THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  It was honest. Every part of her, inside and out, quivered for his touch. The heat gathered again, but not just between her thighs. Everywhere. If he touched her, she was sure he’d feel raw heat. Please let him touch me! Her legs felt quivery, as when he’d kissed her in the dungeon, and he wasn’t kissing her. Please let him kiss me!

  He seemed frozen there, inches away. Afraid of hesitation, she moved closer and put her hands on his chest.

  He broke then, kissing her as he’d kissed her earlier, so they folded down irresistibly to the floor, mouths desperately melded. She’d have taken him there and then, but he picked her up and carried her to the bed, laid her there, and began to strip.

  In seconds he was naked and she sat up. “Stop.”

  She saw his face and quickly said, “I want to look at you! That’s all. I want to look at you, Con. You are so very beautiful.”

  He laughed and pushed her down again. “Look later. I am so very desperate.”

  Laughing with him—she hadn’t expected laughter— she scrabbled the covers down beneath her so she could get to the sheets. With one mighty pull, he dragged them all off the bed, then flung himself beside her, one leg trapping her, there where she wanted to be.

  “Better than a beach,” he said, his chest rising and falling, his hunger swirling in the air.

  “And no fear of being caught.” She twisted onto her back and dragged him over her.

  “Susan—”

  “Hush,” she said, adjusting her hips and guiding him into her with her hand. Shuddering with him as they slid together.

  “Hush,” she said softly again when he groaned, but she didn’t mean it. She loved the sound of his need satisfied, of pleasure.

  She loved its echo in herself.

  He filled her, filled her beautifully, and it didn’t matter that she had so little experience of this. A powerful surge of womanly knowledge swept her along.

  He began to pump into her and she met him, trying not to surrender to the fever growing within, because she wanted to give him this and she wanted to watch, to watch Con, to drink in his pleasure to the last drop.

  To remember it.

  She was swirled away, however, into private heat and darkness and only dimly aware of his gasp, his force, then his full weight upon her. Silence fell, hot, deep-breathing, sweaty silence in which she lay, slightly sick and trembly.

  She felt him slide out of her, leaving her throbbing, almost in pain. Was it going to be wrong with Con, too? She couldn’t bear it.

  She hadn’t felt this way the first time, with him on the beach. She hadn’t felt this way with Rivenham. She hadn’t even felt so horribly unright with Captain Lavalle.

  He stirred, moved off her slightly, hand sliding down her side, over her hip. His mouth brushed across her aching breasts, then found a nipple. He gently sucked.

  Her whole body leaped. “Con!”

  He raised his head to say, “Hush,” a trace of laughter in it, then went to work again as his hand slid between her thighs. She flinched, she was so sensitive down there, and his touch immediately gentled. Became exactly what she wanted.

  He used the flat of his fingers, gently circling, and a buzz started in her head, lifting her away from herself. With deep gratitude she recognized it, welcomed it, and surrendered.

  She lay there afterward, flat on her back, his hand still cupped against her, amazed at how perfectly she felt. Perfectly what? She had no idea.

  She rolled her head to study him. He looked thoughtful as much as anything, but with endearingly tranquil thoughts. His short hair was on end in places, and stuck to his forehead in others. His dark jaw made him very unlike her Con of the past, and yet she felt only moments had passed between now and the last time they had lain together in sweaty satisfaction.

  She looked down and saw the dragon.

  She pushed him onto his back and sat up to trace it. “It’s beautifully done.”

  He was watching her from under lowered lids. “By sheer luck we came upon an expert. But it took a devil of a long time.” After a moment he added, “I’ve grown, which has spoiled it a bit.”

  The dark dragon coiled, breathing flames toward the center of his chest. “Why the dragon, Con?” She had to ask. “Was it because of me?”

  She looked up again. He was still watching her. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “Yes.”

  She sucked in a breath, but it was mostly gratitude for his honesty. “I am so very sorry. I wish I could scratch it away.”

  He trapped her hand. “No, thank you.”

  She heard humor and looked up to his eyes.

  He said, “It’s done. It can’t be undone. Like many things.”

  Heart breaking, she understood. She worked at keeping a slight smile on her face. “But we have a night?”

  He raised her hand and kissed it. “We have a night. I wish I hadn’t wasted the bath on Race.”

  She did smile then. “Your valet asked if it should be filled again and I said yes. It won’t have had time to warm much....”

  He was already out of bed, candle in one hand, pulling her with him with the other. “How is it filled so quickly?”

  “A gravity feed from the main tank.”

  “Wonderful design.”

  They were in the bathroom then, and he went to turn on the big taps. Water gushed out and he put a hand under it, then smiled at her. “Not as cold as the sea, at least.”

  Memories. Memories.

  If she’d been a wiser woman then—if she’d been a woman at all—she could have claimed a treasure greater than gold.

  But at least she had one night.

  He put the candle on the edge, where it danced strange shadows around the pictures on the wall and left mysterious corners where wickedness doubtless lurked. Then he dropped down into the waist-high tub, the water already swirling around his ankles. He held his hands out to her, but she went to a shelf holding fine china pots.

