by Candace Camp
CALLIE CAME SLOWLY AWAKE, aware first that it was very hot and, secondly, that something very heavy was weighing her down. Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself gazing at a large expanse of firm flesh, with hair prickling her nose. She blinked, and in another moment she was fully awake. The heat came from Brom’s large body, which she lay against, her cheek on his chest. And the heavy weight was his arm thrown across her.
Memories of the night before came flooding back in on her, and she smiled to herself. A woman of greater virtue, she thought, would doubtless have been embarrassed, even ashamed. She, however, was bursting with happiness; there was no room in her for any other feeling.
Despite the heat, she lay there for a moment longer, luxuriating in the new feeling of her body, alive with the imprint of last night’s pleasures and pleasantly sore.
Finally she eased out of bed, letting the coverlet fall back over Brom’s body. She glanced about the room ruefully. Their clothes were scattered all over. Remembering the few faint ripping sounds as they undressed, she suspected that her garments might not be in wearable condition anymore. It was a good thing that she had brought several additional frocks in her bag.
The fire had died to ashes, but she scarcely noticed the cold as she made her way over to the window. The room was still dim, but the light that came in through the slit in the draperies made her think that it was already long past sunrise. She pulled aside a corner of the thick drape and looked out. It was indeed morning; the landscape was washed with sunshine. She let the curtain fall and turned back to the room.
Her dress lay in a heap in front of a chair; her petticoats were tossed over the foot of the bed; her boots were several feet apart. And her chemise was a crumpled little ball near the door. She made her way around the room, picking up her clothes.
As she turned back toward the bed, she saw Bromwell, braced on one elbow, watching her. She gasped, dropping the garments in her surprise.
He smiled. “Ah, now that is much better. Those clothes were hiding far too much.”
“What are you doing?” she scolded. “You scared me!”
“Watching you,” he replied.
“Why did you not speak? I didn’t know you were awake.”
“I know. That made it all the more enjoyable,” he replied, grinning unrepentantly.
She bent down to retrieve her clothes, holding them in front of her, her cheeks high with color.
“Nay. Do not hide yourself,” he said. “I like to look at you.”
Callie smiled a little, feeling strangely shy and yet excited, too, the now-familiar warmth stealing through her loins. “’Tis scarcely fair, as you are modestly covered.”
That was not quite true, as the cover had slid down to his waist, and she could see the full expanse of his chest and arms, which, she would be the first to admit, was a very nice sight.
Brom grinned and reached down to flip the covers aside. “There. You may look as much as I.”
Her cheeks flushed as her eyes of their own volition ran down his body, taking in the tanned, firm flesh, the smooth curve of muscle, as well as the unmistakable sign that he was already aroused.
“Oh!” she said, her eyes widening and her blush deepening. But she found that the sight of his thickening staff deepened the heat that was already alive in her.
“Yes,” he admitted, grinning. “I am a slave to you.”
“A slave to your own base desires, I should say,” she told him saucily, but she dropped the garments and strolled over to the bed, her faint embarrassment overridden by the tingle of pleasure that went through her as his eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, roamed her body.
“Only where you are concerned,” he assured her, reaching out to grab her arm and pull her the last few inches to the bed.
He turned to sit on the edge of the mattress, bracing his heels, and put his hands on her hips, pulling her up against him. Callie smiled into his eyes and put her hands on his shoulders, moving them slowly down and back up, then lower over his chest. She could feel his arousal pushing against her abdomen, and it made her smile wickedly.
“You enjoy that, don’t you?” he growled, nuzzling into her neck. “The thought of making me suffer.”
“No,” she disputed, trailing her fingernails lightly down his chest. “’Tis the thought of ending your suffering that makes me smile.”
He laughed, his breath hot on her neck, and nipped lightly at the taut cord. “That, my lady, you are welcome to do.”
With those words, his arms went around her and he pulled her back onto the bed with him, rolling over quickly so that she was beneath him. Pulling her arms above her head, he anchored them with one hand and proceeded to kiss his way down her body. His lips lingered over her skin, taking his time as he explored her. She writhed, tugging at her hands, but he continued to hold them trapped beneath his.
“Nay, not yet,” he murmured. “First it is my turn to pleasure you. Then you may have your way.”
He made slow, sweet love to her with his mouth and hands, bringing her closer and closer to that wild, delicious burst of passion that she had experienced the night before. But each time, as she drew near, trembling and eager, he retreated, only to bring her to the heights again.
As his mouth loved her breasts, his fingers sought out the hot, throbbing center of her desire, gliding over the slick folds and smoothing over the tiny nub deep within them. She arched up against him, almost sobbing in her need. At last his fingers tightened on her, rhythmically stroking, until she tensed all over and a high, small cry issued from her mouth as pleasure washed through her in deep waves.
Callie lay, looking up at Brom through dark, slumbrous eyes. He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips, then moved between her legs.
“Oh, no,” Callie said huskily, smiling up at him. She braced her hands on his chest and pushed him over onto his back.
He went easily, grinning up at her. “What? That is enough for you? You want to stop?”
“No, not stop. Postpone. It is my turn now, remember? You said that I could have my way with you next.”
