Still, he could do pleasure. Already, his mouth was answering her, pressing kisses along the line of her jaw even as his mind argued he shouldn’t. Pleasure was never simple. Experience had taught him it was never without consequence no matter how much one reasoned it could be. But those were considerations for another time when everyone had their clothes on. And she was wrong; this wasn’t his seduction, it was hers. He cupped her breast in one hand, his thumb running over the tender peak of nipple, feeling it go rigid with wanting. He bent his mouth to it, sucking hard as she gasped. Call him old-fashioned, but a woman deserved a man who could lead in the bedroom as well as the ballroom. He knelt and kissed her navel, his hands bracketing her hips, and his mouth moved lower. A woman who was bold enough to ask for pleasure was entitled to receive it.
Chapter Fourteen
Klara’s fingers dug into the rough wood of the stall wall, her body seeking purchase against the onslaught of Nikolay’s mouth at her breast, at her navel, at her core. When had she lost control of this seduction? Had she ever had control? Perhaps she was humouring herself that a man like Nikolay ever allowed himself to be led. And yet, wasn’t this what she’d come for? To find pleasure? To know something of the mysteries of passion? To know something of him—a man who could deliver on those mysteries. That was too simplistic. She’d come for more than that. His fingers skimmed the wet, sensitive folds guarding her core, teasing them apart for his tongue as it flicked over the nub hidden inside.
‘Ohhh...’ Her gasp was a barely veiled moan of the most primal sort. She could feel his thumbs pressing hard into the flesh of her hips, holding her steady for his feast of tongue and tastes. She was a ball of contradictions. She wanted to urge him to hurry. Wherever they were going, she was desperate to get there and yet she wanted to beg him to linger, to torment her further.
When she’d imagined tonight and what she meant to do when she got here, she had not possessed the imagination for this, for what it meant to be laid bare in both flesh and feeling. Her only consolation was that she wasn’t alone. He nuzzled her, a groan escaping him as he lapped at her folds, licking and lingering, teasing her towards something, an unknown but instinctive summation of this torturous pleasure. Nikolay would not be rushed. He was in control and he was intent on putting off satisfaction for them both as long as possible. Gratification delayed, the ultimate dilettante’s delight.
He murmured Russian love words, maybe dirty words that she didn’t understand, against her core, his breath coming in jagged rasps, his hands hard at her hips. She’d have bruises there in the morning. She wouldn’t mind those marks. They would be reminders of what had passed between them in the night, proof it wasn’t all a hot dream.
He did something wicked with his tongue, sending an intense thrill through her and she was nearly there. She gripped the barn wall, starting to thrash. A final sob, more cry than moan, escaped her and she let herself shatter, exhausted, replete, the emotions of the day held at bay for a while, as pleasure swept her cares away into forgetfulness. In this dark pleasure there was no more horror of the kill pen, no more thought of the horses she couldn’t save, no more political agendas that tested her loyalties, no more ballrooms and sordid proposals that bordered on blackmail from a man who saw her as an alliance to be made, wealth to secure, a trophy to carry on his arm.
As horrifying as the kill pen had been, the day had held other horrors: Amesbury’s threat, his demand that she not see Nikolay for lessons. That was why she had come. She might not get another chance. She pushed away thoughts of Amesbury’s cruelty away. There would be time to talk later. She wanted only Nikolay in her mind, now. His breathing came as hard as hers, his arms wrapped about her hips, his dark head pressed into her belly, as they waited for the world to settle.
Nikolay rose first, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over her shoulders. ‘You’ll be cold.’ His voice was still rough around the edges. What had transpired between them had taken a toll on him as well, a reminder that while there had been perhaps an emotional, mental pleasure for him, there had not been any physical release. A chance then to take back the seduction.
She put her hand on him. ‘Let me see to you.’ Perhaps it was bold. English girls hardly knew what a man’s member looked like, let alone how to handle it. But a curious woman raised around horses could hardly claim such naivety. ‘You nearly brought me to my knees,’ she whispered, her hand working the flap of his trousers open. ‘Now it’s my turn. Against the wall, Your Highness. You’ll need it before I’m through.’ She found him hot and hard and long, oh, so long, and ready, a veritable stallion. She would please him, if he would let her.