  “If those are some of the old earl’s potions, I don’t want anything to do with them.”

  She looked back, smiling. “No doubts about your virility, sir?”

  He glanced down. “Not with you, Susan. Never with you.”

  She knew she was blushing as she turned back. “These are just perfumes.”

  “We don’t need perfumes either.”

  She picked up a pot anyway, and returned to toss a handful of brown powder into the water. As she walked down the marble steps, the scent of sandalwood began to fill the room.

  “If we let the cistern drain into here, will the bath overflow?” he asked, coming toward her.

  “It’s not supposed to. Why?”

  “I might lose attention soon.” He pulled her into his arms, then leaned her back against the smooth, cold side of the bath.

  She rested there, nervousness stirring. That hot passion had been all very well, but she’d given him the impression she was vastly experienced, and now, like this, all faculties alert, she didn’t know what to do.

  She knew her supposedly vast experience was another reason he was doing this. He mustn’t guess the truth.

  He nuzzled at her neck and jaw. “What’s the matter? Something in particular you want?”

  What did that mean? “No,” she said. Then, “Yes. Kiss me slowly, Con.”

  He moved one hand to cradle her neck, sliding behind to hold her for his lips, which settled firmly, hotly. She opened to him, feasting, her own hand going to his strong shoulder, his neck, his hair....

  The water thundered, creeping up her calves. Sandalwood created spicy mysteries.

  He moved back. “Like that?” he asked, smiling.

  She smiled back. “Just like that.”

  He kissed her again, and she kissed back, her body stirring with primal knowledge. Perhaps it was all instinct after all, which only emerged with the right partner.

  He pressed against her, and the water swirled around her wobbly knees. Perhaps his wobbled too, for eventually he sank down, taking
her with him into water that was now chest-high.

  He smiled.

  She looked down and saw that the water was lapping at her nipples.

  She laughed up at him, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

  “You can touch them if you want.”

  “Oh, I want.” He put both hands under her breasts, raising them, flicking the nipples with his thumbs. “I remember thinking that I was a dead man if Mel Clyst ever found out I’d touched his daughter’s breasts. And that it was worth it.”

  His touch and his words sparked sharp desire. Through clear water she could see his erection. With an unsteady hand, she dared to reach through the water to gently touch it.

  He put his mouth to her raised breasts again, and because of the rising water she had to stand slightly, bracing herself on his shoulders.

  He seemed completely intent on his play—licking, tugging, nipping. He suddenly nipped sharply, and she yelled and pushed backward. He let go and she went right under, emerging spitting water and pushing sodden hair off her face.

  “You bit me!”

  “Mmm.” Laughing, he grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her out of the bath to sit on the edge, then spread her legs wide. He smiled at her as he’d smiled at her breasts, then put his mouth there.

  “Con!” She tried to wriggle back, but he grabbed her hips, looking at her with surprise.

  She knew then that this was something experienced lovers did. She stopped trying to escape, but didn’t know what else to do, what to say.

  “You don’t like it?” he asked.

  “Of course! You just surprised me.” Did that sound convincing? “And you bit me,” she added as a distraction. “I thought you were going to bite me there!”

  “No teeth. I promise.”

  He put one hand on the rim and leaped with agility out of the bath. He went to the pile of linen towels on a shelf and came back to spread them lavishly on the tiles.

  She sat there, drinking in the beauty of his strong body, trying to look as if she knew what he was doing. She’d just lied to him, and she hated that. She wouldn’t tell the truth, however. She couldn’t bear for this to stop now.

  He picked her up and sat her on the towels, then dropped back into the water. It was certainly more comfortable than cold, hard tile.

  “Now lie back.”

  She did so, but he kept his hands on her knees so she had to leave her feet dangling, up to the ankles in water. Then he began to draw her toward him, and hooked her legs over his shoulders.

  She knew better than to cry a protest now, but she lay there on her back, quivering with ignorant uncertainty, staring at the lewd ceiling, but shockingly aware of being exposed to his very close eyes.

  Then she felt his hands beneath her, thumbs brushing apart sensitive skin. She stared fixedly at the dragon about to impale the screaming maiden, water still thundering into the tub, echoing around the tiled chamber.

  His thumbs entered her, opened her, shuddering her, making her want to squirm away—and to wriggle closer. Then it was only his mouth, stroking and sucking. She almost felt too sensitive to be touched there, and yet immediately her body responded, demanded.

  His tongue swirled around her and she gasped for breath.

  Her breasts ached, and she reached up to comfort them, squeezing and stroking. A mere touch at her nipples sent fire through her, and she pressed there, squeezed there. Hot pleasure swept down to meet his mouth, making her arch toward him, but the dragon had her lower body chained, completely in his power.

  Her demanding dragon with the mouth of fire ...

  A moan escaped her to bounce around the room. She squeezed her breasts harder as he sucked harder and that blissful darkness circled in.

  She was being ravished by her dragon, but raptured, not raped. This was the most perfect, the most blissful rapture she could ever imagine.

  Then fiercely he was in her, wonderfully big, hard, and strong, driving the velvety darkness deep into her until it swallowed her whole.

