“Since the moment I first saw you,” she whispered. “And as a Modern Woman I insist you do something about it. Immediately.”
He slipped two fingers inside her tight heat. “You, my dear, are extremely demanding.”
She writhed against his hand and groaned. “Yes, I am. Do you truly wish to complain about that?”
“Absolutely not. As far as I’m concerned, naked, wet and demanding is the perfect combination of traits. Long live Today’s Modern Woman. And retribution.”
He eased his fingers from her and a dark smile curved his lips at her mewl of protest, a sound that turned into a gasp when he slid his hands beneath her bottom, set her thighs over his shoulders and lifted her to his mouth.
His lips, tongue and fingers teased her folds, swirling, tasting, nibbling, licking, delving while he absorbed her moans, relentlessly coaxing her toward release, determined to give her as much pleasure as she’d given him. When she climaxed, she arched her back and cried out his name in a hoarse voice that echoed through him.
The instant her spasms tapered off, he rose and lifted her, settling her head on his pillow. Unable to wait another instant, he covered her body with his and entered her with one smooth thrust. Her slick walls held him like a velvet fist and for several seconds he remained still, his eyes shut, absorbing the incredible feel of her.
“Tight,” he murmured against her mouth. He withdrew nearly all the way out of her body then slowly sank deep again. “Wet. Soft. Hot.” Withdrawal and another slow, deep plunge. “You feel so damn good.”
She released a long, guttural moan and wrapped her legs around his waist. “More,” she whispered, clutching his shoulders. “More.”
That impatient, husky demand incinerated whatever remnants of control Simon had managed to hold on to. He increased the tempo and force of his thrusts. Mindless, gritting his teeth against the white-hot pleasure, he sank into her again and again, lost in a dark, fiery abyss where nothing existed except her. The instant she arched beneath him he let himself go, thrusting deep, her silky sheath convulsing around him as shudders wracked him. When the spasms subsided, he buried his face in the fragrant curve where her neck and shoulder met and fought to catch his breath.
Bloody hell, how was it possible to feel so completely wrung out, yet so…reborn? Better than reborn. He felt…new. Like tarnished silver that had been polished after decades of neglect. He’d enjoyed his fair share of lovers in the past, experienced women who knew how to please a man and receive pleasure in return. But something about this woman left him satisfied in a way he’d never felt before.
When his breathing had calmed to something close to normal, he lifted his head. He immediately sensed how still she’d gone and he once again cursed the darkness that kept him from seeing her clearly. While he’d been taking his time catching his breath, he’d no doubt been squashing her. He made to roll off her, but she tightened her arms and legs around him.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “The way you feel on top of me, inside of me…I’m not ready for it to end.”
Heaven help him, neither was he. He brushed his fingers over her cheek, freezing when he felt the wetness on her soft skin. “Are you crying?” When she didn’t answer, his fingertips explored further and his heart squeezed. “You are crying. Damn it, did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No.” She trailed her fingers over his features, as if trying to memorize them in the dark. “I’m just…overwhelmed. I…never expected to feel that way again. Never expected to experience passion again.” She turned her head and kissed his palm, a tender gesture that seemed to yank his heart from its moorings. “Thank you, Simon.”
His throat tightened at the emotion in her voice. “Genevieve.” Bloody hell, just saying her name pleased him. He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. “I am the one who should be thanking you.”
For several seconds she said nothing. He listened to her pull in a several deep breaths, her warm exhalations caressing his lips. Then he felt her lips curve against his palm. “I must say, your idea of retribution gives an entirely new meaning to the phrase revenge is sweet.”
“Indeed it is. And I’m delighted you think so, since I’m not nearly finished with my retribution.”
“Oh, my. But surely you realize that will only lead to me enacting retribution of my own.”
“Yes, that did occur to me.” He heaved a dramatic sigh and nuzzled her fragrant neck. “I’ll endeavor to endure whatever repayment you deem appropriate.”
“As I recall, your method involves a kiss for a kiss.”
“Yes. And a touch for a touch—”
“And a lick for a lick?”