He groaned in appreciation as the first pass of her hand stroked his length, his body tensing, and she hoped this time he would allow her to drive the encounter. Then, his mouth took hers, one hand at the nape of her neck, the other at her breast, and she was no longer in charge. He intended to make this reciprocal, to match her caress for caress, touch for touch; her thumb at his wet, tender head, his thumb at the peak of her breast, until her hand gave way to her hips grinding against him, his length thrusting at her thigh, thrusting against her, teasing her swollen bud from its rest.
‘This was supposed to be about you,’ she panted. Dear Lord, she was going to shatter again, but this time so was he. She was determined it would be so.
‘It is, lyubov moya.’ His own words were hard in coming. ‘Take me in your hand.’ Even nearing the throes of release, he could command. She closed her hand over him, feeling him pulse and tense as completion neared. One stroke, two strokes, and he was there at the edge of his pleasure, his member coming hard in her hand, the intensity that so often marked his features absent for just a precious moment—a moment when his guard was down, a moment when the warrior was satiated.
Beyond them in the stall, hay rustled. The foal was stirring. Nikolay’s eyes shut and he drew a resigned breath as if he, too, was savouring these moments, knowing they wouldn’t last. The world had its demands. ‘He’ll be hungry,’ Nikolay murmured.
She sat on a hay bale in the stall, wrapped in Nikolay’s coat, surrounded by warm straw and the scent of horses, while Nikolay bottle fed the foal, the thin mare watching protectively but calmly. Watching him with the foal was nearly as intoxicating as kissing him, being touched by him. It was not a large leap in a woman’s maternal mind to imagine him with a baby in those arms. The rough warrior would make a good father. But that’s not what she’d come here for.
‘Perhaps he’ll be able to drink from a bucket tomorrow and take some hay,’ Klara suggested softly. A three-month-old foal needed more nourishment than what could be fed in a bottle. To do so would be a full-time job, one Nikolay didn’t have time for.
Nikolay nodded, his eyes intent on the foal. She’d not been ready for his next question. ‘Did you find what you were looking for tonight, Klara?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He glanced over at her. ‘We don’t need to pretend you only came to see the horses, not when that’s been reduced to a fairly flimsy fiction at this point.’ He set aside the empty bottle and settled the foal against the mare’s side. ‘Whatever you found or think you found, it doesn’t change anything. I am your riding instructor, nothing more.’
‘You have never been a mere riding instructor,’ Klara dismissed the warning in his words. She held his gaze, forcing him to look at her, knowing full well the coat didn’t cover everything. She crossed a long leg over the other, slim and bare, watching him follow the movement with his eyes. ‘Is that why you do it? Always taking control? Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You won’t even let me kiss you without needing the upper hand.’
‘Be careful you don’t ask too much, lyubov,’ Nikolay warned. It was as good as an admission. She was right. He did do it for control.
Klara held his eyes. ‘You’re a mystery, Nikolay. You can’t say that and not expect me to wonder why you need that contr
ol, or what you fear by letting it go.’
Nikolay gave a short bark. ‘You’re too obvious, Klara. You should start with the easy questions, not the hard ones. You’ve got to sneak up on a man, catch him unawares if you want to figure him out.’
‘All right, we’ll do it your way.’ Klara cocked her head, considering him. ‘What do you mean to make of yourself here in England?’ Her heart hammered. For a moment she thought he would deny her yet again, then a small smile crept across his kissable mouth. It was not entirely a warm one. Klara braced herself for the cut that was surely to come.
‘I am looking to establish a riding academy. I’ve been searching for a property and for horses to act as a schooling string.’ He shrugged. ‘See, I am just a riding instructor, after all. That will disappoint your father.’ There was the bite. Even after intimacy, even after laying herself bare before him, he was still wary of her, still saw her as the ambassador’s daughter.
