“Oh, no.” She dug her fingertips into his waist, pulling him tighter, harder, and wanting it to go on and on. “Kiss me so that I will cease making these noises.”
He kissed her. With a strong hand he pulled her knee up beside his hip, and she loved this intimacy amidst intimacy, the brush of skin against skin, her thighs cradling him, the heat of their bodies as he moved in her. His thrusts came faster, his muscles like rock beneath her hands. He delved to the very center of her it seemed and everything inside her opened again.
“Ohh!”
Eyes closed, abruptly he gripped her hard and did not move except within her. “My God,” he growled, then upon a hard breath, “Diantha.”
She gulped in air, her lips and brow damp and his skin beneath her hands. He lowered himself to his elbows, his chest brushing the tips of her breasts, and kissed her anew. They were kisses of satisfaction and tasted different, salt clinging to her lips and the flavor of him. He passed his thumb across her lower lip, then stroked down her throat and shoulder, her entire body skimming upon the surface of unbearable sensitivity.
He drew away from her, his hand trailing across her waist. Falling onto the mattress at her side, he closed his eyes and released a long breath that sounded no steadier than her erratic heartbeats.
She turned to look at him, at the angle of his cheek and jaw, the strength in his shoulders and arms that had held her. Her lungs felt astoundingly tight. She had tried and succeeded at many remarkable endeavors of late. It was strange how in this most natural endeavor—simple breathing—she now failed.
Chapter 20
Wyn listened to the soft, stuttered breathing of the maiden who had given him her body with generous passion, and a purely foreign sensation paralyzed him. For a minute he remained still, then another, and another, allowing the chill of the chamber to stave off sleep so that he could think, reason, understand. He opened his eyes, stared at the canopy above, seeing the details in the wood with the aid of moonlight.
He could see the imperfections in the wood grain, the knothole in the third board, a dark whorl of a blemish that brought character to the plain adornment. He could focus on those details. He thought of focusing on them. His mind was clear. Perfectly clear. And yet he was content.
Considerably more than content. His body was satisfied as it had not been in memory. No thirst lingered close to the surface, no craving simmered in his veins, no anger that the craving could not be assuaged. He craved nothing. It had been so long since he’d felt anything stronger than the sensation of desperate need, peace was foreign to him.
“To be honest,” the sweet beauty beside him murmured, “Teresa’s stories did not entirely prepare me for that.”
He turned his head, beginning to smile, but only stared. She had shifted onto her side, her knees tucked up, rounding the curve of her hip. Her hands were folded beneath her cheek, and soft chestnut curls tumbled about. Thick lashes shaded rich, sleepy eyes.
He still craved. Dear God, did he crave.
“Miss Finch-Freeworth seems a knowledgeable lady.”
“Not as knowledgeable as I’d thought.” She spoke as though falling asleep, but her berry lips twitched. Then her eyes shot open fully. “I only mentioned Teresa’s surname that first day, before I realized belatedly that I was not a friend for bandying it about in such a fashion. How is it that you remember it?”
He reached for a blanket and drew it over her, allowing himself to caress again her silken skin. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to touch a woman in this manner. For too long he had not believed he deserved such simple, honest pleasure.
“I’ve told you, minx.” He stroked the back of his fingers across her cheek, soft as dew and mobile as rain. “I have an uncanny memory.”
“Wyn,” she whispered, tilting her face into his touch. “Will you tell me now about rescuing girls?”
“It is not my tale to tell. It belongs to those whom I serve.”
She looked up at him. “Are you a spy?”
“No.”
She pushed up to sit, the coverlet spilling onto her lap and leaving bare her generous breasts, the tips lushly pink and soft now. “But if you were a spy you would not be permitted to tell anyone. You would simply go about doing secret deeds that if anyone else did them would be considered nefarious.” Her eyes twinkled and he tried to concentrate on them, but the cold of the bedchamber was turning the soft tips of her breasts into peaks he wanted in his mouth.
“More stories from Miss Finch-Freeworth?” he managed.
She dimpled and lifted a playful brow. “Her brothers.”
“Ah. There are brothers with whom you spent your sojourn at Brennon Manor?” The dimples held his gaze above her neck, but they only spiked his craving. He would explore each with his tongue, then elsewhere. Everywhere. He would know all of her. “Have I reason to be jealous?”
“Of Teresa’s horrid bro—” Her lips snapped shut. “Would you be?”
He snared her around the waist and looked down into her sparkling eyes. “Yes.” She deserved more than scandal and a widow’s veil. For five years he’d had one goal: the duke must die. At present he could not remember why.
He pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder and breathed in her scent. It intoxicated him, thoroughly fresh air and her. But it more than intoxicated. It made him whole. She made him whole.
“You are mine, minx,” he whispered against her skin. “Mine, for good or ill.”
Diantha had no experience in such things, but she suspected this was only lovers’ talk. Trembling upon her own tongue now, after all, were words she had absolutely no intention of saying because she believed them only insofar as the pleasure he had just brought her body was indescribably wonderful. And the “for good or ill” part seemed remarkably begrudging, despite being murmured seductively at her throat. So she said what she knew to be true.
“I liked what we just did.”