“Precisely. And then there is the small matter of the satin ribbons to bind the wrists.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “And if I refuse to give in to such treacherous demands?”
“I’ll simply have to find a way to bring you around to my point of view.”
“Hmm…I suspect that won’t be overly difficult. I have a terrible weakness for kisses.”
He ran his tongue over her plump bottom lip. “And licking?”
“A very terrible weakness.”
“As I said, I’ll try not to complain and take it like a man.” Yet as he settled his mouth over hers, Simon was hit by the unsettling realization that he had a very terrible weakness of his own. And she was named Genevieve Ralston.
12
SIMON AWAKENED and moaned in protest at the evaporation of his very enjoyable, very erotic dream featuring him, Genevieve and a jar of honey. But then he realized it didn’t actually have to end. She was right here in his bed. And there were several jars of honey in the pantry.
Smiling, he rolled over, then froze at the sight of the empty space next to him.
Muttering an obscenity, he flung off the covers and grabbed his breeches. Damn it, he was supposed to be protecting her. How the hell had she managed to leave the room without awakening him? He was normally a very light sleeper, but clearly not this morning. Was she safe?
He jabbed his legs into his breeches, snatched his knife from the bedside table then quickly crossed the room on silent bare feet. As soon as he stepped into the corridor, he heard the murmur of voices. Keeping close to the wall, he moved cautiously forward. As he approached the kitchen he heard Baxter say, “That ain’t a smart thing to do.”
“You’re looking for trouble” came Genevieve’s voice.
Clutching his knife tighter, Simon crept forward then cautiously peered around the corner. And blinked.
Genevieve sat at the wooden table in the center of the kitchen, a plate of food and steaming teacup in front of her. Baxter stood next to her, a white apron covering the front of his clothes, his beefy fists planted on his hips. They were both staring at the floor and smiling—at Beauty, who was on her belly, inching her way toward Sophia, tail wagging, head cocked to one side, her puppy curiosity clearly wondering, “What sort of chewy treat is this?” Sophia eyeballed the encroaching dog with all the enthusiasm a princess would bestow on week-old stall-muckings.
“Yer about to get yer nose swatted, pup,” Baxter warned, his gravelly voice laced with amusement.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than one of Sophia’s paws flashed out, catching Beauty’s snout. Beauty yelped and tried to scramble away, but she couldn’t find her footing on the wood floor and landed on her stomach with her legs splayed. Clearly satisfied that she’d demonstrated who was in charge, Sophia lifted both her tail and her nose in the air, then strolled several feet away to lie down in a pool of sunlight streaming through the window. With the golden rays adoring her, she hoisted a hind leg in the air and proceeded to groom herself.
Relieved that there was no need for concern, Simon stepped into the doorway. Beauty caught sight of him and barked a greeting, then, managing to gain her feet, she darted toward him. Bending down he scooped her up and was instantly the recipient of a wealth of canine adoration, followed by whining that was obviously a rep
ort on the terrible fate that had just befallen her. He gave her a sympathetic hug, then holding her in the crook of his arm and dodging doggie kisses as best he could, he entered the kitchen.
His gaze instantly settled on Genevieve. Dressed in the same demure pale-yellow day gown she’d worn last evening, her blond hair pulled back in a simple chignon, she stole his breath. He stared at her, feeling as if he’d been punched in the heart. Her lips looked ripe and slightly kiss-swollen, yet her beautiful blue eyes offered no indication that the two of them had shared anything more than a casual conversation. That irked him, mainly because he wasn’t certain his expression was as inscrutable.
Memories of the previous night flooded his mind…hands and lips exploring, her straddling his thighs, taking him deep into her body, the sound of her moaning his name as she came apart in his arms. Then, holding her close, their limbs entwined, his lips pressed to her temple, breathing in her delicate fragrance. The profound, utter satisfaction that had washed through him—satisfaction, he sensed, that was due to more than mere sexual gratification. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so damn good. So damn…content.
