idea how I have dreamt about this: your hair unrestrained, slipping like silk through my fingers.’
He shrugged out of his greatcoat, dropping it on the floor, and then he undid the clasp of her cloak and cast it, too, aside. Rosalind pushed her hands beneath Leo’s jacket, slipped her arms around his waist and pressed herself to his firm body. His heat radiated through her, relaxing every muscle in her body and seemingly dissolving every bone, until her legs felt as though they could no longer support her. His scent enveloped her—musky and inherently male—and his hands slid between them, working the buttons of her jacket undone as his lips slid across hers, their tongues tangling. He cupped her breast then, with a muttered exclamation, he pushed her jacket from her shoulders and down her arms.
‘May I?’
The heat in his eyes captivated her. ‘Yes,’ she breathed.
He untied the drawstring of her chemisette and slipped the straps of her riding skirt from her shoulders. Rosalind kicked it aside as it pooled to the floor. She removed her chemisette and he paused to stroke the swell of her breasts above her corset with a moan of appreciation that fired her blood. He gently turned her and nibbled the side of her neck as he loosened her laces, reaching around to knead her breasts as her corset fell away. Rosalind leaned back against him, closing her eyes, pleasure darting through her with each tweak of her nipples. She tugged her shift off and, naked, she faced him, his jacket brushing against her sensitised breasts.
She reached for his waistcoat buttons.
‘I need to feel you against me.’
He smiled at her words—a tantalising smile that ignited an urgent fire deep inside her. He shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat, tore his neckcloth from around his neck and tugged his shirt from his breeches and over his head. She touched his hair-roughened chest, spreading her fingers, caressing the defined muscles and then tracking the hair as it arrowed temptingly downwards. Below his waistband a thick bulge strained at the buckskin and her pulse leapt as he reached for the fastenings.
She wound her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through the soft hair at his nape, and pulled his head down, kissing him ravenously, rubbing her breasts against his chest as desire burgeoned. He groaned, low and heartfelt, and urgency sparked in her blood, sending wild streaks of desire to the tender, swelling folds between her thighs.
He tore his lips from hers and dipped his head, sucking her nipple deep into his mouth. She whimpered, arching back, her fingers tangled in his hair as he suckled first one breast then the other. Then he lifted his head and studied her with a smile of pure masculine appreciation.
‘You are so beautiful.’
And he was so strong, so powerful next to her—innately male with his wide shoulders, broad chest and muscular arms, but the hot desire and the pure need in his eyes made her feel as though she were the one in control. The one with the power.
He straightened, lifting her, and took her lips in a slow, soothing kiss, sucking gently on her lower lip before crouching to spread his greatcoat and her cloak in front of the hearth. She delighted in the slide of smooth skin over muscle in the firelight and, when he looked up at her, in silent invitation, she went to him willingly, sinking to her knees beside him. Together they lay down, the fur lining of the cloak warm and sensual under her skin.
After that, she was sure of nothing. Fleeting moments of awareness were etched on her brain as Leo kissed and stroked every inch of her until his fingers slipped between her thighs. She tensed at the shocking intimacy of that touch.
‘Don’t...’ she breathed. ‘I can’t...’
He raised his head, his eyes dark, almost black.
He touched his forehead to hers. ‘Hush, now. Hush, my Rosie.’
His breath was warm on her cheek. He eased his body away from hers, but did not remove his hand. He remained still. Waiting. Watching.
A storm was gathering: intense, irresistible, inexorable. Forces deep within her were amassing, rolling over any resistance, smothering any doubt. She willed herself not to move, but the compulsion to do so swept over her and through her. Her lids drifted shut, her thighs parted and her hips tilted. His fingers moved once more, stroking, circling, pressing, his touch gentle but at the same time insistent. Wonderful, intensely intoxicating sensations swirled again, deep inside, overwhelming her. She moaned his name, pulling him over her, arching towards him. She wanted... She didn’t quite know what she wanted. She felt him move between her legs, pressing them wide with his weight as his hands scooped beneath her buttocks, lifting her as he drove into her with one deep powerful thrust.
Sharp pain sliced through her and her scream echoed around the hut as she raked at his shoulders, her eyes squeezed tight against the sudden scalding tears.
‘My God!’
Chapter Twelve
The words were torn from Leo’s throat, leaving it raw. He flung his head back, screwing his eyes shut, the tendons in his neck extended to near breaking point, unable at first to process what had happened.
Slowly, inescapably, the truth asserted itself.
A virgin!
The word shocked him into crystal clarity. How had he fallen for this trap? Was it a trap? Did she know who he was?
Would Frederick Allen appear, demanding he make an honest woman of her?
That hasty, whispered conversation between her and Rockbeare—punctuated by guilty glances in his direction—loomed large in his memory. Had Rockbeare told her the truth? He had called her Rosalind. They were obviously close...
He had come to her as Leo Boyton, not a bloody duke. Yesterday, she had told him they must always be chaperoned. She was worried about her reputation, insisted they must not tempt further indiscretions. Yet now, a mere day later, she had given herself to him. Sacrificed her virtue, for the chance to be a duchess.
It was not the first time a woman had tried to trap him into marriage, but it was the most brazen to date. Even Lady Deborah Wootton’s effort—when she had crept into his bedchamber at a house party and locked them both inside, throwing the key from the window—came nowhere near the desperation of this attempt.
And then sorrow seeped into his bones, dampening his rage. He had thought better of her, yet here was another woman who thought nothing of lies and manipulation to suit her own purposes.
Just like Margaret. Disillusionment crashed through him and he hauled in a ragged breath, thrusting aside all thought of his late wife.
‘You are—were—a virgin?’
His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. He was still buried to the hilt inside her and the urge to finish what he had started battled with his immediate impulse to leave. To banish this, and her, from his life and his memory.
He clung to the tenuous hold he had on his own control as he waited for her to respond. Her face was averted, her lids closed. He did, however, see the convulsive movement
of her slender throat as she swallowed and he forced down his rage. And his pain.
‘Rosalind?’
She shook her head—a negligible movement—and he caught the glint of tears on her lashes. He had two choices: he could withdraw and leave them both unsatisfied, or he could finish what they had started and then establish the truth. Whatever her motive for changing her mind, she had been a virgin and he had hurt her. And she must live with what she had done. He should at least demonstrate that pain was no normal part of lovemaking. He withdrew—an inch, no more—and pressed home again, savouring the tight, moist heat that gripped him.
Her eyes widened and, when he repeated the movement, she looked up at him. Her lips, swollen from his kisses, were parted and Leo wanted nothing more than to take her mouth as he took her body—plunder her mouth as he pounded out his own pleasure. It had been so long and she was so lush and tempting, lying beneath him where he had imagined her since the day they met by the river.
But...he reined in the impulse. He would give her pleasure and he would, without doubt, enjoy the ride in a physical sense. But he would not lose himself in her. He would not forget she had deceived him.
Leo let instinct take over. Hands and mouth moved without conscious thought over her petal-soft skin, gauging her spiralling tension and the increasingly urgent movement of her hips. He neither looked at her nor kissed her, although it was a constant battle not to do so as her sweet scent and breathy moans surrounded him and his own orgasm drew near. He reached to the place where they were joined and she arched beneath him, cried out and then shuddered beneath him, driving him so close to the edge he only just withdrew before spilling his seed. He collapsed on to her, then immediately rolled aside, retaining enough conscious thought to stop himself from gathering her into his arms.
She was already under his skin. Any tenderness now would make it harder to forget.
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