Next, his relentless mouth moved lower. Now gently nipping the soft, silken skin of her belly, now soothing each inch of sweetly abraded flesh with his lips and tongue. At length, cupping her buttocks with his hands, he lifted her toward him, and his questing mouth moved lower still.
Without thinking, Caitlin tangled her fingers in his dark curls as his head descended to her navel, and then below. Lower still, and her thighs were open to him. Ah, she couldn't think for the pleasure! Then, all at once, she knew his intent. Patrick and all the saints preserve her! He was after loving her on—
"Adam!" she gasped as his head moved unerringly between her thighs. And then words failed, and she sucked in a quavering breath. He'd found the sweet, body pulsing center of her longing. Pausing there, he dipped and delved with his tongue till she moaned in ecstasy and sobbed his name. Now he nuzzled the tight auburn curls above that slick, wet opening. Found, with clever lips and wicked tongue, the sensitive, pert little nub nestled within those curls. Teased it without mercy. And sent her spiraling over the edge.
***
"Sure and ye're the shameless man o' the world, a stor" she whispered breathlessly. When power of speech at length returned. When she lay sprawled beneath him, on tangled sheets that bore the heady scent of passion.
"Quite," Adam agreed with a lazy, unrepentant grin.
A teasing light entered Caitlin's eyes, and a slow grin spread across her flushed face. "Yet turnabout's fair play, I'm thinkin'." Before he could respond, she slid from beneath him, turned, and quickly straddled his hips. Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed him firmly into the bed.
"Caitlin, what—?"
"Shh," she replied, stilling his lips with her fingers. And then it began. Murmuring words of wondering approval, she resumed that earlier exploration of his sleek, powerful body. "Ye've an uncommon strong and muscular neck, a stor," she told him, trailing kisses along its corded length. "And a fine, broad pair o' shoulders, sure." Clasping those shoulders with both hands, she sank her teeth lightly into the curve where neck and shoulder joined, and grinned when she felt him shudder.
His chest, with those intriguing male nipples, lured her downward. Although Adam twisted restlessly beneath her touch, she nonetheless took her time. He'd taught her well, and she was unrelenting, as thorough as he'd been with her. But all the while, her ultimate objective stayed firmly fixed in her mind. Nibbling and laving, mercilessly teasing, she made her way steadily toward it. It was only when she nuzzled his navel, her breasts pressed wantonly against his thighs, that Adam realized what that objective was.
He was no stranger to such pleasuring, of course.
Over the years, a string of mistresses and other clever women in the dozens had sought to please him so. But ... Caitlin? She was his wife now, the sweet, pure forever love of his heart. She was still an innocent, for all their recent sport. Never, would he have presumed to ask— "Caitlin!" His voice sounded preternaturally loud in the quiet moonlit chamber, her name wrung from his throat like a prayer. Had Adam been able to think clearly, he'd have stopped to ponder: How was it her name on his lips resembled the very thing he found impossible to utter in any circumstance? But he was far from thinking clearly. His hands clenched the rumpled sheets as Caitlin took him into her mouth. Sweat beaded his brow as she kissed and tasted and sucked and pleasured his engorged flesh. Driven to the brink with unbridled pleasure, he arched off the bed with a helpless cry.
And still, he managed to hold back. He was determined now to give her free rein, sensing how greatly she relished the pleasure she gave him. Until he felt her small hand cup him. With a desperate clenching of teeth, he resisted—barely, just—the urge to spill himself inside that eager mouth. Twisting aside, he caught Caitlin's lithe body and rolled with her, until she lay beneath.
Green eyes wide and luminous, she smiled up at him with unabashed delight: the cat that had got the cream.
"I love you more than life," he murmured thickly. "And more, a thousand times more, than all that lies beyond!"
"Aye, and so do. I love ye, Adam, a star." Caitlin's eyes darkened as the import of the words came home to her. I love you more than life. The real and imminent proof of it was not far off. To keep him from guessing her thoughts, she closed her eyes and pulled his head down for a scorching, soul-searing kiss.
