Deceiver

by Nicola Cornick

  Now it felt quite different. For all her advanced age and her increased experience, she felt shy, and a little awkward. To cover her nervousness she reached for the saddlebag, took the stone bottle of apple cordial from inside, unstoppered it and tilted it to her lips. Her hand was shaking slightly. She spilled some of the liquid and it ran down over her chin.

  Marcus was watching her, a smile in his eyes. His hand closed over hers, taking the bottle from her and setting it down as she wiped her sleeve along her chin a little self-consciously.

  "There is no need to be afraid, Bella," he said. "We need do nothing you do not want."

  Isabella fixed her gaze on the stone bottle resting in the sand. She was very conscious of the warmth and strength of Marcus's hand on hers.

  "It is not so much what I do or do not want, Marcus," she said, "but more that with all that has happened between us, I find I am rather anxious."

  Marcus raised his hand to tilt her chin up. "I understand." He smiled wryly. "Such a complicated build-up that one wonders if we can possibly live up to the promise."

  Isabella leaned into the curve of his shoulder. It felt won­derfully reassuring and safe. "Precisely," she said. She rested her head against him. "I like this, Marcus. This is how it should be."

  "Yes." Marcus bent his head and pressed a soft kiss against her jaw. For a moment, Isabella was afraid that he might push too hard for what he wanted, but when his lips found hers, their touch was infinitely gentle and tender and she relaxed into the kiss.

  "You taste of apples and sea air," Marcus murmured. The tip of his tongue touched hers, sliding along the inside of her lower lip, making her senses leap. She turned more fully toward him, wanting the kiss to deepen, but he was withdraw­ing from her and she almost groaned with frustration.

  "Let's swim," he said. "It is such a beautiful day."

  He stood up. He had already removed his jacket and loosened his cravat. Isabella averted her gaze as he started to pull his shirt over his head. The sun struck shafts of heat through her straw bonnet and made her cheeks feel hotter than ever.

  "Bella?" Marcus sounded quizzical. "Is there a particular reason as to why you are staring so intently at that boulder that you are like to get a crick in your neck?"

  Isabella looked at him. It was a mistake. She had not seen him half-naked in the daylight for a long time, if not ever. The muscled shoulders, the broad expanse of chest, the flat abdomen. . . He was beautiful. She gulped, feeling hotter still, as though the sun was shining for her alone.

  "I am affording you the privacy you require to change for bathing," she said.

  Marcus sat down on a rock and pulled off his boots. "There is no need for that. We are married, after all. Are you not to join me?"

  "I do not know," Isabella said rapidly, "this is a little. . . difficult."

  Marcus laughed. The sunlight glistened on his skin, taming it a delicious, smooth golden color. Isabella's fingers itched to touch him. She wanted to slide her hands over his chest and feel his warmth, to explore the contrast of hard muscle and satiny skin, to feel his heart beating under her hand. She wanted to taste him and smell the salty male scent of him. She was radiating so much heat now that her clothes felt sticky and damp and her face was as bright as a beacon. The sea looked remarkably tempting and cool.

  Marcus's hands went to the fastening of his trousers. Isabella made a faint protesting squeak. Marcus looked at her.

  "Too much sun, Bella?"

  "Too much of you displaying yourself so blatantly!" Isabella said. "Marcus—"

  But it was too late. With a fluid movement, Marcus stripped off his breeches and underclothes and stood before her in all his glorious masculinity.

  He was outrageous, virile and unashamed.

  Isabella was not accustomed to men stripping in front of her. She stared, torn between shock and fascination.

  "You look like a horrified virgin," Marcus said cheerfully. "How interesting."

  Isabella blushed to the roots of her hair. Her first husband had never stood before her in such unabashed nudity and Ernest's anatomy, bereft of clothing, had not been a pretty sight. If he had stripped before her, Isabella was sure that quite a few stomachs would have turned, rather than heads.

  "I assure you that I have never known anyone who com­ported himself in such a manner," she added faintly.