‘You still can’t see beyond him, can you?’ Her prince was a hard cynic. ‘After all I’ve risked, after all we’ve done together, you still don’t see me.’ Her throat thickened. The emotions of the day threatened to overwhelm her: the kill pen, Amesbury, now this. Nikolay’s insinuations would not let her forget who she was.
Nikolay’s voice was stern steel. ‘Did he send you tonight to convince me up to join the revolution? Should I be expecting it? Does he have reason to believe I changed my mind?’
Her body tensed as if slapped, the intimacy of the moment slipping away along with the other reason she’d come. ‘Do not turn tonight into negotiating chips. How dare you imply I’d play the whore in exchange for information?’ He was protecting himself, she knew that, but it didn’t make his words any more palatable.
‘Is that what you’ve done? Have you given him hope to think I might relent?’ Nikolay stood up, brushing straw from his trousers. He ran his hands through his hair, tying it back with a leather thong. His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Was I wrong to trust you? Did you tell him about me?’
‘I did not tell him.’ She stood, too, her voice shaking. She knew what he meant. He had shown her more than Soho that night in the café. He’d shown her a piece of his soul. ‘I have not betrayed you.’ She risked going to him, placing her hands against his chest. ‘Can you believe that?’
‘I shouldn’t.’ Nikolay’s hands covered hers, his grip tight, his breathing hard. ‘You’re the daughter of an ambassador from my former country, a country that may wish I be returned to it in some undesirable manner. Since I’ve met you, I’ve been invited to a tense dinner that had extremely political overtones. A coincidence? A man has to wonder what it is you’re not telling him.’
‘A woman has to wonder what you’re not telling her.’ But she thought she knew. Intimacy was his Achilles heel, the one flaw in this warrior’s armour. Whoever had hurt him had done a masterful job. Klara kissed the knuckles of his hands. The walls between them were high indeed if they could not trust each other. ‘We trusted each other today. Klara and Nikolay trust each other.’
‘But the ambassador’s daughter and the Prince keep secrets,’ he argued, ‘out of necessity.’
The olive branch had to come from her. ‘I came tonight because I needed to warn you. Amesbury knows about Soho and the kill pens. He’s had us followed.’ Her fingers gripped the folds of his loose shirt. ‘If you want proof that I am here of my own volition, know this: he has forbidden me to continue my lessons. He means to harm you in order to keep me in line. He means to blackmail you into compliance with the revolution and my father will allow it because his cause needs you.’
* * *
Harm him? The Duke would have his work cut out for him then. He’d proven hard to kill before. But one look at Klara’s sombre face told him he could not shrug this off with a soldier’s nonchalance. Klara had risked much in coming here tonight and it was Klara, the woman who danced with him in Soho and drank vodka, who had stood with him today in the kill pens, who was pleading with him now to take the warning seriously. For her sake, he could not brush this warning off.
The hard shell of him began to seethe and crack. Anger began to bubble. He should have been outraged over the blackmail. He could imagine what that would consist of. But his immediate anger was over Klara instead. How dare the Duke threaten her! And yet, her own fear had been overruled by her fear for him, just as her fear had been set aside for the stallion and the foal today. His Klara was a saviour. His Klara. Not the ambassador’s Klara. His. ‘I can manage the Duke. Thank you for the warning.’ He covered her hands with his, feeling how cold they were. ‘Shall I challenge him to a duel?’ He could protect himself, but who would protect her if he didn’t?
‘No!’ Klara was aghast. ‘The last thing I want is men fighting over me.’
‘The last thing I want is for you to be hurt on my account.’ He kissed her knuckles, his breathing shaky. He meant every word. He would duel the Duke, and more, to keep her safe. The intensity of that response surprised him, shocked him. How was it that this woman had slipped beneath his armour even when he’d been on guard? When he’d forbidden himself to feel anything beyond the physical? And now the woman he was willing to duel a duke over was the woman he should most avoid.
The irony was not lost on him and it posed the dangerous question: was this Helena all over again? His gut twisted at the thought that Klara’s beautiful, upturned face with those worried eyes was a façade for betrayal. But that’s what he had to think, wasn’t it? He had a scar on his hip that demanded he always think the worst. If he didn’t, the only option left was to trust—the one thing, for all his wealth stored safely in a bank, he could not afford.
