When he slipped his hand into her robe, she made no protest. His warm hand cupped one full, aching breast and she sighed. Philip had never touched her like this; he had never made her feel this way.
Kincaid kissed her again and again, not just one kiss, but a dozen. He brushed his lips in tiny butterfly kisses over her eyelids, her cheekbones, the tip of her nose, the cleft of her chin, until she was melting into his arms, eager and trembling.
Kincaid rubbed the rough pad of his finger against her nipple and Meg heard herself moan as surely no lady would dare. But then she was not a lady any longer, was she?
"Do you like this?" he whispered in her ear. His breath was warm and labored in her ear. "I only want you to feel good, Meg."
"Yes," she whispered. She let her eyes drift shut. "So good."
"And what of this?" He went down on one knee, parting her robe as he lowered himself.
When his lips touched the bud of her breast, she could feel his mouth, wet from her own. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, arching her back as he took the nub of her nipple between his teeth and tugged ever so gently.
"Yes," she murmured.
Meg let her head fall back as she reveled in the shivers of pleasure Kincaid was creating with his mouth. All at once she was unsteady on her feet. She rested her hands on his broad shoulders for support.
Kincaid held Meg's breast in the cup of his hand, teasing, taunting her nipple with the tip of his tongue until she thought she would go mad for want of more.
"Kincaid . . ." Cautiously she lowered herself to her knees on the faded red Turkish carpet. Now she was practically eye to eye with him again.
"Is this what you want?" he whispered. "I don't want to hurry you. I don't want to hurt you, to make you regret later—"
She pressed her finger to his lips, silencing him. "It's what I want," she breathed. "What I've wanted for days. To be touched." She ran her hand over his broad chest, feeling the beat of his heart through his linen shirt. "To touch you."
Meg put her hands up, palms out, and he raised his hands to meet hers. their fingers interlocking. "Please," she whispered. "I cannot promise how long I can stay. I cannot promise how long I can love you, but for today, perhaps tomorrow, could you—" She closed her eyes, not knowing how to say what she felt in her heart. Her blood raced. A strange, unaccustomed ache filled her. How could she tell Kincaid she wanted to share his love if only for a few hours?
But when she opened her eyes again, she realized no words were necessary. Kincaid understood what she was trying to say. So for a moment, on their knees, facing each other, they stared into each other's eyes. Then, without breaking eye contact, Kincaid took her by the hand, raised her to her feet, and led her to the bed.
He eased her onto the feather tick and, fully clothed, he lay down, rolling onto his side beside her. He brushed his fingertips against her skin where the black silk dressing gown had fallen open. He took his time, tracing an invisible pattern between her breasts with his hand, over her rib cage, over the flat of her belly.
He whispered in her ear, calling her name, telling her he thought she was beautiful.
Meg closed her eyes, guiding his head until he rested his cheek on her breast, his breath warm and tantalizing on her nipple.
Kincaid brushed her breast with soft, fleeting kisses as his hand drew lower, teasing her, tempting her. His hand circumnavigated the bed of curls to touch her thighs, heat against hot flesh. With his hand, he slowly parted her legs. His fingertips moved from the inside to the outside of her legs, close to the source of her heat, but not close enough.
Meg heard herself moan, still amazed and just a little shocked that such wanton sounds could come from her lips. 'A cold fish,' Philip had called her. 'Frigid.' And she had believed him. Only now she knew he was wrong and she smiled at the thought of her own vengeance. She could feel. And from the sound of Kincaid's breathing, she knew she could make a man feel, as well.
Kincaid drew his hand in a circle around her woman's place, now damp, its scent heavy in her nostrils. She lifted her hips, straining to meet his fingertips, praying they would accidentally brush the quivering folds.
"Meg, Meg . . ."
His mouth brushed hers and she pressed her lips to his with a fever of desire she hadn't known could exist. Her entire life, men had meant nothing but fear, pain, and entrapment, and now without warning, here was Kincaid, here for nothing but her pleasure.