Good enough apparently to fall into an uncharacteristically deep sleep. Of course, it had been a long time since he’d been so completely wrung out. Indeed, he couldn’t recall a single occasion when he had been so thoroughly exhausted by a woman. Normally he left soon after his passion was spent. Sleeping with a woman, spending the night with her, awakening with her the next morning was too…intimate. Too…serious.
Yet he’d never once thought of leaving that bed. Instead he’d held Genevieve close and fallen into a deep, restful sleep the likes of which he couldn’t recall ever experiencing. Until this woman. A woman who was now looking at him with a glimmer of humor in those bewitching blue eyes he couldn’t stop staring into.
He cleared his throat. “You’re all right?” he asked Genevieve.
“Of course she’s all right,” Baxter broke in. “I’ve been watchin’ over her while ye slept like a babe. Made her breakfast and tea. Weren’t easy considerin’ how bare yer pantry is.”
Simon shifted his gaze to Baxter, whose glare could have melted bricks. “Obviously you’re feeling better.”
Baxter grunted. “Good enough to watch over Gen without any help. So now that yer awake, we’ll be gettin’ ready to leave.”
Simon’s insides knotted at the words. He couldn’t let her go back to the cottage yet, not until he knew what sort of threat she was facing. He realized it was more than that, however. He simply didn’t want her to go. Not yet.
He opened his mouth to object, but before he could speak, Genevieve said, “I don’t think we should be in such a rush to leave, Baxter. What if whoever attacked you returns?”
Baxter cracked his knuckles. “I’ll be ready for him next time.”
“Still, I think I’d feel better staying here a while longer. That is, if Simon doesn’t object.”
“You may both stay as long as you like,” Simon assured her. Clearly she suspected the intruder would return. The only reason the bastard would do so was because he hadn’t found what he was looking for last night—something he’d discover as soon as he figured out how to open the puzzle box. Simon harbored no doubts that the letter he himself sought was exactly what the intruder was looking for. Genevieve had to know where it was, and based on her reluctance to return to her home, he’d wager it was still somewhere in the cottage.
Yet, if the letter was important enough for her to remove it from the box, why wouldn’t she bring it with her? Had she done so? He considered for several seconds, then decided no. She clearly was aware the letter was connected to the break-in—she knew the box was missing. Which meant the letter represented danger. He couldn’t see her bringing something like that here, where it could place Baxter in further harm’s way. Simon would wager all he owned that the letter remained in her cottage—in whatever fiendishly clever hiding place she’d fashioned for it.
“In fact,” he continued, “I think you’d best plan on remaining at least one more night. I also think someone should watch the cottage, in case the man does return.”
“I agree, and I volunteer,” said Baxter. “I’d like nothin’ better than to get my hands on the bastard wot hit me.”
“Excellent. I propose you take the day watch, and I’ll take the night,” Simon said to him. “That way one of us will always be with Genevieve.” It was far more likely the intruder would return at night, which would afford Simon hours of uninterrupted time to conduct his own search—a brilliant solution. Besides, Baxter would never agree to leave Genevieve alone with him all night.
Baxter turned to Genevieve. “That agreeable to you?”
She appeared relieved. “Yes, provided you both promise to be very careful.”
Baxter nodded then turned back to Simon. “It’s agreed. I’ll bring home supplies from the cottage when I return this evening so we don’t all starve. How have ye not done so already?”
“I’ve taken my meals in the village. And it’s not as if there is no food here. The pantry does contain the basics.” Not that he knew how to put them together to actually make something of them. But hell, he was certainly capable of smearing jam and honey on biscuits if he grew hungry between meals.
“Not much more than that.” Baxter’s gaze flicked to the knife Simon still held. “You plannin’ to stab someone?”
“Just a precaution. I wasn’t certain you both were safe.”
“We’re safe, and breakfast is ready.” Baxter’s gaze raked over Simon, then he crossed his meaty arms over his barrel chest. “I’ll wait ’til ye get some clothes on before I leave.”