  Marcus grinned. "So what do you think?" he asked boyishly

  Isabella reflected that were she to tell him what she really thought, she would probably be contravening several of the Salterton bylaws.

  "I think you are quite shameless," she said.

  Marcus laughed and stepped closer. Isabella tried to find somewhere innocuous to look and failed completely. She was quite relieved when Marcus drew her to her feet and she was on a level with his chest rather than any other parts of him.

  "Remember what I told you at breakfast," he said softly. "I am going to strip you naked and take you into the water with me."

  Isabella made a faint, protesting squeak but his fingers had already moved to the buttons of her riding jacket, slipping them from their fastenings. The smaller buttons of her shirt gave him more trouble, but he did not hurry. Nor did he stop to kiss her. He worked intently and the look in his eyes was no less concentrated. Isabella found it extraordinarily arousing. She stood obediently still beneath his hands, held in a spell.

  The jacket crumpled to the ground. The shirt followed it. The cool air raised goose pimples on Isabella's bare shoul­ders and arms. Her skin prickled for Marcus's touch. She wanted to beg him to hurry. She bit her lip hard.

  There was a tug of material at her waist; something gave and the skirt slid down to pool at her feet. Suddenly impatient, she stepped out of it, kicked her boots off and practically tore off her remaining clothes. The old, wild spirit filled her and she threw Marcus one provocative glance over her shoulder before running into the sea.

  The cold shock of the water made her squeal aloud. A flock of seabirds rose from the rocks and soared on the breeze, their cries echoing hers.

  There was a splash as Marcus surfaced beside her, the water running from his shoulders in sun-streaked rivulets. He grabbed her about the waist with both hands and fitted her against him, hard wet muscle against her softer contours. She gasped again at the contact of their bodies and then his mouth was on hers with scorching hunger. She felt the shudder that shook him as their bodies pressed closer, demanding satisfac­tion. Then his hand sought her breast and she jumped in dazed surprise at the intimacy of the caress and opened her eyes.

  There were tiny drops of water on Marcus's eyelashes and the skin of his face and shoulders was smooth and bronzed in the sun. Isabella ran her hands over him with something ap­proaching awe and saw the surge of pure lust in his darkened eyes. With a groan he drew her back to him again, kissing her with an almost desperate longing. She writhed and twisted in his arms, the lap of the water about them and the friction of their bare bodies almost too much to bear, and then, when she thought he would take her there and then in the water, she broke away.

  "I told you I would make you suffer," she said, and dived away from him through the aquamarine water, kicking out for the rocks and hauling herself up onto their hot surface. When she turned to look back, what she saw made her laugh aloud. Marcus was shaking his head and looking thoroughly dazed and the look he shot her was more than half-unfriendly. -

  "Minx!" He was pulling himself out onto the rocks beside her, reaching for her. Isabella rolled out of his grasp. The sun was hot and the air soft and it felt wonderful on her naked skin and she did not want to be caught. Not quite yet.

  She scrambled to her feet. Marcus's hand snaked out and caught her ankle. He cushioned her fall with his body, then rolled her beneath him, pinning her down. His mouth swooped down, imprisoning hers. Isabella wriggled. He released one wrist but only to capture her breast and raw pleasure surged through her as he lowered his head to her nipple. The fire scorched through her body but she twisted away. />
  "Not here."

  "Where, then?" Marcus's voice was harsh.

  She stared into his eyes. "The summerhouse."

  His bronzed hand still rested against the whiteness of her skin and the sight of it made her heart beat frantically. He withdrew slowly.

  "We had better run then," he said.

  Isabella did. She ran back down to the beach where she donned her skirt and jacket haphazardly, pushing her wet hair back from her face. It was only a short distance along the cliff path to the gardens, but if they met anyone it would appear that they had run mad. Isabella was almost certain that they had.

