Jo studied the line of his jaw, the sensual shape of his lips, the deep blue of his eyes as they caressed her face before focusing on her lips. A reckless hunger pounded through her. She wanted him. She needed his kisses. Where sadness had ruled before, hunger now reigned.
She stood up and moved between his knees, looking down at his surprised expression.
“Kiss me.”
He smiled, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head. “Jo . . . this room. The two of us alone. This might not be the best . . .”
She recognized the change in his voice. He wanted her too.
“Very well. Then I’ll have to kiss you.” She pressed her lips to his.
Wynne’s mouth immediately took hers, and sparks exploded within her. The kiss was scorching. So different from those they’d exchanged in the garden. Coaxing, shaping, exploring. He was now a man with all the time and all the patience in the world.
She was aroused and welcomed the light touch on her spine as he reached for her. She pressed closer and his mouth became possessive. Lost in the kiss, Jo moved her hands over his shirt, feeling his chest and broad shoulders, and then slipped her arms around his neck.
The moment she molded herself to him, his mouth opened further, his tongue becoming more demanding. His hand slid along her waist and ribs, caressing her breast through the bodice of her gown. Their tongues played a seductive dance until they were both shaking with need.
Then, he abruptly ended the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. They were both breathing heavily.
Jo wanted more. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He pulled her arms down from around his neck.
“Jo,” he whispered raggedly. “You don’t know what you’re doing. We should wait.”
She’d waited long enough. No more, she thought. She was thirty-seven years old. Wynne was the only man she’d loved for her entire life. And for sixteen years, he had been the only man in all those dreams from which she’d awakened aroused.
Why should she wait?
“No,” she said, pushing him back onto the bed. “No waiting. I want you now.”
Chapter 18
He’d died and gone to heaven.
After he’d proposed to her today, Wynne’s plan had been to do everything right. He was committed to following all the well-established rules of courtship, engagement, and marriage. He’d robbed her of the joys and celebrations of each stage when he broke off their engagement. He would make it up to her this time. But his plans and good intentions went out the door—and took the bloody door, hinges and all, with them—when she pushed her shoes off, climbed onto the bed, and straddled him.
Wynne was happy that Jo had plans of her own.
Jo’s hair was a tousled mass of dark curls, and she pulled out the remaining pins, shaking it loose until it cascaded around her shoulders. Her beautiful face was flushed, her eyes puffy, and her lips swollen from his kisses. Her dress . . . his eyes moved down the row of buttons in the front, and the urge to pull every piece of clothing off her body took on religious significance.
She shifted her weight on top of him, and he groaned involuntarily.
She ignored his suffering and began to pull his shirt from his pants.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
Jo had always been passionate. Even when they were young, he’d seen it, felt it. But this exceeded his wildest expectations and dreams.
“You very well know I do.” She frowned. “You might be a gentleman and help me remove this shirt of yours.”
He held onto Jo’s waist firmly to stop her from moving. Any more of this and his cock would punch a hole in his breeches. Then she’d know what kind of gentlemen he really was.
Every fiber of his body ached with desire for her. At the same time, he recalled her sadness, her feeling of loss, the river of tears that had stopped only moments ago. She’d had a dreadfully emotional day. He’d be a rogue and a rakehell to take advantage of her and make love to her when she was so vulnerable.
“If you don’t take this off, I’ll tear it off,” she said with remarkable serenity.
Wynne wanted her to feel better. He wanted to see a smile on her face. He told himself he’d go only so far, but he’d remain strong, in control. Yanking his shirt over his head, he tossed it across the room.
He immediately regretted his decision as her shining brown eyes immediately focused on the ugly scar just above his heart.
“So close. He almost killed you.”
With a feathery touch, her fingers traced the outline of the place Hugh’s bullet had entered his chest. He saw fresh tears spring to her eyes.
“But he didn’t,” Wynne told her. “There’s a matching hole in the back where the bullet came out. I survived. I’m alive and well and yours. All yours.”
For today and tomorrow and forever, he thought, reaching and wiping away a teardrop from her silky cheek.
For a long moment she sat still, her magical eyes studying the scar, his shoulders, his chest. He never imagined a look could be so powerful that it could make his body react as it was right now. When her gaze finally returned to his face, he was a lost man. She wanted him.
She sat back and slowly, ever so slowly, began to undo the buttons of her dress.
“Jo,” he whispered, reaching up and trying to take over. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists and she pushed them back to the mattress.
Leaning over him, silky locks of hair trailing across his chest and belly, she turned her attention to his scar again, pressing a kiss on it. From there, her lips followed a meandering path across his burning skin, kissing, tasting, breathing gently, and gradually driving him insane. Her hips moved against the rising bulge of his erection. He wanted to dive beneath those layers of skirts. He wanted to touch her, taste the sweetness of her delicate sex.
He fought to retain some degree of control on his imagination, for his thoughts only worsened his condition. She was driving him mad with desire.
His hand reached for the bunched hems of her skirts, but she caught his wrist and pushed it away. “Don’t move, Captain Melfort. I’ll do it.”