With a helpless groan, Adam buried himself inside her.
Chapter 18
Caitlin lay beside her husband in the bed, still as stone, listening carefully to his breathing. Steady and deep, thank the dear God. Adam appeared deep in slumber, yet she waited, for she had to be certain. While he was a soldier on campaign, she'd learned, he acquired the necessary habit of making do with catnaps; he'd trained himself to come awake from these on the instant, alert for danger. It had saved his life and those of his men, he'd told her, on countless occasions.
Tonight, however, Caitlin could ill afford such alertness on his part. Indeed, by encouraging him to make love repeatedly—not that it took any sort of persuading, for Adam had been all but insatiable this night—she'd done all she could to ensure he'd be too exhausted to awaken before she met Appleby—and her imminent fate. An encounter that must not take place here, but in her own chamber. Not that I'm meant to have a chamber of my own any longer.
She smiled sadly, recalling Mrs. Needham's kindly face when the housekeeper had asked if they might remove Caitlin's belongings to the marquis's chambers while she was at the church. "Her ladyship, Lord Andrew's mother," she had hastened to explain, "kept to the tradition of separate chambers, do you see, like most of the gentry. But his lordship's parents never held with that. They shared the rooms his lordship occupies now, Miss Caitlin. And ... well, as nothing's been said of separate ... er, chambers, upon your own marriage ..." Her plain face had flushed a rosy red at that point. She'd looked so uncomfortable, Caitlin had rushed to assure her she'd never think of sleeping apart from her husband.
The smile turned wry as Caitlin was struck by the irony of it. How much easier it would be to steal away tonight if they had separate quarters. If Adam awoke, she stood a better chance of coaxing him back to sleep unaware by pretending she was merely going to fetch a night rail or some such trifle from her chambers. Implying she'd be right back.
A glance at the clock told her that was more than likely a foolish notion. Eleven minutes before twelve, and Adam knew what midnight would bring. Knew it in the marrow of his bones. If, in leaving, she chanced to wake him, she'd no doubt he'd immediately apprise himself of the hour. She'd be forced to meet the fiend in his presence, and that must not happen. No telling what recklessness Adam might attempt at the last minute, in his desperation to save her.
Indeed, she counted herself fortunate he'd fallen asleep at all. After all, despite the wild passion she herself had spent in their marriage bed, wasn't she lying here now, entirely awake? Not that she didn't ache with exhaustion. And feel sore in several new places, she mused with a rueful smile: Adam had been rather ... inventive in their lovemaking tonight. She'd only kept herself awake out of her desperate need—and thank the good God she'd succeeded.
Another glance at the clock revealed a full minute had passed while she lay there ruminating. Best get on with it, then.
Taking a long, lingering look at her husband's beloved face, she fought an urge to drop a soft kiss on his brow. Holy Virgin, this is a good man, despite his unfortunate—and, aye, tragic—loss of faith. Pray for him, Mother of God. In the name of your Son, have mercy on him, and help him to find it again.
Not daring to move her hand to cross herself, Caitlin inched toward the edge of the bed. Now came the most difficult part. If Adam slept but lightly, he might well awaken when he sensed her weight leaving the mattress. Like all grand tester beds, this was a high one, its frame made to hold the mattress a good two feet from the floor. She glanced with regret at the portable stairs resting on their side several feet from the bed. Adam had kicked them aside when he carried her here in that first storm of passion. No h
elp there.
Holding her breath, she maneuvered onto her belly and slowly ... ever so slowly ... began to slide over the side. It seemed forever till her feet would meet the carpet. At last she felt the fine Axminster wool beneath her toes. Now, if she could just—
At that moment, the mattress shifted. Adam had stirred, thrusting an arm across the pillow where her head had rested. Caitlin froze. On the other nights they shared this bed, they'd nearly always fallen asleep in each other's arms. In truth, she'd been fortunate in being able to prevent it happening tonight. Only twice, could she recall them lying apart after loving. And then not for apart, by any means. And on both occasions, hadn't he sought her out, even in his sleep? Turned and drawn her back into his arms? What if, upon finding her place empty now, he suddenly sprang awake?