  Marcus grabbed her hand. He had put on his breeches and it was impossible to ignore the absolutely enormous bulge in them. Isabella stared, her mind racing. He tugged on her hand.

  "That is your doing and now we have to do something about it," he said. "Come on."

  Like the young lovers they had once been, they ran along the sandy path from the cove to the gate that led into Salter­ton Hall Gardens. A spine of gorse stabbed Isabella's bare foot and when she gasped at the pain Marcus scooped her up in his arms, bundling her through the gate and up the steps to the summerhouse. The door resisted, creaking on its hinges. Inside, the air was dim, scented with dust and roses. Marcus placed her back on her feet and for a moment they stood looking at one another in the half light.

  They both moved at once, colliding, drawn tight into each other's arms. The atmosphere between them had changed now, slowed down, cooled almost into tenderness. Almost, but not quite. This time when they kissed it was with remem­brance as well as passion. The poignancy made Isabella's eyes sting with tears.

  "So much haste," Marcus whispered. "The buttons of your jacket are done up in the wrong holes." He was smiting at her and she raised her hand to unfasten them. The skirt followed. She was naked once more and to cover the slight return of self-consciousness, she stepped close to him, running her finger­tips over his broad muscled chest and down across his abdomen to the top of his breeches. His skin was like slightly rough satin and when she bent her lips to kiss his chest she could taste the salt on his skin. She heard him draw his breath in sharply and then he had scooped her up again and laid her on the ancient chaise longue that had been pushed into a corner, covered and abandoned. He pulled the sheet off and Isabella lay back, remembering the way that the yielding cushions had embraced her body before. That had been so long ago. The laughter bubbled up inside her.

  "Marcus, there are probably spiders' nests. . ."

  "There can be mice for all I care." He had joined her on the bed and was entangling his hands in her hair, tilting her „ face to his. "We shall not notice them."

  All consciousness of spiders, mice and anything else fled beneath the sensation of his lips and his hands. Isabella stretched out beneath him, arching in helpless surrender to the fingers that slid over her, stroking with such skillful reverence. He caressed her breasts, cupping their fullness with posses­sive pleasure, before lowering his mouth to tease her nipples and graze them gently with his tongue and teeth. Isabella entwined her legs with his and drew him close, smoothing her hands over his back and down over the curve of his buttocks.

  She felt his body jolt and opened her eyes. In the shadows of the summerhouse, his face was hard and dark with desire. It blazed in his eyes. Yet there was tenderness there as well and it made her heart ache.

  With infinite gentleness he stroked over the curve of her hip and slid his hand between her legs. Old anxieties mixed with Isabella's desire and for a brief second she stiffened. Marcus felt it.

  "Sweetheart. . ." He kissed her, his mouth soft against her own.

  Her fears subsided, her body relaxed a little. Marcus stroked the inside of her thigh and, gradually, beneath the soothing of his caresses, Isabella felt her stiff muscles start to uncoil. Marcus's other hand slid to her bare shoulder and brushed the hair from the damp skin of her neck. Isabella moved slightly.

  "Mmmn. I am sorry, Marcus."

  "There is nothing to apologize for." Marcus's hand stole down over her breast and her eyes opened wide. "Slow is good."

  It was. Marcus's voice was as gentle as his fingers, smooth, languorous. His hand swept across her stomach and Isabella shivered beneath his touch. He kissed the curve of her shoulder and she trembled, catching her breath. He moved the damp hair aside and stroked his tongue delicately down the line of her neck.

  "You are mine," he murmured against her skin. "You were from the beginning. Nothing else matters."

  He rolled over, trapping her beneath him again, and her body moved against his with instinctive need.

  "Remember what it was like for us," he said in her ear, his breath sending the shivers coursing along her nerves. "Remember. . ."

  She did remember. She remembered the heat and the urgency and the raw need and the love and the explosive passion. Her body softened. Marcus was kissing the sprinkling of freckles at the base of her throat now. His hair brushed her breast. She could feel the hard press of his arousal against her thigh and moved slightly in accommodation. He shook his head.