Another half-dozen buttons came apart and the front of her dress opened to reveal the curve of her breast above the top of her shift. A moment later, her lips were back on him.
His skin sizzled with her touch as her hand trailed downward across his stomach.
Wynne reached deep, commanding himself that these pleasures must have their limits. He tried to think of sea battles he’d fought, of bloody boardings, of rough seas, broadsides, and burning ships. Anything but the softness and beauty of the woman sitting on top of him. His muscles were flexed, rock hard, and he ached with the primal need of a male.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until her mouth returned to his.
“You’re killing me, you know,” he murmured raggedly. “But this game of yours has dire consequences, so perhaps we should stop.”
* * *
Stopping was not an option.
Jo’s kisses silenced him once again. She teased him, running her tongue across his flesh. And as she’d asked, he didn’t move. Waiting. This position of control was arousing. She let her lips move to his neck and kiss their way to his ear. She bit at his earlobe. He growled in response. Smiling and feeling bolder, she kissed a path back to his lips. She let her tongue play across their fullness again, and this time they opened for her and her tongue delved in and began its voyage of discovery.
The unrestrained desire to do as she wished, the power of being in charge, having decided that neither of them would walk away from this night unscathed, was thrilling.
Jo feared he would be scandalized if he knew that her virginity was intact. Never had she given herself to a man. But she would give herself to Wynne tonight.
This boldness made her feel . . . strong. She was in command, except that the pleasure was sliding through her too fast. She could feel a tingling in her limbs, and an urgency was building.
/> Jo sat up again, taking deep breaths. She painstakingly unfastened what was left of the buttons on her dress. His eyes were fixed on every movement of her fingers. His hips moved every now and then, building her awareness of the massive bulge she sat astride.
She loved the taste of him, the texture of his skin under her tongue. The magnificent chest, his strong neck and jaw, the lips. She pushed the dress down one arm, then the other, then to her waist. The ties at the neckline of the shift came undone with one tug and the material fell open, baring her breasts.
Her gaze moved to his eyes, and he was an animal unleashed.
* * *
He couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t wait. The flawless skin exposed and the perfection of her breasts took his breath away.
“Take me,” she whispered.
He sat up abruptly, taking possession of her mouth. His tongue plunged into the soft recesses of her mouth. She arched against his body as his palm closed over the firmness of her breast. She moaned, driving him insane.
He had to go slow, take his time. The urge to tear off her clothes and bury himself deep inside her was too great. Wynne took her by the waist and the next instant she was on her back, staring up at him.
Leaning over her, he studied her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the delicate coloring of her lips, the play of dark hair on the sheets. She’d finally stepped out of his dreams into his life. He would love her for eternity.
He kissed her more gently this time, and their mouths continued a dance of love as their souls joined.
“Make love to me, Wynne,” she whispered against his lips.
“I will . . . in time.”
He slid his lips slowly down her neck and to her breasts. He pushed the shift to her waist and he heard her gasp as he tasted and teased her nipple.
He wanted to see all of her. Moving back onto the floor, he slowly undressed her. As he worked, his hands grazed across her skin, over her quivering belly, down the leg and up the inside of her thighs until a finger brushed against the slick opening of her sex.
A moment later, still standing beside the bed, Wynne looked down at the incomparable splendor of her naked body. She was the huntress Diana come to Earth to take her pleasure and grace the world of mortals.
He tossed aside his boots but didn’t trust himself to remove his breeches when he lay beside her on the bed.
“Why?”
“Later,” he told her. “After I am done with you.”
Before she could object again, his hand slid over the symmetrical perfection of her breasts, and then moved slowly downward. His mouth recaptured hers, again muffling her gasp when he touched her center of pleasure.
* * *
“Close your eyes and feel every sensation.” Wynne whispered in her ear, and she arched her body in response.
Jo closed her eyes as his mouth trailed down to her nipple. She felt a blissful madness coming on as his lips tugged at her. Waves of heat swept from her breasts to her core. She lifted her hips, desperately wanting his hand there again.
He was an expert. He knew what she wanted. His warm and magical hand slowly skimmed down her belly, leisurely exploring until it reached the junction of her thighs. She moaned as his finger gently slipped between her legs and found the delicate spot.
“Wynne.” His name escaped her lips in wonder.
He began to stroke her, and Jo forgot her own name. His palm pressed at the mound, his fingers retreating and entering again. He caressed her so softly, so perfectly. Her legs tensed, and she felt the slick wetness beneath his touch. Jo found herself short of breath. Her body was suddenly humming with brilliant new sensations.
All the years of dreaming, of imagining this man in her bed, in her life, and the real experience of this moment so much surpassed all those visions.
His fingers circled and stroked, and an unbearable pressure was building within her.
She was possessed by him. He had enthralled her body in a timeless, frenzied world of sensation and passion. When she thought her release was imminent, he surprised her again by moving down her body and kissing her stomach and moving still lower.
Her eyes opened. She stared, not allowing herself to breathe. Praying that he wouldn’t stop. Jo gasped when he covered her sex with his mouth.