Muscles tensed, Caitlin waited, the ticking of the clock matching the thudding of her heart. She clung to the edge of the bed without breathing. And was finally rewarded when his body relaxed again in slumber. Another glance at the clock told her she had nine minutes left. With one more silent prayer to the Virgin, she slid her weight to the floor. Success.
Yet she was still not ready to leave the chamber. Moving like a wraith, she went to gather up her bed gown, a fine, lovely thing Ashleigh and Megan had sent that morning. Plucking it from the carpet, where Adam had hastily discarded it in the heat of passion, she donned it quickly.
Next, she went to the clock on the mantel. Opening the case, she quickly moved the hands back until they read half-ten; if Adam should awaken, she thought perhaps he'd not panic if he believed they'd more time. She carefully closed the glass, winced at the snick of the tiny latch. A swift glance at the bed told her Adam hadn't moved, thank the dear God, and she made her way stealthily across the room.
Clouds had moved in, obscuring the moon, but she could still make out her bag of herbs and simples lying in the corner, beside Adam's huge armoire. She'd particularly asked Mrs. Needham to remove it here With the rest of her things, and for one important reason. The bag contained the letters she'd written Adam and the child. Bending down, she quietly withdrew them and carried them back to the mantel. The clock said another minute had passed. She forced herself not to panic while she propped the letters beside it, thought better of this, and placed them flat: Were Adam to awaken and spy them from the bed when he sought the time, he'd know something was afoot, sure.
Sparing precious seconds for a last glance at the bed, Caitlin swallowed hard. Good-bye, my darling. Forgive me, a stor, for leaving you this way. Know, in your heart of hearts, macushla, that I'll always be with you. Know it, my love, and that I'll love you till the end of days. With a swipe at the tears that had started, Caitlin turned and fled the room.
***
Candles guttered in the sconces hanging at intervals along the hallway, throwing ominous, flickering shadows on the walls. Caitlin tried to ignore them as she raced past on noiseless feet. Tried, but her imagination began to get the better of her. As she hurried by, the shadows appeared threatening and full of menace; they seemed to jump and recede, now beckoning to her, now luring her aside, for she knew not what. There, that one—it wore a demon's shape, sure! And there, the nameless form of some forgotten dread from childhood—now fully recalled and every bit as frightening. They're shadows, nothing more! Pay them no heed, colleen. Ach, will this wretched hallway never end?
The rooms she'd been given at Ravenskeep Hall were far grander than her single chamber in London, which had been in the servants' quarters on the third floor. These were closer, merely in another wing of the second; but as Caitlin raced against the clock ticking inside her head, they seemed impossibly far. If she failed to reach them in time, would the archfiend seize her here, in this endless, darkened hallway? Where some hapless servant, alerted by an untoward sound, might come upon them? And ask the cause?
Then again, Appleby seemed quite capable of masking what he was about. He knows he must screen his dirty business from decent folk—till he finds a way to lure them into his filthy clutches! On the other hand, she doubted the fiend would scruple to forbear whisking her out of sight, with one of those gestures that raised the hairs on the back of her neck just thinking about it. Aye, he's capable of it well enough—and right before the poor servant's startled eyes!
At best, Adam would be left to explain the sorry business, if even he could! Bad enough, he'll be left to deal with a wife found dead. And in her old chambers, far from her husband's bed—on their wedding night! Hurry then, colleen, for haven't you burdened your dear love with enough, as it is ?
She was out of breath and tense as a harp string when she at last reached her door. Her hand shook as she tried the handle—Locked! Sweet, merciful God .... But, no, it had merely stuck. With a grateful prayer of thanks—she was all prayer inside, now—she thrust it open, went inside. The small sitting room already smelled close and stuffy from disuse; but that had to be her imagination, for she had left it only that morning. Sure and there was no denying her imagination ran rampant tonight! The room, having no windows, was also black as pitch.