Simon glanced down. He’d completely forgotten his state of undress. “Very well. I’ll also pen a note to the magistrate telling him about last night’s break-in. I think it best if you deliver it—that way you can give him your personal account of your attack.”
Baxter jerked his head in agreement. “I’ll visit him before I begin my watch on the cottage.”
Thanks to the fire Baxter had built in the hearth, there was hot water. Simon carried a half-filled pail back to his bedchamber with Beauty trotting at his heels. After they entered his room, Beauty promptly began chewing on his boot and he quickly washed, then shaved—an act he was by no means expert at. His valet had never so much as nicked him, a claim Simon couldn’t make. But since a steward wouldn’t employ a valet, he’d had to learn how to shave himself, and not cut his own throat while doing so.
Twenty minutes later, freshly shaved—with only two nicks—and cleanly dressed—although wearing one boot that bore a row of tooth marks and looked decidedly more worse for the wear than the other—and carrying the note he’d written to the magistrate, he reentered the kitchen. To his surprise Baxter placed a plate on the table before him along with a cup of tea.
“Best I could do with wot were here,” the giant muttered.
“Thank you, Baxter.” He tasted the ham, eggs and thinly sliced potatoes and nodded. “Delicious.” He was tempted to ask Baxter if he’d started the fire in the hearth with the flames that seemed to shoot from his eyeballs every time he glared at Simon, but as it didn’t appear that a sense of humor was one of the giant’s better qualities, Simon decided silence was the wiser strategy.
He watched Genevieve as he ate, unable to pull his gaze from where she crouched by the hearth, petting Beauty. Simon noted that she once again wore gloves, and he determined that today would be the day he’d find out why. Beauty flopped onto her back, paws dangling in the air, in a shameless petition for belly-rubbing. Sophia observed the proceedings from the windowsill through narrowed eyes.
Genevieve laughed at Beauty’s antics and tickled her gloved fingers over the dog’s belly, much to the canine’s delight. Simon’s own abdomen tingled, recalling the feel of Genevieve’s hands exploring him—touching, stroking, caressing, pushing him to the brink of madness. Whatever ailment or injury her hands might suffer from, their touch was pure m
agic.
As if she felt the weight of his regard, she looked up and their gazes met. Laughter still lurked in her eyes and for several seconds Simon simply couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything save stare. Bloody hell, she was lovely. And damn if his heart rate didn’t quicken at the prospect of spending the entire day with her.
“I’ll be on my way,” Baxter said. Simon pulled his gaze away from Genevieve and watched the giant man untie the apron from around his waist. Baxter looked at Genevieve. “Anything I can get for you before I leave?”
“No, thank you. But if you could bring back a fresh gown from the cottage, I’d appreciate it.”
“Done.” He turned to Simon and scowled. “If any harm comes to her ye’ll be answerin’ to me. And I can promise ye won’t like doin’ so.” With that he tossed down the apron, snatched up the note Simon had written, and stomped from the room. Seconds later the front door slammed shut.
Simon cleared his throat. “He certainly knows how to make an exit.”
“He’s very—”
“Protective. Yes, I know. Should I be foolish enough to forget, I’m certain they’ll be finding pieces of me all over Little Longstone. I don’t believe I’ve ever met such an…outspoken servant.”
A bit of a chill entered her eyes. “That’s because he’s much more than a servant. He’s my friend. More like a brother actually.”
“Yes, I can see that.” The spy in him—the one concerned with saving his neck from the hangman’s noose—coughed to life, demanding he grab the opening she’d so neatly handed him. This was his chance to question her regarding her relationship with Baxter, find out all he could about her. But as it had from the first moment he’d seen her, the man in him, the one who desired her to the point of distraction, won out. He wanted her. Needed her. Now. Everything else could wait.
Setting aside his napkin, he stood and walked toward her, trying to ignore the little voice inside his head chanting You’re alone with her. She rose as well, her gloved hands lightly clasped in front of her. He halted when less than an arm’s length separated them. He tried to resist touching her, if for no other reason than to prove to himself that he could, but he failed utterly. Reaching out, he cupped her face in one palm.
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