  "No. Not yet. Remember. It was exciting for us, Isabella. Unbearably, intolerably exciting."

  Isabella made a soft sound of surrender. She was quivering, melting beneath him with wild need. She felt his hand steal to part her legs again and this time she had no reluctance and opened to him with eagerness as his hand toyed amidst the springy hair, increasingly intimate, increasingly pleasurable.

  "Sweetheart. . ."

  Marcus was above her, parting her wide, sliding between her thighs, entering her with one hard, pulsing thrust. His face was hard in the shadowy light, concentrated, desire distilled.

  "Oh!" Isabella arched, felt herself impaled. The heat pooled low within her. She grabbed his shoulders, scoring the muscle.

  He rocked deeper inside her, moving faster now. Isabella's head spun as the pleasure built. The wild, sharp sensation burst through her, making her cry out and twist beneath him. Her whole body lit with an exquisite, aching sweetness. She knew that Marcus had deliberately put her pleasure first this time, as though in recompense for what had happened in London. She felt awed and moved and grateful. She lay still, catching her breath, reaching out to him.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "But you. . ."

  "Yes?" He kissed her tightly. He was caressing her stomach again with that deceptively gentle and soothing touch that nev­ertheless stirred something primitive in her. Isabella shifted, feeling astonishment and a renewed surge of desire. Then he was inside her again, slippery and warm. He thrust harder and faster until she could smell the mingled salt and sweat on him and see the glistening of it stick on his skin. He took her mouth, the plunge and retreat of his tongue echoing his move­ments inside her. His body jerked convulsively as he exploded into her and Isabella's mind splintered into a thousand dazzling pieces as she felt the spasms rack her again, felt the frantic beating of his heart against hers, and the tightness of his arms about her. They lay clasped close, with no sound but the raggedness of their breath.

  Isabella had no concept of how long it was before Marcus shifted slightly. His breath stirred her hair.

  "I have wanted you for a very long time, Isabella."

  She moved within the circle of his arms so that she could look at him. His eyes were dark and grave and but a half smile was curving his lips.

  "I thought," she said, teasing a little, "that you took what you wanted in London?"

  His expression stilled and sobered. "No," he said. "I took something. At the time I thought it was all I wanted but it was worthless compared to what I have now." He kissed her pos­sessively. "And now I want it all over again."

  "Marcus!"

  "I know. I am an old man these days but you push me to a degree I did not realize I could achieve. Allow me to prove the point." His mouth claimed hers. His hands were on her body. He slid down and touched his tongue to the aching central core of her and Isabella sighed and capitulated with pure enjoyment as he
took her again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "Of course I always considered the Southerns to be a rather unfortunate family," Mrs. Goring said comfortably, reaching for the teapot. She and Isabella were sitting in the glass-fronted coffee parlor at the circulating library, which afforded a splendid view across the esplanade to the sea. They had been there for two hours and so far Mrs. Goring had summarized events in Salterton during the twelve years of Isabella's absence and was moving on to general reflections on the in­habitants of the town. Isabella was happy to sit and listen, to watch the sea and to observe the visitors going about their business. One learned a lot from watching, as Pen had men­tioned only the other day. For instance, she had seen the Misses Belling hanging from an upstairs window across the street in a most unsubtle attempt to attract Mr. Casson's interest; she had observed Mr. Owen limping along the quayside toward the inn—evidently taking efficacious waters of quite a different sort—and she had just seen Pen and Alistair walk by arm in arm, toward the jetty. It appeared that they had settled their differences.

  "Poor Lord John being the younger son, you know," Mrs. Goring continued, "and then they had no money, and little Miss India dying so young. And then there was the difficulty of the child, of course. . ." She let her voice trail away dis­creetly. "No one thought any the less of Lord John, of course. Such things happen, even to the nobility. Especially to the nobility, if one believes the accounts in the newspapers. But even so, it was rather a shock when one knew him."