His grin broadened. “So I did. Tell me, my lady, what do you have planned?”
“I think that I shall make it up as I go along,” Callie retorted. “I am just learning, you remember.”
He linked his hands behind his head, assuming a relaxed pose, despite the unmistakable evidence of his desire springing up between his legs. “Feel free to improvise, then.”
Callie moved over him, straddling him, and his eyes darkened with desire. She slid her hands across his chest, exploring his thoroughly masculine body. Her hands were firm upon him, finding the different textures of hard bone and springing muscle, smooth skin and wiry hair. Her fingers glided over his flat nipples, teasing them to hard life; then she bent and applied her mouth to them as he had done to her, lashing and stroking and circling until they were engorged and hard as pebbles, their color a deep, dark rose.
She sat up, shifting her body a little on his, and a low moan escaped him at her movement. Callie smiled sensually and moved again, feeling him stir and throb against her. She rubbed her body over him, exciting herself as much as him as flesh slipped over flesh, the wiry hair on his chest delicately abrading her supremely sensitive nipples.
His hands went to her hips to move her down onto his swollen shaft, but Callie smiled and shook her head. “Oh, no, not yet. I have not had my way nearly enough. Why, I haven’t even kissed you.”
She went down on all fours above him, moving up a little until her face was over his. She gazed down at him. His skin was stretched taut over his facial bones, his mouth full and sensual, and his eyes blazed with feverish light. He had long since given up his casual pose with his hands locked behind his head. They now gripped the cover beneath him, tightly holding on to his control.
Callie bent and kissed his forehead lightly, brushing her lips against his skin. She made her way down his face, kissing the tender skin of his closed eyelids, the sharp cheekbones t
hat fascinated her, the strong masculine jaw and chin, settling finally on his mouth. She kissed him deeply and long. She could feel his muscles bunch and gather beneath her, and she knew that he was twitching and burning as she had done earlier.
She raised her head and slid off his body. He made a noise of protest and reached for her, but she pushed his hand away and began to kiss her way down his chest as her hand slid farther down his body. Her fingers glided light as air over his chest and stomach, then down onto the sharp outcropping of his hipbone and onto his thigh, furred with curling hair. He stirred, his legs moving restlessly, and made a low noise.
Her fingers teased back up the inside of his thigh, until her fingertips found the heavy sac between his legs. She hesitated a little timidly, then gently moved her fingertips across it. He sucked in his breath and moved his hips involuntarily.
“Do you like that?” she whispered, pressing her lips against his throat.
His answer was a low, urgent noise.
“I shall take that as agreement,” she said, and cupped him in her palm.
He shivered beneath her gentle movements, and she grew bolder, sliding her fingers up the underside of his manhood and curving her fingers around it. She moved slowly, exploring the satin-smooth skin that overlay the hard member, which was throbbing now with desire.
Then, with a low growl, he put his hands on her arms, and in one swift motion, she was on her back and he was over her, between her legs and smoothly sliding into her. Callie let out a soft sob, so sweet was the feeling of his filling her again. She wrapped herself around him, holding on tightly as he rode hard and fast to his completion, taking her with him into the dazzling explosion of their desire.
THEY LAY FOR A LONG TIME in a blissful state, floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Callie was curled on her side, her head on Brom’s arm, and his arm draped over her. She felt deliciously spent and lazy, and her mind drifted in a pleasant haze.
Finally, however, with a sigh, Bromwell moved his arm away, saying, “I must go into town and hire a post chaise.”
“Later,” Callie murmured, snuggling back against him.
He chuckled and stroked his hand down the side of her body. “Vixen. You cannot tempt me from my purpose.”
She turned her head, casting a sparkling glance his way. “Is that a challenge?”
He laughed and planted a kiss upon the point of her bare shoulder. “No, for I know I should not win that one.”
He kissed her mouth then, more slowly, but pulled away after a moment, saying, “No. I must go. We must get you back to London before anyone knows you are gone.”
She nodded, realizing the truth of his words, though she was reluctant to give up this moment. Once she left Blackfriars Cope, everything would change.
Bromwell did not bother to scoop up his clothing, only grabbing his boots as he left the room to return to his bedchamber and dress. With a sigh, Callie, too, arose. It was chilly in the room, so she wrapped herself in the same light blanket that Brom had given her the night before when he brought her in from the rain.
She picked up her bag and pulled out the change of clothes that her maid had packed. Fortunately she had had the foresight to pack a simple morning dress that buttoned up the front, so that it was easy enough to put on without help. It was rather wrinkled, but there would be no one to see, and it would soon enough be wrinkled from traveling, anyway.
Brom came in a few minutes later, once again dressed, bringing with him a pitcher of water for the washstand, and told her that he was going down to see if the housekeeper had shown up for work this morning.
Callie quickly washed and dressed, brushing out her tangled hair with some difficulty and pinning it up into a simple knot at the crown of her head. Then she hurried down the stairs and made her way toward the back of the house, following the sounds of crockery and metal pots.