‘Nikolay, promise me...’ Klara began. Nikolay pressed a finger to her lips.
‘Do not ask me for promises, Klara.’ He needed her to go. He was tired and not thinking clearly. It was a recipe for mistakes if she stayed longer. He reached for her gown hanging on a hook and helped her into it, letting his fingers drift over her skin as he worked the fastenings, allowing himself this one tenderness before he let her go. ‘You were brave to come here tonight. You must not risk such a thing again, not for my sake, but for yours. I am not afraid of Amesbury.’
‘I am not afraid of him either.’ Klara turned in his arms. ‘This is not goodbye, Nikolay. Amesbury does not have the ordering of me.’
Her stubbornness would be the death of her. He set her away from him, finding the will to be strong. ‘Go home, Klara, there is nothing for you here, nothing worth the risks you are willing to take.’ Certainly not him. He would only disappoint her in the end with his warrior code and his walls of distrust. Klara would want all of a man and he could not give her that. He could give no woman all of him.
Klara’s eyes flared. ‘I don’t believe you. Tonight—’
‘Was a moment out of time,’ Nikolay said firmly. ‘like all the other moments between us: beautiful and rare and entirely outside the realm of reality.’ It could be no other way, but even now he was already testing the limits of that possibility with two of the most powerful words he knew: what if.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What if it’s a trap?’ Stepan was an early-morning cynic. The ill-fated invitation Klara had warned him about lay between them on the breakfast table.
Nikolay chuckled. ‘My, my, since when has my mail held such fascination for you?’ He made a show of unfolding his napkin and settling it on his lap.
‘Since it comes from the Russian ambassador. Since I saw the way you’ve managed to “stay away” from Klara Grigorieva in the stables yesterday,’ Stepan huffed. ‘You were devouring her and she you, and it didn’t appear to be the first time such a “feast” had happened.’ Stepan pounded his fist on the table in abject frustration. ‘You promised me, Nikolay!’
Nikolay’s eyes went straight to the bottom of the page where the signature was boldly written: Alexei Grigoriev. The thought of celebra
ting Maslenitsa generated warm memories for him. He’d always loved Maslenitsa in Kuban, the celebration that marked the beginning of spring and the last of the festivities before Lent. It would be different here, of course. There was no snow for sleigh rides. ‘How can it be a trap when I know what I’m walking into? How can she be a trap when she was the one who warned me? She told me point-blank not to come.’
Stepan’s eyebrow notched a new level of cynicism. ‘What if that’s exactly why she told you? She knows you’ll do the reverse. She told you to stay away because she knew it would make you want to come all the more.’ His friend sounded more than cynical. He sounded...fearful. ‘Maybe this one time you don’t have to run towards danger and a beautiful woman, Nikolay.’
Nikolay set down the invitation. There was more at work here. ‘What is really bothering you, Stepan?’
‘You’re leaving and I won’t be able to protect you.’ Stepan’s face was naked with stark emotion. There was nothing left to hide and the depths of that exposure rocked Nikolay. Stepan was always so steady, so sure of himself. ‘Nik, you forget that I was the one who saw you with that wound, in that cell. Everyone was talking treason and murder while you bled. No one cared if you died while they argued.’
It would have been convenient for the Tsar if he had managed to expire. He couldn’t say Stepan’s reasoning was wrong. ‘You made them care,’ Nikolay answered quietly. He didn’t remember much in those pain-dazed hours, but he remembered that. ‘You came.’ Miraculously someone had got news to Stepan. ‘You came bursting into the dungeon with five men behind you, waving a torch and a sword and demanding I be seen by a doctor.’ A doctor Stepan had brought, a man who could be trusted to stitch him up, not finish him off. Stepan had seen him safely to his father’s house and his father had taken things from there. Without Stepan and his father, he would have died one way or another. ‘You saved me that night.’
Compromised by the Prince's Touch Page 13