“I’ve missed you, Griffin.”
He stopped. For a few, breathless moments, she hoped he’d rush to sweep her into his arms.
He didn’t even turn around, but resumed his search with renewed vigor. “How did you get in?” He tossed the question over his shoulder as he yanked out a pair of breeches.
“The secret staircase,” she answered, mesmerized by the play of muscles over his back. “Cecily found it when we were here last.”
He turned to stare at her.
Rosamund shrugged. “I believe she was searching for buried treasure. She is a redoubtable girl.”
“If we are to talk of redoubtable…”
“Oh, you mean me?” Slowly, she shook her head. “Not redoubtable. Merely—” Desperate. She moved toward him until she was within touching distance. “—determined.”
She placed one hand on his shoulder. The skin there was smooth and warm, damp from the bath. He sucked in a breath, his big chest expanding with it.
That was not indifference. He couldn’t deny this heat between them. She refused to believe he truly wanted her to leave.
As she slid her hand around to his nape, she removed the breeches from his slackened grasp with her other hand and dropped them to the floor.
For a few tantalizing seconds, she studied his face, the taut, deep lines of strain about his mouth, the painful puckered whiteness of his scar. And those storm-cloud eyes of his, glowering with fury, blazing with desire.
Then she pulled him to her.
His mouth crushed down on hers in a kiss that was wild and hungry and raw. All she could do was allow herself to be swept along and match him as best she could.
With a guttural oath, he wrenched his mouth away and put her from him. “You shouldn’t be here.”
That’s not what your kiss said. He wanted her, just as she wanted him.
Breathless with nerves and heat and desire, she licked her lips. “Griffin,” she panted, “I admire your scruples, but—”
“You shouldn’t be in my house,” he ground out. “No, scratch that. What I mean is I don’t want you here.”
Her confidence faltered. She stepped back, struggling to shore up her courage.
He put the heels of his hands to his temples as if to keep his head from exploding. “I told you in my note why I had to return. There was no call for you to post down as well. I’d planned to be back in a week.”
“It has been a week already,” she said.
He sighed. “I had business to attend to.”
“And would that business have kept you another week?” she asked. “Another two? Three years, perhaps? Griffin, why don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not a question of trust. It’s…” He turned away.
When he looked at her again, there was grim resignation in his face.
The fear that had dogged her since she read his note sank its teeth into her heart. “Do you not wish to marry me, after all?”
His features hardened to granite.
When he didn’t answer, she fell back another step. “No. No! Griffin, you will not do this to me again. I won’t let you leave me.”
He dragged a hand down his face and inhaled deeply through his nose. “We might not have a choice in the matter.”
She shook her head. “No, don’t you see? Of course we have a choice. I made mine three years ago, and I stand by it, no matter what.”
“No matter what,” he repeated. To her astonishment, his features cracked in a ghastly parody of a smile. “I think you’ll change your mind about that when you hear the truth about me.”
He scared her, but she’d rather die than show it. It was a test, wasn’t it? He was goading her to turn from him. If she didn’t show that her allegiance was unswerving now, he would never believe in it.
“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it now. Later you can tell me all the reasons we can’t be together.” She lowered her gaze. Then she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye.
“Now, I want you to take me to bed.”
* * *
Dumbfounded at the direct, scandalous simplicity of her request, Griffin stood still and silent as one of those stuffed effigies on Guy Fawkes Night.
Rosamund picked up his hand and guided it to her breast. “Feel how fast my heart beats,” she said. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”
There was a smile in her eyes, inviting him to share her amusement in this phenomenon. But there was a sensual knowing in them, too.
Oh, yes, he thought. Ridiculous, the pair of them together. They could never be anything else. Yet he could feel her heart pound and race, it was true.
Though the firm, shapely globe felt like Heaven in his hand, for many moments, he didn’t move.
Temptation pulled at him like some irresistible tide. His brain blanked. Reflexively, his fingers closed around her, giving her breast a gentle squeeze. He palmed her nipple, teased it gently with his fingertips, working it to a hard peak.
She tilted her head back and sighed. “Yes.”
Oh, God. His member gave a sharp twitch, straining at the makeshift covering around his waist. He withdrew his hand to secure the towel, tucking it more firmly around him.
“Don’t deny me,” she whispered, pressing against him. “Not this time.”
Deliberately vulgar, he said, “Woman, those pretty tits of yours would tempt a saint.”
He kissed her, dragging his mouth roughly over hers and across her soft cheek, abrading it with his nascent beard. In her ear, he growled, “And the Lord knows I’m no saint.”
She gave that low, wicked laugh that was his and his alone to hear, making his cock harden nearly to the point of explosion.
“Well.” Her breath whispered over his cheek. “Contrary to popular opinion, it seems that I’m no angel, either.”
He huffed out a shaky chuckle. His desire for her heightened to such a pitch, he could barely remember his own name, much less the reasons he should send her away.
He turned her and stripped the clothes from her body, ripping at tapes and laces in his impatience. When she was finally naked, he resisted the powerful urge to ravish her where they stood. He made himself wait.