“Did you?” His mouth against her neck smiled.
“Can we do it again? Now?”
He kissed her chin, then either side of her mouth, slowly, warmly, then finally her lips, and she pressed herself to him.
“Please?” she whispered. “If I admit that I liked it very much, can we?”
“Not quite yet, minx. A man requires time to—”
Her graceful hand wrapped around his cock and proceeded to demonstrate to them both that he required a lot less time than he had previously believed.
Wyn awoke at dawn wanting her again.
Rumpled and glowing with gentle vulnerability in sleep, Diantha breathed evenly, her slumber deep. He could not rouse her, not even to sheer the edge off the scratching thirst that again attended him.
He dressed and went to the stable where Galahad and Lady Priscilla greeted him with soft whickers. Perched on the stool beside the cow, Owen tugged his cap.
“Morning, sir.”
“We depart today. If you prefer to remain here, I will leave the filly in your charge and instruct Mr. Guyther to allow you authority with her.”
The boy gaped. “I’d like that, sir.”
“She is a valuable animal.” Owen was a natural with horses. Wyn’s absence would not be long, and Guyther would oversee. “Are you certain you wish the responsibility?”
“Yes, sir!”
He threw the blanket and saddle over Galahad’s back. “When you have finished milking, go to the village and ask Mrs. Cerwydn for a repetition of the herbs she recently prepared for me. Wait for them, then return here.”
Wyn rode to Guyther’s house. The land steward met him with an improved air from their encounter in the village. The Welsh were a wary, wise folk, and the people of Abbaty Fran Ddu did not understand why he had not returned when his great aunt fell ill that final time, then for her funeral. They’d known he was in London. They hadn’t known, of course, that between the time they had seen him last and his aunt’s swift decline he’d killed a girl—a girl he was trying to help—killed her because he
had acted hastily, too proud of his abilities, too confident, and drunk. They hadn’t known that he could not bear to tell this to the woman who had taught him everything about being a good man.
They also did not understand why it had taken him five years to return. But in ten days they had become accustomed to his presence, curious at the circumstances of it and of the lady accompanying him. Guyther made that clear.
He spoke with the steward about the estate then rode back to the house through the mists lifting into the silvery morning. Owen had gone, and Wyn saw to Galahad’s needs then went along the stable to the far end. A stack of new hay beckoned, the sunlight warm. As though he were a boy again he removed his coat, lay down on his back, crooked his arms behind his head and listened to the sounds of the animals and the stream in the distance, the birds in the hedges, the day rising.
He heard her approach before he saw her, her footsteps light on the floor.
“I saw you return with Galahad. No—don’t get up!” She plopped down onto her knees beside him, sunlight spilling through her hair. “I was surprised you went riding when we are to travel today.”
“I imagined you still asleep.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. She set her other palm on his chest and pressed him back onto the hay.
“I couldn’t sleep.” The bright blue showed pure intention, the dimples full blown. She crawled over him. “My dreams were all about what we did last night and they simply woke me up.”
He laughed. “Have you breakfasted yet, minx?”
She straddled his hips, her skirts a froth about her thighs. “I don’t want to eat.”
“This is unprecedented.”
“I want you to make love to me again. Now. In a stable, the first place I was ever kissed.” Her smile dazzled.
“Your companion—”
“Mrs. Polley is not awake and I haven’t yet seen Owen.” She found his cock through his breeches with the soft core of her femininity. He settled his hands on her hips and groaned as her hand sought him. Then placing her palms on his shoulders, she tilted forward and rocked against him. Her eyelids fluttered. “You make this feel so good,” she whispered almost shyly now, her lashes low.
He slipped his hand up to the back of her head and drew her down. Her lips were no less sweet this morning than the night before. More so.
“It is designed to feel good, minx,” he murmured, twining his fingers through her curls.
Her lapis eyes opened wide. “Do you never claim the credit for anything good?”
“Claiming the credit for the pleasure in sex would be an act of hubris of which even I am not capable.”
“You are not an overly proud man, though I think you imagine you are. And if sex is naturally pleasurable, why are there so many married ladies who go about with their faces pinched in dissatisfaction?”
He laughed and kissed her, and for some time there was no haste, only the warmth of her lips and her body in his hands, her fingers pressing into his shoulders. When she began to make soft sounds of want in the back of her throat, her thighs clasping his hips as she moved herself against him, seeking pleasure, he saw no need to delay further what they both wanted. He slipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her. Her fingers plucked at his shirt and waistcoat impatiently.
“Oh, please remove these,” she said upon a hard exhale, pressing to him. “I want to touch you.”
“There is a bedchamber not twenty yards distant.”
“I am rewriting Rule Number One.” She unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed it over his shoulders. “ ‘Deny her nothing, even if she is not particularly virtuous.’ ”
“I am obliged to submit, for kind of heart and generous you are in spades, Diantha Lucas.” She slipped from his lap and he drew off his waistcoat, but the twinkle in his gray eyes stole her attention from even the sight of him undressing. “And, of course, I am complicit in your loss of virtue,” he added.
“Only because I forced you.” She touched him and the thrill of it shivered through her. Touching him was not a dream. It was beyond sublime.