  She drifted back to hard tiles beneath damp towels, to sweat and sandalwood. To silence. The water had stopped.

  Curious, she raised her head to look. It had stopped a hand’s breadth from the rim.

  “Have we created a flood?” he asked sleepily.

  She let her head sink back. He was half over her, his head between her breasts, and she stroked him there. “No.”

  “Pity. I wouldn’t mind the end of the world.”

  She knew what he meant.

  She moved her hand down, exploring the firm strength of his muscled back beneath the smooth, wet skin, a worm of sadness stirring. Never to do this again. A bitter shame, but better than never to have known it.

  The one candle gave little light, and the room, the house, was quiet. Even their breathing had calmed.

  Then he stirred, pushing up off her to stand. He extended a hand and she put hers into it be pulled up. As she stood, she winced. She was tender, but her legs were protesting unusual exercise, too.

  He smiled and pushed her into the water. She yelled as she splashed in, and it echoed around the room. Would it echo through corridors and courtyard to tell the world what they were doing here?

  She didn’t care.

  He jumped in after her, and waves splashed over the edge, rippling down the steps.

  “You’ll bring the house down!” she protested, laughing.

  “Good idea.” He circled his arms to create waves, and she lunged at him to hold him still, his body slippery beneath her hands. They wrestled through and beneath the water, to emerge spluttering and collapse against the side.

  “We could go out on the beach in the dark,” he said, nibbling her ear. “Go swimming.”

  She shared his need to re-create the past, to make it whole and good, but she had to say, ‘There’s not enough moon.“

  “Another time then.” He said it lazily, but she knew from the tension of his body that he’d remembered that there wouldn’t be another time.

  Because there wouldn’t be another time, every moment of the night became precious, and one thing she wanted was to know more about him.

  She struggled up straight and embraced him in the water. “Tell me about the army.”

  “That’s not something you want to hear.”

  “It’s most of the years that divide us, Con. And there must have been some good times.”

  He moved back against the side, and she let him. When he leaned his head against the rim and let his body float, she floated beside him despite the distraction of his lovely body and soft, promising genitals.

  “It seems barbaric,” he said, “but it’s true—there were some good times. Wild incidents. Insane acts of bravery and generosity. And pure farce, like the time the company tried to smuggle a bunch of piglets on a march . ..”

  He began to talk, telling her stories, but leaving out so much. She wanted to ask: Were you frightened? What was it like to kill? How often have you been wounded? How much did it hurt?

  They were stupid, invasive questions, but they made up a part of his life that she would never know.

  She could tell from his body that he’d not been seriously wounded, but scars told of pain. She supposed everyone except an idiot was frightened sometimes. And certainly a soldier must kill.

  Her sweet, gentle Con.

  She turned to put an arm around him, to float against him. “I’m glad I was apart from you when all this happened.”

  He stroked her back. “But I was just telling you about the time Major Tippet made assignations with three Spanish women on the same night. That’s not so terrible.”

  “I know,” she said, without explanation, and he didn’t ask for one.

  “I checked the casualty lists,” she confessed. “I knew that we’d hear the news eventually, but I couldn’t bear not to check.”

  It was growing cold in the water, but she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk any change. “So many deaths. With each one, I thought what it would be like
if it were you. I became intense about it. Uncle Nathaniel tried to forbid me to read the papers, but I always found ways. They couldn’t understand, but of course, they didn’t know about you.”

  “They had to know something.”

  She traced the coils of the dragon. “They knew we’d met. We’d been seen together often enough. But most of our time was out of sight. No one realized how much time we spent together. And of course, no one knew the whole of it.”

  “You never told anyone?”

  She shifted to look up at him. “Did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why think I would?” It hurt, and she added, “It’s not as if I wanted to be forced to marry you, after all.”

  They slid apart. “It was force you had in mind, was it?”

  Appalled, she tried to repair the damage. “No! I thought you willing. You were willing! I simply encouraged you.”

  “But you’d have encouraged Fred if you’d realized he was the heir, wouldn’t you? You did, in fact. I could tell from his letters that Miss Susan Kerslake was doing her best to be of interest to him.”

  She bit back tears. “I told you. Marrying the future earl had to be a worthy goal. I’d already sacrificed you on that altar.”

  “Any passionate little sessions on the beach with him? I doubt it. If you didn’t have sails and a rudder, Fred would hardly notice you.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Don’t do this, Con. It’s so long ago now.” Desperate for harmony again, she offered him a cautious bit of her heart. “He wasn’t you.”

  He took it wrong. “That always was the problem, wasn’t it?”

  He yanked the plug out and water began to run away, taking her magical night with it.

  She turned and climbed out by the stairs, grabbing a damp towel to wrap herself in, and drying herself as she hurried into the bedroom.

  He followed, stark naked, watching her, silently.

  “Are we finished?” she asked, knowing that too had come out all wrong.

  “Oh, yes, I think we are.”

  She turned away to pull on her shift, to fasten her corset, to struggle into her dress. Her hair was still sodden, and she shivered at the water running down her back.