Torture not to reach for her and commit all those sins upon her body that he’d fantasized about since the day they met. But he wouldn’t have missed this first sight of her for the world.
She made as if to turn to face him, but he said, “No. Lie down on the bed.”
His mouth watered as she complied with his command, walking away from him with a subtle, tantalizing sway to her hips. The globes of her bottom flexed and released in a riveting rhythm.
She was so graceful and seemingly unselfconscious in her nudity. Using the steps, she climbed onto the massive tester bed. Reclining on her side, she rested her head on one hand and watched him intently.
So shapely, so supple and smooth and soft. She ought to be painted like this. But no, he thought. She was a living work of art, and he was the only man with the right to a private viewing.
Lust ripped through him. But when he started toward her, she said, “Wait.”
He halted, steaming with impatience. Oh, Christ, she wasn’t going to tell him she wanted to stop now?
She pointed at his towel. “Take it off.” She smiled, that dazzling, diamond-studded smile. “Please.”
Insanity beckoned, but he couldn’t help it. He decided to have a little fun with her. Scratching his chin, he drawled, “Well, I don’t know about that. I might scare you, sweetheart.”
She lifted her chin. “Ha! I’ve already seen you, anyway. I was watching you the whole time you were in the bath.”
Yes, but his member hadn’t been quite so rampant at that stage in the proceedings.
With a shrug and a flick of his fingers at his waist, he let the towel fall. He couldn’t suppress a grin when he heard her gasp. “Heavens,” she said a little faintly.
“Best not to think about it too much,” he recommended, moving toward her at last.
She put her hands on his biceps and looked into his eyes, her own gaze steady. In a clipped tone, she said, “This is going to hurt, isn’t it? I’ve heard that it does.”
“’Fraid so.” He saw the apprehension beneath her bravado. An unaccustomed wave of tenderness washed over him.
He leaned over and nuzzled into her throat. “I’ll make it good for you first, sweetheart. Perhaps then you won’t mind so much what comes next. And it’s only the first time that it hurts. After that…”
She stroked his hair. “I trust you,” she whispered.
A heady kind of exhilaration filled him when she said those words. He knew she meant them, and he resolved then and there to prove himself worthy of that trust if it killed him.
As well it might.
He hoped to God he could leash his own selfish desires long enough to manage the business.
He didn’t have an awful lot of experience with women, so he followed his instincts, paying close attention to her responses. In pleasing Rosamund, he discovered that his own pleasure doubled. That was something he’d never known before. He’d always been impatient with the preliminaries, eager to get to the good part. But then, he’d never done this with the woman he wanted to make his wife. He’d never done this with Rosamund.
On a mission to find all her most delicious points of pleasure, he kissed his way down her body, lingering at the tips of her breasts, which he already knew to be exquisitely sensitive.
He loved the helpless little sounds she made when he hit the perfect spot—the place behind her ear, the sweet little indent of her navel, the backs of her knees, her inner thigh …
The musky scent of her arousal made him a trifle smug and more than a little desperate. With shaking fingers, he parted her folds, opening her to his gaze.
Pink and intricate and mysterious, like the inside of a shell. But she was all woman, warm flesh and glistening dew.
Yes.
She shifted restlessly beneath his hands, as if she wanted him to get on with it. He bent to her then, tasting her with his tongue.
She gave a soft shriek but she didn’t protest when he clamped his hands on her thighs to hold her still and increased the pressure, working her with his mouth until she begged him for something—she didn’t seem to know what.
He knew what she wanted, but he delayed, drawing out her need, building her anticipation until she writhed with it and thrashed her head from side to side. It was a vastly pleasant form of torture; she deserved it for the way she’d kept him in a constant lather since he’d first seen her again that day in her mother’s drawing room.
Gently, he pushed one finger inside her as he swirled the flat of his tongue over her clitoris. Her hips bucked, and he pushed again, sliding into her. His body shuddered in hopeful sympathy. The hunger to possess her grew.
Pleasuring her this way aroused him more than he’d thought possible. He needed to bring this to an end or he’d disgrace himself.
Replacing his mouth with his thumb, he pressed firmly, rubbing her until she gave a surprised cry and her body jerked in hard, wrenching spasms. He bent to her once more, soothing, prolonging her release with his soft laps and swirls of his tongue.
She was still in the throes of orgasm when he moved over and touched the head of his penis to her entrance. With a harsh gasp, he guided himself inside her a little way.
She cried out—this time not with bliss—and he stopped, his jaw set with frustration. Though he knew better, it seemed an impossible fit. He’d never had a virgin before, and his fear of hurting her badly almost made him call a complete halt to the business.
But he was too selfish to do that, and besides, he couldn’t put off the fatal moment indefinitely.
Still, he hesitated.
She gave a soft moan. “Best be quick,” she breathed, shifting beneath him. “I can bear it. Just … do it quickly.”
“Right.”
He gripped her hips and tilted her up toward him, gritted his teeth and thrust.