Meg explored the inside of his mouth with her tongue, tasting the brandy that had passed his lips. She shifted against him, turning on her side, pressing her hips against his.
"Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" she whispered, feeling only a little shy.
"Hadn't made up my mind yet." He grinned boyishly, pushing a damp lock of hair off her cheek, "I had thought this might be a morning for my lady's pleasure."
Meg looked at him, perplexed. Did he mean that a man and woman could make love only for the woman's pleasure? She nearly laughed aloud at the thought of this wonder. In her marriage bed, all that had mattered to Philip was his own satisfaction.
Meg slipped her hand inside the open neck of his linen shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin under her palm. The idea of making love only for her pleasure was enticing, but right now, she needed Kincaid. She needed, for the first time in her life, to feel a man inside her.
Meg leaned to whisper in his ear, too shy to speak the words aloud. "Please," she begged breathlessly. "I want . . ."
"Yes?" He kissed the corner of her mouth. "What do you want, Meg?" he teased.
She closed her eyes, trembling all over. "I want . . . I need . . . you. I . . . I'm no virgin, obviously." She gave a nervous laugh. "But no one . . . my husband, he never made me feel like this." Meg realized her cheeks were damp with her own tears and embarrassed, she made a motion to brush them away.
But Kincaid tenderly pushed her hand aside and brought his lips to her wet cheeks. "Please don't cry, Meg," he whispered, his voice filled with husky emotion. "I'll do whatever you want, just don't cry." His fingers caressed the nape of her neck and he kissed her lips. "If only I could take away the pain the bastard has caused you—"
"Shhh, not now." Her eyelashes fluttered as she opened her eyes to look into his. "Let's not talk about that now." She caught his hand and brought it to her bare hip. "Just love me. Let me love you. No one has let me love them in such a very long time."
With a groan Kincaid brought his mouth down hard on hers. In the drop of a grain of sand in an hourglass, all regard for Philip was gone from her mind. Kincaid was all she could think of, Kincaid and his magical touch.
He rolled her onto her back, pressing his mouth to the valley between her breasts. He grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it carelessly over the side of the bed.
In the early morning sunlight, Meg marveled at the sight of his broad bare chest, rippling with muscle and brawn. Never before this moment had it occurred to her that a man's body could be beautiful.
As he unlaced his breeches and kicked them off, Meg grazed her hands over his chest, feeling the springy, dark hair beneath her fingertips. When her thumb brushed over his nipple she was astonished to see that his response was much like her own. Kincaid's male nipple grew hard beneath her thumb, a sound of pleasure escaping his lips.
"Witch," he accused.
She laughed, bringing her mouth to his again, pressing her hips against him. She could feel his member hard and hot on her bare leg. He was running his hands over her, caressing the curve of her hip, the length of her leg. He kissed her again and again as he slipped his fingers between her thighs to the spot that burned hot and wet for him.
Meg moaned aloud at the feel of his hand in that place from which she had never known such pleasure could come. His slid his fingers up and down, and she ground her hips against him.
"Please, Kincaid," she begged. "Inside.
His gaze locked with hers as he removed his hand and swung over her, kneeling
between her parted legs. "Are you certain?" he whispered, leaning to brush his lips against hers.
She raised her hips, squeezing her eyes shut. "Yes," she heard herself moan.
Kincaid braced himself above her and slid inside with one smooth, deep thrust.
Meg heard herself moan and was shocked that she could feel such pleasure. She grasped his shoulders for support, opening her legs wider, lifting her hips to meet his next thrust.
The new and gratifying sensations seized Meg and tossed her high into the heavens. She panted, she moaned, allowing Kincaid to lift her higher and higher. When the explosion hit her she cried out with such force that he covered her mouth with his to muffle her sounds. It was so unexpected, so glorious. She clung to him as he drove deeper, spilling into her, giving instead of taking as Philip had.
For a long moment Meg just lay still beneath Kincaid, reveling in the tiny tremors that still ran the length of her hot, perspiration-covered body. Kincaid covered her face with kisses as he slowly slipped out of her. Then he rolled onto his side and drew her into his arms, still kissing her, touching her, making her feel loved.