“No one forces me to do anything I do not wish to do.” He took up his shirttail.
“Allow that I badgered, at least.” She helped him with the linen, wanting the excuse to run her hands over his back, to feel the strength beneath his skin and revel in the eagerness of her own body. “It’s true that if others don’t initially accede to my wishes, I usually convince them in one manner or—” Her fingertips arrested on his spine. “What—”
“Don’t”—he whipped around and clamped her wrist in a brutal grip—“touch.”
Circular scars ascended in a line from the base of his spine, each the size of a man’s thumbprint, their texture hard and rough.
“Why not?” Her voice was a rasp.
Wyn’s iron grasp loosened. “Diantha, I beg your pardon.” He took a deep breath.
“They are very old. Do they still pain you?”
“No.”
“They look like burns.” Vicious marks. “Intentionally inflicted.”
“Indeed.”
“Was it a fireplace iron?”
“Nothing so dramatic. Merely cigars, my father and eldest brother’s fondest tools of chastisement.”
“Why did they do that to you?”
He stared at the ground. “Because I read books that they did not.” He released a rough laugh. “Because I read books, full stop.”
“Because you read books? Why, that is evil.”
“Diantha.” His voice was quiet. “It is ancient history. Twenty years.”
“If it is truly ancient history, then why can’t I touch you there?”
His silvery gaze swung to her, searching her face. He reached forward, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to him. He kissed her, and it was not a kiss intended to distract, but something else, something more. After a moment he simply held her, their hearts beating against each other’s, and she vowed to herself that she would ask for no more than this in life.
“Let me touch,” she whispered.
He set his lips to her brow and remained still while she slipped her hand around his back and beneath his shirt.
“One. Two. Three.” Her fingertips explored the damaged skin over bone, where the pain must have been agony. “Four. Five. Six.”
“Seven.” He brushed his cheek to hers. “The first time, I was reading a book about the seven wonders of the ancient world. After that, it amused them to try to confine their efforts to trodden paths. Proving their marksmanship despite the whiskey they’d consumed, you see.”
“What are the seven wonders of the ancient world?”
“Were, mostly. Magnificent structures wrought by man. I told my father and brother that I aimed to visit the great pyramid at Giza someday.” He was silent a moment. “I believe I was six at the time.”
“You were precocious.” She slid her hand up his broad back beneath the shirt fabric. “Too clever for them.”
“Too clever for my own good.” His thumbs skirted the undersides of her unbound breasts.
“I like you clever, Mr. Yale.”
“And I like you sitting in my lap, minx.”
She kissed his shoulder, pulling the linen back to place her lips against his skin. “Will you make love to me now?”
“Will you allow me to do so in a bed rather than on a pile of musty hay?”
“I like musty hay.” She nibbled his unshaven jaw. To touch him and see him like this, less than perfectly groomed, made her heart do deliciously uncomfortable tumbles. “Though I suppose I should acquiesce to the superior experience of the elegant London gentleman.”
“The elegant London gentleman napping on a haystack.” His thumb passed over her nipple. She shivered and tilted her head back. The sun shone brilliantly through the stable’s half door. Somewhere not far away a dog’s bark mingled with birdsong.
“Have you experience in making love on haystacks, Mr. Yale?”
“If I reply in the negative will you be vastly
disappointed, Miss Lucas?”
“That was evasive.”
“Old habit.” He slipped his thumb beneath her bodice. “Must see to that.” He caressed and her breaths caught and she needed to be kissing him.
Ramses’ barking grew frantic. Wyn’s hands stilled.
“Diantha.”
She pressed another kiss onto his lips. “Must we leave here this morning?” She ran her hands down his chest. “I am determined to be in Calais as soon as possible. But I like this place. It will be difficult to leave, especially now that the sun is shining.” She smiled against his jaw. “I’m glad we got lost here.”
“Diantha.” He gripped her waist and held her off him. “Get up. Straighten your hair and gown.”
“What?”
“Please. Now. Someone is arriving.”
“Someone— Here?”
He grasped her hand and she stood, and he helped her brush the straw from her skirts then took up his waistcoat and coat. Now she heard the rumble of hooves and clatter of carriage wheels on the pebbly drive.
“Oh, no. Do you think the owners have returned? If only we’d left an hour ago . . .”
His gaze scanned her. “Go around the path from the shed to the back of the house, and bid Mrs. Polley dress you properly.”
She nodded but went to the door. “I want to peek first.”
“You needn’t.” He remained where he stood.
“But I cannot wait another moment to see if she is very grand or—”
The carriage drew to a halt on the drive before the house, an enormous, black, shining traveling chaise drawn by four beautifully matched horses. The servant sitting beside the driver atop wore blue livery.
“There is a crest on the door,” she whispered. “Our hostess is noble!”
He hadn’t moved, his face sober, and disquiet tickled in Diantha’s belly. She glanced back at the carriage. “And . . . it has blue-rimmed wheels. It’s the strangest thing, but I . . . I think I recognize that carriage.”
“I suspect you have seen it at Savege Park before.” He came to her side finally. “It belongs to the Earl and Countess of Blackwood.”
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