His tongue replaced his finger, nudging at her so gently, lightly sucking, prodding.
Jo’s hands tangled themselves in Wynne’s hair, trying to pull him closer, wanting it to never end.
Suddenly her world splintered into unfathomable pleasure she’d never known before, and she heard herself cry out.
The climax exploded within her with the awesome power of a summer storm. The air around her lit up and she could not breathe. And then she was simply sailing through a crystalline sky, colors she had never before seen flashing around her as she soared. She cried out his name and fought fiercely to reach for him.
Wynne held her as she descended, kissing her softly until she found she was still in his arms.
The sensations in her body continued to recede in waves, but as he worked at removing what was left of his own clothes, she felt her excitement and desire growing once again.
She heard him curse. His breeches were too slow coming off. She shivered in anticipation when he stood gloriously naked beside the bed.
“Make love to me, Wynne.” She lifted her hips, offering herself to him as he joined her.
The discomfort as he first entered her was sharp and quick and soon replaced by the wonder of their perfect fit. The haze of frenzied delight that followed, swept her up in wave after wave, lifting her, shattering her, until her bones dissolved into liquid, her flesh tingling and spent.
Lying together, they banished every specter of sadness and loss. Right now all that mattered was the two of them. All that existed was the affinity of two hearts and minds. Two bodies and souls. Tomorrow would be a challenge. And the day after. And many days after. But they would have time—a lifetime together—to face the world that awaited them.
For now, for tonight, each lived only for the other and basked in the afterglow of love.
Chapter 19
Grey mist rose from the river, the sun only a dull smudge of light above the phantom fields and cottages. The worn and battered graves in the kirkyard were dark with the damp. Beads of dew clung to the tufts of grass on either side of the path, and here and there a patch of daffodils hung their heads, waiting for the day to brighten. Jo needed to keep a hold on her emotions. It was as if she were going to the funeral of a friend, and she could not allow herself to break down when she needed to be strong.
They arrived early for the Sunday’s service and walked on in silence for some time until she became aware of the sound of the river running over shallows. A cuckoo called from a grove on the far bank, and the feel of Wynne’s arm linked with hers fortified her will.
It was time to go in.
They were the last ones who entered the church. As they seated themselves in the back row of the congregation, a spectral arm wrapped around her, surprising her with the comfort and encouragement it conveyed. Ghostly hands pressed her arm and gently touched her cheek, filling her with an unexpected sense of welcome. Jo knew it was her imagination, her anticipation of meeting those who shared with her the blood of the same forebears, of having long-held questions answered. But only in part. Her mother had been here.
The curate started the service, but Jo’s mind couldn’t comprehend the words. Instead, she wondered how many times a little dark-haired girl had sat in this church, perhaps in this very pew. Perhaps her wandering attention had been caught by the dark wood of the seat in front of her and she’d run her tiny fingers along the swirling lines of the wood grain. Perhaps she had practiced her counting on the rows of grey stones that shaped the arches of the windows and been distracted by the thought of spring flowers outside in the kirkyard.
Maybe, as she sat here with her mother and father, the worn coat of the stern old farmer sitting in front of them drew her eye, and sh
e’d been tempted to pull the ribbon that held his hair back. The droning voice of the minister might have caught her attention, and she’d wondered why he wore such funny clothes and had such a strange hair when he looked nothing like that during his visits for dinner.
As she grew older, her gaze may have wandered from neighbor to neighbor. Her friend Josephine, who had the same name and loved to read. The two horrid boys from the next farm who teased her in the tiny school house at the end of the village. Perhaps those boys became less horrid as time passed.
Her mother had been here. Jo could feel her presence. As she studied the backs and the occasional profiles of the people in the congregation, she wondered which of them had known little Josephine Sellar, loved her, pined for her, puzzled over her disappearance.
Wynne’s hand closed around hers, their fingers entwined. She thought of Charles Barton. Had he come here too? Sat with her in this church, their arms linked together, her hand pressed against his side, as Wynne was doing now? What was the relationship between them?
The candles in the sconces and on the altar flickered and flared as a slight breeze wafted through the church. Mr. Kealy concluded the service, and Jo and Wynne stayed in the last pew watching the parishioners leave the church in clusters of twos and threes.
Old and young, women and men, children and old people. Many passed, deep in conversation with friends. Some paused and nodded. But the pleasantry was neighborly and gave no hint of recognition. Mrs. Clark saw them and stopped to introduce her husband. The four of them were the among the last to leave.
“Ye should know, m’lady, I thought of our meeting for much of the night,” Mrs. Clark told her as the women walked out ahead of the men. “Jo and I were bosom friends when we were but lasses. Always had our heads together, we did. But her family circumstances drew us apart. My husband says my memory ain’t what it used to be, but yer resemblance to my dear old friend set me back on my heels, I don’t mind saying. And now Mr. Kealy tells me ye might just be a relation to Josephine Sellar. I’m thinking it must be a blood tie.”
It Happened in the Highlands Page 17