When she opened her eyes to look at him he was smiling. "Was I loud?" she asked, still feeling too good to truly be mortified. "No one else heard me, did they?"
"I heard not more than a peep," he teased, kissing the tip of her nose.
She snuggled against him and he threw the rumpled counterpane over both of them. Then, in comfortable silence, they drifted off to sleep.
Much later, Meg woke to find herself still wrapped in Kincaid's arms. He slept completely relaxed, his hands flung out, his breathing deep and slow. For a while she just lay there, still in wonder of what had happened in this bed, in wonder of him.
Meg had not known it was even possible for a woman to get pleasure from a man's bed. She had always assumed it was duty, as she had been told. Her duty to give her husband pleasure. But Kincaid had not been concerned with his own desires, only hers. She smiled at the thought, remembering the intense pleasure she had experienced for the very first time in her life.
Growing warm just thinking about it, she slipped out of the bed, careful not to wake him. Rewrapping the silk dressing gown around her body, she retrieved the tie from the floor where she'd left it and covered herself. Curling up on a chair beside the table, she uncovered the breakfast meal Kincaid had brought hours ago and delved into it. The bread was cold, the coffee only lukewarm in its pot, but Meg was certain it was the best meal she had ever eaten.
Meg was drinking her second mug of coffee when she heard Kincaid stir. Sleepily, he put his hand out to where she had laid beside him in the bed. Not finding her there, he sat straight up. "Meg?"
"I'm here." She picked up her coffee and went to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.
He took the coffee from her hand and rubbed his eyes, taking a great gulp. "I was afraid you'd run again."
She looked down guiltily at her folded hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I just thought it would be simpler if I disappeared."
"It would be if I wanted you to go." He finished the coffee and set the cup on the table beside the bed. "The thing is, Meg, I don't want you to go." He sat back against the pillows, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "I've spent my entire life waiting for you, looking for you in every face of every woman I've ever kissed. Now that I've found you, I have no intention of letting you get away."
Meg didn't look at him. His words made her uncomfortable. How was it that she had come to sit on this pedestal of his? If he knew what she'd done, the sin she'd committed, she'd not shine so brightly in his mind.
"Kincaid . . ." She made herself look at him.
He took her hand, turning it in his. "All right, love, we'll not speak of the matter . . . now." He kissed her palm. "But you have to promise me you'll not try to flee again."
She sighed.
"If you leave me, I have to know. That's fair enough. I have to see you go."
Meg's gaze met his. Suddenly everything was more complicated. What had happened here in this bed made it more complicated for her. She didn't know what she would do now. His offer to stay with him was enticing. Of course, she wanted no marriage. She had already had a sour taste of that. But the idea of being Kincaid's woman was attractive. The thought of them living together in some far off land was a dream worth dreaming. "I'll not go without saying goodbye," she conceded in a whisper.
Kincaid lifted the counterpane. "Good answer. Now I won't have to keep such a tight watch on you." He patted the sheet. "Come here."
Without a moment's hesitation, Meg slid out of her dressing gown and under the sheets, resting against a pillow.
He brushed his lips against hers. "I have to go out for a short while this afternoon. Do you mind?"
Meg felt a strange sense of panic inside. "Could . . . could I go with you?"
" 'Fraid not, sweet. Robber's business."
She pushed the heel of her hand against his chest. "Please tell me you're not going out to steal. If the soldiers catch you again—"
"No work for me this afternoon. Just men's business." He kissed her temple. "I want you to stay here with Mother Godwin where you'll be safe, but I'll bring you something back."
"A cake if I'm good?" she teased, pressing a kiss to his muscular biceps.
"If you're as good as you were this morning," he growled playfully, "I'll bring you a dozen." Then he lifted the counterpane to cover both their heads, and Meg dissolved into laughter.
She had never fathomed such happiness could come from a man.