By memory, she made her way to the bedchamber beyond. She'd expected to find it moonlit, but was only reminded of the gathering cloud cover she'd noted earlier when she entered and found it inky dark. Chastising herself for forgetting to bring a candle, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was really only one reason she required light. She focused her unseeing gaze on the mantel above the small marble fireplace. Ach, what time was it? She needed to know the time!
As if in answer, at that instant, a flash of lightning struck. As the draperies had been left undrawn, it illuminated the chamber, but briefly, gone before she could draw breath. No matter. Because her gaze had been directed toward the mantel clock, Caitlin had what she wanted:
It was three minutes to twelve.
Foolish, perhaps, to place such importance on knowing the time, but the knowledge helped her to focus and gather her wits. Releasing the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, she commanded herself to relax. Now, for the first time, she realized there was a ferocious wind blowing outside. 'Twas a late summer storm, coming in fast. She'd been too overwrought by her foolish fears and imaginings to notice.
Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Another bolt of lightning sundered the night sky, throwing the objects in the chamber into stark relief. Outside, the wind shrieked like a banshee. Or perhaps, she thought grimly, like all the souls of the damned. She could see the branches of trees through the windows, bending this way and that, whipped by the wind's force.
More thunder, nearer this time. When multiple flashes of lightning zigzagged across the sky, she used the sustained flare of brilliance to locate the tinderbox on the mantel. Succeeding in striking a spark, she coaxed a flame from the tinder, touched it to the candlestick she'd spied beside the tinderbox, and lifted the taper high. Mellow fight illuminated the face of the clock:
Two minutes before twelve.
She had just enough time to go over Megan's plan in her mind. Refusing to be distracted by the earsplitting triple boom of thunder directly overhead, she remembered the rocking chair that stood near the bed. 'Twas as good a place as any to await her adversary. She turned toward it—and stifled a cry. Appleby!
***
It was the triple boom of thunder that awakened Adam. Coming instantly alert, he knew his instinct for danger hadn't failed him. Something was terribly wrong. He jerked up in the bed, straining to see in the dark. Cursing himself for falling asleep—how could he, on this, of all nights!—he resolved not to panic. A flash of lightning, followed at once by a deafening crack of thunder, dashed his resolve to dust. His hands felt frantically about the place just beside him on the bed, and met only rumpled bedclothes. Caitlin! Where the devil was Caitlin?
***
The devil was smiling evilly at her—and sitting in her rocking chair. Tossed aside, upon the floor, was the pillow she'd sewn to cushion its seat. How dare he throw it to the floor! She recalle
d the tiny stitches she'd painstakingly worked, embroidering upon it for hours. It had been in those early days, when Andrew first began learning how to use the crutches. She recalled, too, matching her patience to the child's, until slowly, slowly, their persistence was rewarded. When Andrew had mastered the crutches, she had the image on her pillow completed. The pattern was the Tree of Life.
Appleby noted the direction of her glance and snickered when he saw her scowl. "Tut, tut, my dear. I should think that's scarcely worth your flying into the boughs," he said with a blithe gesture at the pillow. "Ah, you mortals and your tiresome little symbols! Take it from me, you'll hardly be wanting that one where you're going. Fact is, those who come to dwell in my realm soon loathe the slightest reminder of what they've lost."
Caitlin understood the significance of the symbol she'd embroidered, for she'd chosen it with a purpose. And she knew why the devil mocked it. The Tree of Life was meant to signify not the earthly existence, but God's gift of immortal life. Yet she was about to lose only the former. Thanks to dear Megan, her soul still had a chance of attaining the gift of God's Grace, though of course Appleby couldn't know that. To keep him from glimpsing any hint of that secret knowledge in her eyes, she turned and gestured impatiently at the clock. "Ye're a tad early, Mr. Appleby."
***
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