The second he was buried inside her, his animal urges took control of his brain. He dimly heard her ragged gasp, felt her tighten about him, but he couldn’t stop the driving need to surge into her again and again. She was hurting, but his pleasure was so deeply euphoric that in mere moments, he’d reached the brink.
One more thrust and his crisis exploded upon him, racking his body, blurring his vision. He gave a hoarse groan as his seed pumped into her.
Shuddering, he collapsed on top of Rosamund, crushing her to the mattress. When the spasms finally stopped, he barely gathered the strength to withdraw from her and roll to the side.
Fatigue claimed him instantly. His speech slurred, it was such an effort to get the words out. “Are you—? Did it hurt?”
Stupid question.
“Yes.”
The waver in her tone made him cringe. Oh, God. He’d been such a brute, he’d turned her off bed-sport for life. But he was so exhausted, he couldn’t find the words to reassure her. Not now. Now, all he wanted was sleep.
“But you were right.” Her soft voice reached him through his weary haze. “After what you did beforehand, I—I didn’t mind so much.”
Good. That was good. Wonderful. “Ung,” he mumbled into the pillow.
“Griffin?” She smoothed a hand over his shoulder, but for the life of him, he couldn’t even turn his head to look at her.
That was the trouble with women. They wanted to talk afterwards and got their feelings hurt when he couldn’t. He should have explained to Rosamund the soporific effects of a raging orgasm on the male of the species before he lost the power to speak in coherent sentences.
“Mm?” was all he could manage.
“We should get married. Tomorrow, if we can.”
“Mm-hmm.” He drifted away.
“Good,” she said, planting a swift kiss on his cheek. “That is settled, then.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Diccon was waiting for Rosamund in the shadows beyond the inn’s stable yard when she returned from Pendon Place.
“My lady.” Relief colored the footman’s tone. He lifted her down from her horse and took hold of the chestnut’s bridle.
“Thank you, Diccon,” she managed through gritted teeth.
Riding had been excruciating to her tender parts after the time she’d spent with Griffin. She ached in places she’d never known she possessed, and the jogging motion of her steed had exacerbated the pain considerably.
When Diccon set her down, her knees nearly buckled beneath her, but somehow she’d managed to remain upright. She didn’t quite know how she’d manage to walk normally back to the inn.
Thank Heaven Diccon couldn’t see her blushes in the darkness. Was the reason for her excursion as evident to him as she was certain it must be?
Thrusting that unwelcome idea from her mind, she pressed a handsome douceur into his hand. He appeared not to notice the gratuity, but quickly pocketed the coins nonetheless.
“I left a back door unlatched,” he whispered. “It opens to a causeway between the inn and the laundry. Go up the back stairs and you’ll not meet anyone at this time of night.”
“Thank you, Diccon. Truly, you are a prince among footmen,” said Rosamund. She hobbled in that direction, leaving him to return the mare to her stall.
She’d been fortunate that the duke chose Diccon to make one of her entourage on this occasion. She didn’t know how she’d have managed her escape otherwise. The young footman had been suborned by Cecily the minute he arrived in the duke’s household, years ago. Since then, he’d acted as Cecily’s partner in crime on more occasions than Rosamund wanted to know about.
Perhaps it was unfair of her and Cecily to involve him in their adventures, but he seemed to be a man who enjoyed taking risks. And it was a substantial risk on his part to aid the Westruther ladies in such mad schemes as t
his. If the duke discovered Diccon’s role in such an escapade, he’d dismiss the footman on the spot.
A twinge of guilt disturbed Rosamund’s conscience as she limped around the side of the inn. Well, if Montford did find out about Diccon’s role in this adventure, she would offer the footman a place in her and Griffin’s household.
She savored the idea of living with Griffin at Pendon Place. Finally, she had everything she wanted. Well, almost.
A newfound tenacity had made her wait, restless and wakeful beside him, until Griffin could be roused enough to discuss wedding plans. Before she’d left, he’d undertaken to ask his friend the vicar to marry them the following day.
In mere hours, she would be his countess.
Despite her hurts, her body flooded with delight at the thought of finally fulfilling the role she’d been destined for from birth. She only wished Jane and Cecily could be here so she could share the brilliance of her happiness with the two people in the world who would best understand.
Her mind flitted to Xavier and shied away. He’d only give that unpleasant, cynical smile of his and tell her she was fooling herself. Much he knew about it!
The sound of water splashing to the ground in a steady stream made her stop short. A beery voice rang out from the same direction, and she realized what the earlier sound had been. Two men stood with their backs to her, urinating against the inn wall.
Ugh. She whisked herself behind the nearest concealment, which happened to be the door to the laundry, if the smell of lye soap were any indication.
She listened, waiting for them to finish their business and go back inside. She didn’t attend particularly to what they said until she heard the name Tregarth. Then she opened the laundry door an inch farther so she could hear better.
But the men were clearly drunk; their words slurred together, and that, on top of the thick Cornish accent, made them almost impossible to understand.
However, Rosamund did catch one word before the men pulled up their breeches and moved off. It clanged like a knell in her head.
Murderer.
* * *
When Griffin came in from his early-morning ride, he was astonished to find a bustle in his cavernous great hall.
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