She found Brom in the kitchen alone, setting down plates and eating utensils at a large wooden table. He looked up at her and grinned a little sheepishly. “Mrs. Farmington is not here. But I have made tea, and found butter and jelly, and I’ve managed to slice off a few pieces of bread for toast.”
“That sounds perfect,” Callie said, beaming.
The toast was a trifle burned on one side and soft on the other, and the tea was terribly strong, but it was, Callie thought, the best breakfast she had ever eaten. He described his culinary efforts, sending her into giggles, and as they talked and ate, he kept reaching out to caress her hand or smooth a piece of hair back from her cheek, as if he could not go too long without touching her.
They had just finished eating and were reluctantly rising from the table when Callie heard a sound in the yard outside. She turned her head, listening. “Is that a horse I hear?”
Callie glanced out the window, but she could see nothing but the side yard and the stables.
Brom went still. “Yes. Someone riding fast.”
They started out of the kitchen and were halfway down the hall when there was a thunderous knock at the door. Callie and Brom glanced at each other. She felt suddenly uneasy.
The pounding continued, and Brom strode to the door and yanked it open. The Duke of Rochford stood framed in the doorway.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE DUKE WAS DRESSED FOR RIDING. His clothes were travel-stained, his boots splattered with mud. He carried his hat and a riding crop in one hand. And his face was stamped with a cold fury.
“Then it is true!” he snarled.
Stepping forward, he smashed his fist into Bromwell’s jaw. Bromwell staggered backward and fell through the wide double doorway into the drawing room.
“Sinclair!” Callie shrieked. “No!”
She ran to Bromwell to help him up, but he shrugged off her hand as he rose lithely to his feet. His eyes glittered silver as he looked at Rochford, and he reached up to wipe away a trickle of blood from his cheekbone, where Rochford’s knuckles had smashed into him.
“You want to fight?” Bromwell asked in a dangerously soft voice, and a corner of his mouth quirked up.
“Brom, no!” Callie cried.
“I want to kill you,” Rochford replied shortly, tossing his hat and crop onto the bench in the foyer.
“Sinclair!” She whirled toward her brother in exasperation.
Neither man paid her the slightest attention as they began in unison to pull off their jackets and toss them aside, then roll up their sleeves.
“Would you two stop for just a minute?” Callie asked. “Please? Would you listen to me? Sinclair, I am all right. There is no need—”
“There is every need,” her brother told her shortly, not even looking at her.
“Callie, stay out of this,” Bromwell told her at the same moment.
“Stay out of it!” Callie stared at him. “How can I stay out of it? You are going to fight my brother? How can I possibly stay out of it?”
But it was clear to her that they were going to continue to ignore her no matter what she said. She glanced around the room, searching for inspiration as the two men moved closer together, warily circling each other, their hands up and curled into fists.
Then, like lightning, Bromwell jabbed with his left hand, but Rochford as quickly moved aside so that the blow fell on his shoulder rather than his face. Bromwell followed with an overhand right that landed flush on Rochford’s jaw and sent him backward into a tall cabinet. There was a crash, and a porcelain figurine toppled out and smashed on the floor behind him.
Bromwell came rushing after him, but Rochford neatly twisted away and, grabbing Bromwell’s arm, threw him against the cabinet in turn. Bromwell charged back, punching, and the two men came up hard against the sofa and tumbled over its back onto the seat and then down to the floor, still grappling and punching, the fine rules of pugilism discarded.
Callie screamed at them to stop, but to no avail. She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker, then turned back to the men. They were rolling across the floor, knocking into the table
s and chairs, and she ran to them, poker raised. But she could not bring herself to hit either of them with it.
She was standing there indecisively, the poker still held up in her hand, when a cool female voice behind her said, “Really, Rochford…brawling in the drawing room? Before breakfast? How terribly primitive.”
Callie swung toward the direction of the voice and stared, her jaw dropping. There stood Francesca at the foot of the staircase, looking calm and unruffled in a pale blue frock.
Callie could think of nothing to say, so stunned was she by the unexpected vision. Apparently Francesca’s appearance had been enough to halt the men in the midst of their fight, for they, too, had stopped and were staring in equal astonishment at Francesca.
“Really, Rochford, do get up. You look exceedingly foolish there on the floor. As do you, Lord Bromwell. I must say, I would think you men could find something better to do than break up the furniture. I am sure whoever owns this charming house will be most upset at the damage you have caused.”
When no one answered her, Francesca strolled forward, stopping in the doorway and looking down at the men.
“Both members of the ‘Fancy,’ I presume?” she went on as the two men got to their feet, looking bewildered. “It does seem to me that you could have pursued your interest outside. You made such a dreadful amount of noise that you woke me up. Now I shall have great dark circles under my eyes, I am sure, especially after the late night that Callie and I had, driving here through the dark.”
Francesca paused, then added magnanimously, “I am glad, however, to find you all in one piece, Rochford. I did not think you would like having a broken leg and ribs overmuch.”
The duke at last found his voice. “What the devil are you prattling about, Francesca?”
“Why, your injuries, of course,” she replied sweetly. “We came as soon as we received the letter saying how badly you had been injured. You can imagine our surprise when we arrived, and you were nowhere to be found.”