The Earl of Rutledge stood impatiently in the center of his bedchamber, his arms widespread as his tailor knelt on the floor, his mouth filled with brass pins. "Just one moment more, monsieur and I will be completed," Monsieur DeMoir begged, in heavily accented English.
Percival rolled his eyes. He had stood so long in this position in his new coat that he was growing faint. "Don't you think I have more pressing business than this fitting, DeMoir?"
"Oui. But my lord, you will be so handsome this night at Whitehall,"—he plucked a pin from his mouth and stuffed it into the hem of the burgundy silk coat—"zat dare I say, zee king will be envious of your costume."
Percival dared a glance into the long gilded mirror the tailor toted with him. Rutledge avoided mirrors most often and did not usually allow them in his presence because he had no desire to see his own hideous face. But for Monsieur DeMoir, he made an exception. The man was talented with a needle and highly in demand at court. It had cost him twice the price of the coat just to get him here on such short notice.
Percival studied his new outfit with his eye for color and form and was impressed by the elegant simplicity. For Percival, there would be no silly starched bows, so popular at court these days, no billows of lace vomiting from his throat.
He turned slightly to get a better look at his own profile, ignoring Monsieur DeMoir's protests. Percival's new burgundy breeches were cut conservatively, to present a fine leg beneath his clocked stockings. His coat was indeed magnificent with its brocaded burgundy silk and gold garnitures. The subtle lace of his new cravat was exquisitely spun by some wretched Irish cottar.
It was only when Percival looked into his own eyes that his face soured. How he hated his twisted lip and the gaping hole that ran toward his cheekbone. If only Monsieur DeMoir could do the same wonders with his harelip as with his wardrobe, but of course, he could not.
There was a tap at the door and Percival looked up, thankful for the reprieve from his own reflection. "Enter."
Higgins stepped inside the bedchamber, moving as he always did, as if under suspicion. "You called, my lord?"
The tailor bid Percival make a quarter turn and he complied. He didn't need to see Higgins face to face to give him orders. "It's come to my attention that we've not notified the brat," Rutledge said with peevish coldness.
"My lord?"
"Philip's brat." He lowered his arms, not caring if it mussed the straight li
ne of the hem in his new coat or not. He was bored standing there and his arms were fatigued. "James. Surely you remember him? Who could forget the only perfect Rutledge spawned in more than a hundred years?"
For a moment Higgins was actually taken off guard and it amused Percival.
"James, sir? I . . . I assumed he was long gone. Dead."
"We can hope," Percival answered tartly. Monsieur DeMoir was carefully removing from his lordship's shoulders the burgundy coat with the pins protruding from its many seams. "But if he is dead, I've never received word." Set free from the tailor, the Earl of Rutledge strode to the mantel and took up his glass of claret. "I suppose it's necessary that I notify him of his father's death. After all, he is the only heir to my deceased brother's title and moneys." He sipped the red claret. "Should I not notify him, I fear the courts would eventually become suspicious. Why would I not inform my sole living relative of the vast fortune he's acquired? Why would I not apprise him of his father's tragic death?"
"I suppose you're right, my lord."
"Of course I'm right!" He waved his hand, the lace of his sleeve fluttering at his wrist. "So see to it. Find the turd and bring him to me."
"You want me to inform James of his father's death?"
"No, save that treat for me." He shrugged. "Of course, perhaps he's already heard. News of death, the pox, and inheritance travels quickly in Londontown. But I would predict not, else he'd have already been at my doorstep, greedy for his lot."
"Have you an idea of where he lodges?" Higgins crept closer to the door. "Where I might try finding him, my lord?"
Rutledge sighed irritably. He often forgot how greatly he hated the perfect James until mention of him. Then suddenly all of the loathing was there on the tip of his tongue, a bitter, vindictive drink.
"No!" Percival exploded, turning on Higgins, as his manservant probably anticipated. Claret spewed from Rutledge's mouth as he shouted, lunging at him. "No! I have no clue as to where my brother's son resides. I haven't seen him in a decade!"
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 10